Her Final Victim

by NJ Moss

  She rests her elbow against it and grins, as if daring me to do something. “It’s nice to see you again, Jamie. Thank you for inviting me into your wonderful home.”

  Yeah, like a vampire. Of course she has to be invited in.

  My head pulses. I’m getting a tension headache. “No problem.”

  “Hazel is such a doll.” She glances over to the patio. “I’ve always loved playing with dolls.”

  “If you hurt her,” I growl. “If you even try to hurt her, I’m going to—”

  She throws her head back and laughs. Even if I know it’s fake, it sounds so real I almost want to ask what the joke is. This woman could win an Oscar.

  I hate her. She needs to go. She’s poisoning my home.

  “Oh, Jamie,” she says in a ditzy voice. She talks loud enough for Richard and Amelia to hear. “You are soooooooo funny.”

  I head out to the patio. Richard stands and offers me his hand, like this is a business meeting, like I’m here to impress him. He’s wearing a suit that makes me feel cheap. He’s a smart-looking man, with rigid posture, always in control. Amelia has pearls in her ears and pearls at her throat and her make-up makes her look like she’s at a funeral, in the coffin. I bloody wish that was the case. At least it’d give Hazel some peace.

  I shake hands with Richard and we exchange pleasantries, and then I go through the rigmarole of telling Amelia she looks wonderful. She hasn’t aged a day. What a load of horseshit. I’d rather hack off my nuts than spend one night with her.

  Some women get more beautiful as they age, but there are others who fight it, who cake their faces in pale white make-up and drape themselves in jewellery like it’ll rewind time. She even smells wrong, sickly sweet, and I repress the urge to gag.

  If I was in a bad mood before, I’m livid now.

  They’re laughing in there, my wife and the psycho.

  How can I tell Hazel what’s going on without Millicent releasing the photos and the recording? I could explain the photos, maybe, but that’s only assuming she hasn’t got more incriminating stuff stowed away. She said she’s got a video of me sneaking into a woman’s house at night. And the recording, where I basically admit to what I do? She could be lying. Maybe she wasn’t recording the conversation. But she could also be telling the truth.

  Hazel appears at the door. Millicent stands at her elbow in one of Hazel’s tie-dye T-shirts. “Since Miss Clumsy ruined the lasagne, why don’t we order a takeaway?”

  “Fine,” Amelia says, in that Margaret Thatcher voice. I want to scream in her face, Just speak normally, you pretentious bitch. “Whatever is easiest for you, dear.”

  The evening wears on and I pound as many ciders as I can get down me.

  Old Richie boy sips from a glass of whisky. I know for a fact nobody prefers whisky to cider. They drink it to seem sophisticated, the same way I do when I’m hunting. It’s the perfect prop for his perfect image. Every now and then Amelia calls him Captain and I have to stop myself from laughing or flipping the table.

  Captain? She makes it sound like he was in the Navy. The prick worked on a cruise ship.

  I say as little as I can get away with. Richard tries to talk to me about car engines or some shit, but I don’t care. He barely looks at his daughter. Amelia is worse. It’s like Hazel is an inconvenience to her.

  Millicent does the right things in the right places. She titters along with Amelia and she tells Richard he must work out, oh, he must, he looks so strong. She talks about her freelance writing career and Richard and Amelia actually care. They take an interest. Amelia even asks follow-up questions and Millicent starts banging on about a shower gel job she had a couple of weeks ago, and isn’t that the funniest thing, isn’t that hilarious and we should sit here ignoring our daughter and laugh with this stranger instead.

  “Hazel’s got a contract with a make-up company.” I sound more pissed than I realised. I haven’t stood up in a while. My plate looks like a bomb’s gone off. I’ve probably eaten two-thirds of everything we ordered.

  Hazel flashes her eyes at me. I know what she’s trying to tell me. She wants me to be quiet and let them keep walking all over her.

  “I’m just saying.” I cover my mouth with my hand. I thought I was going to puke for a second there. Close call. “She gets paid to show off their products on her Instagram page. She’s almost at a hundred thousand followers. Do you have any idea how many people’d kill for that?”

