Fry (16 page)

This whole thing is totally cringe worthy
, I think to myself as I sit in the waiting room later that day. I half expect Deacon to come out and check I’m really here, but he doesn’t. I suppose he must be tied up with his own patients.

“Isabel Anderson?” The receptionist calls my name in such a soft voice that I almost miss it.

Setting aside my magazine, I walk up to Jim’s office and knock tentatively.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly, remembering the way I acted the last time we met.

To my relief, he acts as though nothing happened.

“Come in, Isabel. Take a seat.”

“Where?” I ask, looking around at the mismatched assortment of chairs.

“Wherever you like.”

I plump myself down in a big comfy armchair. The chair is very relaxing, and as he rattles off his preliminary spiel, I feel my eyes start to droop. 

“Isabel?”

“Yes!” I sit up sharply and force myself to pay attention.

“How are you sleeping, Isabel?”

“Not very well,” I admit.

How can I, with all this hanging over my head?

He nods. “You know, sleep deprivation can play terrible tricks on the mind.”

“That isn’t the problem.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it, then?”

So I spill the whole story. His frown grows deeper and deeper, the longer I talk. I suppose I can understand that. It sounds crazier every time I tell it. When I‘ve finished, I lean over and peer at his notes. He looks a little taken aback, but does not attempt to hide them. My nostrils flare with indignation as I see what he’s written: “
Has a morbid fascination with fire
”.

“I do not have a morbid fascination with fire!”

“What’s that in your hand, Isabel?”

I glance down. “My lighter.”

I hadn’t even realised I was holding it. It must be a subconscious thing.

“Look,” I tell him. “If I’m obsessed with fire, it’s because she’s made me that way.”

He does not argue.

“So you believe me?”

“I can see that you believe that that’s what’s going on.”

“That’s not what I asked!” I say angrily. “I want to know what you think.”

But he won’t give me an answer. 

I let myself out, seventy pounds out of pocket, and no closer to the answer.

As I stand outside the office, smoking a cigarette, I sense him watching me from the window. When I turn to look, he has his head buried in his notebook. I can just imagine what he’s writing: “
Exhibits smoking behaviour
”.

This was clearly a very bad idea.

I return home to find Mum’s left me a voicemail on my landline. She doesn’t like calling me on my mobile, in case I’m driving or something. I think she’s getting worried though, because I haven’t been in touch. She even left me a private message on Facebook last week. I’d better send her a quick reply, just to stop her worrying. I’ll tell her that I’m swamped with work or something.

I open up my laptop and log in. After replying to mum, I notice someone has invited me to join the Robertson’s Facebook group. I didn’t even know Robertson’s had a Facebook group.

Hang on, if Robertson’s is on here…

Almost before my brain has a chance to register, my fingers have typed in the words ‘Camp Windylake’. There’s a hit. I scroll through the page. How do I know this is my Camp Windylake and not one in Canada or somewhere? No, this is definitely mine. I recognise a couple of the members. I skim through a potted history of the camp. According to the site, it closed down nine years ago, just after I was there.

Oh look, group photos!

I flick excitedly through the album till I come to summer 2003. There are a few of me and Kate and a couple of other people I recognise, dancing like idiots at the disco on the last night of camp. And who’s that? As I click to enlarge the picture, a chill runs through me.

But it can’t be…

Standing next to us, a tight scowl on her lovely face, is Alicia. Not the sweet little ten-year-old Alicia from Kate’s photos, but a mature, grown-up Alicia. And she looks about the same age as Kate and I.

OK, think rationally, Isabel. This cannot be Alicia. And yet…I click to enlarge the picture. Just look at that curly black hair, the dark piercing eyes. It looks so much like her.  I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at that picture, completely unable to grasp what’s going on. It seems quite some time before the penny finally drops:

There are two of them. That’s how she does it!

The realisation jars my body. Alicia has a double, a doppelganger. Probably an older sister or cousin. It seems like a bit of a crazy conclusion to come to, but I feel in my gut that it’s right. I can’t understand why one person would have such a grudge against me, let alone two but it all seems to fit. Whoever it is, they are working together to spy on me and make my life a misery.

