by Matt Shaw
He is real.
He’s talking to me.
He’s with me.
What if I drive back to his house - lock myself away in there again, somehow... wait to be discovered. The bodies here, when the authorities find me - they’ll think Peter killed this couple too...
“I’ve never seen these people before in my life. You can’t prove that.”
A mountain of dead bodies in his garage, would they need further proof? Especially if I was trapped in his house for the whole time.
“Can you be sure you’d get rid of all the DNA?”
Silence.
I can’t.
With dead bodies, I’m sure there’d be an investigation even if all signs did point to them just having a bad neighbour. They’d still look for hard facts instead of just assuming it was solved... Would they?
I don’t know.
I don’t know anything anymore.
And what if no one ever came for me? I don’t want to be stuck in that prison....
“The other prison is better? For the rest of your life? Come on, Vanessa, you know you couldn’t cope with that.... especially after what you’ve been through. Come back home, there’s always a spare room in my home for you.”
Fuck.
You.
Silence.
“So where are you going to go? You can’t just sit here for the rest of your life.”
Can’t I?
What if I just drive? Keep driving. Don’t look back. Don’t tell anyone about what happened. Get as far away as possible and start again. Mum and dad are gone, anyway. I have no one here.
No one.
Just memories tainted by this experience.
How do you even start again?
Never mind getting over this, I have no money. No money to start again, that’s for sure. Maybe enough money for a night in a cheap hotel. Certainly not enough to start afresh.
A stop off to my house? Clean it of all the valuab....
Don’t be stupid.
There’s nothing there to sell.
Maybe mum and dad left me something in their Will?
I stop a minute.
I hate myself for even thinking along those lines. I don’t care what they’ve left me, I’d give it all back to them just to have them in my life again. Give everything back just to feel the warmth of their touch against my body...
... To hear their voices.
Fuck Peter for taking them away from me.
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
He didn’t put an argument up.
Stop being stupid.
Of course he didn’t put an argument up. He’s fucking dead.
“Only because you killed me.”
I close my eyes. Seconds pass. I open them again and look in the rear-view mirror. Peter flashes me a smile.
I fucking hate him.
DNA.
Does DNA burn?
I turn towards the house.
Burn it.
Burn it all.
I’m sure they’ll still be able to determine a crime took place but maybe not be able to pin-point that I was here. When they learn about what happened at Peter’s, maybe they’ll automatically assume he was responsible....
Has to be worth a try.
“It’ll never work.”
I don’t have any other choice.
I take the key from my car’s ignition and climb back out.
I’ve never done anything like this before, not entirely sure where to start. How hard can it be, though?
I drag myself over to the front door and slide the key into the lock. One twist later and the door is both unlocked and open. I locked it earlier to delay the discovery, inside, for as long as I possibly could - buying myself a few seconds more to hide myself away.
Straight away my eyes are drawn to the foot, in the doorway of the kitchen.
The old man.
Fred.
I’m sorry.
Put it out of your mind. You thought you were doing the right thing.
“I thought I was doing the right thing, too.”
Fuck you.
Okay...
Think...
Fire...
Kitchen...
I hobble down the hallway and into the kitchen - trying my best to ignore the old man’s body.
“Fred.”
Ignore him.
Ignore the body.
Look for matches or anything else that’ll hold a flame... candles, maybe? I start looking through the various cupboards and drawers... next to the oven is a cupboard, typically the last that I search.... plates, a few cups, a box of candles and various oven-use dishes. A weird place to keep the candles, I think, but - each to their own.
I grab the box before turning one of the oven’s many hobs on.
Gas.
Leave the gas on?
No.
Come back and turn it on after all the fires are set, around the house. Don’t want to get caught in the explosion. Will it even explode? I’m not sure how this works! Sure, I’ve seen it in films and on television but I’ve never actually seen it for myself.
Learn something new every day.
“Murderer... arsonist... you’re definitely worse than me. I never set any fires.”
13.
