Under My Skin. Zoe Markham

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СКАЧАТЬ I am to find out how it all turns out. Or maybe they’d just think I was sick in the head and move on to safer ground and some One Direction fan fiction.

      Either way, I don’t have to worry, because Dad’s locked me out of the internet as securely as he’s locked me in the cottage. It keeps me safe. It keeps me so lonely that the coldness inside is actually starting to burn. And I’ve got nothing in the world to do but stare through the little window of the oven and wait for my chicken to cook.

      *

      When I’ve eaten, and cleaned up after myself (‘keep things a bit tidier’), I head up to my room before I get too tired or shaky to be able to manage the stairs. I wonder about maybe taking out my diary and making myself read through it, if only to see how far I’ve come. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Look at how far you’ve come rather than how far you’ve still got to go? I’ve done nothing but dwell on my own sorry self all morning though. If I’m going to be stuck here, like some twisted effigy of a Disney princess up in a tower, then I need something else… someone else, or I’ll go insane within a week. I can already feel the danger. I need an escape. And if I can’t go out, I’m going to have to look within.

      I go to the bookshelves and scan through the titles until I find what I need, what never fails, and it brings a little twist of irony that makes me smile and lets me know what I need to do next. With my ancient, battered copy of Jane Eyre under my arm, I drag a thick blanket from the airing cupboard on the landing, and then stab viciously at the trapdoor above with the hooked pole that I find inside. As it swings open, I make a couple of failed attempts to hook the ladder, my co-ordination is pants these days, and finally wrestle the narrow, pull-down ladder into position. And then the real challenge begins. The ladder sits at a steep angle, and my knees buckle as I try to climb it whilst pushing up the heavy blanket and keeping the book wedged safely under my arm at the same time. Step by painful step I haul myself up, and finally pull myself, breathless and sweating, through the tiny hatch into the attic. Because what better place to curl up with Jane and her demons?

      Once I’ve got my breath back I pull the hatch closed behind me, which makes me feel even more isolated from the world, but now that I have a book for company I don’t feel half as lonely. In fact, as I settle down and cocoon myself into the blanket, for the first time since leaving the flat I actually feel safe. It’s like hiding from the world physically is one thing, but without being able to hide mentally as well, I’m still totally vulnerable. Here, if there are footsteps on the drive, or a knock at the door, I won’t hear them – they can’t frighten me. No one can peer in through a gap in the curtains, no one can see movement behind a blind. And I realise that this place could be my saving grace. It’s freezing up here, but completely bare of anything that could remind me of who, or why, I am. The sunlight flooding in through the skylight is beautiful, there’s no need for a blind here, and the sloping ceiling is panelled with heavy, dark wood that makes me feel like I’m in a whole different house. I can’t imagine a better reading cave. Settling down with the blanket tucked tightly around me, just where the elongated rectangle of sun hits the floor, I open my book.

      ‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day…’

       Ha! You and me both, Jane.

      And I take her hand and leave my own demons behind for a while.

      The hours melt away from me. I don’t hear the tyres on gravel, or the heavy bang of the front door. I miss the first frantic cry, and the second, before the hammering of feet on the stairs startles me out of Thornfield. I can’t move; I’ve got so cold up here that my legs have seized completely, and my hands and feet are painful blocks of sharp ice. My heart seizes not from cold but from terror. They’re here, they’ve found me.

      As the frenzied shout rings out, Dad’s voice registers, and relief mixes itself into the cocktail of panic that was building inside me.

      ‘I’m up here! I’m all right!’ I shout back, letting go of my book and awkwardly rubbing my legs, trying to encourage some life back into them. I’m supposed to be getting stronger, not giving myself hypothermia.

      ‘Hold on! I’m coming down!’

      I drag myself over to the trapdoor and push it open, narrowly missing Dad’s head as he stares up at me.

      ‘Christ, Chlo.’ He exhales, ‘I thought…’

      He thought they’d found me. He thought they’d taken me.

      ‘I’m fine!’ My teeth pick a really inappropriate time to start chattering. ‘I was just reading up here, I’m coming… I’ll be… down in a second…’

      I can’t come down while he’s standing there. My legs still won’t work right and he’ll be angry if he sees the state I’ve got myself into. He’d probably lock the hatch so I wouldn’t be able to get up here again, and I’m not ready to lose this space now that I’ve only just found it.

      He looks at me, head to one side, suspicion in his eyes.

       Go… go downstairs… I’m fine, I’m fine…

      ‘All right,’ he finally relents with a sigh. ‘It’s late, Chlo. I’ve brought you a curry. Come on down and get it while it’s hot.’

      ‘’Kay!’

      I move back from the opening and wait until I hear him go back down the stairs before I shake painful life into my frozen limbs. I leave the blanket where it is, and promise myself that tomorrow I’ll bring up a duvet, some cushions, and a couple of those little electric heaters I always used to have aimed at me in the flat – if I can find them.

      He’s at the table when I come down, and the rich, spicy smell of the curry sends my stomach into a noisy growl-fest that kills the tension and makes him laugh, instead of lecture like I was expecting. I sit down to a plate piled high with riceless chicken madras, and tuck in. It’s still weird, being able to smell the spice but not taste it. The warm chunks of meat are heaven. There’s a pint of water set for me, which I down almost in one as I’m around halfway through my plateful. I hate to think what I must look like: some drunken rugby fan woofing down a massive curry and necking a pint after a game. Not exactly the most ladylike of approaches; yet another reason I can’t see myself ever being girlfriend material. One meal, and I’d be dumped. Plus I dread to think what Mum would make of me if she saw me like this.

      ‘How’s the chicken?’ Dad asks, presumably noticing I’ve stopped stuffing myself senseless.

      ‘It’s fine,’ I say, reloading my fork. ‘I just… my taste…’

      He looks thoughtful for a minute before replying.

      ‘I think we can get it back,’ he says, although he looks down at his food instead of at me, which isn’t a promising sign. ‘There must be a way we can regenerate the cells on your taste buds. Once we’ve got everything else taken care of, I’ll work on it, I promise.’

      ‘It’s fine,’ I lie. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fuss about it. It’s just… everything tastes like… chicken.’

      He’s laughing again, and it’s contagious this time.

      This is nice, spending time together like this. We’ve been so on top of each other for so long lately that getting some distance like today – however bad it felt this morning – is probably going to do us both the world of good. We might actually learn to enjoy СКАЧАТЬ