"What's keeping you up Karma?" Tasha asks softly. "You can tell me."
I don't tell her the nightmares are returning. She'll just insist I go back and see my counsellor even though it was not that simple. She didn't understand that counselling sessions were not about erasing the pain, it was about dealing with it – and to do that I had to confront the pain. And I was simply too weak, too tired, too busy to do that.
"I've just got a lot on my mind."
"You said that yesterday too," she reminds me as if I've forgotten.
"Mmm."
"How's your family?"
I think of my mum, her brother - my uncle Eugene, her nieces and nephews - my cousins. As far as I'd heard everyone was healthy and happy – from what I recall of these past few months, no updates of bad news had been forwarded to my phone or email.
"Good I guess."
I take a sip from the fruit juice she has just served me and shrug. The orange juice is too cold for my liking and there are bits at the bottom but I stomach it with a hearty swallow. Any occupation of my mouth would have to do until I could find a way to change the topic or leave her abode – whichever came first. Speaking to Tasha about my problems never made me feel any better – I learnt that the hard way in secondary school, when she insisted on making her year 9 oral assessment about the need for reformation in the council housing system, using the anecdotes I'd told her in confidence as a point of reference. To make matters worse, she got full marks for it and so was nominated to retell it to the whole cohort at our end of year assembly.
Karma and the Council, it was entitled. The tragic chronicles of one young girl and the many homes she lived in. From that moment on I swore to never tell her anything personal ever again.
"What's going on in the love department?"
I grow shifty and take another gulp of my drink.
"We're not about to talk about this."
Tasha looks at me cheekily and I watch her eyes glint over the rim of her wide, steaming mug. "Is there someone?"
An idiotically lavish smirk sprints onto my face as I desperately try to conceal the riot of excited emotions igniting my spirit.
"Oh my God, there is," she shakes the mug so recklessly that some tea sloshes onto her hands, scalding her porcelain skin a bright scarlet. She's so excited at my reaction that she doesn't pay any mind to her burn or the stained white rug beneath our feet and instead looks directly at me with brewing euphoria.
My silent response provides no deterrent and she comes over to prod me on the shoulder, her other hand still clasped around the half-full mug. She takes a long drag from it before prodding me again. "Spill!" She demands.
"Nobody," I smile crookedly.
"Bullshit," she announces. The mug finally goes down to the island surface and now she is inches from my face, the smell of heat, cigarettes and peppermint radiating from her skin to mine. "Who is it?"
I look down in defiance. "Seriously, it's no-one."
"You're lying," she moans.
I laugh and shake my head. "No-one, I promise you."
She reaches again for her mug, dunks it down and pushes past me to rinse it in the sink. "I know you're lying, just tell me," she mutters.
My answer is elusive. "There's nothing to tell you."
"But what does 'nothing to tell you' mean?" She interrogates. "You're just at the talking stage? Or is it a friend with benefits thing?"
I cave and bite my lip. "Just talking."
I chance a look at Tasha's face to see she is elated at having siphoned information out of me. Her mug is forgotten, her eyes protruding from their sockets ecstatically, a fist shaking in the air triumphantly. "Finally girl!"
Reece, Tasha's boyfriend of three years, takes this opportunity to waltz into the corridor and peer into the kitchen where we both sit, a look of interest on his face. "What're you ladies talking about?"
Tasha looks at me with a smile and I return a look that begs her to keep quiet. Ever the rebel, she ignores my expression and turns to her boyfriend with a huge curl of the lips.
"Think our little Karma has finally gotten herself some suga'."
Reece turns to me silently with both eyebrows perked to mimic surprise.
"What?" I fire defensively at him.
"Nothing," he avoids eye contact by looking to Tasha who stares at me wide-eyed.
"Admit it babe," Tasha turns to her boyfriend. "We were starting to lose a bit of faith in you Karma."
"Mmm," he adds dryly.
"I mean," she elaborates. "I was afraid you were losing your touch. I haven't seen you pull and -"
"And you know why that is," I warn with a stern tone. I know exactly where this is going and I'm not about to go there now, especially not in front of Reece.
