Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

  I suck in my breath, wondering what she has in mind; what sort of warped activity she wants me to participate in. The last time we were together, she insisted on calling her ex-boyfriend in the middle of the night and telling him exactly what she thought of him whilst she was drunk. I had sat, paralysed with horror as it unfolded, watching her sob and scream at him down the phone, knowing he was with a new partner who was four months pregnant. I tried to stop her but when it comes to dealing with Celia, there are boundaries that simply cannot be crossed. Not if you know Celia like I do. And I know her very well indeed. I had only gone to see her that time because she was beside herself with grief after their break-up. She had bombarded me with calls until I eventually relented and made the journey to York. I had initially feared she would do something stupid; something final. It was only when I got there that I realised she was actually consumed with anger, not sadness. She spent the entire weekend raging about how she was going to kill them both with her bare hands.

  ‘Like I said, I’m sorry but I have to be somewhere and—’

  ‘Where?’ she barks at me, her eyes like dark slits in her face. ‘Where exactly is it you’re in such a hurry to get to?’

  I don’t answer her. I want to tell her that it’s none of her fucking business and to get out of my home but I opt for silence, knowing what she might do if I tell her how I really feel.

  ‘Come on, Eva. We both know why you came here and where you’re planning on going so why don’t you just spit it out and stop playing these ridiculous games.’

  I still say nothing. There is a heavy pause. The only thing I can hear is the sound of my own blood as it pulses around my head. My chest is tight with rising panic and a slow augmenting anger, and my feet are rooted to the floor.

  ‘Okay, I’ll say it for you since you’ve decided to remain mute.’ Celia crosses and uncrosses her legs and leans towards me as if we’re carrying out a business transaction. ‘You came here on a wild goose chase, looking for a family that didn’t want you way back when, and still don’t. That’s what binds us together, Eva, you and I, the fact that we’re not wanted. Adult orphans, that’s what we are. Yet you still cling on to this mistaken belief that you can just slide back into a family who forgot to ask you back. It’s about time you got real and accepted your life for what it is – a black hole devoid of anybody who really cares about you. Except me, Eva. You seem to have forgotten that. I care about you. I want you, and yet you ran away and didn’t even tell me. What kind of a friend are you?’

  She leans back in her chair, her face flushed, her eyes dancing with enjoyment. It’s evident by her expression she thinks she is in charge here. This woman, this unbalanced, crazy woman thinks she can actually control me and tell me how to live my fucking life.

  Suddenly I am furious. Not scared any more, not even mildly apprehensive. Just bloody furious. How dare she? How dare Celia march in here and tell me what I can and can’t do? Who the hell does she think she is? I don’t waste any time in telling her exactly what I think of her interference in my private life. Standing up, I point towards the stairs behind us with trembling fingers.

  ‘Out!’ I bellow at her. ‘You need to leave right now, Celia,’ I bark, my voice rattling around the room. ‘What I do is my business and nothing to do with you. I want you to leave here right now.’

  I watch for any sudden change in her demeanour but she is scarily serene, as if I have just asked her if she wants sugar in her tea.

  ‘Eva, Eva,’ she says in a sing song-voice that sends my pulse soaring. ‘You need to stay calm. You know what happens if you get all riled up. Remember the incident at Greta’s house all those years ago when you lost your temper and threw a vase at her and broke her nose?’ She smiles, picks her cup up and slowly and deliberately sips at her tea, her lips pursed so severely, thin crepe paper lines appear around her mouth.

  I go dizzy at the memory. It’s as if somebody has poured a jug of cold water over me as her words sink in.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I manage to say through gritted teeth. ‘What did you just say?’

  A low droning sound fills my head and my skull feels as if it’s in a vice. I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. My face grows hot and I listen incredulously as she speaks again, each word like a physical blow to my body, her words alien and detached.

  ‘Eva, don’t tell me you don’t remember? And what about the time you spat in your food and told her that she should eat it instead of you? It was such a torrid time for you though so I understand why you acted the way you did. Greta understood too. She always forgave you as well, didn’t she? We all did. It wasn’t your fault.’

