by Zoe Caldwell
‘Yeah, I am a bit,’ Vanessa replies.
‘Cool,’ I chirp, hoping my cleaner might have replenished the fridge.
I don’t think of my cleaner as a housekeeper but really, she is. She does more than cleaning. She keeps my flat ticking along, feeling like a home. She does the things I’m too busy trying to get away with murder to remember: she buys new towels when mine grow ragged, she orders bulbs for lamps when they grow dim, she replenishes the cupboards and fridge with tea and food and coffee and pristine crockery. She does the laundry, the ironing, leaves my clothes where they belong: neat and perfect in my walk-in wardrobe. I forget how many things she does. It all happens when I’m out, like magic, so that my flat’s perfect and comfortable by the time I get home.
I hop off my stool and walk over to the fridge. I’m relieved upon opening it to discover fresh supplies: milk, eggs, butter, cheese, a couple of yoghurts, a packet of fillet steak, a few bags of salad, even a pack of salted caramel profiteroles.
‘Fancy some steak?’ I suggest, discovering a bag of green beans on one of the shelves, a pot of pepper sauce.
Vanessa turns from gazing out at the view of the city through the plate glass windows.
‘Sounds perfect,’ she replies.
I pull open one of the drawers in the fridge and discover a bag of carrots, some new potatoes.
I’m not the best cook in the world, but even I can fry some steaks, boil a few potatoes and green beans, heat up some pepper sauce. I root around for a frying pan while Vanessa starts talking about a political news story. I haven’t read up on it as much as her, too distracted by Warner but I can just about wing it and I chat away as I prepare the meal. I hardly ever cook in my flat, especially not for another person. I don’t invite my friends round much. Most people with a flat as nice as mine would probably want to show it off, but I don’t really care. I like having my space too much.
It’s different with Vanessa though. The smell of the hot oil warming in the pan, the sizzling steaks, the sound of the bubbling potatoes, her voice. The feeling of chatting about the news over a glass of red wine at the end of the day. It tugs at my heart in a way that’s deeper, more moving, more compelling than the Woman of the Year Awards, even Warner. Is this what I truly want? A beautiful girl. Domesticity.
I laugh at a comment Vanessa makes and flip the steaks. They hiss and I wonder whether I could let her in a little bit. Let her into my home. My heart. I wonder whether she’d be okay inside. She probably wouldn’t mind calling my flat home, but would she want to experience the private parts of me? Could she handle it? Would she get too close or would she allow me a bit of space, like she does now? I’d need to keep parts of myself locked away, private spaces just for me. Garages of the soul. But maybe we could find a way to make it work, to lead a normal life. Maybe I’d stop wanting to kill if I had someone who loved me. Maybe the pain would abate, the rage dissipating.
I push the steaks around, conscious of not overcooking or burning them.
Vanessa jumps off her stool and sidles up to me. She slips her hands around my waist, rests her head on my shoulder.
‘Looks delicious,’ she says, peering into the pan.
‘They do, don’t they?’
I move the pan off the heat and turn to face her. I kiss her, slipping my fingers under the hem of her jumper, feeling her warm skin underneath. She draws me close. Her kiss isn’t just lust, it’s loving, comforting. Her kiss feels like home. It feels like hope.
17
My phone rings as I wait for the night bus.
It’s Eva. She’s probably wondering why I’ve missed out on drinks, brunch, and other social activities over the past few weeks. I should pick up, show I’m alive.
I answer, looking at the arrivals display.
The bus I’m waiting for, the one due to take me to south-east London, is due in two minutes.
‘Hey, what are you up to?’ Eva asks.
‘Not a lot.’
The truth is I’m already in disguise, wearing a long brown wig and a cap, no makeup, a massive ratty old coat, heels to make me look taller and jeans. I glance nervously around, hoping my friends aren’t near or planning to call in. The last thing I need is for them to see me looking weird, like this.
‘Are you out?’ I ask.
‘I’m around the corner. In Lawrence’s. Where are you?’ Eva asks, her voice sounding strained, tense.
Lawrence’s? My heart clenches. What’s she doing there?
