Rachel Sargeant - The Roommates

Imo sits up. “My flatmate, Amber, does Theatre Studies. I thought she’d be here. Actually, I think you know her. I saw you with her before our first German lecture on Tuesday.”

Lauren looks away. “Not me,” she says quickly. “I don’t know her.”

Imo frowns, recalling when she walked across campus and spotted Amber linking arms with a girl in a black cape. It must have been Lauren.

“I could have sworn it was you. Are you sure?”

“Yep,” she snaps, then adds: “There was a girl called Amber who didn’t turn up to the Theatre Studies Meet and Greet last night. They read out all the names and she was the only one missing.”

Unease seeps across Imo’s shoulders, but before she has time to ask anything else, Doris appears and tells her the panel is ready.

“Don’t be nervous,” she says as she shows her the way onto the stage. “Break a leg.”

There is an audition panel of six at the front of an auditorium. All name-badged: Theo, Alice, Rusty …

Theo speaks before she can read the other names and asks her to sing. With heat rushing through her face, Imo waits for the introduction. Her voice is hoarse from coughing and she inwardly winces at how off-key she sounds, but she makes it to the end of the song. Theo thanks her with a blank expression and says they’ll see her later at the dance audition.

She doesn’t have to wait long. Doris calls twenty girls, including Imo, onto the stage. Imo hasn’t danced properly for months and isn’t sure her limbs still can. Not since Sophia disappeared. Tears prick her eyes but she blinks them away as Alice from the selection panel takes them through a warm-up. Surprised to find that jogging on the spot lightens her mood, Imo leaps into star jumps and shifts easily into stretches.

By the time they start the corner exercises, it’s the old version of herself that launches into spot turns and split leaps.

“Give it more,” Alice calls out from the wings.

Imo dances on, unencumbered by the baggage of the last seven months. Her steps are light, her body toned. She soaks up the panel’s attention. They can look and judge as much as they like. They don’t know her story.

The panel applauds when the routine finishes.

“Good job, ladies,” Alice says. “We’ll let you know.”

Imo leaves the stage glowing with energy. She gets her things but on her way downstairs she glimpses a man on the landing. An eerie coldness settles and she fears it’s him again. The tall man. She hurries outside. Is this what Sophia felt when she disappeared, that a man was following her? Did she see him everywhere she went until one day he came for her?

The early autumn sun warms her and she banishes her stupid thoughts. Today is a good day, normal. Her walk is brisk and new, as if she’s using her legs for the first time after a long hibernation. She can do this. Learn to compartmentalize. Sorrow in one box, a new life of university and dance and friends in others. The world can still turn with Imo enjoying the ride.

When her phone goes she’s sure it’s Amber, responding to her latest message. She will be able to stop worrying. But it’s a cold call. Student Life Insurance. I’m Jordan. How you doing? How much do you love your family? Do you want them to have something after you’ve gone? The call blasts open the lid Imo thought she’d gently closed. What made her think she’d be able to forget her loss? She tries to force the phone back into her jeans, but it slides from her trembling fingers and lands against the kerb.

The lights are still working and the screen appears undamaged. She picks it up and walks on. The phone has survived but her happy pace is a thing of the past. Pulling her hoodie over her hair, she trudges along the path that leads to the student halls. She detects someone approaching behind her. The footsteps are slow and lolloping, long casual strides. Imo keeps walking but moves to the side of the pavement to let them pass.

But no one hurries by. She senses that the figure has slowed their pace to match hers. Feeling uncomfortable, she dawdles so they’ll have no choice but to overtake.

A shadow passes her right shoulder. A tall, rangy figure in a black hoodie saunters past. Heart thundering, Imo stands stock still. The man must sense she’s stopped moving because he turns his head. Imo drops her gaze to the ground to avoid eye contact. Her neck feels damp with sweat and she wonders what the hell to do. Turn and run? With those long legs of his, he’d catch her in no time. Was this what it was like for Sophia? Did she brazen it out and walk on? This path’s deserted and hidden from the road. No witnesses. Even if she’d brought her personal alarm like she promised her mother, who would hear? Her hand is shaking as she grips her phone. Call Tegan and ask her to meet her in the car? Even if she could persuade her stroppy flatmate to do the favour, it could take her ages to arrive.

A giggle rings out on the path ahead. The sweetest sound Imo has ever heard. Coming towards her, fifty yards in front, is a couple, holding hands.

Imo waves, runs towards them without looking back. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting ages,” she shouts. When she reaches them she whispers: “Can I walk with you, please ?”

The boy gets it, eyeing the hooded figure on the path. “Are you okay?”

“He’s creeping me out, that’s all.” Imo tries to sound casual, even though her pulse is racing.

“Stick with us,” the girl says and moves aside to let Imo walk between the two of them.

They set off, breathing heavily. When they look up, the tall man is no longer on the path.

“I’ll be okay now,” Imo says. “Thanks.” She leaves the couple at a run and hares towards the hall of residence, jumping at every noise in the bushes. When a bird flies off a branch, she almost cries out. Thankfully more students appear on the path and her heartbeat calms.

Finally she sees the no parking zone and the steps of the hall’s main reception and decides to enter that way. It’s more visible than going around the back and through to her block. Breathless from her run, she summons one last burst of energy up the steps. Panting, at the top, she pauses and looks behind her. Across the road, exactly where he stood on arrivals day, the tall man leans against the horse chestnut tree, smoking.

Phoenix surveys the dead baked bean cans, squished teabags and crushed cheesy Wotsits on the draining board. She gets a whiff of old tomatoes and loads a box of pizza crusts into a bin bag.

Living in a caravan when she was younger meant she was used to keeping the tiny kitchenette spotless, but she’s also done her fair share of industrial-strength cleaning. “This is a new dimension of mess,” she says aloud.

Imo helps her with the bin bag. Phoenix can’t work out whether she’s in a massive sulk about tidying up, or something else is bothering her. Bad audition? She hasn’t said a word since she got back.

Tegan walks in, wearing a pair of Marigold gloves.

“Finally,” Phoenix says, not hiding her sarcasm.

Tegan holds an empty crisp packet at arm’s length. “The uni should employ cleaners.”

“I’d rather be in my mess than someone else’s clean,” Phoenix says.

“What the devil does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Phoenix mutters. Pointless explaining; a girl like Tegan could never understand the concept of housework.

As if to prove her wrong, Tegan collects glasses and bottles and pours the contents down the sink. “No sign of Amber, though, is there? When’s she going to do her share?”

“What if she can’t help?” Imo says suddenly, letting go of the bin bag. “Have either of you seen her?”