The Sham

By Nicole Barrell

After her parents' deaths on Cape Cod, reclusive 20-something Margo Sharpe lives alone in a crap apartment in South Boston. One problem: she can't afford it. So she rents her spare bedroom to Lucy Somers, a shy, allergic-to-everything school teacher. At first, they peacefully coexist; Margo manages to keep Lucy at arm's length. But Lucy starts to ask questions about Margo's past. Too many questions. Then, money goes missing. Relationships are hijacked. Dead rats appear all over the house. And it becomes clear, far too late, that Margo chose...poorly.

The Sham is a gripping, head-spinning game of cat and mouse, a night-mare union based on obsession and revenge—a complete sham.

Because neither is whom she seems. Who is Lucy Somers, and what exactly does she want?

And who, for that matter, is Margo Sharpe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodhall Press
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954907737

Book preview

THe

Sham

Nicole Barrell

Woodhall Press | Norwalk, CT

Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855

WoodhallPress.com

Copyright © 2023 Nicole Barrell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for a review.

Cover design: Jessica Dionne

Layout artist: L.J. Mucci

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

ISBN 978-1-954907-72-0 (paper: alk paper)

ISBN 978-1-954907-73-7 (electronic)

First Edition

Distributed by Independent Publishers Group

[phone]

Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For my parents, whose art and intellect and stubbornness made me, me.

I miss you every day.

One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—

One need not be a House—

The Brain has Corridors—surpassing

Material Place—

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting

External Ghost

Than its interior Confronting—

That Cooler Host.

—Emily Dickinson

THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON: VARIORUM EDITION, edited by Ralph W. Franklin, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965 by Mary L. Hampson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Part I

1

Margo

Last January, on impulse, I’d bought a tall, skinny little house on East 8th. It was a foreclosure, the only reason I could afford it. Then I realized I couldn’t actually afford it, not after discovering the faulty plumbing, the insurance, the mold. But I’d been so blinded by the need to prove that I could do something on my own that I convinced myself I could make it work. This was stupid; I know this now.

By the time summer rolled around there was no getting around it: to keep the house I’d need a roommate. It would have to be a stranger. Someone who wouldn’t pry and wheedle her way into my life—or worse, my past. I knew I would not find someone like this on the SouthieRentals app or on RoomCare.com. Those people liked to go to brunch. They expected granite countertops. They’d want to talk.

Craigslist was more my speed, I decided, more anonymous. This, as it turned out, was also very, very stupid.

August

When I got back to the kitchen after cleaning the upstairs, I realized I’d left the bills right out on the counter. Not only that, you could see the mold over by the fridge. The house was a dump, but I had to at least try to mask this before the first candidate arrived, in fifteen minutes.

For the mold, at least, I’d found a solution: hide it with a big-ass plant.

The pot was massive, up to my knees, and inside was a raggedy, browning bamboo plant. I’d picked it up at an estate sale earlier that morning and had managed to heave the hulking thing into the kitchen, where it now sat on top of the mold.

But right now, it was still peeking out, that black rot. I squatted and hugged the pot, sliding it to the right. There.

Next, the mail.

As I swept the pile into the drawer, the name inside the clear envelope window of one envelope caught my eye, turning my stomach.

Maggie Nevins

19 Punkhorn Lane

Marshside, MA

Mags, Dad would call me. Or Mom, sometimes, through her wine-stained veneers, Maggie the Mood.

The person to whom these bills were addressed no longer existed. Unfortunately, I, Margo Sharpe, was still responsible for the balances, the late fees, the ruined credit. And not to mention, the shame.

***

Carmen Kangaroo came right on time. She was short, round-faced, and beautiful, with long dark hair to her mid-back. She wouldn’t make eye contact or shake my hand, or answer me when I asked about her unusual last name. She just bobbed on her heels and said, I have to pee.

I tossed my head back. Third door on the left.

