Killing The Girl

by Elizabeth Hill

  ‘Oh.’ He’s disappointed by my answer. ‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. Will you come with me? Only I can’t go on my own.’

  His gaze holds mine intently, stopping me from looking away. I struggle to hide my dread, but he would expect me to show emotion, so I cry.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Carol,’ He wipes away a tear, his fingers sending shockwaves across my cheek, ‘That was tactless of me. Forgive me.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive. She’s … was … your sister …’

  ‘And she was your friend.’

  ‘You know that’s not entirely true, Matthew. We weren’t friends. Not when she –’

  ‘What do you mean? I thought she wrote in her diary that you two made up.’

  ‘No; although she did come to see me about a week or so before ... It was a long time ago. I can’t remember much, except that Frankie came between us.’

  Matthew looks confused. ‘Oh, I must have read that wrong.’ He’s hurt, and I feel the need to reassure him.

  ‘Things weren’t good between us, but I’m sure we would have become friends again. Our friendship was more than a quarrel over Frankie.’

  He ponders this. ‘I’m sure you would. And now we know Frankie didn’t leave.’

  The conversation is unnerving. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Go? You’ve only just got here. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Me and my big mouth. It must have been a massive shock for you when they found those bodies.’

  Why is he saying this again? We already went through it when he came around for dinner. I say nothing, so he says, ‘There I go again. Sorry. At least they got that bastard Schmidt. Who’d have thought it, eh?’ He drains his coffee. ‘Two bodies buried in your orchard. Who’d have thought Frankie had been blackmailing Schmidt, no wonder he was never short of money. Wonder who else he was cadging off? Thora, no doubt.’

  ‘I have to go.’ Nausea starts up, or it may be Matthew upsetting me. I must leave before drowsiness stops me driving.

  ‘Don’t go. I’ll shut up. Come and see upstairs. I need your help with the soft furnishings. I’m hopeless. They need a woman’s eye. What d’you say?’ He walks to the stairs, so I follow.

  ‘Oh, I don’t … well, I suppose ... But it will all be ordered online. I don’t go to shops.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Perry told me you didn’t travel too far from home. Just popping in here a second.’ He slips into the bathroom. That Perry has been talking to him about me and my problems wounded me. How dare he. Now I’ve been cast as a freak.

  Ahead is what looks like the main bedroom at the front of the house, so I take a step towards it. Something catches my eye inside a smaller bedroom to my left. I push the door and take a few steps, before sinking to my knees. Cardboard boxes with the name ‘ Philip’s Store’ on the sides sit against the wall. Musty air and dry dust float out as I pull a flap, knowing what I’ll find. Sarah’s diaries, her posters, her hairbrush, all packed up. An open time-bomb waiting to be ignited. There’s a note in code with a translation written underneath, each letter in my handwriting. Back in Sarah’s bedroom, she floats towards me with her pouting face, dismayed by my reluctance to do what she wants. She tightens her cardigan, arms across her chest. The small swell of her belly crushes me.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry – I forgot.’ He kneels to tuck the cardboard flap back in. My legs are like jelly. His arms snake around me as he attempts to steady me, but my dead weight unbalances him. We fall to the carpet. A deafening wailing noise fills the air but is muffled when he smothers my face with his shoulder. As I move to catch my breath, he cups my face then puts his lips on mine. We melt together, hot tears mingling. But this time his hands don’t seek my body; this time we are no longer young and pliable and full of rampant hormones. The disappointment as he pulls away shoots a dagger through my heart. I’m repulsive. Age and realism stunt us so that passion no longer flows uninhibited. Turning to my side, I pull my knees to my chest to relieve the pain in my ribs. A chasm of emptiness tempts me to freefall into it. He sits, and I lie, while the boxes containing Sarah’s past wait with their toxic contents, a reminder of past times and past mistakes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Arthritis in my knees.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, if I can get up.’ He winces, so I get up and offer my hand. He gets to his knees and struggles up. ‘Very sexy, don’t you think? I didn’t stop because I didn’t want to. Don’t think that. You’re married, Carol, and this, us – well, it’s not on, is it?’

  ‘No. You’re right. We can’t. I’m sorry for kissing you back. That was wrong of me.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. If I’d thought for one moment you and I stood a chance, I would have returned before now.’

