Driving Me Mad Read online

  Annabel interrupted her task to peer over at me. “Or I could put more logs on, if you’d like.”

  I forced a smile and shook my head. “I’ll be fine. Honestly.” Her brow furrowed slightly and her mouth opened to speak, so I tried to reassure her. “I get quite hot in bed.”

  Fuck. And fuck. Not because of my inability to phrase things better, but the blush was coming back full force.

  A crooked smile lit her face. “Really?”

  This was a clear opportunity for me to flirt shamelessly, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to flirt with Annabel. Didn’t want to cheapen how I felt about her by coming back with corny one liners and moving my eyebrows suggestively, like they do in trashy novels. I didn’t even stop to question what, exactly, I did feel for her. I just turned away and started to stack the tea things back onto the tray.

  A couple of minutes later, I was carrying the tray into the kitchen. The odd thing about that was, I didn’t know where the kitchen was, and yet I knew where it was. The room was rustic, as I expected it to be. There was no sign of the usual things one would expect to find in a kitchen. No, that wasn’t quite right. It did hold the usual, but then again, it didn’t.

  I wasn’t making any sense, and I knew it. The Aga cooker seemed dated, as did the steel kettle that sat on top of the stove. There was no microwave, no toaster, no coffee maker, just a huge wooden table with four chairs, cupboards, a cooker, a rectangle pot sink and drainer, and a cream coloured fridge. Copper pans hung from a rack over the cooker, and I could see my distorted face in their shiny surface.

  Plonking the tray on the drainer, I stood back and stared at the small window above the sink. It was dark outside, obviously, and I could see my reflection in the glass. My face seemed to be cast in shadow, but I could see the definition of my nose, mouth, and eyes. My expression was intense, like I was trying to work out the meaning of life. I don’t know why, because the only thing I was concerned about was why I suddenly had the sensation of feeling something more than gratitude toward my hostess.

  Something wasn’t right, didn’t add up. In the window pane, my face looked distorted, like it had when I’d looked at the side of the copper pans. It wasn’t like when a person checks his or her reflection in the back of a spoon, not like that at all.

  I leaned closer, and the image in the window moved closer too. Squinting, I tried to decipher what the image was. Maybe it was because the window was double glazed that it appeared I was wearing one face over another. But the glass didn’t seem as if it was double—

  The image blinked. I didn’t blink, the image did. I swear. It must’ve been fatigue; I’d been up for over seventeen hours. No wonder I was imagining things. I scrunched my eyes and shook my head and looked again. Now everything looked as it should. I was just—

  Tap

  I pulled back from the glass.

  TAP TAP

  Something was tapping on the window pane from outside. Initially I thought it was a branch, until the noise came a third time.

  TAP TAP

  I realised it wasn’t a branch. Branches don’t have knuckles.

  My scream was loud and long. It reverberated off the walls, bounced off the copper pans, and hit me like a punch. Scrambling backwards, I rammed into the table, which made me scream again.

  The tapping became insistent, and I looked at the window and saw myself still waiting there. That was impossible. I couldn’t be reflected in the glass; I was halfway across the room.

  Annabel came rushing into the kitchen. “What’s…?”

  I couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but grab hold of her and clutch her to me. I was shaking, the sobs intermittent between words that scrambled for coherence. Annabel placed her arms around me and pulled me close, her hands rubbing my back in long, soothing strokes.

  I couldn’t believe how wonderful it felt to be in her arms, how reassuring it was to be held in such safety. She was making shushing noises to calm me and, strangely, it was working. At least it was working enough for me to splutter out a little of what I had seen.

  Her body stiffened, her hands freezing in mid stroke, as did the look on her face. She slipped away from me and moved towards the window. Strong hands rested on either side of the frame as she peered into the glass, her shoulders rigid.

  The tapping had stopped. When I cast my mind back, I realised that it had stopped as soon as Annabel had entered the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I must’ve imagined it.”