The fire upstairs is spreading nicely. I’d gone through the house, starting upstairs, setting fire to whatever I thought would keep the flames going using a candle as my main flame and a can of deodorant, I found in the bathroom, to create a flame-thrower effect.
I have to say, it was surprisingly fun.
Just to repeat the process throughout the downstairs of the house now and then I’m done. Not long to go now.
First things first, I try the back door. I don’t want to get trapped in here, once I turn the gas on - the kitchen being the only room I won’t set any fires; allowing the chance for more gas to leak into the house before it hits any naked flames.
“You nearly sound like you know what you’re doing.”
Fuck you.
The back door is locked.
Upstairs is burning away nicely. I suppose I could light smaller fires in the downstairs rooms and then turn the gas on. Smaller fires will take longer to spread into uncontrollable fires which I wouldn’t be able to get past, on the way back out of the house.
Smaller fires will also allow the gas more time to fill the rooms.
I can work with smaller fires.
I start in the room furthest from the kitchen and spray a flame towards the curtains. I hold it there for five seconds and stop spraying. I tried shorter bursts, upstairs, but the flames didn’t always take - instead just scorching the various fabrics I was burning. Five seconds seemed to be the minimum. Another spray on the other side of the curtain and then two more jets of fire aimed towards the middle of the curtains too. I stand back. A job well done.
The curtains are alight.
I look around the rest of the room - dining room table and chairs. Wooden. A polished effect to them. I’m not sure how well they’ll burn so I leave them be. The curtains are enough of a blaze for this room.
The lounge next... same process on the curtains. Longer bursts of flame against the settee as, again, I’m not sure how it will take.
It takes surprisingly well.
Scarily well.
I drop the can and move through to the kitchen as quickly as my poorly ankle will let me. Okay, this is it. Let this be an end to it.
Turn the gas on and get out of the house as quickly as possible.
I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I suppose, worst case, the house will blow instantly and I’ll go along with it. At least it will be quick and solve my problems. Best case scenario - eventually the house blows up. Even if this plan doesn’t work - I’ve created enough fires around the house to ensure the whole place eventually goes up in flames. If the town is that far away, as the old man suggested... it will be hard for people to spot the fire unt
il it’s too late.
Besides, even if I don’t try this.... people will find the bodies and link me to the crime. I have nothing to lose.
I nervously reach out and turn all the gas dials around.
No turning back now.
What if I did just lay down and let the flames consume me?
Would that be such a bad thing?
No.
You’re being stupid again. You’ve come this far....
Don’t give up now.
With the gas leaking into the room, I get myself down the hallway and out of the house as quickly as I possibly can.
Immediately I climb into the car and put the keys in the ignition - one fluid movement later and the car’s engine kicks into life.
One final glance at the house. The raging inferno.
I hope the memories of Peter burn in there too - along with any evidence of what I’ve done.
I look down to the gear-stick and put it in ‘reverse’, allowing the gears to crunch to save the pain of my ankle pushing on the pedals - a look into the rear-view mirror to see where I’m going. Peter, on the back seat, smiles at me.
Fuck.
I reverse down the drive-way to a safe distance and roll to a stop.
The house is burning nicely. I brace myself for the explosion.
Nothing.
Maybe it won’t come.
Forget it. The house is burning nicely. By the time anyone comes - it will be nothing but charred remains. Drive away.
Don’t get caught here.
Drive.
For all I know, the fire has already been seen and reported. If I’m caught here.... caught with a loaded gun in my hand.
I continue to back onto the main rain and crunch the gear into first, before driving down the country-lane... as fast as the old man’s car will take me.
“Fred.”
Ignore him.
As I gather speed, and crunch my way through the rest of the gears, I still have no idea as to where I’m driving - the police station? The hospital? Maybe if I go the hospital they’ll call the police for me - call them and take away some of my pain at the same time....
Will this pain even go?
I slam on the car brakes and skid to a halt - stalling the engine in the process.
“What are you doing?”
