by Emmy Ellis
Bile burnt the back of Jenny’s tongue. “Please, just stop,” she whispered.
Ollie dug the tip of the knife beneath Amanda’s big toenail and pushed. Amanda screamed, although it sounded more like an elephant trumpeting, and Jenny laughed uncontrollably, her hallucination reaching ridiculous levels now—and she wouldn’t believe this was real, it couldn’t be.
Ollie laughed, too. “That’s it, Jen. Enjoy it. We were born to do this.”
Ollie removed all of Amanda’s toenails, the poor woman snorting and trumpeting with every one, Jenny screaming once, then shutting up, instinct telling her to be quiet in case the neighbours came round. He picked his prizes up and stuffed them in his pocket, then knelt in front of Amanda again.
“We’re going to play a game, Mother dearest. I’m going to ask you a question, and if you lie to me with your answer, I’m going to slice skin off your leg. Do you understand?”
Amanda nodded frantically, said, “Mmm, mmm.”
“Good. So, why do you hate me so much?”
A load of garbled nonsense came through the socks in Amanda’s mouth.
Ollie held a hand up to his ear. “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”
Amanda tried again.
Ollie shrugged. “Oh, must be a lie.” He bent his head and placed the knife at the meaty side of the woman’s calf. Pressed until it broke the skin and blood dribbled down. Sawed back and forth until a piece the size of a cheek plopped onto the floor.
With Amanda muffle-wailing in pain, Jenny stared at the mess, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Silence save the beating of her heart and her ragged breaths.
Amanda had passed out.
“She’s a lightweight,” Ollie grumbled.
Yet he continued asking questions.
“Why did you burn my fingertips on the hob?”
“Why didn’t you let me go with Dad?”
“Why did you burn the hairs off my arms with that lighter?”
“Why did you leave me alone at night and go out on the street?”
His mother had been a sex worker? Ollie had implied as much, but because he’d said she was less obvious about it, Jenny had assumed he’d meant his mum just slept around, didn’t take money for it.
Receiving no responses, he carved Amanda’s lower legs so much that she had no skin left on them. Jenny heaved, battling not to be sick at the sight of all that blood, flesh, and tiny yellow blobs of fat.
The bones—fuck, the bones were showing.
Jenny closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Amanda was naked, and most of her body was wrecked, the sofa drenched in blood. When she was taken off it, would there be a clean, Amanda-shaped space on the fabric? He’d gone to town on her, slicing in frenzied strikes. Even her lips were missing.
Jenny blinked, struggling to take it all in.
“Jenny?” Ollie said.
She switched her gaze to him. He was standing now, his left side to Amanda, his face striped with blood. He held a Polaroid camera and raised it to his eye.
“Smile!” he said. “Say cheese!”
Jenny gawped, and he pressed the button, the flash so bright it hurt her eyes.
“You didn’t smile, Jenny.” He sighed. “Spoilsport.”
Chapter Eleven
NINE YEARS AGO - PRISON
Ollie stood with Vaughn, having a chat on the balcony.
“Do you reckon I’ll get early release?” Ollie tried not to sound too hopeful. Hope was pointless in here. It led to heartache and sleepless nights, and if people thought you had even a smidgen of it, they used it against you. Not that he thought Vaughn would, but he didn’t trust him one hundred percent. Best not to. He’d never fully trust anyone again, not even himself.
The SO shrugged, staring across the level at a couple of prisoners talking outside Gone with the Wind’s door—the bloke was called that on account of his cellmate who had gas issues, and it was a surprise the fella wasn’t gone with the wind they were so potent. You know, him disintegrating because the smell was that bad. Ollie avoided the breezy-bummed bastard at all costs when they’d had baked beans for dinner.
