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  My imagination.

  I thought about it while I wheeled myself down the footpath beside the road leading into town, where I spied a row of shops up ahead. When I got closer, it dawned on me that it wasn’t what I was expecting — this was the town. In London we had proper high street shops, even in the rough area me and dad came from, but here there was nothing.

  I passed by a travel centre, a pharmacy and a second–hand bookshop. There were a couple of charity shops, an off–licence and a small bakery, but the last shop was one I’d been hoping for. Tucked away in a narrow old building with crumbling white paint and a very 80s–looking photo in the window, was a hairdressers.

  There was an awkward step before the door, so I rapped on the window and disturbed the receptionist — a teenage girl of about thirteen— and the hairdresser pulling pins out of an old woman’s curls.

  ‘Oh Abbie, open that door,’ said the hairdresser, the only one in the tiny studio. The girl was petite and skinny with braces, and she rushed around the desk to open the door for me. She held it open and gave the hairdresser an awkward glance.

  ‘You can see I’m busy! You help her.’ She rolled her eyes at me. ‘God; daughters.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, smiling stiffly. The girl squeezed by my wheelchair and took the handles while I guided her, tipping myself back by the wheels. Luckily I wasn’t very big myself, probably not much bigger than the little teen, but she still struggled, almost letting us both topple backwards.

  Seeing it, the hairdresser left the old woman and floated over in a long black cardigan, her plum–coloured hair piled atop her head with a stiff gold grip. ‘For Christ’s sake, Abbie!’ she scolded, gripping the front of my chair and pulling me up over the step. Heat flooded my neck and face as she hauled me into the tiny shop, and by the time we were inside all three of us were panting.

  ‘Right, phew! I’ll just comb this lady through and I’ll be right with you. Abbie, sort this young woman out will you?’ she returned to the old woman, who was nibbling absent—mindedly on a rich tea biscuit with a black cape around her shoulders.

  Abbie took her place behind the counter while I rolled forward, looking about at the dated decor: loud pink walls and orange seat covers. Apart from being plain hideous, none of it matched the quaint building and chocolate box setting outside.

  The girl pulled a large book out from under the counter and filed down the entries with her index finger.

  ‘Did you book an appointment?’ she asked meekly, her braces glinting under the halogen lights.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re just staying over the weekend.’

  ‘Who’s ‘we’ then? Having a weekend away with your boyfriend?’ the hairdresser laughed, still pulling pins from the old woman’s hair. ‘Oh to be young. Not you, Abbie, you’re nowhere near old enough.’

  I blushed. ‘Well, actually...yes, I’m here with my boyfriend. We’re staying in a lovely cottage.’ I thought of the sorts of phrases I’d read in Marie Claire or Red. ‘We just fancied a bit of a getaway,’ I said, smiling to myself.

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ said the hairdresser, now combing through the old woman’s hair with her painted fingernails. ‘What’s his name then?’

  ‘Um.’ I could hardly say Peter; couldn’t bring myself to do that. I was hardly going to say Terry either. ‘David,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Well, how long have you two been together then? — Abbie, did you ask what the lady wants?’ she snapped.

  Abbie flinched, having gone off in a daydream. I could imagine how bored she must be, standing about all day, sweeping up the odd bit of hair. ‘Um—’ she began.

  ‘How long did you say you’d been together?’ said the hairdresser, shouting over the old woman’s head.

  ‘What? Oh, years, ages. Since I was thirteen.’

  ‘Oh thirteen! Cripes, that’s Abbie’s age. I couldn’t imagine letting her have a boyfriend yet, oh no. Not for a good few years.’

  I gave Abbie a sympathetic look. ‘That’s a shame,’ I said. I thought of all the girly magazines she must be reading, going on about boyfriends almost as much as they did in Cosmo.

  ‘Oh she’s not worried. Look at her, she looks barely older than ten, bless her. Abbie, did you ask the lady what she would like?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ she complained, toying with a length of straightened hair. She was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, a white vest top and a red plaid shirt left open; very similar to Lauren’s style.

