The Ward (28 page)

‘Come on,’ Farrell said. He fumbled in his bag for his keys, and it took several attempts for him to find the right one to unlock the security gate.

The apartment was large, open plan. I peered into the darkened kitchen and something on the tiles glinted in the light falling through from the hallway – glass?

‘Don’t go in there,’ Farrell said, steering me away.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve just got to… clean up,’ he said vaguely.

Face still shut down, Farrell ushered me into a bedroom decked out in turquoise and black. I didn’t argue. I was hit with a wave of exhaustion so acute it felt as if someone had whacked me
over the head. He pulled back the silky covers, and I slipped between them.

The next thing I knew, Farrell was shaking me awake. ‘Lisa!’

‘Wha?’ I sat up, disorientated. ‘What time is it?’

‘One.’

‘In the morning?’

‘Afternoon.’

‘How long have I been sleeping?’

‘Twenty hours or so.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Don’t worry, you needed it. We both did.’

He looked fresh, his cheeks free of stubble and his clean hair flopping over his forehead. ‘We’ve got work to do today,’ he said, ‘so rise and shine.’

He dug in the drawers next to the bed, pulling out a pair of baggy grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He hesitated and then strode to the chest of drawers on the far side of the room. It was
full of diaphanous lingerie.
Her
lingerie. He picked through it and pulled out a pair of simple black lace panties. Without looking at me, he said, ‘You can wear these for now. Hurry
up and shower. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.’

Avoiding my reflection, I stumbled through to the bathroom. The shelves were cluttered with jars and tubs of Clarins and Clinique moisturisers, M.A.C body foundation and skin cleanser and the
kinds of shampoos, conditioners and serums you can only buy from top-end hairdressers. Two electric toothbrushes, one blue, one pink, sat side by side in a crystal tumbler above the sink. I pulled
off the hospital gown, ran the shower as hot as I could stand, and scrubbed my skin until it was pink.

Then, for the first time since I left the hospital, I gazed at my reflection. Katya stared back at me. I smiled, she smiled. I frowned, she frowned. She was me. I was her. I leaned forward so
that my nose was nearly touching the glass, drinking in every inch of the smooth, olive skin. My new lips, eyelids, eyelashes, that gloriously tiny nose, the new bone structure.

Trying not to think too deeply about what I was doing, I slipped on the panties, which were slightly too small, and put on the baggy pants and T. I found a brush on the nightstand next to the
bed – straight black hair still twirled in its tines – and brushed my fringe back from my face. I was ready.

Farrell was waiting for me in the kitchen-cum-lounge, a clutter-free sun-filled room with spotless stainless steel worktops and black-andwhite floor tiles. He was sitting at the breakfast bar,
his MacBook open on the counter in front of him.

‘Better?’ he said. He pushed a mug of coffee towards me. ‘Now. First things first. You need to get hold of your family. Let them know you’re okay.’

‘Why?’

‘Just in case they start searching for you. We don’t need that shit right now.’

‘Isn’t that a bit paranoid?’

‘We have to be paranoid. It’s the only way to get through this.’

He stood behind me while I clicked onto my Gmail account. I shifted uncomfortably on the stool. There was only a single unopened message in my inbox. Even the spambots didn’t think I was
worth it. The message was from Dad, the subject line: ‘Where are you?’.

There was no message.

‘What shall I put?’ I asked.

‘Say you’ve met someone. That he’s not to worry, that kind of thing. It’s not much of a lie, after all.’ Farrell tried to smile convincingly, but didn’t quite
succeed. At least he tried.

I typed in: ‘Hi Dad. I’m well and happy. I’ve met someone and moved in with him, so don’t worry about me. Please send my love to Sharon. Love, Lisa’.

Without hesitating, I pressed ‘Send’. A lump formed in my throat and I had to blink furiously to hold back the tears.

‘Sorry,’ I said to Farrell, wiping my eyes.

‘What for? You’re doing great.’ He put his hand on my shoulder, and my heart doubled its pace.

‘Now. Here’s the way I see it. We have to convince Glenn that Katya’s alive and well. We can’t say she’s been in rehab again: that’s the first place Glenn
would have checked. I’m thinking maybe she – you, I mean – was in an accident. Knocked over by one of those gung-ho taxis or something. That would explain where she’s been.
You’ll only have to see Glenn a couple of times, and then I’m thinking we can tell him you’re going off to South America for a shoot – Katya’s scheduled to go to Rio
next month anyway – and then you can just disappear.’

