I go into his room.
‘You must be desperate if you’re asking me,’ he says. ‘Would it really be the end of the world if you didn’t drink it tonight? Maybe I shouldn’t give you any.’
Just give me the teabags. Please give me the teabags. And stop looking at me like that!
‘Please . . . ’
My self-hate reaches rock bottom.
‘You know what,’ he says then, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I’m suddenly in the mood for a brew. Put the kettle on while I put a shirt on.’
My watch now shows three minutes until ten o’clock. I’m not going to get the tea in time unless I make it now. I don’t want Shepherd to see how fundamental this is to my survival.
So I just do it. I find mismatched mugs on the worktop next to the sink, choosing two and rinsing them out under the tap. When I find milk in his fridge, I notice my hands are trembling. I make the tea, stirring and adding milk drop by drop until it’s exactly the right colour. I get to drink my first scalding sip of tea just as the second hand strikes twelve.
My mind makes a mental sign of the cross.
You did enough. You have enough. You’re okay.
I shed a tear of solace even though I’m drinking it in Shepherd’s space — and I haven’t even left my own room secure.
I plop his mug on a coaster, turning the handle exactly ninety degrees from the edge of the table. It takes me a few attempts before it looks right. He looks at me. And under his gaze, I’m being scrutinised.
We sit at the table in awkward silence for a moment, sipping tea. Then he says, ‘This is getting out of hand, Amy. You can’t keep doing this. I won’t let you keep doing this. You looked ready to die at my door if you didn’t get your hands on a cup of tea.’
‘I’m fine —’
‘You keep saying that but it’s clear you’re not.’ He regards me for a minute. ‘This OCD bullshit is gonna stop. Panic attacks are gonna stop. You can’t live like this. You’re not living.’
I start to say something, then stop myself.
‘Go on,’ he says.
‘It’s the door,’ I mumble.
‘The door?’
‘The front door. I worry about it being left on the latch. Sometimes people come and go, and leave the door open.’
‘Yeah, noticed the billion times you check it. Amy, I always make sure it’s locked.’
‘Especially at night,’ I say, with emphasis.
I’m tired right down to the marrow of my bones. I want to sleep. I want to get away from him. I don’t want to get away from him.
‘Yeah, especially at night. I always make sure it’s locked. Every night.’
It has the sound of a solemn vow. He says it without a smile, and I don’t know why but I believe him. Trust him, even. I don’t want to trust him, but I do.
I feel myself starting to exhale. ‘Thank you,’ I blow out.
‘Amy, I had to take your key from you. You understand why, yeah?’
We drink in silence, the tick tock of the wall clock harsh in the quiet, dark room.
‘Violet . . . ’ he says all of a sudden. ‘She was pretty.’
I widen my eyes in surprise. He hasn’t mentioned his mother since I overheard his conversation with Diana. Despite my desires to stab him with a fork, most of the time, I’m happy Shepherd found his mother. He was like lost property in the children’s home. Dumped and left with nobody claiming him. Even though I’m petrified about what he’ll do if he ever finds out who his father is . . . I wish he could get the chance to be loved by a parent. Maybe, just maybe, his cold sadistic heart could be cured.
‘Do you have a photo of her?’
‘Yeah, a letter was left for me by her. A photo was kept inside.’
‘Can I see it?’
He goes into his bedroom and comes back with a black-and-white photograph in his hand. He gives it to me.
‘She was beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that baby you?’
He nods his answer. It must be too painful for words.
Baby Shepherd. Innocent and vulnerable. Nothing like the man he is now.
I look closer at the photograph and feel a ghost walk by.
‘What is it?’ he says, noticing my face has turned pale.
I feel another chill. ‘Nothing . . .’
‘It’s not nothing — what? Just say it.’
‘It just feels like I’ve seen her before.’
‘It’s the only photo of my mum to exist. You weren’t born when she was alive, Amy. How can you recognise my mum’s face?’
I’m bricked up in darkness. The walls are old, covered in grime and slime, and a painful memory surfaces. I bury it down. Deep, deep down.
It was just a nightmare. None of it was real.
‘Must be getting my wires crossed with somebody else. Maybe it’s because she looks like you . . .’
‘Must be.’
I finish my tea and stand up. I’m suddenly aware again of my surroundings. So close to him. His body is a magnet I can’t repel. I’m keen to get back to my room before I do something stupid. Before my body does something stupid.
Shepherd knows a million ways to turn my body on and he can be an arsehole about it. He knows that just running a tongue over his lips is enough to make my thighs squeeze tight. And combining that with a subtle shift of his hand to his hips, to his belt, to let me know that his mind has drifted to sex . . . it’s enough to know I need to leave
