by Louise Stone
She stood up again and moved toward me. As she did so, the end of the ledge fell away, crashing into the rock below. Polly looked at where she had just been sitting – now air – and turned back to me. She wasn’t frightened at all, I realised.
‘Exactly, that’s what your life has become. No parents, no Amy and a job where you remind someone of their dead daughter. Think about it, Sophie. Is that what you want? Does that sound right to you?’ She laughed. ‘It’s quite macabre, don’t you think? Keeping your dead daughter’s friend on so he never has to really let go. That’s all you are. A reminder of a dead person.’
My head was reeling, unable to believe that for twenty years I had been kept on in a job, given a great office, a fantastic salary, practically bought my house, all because I was just that: a dead woman’s friend. I drew my hands around me, suddenly feeling exactly how wet and cold I actually was. Like a dark shadow had fallen across my path and I couldn’t crawl fast enough to the warmth.
‘That’s not all,’ Polly said. ‘I killed Bethany that night, right here on this cliff. Where you’re about to die. You were here, and you blacked out. Do you want to know why you blacked out?’
‘Why?’ I felt sick.
‘Because I could see in your eyes, you wanted her dead too.’
‘You’re crazy.’ Anger and hurt rattled through me. ‘You are crazy.’
‘No, Sophie, crazy is the fact that your friend died right here and a couple of hours later you went out clubbing. That’s the definition of crazy. You met Paul that night. The man you would spend years of your life with and he had no idea that you had been at the cliff where your friend fell hundreds of feet into nothingness.’
I stood frozen to the spot, looking down at the swirling water below. I shook my head. I refused to believe it was true. ‘It’s isn’t true. You are SICK!’ I shouted, tears streaming down my face, mingling with the salty air.
‘Sophie,’ came a voice from behind me.
I whipped around. ‘Paul!’ I moved toward him and stopped when I saw he was holding his phone up.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve called the police,’ he said. ‘I had to do it. For everybody’s sake.’
The crack of a gun stopped me in my tracks. Paul slumped to the ground. Polly walked toward me now, her face twisted, almost as if she was weeping.
‘No!’ I screamed, looking at Paul’s still body, tears of unspoken regret and hurt streaming down my face.
Then I felt the gun against my own head, and I stood, slowly twisting my body around. Polly brushed the barrel against my stomach.
‘Polly, I have a daughter up there who needs me. Do you want her to end up alone?’ I looked at her steadily, trying to hold off the panic overwhelming me.
Polly lowered her head, visibly crying now.
‘She needs me. Please don’t do this.’
Polly pressed her lips together and as the tears subsided, an amazing serenity passed over her face. I dared not move and waited for her decision, my pulse racing. Polly lifted the gun and I closed my eyes, offering a silent prayer to Amy. I couldn’t face looking down the barrel, like Bethany had all those year ago. I wasn’t as brave as her.
Moments later, I heard the gunshot, but I was still standing. It was only when I heard the thump of Polly’s lifeless body hitting the ground that I snapped my eyes open and I looked down. Her head was turned toward Paul’s, a bullet between her eyes. Then, I watched in horror as her body slid over the cliff edge and into the churning water below.
EPILOGUE
It wasn’t the same interview room. But I was sat opposite DI Ward again. I noticed, too, that this time there was a one-way mirror.
The detective looked worn. She was pacing the room, her fists bunched as though ready for a fight. I could see it was taking every inch of her being to control her anger toward me.
‘We want to help you, Sophie,’ she said again. ‘But you have to help us.’
I snorted, the medication was wearing off: reality was starting to hit.
‘We want to help you live with your daughter.’ I knew it was a lie.
‘Is she OK?’ I asked again. ‘Is Faye OK? When can I see Amy? I need to make sure she’s happy. See her for myself.’
Amy was in Faye’s care for the time being.
‘Yes, she’s fine. They’re both fine.’ The DI licked some spittle from her lip and sat down.
I nodded, my finger tracing an indent on the desk top. ‘There’s nothing more to say. I’ve told you everything.’
