The Killer Inside

by cass green

  ‘Didn’t what?’ I said, with an awkward laugh.

  She put her beer down on the table and then looked at me, an unreadable expression on her face.

  ‘It’s just that … she can be a bit … fierce?’ She laughed again but it sounded fake.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Annoyance cut in quickly, just as I was starting to relax.

  ‘Well …’ she took another sip of her beer, then spoke quickly. ‘I saw her really lose her temper at the festival that day. You weren’t there. I didn’t see what happened, but I think someone knocked into her. When I looked over, she was really mouthing off to whoever it was. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or terrified.’

  I sighed and laid my head back on the sofa.

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘And she did tell me about that. She wasn’t feeling well that day, as you know. She’s not normally like that.’

  This was true. Anya didn’t generally have what you would call a hot temper. But this still felt like uncomfortable territory after what I had learned earlier that day.

  I needed time to unpack my feelings about everything but, right now, all I wanted to do was veg out and watch television until I became numb.

  ‘Look, Zo,’ I said, ‘is it okay if we move on? Can we just chill out together tonight?’

  She looked a little surprised, I think, but she agreed. I hoped that I could make it up by supplying a Chinese takeaway and some booze.

  So, we had a few drinks, ate our food, and watched a Mission Impossible movie Zoe had recorded. It was pleasant, mind-numbing stuff, and by the time I was bedding down on the sofa, I was hopeful that I could sink into sleep. Guilt about skiving from school was nipping at me underneath the other, more dominant emotions, and I was determined to go in full of enthusiasm in the morning.

  But as soon as I closed my eyes, all I could see was Anya, scrambling up that cliff path as she feared for her life. My heart began to pound in my chest and I had to sit up, untangling myself from the thin, single duvet that barely covered half my body. I grabbed my phone, its light bathing my face in the dark room, I looked at my last exchange with Anya. I had expected a barrage of messages and, although I was relieved to have been given the space I’d asked for, her silence was nonetheless discomfiting.

  I went to the kitchen and got myself a glass of water. I needed to stop drinking so much. Zoe had stopped at two bottles of beer, but I’d then drunk most of the bottle of red I’d brought with me. It hadn’t seemed to affect me at all but now I could feel the dry mouth and inklings of a headache waiting in the wings for the morning.

  I lay there, mind churning with pictures of Anya, Mrs Mack, Michael Copeland and that Islington flat, while my back ached from the inadequate length of the sofa. Finally, as the sound of birdsong began to seep into the room and grey dawn crept over the dark shapes of the furniture, I slept.

  I was groggy the next morning when Zoe woke me with a strong cup of coffee but dragged myself into the shower and let the hot water pound me awake, before putting on my borderline-smelly clothes from the day before and hoping for the best.

  I would normally wear a shirt and smart trousers to work. Now I had on a T-shirt and grey cotton trousers – thank God I hadn’t worn my jeans the day before, which really would have been frowned upon by Jackie.

  Zoe offered me an iron but we were running late. I’d have to do.

  As we walked together to work, Zoe talked about Tabitha and how she was a little clingier than was comfortable. I was listening intently, chipping in advice from my limited pool when I could. I wouldn’t have noticed that Lee and Tyler Bennett were crossing the road just in front of us if Zoe hadn’t abruptly changed topic.

  ‘Ay-up,’ she said sotto voce now. ‘Aggressive twat sighting at two o’clock.’

  A strange embarrassment hit me as my head jerked up to see them. I was so sure it had been Bennett who was harassing me. I cringed at the memory of going to the police station. I was sure, now, that it was Copeland, Michael Copeland, all along. I almost felt a weird sort of nostalgia for the time before Anya’s revelation.

  Michael Copeland.

  Murdered Michael Copeland.

  ‘Elliott.’ Zoe’s elbow was sharp in my ribcage. ‘Stop being weird … you’re glaring at him.’

  ‘What …?’

