If I can get things right, do things in the right order, check things properly, follow the rhythm, then the pictures pause for a while.
If I can get out of my door and know for sure everything is safe in my room, then I’ll get a few hours where the worst feeling I have is a dim rattle in my chest. As though something’s amiss but I can’t put my finger on it. More often, though, I do the best I can with the checking and, assuming I make it out of the estate at all, I then spend the rest of the day fretting about whether I did it right. Then the whole day will be filled with these stories of what might be waiting for me when I get back to my room.
Whatever this is, it snuck up on me. And now it’s here to stay, like a virus with no vaccine. Every once in a while I catch myself forming a new rule. Last week I found myself counting steps again, something I’ve not done for months. That’s certainly one I can do without. But I don’t seem to be able to control myself any more. I’m getting worse, not better.
So, it’s Wednesday, and an odd-numbered day, and we’ve run out of teabags. The teabag issue is a big deal. Another rule to control chaos. If I don’t have cups of tea at eight, ten, four and eight o’clock, my mind will drown. It’s like running on the spot. I’ll exhaust myself without ever getting anywhere.
I asked Rebecca if she minded going out and buying some. But she can’t go shopping until tomorrow. I look at the kitchen bin. My 8:00 AM teabag mocks me. For a spare moment, I consider fishing it out to reuse. I’m a bundle of nerves, riddled with fears.
I pop a stick of bubble gum into my mouth. A distraction from twitchy fingers. It doesn’t work. I check my room on a constant loop, each time getting it wrong. The more times I do it, the more tired I become. Sometimes I get stuck like this.
And a tiny, tiny voice of reason at the back of my head is screaming: Listen to Shepherd! This is not normal. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
By a quarter to ten, I’m scrunched into a dark corner. A small tight knot on the edge of explosion. My mind a blight and disease on any chance of being an ordinary girl.
And then I hear it.
The sound of the front door being closed, properly, and heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Before my brain ticks wrong, I see a way of escape. If I can’t get teabags from the kitchen, maybe I could get them from someplace else . . .
The chink of boots pass my door and carry on upstairs to the top floor. I wait for a moment, rub my cheeks to hide the tears, then drag my fingers through my hair.
I would rather pull my teeth out than ask him for a favour, yet . . . the alternative is a nightmare come true.
There is no time to check the room. The front door isn’t on the latch. I heard him shut it, I definitely heard him shut it. I’ll have to just go.
Taking my key, and locking the room just once, checking it just once, I trudge up the stairs, hesitating outside his door. There’s a window on the landing, a small sliver of moonlight, but no other light.
I peer down the stairs. I can just about see my own door. I knock, and he doesn’t answer. I think the rock music is too loud and he hasn’t heard. I knock again. A little louder. A little more desperate. I need my tea before ten o’clock.
The music turns off. I listen to the silence and then the footsteps on the other side. I stand awkwardly, like I’ve forgotten how to use my arms. It feels like my body is turning into a robot.
He opens the door. I jump a little. Everything sounds so loud, sharp.
His smile is the crookedest of them all. ‘Amylocks. Miss me?’
My heartbeat flutters, stops, and kick-starts again.
He barely has to touch me to light a fire in me. That look, that determined wild look he has in his eyes now, it’s enough to make my underwear damp.
‘No — I mean, I wondered if you have any teabags? That I could borrow. I mean, have. We’ve run out and I know you have your own.’
He’s buttoning his black jeans. But he doesn’t have a shirt on. He looks pale like a vampire. His skin is white and smooth like marble. I can see every segment of muscle in his eight-pack middle. His arms look strong. I can see weights on his floor behind him.
He looks so beautiful but I know his soul is ugly.
I feel silly, all of a sudden. I’m wearing my pale yellow T-shirt and an old white ruffle skirt. I haven’t shaved my legs. I’m not wearing any lip gloss or eyeliner.
The bubble gum is still in my mouth. The sugar coats my tongue but it’s bitter, the sweet all gone, like I’ve licked perfume.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he says. ‘Come in.’
I’m trying so hard to look like a normal happy-go-lucky girl. I fail miserably. I must be giving off desperation out of every pore.
He holds the door open and retreats into his spacious room. It’s at least triple the size of my entire living space. I’m left standing by the doorway, watching his back. In normal circumstances, I’d rather die than follow a man into an enclosed space. But
