Angela stood up suddenly.
“You all right, Ange?” Peter asked.
“I need to change my clothes,” Angela said. “I need to take these off. I need a bath.” She rubbed her arms violently and hurried from the room, back up the steps.
Angela felt like a ghost, moving out of time. Yesterday, they had rushed down this hallway, screaming with laughter as they grabbed their favorite rooms. Now the doors were all cocked open from when the police had trampled through. There had been strangers in the house, strangers in the suitcases, strangers in the drawers and closets. The view outside was just as lovely and lush as ever. Just outside the window, there were wild dog roses with their delicate pink petals and sunny bellies. Their beauty offended her. Confused her. She wasn’t sure if she was real. Real was Noel—long and lean Noel, with his slow smile and moony face and his nerdy-cool 70s style. Noel who said the most surprising things sometimes. The freckles under his eyes you could only see in the bright sun. She remembered a night that she and Noel stole a shopping trolley and pushed each other down the street and looked up at the sky and talked about how much they loved Bagpuss. Noel who asked so little of everyone else, who always did the washing-up, who could not drink tequila or he would turn into a strange creature who liked to run naked down the road. Noel, the nice guy who played villains shockingly well, who let anyone use his car.
Real was Rosie’s green eyes that always held laughter, the jeans she had been wearing that had nail varnish on the knee, the rope bracelets on her wrist. Rosie sitting with her before Christmas, the two of them wrapping gifts, Rosie telling Angela how she thought the Blur album Modern Life Is Rubbish was her album because it had a song on it called “Villa Rosie” and one called “Pressure on Julian.” （“It’s fate, Ange, me and Jules. Damon Albarn is sending us messages.”） Rosie, coming to her room the night before with a secret.
I saw something. Something I didn’t understand.
Dramatic Rosie.
But I think I might understand it now.
No.
Frightened Rosie.
Dead Rosie.
And now Angela had seen something too. Something she didn’t understand.
If she didn’t get into the tub of hot water, she would die. The water would make the world make sense, stop the ringing in her ears. She turned on the taps, ripped off her shirt and jeans and let them fall to the bathroom floor, and sat on the rim of the tub. She tested the water with her hand, found it was far too hot, and got in anyway, letting her skin prickle against the burn. It made her itch all over, and she rubbed her legs and let her face flush. The pain of the heat distracted her. The water was loud. Let it wash everything away. Scald it off her.
When the water was higher than it should have been, she leaned forward and closed the taps, then sat, hunched over her knees, watching the rain.
I saw something. Something I didn’t understand.
Her mouth was so dry. Her head hurt. They’d had so much to drink the night before.
There was a rapping on the bathroom door.
“It’s me,” Theo said. “Can I come in?”
The Nine lived and worked on top of one another. Between changing backstage, the house, and the romances, they had seen each other in every stage of undress. There was nothing strange about having visitors when you were in the bath. Theo slipped in and set the mug down on a chair next to the tub.
“I brought you this,” she said. “I know you don’t like sugar in your tea, but you need it right now.”
“How are you so calm?” Angela asked.
“I’m not calm,” Theo said plainly. “I’m in shock, like we all are. It will wear off in time, for each of us, in a different way. The shock is why you’re so cold. I’m cold as well. We need to stay warm. To eat. Stay hydrated.”
Theo went to leave, but Angela stopped her.
“Wait a minute,” Angela said. “I need to talk to you. Shut the door.”
Theo closed the door.
“Something’s not right, Theo. When we got here yesterday . . .” Angela lowered her voice, which echoed around the bathroom and the water and the tiles. “Rosie pulled me aside and said she had something to tell me.”
“About Julian?”
“Not Julian. Something else. It was something . . . I don’t know. Something serious. And I know Rosie is . . .”
She was not prepared to say “Rosie was.”
“。 . . kind of dramatic sometimes, but this was different. She said she saw something. She said it was something she didn’t understand. She needed to tell me about it but she didn’t have a chance. She was going to tell me after we played the game.”
“Saw something?”
“That’s what she said. It was so odd. And . . . intense.”
“And she didn’t give you any idea what?”
“There’s something else.” Angela hugged her knees tighter into her chest and rubbed some sweat that was running into her eyes. “I saw something last night. I’ve been thinking about it all morning, but I didn’t want to say it in front of everyone, because I don’t know what it means either. Last night, when we were seeking, I went past the woodshed. The lock was off the door. Not unlocked—missing.”
“Angela,” Theo said slowly. “I saw that lock on the door this morning. The woodshed was locked. That’s why they ripped off the latch.”
“It was off in the middle of the night,” Angela replied. “I passed the woodshed last night. I saw the lock was off and tried to get in, but the door was stuck on the inside. I saw a light under the door. I called, but no one replied. I rattled the door a bit, and then I gave up. But I’m telling you, the lock was off the door.”
Theo sat on the floor next to the tub.
“Ange,” she said. “Our heads are going to play games with us. We need to keep clear heads and get each other through this. I don’t know how we move on from here, or how we live like this without them, but I know we must take care of each other. I love you all so much and I . . .”
She could not finish.
Angela retreated into herself. She could see it so clearly. She had gone up to the door. The lock was gone and the light was squirreling around inside. The flashes had attracted her over to the door. That’s right. She’d seen something. And she could tell there was someone on the other side of that door. Waiting. Listening. She’d felt it.
Hadn’t she?
6
EVEN THOUGH DAVID KEPT REFERRING TO THE PLACE THEY WERE going as “the local,” it was a few streets away, past two other pubs. And as he pointed out, though it was only four thirty when they headed out the door, it was already night, for all intents and purposes. The sky was dark and tinged with purple, and orange-tinted streetlights were on.
“It gets dark stupid early here in the fall,” David said. “Especially when it’s overcast. Which is a lot of the time.”
London’s street layout was like the web of a drunk spider. Some streets curved and ended abruptly; some were honeycombed with passages and mews. Alleys wove the baffling structure together. Words on the street reminded idiot Americans like herself which way the traffic was coming from, and every time they went to cross one, she turned the wrong way.