The Killer Inside

by cass green

She asked me to sit down and then told me she had ‘some very serious news’.

  I remember my first thought was that she had been given only months to live. This was something I’d seen on telly and had spent a lot of time thinking about lately. Then I noticed the official-looking letter on the table and the stamp that said ‘HMP Brixton’ and iciness wormed its way into my stomach.

  ‘Sit down, Elliott,’ she said, and I obeyed, but warily, placing my chair at an angle to the table so I could make a quick getaway.

  ‘What is it then?’

  Mum took a deep, shuddery breath before replying. ‘It’s your dad,’ she said. ‘I’m very sorry, sweets, but I’m afraid he has been very unwell and …’ she swallowed ‘… and now he has died.’

  I remember an intense wave of heat passed over me. My face felt like it was on fire and I began to shake. I was too young to be able to describe what was happening. I didn’t know how I was supposed to react to this. I hated this man, but there was a certain raw shock to hearing your father had died, whatever the circumstances.

  ‘Do you want a cuddle?’ said Mum. I shook my head fiercely, registering the slightly hurt look she gave me in response.

  ‘I’m going out to play football,’ I said, getting up so abruptly I almost knocked the chair over.

  ‘Elliott!’ Mum called as I left the kitchen. ‘Come back here, I want to talk to you!’

  Reluctantly, I walked back to the doorway of the kitchen and lingered there. Mum was wringing a tissue in her fingers.

  ‘I know this is difficult news, but—’

  I cut her off midway through her sentence. ‘I don’t care! Can’t you get that through your thick head? I don’t fucking care!’

  Mum winced as though I’d hit her, and it felt shamefully good. I stomped off down the hallway, and then slammed the door as hard as I could as I left the house. I could hear her calling me as I stood on the doorstep, breathing hard, while I tried to work out what to do next.

  ‘Fucking dead wanker,’ I said and kicked a crumpled 7 Up can so hard that it clattered a satisfying distance down the walkway, before coming to rest near the top of the stairs.

  Mrs Mack’s door opened, and she peered out at me.

  ‘What’s all that racket?’ she said, then, ‘Who’s rattled your cage, Elliott?’

  ‘No one,’ I said sulkily and began to walk down the walkway, away from her.

  ‘Elliott?’ she called behind me. ‘Do you want to come in for a while? I’ve made some scones.’

  I ignored her and went into the stairwell. But out of sight, I stopped and leaned against the wall, trying to ignore the wee smell that seemed to have been absorbed into the walls here. I wanted to tell her to stuff her scones.

  I could feel a sort of poisonous anger burning in me. I wanted to cry and that made me want to punch myself in the face. Why would I feel the need to cry about that man who wasn’t even in my life? Who used to beat up my mum? Why was she even upset? I hated her, and I hated him, and I hated everyone.

  But I was also hungry. I hadn’t had a chance to get a snack before I’d stormed off. I had no money and nowhere really to go. I found myself turning back and walking towards Mrs Mack’s door before I could talk myself out of it. She’d actually left it on the latch, which half annoyed me further and half made me feel comforted that she knew me so well.

  I walked into the flat and she called out from the living room.

  ‘They’re in the kitchen, still warm. You know where the butter and jam is.’

  She didn’t come into the hall, which threw me a bit, so I stood there uselessly for a moment. Then the warm sweet smell drove me into the kitchen and a few minutes later I was piling butter and jam onto the fresh crumbly scones and cramming them into my mouth so fast I almost choked myself.

  The combination of sugar and stodge calmed me a bit anyway and I could feel myself coming down, like I was a helium balloon and someone was yanking on the string.

  I went to the doorway of the living room, where Mrs Mack was bent over one of her crossword books, Radio 4 on in the background. She didn’t look up as I lurked there, and I was forced to speak first.

  ‘Scones are nice, thanks,’ I said grudgingly, and she grunted in response, then looked at me over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Want to tell me what’s got your goat?’ she said. I’d never heard anyone use this expression before knowing Mrs Mack. I shrugged. Then the words just seemed to spill out.

