It’s still there, the anger. Still bubbling under the surface.
I still feel violated.
I don’t know what food’s inside her fridge, or which music she has on her playlist. I don’t know what colour her bedroom is, or whether she has any pets.
I don’t know if she takes a bath or a shower in the morning.
I don’t know what she looked like on her old school photos.
She knows fucking everything about me, and that smarts.
It’s like an itch I can’t get fucking shot of, this insane desire to even the score.
I almost change my mind as the cab pulls up outside her block.
It’s a shithole. This whole area is a shithole.
The entrance door is covered in graffiti and the stairwell stinks of piss. I don’t touch the handrail as I make my way up to her floor. My hands are in my pockets as I scope out where her flat is.
It’s in a corner at the back of the top floor, number 21.
I close my eyes as I knock, and it’s not really a knock at all, it’s a deafening thump. A whole fucking string of them.
It’s Dean who answers. His eyes widen in horror as he clocks it’s me.
I’m past him in a heartbeat, my eyes wild as they feast on everything in that place.
“Where is she?” I snap, and he heads on through the living room. He taps on a door at the far end and she looks tiny and broken as she steps out. Her cheeks are blotchy and tear-streaked and her hair is a mess.
Her eyes well up afresh as she sees me, and her bottom lip trembles. “Alexander?” she says as she dashes over. “What are you doing here?”
Dean’s shoulder shunts mine as he passes. He takes a coat from the hook. “Don’t fucking hurt her,” he tells me.
I have no intention of fucking hurting her.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he tells Melissa, and she nods.
I wait until the door closes behind him.
And then I walk right on past her.
I start in her kitchen. I read all the little notes on her fucking pinboard. I flick through the cookbooks and tear through all the drawers.
“What are you doing?” she asks, but makes no attempt to stop me.
“You saw fucking everything of mine,” I snap. “You snooped in fucking everything. I’m showing you how it fucking feels to have your home invaded.”
I know I’m a fucking lunatic, but I don’t care.
There’s barely anything in her fridge. Some milk, and ham and fresh vegetables. A half-used block of cheese.
I march through to the living room when I’m done in the kitchen. I tear through the display cabinet, digging through all the letters in the top drawer.
I flick through family photos and Melissa points out her mum and dad, like it needed saying.
I look under the sofa and under the TV. I flick through her brother’s DVDs and her mum’s old exercise videos.
I learn nothing other than she’s a girl living in her parents’ wake. Picking up the pieces of a shattered life.
“Doesn’t feel so great when you’re not the one doing the fucking snooping, does it?” I snap, but she doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t have many beauty products in the bathroom, just basic shampoo and conditioner and a kid’s bubble bath.
She uses sanitary towels not tampons, and her toothbrush is pink.
“Which is your bedroom?” I ask and she points to the door at the end of the hallway. “Tell me to leave,” I say, “or I’m going to tear your fucking room apart.”
“Never,” she says. “I’ll never tell you to leave. I can’t even believe you’re here.”
“Suit yourself,” I snap, and step on in.
MELISSA
I CAN’T BELIEVE he’s really here.
I don’t even dare to hope that this isn’t over.
But he’s here. He’s here.
He’s angry, and wound tight, and his eyes are wild and dark, but he’s here.
I follow him into my bedroom and tell him to go ahead. I tell him to do whatever he wants. I’m not interested in secrets. I’d cut open my soul if I could, just to show him what’s inside.
He stares at the old Debating Society certificates on my wall. He picks up the framed family photos on my dresser.
He smells my old stuffed teddy bear and opens my wardrobe and tears through my clothes. There isn’t much in there, it doesn’t take long.
It doesn’t take him long to rummage through my makeup box, either.
The drawers under my desk are filled with old college books, he flicks through the legal ones and he swallows. “This really was your dream?”
I nod. It’s all I can do.
And then he sees it, my battered old chest of drawers on the far side of my bed. The one with all my crystals laid out on top, my Kings and Castles CD still open by the player.
“You didn’t show me these,” he says as he picks up a piece of bloodstone.
“I didn’t have them then,” I say, and I’m not lying. These additions were all for me.
He holds up the CD case. “Research?”
I shake my head. “I only bought that last week, I wanted the physical copy.”
“Fucking hell, Lissa,” he snaps. “You changed your whole fucking life for me.”
I shake my head. “Only at the beginning. I thought I was playing…” My smile hurts. “It’s funny how pretending to be someone else can help you find out who you really are.”
He stares at me. “You think this is who you really are now? Amy pissing Randall?”
I shake my head. “I think she’s just the start. I was nothing after they died. I was nobody. Being Amy Randall was the best thing in the world.”
It really was. Being her was everything I ever dreamed it would be. Loving him was everything I ever dreamed it would be.
And more.
So much more.
“Knowing Amy Randall was the best thing in the world,” he says.
He takes a seat on my bed and rubs his temples. “I should go.”
“Please don’t.”
His eyes burn into mine but I don’t look away. I’ll never look away.
“Then you’d better put the kettle on,” he says.
ALEXANDER
HER KITCHEN IS CRAMPED. She nudges me with her hip as she reaches for a clean mug, and I wonder how they ever fit three people in this place.
I shouldn’t be here.
My
threats to Claude will be working their way back to my father if they haven’t reached him already.
I have no interest in taking them back, which means my window of escape is limited.
He’ll be gunning for me, and so will his associates.
I shouldn’t be here, I should be planning my exit, packing up the things I want to take with me.
But I still don’t want to leave her. Not even after everything she’s done.
“I’ll be leaving London tomorrow night,” I tell her. “Any longer and the chances I’ll make it out reduce dramatically.”
She tries to hide her fear as she stirs my coffee. It’s instant crap and it tastes bitter as shit, but I don’t care.
“You think they’ll come after you?” she whispers.
“I know they’ll come after me. I’m far too much of a liability.”
“So what then? You keep running?”
I shake my head. “A few months under the radar and they’ll realise I’ve no interest in blowing their cover. I’ll slip down their target list.”
“You’re sure?”
No. I’m not sure.
I’ve become far too fond of this hope novelty recently.
“Would you still have come with me?” I ask her.
“Knowing what you’re running from?”
I nod.
Her eyes hide nothing from me. “Yes,” she says. “So long as Joseph was safe.”
Joseph.
I had no idea he’d even existed. No idea she was holding so much together. A baby, a full-time job, moonlighting with me three times a week. The soup kitchen.
All of that with a side helping of crushing grief.
At eighteen years old.
She’s barely even an adult, and yet she’s one of the most mature women I’ve ever met.
Figures, of course. That’s what responsibility does to you.
Melissa Martin impresses me. Learning that comes as a surprise.
Melissa Martin is made of steel. She must be to live through what she’s lived through.
I remember her polishing that boardroom table all those weeks ago. I remember how impressed I’d been with her determination. With her grit. Her work ethic.
I remember how transfixed I was by her quiet apology. The humbleness in her stance.
I remember how touched I was by her kindness in my house. Her generosity with her cupcake gift for me.