Disclaimer: A own neither Skins or Rear Window, get used to it.
Author's Note: First of all, apologies for the three alert emails some of you may have got. Not cool. Secondly, cheers for the reviews, you're lovely. And thirdly, Emily will be in this one, sorry for depriving you. I shall not deprive you further. Well, maybe... for a little while. Enjoy!
I have no option. There's no other way. I'm going to have to shower... myself. The horror. And you think I'm joking. After hastily munching down my toast I reach forward desperately trying to will my crutches into my hand. But there is no try, it's do or do not and I certainly do not succeed. I haven't even used the properly yet and I doubt I'm supposed to be on them yet but I'll be damned if I'm not as sweet smelling as a bloody summer breeze by the time Emily gets here. I rest for a moment, a little puffed out from all that straining, and then begin to manoeuvre my legs round and out of the side of bed. I lower my right leg carefully to the floor, the angle change and slight movement causing a dull pain right around where I imagine the pins penetrate the flesh and bone of my lower right leg. The thought turns my stomach and I have to steady myself as the room begins to spin, blood rushing from my head. After a few moments the sensation passes and I can begin shuffling down to the end of my bed moving my bum then legs, bum then legs, bum then legs. When I reach my destination I take another stab at the crutches with my left hand, no luck. I will have this shower! I flail a little at them now with my left leg and find purchase, knocking one to the floor. I scrap around and reach it with my left hand then use it to retrieve the other in a similar fashion. I need one of those litter pickers. But one of those cool ones for children and slightly more open-minded adults, which has a shark pincer.
Right. Now I have my crutches, how do I use these bad boys? I remember the lady in the hospital trying to tell me how to fit them to the right height. Something about if you raise your shoulder you should just be able to lift the bottom off the floor? Well right now lady, I really couldn't care less. I manage to totter to my door, leaning there for a moments rest. The dull pain in my leg is beginning to throb, turning more into a hot pain which probably isn't good. There must be some reason why the Doctor said the words elevated and bed rest but the current overriding words in my brain right now are shower and Emily. Shower and Emily, shower for Emily, shower by Emily, shower with Emily? Oh the possibilities. With my mind well and truly re-invigorated I set out on my voyage to the bathroom, one door down. I realise having an actual shower is probably a rather tall order but I'd settle for a hair wash because my hair is grim.
I prod the door open with right crutch, taking all my weight onto my left side. The door swings open to reveal my destination and my task at hand. I can't help but laugh at the sight before me. Set down in the middle of our bog-standard, walk in shower sits one of the chairs from our dining area. And sat on that chair is a fluorescent note. I hobble closer. Bum here, is scrawled in Effy's cursive handwriting and I laugh. She knew I'd insist on a shower and this is her way of making sure I don't do something stupid in order to get one, her way of taking care of me even when she can't. More thoughtful than she looks that one.
I glance round the bathroom for more clues and am rewarded when I find a post-it on top of the closed toilet lid. Leg here, and now I see how this is going to come together. I sit onto the chair in the shower, resting my legs and remove my articles of clothing one by one, some more easily taken care of than others. I place my right leg up on the loo and go to twist my body so I can turn on the water. Out of the corner of my eye I spot another brightly coloured post it on the right shower door with an arrow pointing left. With a closer look I discover another post-it on the corresponding door, with another arrow pointing in the opposite direction. I reach for both doors and push them slowly round, towards each other where the would have met in the middle if my leg had not been in the way. If a stranger were to come into the bathroom right at this very moment the view would have been most unusual. A phantom leg perched upon a toilet, the leg's owner snugly sat, hidden inside the shower. I grinned at the thought of Effy sat inside here carefully fixing post-its, playing with the doors, positioning the chair just and so.
I shower as carefully as I can, trying hard not to let too much water escape from the outlet created by my leg. After I'm done cleaning I sit, hot water beating down on my head. I rotate my head from side to side, forward and back, letting the hot beads massage the muscles in my neck that I didn't realise were riddled with such tension. Maybe yesterday I'd be ruing over how I got into this mess but not today. Today is all about letting that go. A new start. A new start for Eff at Uni, one step closer to independence. A new start for me, forget about Katie with her dead boyfriend, forget about that Cook bloke, wash them down the fucking drain with the rest of the shit. Emily will be here soon and if she can put it behind her so can I.
Once I'm out of the shower I realise there's been one major flaw in my plan. Clean clothes. I'm not one to prance around nude when no one's home, not that I'd be prancing in my current predicament anyways but I'm pretty sure if I put my old clothes back any positive impact my shower may have had would be null and void. I begin to panic a little, what if Emily knocks right now, what do I do? I look round in search of a towel. Why didn't I think of this, why didn't Effy think of this? Miss Clever Post-Its. Didn't think of this did she? Some use she is.
