Night Shade
Helen Harper
Night Shade
Dreamweaver Book One
By Helen Harper
Copyright © 2015 Helen Harper
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Night Shade
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One: Of Blood and Bonds
About the Author
Other titles by Helen Harper
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One: Of Blood and Bonds
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other titles by Helen Harper
For Granny
The strongest heroine I’ve ever met
Chapter One
You have to have a dream so you can get up in the morning.
Billy Wilder
There’s a famous Chinese curse that states, ‘May you live in interesting times.’
I didn’t understand it when I was younger; back then, I was all about living for the moment, attacking each second as if it were my last and sucking the marrow out of life, as Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society would say. But then, as I experienced more of life, more of other people, more of the world, more of simply ‘being’, that is when I truly understood.
The Holocaust was ‘interesting times’. I also have no doubt that those brave soldiers, going over the edge and into the horror of no man’s land in World War One, didn’t pause to think that they were lucky because their lives were not dulled by the tedium of slippers, cigars and armchairs filled with lazy, fat, purring cats. I’d also be surprised if there were any Americans who thought on September 11th 2001, ‘Well, if only my life was more exciting.’
My true epiphany, when I really worked out how utterly cool boredom can be, was when I was around fifteen years old and had the opportunity to watch paint dry. People pay vast amounts of money to achieve that kind of meditative experience in India, Nepal and Thailand. I achieved this feat without even leaving my bedroom.
My parents had allowed me to choose my own paint. Instead of the baby pink that I’d grown up with, I was finally being given the freedom to design my room the way I wanted. And I wanted black. Black to match my heart, my adolescent angst and my need to be different. Of course, it didn’t occur to me at the time that I was playing into the biggest teenage cliché in the book but, hey, I was happy so it didn’t matter.
It took me the better part of the morning to cover every section of the room carefully and leave no streaks. Black, as it turns out, is a particularly tricky colour to get right.
Anyway, once I was done with the final difficult-to-reach, corner, I sat cross-legged on the floor and began to watch. The first hour was the hardest. It was incredibly tempting to reach forward and touch the paint to see how dry it was. I managed to resist the urge; I also didn’t want to start shifting around uncomfortably – I was on a mission that didn’t involve what my legs felt like or how quickly I could achieve pins and needles. I wanted to watch paint dry.
When you pause and take in the world around you (and I mean really take it in) it’s amazing what you notice. I had always assumed that the walls of my little space were perfectly flat but they had a personality of their own. There was a slight groove in the corner where the door occasionally banged and scraped whenever I was in a bad mood, and there was a veritable atlas of bumps, notches and scrapes that even the thick black paint couldn’t hide. There was a particularly fascinating dark area that was shaped like my English teacher’s head. You’d imagine that you couldn’t spot a dark spot on black paint but it just goes to show that nothing can ever be truly covered up. There’s a lesson in that somewhere. Anyway, I focused on that splodge for at least forty minutes. For weeks afterwards, I felt like I was being watched. As a result, my English homework was extraordinarily well done for a long time afterwards.
At some point, my mother called up the stairs that lunch was ready. I ignored her. If I went off to eat, something might happen whilst I was gone. The patch that was lying in a gleam of sunlight might dry whilst I was away – and that simply would not do.
In that one day, despite the hungry belly, the pins and needles and the ever-watchful gaze of Mrs Humphreys’ splodge, I learned that boredom can be fun. That you can always find beauty in the details, no matter how small. And that sometimes we need to take a break and appreciate the world.
Excitement is a matter of opinion.
* * *
I start every day the same. I have my routine off pat and if Mrs Humphreys could see me now, she’d be impressed – well, she would be with the routine part. When I finally realised what was happening and what I had to do to avoid sliding into a spiral of never-ending despair, I decided to be strict with myself. It was the only way I could avoid staying up till goodness knows when watching dodgy late-night television and reading pointless articles on the internet before collapsing into a coma. Then I’d stay in bed until after three – if I managed to extricate myself from my duvet at all. That way lies madness; I know what I’m like if I don’t keep a handle on my life.
My alarm goes off at 6.24am. I allow myself to hit the snooze button once so when it rings for a second time, it’s bang on half past six. The Chairman doesn’t enjoy my extra doze, even though he should be used to it by now. The moment the first alarm peals into the dark silence of my bedroom, he hops up next to my pillow and stares down at me, occasionally pawing at my face. I’m often tempted to forego the clock and see what he does next but habit is something I must maintain.
I brush my teeth, shower, get dressed and put on make-up. I know that it’s ridiculous to spend time and money on mascara and foundation when almost no one sees me but they help me to feel normal. Normal is important.
