She started feeling nauseous again. She put the latch up on the door to stop Angie letting herself in uninvited when she got home, and made her way upstairs. She needed to sleep, to sleep until she felt better. She might be in bed for a very long time.
#
She stayed in bed until Thursday, only getting up when she had to. She ate little; she couldn’t keep it down. She craved blood. She craved blood like she never had before.
The symptoms from her sunlight exposure were similar to those from the Craving she usually had, only worse. They had reduced to almost manageable proportions by the end of that first day, but then got worse again as the week wore on. Her desire for fresh blood became stronger and stronger. It kept her awake. Her sheets were soaked in sweat as she tossed and turned all day and night. She needed blood to make the pain go away, but could hardly make it out of bed, yet alone go in search of victims. Not that she would pull in this state anyway; it would be hard to attract men when she couldn’t stop shivering. There was one man who would come round after just one telephone call, of course. But that wasn’t a call she was willing to make yet.
Trevor phoned during the afternoon she first took to her bed. Angie was home. She was fuming. No, she didn’t want to speak to Kate. And she’d be sending her the bill to have her car valeted. And that was it. She’d taken the door off the latch to encourage Angie to come round to see her. Even a bollocking had to be better than this withering silence. But she heard nothing more from Angie until the Thursday. And when she did, she realised that withering silence would actually have been far preferable after all.
She was woken by noises from downstairs. Someone was moving around down there. She listened for a full minute, not knowing what else to do. Could she phone Angie? Probably not a good move. The Police? No, worse idea still. She’d had enough contact with the police recently to last her a lifetime. It was time to keep her head down for a while. And not Mike either. She’d been ducking his calls all week. She couldn’t trust herself with him at the moment. Not with the Craving this bad. If he came round now, Angie would be on him like a shot, and she was worried that she’d have neither the strength nor the will-power to save him from her.
The front door closed. Someone leaving? Or maybe someone else was coming in? She was tempted to stay in bed, hide under the covers and hope everything would be okay when she resurfaced. But she had to do something. Better to catch them unawares if they were still in the house. Maybe she could frighten them off that way. She didn’t want them to find her in her bedroom. It might give them ideas. She’d already narrowly survived being raped in her own front garden by the hideous Danny, and she wasn’t about to risk a repeat performance up here in her own bed. Especially not without Angie around to save her this time round.
Maybe Angie had seen them come in? Would she help if she had, or would she leave them to it? She’d help; surely she’d help. It doesn’t matter how pissed off you are with your friends; you wouldn’t leave them to face something like this on their own. Not even Angie would do that.
She got of bed, and pulled on her dressing-gown. She opened the door. She listened. No noise down there now. It gave her encouragement. Any more banging and she would have been straight back into bed, whatever the consequences. Hopefully, whoever it was had gone away.
Down the stairs to the first floor. Past the room she kept for her special visitors (no-one in there now, worse luck). She stopped again at the top of the steps leading down to the ground floor. Still nothing. The front door was open a few inches, though. There had definitely been someone here.
She hurried down the stairs, and closed the front door as quietly as she could. She prayed she was locking the intruders out rather than shutting them in. She took a deep breath and poked her head round the door to the living room. The armchair had been moved so its back was to her. There was someone sitting in it; she could see the back of his head. She stifled a scream, and raced upstairs again.
She got as far as her bedroom door before she realised that he wasn’t following her. What now? She couldn’t stay up here forever. If whoever it was wanted to hurt her, he could have come up here while she was asleep. He wouldn’t just be taking a nap in her armchair. But normal people didn’t let themselves in to other people’s homes and make themselves comfortable while they were sleeping upstairs. Besides, no normal person had the key to her house.
She ventured back down to the first floor again. More listening. Still no sound at all from downstairs. She took the last flight one step at a time, ready to hare back up to her bedroom if the intruder reappeared. She approached the living room door. She reached out for the handle. She could hear her own breathing, loud and laboured, whether from fear or from running up and down the stairs, it was difficult to say.
What if he was standing on the other side of the door when she opened it, ready to grab her, pull her into the room, do whatever it was to her he’d come to do? She needed an escape route. She should open the front door, so she had somewhere to flee.
The door was just a foot or two to her left. She turned round to open it. As she did so, someone rapped upon it. Her heart jumped, as if trying to leap free of her body. She could have cried with fear.
Her first urge was to run back upstairs again, but there was only so many times she could do that without being ridiculous. She ran to the back door instead. The key was missing from the lock. She cursed it and kicked it, but there was no way out there.