A look in the rear-view mirror; Peter staring right back at me.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
The pain I’m experiencing - it’s not just my ankle. It’s everything. I hurt from what he has put me through, what he has done to me and I hurt because I can’t stop thinking about mum and dad. What they must be thinking about me now... after all...
After all the things I’ve gone and done.
“They aren’t thinking anything, they’ dead,”
I flash him a look via the rear-view mirror.
Silly.
I know he’s not really there.
“Fuck you,” I reply.
There must be something else, after we’re dead. I refuse to believe that, for them, there is nothing.
“They’re with me,” hissed Peter.
“PLEASE LET ME ALONE!” I scream, louder than I’ve screamed for a very long time - in fact, since we first met. I reach up and hit the rear-view mirror, twisting it around so I can no longer see his reflection.
I feel like I’m cracking up.
“I’ll never leave you alone. You and me. We’re forever.”
“Please, why won’t you leave me alone?” I start to cry. It feels like it’s all I’ve done recently. I feel emotionally exhausted.
Hospital.
Just drive to the hospital.
Maybe they’ll give me something so strong it will knock me out. At the very least, dull my senses...
“I’ll still be here, when you come to.”
Ignore him.
Eventually he’ll go away.
Get back to normality. Let people help me. Move on.
Move on.
“We could do with a nice holiday.”
Ignore him.
I restart the engine, crunch into first gear and pull away.
Hospital.
The doctors can help.
And then the police will clean everything up. Maybe they’ll keep me out of the media frenzy which will, no doubt, follow.
14.
I drove for at least an hour through tear-filled eyes, occasional smart-arse comments from the back-seat and now, finally, I’m here...
Finally...
Outside the hospital - in the ambulance lane at the Casualty department.
Once again, unsure of what to do next.
Peter leaned in from the back seat, “So.... are we going to go in?”
I whisper, “Please leave me alone.”
I turn to him and he flashes me a smile and a cheeky wink.
Ignore him.
He’ll go.
In time.
I hope.
I open the door to the car and roll out, dropping to the floor with an audible thud.
“Someone help me please,” I call out, feebly.
No one comes.
“SOMEBODY!! HELP ME PLEASE!!”
An ambulance roars into the lane, behind my car - the driver pushing the ambulance’s horn, like I’m supposed to suddenly jump up and wave an apology before moving the car.
The paramedic in the ambulance jumps out and runs around to the driver’s side of my car where he sees me for, I presume, the first time.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
The first voice I’m sure is one of a kind man. I can’t help but cry tears of genuine joy. The first tears I’ve actually cried and strangely enjoyed.
“Please help me!” I whimper.
The paramedic helps me up to my feet.
The emergency doors to the hospital slide open and a team of doctors come rushing out. I sense a wave of relief rush through my body..... and they run right past us as the paramedic nods them in the direction of the waiting ambulance.
He, however, stays with me - helping me into the reception area of the room.
“Can we have some help, please?” he calls over to one of the porters who responds by rushing over with a wheelchair.
Normally I’m terrified by hospitals. For the first time, ever, I’m happy to be in one.
“He killed them all,” I tell the paramedic.
“What?” Who killed them all?”
“The girls! All the girls! My mum and dad!” I feel myself starting to get hysterical. I try and hold it back but I can’t.... “HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!”
“Okay, it’s okay, you’re safe now...” as he pushed the wheelchair to a curtained cubicle, he rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I can’t help but flinch.
* * * * *
On the bed.
I can’t even remember clambering onto it, from the chair, yet here I am.
A small, white, clean bed. Rails up, on either side, to stop me from slipping off onto the hard floor. Three curtains - one in front of me, one to my right and one to my left.... all closed to give me some privacy whilst I wait for, I guess, a doctor.
A doctor and the police.
I’d rather the curtains were open, if I were being honest. I’d feel less imprisoned and, the sight of other people... normal people.... it’s nice.
The curtain is pulled to one side, revealing Peter. I jump and close my eyes tight...
Open them again.
It’s not Peter.
A doctor with a nurse.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the doctor as the nurse crossed between the two of us, towards the other side of the bed.