In my faff it takes me a moment to register my broken reflection in the steamed up mirror. Most of the Naomi staring back at me is unrecognisable, disguised by the fine condensation. But some slithers are sharper and I can make out stripes of skin glistening back at me. As my panic begins to ebb away and my mind becomes more rational the slithers begin to connect in my brain, form words. And those words are, In the cupboard loser. I frown and stagger to the cupboard where I find cache of towels, socks, knickers, clothes and a hairdryer.What a bitch. She wrote that there knowing I wouldn't find it till after my shower, after the room steamed up. She thinks she's so clever. She's getting a knuckle sandwich when she gets home. I'm not being ungrateful.
I get dressed, washed and dry my hair. My leg is feeling exceedingly heavy now and maybe it's just me being paranoid but I'm sure my cast feels tighter so I decide to try and elevate it. Using my crutches I move through to the living room and find the puffet right where I left it. I sit in my chair, put my leg up and gaze out my window. Ah my old friend, it's been far too long.
The yard is as quiet as ever, the swings moving ever so slightly on their own accord, back and forth back and forth. I take a sneaky look over to where I hope Emily is but I see no sign of movement at her window. Tv looks to be off and the door through to the kitchen is open revealing a deserted room behind it. Maybe she's popped out to grab some things before she comes round here, or maybe she's in her room getting dressed or studying. Come to think of it, I still don't know what she studies here. I make note to ask her when I see her later. My eyes involuntarily flit to Cook's window which holds no sign of life either. I exhale. Today window, you disappoint. I scan other windows on Emily's floor. All vacant. Everyone's either at school or work.
Suddenly there's movement at the entrance to the yard. A large dog, long haired, warm brown coat, bounds through the gate and runs full pelt up to the litter bin. Placing its paws on the rim it pulls itself up, sticking its head over the side and rummaging around with its snout, sniffing and foraging. Its back legs keep propelling the dog upwards and then downwards again in quick eager bursts. It can smell something. But what? The dog's owner now appears, bumbling and out of breath. He's waving the dog's lead over his head; a head adorned with unruly, curly brown hair. He looks as red as a beetroot. The owner stops and puts his hands on his knees, regaining his breath and sighing with relief. He approaches the dog and begins to rough up the hair on its head but the dog is relentless. The curly haired man's interest is piqued. He takes a firm grip of the dog's collar with his left hand, holding him back and delves into the bin with his right, a grimace on his face. After a moment of rummaging the owner's movement ceases. What the fuck? I lean forward trying to get a better view. What can that dog smell? I can just about make out the sounds of the creature whining, wanting access. From my rather limited view I can see a triumphant smile creep across the owner's face. With a flourish he removes what looks like a mangy old tennis ball. He waves it at his companion with delight and I think I hear him say, 'Look boy, thought we'd lost this one didn't we? You have quite a nose on you!' The dog continues to whine as he's dragged away from the bin, back legs digging in, resisting as his owner begins to pull hard on the re-attached lead. 'Come on boy,' I hear him say. 'It's nearly your lunch time'. With the mention of lunch the dog is caught. Caught between getting to whatever is still in that bin or food. The animal finally relents, giving into the temptation of his favourite meaty mulch and after a few moments the yard is empty again. Quiet. Although now the yard looks so much smaller and the bin so much bigger, so much more menacing.
Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's everything. Maybe it's just a dead pigeon, but the part of me who said forget Katie, forget Cook, is now saying what the fuck is in that bin? Can I make it down their in my current condition, probably not. Shit. I check the clock on the DVD player. It's almost 1pm and Emily isn't here. I try and distract myself with my new favourite past time but that bears no fruit. All I can see is that bin staring back at me. I switch on the tv and catch Doctors. All of a sudden it's 2pm and Emily still isn't here. I begin to worry. Should I go and knock for her? I allow myself another glance over to her window. Nothing. My heart begins to thump in my chest. Yeah, maybe I should go and knock for her. Make sure she's not in a bin somewhere, which she isn't, obviously. Certainly not in a bin which look suspiciously like the one I'm looking at right now. Must stop looking at it!