Back to the front door. There was another knock. Someone was waiting for her out there. Or waiting for the other man to let him in. She had no option but to open it, before the other man came out and cornered her. At least if she opened the front-door herself, she might have time for a scream before he was inside. Someone might hear, might come to her rescue. But then it was a very quiet road. She could be screaming for an hour before anyone thought to come to help her. Still, it was her only chance.
She wanted to open the door slowly, an inch at a time, fearing what was on the other side, but there was only one way to do this. Rip it open, like taking off a plaster. Get the bad stuff out of the way quickly, rather than prolonging the agony. And then scream, before the intruder forced his way in and did whatever it was he’d come to do to her.
She opened the door, her hands shaking on the door handle. There was a man outside, a man of about sixty. A man in a wheelchair. He gave her a friendly smile.
“Hello Kate,” he said.
It was Trevor. Angie’s husband.
“Can I come in?”
She stared at him, not knowing what to say. She felt a little better having him here, but she didn’t want him inside. She felt that whoever was in her living room had something to do with her special hobby. She couldn’t risk him finding out about that. And if it was an intruder, it would hardly be a fair fight between the two of them, not with him being in the wheelchair. She needed Angie here. Angie would know what to do; she always did.
“Where’s Angie?”
“That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about. Can I come in? I’m freezing my nuts off out here.”
He grinned, and waited for her to speak. She stared at him, not knowing what to say. “Could you wait there, a sec,” she eventually requested. “There’s something I have to do first.”
She left the front-door open, and stepped into the living room. “Milk and two sugars,” she could hear Trevor calling after her from outside. “If you’re offering.”
The man was still in the armchair; the back of his head was still very much where she had left it. It was leaning to one side a little, as if he was sleeping or deep in thought.
“Hello?” she called out.
“Hello!” Trevor called out from outside.
“Not you, Trevor.”
She took a few more steps towards the armchair. She could reach out and touch his head now, if she felt like it. But she didn’t feel like it. Not at all.
“Hello?” she said again, quieter this time, so Trevor wouldn’t hear her. “What are you doing in my house?”
No reply.
She walked around the armchair, one step at a time, keeping two or three feet from it at all times to give her space enough to run if he leapt up at her. He didn’t move a muscle. It was almost as if he –
She put a hand to her mouth.
As if he was dead. It was Clive. Poor, dead Clive. There was a length of string round his neck which had been threaded through a hole in the corner of an A4 sheet of paper, like some bizarre necklace. Angie had scribbled a message on it, untidy but just about decipherable. “Give me Mike,” it said.
The living room door started to open. Fuck! Trevor had let himself in. She shot across the room, and tried to close the door on him. It struck hard against the side of his wheel chair. He was halfway through the door. She stood in front of him, barring the way.
“You can’t come in,” she said.
“Problem?”
“I have a man in here,” she told him, saying the first thing to come into her head.
“And? Is he shy?” Trevor asked.
“Naked.”
“In your living room?” Trevor asked in surprise. “The things you young people get up to! Are there any naked men in your kitchen, too?”
“No. No, the kitchen’s a nudity free-zone on Thursdays.”
“I’ll go in there, then. For that drink you promised me. Tell your young man that I’d love to meet him when he’s put his pants back on.”
He started wheeling himself backwards out of the room. “Watch out for carpet-burns,” he chuckled as he reversed into the hallway. “Don’t look so surprised. I was young once, you know.”
Kate closed the door after him. She raced back through the living room into the dining room, and closed the door which led through to the kitchen. What to do now? There was nothing much she could do, really. If she started trying to haul Clive’s corpse up the stairs, it might look ever so slightly suspicious.
She left the room through the living room door, not risking the dining room in case Trevor glanced through the door and caught sight of the dead body in the armchair.
She put the kettle on, and took a seat opposite Trevor. She tried to smile at him, but it didn’t quite work. “What’s up? It’s been a long time since you’ve been allowed round here.”
“I’d have come round more often if I knew all the fun you were having,” he joked. He lapsed into silence, which was most unlike him.
“How’s Angie?” she asked.
It was then that Trevor started crying.
#
It took a minute or two for Trevor to pull himself together. When he did, he was very apologetic. He hadn’t meant to cry like a big girl, he told her. Or a small girl, come to that. It was just that – that – he was so worried about his wife. You have every cause to be, Kate thought.
Had it been any other man in her kitchen this far into her Craving, she would have been worried for him. But Trevor was safe. He had been her friend for a long time. And Angie was hardly going to come around and jab him with a syringe. If anything, the Craving wasn’t so strong now he was around. It was there okay, but damped down. Maybe it was all in her mind after all.