  Annabel didn’t turn or acknowledge me, just kept staring out into the inky blackness.

  Slowly, I moved towards her, my hand reaching out to touch her back. The stiffness I felt seemed to evaporate on contact, but there was a slight trembling in her.

  “What did you see, exactly?” Her voice was cold, distant.

  “Nothing, I guess. It was—” She turned abruptly, and my hand fell dejectedly to my side.

  Brown eyes bored into mine. “No. You did.” She took a step forward. “What was it?”

  I held out my hands palms up, and shrugged. Her expression didn’t change. She just stared into me.

  I felt like a fool. I was tired, that was all. There wasn’t anyone outside tapping on the glass like Catherine fucking Earnshaw. It was a case of playing Bloody Mary, like I had when I was a kid. Stare at the glass and say Bloody Mary three times, and you’d see…

  As I recalled it, though, the game had never said anything about hearing a tapping sound, nor had it mentioned BM’s knuckles.

  “It was just my reflection. It seemed odd, though.”

  Annabel stepped forward. “Odd?”

  “It was just your double glazing.”

  “Double what?”

  “Glazing. Your window glass.”

  Annabel shook her head and glanced back at the window. I could see the outline of her in the glass and part of my face peering around her. Her eyes looked at me from her reflection in the pane, and I knew she was expecting me to say more. What could I say? That I saw my doppelganger at the window and it had tapped on the glass? Fuck that.

  “Honestly, Annabel, I just freaked myself out.” I stepped back and started to turn away from her. She grabbed my wrist. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  It seemed as if time held its breath and waited along with me. At last the stiffness of her touch gentled, and she released me, along with a sigh.

  “I suppose you’d better get to bed then.”

  I nodded.

  Annabel walked past me and out of the room. With a last glance at the window, I followed her. There was no way I wanted to be in the kitchen on my own.

  Chapter Two

  Within ten minutes, I was alone in the living room and sprawled on the sofa. Woollen blankets covered me, their heat seeping into my skin. Annabel had offered me something to wear, but I refused. I had a suitcase in the car, but there was no way I was going to go back outside and root around to find my pjs, not after what I thought I had seen. I was too much of a chicken shit to step outside until daylight arrived. Sleeping in my underwear and sweater would suffice, as my hostess had put another log on the fire to warm the room for a while longer.

  I could hear her getting ready for bed, walking around directly above me. The sounds were like a comforter, a sense of safety after everything that had transpired that evening. It wasn’t long before I felt the pull of sleep, and my eyelids submitted to the respite of rest.

  My dreams were definitely fucked up. The first one had me standing at the side of a road that was obscured by bushes. It was dark and cold. I tried to keep warm, but warmth escaped me. In addition to the cold, I felt fear, fear of something, but I couldn’t quite grasp what. Pain shot through my chest as if I had been running and had finally stopped from utter exhaustion. The reasoning part of my brain questioned why I was still cold when I should have been sweating. Maybe the fear coursing through me took dominance over the weather conditions.

  A noise came out of the blackness, and my heart lurched into my throat. I felt as if I was a hunted animal that believed it had escaped the hunter, only to find that was not the case. I wanted to run, to hide, to find safety of any sort, but I couldn’t. In my dream I knew where I was, knew I was close to reaching a safe haven. The vivid lights of a car came into view and pulled over at the side of the road. It was not just any random car. No. It was my car, distinctly my car. I watched in rapt fascination as a person climbed out. Me. I climbed out of the car.

  I gripped the trunk of the tree and tried to steady myself. This was too fucked up even for a dream. How could I be twenty feet away, watching myself get out of my car? Was this a somnambulant out of body experience?

  My breathing was becoming shallow, and I believed if I couldn’t control it I would pass out. I tried to take a deep breath, but panic made it impossible. I tried again, and again, and again. My other self was opening the back door to the car to make what I knew was going to be a cubicle. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I should do. I’d experienced it.