Where's that bastard wheelchair! I'm up and out of my chair. The hunt is on and I find my wheelchair tucked away in the kitchen. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I blink and in an instant I'm up the lift and sat outside Emily's door. I've called through the letterbox twice, rung the bell four times and knocked too many times to remember. My head felt busy, as if a swarm of bees had decided to make it their play ground. Pain was beginning to creep back into my leg now, even when it was propped up in the footrest on the wheelchair. I needed my pain-killers but they were back in the flat and I certainly wasn't going anywhere. I knock again on the door. A hopeful 'Emily?' escapes by lips. I try again, hammering a little harder this time, calling Emily's name a little louder than before.
I hear the sound of a dead bolt being unlocked and latch being opened. My heart swells with hope. Hope that's dashed moments later when the door next to Emily's swings open. To my right stands Cook, again shirtless and in nothing but his boxers. Bruises still adorn his face, chest and abdomen.
'Oi, Blondie! Do you wanna keep it down? A man's trying to sleep here.' He scratches his stomach with one hand and places the other behind his head, ruffling his sandy blond hair.
So this is Cook. He's even more vile in person than he is from a distance. His eyes are bloodshot, big dark rings surrounding them. He speaks with a slight accent. Nottingham, Derby perhaps? I do my best to give him my fiercest Campbell Death Glare. Tyra would be proud. 'It's 2pm.' I snort.
'Like I said, a man's gotta sleep sometime'. He waggles his tongue at me, expecting a laugh. He receives none. No wonder he's lonely, he obviously can't function in polite society.
I cut straight to the point. As much as I'd love to sit here all day and converse with this fascinating gentleman. 'I'm looking for Emily, your neighbour. Have you seen her?'
He purses his lips and sucks in some air, his eyes go to the ceiling as if in deep thought. He's making a show. 'Red hair?' he asks.
'Yes,' I answer curtly. I'm already beginning to lose my patience. Emily could be anywhere by now and if he's seen her I needs him to tell me.
He taps his forefinger on his chin, pondering, processing my confirmation. He then points the same finger at me as if in realisation. 'Nice knockers?'
I feel a heat rising in me and it doesn't stem from my throbbing leg or muddled head but from my growing frustration. 'I...'
He then cocks his finger like cocking a gun. 'You're the girl who took a tumble right? Down them stairs?'
I smile tightly. 'What gave it away?'
Cooks grasp on sarcasm is as comprehensive as his grasp on appropriate public dress it seems. He frowns confused and points to my wheelchair. 'You're in one of them chairs...'
'Hmmm, perceptive...' He smiles, disarmingly and all of a sudden I see a side of Cook, the cigarette smoking man, I've yet to see. I see the boy underneath. Cocky and exuberant. Not weighted down by loss. I don't know how close him and Katie were but if he wasn't involved in her disappearance he had to have been grieving to some degree.
'So are you and Ems are like, you know?' Cook punctuates you know with a raise of the eyebrows.
I frown and he seems to think I need some kind of translation as he begins to reel off various metaphors for sex. Metaphors meticulously crafted by thirteen year old boys.
'Buffing the beaver?'
'What?' I cringe.
'In the Summer of '69?'
'Excuse me?' I shake my head, mollified.
'Shagging!' And finally he decides to enlighten me.
A blush begins to creep up my neck and my cheeks become hot. 'Um, no. We er, we're just friends,' I say. Words falling in a jumble out of my mouth.
'Oh right right,' Cook touches his finger to his nose conspiratorially. 'Friends,' he nods, 'Gotcha.'
I get the impression that there's no use fighting with this guy. He seems to have one thing on his mind and right now trying to convince a rather lewd stranger that there are more important things in life than sex isn't my top priority. He goes to speak again but I cut him off, 'Look Emily was supposed to come round to mine this afternoon,' his mouth slides into an easy grin and he looks to comment but I continue. 'And she didn't show so I was just checking if she was okay.' I sigh as he looks back at me blankly. Useless. 'She's obviously not here so I'll...'
'Oh no, she's not at hers. She's in mine aint she?' He gestures with his thumb behind, into the depths of his flat.
'Prick.' That was no help at all. I roll my eyes and then my chair, starting back down the corridor towards the lift. I needed to find Emily. Maybe she was waiting at mine wondering where I was. Maybe we'd missed each other on our way to the others' flat. Her going by the stairs, me in the lift.
I'm almost back at the lift when the wheelchair veers violently to the left, turning back round in the direction it came. 'Ah come on now Blondie,' I feel Cook's hot breath on my neck. He's wheeling me back down the corridor at a pace, back towards his flat. I lift my right elbow, swinging it behind me in hope of it hitting something solid. I hit my mark but all Cook does is simply laugh. 'Show Cookie some love eh?' It is Cook. He kidnapped Katie. He kidnapped Emily. And now he's kidnapping me!
