Tom arrives late. He joins us at my favourite restaurant, Demetris Taverna, for my birthday meal. We’ve been enjoying delicious Greek Mezedes here since we were children.
Tom’s snug Ralph Lauren shirt skims over his chest. He heads to the bar and returns with Champagne.
I greet Tom with a hug. He then plucks a wrapped package from inside his jacket pocket.
A gaggle of drunk women giggle with Demetri, the restaurant owner. His charismatic personality, and giant self-portrait spanning one wall, are what make the restaurant feel alive.
I open the gift - a stunning silver bracelet.
“Did I do good, sis?”
“It’s gorgeous, thank you.”
My heart thaws for the first time in forever. My family is everything, and I love them deeply.
It feels as though we’ve been transported back to happier times, holidaying in Cyprus, and dancing under a ceiling of grapes, with dancers in traditional costume.
I found their pleated kilts and pom-pom-toed booties, which tapped in rhythm to Zorba’s Dance, fascinating.
Our childhood was perfect, and we couldn’t have asked for better memories. If only my recent recollections were so happy.
Dad is cheerful, having witnessed the smile on my face, and glimpses of the old Emilia.
With my family at my side, I’m safe, and free of my monsters. Perhaps life can be good again; who knows? Maybe a day will come when I’ll look at myself in the mirror without feeling shame.
I try to remember happy times with my friends, and Mark, before my life was ruined. But when I reminisce, I’m over‐ whelmed with a palpable sense of loss.
I spotted Mark once, from a distance. I didn’t have the guts to approach. I walked away for the second time, believing he hated me.
That’s what twists the knife - they ruined my life twice over, and any chance of future happiness. I must stop dwelling on the past, accept the life I have chosen, and the person I’ve become: a killer.
52
EMILIA
SATURDAY 10 NOVEMBER 2018, 11.45 PM
Warm bubbles with a jasmine aroma wash their greedy hands off me.
I sink under the froth, enjoying a soak in the bathtub before bed. Scrubbing my skin is my way of performing self-exorcism and ridding evidence of the attack.
Water laps my ears, and reflections dance across the ceiling. Tiredness takes over and I close my eyes.
The darkness propels me back to the woods. Only, I’m bathing in my blood, the knife embedded, draining me.
My eyes bolt back open. I try to calm myself and drag my flannel over my breasts to act as a comforter.
A shadow flickers at the window. I stare, body rigid with panic. The acrobatic figure moves as though balancing on a trapeze, then ejects a longing meow.
I relent to its whimpers and open the window. It hops inside and its cries morph into a joyous purr.
The kitten rubs its cheek forcefully against my hand with affection, leaving a layer of fur on my damp skin.
It yearns for love and protection. It doesn’t see the monster in me, a callous murderer.
I’ve woken for the first time without suffering a night terror. The only explanation is having the kitten for company.
I’d told myself to feed it tuna and milk, and then put it outside. But, I couldn’t, it needed me, as I did it.
Abandoning him all day didn’t feel right, so I’ve snuck him into my classroom.
“Call him Cat,” shouts Peter Jenkins.
I giggle and force myself to stop when I encounter the longing in his eyes. Peter is the loner type no one wants to befriend because his mother doesn’t keep him clean.
“Cat it is,” I answer.
The children are not concentrating, but Cat is enjoying being fondled. The headteacher, Ian Tunstall, wouldn’t be understanding if he saw Cat. I’d be facing a disciplinary.
He reminds me of a male version of the eccentric, Miss Trunchbull, from ‘Matilda’. Chest out, shoulders back, as he marches on military parade. He’s just another man in a position of authority, who enjoys being in charge.
The class falls silent, breaking my prolonged game of stare at the clock. Year two teacher, Simon Martin, leans against the doorframe. He peers over his trendy glasses.
“Interesting pencil case, Izzie,” he mocks.
She lets out a giggle and strokes Cat’s belly. My heart races as he saunters over. He’s 6 ft 2, with a chiselled jaw and impressive biceps.
“I need a quick word,” he whispers.
“Sure.”
I’m conscious that I’m twiddling the ends of my hair, restraining them in captive knots like a nervous teenager.
He stares with alluring, rich Americano eyes, and offers a devilish smile.
“Cute kitten, Emilia. It’s OK, it can be our secret,” he says, offering a cheeky wink.
“Please could you take my afterschool club?”
His sultry voice sends delicious tingles through me.
“Are you OK? Cat got your tongue?” he mocks.
I swallow and stammer a tawdry response, “I’m worried you’ll let the cat out of the bag.”
I emit a nervous chuckle and feel my cheeks warm.
“Cover for me and I promise to keep quiet.”
He offers a joyful smile that sets fine dimples in his cheeks.
I breathe him in, enjoying the alluring woody scent of Dior Sauvage.
I can’t let him get close. I must keep layering bricks on my stone wall, so I’m protected from heartbreak.
I’m a fool to even contemplate the idea that he’d be interested in me; I’ve been branded. He can’t learn the truth, no one can.