‘It’s just we’ve checked records, Sophie, and Polly doesn’t exist. There was no Polly attending Aberystwyth University whilst you were there.’
‘You just need to find the body.’
‘Well, there are divers out there but it might be easier if you tell us the truth.’
I gripped the edge of the table, counted to three, and then dropped that and counted to four because counting to three didn’t work. ‘I am telling you the truth.’ My words slurred slightly, the sedative was losing its grip.
She leant down and placed a plastic see-through bag on the table. Inside it had a black coat.
‘That’s Polly’s coat!’
DI Ward smiled. ‘It’s got your hair on it, your fingerprints. Sophie, it’s your coat.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s Polly’s.’ I sighed deeply, this was taking a long time. The longer I was in here, the less time I was spending with Amy. She needed me.
DI Ward leant back in the chair, puffed out her cheeks and rubbed her forehead. ‘It’s just that until we find that body, if it exists, you are currently the only person at a murder scene. We need to find the body or even a record of this person that matches what you’ve told us.’
She brought out another bag, placed it on the table. Inside it were tweezers and gloves, and the now familiar paper that Polly’s notes had been formed on.
‘You’ve found evidence then,’ I said, relieved. ‘There you go, that should help you.’
‘Yes,’ DI Ward nodded, ‘at Shamrock Place. The place is derelict now.’ She grimaced, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the bag even tighter. ‘I’ve found a record that you were a patient there as a child. Why didn’t you ever tell anyone about your condition, Sophie? Not even Paul?’
Panic clawed at me. ‘What condition?’ I straightened my back and looked desperately around me. ‘Where’s Darren? I want to talk to Darren, he’s the only one I trust. I want to talk to him alone. He knew about the medication, he knew everything.’
‘Darren can’t help you now.’
‘Why not?’ I said, fear rising in my throat.
‘He’s referring you to a unit where they might be able to help you on a more permanent basis.’
I sensed someone shift behind the mirror and I knew that it was over. Standing up, I shouted and screamed, my own voice echoing around my head. I even clawed at the table whilst two officers tried to restrain me. Someone put a pill on my tongue and pushed a water bottle toward my mouth. I glugged it back, and waited. Waited for my body to grow numb, but it never numbed my mind, and that was where the problem lay.
If you loved S is for Stranger then turn the page for an exclusive extract from Louise Stone’s chilling new psychological thriller, Never Out of Sight.
I would my soul were like the bird
That dares the vastness undeterred.
The Daring One, Edwin Markham
The Gates of Paradise and Other Poems (1928)
FIVE MONTHS AGO
The fly buzzed around him, its incessant hum thundering loudly in his ear, but still he dared not move. His eyes wandered momentarily from the woman standing in front of him – her full lips glistening with saliva – to the window. The room was airless. He knew the fly would die. Sensing the hopelessness of the situation, the fly returned to the window – firmly shut – and slammed against the windowpane once more. The April sun shone brightly outside, lighting up the room, warming his office further. He noticed the dust dancing in the stale air, and re
turned his attention to his captor.
‘You need to leave,’ he said.
His body had grown sticky, nervous energy emanating from his every pore. He slowly lifted his hand and placed a finger between his shirt collar and bare skin, moved it back and forth; seeking relief from the starchy material.
She smiled knowingly at him. ‘You don’t want that.’
He dropped his hand, laid it on his thigh and willed his leg to stop shaking. ‘This isn’t right.’
She reached behind her, felt for the key, and turned it in the lock. Click. Her gaze remained on him. ‘You’ve wanted this for a long time, Gareth.’
He gave a small shake to his head. However, knowing he needed to be clear, he shook his head again, with greater force. ‘Rosamund, I have never wanted this. Any of this. You have clearly misinterpreted something I’ve said.’
He had reverted to the tone he used in lectures. Matter-of-fact.
She walked to the edge of the sofa and sat, crossing her long, shapely legs. He wished she wouldn’t sit there. Not like this. Only an hour ago, she had sat in the same position, her knees together, laughing softly at a joke her colleague had made about Henry VIII.
