Between

Copyright © 2014 Lisa Swallow

Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

Editing by Hot Tree Editing

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For
Miranda, my bookworm.

CHAPTER 1

The wind whips my long
, blonde hair across my face as I check the address again. The paper the girl scrawled the street name and phone number on flaps between my fingers as I summon the courage to knock on the door.

The large
, red-brick house is halfway up a steep hill, on a main road leading toward the town. Jammed between similar houses, only the colour of the front door and curtains distinguishes this house from its neighbours.

When the bus travelled up the hill, I looked back at the buildings shrinking behind me, as if I was climbing to the top of a roller coaster. The thought of going down the hill on the bus to work
every day brings on my too-familiar head spins.

The number 104 is painted in large
, black figures on the brickwork, so there’s no mistaking this is the place. I approach the red painted door and, as I knock, paint flakes fall to the ground. I tip back my head to count the windows of the three-story building.
Does every room belong to the house, or am I looking at a series of flats?
No sound comes from inside so I knock harder, and then face an embarrassing moment when someone opens a door I’m banging too heavily on.

A girl smiles broadly at me and ushers me inside. She’s wearing
pyjamas with cartoon dogs on them and a huge pair of fluffy slippers. Her curly, auburn hair is pulled away from her freckle-covered face; a face scrubbed clean of make-up. I recognise her as the nurse I met at the hospital when I was studying the notices, desperate to find somewhere to live.

"Rosalind!" she calls by way of introduction
, and then turns to me. "Is it Rosalind? Or are you a Rosie? Linda?"

             
I shake my head, too overcome by the interior of the house to reply. The front door opens straight into the lounge room, and I swear I’ve stepped into a 1970s time warp. The brown and yellow carpet is threadbare in places; a well-worn path leads down a hallway toward an open door through which stands a Formica kitchen table. Attached to the magnolia-painted, wood-chipped walls around me are strange pictures made of multi-coloured string and a particularly creepy looking Pierrot clown sitting on a half moon.

Beneath that picture is a brown sofa, the exact disgusting shade as the carpet, with a similar threadbare nature. Lounging back in the chair is a girl around my age with long brown hair, legs tucked under her, reading a
book; I tip my head and see it’s a Psychology text. She lowers the book and regards me with pale blue eyes.

"Which?" she says.

"Pardon?"

"Which are you? Rosalind, Rosie
, or Linda?"

I giggle nervously. "Oh! I thought you just called me a witch!"

The girl looks at me as if I need locking up, looks toward the curly-haired girl, and then back to me. "Yeah, right…"

"Rose." My nerves get the better of me. "And I’m not a witch."

My lame attempt at a joke increases the scorn on the brown-haired girl’s face. "Okay…"

The other girl bounces over in her ridiculous slippers. "Did I introduce myself when I saw you at the hospital? I bet I forgot! I’m Lizzie
, and this is Grace."

I nod because my mouth is too dry to speak after sticking my foot in it. Suddenly, I’m not sure if I could live here even if they wanted me to.

Lizzie sits next to her housemate. "Don’t worry, we won’t interrogate you. We just need someone to fill the room. Rent’s a bit much with just the three of us; plus, Grace is moving out in a couple of weeks."

"Three?"

"Yeah, Alek’s not around right now. He’s at work, but he doesn’t really care who lives here," says Grace.

"Yeah, he’s cool with whoever comes here." Lizzie
stands; she seems unable to keep still for long. "Let me show you the room."

Before I came here this afternoon, I did wonder why there was such a cheap room available in a house with easy transport routes to the town. When Lizzie shows me the room, I get more of an idea why. The door opens onto the foot of the bed, and the narrow room has a small window at the other end with a low chest of drawers jammed against it.

Lizzie shrugs apologetically. "Sorry, I know it’s not very big…but it is cheap."

I grip the handle of my small bag, wishing I had more time to find somewhere to live. I’m fighting with students for spare rooms
, and my job as a hospital porter doesn’t pay for a place of my own. I shouldn’t have left it so late to look for somewhere to live before I came back here. I guess, when you make last-minute decisions, you end up with last-minute rejects.

"Yeah, it’s no problem." Having a bed to sleep in and a roof over my head
are more important than space for belongings I don’t have. I’ve overstayed my welcome at Jamie’s parents’ house, and I need to move on.

Lizzie trips happily down the stairs in front of me, as if I’ve said yes. She obviously knows options are limited in my price range.

Grace, who hasn’t shifted from her spot on the dilapidated sofa, gives me a cursory glance as we return to the room.

"So…?" Lizzie looks expectantly at me.

"Oh, I thought you’d need to chat about me and if I was all right. For the house, I mean."

Grace laughs softly to herself
, and I stop myself from frowning at her.

"No, I mean, yes. You’re perfect for us
. I knew as soon as I saw you looking at the notices. Didn’t I say that, Grace?"

