it wouldn’t, would it?
Walking with unhurried steps down the suburban street despite a racing heart, the killer felt that congratulations were in order. Thinking fast on your feet was a trait to be regarded with a certain pride. It had come into its own just a short time ago when it became clear something had to be done. His madness had to be stopped.
The act was self-defence really, when you thought about it.
Oh yes, there were plenty of excuses to be made.
A wild glee bubbled up which had to be hidden from other people out and about enjoying a London summer’s evening. An innocent face was such an asset. Glimpsing the families lingering in shadowy gardens, citronella candles lit to deter the mosquitoes, memories of childhood games stirred. Candlestick in the conservatory by Mrs Peacock? No, no, that was a stab in the dark. Rope in the library, Professor Plum? Really, was that the best you could do? Lead pipe in the kitchen, Colonel Mustard? Warmer. The police would be left guessing like inept players when they found him – that’s if they even suspected a crime had taken place. Underestimated by everyone, the killer knew how not to leave too many traces. The scene was staged correctly. Justice done. Time to fade into the background, just one among the many passers-by. Just look at them. Any one of them, under the right conditions, might also take a cast-iron pan to the back of someone’s head and end a life.
Jessica, 7th August 2016
‘I’m leaving.’
We have barely just walked through the door when Michael makes his declaration. I’m still standing in my holiday T-shirt and shorts, cradling the duty-free bought at the end of our week in Minorca. Our bedroom is scattered with a week’s worth of dirty clothes and he is already repacking his suitcase.
‘What? Leaving leaving, or just leaving?’ I ask, mesmerised as he transfers ironed shirts from the wardrobe to his carry-on. It’s like he’s become a whole different person after the holiday wear got dumped. Back to business. Item one: deal with errant girlfriend.
He pauses, hand arrested in choosing the right tie. ‘I’ll stay overnight at Gatwick. I don’t want to disturb you by having a taxi fetch me at five.’
And I’m not disturbed now with this sudden departure? ‘Oh, so just leaving. I see. I thought, after… you know… it might be hasta la vista, baby.’ I give a hiccup of laughter and unscrew the top of the lime-green liqueur I bought on impulse at the airport. I take a swig.
‘Jessica! I warned you that stuff was vile.’
‘Yeah, well. It tasted great on the beach.’
‘And now it tastes like bleach.’
He’s right but I’m not backing down. ‘Cheers. My funeral and all that.’
He shakes his head. He’s already finished stowing his conference gear. The Grand Prix pit teams could take lessons from him on efficient changeovers. ‘You know how to reach me.’
I really don’t, not anymore. ‘So we’re not going to talk about it?’
‘What good would that do? Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away.’ He walks past me without a goodbye kiss. I hear the front door slam.
I check the level in the bottle. Perhaps it will taste better with ice and lemon?
It doesn’t. I’m still lying awake at two in the morning, tossing and turning, getting up to go to the loo a million times. I check the time.
02:36.
The house clicks and settles in that odd way it does when it thinks no one is listening, like it’s really some living, breathing beast just pretending to be bricks and mortar. A horrible feeling comes over me of there being something wrong, someone out there, with me alone in the house. It’s happened before, usually when I’m in a car after dark on my own, waiting. Be honest, you’ve thought that too, haven’t you? Put your mind to it and it could happen right now where you are. In my nightmare, a man in a Scream-face mask is going to tap on the window. I can see him lurching from the bushes to stare, blank-faced, black circle of a mouth, hands pressed to his cheeks in terror, eyes fixed on me. I know it’s foolish but once the image is there, he’s there in the dark, the Scream guy, real as anything. And now he’s outside my back door as I lie upstairs in bed in a cold sweat.
Stop it, Jessica. You know how this works. It’s the late-night drinking that has summoned your personal horror. Yet my body hums with tension, telling me this time it’s different. This time he’s real. Paralysed, I lie wide awake, listening. There are footsteps in the side alley, I am sure of it, but no way am I going to look. I’m afraid I’ll see him – or not see him, which would be almost as bad, as I’ll know my brain is tricking me again. I take my phone under the blankets with me, thumb close to the emergency-call option on the home screen, but whoever it is doesn’t make another move.
It was probably just a normal intruder raiding the shed, I tell myself, and then laugh grimly at my idea of a small mercy.
Eventually, as it grows light and thoughts of the masked intruder recede, I drift off and sleep through my first alarm. On the second round, I leap up out of the twisted sheets and rush from the house, still buttoning my jacket. On the street, I bump into our neighbour, Lizzy, walking her spaniel. The dog lets off a staccato bark of hysterical joy at seeing me.
‘Had a good holiday?’ asks Lizzy, tugging on Flossie’s lead.
I have no time for the truth. When do I ever? ‘Great. Thanks for feeding the cat. I got you a present but I’m afraid I drank it. Believe me – I saved you from the hangover from hell.’
She laughs, as I hoped. ‘I don’t expect anything, you know that. I like Colette. It’s no trouble.’
‘Thanks. You’re a star. Must dash!’ Giving a cheery wave, I run for the station. Why have I let myself get in such a flap? I scold myself in my mind using Lizzy’s-voice-of-sense, for letting an overactive imagination cause such paralysis last night. The Scream guy never seems real at eight in the morning. Maybe things will improve today? I’ll have a good few hours at work and a decent conversation with Michael later to clear the air. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
Then the train from Clapham is on time. Usually that would be cause for a marching band and trumpet fanfare, except I’m not. On time, I mean. I stumble up the station steps to see the 8:04 slide away to Vauxhall. My phone goes flying, screen hitting the concrete with that crack. I pick it up. Sure enough, the screen has gone all modern art – my life through shattered glass, still just about functioning.
Injured mobile in hand, I wonder if maybe I should take it as a sign? I should stop here, turn around and go home – repack the suitcase and max out the credit card on the first standby ticket to anywhere that isn’t this life of mine. Would Michael count that impulse as ‘stupid’?
The moment passes. Instead, I squeeze myself onto the next service, like a good little rat in the rat race. Suffering the indignities of the short-in-stature at rush hour, I travel with my face pressed against the back of a German student in a Bayern top. That’s no hardship. He smells good, all kind of musk and bath soap with a hint of alpine yodelling, and looks, well, far too young
