Mirrorland Carole Johnstone (find a book to read .TXT) 📖

about that night. I know you are. The hole was blocked from your side, Ross. Yours. And if you’re lying about that, then you’re—’

‘This is El talking. Or this house. This fucking house.’ He stops, lets go of my arms. ‘Look. It’s been a shitty few days, a shitty few weeks. Come back upstairs, and I promise we’ll talk. Just—’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Because here is where I get to remember, here is where I get to be whole again. And I’m not scared enough of Ross to sabotage that. Not yet.

He holds his palms up. ‘All right. Then stay here. I’ll go upstairs, I’ll unlock the doors. And then I’ll bring us down something to drink and we can talk right here, okay? If that’s what you want.’

I don’t answer. Outside, the storm seems to be waning; the roars and cracks are getting farther and farther apart, the drum of rain is no longer hard and echoless.

Ross moves closer. He’s smiling with his teeth, his eyes. He kisses my cheek, and his skin is smooth. I think of the Bathroom bell – F sharp or G flat. He shaved for me. I shiver.

He leaves me the hurricane lamp, his shadow passing over its light before I hear the resumed creak of the staircase.

I take the phone out my pocket. No signal. And no reply from Rafiq. This should freak me out every bit as much as Ross’s promise to return with something to drink; as still being trapped down here – and, for that matter, up there – but it doesn’t. Panic tries to return, but it’s only an itch, a dull suggestion. I feel eerily calm, removed from the present. Perhaps because at least half of me got left behind in this place twenty years ago. When I press my cold fingers against my cheek, I can still feel the ghost of Ross’s touch.

Annie winks solemnly at me inside the washhouse door, standing tall in her high buckled boots, alligator-skin belt, and cowhide jacket with buttons made from whalebone. Sometimes you have to be brave. Even when you’re a grand wee coward.

I take the postcard out of my waistband. Turn it over.

EL,

God, thank you, baby. I’ve missed you so fucking much. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to get back in touch. It’s been like dying, you know? I don’t know if you do. I don’t know if you could ever love me half as much as I love you. Your letter was pretty cold, but I understand why – I was just GLAD to get it!! I understand why you didn’t want anything to do with me that day outside the National Gallery. I understand how much he fucked you up. You’re wrong, but it’s not your fault.

Meet me – just you and me. No Cat this time. I heard the Rosemount is having a May Day party next week, and I know you’re invited (YEAH, I’m your stalker, what can I say? I fucking LOVE you).

Just text me your old room no. I’ll meet you there. 2 p.m. Just do this for me, meet me this once, and if after that you don’t want to ever see me again, I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Even though it’ll break my heart to do it.

Please come, baby. Come so I can show you just how much I need you. Want you.

I love you, Blondie. You know I do.

All my love forever and always, Ross xxx

(P.S. DON’T tell Cat. She’ll ruin it.)

My laughter is just the wrong side of hysterical. I think of El’s face over Ross’s naked shoulder. Her grey, slack horror, her furious reproach. When the staircase door bangs open again, and Ross starts creaking his way back down, my laugh turns into a more alarming giggle.

Doom, I think. Fucking doom.

CHAPTER 28

Six months after I moved to LA, still shellshocked and alone, but certain that I’d done the right thing – the brave thing – I met a man whose crooked smile so badly reminded me of Ross that I ended up having sex with him less than an hour after we met. In the staff car park of a seedy late-night bar. So frantically, so desperately, that it shocked even me. Afterwards, I stalked him around Venice Beach for weeks, mindless with hope. And when he let me down gently – probably more gently than I deserved – I sobbed in his arms and begged him for just one more night. One more night when I could feel. When I could pretend. And El had thought she was the weak one; the one who’d been a goner for him from the start.

Ross steps back down into the lantern’s pool of light. He smiles his smile and holds out a glass of red wine. Stay with me. Be with me. I love you. Not the same way that I loved El. Different. Better. I accept the wine, feign a small sip.

HE KILLED HER

HE WILL KILL YOU TOO

One postcard doesn’t make that true. Any more than my weakness or Ross being a manipulative bastard makes him a murderer. Annie snorts in the darkness. A sudden bellow of thunder makes me start. In its aftermath, the silence is broken only by the return of torrential rain, a jarring flash of white-silver through the washhouse’s window. My hand presses against my breastbone and the erratic thump of my heart. Nothing has passed. Nothing is over. I’ve only been hiding inside the brief eye of the storm.

But what about you, Blondie? Do you love me too?

I take out the postcard.

Ross blinks. ‘What’s that?’

I move incrementally closer to him as if he’s a wild animal; hold out the postcard until he takes it from me and I can retreat again. I watch him read, a muscle working in his jaw, the frown line deepening between his eyes.

‘Why do you have this?’

‘It was here.’

‘Here?’ He looks at me. ‘This isn’t true. You can’t believe it.’

I put