I'm not sure what to make of this chapter. I just hope it all fits together okay. Please review... I love getting reviews.

Chapter 5

If only my newfound optimism could have lasted.

By the time I had been there for two weeks I was screaming inside. 'What goes up must come down'... and that's precisely what happened to my good feelings about coming to that school. Oh sure... it was good to see Richard every day and I had Meg. But it wasn't the social side of my life that I was making me want to rip my hair out by the roots. It was the pressure... endless, suffocating pressure from my teachers. The milestone of work I was given to do seemed to pile up and before the week was out I was considering committing hara-kiri rather than subject myself to the long haul of what was, I knew, only the beginning of my troubles.

I had my second pile of English work given to me the second day of school, along with History work from two of my other teachers. Yes... to my joy I found out that I had two History teachers as well, each one with their own separate part of the syllabus. The worst part of this was that it was completely different to the syllabus I had begun with, so in order to have any chance of passing the exams at the end of the year I would have to do about two years of study in just one. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I talked to Richard. He was sympathetic, but in the end there was nothing he could do about it either, except to offer me help with my English. I was grateful, but I could see what was coming. I felt like I was heading straight for a brick wall that would be impossible for me to ever get around or over. I would crash into it and just be in utter ruins... my whole future would be over.

Even my Music classes began to tell on me. Not because of trouble with the work, or lack of enjoyment. It was Charlotte who began to make life miserable for me. She never came out and said things to my face, but she would throw me glances all the time... hateful little looks that, at first, I ignored. I had thought she would stop after a few days of getting no reaction from me. But instead she only upped the psychological bullying by whispering to her friends and giggling when I was nearby. My state of paranoia, which wasn't too great anyway these days, worsened as a result. Suddenly almost every time someone laughed near me I was getting suspicious that it was me their humour was directed at. Even though a sensible part of me said this was ridiculous, I couldn't help it... and it was driving me over the edge.

But I couldn't do anything. As much as I wanted to confide in my father, who called me at the weekends to check up on me, but our conversations were so short, given the expense, that I never found an suitable opportunity and, even if I had, I probably wouldn't have taken it. It would make things complicated... and I didn't want to do that. My father had a wonderful opportunity... I couldn't live with myself if I ruined it for him.

So I had to persevere. I had to live through it.

I dropped my head into my hands.

But it's so hard, I thought miserably.

I had just finished talking to my father, and there was a terrible constricting feeling in my chest, like someone had taken my heart in their hand and was slowly, mercilessly squeezing it to the point where I thought it would burst. I breathed harshly for a few seconds, and wiped the tears that had managed to escape down my cheeks. I didn't want to be reduced to an hysterical wreck. I had to just suck it down and learn to deal.

Sniffing loudly and trying to shake off my urge to burst into tears, I straightened my back and picked up the pen I had set down next to the miniature mountain range of books that I had arranged around my desk. Reminding myself that I needed to get myself more organised if I was ever going to keep on top of my work, I bent my head over the history notes I had been set for this week, trying to sink into the (in my opinion) unappealing world of Charlemagne.

My phone began to vibrate across my desk, disrupting my concentration. I stared at it. The caller ID said "Caller Unknown" so I instantly assumed it was an international call. Perhaps my father was calling me back about something.

I picked up the phone and pressed the 'accept' button.

"Hello?"

"Good evening."

The voice was not my father's. And it wasn't Paula's or even Richard's. But I recognised it nevertheless, and I almost dropped the phone as my fingers went weak, feeling as though my energy and blood was being drained out of my body. It was a good thing I was sitting down, or I might have collapsed from my legs going so weak.

"You haven't forgotten about me, have you?"

Truth was, I had. Sort of, anyway. The memory of what had happened to me back in Rome... and my encounter with the man whose distinctive voice I now heard at the other end of the phone, had not exactly been erased from my mind. Merely clouded over by all the other things that I had been dealing with over the past two weeks. But I certainly remembered him now, and was shaking all over from the memory.

"No," I managed to squeak out in a strained whisper then, trying to sound a little more controlled; "I haven't forgotten."