Now, it was different. It was wrong.
She leant back in the cushions and he noticed the way her shorts rode up. He knew he shouldn’t look, that it would only make matters worse. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as the frayed denim crept up her smooth skin. Forcing himself to swallow, he tried to forget how good her skin had felt. Then, he saw it. He gasped.
A wry smile spread across her face. ‘You remember?’
He nodded.
‘I knew you’d like it.’ Her slender hand rubbed the area where the new tattoo prickled angrily. ‘I had it done yesterday. The guy,’ she laughed, ‘asked me why I wanted it. Told me, he’d done a few Latin quotes before. All the normal ones: “Seize the day” and all that.’ She grew serious. ‘It’s right, isn’t it? The Latin, I mean.’
His throat had closed up, his mouth cotton-dry. ‘The kiss of death.’ He looked away, concentrating on the fly once more. ‘It means the kiss of death.’ He eyed the glass of water on his desk, yearned to drink from it.
‘That’s what you said to me. That night. You said kissing me was the kiss of death.’
His breathing had started to quicken, his head reeling. He needed air.
She rose from the sofa and edged toward him, stopping a foot short of his chair. ‘Gareth, you called it that because it felt right.’
He gave a sharp shake to his head. ‘No, I called it that because my wife was in the next room talking to my colleagues, to your friends, the other students, and …’ He stopped, let out a long, shuddering breath. ‘If she found out, my marriage would be over.’
She placed her finger under his chin and lifted his face, giving him no option but to stare into her eyes. They were a deep blue. But he already knew that.
‘You wanted it as much as I wanted it. I felt it.’ She smiled again, her ridiculous youthful excitement shining through. ‘I felt you respond.’ She whispered this last word. He understood, now, what it meant when people claimed that it had only taken one second for their whole world to come crashing down around them.
She was pushing him. Threatening him.
He needed to take control. His voice, however, had given over to fear.
‘Do you want to kiss me now?’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘No.’
‘I know you’re fighting your real feelings.’ Her words were clipped: a line she had practised, perhaps, to make herself believe it was true. Or was it?
‘Rosamund, you need to leave or I will have to call someone in here.’ He waited a beat and, when she didn’t move, he tried again. ‘I’m asking you to leave. This is wrong.’
She dropped her hand and took a step backward, a small whine escaping her lips. ‘This is not wrong, Gareth. Wrong is you taking advantage of me, wrong is you wanting me even though I am your student.’ She released an abrupt laugh and his eyes snapped toward her. ‘In fact, what you did is illegal.’
He stood now, forcing his jelly-like legs to display some sort of fight. ‘It wasn’t illegal, Rosamund. Unethical, perhaps. Illegal? No.’ He realised he may have admitted to something and he stammered. ‘Y-you you were very forceful, I didn’t intend for anything to happen. You,’ he paused, ‘consented.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ll give you one last chance, Professor.’ He flinched at her sarcasm. She then giggled: he was amazed at her ability to shift effortlessly from one mood to another. ‘I know you want me and I know you don’t want to be with your wife any more.’ Her hand toyed with her necklace. ‘I’m not unethical. I’ve been brought up a good Christian girl, see?’ She lifted the gold chain and a small charm – a cross – swung in the air, catching the sunlight momentarily. ‘For me, you’re everything that’s right in the world.’
‘You’re twenty-one, Rosamund. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m almost fifty.’
She laughed; it had the same joyful lightness that he had noticed in September when she first arrived at their weekly seminar.
‘You’re bored in your marriage. I can understand that. I mean, that’s what happens, isn’t it? You’re probably thinking, why doesn’t Sue put any effort in any more? I expect you haven’t had sex in years.’
Shame washed over him as he remembered the times he had thought just that. ‘Please don’t use her name.’
‘Why?’ Rosamund raised an eyebrow, challenging him. ‘Because it makes what you did more real?’ She furrowed her brows. ‘I mean, what was she wearing at the college ball?’
