‘I feel like this is all irrelevant. These are leading questions.’
‘Think of it like a trail left through the woods. You’ve heard of Hansel and Gretel, yes? A little trail of breadcrumbs to help them find their way home?’
I stared at him without speaking. I was thinking about Hansel and Gretel, nearly eaten by a witch who had pretended to be good and kind and sweet but, of course, she had not been. We knew that, the reader. We knew she was a cannibal.
Later that day I discover pools of water beneath the table, strange and sour-smelling, like an animal has crept inside. I receive a silent phone call a little after noon, and another just before two. In them I can hear the wind whistling on the line, and a panting, hurried breathing. Like panic. I fall asleep on the sofa with my book tented on my chest, one hand curled beneath my head.
And I do not know if I am dreaming. In the past when I have been sleepwalking I have woken in strange and unfamiliar places, shivering with cold. Now though, now, my eyes are open, and I can see my hand at the end of my arm. I can feel the chill in the air, the way the cold tiles feel beneath my feet. I am in the bathroom, and the light is grainy as though it is late afternoon. I am holding the bottle of pills. There they are, I think, thank God. I watch as my hand unscrews the cap from the brown glass bottle; I can even see the silver bracelet I am wearing, the one Carmel bought me for my birthday. I watch as my hand tips the bottle, and even as I realise what is about to happen I can’t stop myself. It is as if I am standing separated from my body by a wall of thick, soundproof glass. No, I cry out, no, no, no. But there is no sound and my hand is still moving as the pills begin to tumble out of the bottle and into the toilet. I can see every detail; the cracks in the old porcelain, the shallow bowl of water rippling as the first pills break the surface and here I am tipping them all away, the sleeping, somnambulant me while the other me is shrieking, ‘Don’t, don’t’, and there are tears, real tears, salty and hot, I can feel them. ‘I need those, I need those to get better,’ I say, but they have all gone, the bottle upended in my hand. I stare down into the toilet at the pills already turning to a grey sludge. Then I begin to shuffle off, I can see my feet moving over the cold tiles, my chipped nail varnish, the hem of my T-shirt just loose of my jeans’ waistband. When I look up it is into the mirror of the bathroom cabinet. I am smiling and it is horrible, skin stretching like sentient wax. And behind me, behind me in the bathroom, is the other me again, face bruised and swollen. I can see a thin trickle of blood coming from her smashed nose, black eyes like raisins pushed into dough, thick and swollen. She is smiling too, and she is wearing that dress, my dress, my dress and I wake up and I remember.
‘Holy shit,’ I say out loud to the empty room. ‘What was that?’
In my dream the dress had been the blue-green of the sea, with iridescent scales on the skirt, which was full and frothy with petticoats. It was a dress for a mermaid, and the reason I know that is because I had worn it once as Katie Marigold in a show entitled ‘Katie Marigold All At Sea’.
I take the stairs two at a time and dash to the bathroom even though I know what I will find. That chalky residue in the toilet, the empty bottle on the floor. I have spirited away my only hope of sanity, and I don’t know what will happen to me now.
Chapter 17
When my phone rings I almost don’t answer. I do not recognise the number and so I don’t speak when I pick it up. I am expecting silence, more of that rattling breath. So I get a shock when a voice says my name.
‘Stella? Stella Wiseman?’
‘Who is this?’
‘You don’t know?’
It’s a strange accent and I can’t place it; masculine with a soft edge, almost camp.
‘No. No idea.’
‘We knew each other a long time ago.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Shall I give you a clue?’
‘Can’t you ju—’
The voice changes. High-pitched, manic-sounding. It is eerie. ‘“I want chocolate milkshake! One for me and one for my dog!”’
My heart, my heart is beating so fast. I know who this is. I grab hold of the sink and wait for the stars in my vision to clear.
‘Heh. You still there?’
‘Yes. It’s you, isn’t it? Joey Fraser.’
‘Correct. Ten bonus points if you can tell me which episode that line came from.’
I don’t even need to think about it. Funny how the brain works. ‘Episode six, series four. “Give Me Your Answer Do, Katie Marigold!”. You’re sitting at the counter of the milkshake bar with Frisky.’
‘That’s right. What a show it was. Whoever heard of a milkshake bar in a rural village in 1980s England? Whoever heard of a family with five kids who didn’t bitch at each other all the livelong day? Plenty of that behind the scenes though, am I right?’
‘Joey, how did you get my number?’
‘Same way I got your address. By asking the right questions.’
I stiffen, turn slowly. I imagine him standing in the kitchen behind me, smiling, the phone pressed to his long face. But there is only the table and chairs and the bookcase and the back door. Even from here I can see it. The door is open, just a bit, moving slightly in the wind. The old-fashioned iron thumb latch is clinking against the jamb. While I was sleeping someone has opened the door to go out. Or come in.
The skin of my scalp tightens. A litter of leaves has blown into the kitchen, reds and browns and rich, vivid orange. The door rocks back and forth gently, the latch chattering. Wet footprints run from the door to the stairs.
‘Stella?’
‘I’m here.’
‘We should really meet up. You know I was offered nearly twenty grand to get some of the old cast back together? Turns out we’re still pretty big in Japan. That’s a good sum of money.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But after you and me, who’s left? I made some calls, and you know what I found out?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you keep track? Lizzie Noble died last week. Drove her car right into a tree.’
‘God.’ Lizzie Noble had played one of the little twins in the Marigold! series. I could picture her clearly, straight dark hair down to her waist. Like a little Gothic doll.
‘Yup,’ Joey was saying. ‘Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Still . . .’
‘Still what?’
‘You know. It puts us back in the papers for a bit. It was trending on Twitter on Monday afternoon. “Hashtag Marigold!”’
‘You haven’t changed.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Where are you, Joey? Where are you right now?’
Silence. I almost think he has gone and then, ‘I heard you’re losing your mind. About time, I’d say. Surprised it didn’t happen sooner. How’s your mother?’
‘Dead.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, that’s a real shame.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘You and me, one interview, some photos. A film crew maybe. They want to make a documentary but they can’t do it without you, of course. The star of the show. We can do that, can’t we? We can sit in the same room for an hour without—’