Laura Page 18

  Just as I'm about to tell myself that of course that's what happened, I hear the bump again, this time coming from along the corridor. I turn, just in time to see my bedroom door swinging open.

  “Is that you, Laura?” I call out, forcing a smile as I wipe a couple more tears from my eyes. “Come to haunt me, have you?”

  I wait.

  Silence.

  “Dumb bitch,” I mutter, and I'm not entirely sure whether I'm referring to her or to me or to both of us. Or to the whole goddamn world.

  Shuffling to the kitchen, I check the fridge and find that pretty much everything is either stale or disgusting. At this particular moment, I feel it might have been useful if I'd married some guy and had him around to look after me. I mean, Victoria treats Jonathan as a kind of pet, and he doesn't even seem to mind. It's too late to order anything online, so I start trying to gee myself up for a trip to the corner shop. The last thing I need at the moment is to go anywhere, and I'm not even particularly hungry, but at the same time I feel antsy and I want to get out of the apartment for a while.

  Suddenly I hear a faint squeaking sound coming from the bathroom, and I recognize it immediately.

  One of the faucets was just turned on.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, limping through to the hallway and then into the bathroom.

  Sure enough, the sink is slowly filling up. I head over and turn the faucet off, and then I pull the plug out. Maybe I am losing my mind a little. With all those chemicals I was given at the hospital, it'd be a miracle if my brain wasn't slowly pickling in a toxic soup. I look down at my trembling hands for a moment, and my attention is drawn to the little anchor tattoo I got on my right thumb. That was during my first week at uni, when I was so young and carefree. Back then, cancer was something that happened to other people, and I felt sure I had some kind of natural immunity that'd keep me safe. I thought I was immortal, and that I'd live long enough to reach the day when medical science keeps us all alive forever.

  I was never scared of death, because I thought I'd never have to die.

  So I filled my body with booze and tobacco and coke and weed and speed and any other substance I could get my hands on. Sometimes, I wonder if all this cancer and chemo isn't just nature's way of showing a sense of irony.

  Sighing, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I hate it when I get so maudlin and self-absorbed, it's as if -

  Suddenly I see a figure standing right behind me, its face discolored and rotten, with knotted hair hanging down to its shoulders. The figure reaches out and places a cold, wet hand on my shoulder.

  I spin around, but there's nobody behind me.

  My heart is racing as I look around the bathroom. I tell myself that the figure was just a figment of my imagination, but at the same time I can't help realizing that it looked vaguely familiar, as if...

  I take a deep breath.

  The figure looked like...

  No.

  No way!

  “Damn you, Elliot!” I mutter under my breath, pissed off at him for introducing such a dumb idea into my mind. The figure might have looked like Laura, or at least like a bloated and rotten version of her, but I know damn well that my mind is simply playing tricks on me. Still, I can't help looking around the bathroom again, making absolutely sure that there's no further sign of that horrible face.

  Hell, I have to get out of here. When did this apartment get so goddamn stuffy?

  Turning the faucet on, I quickly splash some water on my face, although I spit it away as soon as I feel an unusual taste on my lips.

  I run my finger under the water and taste it, and I immediately spit again.

  “Salt water?” I gasp, shocked as the faucet continues to run. “Why the hell am I getting salt water?”

  ***

  “Evening, Swan,” I say as I push the door open, stepping into the corner store. “How're you doing there?”

  “Just fine,” he mutters, glancing up from his Sudoku. “You're the first customer I've had in almost an hour. Business is booming.”

  “It's not quantity that's important,” I continue, flashing him a well-worn smile as I grab a basket and shuffle toward the dried goods aisle. “It's quality. Remember that. One good customer is worth ten that are shitty.”

  “Always. Shout if you need anything.”

  “I need a new butt,” I reply under my breath. “Preferably one that can't get piles.”

  Stopping, I take some cans of energy drink from the shelf.

  “Hell, a whole new body would be nice.”

