‘I love you, Stella, you know that, don’t you?’
I tell him yes. I tell him fine. I tell him not to worry. He reminds me to keep taking the pills, to look after myself. ‘Stay out of trouble,’ he says as he hangs up. Next, I call Frankie, dialling from the note he left me on the fridge. He doesn’t pick up. The message I leave is brief with only the slightest tremble in my voice. I tell him about the taps and ask him to come and have a look at them. At the root of my words are all the things I don’t say: Please can you come over; please can you help; I am afraid.
All lines of communication are down. We are out here on our own now.
Chapter 13
I tell myself I have to pull it together. I’m meant to be getting married next year and I can’t even remember the last time I showered. Two days ago? More? When my naked legs rub together I can feel the burrs of the hairs growing there like a dark pelt. My hair extensions are falling out in cobwebby strands. When I take off my top in front of the mirror I find clumps of wiry hair like spiders’ legs beneath my arms. It is soft and springy to the touch. I’ve gone to seed, as my mother would say, as though talking about a rundown house, derelict, in need of demolition. I take two pills and head downstairs.
I try to imagine planning a wedding without Martha and Carmel. What was it Marco had told me? You lost them. What did that mean? Would they even come to the wedding if I invited them? The thought of their absence makes me cold. I wish I could remember what happened. I’m distracted and burn the porridge I’m cooking to the bottom of the pan. The kitchen fills with smoke and I open the back door to let the worst of it out. Outside the rain has passed and the sun is high in an enamel-blue sky. Thistles are growing along the old stone path, furred with moss and treacherous in the rain. The garden has been left to grow wild with bramble and nettles beneath the stunted palms which stand sentry by the house. I sit on the little stone seat speckled with lichen, my foggy mind turning over and over.
The first time I’d met Doctor Wilson, he had taken my outstretched hand and instead of shaking it had turned it over to look at my palm.
‘Your lifeline is very strong,’ he’d said, as his fingers had caressed the soft pillow of flesh at the base of my thumb, ‘and this, this is called your Mount of Venus. It symbolises romance and sensuality. Are you very romantic, Stella?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Yes’ – he’d nodded – ‘yes, I see that you are.’
Later, he had given me a prayer scroll hidden inside a silver charm.
‘It’s a Tibetan Gau,’ he had told me, ‘it’s Buddhist.’ Except he pronounced it the American way, ‘Boo-dist’. Then he had leaned closer so that I could faintly smell aniseed on his breath: ‘Alcohol is a demon, Stella.’
I’d looked around the room, unsure if he was joking. It had a lazy, tropical feel to it – almost colonial – with Indian tiles and soaring ceilings and overgrown, luscious plants. A large rug covered most of the polished wooden floor, depicting jungle vines intertwining with one another. The wall space between bookshelves was hung with fabrics in maroon and gold. I could hear the fans whirring overhead.
He’d leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘But like all demons, it can be exorcised.’
I’d thought him mad, of course. Told Marco I thought he ought to be struck off.
‘I honestly can’t believe he’s legit. What is he, some sort of shaman?’
But he had given me the pills, a whole bottle of them, just for me, all for me. I put them straight into my bag. Mine. I tried to ignore what he had told me about my drinking; those words which had sounded so much like a concealed warning. ‘You drink to forget, and soon all your memories will be lost.’
In the garden the sun is growing hotter, the clouds of that morning burning away. As I walk slowly back inside the cottage I can hear a tapping noise, like skeletal fingers on glass. The old pipes rattle noisily beneath the sink. I freeze when I hear the knock at the front door. I’ve only had one visitor since I arrived at Chy an Mor a week or so ago. The courier, bringing me my forgotten luggage. I answer the door and find Frankie, holding his phone.
‘I was just calling you.’
He is wearing an old T-shirt, the picture long faded, the words ‘Moose Creek ’89’ barely legible. He is bigger than I remember, and broader in the stomach. Bulky, like a badly wrapped package.
He grins at me. ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. Why are you here?’
‘You left me a message, remember? Something about the taps.’
Had I? I suppose I must have done. Otherwise how would he know?
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say. ‘Come on in.’
Frankie doesn’t though. He continues to stand on the porch. He tilts his head backwards, looking up at the vast expanse of sky, now deepening to a periwinkle blue.
‘The air up here is amazing. It’s so clean it’s almost clinical. Did you know the Victorians would send their sick children to convalescent homes on the coast? They claimed the bracing sea air had health benefits.’
I wait, smiling patiently, one hand on the door.
‘They were right as well. It does. Negative ions in the air or something. It improves your sleep, gives clarity to your brain, helps with depression—’
‘Well, this bracing sea air is bloody freezing. Hurry up and come inside.’
Frankie accepts the offer of a cup of tea and stands at the windows admiring the view while I tell him how the taps have been running of their own accord. I mention the rattling pipes, the brownish, foul-smelling water I have found pooled in strange places; in the cupboard, beneath the coffee table, on the windowsill. I do not tell him about the strange chill in the bathroom or the way the shadows can sometimes look like they are creeping along the walls because I don’t want him to think badly of me, that I am mad. He nods solemnly, occasionally interjecting with a question before falling silent, stroking his beard.
‘Okay, just one thing. You contradicted yourself before. You said “the taps in the house had been switched on”, then you said they were “running by themselves”. So which is it? Have they been switched on or were they running by themselves?’
For a moment I simply stare at him, uncomprehending.
‘What I mean is, and I’m not trying to scare you, but if what you’re saying is that they are coming on by themselves, well, then we can call out a plumber and sort this. If what you’re saying is that someone is switching them on and that person is not you, then we have a bigger problem.’ He sips his tea, looking at me levelly. ‘Do you think someone has been breaking into this house?’
I shake my head.
‘Okay. Okay. Thing is, Stella, I’m not a plumber. I’m happy to look for you, but I think you’d be better off with a mate of mine who can fix this properly. Do you want me to give him your name, see what he says?’
‘No, not my name. Give him Marco’s name. Marco Nilsen.’
‘Ah, the boyfriend,’ Frankie says, and while that brilliant smile is still in place his voice has taken on a sing-song lilt.