Kareesh, but had I really? Did they really exist? The train rattled down the tracks, but I couldn't help feeling that somehow I was on the wrong line.
A young woman was sitting across from me. She was browsing through one of those magazines filled with candid pictures of D-list celebs and their hangers-on. I found myself wondering if she was what she appeared to be. What if she was Fey too? She looked a little too glossy, a little too perfect to be natural. How many Fey were there? Were they all around us? She looked up. Her eyes were ice blue. Now that I looked closer, you could see that she was not a natural blonde.
'What?' she mouthed at me over the clatter and rumble of the train. Her grimace broke the spell, as I realised I had been calmly examining her while she looked back. I found myself blushing deeply at my breech of tube etiquette.
'I'm sorry, I was… never mind.'
'Weirdo!' she mouthed back. Rattling her magazine, she went back to browsing.
I tried not to look at her for the rest of the journey.
At my stop I disembarked and waited on the platform until the train departed and the platform cleared, looking suspiciously at anyone who lingered. I picked out my ticket, climbed the stairs to the barrier and exited into the empty street where late-opening shops tempted the newly arrived commuters to alcohol and convenience foods. Self-consciously I walked past, trying to act like everyone else, to be like them without ever having thought about what that meant. How did you walk? What did you look at? What thoughts were in your head? So many times I had walked this way and had never given a moment's thought as to whether it looked normal or not.
The suburban streets were damp and the street lights did little but highlight the shadows. I followed the route to my flat scanning the gardens along the front of the houses without any notion of what I was looking for. She said that the thing hunting me might know where I would go. Did that mean it might know where my flat was? Could it be waiting for me?
My front door was dark, as I had left it. I turned the key and pushed the door open, hearing only the distant rumble of traffic and the background city murmur. Stepping inside I closed the door behind me. I stood, silent at the bottom of the stairs leading up to my flat, not sure what I was listening for.
Berating myself for making something out of nothing, I spurred myself into motion, stepping stealthily up, avoiding the stair that creaked and staying close to the wall, sliding up to eye-level where the stairway turned a right-angle at the top onto my hallway and checking that the doors were all shut and the flat was as I had left it.
I went to the first door, throwing it open onto my L-shaped sitting room to reveal only the battered sofa and chair my parents had given me, my television and the stereo. The street lights through the window made shadows across the rug. Stomach tight with apprehension, I turned on the lights, then prodded behind the curtains and peered behind the sofa.
Going back into the hall, I moved cautiously along to where the kitchen and bathroom were. I pushed open the kitchen door. Both chairs were still tucked under my self-assembly table so I could get to the kettle and the four-ring cooker. I stepped across the hall and into the bathroom where I threw back the shower curtain. My shaving things were undisturbed on the shelf by the sink.
I had saved my bedroom until last as it backed onto the small garden. I threw open the door and stepped back, letting the light from the hall fall across my double bed. I could see the security locks on the French windows that overlooked the half-balcony were still secure. I clicked on the light and dropped cautiously to my knees to look under the bed. Isn't that where the monsters always hide? I checked inside my wardrobe just to be sure.
The dressing mirror inside the wardrobe door revealed my worried expression. I forced a smile, now I had been all through the flat, and returned to the French window to draw the curtains closed on the tiny back garden. The small patio behind the house that I shared with my ground floor neighbours showed dimly in the lights from the rooms below. The row of evergreens at the end of the garden cast pointed shadows across the small lawn, reminding me somehow of Kareesh's smile. It had been a strange day.
Back downstairs, I locked and bolted the front door, pressing my back against it. I made my way back up to the bedroom and took my suit off, inspecting the mess I had made of it then hanging it up out of habit. I changed into a pair of sweat pants and an old T-shirt, then cracked open a cold beer from the fridge and started packing.
Not knowing how long I would have, I concentrated on putting my rucksack together first, setting aside underwear, shirts, slacks and casual boots, a sturdy belt and several pairs of thick socks. After half an hour I had all this and more packed into a rucksack that I left at the bottom of my bed. I found a long rainproof coat and a fleece in case it turned cold.
In the kitchen, I put together an odd meal of left-over ham, grapes, plain biscuits and fruit yoghurt. I smelled the yogurt as I opened it and consigned it straight to the bin. My stomach was sour enough already. The biscuits were soft, but tasted OK with the ham. I ate the grapes as I went through the fridge, dropping anything that wouldn't keep into the waste-bin.
Then I began clearing rooms.
It's funny, it's not until you start clearing stuff out that you begin to appreciate how much you have. I didn't have that much, having recently cleared myself out of the family home and leaving much more behind than mere possessions. Even so, I found postcards from my parents behind the clock and little gifts that Alex had given me in my chest of drawers.
In the bathroom, Alex's hair-mousse was still in the cabinet from her last visit and there was a toothbrush she left with me for the occasional sleepover. I knew Alex's impromptu visits were more often driven by a need for some distance between her and her mother, but I treasured them nonetheless. I tried not to take sides, simply offering tea and sympathy and a place to stay where she was always welcome, always loved. Having her things in my flat was a reminder of her presence. Nevertheless, I binned the items ruthlessly. We could always buy more hair mousse.
Methodically I cleaned each room, looking under the tables, inside tins and boxes and behind anything moveable. Everything specific to my family or myself, I stacked on the kitchen table. The rest I trashed, flushed or left.
When I had finished I went back and cleared again, finding a novelty corkscrew in the kitchen drawer that Mum had bought me ages ago and a letter from Kath which had slipped down the back of the dresser. I put all of the things into padded envelopes on the kitchen table and stuck address labels onto the outside. The first note I wrote to my parents asking them to hold onto the items for me said far too much and I knew it would only worry them. The second told them that I was moving out of the flat unexpectedly and needed them to hold onto things until I found a new place. They would still worry, but it was better than before.
I wrote a cheque to my landlord with enough money to cover three months rent and the outstanding bills, then added an apologetic note that a death in the family had meant I'd had to leave at short notice and wouldn't be back for some time. That much of the truth I could tell him. I asked him if he would mind keeping an eye on the place while I was gone.
The note I wrote to Kath reiterated what I had told her earlier and explained that I didn't know when I'd be able to make good on maintenance. I sent her the card for my savings account and then sent the code in a separate envelope, telling her to use it to support them both until I got back in touch. That would probably scare her more than anything else.
Then I cracked open another beer and sat at the kitchen table, looking at the paltry three envelopes containing anything of significance in my life. The whole process had depressed me. I just wanted to go to bed and sleep but my conscience nagged at me until I went through the whole flat again, finding nothing new this time, and finally came back to the kitchen empty-handed.
Taking stamps from one of the drawers, I split them between the packages, assuming it would be plenty of postage to get them where they needed to go. I didn't put a return address on any of them. I put on the raincoat and, loading the parcels into a plastic carrier bag, walked back out to the strip of shops around the tube station. I had some trouble getting the envelopes into the postbox, but with some shifting and shoving they eventually dropped down inside. At the cash machine I took out all the money from my current account that my card would let me have so my wallet bulged with it.
There, it was done.
Rain spotted onto the darkened pavement, adding its mood to mine. By the time I got back to the flat I was