My survival relies on donning this mask forever to disguise my inner evil. The fiend who will not rest until those beasts are dead.
53
DI CARMICHAEL
MONDAY 12 NOVEMBER 2018
With a sharp intake of breath, I thrust a scalding cigarette against the sole of my foot, punishing myself.
I count from one to ten to withstand the wrath of the 495- degree heat.
Nicotine penetrates my skin with blistering agony and creates a red ovoid sore amongst my library of welts.
I inhale the welcoming scent of singed skin and the perverse thrill it gives me.
When the throbbing subsides, I feel good for punishing myself. I deserve to endure pain. Though the agony is minuscule in comparison to what ‘the girl’ endured.
I’m meant to be strong and stoic. That’s the stereotype I should conform to in our macho culture.
Men and boys are ordered to ‘man up’ because, after all, big boys don’t cry. Only they do, behind closed doors.
The first time I hurt myself was to offer my mind relief from the guilt. It hurt beyond words but felt good.
Now it has become an unhealthy coping mechanism - an addiction, as were my past gambling habits.
It’s not like I hear her voice telling me to do it. I hear mine. I crave the sensation the burning ash offers, and the relief gained when my mind taunts me with her face; the girl from the tape, who I raped.
I use matches too. I light them and dig them into my skin until the flame skirts my fingertips. Both produce second-degree burns and lifelong scars.
Annabelle barely looks at my feet, they’re a place I can hide the lesions, and my secret.
I hate lying but it’s who I am now; a compulsive deceiver to keep the truth buried.
I thought that, in time, the memories would fade but they are constant like agonising sciatica searing through limbs.
I’ve become disconnected from the world, and Annabelle. I’m unsure how to find my way back to her, or if it’s even possible. If she learned the truth, perhaps she would expose me herself.
A plaster and sock conceal the evidence. I stump out the butt in an ashtray and open the window. The breeze is purifying, with a freshness that makes everything better.
Annabelle is out with friends, allowing me my vital harming time and t
he space I need to study the case files.
An image of Peterson’s body rests on top, the shiny double infinity pin, proudly on display. He’d never worn it before; therefore, I’m certain it was left by the killer.
Killers are known to take trophies or leave calling cards to indicate the kill belongs to them.
I Google the double infinity symbol. It signifies two individuals joining fates forever. This was about revenge. It was not accidental suicide; it was murder.
I spread the images across the bed. The shots capture the scene where Peterson took his last undignified breath.
I’m drawn to an image with the bag over his head. He better resembles the Ku Klux Klan, which is apt given his history of violence.
Adjacent rests a photograph showing him with the bag removed, exposing a face full of death. Pale, sunken, and ugly, like the beast I came to know.
Three Cipher members have been murdered, in various ways. Perhaps that’s the killer’s intention, creating different MOs, so their deaths are not linked.
Staging a suicide was genius - the killer is in the clear. And Hugh’s case is closed.
Piers’ murder, however, has attracted a media circus. They want blood and answers.
The killer is toying with us. The infinity pin was placed there to indicate one of us is next. We’re all targets, every one of us sick bastards who is involved.
I’m cocooned in barbed wire; guilt and remorse pricking my skin. The devil is coming for me, and I’m afraid.
54
EMILIA
WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER 2018
I’m plagued by their demons. They’re haunting me, night after night.
Their deaths replay in slow motion. Only, I’m a bystander, watching my psychopathic self, wielding weapons.
An alternative personality is prominent, her violence unceasing. Once they’re dead, I’m back inside my body, only I look like ‘Carrie’ at her prom bloodbath scene.
I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing my mind, and before long I’ll be committed to an asylum.
The pure weight of lies and deceit is taking its toll. I don’t know who I have become.
I can’t tell Dad how I’m feeling; I don’t want to let him down. I must regain courage and continue our game.
While Judge Peterson’s death was unsatisfying, it was dragged out; it took time for the light to go out in his eyes.
Graphic images pound my mind - taut plastic, sucking in and out, breaths dwindling, the bag misting.
Hugh’s death remains a blur. I only see his blood caked on my hands like a butcher.
I don’t feel remorse. My only regret is the unskilful way I killed him with my shoe. That was never the plan.
Had I been better prepared, Dad wouldn’t have become involved and would have been spared the ugly truth.
Piers, on the other hand, I enjoyed seeing suffer - experiencing the pain that he made me endure.
While they haunt me, and it scares the shit out of me, I must continue my quest until they are all made to suffer.
My wounds aren’t healing, because the faces of the dead flood me like an infection seeping pus.
Interestingly, I’ve allowed myself to cry again and I’ve shed more tears than ever before.
I’ll never be free until this is over. I must find my inner bitch; the cold-hearted killer I trained myself to be.
55
EMILIA
SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2018
Dad wants this to be over. He wants to end our game!
His forlorn eyes stare, mine sting on the cusp of tears, having been summoned to the Old Inn, in Congresbury.
We sit beneath the low-beamed ceiling, tucked away behind the inglenook fireplace, adorned with ornate Congresbury Green Men - symbols of pagan mythology.
