by Naomi Joy
Also by Naomi Joy
The Liars
The Truth
Naomi Joy
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Naomi Joy, 2019
The moral right of Naomi Joy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781789543766
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1
Autopsy Report
Blog Entry: 13th October, 8.00 a.m.
Post-mortem
Blog Entry: 13th October, 9.00 a.m.
Post-mortem
Blog Entry: 13th October, 10.00 a.m.
Archived Entry: Eight months ago – 22nd February, 1.10 p.m.
Blog Entry: 13th October, 5 p.m.
Archived Entry: Five months ago – 20th May, 8.35 p.m.
Blog Entry: 18th October, 6.35 p.m.
Archived Entry: Five months ago – 22nd May, 2 a.m.
Blog Entry: 20th October, 4 p.m.
Archived Entry: Three months ago – 1st July, 1 p.m.
Blog Entry: 21st October, 7 p.m.
Part 2
Blog Entry: 25th October, 6.10 a.m.
Blog Entry: 26th October, 2.45 p.m.
Blog Entry: 3rd November, 12.40 p.m.
Blog Entry: 25th November, 10.10 p.m.
Blog Entry: 29th November, 9 a.m.
Blog Entry: 30th November, 8.30 a.m.
Blog Entry: 1st December, 9.30 p.m.
Blog Entry: 2nd December, 11.10 a.m.
Blog Entry: 4th December, 8.10 a.m.
Blog Entry: 5th December, 11.25 a.m.
Blog Entry: 11th December, 4.00 p.m.
Blog Entry: 12th December, 3.10 p.m.
Blog Entry: 13th December, 9 a.m.
Blog Entry: 18th December, 9 a.m.
Blog Entry: 18th December, 4.27 p.m.
Part 3
Blog Entry: 21st December, 11.05 a.m.
Blog Entry: 21st December, 6.22 p.m.
Blog Entry: 21st December, 7.20 p.m.
Blog Entry: 22nd December, 1.05 p.m.
Blog Entry: 22nd December, 1.55 p.m.
Blog Entry: 23rd December, 12.35 p.m.
Blog Entry: 24th December, 7.35 a.m.
Blog Entry: 24th December, 4.09 p.m.
Blog Entry: 25th December, 11.15 a.m.
Blog Entry: 29th December, 10.50 a.m.
Blog Entry: 1st January, 9.03 a.m.
Blog Entry: 1st January, 6 p.m.
Blog Entry: 8th January, 9 p.m.
Blog Entry: 10th January, 12.45 p.m.
Blog Entry: 10th January, 2 p.m.
Blog Entry: 15th January, 10.45 a.m.
Blog Entry: 17th January, 7.30 p.m.
Blog Entry: 20th January, 12.09 p.m.
Blog Entry: 22nd January, 7 p.m.
Blog Entry: 31st January, 11.58 p.m.
Part 4
New Thread
Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Newcastle
Chapter 3: Holly
Chapter 4: Liverpool
Chapter 5: Emelia
Chapter 6: Holly
Chapter 7: Emelia
Chapter 8: Holly
Chapter 9: Holly
Chapter 10: Holly
Chapter 11: Holly
One Year Later
Five Years Later
About Munchausen by Internet
Notable cases of Munchausen by Internet
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
For Nanny
BASED ON REAL EVENTS
Part 1
Autopsy Report
No. 045623-2020 Coroner’s Report, Extract
London, England
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The body is that of a white female with multiple lacerations. The lacerations are concentrated to the right and left wrists and forearms; the rest of the body is unaffected and unblemished.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The body doesn’t feature any tattoos or obvious identifying marks.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The fingertips are waterlogged, consistent with spending time in a bath.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
A Y-shaped incision is used to enter the body’s cavities. Opening the chest reveals a large amount of water in the lungs. Samples of this are collected.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
Investigating the scene, a kitchen knife with traces of blood was found close to the body.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
A short note was found in the bedroom, in which the victim apologises for the trouble her death will cause.
Opinion:
The cause of death was massive blood loss consistent with multiple lacerations to the wrists. The characteristics of the wounds were consistent with the knife found at the crime scene.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
Following a comprehensive interpretation of all circumstances, including close relative interviews, my report finds the cause of death as suicide.
Blog Entry
13th October, 8.00 a.m.
The bedroom is suffocating. Dank. Infected with early morning sunshine thanks to an unwelcome late summer heatwave. It’s going to be another scorcher, the cheerful presenter would say if I turned on the radio by my bedside, her nauseating optimism bouncing off the walls. I can’t listen to people who are that happy any more, so only the heat hums in my ears as I stir in fitful half-sleep.
