Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  4

  EMILIA

  SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

  I was beyond happy. I had everything I could wish for and had fallen in love with Mark Benton.

  I felt a spark the moment I saw him in the playground, having just transferred to Castle Batch School.

  He was sophisticated, with intoxicating Bombay Sapphire eyes, and deep-set dimples framing his smile.

  It’s claimed, love at first sight, is fantasy. I disagree. When our eyes met, I felt butterflies swarm.

  Mark introduced himself, and the chemistry was electric. Four months on, we started dating.

  While on playground duty, we observed the kids letting off steam, but we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other.

  The sound of laughter echoed around the playing field, a trio of girls played hopscotch, boys kicked a ball around. The usual arguments and tears followed.

  Mark looked over, raised a hand, insisting he would deal with the matter. At that moment, I felt my heart warm and I wondered if dreams come true.

  We strolled along the Strawberry Line, beside the River Yeo, hearing its gentle rush against the muddy banks. Mark held my hand with a grip that made my body feel alive.

  Without warning, Mark halted our footsteps, stared into my eyes, and placed his lips on mine.

  Everything around us disappeared - the hum of the passing traffic, the low-swooping birds, the rush-hour workers heading home. We were inside our perfect bubble and I didn’t ever want it to burst.

  “I love you, Emilia,” Mark whispered.

  I’d longed to hear those magical three words for the first time and felt relieved my feelings were reciprocated.

  I closed my eyes and recalled the sensation of his fingers snaking across my skin, nails grazing the surface with intimacy. Our bond was becoming unbreakable.

  “I love you too,” I answered, blushing.

  We gazed at one another, mirroring smiles. We better resembled lovestruck teenagers, not grown adults.

  “Let’s get going before we’re late. I don’t want to make a bad impression,” Mark said, hurrying me.

  We left the cyclists and amblers behind on the pathway and headed to the nearby restaurant, Mediterraneanvm.

  Mario greeted me with two kisses on each cheek.

  “Emilia my darling, lovely to see you. Your family are seated. Follow me.”

  Every table was pristine, presented with starched linen cloths, perfect Bishop’s hat napkins, and single red roses.

  Mum, Dad, and my brother, Tom, were seated under the ancient Greco-Roman Cupid mosaic beside the fireplace.

  Dad stood and shook Mark’s hand.

  “Good to see you again.”

  Mum smiled, observing Tom wrap his arms around me like a giant ape, treating me as though I were still a child. I felt loved, I was the luckiest girl in the world.

  An attentive waiter introduced himself as Sergio, as he filled our water glasses and presented the menus.

  Mark asked for a Bloody Mary. I joined Mum with a Prosecco. I felt at ease, enjoying family time. It’s important. Nothing lasts forever.

  Part of me should have felt awkward, but Mark once again had slotted in like a puzzle.

  He, Dad, and Tom went off on a boys’ tangent, discussing rugby. Mum smiled. She didn’t utter a word, but I suspected she was thinking, ‘maybe he’s the one’.

  “Nice handbag,” I said, diverting attention to her new Mulberry, another addition for her growing collection.

  “Call it my retirement present,” she replied.

  “It’s well-deserved, Mum.”

  Tom caught my eye and offered a wink. I smiled.

  “No hot date tonight, Tom?”

  “I’m keeping my options open, sis!”

  Sergio returned. Dad reeled off his usual, Calamari Fritti and Filetto Stroganoff. Mum Chilli Gamberoni and Linguine primavera. The rest of us, Bruschetta and Agrello al Forno (lamb shank).

  The conversation flowed as though Mark was already family. It felt frightening, but oddly normal.

  I had to leave before the coffees to attend Amy’s birthday. Mum and Dad adored her, so they understood.

  We said our goodbyes and Mark dropped me into town. Part of me didn’t want to leave him.

  “I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Emilia.”

  “I love you too,” I replied, planting a kiss on his lips.

  I pulled my collar up to fend off the sea breeze battering the promenade and ducked inside Six Bar.

