‘OK. You’ve made your point.’
‘And?’ Marie said, gesturing to her phone, still clasped in Violet’s hand.
‘… Bob gave me the rest of the week off. So, like, three days, I guess. Nights.’
‘Good. I told you he’d be fine with it.’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘What did he say?’ Marie’s tone was suddenly protective.
‘It’s not that.’ Violet tried to shrug. ‘I mean, he didn’t say … He kept saying it was fine, that it sounded like it had been a real shock and that I should take all the time I needed.’
‘But …?’
‘I could just tell. I know he thinks I’m slacking. That I’m not willing to work.’
Marie didn’t reply.
‘Anyway, you should get going,’ Violet said, doing her best to sound normal. ‘You don’t want another telling-off from Sandra.’
She didn’t even need to look at her to know what face Marie was pulling, but her friend pressed on.
‘What did the cops say?’
‘I didn’t ask. I mean, they couldn’t tell me anything anyway, could they?’
‘Wait.’ Marie’s eyes went wide. ‘You don’t think it was him, do you? From next door. Maybe he … y’know.’
‘Marie, please.’
‘Right, right. Sorry, it’s just … right outside. Bloody hell. We need to move. This place is … I told you, didn’t I?’
Violet said nothing.
‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Nothing. I just need some decent sleep.’
Marie began to nod, then stopped, her eyes focused on Violet’s mug. ‘You alright drinking that?’
‘It’s decaf,’ Violet lied.
‘Right,’ Marie said, giving her a long steady look, before finally getting to her feet.
Violet didn’t want to ask the next question. She wanted Marie to be out of the door and gone, to leave her to her coffee and her vague dread, but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘Marie …’
‘Yeah?’
‘Have you, uh, seen anyone else around the building? People who shouldn’t be here?’
There was the look, that guarded concern she’d been desperate to avoid.
‘What do you mean? Like who?’
‘Just … People. Hanging around. Groups of them. Standing still like they’re … I don’t know.’ She managed to stop just short of mentioning the whispers. Marie was quiet for several seconds.
‘Violet, this isn’t one of your stories.’
‘Fuck’s sake, I know that!’ Violet rocked backwards for a second, stunned by the strength of her own reaction. ‘It was just a question. Forget it.’
‘Fine.’ Marie was clearly upset. ‘ And no, I haven’t. I mean, I’ve seen people, sure, but not being weird or being … “still” or whatever.’
‘OK.’ Violet tried to shrug, not wanting to meet Marie’s eye. Another pause.
‘Look, I’ve got to go. Just … take it easy, OK? Get some sleep.’
Violet didn’t answer.
The building was strange in the daytime. That quiet that dominated it when the residents were asleep was instead replaced by a constant stream of faint noises. Conversation, televisions, washing machines, shouting. It all came floating through those thin walls, smothered and distorted so much it was impossible to tell exactly where it originated. But no whispering. Violet passed a half dozen residents on their way into or out of their flats, but everyone was moving, travelling, on their way somewhere. All except the workman with plumber’s tools, who stood tapping a pipe with an expression of intense concentration. Or the young man in the Uriah Heep T-shirt, who stopped measuring the corridor long enough to regard her with a curiosity that made her feel strangely self-conscious. But there were no half-seen figures huddled together, no silhouettes pressed against windows, as if waiting for something to happen.
By the time she finally crawled into bed in the early hours of the afternoon, Violet had walked nearly every corridor and stairway in the cramped rear of Banyan Court. It was strange to wander its corridors in the daytime, to see the sunlight illuminate those walls she knew so well by fluorescence felt almost unnatural. Their comforting coldness replaced by a stifling warmth. Still, even Violet could not deny the daylight reassured her, and by the end she could almost dismiss that oppressive sense of wrongness, or maybe she was just able to smother it in a thick layer of fatigue, and mask it in her aching muscles and stiff, calloused fingers.
She opened her eyes to darkness. Had she been asleep? Her hand reached out almost automatically, hunting for the light switch, but before she had a chance to use it, she stopped. In an instant she was wide awake, her ears straining to listen.
The whispering was soft and insistent, and for a brief second, she had a terrible certainty that it was coming from her kitchen. Violet’s fingers found the switch and the room was flooded with artificial light. She wasted no time, fear briefly sparking into anger as she ran into the next room, but of course it was empty, the whispers still near but now muffled and distant. Where was Marie? Right, it was Friday, she’d probably be out for some drinks. Wait, was it Friday? It didn’t matter, she wasn’t there. Violet took her time, searching every inch of their tiny flat.
Marie’s door was closed. The whispering could be from in there. Was it locked? Or maybe Marie was home, sitting and relaxing quietly, not hearing what was going on. The privacy of their rooms was one of the cornerstones of Violet and Marie’s living together. But Violet had to be sure. Gripping the handle, she felt a flood of relief that it wasn’t locked, then a burst of terror at the idea of what might be waiting inside. She opened the door.
It was empty. Marie’s furniture was basic, practical, reflecting a life led mostly outside the flat. But most importantly, there was nowhere for someone to hide. Violet breathed out for what felt like the first time since she woke up. The whispering figures weren’t inside her home. Not yet. She caught herself at this, tried to focus: there was no reason to think they could get in there. It had to be safe.
She dressed quickly, slipping on her shoes without bothering to properly lace them, and headed out the door. The window at the end of the corridor was dark and the lights of the city were faint. There was no safety for her tonight. The thought came unbidden into Violet’s mind and she didn’t have the energy to push it away. Perhaps her mother was right and there never had been any safety. But none of her stories had ever gone like this, and Violet began to search anyway.
She found three of them on the stairs heading down to the fifth floor. She turned and walked quickly away. There was a cluster of six or seven at the end of the corridor on the eighth, again she couldn’t bring herself to get any closer. There were only two standing in front of the elevator on the tenth floor, but when she turned around it was clear there were more just round the corner. She hadn’t been counting them before, and now that she had started it didn’t take long for her to lose track. She wanted to confront them, to demand they tell her what was going on. This was her home, her city, they had no right to be here. They would not make her afraid. Yet she just couldn’t summon that defiant walk which had seen her down Augustine Road. Instead she found herself running.