by Amy Cross
“I'll be up all night,” she replies. “When you get back to my house -”
“I'm staying out.”
“Are you...” She pauses, and I can tell that she's worried. “Are you going to disappear again?”
“No, I just have things to do.”
“But where -”
“I have things to do,” I say firmly, hoping that she realizes I don't want to be quizzed about my plans.
We stand silently for a moment, and it's clear that although she knows I'm not being honest, Laura can't work out how to get the truth out of me. I know I should just tell her everything, but I can't abandon Victoria like that. She needs me.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” she adds, taking her hand away from my arm. “I'm sorry if you thought I was treating you like a cartoon.”
“I'm sorry too,” I tell her, “but don't sweat it. It was my fault.”
Hurrying out of the coffee shop, I make my way along the street. I know I should have just told Laura where to find Victoria, but deep down I also know that I can't allow Victoria to get chewed up by the justice system. She's my friend and I can steer her out of the darkness, just as I steered myself out of the darkness all those years ago. If she gets arrested for her crimes, she'll be lost forever, but if I show her the way, she still has a chance. Stopping to cross the road, I glance over at a bus stop and see my own reflection. I hate seeing myself, but this time I let my gaze linger for a moment, and I can see the scared look in my eyes.
I have two friends in the world, and I just screwed one of them over in order to save the other. Victoria's lucky, though. When I was in her position, I didn't have anyone to help me out, but this time things are going to be different.
Part Seven
Ophelia
“This was the little boy,” Victoria explains, her voice a little hushed as she guides me through the photos she's laid out on the table. “He was the most difficult one. I found him at a playground and sort of led him away. Fortunately he had some kind of disability, so...”
Her voice trails off.
“So it was easier,” she adds finally. “I don't think he really knew what was happening. I tried to make it better for him. I mean, he didn't deserve this. His mother had died, and he thought...”
She pauses again.
“So I managed it,” she continues. “I didn't want to kill him. I didn't want to kill any of them. I just needed their bodies, so it had to be done.”
Staring at the photo, I try to deal with the horror I'm seeing. The image shows a dead child on a wooden floor, with some kind of yellowish grease having been applied to his body. Victoria explained a moment ago that the grease made it easier for her to fit him inside the stitched-together corpse, and there's something so matter-of-fact about the way she's been describing the whole process to me, as if she's talking about something as benign as a puzzle or a harmless experiment. It's hard to believe that she could have gone so far into darkness, and I'm starting to realize that I massively underestimated the depths to which she's sunk.
“So yeah,” she continues, her voice trembling slightly, “that was that.”
It's not just her voice that's trembling. Her hands, too, are shaking as she re-orders the photos and shows me another image of the stitched-together corpse being created. There's something so childlike about her, as if she's showing me the photos because she's proud of them and because she wants praise. She clearly recognizes our similarities and thinks that I'll be impressed. The truth, however, is that I'm so horrified, I can barely even react.
“What do you think?” she asks eventually. “You understand, don't you?”
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Until she started explaining everything in this Scooby-Doo master-villain kind of way, I'd told myself that no matter what she might have done, I'd be able to understand. Now I'm struggling to keep from throwing up, and I feel as if I'm way, way in over my head. My mind is racing as I try to work out what to do next, but I still want to help her. We're still similar, even if she has clearly become more twisted and depraved than I could ever have been. For the first time in my life, I think I might actually be out of my depth.
“Ophelia?” she asks, breaking the silence. “Do you understand?”
“What is there to understand?” I reply.
“I thought you'd...” She grabs another photo and holds it up for me; this one shows the head of the corpse partially sewn onto someone else's neck. “I mean, this is art,” she continues. “This is something that shocks people, something that takes them out of their comfort zone and makes them reconsider their thoughts, their beliefs. Art has to be transgressive, it has to be horrifying and transformational. If it's safe and predictable, it's not really art, is it?”
“Couldn't you have just painted a sunflower or something?” I ask.
“It wasn't easy,” she adds. “I'm not... I mean, I didn't enjoy it. Killing the kid, for example... I don't even remember the exact moment. I was holding the knife, then a few seconds later it was over. I think I blocked it out somehow.”
“Of course you did,” I whisper, unable to stop staring at the photos.
“The others were a little easier,” she explains. “Not easy, but easier. I suppose maybe I got used to it after a while. I just focused on the technical side of things. I mean, that was really difficult, you know? Cutting up a human body isn't something you can just do randomly, not if you want to put bits of it back together later. I had one body that was just for practice, none of the pieces ended up in the final work. And the blood...” She pauses, as if the memory is disturbing her. “All that blood,” she adds. “Most of it was wasted.”
“You really didn't enjoy killing them, did you?” I ask.
“Enjoy it?” She shakes her head. “No. I hated it, every moment.”
