The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘Fuck.’ I slumped forwards, tears dropping onto my lap. ‘Why didn’t he tell me? I could have helped.’

  Damo sighed. ‘Can you imagine living with this? Wanting to harm the person you love most in the world? Give the kid a break. Tommy was always searching for relief, acceptance, salvation; he bounced with different crowds, all over the place. City, coast, wherever he could disappear to.’

  I was gripping my knees so tightly my fingers ached. My whole body felt as if it would shatter if someone touched me. ‘So that last time I saw him. When he stole–’

  ‘The urge was so strong, he needed an escape. But benders cost money.’

  I closed my eyes, thinking back to the hours leading up to that day. The way Tommy shrank from me when I hugged him. His twitchiness had been out of control but I blocked it out, pretended to myself he was no worse than normal, that a miracle was still within our reach. Would he really have hurt me? The little white-haired boy I loved more than myself.

  Damo seemed to read my mind. ‘Listen, Tommy’s illness flared up around you precisely because he loved you so much. Made him even more paranoid. You were the most important person in his world.’ Damo leaned forward and took my hand between his damp palms. ‘You know the only thing I ever saw that didn’t trigger off his paranoia? The badge you gave him. The one he wore on his coat.’

  The pain was coming in big, dark waves. I raised my eyes to Damo’s, willing him to stop talking.

  ‘For some reason, that was sacred. Didn’t matter that it had a bloody great needle attached to it. Tommy said it didn’t count. He lost it once. It fell off his jacket and he went nuts. Retraced his steps for four miles until he found it half-hidden under a bin near Oxford Circus.’

  I put a hand up to stop Damo, gulping down air. The rusty Care Bear badge I’d given Tommy when we were little, and which Damo had passed on to me when Tommy died. Violet put her arm round me as great big sobs shook my body until there was nothing left.

  I took a juddering breath. ‘If that badge was the only sharp object Tommy could handle, how did he inject himself with heroin?’

  Violet stiffened. I felt the air around me go cold.

  The corners of Damo’s mouth twisted downwards and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I didn’t like to see a mate in pain.’

  It started in the pit of my stomach: white-hot rage, twisting, writhing, boiling, until the fire burned behind my eyes. ‘You injected him?’

  Damo glanced at Violet, licked his lips. ‘I’m not proud of what I did. But out there, the rules are different. You do what you can to–’

  ‘Survive.’ I rounded on Violet and the bitterness in my voice forced her eyes to the floor. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that before.’

  I hated them both. For knowing Tommy’s secret. For reaching corners of Tommy’s mind I never had. I hated my brother for not telling me the truth. For cheating me out of the chance to save him. But the blackest, vilest, most potent degree of hate: that was for me alone. For missing this, for failing him, for letting Tommy die.

  Suddenly I was standing, stumbling away from the table. Violet came at me, her dark eyes flashing with concern. But I slammed her hand away and staggered out into the night.

  15

  Emily: 20 weeks before the murder

  She is close enough that she can smell the shower gel on his skin. It mingles with the dusty scent of library books. The man is shorter than his Tinder profile suggests, but his crew-cut hair and doughy jawline are unmistakeable. As Emily brushes past him, the hairs on her arm stand up. The man turns his head, catches her eye. She is about to say something, then stops. What am I doing? At that moment – the moment when it counts – all she can think of is Charlie. Emily keeps walking, past Nineteenth-Century Novels, through World History and down the stairs to the exit.

  The afternoon is crisp and bright. The skin on her bare legs puckers. Emily tosses her ponytail over her shoulder and hurries along the street, her heart hammering in her chest. This is the closest she’s come. Her legs feel lighter than air, but her elation is short-lived. This time she resisted. Next time, she’s not so sure.

  Up ahead, a man in a camouflage bomber jacket leans into the wind and the music from his headphones drifts towards her. Emily crosses the road and turns right into Delaware Street. Her footsteps slow as she approaches her building. She leans against the railings breathing in the odour of builder’s dust and dog shit. The builders abandoned the site a month ago, but the scaffolding is still here. As she stares at the criss-cross shadows it casts across the brick façade, she wonders how many other newlyweds dread going home.

