I grip her more tightly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,’ I say, my voice breaking. Guilt and grief rack me. ‘It should have been me, it should have been me.’ I rock back and forth, clasping her in my arms, unable to let her go. I try to comfort her, even though she can’t feel it, stroking her face gently and calling her name. I think about the little baby boy she saved, of all the knowledge stored in her mind and the skill in her hands. It seems impossible to think all that has gone, obliterated, along with her memories of Simon and the future that was so close to her she was almost holding it.
I don’t know how long I rock back and forth grieving for Daisy, but when I’m still I can feel she has grown cold, as icy as the touch of the concrete floor beneath me. Daisy is not going to be Daisy for much longer. She will start to decay. She’s becoming a corpse. I look at The Stain behind us and dread washes up in my stomach. Perhaps it has already sucked her life into its horrible dark shape; it’s growing larger, lines running down from it like a pregnant spider.
I start to shake. ‘It’s just a mark on the wall,’ I say to myself. ‘There’s nothing there.’ I try to hold on to the pieces of my mind, which feel like scraps of paper caught in the wind. I think of my grandfather, laid out in his bedroom in the old farmhouse, my father sitting beside him reading a book, waiting for the undertakers to take him away. The dead are nothing to be afraid of.
I calm myself by performing the last rituals of respect. It’s all I can do for her. I close her eyelids gently with my fingertips so that she looks peaceful, then allow myself to hold her for one last time. She’s a dead weight in my arms. ‘Goodbye, Daisy,’ I say, stroking her hair. ‘I promise I’ll try to find Simon, and tell him how brave you were. I’m so sorry.’ The tears drip over my cracked lips as I speak. ‘Forgive me. I have to let you go now.’
I lean over and kiss her on her freezing forehead, then gently roll her off my lap onto the floor. Before I can change my mind, I drag her by the ankles to a corner of the room, just below the window where it’s coldest. I arrange her so that she is lying on her back with her arms by her sides.
She’s so pale now. She looks less like Daisy and more like a waxwork copy. It will be easier if I can think of her that way. I stare at her, willing myself to disconnect. I notice that the corner of her mouth is slightly open and move to close it, then stop, my hand hovering above her. My shoulder blades prickle as I wonder where he has installed the spy cam, if it’s streaming video of me right now, but I don’t turn round. It’s possible that he won’t be home yet, so isn’t watching me, but I don’t know.
An idea has come to me and I don’t know whether to be appalled by it or relieved that somehow I still have the will left to survive.
With a silent apology to Daisy for the pretence, I start wailing, pulling at my hair. A clump comes out in my fingers. I keep it tight in my clenched fist, then fall forwards across my dead friend. I hope her face is screened from view by my head and shoulders, as I push the hair into her mouth and down her throat with my fingers, then hold her jaw shut. At some point I slip from pretending to real weeping. I lie there sobbing, my wet cheek resting on her cold one. It would be so easy just to lie down next to Daisy and wait to die.
I force myself to sit back on my haunches. I look at her. I’m not going to die here. I say to her in my mind. I’m going to live for both of us. We will make him pay.
Daisy says nothing, but I hope the forensic officers who examine her will understand she can still speak. When her murderer dumps her body, she will give the outside world a message that I’m still alive.
Frankie
Waking up in her own bed, Frankie doesn’t get the sense of happiness and anticipation a Sunday morning would usually bring. Instead she finds herself wishing she could have slept a little longer, blotting out her anxiety. She stares at the bedroom blinds. Could one of the website’s followers be hanging round her flat, even now, waiting to snap a shot of her on his phone when she goes to the window in her pyjamas?
It doesn’t help that she and Jack had a terrible row last night. He was furious she and Zara had been to see Grant Allen; there’s a dent in the living room’s new white sideboard where he kicked it. It’s a small enough mark that she hopes the landlord won’t notice, but the fact Jack lashed out physically, even at an object, leaves her with a feeling of disappointment that squeezes at her chest and won’t let go. She tries to tell herself he only reacted that way because he cares about her, because he’s worried about the blog, but the look of fury on his face was unlike anything she’s seen from him before.
