by Amy Cross
Her voice trails off.
“Was that what?” I ask.
“Well...”
Again, she looks me up and down.
“Don't take this the wrong way,” she continues, “but you don't seem like the kind of person who goes out much. Especially after dark.”
“I go out plenty,” I tell her, feeling a little annoyed by her presumption.
“Well, maybe I was wrong.” She checks her watch again. “Midnight. Perfect. He'll be heading home now, which means it should be safe out there.”
“You don't even know that there's a serial killer,” I continue. “Did you actually see him kill that girl last night?”
“As good as.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I've seen her about, and I know she sleeps rough. She sleeps under the arches by the town hall.”
“I -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that I have seen a sleeping bag folded up on one of the benches outside the town hall.
“I warned her about him,” Paula continues, “about three nights ago. She didn't really listen. I think she was a bit mental, if you know what I mean. Sorry, I know that's not politically correct, but it gets the point across. She was screwed in the head. I guess I should've done more, but there's only so much you can say to someone, you know? It's a real shame, 'cause otherwise she seemed like a nice girl. Sally, I think her name was, or Sadie, something like that.” She sighs. “I don't know much about her, but nobody deserves to get stabbed to death by some asshole.”
I pause, before turning to switch the light on.
“Don't.”
I turn back to her.
“Don't,” she says again. “Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
She hesitates, before heading around the sofa and making her way to the stairs.
“In case what?” I call out. “Hey, don't go up there. This is my house! You can't just -”
Before I can finish, she disappears from view and I hear her hurrying up to the top floor.
“Hey!”
I run over to the foot of the stairs and look up, just in time to spot Paula disappearing into my darkened bedroom.
“Hey!” I call out again. “I didn't even say you could come in! What are you doing here?”
I wait.
“Get back down here!”
No reply.
“I mean it! I order you to come down at once!”
Nothing.
“Can you hear me?”
Silence.
“I'm not messing about!” I yell. “If you don't come down right now, I'll call the police!”
Extract from chat log
Monday November 5th 2012
AardvarkQueen310293:
Where have you been?
Mayfly90330:
Hey.
Brb.
I'm back.
Crazy week. Party on Saturday was a bit crazy.
AardvarkQueen310293:
That was 2 days ago.
Mayfly90330:
I was exhausted yesterday.
AardvarkQueen310293:
Too exhausted to come online and tell me about it?
LOL.
I waited all day.
LOL.
Mayfly90330:
Long story.
AardvarkQueen310293:
So what happened at the party.
Mayfly90330:
Long story. Another time.
AardvarkQueen310293:
I'd like to hear.
Mayfly90330:
I don't feel like tying it out. Sorry.
How are you?
AardvarkQueen310293:
Make any new friends?
Mayfly90330:
No.
Maybe.
I dunno. Met some people who might turn out to be cool.
You still there?
AardvarkQueen310293?
Gotta go. Chat some other time.
AardvarkQueen310293:
Wait.
I'm still here.
Are you still here?
Mayfly90330?
Hello?
Chapter Seven
Today
“Don't turn the light on,” Paula says, standing silhouetted against my bedroom window as I reach the doorway. “Just trust me. Don't turn it on.”
“Why not?”
“I've got a bad feeling.”
“You think this supposed serial killer's going to break in and murder us?”
I wait, but she doesn't reply. To be honest, I just want to tell her once more to get out of the cottage, but at the same time I can't escape a sense of relief that she's alive. I'd more or less come to the conclusion that she was the girl who got murdered last night, and at least now I don't feel guilty for potentially driving a girl to her death. At the same time, I don't know Paula at all and I certainly don't trust her enough to let her stay here.
“Do you use the internet much?” she asks suddenly, keeping her voice low as she continues to stare down at the pitch-black street.
“What?”
“The internet. Do you use it?”
“Sometimes.”
“How long have you been online?”
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
I pause, trying to remember the first time I visited a website or sent an email.
“I honestly don't know,” I tell her, surprised that I can't quite think back that far. “Almost as long as I can remember.”
“Ten years, five months and two days ago,” she replies. “That's when I first used it. I guess you could call me a late bloomer. I keep track of these things. I was eleven years old, and I snuck online using my mother's laptop after she passed out from drinking too much whiskey. I pretty quickly found my way to some chat-rooms, and after that...”
I wait for her to continue, but now she seems focused on something outside.
“After that what?” I ask.
“What?”
“You said you found some chat-rooms,” I remind her, even though I don't know why I care, “and after that something, but you didn't finish the sentence.”
Again I wait, but she seems utterly consumed by the task of staring down at the street. I'm starting to think that this Paula girl is pretty much out of her mind, although I guess she seems pretty confident. After a moment, just as I'm about to ask exactly why she's here again, I see that she seems to be muttering something under her breath, as if something outside has really caught her attention.