  It’s been two weeks since Charlie called her, tears choking his voice, to say Vanessa was dead. She’d fallen down the stairs in yet another drunken stupor. The blow to her head knocked her out, which was a relief because the cigarette she’d been smoking set fire to her booze-soaked dressing gown. Half the ground floor went up in flames; hardly surprising given that the carpets in Vanessa’s home were drenched in alcohol. The pathologist suggested a closed casket. Her funeral was small: just Emily, Charlie and a white coffin in a cold church.

  Emily glances over her shoulder, towards the line of parked cars, and shivers. She first noticed it a week ago. The prickly, creepy sensation of being watched. Even at home she doesn’t feel safe. Especially at home.

  The cold is nibbling her toes. Emily drags herself up the steps and opens the door. Her eyes go straight to the postbox, the letters are still in their cubby hole. Charlie isn’t home yet. Thank God for that. Emily stands there for a moment, wondering how it’s come to this.

  I know exactly how it’s come to this, she thinks. Charlie is losing his mind.

  It started with small things. Charlie would tell her he was working late so Emily would make plans without him. The gym, mainly. Or a quick mooch around the shops. Then Emily would come home to find clothes left on the floor and food missing from the fridge.

  Last week she came home to find her new silk pyjamas – the ones she bought to kickstart things in the bedroom but hadn’t actually taken out of the carrier bag – perfectly laid out on her side of the bed. Charlie looked at her as if she was a lunatic when she brought it up.

  Recently, as she cleaned their bedroom, she found an old Bible in Charlie’s bedside drawer. An inscription: My darling son, God is with you always. Love, Mum. Emily was shaken. Vanessa was religious, in a nutty, fanatical way, but Charlie had turned his back on that world when he was a teenager, hadn’t he? She didn’t know anymore.

  The final straw had been three days ago when she found two empty vodka bottles stashed at the bottom of the laundry basket in the cellar. When Charlie claimed he didn’t know how the bottles got there, Emily felt the anger rise up in her chest, and keep rising until it filled her whole body. The feeling had terrified her, and she locked herself in the bathroom with her nail scissors for an hour, pretended to Charlie she was having a bath.

  Emily crosses the hallway and sighs. She grew up in a violent home, but not in the way people think. An image of her parents flashes in front of her eyes. It’s the day her mum swipes her dad round the face with a scalding iron. Emily is hiding behind the door and she watches her dad drop to his knees, blood running down his blistered face. She sees the fevered look in her mum’s eyes the moment it’s over. Her mum’s temper is absolute; the rage eats her alive. She throws glasses, plates, book ends, once even the goldfish bowl. That day, Emily had cowered under the kitchen table, transfixed by the sight of her pet fish flapping and quivering on the linoleum as it suffocated to death. Her mum’s fury is never aimed at Emily, always her dad. As far as she knows, he’s never retaliated or reported her. Probably didn’t want to admit he’s being beaten up by his five-feet-four wife.

  ‘Your mum is highly strung,’ he once told her. ‘She loves me but sometimes she has a hard time expressing herself.’

  In her bleakest moments Emily worries she’s inherited her mum’s rage and she’ll lose control. At fourteen, the tension at home
, along with her spiralling hormones, turned Emily’s body into an alien space. So she learned the art of release. A cut here, a slice there. Soon, her body was a patchwork of wispy lines. Since then, she’s become better at hiding it.

  As Emily trudges to her door, she resolves to sort things out. You are nothing like your mum. You hear me? Her escape in the library is the wake-up call she needs. It’s time to take control, to fight for this marriage. What does she always tell her followers on Something Borrowed? Marriage takes work. A true marriage is two imperfect people refusing to give up on each other.

  Emily turns the key in the lock.

  The smell hits her instantly: vanilla with a musky undertone. Why do I know that smell?

