The Night Girl: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  I stare at him.

  "There's a lot of flies, too," he continues. "Big fat, juicy little sons of bitches, crawling over my back window. It's not nice, and I know for certain that they're coming from your side of the fence. If I leave the door open, or even a window, they're gonna come flying into my place. You understand why this is a problem for me?"

  I nod.

  "So you'll give him the message?"

  I nod.

  "Tell him he just needs to get some bleach and clean up whatever's causing the stink," he says. "Just move it, burn it or bury it, and then cover the area in bleach. That oughta do it. If bleach doesn't work, he can try some other kind of disinfectant, but make sure he knows not to mix anything dangerous. I'm sure he knows what he's doing. If he can get the job done, I think the problem should be sorted. Can you tell him that for me?"

  I nod.

  "I know it must be hard for him, being a single father and all, but really... enough's enough. Wouldn't you like a nice yard to play in? Somewhere a little less smelly for you to run around with your dolls?"

  I stare at him.

  "Okay," he says with a sigh. "Just make sure and pass that message on to him". With that, he turns and disappears back into his house, leaving me standing alone in the yard. I guess I can understand, in a way, why Mr. Harriman doesn't like the smell; after all, it's pretty foul, and it must be harder for him since he doesn't know where it's coming from. At least I know what's causing it, and I'm in control of when it stops. Still, I don't think I'm going to get my father to clean everything up. I've waited too long to have all my specimens in place, so there's no way I want to just get rid of them to make Mr. Harriman happy. He can put up with the smell and the flies for a little while longer; after all, it's not like he has any right to get me to stop.

  I head down the side of the house and through to the front garden. I don't like coming out here, because I'm certain the neighbors will start to notice me; as I make my way to the mailbox, I think of all the curtains twitching as people look out and see me. I grab the mail, before glancing along the street. I don't see anyone, but I know they're all around, watching me and wondering if I'm okay. Sometimes, I feel as if the whole world has got its attention focused on me.

  Turning and heading into the house, I sort through the mail, keeping what needs to be kept and binning the rest. Once I'm done, I stand alone in the kitchen and listen to the silence. I like it when my father's out on a day when I don't have to go to school. I guess some people would get lonely, but not me: I like the peace and quiet, and I prefer to be undisturbed. I can do whatever I want, when I want, and how I want, without having to worry about anyone watching me or judging me. My father has been a lot better lately, and he seems to have started to accept my interest in dead things; still, I don't like having him around, and I can't help wondering if he's secretly hoping I'll change. I feel as if he still looks down on me, and still thinks I'm some kind of mistake. He tries to be nice sometimes, and he tries to be interested in what I'm doing, but I know that deep down he's disappointed in me. At least when he's out of the house, I can relax and not worry about being watched all the time; I can just stand here, in the middle of the room, and wait until it's time to go outside at lunchtime to take another look at the dead animals.

  Chapter Three

  Today

  A knife.

  I'm going to use a knife.

  Even better: I'm going to use one of his knives. Two years ago, I bought my father a set of new steak knives for his birthday. They were just some cheap crap from the local store, and they've sat more or less un-used ever since. From time to time, I've glanced at them and thought they were a bad gift, but now I see that they're perfect: they're a symbol of his complete lack of appreciation, and of our pathetic, ritualistic relationship. I didn't care about him when I bought those knives; I just wanted to give him a gift, so he wouldn't complain that I'd ignored his birthday. Now, finally, those knives are going to be useful. I wonder if he'll notice the irony?

  As usual, my father is cooking dinner. It's 6pm, and I've been sleeping for most of the day in preparation for my next night shift at Crestview. When I was unemployed and spending all day asleep, my father used to be constantly nagging at me, asking when I'd be getting up. Now that I'm working night shifts and I have to sleep during the day, suddenly he's totally happy with the situation. I guess the context is the most important thing in his eyes, and right now I'm making him happy. To be honest, the thought of pleasing him makes me feel nauseous.