Grace shrugs
, and I’m a little freaked out by Lizzie’s over-enthusiasm. I hope she’s not one of those girls who think you’re her best friend after five minutes because I'm not very sociable since the accident.

The front door bangs open, and a guy stomps into the room. Doors open
ing straight into lounge rooms always leave little room for subtle entrances, and this guy certainly isn’t subtle. He halts as he sees me.

I’m not one for crushing on guys the moment I see them
, but I’ve always had a thing for guys in leather jackets. Maybe I watched
Grease
too much as a kid. His “leather jacket with beaten-up combat boots” combination does things to my insides.

The darkest of brown eyes, half-hidden by brown hair falling across his face
, study me. Eyes I can’t look away from. He’s one of those guys with a sexual presence humming in the air around him and pulling girls in, even if you’re not the kind of girl who fantasises about edgy-looking guys in leather jackets. This guy is hot, and that’s not even a word I’d normally use. I wouldn’t be able to use any words if I wanted to, because when he walked in, he sucked the necessary oxygen from the room. All this must be reflected in my own gaze because his frown is soon replaced by a knowing curve to his mouth. Without a hello to any of us, he stalks past and up the stairs.

Aware my mouth dropped open a little, I close it and turn back to Lizzie.

"Yeah, he’s the third person I mentioned, Alek." She watches him head out of the room. His footsteps clomp upstairs and silence surrounds us as he leaves. Lizzie snaps out of whatever she’s thinking. "He’s not sociable, so don’t worry about him."

The girl on the sofa is engrossed in her
textbook again. Lizzie continues to stare in the direction the Alek storm swept in. I can’t move, amazed by my reaction to him. Lizzie soon shrugs and looks away.

My desire to know who this guy is wipes away the less
-than-savoury details about the house. Any doubts I had about living here, well, they left through the door as he came in.

CHAPTER 2

The grey mist surrounds me as I lie on the road. I can’t move or breathe
, but the figures are there again. Two tall men, dressed in black. Suits, I think, but I can’t be sure. The mist fogs around me, and I can’t see Jamie anymore. My chest hurts; I can’t move. When my eyes are closed, I hear voices arguing, and if I open them, the two men are around me. One of them blends into the grey fog, disappearing from view, and the other approaches me. Paralysed, I stare up at him, into his deep blue eyes. Blonde hair falls across his face as he smiles down at me, and the panic recedes as he strokes my head. Maybe his hair falls; I don’t know. I can’t figure out where I am or what’s happening, but I know he wants to help me.

The man glances around him,
and then leans over me. Gentle fingertips rest on my head and the calmness emanating from him soothes me. He leans forward; his blonde hair touches my face as he whispers something in my ear.

I jerk awake, feeling as if I’ve fallen from a great height. Perspiring, I sit upright and when this isn’t enough to feel safe, I jump out of bed and back into a corner. My heart thrums in my head as I attempt to control my breathing and gradually realise where I am. Groping on the wall behind me, I find a light switch and flick to illuminate the box room. I focus on the nursery rhyme figures on the wallpaper and ground myself.

My new home.

Sinking onto the bed, my striped pyjamas stick to my back as I drag myself back to reality. Nightmares. I’m in a strange house; of course the dreams will start again. The traffic noise filters through the window and I walk over, push up the old-style window frame and breathe in the cool autumn air. When I have the dreams, either I fall asleep again straight away, or I lie in bed listening to the blood pushing against my ears. Or I get up and make tea.

The old staircase creaks as I creep toward the kitchen. The house is three storeys high and I’m at the top. Two days here
, and I still haven’t figured out how many rooms there are. The house is a lot bigger than the number of occupants, so no wonder they need someone else for the rent.

Digging around the bottom of the kitchen cupboard, I find my box of chamomile teabags. I
also haven’t unpacked properly or taken the long trip to the local supermarket, but at least I have my essentials. As the kettle boils, I stand on tiptoes and look through the kitchen window. Below, the lights of the town shine like fairy-lights of an everlasting Christmas. I pour the boiling water into the mug and sit, hovering my face over the herbal scent.

A noise alerts me
, and I hold my breath as someone comes down the creaking stairs. Alek steps into the kitchen, bare-chested with a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips. I hitch a breath; I’m not used to living with guys who walk around half-naked.

"Oh. It’s you," he says.

I don’t reply and tear my gaze from his chest to my mug. Alek walks into the kitchen and crosses to the fridge. The room lights up as he opens the door and grabs a beer. I want to comment how late it is to drink beer, but I’ve no idea of the time and it's not my business. Alek pulls a chair out and sits opposite me.

"You look like a ghost," he says.

I don’t know how to respond. All I’m aware of is his bare chest, and I castigate myself for being such a cliché as I stare at the smooth, toned skin.