  Amy, Francesca, Olivia, and a few other girls were dancing up a storm. The night could only get better.

  “What took you so long?” Amy slurred.

  “Family stuff, you know. But I’m here now!”

  Amy embraced me. We’d been best friends ever since we were five. She was like a sister to me.

  “Love you baby girl!” she screeched.

  I bought a bottle of Prosecco, filled our glasses, and we took to the floor as though we were disco divas.

  The club was stifling. After a few dances, revellers’ outlines smudged. I didn’t feel my normal self and leaned against a pillar at the edge of the dancefloor.

  Amy was strutting her moves, waving, and urging me to re-join her. I held my hand up to indicate I needed five minutes. My head felt strangely heavy.

  I staggered with my bag towards the exit for air. The bouncer smiled, allowing me to vacate for a few minutes.

  Everything felt surreal, the water fountain across the road appeared wonky, The Grand Pier lights blasted beams like lasers across the Bristol Channel.

  I turned the corner into James Street, away from the queues, and rested against a lamppost, breathing deeply.

  The thudding music dwindled. I inhaled the salty air for a few minutes and reopened my eyes.

  Masked figures ambushed me; a black hood was shoved over my head. Brute hands gripped my arms and threw me like a rag doll.

  I landed with a thud, my back striking against metal. A door slammed behind me. I gasped for air, sucking the fabric hood against my mouth. An engine revved and tyres screeched. I disappeared into the darkness.

  5

  EMILIA

  FRIDAY 29 DECEMBER 2017, 11.56 PM

  “Mmm ... you smell so good.”

  Twigs perforated my bare knees. I swayed, dazed in woodland, my limbs heavy. I’d been drugged.

  Spectators gathered in a circle; their outlines smudged. I heard laughter and ominous words of encouragement.

  A stab of fear impaled my heart, feeling his tongue lick my earlobe with unceasing groans.

  He held a knife to my throat. His venomous eyes were downcast, mouth set in a grim line.

  I gazed at thunderous clouds overhead, danger floating through the darkness. It weaved across my body, mimicking his incessant, molesting hands.

  Goosebumps pricked the nape of my neck and swarmed, as the bubble of fear exploded inside me.

  “Don’t cry ... smile for the camera.”

  A finger hooked under my chin. His grip intensified, other digits excavating and jerking my head towards the light. Its blinding intensity stung my pupils. I closed my eyes, pulling the shutters down for protection.

  “Open them,” he commanded.

  I scrunched them tighter, indicating refusal. I did not want to see his face again.

  “Now!” he shrieked, spitting saliva over my face.

  I obeyed. He stared; eyes pitch black with horror. His face contorted; lips curled into a snarl.

  “Please. I’m begging you ... leave me alone.”

  “Now that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? Pretty thing, isn’t she?”

  “Please stop.”

  I encountered a predatory smile. He parted my lips and fingered my mouth. I gagged, tasting nicotine.

  His calculated grin widened, exposing yellowed teeth, as he withdrew his hand, trailing it over my breasts.

  I smelt nutmeg and citrus; classic Old Spice cologne before my face was slammed into the soil.

  My nose broke wi
th a sickening crack. I clawed in a pathetic attempt at movement. I knew, at that moment, I was going to be violated by him. And the others. Then I was going to die.

  6

  DI CARMICHAEL

  SATURDAY 30 DECEMBER 2017, 7.12 AM

  I was part of a wicked act. Guilt is gnawing at my insides like a cannibal consuming flesh.

  Everything is a blur, as though I’ve been administered an anaesthetic and I’m wary.

  I have bad blood. There may even be blood on my hands. I cannot see it, but I sense it’s there.

  My head is fucked, my memories obscured by booze. I taste it and smell it, lingering like an oppressive smog.

  The bedroom spins, impersonating a roulette wheel, colours morphing with sunlight beams.

  I want to wrap my arms around Annabelle’s waist and make myself feel better, only pins and needles are swarming my skin, insinuating that my actions are beyond repair.