I feed the Chairman, who by this time is biting my toes to get me to move faster, then I eat my own breakfast. It’s usually fruit, or maybe a bowl of muesli if I’m feeling unusually hungry. I watch my diet. Junk food is something else I’ve trained myself to avoid; that was easier than I expected. I drink chamomile tea (no, it doesn’t make me any calmer, but I have to try) and check the news and my email. By eight o’clock I’ve started work.
I enjoy the mundanity of my existence. There are no surprises. I can take the time to appreciate subtleties, such as how one day my boss, Jerry, will sign off his email with Warm Regards which gives me an odd fuzzy feeling, despite its formality. The next day he might simply use Regards, and then I wonder if the new baby kept him up the previous night and he’s feeling grouchy. When he’s in a particul
arly genial mood, he uses Cheers. And today, because he’s asking for more than my contract generally allows, he’s used High Five From Down Low. I wrinkle my nose. I generally don’t enjoy cheese. Still, the task is vaguely interesting – sorting out bugs on a website a different contractor created – so I get down to it. By mid-morning, when the doorbell rings and the familiar terror attacks me, I’ve made considerable inroads.
When I say familiar terror, it really is that. Anyone who’s ever felt frightened will recognise the symptoms: the hairs on my arms stand up and my heart starts to quicken. I push back from the desk, gripping the arms of my ergonomically designed (and vastly overpriced) chair. My breaths are already fast and shallow so I peel one hand away from the armrest and place it above my belly button, reminding myself to exhale.
When I hear the voice calling from outside, my shoulders sag in relief. It’s only my mother.
‘Cooooeeee!’
I’m tempted, as always, not to answer but I can’t pretend that I’m out. She’d just get worried and do something stupid like call the police. She did that once before, in the early days when I refused to get out of bed. I spent the next five hours in my wardrobe and was only coaxed out when they threatened to section me. You’d think that would make her less likely to involve the police again but logic’s not my mother’s strong point. Not that I have it in spades either.
I sigh and stand up. I have special coping mechanisms for the times I need to open the front door. I ignore the rising nausea and lightly pinch the tip of each finger, alternating hands. Then I slowly walk out. I brace my palms on the walls of my narrow hallway to remind myself of their solidity. Fortunately, I already know who’s on the other side so I don’t get light-headed. It’s a small victory but one I still celebrate internally. Baby steps.
My front door takes a long time to open. It’s steel reinforced and has five separate locks. Frankly, if the inheritance I received from my grandfather had allowed, I would have gone the whole hog and ordered a retinal scanner too. Just because I live in a quiet cul-de-sac in a small Scottish town doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take security seriously.
When I finally open the door, I keep the chain on. There’s a spyhole but it doesn’t provide a clear path of vision because of the large oak tree in the front garden. I double-check there’s no one other than my exasperated-looking mother waiting on the doorstep before I fasten the chain. I can see the Chairman rolling around in a bolt of sunshine behind her. He has a special collar that allows him – and only him – through the cat flap. He blinks at me lazily and I smile.
‘Zoe, for heaven’s sake, is all this really necessary?’
My smile vanishes and I roll my eyes. The door was installed sixteen months ago; my mother visits at least once a week and she still goes on about it. At least she’s stopped asking for a key. It’s not that I don’t trust her but as I have carefully explained many times, if her bag was lost or stolen, anyone could get into my house. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today,’ I tell her sternly.
‘Well,’ she answers, pushing past me, ‘I agreed to join Madge and her cronies for bridge tomorrow so I can’t come as I promised.’
‘Is bridge really a good idea after the last time?’ I start to lock the door again.
‘I’d had too much gin then,’ she dismisses.
Reaching up for the highest lock, I’m glad she can’t see the expression on my face. ‘And this time you’re going to stay off the booze?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. But gin makes me silly. I’ll have Pimm’s instead.’
I turn round. She’s observing me with a mixture of fondness and despair. I can’t blame her really.
‘What happens if there’s a fire?’ she asks.
‘Mum...’
‘I’m being serious. You’ll never get out in a hurry.’
‘I’m very careful. As you well know.’
She snorts. ‘You’re twenty-five years old. You’re not supposed to be careful. You’re supposed to have fun.’
‘I am having fun.’ I don’t look at her as I say this. I don’t have to.
‘We could try the doctor again.’
‘I’ve seen enough doctors.’ I remain stubborn. ‘Besides, few of them make house calls these days.’
‘Madge’s son has a friend from university who’s a psychiatrist.’
I grit my teeth. My condition is not a secret but I still get wound up when it’s obvious she’s been discussing me. She spoke to Madge, Madge spoke to her son, her son spoke to his mates. I know I’m a weirdo; I don’t need the rest of the world to know it too. Okay, my mother means well but I’ve been down this road before – and not just once. I’ve accepted my life with what I believe is impressive equilibrium. I wish everyone else would do the same.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I manage.