Carmen left the bathroom door cracked, more than cracked, practically open, her piss stream violent against the sides of the bowl. She shouted over the peeing, Some people call me Roo. Not everyone. Just my friends. You can call me Carmen.

I refused to talk over her piss, so I waited for her to come out before responding. There didn’t seem to be a flush coming, though. Just more questions.

"Do you go out in Southie a lot? I heard last-call is at one. Is that true? That’s so early."

Then, the doorbell rang. I jumped, both from the noise—it was more of a prison buzzer than a ringer—and because this was not an open house. I’d created buffers for each appointment, and not only that, I’d masked the address on the listing. I’d been careful.

At the door was a wimpy, nebbish-looking thing with floppy brown hair and pointy elbows. He wore a nasty look on his face.

I said, Who are you? but before he could respond, a yell from Carmen came down the hallway.

"Dude. You’re late."

Sorry, babe, he said, stepping past me.

The two of them stood nose to nose in the hallway, whispering. I strained to hear what they were saying, but all I could make out was, small…old…weird.

I turned to shut the door. Except now, there was someone else standing on the stoop: a tall, skinny blonde with a horrid haircut. This was turning into some sort of circus, exactly what I didn’t want.

"And who are you?" I said.

The blonde’s smile collapsed and a look of bewilderment crossed her face.

I’m Lucy. Lucy Somers? Sorry, I know I’m a little late—

She was the teacher. That’s all I could remember. That, and she was early.

Aren’t you supposed to be here at noon? I asked.

Lucy’s face reddened. She tapped her phone, which had been clutched in her hand, and dragged her finger down. Then she looked up at me, eyes wide.

Oh my gosh. You’re right. Noon. I had ten on the brain, for some reason.

I wiped my damp forehead, then made sure to finger-comb my bangs as far down as they would go.

All right. I’d say you could join the tour now, but I can’t give you my full attention, so it might be best—

Sure, Lucy said brightly, cutting me off. I’ll join now. Since I’m here.

Reluctantly, I opened the door wider and Lucy stepped inside, her eyes darting first to the narrow stairway straight ahead and then down the hallway, which was also narrow. I could sense what she was thinking: The place was stifling. Claustrophobic.

Lucy looked to the right, to the living room, which was small and spare. It had a scratched-up coffee table and a pilling yellow couch, its back against the bay window. I followed her gaze out that window, to the new building across the street with the fancy wreath on the door, central air-conditioning, and occupants—with their expensive blonde highlights and social lives and doting parents who visited on the weekends—who were nothing like me. Not anymore.

***

Appliances aren’t updated, Carmen said, dragging her finger along the stove.

And no granite, squeaked the boyfriend.

I turned to Lucy, who waited obediently for my instruction. Her long, thin arms were crossed over her chest, like she was hugging herself. She might have been trying to hide her massive pit stains, which I wanted to tell her was a lost cause.

This is the back deck, I said, pointing to the glass slider. I was hoping I could distract them from how run-down and outdated the rest of the kitchen was—the ancient stove, the peeling tiles. But as I tried to nudge the rubber lock with my thumb, it wouldn’t budge.

Gets a little sticky with the humidity, I mumbled.

Thankfully, after another push of my thumb, the door gave way.

Carmen crossed her arms. I was hoping to see the water? Not, like, other people’s decks and their gross little yards.

It was true. Any distant view of the harbor was obstructed by the backs of other buildings. And directly below were chicken-wire fences and tiny tomato gardens and clotheslines of neighbors I’d never met.

But I’d been careful not to embellish the listing description, and hadn’t bothered to filter any of the photos. In fact, I’d included a picture of the very scene they were taking in right now. I had tried not to mislead anyone. Well, any more than I already was.

Thankfully, Lucy piped up.

You were very thorough in your listing, Margo. I appreciated all the information up-front. You laid everything out so nicely.

Carmen let out a little snort, rolled her eyes, and then she and the boyfriend stepped back inside.

