‘I need to go,’ I say.
‘Wait.’
He takes a roll of food bags from a drawer and uses the bag as a glove to pull out a handful of teabags from the box. He turns the bag inside out and twists it at the top.
‘I’m fi—’ I cut myself off with embarrassment, realising I do keep saying ‘I’m fine’ when I’m not even close to being fine.
He shoves it in my hand. ‘Don’t fret — you can pay the favour someday. When I run out of sugar, I’ll know where to get some sweet.’
He lets me walk several paces ahead of him to the door, not crowding me, and I let myself out of his room.
‘See you real soon,’ I hear him threaten as I scuttle down the stairs.
And the most curious thing happens. I get back into my room, sit down in front of my laptop, and watch an hour of a film before I realise I haven’t even checked the room.
21
YOU
THE NEXT DAY, there is a note waiting for me.
It’s waiting outside my room, on the landing, just outside my door. I pick it up before I start checking the door, slip it into my pocket. I finally get to read it an hour and a half later, after my checks, when I sit down in my living room.
Amy—
Wear something pretty this Saturday night. I’m taking you out to a nightclub. Refuse and you know the consequences.
—S
He is something else.
Is he honestly blackmailing me onto a date?
Is it a date? Or is it therapy? I don’t know, anymore. It’s all a little confusing.
I almost want to laugh. Me, going to a nightclub with Shepherd? Going on a date with a man who prides himself on being manipulative and sadistic?
I can’t do it.
This is everything I avoid like the black plague. Crowds. Loud noise. Dark rooms.
I swallow the bile burning my throat. A spur of the moment thing would have been bad enough, but the fact he has put so much thought into it, makes me feel nauseous.
I should send him a note, RSVP him NO.
But I can’t, can I? It’s a done deal, I’ve already signed my fate. Refuse, and I seal Daisy and Max to a future of doom. I might as well throw them to the monsters myself.
I decide it’s the perfect time to practice deep breathing. I learnt it from Shepherd, the night he rescued me from a panic attack. After checking the room, I plop down on the floor, shut my eyes and breathe.
I make myself start by doing it for three minutes. I set the kitchen timer. At first it’s a struggle to keep my eyes closed for that long, every sound disturbs me. The first few times I do it, I fail. I either open my eyes before the timer goes off, or some noise from outside distracts me.
I try again, but then fail again, and then go to check the room again three times to make up for my failure.
This is all a bit crap, I think, and I find myself wondering whether letting Shepherd help me with my OCD is the best way forward? I’m doing alright, aren’t I? I’m still alive, aren’t I? But none of this line of thinking can go anywhere. Shepherd is forcing my hand. He has taken control of me. Like the Puppet Master and his little puppet. He’s pulling all the strings. If I don’t let him treat me, Daisy and Max will be forced to live in a rundown housing estate, with an uncle who abuses her. I don’t want Daisy to fall back into the grips of cocaine.
I pull out my imaginary white flag and wave it. Shepherd pulls my strings and I must act like the perfect doll on stage.
Truth is, I worry my OCD is always going to keep me from being the person I dreamed of becoming. A part of me, a grudging part of me, wishes upon a star that Shepherd will fix the fault in my head.
I try breathing again. I close my eyes and Shepherd is here with me. His large hand holding mine, his eyes swirly marbles in the darkness . . . the smell of tobacco . . . his hard, muscular Superman body . . . Before I know it, the timer is going off, and I’ve managed three minutes without opening my eyes.
I place Shepherd’s note on the floor in front of me, cross my legs. I spend a moment listening to the creaks and groans of the old estate. Then I shut my eyes and start.
Picturing Shepherd with me is the only way it works, I decide. What the hell, if it works, it has to be a good thing, right? He never has to know I fantasise about him.
So I take him away from the cold, draughty floor of my room. I go upstairs instead. Into his bedroom. He is naked. So am I. It’s sunny and warm, the sun streaming through the windows onto his sexy, vampish face. He’s brushing the hair from mine, and is saying the things he said to me before, and a few other things too . . .
‘I can make the pain go away . . . You were a little scared, but you wanted me to fuck you. No reason we can't get back to there . . .’
Five minutes later, I pop one eye open and look across to the wall clock.
I forgot to set the timer.
At bedtime, I fall into sleep like Sleeping Beauty.
22
ME
It’s Friday evening, the day before my date with Amy, and I catch her coming out of the broom cupboard underneath the staircase. She flits back inside. Probably toying with the idea