My eyelids flicker, reluctant to open, and I peer out at my surroundings. Sporadic shafts of sunlight break through the corners and cracks of the supposedly black-out curtains, the fine details of our bedroom illuminating one after the other: the French wardrobe painted white, door ajar, the sleeve of a blouse I used to wear just visible within. The curved edge of the floor length mirror, casting the light back from where it came, picking up the red-gold pattern of the curtains opposite, fading in patches. The broad bookshelf opposite is piled high with rainbow spines, a jumble of notepads and old greetings cards, a single photograph in a white bone frame perched on top. The photo flashes, grabbing my attention, and my eyes adjust to it, fixated as it sends me back to a happier time: Anthony and I standing in a football pitch sized trench, our arms tight round one another, teeth on show, my hand fixed to the brim of my hood, raincoat blowing in the breeze. Windswept, beautiful. Naïve.
I roll onto my side, away from the memory, the damp bedsheet beneath determined to stick with me, more Velcro than cotton in the current climate. I wriggle to break free and, for a moment, entertain the idea that it isn’t the weather that’s causing my discomfort but the heating, cranked up overnight to torture me. A prisoner in my own home, interrogated until I tell the truth. I’m thinkin
g about it then – torture – imagining how, in this moment, waterboarding might feel: cool waves running across my face, down my throat, over my body. You know, I think part of me would actually enjoy drowning in it.
I shake my sleepy brain awake, away from the disturbing thought of a suffocating death and wick the duvet back from my body. I lie like that, uncovered, for a while. Static. I listen to the melodic chitter-chatter of the birds outside, repetitive whistles mixed with elaborate arpeggios, breasts puffed with song as they sit on the branches outside our apartment block. But their whistles do little to comfort me and still I sweat, staining the sheets beneath as though I’m a corpse outlined in off-brown chalk. If someone were to turn my bedroom into a crime scene – police tape taut across the doors, markers next to key pieces of evidence (the pills, my laptop, the bedsheets) – they’d figure out I’d been lying here for a while. Suffering.
I draw in a staggered breath, steeling myself for the day, tasting the sweat in the air, getting used to the humidity of it, jungle-like in its thickness. If only I could open the window to let a breeze slither in, my skin prickling with tiny goose bumps, confused and delighted by the sudden rush of cold. They’d start first at my oily hairline then snake down my spine. Twisting as they went, one vertebra at a—
‘Emelia? Are you up?’
My ears prick, and I tune into the crescendo of footsteps, the turn of a lock, the twist of a doorknob. I push my laptop under the bed, determined to keep my blog a secret. It’s not that I don’t trust him, I just… It thuds as it hits the damask rug beneath and I recoil my arm quickly, pulling the covers back over my body and up round my neck to make it look as though I’ve been sleeping rather than typing, but this sudden movement throws fistfuls of confetti-dust into the splinters of light in the room and I worry he’ll suspect that I’ve been up to something.
He knocks.
‘Come in,’ I reply.
My dressing gown fans as the door opens, the gust catching the silk sleeve and part of the body, transforming it, for a second, from inanimate object to ghostly spectre.
‘Morning, darling. How are you feeling?’
He peers at me through full-moon black-rimmed spectacles, the paper thin skin beneath his eyes tinged purple – not enough sleep – his long fingers curled round the door handle. His carefully groomed moustache quivers above his top lip, flicked up at the ends. He’s excited about something.
‘Any better?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I croak from my resting place. ‘I still feel like death.’
He walks towards me, eyebrows crooked, wedding ring flashing as he passes through the bursts of sunlight. He dabs the sweat slathering my brow and folds back the duvet gently, eager to help, but the movement releases the smell of my own stench into the otherwise beautiful room. His lips pucker in response. He tries not to gag.
‘I want to take you somewhere today,’ he says, bitter coffee on his breath.
I turn my head fully towards him and we lock eyes.
‘Where?’ I ask too quickly, too eagerly, droplets pooling anew in the curve of my lower back.
‘The excavation. I thought it might make you feel better.’
I smile, elated for a moment, then look away, my eyes on the opposite wall. There are a couple of problems with this suggestion. The first: he’s promised this before. I must not get my hopes up. The second: I am sick, deathly unwell, and, though I have the will to leave, I’m not sure there’s any possible way that I can. My stomach twists and jealousy rumbles in its pit. He is well. He can go wherever he likes. He can work and, better still, he loves his job. Anthony’s a famous archaeologist and, although that might sound oxymoronic, to those in the industry he’s a rock star. Literally.
‘I’d love to,’ I answer.
Despite my reservations, I am hopeful that I will go outside today. In fact, it is imperative that I do; Anthony is nothing but kind and patient with me and yet my brain is turning me against him, doubting his intentions. If I could just find the strength to ignore the searing pain in my abdomen, the tightness in my chest, the raging sweats, the all-consuming itch of my skin, the fire beneath, things would start to improve, we’d get back to who we were before. I know we would. My heart thumps, already exhausted, as I heave my reluctant body up to a seated position and swing my feet to the floor. I balance on the edge of the mattress, letting the black spots from my headrush pass, and, just as I’m about to stand, my toes hit the edge of my laptop hidden beneath the bed, making me jump. I glance behind me, hoping he won’t have noticed.
