The House Guest by Mark Edwards(14)

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

Eden’s gaze was fixed on a point on the floor by my feet. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

I exchanged a quick glance with Ruth. She appeared as woozy as I felt. ‘Come on, you can tell us,’ I said to Eden.

‘No, I can’t. Please, leave it.’

‘We love you,’ said Ruth, leaning over to give Eden a hug.

‘Hey, you’re getting me wet!’

All I could hear, in the moment that followed, was the patter of rain against glass. The storm had eased but the noise of that rain was sharp and clear, and the room was bathed in a sickly, mustardy light. My mouth felt like a hole where a spider might go to die.

I was never going to drink tequila again.

We stood up, all three of us, and hugged in a circle. I tried to speak but my lips and tongue wouldn’t work properly. I remember staring at Eden and jolting as she morphed, just for a second, into someone else. I recall that my heart beat so fast I thought I might die. I remember the growing pain in my stomach, the heaviness in my limbs, the dryness of my mouth. Finally, I remember that hug, my chin on Eden’s shoulder, Ruth’s arm around my back, the dampness of her clothes against me, and Eden looking up at me with a faint, sly smile.

Then a blank space where the memories should be.





Chapter 8

I woke up in a puddle of sweat, naked, sun pouring into the room. I’d left the curtains open overnight. My body felt like a strip of salted beef jerky, and there was what felt like a laser piercing my skull.

I had the vaguest memory of myself in the bathroom at some point during the night. The porcelain of the toilet. The stink of tequila and vomit.

I groped blindly for the glass of water I always kept beside the bed. It wasn’t there. Neither was the bedside cabinet. My brain tried to make sense of what was happening. Where was I? Where was my bed?

Sleep sucked me back under before I could find the answers.

I have no idea how much time passed before I woke again. This time, on top of the pounding in my head and the cold nausea that shuddered through me, I became aware of an ache in my back, a hardness beneath me. I was on the floor of my and Ruth’s bedroom.

And I was going to be sick again.

I tried to stand but the room spun so violently that I fell on to my knees then crawled to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. The stench of tequila hit me and I threw up again. Every part of my body, inside and out, hurt like I was being jabbed by a million tiny needles. Once I was sure I wasn’t going to be sick again, I was overcome by the need to get the foul taste out of my mouth. I found the bathtub and heaved myself into it, reaching up to turn on the cold tap. Then I lay there, naked, shivering and sweating, with my mouth open beneath the life-saving trickle of water.

I don’t remember getting out of the tub. When I woke again, I was lying on our bed, alone. There was no sign of Ruth. I felt wretched, feverish and sick, but I no longer felt like I was going to die. I reached out to find my phone, to see what time it was, but it wasn’t there. With enormous effort, I got up again and, this time, was able to walk – well, stagger – to the bathroom, where I found some Advil in the cabinet. I wrapped a towel around my waist and went back out into the hallway. There was no sound of movement in the house, though I could hear the usual hubbub outside, and Eden’s door was shut.

I paused outside her door, a claw of unease squeezing my insides. Something had happened last night.

Something I couldn’t remember and didn’t want to face.

I went back into my room, shut the door behind me and closed the curtains. I cranked up the A/C – it was still working upstairs, thank God – and stripped the damp sheets off my bed before lying down on the bare mattress. Where was Ruth? Asleep downstairs? Already got up and gone to her rehearsal? I knew I ought to go down and check on her, but I couldn’t move.

Like a snail crawling into its shell, I retreated into sleep.



I was awoken by the blaring horn of a van or truck outside, an endless honking that made me pull my pillow over my head. I had been dreaming about the cruise. In the dream, I was running through the corridors, shouting for help. The ship had struck an iceberg and was filling with water, but it seemed I was all alone because everyone else had already boarded the lifeboats and escaped.

The honking stopped. I still had no idea what time it was, but I felt a little better than when I’d woken earlier. Well enough to sit up without feeling like I was going to be sick. The A/C had chilled the room, though the room still stank of sweat and stale alcohol. I could taste tequila and, once again, I swore my relationship with that drink, perhaps all alcohol, was over for good. Groaning, I put on a T-shirt and yesterday’s jeans, then left the bedroom. I needed to find my phone so I could at least see what time it was.

Eden’s door was still shut. I assumed Ruth had gone to her rehearsal; I couldn’t imagine her missing it. No matter how hungover she was – and I hoped for her sake she didn’t feel anything like me – she wouldn’t risk incurring Sally’s wrath.

The walk down the stairs made me realise my hangover was far from gone – every step made my brain shake – and when I saw the state of the living room, I wanted to go straight back up to bed. The remains of our Japanese meal were congealing where we’d left them, with a bunch of flies buzzing above the cartons. Noodles hung off the edge of the table, a little pile of them gathered on the wooden floor like worms having a party. A container of dark-coloured sauce had tipped over on the sofa, as had the unfinished second tequila bottle. Books had been pulled from the shelves and scattered across the floor, and there were orange smears on the vintage jukebox, as if someone had sprayed sauce over it. On top of the mess, the room was stiflingly hot and fetid, filled with the stench of last night’s food and booze.