by Amy Cross
"Gross," I mutter, using a finger to stir the muck.
Relaxing for the first time in ages, I close my eyes for a moment. My head hurts and I feel exhausted, which always happens after I've had one of my hyper phases. Most of the time, especially since I became homeless, I keep to myself and try not to speak to other people too much. Occasionally, however, I get into these weird, involuntary moods where I just can't stop talking. I usually end up picking people apart and generally showing off, and I guess it's kinda impressive in a way. Still, it usually only lasts a few minutes, and when it's done I feel as if my head is pounding.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't me. It's too exhausting.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Laura
"Do you feel any ill will toward the police officers involved in the investigation?" the interviewer asks. "After all, their mistakes effectively cost you your freedom for an entire year."
"Fuck off," I mutter as I grate the last of the carrots. Glancing over at the laptop, I see Daniel Gregory's smug face grinning at the camera. He's still on his tour of the nation's news channels, gloating over his recent acquittal, but this is the first time I've been able to bring myself to listen to what the bastard has to say.
"I think it's important not to let negative feelings control one's psyche," Gregory says calmly. "It'd be so easy to end up in a cycle of negative emotion, and inevitably the whole experience would end up being dragged out even longer. I'd rather focus on the few positives that have emerged, and part of that process means letting go of any anger that I feel toward members of the police."
"Wanker," I hiss as I add the grated carrot to the salad.
"But what about Detective Laura Foster?" the interviewer continues. "She was in charge of the case, and it was arguably her mistakes in particular that led to your ordeal."
"Yeah, drag my name into it again," I mutter as I open the pack of chicken breasts and start cutting them up.
"It's difficult to say how I feel about Ms. Foster," Gregory continues, sounding so goddamn calm and tactful. "On the one hand, you're right that she's the one who is most directly responsible for my ordeal. If she'd done her job properly and not simply charged ahead on the assumption that I was the one who killed poor Natasha Simonsen, perhaps I'd have been cleared long ago and the real killer might have been caught. On the other hand, Ms. Foster was only trying to do her best, and even if that wasn't good enough, we must applaud her efforts."
"Fuck you," I say under my breath as I throw the pieces of chicken into a frying pan.
"It's the parents of Ms. Simonsen who I think we should be thinking of," Gregory adds, with a pained look on his face that he's obviously been practicing at home. "They're no closer to learning who killed their beautiful daughter or why, and the killer is regrettably still out there somewhere, perhaps preparing to strike again. I can only hope that lessons have been learned by the police, because after all they're there to protect us and to ensure that innocent people don't fall victim to criminals."
"So you think that in your case the police, and Detective Foster, failed?"
"I don't see how you can come to any other conclusion," Gregory replies. "What worries me is the ramifications for cases going forward. If people don't learn from their mistakes, can we be sure that other young women won't die? We live in a cruel world where unfortunately there are people who want to cause pain and suffering, and that's why we need a strong and effective police force. Of course, it doesn't inspire confidence when the lead detective in the case starts behaving like some kind of celebrity."
I turn to look at the laptop.
"You're referring to this?" the interviewer asks, as the image change to a screen-shot from an online auction site. My heart starts to sink as I realize that someone's selling the tabloid newspaper I signed in the shop the other evening.
"Oh fuck..." I whisper.
"It's already up to fifty pounds," Gregory says. "I mean, it's easy to criticize, but is that really how we want our police officers to behave? It's good to know that Ms. Foster has alternative career options lined up, but I can only hope -"
"I can only hope you drop dead," I say as I close the laptop lid, feeling as if I can't listen to another word of his melodramatic bullshit. The guy's a killer, plain and simple. If he'd walked free because he was innocent, I could have dealt with it, but what makes me furious is the fact that I'm certain he killed Natasha Simonsen. I just don't understand why the judge was so critical of the prosecution's case, and why he seemed to turn on me in particular. "Fucking scheming murderous -"
Reaching out for the knife, I accidentally grab the wrong end and close my hand around the blade. I immediately pull back, but it's too late: there's a sharp pain across my palm, and blood is already oozing from an inch-long cut.
"Fuck!" I shout, hurrying over to the sink and putting my hand under cold water. "Fucking... Damn it to hell!"
For a few seconds, I continue to spit out a few choice curse words. My frustration has been building for days, and I guess I don't really have any other outlet. I knew it was dumb to sign the paper for that girl, but I was caught by surprise and I just wanted to make her go away. Now I look like some fame-hungry bitch who's happy to trivialize the fact that I failed to bring a murderer to justice. Looking down into the sink, I watch as a faint trickle of blood continues to flow from my hand.
"Great," I say finally, figuring that Greenwell is going to haul me over the coals when he finds out about the signed newspaper. "Could this day get any -"
Stopping suddenly, I realize I can hear voices coming from the front room. For a moment, I can't work out who could be talking, but finally I realize that Ophelia must be out of the bath. Not only that, but she's come downstairs and she's talking to my mother!
"Shit!" I gasp as I hurry through, hoping to interrupt the conversation before it gets out of hand.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ophelia
"No dear," Maureen says with a laugh, "absolutely not. She wanted to be an astronaut when she was younger, and then she wanted to be an actress for a while, so we paid for her go to acting classes after school."