‘But where will I go?’

‘Up to you. Think about it. A whole new start. I’ve got some cash. Not much, but enough to get you started.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I didn’t want a new start. I wanted to stay with him.

‘With luck we can make this work. We’ve got a few things going for us. It’s good that you’re about the same height. And the hair’s not an issue, Katya’s got a
whole bunch of made-to-order wigs.’

‘She has?’

‘Sure. Tricks of the trade. In case she gets a bad haircut or has a badhair day.’

He leaned down and gazed into my eyes. ‘Your eyes are a bit lighter, but we’ll get away with it for now. Katya often wears dark glasses, even indoors.’ He made me bare my
teeth. ‘That’s okay. Don’t smile too often.’

It went on and on. Katya doesn’t bite her nails. Katya doesn’t do that with her hair. Katya never wears lipstick, only lip gloss. Katya wouldn’t dare leave the house without
mascara.

It was exhausting. But the worst was to come.

‘This will help,’ he said. He pushed the computer towards me.

There she was, filling the screen. She was dressed in a tiny red bikini, her tanned skin glowing in the sunlight, her lean flesh on display. She was dancing across a white beach, laughing and
mugging for the camera, a million miles from the bandaged sobbing wreck I’d met in the hospital.

He cleared his throat. ‘I filmed this when we were in Bali last year.’

I could hear Farrell’s voice saying, ‘You look gorgeous, baby.’

Then Katya’s laugh, filling the kitchen as if she was actually back from the dead.

‘Watch it again.’

Fighting back the tears, I did as he said.

After that he made me practise certain words over and over again. She used the words ‘darling’ and ‘fuck’ liberally, often ended a sentence with ‘don’t you
agree?’. Her laugh was deep and sexy. Farrell suggested that I speak in a whisper whenever possible, to mask the differences in our voices. He also made me practise her straight-backed,
slightly splay-footed walk, coaxing me out of my habit of hunching my back and curling into myself.

‘Katya expects everyone to look at her when she enters a room,’ he said. ‘And they do.’

I didn’t tell him that, until recently, that was my worst nightmare.

‘Lisa?’

I’ve been pushing a sliver of red pepper around my plate, lost in thought. ‘Sorry, Farrell. Were you saying something?’

‘You okay?’

‘Yes. I’m fine.’

He stands up. ‘I’ll have to go to the studio, show my face. I’ll bring back some fake tan to sort out those pale areas. And try not to bite your nails, okay?’

There’s another subject we’ve been avoiding. But we can’t ignore it forever.

‘Farrell, aren’t you worried about… I mean, about what they want you to do?’

‘They?’

‘The people… whoever they were, back in that… place.’

I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t.

‘I know we can’t go to the police or anything, not now…’ I don’t need to finish the sentence. ‘But shouldn’t you at least—’

‘We can talk about this later. I’ve got to go. And don’t open the door, whatever you do.’ He grabs his keys and leaves.

I take a sip of coffee. It’s cold and tastes like bile. It’s the first time I’ve been alone in the house. Katya’s ghost is everywhere: in the photographs that line the
walls, the piles of fashion magazines slotted into custommade racks, the clothes, the beauty products, the lingering trace of perfume.
She
must have sat here where I’m sitting now.
Eaten breakfast. Made coffee.

Made love to Farrell in that bed you’re sleeping in, Lisa.

A chill dances across my skin at the thought.

The intercom buzzer blares, making me jump.

Oh God. What now?

What if it’s Glenn?

Maybe June’s convinced him that the woman in the bed isn’t actually his little girl after all.

It buzzes again, this time in a long, continuous blast. Whoever’s there is holding their finger down on the button.

I can’t listen to that for much longer. Not without going mad.

Too late.

Unsure that I’m doing the right thing, I press the answer button, take a deep breath and say, ‘Yes?’

A woman’s voice barks, ‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s… Katya.’

‘Kat? Kat, it’s me!’

‘Who?’

‘Noli, for fuck’s sake. Let me in, girl. I saw him leave, it’s totally cool.’

Christ. This Noli must be one of Katya’s friends. What the hell should I do? If I don’t let her in, it could look suspicious.

I’m about to press the gate-release button when, with a jolt, I remember that I’m not wearing the wig.