Beside her, Jack’s chest rises and falls with a slow, steady rhythm and she hopes it might lull her back into a doze. But the sight of him is less comforting than it should be, and her mind is whirring, already on high alert. With a sigh she sits up and slips out of bed, picking up her phone off the bedside table. She walks into the living room. The curtains are closed. She doesn’t open them. The river view has lost its appeal, the sight of joggers on the path opposite makes her nervous. Frankie wanders over to the kitchen, flicks on the kettle.
She checks her messages as it boils. Nothing from Simon Meadwell. She had asked him to text if there was any news. But perhaps Daisy has come home and he’s too embarrassed to get in touch after making such a fuss, or too happy to remember to text her. She hopes so. A hot cup of tea in her hands, she wanders across to sit down on the sofa where she left her laptop last night, pulling it onto her knee.
For a moment she stares at the blank search engine. Then she types in the address for the hated website. If she can’t avoid thinking about it, she might as well tackle her fear head on. Zara remains convinced the blogger could be Grant; that his knowledge of Jamie Cole’s trial and misogynist world view make him a prime suspect. Frankie isn’t sure. Though she can’t get the idea of Grant’s son Zach out of her head. Last night when Jack was shouting, a terrible thought had flashed past, so insane she feels guilty for entertaining it, even for a moment. It was just the sound of the names, she tells herself; Jack and Zach. And the fact they both have dead mothers and estranged fathers. She blushes. Just because the connection popped into her head doesn’t mean she actually suspects her own boyfriend, she’s not that crazy.
She brings up @Feminazi_Slayer2’s previous posts, ignoring the last couple about her, and those about the murders. There’s a long list. She glances back at the door, wondering if Jack will be cross at her for looking at the blog again. But she can’t let it rest. She clicks on one from a year ago, titled Big Game. The first thing she sees is the photograph. A woman in a bikini has been Photoshopped so that she appears to be lying amongst a pride of lions. The crosshairs of a gun are superimposed over her chest. Frankie feels a pain in her own. The image is reminiscent of the one used against her. She forces herself to read the article beneath it.
So you want to use your game on the biggest game of all? You’ve come to the right place. This post will teach you how to hunt and destroy the 10. By the time you’ve finished with her, she’ll be hovering at 3. Anyone will be able to smash her.
But I’m going to say this now: This post is not for snivelling Betas, desperate to turn the 8s, 9s, and 10s out there in the wild into the Loyal Girlfriend. If that’s your game, my friend, then look elsewhere for tips. And maybe grow some balls while you’re at it.
This post is for THE SLAYER, the man who wants to smash his ten . . . And leave it broken.
The first thing to understand is that before you can fuck the Wild 10, you need to fuck with her head. Big Time. Everything you do should aim to lower her social value, challenge her sense of herself and invalidate who she thinks she is. You need to condition her so she’s reliant on you for validation; reward behaviour you like, punish behaviour you don’t. And later, when you leave, you’re going to do so with maximum impact.
I’m assuming if you’ve read this far, you’ve got your standard game off pat. You know how to open a girl on the street, in a club, wherever. You can engage her interest an
d reel her in. But if not: Don’t even think of trying these techniques until your game is at an advanced level.
TIP 1 TOUCH TOUCH TOUCH
Touch her like you own her. Right from the start. Don’t ask permission, just get hold of her. If she puts up resistance, carry on. She needs to get used to it. We’re not talking rape here, you don’t want to get arrested, but BE ASSERTIVE.
TIP 2 PUSH PULL
Yes, you all think you know about this one. But we’re talking about upping the ante to the max, until her head’s spinning. So you’re calling her goodnight three days in a row then radio silence for a couple of days. All over her one date, then don’t so much as hold her hand on another. Hang off her every word, completely ignore her . . . You get the picture.
TIP 3 NEGGING
Again you think you know this one. But we’re not just talking a few well-placed negs here, just to make her more receptive, we’re talking about lowering her sense of herself . . . PERMANENTLY. But be subtle, you need to ramp it up slowly. Remember the frog that didn’t notice it was being boiled alive because the water started off tepid? That’s your model.