  ‘But you didn’t, so let’s forget it.’ I lean over and flick through a box of Sarah’s clothes; the material itches my fingers. ‘Gosh, these take me back. I can see her knitting this cardigan. And this bag. She took it apple-scrumping one day … the day we first met Thora.’

  ‘Do you want any of this?’ His hand shifts through the items.

  ‘No. Of course not. Why would I?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Memories. Good times.’

  Does he think that’s funny? Perhaps I’m too dismissive of Sarah’s friendship. ‘Maybe I’ll take some of our letters,’ As I reach for the other box he jumps and pulls it away from me. ‘Oh, sorry, when you asked if I wanted anything, I presumed …’

  ‘Just remembered I hadn’t checked everything in here.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t think her other diaries show me in a bad light.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t. Anyway, best I keep them safe.’

  ‘She wrote everything down, however boring. I couldn’t be bothered until the time I was sectioned. Are you okay?’

  He’s ghostly pale as he slides along on his knees and then lets out a yelp. He winces and shifts his weight as he sorts through the box. Picking up some paperwork, he says, ‘I’ll just put this away,’ and limps out of the room.

  I follow him into a bedroom that’s set up as a study. I wonder what he’s holding. A diary? A letter? There’s no chance of finding out. At least not today.

  ‘I’d better go. I’ll look at the soft furnishings another time. Or email me a list of what you need and the colours you want and I’ll get some ideas.’

  ‘What? Yes – sorry. Sometimes she … gets to me when I least expect it. I’ll see you out. Sorry, for everything.’

  A sad old man stands before me and all the magic he’d possessed flies away like the puffed-up sentiment it is.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ I say as I walk away.

  Chapter 63

  Thursday, 4 August 2016

  The decapitation of Frankie itches at my brain in my struggle to accept my violence and how I overlooked my evil actions to allow myself a reasonable existence. The devil is close on my heels, waiting for a confession so that society can slaughter me.

  Driving calms my nerves, so I set off for the village in my new Mini. The road stretches for miles, bringing with it the temptation to drive anywhere. Escape, flee, run, the words curl around my tongue like enticing morsels I want to devour.

  The symptoms of a crisis flow through my arms to the steering wheel. It’s as though there’s something in the air trying to contact me, trying to get a message through. Maybe Ruby Silver has noticed that I sway from her mantra of visualising my future to attain it. The persuasions of Lily and her doctrines focused on the here and now are more likeable.

  The noticeboard outside the village shop displays a newspaper headline. Nervously I leave my car and buy a paper, ignoring the glances of strangers.

  There’s a piece about the murders and Schmidt. The police are not pursuing anyone in the matter of Frankie’s death. They have wound the case up and breathed a sigh of relief that further man-hours aren’t required. That must have been why they called the other day, although I refused to speak to them. Perry could deal with them.

  L
ast week a few online newspaper reports disturbed me. They said Frankie’s body had suffered several axe wounds and was completely destroyed. But how can that be? I remember putting the gun down and taking the axe. My anger was frightening and uncontrollable. But it’s a blur. His blood flowed across the path and into the edge of the lawn. I remember that blood; it still flows through my dreams.

  Something is odd about this newspaper report shaking in my hands. Schmidt was there that day, Perry saw him. Supposing he decapitated Frankie. Schmidt could have done it while I was semi-conscious in the front garden. I have no idea how long I was in the garden before Perry arrived, maybe an hour. Perry must know more than me, but I cannot ask him. He believes I chopped off Frankie’s head. Maybe I did chop off his head. I wanted to hurt him in a way that showed how much he had hurt me. But what if Schmidt killed him? He could have followed me and struck while Frankie was incapacitated. Maybe I’m not so evil after all. Schmidt was there. Perry saw his car. He wouldn’t have liked Frankie’s evil blackmailing. Frankie, who wanted to get money without doing anything more strenuous than demand it. It would mean that the charge was correct and he was guilty and I am innocent. Except I buried the body – but then I needed to keep my Frankie safe. If only I could remember and be sure of my sins.

