Guilt Trip (11 page)

By six
o’clock, Dad was in his room getting ready to go out again and I was a floor
above, the door carefully locked, taking a long, hot shower, easing my battered
body.

Dad had
said I could go with him to the Spiritualist meeting if I wanted, then we could
get some chips or something on the way back, but I’d refused. For one thing, I
didn’t believe in it. All that afterlife stuff was just a load of old rubbish. I
mean, fair enough if Dad felt he had to try to contact Mum - but there was no
way that he would succeed. The dead were just that: dead.

And for
another, I was desperate to see Luke again to make sure that everything was
fine between us. To apologise for whatever it was I’d done to upset him. Okay,
so he’d obviously got over it, as he’d given me a sorrowful smile as I’d left
the bar with Dad; but I still needed to make sure. To make it all right again. Like
before. Like when he’d nearly kissed me.

And so,
my mind wandered to happier places: Luke, dancing with me, twirling me round
and round, winding me in and out of his arms, dipping me backwards… and pulling
me slowly up towards him. And that reminded me of my most recent dream: Luke,
the puppet-master, plucking the strings, controlling my arms and legs, whirling
me round to the music.

I smiled
to myself: funny that I’d dreamed that
before
we’d ever danced.

I slathered
conditioner into my hair, humming to myself happily as I imagined how it could
be that evening.

But then
I became conscious of the tune I was humming. Where’d I got that one from? It
was something I’d heard recently. But where?

I kept on
humming the same few haunting bars over and over, trying to remember.

And then
I realised: it was the song in my dream. The music that I, the puppet, was
dancing to. Now why had my subconscious chosen
that
old song? It wasn’t like it was my type of music or anything. It
was just something I knew from the radio. Just something I’d picked up.

But then
it clicked into place.

I knew
what it was. Of course I did.

It was Nirvana.

So is
that why the song had turned up in my dream? Because, after the imaginary
poster and the T-shirt in the market, that band was on my mind?

But wait…
I turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and stepped out into the room, sitting
down on the edge of the bath. Was that the tune I’d been humming in the bar,
then? The one that had made Luke so incredibly angry?

I’d never
seen anyone that incensed before. Never. Except for one time… That time on the
fells when he’d ordered me not to say her name.

Billie.

So was
this song connected to
her
in some
way?

A
horrible feeling washed over me.

Paula
from the market had said that Billie wore thick black eyeliner.
Grungy
she’d called it. Like Nirvana. So,
had Billie been a fan of the band?

It was
possible, I supposed.

And was
that why Luke had been so angry with me? Because I was humming
her
song?

My mind
reeled.

He still
loved her. He still loved Billie.

But why would
he try to kiss
me
if he was still in
love with her? But of course that answer was obvious: he couldn’t have her
could he - she was gone. But he could have me. And, according to Paula, I
looked like Billie, or some expression in my eyes did anyway.

I stood
up and crossed over to the sink, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. Was
that why Luke, a grown man, was so interested in me, a stupid, clueless, messed-up
teenager? Is that why he’d almost kissed me? Because I looked like his dead
girlfriend?

Was that
all I was to him? A Billie look-alike to ease his grieving heart?

Trembling,
I grabbed hold of the sink. My whole world seemed to crash down around me. Bile
rose in my throat, so I turned on the cold tap and took a drink, ignoring the
usual déjà vu.

It was
all clear to me now. He didn’t like
me
at all. He never had.

He still
loved
her
.

But no -
that couldn’t be true. I’d thought all this before, hadn’t I - but I’d soon
dismissed it. It was just another trick of my twisted mind, leading me off,
away from reality again. And now I was making connections where no connections
existed. Putting two and two together and coming up with seven.

And
anyway, Luke
did
like me. I
knew
he did. I closed my eyes, thinking
about that dance. The tango. Of course he liked me. Of course he did.

And then,
eyes shut, I let my mind take over, imagining him there with me, standing just
behind me. I could feel his hand twining round my waist, the other grasping my
damp hair, twisting it up out of the way so that he could kiss me. And as he kissed
his way along my shoulder, towards my neck, I ached for him. This was Luke. And
he loved me.
Me
. And so, turning my
head, I lifted my mouth up to his and our lips came together for that first
kiss.

But
something wasn’t right. Some gut instinct told me to make it stop. Even as I
wanted it.

Confused
at my own reaction, I opened my eyes abruptly, bringing the daydream to an end.

But not
quite.

It was
all so fast that my mind couldn’t quite keep up with my actions, and the dream
played on for a fraction of a second longer than it should, even as I was
opening my eyes, so that it was as if I was seeing our reflection in the mirror
before me.

And what
I saw made me cry out.

Because
the girl in the mirror wasn’t me.

Eyes
ringed with heavy black liner, purple stripes in her hair, the girl making out
with Luke in the mirror was… Billie?

Jealousy
rose up inside me again, a vicious, screaming jealousy, crying out in pain.

And yet
this was my fantasy, my imagination, my mind which had conjured up this image. It
wasn’t actually real.

But back
in my room, I still couldn’t shake my paranoia. My doubt. Did Luke love me or
not?

I sat on
the bed, brooding on it, my mind returning, over and over, to the image of Luke
kissing the girl with stripes in her hair. The girl with grungy eyeliner.

And then something
occurred to me. A bizarre thought. A ridiculous thought. A totally-out-of-the-box
thought with no actual proof to back it up. And yet…

If Billie
was into grunge as Paula had said, and she
had
liked Nirvana, then - I looked over to the plain beige wall, the one with
the four tiny holes left by drawing pins - was that
her
poster that I kept seeing?

And if it
was Billie’s poster, then was this Billie’s room?

