Tell Me I'm Wrong

by Adam Croft

  I let him down.

  It should have been us. It should have been me. He should have been ours. The rage continues to build as I pummel my fists into the tiled floor. The pain inside persists, so I lift up my head and bring it crashing down onto the tiles. Then again. And again.

  I keep doing it until the blood runs into my eyes and mouth, its metallic taste choking me as I rest my throbbing head in my own blood and weep.

  45

  The second time

  It feels odd calling it that, because I don’t really remember the first time. The only way I can describe it is that I have this innate knowledge that it happened. It’s more of an acceptance, in the same way that you know one plus one is two, without having to think about it or work it out. It just is.

  But it’s more than that, because it’s not something that I’m always conscious of. It’s become a part of me, something that goes on without me even realising it. Like a heartbeat. Or a breath. It carries on without you noticing, but as soon as you notice it, you can’t un-notice it without distraction. A breath is more, you see, as you can control it as soon as you notice it. That’s not so easy with a heartbeat. I’d go so far as to say impossible. This is more like a heartbeat. Imagine a heartbeat that you can only notice at certain times, under specific conditions. That’s the closest I can get to describing what it’s like, and even then I’m still a million miles away.

  Although I don’t recall the specifics from the first time, I can still feel the emotions. I remember the huge surge of anger tied with grief, and the resentment that united them. I can feel the compulsion that washed over me, the realisation that I had no choice. It was a beautiful sort of acceptance, almost like the poetical embrace of impending death. Imagine a moment from a film, in which a character realises they are dying and comes to accept it peacefully and with tranquillity. It’s not something I wanted to accept was happening, but I had no choice.

  I went with it.

  And now it’s like an itch I need to scratch. The release it gave me was huge; one I didn’t even know I needed. You don’t always realise how bad your back is until the masseuse digs his thumbs in. And then there’s no going back — you’re fully aware of every single tight muscle and knot.

  I feel as though I’m floating across the footpath. No sensation comes from my feet. The sounds begin to dull and my vision starts to drain of all colour. Smells disappear. It’s like being cocooned. The only thing that appears in colour is the young boy standing at the edge of the stream, watching with glee as the water rushes over the pebbles.

  I continue to float towards him, careful not to make a sound I couldn’t hear anyway. I stand right behind him, barely inches away, but he still doesn’t know I’m there.

  I look at him, standing out here on his own, left to fend for himself by parents who don’t appreciate the son they were blessed with.

  He should have been ours. We wouldn’t have let him walk down here on his own while we sat at home worrying more about ourselves than our young son. They don’t deserve him. They don’t deserve any of it.

  I imagine him sitting at our dining table, telling us about his day at school. We’re so proud of him. Our son.

  But he isn’t our son. I know he’s not. He’s the unwanted, unloved boy who other parents should have been blessed with. Parents like us.

  We could have been so happy. We would have loved him.

  Our son.

  His parents don’t know how lucky they are. They don’t know the hurt and humiliation they’ve caused. They don’t deserve him. He doesn’t deserve to live.

  In one fluid movement, which comes about entirely subjectively, my arm goes around his neck and I lift him up in the air. I pull my forearm towards my chest, constricting his windpipe, crushing as hard as I can.

  He gurgles like a drain as he begins to go limp. My arm is agony, and I can’t hold on much longer. With my other arm, I reach over and grab a length of damp rope that’s been discarded in a bush, and pull it round his neck. I cross the ends and pull tight as he drops to his knees, desperately scrambling to free the rope as he gurgles breathlessly.

  I see him turning red, then purple, but not blue. Not yet.

  I tie a double knot in the rope at the back of his neck, take a step back, then swing my leg, aiming it at his head.

  He falls into the stream silently, as if the lights have just been switched off.

  46

  Megan

  Everything seems perfectly clear yet totally opaque at the same time.

  I accept what happened. I know it happened. I don’t remember it in the conventional sense, but now everything makes perfect sense. I had to believe it was Chris. My battle was completely internal. I needed to believe Chris killed Riley and Kai, because I had to make sense of the evidence in front of me. The alternative was to acknowledge the truth and destroy myself in the process.

  But now I have no choice. The police have released Chris. They know he didn’t kill those boys. And there’s no-one else my brain can try to convince me was responsible. I’ve had to accept the truth. I’ve had to accept it was me.

  Regret’s a funny word, isn’t it? I don’t know if I regret what I did. I have no emotional feeling towards it. But I do know it was wrong. And I know what happens next.

  It’s only a matter of time before the police join the dots and work it out. And then what? Megan Miller, the child murderer. Evie will grow up without a mother. All she’ll have is a father who didn’t want her in the first place. A father who’s more concerned with getting his leg over the sister-in-law than he is being the dutiful family man he portrays himself as. And what chance does Evie have when Chris loses his job? Because that’s what’s going to happen. There’s no way in hell he can carry on working at the school. Not now. He won’t be able to get a job elsewhere, either. ‘Why did you leave your last position, Mr Miller?’ ‘Oh, it’s quite simple, really. My wife murdered two of the pupils.’

