Borderliners Read Free Page B

not that, dear. You’re still young and you’ve not been here that long, but I’ve seen so many people come and go. Not everything is as it seems. You begin to doubt yourself, you know? I’ve been thinking a lot about them. About Julia and Iain. They’ve been here a fair few years now - I can still remember when they first arrived.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘About twenty years ago. They were quite young when they came. And they were different from the start. It wasn’t long before they started the Charismatic Community up and started recruiting people. Julia can be very persuasive. So many joined. It was a way of life, it gave you a sense of belonging. I can’t describe it. But then, over the years. All this.’ She stopped, a red flush creeping up from the base of her neck to her chin like a nettle rash.
    ‘This what?’ I risked prompting her.
    ‘All the compulsory donations and prayer groups. Over the years it seems to have got worse. We have to pay them so much now, it’s getting ridiculous. Julia says they need it to prepare people for the Rapture.’ The red patch on her neck grew angrier, but I prompted her again.
    ‘Are you afraid?’
    ‘No, no.’ She paused and coughed. ‘Well, maybe a little. I hadn’t thought of it like that before.’
    I let her talk for a bit longer, allowing the tension to fizzle out as she moved onto more mundane topics: her sleepless nights, bad eating habits and smaller niggles. She talked, I listened. That was what I was there for. But as I did so, shivers travelled down my back. When I tried to feel my way through hunches and half-formed ideas, it struck me that her words echoed those of Martha just before her death.
     
    Back home that evening, my post was waiting for me on the mat along with a small envelope. After dropping most of the junk mail into the recycling, I turned my attention to the Basildon Bond envelope, its old-fashioned, creamy texture as affected as the writing scrawled across the middle. Inside was an invitation to a drinks party for ‘Friends of Julia and Iain’. They made it sound like a charity. I tutted and dropped it onto the table whilst I rummaged in the fridge for the leftovers from the giant salad I’d made the previous day.
    The TV sat, blank and mute in the opposite corner as I sat down in the living room and started to pick at my food. It was as tasteless as ever - food for one had never been my forte. As I forked through my dinner, a scent of heavy perfume caught my nostrils. I sniffed the air, trying to locate where it was coming from, but it came and went, as if eluding me on purpose. Looking round, my eyes fell on the bookshelf next to the fireplace on the back wall of the room. Propped up, in the very centre of shelves, sat Martha’s little black notebook, its pages splayed open as if on display.
    I slammed down my fork and cast my plate aside before grabbing it off the bookshelf and flicking my thumb across the pages, a cloud of dust hit my nostrils. I coughed, gulping back a rising sense of nausea as an odd scent sunk into my lungs. It was musky with something retro about it, like a perfume from another age. The brand Samsara came to mind, a heavy scent I remembered from my childhood. My stomach contracted, just as it had the previous night but I was like an addict. I knew what was in the diary, and I had to read it again. Just to be sure.
    Turning to the beginning, I started to read.

Chapter 3
    While I was skimming through the diary I was interrupted by a knock at the door. If it was Julia again, I wasn’t in the mood. But the shape on the other side was small and hunched: Mrs Dobson from next door. I hesitated for a second before opening the door to the old lady. Well over eighty, she and her husband were surprisingly independent, but every so often they needed help. Sometimes it was shopping, other times they needed assistance with household items which broke down. The boiler, a leaky tap, a drawer which had got stuck.