Chapter 7
SEVEN
LIAM
Sandra is in the kitchen washing the dishes when I walk in. I cross the room and take the spot next to her, grabbing a dishtowel.
‘Hey,’ I say.
Her eyes crinkle when she smiles up at me, always warm even when she worries. I’d have loved to have been her child properly, like Ellie, but even with her constant love, I feel like a parasite clinging to her family.
Sandra’s back door is unlocked. It always is.
She glances at the newer scars on my knuckles, still pink and angry, when I roll up my sleeves and pick up a wet plate.
‘Need I ask?’ She focuses on the mug in the sink as she speaks, swishing the sponge around it.
‘It’s nothing that won’t heal,’ I say, feeling heat in my cheeks. Can’t exactly blurt out that I kill people for money while hoping I’m not the one to die. Or that sometimes I hoped I did. Until Kat, that is. I have a reason to live again.
Sandra takes the towel from me and dries her hands.
‘Sit.’
I do as I’m told and wait as she makes us both a cup of tea.
Soaking up the normality of the family home, I let the sounds and smells soothe me.
The bubble of the kettle, and the distant sound of a TV.
The tumble of the dryer and the clean scent of the washing powder.
It all throws me back to my first night here as a difficult, unlovable teen.
I lay in the spare room with the floral bedcovers, feeling so out of place.
But where others would push me, or punish me, or ignore me for the foster payments, Sandra treated me with gentleness.
She gave me space without leaving me isolated, and slowly, I grew to fit.
In my own way. Never feeling a complete part of the unit, but comfortable all the same.
The tea is hot and fragrant, and is served with homemade custard creams. If there’s one thing you can say about Sandra, it’s that she loves to feed the people around her.
No locked pantries or portioned meals. It was a fill-your-boots kind of household, which may have stopped me running away.
Three solid meals can do a lot to tame a wildling.
‘I brought back some dishes,’ I say, toying with the handle of my mug. ‘Thanks for the dinners, but you know you don’t have to bring me those, right?’
‘I like knowing you’re at least well fed. Someone’s got to look out for you.’
She wouldn’t think that if she knew the real me. The me who knows the exact crack sound of a snapped neck, or the way eyes ooze around your thumbs when you push them into a man’s face.
‘They stopped paying you to look after me a long time ago.’ I still feel guilty about hanging around after.
‘This isn’t something you do for money. You’re family now. You’ll not get rid of me easily.’
We drink our tea while she fills me in on her husband, Matt’s, doctor’s appointment and the gossip about Mary down the street and her sabotaging the local roses.
The mundanity of it all is a sweet diversion from the life I’m leading outside.
No masks or stalking. No death fights. No obsession. A slice of utter normality.
When she goes to the freezer to fetch me more meals, I take my chance.
Moving over to the key rack and swiping Ellie’s flat keys.
I stare at the kitchen door as I work the front door key free, hoping that no one will notice its absence.
Ellie comes home often enough that Sandra doesn’t make impromptu visits to her house in the same way as she does mine.
Rummaging continues in the utility room. ‘Do you need any pudding? I have some apple crumbles.’
‘Sure,’ I reply as I fumble with the ring, working the key along the ring until at last it springs clear.
I’m back at the table eating a biscuit when Sandra returns, arms laden with casserole dishes.
‘You should come for Sunday lunch,’ she says as she places the dishes on the table.
‘I’ll try.’ I hate the way her brows furrow, and I relent. ‘I can do this Sunday.’
‘I’ll make yorkshires.’ The soft smile on her face guts me. She deserves better. A real son.
Ellie’s dot is at the pub where she works as I stand at the mouth of the alley.
Soft light from Kat’s window paints an orange strip on the brickwork opposite, the curtain never quite meeting in the centre. I want to urge her to be more cautious with it, but selfishly enjoy watching her through the crack.
It’s just gone eleven, and I’d already spied her consuming the majority of a bottle of wine while studying, wishing I could keep her in view the whole time, but knowing that my chances of being seen rise with each minute I spend up against her glass.
I give it another thirty minutes, watching my breath cloud in the cold night’s air.
The world scurries on outside the alleyway, a fox raking through an overturned bin while students weave drunkenly home from the campus bar.
I remain maskless for now, itching to drag it over my face as a form of protection.
However ridiculous my stupid mask is, I feel like a new man in it.
Braver. More virile. Less like the broken boy I’d been.