  The memory of how scared I actually had been when I’d lived that moment compounded how I was feeling now. I wanted to contact my other self and put “my” mind at rest, but I couldn’t speak. I just needed to get into the car and escape. Stumbling forward, I bumped into a tree and the bark grazed my arm. I could feel the pain of it, believed that if I woke at that precise moment I would see the mark of it on my skin. My other self was getting up, pulling up her trousers, and readying herself to leave, when “I” stopped before zipping up “my” fly.

  Another stumbling step forward, another attempt to shout out there was nothing to worry about, but the words still wouldn’t come. Twigs snapped underfoot and leaves scattered away as I staggered toward the road, a single halting step at a time. The interior car lights dimmed, a
nd I could sense the panic from the other me. A noise squeaked from my panicked other self as I moved forward again.

  “Who’s there?”

  I wanted to shout back, “You,” but what good would that do? I already knew I was scared. To be accurate, both of us were.

  Instead of calling out, I decided it would be better to reach the car before it sped away, although I didn’t have any idea how “I” would cope with seeing myself come stumbling out of the darkness.

  Just as I reached the edge of the forest, the engine roared to life and I knew I had mere seconds to get there before it was too late. The back door was still open, and I reached out to grab it. All thoughts of revealing myself to the driver evaporated. What was the point? I was freaked out enough for the both of us.

  The door had barely closed when the car drew away at lightning speed, tyres squealing. I just stood there in the middle of the road, staring at the disappearing car. Just bloody stood there, remembering how frightened I’d been as I’d sped away from that spot in my car.

  And yet, I felt even more frightened standing in the middle of the road in the dead of night, knowing there was someone still out to get me.

  A noise alerted me that I was not alone. It was time to run.

  * * *

  Jolting awake, I shot up, grabbed the covers, and pulled them up around me as if they had the ability to protect me from whatever was coming for me. Sweat slicked my body. I didn’t want to push away the blankets lest I be seen. I know. Fucked up.

  My heart was racing. The dream had been so real that it took me a moment to realise I wasn’t standing in the middle of the road at all. I was, in fact, hunched up on Annabel’s sofa. The fireplace was still giving off heat, but the flames had long since died down.

  I didn’t know how long I had been asleep, but I knew it wasn’t yet time to get up. I didn’t know what to do. It wouldn’t be right to get up and look around Annabel’s house. That would be no way to reward a hostess. I figured I wouldn’t be able to sleep again that night; I was too scared to close my eyes. So I lay there, and lay there, and continued to lay there.

  Minutes seem like hours when you’re waiting for morning to come. My eyes were burning, and my joints were seizing up from being cramped up on the sofa. Sleep beat me in the end.

  In this dream, I wasn’t standing in the woods. This time I was outside a window looking into the bright light of a kitchen, Annabel’s kitchen.

  I saw “myself” enter, carrying a tray. The shock of it immobilised me. “I” came to the glass and stared out. I could see the greenness of “my” eyes, the loose tendrils of my hair falling forward as “I” leaned forward. It was so different seeing myself that way. It was not like looking into a mirror at all. The movements were all fucked up, out of synch.

  I had to get away, had to leave before I scared the living shit out of myself—both myself and “myself.”

  I did say my dreams were fucked up.

  I turned away, but my jacket clipped the window, making a tapping sound. I saw the person inside straighten, cock her head, listen. It was too late to slip away unnoticed.

  From behind me I heard the distinct sound of footsteps on gravel. He was here. I didn’t know who “he” was, but I knew for certain that he had found me. I also knew it would not be a pleasant thing when he caught me.

  Fuck it. I had to get the attention of the people inside the house, had to try to get them to come outside. I tapped on the glass. Tapped and tapped and banged and banged. But all that seemed to do was frighten the other me, make “me” rush backwards, make “me” scream out.

  I saw Annabel enter, saw the woman I loved enter the room and race to the other “me.” I lifted my hand to get her attention, but I was grabbed from behind. My body fell backwards and was pulled in against a hard chest.