“She’s been acting strangely for the last year or so,” he said. “We have separate bedrooms of course, but sometimes I can hear her moving round the house at night. I don’t sleep all that well; my back keeps me awake. So when she turns the light on in her room and starts banging round the house, it wakes me up. I hear her go out. One, two o’clock in the morning. And then come back an hour or two later. I don’t know whether she’s seeing someone, someone here on the estate. I wouldn’t blame her. There’s only so much I can do, if you get my drift. Sorry. Too much information, I see. But I just need to tell someone what it’s like; why I’m worried.
Then there was what happened a few days ago. She was out all night, and most of the day after. She’s never done that before. I can do most things for myself, but there’s some stuff I need help with. She didn’t tell me she was staying out, and she wouldn’t tell me where she’d been when she got back. And she was fuming. I’ve never seen her so cross, and I’ve seen her go into rages pretty regularly over the last fifteen years or so, I can tell you.”
“Has she calmed down now?” Kate asked, attempting to sound as casual as possible.
Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve hardly seen her. She’s acting really strange, to be honest. Even more so than usual. Just now, she insisted I go in my bedroom for half an hour, because she had something to do. And then when she let me out, she told me to come round here and see how you are. She’s never been happy about me visiting you, not for a long time. But this morning, she was positively insisting on it.”
“I bet she was.”
Trevor caught the undertone in her voice. He looked at her quizzically. “What’s going on, Kate? If anyone knows, you do.”
Kate shrugged. “I don’t know. Really I don’t.”
“Kate, please. I need to know. If she’s having an affair, I can live with it. I won’t say you told me. I just need to know how involved they are. I don’t want her to leave me.”
“She’d never leave you, Trevor! She loves you. And she’s not having an affair either. I swear to you. I’d know if she was. I don’t think she likes men very much. Apart from you. She’d never see anyone else.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I should check her for carpet-burns. Where should I look? You know about these things.”
She smiled. “I’m afraid the man I have in there isn’t energetic enough to give anyone carpet-burns right now.”
“The more fool him.”
She realised the kettle had been boiling for some time. She poured them each a cup of tea. She gave herself an extra sugar. She needed the energy.
“Something else,” Trevor ventured, as she settled back down again. “She’s making something in the cellar.”
“Making something? What?”
“I’ve got no idea. I just hear her banging away down there. She’s taken the tool-box with her, and I haven’t seen it since. She was hammering away for three hours yesterday. She’s awful at DIY. Maybe she’s just trying to work out how to put up a shelf.”
“That is quite strange. It’s empty, isn’t it?”
“There’s just the gardening stuff we couldn’t fit in the shed. Heaven knows what she’s up to. She’s not herself anymore. She’s cold. Distant. Not my old Angie anymore.”
He took a thoughtful swig of tea. He glanced at his watch. “Gotta go,” he told her. “She’ll get moody if I’m round here too long. Twenty minutes, she said. Don’t want to push my luck.”
He wheeled himself to the front door. She followed along behind him. She was worried. If Angie started losing it, all three of them would be in serious trouble.
She gave him a peck on the cheek at the door.
“It was good to talk,” he told her. “What with Angie being so distant lately, I hardly get to speak to anyone anymore. Even the postman’s avoiding me because I keep him chatting when he wants to get on with his round. I guess we all get lonely sometimes.”
“You know you’re welcome here. Whenever you like,” she said. “Just phone first, okay?”
“In case of shy naked men in your living room?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself before returning to his wife. And then he was gone, leaving her to the company of the dead-man in the armchair.
#
Angie stood on the landing outside Kate’s room, listening to the rhythm of her breathing, making absolutely sure she was asleep before venturing inside. She had done this many times before. She liked watching her friend when she was sleeping. It was the one time her face looked relaxed and care-free.
It had been harder this week. Kate wasn’t sleeping properly. A couple of times, she had turned over just as Angie was creeping into the room, and she had had to sidle out again, one agonisingly slow step after another. But this time, her breathing pattern was regular. She was sound asleep all right.
She walked into the room, and stood by the bed. There was just enough light coming through the venetian blinds for her to see around the room, now her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. She leant over Kate. She hoped that she wouldn’t wake up. It would give her the fright of her life if she saw Angie looming over when she opened her eyes. And she might change the locks, which would never do.
She had a pretty face. Really pretty. Her mouth was half open, in a little pout like models have in the glossy magazines, but her Kate didn’t have to work at it like they did. Those lips. Made to be kissed. It was such a shame that Kate was straight. She was wasted on men. They didn’t even come close to deserving her. Not that she was a lesbian herself, of course; the thought of women with women made her feel quite ill. It was just Kate she wanted.