  My throat is like sand and my eyes bulge. I need to stop her. I have to get her out of my apartment before something awful happens, before I do or say something terrible to her. I can feel it in the air; the crackle of danger is everywhere, emanating from us, leaking out of our pores like hot oil. She has overstepped every boundary, broken every single rule and from this moment on, there will be no going back. Our friendship has gone beyond the point of no return.

  ‘But those incidents pale into insignificance compared to the day you picked up that knife, don’t they? Gosh, that was such a frightening time for everybody involved. You were so lucky that the other girl’s injuries were superficial and her parents didn’t get the police involved. Such awful times.’ Her eyes cloud over as if we are reminiscing about a day at the beach.

  I can hardly breathe. Air forces its way out of my chest in short bursts. I absolutely have to do something – anything – to get her out of here, to remove her from my home.

  I lunge at her and grab her arm, dragging her across the room. She is limp and much to my relief and surprise, puts up no resistance. Only when we are near the stairs does she spring to life, like an animal unfurling itself after a deep sleep. Her nails claw at my face and a sharp, stinging sensation rips across my cheek. A slender line of blood runs down my face and gently drips onto my sweater, a tiny glob of scarlet soaking into the wool.

  We are equally matched when it comes to physical strength and I fear I won’t win until luck plays its part. As I drag her further along the room, she trips and loses her footing on a nearby rug. I seize the opportunity and twist her arm up her back, ignoring her howls of pain as I haul her to the top of the stairs. A sob explodes out of my chest. With our feet locked together, I drag her down, over each and every step, my legs buckling under me, her legs twisting and bending. She is heavier than she looks, and in no time at all I am sweating and panting for breath.

  Part of me knew this was going to happen when I first spotted her standing outside on the pavement. That was why I left the chain off. Deep down, I just knew it was always going to end like this. Some things are just meant to be.

  ‘Eva, please stop! This is exactly the point I was trying to prove. You’re doing it again!’

  I feel my throat practically close up at her words. Keeping her arm forced upwards, I twist her around and push my face so close to hers I can almost taste her breath; sweet and sickly like rotting lavender.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I snarl, no longer caring whether anybody outside can hear me shouting or even if they are alerted by Celia’s cries of pain as I grip her arm even tighter. I just need to get her out of here. I need her gone.

  ‘Your temper,’ she says softly, her voice so delicate and artificial it makes me want to rip all her hair out until it falls to the floor in great, dyed red clumps.

  ‘My temper?’ I almost drop her arm in shock. ‘Celia, what the hell are you talking about?’

  Her eyes roam over my face and it’s only then that I notice she is wearing the same shade of eyeshadow that I usually wear. The same shade of lipstick too. I feel horribly sick. Celia thinks she is me.

  ‘Oh come on, Eva, we both know exactly what I’m talking about. The terrible meltdowns you had when we lived with Greta, all the commotion you caused that time you daubed the walls and our bedroom furniture with red lip
stick. And what about that incident with the knife? You were lucky that poor girl didn’t die let alone not have any serious injuries. All she did was try to befriend me and when that happened you turned into a complete maniac screaming at her to get away from me and that I belonged to you.’ She stares into my eyes and smiles. ‘Now can you remember? Now do you understand why I’m so protective of you and why I came here to find you?’

  Blood squirts through my body, thick and fast. The floor threatens to swallow me up whole as I shake my head over and over, the cold tiles tilting and swaying under my feet.

  ‘You need to see somebody, Celia. You’re not well,’ I say breathlessly. I can’t think what else I should say. I suddenly feel ill from her words and need to sit down.

  ‘See somebody?’ she says so calmly that I wonder if she actually understands what it is that I am implying.

  ‘Yes, I think you need to see somebody, a doctor perhaps. Somebody who can help you with your mental health issues.’