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice carries down the hallway into nothing. ‘Baby, you home?’

  Frowning, Emily hangs her jacket in the cupboard, then wanders into the kitchen and throws the post onto the counter. She switches on the kettle and opens the fridge. She is going to make dinner, a peace offering. She isn’t the greatest cook but she’s started cutting out recipes from the Sunday paper and sticking them on the fridge as inspiration. Tonight is lamb chops, Charlie’s favourite. As the kettle hisses and steams, Emily hears something.

  She pours her tea and takes it through to the sitting room.

  That’s when she spots the TV. An image, black and white, frozen. Charlie dressed in a morning suit, leading his beaming bride out of the church. Only the bride isn’t Emily. It’s Lizzie.

  Emily’s knees give way. She collapses onto the sofa, barely noticing the tea burning her skin.

  ‘Charlie!’ Emily hauls herself up and stumbles through the apartment. ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  As she reaches their bedroom, Emily stops abruptly. The vanilla scent fills her nostrils, catches in her throat. She follows the trail all the way to their wardrobe. She opens the door, stares at Charlie’s suits. Then she starts yanking things out: his shoes, his belts, his ties. Breathless, she spots a box, half hidden beneath a pile of shoes. She picks it up with trembling hands. Inside is a pink perfume bottle. MoonFlower. Emily staggers backwards, sinking onto the bed. That’s why the smell is familiar. It’s Lizzie’s perfume. She remembers helping Lizzie hunt for it on the morning of her wedding. Emily stares wildly at the door. That sound she heard before. Was that Charlie leaving? The perfume bottle feels like a grenade in her hand.

  Emily stifles a sob. She charges into the kitchen and hurls the bottle in the bin. Adrenaline forces her chest up and down. She grabs her phone, about to dial her dad, then hesitates. She knows what he will say. That Emily chose this path; she chose to marry a man who was still in love with a ghost. Emily squeezes her eyes shut. One day this will all be worth it; one day Lizzie will fade in Charlie’s mind, and Emily will fill his whole heart.

  The vanilla scent is embedded in her nostrils. Jumping up, she hurries to the bathroom and fishes the nail scissors out of the drawer. She slips down her knickers. The ivory skin below her hipbone is criss-crossed with lines. She pauses for a moment, then makes the cut. The relief takes her breath away. Emily holds on to the pain, counts to ten. In the mirror a fat, round schoolgirl face stares back at her. When the bleeding stops, she pulls up her pants and hobbles through to the sitting room. Even after she switches off the TV, Lizzie’s radiant smile is seared on her eyelids. Emily throws herself on the sofa and picks up her laptop. She’s received a question via her blog, from a woman with pre-wedding jitters.

  How do you know if he’s Mr Right?

  Emily’s fingers hover over the keys. Then she begins to type.

  You never know, babe. That’s the magic of love. But ask yourself this: can you imagine life without him? If the answer is no, then my advice is this: grab onto him with both hands and never let go.

  Emily senses something, someone. She turns her head sharply. The room is empty. Pain sears through the wound on her hip. She swivels back round to her computer and taps away at the keyboard.

  No matter what it takes. Never. Let. Go.

  16

  Present day

  I run, stumble, run. The carpet scratches my feet. The moonlight pours in through the large Georgian window, illuminating the small boy with milky-white hair. He runs, too. Away from me. His bony elbows slice through the air and he glances over his shoulder, his eyes wide with terror. I call out but he slips away like a shadow: round corners, up stairs, through doorways. I race after him, my breath loud in my ears. I need to touch him, to feel the heat on his bones. I stumble round the corner. He puts a finger to his lips and beckons me towards him. With each step, he becomes brighter, as though someone has flicked a switch inside him. The light blinds me. I put a hand up to shield my eyes and that’s when I see it. A mountain of knives, all shapes and sizes, thrown together like a giant Jenga tower. The boy raises his hand. He is holding a carving knife that’s dripping with blood. I look down. Blood spills out of my stomach and I press my hand over the wound. It’s warm and sticky. The boy raises the knife to his mouth and licks the blade. The tower is growing, filling the space so fast that the knives cascade to the floor. The jangling sound fills my head. The boy’s eyes turn red. The ringing noise drags me upwards, to the surface.