Vaughn rubbed his chin, his miniscule stubble rasping on his fingertips. “Difficult to say. From my point of view, I’d let you out now. You’re not a danger, haven’t displayed any violent tendencies in here, you keep away from any fights, and in all your interviews over the years, you’ve come off as a stable man—the psychotherapist even cleared you, didn’t she. If you want my true opinion, and keep this between us, I think the LSD played a big part. The acid trip sent you funny, and you didn’t know what you were doing. Weren’t in control of your faculties.” Vaughn sniffed and smoothed a hand over his cheek. What was he doing, privately admiring his close shave? “Again, between me and you, if it wasn’t for that bit of evidence they found, I reckon you’d have got away with it.”
You and me both.
“And if you hadn’t been stopped, no one would have known it was there.”
Ollie didn’t need reminding about that. He kicked himself on the daily about it. Should never have done forty in a thirty zone where coppers were hiding with one of those speed guns. He’d been hyped up on an E, and they’d noticed he wasn’t the full ticket when they’d waved him over. They’d asked if they could search the car. Found his stash of drugs, a load he’d just picked up ready to sell. Noticed what else was in the boot on the light-grey carpet, something he hadn’t noticed. He was down the station in no time, the car taken for forensics, and God, he was fucked.
Vaughn jangled his keys on their chain, a habit he had, maybe to make sure they were still there, or maybe it was to assert dominance, or to give him courage, reminding him he had the power here, not the prisoners. “Think about it. You were only a suspect because it was your bedsit she was found in—a logical conclusion, standard procedure, like the husband’s always looked into when his wife goes missing or is murdered. You were on the beach, albeit after the time of death, but like you said, you’d been on LSD and fell asleep by some rocks. So you’ve told me before, the altercation the woman witnessed in the rave car park was between Miss Cutting and her boyfriend, nothing to do with you and your Jenny, and the fight previous to that wasn’t either. You gave Cutting a lift, dropped her in Main Street, and went to the beach. No CCTV, which was lucky.”
Was that a dig?
Vaughn had never opened up like this to Ollie before. Was the man stepping over a line? Had he fallen for Ollie’s trick, liking him more than he should?
In court, Ollie had admitted to taking LSD, but at the beach, not in his second home. And Vaughn was right. If that evidence hadn’t been found in the boot, he’d have walked, scot-free. They’d been so careful with the bags of clothes, though. It didn’t make sense.
There was nothing on Jenny. She’d been seen at the beach party, without him, so of course, that was when he’d supposedly gone back to the bedsit to kill Amanda.
The prosecution: “I put it to you, Mr Ford, that you left Miss Lenton at the beach party and waylaid Miss Cutting. You did not sleep by some rocks, you left that beach with Miss Cutting and killed her in your home. You had a shower, changed your clothes, and disposed of them by using your mother’s car to transport them—which is why, when you were asked at the scene if you owned a vehicle, you said you did not. Technically, it wasn’t yours, therefore, the police did not need to look for it. You had parked it away from the bedsit after the murder—you have lied to this court by saying you borrowed someone else’s vehicle to go to the rave. A person you’ve conveniently forgotten the name of. How then, did the evidence find its way into your mother’s car?”
“I don’t know, do I!”
“You joined Miss Lenton at the beach party. You duped your girlfriend, returning home and feigning horror at finding Miss Cutting on your sofa. Isn’t that so, Mr Ford?”
“No.”
“I further put it to you, that in order to cover for what you had done, you told Miss Lenton y
ou had fallen asleep by some rocks, which is why she maintains you were both at the beach. Miss Lenton did not have anything to do with Miss Cutting’s murder, and you are the sole killer.”
“I didn’t do it!”
“No further questions, Your Honour.”
Ollie was glad Jenny had got away with any involvement. They’d swallowed it that she’d been on the sand the whole time, dancing, drinking, having fun, but fucking hell, she could have at least come to see him once he’d been incarcerated. Written. Thanked him, even, for not saying she’d been there when he’d killed Cutting.
He acknowledged, much as he hated to, that if he hadn’t got Amanda to tie Jenny to the chair, forcing his girlfriend to watch, things might have been different. Jenny would have still seen him as the man she loved. She’d have lied in court to get him and herself out of a murder charge, not just herself, which was what he suspected she’d done. He’d been compelled to make her watch so she grew to love murder as much as he had. As he still did.
