Sugarcoated (6 page)

Something was snorty-growling very close to me. The sound rose and fell, ugly and slobbery and wet. Like something you might hear from a rhinoceros with a heavy cold. It was loud. Very. Jarring with the tinny niggle of
I Am the Walrus
nearby. When I groaned the growling stopped. Which meant – oh dear, and oh how mortifying – I’d been snoring again.

Properly awake now, I tried to stand. Couldn’t. I was swaddled in blankets, head bricked in with stacks of cushions and pillows.
What’s happened to me? Where am I? What time is it?
I groped for thoughts, my head even duller than it had been after all that champagne I’d drunk the other night.
And those cocktails that had wiped my memory.
No headache though. No queasiness either, thank goodness. Just muddy thoughts and a big worrying blankness between the last things I could remember and now.

Stefan. Hot hands. Heavy limbs. Questions. Sleep. Fear …

I could grasp at these details but couldn’t sharpen them beyond blurry in my memory. I shook my head. No use. Everything was still fuzzy, apart from the high-pitched notes of my phone. Still ringing. Close enough to my ear that I felt it vibrate. Stopping before I could grope about for it. Then ringing again.

‘Babes. Thank goodness! You’re back in the land of the living. I’ve phoned you non-stop. What happened last night? You
totally
crashed on me. Some of us have done a day’s work while you’ve been snoring. And by the way, do you
snore –
’

Stefan’s voice was bright. Full of laughter.

‘Snoring? Me?’ My own voice was raspy. Small.

‘Kidding, My Sleeping Beauty, you were.’

Stefan clicked his tongue to dismiss the worry in my voice. He sounded anxious when he spoke again. ‘You still with me, babes? You OK? I’m coming over.’

‘No. Need to get home.’ I was on my feet now. Still
fully dressed, by the way. Apart from my shoes which were paired and waiting for me on a little mat at the end of the sofa.

Thank God. He didn’t … I’ve not been … I’m still
… I shook away the thoughts I was having, guilty I was even having them now, especially with Stefan on the end of the phone. So pleased to hear me. Friendly. Caring.

How could I have doubted this guy’s intentions?

‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘M’dad doesn’t know where I – haven’t seen him for a whole day and – oh no, it’s Monday. I’ve school. What time is it?’

‘Claudia. Claudia. You need to relax more, babes –’ Stefan’s chuckle interrupted me.

‘You’ve no school today. Not with an upset stomach. It’s sorted. I phoned you in sick. St Mary’s, yeah?’

‘But I’m not –’ Stefan wasn’t letting me speak.

‘You’ve to get well soon. “Tell her to take a couple of days, Mr Quinn,” that’s what your dame in the office said, so you don’t need to show up till midweek. Just hang out. My place is your place –’

‘But I can’t. My dad – I need to …?’

‘You texted him last night, babes. He’s sorted too.’

‘No I didn’t –’

‘He thinks you did.’

‘Huh?’

‘You told him you went to Fran’s to study history –’

‘I didn’t. Fran’s not even in my history class.’

Never was. What’s more she wasn’t even at school any more; worked as a teller in the Royal Bank. I tried to tell Stefan but he was assuring me, ‘You told pops you were with her.’

‘No. I left him a note about going on a date. He’ll worry sick about me. He’ll have the police out –’

‘But you sent him a text when your date stood you up. “Dumped. Boohoo. Surprise, surprise. Revising with Fran instead. Staying over.”’

‘I didn’t say
that
,’ I said. Winced: why did Stefan
have
to have said
surprise, surprise
? I was sharper with him when I asked, ‘And how d’you know who Fran is – ?’

‘And how did I get her number? And how did I unlock your phone to read through your address book? Your texts. Find a chum you could be kipping over with?’

In the silence on the line I heard myself breathing hard.

How did you? That’s private stuff.

‘Tried those Quinn passwords, didn’t I? Remember you gave them to me last night? Handy that. Hey, just as well you can trust me with your secrets.’ Stefan’s voice was low. A murmur. ‘Not just a pretty baby-face, am I ?’ he added, and when he spoke, I’d the eensiest suspicion a second voice guffawed some remark to Stefan in the background.

‘Where are you?’ I sounded snappy.

‘On my way to you, babes,’ Stefan replied, adding, ‘Hey, your dad texted back, last night, by the way. He’s been a very naughty boy.’

Phew, I thought when I checked my Inbox. Dad had bought the Fran lie. Why wouldn’t he, anyway? Sad girls like me don’t get up to the things that worry parents. Never have the opportunity.

Work hard

Dad’s text began.

Sorry your date dissied you.
Bloke’s loss. Who was this
joker anyway?