  Memories can be irretrievable, but I must delve through my hazy mind and fill in the blanks. I must learn the truth.

  My insides churn acid. I close my eyes searching for answers. Images resurface with flashbacks of partygoers.

  I visualise the illuminated casino and recall the Teflon roulette ball tapping with each spin, as I slide stacked chips onto black.

  A further snapshot emerges with strangers, all jeering, glasses clinking. I smell cinnamon and vanilla and recollect fiery Jägermeister sliding down my throat.

  My elbow rests upon a soggy bar runner, eyes squinting, unable to focus. Then I’m staggering through the darkness.

  Arms support me, dragging me onwards. I was part of a dark, immoral, and disturbing deed.

  I flip the duvet, haul my legs out of bed and sip stale bubbled water from a pint glass.

  As I stagger, I check that the rising motion of the mattress hasn’t stirred Annabelle. I cannot face her.

  She remains still, her soft breaths calm me. I tiptoe away, gathering my clothes, and lock the bathroom door.

  Shaky hands inspect my clothes for clues. There are no lipstick marks or the scent of perfume. They reek of tobacco and alcohol.

  My jean pockets are empty. I crumple the clothing and shove it inside the laundry basket with balled fists.

  The person in the mirror isn’t recognisable. Livid scarlet-ringed eyes stare against a death-like pallor.

  I pull my eyes away from the monster and check my torso and back for signs of physical assault, or fingernail scratches. It draws a blank.

  The only explanation; I suffered an alcohol blackout and my memories were not recorded.

  I swallow and dig my fingers across my forehead to stimulate my brain.

  My eyes fix upon the gaping buttonhole of my boxers. I ignore the stabbing in my chest and yank back the waistband.

  Dried, obsidian blood matts my pubic hair, alongside glints of crusty semen. I pull my hand away, horrified.

  Elastic slaps my skin and I fall backwards, jabbing the porcelain sink.

  I vomit and clog the plughole. When I’ve nothing left and am carved internally, I lift my head. My reflection stares, perplexed.

  I want to head-butt the glass, shatter it into a thousand fragments and make the demon disappear. I’m afraid for the first time in my life.

  7

  DI CARMICHAEL

  SATURDAY 30 DECEMBER 2017, 8 AM

  I escape the horror chamber after showering to remove any trace evidence.

  Annabelle is making coffee and toast. I half expect her to turn, stare with disappointed eyes before slapping me.

  Instead, she’s swaying in a pink nightie to Shawn Mendes’ ‘Stitches’, and my heart tightens with sadness. I might lose the best thing that has ever happened to me.

  Annabelle spreads butter and Marmite on two rounds of toast, before cutting them into triangles. She turns to retrieve her coffee and smiles.

  At this moment, I know she’s unaware of my dire secret. She deserves better than me. Better than what lays ahead for us both when the truth comes out.

  I wasn’t legal to drive, which is inappropriate given I’m a Detective Inspector (DI) with Avon & Somerset Police. I’m outside the station, too afraid to step inside in case the truth resurfaces.

  I free my locked knuckles from the steering wheel and hide my boxers in the glove compartment.

  My rattled mind is still banging, incapable of thinking forensically.

  Uncertainty grips my insides, pulling them together in a drawstring motion.

  I’m unable to concentrate on anything, other than trying to remember what happened.

  That is what’s making my head worse; the constant scavenging of the memory galleries.

  I wouldn’t have cheated on Annabelle. Yet, the blood and semen remnants say otherwise.

  I can’t rid the image of blood pooling at my feet like diluted squash.

  Who did I sleep with? A prostitute? I’m getting married, I wouldn’t jeopardise our future, I love Annabelle.

  The more I try to put memories back together, I see more and more missing pieces of the jigsaw.

  My face warms as I venture inside the station, tremulous legs willing me on.

  It’s a hive of activity, with phones pinned to ears, multi- tasking fingers tapping keyboards. I sink into my chair without interaction.