"So how did she end up as a cop?" I ask.
"Well," she continues, "unfortunately, she wasn't very good at acting, or at maths, or at playing the trumpet, or at any of the other things she tried. I suppose eventually she just sort of fell into the police as a kind of last resort."
As she speaks, Laura appears in the doorway looking distinctly unimpressed.
"I see you're done already," she says. "Sorry, I guess I just assumed it'd take you a lot longer to get clean."
"Nah," I reply. "I'm good. It all came right off. These old clothes of yours are pretty cool, though. I know it's kinda cheeky, but would you mind if -"
"Keep them," she says, clearly trying to hide the fact that she's annoyed. "Did you take the pill?"
"The worm pill?" I nod. "I was thinking, though. It takes a couple of days to work, so maybe you and your Mum should take one at the weekend?"
"I'll be sure to remember that," she replies tersely.
"I was just telling your friend about the time you wanted to be an actress," Maureen says, turning to Laura. "It's been so long since I had a chance to tell all these stories."
"Yeah," Laura says. "It's surprising you remember them all so clearly, isn't it?"
"Her memory seems fine," I tell her. "At least when it comes to the important things, like which boy you were always trying to kiss at school or what happened when you tried to build a tree-house in the garden." I pause for a moment, before turning to Maureen. "I think Laura probably wants me to help out with dinner," I tell her, before getting to my feet and heading over to the door. "Back soon!"
"Having fun?" Laura asks as she leads me through to the kitchen.
"She was watching the news," I reply. "I was happy to leave her to it until that Daniel Gregory asshole came on and started talking about you. I figured it'd be a good idea to distract her, so I asked her all about you a
nd then changed the channel once she'd launched into the first story. Call me crazy, but I kinda thought you might be grateful."
"You..." She pauses for a moment. "Fine. Yeah, sure. Thank you."
"He did it, you know."
She stares at me.
"That Gregory guy," I continue. "He totally killed that Natasha Simonsen girl. You can tell from his body language, and from the way he talks. He's been rehearsing ways to make himself sound more convincing. There are these websites that claim they can help you to lie and make people believe it, and some of them are pretty good, but once you know the tricks you can see 'em a mile off. It's totally blatant that he's guilty."
"Shame you weren't on the jury," she mutters as she stirs the chicken.
"That's the problem with not having an address," I point out. "It's kinda hard to participate in the basic functions of a civilized society."
"Maybe you should think about trying to get an address," she replies, clearly still a little annoyed. "There are people who'll help you, you know."
"One day," I reply.
"Why not now?"
"Because I just love living on the streets," I reply, even though I know I shouldn't be so sarcastic. "You need to find a way to get that Daniel Gregory guy banged to rights," I add, hoping to change the subject. "I know he can't be tried twice for the same crime, but there's no way a guy like that doesn't have other shit going on in his life. For one thing, no-one lives a spotless life, then murders some girl, and then goes back to how things were before. He's full of crap and it's not right that he's prancing about like that while you're hiding away."
"Sounds like maybe you should take my job," she replies, grabbing some plates from the cupboard. "Dinner'll be ready in -"
"You're pathetic," I say suddenly, before I have time to really think ahead too far.
She stops and stares at me.
"You know that guy's guilty," I continue, trying to be a little less harsh, "but you're just given up."
"It's not my case anymore," she says uncertainly.
"So?" I wait for her to show some balls, but she just looks like a deer in the headlights. "Are you a detective, or are you some paper-pushing bureaucrat? If you know a guy's guilty, shouldn't you go after him with everything you've got? I mean, screw the rules. You're supposed to be keeping people safe, so you should go after him and not stop until he's locked up!"
"I tried that," she replies, "and it didn't go so well."
"So now you just nick chocolate from the local corner shop," I snap back at her. "Great. At this rate, your career's really going to be something to watch, huh? I'm so fucking glad you're the one who's on the trail of this guy with the hook. I'm sure it'll be clear up in no time." Pausing, I realize that maybe I've gone too far. She looks so put-upon and downtrodden, I feel as if I've just tortured a goddam goldfish. "Never mind," I add, trying to strike a more conciliatory tone. "You're right. I don't know the pressures of your job. You tried to get that guy, and now you're trying to get this guy. No-one can get a strike every time, can they?"
"Did you get a chance to look at those files I left out for you?" she asks as she starts serving the food.
I watch her trembling hands for a moment, and once again I realize that I've gone too far.
"Not yet," I reply, suddenly feeling very sorry for her. "I put my clothes on to wash, though, and I brushed my teeth. I think it was your toothbrush I used. Sorry about that. I've never understood why people get so uptight about toothbrushes, though. I mean, it's not like it's the most intimate thing in the world, is it?"
"Don't worry," she says with a faint smile. "I'm pretty sure I've got a new one somewhere."
I watch as she puts food on the plates, and finally I realize that I might have gone a little too far. She seems smart enough, but her confidence is down and I guess it doesn't help that the national news shows are dissecting every aspect of the case she screwed up. Sometimes I can really run my mouth off without thinking, and I'm not sure how I can put things right. I've always been abrasive, even back when I was a kid; it's one of the reasons people tend to keep away from me once they've got to know me.