It went on. And on. Dad’s one of these pedantic technophobes who texts in full words:

Done for speeding on A9
yesterday. Twice. Six points.
No driving licence in wallet.
Can you look for that now, else
I’ll be charged? Still no VISA???
See you tonight, Cloddy. Yer Pa
xx ps Polis want to talk to you
again – ‘urgent’. Better stay on
their good side for the sake of
my driving record.

I clicked REPLY to let Dad know I’d cancelled his VISA, but when I saw my battery was almost flatlining I decided to head home instead. Look for his licence. See what the cops wanted. The walk would clear my head. So I
checked through my address book for Stefan’s number, having a dander through his flat while it rang out. It was a strange crib altogether. Every drawer, every wardrobe and every cupboard was empty. New smelling. Unused. And everything was white. Except Stefan’s bathroom which was white and chrome with a silvery rubber floor.

‘A wet-room. Wow. Mum’s fantasy,’ I whispered peeking into a couple of bedrooms so pristine, I couldn’t believe anyone had ever slept in the identically made-up beds.

Doesn’t look like Stefan even stayed here last night, I thought, as his phone clicked from ringing out to voicemail.

Definitely Stefan’s voicemail. Although I didn’t have a clue what his message was instructing me. You see, I recognised Stefan’s voice all right. And his name when he pronounced it. But not the language he was speaking. No. It was Double Dutch as far as I was concerned.

Oh. Apart from one word.

If I’m ever in a pub quiz or on ‘Millionaire’ and I’m asked the Double Dutch term for psychopath, I’ll be able to say, ‘It’s
psychopath
, Chris. Final answer.’

Do you ever get something into your head about someone? Like they’re out to stab you in the back even though they’re being sweeter than a Caramac to your face?

Funnily enough, Fran, my supposed swot-mate, was a bit like that with me. Strange that out of all the names in my phone (about six if I have to be honest) Stefan should have picked her: The Girl Least Likely to Invite Clod Quinn for a Sleepover. Ever.

She was only
in
my phone at all because she’d asked Georgina for my number to send me a text-slag during games last year.

Don’t trip, Bigfoot.

She used to call me that. Or ‘Plod’, on account of my size nines. So I’d stored her number to tb. When I
finally thought of something suitably insulting.

Does counting beans all day
hurt your brain?

was the best I’d come up with, so I was biding my time.

But maybe Stefan picking Fran’s name at random from my address book’s a sign. That I should watch myself …

I’d planted these doubts into my head about Stefan in the moments between hearing his Double Dutch phone message and trying to get his lift door to open.

See it wouldn’t.

‘There’s no button. I’m trapped.’ I worked myself into an instant lather, banging and kicking at the lift, even shouting ‘Help Me. I’m kidnapped,’ a couple of times. Honestly, I must have watched
Panic Room
too many times, because even while I was shouting blue murder I was opening Stefan’s unlocked front door. The door faced a stairwell. Duh! A helpful green running man on the wall was pointing down it beneath the flashing words WAY OUT.

Eleven floors later and with thighs like solid rubber,
I ran out of steps to descend. I’d to pause on the tiny landing, hands on knees catching my breath before shoving down the emergency-bar on the one-way metal door in front of me. Expecting a rush of fresh air and rain on my face I was thrown, not only to find myself in darkness, but to smack hard into something cold and metal.

A car. Stefan’s dinky sports car, I presumed.

‘Oooyah,’ I rubbed my shin where I’d grazed it on Stefan’s number-plate. Then felt my way round the vehicle’s soft top, hand over hand. How the hell did I get out now? And if Stefan’s car was here, where was he?

The garage was completely sealed to daylight, only a dim strip of sickly green from the stairwell breaking the pitch darkness.
And I can’t get back out that way, either,
I thought as I began groping my way along the walls. I was feeling for a light switch, hearing my own breath coming in short grunts.

‘I saw fine last night when we drove in. There must be lights,’ I spoke aloud, trying to keep myself together. But any section of wall I ran my hand along was
smooth. And there were no obvious buttons round the facing of Stefan’s huge metal up-and-over garage door. No handle on the inside either.

I’d have to wait for Stefan now.

‘Buggeritis!’ my voiced bounced back to me off the concrete walls. More in frustration than hope, I turned and whumped my backside against the garage door. No movement, just a rippling metallic clang. I whumped again. Ouch! Harder. And what do you know? This second time, the door yielded.

‘We’re out of here, Big Butt,’ I congratulated myself, jerking my hips forwards and then whamming my backside back for what I hoped might be the third and final push.

Except there was no door to butt this time. No. Soundlessly it had slid open and now hung above me, leaving my great battleship of an arse greeting the passengers of a big black jeepy motor driving at speed down the garage ramp.