‘One second,’ I whisper into the intercom.

Heart thudding, I race into the bedroom. I grab the wig and pull it over my hair, making sure there are no blonde strands visible, then root in Farrell’s ordered closet for a hoodie or
cardigan, something with sleeves long enough to hide my arms and hands. I unearth a sweatshirt and carefully put it over my head without dislodging the wig.

The buzzer goes again. God!

I check my reflection. It will have to do.

Hands shaking, I open the door to an astoundingly tall and beautiful black woman, her hair shorn to her scalp. She’s dressed in heels and a tiny shift dress that barely covers her
thighs.

She looks me up and down, eyes brimming with horror. ‘
Fuck
, Kat. You look like shit.’

She grips my shoulders, air-kisses both sides of my face, and sweeps past me in a cloud of nicotine and perfume, heading straight for the lounge.

‘What in the hell happened, Kat? I’ve been calling and texting you like a motherfucker.’

‘I was in an accident,’ I whisper.

‘Yeah. That’s what Glenn said. God. What’s wrong with your voice? Why you whispering?’

‘Damaged my vocal cords.’

‘In the accident?’

I nod.

She looks at me dubiously, then shrugs. She flounces down on the couch and crosses her legs. ‘Now, I want to know everything.’

‘Not much to tell.’

‘Fuck, Kat. Glenn said a taxi hit you or something? When you didn’t show up I was seriously worried.’

‘Show up?’

‘Yeah. You were supposed to meet me. Don’t you remember?’

I shake my head.

‘That night. We were supposed to hook up at Harley’s. This is getting weird. You hurt your head or something?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Hang on. Have you got that… whatdoyoucallit? Amnesia? Where you can’t remember stuff?’

‘Um…’ Why not? ‘Slightly. It’s as if my memories are all jumbled up.’

‘Ja. I got you.’ She laughs again. ‘Like after a late night, right? She sighs. ‘Fucking taxi drivers. But apart from that, you’re okay now, right?’

I nod again. She uncrosses her legs and leans towards me, peering at my face. ‘You wearing contacts?’

Oh God. ‘No.’

She shakes her head. ‘Must be the light. And who did your make-up this morning, girl? A blind man?’

She laughs, digs in her bag and pulls out a box of cigarettes. She pops one in her mouth and passes the box to me.

‘No thanks.’

‘Fuuuuuck. You quit?’

I hesitate. What would Katya do? Farrell hadn’t mentioned that she smoked. Trying to keep my hands hidden beneath the sleeves, I tentatively pull out a cigarette. Noli chucks her slender
gold lighter to me. It takes me several attempts before I figure out I have to inhale before it will catch.

‘God, girl,’ she says, shaking her head in disgust. ‘You really are in a mess, aren’t you?’

I take an experimental puff, trying not to inhale too deeply. It tastes revolting. Noli is flicking her ash straight into my coffee cup; there’s no sign of an ashtray anywhere.

I take a deeper drag, fighting not to gag.

‘That’s my girl,’ Noli says. ‘Now listen. What the fuck are you still doing here?’

‘I don’t… I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Whoa. Okay, listen, Kat. Seriously. I can see you’re not yourself, but come on.’

I don’t trust myself to speak.

Noli sighs. ‘Christ. Look, when you called me, just before the accident, you said you were going to leave Josh.’

‘I was?’

‘Ja. Like,
finally
. You’d had a big fight, said that this was it. Finished and klaar.’

‘Really?’

‘Okay, now I know you’re seriously fucked in the head.’

‘Just humour me, Noli,’ I say, trying to sound like the woman in the video image – confident, sure of herself, used to being obeyed.

Noli lights another cigarette, drops the butt of the last in my coffee cup. ‘Well, you said his controlling behaviour was getting worse. That he would hardly let you take a shit without
his approval.’

‘I did?’

‘Ja. And when he started picking out your clothes and telling you which jobs you could or couldn’t take, and when he started freaking out every time you had an itty bitty hit, you
decided enough was enough.’

‘That doesn’t sound that bad.’

‘Girl? You crazy? He was ruling your life. You had to sneak off to even see me. He’d phone you, like, twenty times a day, to check where you were. So, what I’m saying is, the
offer still stands. You need a place to stay, you can come stay with me.’

‘Thanks.’ I drop the vile cigarette stub into the cup where it dies with a hiss. ‘Did he ever… you know. Hit me?’