She reaches up and pulls an invisible cord, I hear what sounds like my bathroom light as she switches off the moon, plunging us into the unforgiving dark. Then the dirt starts to rain down on us faster. I scream at them again to stop but, if they can hear me, they’re not listening. The hole is too deep for me to climb out of, but I have to do something. I scratch at the walls of earth, trying to find anything to hold on to, my nails clawing at the dirt. It starts to rain and water and soil fall down hard on top of me until I give up and roll myself into a ball. I hide within my fear and make it my home. A coin lands near my feet as though I’m at the bottom of a well where people make wishes. Neither side of the coin has a face.
‘If you want to get out, just point at the exit,’ says the little girl. She’s standing over me now, clumps of wet soil in her tangled hair. I follow her stare to a green-neon EMERGENCY EXIT sign buried in the dirt beneath my feet.
‘Just point when you want to get out, that’s all you have to do.’
I look down at the sign, half covered in dirt already, and try to point at it, but I can’t move my hands. I’m crying again when the pain comes. Then there is blood. Blood dripping down on the emergency exit sign, blood on my hospital gown, blood on my hands as I hold them between my legs, trying to stop the life falling out of me. I close my eyes with the pain and when I open them and look up, the only face I can still see is Claire’s. The little girl reaches for my hand and helps me to point my finger at the sign beneath my feet. It takes every last bit of strength I have.
‘Did you see that?’ says Claire’s voice in the distance.
‘What?’ asks Paul.
‘Look! Her hand… she’s pointing her finger.’
‘Amber, can you hear me?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means she’s still here.’
Then
Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Morning
I flush the toilet then wipe my mouth with a thin strip of recycled paper. I rub my lips harder than I need to, letting the rough edges sand my skin. I take a moment to breathe, grateful that none of my colleagues have seen me like this. It’s the last show before the Christmas break, just one more day to get through, then it’s done. Just a few more hours, I can manage that. I take a breath mint from my handbag and pop it in my mouth. I’m well practised at hiding hangovers, but that isn’t what this is.
I checked my diary on the train this morning, thirteen weeks and I hadn’t even noticed. It isn’t like we do it very often and I just presumed that this was never going to happen. All that time we spent trying and now, when I’d given up, now I’m pregnant. It doesn’t make any sense and yet somehow it does and I’m sure that I am. I’ll get a kit after work, that’s what I’ll do. I feel certain that I already know but I need to be sure.
I can’t hear anything, so I flush the toilet once more and open the cubicle door. I think I’m alone, but I’m wrong.
‘There you are. Are you quite all right?’ asks Madeline.
I feel my cheeks redden. I’ve never seen her in here before, seems out of place somehow. I thought she had a commode under her desk or something.
‘What have you done to your head?’ she asks, staring at my forehead. I look in the mirror and brush my hair over the bruise with my fingers.
‘I tripped over something in the hall when I got home last night; it’s nothing.’ It’s the truth and yet the words leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth.
‘Late night, was it? Drowning your sorrows?’
I turn on the taps to wash my hands and don’t reply.
‘Well, better that than morning sickness. Nothing like a pregnancy to ruin a girl’s career!’
I don’t react, just keep washing my hands over and over. She seems different, somehow, like she’s torn up the script. She’s improvising and I can’t keep up – the lines I’ve rehearsed don’t make sense any more. I turn off the tap, take a paper towel and turn to face her. Sometimes saying nothing says too much but the words won’t come.
‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ she says.
I want to run. My heart is beating so hard now that I’m sure she can hear it.
‘I need to know that this conversation is going to stay within these walls,’ she continues, as though we are old friends conspiring and I can be trusted. I still can’t force the words out just yet, so I nod. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a collection of red envelopes. ‘I want to know what you know about these.’
I look at them. Then I look her in the eye. ‘Christmas cards?’
‘They’re not Christmas cards. As I’m sure you’re aware, someone is spreading rumours about me on the Internet. I’ve also received some threatening mail in the office and at home this week. I’m sure the two things are linked and I want to know whether you have seen anything unusual, or anyone odd hanging around.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘And you haven’t opened anything unpleasant yourself?’
‘No.’ I smile. I didn’t mean to.
‘This isn’t a joke, this is serious. I think whoever wrote these letters has been inside the building.’
That’s when I spot it, the thing that has changed about her. This is what Madeline looks like when she’s frightened, I’ve just never seen it before.
‘This last one was on my desk this morning, before I arrived,’ she says, holding up the top red envelope.
‘What does it say?’
‘It doesn’t matter what it says.’
There is a gap for words we don’t speak.
‘Have you told Matthew about the letters?’ I ask.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Well, maybe you should.’
She sizes me up. ‘I’ll see you out there,’ she says and leaves. I stay a while and wash my hands again.
I watch Madeline a little more closely during the show. I hate her, but she is good at her job, even if she doesn’t deserve to be here. I study her face, still looking for a resemblance I can’t see. She nods when I excuse myself to pop to the bathroom, as though she understands how I feel, as though she cares. I rush out, leaving my mobile in the studio. Jo comes to find me in the toilets, to see if I’m OK. She makes me splash some water on my face, which helps a little.
‘You just have to get through the show, it’s not much longer now. You’re doing so well, it will all be all right,’ she says.
I wish I believed her. I wish the words were real. She heads back to the studio without me, giving me a moment to catch my breath. I walk back, stopping briefly at Matthew’s desk. The office is empty when we’re on air and he always leaves his phone out here. It isn’t as though anyone would steal it, I suppose – his mobile is so old it doesn’t even require a passcode. It takes less than thirty seconds to send the text and then delete it from his sent items.
They’re halfway through a pre-recorded Christmas feature when I get back to my seat – the mics are off, I’ve got a couple of minutes.
‘You don’t look at all well. I can finish the show without you if you need to go,’ says Madeline.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I manage and take my seat. The screen on my mobile is still lit up with the unread message I just sent from Matthew’s phone.
Dinner booked for you, me and the new presenter next week. M x