Chapter 3 Mia #2
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, shouting into the phone. “Can’t understand a thing from your messages.”
A maniacal laughter.
“Youu shoullld coome,” she slurs into the phone. “Telllng youh the’ss this guy.”
I don’t even listen to the rest.
“Listen, Bells, grab a cab and come home. Bring him by all means, but no more alcohol, okay?”
I can already see myself holding her hair over the loo if she makes it home. If.
Bella hangs up.
I sigh as I go back to reading.
“She’s not my responsibility,” I tell myself. Only something in my gut nags me.
I glance at my phone and pick it up again, attempting to decipher the messages. I am used to deciphering children’s writing about the strangest things and words, but whatever Bella wanted to tell me, I don’t get it.
I glance at the time. It’s way after midnight.
“No, you go to bed,” I tell myself and leave for the bathroom.
While I brush my teeth, images invade my mind, mostly starring Bella dying from choking on her own vomit.
It almost happened once, something I do not wish to repeat.
I couldn’t live with myself if anything happens to her, while I knew she was wasted.
Maybe she meant that ‘you should come’ because she needed help?
I grab my phone and call her again, but she’s not answering, so I write her a message.
Coming to get you
I check the location she has sent me before; it’s a private address, as far as I can see from the maps, over an hour from here, Belgrave Road. I don’t have a car, don’t need one, don’t have a license, and I’m also a huge fan of public transport.
Not right now, though, so I call a Bolt and groan. Because that’s just the thing I like to do on my peaceful Friday night.
I try calling her again.
Nothing. So I grab my coat and put on my shoes.
When I finally reach the address forty minutes later, I can hear the music all the way outside. I walk between the very expensive-looking white houses, and ring the bell on one of the white Georgian ones, where the location shows Bella. I’m not sure if anyone might hear it anyway.
I am amazed by the neighbours' endurance. If my neighbours threw a party like that at that hour, I’d call an officer.
I wait. Nothing happens.
I bang on the door, ring the bell again, try calling Bella again, but nothing.
“Good luck with that,” calls a neighbour, an older man, maybe in his late sixties, sticking his head out of the window.
“Why is that, Sir?” I ask.
“We tried that thrice already, the noise officer came, but nobody opened, it’s the third time this month.”
“A friend of mine is in there,” I say. “I need to get her out.”
“Is she in danger?” asks the man
“She was very, very drunk.”
“Sounds something the police should take care of,” he says, and I understand where he’s going. I also know Bella will kill me if I involve the police.
I ring the bell like fifteen times again.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
I sigh again as I unlock my phone and call the non-emergency line.
I explain about the loud music, and that no one opens, that my friend is so drunk she can’t even text or speak, and that was an hour ago.
I am told they’re sending someone.
I wait. The neighbour asks me if I want a tea or a cookie, which is actually sweet, but I say no thanks.
Two officers arrive, and I am already questioning my choices. My heart beats faster, my chest clenched. My life doesn’t involve calling the police or being out that late. Either Bella will kill me, or the police will tell me I’m an idiot.
What am I even doing here? I should have stayed in my damn bed. What a messed-up day!
I explain the situation and even show the officers the messages, which the neighbour underlines with the report of the noise that has been going on for eight hours straight.
They knock on the door and shout to open it—nothing happens, of course. No one will hear the banging through that noise. One of the officers goes through the neighbour's house to check out the backyard, but comes back because all the curtains are closed.
“We’ll open the door,” says one of the officers, and gets a battering ram from the car they came in.
The door flies open with an earsplitting sound, and the moment it’s open, the music gets unfiltered into the night. My eardrums feel like they’re about to burst. How can anyone exist in that house?
The police officers get inside, and I peek in after them while holding my ears shut. I was told to stay behind, so I do, but somehow, I get a feeling.
And then, the music silences.
“Alive, but weak pulse,” calls one of the officers. Suddenly, I freeze. I can’t tell what makes me do it. I’d never obey a direct order from a police officer, but I need to know if Bella’s alright—so I storm in.
She’s lying on the floor, one of the officers is putting her in a recovery position, next to her, a naked guy, passed out, his face looks pale, and somehow he has red, almost purple, blotchy patches all over his body. My hands fly to my mouth.
The house is a mess; it looks like there has been a party with many people. Drugs, probably lines of cocaine, are on the table.
What the hell, Bells.
I mean, I know she’s a party girl, but drugs?
Horror rushes through my chest.
“Is she alive?” I ask with a weak voice.
“She has a pulse,” says the officer, “Ambulance is on the way, please stay outside, Ma’am.”
I am shoved outside by the other officer.
As I find myself on the street outside again, my brain gets fuzzy.
I sit down on the two stairs leading to the house next door to the left. Time seems to be passing because before I can think straight, blue light dips the street into a chaotic light show.
People are fussing around.
More ambulances arrive.
They’re bringing several people out; I didn’t even see them when I was in there. I only saw Bella.
Oh god. What if she dies?
Goosebumps spread over my arms, and I dig my face into my hands. I’m not made for things like this. There is a reason I became a teacher. It’s mostly uneventful.
I’m close to panicking the moment a kid has a nosebleed or falls. But this here—I can’t.
I don’t know what to do.
I can’t think straight.
My hands tremble slightly.
A hand on my back.
It’s one of the officers.
“Your friend is on the way to the A&E,” she says. “Can you tell me what you know about what happened here?”
I retell everything as it happened with a shaky voice. I tell her I’m a teacher and have been living with Bella for many years now, and never ever heard or seen her take any drugs.
She asks me if I have heard of the man before, whose house this is, Alan Wincester, but I haven’t heard a name.
“Maybe if I see him,” I say. I don’t want to tell them about Bella’s various activities regarding men, but I’m also really bad at remembering names. Worst possible thing to have as a teacher.
“One of the people we found has been pronounced dead by the paramedics. If you feel up to it, could you help us identify him?”
Horror strikes through me.
So the man on the floor is dead.
Dead.
I have never seen a dead person before.
I can’t go back in there.
“I—I don’t know if I can,” I stutter and shake my head heavily, “I’m not made for this. I—”
I zone out. Somehow, I can’t be here. I need to get away.
“I—I’m sorry, but I can’t—I need to leave—“
And I jump up and walk away.
I walk.
And walk.
And walk.
Mindlessly.
Through a part of the city I don’t know well.
I don’t care.
What if Bella dies, too?
What if she’s being charged for the drug thing?
What the hell even happened?
Screeching tyres.
I realise my surroundings again. A car is an inch away from my legs. So close. My fingers glide subconsciously over the hood with an ornament on it. The Spirit of Ecstasy. I don’t know how I, who has no clue about cars, know that and why I even think of it, but I do.
I glance at the driver of the Rolls-Royce, he stares at me, and only when I see his wide eyes do I realise how close this must’ve been.
I need to get back home. What the hell am I doing here?
I turn.
I need to find the station.
Get back home.
But Bella—
I should be where Bella is.
But where did they take her?
I’m such an idiot for not asking.
I—
Chaos in my mind and body.
I can’t deal with any of it.
My breathing gets erratic.
Suddenly, a voice behind me, a voice that causes my body to freeze.
“Miss Phillips.”