by Darren Wills
“Not seen her since the first day. The day the demons took her.” I heard Michelle sigh behind me. “I try not to think about her.”
“And why would you?”
Judy looked at me. “How would you feel, mister, if one of your daughters never even talked to you? I don’t think you would like it. Not one bit.”
“Which one of your daughters never talks to you?” I was learning quickly.
She stared ahead of her, as if the cream paint on the wall held a strange fascination for her. “The one I didn’t keep, the one who doesn’t even know Caroline. The twin.”
Joggers Lane
The view from the top of Joggers Lane was always good for me. Ten minutes from the residential build-up that is Sheffield, at various times in my adult life I had found sweet solace in parking my car at the top of the hill and gazing out at the idyllic and stunning countryside. All you can see when you look down is a wonderful greenness. In fact, looking down from the top of Joggers Lane, I always felt totally refreshed.
I needed to be at one with nature and get my head together. What I had learned in that residential home was a game-changer and I knew that when I eventually arrived home, it was going to kick off big style. I was in some danger now and at some point I would need to involve the police. Nothing would kick off up here right now, however. This was the epitome of tranquility. There was no better calm before the storm.
Should I go straight to the boys in blue with my suspicions? I started the car three times but each time I switched the engine back off, dejectedly. Going to the police might not be my smartest move. They had been pretty resistant to me about Jamie’s disappearance, and they were hardly likely to believe this story. “Of course, Mr. Walker. I’ll just write down the details.” Yeah, right.
No, I was going to confront Laura. Confront Laura? If only. In actual fact, I was going to confront Caroline. My confusion about my wife had to be cleared up now. This was not my wife, as I had supposed for far too long, but some evil bitch born at the same time, to the same mother, somebody who had grown up and stolen her identity, probably brutally, and who was living a lie, taking on a role that clearly did not suit. The big question now was, would I be content with questioning her, or would I kill her? Here I was, at the top of Joggers Lane, trying to work that one out.
Malevolence
He always had to die.
It wasn’t always this way. Long before this started I was somebody else. I was somebody who liked to sit and play with the few toys I had and read things. I can’t exactly remember, but I suppose I must have been somebody who had hopes and dreams, although they might have just been grey clouds. Sitting here on this settee, with Mahler coming out of the speakers, I look back on what was and what no longer is.
One memory I hold pretty dear is of a boyfriend my mother had. Friendly guy, well at least to her. He gave her cuddles, and bought her bunches of flowers from time to time, and always greeted her with a smile and some warmth. From what I understand, he looked after her physically too, with all that cooing in the bedroom.
His friendliness to me took a different form. I worshipped him. He was a great father figure in my young mind, taking me to toy shops, funfairs and, later, giving me lifts to parties and buying me nice presents. I guess I saw him through rose-tinted glasses. He was somebody who gave me much-needed security, who made me feel that I was a normal child, not an urchin with a hopeless individual as a mother, but somebody who actually had a family.
One night, when I was thirteen, the friendly stuff took a whole different direction, one that changed things.
Mother was out of the house. I was in my room, listening to music, Kylie’s latest album, I think. Anyway, he came into the room. He knocked first, of course, and sat at the edge of the bed. I guess he had had some drink as his breath smelled of alcohol. I had never drunk alcohol, and still don’t drink much, but he had. To cut a long story short, he put his hand on my leg. He left it there.
I looked into his eyes, pleading with him to move it away, but he had a look in his eye that told me this was not going to end well. I was innocent and wimpish back then, young and stupid, but innocence and my peace of mind disappeared as he became forceful, and he knew what he wanted. Within seconds I was underneath him and silently losing my virginity in a way that I did not want. I remember lying still as he buttoned up his trousers and left the room, without any words while I was wiping up blood off a sheet at midnight and suddenly understanding how the world had turned.
Mother could always pick them. If they weren’t doing stuff to me, they were knocking lumps out of her or her bank account, cheating on her big time. I hated them all. And so many rows and fights. Home was just a place of misery and nastiness. I don’t know whether she liked the dodgy relationships deep down and enjoyed the suffering, because she never learned from things. She needed my help so often.
I caught up with my mother’s boyfriend some years later. He had left my mother after a blazing row over his drinking. I expect I was long forgotten when I bumped into him at that bar. I reminded him somewhat and talked him into taking me back to his place. His place was pretty dingy, but it was ok. Tomato ketchup on the table and a pile of unwashed dishes needing attention would not affect things much. I only wanted his dick and balls. With one quick unexpected movement of his kitchen knife, that aim was achieved. I carried them out of the house while I laughed at his agonised screaming. I had his tackle in my hand all the way to the canal where I threw them so there would be no reconnection, knowing he would always be reminded of our time together.
I never enjoyed home. I hated the fact that she rarely washed my clothes, smoked so heavily that when I went to school, the other kids thought it a good laugh to give it to me in the playground and I was a magnet for bullying and all the shit that kids inflict on each other as they grow up.
