Stillwater (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Back at the house she invited him in for a coffee, but he declined with a shake of his head. “No,” he said. “I've taken up far too much of your day.”

“It's not a problem,” she said. “It does me good to play truant once in a while. Perhaps we could do this again?”

“You want to?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yes. I've enjoyed it. Thank you for a lovely picnic.”

“My pleasure. I'll be in touch.”

“Great,” she said, and watched him drive away, immediately feeling the emptiness of the house crawling up around her, smothering her with its silence and isolation.

She came back inside, mentally shaking herself to dispel the negative thoughts.

“Back to work,” she said, bullying herself.

Armed with a fresh cup of coffee she went back to her office, woke up her computer and started to write.

It was coming up to five o'clock when she stopped for the day. The chapter she'd been working on before the interruption was finished, and a new one started. She made another cup of coffee, and took it out to the veranda.

Within minutes Teddy joined her. He hopped up onto her lap and, after a few moments of restless padding, curled himself into a ball and settled down. His gentle purring was soporific. She put down her mug, leaned back in her chair, and stared up at the clouds, her mind rerunning the conversation with James about Jessica Franklin.

Poor girl. Beth could almost feel her isolation. Since the accident she knew what that feeling was like. People looking through her rather than at her. Literally talking over her head. Confinement took many forms.

Initially it was fine: friends rallying round, offers of help and support. Strangely it was when she was well on the road to recovery that attitudes toward her changed. While she was bedridden she could be viewed sympathetically, but once she showed that she wasn't a victim to be pampered and nursed, that she could get around in her chair, and even drive, sympathy evaporated. The same friends who had been so well meaning at the outset started to show resentment. Invitations to lunch and dinner dates dried up, and her telephone fell silent. It was as if being capable was somehow taboo.

A few friends stayed loyal, Miranda for one, and two or three others but, after enjoying a busy, almost hectic, social life before the accident, Beth found herself suddenly set apart from it because of her ability to get on with life. It was a horrible and lonely feeling, and if Jessica Franklin had felt a tenth of that kind of isolation then Beth had every sympathy for her.

“Ship,” she said aloud, staring up at the sky and interpreting cloud shapes. The image quickly broke up, forming smaller cotton-wool balls that drifted and coalesced. “Africa,” she reimagined. Her eyelids were growing heavy, fluttering shut and then springing open as she fought against sleep. “A face,” she mumbled “No, a skull.”

The cloud-skull hung in the sky unmoving, unruffled by the wind that was blowing the surrounding cumulus across the heavens. If anything the shape was becoming more defined, the image sharper. Gradually it filled out, flesh being added to the stark bone. A nose appeared, lips, a chin and cheeks. Wispy cirrus clouds floated behind it, giving the almost fully formed head the illusion of long hair. Beth felt her chest tighten in anticipation, as the blue hollows of the eye sockets slowly filled with dark grey nimbuses, forming angry eyes that stared back at her with something close to malice.

She could barely breathe. It was as if the paralysis that occupied her lower body was rising up through her until she could no longer feel her arms. Her breathing was a conscious act, and she had to force air into her lungs against the pressure of leaden and constricting chest muscles.

The face in the sky was now solid, clearly defined. It was the face of a woman, strikingly beautiful but utterly malevolent. The mouth was twisting into a grin, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. Beth drew in a final breath, holding onto it, fearful it might be her last.

A sharp pain in her thigh made her cry out, the cry combining with a high-pitched yowl from her cat that was standing up on her lap, back arched, fur bristling, claws digging into the flesh of her thigh as he stared up at the sky. A small voice whispered softly at the back of her mind that this wasn't possible. She had no feeling in her legs; how could the cat's claws be hurting her?

With a final yelp the cat launched itself from her lap and landed on the veranda in a clattering of claws. It stood there, scrabbling for a moment, before pelting down the ramp and disappearing quickly into the overgrown garden.

With a gasp Beth opened her eyes and folded over in the wheelchair. When she looked up at the sky again the face had gone, and the light was starting to fade. “What the hell…” she said, and checked her watch. It read nine o' clock. She had been sitting out there for more than four hours.

She wheeled herself inside, and switched on the lights of the house to chase away the evening shadows. The sudden ringing of her cell phone startled her. She crossed to the kitchen counter to answer it, but not before she checked the caller ID. For a moment she thought (hoped) it was going to be James, but she put away the idea when she read Miranda's name on the screen.