Lucy went to follow them, but before she did, our eyes met. Hers were gray and shining, and her mouth betrayed a smile—a joyful, incredulous smile—and I became so infected with it that I, too, smiled, and between us grew the seed of an understanding: that sometimes, people were just off their fucking rockers.

***

There was only one room left to show, the upstairs spare bedroom. I soldiered ahead down the short hallway, bracing myself for what Carmen and the boyfriend would have to say about it (Too small! That is not a closet!) when out of the corner of my eye I saw Lucy about to enter my own bedroom, which was the first door on the left.

Wait, I called out. That’s off-limits.

Lucy halted. But Carmen ignored me and burrowed her way inside.

By the time I caught up to her she was at my dresser, holding up an old picture of Brad. In this one he was in his front yard, about to kick a soccer ball with his leg suspended in the air behind him, his dark hair falling into his intense, dark eyes. His skin, tanned from the summer, practically glowed against his white shirt.

Is this your brother? Carmen asked, eyes bugged. And is he single? Because if so, I’ll sign the lease right now.

The boyfriend flinched at this, and rightly so.

It’s not my brother, I said. It’s my boyfriend, Brad.

Interesting, Carmen said, giving me an exaggerated once-over.

I could have said the same about her little rodent, but I held my tongue.

She reached for another framed picture. This one was taken more recently, Brad with his arm around me at Delaney’s, our—or, if I was being honest, his—favorite bar.

Look, Roo, the boyfriend called out, "she used to be blonde…and hot."

He’d somehow skittered over to the windowsill, where I kept my family photos, and was holding an old picture of me on the boat with my mom and dad. (Why hadn’t I remembered to put these away?)

Carmen curled her lip. "Please. Not that hot."

That’s it, I thought. I stalked up to the boyfriend and wrenched the photo out of his hands and then turned and did the same to Carmen.

"I said this room is off-limits. Now get out!"

The last two words were so loud and ferocious they bounced off the walls and sent Carmen and the boyfriend clear out of the room.

In the mirror I saw my cheeks were brick-red, my whole face and neck beaded with sweat. I was afraid to meet Lucy’s eyes, to get her reaction, and too flustered, thinking only of getting these two out of my house, immediately. I would rather live with a live porcupine. Carmen Kangaroo? Please. It sounded like a fake name. And I would know.

***

Back in the living room Carmen said, "You know what? This place isn’t so bad, for the price. When are you making your decision?"

I gaped at her, speechless. After all that! I should have just told her right then to leave, but it was so much easier to avoid confrontation and let her down over text, so I said, Soon.

What does that mean? Carmen asked.

At first, I thought she was prodding for a specific date and time, but then realized she was looking past my head, at a lone sign on the wall, oversized, hung by a long metal wire, that said inconceivable!

Oh, that.

I waved my hand at it, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

"It means, like, unbelievable."

The sign had been a gift from Dad to Mom—a quote from her favorite movie—and it had hung by their bed. Miraculously, it had been spared from all the blood. If it hadn’t meant so much to them, I’d have burned it.

Carmen regarded me with her wide, dark eyes. "You look so…familiar, she said, turning to the boyfriend. Doesn’t she?"

It was nice to meet you guys, I said, herding them quickly toward the door, my forehead slick with renewed sweat. "I’ll call you as soon as I decide."

***

I’d almost forgotten about Lucy. She’d missed all that, thankfully, since she’d hung back to check out the spare bedroom.

I listened for sounds, wondering what she was doing. For a while I heard nothing.

Then, to my relief, I heard the toilet being flushed, followed by the sound of the sink turning on, then off, and finally, Lucy’s slow, creaking steps down the stairs.

When she joined me in the living room, her eyes climbed to the wall behind my head, to the inconceivable! sign.

"Princess Bride, Lucy said softly. Right?"

I nodded.

Love that movie.

I didn’t dare say anything in return or else I’d start to weep in this poor girl’s face. Grief and shame were weird like that. I’d be perfectly fine and then, wham—waterworks.