  I've dreamed up this elaborate plan to get hold of a steak knife and keep it hidden until after we've eaten. However, by some bizarre coincidence, my father has chosen to cook steaks for dinner, which seems particularly appropriate. He's busy adding various spices and preparing a salad, and I'm setting the table, so obviously I no longer need to worry about how I'm going to get hold of one of the knives. It's weird to think that once we've eaten, I'm going to take the very same knife I used to cut up the steak, and use it to end my father's life; the blade'll probably still have meat juices and bits of food stuck to it, as I slide it into his body. I suppose I could give it a quick wipe, but that seems kind of pointless. What matters is the end result: his death.

  "I just realized," he says, as he starts serving the food. "This time in a month, you'll be off at college. You excited?"

  "Yeah," I say, figuring I might as well play up to his expectations one more time. I keep my eye on his hands as he dishes up the food; I want to see the moment when he adds the powdered pill. "I'm super-excited. I just can't wait to get there and meet everyone and get started with my studies".

  He laughs as he brings the food over to the table and we sit down. I guess he must have added the pill while he was cooking, probably with the seasoning. After all these years, he's probably pretty adept at getting the job done without letting me notice.

  "What's so funny?" I ask.

  "Nothing," he replies, with a big, stupid grin on his face. "It's just good to hear you being so enthusiastic, Juliet. I never thought I'd see the day when you're actually looking forward to making new friends. To be honest, I was thinking that maybe I'd have to drag you kicking and screaming to your first day, though obviously I knew that you'd be fine once you got there". He stares at his steak for a moment, then at mine, and then he swaps the plates. "Whoops," he says nervously.

  "Why did you do that?" I ask.

  "I wanted you to have the bigger one," he says, blatantly lying. It's pretty obvious that he almost gave me the 'wrong' steak, and now he's trying to cover the error. I bet this kind of thing has been happening for years; I can't believe how stupid I must have been to never have noticed before.

  "You don't have to do that," I tell him.

  "I know. But I want to".

  "Can't I have the smaller one?" I reply, hoping to put him on the spot. After all, it's pretty obvious that he's added the crushed pill to the bigger steak.

  "Go on," he says, "have the bigger one. You need a good meal inside you before you go off to work". He slices into his steak and takes a mouthful. "You going to miss that place when you're done?" he asks, speaking with his mouth full. "You certainly seem to have settled in pretty well. It's hard to believe there was ever a time when you weren't working down at Crestview". He stares at me, clearly waiting for me to say something. "Aren't you going to miss it at all?"

  "I guess".

  "You made any friends there?"

  "Yeah. One". I cut a piece off my steak and eat it; I still haven't decided whether I'm going to stop taking the pills after tonight, but I figure one more dose won't kill me. "Her name's Jennifer".

  "Jennifer?" He smiles. "You've never mentioned her before".

  "We get on really well together. She's a little older than me, but she helps me with stuff. She knows more about the medical side of things. In fact, she's really helped me to understand a lot of stuff that I maybe wouldn't have worked out on my own. I feel like I've actually learned quite a lot about how to look
after the residents".

  "Sounds great," he says. "Maybe you should try to stay in touch with her after you go to college?"

  "Maybe".

  "I'm serious, Juliet. Friends aren't so easy to pick up. If you like her, you should make an effort to stay in touch".

  I smile awkwardly.

  "Then again," he continues, "you'll probably meet a load of new people once you're studying. You'll forget all about the people at Crestview. Hell, you'll probably forget all about me, too. Won't you feel a little sad at the thought of me sitting around this empty old house, all alone?" He smiles. "I'm joking. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine".

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to bring up the subject of the pills, but I know one thing for certain: before he dies, my father is going to know that I've caught him out. I want him to understand all the pain and anguish I've suffered thanks to him, and I want him to be under no illusion that his stupid act of deceit has worked. I want him to die with tears in his eyes.

  "Are you finding it easier to make friends?" he says after a while.

  "Much easier".