  Bennett was looking at me now, warily, and Tyler was staring at me too, his cheeks flushed. Flustered, I turned my head. ‘I wasn’t meaning to,’ I said. ‘I was just miles away for a minute.’

  We were inside the gates now. Zoe gave my arm a quick squeeze as we parted ways.

  ‘Don’t give that wanker any more fuel, okay?’ she murmured before hurrying off down the corridor. Feeling even more ashamed of myself, I slunk off to my class.

  The day passed uneventfully, and I forced myself to engage properly despite the tiredness dragging at me, and the worries about everything. I saw Jackie at break and knew I wasn’t imagining the way her eyes swept lightly over my less than smart attire. I gave her a weak grin, which she didn’t return. It felt like something had shifted at school and I didn’t really know how to get it back.

  But skiving off and then turning up in last night’s clothes wasn’t, I knew very well, the way to go about it.

  Shame was proving to be the theme of the day, it seemed.

  As the morning went on, I began to regret my decision to stay out the night before. Anya was probably going through hell. She had laid out what was perhaps one of the worst experiences of her life in front of me, and what had I done? I’d been unable to hack it and had run away to lick my wounds about being ‘left out’, like the giant man baby I am.

  I couldn’t wait for the end of the day, so I could take her in my arms and reassure her it was all going to be okay.

  IRENE

  ‘Are you quite sure you are up to doing this?’ said Frank, yet again. Irene swallowed back an unexpectedly sharp feeling of irritation and forced herself to give him a thin smile.

  ‘If not now, when?’ she said. Frank murmured that this was a fair point and drove down the big hill towards the direction of the sea. The sun had peeked out briefly and the firefly speckles of light moving across its surface were soothing but not quite enough to quell the nervous feeling dancing in her stomach.

  Three minutes later they pulled into a street that was a few rows back from the seafront. Neat, terraced houses of the two-up-two-down sort that had been her and Colin’s first home together. For a moment she allowed the memory to sweep in of her climbing those steep stairs, her round belly and extra weight making her huff with the effort. Then … sitting up in bed with her tiny son in her arms, while Colin fussed about, seeming to levitate a few inches off the ground with pride.

  Cold desolation twisted in her stomach now and she gripped the handle of her handbag until her knuckles blanched. There would be plenty of time – too much time – to grieve when she got home. She would never come back to this town again but thank goodness for the kindness of this stranger who was willing to help her.

  The car slowed and pulled into the nearest parking space, behind a blue people carrier. The house she wanted, number 15, was a few doors up.

  ‘This is us,’ said Frank, and she felt a little touched at the way he was including himself in this strange sequence of events. ‘I’ll come with you, shall I?’

  ‘No.’

  She hadn’t meant to say it so sharply, and could almost feel him drawing back, a little wounded.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t even know if this a wild goose chase,’ she said. ‘I just want to ask, that’s all. And then we can go.’

  Frank said, ‘It’s up to you,’ but didn’t meet her eyes and she could tell he was offended. She had pushed her luck too far. This needed to be done and then she could get a train back to her own home, somewhere she longed to be now with an intensity that was almost painful.

  With a weary sigh, she opened the door and heaved herself out onto the pavement. The sun had been swallowed by cloud again and a chill wind wrapped its
elf around her. She had forgotten how vicious a sea breeze could be.

  She walked warily towards number 15, which had a jaunty red front door and a front garden that looked as though no one ever gave it any attention.

  There was no point trying to rehearse what she was going to say; it was all too bizarre. So instead she made herself stride up the path and press the doorbell before she could lose courage and run back to the relative security of Frank’s car.

  There was no response to her first press of the doorbell, but she saw movement from the corner of her eye at the bay window to her left. Someone was home, alright. They were just avoiding answering the door.

  Hot indignation now helpfully replaced her jitters and Irene rang the bell then rapped hard on the painted red wood with her knuckles.

  Still nothing.