My mind flicks back to the day I was with Deacon at the concert. I saw Alicia in the crowd. At least, I thought I did. And yet she was there on the end of the phone when I rang the Beach House. If there are two of them, then it is entirely possible that Alicia’s double started the fire at the caravan park while Alicia herself was still at the party. And that could have been her I saw in the rear mirror, following me home from Julio’s on Christmas Day. She could have even followed me into the cafe and written on the toilet walls that day, making me think I was going mad.
 

I bet she’s out there right now, watching, waiting.

Perturbed, I go to the window and look out, but there is no way of knowing if anyone is out there in the darkness. I shudder. We’re not just talking about Alicia skulking about in the shadows anymore. It’s much, much more sinister if there are really two of them.  And if I’m right, her double, whoever she is, has a car.

Why are they doing this to me?

In the picture, she is standing right next to me. I might have known her once, must at least have met her. I try desperately to remember, but the memories don’t come. Judging from the age of this girl, she’s much too old to have been a camper. Most likely, she was a fellow play leader. I wish I could ask Kate – she was there too, after all. But I daren’t in case it gets back to Alicia.

I need something to calm my nerves.

I go into the kitchen and twist the top off a bottle of wine. I’m about to pour a
glass when I think better of it.
No, I mustn’t drink. Not now. Not when I need to keep a clear head
. My mind is whirling.
Who sets the fires? Alicia or her double? And why, just to frame me?
It seems such a reckless crime. People could get hurt. People could die.

Are they equal partners in all this, the two of them, or is one of them in charge? I think of the word ‘FRY’, branded into Alicia’s back. I can’t imagine anyone choosing to have such a thing done. Could it be that Alicia’s not the one in the driving seat? Even though she seems so very, very creepy. Has she been tutored, coerced? It’s impossible to say.

More than ever, I yearn to know the true meaning of FRY. What is it? And what does it have to do with me? I sit back down at the computer and go through the rest of the Camp Windylake album, examining each picture in turn, but none of the others show anything out of the ordinary
.

What to do? What to do? 

If only I could ask the other members of this group. Someone must remember something. Maybe they can help me? But how do I broach the subject, without raising suspicion or looking like a complete weirdo?  I click my fingers. What if…What if I pretend to be organising a staff reunion for Camp Windylake? I could ask the other members of the group to send me names and contact details of all the play leaders who worked there. Someone’s bound to remember this girl, surely? 

Seized with inspiration, I start typing. I am deliberately vague about exactly when and where the reunion will be. The only person I don’t invite is Kate. Luckily, she doesn’t really use her Facebook account, so she won’t have seen this group, and I want to keep it that way. I can’t risk this getting back to Alicia. I just hope I get some responses. And fast. Because who knows what she and her evil double have in store for me next.

My message sent, I wait anxiously for a reply.  After a few minutes, I hit refresh, but there are no responses. Full of impatience, I drum my fingers on the table top and refresh again.
 

It’s like watching a kettle boil.

In an effort to distract myself, I google FRY, and get an array of confounding hits, from the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, to a group offering tax and financial aid, none of which bring me any closer to the truth. I flit back to Facebook, but there are still no responses. I drum my fingers on the table top.

Now what?

I’m quite hungry, actually,
pipes up a little voice inside my head.

I glance at the table, where I had some fruit, but the peaches and plums have turned sour in the bowl. Maybe I should nip down the chippy and get myself some dinner? Someone might have responded by the time I get back.

The chip shop is only a fifteen minute walk from my house, but I’m too creeped out to walk, so I take the car and drive into the centre of Queensbeach. I hadn’t expected there to be so many people out, talking and laughing in loud, booming voices, enjoying themselves as if nothing has happened. I see girls dressed up in…well, not very much, considering it’s winter, shivering in the queue for the nightclub. But it’s just another ordinary night for them, I suppose.

“One portion of fish and chips please,” I tell the man at the fish bar. “No mushy peas.”

I hand over my money and sit down to wait, my tummy growling at the smell of the hot chips frying. Idly, I pick up a copy of the local gazette someone’s left lying around. Thumbing through it, I notice an article on the recent spate of fires in the area, including the one at the caravan park. There have been blazes at several businesses around the town over the last few weeks. Apparently, the police are following up a number of leads, whatever that means. I bet they have no idea. 

I am so engrossed in the article that I barely register the presence of another customer walking up to the counter.

“Four portions of fish and chips, please.”
 