Like it might protect me from Kat looking at me like I’m broken.
Ellie’s key is warm in my hand, the edge a constant fidget toy while I bide my time.
I run through a thousand reasons to try to justify my actions. But there’s no justifying stalking Kat. I just need to be near her.
To touch her.
Smell her.
To lose myself in her sunshine for a little longer.
I don’t care if it’s wrong. I need her.
In my flat with its bare walls, it’s easy to think I’ve imagined her. That I’ve invented her the way I used to when I was a kid. Conjuring up the girl in the woods with golden hair who held my hand no matter how filthy it was.
I stop by her window, pulling on my mask and peering through the curtains.
Kat’s asleep on the bed, her hair in a messy ponytail against the pillow, and her pyjama shorts riding up.
The expanse of thigh on show guts me. Who knew skin would render me so utterly devastated?
I want to bite her, to leave a mark on her as she had left on me all of these years. To claim her as mine.
My pulse races as I push the key into the lock, and even the slight scrape of the bolt turning makes me sweat. Will she be sleeping soundly enough? Or will she wake and catch me in her home?
The flat door gives, and within two steps, I’m in her domain.
Hints of her lie everywhere. The trainers she’s kicked off by the door, and the cardigan she wore earlier thrown on the edge of the sofa.
A fallen hair elastic with blonde strands still tangled within.
All around, I can smell her. Fruity shampoo and floral perfume.
I trace the scent to her bedroom, only the ajar door standing between us.
Soft light creeps around the doorframe, and I step up to it, peering through the gap and watching Kat sleep.
She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Surrounded by mountains of cushions and pillows, clearly a creature of comfort.
Her chest rises and falls, one breast making an attempt to slip free of her pyjamas as she lies on her side.
If it does, I fear I might actually die. Heart attack via nipple slip.
I push the door open and step through, barely daring to breathe.
She’s on her side with one arm tucked beneath her cheek, fingers loose against the pillow.
Her blanket has slid off her and is bunched up against her stomach, giving me a glorious view of her tiny pyjamas.
Pretty in pink. Her whole room is a collection of feminine things.
Soft and sweet. So unlike the wildling I’d met in the forest who fought dragons with sticks and taught frogs how to love.
Another strike for how different we are. I’ve spent my years asleep in a sleeping bag in a hallway corner or in the back of a car I’ve broken into. Packed in a room full of strange boys whom I want to befriend as much as I fear them. Pulled into bed with grown men who should know better.
I drag my eyes from her perfect thighs to the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Jeans freshly stepped out of, a scrap of cotton still in them.
My throat bobs as I swallow hard.
Her tongue wets her lips, and I have to hold onto the door frame to steady myself.
Being close to her is as addictive as it is terrifying. I want to scoop her into my arms and beg her to remember me. To love me.
My hoodie sleeve has pulled back, exposing a slice of my forearm. A tangle of black ivy tattoos and aged scars. So different to her unblemished skin. A different story is told for each of us.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. To make sure she goes forward without ever feeling a fraction of what I have.
No one touches her.
I cross to the bed. My heartbeat is ringing in my ears.
The new heart stone I’ve found is warm when I take it from my pocket.
Small and grey, and one of the many I’ve collected over the years.
I’ve kept every single one over the years, whether in the bottom of a bin bag as I moved house to house, or as they are now, in a battered old tin in my kitchen. It looks right, sitting in her palm.
A perfect fit.
She doesn’t stir.
In a moment of madness, I reach out to her, swiping a piece of hair from her face, wishing I could feel its softness. My gloves are still a barrier between us.
‘I’m back, Kitty Kat.’
Dragging myself away from her feels like a knife to the back. What I want is to climb over her and gather her against me. To bury my nose in her neck and breathe her in. To take her face in my hands and kiss her until we both forget the rest of the world exists.
But I can’t. Whatever she remembers of the boy from that summer, I’m not him anymore. The years have turned me into a monster, bloodied knuckles replacing dirty knees, and thick muscles where my skinny arms once were.
She’d be right to be frightened.
The scrap of pink cotton snags my gaze again as I pull myself from her. Stooping, I pull it from her trousers and ball it up in my hand.
A little piece of her to bring home.
I let myself out of the flat, locking the door behind me and heading through the alley. When I reach the street, I pull off my mask and press Kat’s panties to my face, inhaling deeply.
Fuck me. I’m done for.
I pocket the key and start the walk home.