Super Dark (Super Dark Trilogy) (17 page)

“Don’t get too excited,” he chuckled. “It’s only a stir-fry.”

“Sounds great.”

He walked to the kitchen and I heard the clatter of pots and pans. Folding my arms, I tried to focus on the mindless noise coming from the TV. In truth, I wasn’t hungry. My stomach felt too jittery to eat. But at least his cooking put some space between us, and I needed time to cool down.

For a few moments, I strained to think of something else to say. Then my eyes fell on the stack of papers on the table. Sneakily, I sifted through them and saw that they were letters addressed to other people: Zoë Townsend, Paul Butler, Jane Morris … The address was the same on all of them: 26 Falcon Mews, Elmfield.

It swiftly dawned on me that these must be letters for the previous residents. This wasn’t unusual. When moving to a new home, it always took a couple of weeks to get the mail redirected by the post office. We were still getting gas bills for someone called John Redman. But on closer scrutiny, I noticed that none of the letters were addressed to Lee. Now
that
seemed a bit strange.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked, slipping the bundle back on the table.

“Two, maybe three months,” he shouted through the partition. “Why?”

“You’ve got a lot of mail for other people.”

“Are you snooping through my stuff?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

“No worries, it’s cool.”

Reassured by his blasé tone, I decided to push my luck. “Why have you got a credit card for someone called Stuart Weaver?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Stuart Weaver’s my dad. He left me his card in case of emergency, but I don’t really use it. Just once in a while to make online purchases.”

I didn’t say anything. Once again, my over-active imagination had gotten the better of me. “So your surname’s Weaver?”

“Yes. Lee Weaver. Why are you so interested?”

“No reason. Just making conversation.”

I got up and wandered over to the kitchen. Resting my head against the partition, I watched him at work. It was a joy to see how he’d laid out everything like a pro. Carrots, mushrooms, garlic, spring onions, and peppers, were all separated into neat little piles along the sideboard. He added them to the wok at regular intervals. I suspected that he’d been a bit disingenuous when he talked of his “fledgling culinary skills.” I knew a bad cook when I saw one; my mother was a bad cook and I wasn’t the greatest. But Lee just didn’t fall into that category. He had a cocky self-assurance that indicated he’d done this many, many times.

“Mmm, smells good. What are you putting in?”

“Oh, just the usual—chicken, ginger, cashews. No prawns though, as I know you’re allergic to them.”

It took a moment for what he’d said to sink in. “Hang on. How did you know I’m allergic to prawns? I don’t remember ever …”

He cut me off. “That day at the restaurant, I distinctly remember you telling the waiter no seafood.”

“Did I?” I knotted my brow. Usually, I had a pretty good memory about these things. I wasn’t a fussy person and rarely ever brought up the subject of my allergy, so his description seemed unlikely, to say the least.

“Here, stir this while I get something.” He handed me the spatula and opened the cupboard above the sink and took out a bottle of soy sauce.

“I don’t remember telling anyone about my allergy,” I persisted.

“Sam,
please
. It’s no big deal. You don’t remember saying it, fine. Let’s just leave it at that.”

I nodded slowly, still unconvinced, but there was a sternness in his voice that told me not to pursue the matter further. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I
had
mentioned it to the waiter.

Lee tipped the watery black sauce into the fizzing concoction and took back the spatula. “This looks like it’s almost done. Could you please get the plates ready?”

“Where are they kept?”

“Under the sink.”

I stooped down, opened the cupboard, took out two china plates and lay them on the sideboard. Then I got some knives and forks out the drawer. Lee slid the wok off the flame and emptied its contents onto the plates. We carried our food into the living room and sat down to eat in front of the TV.

“This tastes so good! You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

“Anytime,” he smiled. “So, what can you cook?”

I thought for a second. “Hmm. I do a pretty mean spaghetti. Just a few different things, really.”

“You any good?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Not as good as you, though, if this stir-fry’s anything to go by.”

He laughed pleasantly, and for a moment, we ate in silence. Then, picking up the remote, he flicked to a news channel where a poker-faced reporter was talking about war in the Middle East.

Lee’s eyes narrowed. “This is so sad. Why do people always have to fight each other? Why must humans focus on their differences rather than their similarities?” He shook his head. “They say we have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another. Do you think that’s true?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Let’s face it, most people are horrible. They lie and cheat and would sell their own grandmothers, given the opportunity.”

“Really?” he said. “That’s a pretty bleak outlook.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. If Man is inherently good, then why is there so much bad news on TV? I’ll tell you why. Because people don’t like good news. People love to gloat over other peoples’ misery because it makes them feel better about themselves. Sad but true.”

He fell silent. I hoped I hadn’t offended him with my outburst, but it was something I felt particularly passionate about. After years of living under the media spotlight, I knew better than anyone how mercenary humans could be.

“Finished?” he inquired, glancing at my empty plate.

I nodded, and he took both dishes to the kitchen. I noted that once again he’d barely touched his food. For such a big guy, he had a surprisingly small appetite.

I heard the sound of running water and the clink of china as he washed up. Breathing out slowly, I stretched out my legs, locking my fingers behind my head. My stomach felt very satisfied.

“Hey, do you want to see my portfolio?” he called.

“Sure!”

I realized then how much I liked his voice: deep and melodic with a kind of sing-song quality to it. True, it had taken me a while to get used to his accent—that strange twang that wasn’t quite northern but something else—but now I saw it as part of what made him unique.

