Someone Who Isn't Me Danuta Kot (best books to read .TXT) 📖

a grip! The bulb must have gone, that was all. Or she’d forgotten, or…

There was no sign of the kitten in the light of her torch as she made her way across the muddy yard. The wheelie bin stood in a deep puddle, and the shelter – she flashed her torch at it – the rain was getting to that as well. The tarp had blown back and some of the bedding was wet. If more water got in… She pulled the tarp back to protect it again. Water dripped off the fire escape and down her neck.

She was wet and she was freezing.

The shelter would do for tonight and she’d put food down before she left for the pub. There were still some biscuits in one of the dishes. The kitten would be fine until morning. She’d feed it and fix the shelter then. Her head was a mess and she was just too tired and too cold to do anything about it now.

The wind gusted. The gate slammed back against the wall and blew shut again.

Becca was at the back door before she realised it, her hands fumbling in her bag for her key. She got the door open, then shut and locked it, her heart hammering. She ran up the stairs to the landing and pressed the light switch. To her relief, the fluorescent tube flickered into life.

Why had she thought it wouldn’t?

She let herself into her flat and turned on the floor lamp, the one with the red shade that Kay had given her. It always made her feel good, having that light, seeing the way it made her room look warm and welcoming and, just a bit, like the places on the makeover shows on the TV.

But tonight, the magic didn’t work. Tonight, it was just a light in a tatty bedsit.

She slumped down in the armchair, not bothering to take her coat off or light the fire. She couldn’t find the energy to do anything more than just curl up here and let the thoughts take her. What was the point in resisting them? They were true, weren’t they?

The creep punter’s fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, touching her, her stepfather’s footsteps on the stairs as she hid under the sheets, too chicken, too chicken to fight Him, too chicken to help Curwen, she was just what her mother used to call her, a waste of time, a waste of space.

And Andy, watching her as her hair tumbled down round her shoulders, but his face was sad. I don’t want to make more bad things happen in your life…

But you did! She wanted to scream at him. You did!

And Matt was smiling at her. They were sitting on the floor of the room Becca had just wrecked, and he was helping her to keep the thoughts away. Don’t hate yourself. Don’t waste your anger, Becca. Use it.

But Matt was dead. She missed him so much she almost couldn’t bear it. And Kay. She missed Kay, too. Why hadn’t she been to see her in her new house and tell her about what was happening? Kay was busy, but she’d want to know.

She really, really needed to talk to Kay.

Her hand fumbled with her phone, but it was too late at night. She couldn’t call Kay now and wake her up. Tomorrow, she promised herself.

Just thinking about Matt and Kay was making the thoughts slow down, making the noise in her head quieter. Now she could think properly, and start to make sense of what had happened tonight.

She wanted to help, wanted to find out what had happened to Andy, but what she’d told Curwen was right. There was no way she could get those keys off Carl. She wasn’t being chicken; it was just a fact.

If she could, would she have done what he wanted?

She kind of thought she would. Slowly, she uncurled from the chair, pulled off her wet coat and lit the gas fire, then she made a cup of tea and opened some beans and sat in front of the fire eating them out of the tin.

And then she remembered the main thing she’d found out that night: the message that said it came from Andy’s phone, but couldn’t have done.

Because Andy had been dead.

And now she thought about it, what about the other messages? All the ones about getting in the cellar and taking pictures, the ones that hadn’t sounded like Andy, because…

She closed her eyes and breathed steadily. Don’t let the thoughts come back. Just… don’t.

The rain was even heavier now, hammering on the window. A gust of wind made the dormer rattle and a waft of chilly air blew across the room. The gas fire flickered. She pulled the throw off the bed and wrapped it round her shoulders, but she was still cold.

She thought about the kitten – tiny and bedraggled – hiding in its carboard shelter. In this weather, the puddles would get bigger and bigger and seep under the tarp. The water would soak through the carboard and turn it into a soggy ruin. The bedding she’d put in there would get wet and before too long, the kitten would be soaked, then its fur wouldn’t keep it warm, and then… Even though she was inside, with food in her and a hot drink, sitting in front of a fire, she was cold. The kitten only had its fur and the shelter of a cardboard box.

And she hadn’t even tried to feed it because she was cold and tired and sorry for herself, and she’d let herself get scared by broken lights and banging gates. Who was the pond life here? She couldn’t leave it outside in this. She had to get down there and either make sure it was in proper shelter or catch it.

Somehow.

Concentrating hard on the kitten to stop the thoughts coming back, she grabbed the milk carton and a handful of cat biscuits, then pulled on her still-wet coat