  ‘He’s dead,’ I said, ‘my …’ I swallowed. ‘My … father.’

  My face began to burn again, from shame using what felt like a poncy word. All I could hear was, ‘Luke, I am your father,’ in Darth Vader’s voice then and I gave a high-pitched, weird laugh.

  Mrs Mack frowned and put down the crossword book, before reaching to turn off the radio. She regarded me for several moments in silence before speaking.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Elliott,’ she said, then, ‘Shouldn’t you and your mum be together right now?’

  I shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Think she wants to be alone.’ The lie was so easy. Mrs Mack frowned, and I felt a wash of guilt because I knew she was judging Mum right then.

  ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ she said. I shook my head vigorously.

  ‘He didn’t mean anything to me,’ I said. The phrase felt foreign coming out of my mouth. I was aware I had picked it up from some adult, maybe on telly. I was embarrassed all over again, then angry because I was embarrassed.

  ‘Well, for all that …’ said Mrs Mack. Then she clapped her hands down on her lap. ‘Let’s you and me watch some television and have a cup of tea then, shall we?’

  She got up. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘Could you go into my bedroom and get my cardigan, please? It’s hanging on the chair there.’

  I wandered into her bedroom, sighing as though I felt hard done by, and at that moment the doorbell rang. I could hear Mrs Mack go to the front door and begin talking to whoever was there. It sounded like someone collecting for something. Mrs Mack said she wasn’t made of money but she wasn’t having dead babies on her conscience.

  In her bedroom I found the pink knobbly cardigan straight away, and I picked it up. But before I turned to leave the room, it felt as though a magnet was pulling my gaze towards the wardrobe. Mrs Mack was still talking to the person on the doorstep and my heart kicked harder in my chest as I walked over to the wardrobe and opened it carefully, making sure it didn’t squeak. My fingers shook as I reached up and took down the wooden box.

  I was thinking that I was like my father as I prised open the lid and wrapped a few twenties into my fist, before stuffing them into my pocket.

  My heart seemed to be banging audibly as I went back into the living room with the cardigan.

  She bustled about in the kitchen and I could hear her humming softly to herself. Then she came into the living room with a tray of tea, more scones nestled on a plate, along with the butter and the jam.

  ‘I imagine you’ve probably got room for another one or two of those scones, am I right?’ she said with a smile and placed the tray on the coffee table.

  I didn’t reply but went to put the telly on. I stared at Byker Grove, my eyes wide and stinging. I felt like I was going to be sick. I wanted to press rewind, right back to when I got home from school. I wanted to do it all differently. The money seemed to pulse hotly inside my pocket and I wondered if I could take it out and somehow leave it on the floor, for her to find.

  But I didn’t.

  To this day I can’t explain why I did it. I remember being a ball of anger and lacking the ability to unpick why I felt so bad. I hurt, and I was sad, and I wanted to do something bad, something extreme. I was angry with my dead father for being such a loser and I was angry with Mum for minding that he was dead. I was angry with Mrs Mack just because she was there.

  The match seemed to have finished and the room was dark now. I got up slowly from the sofa and went to the kitchen
to find another beer. Leaning into the light of the fridge, I felt sadness and regret throb through me. I reached for one beer, and then changed my mind. I closed the fridge and went to the freezer where we kept the gin.

  I sloshed a large measure into a glass and drank it in one go, wincing at the burn as it went down. Then I poured another and took the bottle and glass through to the living room.

  Pictures were scrolling across my mind’s eye in a way I couldn’t seem to control.

  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to block them out. I wished Anya was here.

  Looking down, I realized my glass was empty again.

  I poured myself another drink.

  And then I rooted in a drawer for a cab company card that we’d never used before and rang the number.

  I didn’t want to be alone tonight.

