Starblood (The Starblood Trilogy) (6 page)

On the way home she passes a bookshop. A book calls to her through the window. She wants it so badly it makes her shake. Checking her purse she almost walks away. Three pounds would never be enough, but the book drags her back. She feels its claws tug at her hair. The coins feel like concrete in her purse.
So what if don’t have enough money? I’ll ask about it anyway.
The shopkeeper smiles and takes it from its stand. His eyes never leave her. She feels his stare as she grasps the paperback from his hand. Her ragged breath ruffles the yellowed pages.

‘Pay me what you have and call in with the rest next week,’ he says.

‘I will pay you, every penny.’
Even if it takes longer than a week
. ‘Thank you.’

Freya stares at the cover; a beautiful woman with long hair and a snake between her legs laughs at the world. She traces the image’s naked curves with her finger.
If I cannot kiss boys I can at least drink words of love and sex.

Lying on her bed, thighs squeezed tightly together, she flicks through the pages. She needs to pee, but holds it inside her, luxuriating in the feeling. It adds to the tingle. On almost every page there are line drawings, unusual and exotic people, men with beards, asleep yet ecstatic, mounted by a woman. So many drawings, most, but not all, are sexual. Her mouth feels dry, and her thighs moist. She tries to ignore the burning sensation in her bladder. Wanting to stay like this, to feel this heaviness inside of her. She reads the first paragraph. The words are hard to understand. She rereads it, trying to make sense of them. Urgency builds inside her. She really needs that piss. Throwing the book across her mattress, she crosses her legs. Almost too late, she sprints to the bathroom, harnessing her bladder for a few more moments until the warm relief and then the familiar emptiness returns.

As she walks back to her room her finger tips brush against the painted wood of her brother’s door. She pictures him in his faded jeans and white t-shirt, bare-footed, his nose buried in a book while his iPod whispers music into his ears, lost in his own world.

The doorbell rings. Mum shouts up the stairs. Ivan doesn’t hear so Freya opens his door. He is exactly as she pictured him and he looks up at her as she enters. A smile breaks across his face. She mouths words at him. He removes his headphones and tilts his head.

‘Steve’s at the door,’ Freya tells him.

‘Thanks, sis,’ he says, closing his book and winding the wires of his personal stereo around his wrist. He puts both on his desk then kisses Freya on her forehead. ‘See you later. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

It’s a traditional farewell, but she has no idea what he would or wouldn’t do, he never tells her.
I wish he would.
Even if she knew the boundaries he was setting, she couldn’t escape her prison to fulfil them. She watches him leave. He takes the air from the room with him and for a moment Freya feels lost in a void. Her sense of balance and gravity, which way is up and which is down, are confused. She grips the smooth surface of the door until the corners of it press into her flesh. Gradually her orientation, her knowledge of the physics of this world, pushes back into her mind. She walks unsteadily across the room and glances at the book on Ivan’s desk, but it doesn’t hold her interest. She thinks of her own, waiting for her on her pillow. She unwinds the wires of her brother’s iPod and listens to the music: heavy guitar and melodic voices. Shaking her head, she carefully winds the wires around her wrist.
Will he notice any difference?
Part of her hopes he will. She wants him to challenge her, argue with her, strike her.
Why did I tidy them at all?
As she walks back towards the bedroom door she reaches into the linen basket and grabs an unwashed t-shirt. Draped carelessly across her bed, nestling in the musky cotton, she picks up her book and reads.

Chapter 8

‘I don’t trust Paul. Be careful.’ Sarah screws up her eyes and imagines Steve hears her warning. He has been silent for days, no messages, no calls. His mobile is always switched off.

Sarah finds it impossible to concentrate. Sitting at her desk, hooked up to the telephone, she feels like a machine. She hopes no one will review her calls today.
Smile when you’re speaking. The client will hear you smile.
Her frown deepens. Blinking, she logs off the network and hurries towards the bathroom. It isn’t her break time, and chances are she will be summoned to the office for leaving her workstation without permission, but she needs a break, needs to close her eyes and stretch her legs.