He rolls me across the threshold and into his living room where he stops my chair abruptly and I slump forward. My leg jars and I hiss a little in pain. He comes round the front of me and throws his arms out, 'Ta dar!' He's grinning from ear to, eyes like saucers. I stare up at him, speechless for a moment until I notice the tiny movement behind him.
Curled up on the sofa, tousles of red hair poking out from under a blanket, was Emily. Definitely Emily. There was no mistaking her this time. My mouth moves but I have no words. 'Yo red, you've got a visitor.' I look back up at Cook who turns on his heel and strolls through to the kitchen, ruffling Emily's hair on his way.
The girl with cherry red hair stirs. She clenches her hands and screws up her noes, willing the sun away from penetrating her eyes. It would have been one of the most adorable things I'd ever seen if this particular red-head hadn't been in Cook's flat, on Cook's sofa, under Cook's blanket in what looked to be Cook's t-shirt and only Cook's t-shirt. Her dark eyes creep open, made even darker with sleep, and slowly find my form. First she sees the chair. She rubs her eyes. Then she sees my face. I must look as pale as sheet. I certainly feel it. 'Naomi?' she says, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. She swallows and realisation hits. She springs up from her position on the couch, both hands coming to her mouth. 'Oh God, I was supposed to be round earlier wasn't I? I am so so sorry Naoms. Cook and I were up all night and when Effy phoned I was half asleep. I think I've been asleep since.' She attempts a smile, she looks guilty as hell. And what the fuck does she mean, up all night? Is this why she begged me not to get involved?
'Kept you up did he?'
Emily's eyes widen, genuine panic spilling from them in waves. 'No Naomi, not like that!' She reaches forward and lays a hand on my good knee and I want to believe her. She sends me a reassuring smile. 'We were talking, just talking.'
I shrug, trying to show my indifference. And failing. 'I thought you said to stay away from this guy?'
'I said you should stay out of it,' her words weren't cold or defensive, simply stating fact. 'And I meant it. It's just...we're friends.'
'Right, I get it, you don't want me meeting your friends' I've become defensive, I'm pushing her away. I don't mean it but I can't help it. It's easier this way than to have her let me down easy.
'Naomi just calm down and let me explain. Please?' Both her hands are squeezing my knee now, her voice and eyes pleading with me, begging me to listen to what she has to say. I remember yesterday when she told me she'd see me tomorrow. Her eyes were bright then. Bright with anticipation, bright with possibility. Those eyes wouldn't fall on Cook so soon after. Not like that.
I look at her small hands, knuckles white, on my knee. I take them in mine, putting my fingers between hers, and watch the pinkness return. I look back at her but can't hold her gaze. I nod for her to begin her explanation. She gives me a thankful smile, pauses for a moment to collect herself and then continues.
'Before Freddie died I was here every other night. He lived here, with Cook. Katie and I would come over, have a few drinks have a laugh. That's how Katie met Freddie. We arrived the same day, helped each other move and went to the pub afterwards. That's how it started. Cook and I would talk about all the fit birds out for Freshers, after he got over me being gay of course and ruling out any possibility of a twinsome, whilst Katie and Freddie fucked in the other room.' She pauses and shakes her head. 'He's been in a bad way since Freddie died. Feels guilty,' she explains.
'Guilty for what?' This wasn't the explanation I was expecting.
'I don't know...' she says with a wry smile. 'Guilty for fucking his girlfriend, guilty for not being there for him when he needed him the most, guilty for selling his ps3 for drugs.' She was counting on her fingers now, one hand still firmly clasped in mine. Her eyes flick to the kitchen and she lowers her voice. 'There's a lot he should feel guilty about. I saw him from your window last night too. Saw his bruises. He's lonely and he deserves it but I was worried. I thought maybe he'd gone looking for her again, run into some trouble. He knows she was here the other day and I was hoping...' She looks to the floor now with another shake of the head. 'I was hoping he might have found something.' I run my thumb across her knuckles in an attempt to soothe her.
'Did he?'
She sighs, shoulders heavy. 'He said he met the heel end of a bouncers boot before he got anywhere. And once we started talking we just...he's really lonely Naoms. He's different'. I meet her eyes and I can see the glaze of unshed tears trying desperately to stay unshed. 'He misses her, he misses Freddie. And I think he thinks if he finds her it'll make up for all the times he fucked up last year.'
'Will it?'
'As long as he thinks so. I meant it though Naomi, when I said to stay away from him. He's not stable anymore. He goes out of his way to hurt himself and as much as I hate to see it, I think he deserves it.' Her gaze is steely now, resolved, and I know she means what she says. Cook's hurt Emily and the people around her, but she loves him. I can tell. You never stop loving the prodigal son.