My mind
jumped back to the day we’d first arrived, when there’d been a mix-up with our
accommodation. When Luke had had to put me up on the top floor. Here, in this
room. I racked my brain, trying to remember it in order: whether that was
before
or
after
he’d first looked at me properly.
Before
or
after
that moment
when we’d first felt a connection.
Before
or
after
he’d noticed that I
looked like Billie.

Is that
why he’d done it? Had he put me up here - in Billie’s room - because he wanted
to pretend that I was her?

But, no -
I had to stop this paranoia right now. I mean, I didn’t even know that Luke
had
noticed my supposed resemblance to
Billie; or whether in fact there really was one - it was only Paula’s opinion.

And after
all, it simply wasn’t possible to conjure up the belongings of a dead girl.

Was it?

Though it
would certainly explain how accurate I’d been in picturing a band I couldn’t
recall ever having seen before…

An icy
chill crept up my spine, so that I shivered and pulled the duvet round myself. Because,
if that
was
Billie’s poster that I
kept seeing on the wall, then was the face in the mirror hers too?

<><><>

There was
nothing for it. I had to know.

If only I
could find out what Billie had looked like, then I’d know whether the girl in
the mirror was a total figment of my twisted imagination … or not.

But how
to find out? Obviously I couldn’t ask Luke. And Paula clearly didn’t want to
talk to me about it - and anyway I didn’t want to wait till the market opened
tomorrow. And Sandy didn’t work Sundays and had only arrived after Billie’s
death in any case.

I picked
up my phone. Maybe, if I googled the name of the town or the pub, and the word
‘Billie’ I might find
something
. But
then I threw it back down. I’d forgotten to charge it.

And so,
as far as I could see, there was only one alternative.

<><><>

Leaving
my room, I tiptoed past the bathroom to the door which cut across the landing. The
one which led to Luke’s living quarters.

I put my
ear to the wood, listening intently. All was silent. Nervously, I tried the
handle - but the door was locked.

I sighed.
I’d have to find another way in.

And so I
set off downstairs, pausing as I came to the last flight - but luckily the reception
area was deserted. I crept down a few more steps, peering through the banisters
into the bar which was crowded now, Luke busy serving.

I felt an
involuntary twinge of longing as I watched him. He was everything to me. My
whole world. But then jealousy whispered spitefully in my ear: what was
I
to
him
?

As soon
as he had his back to me, I ran down the rest of the staircase to reception,
making my way quickly and quietly to the main desk, slipping behind it and
reaching for the door which I hoped led up to Luke’s flat.

My heart
hammered in my chest as I touched the handle.

It turned
and the door opened.

Inside
was a small passageway with a staircase directly in front of me. But in order
to get to it I would have to pass two open doorways. Through the one on the
left I could see a wall of white tiles and hear the dull clanging of metal and the
rhythmic chopping of a knife: so that had to be the kitchen. Through the right
one I could see the back of the bar, a couple of sinks full of water, glasses
standing drying on a rubber mat. And I could hear Luke, just out of sight, chatting
with a customer.

I stepped
back, retreating, giving up, shutting the door. It seemed impossible that I
could reach those stairs without being spotted. But then I heard someone coming
through the front door into the reception behind me, and so I had no choice but
to get out of there. Opening the door again, I made a dash for it, diving at
the stairs and scrambling up them as fast and silently as I possibly could.

And so,
coming to the first floor landing, I found myself an uninvited guest, an
intruder in Luke’s home. A snoop, searching through his belongings for a photo
of his dead girlfriend.

There
were two big rooms on this floor: a grey and white kitchen and a grey and black
sitting room. Both were extremely clean and tidy. Not a thing out of place.

As
quietly as I could, I began to work my way through the kitchen drawers, and
then the units. But there was nothing. Just the basic kitchen equipment:
utensils arranged into separate compartments, plastic bags and tags stored in
neatly-stacked Tupperware, teabags in a sealed canister. Even a big cupboard of
DIY stuff was beautifully arranged, toolbox all tidy, extra fuses, light bulbs,
screw and nails all boxed and labelled.

In the
hallway I found another large, walk-in cupboard, full of ropes, and harnesses
and carabiner clips, and even a wetsuit. Luke was clearly into his outdoor
activities. And again, everything was neatly folded, coiled, tied and
positioned.

The
sitting room was quite sparse: a bulky, black leather, L-shaped sofa, a big-screen
TV, some bookshelves and a couple of guitars on stands. No clutter. No bits and
pieces lying about anywhere. Nothing really personal.

I tiptoed
over to the bookshelves: lots of bestselling spy novels and thrillers, a few
factual books on extreme sports. I opened the cupboards below: magazines on
motorbikes in a nice neat pile; CDs ordered alphabetically - no Nirvana; a big
bowl full of keys, all nicely labelled. Some were for visitor attractions and
ticket kiosks and stuff from his old job; some were to do with the pub. I found
one labelled
2
^nd
floor
adjoining door - spare
and slipped it into my pocket. I’d been lucky coming
in through the door behind reception without being spotted, but I didn’t want
to chance my luck again. Better to leave via the second floor landing, and just
hope Luke didn’t notice that the key was gone.

Having
found nothing at all to do with Billie, I crept up the next flight of stairs,
to the second floor. I couldn’t hear any noise from the bar up here; only the
rain beating against the roof disturbed the silence. There was a bathroom, and
a few stripped, empty bedrooms. And then I found a bedroom which was lived in. Luke’s,
I supposed. But at first glance it could have been anybody’s really, because,
like the kitchen and sitting room, it was strangely functional and impersonal, from
the matching, navy blue quilt cover and curtains to the sleek, modern wardrobe
with drawers inside. The only surface available for personal mementos and knickknacks
was the bedside cabinet, but rather than a framed photo of his lost love, there
were only an angle-poised reading light and a digital alarm clock.