Killer Moon

by Hermione Stark

“It’s only me,” I tell her.

  She sees that despite my wig it really is me.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Give me a minute.”

  I lay the officer down the floor, and he is more than happy to flop there because he is extremely drowsy and almost on the point of passing out. I return to the hallway where the other police officer is snoozing in his chair. I drag him chair and all into the room and firmly shut the door behind us.

  I return to the bed, where India is watching me. She looks anxious.

  “Hey, you alright?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says.

  But there’s no fooling me. This whole thing has severely dented her confidence. A damn shame. She should be a badass bitch. Not this cowering creature.

  “Your parents come to see you?” I ask casually.

  She shakes her head.

  “Never mind,” I say. “Their loss. How’s the memory? Still fuzzy?”

  She nods. Her eyes are fixed on my wig, and then they flick with concern to the two guards who are thoroughly out of it.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “It’s my jailbreak formula,” I tell her. “It’s time to turn you back into your old self, girlfriend.”

  “But I can’t leave here. I’m supposed to stay.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you. I thought you’d be up for a little adventure.”

  “You look different,” she says.

  I pull the wig off my head. “Is this better?”

  “You still look different.”

  I shrug. “Maybe it’s the lipstick and eyeliner.” I have put on thick winged eyeliner and the bright red lipstick from Rachel’s purse. “Don’t worry. There is a method to my madness.”

  I fix the black wig back on my head and hand her a bag of clothes. “Go on. Put these on.”

  When she hesitates, I say, “Do you want to get your memories back and find out what happened or not?”

  I need to get those memories. I need to know what she knows. My payday is due, and I’m not going to let her mess it up.

  I don’t give her a chance to say no. I switch of her monitoring machine and yank all the wires off. I nudge her out of the bed and push her towards the private bathroom. While she is changing, I spray a generous spritz of Rachel’s perfume onto myself. When India comes back into the room I can see that she can smell it. A worried expression comes onto her face.

  I take off my knee length jacket and show her the red dress that I am wearing underneath. It is not the same as Rachel’s, but it is still a red dress.

  “Do you see what I’m doing?” I ask.

  She bites her lip. “You look like… Like…”

  “Yep. This is what Rachel was wearing on Friday night. This is going to help you remember.”

  “I don’t know if I want to remember.”

  “Poppycock. Of course you do. I’m going to leave first and make sure the coast is clear, and then you’ll follow me out and meet me outside the hospital. If you turn right outside of the main entrance downstairs, there’s a little park halfway down the street. Meet you there, okay?”

  She nods.

  I head out of the room. Now for a distraction to make sure none of the nurses or orderlies notice India leave her room. On the nurses’ reception desk is perched a big vase of flowers. Perfect. I sweep past it, jogging it with my elbow. It hits the floor with a satisfying crash, the glass shattering on impact.

  “Oh my gosh!” I cry in great distress. “How did that happen?”

  I make a fuss, apologizing profusely, playing a sweet little nobody again, the kind who can’t possibly be blamed for the damage. I have to inject a dose of vapid given that I’m looking like a siren. When the nurses gather to clear it all up, I back away, and take the elevator down to the ground floor.

  India is waiting for me in the little park. We walk to the local tube station and I take her back to Shoreditch. When we exit from the station at Shoreditch, she looks around herself nervously.

  “I’m not sure I want to do this,” she says.

  “Yes you do,” I tell her firmly. “No chickening out now.”

  I guide her in the direction of the scene of Friday night’s revelry and disaster. As The Half Moon pub comes into sight she drags her feet, and I have to tuck her arm into mine to make her come inside the bar with me.

  It is busy inside, packed with the crowd of after-work city workers. She swallows hard as she looks around. I drag her by the arm to the bar.

  “Do you remember what you were drinking that night?”

  She shakes her head. Then she nods, somewhat reluctantly. “We were drinking grey goose martinis. Rachel thought it was cool.”

  I order the drinks and we stay at the bar, sipping them. “Is this bringing anything back?”

  She nods. She is looking at a particular section of the pub, a booth of seats towards the back. “We were over there. We were dancing and drinking.”

  “Must have been fun.”

  “Hmm.” She smiles. “I was dancing with Charlie. And he asked me to move in with him.”

  Then she shakes her head as if she doesn’t want to remember. She downs the rest of the martini. I order us another couple, and hand them both to her. All the better to loosen her up. She was fuzzy headed that night. She needs to be fuzzy headed now.

  “Drink up,” I urge.

  She gratefully tips the second martini down her throat. She is still looking at that section of the pub, a fixed look on her face. She sips the third drink as if she is barely aware of it in her hand.