  “Did you say something?”

  “Just talking to myself, Swan,” I reply, heading further along the brightly-lit aisle. “You know, the way any sane person does.”

  By the time I get to the freezer section, I've begun to notice – and become irritated by – whatever radio station Swan has got running at low volume. Why don't any of these stores ever play anything decent? I wouldn't mind shopping with a dose of Korn or Slipknot blasting along the aisles, but I guess that's too much to ask for.

  “Where's your milk?” I yell, making sure he'll be able to hear me over the delightful sound of Justin Bieber's latest masterpiece.

  “I moved it over to the corner!” Swan shouts.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” I shout back at him, as I start shuffling along to check. “Bloody idiot. Moving stuff doesn't make me buy anything else, you know. It just pisses me off. It's like -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize I can hear someone whispering nearby. I turn and look through the gaps between the taco kits, but I don't see anyone in the next aisle. Still, that whispering sound is continuing, and if anything it's getting louder. I can't quite make out the words but, as I look around, I feel certain that there's a voice not too far away, and I think maybe I can just about hear my name being mentioned several times.

  “Have you got some kind of joker in here?” I shout.

  “What?” Swan replies from the other end of the store.

  “Never mind,” I mutter, stepping around the end of the aisle, only to find that there's still no sign of anyone. In fact, after a moment I realize that the whispering now seems to be coming from right behind me.

  I turn, but there's still nobody there.

  “Seriously?” I sigh. “No-one mentioned auditory hallucinations as a side-effect of bloody chemo.”

  I wait, as the whispering continues. It's definitely not coming from the radio, but I feel as if there's constantly someone just a few feet away, following me and mumbling quietly. As I head to the corner fridge and take out some milk, I feel a faint gust of wind against the back of my neck. I turn, half-expecting to find someone standing right behind me when I look back along the aisle.

  But of course there's no-one.

  “Whatever you are,” I mutter, dropping the milk into my basket before heading back around toward the register, “you're really starting to piss me off.”

  “Talking to yourself again?” Swan asks with a smile.

  “Laugh it up,” I reply, setting the basket down and waiting as he starts scanning my stuff. “This place is freaking me out.” I glance at the local paper and see that the top story is about some stupid broken lamp-post. “People spend so much time and energy on pointless stuff,” I continue, “when there's more -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see a familiar face at the bottom of the front page. I reach down and take a copy, and then I flick through until I find a story about an old man's last wish while he was dying of cancer. Something about helping some kids out, but that's not what's bothering me. What's bothering me is the photo.

  It's him.

  It's the man I spoke to earlier on the cancer ward.

  “Huh,” I mutter, seeing that his name was Richard Arnold Waterson, and he was eighty-seven years old. “How did they get this out so quick?” I ask, before spotting a date in the third paragraph.

  I swear, I feel my blood start to run cold.

  “Richard – or Dick as he was known to his friends �
�� died last month,” I read out loud, “but his daughter finally came forward to tell his story, in the hope that he might inspire others to live their dreams.”

  I stare at the photo, and there's absolutely no doubt in my mind that this is the man I met just a few hours ago. When I look down at the rest of the story, I find that sure enough he was on the exact same ward. Hell, he even had the same type of cancer as me.

  “Richard wanted to help others who were dying,” I whisper as I read the final paragraph, “and he spent his last few days talking to others on the ward who were struggling to face their battles. As we head into the Christmas period, maybe we should all take a leaf out of Richard's book and try to ease the burden of those around us.”

  I look at the front page again, and then at the story, but it doesn't matter how many different pictures of Richard Arnold Waterson I'm able to find. There's no doubt at all that it's the same guy.

  “Eight seventy-two,” Swan says suddenly.

  Turning to him, I realize that I'm not quite sure how to respond.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, with a hint of caution in his voice. “Lynn?”

  “Of course I'm okay,” I stammer, fishing some notes from my pocket and setting them on the counter, before grabbing my bag of shopping and hurrying to the door. “Keep the change. I'm taking the paper.”