"I'm very glad to hear it," he said, and I could tell he was smirking. The thought of it lit a fire inside my head, which already had enough fuel to last a lifetime. What he said next did not help in the least. "I thought I might call... just to check on you."

"How thoughtful," I remarked snidely. "It was very considerate of you to remind me of all the death threats on top of everything else I have to deal with."

"Why? Are you having problems?"

That question threw me for a moment, not just because it was so direct and insightful, but also the tone with which it was asked. What was that underlying emotion? But I recovered quickly from my confusion and responded heatedly. "It's none of your business."

"Of course it isn't," he replied with infuriating calm. "But I thought you might appreciate having someone to talk to."

I laughed outright, with so much bitterness I was shocked at myself. "Oh sure... like I really want to spill my problems to someone like you."

"So you are having problems."

The fact that he was right only fuelled my outrage. Something snapped inside my head, and my voice went right along with it. "What the hell do you care!" I shouted down the phone. "Just leave me the hell alone!" And I hung up, almost throwing the mobile phone against the opposite wall in my sudden burst of emotion.

I didn't know why, but somehow just admitting that I was having difficulty coping made me get upset. And having someone like him draw the information out of me, when I couldn't even fathom the courage to tell my own father about it... it put the first real crack in my façade of control and stability. I felt my breathing become harsh in my throat, and the sobs began to take over. Hot tears ran down my cheeks and I pressed the heel of my palm between my eyes as I desperately tried to fight them.

Once I finally had myself under some semblance of control again, I looked down at the desk in front of me, and the books and papers strewn everywhere. The sight very nearly caused me to break down again. How could I possibly do all this work in time? Despairingly, I put my head in my hands.

I nearly jumped out of my chair when the mobile phone, which was still clutched in one white-knuckled hand, rang once again. I stared at it for a few seconds, at the "Unknown Caller" message that flashed on the little screen, not sure whether I should answer or just put it in my drawer and forget about it.

Finally I pressed a button and raised the phone up to my ear with a trembling hand.

"Hello?"

"Have you got yourself under control now?"

Him again. I was about to make some scathing comment about how persistent he was being but stopped myself, partly because I was afraid what his reaction might be and also the fact that he was being so persistent confused me. Why was he calling me? Why was he asking me about my problems? The absurdity of what was happening... this conversation... the man's patient reaction to my outburst was too much for me. As these thoughts swirled about inside my head, I heard my breath becoming ragged again, until my throat felt sore and a strange choking sound escaped my lips.

"Come now, my dear... take a deep breath."

"What?" I asked in a shaky, confused voice.

"Take a deep breath."

Still not quite understanding, I did as he instructed and took in a long, deep breath through my nose. Then I let it out slowly through my mouth, trying to control it as much as possible. But it ended in a long shudder that nearly became another sob.

"And again, my dear."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a baby," I said, my anger threatening to make a drastic reappearance.

"If you don't want to be treated like a baby then I suggest you stop acting like one."

His cool approach to my temper only confused me more, and I was silent for a moment as I tried to put together the pieces of exactly what was happening to me. I was on the phone... with someone who had threatened my life and my family... who had killed a man... and he was telling me to stop acting like a baby. It was surreal... it couldn't really be happening.

"Now..." he went on, "perhaps you'd like to talk about what's troubling you."

I mentally slapped myself, briefly dispelling all my confused thoughts. Even if his apparent concern did puzzle me, I wasn't about to be duped into telling him all the things going on in my life. I wasn't that stupid.

"Why should I tell you?" I asked, trying to sound more level-headed than I actually felt.

I could well imagine him giving a dismissive shrug at the question. "Because I'm prepared to listen. And it certainly sounds as though you need someone to talk to."

"Why do you care?" I asked, repeating my earlier question, but without the hysteria this time.

There was a soft, amused chuckle from the man at the other end. "When did I say I did care?"

This was just getting worse and worse. We were talking round in circles, answering questions with more questions, and it was doing nothing for my already ragged nerves. I wished that he would just get the matter over with, make his threats and leave me alone once and for all. But since clearly he wasn't about to do this, I decided to play along for a little. Perhaps I could catch him out.

