Fourteen Days (18 page)

The hours slowly passed and the sun began to ascend, bathing the room in a dark blueish color. Although his eyelids started to feel heavy, a slight panic washed over him at the thought of morning coming and still no sleep. Getting up off the couch, he made his way over to the cupboard at the other side of the living room. He reached in and took out a thin blanket, and carried it back over to the couch. Lying down, he pulled the white blanket over his body, still watching the TV, and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. He could feel sleep was just around the corner. But the idea of the morning light seeping through the curtains prevented him from dropping off.

About halfway through yet another mafia documentary, he closed his eyes, only to open them almost immediately.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just fall asleep like a normal person?
He closed his eyes again, only this time he managed to keep them shut for nearly five minutes. But his head was filled with thoughts of work, and Nicky, and anything to do with the last two weeks of hell. Frustrated, he fidgeted, trying to find a better, more comfortable position. Finally he settled. And sleep seemed plausible.

The sound of the door handle turning startled him, sending him into a cold sweat. Turning his head to face the door, eyes wide, his breathing increased, he could see the door quietly open. He clenched the blanket tightly as his body tensed up.
Please be Nicky. Please be Nicky. Please be Nicky
…

It wasn’t Nicky. Christina Long entered the living room.

He tried to scream but his vocals froze, and his grip on the blanket started to tighten as she slowly turned to face him. As if nothing was amiss, she began to walk toward the couch. He couldn’t breathe. Any thoughts of being able to communicate had vanished, and were replaced with a need to pass out. But the idea of closing his eyes seemed impossible. When she reached him—her eyes still reddened from tears—she tilted her head down to face him. His head began to feel light, as if he were about to faint. Watching as she slowly raised her blood-soaked hands, he cowered as she reached for his head.

Suddenly she screamed out in agony as her palms met his cheeks.

He had gone beyond fear, beyond terror.

This was something else, something new.

Something that no one could ever prepare for.

His eyes began to close as the coldness of her hands pierced his flesh. He was no longer sprawled out on the couch in his living room with the TV on in the background. Everything around him, including his wife, his job, his friends, had vanished. All that remained was Christina Long’s tortured expression and her screaming at the top of her voice.

There was no fear where he was, no pain. Just the two of them.

And then there was only silence.

“Look, I don’t
need
this shit right now!” Richard heard someone scream from behind a closed door. “I’ve got enough on my bloody plate!”

He could see Christina Long standing with her back against the door, her eyes filling with tears. He watched as she began to take in deep, drawn-out breaths, trying to compose herself. “Look,” she said, clearly disguising her anguish, “we can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to both of us.”

There was no reply from inside the room.

“Carl?” she called out.

The door suddenly opened, causing her to nearly fall backwards into a bathroom. Moving over to the side, Richard saw Carl Jones storm past her. “Where are you going?” she asked, as he reached the staircase.

“Out,” he coldly answered.

Richard followed her over to the banister as Carl made his way downstairs. “Where’s ‘out’ meant to be?” she asked.

Stopping in his tracks, he glared up at her. “Look, I’m going for a drink. So why don’t you just nag someone else?” He continued his route toward the front door.

“You can’t keep leaving me like this,” she shouted, a sob in her voice. “It’s not fair!”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, opening the porch door.

“Carl!” she yelled, now crying. “If you walk out that door, I won’t be here when you get back.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard
that
before.”

“This time I mean it!”

Carl stopped for a moment, as if to reconsider—but then opened the front door and left the house, slamming the door hard behind him.

Standing on the landing, still peering down, Christina sobbed.

Sniffing loudly, she walked away from the banister and headed for the bathroom. Richard followed.

She ran the tap, splashing cold water over her face. Leaning against the sink, she sighed. “He’s a bastard,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “You don’t need him. You don’t need
anyone
. You’ve managed this far on your own. You don’t need that wanker.”

Staring painfully at her face in the mirror, Richard could see her mascara had run down her cheeks. She tried to rub it off with her fingers, but that only made it worse. Then her chin started to quiver. She held back as long as possible, but it was no use. Her eyes began to stream with tears.

Richard was sitting in the passenger seat of a car; the interior was outdated and scuffed. Christina was sitting next to him. She was staring down at a cell phone in her hand, clearly waiting for it to ring. “
Bastard
,” he heard her say under her breath. But then the sound of a ring-tone made her wince with fright. She held up the phone to see who the caller was, but lowered it back down to her lap with a look of disappointment. Richard could see the name Sophie Price displayed on the phone’s screen.