She sorts through the photos until she finds another image of the dead child, this time showing him inside the main corpse.
“But an artist should push herself too, right?” she continues, as if she's somehow seeking my approval. “Art should ask something of both the creator and the -”
“You killed these people,” I reply, interrupting her. I can feel rage and fear starting to build in my chest, threatening to overcome me. The images are so horrific that, for the first time in many years, I'm not sure I can control my response. At the same time, there's something so honest and open about the way that Victoria is explaining everything to me, and about the way that she seems to think that I'll somehow understand why she's done all of this.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I killed them. But they were just...”
I turn to her. “Just what?”
“Well, I mean... Most people aren't...”
I wait for her to continue.
“They're not, like... I mean, does it matter in the long run if...”
She pauses.
“They're not important?” I ask finally.
“So you do understand.”
I shake my head.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Let's get one thing clear,” I continue. “Anyone else, if you'd told them all of this and shown them these photos, would have run the hell out of here and called the police. Anyone else. Or they might have tried to knock you out first. But they sure as hell wouldn't still be sitting here the way I am, having a conversation with you!”
She nods.
“But the reason I'm still here,” I add, “is...”
I pause, unable to get the words out.
“We're the same,” she says eventually.
“Yeah,” I reply, before correcting myself. “No! I mean, yeah but...” I take a deep breath. “I think we're very similar, but somehow...”
“Somehow I ended up doing things that you never could have done?” She pauses. “But you've killed someone, haven't you? Or am I wrong? I feel like, from what you've said before, you've done it too.”
“I...”
Looking down at my left hand, I pause before rolling my slee
ve up to reveal the large, deep scar that runs up to the elbow. It's not something I've ever shown to anyone before; hell, I don't even look at it very often. I still remember the pain, though, as the wood ripped into my skin all those years ago.
“What happened?” Victoria asks.
“Long story,” I tell her. “Let's just say that a broken chair leg turned out to be much sharper than I expected.”
“But the person who did that to you... You killed him? Or her?”
I nod.
“Who was it?”
“I can't...” Pausing again, I try to find some common ground between what happened to me, and what Victoria has done. “It was self-defense. If I hadn't killed him, he would have killed me, or he would have... I had to end it one way or the other. One of us had to die, and I don't think I even cared which of us it would be, not by the end.”
“It's okay,” she continues. “I won't tell anyone.”
“It was a very long time ago,” I tell her, “and -” Stopping myself, I realize that this isn't the right moment. Instead of sinking into some nostalgic story-telling session, I need to work out what to do about Victoria. I was planning to steer her to safety, to nudge her back onto the same path that I've taken through life, but now I realize that the situation is way more serious. I guess I need to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone else, but then there's the question of the police. Locking Victoria away in prison won't help anyone, not if I can sort her out some other way and give her a future. After all, I wasn't locked away after I killed someone. I just ran, and I don't know if anyone even found the body.
I got away with it.
“I'm so nearly done,” she adds, her voice trembling again. “I thought you'd understand. I never thought anyone could really get what I'm doing, not until I met you. I'm so used to people thinking I'm some kind of freak, I was shocked when I realized that you and I... We're on the same wavelength.”
“It's not that I don't understand,” I reply. “That's the problem, in a way. I do understand. Sometimes I hate other people too, and I want to shock them, but I find other ways for those impulses to manifest. I do stupid stuff like jumping off bridges, I don't... I guess that's the main difference between us. I managed to turn away from the darkness, and you leaped right in.”
“It's worth it, though,” she replies after a moment. “I really think -”
“Killing a child is worth it?” I ask. “Killing all these innocent people is worth it to you?”
She nods, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
“But -”
“Don't act like you don't get it,” she replies. “I know you do. Maybe you want to pretend you don't, to make yourself feel more human, but it's like you've said before. We are similar, Ophelia. We're both outcasts, we both choose to stay on the margins of society, and we both see the world in an unusual way. Sure, maybe I've taken that experience and channeled it differently, but I've had different things to deal with. We're like the same person, only with different histories.” She pauses. “If things had been different, our roles could have been reversed. You know that deep down, there's something inside you that could have led you to do what I'm doing now.”
“That doesn't help,” I reply quietly.
“I'm not asking you to join in,” she continues. “Just understand. It'd make me feel better to know you get me. That's all that any artist wants, really... To know that through their art, they've managed to reach other people. Long after I'm dead, and after all the revulsion has died down, I know in my heart that there'll be people out there who understand my actions. Pioneers are always vilified at first.”
“But what else are you planning?” I ask. “The final show is -”
“You're going to love it!” she says excitedly.
“Love what?”
“I have to go,” she adds, checking her watch. “I've still got so much to do before it opens.”
“Like what?” I ask, starting to panic. “Victoria, are you planning to hurt anyone else?”