  I glance down at her clothes – so similar to the style I used to wear years back – at her hair, dyed red to resemble my hair, and only then do I realise how far she has fallen, how vulnerable and potentially dangerous she is. And I thought I was the needy one.

  ‘Why are you saying these things about me, Eva? Why?’

  ‘Because all of those things you said about me back there… it wasn’t me at all, was it? It was you. You were the one who broke Greta’s nose. You were the one who ruined the bedroom. You were the one who tried to stab somebody.’ I’m panting hard now, stars bursting behind my eyes as I gasp to catch my breath. ‘It was you, Celia. All those awful things you mentioned. You did them all, not me.’

  I know I should help her, get her to see some sort of counsellor or specialist but I am scared of her. I know exactly what she is capable of so, instead, I push her out of the door into the alleyway where she falls onto her knees with a sharp crack.

  Slamming the door shut, I double lock it and put on the chain. It suddenly seems like a weak barrier between my aching body and Celia’s ravaged mind, but it’s all I have.

  For years I have dreaded this day. I had hoped that in the intervening years since we last met she had found the help she needed, but events today have proved me wrong. She is as damaged as ever. Even more so than me.

  I trudge back upstairs, raw fear tugging at my insides. I will jam a chair up against the door handle; make sure she cannot get back in. It’s unlikely she will try, but then I would have thought it unlikely she would turn up here looking like me and that’s exactly what she has just done. Her madness, it would appear, knows no bounds. It has grown and multiplied since I last saw her, turned into something ugly and unmanageable. Her teenage tantrums after being passed from one set of foster parents to another were one thing, but this…? This is way out of my comfort zone. Her anger hasn’t subsided over the years and, having seen her in action, I dread to think what she is truly capable of.

  For years she has tried to stop me seeing my parents, telling me it would disrupt my life and ruin everything I’ve worked hard to achieve, but it’s not that at all. She has another reason to stop me seeing them. She doesn’t want me finding them because then she will be left on her own. That’s the only thing Celia and I have in common – the years we both spent in foster care, the fact that we both came from deeply damaged families – and if I change that, then she will have nobody. She once told somebody that we were like twins. We are far from having such a strong bond. We are polar opposites, and if I forge a reunion with my parents that will alienate Celia even further. For so many years I have tried to not hurt her, humoured her, kept her at bay. She has been intense, overpowering, unable to see things from my perspective and now I have to make a clean break. I can no longer put up with her demands.

  I grab a hefty dining chair and drag it down the stairs, pushing it hard against the metal handle. I try to drag the handle down but the back of the wooden chair stops it from moving. I attempt it a couple of times until I’m satisfied that her entry back in is well and truly blocked. There is no other way in. This door is it, the only means of entry, and she would have to develop superhuman strength to get past this barrier.

  Lots of questions race through my brain as I head back up: like how did she find me? I have done my best to avoid her over the past few years once it became apparent that her obsession with me was out of control. I tolerated the countless messages and calls and emails, fearing what she might do to herself if I blocked her or refused to reply. I did what I could to keep her at bay and for a while it seemed to work. The distance between us helped.

  And our careers. Whenever Celia suggested meeting up, I would throw a business meeting into the conversation, tell her I was working that weekend and could we do it another time? She always seemed to fall for it, never questioning why I was being sent on so many training courses and working so many weekends. Her job was very different, of course. Celia is a receptionist in the hospital and our commitments are totally different. I think she imagined me in the city, surrounded by financial geniuses who controlled the stock market. I am an accountant, not a stockbroker but then again, Celia only knows what I have chosen to tell her, which is actually very little indeed. I figured the less she knew about me the better.

  But in Celia’s mind, we are still best friends, those young girls from broken homes, dented and bruised by their histories. I have moved on. Celia has remained static, stuck in the past, trapped and damaged by the upheaval in her life prior to living with Greta. I know she had moved about a lot and suffered a lot of abuse in some of the care homes she lived in. So many people and places, so little love. And now look at her; look at what it has done to her. I’m not sure she will ever be able to move on from this.

