‘Oh. Well, that sounds like a most excellent adventure, Bill.’
‘I’m sure it will be. Party on, Ted. I’ll speak to you soon. Love you.’
We bonded years ago by watching movies from my childhood, and the Keanu classic has remained one of her favourites.
I hang up and check my phone for anything else. I don’t have any social media at all on there, and only my family and close colleagues have this number. It’s new, and I told everyone it was because I dropped my old one in the bath while I was reading a book calledMy Best Friend’s Exorcismon my kindle app. That’s not true, but it is the kind of behaviour that wouldn’t shock them. The real reason I got a new phone was because I needed to change my number, and because I became paranoid about the phone itself having some kind of tracker on it. Crazy but true– modern technology has opened up all kinds of new and exciting ways to worry.
I’m holding my breath slightly as I examine the screen, looking for anything out of place, but there is nothing there thatshouldn’t be there. I let out a sigh, annoyed that my hands are shaking slightly. Annoyed with the whole thing.
I switch off my laptop and try to clear my mind of everything. Plot points I need to untangle, vague concerns about Libby, hoping I was right about Lucy’s pals being sensible, freaking out about sleeping in a new place, feeling unsettled in general.
I go downstairs, and quickly double check all the locks and make sure the windows are closed. There was one open in the kitchen, but just the little one at the top. I switch off the lights and take myself to bed. I’m already in my pyjamas– have been since just before nine o’clock, because I’m rock and roll like that.
I pull the covers over me, and realise I need better curtains. Ones that will black out the moon, which is currently shining way too brightly around the gaps in the fabric. I glance around the unfamiliar room, the moonlight at least allowing me to pick out a few comforting sights: my bookshelf, as yet empty because the books are still in boxes. A stack of my clothes, currently heaped on a chair. My little bedside cabinet, upon which stands my glass of water, my reading glasses, and a small wooden cross. I don’t believe in vampires quite as vehemently as I did back when I was little, but I’ve never quite recovered fromSalem’s Lot. Better safe than sorry.
Shit. Why did I think about that? Because now I know that, as soon as I start to drift off I’ll imagine those creepy fingernails scraping on the windowpane… Stop, stop, stop! Do not let your mind take charge. Put it back in a box and tell it to go to sleep, right now. There is no such thing as vampires. There are no zombies on the street. This cute little house is not built on a graveyard, and it is not haunted. Nobody can hurt you. You are safe.
Just as I’m managing to calm myself down, giving myself the same pep talk I have given myself so many times, I hear it. The faintest sound of something scratching. I screw my eyestogether, shake my head, fight back against the panic. No. I imagined it. There was no scratching.
I hear it again. Louder now. Impossible to ignore, impossible to put down to imagination. A rhythmic scrape, coming from somewhere nearby. Rats? Weresquirrels? Something more sinister… like the worst monster of them all, a human being?
I tell myself to move. To get out of bed. To grab the scissors I always keep in my cabinet drawer just in case I ever need a makeshift weapon. But no matter how many times I tell myself to move, my body stays frozen, my mind trapped and terrified.
The scratch comes again, and is followed by the long, slow creak of the bedroom door being pushed open. My hands grip the sheets, and my eyes are wide and staring. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can barely breath. Get up! Run! Fight! Call for help!
Just as I manage to force myself to creep my hand out towards my phone, there is a solid thud on my bed. A thud, and a chunky presence next to my legs, and… a purr? Is that a purr?
I sit up, and see a pair of luminous green eyes staring at me. It’s a cat. It’s a bloody cat. A massive furry ginger cat with the tip of one ear missing. He licks his paws and stares at me, then purrs a bit more. My heart is slowly recovering, and I wipe the sheen of cold sweat from my face. This will seem funny in the morning, but right now adrenaline is coursing through my body, and I’m feeling that awful jarring sensation, like I’ve tripped up and everything inside me has been shaken about like a milkshake. I hold out a hand, and the cat licks it with a sandpaper tongue. He seems friendly enough. Not a zombie cat for sure.