  The community has already been torn apart. My family — well, I can put that down to Chris — but this will prove to be the icing on the cake.

  I look down at the blood on the kitchen floor, the edges of it beginning to dry on the tiles. My first thought is that it’s going to stain horribly, but what does it matter? I won’t be here to worry about it. I’ll have bigger messes to try and clean up.

  I’ve ruined everything. I’ve pushed Chris away and into the arms of my sister. I called the police and reported him as a murderer. I’ve ruined his life. And all because I wanted to make it up to him. I did it for him.

  I can’t bear to spend the next fifty-odd years rotting in a jail cell, with only sporadic visits from my daughter to look forward to. I don’t want her growing up having to go through that. Prison is no place for young girls.

  And that’s if Chris even allowed her to visit me. He could tell her whatever he wanted. He could tell her I’d died, or gone to live somewhere else and she wouldn’t know any different. They could move away, change their names and Evie would never know her true identity. She could even grow up and read articles about what happened and not realise the connection. And where would that leave me? Still sitting in the same jail cell, rotting away, dodging the razor blades in my porridge.

  That’s not a thought I can countenance. It would be much better for everyone if I wasn’t there. Chris could tell Evie — quite truthfully — that I’d died. He could tell her how unwell I’d been, that I’d done my best for both of them but it just wasn’t to be. He wouldn’t need to tell her the whole ugly truth. That’s the only bit that matters. That’s the only bit that’s truly me.

  Some people might call it the coward’s way out. They might think I was trying to evade justice, not wanting to answer for my actions. But justice has already been done. My life is ruined. My family is in tatters. No time spent in a concrete room is going to make that any better or worse. Besides which, I can’t answer for my actions. I only have the reasoning and justification I gave to myself, and I’m well aware tha
t no-one else will understand that.

  Chris wanted a boy — desperately wanted a boy — but got a girl. I let him down. The time he spent away from home after she was born told me that much. He resented me. All I wanted to do was make it up to him, and I failed. It made sense at the time. It made perfect sense.

  Whichever way this ends, my marriage is over. My life as I know it is over. There’s still a chance the police won’t discover the truth. The chances are slim and the net is closing in, but there’s still a chance. If I hand myself in, Evie’s life will be ruined before it’s even begun. Chris’s life and career would be torn apart. The local community would be left in tatters.

  But I could go. I could end it all by ending my own life. If the police found out the truth after my death, would they announce it? What good would it do? Perhaps they’d try to make things easier on Chris and Evie by keeping that little detail under wraps. There must be ways and means.

  My death would, undoubtedly, have a profound effect on Chris and Evie and the rest of my family. But, in time, they’d move on. They’d be able to build a new life whilst sparing everyone else even more hurt.

  My medical notes will show a recent history of post-natal depression and the prescription for antipsychotic medication. A huge percentage of mothers with post-natal depression end their own lives. I’ve seen all the articles, read all the books.

  This is the only way it can end. This is the only way out that gives some possibility of hope for everyone else, even if there is no hope left for me.

  I know what I mean to do.

  This is how it has to be.

  47

  Megan

  For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m thinking clearly. I stand up and walk across to the other side of the kitchen, the dried blood sticking my feet to the floor. I rummage through the stack of bills and unopened letters for a sheet of paper. There aren’t any plain sheets, so I make do with a couple of opened envelopes.

  I pick up a pen and begin to scribble down my thoughts. I’m not sure they make any sense at all, but right now that doesn’t matter. I need to get this out of my head and onto paper, so somebody else can read it. They’ll have all the time in the world to try and make sense of it. I don’t have that luxury.

  The pen moves quickly across the paper. I barely recognise my own handwriting. It’s a mish-mash of thoughts and probably mis-spelled words. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I say what I have to say. It wouldn’t be fair on them if I said nothing. They need to know I’m doing it for them, just the same as I did everything else for them. This time, though, it will work. This time, eventually, they will see the benefit. They just won’t know it.

  I go upstairs to the bathroom cupboard and take out two boxes. Then I open my sock drawer in the bedroom and rummage through it to find the third box. I put them in my pockets, taking out my mobile phone and leaving it on the bed.

  I head downstairs and put my shoes on. It seems a bizarre necessity, after trailing bloody footprints around the house. Part of me wants to get the cleaning products out and get rid of the footprints, but I stop myself. Doing anything else would open up the possibility of me changing my mind. Might I even do it again? No. I don’t think so. But I can’t take that risk. Whatever happens, I have to put a stop to this right here, right now.

  I close the front door behind me and walk down the road towards the footpath that leads to the river.

  When I get to the edge of the stream, I look to my left. I imagine, a mile or two further down, Chris sitting at the side of the river with his fishing gear, staring off into space as he tries to make sense of everything that’s happened.

