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The Party. Lisa Hall
Читать онлайн.Название The Party
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008215002
Автор произведения Lisa Hall
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство HarperCollins
CHAPTER 27
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Publisher
NEW YEAR’S DAY – THE MORNING AFTER THE PARTY
Something happened. Something bad. That’s the first thought that swims vaguely through my mind as I struggle my way into full consciousness. Followed by the realization that, I don’t know what, but I know it’s not good. My head hurts. I try to open my eyes, the feeble wash of winter sunshine that tries to force its way through the lining of the curtains making me squint in pain. My head hurts and I feel really, really sick. I close my eyes again, willing the thud at my temples to die down and let me go back to sleep, before I crack one eye open again, a vague sense of uneasiness making me reluctant to keep them closed.
Where am I? Peering out from under the duvet cover, the room is unfamiliar to me and I swallow down the nausea that roils in my stomach. In the dim light, I can make out a large chest of drawers pushed against the wall, the top of it free of any clutter, and a mirror hanging above it. A generic picture hangs on the opposite wall, and there is no sign of anything personal – no photos, no make-up, no clutter that tells me that this is someone’s bedroom. A spare room, then, and I seem to be alone, which is good, I think.
The same thought drifts through my mind as when I woke, that something happened last night, something that makes me feel somehow dirty and indecent. Scratching at my arms, I roll on to my back before pushing the duvet away from my clammy face, sweat making my hair stick to my forehead. The touch of fabric against my skin makes me stop for a moment, pausing in my quest to get comfortable, that and the fact that every muscle in my body seems to hurt. Sliding a hand under the covers I feel around – yes, my top is still on. No bottoms though, the fabric against my bare legs is that of the cotton sheets I’m lying on, not my trousers, or pyjama bottoms.
Something bad happened. My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I run my hand over my thighs, wincing at the sharp pain that lances me. Frowning, I push the duvet down, exposing my lower half to the warm air emitted from a large radiator under the window, and struggle my way into a sitting position. Slowly, Rachel, go slowly. As I push up on my elbows to shove my way up the pillows behind me, a surge of saliva spurts into my mouth and I swallow hard, desperate not to be sick. The thumping in my head accelerates and black dots dance at the corners of my eyes.
Closing my eyes again I wait a moment, drawing in a ragged deep breath and letting it out slowly. I’ve never had a hangover like this before. The nausea fades, and I run my hands over my lower half again, the skin on the inside of my thighs feeling bruised and sore. I slide my hands between my legs, and my heart beat doubles as I realize the bruised, raw feeling extends to there too. Oh, God. I lean back against the cool of the pillow, eyes closed again against the watery light, trying my hardest to remember what happened last night. There’s nothing, not a single thing that I can hook my memory on, just that uncertain feeling that something happened to me last night. It’s like there’s a gaping hole in my memory, a black bottomless pit that has sucked away any recollection of the previous evening. Gareth. What about Gareth? Where is he? I have to get home. I have to see Gareth; he’ll be worried (angry?) that I didn’t come home last night.
Steeling myself, I swing my legs round and out from underneath the duvet, pressing my feet to the floor as dizziness washes over me. My mouth is dry, so dry it hurts to swallow. Spying a plastic water bottle on the floor, half-hidden under the bed, I lean over, another wave of nausea making my mouth water, and take a sip. It tastes stale and dusty, as though it has been there for a long time, but it relieves the scratchiness of my throat, squashing down the bile that sits at the back of it. Placing the bottle back down on the floor, the sleeve of my top rides up to reveal a thick, purple bruise on the underside of my bicep. I poke at it, hissing as the tender skin shrieks out at my touch, the muscle sore and delicate. I wrap my fingers around my arm and see that the bruise is a perfect thumbprint, as though someone has grabbed me roughly. Remember, Rachel.
I slide my body slowly down the bed frame until I have sunk onto the immaculate carpet, the thick pile tickling the undersides of my bare thighs, my head pounding in time to a rhythm that no one else can hear. Scrubbing my hands over my eyes, I take a deep breath and look up – I am naked from the waist down, and that needs to be rectified before I can go anywhere. I need to get out of here. Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of the door opening and someone walking in, finding me like this, half naked and vulnerable. Getting to my knees, and squashing down the horrid, shameful thoughts that lurk at the outskirts of my mind at the soreness in my thighs, I crawl towards a tangled mass of black, bunched into the corner of the room, against the mahogany of the chest of drawers. Reaching out a hand, I pull the bundle towards me, unravelling it to reveal my black wet-look leggings. Thank God. Relief floods my veins as I recognize the snarl of black fabric as my own clothing, but that fades as I shake them out, searching for my underwear. It’s not there. I turn the leggings inside out and back again, hoping that I’ve pulled everything off in a drunken state last night, but my underwear is definitely missing.
And are you sure that YOU took them off, Rachel? A stern voice whispers at the back of my mind, the bruising on your thighs … the fact that you can’t remember anything … what does that tell you? I hunch forward over the bundle of cloth in my arms, fighting back tears and the ever-present urge to throw up. What the hell happened to me last night? What did I do? And who else was involved?
On shaking legs, now clad in yesterday’s leggings, the plasticky fabric clinging uncomfortably to my clammy skin, I gently push open the bedroom door and venture out into the hallway. The murmur of low voices wafts up the stairs towards me, uncertainty making me waver on the landing, not wanting to go and face whoever is down there. At least now though, I have some idea of who it will be – a family portrait hangs at the top of the stairs, and I recognize the tiled hallway and stained-glass windows of the front door below. It’s a house that I’ve only ever visited occasionally, and I’ve never ventured upstairs, which goes a long way towards explaining why I was confused when I woke up this morning. White Christmas lights glitter around the front door, and the scent of pine from the Christmas garland that circles the banister catches at the back of my throat. A tacky silver banner hangs drunkenly across the wall of the entrance hall, loudly proclaiming for all to have a ‘Happy New Year’. The glitter of the lights makes me dizzy and I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, gripped by vertigo, certain I am about to lose my footing and tumble down the stairs. The dizziness passes, and slowly I make my descent, one hand brushing the wall to keep my balance, as I still feel ridiculously hungover – more than I would ever have expected, the insistent throbbing in my temples making me long for my own bed, and the safe comfort of my own home. My silver sandals dangle from the other hand, found in the opposite corner of the bedroom much to my relief, although I think I would have walked barefoot if necessary.
As I reach the hallway, the tiles almost painfully cold beneath my bare feet, the chatter of voices gets louder, as though a door has been opened. I scoot across the cold tiles into the front room, where all the evidence of a party lies, scattered and ground into the carpet. A Christmas tree, looking worse for wear now, its needles dropping and littering the carpet, shines gaudily in the corner of the room, almost seeming out of place in the grim aftermath of what must have been a raucous party. Several empty wine bottles line the mantelpiece, and glasses litter the coffee table, some empty, some with the dregs of boozy Christmas drinks in the bottom. The table is usually polished to a shine, but now it is marred with glass rings on the wood, crumpled napkins, and several paper plates with the remains of buffet food smeared over them. I fight back the nausea that rises at the sight of left-over canapés, the faint smell of warm seafood hitting the back of my throat. A hefty splash of red wine scars the cream rug in front of the still smouldering open fire, and there are tiny shards of glass glinting on the hearth, where someone has made a drunken attempt to sweep away a broken