Fragments of colleagues’ answers to unheard questions buzz past her as she scurries across the busy room. ‘Yes, that’s right … ’ ‘Yes,’ ‘Our most popular tariff … ’ ‘ … with unlimited texts … ’ ‘No, there’s no tie in after the initial … ’ ‘Yes,’ ‘Yes,’ ‘So that’s,’ ‘Yes.’ Voices merge into white noise which fills her head. Running now, she holds her hands over her ears. Just a few more steps and she’ll be safely inside a toilet stall. Her stomach churns and she feels hot. Sweat prickles her neck.

As she passes her boss’s office her manager, Wendy, steps outside. They almost collide, and now Wendy blocks her route to the bathroom.

‘It isn’t your break. Why are you logged off?’ Wendy asks.

Sarah looks at the angry face. She clutches her stomach, bends in two and vomits all over the woman’s designer shoes.

‘I-I’m sorry,’ Sarah manages to say as she pushes past Wendy and opens the bathroom door.

The water is cold and splashing it on her face helps revive Sarah. A strange, hollow face with blacked out eyes hovers, superimposed on the bathroom mirror. She stares at it, shaking her head in disbelief. The urge to draw it, pluck it from her head and set it down on paper, makes her fingers twitch, but her bag is still under her desk. Wetting her index finger, she traces its outline on the mirror: an oval shape, black circles like coal where the eyes should be and its wide mouth, stuffed with a dull red clay or mud. Symbols, like the ones in Steve’s room, are carved into the cheeks, forehead and chin. She can feel its rage and torment, trapped inside its artificial shell – just like her.

It frightens her, and she smears it away, but the face remains in her head. Screwing up her eyes, she tries to think of something else, anything else. Her father’s face pushes the mask away. She smiles until she sees the torn papers clutched in his trembling hand. His face is full of disappointment.

‘What made you draw these?’ he asks her.

Shame burns her cheeks, then anger.
They
were good. How dare he tear them up?
She doesn’t reply. Standing in front of him, tears stinging her eyes, she bites down on her bottom lip.

The ripped drawings fall to the floor, and his hands are on her shoulders, shaking her then embracing her.

‘It’s okay. We’ll get you some help,’ he whispers in her ear.

Sarah opens her eyes again and looks at her own face, distorted by the wet mirror. She licks her lips and tastes blood and vomit. Bending down, she swills out her mouth.
It isn’t fair. All I want is to be in control of my own life. Is that really too much to ask?

Steve’s familiar face returns to her thoughts. Compared to the mask or her father’s disapproving eyes, it is a welcome image and one she embraces. ‘I shouldn’t have left you there alone,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you text me?’ Blushing, she remembers her garbled conversation with Marian, his mum. Marian doesn’t seem to understand her worries. She thinks Steve can take care of himself. Sarah noticed the impatience in his mother’s voice.
Does she think I’m stalking him?
Sarah wonders how many times her strange yet beautiful boy has stayed away from home.
I guess Marian’s probably used to it.
The years they were together, Steve frequently slept at Sarah’s flat.
Where else does he sleep?

Her empty stomach twists with jealousy. Not only at the thought of Steve sleeping next to another woman, but also at his complete freedom. Whenever Sarah stays away from the flat, Donna worries. Before Donna, Sarah’s gaolers were her parents, after Donna maybe a boyfriend, partner, husband. She dreams of a life without obligations, no need to log-in and log-off: a life without walls. Years of studying an art degree and yet she still spends each day advising idiots about the best possible telephone tariff.
What do I want?
In the mirror flickers an image: a tiny cottage, surrounded by flowers and trees. Ivy climbs its walls.
I’d have no phone. I could paint all day. But who would buy my paintings? Who cares, I’d live simply. I’d get by.
Warmth spreads through her. Could she really do it: live alone? Live free. Maybe, in odd moments when she doesn’t feel weighted down by life, she imagines her existence is no more than a cocoon that she will, one day, emerge from – transformed. On other days she looks ahead and sees only this, until the moment she finally slashes her wrists and kisses it all goodbye.

Yes, she envies Steve his freedom, but she still worries about Paul’s intentions. Paul seems far too interested in Steve.
What will he do?
No, surely Steve can take care of himself? That’s what being a man means, but there is the other thing … Steve’s demon, real or imagined.
What will we do about Lilith?
Only a few days ago she pledged to help Steve defeat Lilith, and yet here they are, already separated by distance and focus.
Am I letting him down?

