Night Shade (2 page)

I offer a small smile. ‘No, I don’t. And that’s why you should stop worrying about me.’

‘What else would I do?’ She reaches over and pecks me on the cheek. Her breath smells of peppermint and she’s wearing a different perfume.

‘Mother...’

‘What?’ She blinks innocently.

‘Are you meeting Mr McIntyre later?’

‘What if I am?’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘He’s married.’

‘Henry is a good friend.’

‘Is that what you call it these days?’

‘You would like him if you met him. I can bring him round, you know.’ Her eyes gleam. ‘Then you’ll be sure there’s no hanky-panky taking place.’

‘Don’t you dare.’ I hate having strangers in the house.

She gazes at me thoughtfully and taps the corner of her mouth. ‘Tell you what. I won’t bring him round if you leave the door unlocked after I leave. Not for long,’ she adds hastily, forestalling my protest, ‘say, just an hour or two?’

‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘Am I?’ Her expression is steely. I can’t help wondering whether this was her motive in popping round. The trouble is, I know her well enough to be aware that she’ll make good on her threat if I don’t do as she asks. I can’t lie to her either – ever since the time I ate all the chocolate-chip cookies and blamed it on the dog, she’s been able to wheedle out any untruths.

‘That’s not fair,’ I say quietly. ‘You know how hard it is for me.’

‘I know. Just an hour, darling.’ She twists her hands together and I realise how much she needs this. It will put me on high alert and induce backbreaking tension but my mother needs to feel I’m making progress.

Blood starts pounding in my ears. I do my best to ignore it. ‘Okay. One hour.’

She’s relieved. ‘Thank you. You’ll see, Zoe. Nothing bad will happen. You’re not going outside, you’re not going to be in any danger. You’re just not locking the door, that’s all.’ She gives me a tight, warm hug. My arms feel leaden but I reciprocate. ‘Are you going to let me escape from Alcatraz?’ she asks lightly.

I nod, moving my body to block the sight of my shaking hands. She’s trying to protect me from me and I’m trying to protect her from me too. It’s farcical.

When she’s gone, and I’ve closed the door after her, I touch each lock lightly. The desire to slam each one closed is overwhelming but I batten down the urge and back away. Instead of returning to my little study and my work, however, I sit on the stairs and watch the door.

I’m worried I’ll hyperventilate – it’s happened before – but if I put my head down between my knees to calm myself then I won’t be looking at the door. Someone might come in. Someone might hurt me. I know it’s illogical – I’m hardly in the crime capital of the world. I keep a close eye on the outside world and the last publicised local crime that wasn’t white collar involved a hit-and-run near the town square. That’s hardly about to happen to me.

None of this is to do with logic though. Fear is rarely so pragmatic.

Some people probably imagine my agoraphobia is a result of a trauma: a brutal rape or maybe a mugging that landed me in hospital. Perhaps it didn’t happen to me and I simply witnessed it. The sad truth is that nothing happened. I wasn’t hurt and I haven’t been traumatised by any particular event. Other than a few minor schoolyard skirmishes, I’ve never been attacked. My life has never been in danger. I simply went to bed as a happy twenty-three year old with a nice boyfriend, a wedding on the horizon, a good job and lots of friends – and woke up on my twenty-fourth birthday unable to step outside my front door. I knew that if I did, I’d die. I have no idea where the thought came from but it was – and still is – a deep certainty that is rooted in my core.

Adam, my boyfriend, tried to understand but things got worse. My condition was exacerbated by three well-meaning friends who, in some amateur attempt at aversion therapy, tried to push me out of the door. That was when I retreated to my bedroom and refused to leave my bed. Adam eventually gave up, not that I blame him. Who wants a girlfriend who is afraid to go outside? In the end it was a blessing when he stopped coming around.

I still have a few friends who visit occasionally but I can tell they don’t really want to. It’s not that they don’t like me – they just don’t know what to say. They start telling me about work or a party or a new shop and then falter when they realise I can’t experience those things. They’re so awkward around me that I no longer encourage the friendships. It’s just not fair on them.

So it’s probably a good thing that I enjoy the silence and detailed beauty of boredom.