She groaned, and then pushed the ‘answer’ button on the display and held it to her ear, forcing a smile. “Oh, hi Sophie, how are you? I was just—oh, hello, Peter. Sorry, I thought it was Sophie.” She shuffled nervously in the seat, seeming flustered. “How you both holding up?” she said, with a sympathetic tone in her voice. There was a long pause as she waited for a response. “
Urrr
, I can’t right now, I’ve got to get to the office. I can give you Sharon’s number if you like. She’s the on-call today.” Richard watched intently as the muffled sound of Peter’s voice increased. “Calm down, Peter,” she said, “I’m sure there’s—” Richard could faintly hear sounds of pleading through the phone, causing Christina to clench up anxiously. With her mouth away from the phone she sighed. “Listen, I’ll try to pop ’round later for a chat, but—” Peter’s voice cut her off. “All right, I’ll come straight. Just give me ten minutes.”

She hung up the phone and sighed again.

Leaning forward, she checked her face in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes had dried and her mascara had not run again. “You can do this,” she told her reflection. “Don’t let some pisshead of a boyfriend ruin your day. You’re better than that.”

Richard could hear the rumbling of a tired engine as they drove past familiar houses. Everything seemed so real, even the smell coming from the air freshener hanging from the mirror. But yet it couldn’t be real. He was home. Sleeping in his bed. Next to Nicky. Or was he on the couch? He couldn’t be sure. Nothing made sense.

Richard followed Christina across the road to a house. He tried to focus on his surroundings but the image was too foggy. She knocked on the white door and waited, nervously playing with the strap of her handbag draped over her shoulder.
That door
, Richard thought,
I’ve seen it before. I’m sure I have
.

As the front door swung open, he suddenly knew exactly where he was.

Peter Young’s tall and chunky frame filled the doorway. He was smiling. “Hi, Christina,” he courteously said. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I really appreciate it. Come in.”

“It’s no problem, Peter,” Christina replied, as he ushered her inside.

“How’ve you been? Everything going well?”

“
Urrr
… good thanks,” she replied.

He pointed to the living room. “Why don’t you take a seat in the living room and I’ll go get Sophie.”

Nodding, she entered the room. Richard followed closely. Sitting on the sofa, uneasy, she scanned the room. Everything was in disarray. The coffee table was stacked with empty cups, pieces of food, and discarded chocolate wrappers, the cream-colored carpet was covered in dirt and various other spillages, some of the photo frames had been knocked or turned over, and the single sofa chair was piled up with rumpled clothes.

Richard watched Christina fidget nervously on the sofa as the minutes passed. She tilted her head to see through the glass panel of the door for signs of movement—there were none. She checked her wristwatch and groaned, glancing impatiently again at the glass panel. She then stood, but the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs prompted her to remain seated. Peter entered and leaned against the doorframe, still smiling.

“Is Sophie all right?” Christina asked, calmly, clearly hiding her anxiety. “Is she on her way down?”

“She’s still sleeping, sorry. She hasn’t been herself these past few months. She sleeps a lot.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I understand.”

“She hasn’t left her bed virtually since it happened.”

“Has she been to see the doctor? Maybe they could prescribe something to help her. I know it must have been absolutely terrible for you both.”

His smile slowly vanished. “Yes it was. Especially her. But,” he glanced up, “she’s sleeping now.”

“Well maybe I could call ’round another time then—when she’s up and about.” She started to get up from the sofa again.

Moving away from the doorway, he held out his hand in protest. “No, there’s no need to go. Why don’t you just go up to see her?”

Grimacing in confusion, she said, “But she’s sleeping.”

“Yes, but she’ll probably get up for you. She just needs to hear your voice. We haven’t been getting along all that well, and I think she didn’t believe me that you were downstairs. She could really use a friendly face.”

She paused for a moment as if wanting desperately to think of a valid excuse to leave. “All right,” she said, defeated. “I’ll pop up to say hello.”

His smile returned. “Great.” He walked out into the hallway, Christina behind him. Richard followed closely. Just at the foot of the stairs, Peter stopped and turned to Christina. “Why don’t you go up? I want to bring her a drink. Do you want something as well?”