So let’s say you want to give her a complex about personal hygiene. Start by offering her tic tacs before you kiss. When she asks why, smile, act sheepish and tell her that her breath smells. Progress to getting her to shower before sex, because she ‘smells sweaty’. Buy her expensive perfume and ask her to use it liberally. Trust me, by the time you’ve progressed to telling her she’s disgusting, you’ve primed her to believe it.
Frankie stops reading, unable to listen to the hateful voice any longer. She feels physically repulsed. The over-confident tone makes her think not about Grant Allen, but Brett Hollins. She remembers the feel of his hand on her arm in the café. Her eye travels to the blog post, picking out the words TOUCH TOUCH TOUCH. Brett’s obviously not used to being turned down. Would he want to share his pick-up expertise online? Although what she’s read goes beyond pick-up tips; it reads more like a recipe for domestic abuse.
Frankie scrolls absently through the article. If only she had mentioned Brett to Jack ages ago, when it wouldn’t have been a big deal. She’s sure one of the reasons he got so angry last night is because he thinks she’s been hiding so many things from him.
‘Up already?’
She swings round, pushing the laptop off her knee. Jack is standing behind the sofa. She didn’t hear him walk out of the bedroom. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
Gently, he strokes a strand of hair behind one ear. ‘I know, it’s stressful. And I’m really sorry about losing it last night. Shall I make us both a coffee?’ She sees him frown as he catches sight of the screen, abandoned on the seat beside her. ‘What’s that you’re reading? Dating tips?’
She hurries to close it, embarrassed to be caught out. ‘No, it’s that website. I’ve been looking at Feminazi Slayer’s previous blogs.’
Jack moves away, walking off to the kitchen. He flicks the kettle on. It boils in moments, still hot from Frankie’s tea. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that. I thought you were going to let me deal with it.’
She jumps off the sofa and follows him, leaning against the kitchen counter as he spoons ground coffee into the cafetière, pours in the water. ‘I know, but it’s been useful just having a quick look. I think it rules’ – she stops, not wanting to mention Grant Allen by name – ‘it rules certain people out.’
Jack groans. ‘Not him again. What were you and Zara thinking, knocking on the doors of random madmen?’ He gets the milk from the fridge, his back to her. ‘You’re not the police. You don’t need to go off eliminating suspects, for God’s sake.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But it’s driving me crazy just sitting around like some sort of target.’
Jack presses down the plunger and pours out the coffee. ‘So rather than sit around, you go out seeking danger and make yourself even more of a target?’
Frankie takes the cup he’s holding out to her. She feels weary from constantly having to explain herself. ‘Let’s not do this. Again.’
He leans against the counter beside her, touching her shoulder with his. ‘It’s not about giving you a hard time. I’m sorry if it comes across that way. And I’ve already said sorry a million times for the kicking the cabinet thing. I really am sorry about that,’ he says. ‘It was a stupid thing to do. But I live here too. And it’s not nice for me either, knowing the pervert paparazzi are lurking around.’
‘Pervert Paparazzi? Good name for it,’ Frankie says, thinking of the montage.
‘Can we just forget about them for today and go out for breakfast somewhere nice? Please?’
She clutches her mug. It’s too hot but she doesn’t put it down. He’s looking at her hopefully, like a puppy, his hair still mussed from where he slept on it. She wants to tell him that she’d rather stay in together with the curtains closed, preferably back in bed, snuggled under the duvet, blotting it all out with a book. But that seems hypocritical given what she just said about sitting targets. The mug starts to burn her fingers. She puts it down. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Great idea.’
Frank’s Bar always feels like home, but today she can’t relax. She keeps looking at customers wondering if any might be stalkers, surreptitiously taking pictures. Jack tucks into his cooked breakfast, seemingly unaware of her heightened anxiety. One man in particular, who is sitting alone at a table across from the bar, seems to keep catching her eye over his Sunday papers. She glares at him and he quickly looks away.
‘Are you listening? Did you hear a word I just said?’ Jack asks.
‘What? No, sorry,’ she replies.