  ‘I was hoping I could get my hair dyed,’ I said. ‘I want to go more blonde.’

  ‘Right, fine,’ said the hairdresser. ‘Well my name’s Linda, anyway. Did I already tell you that? No? Well this is my shop, and — Abbie, have you written the lady in the book?’

  Abbie picked up the pen, rolling her eyes just briefly. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, looking apologetic under her thick eyelashes.

  ‘El—’ I began, then thought the better of it. ‘My name’s Lauren,’ I said.

  Linda tore the cape off the old lady and helped her out of the chair, her long cardigan fanning out under the arms like bat wings. ‘So when you say you want to go more blonde, are we talking something like highlights?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, thinking of Lauren’s bleached hair and the way David stared at it and touched it and played with it between his fingers. ‘I’m tired of the dirty colour I’ve got now; it’s hardly blonde at all, is it? I want to go platinum blonde all over. Use a whole bottle of bleach if you have to.’

  ‘Right,’ said Linda, raising her eyebrows. ‘Well that’ll take some doing, a couple of hours most probably, you know, or else we’ll burn your head off!’ she laughed, still taking the old woman by the arm towards the counter. Abbie took her money while Linda looked me up and down, leaning against the desk.

  ‘Is it for a bit of a confidence boost, hm? Perk yourself up a bit?’

  I gritted my teeth. I wanted to rant on about how being in a wheelchair wasn’t the end of the world, and that I could walk, I just hadn’t brought my stick, but then I’d have to explain my recent accident on the stairs and I couldn’t go into all that. Instead I just smiled, meekly like Abbie, and said, ‘Yeah, sort of. Plus David likes blondes.’

  ‘Ooh, well,’ said Linda, taking me by the shoulders and squeezing them, even giving me a little shake. ‘We’ll make sure your nice fellow isn’t disappointed!’

  It did take two hours and it did burn a lot, but I’d fished out a few past issues of Cosmo and OK! from the pile atop the hairdresser’s station, so that kept me occupied. Abbie rinsed my hair and Linda blow-dried it.

  It looked better than I’d hoped, all clean and white and shining like a Barbie–doll. Somehow it worked well with my pale skin, better than the muddy blonde it’d been before. Abbie fetched me a drink of water while Linda styled and asked endless questions about David, which I answered with ease, mentioning his car, his job on the harbour, his terrible tastes in music.

  All the while Linda nodded eagerly and tugged at my hair with the brush, so fiercely in fact that when Abbie approached with the water it was knocked right out of her hand and all over me.

  ‘Oh Christ, Abbie! Look what you’ve done! Oh, fetch that poor girl a towel. I’m so sorry,’ she said, turning off the hair dryer.

  The water soaked through to the skin and spoiled my T–shirt, though luckily I’d worn a vest underneath. I tugged it off over my head while Linda fetched a plastic bag for me to plop it in.

  Her eyes darted between my wheelchair and my bare shoulders, her eyes practically bulging. I knew what she was thinking. If being a cripple wasn’t humiliating enough, being a drenched one was worse.

  When her daughter returned and handed me a towel she said, ‘Abbie, take your shirt off. Come on, quick about it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take your shirt off! Oh let me.’ She tugged the thick, three–quarter sleeved red shirt from her shoulders and helped me into it, though I protested. My skin was prickling from the cold in the studi
o, despite the soft sunshine outside, and I was grateful for the extra warmth.

  Even more so when I glanced in the mirror and saw what I looked like; or rather, who I looked like.

  ‘There, you can go without your shirt now that you’ve spoiled poor Lauren’s clothes.’ She gave her daughter a light shove.

  When it came to paying, I waved the plastic debit card in the air and peered over the desk for the chip and pin machine. Of course, I realised: there wasn’t one. This was the country, the middle of nowhere.

  ‘It’s cash only,’ said Abbie, looking as disinterested as humanly possible.

  Linda stared at the card, her nostrils flaring, as if she’d just spotted an insect. ‘Oh, sorry about that, dear — cash only I’m afraid.’

  ‘This is all I’ve got,’ I said. ‘Isn’t there a cash point outside?’