‘I’m…’ I hesitate, reaching for an excuse, ‘having a quiet night. Popped out to pick up some food,’ I lie. ‘What’s up?’
‘I need to see you. I can’t really say over the phone,’ Eva tells me.
I wonder what it could be. A work thing? It’s hardly likely to be a man thing. Eva’s like me – perpetually single, only engaging in discreet affairs she tends not to talk about. She doesn’t let people in. She’s not interested in silly highs and lows and dramas. She’s not the kind of person to reach out either. Whatever’s happened must be serious.
‘Can we catch up tomorrow?’ I suggest.
‘Are you sure you can’t meet now?’ Eva implores.
I feel bad, she’s clearly desperate, but I have a kill room to prepare. Miles is meeting me tomorrow. It’s not like I can prepare his kill during the day. I need the cover of darkness. And it’s not like I can just pop into Lawrence’s. Seeing me might jog his memory, he might remember I was there with Julian. It’s not worth the risk. And anyway, I’m already in disguise.
‘I can’t. I’ll call tomorrow,’ I tell her.
‘Okay, fine. But please do. It’s urgent,’ Eva insists.
‘Will do,’ I reply, before saying goodbye and hanging up.
Odd. Eva hardly ever calls me. I drop my phone into the pocket of my jacket as the bus arrives.
I swipe my Oyster card against the sensor and get on. I’d normally use my bank card for travelling in London, but I don’t want to be tracked. I climb the stairs of the double-decker and sit on the top floor at the back, right under the CCTV camera. All the camera will detect will be the back of my head. I gaze out of the window as the bus begins to crawl through London. I smile to myself, relishing the feeling of being someone else, of letting the mask of Camilla Black fall and slipping into one of my shadow selves.
I turn my phone off to avoid being tracked. I won’t turn it on again until I’m back. For now, I’m making my way to a suburb I’ve never been to before. A poor part of town. South-east London’s equivalent of Hayes. I researched the area a few nights ago, with encryption software hiding my search history. I turn on my iPod and put on some music, absently gazing out of the window and watching passengers drift on and off the bus as it chugs out of the city. Eventually, I start to recognise the area from the images I’ve seen on Google Maps. The bus crawls down a dual carriageway. I take in a gigantic Asda across the road, sprawling car parks. A shopping estate. TK Maxx. Next. Topshop. Boots. Poundland. I turn around. Furniture depots. Trade shops for restaurants. I’m getting close. I press the bell and get off the bus.
I start walking down the side of the dual carriageway towards the hardware store I found online. There are hardware stores closer to me than this, but I’m hardly going to go and buy a ton of supplies for a murder somewhere local. I thought I’d come to this part of town instead. It’s built-up enough that people come and go, and my purchases won’t stand out. And given that I’m in disguise, even if I am caught on CCTV, I won’t look enough like myself for the police to do anything about it. As well as my wig and cap, I’m wearing a massive scarf that practically comes up to my ears, which will hide my mouth and jawline.
I head into the store. It’s quiet. There are a couple of builder types, picking up supplies, it’s not well-staffed. It’s cold. They even have self-service tills. A teenager restacking a display of nuts and bolts barely even glances in my direction. There are a few other customers, a couple by the looks of it, standing by a display of indoor plants, looking as
though they’re trying to decide which to buy. The store smells of wood-shavings and polish. I grab a trolley and wheel it through the aisles.
I pick up a couple of random things: a roll of wallpaper, a pot plant, a pack of brushes, then I move on to the more exciting stuff. Power saws. I want the most expensive one. It boasts of a ‘high-speed motor’, which ‘makes the most demanding cuts with ease’. I picture Miles’s flesh buzzing off its blades, but a woman splashing out on a top-of-the-range power saw in this part of town might raise a few eyebrows. The cashier might remember me or casually ask a question. Better to stick to one of the mid-range saws instead. They’ll still cut through bone and flesh, and that’s the most important thing. I pick up goggles, a nail gun, respiratory mask, a torch, plastic gloves, plastic sheeting, and a few other random bits – nuts and bolts, masking tape, adhesive – to make it look like I’m doing a spot of DIY rather than slaughtering someone.