She smiles.
“Listen to me,” I continue, grabbing her by the shoulders. “I came here to help you, and I can still do that. The people who are dead... They're dead already, and nothing can bring them back. The important thing is that you don't hurt anyone else. I should turn you in to the police, but I'm not going to. Let me help you. We'll go away together, I know a place where we won't be disturbed and we can live a kind of life.”
“Alone?” she asks. “Just you and me?”
“We can help each other.”
“I like that,” she replies.
“Yeah?” I take another deep breath. This might be the most insane thing I've ever contemplated, but I truly believe I can bring Victoria back out of the darkness. I just need time and space, and if that means going back to Renton's farmhouse, then that's what I'll have to do. I'm strong enough now. “So let's go,” I continue. “Right now, you and me. I still have a little money left, enough to get us to the place I've got in mind. Once we're there, we can work out how to set things up.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No, now.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the final show, silly,” she replies, brushing my hands off her shoulders as she takes a step back. “I can't stop now. It's a three-part project. The first part was the body on the plinth, which was designed to be an attention-grabber. Then I killed Mr. Wallace, because I needed to maneuver a few more pieces into place. And now part three of the triptych is ready to go. There's no way I can stop before it's done.”
“Part three?” I stare at her with a mounting sense of horror. “Victoria, you have to tell me right now, what are you planning?”
Smiling, she shakes her head.
“Whatever it is,” I continue, “forget it. Let's just go. Let's run, right now.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No, we have to go now!”
“Tomorrow,” she says again, her eyes alive with excitement. “If I stop now, those murders will just be murders, but if I finish everything, it'll be art. Don't worry, there's no way I'll get caught. I'm smarter than the police, smarter than everyone. You know that feeling, don't you? You know what it's like to be the smartest person in a room.”
“I thought I did,” I reply. “Until now.”
“Just give me one more day,” she continues. “Not even that. Twelve hours, tops. And then we can do whatever you want. I'll come with you, and we can help each other. We can forget about the rest of the world. Deal?”
With that, she holds out her hand.
Staring at her, I realize that I've still got time to fix all of this. If I turn against her, she'll either try to stop me, or she'll end up handcuffed in a police car and then her life will be over. The only way to salvage anything from this situation is to stay by her side and somehow find a way to sabotage what she's doing, and then to get her the hell away from here before anyone identifies her. She needs help.
“Deal?” she asks again.
“Sure,” I reply, shaking her hand. “Deal.”
***
“Fuck!” I gasp as I get to the bottom of the stairs and lean against the wall. I can already hear Victoria getting back to work in the room at the top, but as I take my phone from my pocket I realize that I'm running out of time.
With shaking hands, I manage to bring up Laura's number, but I hesitate before calling her.
She wouldn't understand.
She'd see Victoria as just some messed-up kid, just a murderer. I could beg and plead with her, but she'd never be able to see what I see. If I told her what I was planning, she'd think I'm a monster. I mean, Laura and I get along, but we don't see the world in the same way. She's much more straight-laced and formal, so I don't think I could even begin to get her to understand why I'm trying to help Victoria.
I stare at Laura's name on the screen.
I can't call her.
Not even to say goodbye. After all, when I disappear with Victo
ria, I'm sure Laura will at least have some suspicions. I only have two friends in the whole world, and I have to lose one if I'm going to save the other.
A single tear rolls down my cheek.
This is why I should never allow myself to get involved with people. Life gets complicated when there are other people around. It's better to be alone, but that boat has sailed. People like Victoria and me, we rarely find each other in life, but when we do we have to stick together.
No-one helped me when I needed it, but I can make sure that Victoria has a better shot.
Stuffing the phone back into my pocket, I close my eyes and try to find some way to stay calm. Victoria is insane, but she's not evil. With just a few small differences, our positions could be reversed. She just needs someone to help her, someone to guide her back onto the right path. Even if I wanted to turn and run, I have no choice now. I'm going to save her from herself.
Laura
“Anything?” Nick asks as he gets into the car.
“Yeah,” I reply, “the killer showed up and started murdering more people, so I'm just sitting here wondering what to do next.” Sighing, I lean back in the driver's seat. “No,” I add. “Nothing to report.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I know what he's thinking: he's thinking that I've completely screwed this case up, that I latched onto a theory at the start and that theory has now been shot to pieces. The killer, whether it's Victoria Middleton or someone else, isn't coming to the college tonight; he or she has something else planned instead.
“So are you sure that -”
“Yes,” I say firmly.
“But -”
“I'm sure,” I reply, even though I know I must be sounding desperate by now. Staring out the windshield, I watch the lights of the college for a moment. By now, the killer should have arrived, but it's 2am and no-one's around. I don't want to admit it yet, but there's a distinct possibility that I've made a huge miscalculation.