* * *

I
’m not sure how long I sit on the uncomfortable step. It feels like an eternity but I’ve experienced enough within these four walls to know that what feels like hours may only be a few minutes. As anyone who’s been in an accident will tell you, terror slows time down, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline.

I don’t wear a watch because I don’t mark minutes, so when my phone starts ringing in the study, I don’t know how much time has passed. I stare at the front door, then the study, then back again. By the fifth ring I manage to stand up.

I catch the phone just in time, answering it as I return to the hall and my vigil.   ‘Hello?’

‘Zoe, how are you?’ Jerry’s voice is warm.

‘Uh, good.’ He doesn’t really want to know. With Jerry, as with many other people, ‘How are you?’ is nothing more than a formality. It’s funny how I never noticed that until I became housebound. ‘The website? Have you gotten anywhere yet?’

I feel guilty. I should be working. ‘I’m getting there,’ I say quickly. ‘But I’ll need more time.’

‘This client is rather anxious. Do you think you’ll manage it by tomorrow?’

I make a few quick calculations. It should be possible. I can’t risk letting Jerry down so I no longer have to worry about stopping my mother’s little test, even if it’s not yet been a full hour. I have bills to pay, after all. ‘I can do that.’

He exhales loudly. ‘Super! I knew we could count on you.’

‘It’s what I’m here for.’

‘You’re a trooper.’

‘A super trooper?’

He doesn’t register my little sarky comment, merely responds with warm agreement. ‘Absolutely.’

I say goodbye and hang up. ‘Lowest form of wit, Zoe,’ I mutter. Jerry is a good guy; he doesn’t deserve my snide remarks. I’ve learned to be content with my existence, but I sometimes wonder if my enforced isolation has made me lose my good manners. At least he wasn’t offended.

I gaze at the door again, my eyes travelling over its familiar veneer. There are a few scratches on the bottom panel where the Chairman sharpened his claws once or twice. I run my fingers over them, before pressing my ear against the wood. Other than the chirping of a few mating birds, I can’t hear anything. Maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to leave it unlocked for another fifteen minutes while I return to bytes and coding.

I curl my fingers into my palms until they hurt. My stomach is fluttery but I know my body well enough and I still have some way to go before a full-blown panic attack sets in.

I think of the expression on my mother’s face when I tell her I managed to sit out of view of the door. Fifteen minutes is only 900 seconds, that’s not long. It would take far less than that for someone to come inside and attack me though. I glance at the wall, imagining its pristine white splattered with my blood and I shiver. I can’t do it.

I am tugging at the first lock to slide it shut when there’s a knock. Actually, ‘knock’ is the wrong word; it’s a frantic staccato, rising in intensity. I fall backwards, my veins twisting into ice. My breathing abruptly changes and my chest rises and falls alarmingly.

‘Help me.’ It’s a male voice and, despite the muffled quality thanks to the closed door, it’s obviously full of panic.

I shake my head rapidly. I’m imagining things; I have to be imagining things. But the door rattles and the knocking continues. I’m frozen to the spot. My eyes are fixed on the door handle. I will myself to lurch forward and lock it but my brain won’t send the right signals to my legs. My throat feels tight and pins and needles tingle up and down my arms, I can feel the sweat on my skin and my vision starts to swim. No. Not now.

The door handle jerks downwards. I can’t do anything except stare in horror as the door crashes open and a figure appears. His face is red and his eyes are bulging. He lunges towards me and I scramble back. He’s going to grab my ankle though, he must have a weapon, it’s only a matter of moments and he’ll...

I blink several times. He’s not reaching out towards me at all; he’s face down and twitching. His hair is snow white and very thin and his hands, clawing the carpet, are wrinkled and old.

Move, I tell myself. My heart thuds but my breathing is slowing. The man’s feet hang lifelessly out of my porch. He’s wearing tartan slippers and I focus on them. Move, Zoe. Move.

I make it to his side and turn him over. He gulps for air; his skin is no longer merely red – it’s purple. One hand flails towards his chest and I realise what is happening. My panic fades, to be replaced by an even more alarming sensation that I can’t yet name.

‘You’re having a heart attack.’ My voice is weak and shaky and I have no idea whether the man heard me. ‘Recovery position,’ I mutter. ‘I’m going to put you in the recovery position. Stay calm.’ I don’t know whether I’m telling him or myself. He chokes and I can see red threads lining the whites of his eyes.