“Honey, where have you been?” Miranda said, her voice rising in pitch. “I've been worried sick. If you hadn't answered this time I was going to get in the car and drive up to you.”

“Mirri, don't fret, I'm fine. I've been out most of the day.”

“You're meant to be writing.” Miranda's tone of voice changed from concern to irritation, mixed with not a little admonishment.

“I
am
writing. I finished a chapter before I went out. It's been a gorgeous day here. Brilliant sunshine.”

“So it's sunshine you're craving. Do me a favor, Beth. Finish the bloody book, then you can have all the sunshine you want. Go and book a holiday in Lanzarote or Marbella,
somewhere hot
. Indulge yourself that way. What have you been doing in the sunshine anyway?”

“James took me for a picnic.”

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line, and then, “James? Jimmy Bartlett?”

“The same.”

“Why didn't you say so? That changes things totally. Are you two seeing…”

“Whoa!” Beth said. “Don't go reading too much into it. I'm sure it was part of his client aftercare. I think he took pity on me.”

“Rubbish!” Miranda said. “Give yourself a little credit. You're an attractive young woman. Why wouldn't he want something more than a business relationship?”

“Because he'd definitely be getting something more,” Beth said. “A cripple on wheels, who can't function like a real woman. Would he really sign up for that?” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I wouldn't if I were him.”

Miranda made a noise of exasperation in her throat. “Well if you're going to start wallowing I won't even bother to talk to you. I only called to tell you that I have a couple of things I need you to sign. I was going to drive up tomorrow.”

“Morning? Afternoon?”

“Let's say midday. Unless you have another tryst planned.”

“No trysts. Midday's fine. I'll be sure to have my daily quota written by then.”

“And I'll bring some salt and vinegar for that chip on your shoulder.”

“Ha bloody ha!”

Beth hung up the phone and yawned. Why was she so tired? She'd just been asleep for a couple of hours.

As she wheeled past the open door of her bedroom she caught a glimpse of the bed. It looked inviting—too inviting.
An hour
, she thought.
Then I'll crack on with the book. See if I can't get another chapter done before Mirri gets here.

Chapter Nine

When she opened her eyes the clock was reading 4:10. “What the…” She was disorientated, her mind woolly. She was still fully dressed and lying on the bed, not in it, yet the bedroom was in darkness. Eventually her thoughts cleared.

“So much for an hour,” she muttered, and lay there watching through the window as the dawn light chased away the night. It was too early really to get up, but she couldn't settle, lying there wearing yesterday's clothes, and her body needed a shower, her skin scratchy and prickling. After ten more minutes she bit the bullet, and hauled herself from the bed.

As she sat in the shower stall, letting the hot needles of water rake her body, she was grateful for all the special conveniences the agents had installed. For her the shower was a novelty and a luxury. At her London home, getting herself in and out of the bath with a system of electric pulleys and belts had quickly lost its appeal, but Stillwater's wet room simplified everything.

There was a dry area for her wheelchair, and strategically placed rails that she could use to support herself on her way to the shower stall. Once she was seated in the stall the controls for the shower were just inches away.

To add to the luxury there were five showerheads: two on each side of her, and one above. Next to the control unit was another smaller unit that dispensed shower gel and shampoo. But the best feature was reserved for when Beth finished showering. At the touch of a button warm air blasted out from a dozen vents positioned from the floor to just above head height, guaranteeing that not only was she clean from the shower, but she was also dryer than any towel could manage.

Relaxing into the seat, she cupped her hand under the nozzle for the shower gel. Within seconds her body was smothered in creamy, delicious-smelling foam. For a moment she sat there enjoying the feel of water on her skin.

The moment passed, and she set about the laborious task of washing herself. When she looked up again she saw the room was filling with steam. She frowned. The water wasn't hot enough to produce that much vapor. It was as if the clouds she was staring at in the sky had entered the bathroom.

She was suddenly aware of another sensation. Warm water was lapping around her ankles. She could feel it, when there really shouldn't be any feeling there at all.

This was impossible.

The water in the wet room ran down the sloping floor to a large central drain. It was six inches across and she could see nothing to impede the flow, nothing to block it sufficiently to cause a buildup.

She reached down and splashed the water that had almost reached her shins. She could barely see her hand through the cloud of steam.

“Ridiculous,” she said aloud. “All wrong.” She reached out to turn off the water.

She pressed the button but the water continued to flood from the showerheads. If anything, the flow was increasing. She looked to the door, or rather, doors. There was an outer, wood-paneled door that matched the ones to the bedrooms and her office, but in here there was also an inner glass door, fitted with rubber seals to keep the wet room watertight. She could make out the pale reflections of her body on the glass but nothing else.