He thought back to Sue’s dress: she had had it for years. ‘I thought she looked wonderful, she always does.’ He spoke vacuously: a well-rehearsed line. He remembered thinking that the dress no longer fitted her properly. If he was honest, yes, he had noticed she bulged in places she hadn’t used to.
‘I don’t believe you. Did she look as good as me?’
‘I have no opinion of how you looked.’ He dropped his gaze to the floor, heat creeping up his neck.
‘You told me I looked beautiful.’ She pouted and scratched her arm. ‘Beautiful. I remember you saying it and I felt … Do you know what I felt?’
He didn’t respond.
‘I felt like the happiest, luckiest girl in the world.’
‘You need to go.’
She clenched her jaw. ‘I’ll tell her. I’ll tell your wife.’
His chest grew tight and he glanced at the framed photo of Sue on his desk. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can. You led me on.’
‘I have done nothing of the sort.’ He turned to face her, his eyes focused on the painting behind her. ‘You must stop this ridiculous, girlish behaviour.’
She watched him steadily, her face twitching with mounting anger. ‘I could make your life hell.’
His mind whirred. Any clarity muddied as soon as she had shut the door to his office and turned the key in the lock. ‘Why would you want to be with me, anyway? I don’t go out, I don’t do the things guys of your age do. And,’ he faltered, ‘I don’t feel that way about you.’ He placed a hand on the filing cabinet, grateful for the cool of the metal. ‘You will find someone who loves you, who’s just like you. I can’t give you any of those things.’ His words settled in the still air. He could hear Simon in the corridor. ‘There are people around.’ He wasn’t sure if he said this to calm his own jagged nerves or to warn her off.
‘I don’t care who’s around.’ She walked calmly to the window, lifted the lever and pushed it open. The fly, barely alive, responded to the rush of air and flew drowsily outside.
Perspiration clung to his upper lip as he watched her close the window once more. He rubbed the base of his back with his shirt, stopping a trickle of sweat in its tracks.
‘I’ll call security,’ he eventually said.
She laughed: hollow, disbelieving. ‘No, you won’t.’
‘How can
you be so sure?’ His voice cracked involuntarily. ‘I’m well within my rights to call security, now that I’ve asked you to leave.’
She curled her lips. ‘I’ll tell them what you did.’
His heart hammered in his chest. ‘I didn’t do anything.’ He glanced at the necklace, at the cross.
She caught his look and frowned. ‘You don’t seem to realise what you’ve done.’
‘I shouldn’t have allowed anything to happen. I knew it was as much a mistake then, as I do now.’
‘Then why do you look at me like that? Even with the others here, I see you looking at me, I can feel your eyes on me.’
Fear pricked his skin; a wave of goose bumps travelled across his arms and the length of his back. She moved toward him and placed a hand at the base of his neck, her fingers softly massaging his hairline.
‘Please get off,’ he whispered hoarsely, his eyes briefly closing and giving in to her touch. ‘Please.’
‘Gareth.’ She continued to ply his skin with increasing urgency as she shifted forward once more, her breasts grazing his shirt. ‘You want me. You want this again.’
His breathing came hard and fast. ‘Get off.’ He couldn’t touch her. He knew he couldn’t touch her. ‘Get off.’
‘Gareth.’ She brought her lips toward his and lingered above his mouth, her breath sweet – the smell of cheap candy – enticingly close. ‘Gareth.’ She brushed her lips against his and he stumbled backward toward the desk, his hand knocking the penholder – a gift from his daughter, made at school – to the ground. He looked desperately at the broken clay shards, back at her.
‘No. No. No,’ he gasped. ‘Get out.’
She didn’t move, her face twisted with fury and hate. Any thoughts he’d had of her face reflecting a youthful lightness were tainted forever.
‘Get out,’ he said again, pleading.
She nodded slightly and moved toward the door. Turning, she looked back at him.
‘You will regret this. You’ll lose your job. You’ll lose everything.’ Her hand inadvertently touched the tattoo and she rubbed it: an indelible reminder of their affair. ‘You will regret this.’