  “But -”

  Ignoring him, I head out into the cold night air, and then I stop for a moment to look around at all the people in the busy street. This is hardly the most glamorous part of London, but I've lived here for almost a decade now and it's the closest I've ever had to a home. The closest I'll ever have, too. Stepping back, I look down at the paper again, but I know deep down that there has to be some kind of explanation for this.

  I can't have talked to a dead man. Ghosts aren't real.

  Chapter Forty

  Today

  There's Christmas music playing somewhere nearby. Perfect. It's barely even December, and already some asshole has decided to crank out the hits. They're not even playing carols, either. Hell no, it's dumb songs about reindeer and Santa Claus. As I ease myself down onto a bench outside the shopping center, I can't help hoping that a meteor might come crashing down and blow the stupid loudspeaker to smithereens.

  God, when did I become such an insufferable crank?

  I'd have been a terrible, terrible mother.

  “Mummy, can we go home now?” a little boy whines nearby, as his mother leads him toward the shopping center's brightly lit doors “I'm tired!”

  “You and me both, kid,” I mutter under my breath.

  The mother heads inside, letting go of her son's hand. He holds back, as if he hates the idea of going into the mall.

  “I'm hungry!” he calls after his mother. “You said we could get something to eat!”

  But she's gone, already lost in the dazzling lights.

  “Hey!” I call out, as I reach into my shopping bag. “Little boy! Over here!”

  He turns to me, and I can see the fear in his eyes.

  “It's not exactly health food,” I point out, holding a couple of cereal bars in my hand, “but you can have them if you want. You're gonna need energy if your mother's dragging you around all evening.”

  He stares at me for a moment, as if he's nervous, and then he comes over. Still hesitant, he stares at the bars for a few seconds before cautiously taking them.

  “Just remember one other thing,” I continue. “I'm friendly and nice, but most strangers are goddamn monsters, so never accept candy from people you don't know. Deal? Except for now, because it's okay right now. Got it?”

  “I think so,” he mutters. “Thank you.”

  With that, he turns and hurries into the shopping center, racing after his mother. I can't help feeling sorry for him. I want to go home, but at the same time I'm not sure I'm that brave. Ever since I read that stupid newspaper story in the shop, I've been wondering whether there might have been something with me earlier in the apartment. I know that's crazy, and I know I'm just succumbing to the same moronic superstitions that I've always loathed in other people, but I can't beat back the tide of fear that's starting to flood my mind.

  The creaking noises.

  The salt water coming from the faucet.

  The sight of Laura's rotting corpse in the bathroom mirror.

  Closing my eyes as the Christmas music continues, I try desperately to remember that I'm a rational person, and to focus on the fact that there's no such thing as ghosts. At the same time, I can still feel the doubts eating away at me, and I can't help wondering what I might find in that dark, cramped little apartment when I go back. In my mind's eye, I can already see myself standing in the hallway with my shopping, listening to the silence. Then I imagine myself hearing a bump from one of the rooms, followed by the sight of a dark silhouette watching me from a doorway at the end of the corridor.

  I need to pull myself together.

  Opening my eyes, I lean forward and try to take calm, deep breaths.

  I had chemo today. I've never suffered hallucinations after chemo before, but that doesn't mean it can't be happening this time. I keep telling myself over and over again that my mind is just a little out of whack, that I can't expect myself to be entirely rational. At the same time, I feel as if I'm on the verge of a breakdown whenever I contemplate going back to my apartment tonight. She'll be there, I know she will. She'll be waiting for me.

  I take a deep breath.

  I don't think I can handle this.

  I don't think I can be alone tonight.

  For a moment, I allow myself to contemplate the impossible. What if Elliot was right? What if Laura went for Nick, and now she's coming for me? Then again, why would anyone bother murdering a woman who already only has a few weeks left? I have cancer, I'm dying, and I've suffered enough already. With tears in my eyes, I think back to that conversation with Elliot at Nick's funeral, and finally I fumble through my pockets and bring up his number.