  Almost before she knew she was going to do it, Irene lowered her face to the level of the letterbox and flipped it up with a finger.

  ‘Can you help me?’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a woman called Anastasia?’ Then, ‘I know someone is in there!’ Her own voice sounded shrill and elderly to her ears and suddenly she felt so tired and sad she feared she would just sit down on the pavement and never get up again. She rapped once more on the door and pressed the doorbell and then the door flew open so violently she almost fell inside and onto the young woman on the threshold.

  Irene was so startled that she simply stared for a moment. The girl was tall, slim, and very pretty, with thick red hair piled on top of her head. It was the same sort of colour as Liam’s, oddly. The eyes too – that unusual caramel-brown – currently glaring from a pale, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a bit red round the rims. She was wearing what looked like a man’s shirt over a pair of black leggings and her feet were bare, toes varnished with blue polish.

  When she spoke her voice came out almost as a growl.

  ‘Yes? What do you want?’

  ‘I’m … I’m …’ Irene’s heart was beating uncomfortably hard and she felt a little dizzy. Why hadn’t she practised what she would say?

  ‘I’m Michael’s mother,’ was all she managed to blurt out. The effect of these words on the other woman was shocking. Her face seemed to blanch right in front of Irene and her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then licked her lips. Then she spoke again.

  ‘Who?’ Her eyes were changing; from angry to something else now. Cold. As though she had brought down shutters over her face.

  ‘I can tell you know his name!’ Irene felt her voice crack, but she needed to be in control just for a little while longer. ‘Please?’ she said. ‘He’s dead and there was some sort of report in his room with your name and address on it.’

  The woman, Anastasia surely, was fiddling with her long hair, twisting it around her finger and almost yanking it in a way that looked uncomfortable. Irene suddenly felt a dizzying surge of adrenaline that made her want to take a step back. She had the oddest feeling of wanting to protect herself. Her instinct was to flee. But she knew she had to stay strong.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘please can you just spare a few minutes? That’s all I ask.’

  ‘I’m closing the door now.’

  Irene forced herself forward until her foot was in the doorway. She had never done anything like this in her life before. This strong young woman towered over her and fear pulsed through her in a way she couldn’t entirely justify.

  Then Anastasia did something that shocked Irene more than any violence could have done. She smiled.

  It was a dazzling smile, like something from a toothpaste advertisement. Her eyes positively shone. Irene, confused, felt her own face beginning to respond in kind but this was all wrong.

  ‘Would you mind?’

  Irene looked down and found herself removing her foot.

  When she looked back up, the young woman’s face was a mask of stone.

  She leaned a little closer, so Irene could smell something bad on her breath, and in a low voice said, ‘Get your fat arse off my doorstep. I don’t know anything about any fucking Michael Copeland.’

  The door was slammed with such force that Irene felt the draught of it gusting against her face. A strange kind of triumph was cutting through the shock of the encounter though, and she banged her fist against the wood again.

  ‘I never told you our surname!’ she shouted. ‘You did know him!’

  Irene began to shout up at the window.

  ‘My son hated heights! Why would he go to that cliff if he hated heights! You know something about this, I know you do!’ She couldn’t seem to stop.

  She became aware then that two people were standing near her on the pavement. One of them was Frank, whose expression was one of total horror at her yelling like a fishwife in the street. Her cheeks burned, and she cast her eyes to the other person, a tall, thin young man with messy dark curls and a complexion that could have been Mediterranean. He had soft brown eyes and a neat beard and was looking equally horrified.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he said, his voice low. ‘Why are you shouting at my house?’

  Why indeed? Irene cleared her throat and patted her hair at the back. She couldn’t really get her breath.

  ‘My son is dead,’ she said. Her voice fractured as she felt her knees sag from under her, then there were two sets of arms holding her up.

  ‘Let’s go, Irene, come on,’ said Frank. ‘We’ll get you back to the car. I think we’re finished here.’