I head to the till. The shop assistant who was stacking the shelves is now sweeping up soil from a knocked-over pot plant. I keep my head down, affecting a bored, disinterested demeanour as I start scanning my items. I have too many things for the bagging area, but I carry on anyway. I’ll do two loads. I scan my kill stuff first, to get it over with. The shop assistant glances my way, but carries on with his sweeping. I feel almost sorry for the guy. Friday night and he’s stuck sweeping the floor of a cold hardware store in one of the grottiest parts of the city.
I scan my power saw first – the most important item, and then start feeding the other items through the scanner: my saw, goggles, gloves, sheeting, knives, nail gun, duct tape. I feel tense as I scan each item, my hands shaky as I bag everything up. Once I’ve scanned everything, I pay with cash and move my bags onto the floor, before scanning the next load. The shop assistant finishes sweeping, leaning his broom against the wall. I start scanning the next load as he kneels on the floor with a dustpan and brush, sweeping up his pile of dirt. What if he comes over in a minute, once he’s emptied the dustpan into the bin? What if he inspects my items? I just want to be out of here. I scan the last few things at lightning speed and bag them up. The shop assistant carries the dustpan over to the bin. I press ‘pay’ on the screen, willing the machine not to stall. It gives me the total. I try to keep my hands steady as I feed in twenty-pound notes. One, two, three, four, five. Done. Paid. The machine dispenses my change: a jangle of coins. I consider leaving it for the poor sod who works here, but I can’t risk him being a good person and running after me, telling me I’ve forgotten my change.
I scoop the money up, dump it in my coat pocket, load my bags into my trolley and keep my head down as I wheel my trolley out of the store. I park the trolley and lug the bags across the car park, emerging back onto the main road. My stuff’s pretty heavy but I wander down the road, looking out for a cab. After ten minutes of walking, laden with bags, I stop to deposit the purchases I won’t need in someone’s wheelie bin. I glance around. There are no cabs passing by. It would take five seconds to hail down a taxi in Mayfair, but out here it’s dull and residential, it’s just cars and buses and vans. Sighing, I check my bearings on my burner phone and head in the direction of the nearest restaurants. I lug my stuff as I continue walking along the pavement, head down, wishing I could have used my SUV for this, when finally, a cab appears, its orange light glowing in the darkness. I flag it down.
I keep my head lowered as I get inside, dumping my bags on the back seats. I give the driver my destination from under my cap. I googled a street not far from the industrial estate earlier. The driver nods, disinterested, pulling away from the kerb. I fasten my seat belt and gaze out of the window as the cab passes down the dual carriageway, leaving the shopping development behind. I let my mind wander, thinking about tomorrow, Miles.
The kill should be fairly easy. I’ll text Miles the address of the estate, tell him I’m hanging out at the warehouse. It’s the kind of thing a boy would do, right? Explore some derelict old building. Once he arrives, I’ll approach him from behind, slip a needle into his neck and give him a measure of sedative to the jugular, sedating him instantly. By the time he wakes, he’ll be bound up. I’ll torture him for a while, have a bit of fun with him as I make him confess to some of the things he’s done. I’ll make him pay for his crimes, feel the pain he deserves. Then, when I’ve had enough, I’ll finish him off: saw him into pieces, bag him up. The industrial site’s not far from the river. It might take a few trips, but I can carry the bags to the water’s edge, weigh them down with loose bricks from the estate, and toss them in. All traces of Miles will disappear. The children of London will finally be safe.
The taxi nears the industrial estate. I couldn’t look any more different now to how I was last time I came here, in my chauffeured car, slick and professional before the shoot. And now I’m in disguise, weighed down with bags.
The driver pulls up outside the address of the house I gave him. I pay in cash and get out of the cab. I linger outside the house until the cab disappears into the traffic and then I continue down the road towards the estate.