  ‘I’m afraid not darling, not unless you’ve got a car to drive into town properly, but that’s a good couple of miles away,’ said Linda, looking visibly panicked. ‘What about if you called your David to come and give you some cash, or get some out in town? He must have a car, mustn’t he?’

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t have a choice now, did I? The game was up. I didn’t have any choice except to call “David”.

  When dad arrived in his puffer jacket and paint–stained jeans, clutching the cash, I could practically hear Linda’s jaw drop open. Dad stopped and stared, taken aback by my new look.

  ‘Crikey, look at you!’ he said, reaching out and touching my new, glossy platinum hair. Linda glanced uneasily from Dad to Abbie and then to me, clearly sickened at the thought of this man being David.

  I didn’t even want to know what conclusions she was coming to. Besides, I thought — even the worst probably wouldn’t be as sickening as the truth. I had that to be thankful for.

  ‘L—like it, do you?’ said Linda, her hands shaking as she folded up my towel.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Bit extreme, perhaps, eh, flower? Well, what my young lady wants, my young lady gets.’

  ‘Right,’ said Linda, her eyes wide and glistening, utterly shocked.

  ‘You make a lovely blonde,’ said Dad. He made to give the cash to Abbie, but Linda stepped in and snatched it from his hands.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll take that,’ she said through gritted teeth, unable to meet his eyes. ‘We’re closing now. Enjoy the rest of your weekend break.’

  Dad took the handles of my wheelchair while Linda firmly ushered us out the door, the bell ringing violently as the door swung shut behind us.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I kept my plaid shirt on all weekend, so proud of my new look. I looked like one of the girls from a pop–rock band, though I’d never liked that kind of music. No, not my style, really — but men liked it, I knew that much. And that’s what women did, after all; it’s part of our makeup, looking good for guys. Read any article in any magazine and it’d tell you that.

  By Sunday lunchtime we were packed and ready to go back to the cottage in the hope that things had calmed down by then. Plus Dad had arranged for Melanie to come for an earlier appointment the next day, due to my recent “self–harming”, so we needed to get going.

  How was I going to explain that behaviour, I wondered? Melanie, there’s a perfectly good reason why I’ve been falling down stairs and climbing out of windows — my dead boyfriend made me.

  That wouldn’t go down well. Having said that, there was yet another piece of information — one I would keep secret, nestled in my head where it was safe— that would send Melanie’s eyeballs bulging if she ever believed me.

  When Peter did that thing to me, when he sort of...entered my body, and took control and possessed me, well, in truth, I liked it. It was strange, and sickly and uncomfortable and yet...it made us one. We were together, combined, like our time in the bed just hours before Peter died.

  It evoked all kinds of thoughts within me, ones I couldn’t share with anybody, especially not Melanie. They were private thoughts; the kind I used to feel before we’d even gone that far. That magical, frightening, psycho–sexual experience every girl has at one o’clock in the morning, dreaming up scenarios involving the boy who possessed her thoughts.

  And to think now that he was literally possessing me. How many girls in Cosmo could say they’d experienced that?

  While I waited for Dad to pack the car I watched TV. This Morning was on, and they were interviewing a woman in a dark room with a disguised voice to conceal her identity. When she spoke it was a strange, deep, echoing, computer–generated sound.

  ‘So you attended the funeral despite your family urging you not to?’ said the male presenter, clutching a piece of card with This Morning written on the front. Beside him a female presenter wearing a polka–dot dress plucked two tissues from a box on the table and passed them to the woman shrouded in darkness.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in the strange voice. ‘Nobody really understood why I had to do it. I just did.’

  ‘Was it perhaps for closure, or to say a final farewell to that chapter of your life?’ said the presenter in the polka–dot dress.

  ‘In a way, yes,’ said the guest, the voice quavering as she dabbed her face with the tissue. ‘I just needed to know it was over. The abuse happened for so many years and I’m so much older now...In a way, it was like the child in me saying goodbye to him.’

  ‘Would you say there was still a shred of affection for your abuser?’