  We all paid for the emotions Frankie stirred in us. Some of us had seen the error of our idolising, and our love had turned into hate. He incited the kind of hatred that invades souls and claims your sanity. No one hated Frankie more than I as he brought the axe down on his leg. Frankie was a betrayer of women, yet his evil seed produced two daughters. The gods must be laughing.

  Not wanting to go home, I pull into the car park of the Cleave Inn and switch off the engine. Perry has just recovered from another bout of gastroenteritis. He can’t understand why he keeps getting sick and says it reminds him of the time just before Laura died when he’d had the same thing for months. I do what I can for him, but he’s best left alone as I don’t want to catch it. Luckily, unlike years ago, he has the staff to run around after him.

  It’s eleven thirty on a Tuesday morning. All around is quiet – a pair of magpies squabble in the grass. A car sweeps past then parks near the side entrance, the one used by the proprietors. A tall, thin man wearing a grey knitted waistcoat gets out and offloads a wheelchair. He takes it to the passenger side and helps an old woman transfer into it. It’s Sadie, the owner of the pub. Lovely Sadie, who used to let us play in the pub garden, use the swing, pinch crisps and lemonade from the patrons. She brought stews to me after Francine was born. She sat with me and helped me knit a matinee jacket – a sweet woman. She signed the trust for Thora and was the only friend of Thora’s I knew.

  Opening the car door, I call her name. She turns, a huge smile bursts onto her face and she shouts, ‘Carol!’ with obvious delight. I go to her.

  ‘Come here,’ Sadie says and opens her arms to take me in a hug. As I bend to hug her, I cry. The scent of her perfume holds the smell of better days.

  ‘Oh, Carol, how are you, my darling? I followed all the newspaper reports. I knew it wasn’t you, didn’t I, Steven? Told everyone you couldn’t be a killer. Proved right, wasn’t I!’

  ‘Oh, Sadie.’ I try to control my emotions. The papers haven’t been kind; no smoke without fire. Steven looks unsure.

  ‘What’s wrong, my luvvie? And what have you done to your arm?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve broken it. It’s almost healed now. This brace supports it as it aches so much. Perry did it, I mean he got it for me … off the net.’

  ‘The net? Oh, the computer. Come in and have a chat. Steven, get me in and put the kettle on.’

  ‘I’m sure Carol has better things to do.’

  Astounded by his presumptuousness, I say, ‘I would love to have a chat, Sadie.’

  ‘There you go, Steven. Now, take me in then get a move on.’

  We enter a room at the back. It’s large and has a dining table, a settee and a television. Steven pushes Sadie to the table and secures the brake before casting a disapproving look and leaving.

  ‘Here, sit down.’ Sadie points at the chair next to her then lays her hand on my face. ‘So lovely. You’re lucky to catch us at a quiet time. My grandchildren, Steven’s children, run the pub, but they’ve gone on holiday somewhere – um, Spain or Italy … doesn’t matter. Taken my great-grandchildren with them. Steven is running the show for them. He took over from us in the late 90s or sometime. Doesn’t matter when things happen, does it, because they happen if you remember when or not.’ She laughs at her failing memory and pats my hand resting on the table. Steven enters carrying a tray loaded with the tea paraphernalia and places it down.

  ‘Thank you, Steven.’ He turns to leave, but Sadie shouts after him, ‘Steven bring me that tin … you know the one. The one with Sheila’s photos in.’

  ‘Congratulations on your wedding. Have you seen many photos of Perry as a boy, because we have some? Sheila, my daughter, died last week, or sometime, doesn’t matter, she’s dead, and we found this tin with the photos. Sheila was sweet on Perry’s brother Simon. Did you know Simon?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. He was already dead when I first met Perry.’

  ‘Oh? Let me see – Perry would have been, um, and Simon was, can’t remember when he died … no, they were older, at secondary school, I think … doesn’t matter – he died.’

  Steven comes back with a biscuit tin and places it on the table. ‘Will you want anything else?’

  ‘Just lunch in an hour will be fine,’ Sadie says dismissively. I admire her strength. Why can’t I speak up like that? She whispers, ‘It’s my weekly trip here. The only time I get let out of the care home. He’s a bit moody about it.’ She chuckles as she lifts the teapot but can’t manage it, so I take it. She grabs the tin. ‘Anyway, let me show you these.’