The sound of Jasmine Thompson singing at the top of her lungs halts any comeback Tasha had intended and she is suddenly mute and peering at her phone. Concern clouding her expression she excuses herself from the kitchen and disappears into the corridor so her boyfriend and I are alone. Whilst she is gone, I daren't look up at Reece until I hear her footsteps come to a still near the front room. When I do finally look up I see that Reece is already staring me down.
"She... we're just worried about you," he starts but my hateful stare cuts him off.
"Well you needn't be." I answer dismissively. "I'm fine." For some reason, the idea of Reece caring for anyone but himself tickles my funny bone and I find myself smirking humorlessly.
"Something funny?"
I divert from my thoughts to look at Reece's bemused expression.
"No," I dismiss him just as Tasha walks in, her pretty face now scrunched into a scowl dripping with confused irritation. "I better be off."
Reece makes no indication to move as I draw closer to the doorway and so I shove past him to get to my coat on the banister of the stairs. Both he and Tasha turn to watch me as I silently shrug it on and zip it up.
"Damned phone, no-one spoke when I picked up," she is complaining about the phone call she just received.
"Call it back," Reece instructs.
"Private number," she retorts.
I pull my hood up over my ears to block their voices out.
"Probably a prank."
I leave them to their menial conversation and exit without saying goodbye. The weather is warm so there is no need for a hood but I keep it up anyway – being incognito was what I did best and this oversized hood really did the trick.
When I get to the end of Tasha's road I am grinning with victory. This was the umpteenth time I had called Tasha on private from my own phone and she still didn't realise it was me. She is on my speed dial and I have mastered the art of butt dialling and muting the call so she won't hear any background noise – a trick I reserve only for when our conversations enter unchartered territory.
The diffidence I displayed was a charade too... there is no boy in my life. I find that divulgence doesn't suit me. People assume that I am coy and I play that to my strengths. Thus I find that if I demonstrate just the right amount of reluctance to deny a lover, suddenly people are suspicious, that perhaps, just perhaps I could have someone special in my life. That sex is not a foreign act for Karma Olson and she did have feelings and desires and mounted lovers in her spare time. What was so inconceivable about that?
I juggle these thoughts as I stroll through the park to my favourite bench and settle onto the parallel planks of wood. I look up to a greying sky – the sun is disappearing but there is still warmth in the air. My body suddenly fees clammy. I wipe the moisture from my brow, fearful that I've already sweated out the braids that I plan to take down soon.
The sound of bristling distracts me and I turn to see the familiar park ranger, Irwin, strolling the grounds. Despite the midday sun, not a shred of his skin is on his show – both of his hands are gloved, a pair of black sunglasses frames his eyes and his hat bends low over his forehead. He is always dressed like this, no matter the weather forecast. I want to ask him why but we've never spoken. I only know his name because one day he came too close for comfort and I spied the large, black capital lettering on his tag.
Just as quickly as he draws near, he goes – onto the next intersecting path which leads to the basketball court and swings. A cold sensation splashes against my knuckles and I look up to the sky to see it is starting to rain. I know I can stick it out but decide against it and exit the park. I was better off in my accommodation.
I sigh as I enter the campus gates and pace to my block, walking slowly up the stairs until I reach the top floor – level 3. My legs are burning by the time I reach the main door and I collapse with relief when I get into my room. My sweaty clothes are quickly replaced with a dressing gown and I stalk to the bathroom I share with my three flatmates: Willy, Prudence and Hamid. It's Friday night so Willy is definitely out partying, Prudence is on night shift at the campus kitchen and I suspect Hamid is at the library. The knowledge that I am home alone gives me such confidence that I belt Tamar Braxton unashamedly as I shower, my tone deaf voice shrieking for the heavens as I lather and rinse.
