I sank further into the bath, letting the water creep over my lips.
She seemed quiet, my neighbour. A shut-in, perhaps. I wondered what the inside of 1a was like. Maybe it was a hoarder’s paradise: newspapers stacked to the ceiling, takeaway boxes piled up around the sink, collected bits and bobs lining a narrow walkway through the house. Or maybe she was fastidiously neat: furniture placed precisely throughout with not a speck of dust to be spied, sofas and chairs at right angles to each other, doily at the exact centre of each side table, pictures in a level line on the walls, bed made and properly tucked in and everything. I sat up and vigorously rubbed a bar of soap in my hands, trying to work up a tight enough foam to wash myself with. I imagined her soaps neatly paraded across the back of the sink, probably still in their paper packaging.
I rubbed the soap foam under my armpits and listened again. Nothing.
I caught my face reflected in the taps, warped and elongated beyond recognition. My shadow shattered to pieces across the ripples on the water’s surface. I came to from my daydreaming and found the bath had grown noticeably cold around me. My fingertips had wrinkled to hard ridges.
There I go again, I thought. Always losing myself.
I rinsed off the soap and got out.
CHAPTER 11
I looked at the sad mattress and regretted not doing more to sort out my sleeping arrangements. My towel was now damp, of course, and I had nothing to sleep under unless I wanted to catch a cold. At least the house was warmer now I’d figured out how to use the boiler. I went digging through my suitcase to find something else I could use as a blanket. I’d left so quickly, I could barely remember what I’d brought with me. The whole process had been a blur, as if I’d watched someone else packing in a dream. I flipped the light switch to help me look. Pale yellow light from the single naked bulb painted a golden circle in the centre of the bedroom.
At the bottom of the case I found my terrycloth dressing gown. An old Christmas gift from my mother. One of those things that seemed indispensable to older generations yet completely forgettable to mine. I rarely, if ever, wore it back in Edinburgh. It had hung on the back of my bedroom door, a spectre in the night. Well, I was certainly glad of it now. I’d never look down on gifts of slippers, socks and dressing gowns ever again.
I draped the dressing gown over the bed and took a moment to appreciate my ingenuity. It wasn’t much, but it was starting to feel a bit better. Light, something cozy to snuggle up under, a charged phone, a full belly—even if it was just tinned chilli and a few slices of sandwich bread. It was almost bearable now. I could do this. I could make a life out here.
I eyed the joining wall between 1b and 1a. My neighbour was still behaving herself. Maybe I didn’t have to ask for her to keep it down. Maybe she’d figured that out for herself from my wee introduction this morning—another good idea, looking back on it. That had been a slightly nervy thing to do, and I had done it. Go me.
I dried off, changed into my pyjamas and settled into bed. The internet hadn’t been set up yet—I hadn’t been able to find a router—so I couldn’t spare the data for a podcast. Instead, I played puzzles on my phone—one of my tactics to keep my many, many thoughts at bay—until my eyelids started to droop.
I had almost fallen asleep, when a scream pierced the twilight. I kicked the dressing gown off me in fright. It had come from outside. The periwinkle blue of the dusk outside felt like it was peering in on me. I gripped the mattress beneath me, eyes not daring to leave the window. I spied a face floating in the gloom. It was mine, mirrored back to me in the glass.
The scream came again.
A fox. A fucking fox.
I collapsed back into the mattress. So much for my relaxing bedtime. I thought the countryside was supposed to be tranquil, calming. But you forget, don’t you? All of the wilderness, the life out there, animals going about their business without a care for bedtimes, or mental health breaks, or any human ideas of calm and order.
If the fox wants to scream, she just screams.
Lucky fox.
Well, time for bed anyway. I looked about for a light switch, then realised the only one in the room was the one right next to the bedroom door. Oh no. My toes curled instinctively. I would have to turn off the light then run back to my bed in the dark. Even if I hadn’t just been scared out of my skin by a fox, the prospect would have filled me with dread.
Oh God, don’t be so immature, I thought. You’re too old to be imagining boogie men.
I took a deep breath, got up and walked to the bedroom door.
My finger hovered over the light switch.
Did I remember to lock the front door? What about the windows? What if someone snuck in in the night and—
I reached for the door latch and stopped.
I swallowed. My palms went cold.
Are you too scared to look? Do you need Daddy to come check under the bed for you, too? Grow up!
I forced open the bedroom door and peered out onto the landing. The tap in the bathroom dripped. The stairs lay silently under the light of the pale night sky. I could just about see the front door from where I leant out over the first step. It was closed. And there was the chain, just where I knew it would be.
See. I exhaled. This is your house. Nothing in it but you.
I shut the bedroom door. Then, in quick succession, I turned off the light, ran to the bed and threw the dressing gown over myself.
I lay in the dark, waiting for my pulse to calm down, feeling more than a little silly.
