The Roommates. Rachel Sargeant
bedroom. Two boys and a girl sit on the bed. They hand her a cider and she shuts the door. The walls vibrate but at least they can talk. She and the boy from the open day sit on the floor. The other boys are doing Engineering too and the girl is a chemist.
When the cider runs out, Phoenix says she’ll get more and goes back to the kitchen. The music’s still full blast, banging its rhythm into her throat. There’s no sign of Tegan – probably moved on to another flat party to flog her jackets – but Imo and Amber are there. Imo’s at the sink, no boys buzzing near her now. Phoenix smells the sick as she approaches. Imo’s holding back her hair in one hand and leaning against the basin with the other. There’s a ketchup-coloured streak on her sleeve.
Amber is dancing on the tiny floor with a couple of other girls and Ivor. The host grips his drink while swaying and twisting not quite on the beat. A tall man stands against the fridge, hood up, his eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. He’s older than the others and a gap has formed between him and the dancers. A postgrad loser, Phoenix thinks. When Ivor overbalances towards him, the man barges past.
“Sorry, mate,” Ivor slurs, and gawps at his beer puddling on the floor.
But the man has gone.
Monday 26 September
Imogen
An explosion in her sleep illuminates one of her what-if nightmares: mouldy walls, a shrivelled body hunched over bent knees, cold floor. Imo thrashes against her sheets, curls foetal, trying not to hear the tortured whimpers in her dream. Fighting for breath. Pressure on her chest, crushing, crushing …
She sits upright in bed, skin clammy, pillow damp. Blood pounding in her trembling limbs. It takes several moments to register she’s awake. Unsteady on her feet, she reaches the bathroom and vomits into the toilet.
She returns to bed, still feeling dreadful, only vaguely aware that someone is walking beside her, holding her arm. Their grip firm.
***
Light burns through her eyelids and her head throbs. The pain gets worse when she flicks open her eyes. Sun streams in through the gap in the curtain where it’s hanging off the rail. Her mother tried to fix it and told Imo to report the fault. She won’t, though; the idea of maintenance people coming into her room ties her in knots.
When she turns over, she sees her arm, still in the lacy top she wore the previous evening. There’s a white, bobbly mark smeared on the sleeve. A flash of recollection: Amber dabbing it with wet loo paper. Imo sniffs the tissue residue and retches. It still stinks of puke.
She recalls handing her room key to Phoenix when she couldn’t get it in the lock. Phoenix led her in and laid her on the bed. A plastic bowl appeared from somewhere.
Imo checks the floor. The bowl’s still there, mercifully empty. But the motion of leaning over makes her guts squirm and she coughs bile into it. A long slither of creamy saliva hangs from her mouth and she rubs her face on the pillow.
Never again.
But it was a good night. Normal. The Imo from before. She pads her hand over her bedside locker and finds her phone. Yep, five friend requests, all from boys. As she deletes them, there’s a flutter of panic in her chest. What if she bumps into them on campus? It’s not like Tinder where she can flirt and forget – thirty-two Super Likes and no intention of meeting any of them. These requests are from boys nearby. They mustn’t find out her Facebook profile is empty. She unfriended everyone except her sister, Sophia.
Still she did all right last night, didn’t she? Talked, cracked jokes, faked the odd laugh? Another wave of nausea rolls through her gullet and she spits more bile into the bowl. A flashback: she puked in the night. After a nightmare. She can’t remember the dream now but it was probably the recurring one about the cellar. The slime-covered walls, the shape on the floor with its bone-thin limbs. She shivers despite the sweaty cocoon of her duvet.
Amber must have cleaned the bowl. No, Phoenix took her to the loo. That’s right, isn’t it? Both have short blonde hair, but Amber’s has a temporary look that doesn’t quite work with her skin tone, and Phoenix stands a good few inches taller. Yes, Phoenix sorted out her puking. Then sometime later Amber told Phoenix she’d take over.
Amber: “Imo and I are good friends.”
Phoenix: “You’ve just met.”
Amber: “In this life, maybe.”
Imo can’t remember Phoenix’s reply. After she’d gone, Amber kept talking.
“I never sleep well … It’s not just Dad; I can’t see Leo.” Sitting on the end of Imo’s bed. “What if …?” Pacing the room. “I should be there …” Tugging the curtain that won’t shut. “Why can’t I put things right …?”
Imo sits up. Everything rocks. She’s never had a head fug like this before. So bad her memories of Amber’s words must be hallucinations. Her own disturbing dreams have got bound up with the drunken ramblings of her new flatmate. It must be the booze. If she stays sober, it won’t happen again. A price worth paying. University is supposed to be a new start, without the nightmares.
She peels off her top and supposes it will have to go in the bin as she doesn’t know how to work the washing machines. A mild panic hits her: when did she take her skirt off? Hopes to hell she wasn’t so drunk she did a striptease.
The phone pings with another text from her mum. How many is that? Since February, she’s averaged ten a day, but now that Imo’s away from home, her mother has upped her anxious bombardment. She doesn’t read it. If she thinks of home, she’ll buckle.
Mercifully, the skirt is a dead leopard on the floor in front of the loo. Her throat craves water. Head swimming, she turns on the taps, but the cold water runs tepid. She can’t drink it like that.
She sends a new text: Loving it here. I’ll call later. In some ways it would be easier if Mum phoned her, but, by some unmentioned pact, they agreed months ago that Mum would only ring if there was a sighting. Or worse.
Phoenix
Phoenix is in the kitchen, making a coffee.
“Want one?” she asks when Imo creeps in looking like death in a dressing gown.
Imo shakes her head, takes a mug off the draining board and fills it with tap water. When she leans against the sink, Phoenix is pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Not surprising after the skinful she sank and brought up again. Does Imo remember her bad dream? Phoenix hopes not. She remembers listening to Imo’s moans. How Imo thrashed under the covers, twisting and yelling. She’d wanted to stay with her, but Amber insisted on doing her shift. Hopefully Imo’s also forgotten Amber’s creepy words of comfort. Phoenix shivers as she remembers the desperate look in Amber’s eyes. God knows what else she said after Phoenix left.
She moves a hot-water bottle off an easy chair in the dining area and suggests Imo sits down. The vinyl upholstery makes a fut sound when Imo lands.
“What’s that?” She points to the drink on the coffee table, flinching at the smell.
“Hangover remedy,” Phoenix explains. “Amber left it there for me. Tastes like candle wax.” She’s never tasted candle wax, but she knows it would be like this.
“Where is Amber?” Imo yawns.
“Must have gone back to bed, said her leg was hurting.”
When Phoenix got up, she’d been surprised to find Amber stretched across a chair and the coffee table, hugging a hot-water bottle. When she saw Phoenix, she pressed it against her knee. Phoenix offered to make an ice pack for her leg, but Amber declined.
Imo