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He closes his eyes again but this time the intercom on the gate disturbs him. Tate take a ridiculously long time to stumble through the living room to the intercom.
‘What?’
‘It’s Eddie.’
He opens the gate and waits for Eddie to pull his car into the driveway. The tall, dark-haired man gets out of his shiny new BMW and saunters over to the front door. Eddie pushes past him and whistles as he walks around Tate’s kitchen.
‘Very nice indeed. I like it.’ He wanders into the sitting room and stares at the bottles on the coffee table and the floor. He probably should have picked those up before he let Eddie in. ‘I see you’ve been having a good time. I have to say, the life of the rich and famous isn’t overwhelming me at the moment. I was expecting... less drunken lout and more pampered rock star.’
Tate flops back into the leather armchair and rubs his forehead. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a disappointment, more of an eye-opener if anything. You look like you’re in a bit of a hole.’
‘I just got back from a few weeks away. I’m unwinding.’
‘Looks to me like you’re getting well and truly smashed.’
Tate doesn’t bother answering. If he says anything, he’ll just drag this conversation on for longer. He wants Eddie out of his house asap.
‘Not sure all this fame stuff is worth it. I’ve got a delightful afternoon planned with a stunning blonde I met last night. What are your plans for the day? Hiding in the dark and getting off your head on whatever you can find? Can’t say I’m jealous of your life, Tate.’
‘You’ve got to work on your sales technique. It’s shite.’
Eddie laughs and settles into the other armchair. ‘I don’t need a sales technique. The fact you called me means I’m walking away with your money in my pocket. Just not sure how much yet. To be honest, I thought you were done and dusted with all this. Haven’t seen you for what? Must be heading on three, maybe four months now.’
‘I’m just wound up after the tour. My body clock is fucked. I’m awake when I should be asleep and vice versa. Just need something to help.’
‘That I can do.’ He places a bag of pills on the table in front of him. ‘Try those for starters. If they don’t work give me a shout and I’ll bring round something stronger.’
Tate rubs his jaw and looks down at the bag. Fuck it. If they help him get a few hours without the nightmares hitting, he’ll give anything a try.
‘Fine.’
∞
Tate shouts and bolts upright in bed, gasping for breath. He scrambles to the bathroom and empties his stomach. Once his pitiful last meal is dealt with, he pulls himself to his feet and leans heavily on the sink. He closes his eyes but the woman from his nightmare reaches out to him. But he can’t help her. It doesn’t matter how many times she pleads, how often she begs, he can’t save her. He may not remember much about what happened, but he does know that much. Whoever the woman in the photo is, she’s dead.
He’s seen her lifeless eyes staring over at him enough times to know that much. Tate holds up his shaking hands and sees her blood covering his palms. He turns on the hot tap and scrubs with the nailbrush until they’re red and raw. It doesn’t matter how many times he washes his hands, he can’t get rid of her blood. It’s always there. When the pain becomes unbearable, he turns off the tap and stares down at his hands.
The last two weeks have been hell. It’s like someone has torn him from the life he knew and dumped him into a fucked-up reality he has no control over. He’s being dragged from hour to miserable hour and nothing is helping to break the cycle.
He wanders back into his bedroom, grabs his duvet and drags it down the stairs behind him then dumps it on the couch. He switches on the TV and turns the volume up loud. Anything to drown out the constant screaming in his head.
He pulls a beer from the fridge and drops onto the couch. As he’s downing half the bottle, he glares at the sheet of paper on the table in front of him. The fucking autopsy report arrived in the post yesterday and brought with it a whole new level of hell. Just like with the photo, the text was short and to the point.
‘It is your fault she’s dead.’
No longer a question. Just a statement.
According to the few sentences on the report the sender didn’t black out, the woman had been beaten to death.
He rubs his eyes, but his vision won’t clear. It feels like his eyeballs are full of sand. His last full night of sleep was while he was still on tour. He’s so far beyond exhausted at this stage. The new pills Eddie gave him are doing fuck all. If anything, the dreams got so much worse since he started taking them. He’s going to bring over something stronger in the morning. He just needs to hang on another few hours. Then he might get some peace.
Tate pulls the duvet around himself and hits the remote on the fire. He can’t get warm. Can’t stop the shakes no matter how high he turns up the heat. He must doze off for a few minutes because instead of being in his living room, he’s on the floor of a cold, sparsely furnished room. Tate jolts himself awake just as the dark figure looms over him. He beats his fists against the side of his head over and over again. ‘Fuck off! Please.’
He shoves the duvet off and goes into the kitchen. He opens the fridge then slams it closed again. He’s not hungry. Maybe working out will tire him enough to knock him out for a few hours? That idea falls flat after a pathetic ten minutes. He worked hard to keep himself in shape. All that was going to go to the dogs unless he can get himself together.
He wanders back to the couch and wraps the duvet around himself again. He just needs to hang on another few hours.