  I'm such an idiot.

  I'm so weak and pathetic.

  “Hey,” Elliot says when he answers, “how are you doing?”

  “Can I come over?” I ask, unable to keep my voice from trembling.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Can I just come over?” I continue. “Please? It's important.”

  “Sure,” he replies. “Absolutely, but can you tell me what's going on?”

  “I'll explain when I get there,” I tell him. “I'll take the train and I'll be at yours in about an hour. I'm sorry, Elliot, I know it's late and I don't want to disturb you, but I just...”

  My voice trails off for a moment. How can I explain it all?

  “Are you feeling ill?” he asks. “Maybe you should go to a hospital instead. I can meet you there.”

  “No!” I blurt out, wiping tears from my eyes. A little girl walks past, and she looks straight at me. She must think I'm insane. “It's about Laura,” I continue. “It's about what you said. I'm probably losing my mind, but...”

  “Okay,” he replies, “just get here as fast as you can. Take a cab, I'll pay for it when you arrive.”

  “Thank you,” I stammer, feeling a rush of relief. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  Cutting the call, I lean back for a moment and take a deep breath. I'm trembling with fear, but I know there's no way I can go back to my apartment, not tonight. Maybe I can go tomorrow, in daylight, with Elliot. Everything will seem so much simpler than, and I'll probably be completely embarrassed by how I'm behaving tonight, but to hell with all that. Grabbing my shopping bag, I haul myself up and wince slightly as I feel a sharp pain in my hip. Turning, I start limping toward the taxi rank. I don't care what I look like and I don't care if people think I'm crazy. I just -

  Stopping suddenly, I gasp as I spot a familiar face up ahead.

  A large crowd is swarming all around the entrance to the shopping center, but every few seconds the crowd parts slightly and I'm able to see a pair of dark, hate-filled eyes s
taring back at me.

  It's her.

  It's Laura.

  Trying not to panic, I turn and hurry away. There's so much gritty slush all over the pavement, my shoes are already soaked. Glancing over my shoulder, I see nothing but the pre-Christmas crowd, but I feel certain that I'm still being watched. No matter how hard I try to persuade myself that Laura isn't here and that she isn't following me, I can't keep my heart from pounding harder and harder in my chest, and by the time I get to the next corner I'm almost out of breath. I turn again, watching the crowd, trying to force myself to stay calm and rational. And then, just as I think I'm getting my fear under control, I spot that same dark gaze watching me from the other side of the street.

  Laura.

  I turn and run.

  Not that I can really run at all, but at least I'm able to shuffle at speed along the street, pushing my way through the crowd. I'm in agony, thanks to all the chemo I've been through lately, and soon I start running out of breath. When I get to the next street corner, I look over my shoulder, and this time there's no sign of Laura. I don't dare wait, however, so I cross the road and start making my way toward the taxi rank near the roundabout. I keep telling myself that if I can just get to Elliot's house, we'll be able to figure this all out.

  And then I stop again, as I see Laura standing next to the one of the taxis.

  “No,” I whimper, as I back away toward a group of loud carol singers, “please, just leave me alone...”

  Looking around, I realize I have nowhere left to run. After a moment, however, I spot a sign for the local train station. Hurrying through the crowd, I shuffle to the station's entrance and then I head down the steps toward the platforms. Again and again, I look over my shoulder to see if there's any sign of Laura, but she seems to have disappeared. I bump into several people, and I'm sure they think I'm quite crazy despite my muffled apologies. Still holding my bag of shopping, I finally spill out onto the platform and look at the information board, and to my relief I see that I only have a few minutes to wait before my train arrives.

  Looking both ways along the busy platform, terrified in case I spot Laura again, I make my way past several occupied benches before finally stopping and leaning against the side of a vending machine.