Lucy stood opposite me, awkwardly, expectantly.

I had so many questions, but I was too afraid to ask. Did she like the place? Or was she just being nice, oohing and ahhing over everything?

And did I want to choose her by default, just because Carmen was so awful?

I motioned toward the couch.

Lucy sat, coiling her hair with thumb and index finger over her ear, greasing the strands. Around and tuck, around and tuck, one swirly vortex. But the strands wouldn’t catch; her hair wasn’t long enough. It was an odd length, a little past her ears, like a cut gone wrong. Plus, it was too frizzy and poufy to lay flat. As for the rest of her, she was rail-thin, gangly, her shoulders bony and visible under her T-shirt.

I sat in the armchair across from her and watched as her eyes darted all around the room and then back to me again. I braced myself for the get-to-know-you questions I could feel coming. But we continued in silence, and the questions didn’t come.

Someone had to say something; we couldn’t just sit here like this forever. I supposed it was up to me to begin.

I cleared my throat. Where’d you say you went to school, Lucy?

Local community college, she said, smiling shyly. Really small. You’ve never heard of it, I’m sure.

I couldn’t even remember where Lucy had said she was from; I kept getting her application confused with Carmen’s. The Midwest somewhere? Or the South? Somewhere far away. It’s what made them both so attractive.

Probably not, I said.

I shifted in my seat, waiting for her to ask where I went to college (nowhere, I was too much of a mess, and no money anyway) or where I grew up (on Cape Cod, in a little town called Marshside, a place I never wanted to see again).

She didn’t ask these things. Instead she leaned forward and said, Do you know you have mice?

Mice? I sat up straight in my chair. I hadn’t heard the scratching in the walls in months. It wasn’t possible. They were gone. No, I don’t have mice. I’d know.

Sorry, Lucy said sheepishly, then held out her phone. I took a picture. It was, like, in the corner, near the window? In the spare bedroom.

Sure enough, there were black, rice-sized pellets.

My face grew hot. I’d run out of time this morning and hadn’t really cleaned the second bedroom as thoroughly as I should have; otherwise, I’d have seen that.

The way she was looking at me made me want to melt into the floor, and this felt strange—like the ball had bounced out of my court, and suddenly, my fate was being decided by a stranger, and not the other way around. Like it wasn’t my choice for her to live here, but hers.

I found myself asking, shyly, Is this…a deal-breaker for you?

Not at all, Lucy said. As long as you get an exterminator. Can I be transparent, though?

Sure, I said.

She stared down at her feet. I have a couple more apartments to look at. Depending on how it goes… She looked back up. Maybe I could come back tomorrow, for one last look?

I forced a smile and said, Sure.

As I walked her to the door I felt my shoulders tighten, feeling equal parts devastated—I could lose her; she was the best option, wasn’t she?—and terrified. Because for all I knew, she could be the worst.

2

Her

It was a little before eight, and it was getting dark. The oppressive heat from the day had lifted, and the armpits on her thin white T-shirt were dank.

She was sitting inside a beat-up glass bus shelter on a metal bench. She had on a baseball cap, into which she’d tucked her hair so it looked as if she didn’t have any. Two other people stood waiting for the bus, on their phones, paying her no mind. She felt safe, unseen.

A bus came squealing down the street. The two others got on the bus. She did not. She stayed.

She’d been sitting there for the better part of the day, other than bathroom breaks, and was beginning to give up and accept that Margo didn’t leave her damn house. This was a colossal waste of time.

The house itself was tall and narrow and pointy, like a pencil, wedged between two double-deckers and separated by alleyways, just wide enough to stow trash and recycling bins and not much else. The first floor had one bay window—that was the living room, according to the childishly drawn floor plan on Craigslist—and one small window above the front door. At night, you could see the stairwell through it.

