The Perfect Girl

by Lorna Dounaeva

  “Well, thank you for speaking to us today, Daphne,” the interviewer said, cutting her off. “It’s been interesting to get your perspective.”

  Daphne ran a hand through her soft, white hair. “Just a minute, there’s something else I want to say.” She looked straight at the camera, her eyes large and indignant. “I have a personal message for the May Queen Killer.”

  The camera zoomed in closer, so that her crinkly face filled the screen.

  “I want you to know that you don’t scare me. Not anymore. You’re taken lives and ruined others. Enough is enough. Show yourself, coward! Turn yourself in.”

  Wow! That was a bit intense, Jock thought, as he tied his laces. Daphne seemed so sure that her husband wasn’t the May Queen Killer that it almost didn’t matter if he was or not. No matter what proof he or anyone else uncovered against him, he doubted she would ever believe it.

  Sapphire closed her eyes, but she couldn’t rest. She rolled over and knocked on the wall, hoping that Claire would hear and come down.

  “We must be quiet,” Ingrid reminded her. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. We just want to be left alone.”

  “But what good is it to be quiet if we die of thirst?” Sapphire argued. “If Claire comes down she can get us some water.”

  “We could do with more blankets,” Fizz said, doing star jumps to keep warm. “Two between four isn’t much use.”

  “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

  “Just be careful,” Ingrid said. “We don’t want anyone else to come down.”

  “Why don’t they come down?” Sapphire asked. “What’s it all for if they don’t even come and see us?”

  “But they will,” Ingrid said, rubbing her temples. “And then you’ll wish they hadn’t.”

  “What do they do?” Sapphire asked. “Tell me!”

  “It’s better you don’t know.”

  Sapphire clenched her fists in frustration. “But don’t you understand that my mind is conjuring up all kinds of horrors? It can’t possibly be worse than what I’m imagining.”

  Ingrid looked at her hard. “Can’t it?”

  “Anyone want a beer?” Fizz asked. She pretended to open a can and slug back its contents. A few minutes later, she was staggering round the room.

  “Knock it off,” Sapphire said. She really wasn’t in the mood for Fizz’s antics, but Fizz stayed in character, pretending to pee up the wall.

  “Does she never get tired of playing the fool?” Sapphire asked wearily.

  “Never,” Ingrid said. “I, on the other hand, feel very tired.”

  They snuggled side by side for warmth.

  “I wish I had a duvet,” Sapphire grumbled.

  “I’d settle for a real glass of wine,” Ingrid said.

  “Did someone say wine?” Fizz blundered over with her imaginary bottle, deliberately stepping on their toes.

  “God, you’re annoying!” Sapphire snapped.

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Yes, you are,” agreed Ingrid. “You’re all bloody annoying.”

  Sapphire nodded. “When we get out of here, I hope I never see any of you again.”

  Harmony looked shocked. “You don’t mean that!”

  “Of course I do. You’ll be glad to see the back of me, too.”

  “No, I won’t!” Harmony looked like she was going to cry and Sapphire immediately felt guilty.

  “OK, you can come round for tea.”

  Harmony brightened up. “Can I bring Kiki?”

  “Who’s Kiki?”

  “My dog. I wish I had my phone; I could show you some pictures of her.”

  “If you had your phone, we wouldn’t be sitting around here talking about dogs.”

  She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep, then there was a soft knock at the door.

  “I’ll go,” Sapphire said. She walked up to the top of the steps and waited.

  “I just wanted to let you know it was me,” Claire said when the door opened. She seemed almost shy. “Here, I thought you could have this for a bit.” She held out a kettle. “Careful, it’s full of water. I think I saw a socket under the stairs. There’s only the one tea bag, I’m afraid. You’ll have to reuse it but at least it will keep you warm.”

  Sapphire took it. “Thanks, Claire, I …”

  “I have to go,” she said, looking nervously around the room. “I’ll be back to get it in the morning.”