I adjust his right leg and manoeuvre his heavy body. His arms thrash, making it difficult for me to move them. He grunts something. ‘Don’t talk,’ I say. I try again to move him into the correct position but he has more strength than I’d have thought possible and he fights me.

I remember the phone. It was in my hand when he started knocking and I must have dropped it. I search frantically, finally locating it under his back.

I did say logic isn’t my strong suit. The sensible thing would have been to call the police immediately I saw the man. Instead, I let the panic destroy any semblance of common sense and now, if I don’t get help in the next few minutes, this man is going to die.

I jab in the number and wait for someone to answer. ‘999, what’s your emergency?’

‘I’m at 17 Christie Crescent. There’s a man. I think he’s having a heart attack.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Zoe. Zoe Lydon.’

‘Zoe, I need you to stay calm. I’m dispatching an ambulance right now.’

‘Please, tell them to hurry.’

‘They will.’ The voice is soothing and calm but it’s not helping.

‘What do I do?’ I shriek. ‘What do I do?’

‘Is he still breathing?’

‘Yes.’

‘You need to keep his airway clear. Put him in the recovery position. That’s...’

I drop the phone. The woman’s voice continues, disembodied, but I refocus my efforts on moving the man into place. He’s losing strength; his arms are easier to manoeuvre now. He doesn’t have much time. He grunts again. ‘The Department.’

‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘Help is on its way. Don’t talk. They’ll be here soon.’ I can already hear the distant sirens.

He twists onto his back and his right hand clutches at my blouse, pulling me down. ‘Don’t trust them.’

‘Sir,’ I begin as his left hand reaches up. He presses it hard against my chest and I feel a funny jolt like an electric shock or something, sending prickles down through my body.

Then his arms collapse onto the floor and his eyes roll back into his head. The sirens get louder and louder while I begin CPR.

All men dream, but not equally.

T. E. Lawrence

––––––––

I
t all happens so fast. When the paramedics lift his body and take it away, I’m still in a daze. By rights, I should be huddled in a corner and whimpering – or back within the safety of my wardrobe – but somehow the events have overtaken my natural urges. That’s not to say I’m not in a state of horrified disbelief, however.

‘Did you know him?’ the young policeman who arrived some time after the ambulance asks.

I stare at him slack jawed. The words make sense individually but as a whole they flummox me. He repeats the question.

‘Uh, no. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

He seems concerned. ‘You should go to the hospital, Ms Lydon. You may be experiencing mild shock.’

Compared to my normal state, it’s a miracle how I’m handling things. I look him over. He has kind eyes and he’s obviously keen to help. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my arm, and I flinch. He drops his hand immediately while my mind flashes back to the wooden walls of my wardrobe. In the past hour I’ve had more strangers in my narrow little hallway than in the last year.

‘Please go,’ I whisper.

He’s confused. He opens his mouth to speak but a pale hand appears from the sunny outside world and gently touches his shoulder. I register a familiar face gazing at me with pity. My jelly-like insides start to harden.

‘Ms Lydon,’ the policewoman says politely. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

I realise that she’s been here before; that’s why I recognise her. This is a small town so it should be no surprise – in fact, the only surprise is that her colleague hasn’t heard of me. The batty woman who refuses to go outside. I can imagine I’m a source of amusement down at the small police station.

‘Would you like me to call your mother?’ she asks.

Desperation claws at me and I just manage to prevent myself from whimpering yes. I steel myself. The worst is over; I can cope on my own. I shake my head.

‘You know we’ll need to come back and ask you more questions. Once we’ve established more about the victim, that is.’

‘Okay.’

‘We’ll call ahead so you have advance warning. I can call the surgery and have a doctor...’

‘No.’ I’m taken aback by the strength in my voice. I straighten my shoulders and look her in the eye. ‘I’m fine.’

Her lips tighten at my tone but she’s professional enough to refrain from commenting further. She nods, gesturing to her partner who seems completely baffled by the interplay. Like a good boy, he does what he’s told and leaves. I slam the door shut behind them, fumbling with the locks as I peer at their departing backs through the spyhole. The policeman bows his head, obviously listening to her explanation.