In person, the shit condition was no surprise. The house looked just like it had on Google Earth, and just like it had that time her father, Gary, had driven her up from Pennsylvania, worried about her taking the bus by herself, and just like those times soon after when she’d told her parents she was checking out grad programs and instead took the bus—by her fucking self—and went straight here, to 509 East 8th Street, South Boston.

South Boston. Southie. Home to Castle Island and how ’bout dem apples. Home to Whitey Bulger’s victims buried toothless in dirt basements.

And home, most importantly, to Margo Sharpe.

Normally, these trips would be timed during work hours, so she could get a proper look at the place without Margo there. But today was a Saturday. Today was The Big Day. Margo was likely considering whom to choose, though the answer was obvious, at least in her estimation. At the thought of Margo’s options—oh, she almost laughed.

A welcome breeze brought a brief respite from the heat, along with the smell of trash. Cities were disgusting. Why anyone chose to live in them was beyond her.

But then, movement, in the window.

Seconds later, Margo appeared at the door.

Finally.

Margo walked slowly down her steps, head down, absorbed in her phone, then took a left and disappeared around the corner.

Unsticking her sweaty ass from the bench, she stood and followed Margo from a safe distance.

It seemed Margo was headed toward an unmarked building that had one cloudy front window, inside of which was a faintly lit green sign.

the sham pub

The rock part of the sign was broken, unlit.

Margo slowed her pace and bit that stupid lip of hers. It appeared to be some sort of nervous habit, same as tugging down those horrid black bangs over her signpost forehead as if that would hide how big it was. As if it would hide who she was.

Margo stopped in front of the door, checked her phone, and then cupped her hands to peer into the cloudy window. She stood up straight, took a deep breath, and entered through the heavy mahogany door, into the dark.

Peeking through the window—even going inside and sitting incognito in some dark corner—was tempting, but not an option. Talk about obvious.

Plus, that wasn’t part of the plan. This was still strictly the research phase.

There was another bus stop, further down the street. She went there instead, sat, and opened her small notebook. Her little sister, Savannah, had bought it for her in Vermont, at a shop somewhere near that gross hippie college she went to. The cardboard cover was labeled Decomposition Notebook. It was literally made of shit.

Happy Birthday, her sister had said, very earnestly, and it had taken everything she had not to throw it back in her sister’s face. But her parents were standing right there, nervously watching, so she’d smiled and said, Thanks, Savvy.

Now she turned to the next blank page, midway in, and wrote, 8 p.m., Tuesday. Goes to dumpy bar called The Sham.

She closed the notebook, stood, and walked in the direction of her car, a beige shitbox she’d gotten from some grandma on West 4th who was losing her sight and couldn’t drive any longer. As she walked, she ignored the constant buzzing of her phone.

Her parents: Are you okay? Are you safe? Where did you sleep last night? CALL US!

Minutes later, one from Savvy: You can’t be mad at them forever.

Once she’d settled into her car, pillow and blanket crumpled in the backseat, she replied to her sister: Yes, I can.

3

Margo

Aunt Izzie had been calling me a million times a day.

"After all that’s happened to our family, Margo. Strangers, off the Internet—really? Isn’t there a friend, or a coworker, someone you already know?"

(Translation: Margo, are you a gigantic loser?)

Every time, I told her, Iz, I’m broke. I have no other option. And she knew that it was true, so it always ended there.

As for the stranger part, I didn’t have to say why I didn’t try to live with a friend. She knew full well I didn’t have any.

It was my fault for riling her up, anyway. Early on I’d sent her some doozies, like the message I got from some accountant named Betsey S: "Hi. Wut is your policy on drug use? Will be very tidey and throw needles away in trash. And another from someone named Benny: Hi! I understand you don’t want a male roommate, but I assure you, I’m a stand-up guy. As in, I stand up while you bend over."

I was trying to be funny, making light of the outrageous people you can find in the dark corners of the Internet, but it made Izzie so nervous that one day she drove up two hours from the Cape, leaving Uncle Steve to watch Ray and Damon, my young nephews, which she never did, to help me vet the