Obviously, in time I dealt with the bullies in a way to make up for stuff, but that wasn’t the point.
The point was that life was pretty shit.
When I was thirteen, we were evicted. At that point, Mum was so into the booze and pills that all her money went in that direction and I found myself begging on the streets until I found a better way to earn money.
Sex came along. I didn’t like sex much, but it liked me. I had a friend called Jilly who earned two hundred quid a week doing stuff in cars and made another friend who made the move with me into doing tricks. She had had a shit time like me. With her the abuse was from both her mother and her father, and had been physical, and she had spent time in the care system where things had been even worse.
The thing about two of us becoming workers together was that we could look out for each other. Occasionally, a punter would become violent, so we acted as each other’s protector, always within earshot of each other, never servicing a punter at the same time.
Of course, we both got into some bother. A bloke in a blue Ford Focus was refusing to hand over money before I gave him a blow job, and then had the nerve to hold me there, demanding a freebie. There was no way I would do it for nothing.
To this day, I don’t know which came first. Did I bite first or was it the crack on the head from my friend’s hammer that made him cry out. I’ll never know.
Police must have been close by, and I guess they took the view that the biting was an accidental reaction and it was my friend who got sent down for GBH. With the hammer, she’d reduced the guy to a virtual vegetable and she ended up claiming that it was self defence and ended up with a seven year sentence. She was out in four. I was glad, because life was riskier on your own in that game.
I had the sense to put money away. I managed to use my looks to set up something good with a rich Bengali guy who owned five restaurants across Derbyshire and into North Nottinghamshire. I guess his wife wasn’t doing much for him and he had plenty of enthusiasm when he met up with me.
I suppose he became emotionally attached. T
hat was how I was able to make a breakthrough. I got some photos of us. I was really nice to him about those photos. I told him I didn’t want to send them to his wife, his wife’s family and the local mosques, but I needed a flat. He was angry at first, and I took a slap or two across the face but that changed nothing. I let him sleep on it.
Within six weeks of his sleeping on it I had a flat on the smart side of town. It was no penthouse suite or anything like that, but it was better than the hovel I had rented since leaving home.
I think it was about fifteen years ago that Mum became ill. I didn’t love Mum too much. She had let me down too many times and her stupidity had caused me to have a totally crap childhood so I was resentful. However, she was my mother, so I took over her house when she was moved into a nursing home.
I didn’t visit her much. Sometimes I hated her and could not be in the same room as her. Other times, I felt an attachment that I didn’t really understand, so on those moments I might go along and spend ten minutes there, taking her some fruit or a magazine. It was boring as hell, and often I changed my mind and turned around. She didn’t deserve visitors, but she did have early onset dementia and, obviously, she couldn’t make decisions to hurt me anymore.
Two years ago, on a cold December, I had popped along to see her. It was then that she had said she had something to tell me, something important. She said she wanted to tell me before she lost her mind totally, which would have been okay, except she had no mind to lose. She’d never had much of a mind.
I remember just sitting there in shock. I could not believe what I was hearing. I walked from the home in a daze. That daze became anger, bitterness and in my head came thoughts and ideas, none of which were nice. That’s when my project began.
Confrontation
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“About your mother.”
In the style I had now become accustomed to, she didn’t take her eyes from the television, with its riveting images from some daytime drama that was much more important than being totally rumbled and found out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you do. And more to the point, where the fuck is Laura?”
“I don’t know what you are on about. Are you losing your mind?”
I remained standing and was looking down at her and was having to control myself, as I knew that if I didn’t, I would strangle this evil bitch, and what would that achieve? The bottom line was that she was going to have to tell me where her twin was, the long lost twin she had replaced and who hopefully was alive somewhere. I wanted a resolution. “I just need to know, Caroline. Or is it Jo Jo?”
“What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?”
“I know the story, Caroline. You’re the bitter and twisted sister.”
“I’m sorry. I think you are going nuts. Do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to have you sectioned. And when you get out, we’ll get something more permanent organised.”
She left the room and went upstairs. I followed her, cautious, but determined.
“But you killed Laura.”
“Oh come on. Why would Laura kill Laura? No policeman would ever believe that. Why would I kill somebody totally dumb?”
I ran at her, pushed her onto the bed, and had her neck in my hands. I was going to end her life. My life did not matter, as the only important thing was that this vile witch did not go on living after what she had done. I was on top for her and I could see that I was finally winning. Grotesquely, she was choking and I was thinking that that this was a fitting end for her.
I heard a squeal behind me, then a sudden rush. All went black.
Energy Time
“Time to wake up.” The words sounded cloudy and vague. “Time to wake up!”
Blearily, my eyes opened. I could see that Caroline, if that was her name now, was standing over me like a predator. I was lying on the bed and couldn’t help noticing that she had a gun in her hand. It was a Glock, I observed. Not that I was an expert on guns, just that it was the same one Michael Caine had used in ‘Harry Palmer’. He’d used that to blow away a drug dealer, I seemed to recall, and here was the same weapon pointed in my direction.