There are no gates and I’m able to walk in off the street, but it’s deserted, creepy, eerily quiet at night. I walk towards the warehouse. Unlike when I was here last time, there are no cars, no office workers, no lights on, and yet I have a weird feeling, like I’m going to be disturbed. I keep looking over my shoulders as I creep through the estate. I remember where the fire exit was located and I bypass the front door, weaving my way around the building to the back. Once I’m inside, I’ll feel better. I jimmy open the door, look over my shoulder again and step inside, pulling my bags in behind me.
Inside, amid the cold, dank air, I breathe a sigh of relief. The building is quiet, so very quiet. I stand still for a moment, letting the silence sink into me, calming my nerves. I’m here now, in this dark, abandoned space. It’s just me and the empty rooms, with a kill to prepare. I feel my mask fall away as I lift my bags and make my way deeper inside.
It takes a while to line one of the offices with plastic sheeting, but it’s amazing how determined you can be when you have your eye on the prize. I unfurl roll after roll, affixing corners to skirting boards, taping reems of the stuff to the walls, standing on an old ladder from the warehouse to tack stretches of plastic across the ceiling. Eventually, the room is lined. I flick my torch around it, the light glinting off the shiny plastic. Nice.
I unpack my saw, open it, have a play around. I unpack a few of the other tools, take them out of their wrappers for easy access tomorrow, then I leave them in the corner of the room with a roll of heavy-duty bin bags for Miles’s body. Feeling relieved that the preparation is over, I carefully walk out of the room and close the door behind me. Then, feeling a million times lighter, I slip back out of the fire exit and creep back out of the estate.
I wander down the street for a while, and then hop in another cab back to central London. As we get closer to the city, I turn my phone back on and text Vanessa, seeing what she’s up to. She replies instantly, saying she’s at home. She invites me over. I’ve always been a bit nervous about going to her run-down student house, but I’ve just prepared a kill room in the middle of nowhere. I guess I can handle it. I tell her I’m on my way and lean forward, giving the taxi driver her address.
The car crawls through the suburban south London streets, making its way past off-licences, glowing in the darkness, takeaways, terraced houses, lights on. I ask the driver to drop me off at the end of Vanessa’s street and pay. I get out and loiter for a moment until he’s out of sight. A group of pissed girls, who look like students, dressed for a night on the town, spill out of one of the houses. I keep my head down as they pass me, tripping down the road, all linked arms, giddy laughs and high heels. Once they’ve gone, I check no one else is around and pull off my cap. I yank off my wig and dump both in a nearby bin. I run my fingers through my flattened, matted hair and head to Vanessa’s. I’m clearly not looking my best. I’m dressed down, no makeup. Without makeup, my f
ace is pale and unremarkable. I have the kind of face that’s like a blank canvas, it can be made to look striking, but it can also be completely forgettable. Vanessa’s never seen me like this before. I’ve always made an effort around her. I’ve always been Camilla, but tonight I’m creeping into my shadow self. I’m an in-between version. It shouldn’t matter though. Vanessa and I are beyond focusing solely on each other’s looks. I feel just about comfortable showing her this side of myself, the mask slightly askew.
I walk up her front drive. Her house is a four-story Victorian townhouse, that was probably once a salubrious family home, now rough around the edges. The windowsills are rotting, the tiles on the doorstep are chipped, the paint on the door is cracked and peeling. I tap the knocker, hoping Vanessa answers and not one of her flatmates. I clear my throat as I wait. I hear footsteps pounding the staircase. A blurry figure moves behind bubbled glass panels.
The door opens. It’s Vanessa.
‘Hey!’ She smiles widely.
She’s wearing her hair down, and it falls in beautiful waves over her shoulders. She leans in to kiss me. She doesn’t seem to notice or care how I look. She seems happy I’m here.
‘Come in!’ She takes my hand and pulls me inside.
I grin, girlishly, surprising myself.
She pulls me into a hallway lined with woodchip wallpaper and horribly cheap, industrial-style blue carpet. The house smells musty, a little damp. I spot a kitchen down the hallway, hear voices. Laughter. I worry she’s going to introduce me to her flatmates, but she doesn’t. She leads me up a narrow staircase to her bedroom. As we head up the stairs, I notice she’s painted her toenails – a garish glittering green shade that I’d never dream of wearing but that’s so her.