She became aware of the smell at the same time as the water lapped at her shins: a dank, fetid aroma that conjured up images in her head of something submerged and rotting.

The steam was swirling around her, making her eyes sting and making breathing more and more difficult. She couldn't just sit there and do nothing. If she didn't suffocate in the cloying steam, she'd drown as the room filled with water. She reached out for the rail that ran around the side of the room, and her fingers touched something wet and slimy. She snatched her hand away and stared at it, bringing it up to within inches of her face. Her fingers were stained with green and black streaks, with some kind of slime adhered to them. And they stank, the smell of the room amplified tenfold. Gritting her teeth she reached out again, this time grabbing the metal rail, trying to ignore the sponginess that was coating it.

She pulled herself out of the seat, trying to lock her knees and stand upright. Taking her weight on her arms she inched along the rail toward her wheelchair. The water was getting deeper, halfway up her legs now, and she was sure it was scalding her but she couldn't feel any pain.

As she inched along again, her hand slipped on the treacherous rail and there was nothing she could do to prevent herself from falling. Her shoulder hit the tiled floor with a crack, and, as she cried out, hot water poured into her mouth and down her throat, making her gag and choke. She thrashed under the water trying to break the surface, and reach precious oxygen, but her legs were dead weights sucking her back down.

Don't let me die like this
, she thought, as water seeped into her lungs, making them burn. Gradually her thrashing arms fell still. She lay on her back beneath the water, staring up at the ceiling, consciousness slowly slipping away from her.

The last thing she was aware of was a face staring down at her, a woman's face framed by long dark hair. The expression on the woman's face was impassive, showing no concern for Beth's predicament; showing nothing at all, even when Beth raised her arm, and used only the expression in her eyes to plead for help.

The woman's face receded, moving further away from her, until it was lost in the swirling water.

Beth finally let go of the breath she had been holding, letting it out from between her lips in a cascade of bubbles. As the air drained from her lungs, the darkness swooped in, driving her down to a place she had no wish to go. The darkness was absolute and pitiless. She closed her eyes and let it sweep her away.

When she opened her eyes again the water had gone. She was lying naked, wet and shivering, in the center of the floor of the wet room. As she lay there she tried to make sense of what had happened. Finding no rational explanation she rolled onto her stomach, and hauled herself across the floor to the drain.

There had to be a reason why the water hadn't drained from the room. This time there was, and she found it quickly. The drain was blocked by a large clump of dark green weeds. She tugged at the fibrous mass with her fingers, gagging at the rank and fetid smell of it, shuddering each time her fingers dug into the slimy mound.

A problem with the sewers
, she thought, and for a second marveled at the way her mind concocted the most logical and sane explanation for what had just occurred. But that thought was dismissed instantly, and the malfunctioning sewer theory seized upon. She'd call James later to complain.

“James, it's Beth.”

“Beth. Good to hear from you.”

“I have a problem.”

“Oh?” he said, the note of caution obvious in his voice.

“The drain in the bathroom blocked up when I was taking a shower.”

“That's strange. That part of the house has new plumbing.” He was silent for a moment.

“Are you still there?” she said.

“Yes…sorry. Just thinking what the problem might be. Builder's rubble perhaps.”

“Perhaps, but I was thinking something more natural may have caused it. Is it possible that the sewer's been compromised?”

“Compromised?”

“Tree roots? They're known for forcing their way through brickwork in old sewer systems.”

He digested this for moment. “Well, it's possible…but very unlikely. Are you sure you didn't drop a face cloth over the drain?”

“No, I didn't,” she said, irritated that he appeared to be treating her like an imbecile. He hadn't seemed the type that would patronize her because she was female, or because she was in a wheelchair. She knew plenty who did. “The drain was clear when I got into the shower. By the time I'd finished, it was clogged by what looked like weeds.” She left out the part about falling and nearly drowning. She had to maintain her credibility. For that reason she didn't mention the woman staring down at her through the water.

“Weeds,” he said thoughtfully.

“A great smelly clump of them. It must have come up from the sewer. It certainly smelt as if it had.”

“Well, I've got no explanation for it. I think I'd best get a plumber to call round to you.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“I'd offer to come myself but I'm afraid changing a washer on a tap is about the extent of my plumbing skills. I think this requires an expert. I'll make some phone calls and get back to you.”