  “Rachel was there,” she murmurs. She walks over to the spot as if in a trance, and I follow. The music is muted but I start dancing anyway. I take India’s hand and spin her in a circle.

  She gasps. “Rachel says she’s sick. She doesn’t feel well. We’re going out of the bar. That way.” She points to a door. A different one than we came in by.

  I take the cocktail glass out of her hand and put it down on a nearby table. I guide her towards the back door. She follows me without protest, her eyes looking a little glazed. I push open the door and we go outside. It is dark now and the alley is not so well lit as the other street had been. The streetlamps are spaced more widely apart. We pause outside the door. A group of people are standing on the street nearby, beer glasses and cigarettes in their hands, all chattering, oblivious to us.

  I take two of Rachel’s menthol cigarettes out from my handbag and hand one to her. I light them up. She puts it to her lips, her fingers shaking. She takes a long drag. I take one too, because I am supposed to be Rachel, and Rachel had been smoking.

  “What were you and Rachel talking about?” I ask her. “Was she bored? Did she want to go home?”

  She is looking at me slightly dazedly, as if she is seeing Rachel instead of me. I take off my jacket again, all the better to let her see the red dress.

  “She’s telling me I shouldn’t move in with Charlie. Jacob told her about it. I’m angry because Jacob shouldn’t have told her. I wanted to tell her myself.”

  “Isn’t she happy that you’re going to move out?”

  “She’s mad. She doesn’t want me to move in with Charlie. She says he is no good. I’m telling her she’s just jealous. That she should be glad I’m moving out. She won’t have to be squashed in the same room with me anymore. She won’t have to pay the rent and the bills for me anymore.”

  “And she says she doesn’t care about that, doesn’t she?” I say. “She doesn’t care about the money. She doesn’t want you to move in with Charlie. Why? Because…” I hesitate, giving her time to fill in the blank.

  She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to remember.

  I raise my voice, making it sharp the way that Rachel might have spoken to her. “Don’t be stupid India. You can’t move in with Charlie. He’s no good. He’s no good for you. Because…”

  “Because…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I can’t do this! I don’t know!”

  I g
lance down the street. Rachel’s body was further along up the alleyway. How did she get there?

  “I didn’t want to tell you about Charlie, did I?” I say harshly. “I walked away, didn’t I? I walked this way.”

  I start walking, keeping India’s arm tucked in mine so that she has to follow me. I walk in the direction they must’ve walked, hurrying her along as Rachel must’ve hurried, intent on getting away from India that night. And India must’ve followed her, demanding to know what her problem was.

  I stop at the little parking bay near the gate. “You grabbed me here,” I tell her accusingly. “You made me stop. You made me tell you. What did I tell you, India? What was it?” I grab her arm hard.

  She shakes her head. Tears are pouring down her cheeks. She tries to pull away from me, but I won’t let her. I hold onto her arms, the way that she must’ve held onto Rachel’s arms that night.

  “Tell me!” I demand angrily, the way that she must’ve demanded of Rachel that night. “What did I say?”

  “Stop it!” she cries out.

  “I told you Charlie was no good for you. I didn’t like him. I didn’t want you to live with him because… Because what?”

  “Because you slept with him is why!” India shouts. “You were sleeping with him. You slut! Sleeping with my boyfriend. Who are you to tell me that he’s no good for me? How could you do that to me?” She slaps me hard across the cheek.

  “You bitch!” she shrieks. “I knew you wanted him for yourself!”

  I let her hit me. Lucky her. I’m not the sort to let people hit me, but I am not about to break things off now.

  “That’s right,” I snarl. “I’m a slut. I slept with Charlie and I liked it! What are you going to do about it?”

  She raises her hand to slap me again, and then she stops. She is turning away from me. She is staring at the road. “A car is coming!” she says.

  There is no car. She is remembering what happened that night. She staggers backwards as if the car is coming right at her and Rachel. I stagger with her, mimicking what happened.

  “What’s happening now?” I ask her urgently.

  She raises her arm above her eyes as if to shield them from a bright light. “Someone is getting out. Someone. I can’t see. The headlights are too bright.”

  “Who?” I demand. “A man or a woman? Who is it?”

  “Someone. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m screaming at Rachel…”

  She stops. She is gasping for breath. Her hand flies to the side of her neck.

  “What?” I ask her urgently. I shake her. Knowing this is the moment she either saw or didn’t. “What happened?”