  ‘No,’ said the guest. ‘I hated him.’

  The male presenter nodded and checked his card. ‘Now this is the really strange part, isn’t it, because you say the family of the abuser — who we won’t name on television— actually held an open casket during the service.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the guest.

  ‘Why was that?’

  The shadow of the woman shrugged. ‘They were adamant that he was innocent and I suppose they wanted people to see the face of an innocent man.’

  ‘And what did you feel when you saw his face?’ said the female presenter. ‘It must have been hard knowing that his family were present and could see your reaction.’

  ‘Yes, I mean, it was strange really...I sort of felt...relieved. I could be sure that he was gone forever,’ said the guest. ‘It was like you said, you know, closure. Seeing him dead helped me accept things.’

  ‘Mary, thank you for coming on the show. We’ll take a break now, but stay tuned for our lunchtime special.’

  That night, back in the cottage I had a dream about Peter and my dad. We were out on the motorboat on a silent moonlit night. I was on one end of the boat, Peter the other, and we were just swaying on the inky black ocean with the motor turned off. The night was so still that not a single wisp of my hair was disturbed as the boat rocked, and even the chill in the air barely prickled my skin. It was as if there was no weather at all.

  Peter was hunched over something, pressing down, turning this way and that, grunting softly, as if he was tightening up a loose bolt in the woodwork. But as I looked closer I could make out, in the darkness, the shape of a man beneath him, and Peter’s hands around his throat.

  He was whispering something. Alarmed, my heart thumped as I crawled forward, on hands and knees, craning my neck to see the face of the man Peter was strangling so silently.

  He was whispering something through gritted teeth. The night was so still that I could just about make it out. ‘This is for Ellen,’ he said repeatedly, every word a struggle as he pressed down on the throat. ‘This is for what you did to her.’

  In the dream I started crying, watching the body’s head roll slowly from side to side while Peter finished him. He didn’t move, or struggle; he just lied still, like he was dead already — like he’d been dead for years. When Peter sighed and let go, still sitting atop the torso, he turned and looked at me.

  ‘We’ll get to land and get a car and we’ll get away from here,’ he said, steadily. ‘I promise. He’s gone now. I’ve fixed it for you.’

  I opened my eyes
and felt a pair of freezing hands upon my throat. I saw the outline of them, blue and grey, the long thin wrists with a bulging snake-like vein.

  ‘Peter!’ I screamed, rolling over, my knee screaming also in excruciating pain. I cried as I grabbed my stick from the edge of the bed and swung it around at the phantom, swiping at thin air, thrashing about in the bed covers. The dream was warning me! Breathing frantically, I searched for him in the dark. I saw a shadow move and heard a cry, so I swung again, striking him this time. That body in the dream wasn’t dad’s, but mine! He meant to finish me off!

  ‘Ellen stop!’ the ghost cried, grabbing my stick in mid–air and pulling me toward his dead, pale face.

  I slashed at it, screaming in hysterics, clawing at it until it grabbed my wrists and held me still. I was suspended in my anguish, sweating, legs tangled in the sheets.

  ‘Stop it! Just stop it!’ he said. I gulped in air, slowing my cries, my heartbeat returning to normal as it dawned on me who it was.

  It wasn’t Peter, of course. It was dad.

  ‘Get off me,’ I said, breathing heavily. He let go of my wrists and backed away against the window, his silhouette clear to me now against the light from the moon and streetlamp outside.

  ‘What’s going on with you?’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. He looked a pathetic thing, dark and hunched like the shadow of a vulcher. ‘I only wanted a cuddle. There was nothing to be afraid of...Just a cuddle with my little girl.’

  ‘Get out.’ I spat, pure hatred engulfing me so much I gripped the sheets with my fingernails and pulled them tight for strength. I could feel tiny rolls of skin underneath them, fresh from my father’s whiskery face.

  ‘It’s being here, isn’t it? Oh god, it’s turning you mad,’ he said, stepping further back still. His straggly hair was untied and hanging around his shoulders like seaweed. ‘The way you’re acting lately is getting frightening, El’. You’re frightening.’