I inch my chair backwards, grating uncomfortable pitches on the floor and assess our privacy.
Dogs perch obediently, their owners munch cheese cubes, and grip novel ceiling straps like bus passengers.
Dad clutches his pint, wedding band clinking against the glass. He lifts it and anchors it to his lips.
He slurps Butcombe beer, finding time to say what is on his mind.
I drag my eyes away, offering a split second of relief, and focus on a circular imprint on a cardboard coaster.
We’d been blinded by rage at the start of my quest, unable to see past it. We needed payback. It was the only way we could make things right.
For a while, I told myself it was working. Eliminating the players was healing me. I’ve been lying to myself. Their deaths are not assisting in my recovery, the violence is killing what little is left of me.
“It’s OK, Dad, I know what you’ve come here to say,” I whisper.
His eyebrows shoot up, gaze flicking over me. It radiates shame or fear. I’m not sure which.
We’ve changed so much because of our actions; neither of us resembles the happy Francis family members portrayed in the albums.
I’ve aged him. He’s fragile. His hair has thinned and is notably lighter, with streaks of grey. His face is now gaunt, devoid of his usual full features.
I barely recognise myself. My body is disintegrating to ashes, but my mind is clinging on for dear life.
Dad’s hands massage his temples in circular motions, fingers delving to ease the stress he’s storing in his head.
After a cliff-hanger wait, he frees a laboured breath as though he’s been holding his head under water.
He leans close, eyes fixed on the menu to avoid my gaze. I inhale his aftershave, which is normally comforting. Today is different.
His tongue is weighed down by words that refuse to leave his mouth. Prickles swarm my skin, appearing like sand grains.
“We must end this, Emilia,” Dad eventually utters, voice hushed with a tinge of regret.
He licks remnants of beer off his moustache. His stare passes over my shoulder, checking we are not being overheard.
I offer an uncatchable Mona Lisa smile that says, “I agree with you, Dad, but the thought of ending this kills me.”
“We’re playing a dangerous game, Emilia.”
His abrupt words are slow, as though he is talking to a child. Anger courses through me.
“We’re going to get caught if we don’t stop.”
He dips his head, saddened. Nails scratch at his sideburns.
How could he do this after everything that we have been through? I don’t understand his change of heart, or how he can expect me to stop and let the others walk free.
“Emilia, this has changed us. Damaged us. We’re fragments of the people we were, and both your mum and Tom have noticed,” he says, solemnly.
“Mum thinks you’re terminally ill and are refusing to tell any of us. You look unwell, like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”
He twists locked fingers toward me. Bone crunches, knuckles stretching.
“I haven’t.”
I examine my paper-thin arms. My hands paw my stomach, fingers swimming over protruding rib ridges.
This was meant to make me better. After each kill, I told myself it did. The sensation was short-lived, however. I’ve been kidding myself into believing I’d find peace.
I’ve traumatised myself further. Their dead faces have added to the ghouls lurking inside my head. I can’t quit though, the burning fire in me won’t allow it.
“You know I can’t stop,” I declare.
I dig my jagged nails into my palm until they form crescents and encounter a marvelled stare.
“We must, Emilia. I don’t want to lose you to the criminal justice system.”
He’s one breath away from losing his temper.
“I cannot see my precious girl behind bars.”
“You won’t, we’re careful.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching as though he wants to change tactics and scorn me.
“I want to, Dad. I agree that this is making me ill, but you know as well as I do, I cannot move on while the game is unfinished.”
> I reiterate the sentence calmly, as though we are discussing our enduring game of chess.
“I need my sweet Emilia to come back from the darkness,” he whispers.
I’m transported back to the cliff edge at Sand Bay. Only in this mirage, Dad is beside me, our hands interlocked, and he’s willing us both to jump.
The vision stirs a blizzard of emotions. I thought Dad was a stronger person than this. I’ve never seen this side of him, and, for the first time, I feel afraid.
56
EMILIA
SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2018
The game must continue, and it can only end one way; their deaths or mine.
I stare at the mesmerising 18th century Willow circular blue wall plates with chinoiserie patterns. For a moment, I’m eating dinner at my nan’s, off the same china.
She’d explained the fable behind the landscape. A wealthy Mandarin constructed a wall around his home to keep his daughter, Koong-se, from Chang, a man of the wrong class.
Koong-se would marry a duke, instead. But she fled with her lover on the eve of her wedding to a deserted island. Perhaps that’s what I should do, flee!
Dad yanks his hand from mine. He necks his beer in one swoop before meeting my eyes.
“I need to do this, Dad, with or without you.”
His arms fold, shielding himself from my declaration.
“You know I have to make them pay, Dad, you said it yourself. You wanted it, too!”
“I did, Emilia, but there’s so much blood on our hands. It’s changing us.”
“I hate myself for what I’ve done. But I won’t stop until the game is over and all the players are eliminated,” I say.
He bows his head, reflecting on my words.
Kill List Page 12