‘Stop this,’ she growls at the mirror
. I’m not letting anyone down but myself. Have I bought into his psychosis again? Steve is a disease. I see his face, smell his skin, and I am lost again, drowning in a world of chaos and magic. It isn’t my world, it’s his and I don’t belong there.
She shakes her head, tears sting her eyes.
But where do I belong? Surely not here either?
Maybe she should be with Steve. Standing here in the bathroom is getting her nowhere. At least she could check if he’s okay. She dries her face and goes to leave the room, then stops.
Do I want to help or hold him? I left him for a reason, many reasons. It was painful enough the first time. I might not be strong enough to leave again.
She looks back and stares at her face in the mirror. Her fingers yank at her curls. She pinches her cheeks. Clenching her teeth, she shakes her head, long enough and rapidly enough to leave her light-headed and dizzy. She must stay at work. She should concentrate, earn her money then leave. It is the only way she can be free in this world.

She walks back to her desk. As she reaches it she hears her phone beep, and she rushes to her open bag.
Let it be him. Let it be him
, she wills. It’s a text from Raven. Logging back onto the network, she puts the mobile back, the text unread. Her phone beeps again, and she rummages through her bag: Raven. She decides that reading the messages and answering is the only way to get some peace.

‘Got us tickets for Combichrist next month. You owe me £40 Raven x’

Bitch, you know I hardly ever listen to that industrial shit. Forty quid!

The second text reads, ‘Where are u? Answer me dammit.’

‘Okay,’ she texts back and starts to cry. Feeling someone standing just behind her, she looks up. It is Wendy.

‘I-I’m sorry,’ she says again. Her eyes dart down to Wendy’s stockinged feet.

‘Just go. Come back when you’re well enough. We’ll talk about it later,’ Wendy answers. Not waiting for a reply, the woman marches back to her office.

Sarah gathers her things and trudges to the elevator. Outside the sun is shining and the air feels warm for October. Seagulls swoop and glide overhead. She passes through a cloud of cigarette smoke as she walks towards the bus stop. Blinking at the bright sky above her, she wishes she could join the birds.

The bus is almost empty. The few people sitting downstairs are laden down with bags of shopping. A mother reaches towards her young son as he yanks a roll of shiny, holly print wrapping paper from a bulging Debenhams carrier. He jabs at the empty aisle with his prize, humming.

‘Michael, give it back,’ his mother growls.

‘I’m not Michael, mum. I told you already, I’m Luke,’ he says, slipping off his chair. A huge grin lights up his face.

‘Come back here. You’ll fall.’

The boy looks up at Sarah and frowns. ‘Why’s her face all weird?’ he hisses at his mum.

The woman shoots a glance at Sarah. ‘Shh,’ she says, taking the opportunity to pull him back onto his seat.

Sarah blushes and looks out of the window, mobile phone still clutched in her palm.
Maybe I should call him. Make sure he’s okay?
His number is still stored on her speed dial.

‘Welcome to Mobnet answer phone. The mobile you are calling is switched off. Please leave a message after the tone … ’

Pressing the disconnect button, she sniffs.
What the fuck is wrong with him? Why can’t he think of anyone other than himself? Why do I care?
Frustrated, she throws the phone back into her bag. She presses her nose and the palms of her hands against the cold glass. Condensation tickles her skin. Pushing as hard as she can, she imagines the glass melting.
If only I could grow wings and fly away.
The glass remains solid. Her breath simply obscures the outside world even more.
I hate my life!
She wants to scream the words, but the people around her stifle the sound before it is even formed.

The apartment is empty. Sarah switches on the television and turns up the sound. Excited voices fill the room. She takes her mobile phone and places it on the coffee table. One at a time, she pulls open the heavy velvet curtains. Shafts of sunlight hit the dusty air and for a moment Sarah is mesmerised, watching the tiny particles swirl and dance around the room. Picking up her phone, she checks she has a signal then replaces it on the table.

The kitchen is dark and she switches on the fluorescent strip light. It hums and crackles as the tube warms. She fills the kettle and drops a tea bag into a mug. Her favourite mug, the one Donna bought her last year.
You’re just jealous because the voices only talk to me.
Today, the slogan makes her smile.