Two very strong impulses fight within me. The first is to run – run out the door, up the stairs, lock myself in the bathroom – do whatever I can to get away.
The second is to stand and fight.
I am a runner. This is what I do – I run. But sometimes you can’t run any more.
I stand, my fists clenched by my side, my blood a roaring in my ears, my breath a tearing in my throat. Flight or fight. Flight or fight. Flight or—
Shoes crunch on the glass in the hallway. And then they stop.
I know the murderer is there, listening – listening for me. I hold my breath.
And then the living-room door swings wide.
Someone is standing in the frame, and I cannot see who it is. In the dimness all I can see is a shape, black against the reflecting steel of the front door.
It could be anyone – they’re huddled in a coat, and their face is hidden by the shadows. But then the figure moves, and I see the glint of blonde hair.
‘Hello Flo,’ I say, my throat so tight I can barely speak.
And then she laughs.
She laughs and laughs, and for a long moment I have no idea why.
She moves, still smiling, into a strip of moonlight, her feet crunching on glass.
And I understand.
Because it’s not Flo.
It’s Clare.
She’s holding herself up against the wall, and I realise that she’s as frail as me. Maybe she wasn’t as ill as she pretended when I saw her in the hospital, but she’s ill all right. She holds herself like someone twice her age, like she’s been beaten bloody and has only half healed.
‘Why did you come back,’ she manages at last. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave it?’
‘Clare?’ I croak. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.
She feels her way slowly to the sofa and then sinks down with a groan. In the thin, cloud-muted moonlight she looks awful – worse than me. Her face is cut and there’s a huge swollen bruise on one side of her forehead, black in the pale light.
‘Clare – why?’
I can’t make sense of this.
She says nothing. Nina’s rolling tobacco is on the table, along with Rizlas, and she reaches for them, painfully, with a little gasp of relief as she sinks back into the cushions, and begins slowly, painstakingly, to roll up. She is wearing gloves, but in spite of that her hands are shaking, and she spills the tobacco twice before she lights up.
‘I haven’t smoked in years.’ She puts the end to her lips and takes a long drag. ‘God, I’ve missed it.’
‘Why?’ I say again. ‘Why are you here?’
I still can’t make my brain accept what’s happening. Clare is here – therefore she must be the killer. But why, how? There was no way she could have sent that first text – she was the one person in the house who could not have done it.
I should be running. I should be cowering behind the sofa, armed with a bread knife. But I can’t make myself understand this. It’s Clare, my brain keeps insisting. She’s your friend. When she holds out the cigarette to me, I take it, half in a dream, and suck in the smoke, holding it deep until the trembling in my limbs stills and I feel my head get light.
I go to hand it back, and Clare shrugs.
‘Keep it. I can roll another. God it’s cold. Want a tea?’
‘Thanks,’ I say, still in this strange, dreamlike state. Clare is the killer. But she can’t be. I can’t seem to think what to do – and so I take refuge in these strange, automatic social responses.
She gets painfully to her feet and hobbles out into the kitchen, and in a few minutes I hear the click of the kettle and the bubbling hum as it begins to boil.
What should I do?
The roll-up has burnt out, and I set it gently onto the coffee table. There’s no ash tray, but I no longer care.
I shut my eyes, rub my hands over my face, and as I do I get a flash, like a projection against the inside of my lids: James, the blood bright as paint under the lights.
The smell from my dream is still sharp in my nostrils, his hoarse voice is inside my head.
There’s a small sound from the doorway and I see Clare shuffling painfully across with two mugs in her hand. She sets them down and I take one, and she lowers herself to the sofa and pulls a packet of pills from her pocket, and breaks two capsules into the tea, her fingers a little clumsy in their woollen gloves.
‘Painkillers?’ I ask, more for something to say. She nods.
‘Yes. You’re supposed to swallow the capsules whole, but I can’t swallow pills.’ She takes a swig and shudders. ‘Oh God, that’s disgusting. I’m not sure if it’s the pills or if the milk’s gone off.’
I take a gulp of my own. It tastes vile – tea always tastes vile, but this is even more vile than normal. It tastes sour and bitter below the sugar Clare has added – but at least it’s hot.
We sip in silence for a moment, and then I can’t keep quiet any longer.
‘What are you doing here, Clare? How did you get here?’
‘I drove Flo’s car. She lent it to my folks, and they left the keys in my locker for Flo to collect. Only … she never did.’