If Mum hadn’t been such a bitch, none of it would have happened.
And the cow was still alive, walking around like butter wouldn’t melt.
If Nigel was the type, Ollie would have arranged for him to kill the fucking bitch, but he wasn’t, and besides, it cost a packet to hire a hitman. Ollie was sure it wouldn’t be traced back to him—lags stuck together in that regard so long as cash greased palms. He had the money from the graveyard to do it, could get Mike to leave it wherever the hitman said, but Ollie needed that money for when he got out. He couldn’t see his old dear bequeathing him the house and her cash like Jenny’s parents had. His mum would leave it to donkeys or something out of spite.
“I didn’t do it,” Ollie maintained to Vaughn. “I don’t know how that evidence got there. Okay, I lied about having Mum’s car, that I do admit. I must have left it unlocked and someone planted it. They had ample opportunity to do it after the murder, and there was me, driving around in it with no clue.”
Vaughn sighed. “So you didn’t see Amanda walking along the promenade and return home with her?”
“No, I bloody didn’t!” And that was the truth, no bones about that.
“I believe you on that score,” Vaughn said. “I heard some mutterings in the staffroom. Apparently, she had no sand on her, and she would have had she been on the beach.”
“Exactly, but I had sand on my clothes, the outfit I was wearing when we found her. Someone else must have got hold of her when she went to get a taxi. I’m not bullshitting. I’m paying for someone else’s crime here. I mean, they even had a shower after they killed her. That’s well rude.”
“Bit of a stretch to believe the killer knew you’d be out and the house-share folks were away for the weekend, though. It was like he knew he had time for that shower, that no one would come back and catch him. This is why I said the LSD was to blame.”
Is he testing me, waiting for me to trip up? “The house was dark; maybe he thought they were out or asleep. I must have left the front door open when we went to the rave—I know that because it was ajar when we got home from the beach. My bedsit door was open an’ all, no sign of forced entry. That was when I knew something was up.”
Vaughn shook his head sadly. “So you’re saying you left both doors open?”
“That’s right.”
“With no signs of a break-in on either of them, that’s a plausible explanation. If you were the patsy, I feel sorry for you. Life isn’t great in here.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Post’s arrived.” Vaughn patted Ollie’s shoulder, jiggled his keys again. “Catch you soon.”
“Yeah.”
Ollie waited for the bloke who pushed the post cart along the balcony. Craig came out, probably at the telling hum of the wheels, and stood beside Ollie.
“Wonder if Nigel’s got any more news.” Craig folded his arms.
“Hope so.”
Nigel had broken into Jenny’s and found nothing. He’d booked another visit to tell Ollie the news. For the past few years, Ollie had churned the information around in his head, careful not to let it send him mad. Where had she stashed the clothes? He’d worried about Cutting’s toenails in the jeans pocket, but why he’d fretted over that he didn’t know. The blood on the clothes was enough, and that of the rave man.
If the latter wasn’t present, Ollie wouldn’t care, but it was, and he needed the clothing so he didn’t get done for stabbing that fella. He’d come to terms with doing this stretch for Cutting, but he was fucked if his girlfriend—he still thought of her as that—would keep the evidence that could add more years to his time.
Nigel was still seeing Jenny, even though he’d married his bird and had a nipper. Ollie hadn’t given him permission to tell his missus about the chats, the less people who knew about it the better, so Nigel sat with Jenny for two hours one night a week while his wife went to bingo and the kid stayed over at his granny’s. Nigel had said their friendship was getting closer, Jenny’s lips getting tighter.
She wasn’t going to spill to him, not after all this time.
The post bloke stopped in front of them and handed over a letter each. Craig took his and scuttled back inside the cell, an overexcited child, and climbed onto the top bunk. Ollie held his down by his side, stared at the postie, and waited for him to fuck off.
He didn’t.
“Nice day out there,” Postie said.
“I wouldn’t know.” Ollie held back a grimace.