Suddenly she turns and looks back toward the top of the stairs.
“What?” I ask. “What is -”
Before I can finish, I hear a clicking sound downstairs, and my heart leaps in my chest as I realize someone is unlocking the door.
I step past the bed, but suddenly Paula grabs me from behind and puts a hand over my mouth.
“Don't say a word,” she whispers. “She can't know that I'm here.”
I try to ask who she means, but her grip is too firm.
“I knew she was going to show up,” she continues, as I hear the door creaking open. “I just had this feeling in my gut. It's been weeks since I last saw her, I knew that wouldn't last.”
The door bumps shut gently, and I hear footsteps down in the front room.
“Her name's Caroline,” Paula whispers. “She runs the rental company that looks after all these cottages, and she has a bad habit of letting herself into the empty ones late at night. I guess your parents still didn't call her and tell her to block this place off for a week or two, huh? She picks one cottage every few nights and she shows up like this. And let me tell you something... This woman is a grade-A prime goddamn bitch.”
Too scared to know how I should respond, I hear something being placed on the living room table. A moment later, the downstairs light clicks on and then I hear a chair being pulled away from the table.
“Sad cow,” Paula says, keeping her voice low. “I don't think I've ever met any
thing so pathetic in all my life.”
I try to pull away, but she presses her hand more firmly against my mouth.
“Not you, dumb-ass,” she continues. “I'm talking about Caroline down there. In case you hadn't guessed yet, she's a complete -”
Before she can say another word, I hear the glug of liquid being poured from a bottle.
“The bitch is married,” Paula whispers. “I don't know anything about her husband, but I know they've got a couple of kids. Things can't be too good at home, though, 'cause a few nights a week she lets herself into one of the cottages alone and just sits around drinking for a while. Sometimes wine, usually whiskey. Sometimes she starts playing music on her phone, other times she sits in silence. Sometimes she starts crying. It's a really sad thing to see, but don't start feeling sorry for her. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for her family. They're the ones who have to put up with her when she's not out drinking her worries away.”
I hear the bottle being set down, and then – I think – the sound of somebody sipping from a glass.
And then a long, drawn-out sigh.
I try again to pull away from Paula, but again she holds me tight.
“Don't,” she whispers.
At the same time, she ever-so-slightly loosens her grip on my mouth.
“This woman has broken into my house!” I hiss.
She shakes her head.
“She has a key,” she points out. “She manages scores of cottages around town. She knows which ones are empty and which ones aren't. Well, usually she does.”
“She can't just come in here like this!”
“She won't stay long. She never does. An hour, tops. I think it's just her way of unwinding between work and going home.”
“That doesn't mean -”
“You do not want to upset this bitch.”
“I don't want to upset her? She let herself into my parents' cottage without permission! I'm going down there to tell her that I'm here, and to make her leave.”
“I don't want you to do that.”
“Why not?”
“She and I...” Her voice trails off for a moment. “Caroline and I have had a few run-ins over the past few months, since I came to Croftby. She's busted me in cottages once or twice, and I really can't risk her calling the cops on me. Plus, that bitch has a tazer in her bag and she's not afraid to use it. She damn near hit me twice, and I don't want to face her a third time.”
“Then you stay up here,” I reply, “and I'll go down and tell her to leave.”
She shakes her head.
“You can't stop me!” I point out.
“I can't risk it,” she explains. “Please! You seem like a nice girl, May, but you don't strike me as being a very good liar.”
“I am!”
“What's your favorite color?”
I open my mouth to tell her that it's yellow, but then I realize this is a trap.
“Blue,” I say firmly.
“See what I mean?” She shakes her head. “Terrible, terrible liar.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” I ask, as I hear the woman pouring herself another drink. “Just hide up here until she leaves?”
“That'd work.”
“This is insane,” I point out. “I'm hiding in my parents' cottage, from the woman who's supposed to look after it, with someone else who happened to break in. I should throw you both out right now!”
“I know you should,” Paula whispers, “but please... I'm begging you. Don't do anything that risks that bitch knowing that I'm here. I'm serious. She'll call the cops on me so fast, my feet won't touch the floor. And if that happens, I'm dead meat.”
Extract from chat log
Tuesday November 20th 2012
Mayfly90330:
Hey how's it been?
Sorry I haven't been on for a while.
Crazy busy.
You still there?
AardvarkQueen310293?
You're not mad at me, are you?
Hello?
*waves*
Helluuuuuuuuu?
AardvarkQueen310293:
Didn't think you were coming back.
Mayfly90330:
Lol.