  I woke up wet and hot and twitching. The noise was real. I snatched my phone off my bedside table. A number I didn’t recognise. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d do this to me.’

  I forced myself up to sitting. The sleeping pills made me feel like I was at the bottom of the sea. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You’re such a two-faced bitch.’ The voice was slurred, female, familiar.

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘Emily?’ I spun my legs over the side of the bed and groped for the light switch. ‘Slow down, what’s going on?’

  ‘I found it. Charlie’s other phone. You must think I’m so stupid.’

  ‘Emily, please.’ I dragged myself up to standing. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘All along you’ve pretended to be my friend, you’ve been screwing my husband.’

  My legs went from under me and I collapsed on the bed. A clink, the sound of a drink being poured. I lurched towards the pile of clothes on my armchair and starting pulling on my sweatpants. ‘I don’t know what you think you’ve found but–’

  ‘Liar!’ Emily let out a strangled cry.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to get a handle on my thoughts. ‘Em, talk to me. What’s on the phone?’

  ‘As if you don’t know. You must have thought this was Charlie ringing.’ I heard her take a gulp. ‘You can go to hell, Sophie. Your dirty little secret is out in the open.’

  ‘Please, let me come over,’ I said, scanning the room for my bag. ‘We can talk this throu—’

  There was a bang in the background, like the sound of a door slamming. Emily’s voice faded.

  I pressed the phone to my ear. ‘Em, can you hear me?’

  Another bang.

  Emily’s voice. ‘Charlie? Thank God.’ Then louder. ‘Where have you be—?’

  There was a scream. A thump.

  The line went dead.

  *

  I skidded through the automatic doors into UCLH’s Accident & Emergency and raced towards reception.

  I smiled at the large black lady with braided hair. ‘Can you help? I’m looking for a patient, Emily Swift.’

  She scanned the clipboard in front of her. ‘Are you a family member?’

  ‘A friend. I called the ambulance, I was on the phone to her when she collapsed.’

  The lady sighed. ‘If you take a seat, someone will–’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Like I said, if you take a se—’

  I threw my hands in the air as the stress hit me. ‘I just want to know if she’s OK. Is she alive? Can you manage that?’

  She raised her eyebrows, hardened her voice. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. You need to take a seat.’

  I gave an exaggerated sigh, then shuffled to the waiting area. It reeked of antiseptic and panic. Opposite, a man
with a grizzled face and unruly grey eyebrows gave me a sympathetic look. It wasn’t busy, but it was only five thirty in the morning. I sat down on the plastic chair, regretting losing my temper with the receptionist; she could have proved useful if handled in the right way.

  I fished out my phone and sent a group text to Mack, Kate and Rowley.

  At UCLH. Emily’s here. I think she’s been attacked. Trying to get more details.

  I scrolled through my emails and messages. Emily’s friend Sinead had texted to say she could meet me after 9 a.m. Just as I replied to say I’d be there, two police officers strode past me. The receptionist directed them along the corridor to the right. I waited until she looked down at her clipboard, then I followed them to a room marked ‘12’. The female officer knocked on the door and a nurse answered. She shook her head then closed the door again. One of the police officers disappeared and came back moments later with two chairs, which they positioned outside the room.

  I pressed my back against the wall and waited. I heard footsteps squeaking down the corridor and peeped round. It was the same nurse. She rounded the corner and I stepped out.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you but is Emily Swift in that room?’

  She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

  ‘Her friend. I was on the phone to her when . . . it happened. I was the one who called the ambulance. No one will tell me anything. Please.’

  She darted a glance behind her. ‘Listen, love, I really can’t say much. She’s had a fright but I think she’ll be OK.’ She patted my shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go and wait in reception? Get a cup of tea in you. You look washed out.’