  ‘Look, is she alright?’ said the young man. He sounded genuinely concerned, which made Irene twist her head to stare at him, despite the fact that her whole body appeared to be made from jelly. His eyes were kind.

  ‘Please,’ she managed to say through lips that felt a little numb. ‘Ask that woman if she knows why Michael did what he did. He didn’t like heights, you see.’

  The young man flinched and stepped back abruptly, and Frank led her to the car.

  Once she had been bundled inside, she accepted the bottle of water proffered by Frank and took a long drink, despite her shaking hand.

  The man was looking back over his shoulder and turning a key in the lock, his expression troubled. He met Irene’s eye again and quickly looked away, before disappearing inside.

  Irene wondered how much he really knew about the person who shared his house. She’d never met anyone – in all her seventy-three years – who had given her such a chilling feeling as that woman.

  ELLIOTT

  The air in the hallway felt cold and I could smell something ‘off’ from the bin in the kitchen. There was also another, sour smell that I recognized as sick.

  ‘Anya?’ I yelled and quickly began to look in each room. There was no sign of her and I had the ridiculous notion that she was hiding from that old lady in a cupboard or something. I was shaking from seeing her – Michael Copeland’s mother, for sure – on our doorstep and couldn’t imagine how Anya must be feeling.

  I heard a faint sound from upstairs, and took the stairs two at once, calling her name the whole time.

  I found her slumped in front of the toilet, her skin pale and covered with a sheen of sweat. Her eyes were brimming, and her fringe clung to her damp forehead.

  She began to cry, pitifully, as she gazed up at me from the cold, tiled floor.

  ‘Oh God,’ she sobbed, ‘did you see that? Did you hear it?’

  I crouched down and put my arms around her, saying, ‘Hey, hey,’ in a soothing voice as she began to cry in more earnest. She clung to my neck as I helped her to her feet and she buried her face into my neck until I could feel her tears beginning to seep inside the top of my T-shirt.

  ‘Let me brush my teeth,’ she said finally, in a muffled, snotty voice. ‘Feel disgusting.’

  She brushed her teeth and used mouthwash, avoiding my eye the whole time. Her eyes were glassy now and she seemed far away.

  ‘I’m just going to lie down for a bit, Ells,’ she said, her voice croaky. ‘I’ve been feeling really shit all day and then that mad woman turne
d up at our door.’

  I simply nodded and went through with her to the bedroom. ‘Mad woman’ seemed a bit harsh, in the circumstances. What I’d seen was someone who looked absolutely hollowed out from grief and confusion. And we knew things she didn’t and never could.

  I led Anya through to our bedroom and helped her to get onto the bed, then pulled down the blind. She was shivering, and I put a fleece blanket over her.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘you lie down for a bit and we’ll talk later, okay?’

  I was walking out of the room when she said, ‘Ells,’ in a small voice.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Her face looked very pale in the late afternoon light edging the blackout blind.

  ‘You know I had no choice, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, a bit too fast. ‘Have a bit of kip now, okay? I’ll see you in a while.’

  I gently closed the bedroom door and went back downstairs.

  For the next hour I busied myself with tidying up the house, which was looking dirty and unloved.

  Once the house was a bit more like home, I made vegetable soup from stuff in the freezer. I figured it might be something Anya could eat if she was feeling fragile, plus my body felt so wrecked and unhealthy after recent sleepless nights and too much drinking that I wished I could just take some vitamins intravenously.

  As I stirred the lentils and vegetables around in gentle circles I thought about what I had seen on the doorstep.

  It worried me that Michael had shared his Anya connection with other people. She’d had no choice to do what she did, but she should have told the police.

  And there was something else too.

  Ever since that terrible sequence of events back when I was a kid, I had an overly developed conscience when it came to old ladies. It was as though smiling at them in Tesco, or helping them get out of parking spaces, would somehow make up for the evil I had brought about. Utter bullshit, obviously. Nothing could make up for that.