One of the front seat passengers in the jeepy motor was Stefan. When its brakes slammed on and it skidded to a stop about a hair’s breadth from my left buttock, he leapt out of it although I didn’t recognise him immediately. He was wearing a pinstriped suit smarter than anything Dad had ever worn for work. No sign of the Man in Black coat he’d on last night. No black jeans. No cowboy boots.

So where d’you change gear?
I would have asked if Stefan hadn’t been barking out something which included my name into the jeepy car as he slammed its passenger door and made flappy Get Away signals to the driver. I couldn’t make out who Stefan gestured at. The face behind the wheel was totally invisible thanks to the charcoal privacy glass you get in fancy cars; but as soon as Stefan waved, his driving companion ground into reverse with a crunching desperation that even a
fledgling driver like myself knew ain’t healthy for any gearbox. Far too quickly for me to peer through the windscreen to check out this nutter on the clutch, the jeepy wheelspinned. Never even entered the garage.

‘What was all that about?’ I watched the jeepy’s shrinking tail lights, my hands wafting through a filthy belch of exhaust smoke. Its bitterness in my nostrils combined with the sour tang of burnt rubber on tarmac. ‘What’s Mikey’s hurry?’ I spluttered.

‘Mikey, babes?’ Glancing quickly from me to where the jeepy should have been if its driver had stuck to the speed limit for a residential area, Stefan frowned at me.

‘Mikey Schumacher. Y’know: racing driver? That guy’s driving like him. And what’s with the suit?’ I started to say, but Stefan silenced me by stretching his arm across my chest. With gentle pressure he backed me into the garage. His voice seemed tight, like he was annoyed but trying to hold back from showing it.

‘What the hell are you doing down here, babes? Nearly got flattened. You weren’t leaving without telling me?’ he said, with a dry laugh, and before I knew what was happening, or could decide what
Stefan really thought about my failed getaway, the massive metal door I stupidly thought I’d opened with my magic bum lowered like a well-oiled drawbridge. The garage was in darkness again.

‘Hey, hang on –’

Now I was the one sounding strained, my voice bouncing off concrete walls like stretched elastic. ‘Look, I need to head. I was down here trying to find a way out –’

‘Babes, what’s Mikey’s hurry?’

Stefan’s voice sounded back to normal, his tone soothing, not strained or stern any more. I felt his palm cupping the back of my head. When he echoed the question I’d asked him about the jeepy’s driver, mimicking my sarkiness, his breath was a warm chuckle in my ear. The sudden nearness of him sent a shiver through me and I let him take my hands and lead me further into the pitch dark of the garage, even though I didn’t like it in there. I liked it even less when he twirled me under his arm like we were dancing in the dark and I lost my bearings. Couldn’t tell if Stefan was in front of me, behind me, still with me for that matter.

‘Hey! Where are you?’ I was bleating. Groping my arms about. ‘Switch a light on, will you? Coz I really need to go now …’

Instead of Stefan’s voice, silence rang back.

‘Stefan?’

Silence still.

‘Look,’ now my voice was cracking. Gulpy. ‘This isn’t funny. Let me see to get out.’

Silence again. Enough already.

‘You’re being a bastard,’ I hissed, and instead of feeling scared any more, a surge of anger wiped my uneasiness. Sticking my arms in front of me, I stomped a few zombie steps forwards until my hands met metal.

At the garage door I bunched my fists and began to pummel.

‘Someone let me out of –’ I took a deep breath and hollered, but before I could get anywhere near the volume I was aiming for, my wrists were grabbed. I was birled round and grasped tight.

‘Babes,’ Stefan soothed, squashing my cheek against his pinstripes. ‘I had to punish you for running out on me. You mustn’t do things like that –’ Stefan’s mouth
was in my hair while he spoke, his voice a whisper, ‘Because we’re not done yet. Oh no, no, no …’

When Stefan shoved me up against the garage door, the back of my skull clonked the metal hard enough to send a ripple through it that made my teeth vibrate. The impact wasn’t sore exactly, but it wasn’t pleasant. Stefan wasn’t being nearly as gentle as he looked …

I don’t know whether to be scared or excited
, I realised, deciding,
actually, I’m both: kinda turned on by a guy who likes rough
.

Stefan had my upper arms pinned against my sides in the vice-grip of his hands. When he ground his mouth against mine in a flat, closed-lip kiss, I tasted my own blood.

‘Get into my car now, babes,’ Stefan muttered, his lips still pressed to mine. Then he let me go. Reaching above my head he flicked a switch. Bright, yellow light exploded the darkness away.