“Bright sun, clear-blue skies. They reckon it’ll rain this afternoon. There’s a storm on the way. Thunder, the lot. Shame, because that’s when this wing take their exercise. You’ll get wet. Maybe even get struck by lightning. One can hope.” He smirked and pushed his trolley off down the balcony.
Ollie had never liked the little prick, a weasel if ever there was one, but he’d never given him a piece of his mind. One, because he wouldn’t put it past Postie to withhold letters—“Oh, it must have slipped down the back in the sorting room. That or your friend doesn’t want to write to you anymore…”—and two, Ollie had to maintain his innocent-man persona. Had to remain that lovely man he’d shown Jenny at the start. He had early release in mind, and even if it only ended up being a couple of years off his total, he’d take it.
He wandered back into his cell, nonchalant in case Postie was watching, wanting to see the result of his spiteful comment. On his bunk, Ollie rested on his back and stared at the open envelope. It got right on his nerves that his private correspondence was read before he had a chance to look at it. Thankfully, Nigel had never slipped up by saying something that could get Ollie in the shit, but still, others knowing his business was a piece of Lego underfoot, painful and fucking irritating.
Ollie didn’t bother waiting for the Christmas feeling. He pulled the folded paper out and gobbled up the words.
Dear Ollie,
She’s finally opened up a bit. That’s been four bloody years since she said something of relevance. She blames ‘the person’ for having to spend her nights in bloke’s cars and down alleys. Said if it wasn’t for ‘them’ having her tied to a chair, she could have got away. She wouldn’t have been in the papers, wouldn’t have had to turn to the corner for work.
So, she’s mentioned the tying up. Thought you should know because that’s quite a big admittance.
She was in a bad state last night. Crying because she can’t see a way out—like, her memories won’t go and do one. I suggested she leave London, just to gauge her response a few years down the line after the last time I mentioned it. She’s adamant she’s staying, said something about teaching her colleagues how to look after themselves, how to spot a ‘wrongun’ when they see one. Being the person they can speak to if things go tits up.
Sounds like she’s made it her mission to stop anyone else falling for a man who she feels wasn’t on the level. Sorry if that stung, but that’s how it’s coming across. Plus, with her being a sounding board, maybe she’s trying to give them wha
t she didn’t have. When you think about it, she only has me to chat to about stuff. She just wants to help. That’s how I see it anyway.
In other news, the missus is up the duff again. I’m pleased as punch. Hoping for a girl this time, then we’ve got the perfect family. They’ll be well old when you get out.
Sorry. Again. I keep forgetting what it’s like in there.
Oh, I almost forgot. Our mutual friend doesn’t get that many visitors to the corner now, if you see what I’m saying, so at least you know there are less hands on her. She says worry has done a number on her, ageing her, and people don’t want to know. I’m one of a few who still choose her. She’s admitted she doesn’t really need the money at the moment, has saved enough to live okay, what with not having a mortgage round her neck, plus she has some cash still left from her parents.
Begs the question, if she’s not short of a bob or two, why is she still on that corner? I reckon it’s what I said earlier, she wants to help the others. It gives her a focus, much like you and your plan. Something to keep the demons at bay.
Hope this letter finds you well. I’ve been writing them on my lunchbreak since I shacked up with the missus. Didn’t want to risk her peering over my shoulder and seeing me writing about another woman. That wouldn’t go down too well. You never say much in your letters back to me, so for now, you can keep sending them here at home. There’s nothing the wife can glean from them if she happens to have a look. Mind you, I don’t give her the chance. I burn them after, like you wanted.
I’ll try to get the convo back to the clothes next week. See if our acquaintance lets slip where they are. But I’m wondering, is she being a Billy Bullshitter? Has she really kept them?
Something to think about.
All the best,
Nige
God, Nigel was such a prat. Jenny wouldn’t have said she’d kept them if she hadn’t. Why would she? If she’d opened up about her feelings, there was no way she thought Nigel was a plant, sent to spy on her. Too many years had passed for that.