Yeah, I'm back baby.
You wouldn't believe what I've been up to.
AardvarkQueen310293:
How's school?
Mayfly90330:
Nuts.
Lot of parties, which is cool.
I guess.
You?
You still there?
AardvarkQueen310293?
AardvarkQueen310293:
I'm still here.
I'm always here.
You're the one who's never here.
LOL.
Mayfly90330:
I guess.
I'm a shitty friend.
Lol.
Well, internet friend.
AardvarkQueen310293:
Internet friend?
Mayfly90330:
Chat-room buddy?
Lol.
You know what I mean.
AardvarkQueen310293:
No.
I don't.
Sorry. Not angry. Just had a bad day.
A really bad day.
Chapter Eight
Today
“What's she doing now?” Paula asks, as I crawl a little further along the landing and peer between the railings, trying to get a better view of the living room table. “Did she pass out?”
Squinting, I'm just about able to make out a woman's figure sitting slumped at one of the chairs. She sure looks like she's unconscious, although I can't really tell for sure. There's what looks like a whiskey bottle on the table, though, with just an inch or so of liquid at the bottom.
“Great,” Paula says with a sigh. “This has happened before. She drinks so much, she passes out and snoozes for hours.”
“I thought you said she'd leave soon,” I whisper.
“That was an optimistic promise.”
Leaning a little further forward, I try to see the woman's face. To be honest, this whole situation is ridiculous and I know I should have stormed down there already and ordered this Caroline woman to leave. After all, she has zero right to be in this cottage, even if she is the property manager for the rental company. She's abusing her position as a key-holder, and my parents would be furious – will be furious – to learn that this crazy woman seems to be using empty cottages as her own private boozing locations.
So why haven't I gone down there?
I watch her for a moment longer, before turning and seeing Paula's nervous face still staring at me from the darkened bedroom.
She gestures for me to crawl back and join her, and it's clear that she's genuinely terrified that this Caroline woman might find out that she's here. I guess I can understand that, and I've got to admit that so far Paula doesn't seem like the worst person in the world. In fact, I'm starting to think that beneath her brash exterior she's just some scared girl who acts tough when she feels threatened. I mean, if she really had her life together, she wouldn't be sneaking about at night and breaking into empty cottages.
Suddenly I hear a gasp from downstairs, and I turn just in time to see that Caroline seems to have woken. Sure enough, she mumbles something under her breath as she reaches for the bottle, and then she hauls herself to her feet. She takes the bottle and a glass, and then I hear her heading across the living room. I can't see her anymore, but she's bumping about quite a bit and it's not hard to believe that she's a little tipsy.
And then I hear the front door open.
Followed by some more bumping about.
Followed by the door shutting again.
I wait, but now the house is silent.
“She's gone,” Paula says, and I turn to see that she's kneeling at the window, peering out at the pitch-black street. “She's not even walking straight. One night she's gonna get stopped by the cops when she's driving home.”
“She drives when she's
drunk?” I ask.
“Hell, yeah. In fact, I can see her in her car right now.”
Heading to the window, I peer out and see that there's a car parked a little way along the street. Its headlights are blasting through the darkness, and I can just about make out a woman in the driver's seat as the car bumps against the side of the pavement and then rumbles out of sight. For a moment I'm genuinely speechless at the idea that anyone would drive while they're that drunk, but then I look down and see that Paula's grinning up at me.
“What's wrong?” she says. “Never seen a pathetic, washed-up alcoholic middle-aged bitch before?”
“I -”
“They're ten-a-penny, you know,” she continues, getting to her feet. “If you want my opinion, she's just waiting for cancer or a car crash to end her miserable life. It's like a kind of passive-aggressive suicide bid by a freakin' coward.”
“Why doesn't someone help her?”
“I'm sure that trying to help her would only make things worse.” She heads to the doorway, then she stops in the darkness and turns back to me. “The best thing is just to try to avoid her. Trust me, you can't go around helping people like that.”
“Are you going to turn the light on?” I ask.
“Why?”
“It's so dark in here.”
“I'd rather leave it dark,” she says. “That's assuming you're gonna let me stay the night, and not send me out there into the serial killer filled streets of this merry old town?”
***
“My parents suck and that's all I wanna say about that,” Paula mumbles, as we sit on the sofas in complete darkness. “There's no insanely grotesque reason why I ran away from home. It was more like ten billion tiny little things, and eventually I decided to get out. Somehow I drifted down here to Croftby. I don't regret it for a moment.”
“But you don't have anywhere to live,” I point out.
“I get by.”
“Sure, but you can't be planning to hop about like this forever.”
“Of course not. I'm just doing this while I figure out something else.”
