scrabbled for normality. Five seconds. Her hand shook. Her fingers didn’t respond.
Four seconds. Her eyes spun off the words on the note and ricocheted round the room.
I can’t go on …
Pages of highlighted French GCSE notes fanned around her feet. Her laptop upended. Three seconds. A stain of red nail polish spread on the floor.
I can’t live in fear …
Melisha tried to form a sound. Her lips were lax, useless, dull. Inside her a voice screamed this is important. Do something. Anything. Two seconds.
This is the only way …
Melisha thought she was mature. Had it all sussed out. She felt the cold reality now. Cotton-wool wraps, safety, childhood, were stripped away. She was raw. Alert. Adult. This was the moment she grew up. Her eyes fixed on the words, the sentences. The note came into focus:
As I type this I feel calmer. I’m doing the right thing. It’s a relief. I can’t go on after people find out. It’s disgusting. I’ve let down my friends, family, teachers, everyone. Only those who’ve seen will know why. I can’t live in fear of it coming out. All the lies are finished. Mum, Dad, Freya, Gemma, I screwed up. I can’t hurt you more. I love you. It’s time I fixed the mess I made. This is the only way. I promise you all you’re better off without me. I know you’ll feel sad reading this, but I know that’ll be over soon. The pain will fade. Your tears will dry. You’ll live happy lives. I love you. Now it’s time to go. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours of you receiving this note.
One second. From deep inside the command grew, forcing its way up and out of her, juddering her whole body. ‘Mum!’ she screamed. And the photo vanished.
Saturday 12 March
20:01
His bike sped through the wood, jumping the tree roots which pushed through the muddy ground like bony fingers. His brother’s bike light, lower and slower, turned birch trees into streaks of white in the dark. The wind whipped back from him. He was flying. Fifteen minutes till curfew.
A flash of orange caught his eye. Treasure. He skidded to a halt as the path gave way to a grass clearing, grey in the gloom.
His brother shouted behind him. ‘We’re late!’ Nose and cheeks pink from the cold, he didn’t want to get in trouble. ‘Whose bag is that?’
‘Dunno.’ He kicked at the handbag with his toe. ‘Looks like a girl’s.’ There were folders and books in the top. He laughed, teasing, ‘Maybe she’s shagging someone!’
‘Gross!’ His brother’s small face screwed up.
‘Let’s take it for Mum.’ He knew he’d freak. Stealing was naughty.
There was no squeal. His brother didn’t answer. He looked up at him, he was pale. Eyes wide saucers. Mouth like a goldfish.
‘What?’
He gulped as he pointed behind them. His arms shaking. Turning was like watching a replay on his computer game. Slow mo. Behind them, five, maybe six big steps away was a girl. Lying down. Curled up. His ears went weird. Like whistling. Her forehead was on the grass, face turned towards them. She had pretty yellow hair. It was cold out there. He stepped towards her.
His brother whimpered – ‘No!’ – his voice whiney. He made a sound like their cat did when it had a fur ball.
He took another step. Her eyes were open. They were black like a doll’s. He jumped. Thought he might pee himself. Gripped his trousers. ‘She’s dead.’
‘I want Mummy,’ his brother cried.
‘She’s dead.’ He stumbled back, treading on his toes. Fell over his bicycle. This was real. He had to protect his brother. He was the eldest. He grabbed for him and the bike. ‘Go. Get going!’ Tears burned his eyes. He wanted Mum. He wanted Dad. Scrambling, he pulled his own bike up. The metal was ice in his hands. ‘Go!’ he shouted as they pedalled. Faster. Faster. Looking back he saw her lying in the moonlight. Her dead black eyes watching them.
Monday 14 March
13:27
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hello
Hey Nurse Strofton!
Long time no hear! I saw Nasreen Cudmore a few months ago. We ended up working together. You might have seen it on the news? Bit crazy – hunting a serial killer!! She said you were a midwife. That she’d seen you a few years back. So I thought I’d look you up. I found you on the hospital website and had a guess at your address – there looks like there’s a standard format. Hope this doesn’t bounce back! Well, this is weird. After all this time. It’s taken me weeks to write this. And I call myself a journalist – ha! I’ve been taking some time off actually. I had to have an operation, needed a bit of time to recover. But that’s not really important. I’m writing because I wanted to say sorry. My therapist thinks it might help to go back and apologise to those I feel I’ve hurt. Can you imagine that? Me with a counsellor! What a London twat I am! But the truth is I am sorry for everything that happened back then. I was just a kid, and there was some stuff going on with my parents. Not that that’s an excuse. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay. I want you to be happy.
If you ever fancy catching up for a drink or something, I’m staying back with my parents right now. They’re still in Pendrick. Your hospital’s only thirty minutes away according to Google Maps. Let me know … For old time’s sake?
Cheers,
Freddie x
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Hello
Never contact me again.
09:05
Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore had never been hungover before. A slight headache, sure. Nothing a paracetamol wouldn’t fix. But this morning her body was rebelling. Her mouth felt fur-lined, like the inside of an over-worn Ugg boot. The insipid March sunlight burned her eyes. She’d escaped the nauseous sway of the tube to pant along Victoria Tower Gardens, veering right and away from Millbank and the Thames, perspiration seeping into her collared shirt. Her long black hair, washed hurriedly, clung damp and freezing against her neck. She wasn’t a big drinker at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t the best of times. Moments from last night ignited in her memory. Fingers ripping at shirt buttons. Loosening belts. Her hands on his warm skin.
The