  ELLIOTT

  The cab driver tried to start a conversation but I was burrowing into a bittersweet place of self-pity, and so, after a few grunted replies from me, he gave up and we drove in silence along the coastal road.

  Peering out to my left, I could just make out the lights of a large ship puncturing the deep blackness. Such a lonely sight. The sheer weight of open space pressed in on me so I turned away, focusing instead on the yellow car freshener in the shape of a winking emoji that swayed from the driver’s mirror. It made me feel a bit sick and I suddenly became aware of how much I’d had to drink.

  Self-doubt began to crowd in. Would they mind me just turning up? Would Anya be embarrassed that I was … not drunk, but not completely sober?

  But the thought of going back to the empty house was even worse. I was, reasonably, confident that the worst that would happen would be ‘What are you like?’ from Anya and friendly hospitality from her parents.

  The Rylands’ house was up a narrow road that cut into the cliff and wound round to their property, which offered a stunning view of the bay from large windows. In the summer that room was flooded with golden light and I thought now about the times the four of us had gathered there around the table, drinking good wine and laughing, some of Patrick’s beloved jazz noodling and tinkling away in the background.

  I remembered last Christmas and a pleasant warm feeling spread through me. Carols from King’s Choir in the background against the comforting, hypnotic crackle of the open fire. The air sweet with pine resin and the orange-spiced candle flickering on the hearth. White stars winking tastefully from the tree. No garish, coloured fairy lights in that room. No tinsel there. I thought about the Christmas me and Mum shared a Fray Bentos pie on Christmas Day because we hadn’t had enough money for a chicken or a turkey roast.

  A different world.

  ‘I said, that would be sixteen pounds eighty, mate?’

  The taxi driver’s irritated voice made me start. I must have begun drifting off to sleep. Fumbling for cash, I ended up giving him a four-pound tip just because I wanted to get out into the fresh air.

  I could hear the sea from here as I gazed up at the many windows of the tall, pale house in the moonlight. It was only ten thirty but there weren’t that many lights on. I wavered, unsure about the etiquette now I was here.

  But weren’t they forever telling me I was family too?

  I rang the doorbell and waited, pulling my jacket around me against the wind that was knifing into me now. Nothing happened and I rang it again.

  A few moments later I saw movement and a light snapped on in the hallway, visible through the large, stained-glass door. The bulky shape of Patrick appeared there and seemed to pause for a second or two, before dipping and then reaching for various bolts. They were very security conscious, Patrick and Julia. But who wouldn’t be in that lovely house?

  He peered out at me from the doorway, scrunching his eyes – the same light brown as his daughter’s. A cautious smile that was half-frown appeared on his weathered face.

  ‘Elliott, what’s wrong, son?’ he said. He didn’t immediately beckon me over the threshold. This was so unfamiliar and strange I was robbed for a moment of my speech.

  ‘I thought I’d come over,’ I managed at last. He stared back at me as if I had made an outrageous statement. I felt a flash of annoyance now.

  ‘Is it inconvenient?’ I said. His demeanour changed then and he made a blustery sort of ‘of course not’ sound. But as he began to move to let me in, Julia appeared at his shoulder.

  She usually looked so elegant, but without make-up her face was puffy. Her dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail. Despite her weak smile she was now standing in the space opened by Patrick, blocking the threshold of their house.

  ‘Elliott, darling,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s so lovely to see you but I’m afraid Anya is sleeping and we wouldn’t want to wake her, would we?’

  This was so bizarre I let out a laugh, which proved to be ill-judged because her face immediately seemed to shut down further.

  ‘Have you had too much to drink, Elliott?’ she said and Patrick interjected with, ‘Julia’ in a warning tone.

  ‘I think you’ll find I haven’t had quite enough,’ I said. It had sounded softer, wittier, in my mind and I instantly regretted it.

  The next thing I knew, Patrick was grabbing a coat and car keys and saying he would drive me home ‘in a jiffy’. Then I was somehow inside Patrick’s big, new-smelling car and we were driving along in silence.