  "And you enjoy it?"

  I nod.

  "I knew you'd pull through eventually".

  I can't help but smile, thinking about what's going to happen soon. "Are you proud of me?"

  "Am I proud of you?"

  "Yeah. Are you proud of me?"

  He smiles. "Well, that's a question I never thought you'd ask". He pauses for a moment, as if he's actually giving the matter some serious thought. "Yes, Juliet. I'm proud of you. There, I've said it. In fact, I've always been proud of you. I know we've had some difficulties, and I know there have been times when you've probably thought I was being too harsh, but I only ever had your best interests at heart. You're my daughter. Of course I'm proud of you, not only for the way you've overcome your difficulties, but also for the way you've finally managed to find a purpose in life. I'm proud of you and I love you".

  I look down at my food. I hadn't expected him to say anything like that. Taking a deep breath, I cut off a large piece of steak and chew it slowly. In a strange way, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

  "In fact," he continues, "I'm going to be getting you a little gift when you head off to college. Nothing too fancy, but something I think you'll like very much".

  "What is it?" I ask, looking over at him.

  "You'll have to wait and see," he says, barely able to contain a big, goofy grin. "I ordered it today, but I'm not letting you see it until it arrives, which should be some time next week. I shouldn't have told you at all, but I guess it's fun to look forward to something, right?"

  I stare at him; it's as if right now, in this moment, he's totally happy about how I've turned out. I guess he's pretty pleased with himself. "I know about the pills," I say suddenly, surprising myself.

  "The what?"

  I take a deep breath. My heart is racing as I realize the time has come. There's no turning back now, no chickening out or showing mercy. "The pills. The ones you've been putting in my food. The ones that are probably in this steak right now". I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at me with a puzzled look in his eyes. "You don't need to lie anymore," I continue. "In fact, I'd be pretty offended if you did. I know about them, and I know why you did it, and I know what the effect has been. I know everything. I only found out yesterday, so your little deception worked for a long time, but now I know".

  "I'm sorry, Juliet," he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I don't know what you're talking about".

  "The pills," I say, feeling a knot of anger in my chest. How dare he keep this charade going? Is he seriously going to sit there, lying to my face? I thought he'd at least have the decency to admit the truth once I confronted him, but it seems he's determined to maintain the deception. "I know all about them".

  "What pills?"

  "The ones you've been giving me".

  "I haven't given you any pills".

  "Yes, you have".

  "No, Juliet. I haven't". He stares at me. "I have no idea what you're talking about".

  "You've been slipping pills into my food," I say, taking care to keep my voice firm and blank. I don't want to show my anger; not yet, anyway. "You've been doing it since I first went to see Dr. Larson all those years ago. You've been doing it because you want to change the way my brain works. You've been very successful. I didn't notice it happening at the time, but now it all makes sense. You and Dr. Larson worked together, and you tricked me for a long time. I wish I'd known this before..." I pause for a moment, before I realize that I might as well go all the way. "I killed Dr. Larson the other day," I say eventually. "He came to Crestview as a resident, and I killed him".

  I wait for my father to say something, but he just stares at me.

  "I know everything," I continue. "I know how you two conspired to slip drugs into my food, to change me, to force me to be someone else. I don't know if it worked. I don't know what I'd be like if you hadn't done it, but I'm sure it had some kind of effect. Maybe I'd have been a worse person without the drugs, or maybe I'd have been better. The point is, you didn't let me find that out. You made me change. You did this to me, and whatever you're thinking right now, you have to accept that it's partly your fault". I take a deep breath. "So are you proud of me now?"

  He continues to state at me for a moment. "The things you're saying," he replies eventually, "are very, very serious, Juliet".

  "I know. I'm not an idiot". I look down at my hands and realize they're clammy; I've always dreamed of confronting my father, of telling him the truth about the things I do, and now the day is finally here. "I killed Martina too," I say.

  We sit in silence for a moment. "You did what?"

