Holly is cycling home from work when she sees it. A flash across her peripheral vision, like a shooting star. She blinks. It’s just sunlight reflecting off the side mirror of the green hatchback giving way to her at the roundabout.
Holly thinks she saw that car yesterday.
Same car, same time, same place.
A ripple passes across her field of vision. Then it’s gone, and the sun is back, shining straight into her retinae.
She turns right and coasts down the hill, the Pacific Ocean unfolding before her. Her speedometer ticks over, fifty-five kilometres per hour.
She is flying.
She arrives home to find Matt’s car in the driveway. He was home early yesterday, too. The inside of the house smells like last night’s curry. She walks up the stairs, throws her helmet on the couch.
“Skiving off early again?”
“Hmm?” Matt walks through from the kitchen, a yellow-stained wooden spoon in his hand.
“Nothing.” Holly kisses him on the cheek. “Guess I’m lucky enough to have dinner cooked for me two nights in a row.” She inches her fingers down the back of his jeans.
“Easy, tiger,” Matt murmurs, pulling her closer. Holly laughs and dances away.
“Maybe after my shower, huh?” She walks down the darkened hallway to the bathroom. Basil skitters sideways when he sees her, his ginger fur standing on end.
“Easy, kitty,” she says, reaching out for him. Basil flattens his body against the wall. Her hand begins to shimmer.
Holly blinks, and then her hand is back, solid as ever. She brushes her fingers over her palm, hears a series of plinks across the floorboards. She drops into a crouch, picks up a tiny stone. Gravel?
She shakes her head and walks into the bathroom. Once under the shower, she closes her eyes and opens her mouth to let the water wash over her lips, her tongue, her teeth. The water is thick, metallic.
She gasps, opens her eyes. There it is again, sun on steel, reflecting off the back of her retinae. Her heart is beating hard and heavy. The wall of the shower, for a fraction of a second, is running red. She blinks. Crimson merges into alabaster. Her heart slows, until she can’t hear it anymore.
“Easy, tiger,” she whispers. In the hallway, Basil emits a high-pitched, blood-curdling yowl, as if someone has just stepped on his tail.
She holds up her hands. What the fuck? She runs one palm over the other, plink-plink-plink. When she runs her hand over her forehead, it feels gritty too.
Holly turns off the tap. Matt’s long shadow falls across the doorway.
“Matt?” She reaches for a towel.
“Yeah?” Matt’s hand appears around the edge of the doorframe. “What’s up?”
“Am I—?” She blinks again. The gelatinous film in front of her eyes falls away.
Matt moves towards her, and puts his hands on her hips.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He kisses her on the lips. Holly swallows.
“Have I got gravel on my face?”
“Gravel?” Matt narrows his eyes at her, and touches a finger to the tip of her nose. “Nope.”
The Game of Thrones theme song rents the air, and Holly realises Matt has changed the ringtone on his phone. He steps away, slides his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. A thick dread rises up the back of her throat.
“Don’t answer it,” she says. The metallic taste is back. When she swallows, she feels it sliding down her throat, an iron-dense viscosity that threatens to choke her.
“Settle down, huh?” Matt takes the phone out of his pocket.
Basil is howling.
Holly is cycling home from work, the steely sun reflecting off the cars the puddles the bitumen and she can’t see but when she turns her head, she sees it, the green hatchback giving way to her at the roundabout and she is filled with relief—
And then there is a high-pitched shriek in her ear and it’s Basil and his hair is standing on end—
And then she blinks, shimmer, and she’s cycling into her driveway and Matt’s car is in the driveway. He is home from work early, again. She walks into the house, inhaling the thick scent of curry.
Matt walks into the lounge, holding a yellow-stained wooden spoon. Holly wants to cry. She says,
“I’m sick of fucking curry,” but all she can smell is blood, cloying and earthy in her nostrils and when she breathes in it bubbles up the back of her throat—
And Matt holds her close, and says, “Easy tiger.”
In the hallway, Basil emits a blood-curdling shriek, like someone is dying.
Blink. The sun slips behind a cloud. Holly turns her head. The windows of the green hatchback on her left are wound down. A musical ringtone drifts towards her. It sounds like Game of Thrones—
The woman raises the phone to her ear. The hatchback moves forwards.
“No,” Holly whispers, as time begins to run thick and slow, like molasses, “you gave way, you gave way.”
But now she knows what happens next, she knows and the cat knows and soon Matt will answer his phone and he will know, and the Pacific Ocean is opening out before her and she is flying and then the shimmering in front of her eyes turns russet-red and she feels her ribs break and her lungs deflate like balloons and the blood is running down the inside of her ribs like water down the wall of her shower, crimson on alabaster—
And Matt is there, how did he get there so fast, and she wants to tell him she can’t cycle past the green hatchback anymore, she has to let go, but when she opens her mouth all that comes out is blood.
Matt holds her close, lying and crying, crying and lying. He says,
“Easy tiger, it’s going to be OK.”
Holly exhales.