"Forget that guy," I say eventually. "You should focus on the case you're doing now. Everyone fucks up occasionally, but there's no point dwelling on it. It's better to dust yourself down and get on with the next thing. This guy's definitely out there, and he's already killed at least a couple of people. There are gonna be more, and until I met you I didn't think anyone cared."
"I'm only on this case because my boss wanted to keep me out of the spotlight," I tell her. "If it wasn't for that, I doubt anyone would have connected any of these dots. I know it's not right, but the blunt truth is that not a lot of people care when a bunch of homeless people are found dead. No offense, but I think it's kind of considered to be one of those things that homeless people just do." She passes me a couple of plates. "Take these through. My mother likes to eat in front of the TV, so I guess that's the plan. She doesn't like it very much when I try to change her routine."
Figuring there's no point trying to push her again right now, I turn and carry the plates into the living room. Laura's mother is watching some soap opera, and she seems genuinely surprised to find that we're having foot at all. The old woman's mind might be clear sometimes, but she's obviously losing it. As she starts eating, I can't help but think back to the times, all those years ago, when I'd eat dinner with my family. It's been ages since I ate like this, and it feels goddamn weird. By the time Laura comes through and sits on the sofa, I'm starting to retreat back into my shell.
I shouldn't be here. I don't belong with other people.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Laura
"So," Ophelia says with a faint smile. "The trumpet..."
"You know what?" I reply, glancing at my watch and seeing that it's barely 10pm. "I'm tired, and I should be up early. You don't have to go to bed if you don't want, but I think -"
"I'm not tired," she says, and for a moment all the confidence seems to have drained from her face. "It's just, your Mum said earlier that you played the trumpet, and that you tried to be an actor when you were at school, and all this other stuff, and I was just wondering why you always gave up."
"Who says I gave up?" I ask.
"It sounds like it."
We're sitting in the living room, with the TV having thankfully been turned off since my mother went to bed a few minutes ago. I've poured some wine, although I can't help noticing that Ophelia has barely touched hers while I'm already halfway through my first glass. I guess I was hoping to discuss the case, but Ophelia seems more interested in trying to deconstruct my personality.
"I tried stuff," I say after a moment, "and when I found out I wasn't good at it, I stopped."
"But did you keep practicing?"
"Sure, for a while."
"A while's not enough," she replies. "You have to practice for years if you wanna get good at something."
"I never wanted to perform in public," I tell her.
"That's why you practice in private," she points out. "You do it where it doesn't matter, 'til you're ready for showtime." She pauses, and there seems to be something on her mind. "Aren't you scared of me?" she asks eventually.
"Should I be?"
"I'm some random homeless girl you'd never even heard of until earlier today," she replies. "I mean, you're taking a pretty big risk bringing me into your home. Do you often have sleepovers with people you were interrogating a few hours ago?"
"I figured this might be the only way to get you to help me," I tell her. "Besides, I'm not exactly helpless, and I'm pretty sure it'll be okay."
"You've hidden your wallet, right?"
I open my mouth to deny it, but I guess there's no point.
"Relax," she continues. "I'd think you were completely crazy if you hadn't. I mean, sure, I'm one of the nicest people on the planet, but if you left a bundle of cash out... I'd take it."
"Here's to honesty," I reply, raising my wi
ne glass in a mock toast.
She smiles sadly as I take a sip.
"Ophelia Frump," she says suddenly.
I raise an eyebrow.
"I'm not named after Ophelia from Shakespeare," she continues. "It's not that classy. I'm named after a character from the Addams Family. Pretty sad, huh? It was my parents' idea, although I've always preferred to go with the Shakespeare connection. Either that or the character from this manga series called Claymore. And yes, in case you were wondering, it definitely caused some complications in the playground."
"So what's your surname?" I ask.
"Nice try."
"How did you end up on the streets?"
"This isn't a confessional," she points out. "Don't mistake my willingness to talk to you for some kind of long, serious conversation. I don't subscribe to the theory that everyone should be an open book, or that we should all be sharing our emotions all over the place. People need secrets and private thoughts, otherwise they're just spraying crap everywhere. I only say something when I mean it, and if I'm talking about something important, I think about what I'm gonna say first." She pauses. "So don't take offense, but I don't wanna talk about how I ended up like this. It's my business, it's private, and I don't like talking about it."
"But you can't go back, can you?"
She shakes her head.
"What about getting help? A hostel -"
"They're full of shit," she replies quickly. "They're just more institutions designed to rip people off."
"Not the good ones."
"There are no good ones."
I can't help but smile, before taking another sip of wine. Ophelia seems to think that she's got it all worked out, and I admire her confidence, but I also think that she's being unnecessarily defensive.
"We need to really get to work in the morning," I tell her. "I need your perspective on things. With most cases, there are certain standard avenues of investigation, but when it comes to the homeless community, I'm running blind. I don't know who to ask, where to go... Someone has to have seen something, and the only way I can get to those witnesses is through you."