  “I suppose so,” Amelia says, but she’s not getting it.

  What is her fucking problem?

  Why is she determined to put her daughter down all the time?

  The whole table pauses and everybody stares at me. Hazel glares. Richard’s doing his wannabe-Navy routine, making his upper lip stiff. Amelia’s mouth falls open like somebody crushed a baby’s skull and poured the contents onto her plate.

  Millicent is doing a poor job of hiding her hungry smile.

  Oh… fuck-fuck-fuck.

  I said that out loud.

  “Excuse me?” Amelia snaps, stuck-up as hell.

  Screw it. It’s out there now. “I’ve never seen you give Hazel any credit. She works hard to build her following. She’s read so many books about marketing. She’s learned the software. She takes pride in her appearance. She inspires people. But you care more about this stranger than your own daughter.”

  “Jamie,” Hazel says stiffly.

  She’s at my side, her hand on my arm. She’s looking down at me and there are tears in her eyes.

  What have I done? Oh, God, I didn’t want to make her cry.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” I can tell she wants to let out a sob. But she doesn’t. She’s stronger than me.

  I stumble as I head toward the kitchen. Hazel leads me over to the sink. I lean against the counter as she pours me a tall glass of water.

  “Drink it,” she snaps.

  I take it and knock it back in one, the same way we used to pound beers and ciders at uni.

  We like to drink with Jamie, ’cause Jamie is our mate…

  She pours another glass and slams it against my chest. Water swills over the edge.

  “Drink it.”

  I drink, and she pours a third. My belly is starting to ache.

  “Drink. It.”

  I groan and place the empty glass down. The room is spinning.

  “You’re going to apologise to my parents. You’re going to blame it on the alcohol. You’re going to say you don’t know what came over you.”

  “But it’s true. H, you deserve credit. You’re amazing. You’re so good, right down to your… to your soul.”

  She moves close, smiling up at me. At least she’s not angry. Or maybe she is. Maybe she’s angry and she’s smiling. “I love that you want to stand up for me. But that’s not the way to do it.”

  I sigh and pull her closer. I wish I could just hold her for the rest of the night. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

  “You think?” She brushes something off my shirt, probably a noodle or another Chow Mein ingredient that somehow missed my mouth. “Come on. Get your game face on.”

  She’s right. My wife’s always right.

  Which just makes this even more painful. I know how much she fears humiliation in any form, a hand-me-down from Amelia, who’d rather lop off an ear than face any kind of shame, public or otherwise. It means I have to go out there and play nice, even when there’s a killer at the table, a psycho bitch who could bring my whole life tumbling down.

  And I don’t even know why.

  19

  Hazel

  I sit on the bathroom floor, staring with teary eyes at the rejection email.

  While we enjoyed your art, it begins.

  That’s such a horrible lie to tell. If they enjoyed it they would’ve accepted it.

  My head aches from last night, from the wine and from the way Jamie went weird with Mum and Dad. But he was drunk and thankfully my parents accepted his apology, even if I could tell Mum s
till felt uppity about it.

  We don’t think it’s quite right for this display, it goes on. We wish you the best of luck and encourage you to submit again in the future.

  I’ve read the email like ten times. I first opened it after I used the toilet, heading for the bathroom door, and then I leaned against the wall and slid down and now here I am.

  It’s not fair. None of my art, not a single piece of work, has ever been accepted. I understand I’m not some super-skilled portrait artist or whatever. I know my stuff is more abstract. But it was a call for anybody to have their art exhibited.

  I’ve got eighty thousand Instagram followers. I could publicise the heck out of the event. I mentioned that in my submission email. I fail to see how it counts for nothing.

  I look at the window and the sunlight, and it makes me think how another artist, some pro who went to art school, would be having a bunch of deep thoughts. They’d be thinking about what type of yellow the sunlight is, and what it represents, but I don’t.

  I’m useless. I have nothing to offer.