I was so dazzled I had to cover my face. Black floaters bopped about beneath my eyelids while my vision tried to adapt to the strip-lights. At first, the floaters moved formlessly; sea-monkey-sized dots
behind my fingers like interference on a telly with the brightness too high. But just before I took my hands away and opened my eyes properly, something very strange happened. The floaters started to move together, gathering to combine into a single image. Now all this happened in the space of … oh, no more than a couple of seconds, and I didn’t have a clue how this bizarre still came to be stored in my head like a mental photo I couldn’t recall taking. I mean if I could have chosen a pin-up for my Subconscious Mind, I’d’ve had Stefan’s smiling babyface pixelated to the inside of my eyelids, or maybe Johnny Depp in his Captain Jack Sparrow get-up.

Certainly something sexier and less chav than two gold-ringed hands gripping a steering wheel. But that was the picture that flashed up in my head when the floaters stopped floating: a pair of ugly sovereign-bedecked hands, complete with tattooed letters inked across their kunckles. How tacky! Quickly I closed my eyes, shaking my head to clear away the image. The steering wheel faded immediately. But not the fingers. That was really weird. They hung in my mind’s eye,
their middle joints showing white as if they were gripping on to something. Pulling it …

Stefan was opening the passenger door of his car for me – ‘Hop in, babes’ – when I remembered what these fingers reminded me of, and where I’d seen them before.

‘Make yourself comfortable.’ Stefan clicked his tongue the way you catch the attention of a pet dog when you want it to obey. I did, slipping my low-slung backside on to the low-slung seat beside Stefan like a zombie. All I could think about was how the ringed hands of whoever had driven Stefan into his garage five minutes ago gripped a steering wheel exactly like I’d seen a hairline gripped two days earlier. Roughly. Cruelly. Before these fingers had pulled back a man’s head. Slamming it into …

Nah. Behave yourself, Claudia. You’re getting one of
those flashbacks about the hammer attack. Just like Stefa
n
said might happe
n
… I decided, on the brink of blurting out how Stefan was right about his subconscious mind theory: I
had
seen something useful I could tell Starsky and Hutch.
And hey, what a coincidence: the driver of the jeepy that’s just left made me remember something
about one of those bampots outside Dad’s shop
…

But the echoey roar of Stefan’s engine, accelerating from the gloom of the underground garage into the sunshine of a Monday no-school morning, drowned anything I could have said. Left me blinking my head clear of everything but daylight.

Besides which, Stefan had his music blaring … Actually, deary me, it wasn’t music. It was Westlife. One of their heinous ballads about flying or wings or soaring roses or something: drivel. Though from the look on Stefan’s face as he sang along I could see he was right into it. Word perfect, totally flat, he belted out the lyric like Ray Charles himself was speaking to his soul.

‘Isn’t this amazing, babes?’ Stefan interrupted himself just before that essential and completely gut-turning chord change section you have in every boyband slow number where the pretty laddios get cheered for standing up off their stools in synch without falling over.

‘What’s amazing? That CD? I think it’s a pile of –’ Slunk down in the passenger seat in case anyone I knew saw me and thought this was my kind of muzac
too, I was about to let rip about the crapness of soppy pop but Stefan pressed a button on his dashboard that made the car roof bzzz open up. He flung his arm around my shoulder and took his eyes off the road to smack a kiss on my cheek.

‘Everything!’ he shouted, putting his foot down to accelerate on to the Clydeside Expressway.

‘You and me, babes –’

Stefan drove too fast for either of us to hear another note or word over the roar of his engine, although I did try to shout he’d been flashed by a speed camera so maybe he should slow down. But my stupid hair kept blowing into my mouth whenever I opened it. Made it impossible to talk. During the journey I couldn’t ask where Stefan had been during the night while I thought he was in the flat with me.

How come he’d changed his clothes.

And I couldn’t ask him about the Double Dutch message on his mobile.

Who exactly was the guy with the rings in the jeepy?

And why had this same guy zoomed away so fast?

But I knew all these questions, not to mention what
really happened on my First Date, should be asked. And answered.
Before you hang about with this Stefan fella any longer
. That’s what Mum and Dad and Georgina would be advising.

All of them right too.
So I’m definitely going to grill Stefan over breakfast
.

That’s what I instructed myself at the start of our ride into town.

But ten minutes later, when Stefan pulled up and parked on a double yellow outside Strut, the most expensive clothes shop in Glasgow, I could barely remember my own name let alone the topics I needed to discuss with my mystery date. Talk about blowing away the cobwebs? I think Stefan’s driving blew my sense out the back of my head.

Far too fast. Crazy. Not even funny crazy. This guy’s reckless
– I was aware of a breathless voice of reason niggling at me as Stefan came round to my passenger door and opened it. But I was too windswept to do anything but take his hand and let him steer my wobbly legs to the threshold of a non-Clod world.