  “Ya thought she’d ’elp ya, eh?”

  It was his voice, just as dark, just as cruel, just as wickedly spiteful as he had always been. This time it wouldn’t be a just beating, not just a fall. No. This time he would take everything, including my life.

  * * *

  ‘Fuck!’ I shot up again and saw that the room was filling with the first touches of dawn. The fire was completely out, and there was a chill in the room. My heart was drumming a staccato rhythm in my ears.

  “You okay?”

  Just the sound of her voice drifting into the room eased the residual fear from my dreams. A sob, then another, then another, until they blended together into a cacophony of weeping. Strong hands slipped around my shoulders and pulled me close, the softness of her chest a contrast to the hardness of the man in my dream. I didn’t care that it seemed I was always an emotional wreck when she was near; all that mattered was that I felt safe. Annabel made me feel as if that man could never hurt me.

  She held me until the tears abated, and then a while longer. Her voice was gentle, the words incoherent, but being in her arms and hearing her voice was so comforting that the sluggish drag of exhaustion overrode my need to cry. My fear had subsided, assuaged by the sensation of being close to Annabel. I remembered a wisp of my dream. When I saw Annabel in the kitchen, I had the sense that I was seeing the woman I loved. Loved? I had only just met her, so how on earth could I love her? Attraction, admittedly, but love?

  Annabel leaned back slightly, her eyes glistening. “How are you feeling?”

  So soft, so enticing. I shifted forward, our faces impossibly close without touching. Her hand cupped my jaw, and the thumb stroked my skin. My eyelids fluttered as an out of control urge raced through me to close the gap between us and take those beautiful lips with mine. I didn’t get the chance.

  Annabel’s kiss was initially a brushing, a tasting, a chaste connection between one person and another. Then her lips became firmer, more demanding, more delectable. Her hand moved from my jaw and cupped the back of my head, pressing us closer, connecting us more deeply.

  I knew these lips, the texture and the taste. I knew just how they would claim my own, which I believed in my core they had done a thousand times before.

  I leaned backwards and pulled her down onto the sofa with me. The warmth of her body seeped through the blankets and connected with my own heat.

  A tentative tongue trailed against my lips, a tongue that was begging for access. I couldn’t refuse her. I never could refuse her. At that moment, it didn’t even occur to me to wonder about that thought.

  The sensation was overwhelming. A moan climbed up my throat and surrounded her tongue as if it was the welcome committee. Annabel moved over me, her body pressing more firmly into mine, her breathing raspier, needy.

  I slipped my arms around her and pulled her nearer. I needed to feel the solidness of her, to know I wasn’t dreaming. This was real. This was happening. I was back with her.

  Back with her?

  My eyes shot open and I looked at the woman who was kissing me. Her eyes stayed closed, her mouth and tongue still searching mine.

  Back with her?

  My brain hurt. It remembered her, but it didn’t. Remembered the feel of her lips, the smell of her, the brownness of her eyes, but it didn’t. It was almost as if there were someone else’s memories working in synch with mine and totally confusing the situation.

  Annabel stopped in mid-kiss. Her mouth was warm against mine, but immobile. Her eyes opened and looked straight into me—not just into my eyes, but into me. When she pulled back, I felt the loss immediately.

  “Ellen?”

  Ellen? Had she thought she was kissing Ellen? The Ellen she believed I was last night?

  “I’m Rebecca.”

  My voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else. The assertion was quiet yet firm. I didn’t want to be kissed by someone, however much I was attracted to them, if they believed they were with someone else.

  Her face contorted as her mouth moved around the feeling of my name. A flash of pain flitted across her face and she stumbled backwards and fell to the floor.

  I watched in fascination as she scooted backwards, as if I would hurt her if she turned away from me. Her eyes filled with panic, then hurt, then what I could only identify as grief.

  Then she was up and gone, and I was left dumbfounded on the sofa, alone.