  “I’ve been jabbed with something. A needle. And I can’t move. I feel sick.” She drops to her knees, as if that is what happened to her that night. She is sobbing now. “Oh my God. Rachel is screaming. Rachel is screaming for help. I can’t move. I can’t see. Why aren’t I doing anything?”

  She curls up onto the floor, crying, sobbing her heart out. I kneel on the ground next to her. I pat her shoulder. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay now. You’re okay. It’s over.”

  She only sobs harder. I am impatient. Tired of playing the friend. I need to know what she remembers. I have to make her tell me. I force her head up from the ground. I force her to sit up and look at me. She tries to cover her face with her hands, but I force her arms down to her sides.

  “Tell me what happened next,” I demand.

  “Rachel,” she whimpers.

  I want to snap at her to pull herself together. Rachel betrayed her. Rachel was a bitch who pretended to be sweet. But I know that saying this will not help matters. The reality of what Rachel has done ceased to mattered because apparently death has promoted her to sainthood. And India’s grief is bigger than her anger right now.

  “Tell me what happened next,” I demand. “Tell me who killed Rachel. Tell me what you know, India!”

  “Darkness,” she whispers in a hoarse voice. “Darkness… And then… I’m in a car. Someone is driving. And then the car stops.”

  “Who is driving?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long were you driving for?”

  She shakes her head miserably. “I don’t know. I was out of it. Maybe ten minutes.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I’m being dragged out of the car. There is a building.”

  “Who is dragging you?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “What building?” I demand, needing to know if she can identify it.

  “It’s just a building. An old shop, I think. Inside there’s a room. A room with a cage. I’m being put into it. Inside the cage.”

  “Can you see who did it? Tell me who it is.”

  She shakes her head rapidly, as if she doesn’t want to see who it is. “I can’t see. Can’t see a face. I’m huddled on the floor of the cage.”

  “And then? What next, India?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve been left. I’m locked in. Alone. In the dark. In the cold.” She collapses into tears again, sobbing her heart out.

  “But you got out. How did you get out?”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t get out. I can’t. Even when I can move again, I can’t get out. It’s too strong. It’s a wolfcage. I’m trapped in here. Trapped.”

  “You did get out. You got out somehow. Think. Think how you got out.”

  “I didn’t get out. I can’t get out.” She heaves for breath. She’s panicked. She feels like she’s fighting to get out all over again. “I can’t get out. The cage is too strong. I know I can never get out. I’m going to die here.”

  “A man came for you, didn’t he? He must have come for you.”

  She stares at me blankly and then she nods, remembering. She whispers, “A man came. He came to take me. And I’m cowering at the back of the cage. He wants to inject me. He can’t reach me. A knife is on the floor. He picks it up. He opens the cage door. He is coming for me. He’s coming towards me.”

  “Then you pushed him, didn’t you? You pushed him away.”

  “I pushed him!” she exclaims. “And he tried to stab me. And it hurt. And I shoved him. I grabbed the knife and I shoved him. And I ran.”

  “You saw him, India. You saw his face.”

  “No, no, no!” She shakes her head, unwilling to remember.

  “Yes you did,” I snap. “Tell me what you saw!”

  She stares at me with her eyes wide open. “He had black hair. He had glasses.” She describes a man. A man I know.

  And it all clicks into place. The sneaky git. It was him. And I finally know why he did it. I feel a sense of jubilation. My hands are trembling with the satisfaction of knowing.

  “That’s good,” I tell her soothingly, stroking my fingers through her hair. “You did good.”

  And now I have to decide what to do with her. She gave me everything I needed like a good little girl, but she knows who I am. I should get rid of her. But first I need one last thing.

  Chapter 20

  STORM

  “She beat me up,” Kurt Gibbon shouts, banging his handcuffed hands on the interview table and making the recorder bounce. “The bitch beat me up. Why aren’t you going after her?”

  “Tell us who she is,” says Storm patiently.

  “I don’t know. Some bitch. She put tape on my eyes. On my eyes!”

  Kurt Gibbon’s eyelashes are missing, as are half of his dark brows. Clearly ripped off when he had removed the tape. It gives his face a blind mole-like look.

  “Is she someone you knew?” Storm asks.

  “No!”

  “You sure about that?” says Leo. “You’re sure she wasn’t some girl you’ve made angry in the past?”

  “I didn’t see her,” Gibbon says through gritted teeth.

  “But you heard her voice?” says Leo.

  “I was freaking out! I didn't recognize her voice, okay?”

  “Then it was or wasn’t someone you know
?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “So you do admit you’ve given a woman reason to be mad at you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “This whole thing sounds like an unlikely story to me,” says Storm. “Perhaps you did this to yourself.”