He rolls his eyes. ‘I was saying the project at the lab should be done by next month, so why don’t we both try and book some leave off? It’ll be November, off season, we might get a last minute deal somewhere nice.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ she says, only realising after he’s suggested it how desperately she wants to get away, have a break from all the horrors that are building in her head. ‘Where d’you fancy?’
‘I can’t afford much, not right before Christmas, but I was thinking we might find a deal in Southern Europe. Italy is probably too expensive, but you never know.’
‘That would be amazing,’ Frankie says. She can already picture them both walking the streets of a medieval hill town in wintry sunshine, winding their way to the top and leaning over the ramparts to look out at the olive groves spread out below. Jack breaks her reverie, taking her hand across the small table. She smiles, then notices a movement from the man behind him.
‘What?’ says Jack. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘That guy behind you over there – no don’t look – I think he’s watching us.’ She can feel Jack grip her fingers.
‘He’d better bloody not be.’ Jack has gone pale. The man behind them is hidden by his newspaper again. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s stopped now,’ she says. She tilts her head, trying to see the coat hanging behind his chair. Could it be a duffle?
Jack lets go of her hand. Neither of them has finished their cooked breakfast. He stares down at his half-eaten egg, pushing at it with his fork. ‘Are you sure he was looking this way? I mean maybe it’s just because he recognises you from the news or something.’ Frankie hears the question he didn’t ask in his tone of voice.
‘I’m not imagining it,’ she says, flushing. ‘He’s definitely been acting oddly.’
‘Right, well no point us hanging out here, then.’ Jack sticks his hand in the air to call for the bill.
‘What are you doing?’ She glances round, looking for the waiter to give the opposite instructions. ‘We’ve not finished.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ he snaps. With a sense of shock, Frankie realises he’s annoyed with her.
‘It’s not my fault this is happening,’ she says. Jack looks at her, saying nothing. ‘What? You think I brought this on myself?’
‘I think you’re reckless,’ he says. ‘What were you
doing yesterday? Gadding off to see some sodding madman. Poking about in a hornet’s nest, asking him about his killer son.’
They are arguing in hissed whispers, but the tables at Frank’s are tightly packed and a couple of curious students are clearly earwigging.
‘How do you know he had a son in jail?’ Frankie has been careful to keep information about Grant Allen to a minimum. ‘Have you been scouting him out?’
‘Your bill,’ says the waiter, breaking across their argument and leaning in from behind her to place the tab on the table.
‘Thanks,’ says Jack, putting down his card. There’s an awkward pause while they suspend hostilities long enough for the waiter to take the credit card reading.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been checking up on me,’ Frankie says when the waiter has moved out of earshot. ‘As if it’s not bad enough being stalked by a bunch of website weirdos, my own boyfriend is spying on me!’
‘How can you compare me to that?’ Jack pushes his chair back, furious. ‘I’ve been looking out for you,’ he says, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. ‘Not bloody stalking you! Who wouldn’t check out some nutter their girlfriend’s been visiting? And to sit there accusing me of snooping when you know I’ve been spending hours of my time trying to help. I don’t know why I bother.’
They walk past the curious diners. Frankie’s face is burning hot with embarrassment. As they pass the man with the newspaper, Jack flicks the pages with a finger. ‘And you can stop goggling,’ he says.
Frankie looks back to see the man watching them in open-mouthed astonishment. With a stab of mortification, she recognises him, and finally understands why he tried to catch her eye. It’s the press officer from a lobby group for local manufacturers that she interviewed last year. She turns round, hurries out of Frank’s with her head down. Somehow she doesn’t think he will be emailing her more story pitches any time soon.
Frankie and Jack continue arguing on the walk back to the flat until the hopelessness of trying to make things up smothers them into silence. She steals a glance at him as they clump along King Street, hoping to see a glimmer of sadness, anything that might give her the space to reach out a hand, take his arm, ask if they can’t just forget it, put it down to stress. But he’s staring straight ahead, lips pressed, his chin jutting out. This isn’t working, she realises with a jolt. The thought beats a tattoo with their footsteps: this isn’t working, this isn’t working.
The Death Knock Page 26