  "I killed Martina. I put a jack-in-the-box in her car to make her crash. I didn't really think it was going to work, but it did. That was the first time I killed anyone, apart from her cat. I didn't even hate her that much". I pause, thinking back to that day. To be honest, if I hadn't killed Martina, I think things would have turned out very differently: for one thing, I wouldn't have assumed from such an early age that I was evil; for another, I probably would've been much less willing to kill again. I guess something changes once you've stepped over that line.

  "You killed her?" my father says, clearly in shock. "You... put that thing in her car with the specific intention of making her die in a wreck?"

  I nod.

  He stares at me. "What the hell kind of a monster are you, Juliet?"

  "I don't know," I say, feeling my resolve start to weaken a little. I take a deep breath, determined not to become emotional.

  "You just admitted to me, to my face, that you killed two people. You murdered them". His eyes are fixed on me, and I can tell he's struggling with this news. "Is that it? Or are there more? Did you -"

  "Three others," I say, interrupting him. "One of my co-workers, a woman named Lizzie McGuigan. A guy at the home, Piotr Cymbalista. And..." I pause. "No, sorry, just two others. I was wrong. I miscounted".

  "I see," he says. It's weird, but earlier my hands were trembling, and now they're completely still, almost like stone; his hands, meanwhile, have begun to tremble vigorously. It's as if he's on the verge of a nervous breakdown: I can see that he's about to crack. "Oh God, Juliet," he says quietly, with tears in his eyes. "I never thought... I never thought you could be like that. I knew you were odd, and a little different, but a multiple..." He pauses. "You're a serial killer!"

  "No!" I reply, dismissing such a stupid idea before - suddenly - I realize that maybe he's right. I mean, I don't know the exact definition of a serial killer, but I've killed a bunch of people over a fairly long period of time, and it's not like I was in some kind of psychosis. I just killed them each individually, for specific reasons, but I can see how someone else would think that maybe I'm a serial killer.

  "You're a monster," he continues. "Didn't you have any sympathy for those people? Don't you feel bad about what you di
d?"

  I shake my head.

  "Not at all?" Tears are rolling down his face now. "Isn't there any human decency in your heart at all?"

  I shake my head again, forcing myself to stay calm.

  "Oh God," he continues, putting his head in his hands. "What the hell kind of child have I raised?"

  Putting down my fork but keeping hold of my knife, I stand up and walk slowly around the table. "Are you going to call the police?" I ask. "Are you going to tell them everything?"

  "I don't know what I'm going to do," he says, looking down at the table. "How could I have been such a fool? How could I have raised such a cruel, evil little bitch? I let myself believe you were changing, Juliet, but..." He pauses for a moment. "I was just fooling myself. There's no good in you at all, is there?"

  "Maybe it was the pills," I say as I get around behind him. I stare at the top of his head, and I hold the knife up, aiming for the slight bald patch on his crown. "I know I wasn't on the pills when I killed Martina," I continue, "but after that, I think maybe the medicine made some changes in my head. Altered the chemical balance or something. You wanted to change me, and you were successful, but I don't think I turned into the daughter of your dreams". I pause, waiting to plunge the knife into his skull; when I killed the others, I was always able to avoid having too much blood all over the place. I hate blood. I want this to be quick and easy. After all, it's the moment I've been waiting for all my life. I still remember when I was a kid, and I wanted to do this; I guess I never thought I'd actually go through with it. But I will.

  Right now.

  Slamming the knife down, I feel it break through the skull and slice into his brain. He lets out a gasp, as an arc of blood sprays up into my face. Shocked, I pull the knife out and stab him again, and then again, and finally he drops off his chair, landing with a thud on the kitchen floor. Turning and hurrying out of the room, I head to my bedroom, feeling his blood dribbling down my face and onto my neck. At the last moment, I go to the bathroom instead, grabbing a towel and quickly wiping the blood away. When I turn to look at myself in the mirror, I see that there's no more blood at all. It's amazing how easy it can be to wipe away all the evidence.