Chapter 26
The cold winter air bites into my cheeks as I make my way up the hill to Jonathan’s street, doing my best to walk a normal speed.
I figured out—through trial and error—that whatever ‘powers’ I have right now, courtesy of Oscar’s blood, only work when I want something really badly or feel something too much.
Like, it was intense hunger that zoomed me over to the fridge.
It was fury that had me hurl those knitting needles into the wall.
Otherwise, it seems, all good. A little aggressive, a little jangly, but otherwise fine.
And I’m wearing my lucky earrings—the ones I wore the afternoon we met—they have to bring me luck.
As I head towards his house, I scan the street for his red Kia, just in case I’m wrong. But I can’t see his car, and I can’t see Baxter’s car either.
I glance behind me as I walk, making sure nobody is following me.
Now that I’ve agreed to Oscar’s terms, there’s no need for him to kill anyone else to ‘motivate’ me, but I don’t want him knowing about Jonathan all the same.
But there’s nobody there, nobody is following me. And now I’m standing in front of Jonathan’s townhouse, scanning it: all the lights are off, except for the blinking of Christmas tree lights through the crack in the living room curtain, and a faint glow upstairs.
I move up the pathway, duck through the side gate to the back of the house, then stand still, listening for movement: the beating of a heart. A breath. A TV. Any sign of danger.
But all I can hear is the rustle of the wind in the trees, traffic in the distance and the faint sound of chatter floating in from the neighbours.
I scan the back door—locked—the kitchen window—closed and locked—then look up to the second floor . . .
Jonathan’s bedroom window is ajar.
The light is on inside, but I know he leaves it on to deter burglars, and as I look up at it, all I want right now is to be inside his room.
I want it. An energy zips through me then whooooosh, my hands find the drainpipes, and I’m pulling myself up, feet hitting bricks, hands moving one above the other as I scale the wall.
Until I’m there, and now my fingers are clasping onto his windowsill, the paint cold and peeling, and I’m peeking inside.
I hold my breath. The coast is entirely clear, so I pull myself through the window.
As I step onto the carpet, I can feel Jonathan everywhere, smell him—cedarwood and bergamot—mingled with his laundry detergent and that other musky scent that was always just him.
Everything is just the same as the last time I was here.
The room is large and minimalist, decorated in slate grey, black and white, and well ordered.
The only messy part is his desk. His laptop sits on top of it, with a bunch of papers scattered around it, and in the corner stands a picture of him and his parents, staring out at the room.
A dull throb rings out in my chest as I go over to it and pick it up, looking down at his parents’ faces, wondering if they’d like me if they met me. Or if they’d instinctively know that there was something wrong with me.
But maybe I can get a vision from this.
I close my eyes and try to focus, I want to see something, I really, really want to. I wait for my stomach to clench, for images to stream in. I want to see something about us. Something about me. Anything at all.
But . . . nothing comes.
Shit. This needs to work.
I put the picture back down on the desk and look around.
Maybe I need something that’s meaningful for the two of us?
My gaze moves to the closet across the room, just beyond his free weights and stretch bands.
And then zooooooom, within a millisecond, I’m there, opening the doors and tracing Jonathan’s jumpers with my fingertips.
The mustard jumper he wore the day we met is on the top of the pile.
I reach for it, hugging it to me. I take a deep breath, clench my eyes shut, breathe in his scent and try to conjure everything he made me feel: warmth flooding my veins whenever he laughed, his hand reaching for mine as we crossed the road, the feeling of him inside me when we made love, our eyes locked . . .
But nothing. Just blankness.
COME ON!
I clench my jaw and turn around and face his room. Is there anything else I could try to use? But there’s a little voice inside me saying: This isn’t going to work.
Disappointment settles heavy in my stomach.
I put Jonathan’s jumper back in his closet, close the closet door and head back to the window.
But halfway there, I spy The Doors T-shirt I used to sleep in, right there, still folded on the chair near his desk.
And I always wanted to tell Jonathan that I’d met Jim Morrison backstage at The Roundhouse in 1968, I kept thinking one day I could tell him everything.
But if I don’t get him back, I can’t tell him anything.
And how is any of this fair? Why did fate or the gods or that string connecting us bring us back together just to pull us apart again?
So much for my lucky earrings helping me out . . .
But then I have an idea.
I could do something, I realise. Give him a little nudge.
I mean, I’m already here. So I reach for one of my lucky earrings, pull it off, go over to his desk and drop it underneath. From the bed he should see it. Surely, when he sees it, he’ll call me.
I look around, in case there is something, anything else I can do to tip the scales in my favour.
His pillow. I zooooooom over to it and rub my wrist then my hair onto it, trying to transfer onto it whatever scent I carry that men always pick up on.
He’ll miss me, when he smells it . . . But also, have I lost my mind?
I really should get out of here.
I move over to the window and get ready to climb out, but just before I do, movement flickers on the other side of the fence. His neighbours—two women in big coats—are coming outside. No, please no. Go back inside. GO!
I squint at them. I see the flicker of a flame; a lighter. I stick my head out and take a few deep breaths, focusing in, assessing the risk. And great, just great. They’re smoking . . . weed.
They’ll be out there for a while.
And I can’t very well climb out now—what if they see me, scaling my way down the guttering?
Still, there are perfectly good doors downstairs.
I whoosh down the stairs and enter the living room, looking around, taking it all in.
The same Christmas tree blinks with the same little lights as last time I was here, watching through the bay window.
The same sofa we lay on, him stroking my hair, the rug we danced on . . . all of it just the same.
Except now there’s a big pile of cardboard boxes in the corner of the room, and as I notice them, reality hits me afresh: Jonathan’s life is going on without me, he’s building furniture I might never see. A life I won’t be a part of.
And then . . . rattle, rattle, rattle.
My gaze snaps to the front door. My vision tunnels.
They’re home. Early.
If Jonathan catches me here, I will never get him back. Ever.
I will forever be the psycho ex who broke into his house while he was out.
I rush through to the kitchen and there, on the dining table, is a small pile of mail. And on the top is a blue square envelope. It’s upside down so I can see the return address: Olivia Coombes.
And of course she’s the kind of woman who sends Christmas cards while I’m the kind of woman who breaks into her ex’s house.
But the door is still rattling and I need to get out of here.
So I grab the card and zoom out the back door just as the lights flick on. I can hear chatter inside, movement, someone is calling to someone else, but I’m running through the side gate, looking around, and then bolting towards the main road.
But as I turn towards Archway tube station, a shudder moves through me.
I’ve spent so much time building this safe little life where I don’t take risks and I never let my feelings get the best of me and now I’m .
. . what? Breaking and entering? Do I want to get caught?
Am I looking for a repeat of Coventry Street?