He returned carrying a heavy portfolio bound in black leather. He sat next to me and rested it on his knees as he zipped it open. Inside were a large sketch pad and a couple of brightly-colored paintings. Flipping through the sketch pad at a leisurely pace, he allowed me to study each page in turn. They were mostly pen and ink drawings of animals: birds, cats, foxes. Each drawing brought a creature to life in the most exquisite, breathtaking detail.

“Wow, these are amazing, Lee. You’re so talented.”

“Thank you,” he said shyly.

When we’d finished going through the pad, he showed me a series of beautiful watercolor paintings depicting the English countryside: vast expanses of green fields, picturesque cottages, castles, and medieval churches. One in particular caught my attention: a sprawling Georgian house gripped by ivy with an exquisitely crafted clock tower; as beautiful and regal as anything out of a Jane Austen novel. But there was also something ominous about it, like terrible secrets lurked behind its dark windows.

“Is this a real place?” I asked tentatively.

“Of course. I always draw from life.”

“Where is it?”

“Somewhere in Somerset. I forget where. It’s an old courthouse. I painted it because I liked the architecture.”

I shivered. “There’s something about it I don’t like. It scares me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It looks like a place where bad things happen.”

“You can tell that from a painting?”

“Yes.” With a shudder, I moved on. “This one is much better. Much more upbeat. I love farm houses.”

For the next ten minutes or so, we continued sifting through his artwork. Toward the end I came across a sketch of a shadowy-looking creature with serrated claws and jagged teeth. I’d never seen anything like it.

“What’s this?” I asked. “Some kind of monster?”

“It’s nothing,” Lee said quickly, snatching the sketch away.

“I thought you said you only draw from life?”

“I do. But sometimes my imagination takes over.” Hurriedly, he packed up the portfolio.

“I’m ready to start your portrait,” he announced.

Nervously, I followed him into the studio and sat on an overstuffed chair while he brought out his art supplies. He placed the easel a few feet from me and adjusted its height so that it was level with him. Then he attached a large white canvas to the easel.

“How do you want me?” I asked, playfully tilting the chair from side to side.

“Just be yourself,” he replied brusquely. “Feel free to move about, talk, and do whatever you feel like doing. Honesty is what I’m striving for. I need to capture the very essence of you.”

My cheeks flushed as I spun the chair around so that I was facing away from him. I stared out the window at the dark sky, a thrill of elation coursing through me. For once in my life, I felt relatively happy. This had turned out to be a lot more fun than I thought it would be.

Then I heard the sound of a pencil being sharpened.

“Okay Sam, I’m ready for you,” he said.

Dutifully, I turned back around. There was an expression of deep concentration on his face as he lowered his eyes and started sketching. For long moments, I sat perfectly still, my shoulders slack, my eyes fixated on the wall beyond him. The pencil made soft stroking sounds against the canvas, and I tried to imagine which part of me he was drawing.

“I Googled you last night,” he said out of nowhere.

The words pierced me like an arrow. Snapping my head up, I glared at him, but he couldn’t meet my gaze. For a while, he just let his words hang there, as if deliberating whether or not to continue.

Fury rose in my chest. “And …?”

“And I’d say you’ve been through a pretty rough time.” His voice was calm, controlled. “Although there was one thing I didn’t quite understand. You know when …” He broke off. “No, forget it.”

“Please, don’t stop on my account. Since you’re obviously so keen to talk about this, we might as well finish it. What is it you don’t understand?”

He looked at me with concern. “That night you were snatched … I never could figure out why those monsters let you go. It doesn’t make sense.”

My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, think logically,” he said. “You and your friend are snatched by a couple of maniacs. They bundle you into a van, take you a couple of miles up the road, and then suddenly decide to just let you go? Why would they do that? Why did they take Elliot and not you?”

“You sound as if you
wish
they’d taken me,” I snapped.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m only trying to get a better understanding of what happened, that’s all.”

My throat tightened. The walls seemed to be closing in on me. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Guilt had temporally robbed me of speech.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to distress you. I just …”

“Do you think you’re the first person to ask me that question?” I hissed. “I got it from everyone. Mum, the police, Elliot’s parents. Everyone wanted to know the same thing: why was I was saved and Elliot wasn’t? Can you imagine how that made me feel, having to justify why I was alive while he …” I faltered, tears clawing at my throat.

Lee’s eyes flickered with emotion. “I’m sorry, I can see I’ve upset you. We won’t talk about this anymore.”

“But I want to talk about it.” My voice grew shrill. “You want to know why those creatures freed me and not Elliot? I’ll tell you why. Because he begged them to. He sacrificed his life to save mine. And I feel terrible because, deep down, I know I wouldn’t have done the same for him. The truth is, I’m a coward. I hate myself.”

Tears streamed down my face, making my mascara run, but I couldn’t stop now. “And you wanna know something else? It’s my fault what happened that night. I was the one who wanted to go wandering off from our parents. If we’d stayed near our homes, none of this would have happened. I thought I was so smart and, and …” Overcome with emotion, I took a few short, sharp breaths to steady myself. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You probably don’t even care.”

He stared at me, his face placid and unreadable. Then his eyes fell back to the canvas, and he resumed sketching.

“Do you miss him?” he asked, not looking up.

“Who?”

“Elliot.”

“Of course I miss him! I miss him every day. It’s like a part of me disappeared with him. The past ten years have been a complete living hell. I’m afraid to laugh, afraid to smile, afraid to do anything normal because my best friend could be out there somewhere suffering … because of me. I don’t deserve to be happy.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “And you know, sometimes I wish it had been me they took that night. I really do. I wish it was Elliot sitting here and not me. Then at least I might have some peace.”