  She was always fixated on me, ever since we were first introduced all those years ago, and I tolerated it, pitied her and took her under my wing even though I had my own fair share of issues. I was the lesser injured of the two. A pair of fragile creatures in a torrid, tumultuous world. We had Greta obviously. Greta was my saviour and I loved her dearly. Celia, however, did not. She did all she could to make poor Greta’s life a misery, doing the things already mentioned and plenty more. It seemed as if she loathed everything and everyone, especially her mother, constantly telling me how she would love to see her rotting in the ground. Hatred and anger were her modus operandi.

  As the years passed and I forged out a life for myself, it became apparent that Celia wasn’t prepared to let me go that easily. She wasn’t the reason I moved to London but I don’t mind admitting that I felt more than a little relieved to be leaving her behind. I half expected her to up sticks and move with me and wanted to cry with happiness when she wished me luck saying her heart was firmly in the north and always would be.

  With so much distance between us, I could easily put up with the calls and messages that she bombarded me with on a daily basis. I tolerated her; kept her sweet for fear of what she might do if I cut her off completely. I even gave her titbits of what was going on in my life. She has no idea that all I was doing was keeping her at arm’s length. And I had Gareth too. My eyes mist over and I blink back unexpected tears.

  I had Gareth. And then I didn’t. My fault entirely.

  A hard lump sticks in my throat at the thought of him. I flop onto the chair, my chin trembling. It’s all such a mess. I have ruined everything. Visiting my parents’ house is all I have left. I hope to God I get to meet them otherwise all of this will have been for nothing.

  I stand up and peer out of the window at the street below, not daring to breathe in case Celia is down there, staring up at me, waiting for me to crack. She isn’t. The street is jam packed with Goths and pensioners, and school children stuffing their faces with ice creams and sticks of rock but thankfully, there is no sign of Celia.

  I half smile, feeling a sudden need for a glass of cold white wine. I suppress the craving. The answer to my problems doesn’t lie at the bottom of a bottle. I’ve been down that u
npleasant route and have no desire to return there. All I want is to meet my parents and have my questions answered. A reunion with Gareth is out of the question. I know that now. Once I have my answers, I can get on with the rest of my life instead of being suspended in a hiatus. I have no idea what the future holds but I do know that it doesn’t include Gareth or Celia. From this moment on, I plan on being a damn sight more selfish and if that means being on my own in this rollercoaster we call life, then so be it.

  18

  Gareth

  It’s almost dark when Gareth eventually rouses himself. He sits up on the bed, disorientated and groggy, initially unsure of his surroundings. The room is out of focus as he rubs at his eyes like a small child, his hair sticking out at divergent angles, his clothes crumpled and askew.

  The window affords him a view of a darkening, grey sky with a gathering of heavy clouds across it. The moon is slightly visible behind them, shimmering and watery. It silvers the room, glazing everything with a thin trail of light.

  He has no idea how long he has been asleep for or what time it is. He looks around, suddenly remembering where he is and rapidly wishing he was back in London, in his tiny house where it’s comfortable and close to everything he cares about; his friends, his job, his security.

  The dull light in the room gives it an eerie glow and fills the corners full of dark shadows that look vaguely threatening. He blinks again and switches the lamp on, killing the darkness and highlighting the slightly dated decor. Still, at least it’s warm. When he worked here as a young lad, the place was like one huge fridge.

  He swings his legs off the bed and yawns, stretching his arms out and shaking himself vigorously, attempting to throw off the shackles of sleep that still envelop him. He strides into the bathroom and turns on the shower, hoping it will help wake him up. He is also ravenous. A meagre bacon sandwich wasn’t enough to fill his belly and stave off the hunger that is clawing at his stomach. Once he’s showered and has had a shave, he will head off down to the restaurant and see what’s on offer. Hopefully they’ll have some decent seafood on the menu. And a beer. He could really, really do with a drink. His body feels empty; devoid of any sustenance after a jog through town and a long sleep.