It’s Deacon.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as he takes out his wallet and pays with crisp, new notes. He hasn’t clocked me yet, and I’m not sure I want him to. We haven’t spoken since the night he introduced me to Jim. The night I overheard him saying those awful things about me. So I keep my head ducked down low, try not to listen as he discusses football with the owner.

“Fish and chips, no mushy peas,” the server calls out when my order is ready.

Deacon whirls round.

“Isabel? How long have you been sitting there?”

“A little while.”

“Great minds think alike, hey? Why don’t you come back to the Beach House and eat with us?”

His face is kind and earnest, but I can’t forgive him. Can’t ever forget those terrible things he said.

“No thanks.”

I reach over him for my parcel of chips, try not to notice the hurt and confusion in his eyes. See, the thing is, I’m not sure we can be friends anymore. I’m not sure we can be anything.

* * *

I check the computer as soon as I get in, but still no responses. I’m going to have to be patient. Maybe someone will post something in the morning. I pick at my chips while I try to figure out my next move.
Absent-mindedly, I break off a piece of fish and hold it out for Fluffy, but of course, he’s not there to take it.

What am I going to do, Fluffy?

I could confront Alicia about her doppelganger. But, damning as it seems, I have a feeling she’d be able to talk her way out of it like she has everything else. And I can’t afford not to be believed. Not again. No, I need to keep this quiet. Do some digging.

What I need is help, professional help and not the kind Deacon’s friend Jim was offering. Like it or not, I’m going to have to ask Holly – again. The trouble is, how can I get her to take my call? I’ve been hassling her so much lately that the only conversation I’m likely to have with her now is with her answering machine – or Julio. But I really need her, more than ever. There must be some way.

* * *

Mr Krinkle is outside, watering his plants as I set off the next morning.

“Hello, Isabel,” he says, eyeing my overnight bag, nosily. “Going away for the weekend?”

“Just visiting my brother.”

“That’s nice. Do you want me to water your plants while you’re away?”

“Oh no, I won’t be gone that long. But thanks for the offer.”

He looks disappointed. I bet he would just love to have a snoop around my house, tell Mrs Norris at number nineteen about all the washing-up left in the sink.

“There is something you could do for me though.”

“Yes?”

“Well…” I hesitate – is this really a good idea? “I did read something in the paper about there being a rise in burglaries in this area.”

“Really?” A look of concern etches itself onto his face.

I’m a terrible person, worrying an old man like this.

“Yeah, and I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind keeping a bit of an eye on my house while I’m away? I wouldn’t want to come back to find an intruder.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I’ll mention it to Mrs Norris opposite. I’m sure we can keep a look out between the two of us.”

“That’s really good of you, thanks.”

I start to back towards my car before he can ask me any more about the burglaries. I don’t feel good lying to him, but what is the world coming to if you can’t harness the power of nosy parkers for your own good?

I really hope they’re in,
I think nervously as I approach Julio and Holly’s road a few hours later. A sensible person probably would have rung ahead to check, but I’m just going to have to take my chances. If I had told them I was coming, I’m fairly certain they would have tried to put me off. As it is, I’m just hoping they won’t have the heart to turn me away. Not when I’ve driven all this way.

To my relief, there’s a dismembered old Beetle blocking their driveway. And where there’s a beaten up old car, you can usually find Julio. There he is, sure enough, delving around in the engine.

“Julio?”

“Izzy!” he looks up sharply, nearly banging his head on the bonnet.

“I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’ve found out something important and I need to talk to Holly.”

Julio frowns. “Well, it will have to wait until she gets home from work.”

He produces a cloth from his pocket and wipes his greasy hands.

“Oh,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment. “Well, I suppose I could wait in the car.”

He takes in the state of me - the lack of make-up, the unkempt hair, the dark rings around my eyes and seems to relent.

“Don’t be silly. Come on inside. I’m due for a tea break, anyway.”

“I don’t even remember her,” I babble, as I finish telling him about the girl in the picture. “So why in the world has she got it in for me?”

“Are you sure it’s not just Alicia winding you up again?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do you know the picture’s genuine? It could have been photoshopped.”

“It looks real enough.”

“Show me.”

I pull up the picture on my phone. “Here.”

He stares at it for a moment, a strange expression forming on his face.

“What? Is it real or do you think it’s been messed with?”

“Yeah it’s real,” he says, his face a little pale now. “And, I think…no, I’m sure… I used to go out with that girl.”