‘Now then,’ he says softly, taking my hand. ‘Time for your medicine.’
Two pills land in my palm – Antriptophene – and for once I stutter at what he’s given me: I don’t recognise this brand and I’m immediately suspicious of it. I look at the long drink of lukewarm water left on the bedside table overnight, coated now with a thin film of dust. Something doesn’t feel right.
‘What are these?’
‘Your doctor’s recommended them, they’re supposed to be excellent.’
I look at the pills again, at the blocky red writing atop bright orange casing and make a decision.
‘I’m not taking these.’
Anthony’s face breaks with lines, lips curling at my refusal, shocked that I would even question what he’s giving me. Taken aback, he stalls, then relents, folding them into his hand and leaving the room without another word, his tall frame pausing momentarily in the light of the doorway.
Taking back control gives me pause for thought. Why do I accept these medicines from the doctor without question? These pills with incomprehensible names, odd packets with essays of side effects, just as likely to do me harm as do me good. I’d read something online about the body ‘knowing how to fix itself’ and, you know, I think I’m going to give it a try. Besides, things can’t be any worse than they already are.
Revelation over, I tell myself that today will be different, pill free, that today I will finally be well enough to go outside.
Post-mortem
No. 045824-2020 Post-mortem findings, Extract
London, England
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The deceased was a female in her twenties. There is extensive bruising of the head, severe abrasions across the left cheek, laceration of the upper lip, massive traumatic brain injuries, and bleeding on the brain.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The head is decapitated from the body at the neck.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
Bruising was found in the neck tissue alongside abrasions.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
Investigating the scene, there was very little blood on the railway lines where the body was found.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
Those close to the deceased report she had been struggling with her mental health in the weeks leading up to her death.
Opinion:
The cause of death was massive blunt force trauma to the head consistent with being struck by a high-speed train.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
Following a comprehensive interpretation of all circumstances, including close elative interviews, my report finds the cause of death as suicide.
Blog Entry
13th October, 9.00 a.m.
In the kitchen, a cup of fermented milk and a bowl of porridge topped with cranberries sit expectantly on the mahogany dining table – an inexpensive antique Anthony and I picked out at a flea market. I summon the memory of us that day – of Anthony trying on kaftans, skinny legs sticking out the bottom – and use it to bring myself to be pleasant to him. It’s not his fault I am like this. I must remember that.
‘Thank you,’ I say, moving the chair, wooden legs sliding over stone tiles. I take a seat on the thick cushion then pick up the foamy drink, not dissimilar to set yoghurt. I’m desperately suspicious of its off-white contents but aware of his eyes all over me. ‘This is, uh…’ I pause. �
�Exactly what I need.’
‘It’s goat’s milk kefir,’ he explains, moving around the granite surfaces of our kitchen, snapping rubber gloves onto each hand. ‘Low lactose, low sugar, fantastic for your gut. You’re right: it’s exactly what you need, though it might not be exactly what you want.’
He shoots me an I-know-you-too-well look and I grin back. On this occasion, he does. I grew up on the standard beige food diet, a far cry from ‘goat’s milk kefir’ and the rest of Anthony’s nutritious concoctions. Not so long ago it was corn flakes for breakfast, cheese sandwiches for lunch, chicken and fries for dinner. Each and every day. Perhaps it’s no wonder my body has been so quick to fail me.
I lift the cup to my lips, repeating the mantra I’d read about: If you feed your body the right fuel, it will learn to heal itself – my threadbare forearm and pale skin a nod towards my childhood malnutrition. I drink the sour-tinged beverage in five quick, revolting gulps.
‘Good?’ he asks.
‘Not as bad as I was expecting,’ I reply through milky teeth, though I should have said: No, not good. Disgusting. Like feta cheese whisked with tepid water and abandoned on the kitchen-top for days. It had tasted almost… alive. The fermented drink swirls in my stomach and I consider the only thing worse than drinking it would be throwing it back up. I swallow, hard, and turn to the porridge.
‘It’s in East London,’ Anthony announces.
I cock my head, mouth full, and crease my eyebrows.
‘The excavation,’ he explains, cleaning the kitchen in wide arcs, spraying chemicals across the surfaces, a little speck appearing on his glasses. ‘A mass grave full of victims of the black death. 1665, we think, based on the condition of the skeletons. Absolutely fascinating and stunningly preserved. You’d love it. Right below the Northern line.’ He takes off his glasses and puffs quickly over each lens, then cleans them in circular motions, his thumb tucked into his T-shirt.