  What on earth had just happened? I didn’t know where to start.

  After a while, the weirdness became too much for me. I turned and looked at his face, lit by the whitish glow from the dashboard, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘Look, Patrick,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing in coming over …’ I left the sentence open, ready for his assurance that I hadn’t at all behaved out of turn, and that some extenuating circumstance I couldn’t quite imagine was the real reason for all this oddness. But all he did was say, ‘Don’t worry about it, son,’ and resume his silent driving again. These five words managed to make me feel very much worse.

  But things at the party haven’t gone the way she hoped. First, her best friend Yasemin’s mum rang to say she couldn’t come because her granny had died.

  ‘Why?’ she asked her mother. ‘Why does that mean Yasemin can’t still come?’ Mum had explained that Yasemin probably felt too sad for music and games and laughing. She had mused on that for a while before replying that Yasemin was being ‘self-centred’, an expression she had heard the grown-ups use before.

  Then she decided that she didn’t like THE dress chosen for the party, even though she had loved it in John Lewis the week before. It just looked ‘wrong’ now the day had finally arrived when she would wear it.

  When the party had hardly been going for any time, Adela from her class accidentally pulled down the grass skirt from the side of the table so it looked just like a regular old table.

  Now Lottie keeps showing off about winning a special medal for her karate, which she is always boasting about.

  Her brother, whose name is Dylan, sits in a corner and eats crisps, even though all the food is safe for him. She heard some of the mums saying that his mum shouldn’t just leave other people to be in charge of him all the time, because it wasn’t just ‘the nut thing’ but that something was ‘a bit wrong there’.

  Lottie is getting louder and louder but for some reason no one else seems to mind. Then she notices that her dad is laughing and pretending to do karate chops that Lottie is warding off with high kicks that show her knickers under her dress. Mum comes into the room and laughs too. Like Lottie is special.

  No one says anything when she goes off to be alone for a while.

  IRENE

  ‘Oh love, love, are you alright?’

  ‘Should we call for an ambulance?’

  ‘I think she just needs a minute, give her some space.’

  Irene was aware of voices snapping and popping around her head like bubbles. Everything felt far away, and she could hear her own heavy breathing thundering in her ear
s.

  She reached for the newspaper she had dropped on the table with trembling hands and forced herself to look again at the front page and its terrible, awful information.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said, and her voice felt like such a fragile thing, she wasn’t sure anyone else could hear it until there was a too-loud reply right next to her.

  ‘Your son? Are you saying that’s your son, love?’

  The woman’s excessive perfume seemed like an odd thing to register at this time, but Irene’s nose puckered with the sweet musky smell enveloping her. Three people stood over her: the man from behind the counter, this blowsy woman who seemed to have come from who knew where, and the old man who had said he thought he recognized Michael in the first place.

  He had a tatty copy of the local paper on the seat next to him and, when he held it up to show Irene, she had let out a strangled sort of cry and felt the room tip.

  Then she was being ushered onto a seat and people were fussing all around her. She accepted the cup of hot sweet tea that had magically appeared from nowhere in front of her and took a couple of quick sips. Have to get myself together, for Michael, she thought, bracing herself to read the words in the story.

  ‘Critical condition’ and ‘head injury’ swam in front of her eyes but there was another word that seemed to be blotting them out.

  ‘Suicide’.

  It was a known suicide spot.

  Was that what he had come here to do? Irene felt a wave of grief thump into her chest and her eyes filled with hot tears. She fumbled in her handbag for a clean tissue and, when she located one, blew her nose twice into it, then dabbed under her eyes.

  But it made no sense. Michael had always hated heights. If, heaven forbid, he had been meaning to do that, she was sure he would have found a gentler, more benign way. Pills, perhaps. Irene still recalled the way Liam would tease his older brother for not wanting to climb high on the monkey bars. So for him to deliberately throw himself off a cliff? This series of thoughts, so logical, tore a gasp from her lips.