I run my fingers through his thick fur, and he purrs some more. I’m relieved, but I’m also upset with myself. When will I ever stop freezing in the face of fear? I’ve spent so much of my damn life afraid you’d have thought I would have learned how to deal with it by now. How to override it and take back control ofmy own body and mind. Sadly, I haven’t, and the fact leaves me filled with such a toxic mix of emotions– anxiety, self-loathing, anger. But mainly, a deep sense of sadness.
The cat rubs himself up against my palm, his purring deep and soothing. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘That would be a terrible way to go– scared to death in my own bed by a ginger cat. What’s your name anyway…?’
He’s wearing a collar with a little bell on it, which I’m sure he hates because it gives all his feathered and long-tailed potential victims the chance to escape. I probably couldn’t hear it over the sounds of my heart pounding in my chest. There’s also one of those little discs with a phone number and a name engraved on it.
I laugh out loud as I read. I look at this massive cat, who is by no means a young gentleman, with his missing ear tip and scarred lines of fur from the brawls he’s been in, and decide that whoever named him must have a sense of humour.
‘Tinkerbell?’ I say, amusement dripping from my voice. He glares at me, as though he understands he is being mocked and is outraged at the indignity of it all. ‘Tinkerbell! Well, there you go. If you’re still around in the morning, Tink, I’ll call this number and see if your presence is required elsewhere. And I will not be feeding you, okay? This isn’t my first rodeo. I know what happens when you feed cats who aren’t your own.’
I was once adopted by a charming little tortoiseshell who appeared in my roof garden. We became best friends, and she stayed with me most days. One time she turned up with an injured leg, bleeding and hurt, so I took her to the vets. It cost me several hundred pounds to have that leg fixed, and we left together, she with a cone of shame around her head. A few days later, I saw her on the windowsill of a house a few doors down– a house where she clearly lived. To this day I laugh when I imagine her actual owners, wondering what the hell was goingon when the cat turned up with stitches and a head cone. She stopped coming by after that; I suspect her family decided she needed to be an indoor cat for a while.
Tinkerbell looks at me as I speak, then lifts one leg and licks his bum. Right. Well. That told me.
I pull the covers back over myself, and settle down. I finally feel so exhausted I will probably pass out. With the comforting lump of the cat curled against my thighs, I finally fall asleep– my very first night in Budbury.
Chapter Four
The next day, the cat is gone. I have no clue how, because everything is locked up tight, but that is the Way of the Cat. They are mysterious creatures, and I suspect they have secretly mastered the science of teleportation.
I do some more unpacking, feeling more at home once my bookshelves are full, and do some basic shopping in the little grocery store. There are the usual suspect supermarkets a further drive away, but I enjoy shopping locally when I can. There is a little butcher’s counter, freshly baked croissants, and milk that I’m told is ‘fresh from Farmer Frank’s Farm’. I wonder if that’s the farm that Cherie’s late husband owned, but don’t want to ask. I’ve already been engaged in a lot more conversations than I’d expected to be engaged in.
I buy myself a beautiful bunch of deep red dahlias from the florist, because I decided long ago that I would never wait for anybody else to buy me flowers. They are gorgeous, and I’m carrying them when I call into the pharmacy, which is across the road from my house. I need to buy some antihistamines in casethe cat becomes a fixture, and in case I develop an allergy. Yes, this is how my mind works.
It’s a pleasingly old-fashioned place, with wooden cabinets and storefront windows that look at the very least Victorian. A little bell tinkles as I push the door open, and the smell of mint and cough sweets hits me. It’s like walking into an apothecary shop, and I half expect to see someone mixing herbs with a pestle and mortar.
Instead, I see a very elderly lady lounging flat out on a bright red sofa that is designed in the shape of a huge pair of lips. She’s draped along it, looking like she’s about to be eaten, and is wearing a plastic crown. Another woman, dressed in a white coat, is kneeling at her side hand feeding her grapes. Right. Okay then. Things just got weird.
I’m about to turn back around and leave when Katie emerges from behind the counter carrying a glass of something fizzy and alcoholic looking. She smiles when she notices me, and says: ‘Sarah! Nice to see you. Erm, Edie is Queen for the Day…’