It all came back to me. I became gripped by a very cold fear.
“I have to tell you, you’ve not got much time left to live. In fact, I’ll probably kill you when I tire of this conversation or when I get fed up of holding this.” She waved the gun light-heartedly. “Whichever happens first, obviously. Welcome to the wacky world of Caroline. You won’t be the first and you’re unlikely to be the last.”
“You killed Laura!” I tried to free myself from my terror. If I was about to die, my only chance at all would be if I showed no sign of fear.
“Laura! Are you talking about the little chicken who cries like a two-year-old. Do you mean that Laura? Do you mean this Laura?” I could only watch as she picked up a mobile phone from the top of the chest of drawers and faced the screen in my direction. “See how she cries.”
The screen showed Laura, at least I presumed it was Laura, tied to a chair, and looking beaten and crying. If this was my Laura, the thought came to me that this might be the last time I saw her. She was wearing the same clothes, disheveled now, that she had been wearing when setting off to work on that fateful day that seemed an eternity ago. Caroline placed the phone back on the chest of drawers, out of sight.
I began to sit up.
“Down, boy. Just you stay horizontal, or your life ends now, not in ten minutes.”
“Is she dead?”
“Put it this way. You won’t be seeing her again. Is that good enough? In fact, I won’t be. I don’t want that bitch polluting my phone for much longer, either.” Her voice sounded different now. It had an accent. Her words now made me think of Derby or somewhere in that region of England. “If you ask me, she was never really alive. Not with that shit existence, married to you.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do this? When all is said and done, she was blood to you.”
“Well, sometimes, that just isn’t enough.” Her callousness was loud and clear, and I was beginning to realise that my situation, like Laura’s, was hopeless.
“You don’t have to do this. This is ridiculous and you need help. Put the gun down and I’ll help you.” I was going to help her all right – help her to an early grave.
“Don’t fucking move. And for fuck’s sake, don’t offer me help again or it will be ker-blam, and you won’t have a head anymore.”
I was shivering with fear, but trying desperately not to let her know it.
I heard a sound from downstairs. Somebody had entered the house. Leoni? Perhaps there was some hope there. “Leoni. What will you tell her?”
I heard footsteps as she ascended.
Caroline spoke loudly. “The question is, what will Leoni tell you?”
Leoni came into the room, and the lack of surprise on her face told me that she was part of this. They kissed intimately, all the time with the gun fixed on my chest. Caroline turned to me. “I think you know my fiancée too well.”
Leoni stared, disdain gripping her face. “While I’m here, you were a lousy date, even for a man. And you really shouldn’t drink so much.”
I could have replied with something witty, sarcastic or insulting, but that Glock was too much on my mind. I was as cowardly as ever. I looked at Caroline. I wondered how I could have mistaken her for Laura. “So you knew all along. Or did you put her up to it?”
“My idea, shit face. Just needed information for my… let’s call it a project. That’s it. A life-changing, life-ending project.” They both laughed. I started to think that if roles were reversed, I would just shoot her whatever the consequences were. I was filled with hate and it was going head-to-head with my fear. I
considered whether a quick movement of attack by me could avoid a fatal shot, but there was no chance. That was why she was keeping me horizontal. I remained easy pickings
“You did give away plenty, pissed up like that. The problem with you is that you like this stuff too much.” She picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels that had been in the bottom of my side of the wardrobe. She slowly and methodically passed the gun to Leoni, who took it from her smoothly, as if she had been handling guns all of her life. “Hold this. Keep it pointed at his heart. That’s the big stupid thing he keeps about there.” She pointed at my chest. “If he makes any movement at all, paint the walls red.”
I watched as she took the top off the bottle, placed it about a foot above my head and poured the contents onto my face and into my mouth. I began to wonder if her plan was to burn me alive and present it as an accidental death or death by misadventure. “I hope you enjoy this, your favourite drink, and this sort of sums up the respect I have for you.
And by the way, while you’re all ears, what was that about, sending that hopeless fuck to stalk me? Not one of your best ideas.”
“Have you killed him too?”
“Put it this way. He’s an even bigger twat than you. And he’s not very tough at all. I didn’t film this, unfortunately, but I did have him crying for his mama. Did a bit of an Ian Brady on him. Did some finger snapping while he bled to death with no eyes.” She looked back at her fellow bitch. “I’m wasted in this life, Leoni. Should have been in the Gestapo, pulling the fingernails from spies and traitors.”
Like a coiled spring and fully awake now, I so much wanted to get my hands around the throat of this monster. However, I had no chance with two of them here and a gun pointing at me. I didn’t want to die. I hated being powerless. I was at their mercy and that was a feeling that was intolerable and frustrating, partly because my existence was coming to an end, but also because she had killed the people closest to me, yet was still arrogantly alive. “Of course, you’ll do life for these things you’ve done. I don’t think you’ll like permanent imprisonment, separated from Leoni forever. You need to have a rethink.”