  DCI Christopher Cronwell stares. My eyes fixate on his vertical, scar-like facial crease running from his crow’s feet to his chin, as though he’s been brandished.

  A memory surfaces as he smiles. Why the hell was I with Cronwell?

  My feelings toward him verge on the edge of dislike and moving towards hate. He has a reputation for bending the law. But he’s untouchable, able to get away with murder.

  Cronwell’s in his early 50s, a bourbon drinker. Liquor lingers on him 24 /7.

  He’s worked up the ranks to Detective Chief Inspector (DCI). Yet, despite his position, he acts like it’s the 1970s, when drinking on the job was standard.

  He is drunk every night, and according to office whispers, he’s abusive to his wife, Sarah. She remains with him for the sake of their two children. I pity them.

  I’m confused, weighed down as though I’ve been pumped with cement. I wouldn’t entertain the thought of drinking with Cronwell.

  I recall flashbacks of the casino. I pray I didn’t create more debt or dip into the wedding fund. There is £7,000 in the account.

  I cannot be sure of anything; all I see is fragmentary blackness caused by alcohol damage. Perhaps I’m suffering transient amnesia.

  My fingers retrieve my iPhone and I log on to Lloyds Bank. The balance gouges my eyes; £922 credit.

  I’m out of control. I’m an addict and need help. How could I do this to Annabelle?

  This day is worsening, and the creased wink, gunmetal stare and his sly ‘Tic Tac’ teethed smile, tells me this is only the beginning of my nightmare.

  8

  EMILIA

  WEDNESDAY 3 JANUARY 2018

  I was bound, dumped on a bed of stinging nettles and shattered glass, and left to die.

  The ditch mimicked a shallow grave. Crows shrieked as the seven sets of shoes disappeared into the darkness.

  I feared it was only a matter of time before the birds swooped and pecked my eyes out, ending my torment.

  I’m told my beaten body was found at daybreak. I was blue- lighted to the hospital for lifesaving treatment.

  I have no recollection past the groaning, thrusts, and brutality before darkness fell.

  Upon regaining consciousness, I felt soulless. Doctors and nurses gathered shoulder to shoulder around my bed, staring horrified, as the sun bathed my battered body.

  I wriggled my toes and balled my fists to ascertain mobility. I’d lost days, body flooded with Oramorph and Tramadol. I even missed seeing in the New Year.

  Mum, Dad, Tom, and Mark, appeared at my bedside and my tears fell. I felt relieved to be safe.

  An IV drip pumped fluid into a cannula, while I inhaled the rancid stench of boiled meat and
carrots from my untouched plate.

  Not one of them interrogated me. I don’t think they were ready to learn the truth.

  When I could find my words, I lied. I told them I’d been in an accident; a hit-and-run. I insisted no witnesses were present for the police to pursue the matter.

  I even refused to tell the police how I sustained my injuries. I feared my assailants would honour their word and return. I’d rather die than endure their torture again.

  I hated being dishonest, it crushed my heart. I was always open and honest with my parents; a trait they instilled in me as a child.

  Tom and I were always encouraged to tell the truth. If I had told them the truth, it would have killed them.

  After visiting hours ended, I encountered pity from medical staff completing my charts with observations, as they examined the crumpled mess before them.

  I overheard their not so quiet whispers, between the rattling of hospital trolleys.

  “Poor girl. Such atrocious injuries, she’ll never recover from her ordeal.”

  One sentence which stuck with me was uttered by an anorexic-thin nurse, Katie.

  “Her scars will fade, and the internal stitches will dissolve, but mentally she won’t be the same person.”

  That’s when I had my first flashback, a voice panting, “I want you ... come on, kiss me.”

  I vomited.

  “That was nasty. Nice girls are punished when they’re nasty,” the voice hissed, slapping my face.

  I banged my palms against my head trying to force the memory away. I knew it wasn’t that easy, I’d be haunted.

  I was ruined on the inside and outside, too afraid to be discharged. I would never be the same girl. I was broken.

  My filthy predators walked away free men and I pretended that it was all a dream.