It's on my exit of the shower that I hear the snap of a key turning in the main door. I freeze. Two years into university and I still wasn't used to the whole– Hiya, what's up with you, just chilling – small talk us housemates obligingly made when navigating our halls of residence. Fortunately, my room was closest to the bathroom so I could brush my teeth, shower and dart back into obscurity without having to interact with my flatmates most time. The only down side was that I was often awoken by the sound of Hamid showering at odd hours of the morning after his midnight library sessions.
I listen for the padding of shoes passing the bathroom door before stepping into the corridor, pivoting right and unlocking my door discretely. I don't look around. Instead I step into my room, close the door behind me and take a few minutes to moisturise and dress up. Then I rip off my shower cap and release my hair from its headache-inducing bun into a ponytail that swishes when I walk. My feet find the fluffy material of my slippers as I open the door a crack – scanning the hallway for trace of life besides myself. Nil. I enter almost jovially and strut into our living space only to see a masculine figure seated on the couch with their back to me.
It is male, therefore not Prudence. The hair is black, unlike Willy who is blonde. The hair texture is tightly coiled, Mo has a wavy coif. This is not one of my flatmates.
"Hi, can I help you?"
The figure stands up, turns to me, and I try not to look him up and down but force of habit compels me. Black hair, black skin, black shirt, black jeans, and black trainers... different tones but black all the same.
"Hey," he responds with a curious tone.
He looks at me with expectation of something, of what, I don't know.
"Can I help you?" I repeat, and grab a carton of juice from the fridge to give my hands something to play with.
He watches me disdainfully. "Karma, right?"
He knows my name, but then again many people do. I was all over the papers for a long while, plastered front page for a few days before being demoted to middle pages and eventually small text boxes near main stories.
"Who's asking?" I scorn.
He presses his hand to his chest. "I'm Damon."
Once again, the expectant stare; this game of charades has truly stumped me. I resort to pouring the remaining contents of the carton into a glass to ignore the fixture of his eyes, slurp the juice down to quench my drying throat.
"Okay Damon," I elongate and take a long drag from my drink. He is still staring expectantly like I owe him something. "Is that supposed to ring a bell or?"
I don't know why I don't interrogate him with more questions – like how he got in the building and why he knows my name but something about his tone and demeanour puts me at ease. Maybe it's his accent. I can tell by his drawl he too is from London so that makes him familiar I guess. Most people who attend this university are either international students or from places that end in shire so we Londoners are an oddity. Nonetheless, I'm not usually so relaxed around strangers, in fact I am usually the one in the group who is the most guarded.
The sound of tinkling slices through my thoughts and I look up to see him holding a set of keys by a novelty chain. Connected to the chain is a holder which carries three keys – two silver and one a rusted bronze. It dawns on me that these keys belong to me. The silver ones are house keys – one for my mother's London home and the other for this very flat; the rusted key unlocks the door to my garden shed. And although his fingers obscure most of the chain, I get a partial view of a memento from my 16th birthday party at Thorpe Park – a picture of Tasha and me on a rollercoaster on the last day of our exams.
Does he know that they're mine?
For God's sake he probably recognises me from the picture anyway.
"How did you get those?" I quiz him.
A flicker of delight highlights his eyes. "Is that really a good question to ask?" The definition of his voice sends twinges through my spine – I know that bass, that tone, that clarity.
"Do you know me from somewhere?"
"Better," he smirks, and leans back on the heel of his foot before leaning forward again. "I like to think I know you." He pauses, for what I know is dramatic effect. "Some may say I saved you."
His refusal to answer questions without elusion only deepens my stupor. "Is there something you want from me?" I voice my thoughts.
A disappointed look descends on his features. "You're not asking the right questions."
"What?"
"Ask the right questions," he answers pointedly.
I sigh, inadvertently taking in the smell of smoke as I inhale a breath. Is it him? I sniff again. It could be. Or maybe it's the smell of Willy's burnt toast still permeating the air from earlier this morning.
"Can I have the keys?" I say with a final tone.
He studies me, looks down and a dark look casts over his eyes, his features seem to shrink in size – eyelids fall, plump mouth folds, as though recalling a dark memory. "You did hear her screams... didn't you?"