‘I’m not staying. I have an appointment at the hairdresser’s.’ She eyes my home-hacked mop but thankfully doesn’t comment. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Do you need anything?’
I soften. She goes out of her way to look after me and it can’t be easy having a hermit for a daughter. ‘No. I had a delivery yesterday.’
She waggles her eyebrows. It’s a feat I’ve tried to replicate many times in the mirror but I can’t manage the same moue of distaste that she conveys. ‘You are lucky you were born at the right time for the internet. You never need to leave the house.’
I offer a small smile. ‘No, I don’t. And that’s why you should stop worrying about me.’
‘What else would I do?’ She reaches over and pecks me on the cheek. Her breath smells of peppermint and she’s wearing a different perfume.
‘Mother...’
‘What?’ She blinks innocently.
‘Are you meeting Mr McIntyre later?’
‘What if I am?’
I put my hands on my hips. ‘He’s married.’
‘Henry is a good friend.’
‘Is that what you call it these days?’
‘You would like him if you met him. I can bring him round, you know.’ Her eyes gleam. ‘Then you’ll be sure there’s no hanky-panky taking place.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ I hate having strangers in the house.
She gazes at me thoughtfully and taps the corner of her mouth. ‘Tell you what. I won’t bring him round if you leave the door unlocked after I leave. Not for long,’ she adds hastily, forestalling my protest, ‘say, just an hour or two?’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Am I?’ Her expression is steely. I can’t help wondering whether this was her motive in popping round. The trouble is, I know her well enough to be aware that she’ll make good on her threat if I don’t do as she asks. I can’t lie to her either – ever since the time I ate all the chocolate-chip cookies and blamed it on the dog, she’s been able to wheedle out any untruths.
‘That’s not fair,’ I say quietly. ‘You know how hard it is for me.’
‘I know. Just an hour, darling.’ She twists her hands together and I realise how much she needs this. It will put me on high alert and induce backbreaking tension but my mother needs to feel I’m making progress.
Blood starts pounding in my ears. I do my best to ignore it. ‘Okay. One hour.’
She’s relieved. ‘Thank you. You’ll see, Zoe. Nothing bad will happen. You’re not going outside, you’re not going to be in any danger. You’re just not locking the door, that’s all.’ She gives me a tight, warm hug. My arms feel leaden but I reciprocate. ‘Are you going to let me escape from Alcatraz?’ she asks lightly.
I nod, moving my body to block the sight of my shaking hands. She’s trying to protect me from me and I’m trying to protect her from me too. It’s farcical.
When she’s gone, and I’ve closed the door after her, I touch each lock lightly. The desire to slam each one closed is overwhelming but I batten down the urge and back away. Instead of returning to my little study and my work, however, I sit on the stairs and watch the door.
I’m worried I’ll hyperventilate – it’s happened before – but if I put my head down between my knees to calm myself then I won’t be looking at the door. Someone might come in. Someone might hurt me. I know it’s illogical – I’m hardly in the crime capital of the world. I keep a close eye on the outside world and the last publicised local crime that wasn’t white collar involved a hit-and-run near the town square. That’s hardly about to happen to me.
None of this is to do with logic though. Fear is rarely so pragmatic.
Some people probably imagine my agoraphobia is a result of a trauma: a brutal rape or maybe a mugging that landed me in hospital. Perhaps it didn’t happen to me and I simply witnessed it. The sad truth is that nothing happened. I wasn’t hurt and I haven’t been traumatised by any particular event. Other than a few minor schoolyard skirmishes, I’ve never been attacked. My life has never been in danger. I simply went to bed as a happy twenty-three year old with a nice boyfriend, a wedding on the horizon, a good job and lots of friends – and woke up on my twenty-fourth birthday unable to step outside my front door. I knew that if I did, I’d die. I have no idea where the thought came from but it was – and still is – a deep certainty that is rooted in my core.
Adam, my boyfriend, tried to understand but things got worse. My condition was exacerbated by three well-meaning friends who, in some amateur attempt at aversion therapy, tried to push me out of the door. That was when I retreated to my bedroom and refused to leave my bed. Adam eventually gave up, not that I blame him. Who wants a girlfriend who is afraid to go outside? In the end it was a blessing when he stopped coming around.
I still have a few friends who visit occasionally but I can tell they don’t really want to. It’s not that they don’t like me – they just don’t know what to say. They start telling me about work or a party or a new shop and then falter when they realise I can’t experience those things. They’re so awkward around me that I no longer encourage the friendships. It’s just not fair on them.
So it’s probably a good thing that I enjoy the silence and detailed beauty of boredom.
* * *