  Jamie went about it in the wrong way last night, but he was right about Mum. She showed way more interest in Millie’s work than she’s ever shown in anything I’ve done.

  She resents me. She never wanted me.

  Oh, great, and now I can’t breathe. Everything’s getting loud in my ears and my heart hurts and my chest is getting tight and I know what this is. I know it’s a panic attack. But knowing it and accepting it are two different things.

  Maybe I’ll pass out on the bathroom floor and Jamie won’t find me until this evening.

  “Stop it,” I murmur, bringing my knees to my chest. I want to be as small as possible. “Stop, stop, stop—”

  The pain makes it so I don’t have to think about anything else.

  All that exists is the feeling of my teeth against my skin, sinking deep, deeper, until I’m sure I’m going to hit something important. I keep biting, squeezing, pushing my arm up against my mouth so I can clamp onto my bicep.

  My mind is empty. It doesn’t feel like pain. It feels good.

  Maybe I’m not meant to be a social-media star. Maybe I’ll never crack one hundred thousand. I gained two followers yesterday, two.

  I’m doing everything right, aren’t I?

  I stop, letting out a shaky breath. I stare at my teeth marks.

  “Shit.” I stand up. “Fuck’s sake.”

  I haven’t done that in years. The last time was before I started university. I had a problem in my teens, but I thought I had it under control.

  I throw the bathroom door open and run through the house. I walk into our bedroom and over to the vanity unit, throw the drawer open, and take out some concealer. The bite mark twinges and aches as I apply the make-up. I wince each time I touch the tender spot. But, eventually, it disappears. It’s like it never happened. I can always brush it away in photos if the make-up isn’t enough.

  I need to do something. I can’t sit around the house, feeling helpless. I’m not helpless. I didn’t get eighty thousand followers by being pathetic.

  I change into my sexiest lingerie, the red set I wore on mine and Jamie’s wedding anniversary. It’s lacy and frilly and stylish.

  It makes you look like a Christmas present, Jamie said when he saw it, his stunning bright greens flooding with hunger.

  Then open me, husband.

  I take my phone into the en suite and put my foot up on the marble-effect sink counter, sticking my ass out, arching my back to draw attention to my breasts. I aim the phone at the mirror. I smile, and I study the smile. I need to make it more realistic. I laugh and then let the laughter go silent, holding the pose.

  I take dozens of photos and then return to the bedroom, dropping onto the unmade bed. My plan was to get my chores done after yoga and breakfast, but the rejection letter has derailed things.

  Absolutely LOVE my husband for splashing the cash on this new lingerie. #confident #livingmybestlife

  I add more hashtags, and then stare down at the photo. I’ve never posted anything this revealing before. I know it would get me a ton of new followers. The big stars post photographs like this. Why shouldn’t I?

  I add #ifyouvegotitflauntit to my hashtag list. But I don’t believe it. Maybe I do have it. Maybe I don’t. Either way, I don’t want to flaunt it for anybody except my husband. If that makes me old-fashioned, I’m old-fashioned.

  If I was single, I’d post this in a heartbeat. But I know Jamie would freak if he saw this online. I’d want him to be angry. He owns me as much as I own him. That’s what marriage is. I wouldn’t like it if he started posting shirtless photos.

  Jamie and I value loyalty above everything. It’s in the DNA of our relationship. Honesty in all things, even if we’re both a little twisted.

  I delete the post, falling backward onto the bed and staring up at the mini chandelier on the ceiling. It’s not as shiny as when we first had it installed. I need to dust it, but I don’t have the energy.

  My phone vibrates. Not a text. A phone call.

  I glance at the screen. It’s Greta. We met on a social media course last year. She has one hundred and fifty thousand followers.

  “Hey, bitch,” I answer, sassy. My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

  But faking it is one of my specialties: faking enthusiasm in the bedroom, faking smiles and laughter and optimism, and most of all showing the whole world a fake face so they can never, not even for a moment, see the real me. It’s better that way, for everybody.