"Well... you didn't," I admitted. "But then why would you ask?"

"Curiosity," he said simply.

"How charming," I muttered sarcastically. "But I'm not really in the habit of telling people I don't know about my personal problems."

Even over the phone I could sense his amusement. "Touché, my dear."

I couldn't help smiling at that particular comeback. But I seized on the opportunity to ask him questions. "How about you tell me your name?" I reasoned that if I could find out some information about this man then maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to turn him in without putting myself and my family at serious risk. It was worth a shot at least.

Unfortunately, he was on to me.

"Planning to wheedle information out of me, my dear?" he asked mockingly, and then tutted down the phone. I gritted my teeth at his blatant patronising and waited for him to go on. "Well... I certainly don't mind telling you my name, since it won't make the least bit of difference if you tell anyone. You may call me Erik."

Erik... well, that certainly didn't give me much to go on. And from what he had just said it was probably a false name. If he was the kind of man he appeared to be then he probably had years of experience of avoiding the police. He could make a murder look like suicide... he had access to that massive underground maze... No. It probably didn't make any difference that I knew his name. I was still stuck.

"So now that we are better acquainted..." He left the prompt hanging, waiting for my response. And, in spite of everything, I found that I did want to speak. It wasn't that I felt particularly inclined to speak to him... this Erik person. I was willing, at this point, to spill my guts to anyone... apart from my family, whose consciences I didn't want to burden in any way.

After a minute or so of silence, with only the sound of my breathing filling the room, he spoke again, and his voice was so wonderfully gentle I felt a little of my icy exterior towards him melt away.

"Talk, Christine."

Perhaps it was his use of my name, and the warm, rich way that he pronounced every syllable of it... the way it sounded, from his lips, like some soft, reverent prayer. Whatever it was, it made me ache to spill every thought in my head and heart to him. But I knew I shouldn't... no matter how much I needed to.

"Listen... Erik," I said finally, shocked at how I was actually making an effort to sound polite, as if I was wary of hurting his feelings. "I appreciate your... your 'concern'. But I really don't want to talk about this."

There was a moment of tense silence and I realised I was chewing my lower lip nervously, as I was worried I may have offended him.

"Really?" he asked, with more than a hint of scepticism.

Don't you dare give in, I told myself sternly while saying aloud, "Yes... really."

He gave a theatrical sigh down the phone. "Well... you know your own mind, I'm sure."

Patronising me again. But I held my tongue this time. What I wanted most of all was for the conversation to end before I had another emotional breakdown and really did end up telling him what was wrong.

"I suspect you've got a lot of work to be getting on with," he went on.

A lump rose in my throat and I cast a look at the pile of work that I had to get done. "Yes," I whispered, my voice very close to breaking.

"Then I won't take up any more of your time. Good night."

I barely had time to say a bewildered goodbye in return before I heard the clicking sound of the phone being replaced. I held my own phone in front of my face and looked down at the little screen, as though it might hold the answers to the numerous questions running through my mind. Eventually I slammed it down angrily on the desk.

Who did this man... this Erik... think he was? He must be insane to think that I would actually confide in him after everything he had done to me. Why would I want him as my agony uncle? I'd sooner confide my problems to Adolf Hitler!

But even as I bent my head and began ferociously working on my history notes, I knew that this wasn't entirely true. Yes... it was crazy to think that this man was actually concerned to any degree about what was going on in my life, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't wanted, however briefly, to tell him everything. It wasn't because I thought he might understand or be able to help... because I didn't. It was he fact that, as he had pointed out himself, he was prepared to listen. I believed that, even if I could only guess at the reasons why. It would be such a relief to talk to someone about what was happening without having to worry about making then feel guilty, which was why I couldn't bring myself to tell my father.

At last I put my pen down and, with great theatrical aplomb, brought my forehead crashing down after it.

"Why me?" I murmured into the desk.

I was still asking myself this question when I finally climbed into bed and drifted into a numb, dreamless sleep.