I move to catch a tear on the verge of escaping one of Emily's deep brown eyes when Cook tears out of the kitchen, a Stella in both hands.
'Ladies! How about a cold one?'
Emily jumps up from the sofa, quickly wiping away any evidence of tears from her cheeks. 'No thanks Cook,' she says, forcing a smile and busying herself with pulling on her jeans which she grabs from off the coffee table. 'I should get Naomi back to hers. She's not supposed to be out of bed.' Emily grabs the handles of my wheelchair and begins to wheel me to the door.
'Nice one Red, oi oi.' Cook howls and I hate him again. 'Anytime you two ladies fancy a frolic with the Cookie Monster, you know where to find me,' he winks, mouth gaping open.
Emily freezes and turns us back around. She stands for a moment fuming and I can see that she's beginning to lose it. Everything is catching up with her once again, worry upon worry, loss upon loss, and she snaps. 'Fuck off Cook!' She spits with a venom I never thought her capable of. 'Any chance you could go be a cunt somewhere else?' He doesn't say anything, doesn't even flinch as tense silence falls between the two of them. Cook licks his top lip, tasting the electricity, trying to work out how much further he'd have to push her to find himself on the receiving end of a slap or a barrage of words and screams. How much further would be have to push for her to continue the silence and never break it, ever? He sniffs now as his face splits into a wolfish grin.
Emily waits a moment longer before turning me back around and pushing me out into the corridor. I hear Cook's voice jeering behind me, 'Oi, Naomi, want to see my tattoo?'
Emily rolls us into the lift. She goes to push the button for my floor but I catch her shaking hand a give it a firm squeeze, directing her finger to button for the Ground Floor. I look back up at her over my shoulder and give her a reassuring smile. 'Let's get some fresh air shall we?'
By the time the lift touches down I've lost count of how many times Emily has apologised for losing her cool. 'I'm so sorry Naomi, I don't know what I was thinking going back there, you shouldn't have had to see that.'
'Emily, it's fine really. You wanted me to stay away and I don't think that's going to be a problem anymore.' My poor attempt at bringing light to the situation fails with Emily's face still etched with regret. I pull on her hand, motioning for her to crouch besides me. When she does she rests her forehead against mine, exhaling, her body relaxing. Coming down from it's fight or flight adrenaline rush. I hook my thumb under her chin and bring her lips to mine where we stay like that for a few seconds, savouring the calm we bring to each other. A small cleansing laugh escapes Emily's lips and soon it's ripping cathartically through her chest. I hold her hand and watch in wonder as the fearsome red-head I saw a minute ago dissolves into a giggling idiot.
'Oh God Naomi,' she attempts as she begins to bring it under control. 'It's just so...' she chokes a little and the laughter threatens again but she quells it. 'It's just so ridiculous. He's ridiculous, this whole situation is ridiculous!' She throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. She looks at me, tiny hands on tiny hips and smiles and I can't help but smile back.
I'm lost in Emily's eyes momentarily until something behind her catches my attention. Something huge and bin like. The litter bin. I quickly grab the wheels and propel myself past a confused looking Emily and over to the object of my uneasiness from before. If Emily's not in the bin, then who or what is? I peer over the rim, bracing myself for what I might find.
'Naomi, I'm really sorry but... what the fuck are you doing?'
Nothing. There's absolutely nothing inside the bin. Nothing but shiny new bin bag. Somebody emptied it, somebody who must have seen the dog take interest. Somebody who must have been watching at the very same time I was. I think back, but I draw a blank. Every window was empty, I'm sure of it. I gaze up and pick out my flat a few floors up. Someone must have seen, someone on my side of the building. The side that I can't see into. The idea of it irks me. They could be watching right now. If they were they'd surely know I'd seen everything too. I look up again, meticulously scouring windows now. Empty, empty, curtains drawn, empty. I hastily wheel around, frustration quickly boiling over. I have to get out of here. My breathing's becoming shallow and I again feel the blood rushing from my head to my toes.
'Naomi!' Emily calls after me. 'Where are we going?'
'You're taking me for coffee. Where's the furthest Starbucks from here?'
'Er, Seattle?'
'Great, take me there.'
I don't like being watched.
AN: Cheers for reading. This one was very narrative heavy so next chapter will be lighter. Next chapter, their first 'date'. Apologies if you're a Cook lover. I am too and he will get better. Promise. Reviews are wonderful if you can. Ta!