  It hits me that I’ll never get to say goodbye to Evie. Not properly. But deep down I know that’s probably for the best. If I saw her again I’d only change my mind, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, least of all her. This is the best option in the long-run. As much as it pains me, as much as it tears me apart, this is best for her.

  Sooner or later, their memories will become hazy. Life will go on. Chris and Evie will have a new life. They’ll find happiness again.

  Off to my right-hand-side I can hear children playing in the park. Playing with their parents watching over them, no doubt, wary of the killer that lurks in their midst. Still, life goes on. With a little adaptation and an extra parental eye, this day can be like any other. Things need not change. Their way of life doesn’t have to alter.

  That thought gives me some internal peace. Sooner or later, their memories will fade too. Their parents will take their eyes off them for a few moments while they chat between themselves. One day, they’ll nip over the road to grab ice cream for the kids. They’ll only be a couple of minutes. Perhaps later they won’t even need to watch over them at all. The perceived danger will be but a distant memory.

  They won’t know it just yet, but that danger will have passed long ago.

  I stand at the edge of the water, watching it ripple over the pebbles and pool in the deeper areas. The undulation of the bed of the stream is almost as mesmerising as the water itself. I empty the first two blister packs into my hand, put a handful of tablets into my mouth and scoop up water from the stream to wash them down with. The olanzapine won’t be enough to do the job. Not at the dosage I’m on.

  I follow it up with a box of paracetamol and the sleeping tablets. The water from the stream doesn’t taste anywhere near as crisp and clear as it looks, and I gag a little as I try to wash down the tablets. Eventually, though, I manage it.

  The water drips off the edge of my chin and into the water, making small splashing sounds as it does so.

  I take off my shoes and step down into the water, feeling the pebbles beneath my feet as the bed of the stream shifts slightly. I put my hands down and feel the water passing over them. Gradually, I get to my knees before sitting in the water. It’s cold, refreshing.

  I lie back and let the cool water wash over me.

  48

  Dear Chris and Evie,

  * * *

  You might find this before they find me. If you do, please don’t worry. I’m safe now. Everyone is safe now.

  You will be asking yourselves all sorts of questions. You probably will for years. I don’t have those answers for you, but I will try to help. If you ever ask yourself if there was anything you could have done to have stopped this happening, the answer is no. This is not your fault. Either of you. It is entirely down to me and is not because of anything either of you have done. It is something inside me which I cannot control and cannot deal with.

  If nasty things are said about me, please don’t feel bad for me. I probably deserve them. In any case, I tried my best. I always tried my best. For both of you. Everything I ever did was with the best interests of both of you at heart. Sometimes, I will have failed. Sometimes I will have misjudged the situation and done the wrong thing. But please know that my intentions were always good. Everything I did was for you.

  Chris, I’m so sorry for what I did to you. I can’t excuse it — I can barely explain it — but please know that I’m sorry. I hope you are able to find peace. It will hurt at first. You might feel guilty. But don’t. This is the only way it could ever have ended, no matter what we did. I hope one day you are able to accept that. It might take a while for the fog to clear and for you to be able to see things from the other side, but time is a great healer. I know that with time you will find peace with what happened. And I know you will look after Evie.

  Evie, you might never read this and you almost certainly won’t remember me. You’ll have photos, no doubt, but you won’t remember the sound of my voice or the smell of my perfume. All you’ll have is what other people tell you about me. No memories of your own. For that, please know that I am eternally sorry. It might help you in the long run. I can only imagine you might miss me less for never knowing me, but please know that I will always miss you more than you will ever know. When you have children of your own, you will come to understand what I mean. I
hope you can forgive me. This is not what I wanted, but it is how it has to be.

  Please know that I was not a bad person. Things were different before I got ill. I can blame no-one but myself for what happened. You might wonder if I could have got better with help. If something could have been done to stop this happening. The answer to both of those questions is no.

  I can see things clearly now. This was not an act of desperation or a cry for help. I was not in a confused state. For the first time in a long time, I was able to see things for what they really were. Please know that I went in peace, with full clarity of mind and with the best of intentions. Please know that this was what I wanted.

  All that is left for me to say is that I am sorry for everything. I hope you remember me fondly and that all the bad things that happened can be forgiven, if not forgotten. I never meant for any of it to happen, and I hope that you are able to move on with your lives now that I am gone. I’m safe now. Everyone is safe now.

  I will be looking down on you always. I will watch out for you and guide you where you need guidance. Now I have no pain. Now I have no other calling, no other role than to love you. I will be there. I love you both more than you will ever know.

  * * *

  Mummy

  xxx

  49

  Megan. Two days later

  The first thing I hear is the sound of my own breath, shallow and rattling. My whole body tingles, a kaleidoscope of colours plays out across my mind. The pain almost splits my head in two. My jaw hurts, but I can’t move it. There’s something in my mouth, holding it open. I open my mouth ever so slightly more. It can’t open much further, but it clicks and snaps as it moves, as if my jaw hasn’t moved for days.