  “Hey,” Greta says. “Are we still on for drinks later? Please, please, please say yes! I’ve spent all night listening to this absolute douchebag drone on about his family issues. It’s like: listen, friend, if you didn’t have a ten-incher we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Know what I mean? Like it’s my problem your mum’s sick or whatever.”

  She laughs and I laugh, even if it isn’t funny.

  “Yeah, I’m super psyched for it,” I say. “Shots, shots, shots.”

  “Yaaaaaas, queen.” Greta laughs. “Wear some pink, all right? I want us to match for the pics.”

  20

  Millicent

  A couple of days after the hilarious dinner with the Smithsons – oh God were those front-row seats worth the price of admission – I walk by the pond, sighting the old man out of my peripheral vision. I stride over to the woman, hate scorching my insides, burning me until I’m convinced my bones are going to melt.

  There he is: the sad old lecher, no memories to assuage or abuse him. He stares at the ducks and his hand sits limp in the bag of breadcrumbs. His face is slack and stupid, utterly vacant, and glee whelms up inside of me at the sight.

  If they gave me two minutes with him and a piece of wire, I could make their jobs much easier.

  I approach his carer and barely resist the desire to do her serious damage. She should be ashamed of herself. Caring for demons makes you a devil. She’s empty-eyed and she wears simple sad clothes and she sucks on a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from her charge and glancing over at him every few moments.

  “Afternoon,” I say.

  “Um, afternoon?”

  “Can I be cheeky and bum a ciggie?”

  Her eyes light up. There’s nothing people love more than thinking everybody is as weak as they are. “Yeah, all right.” She takes one from the packet and hands it to me. “I’m quitting tomorrow, anyways.”

  Of course you are, you broken thing.

  She’s been quitting tomorrow every day since she began this habit, I’d wager.

  I take the cigarette and hold it as naturally as I’m able, and then I tilt my head at her, and she laughs. I laugh. What great friends we are. She hands me a lighter and I bring the cigarette to my mouth, lighting it. I suck enough to make it spark orange-red, but I don’t inhale. The taste is detestable.

  Handing her the lighter, I say, “So you’re the sad bitch who’s taking care of this waste of skin then?”

  She takes a step ba
ck, staring as though she’s awoken from a long sleep to find herself caged with a wildcat. “What?”

  I approach her. She backs away. I keep walking forward and she keeps backing away. She has never been so scared. I can see it in her eyes, in the way her half-smoked cigarette trembles and ash falls like rainbow dust.

  “You’re pathetic,” I tell her. “Is this really the best you can do with your life, taking care of this excreta while filling your lungs with poison? There’s something wrong with you.”

  She puffs herself up, her defence mechanisms flaring. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to…”

  She trails off when I stare, and stare, and keep staring. “Weren’t you going to make a threat?”

  “What do you want?” she whispers, withering under my brilliance.

  “I want to do this.” I stick my tongue out and place the end of the cigarette against it. There’s a tiny hiss and a tinier pulse of pain, but it’s worth it to see her cattle lips quiver. I spit and toss it to the ground. “Wait here. If you interfere, I’ll drown you in the pond.”

  I walk over to the old man.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” the woman bleats, but she stays where she is, looking around the empty park as if the trees are going to help her.

  I walk in front of the bench and lean down, staring into the man’s eyes, set within a landscape of folded skin. I grin like a wolf, right in his face. He reeks of care homes and sweat and shaving foam and shit. He reeks of hate.

  “Hello.”

  “Kitty.” He nods to his lap, and for a second I think he means that. I reach for my inside jacket pocket where I keep my blade. But no, he’s indicating the breadcrumbs. “Kitty, help me. The ducks. I’d like to feed them.”

  “Who the fuck is Kitty?”

  “That’s me,” the woman calls, gravitating toward us cautiously, as though she knows I could leap over the bench and dig my thumbs into her eye sockets any moment. “I’m Kitty. He gets confused. He’s ill.”

  “He was always ill, just not in the way you think. You know me, old man. You know what you did. You know what your son did, don’t you? Don’t you?”