  She rummages through the pile of old photos. ‘Here we go, there’s Perry with William, um, Mr Cutler. And there’s Simon and William, with my daughter, Sheila. These were taken the Easter before Simon died. And there’s Perry and Simon with their mum and dad; Sheila took that one. You can see Perry takes after his mum, but Simon is his father’s boy. And here’s one with Matthew – Matthew Burcher.

  ‘I didn’t know Matthew knew Simon.’

  ‘Oh yes. The Burchers moved to the housing estate sometime, um, well, it was after Simon died … Mr Burcher got a job at the tobacco factory, but before that he was a farm hand on Cleave Farm. You’ve forgotten he was there that day you ran away from home and got caught up with the cows at milking time.’

  Taking the photos, I study them. The picture of a young Matthew stirs long forgotten memories. Simon reminds me of someone, but who it is evading me. He’s the image of his father. Why had I not seen photos of Simon? There must be some about the farmhouse. Sheila has the same gentle face as Sadie.

  ‘Why don’t I remember Steven and Sheila when they were young?’ I ask.

  ‘Boarding school. We sent them away. I was against it but their father, well ... But they’re a few years older than you anyway. Sheila was sixty-eight or -nine or something this year … Doesn’t matter – she’s dead.’

  She hands me more photos. ‘And here’s one of Simon. Strange to think he would be dead not long after. Drowned, in the lake. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, not like Perry. Perry tried to save him of course, but, well, he wasn’t strong enough … doesn’t matter … they were kids. How did Perry cope with, you know, his brother drowning in front of him? I wonder. Not being able to help. How do you get over something like that? Eh? Must haunt you for the rest of your life. Something so terrible happening.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it did. I mean, it does. But he doesn’t talk about it.’

  ‘No, well, stiff upper lip and all that. His mother never took to anyone being, what’s the word, can’t think, doesn’t matter … ah, I know: emotional, yes, that’ll do, or sensitive. Gosh, I remember all the big words today.’ She laughs then sips her tea before continuing.

  ‘Should
n’t laugh … doesn’t matter. Sheila was heart-broken. She spent all her school holidays mooning after him. Went to that farm every chance she got, right from, oh, about age six, I suppose. Loved Simon from the day she met him.’

  Sadie rummages some more.

  ‘And here’s one of William alone. Sheila was trying to make him pose. Look at that grin. He was a lovely man, but his wife, well, she was a different story. Never understood why she became so bitter. She was nice when they first married.’

  Taking it, my blood runs cold as his features hit home. It can’t be, can it? The stance, the cheekbones, the impish grin. Perry is nothing like him, but then Perry takes after his mother. The photo confuses me. He’s Mr Cutler and yet a different Mr Cutler. Not the plump, huffing-puffing, curt man I remembered. This William Cutler is young, without a hat and with hair. Blond hair. Slim and attractive, in a way I had never noticed as a child growing up. The photo is a revelation. But what difference can it make now, after all this time?

  Sadie notices my attention to it.

  ‘Good looking, eh? Pity I didn’t marry him. But you got his son, eh?’ She winks at me then chuckles, ‘Well, Frankie took to Elsie, and I lost out.’

  I laugh at her confusion. ‘What’ve I said now?’ She chuckles and pats my arm.

  ‘You said “Frankie” instead of “William”. Frankie was my hus – … boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s not wrong, but it’s confusing. I always thought it a bit funny that Thora’s nephew, um, son was named Frankie, and William’s nickname was Frankie. Especially when I caught the two of them … anyway, it’s a long time ago … doesn’t matter. And she told me she was raped when she was away somewhere. Did she tell you? ‘Suppose it doesn’t matter who knows now, everyone’s dead.’

  Shivers flow through me as the truth hits. Thora and William; or rather, Thora and ‘Frankie’. Is that why Frankie was called Frankie?

  ‘Oh, have I said something out of turn? You’re very pale. It was probably nothing. After all, they were good neighbours for years. He signed the trust the same as I did. Doesn’t matter now, does it if they liked each other? I’m sure nothing happened between them. Elsie would have had something to say about that, I can tell you. If she had known anything was going on between them, well, we would all know about it. There would have been hell.’