There was one of Kate’s men downstairs, of course. A dead one, with a message hung round his neck. She had been stupid bringing him round yesterday morning; anyone could have seen her. But she had been seething all week, and when she thought of the message she could send, she just had to do it straight away rather than waiting for night to fall. So she’d sent Trevor to his room, and had retrieved the corpse from the boot of her car. Theirs was a quiet road, so no-one had seen her as far as she was aware. There had been no inquisitive police-men at her door since she’d done it, either. She was pretty sure she had got away with it, but it wouldn’t do to risk it a second time, however much of a kick she would get out of a repeat performance. She’d take him back to hers after dark. But not until Kate had promised her Mike in his place.
She took hold of the top corner of the duvet, and slowly, ever so slowly pulled it up to reveal the top half of Kate’s nude body. She drank it all in: her graceful shoulders; the curve of her shapely breasts; her flat stomach (a little too flat, it had to be said; she was shedding weight again now the Craving had set in). She could only see down to waist level, though. She wanted to see rather more. If she lifted the duvet up just a few inches higher, she would have it all.
Kate shivered in her sleep. Angie gently lowered the duvet, covering her up again. Best not to wake her up. She would have a lot of explaining to do if she was caught peeking under the covers. She didn’t want her friend to think ill of her, to accuse her of ogling her in her sleep; she just wanted her to do as she was told for once.
She deserved a look, though, after all Kate had put her through this week. It had taken her ten hours to get home. Ten hours! She’d seen Kate talking to the police-man in the woods, and had prayed that she would keep calm. Angie knew how to keep a secret, but Kate was always so guilty, so wracked with self-loathing, that there was always a risk that she would confess everything just to get it all over with. The police man had got back in his car, apparently satisfied, and just as she was breathing a huge sigh of relief, Kate had turned her headlights on and driven off, the police car following her down the road. She had driven away. In Angie’s car! Leaving her stranded in the middle of nowhere. She would never have done that before she’d met Mike. That man had changed her.
She waited for a while for her friend to come back, but there was no sign of her after nearly a quarter of an hour. She flagged down a car. It was going to Ashford. Wrong direction, but at least she’d be back in civilisation. She hadn’t quite finished burying the bodies, but if Kate was fucking off home, then she didn’t see why she should hang around doing her dirty work for her. Again!
She had her phone on her. She would phone Kate; demand she come back and collect her. But the call went straight to voicemail, and she remembered that Kate’s battery was flat. Maybe she should have told her about the torch earlier.
She could have phoned Trevor. But she didn’t want to tell him where she was. It was no business of his anyway. It had been a long time since she had felt any real feelings for him at all; he was more of a hindrance than anything. A hobby, at best. So no call for him. She would go in to Ashford, and call a taxi.
She tried to call Kate’s home phone number, to leave a message for her, telling her what a bitch she’d been for leaving her best friend – her only friend, in fact - alone in the woods. But she’d run out of credit. Great. That was all she needed. She hadn’t brought her purse. She hadn’t anticipated needing money to bury bodies in the woods. So she was stuck out here, with no obvious way to get home again.
It didn’t help when she got into a row with the person who’d stopped to pick her up. She’d got into conversation with him. A bloke in his forties. An estate agent. She didn’t have a very high opinion of estate agents. She told him why. He’d laughed it off at first, but she kept going, and in the end he pulled over and invited her to walk. She wasn’t going to stay in his car after he’d treated her like that. Not if he’d begged her. If she’d had her syringe on her, he’d have been rather more polite, she was sure of that! Maybe she’d track him down later and ask him to come value Kate’s house.
She’d walked into Ashford. She wasn’t used to walking; she was a little on the large side, she had to admit, and it made her thighs chafe as they rubbed together. In Ashford, she’d tried to hitch a lift home, but no-one would stop for her. A couple of drivers waved at her, and one shouted “get a job” out of his car window, which was hardly original. She went to the railway station to explain her situation and try to arrange a train-ride home, but they weren’t having any of it either. They wouldn’t even let her use their phone.
There were taxis all over the place. She could easily have flagged one down and gone back home. But she’d started to fret about how much that would cost. It cost a fortune to get to Margate by taxi, so the fare for taking the forty or fifty mile journey from Ashford to Ramsgate would be extortionate. Why should she pay all that money when it wasn’t even her fault she was here? Maybe it would be better if it took her hours to get home anyway. Then she could tell Kate how much trouble she had put her to. Make her feel guilty. Make her feel guilty enough, and she might even hand over Window-boy to make it up to her. She would get him one way or another, whatever it took. He was getting between her and her friend, and she wasn’t having that.
She sat on the pavement outside Boots, resting her legs and trying to work out what to do. If she wasn’t going to take a taxi, and she couldn’t get the train, that only left hitching or walking. And there was no way she was going to walk. She’d have another go at hitching, but tell