  Night fell slowly. It was always dim in the cellar, but Sapphire’s eyes had adjusted. She could make out forms and faces in the darkness and had got used to feeling her way around by reaching out with her hands. Her preferred place to sleep at night was at the top of the stairs, away from most of the rats, but that night her energy levels were so low that the stairs might as well have been Everest. She lay down with the others and closed her eyes, but it wasn’t long before she heard the whistling and squeaking that signalled the rats’ arrival. She braced herself, her hands firmly pressed over her face.

  “Play dead,” whispered Ingrid, “and they won’t bother you.”

  Rat after rat poured out of the walls.

  “I understand that they’re hungry, but do they really have to piss everywhere?” Fizz moaned. “I’ve never known an animal to wee so much.”

  “It must be a territorial thing,” said Ingrid. “Now hush up. I need my beauty sleep.”

  Sapphire lay awake, listening. She tried not to mind as the rats scampered by, preoccupied with their scavenging. She heard Fizz snoring softly and wondered how she could find such peace. A rat brushed her foot and she held her breath, waiting for it to move. Its razor-sharp teeth pierced her skin.

  “Get it off me!” she shrieked, but the creature just hung on tighter. It was the one she had stepped on previously; she was certain of it. She grabbed her shoe and attacked it with the pointy heel, stabbing it three or four times before she was satisfied it was dead.

  Ingrid touched her arm. “Are you hurt?”

  “It bloody kills,” she said, but it was more the shock than anything else. She lay down again and was trying to sleep when she felt another rat rub against her ankle. A second set of teeth clamped down on her skin. She jumped up and shook it off, but the evil thing had already taken its bite.

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s the blood,” Ingrid said. “They get a taste for it, especially when there’s not much else to eat.”

  As if to prove her point, she felt more fur against her leg. She attacked the little blighter, whacking it repeatedly before it could bite.

  “You’ve got to wash that wound,” Ingrid said, “or they’re going to keep going for you.”

  Carefully, Sapphire poured the last of the precious kettle water over her leg. It seemed such a waste, but she didn’t have much choice. If she didn’t clean off the blood, those filthy rats were going to keep biting her. She ripped off a piece of her petticoat and used it as a bandage, tying it tightly around the wound. When she re-joined the group, she sat with her leg tucked underneath her, a shoe in each hand. It was a long, exhausting night, but when the sunlight eventually came in, she had a pile of battered rat corpses in front of her. In the harsh light of day, they looked so small and helpless, despite their pointy teeth, and she felt uncomfortable in the knowledge that she had killed them all. With a quick glance at the still-sleeping Harmony, she scooped them up and dropped them all into the pee bucket. Hopefully Claire would take them away when she came down.

  Most people go through life afraid: afraid to go out after dark; afraid of anyone who seems a bit different or out of control. But I don’t have to be afraid. I can go out whenever I like, because I’m the one they fear and nobody even knows it. Most killers are careless and stupid. They are too lazy to plan ahead and ensure everything is properly executed. They are impatient, unable to wait for their next crime, their next kill. But not me. I’ve waited years. The fantasy is always better than the reality anyway. I’d rather get it right.

  I arrive at th
e warehouse and tuck my boat round the back, where it is unlikely to be noticed by passing traffic. I remove the plank that hides the entrance, taking care to put it back when I’m inside. It wouldn’t do for Claire to find out how I get in and out. My lantern lights up the room well enough for me to see. A little too well, actually. I could do without the endearing sight of two brown rats grooming one another. I shine it into the lift, checking carefully to ensure it’s empty. If I am caught, it will be because of this lift. It’s haunted, I’m convinced of it. It’s downright creepy, the way it seems to think for itself. I will not allow myself to get spooked by it. Absolutely not. But if I get trapped in there, I’m betting Claire wouldn’t have the gumption to call anybody, not even to save herself. I’ve trained her too well.

  I travel down to the lower ground floor so I can have a quick peep in the cellar before I see Claire. I don’t go in, just inch the door open and peer through. Sapphire is just waking up. She has her back to me, so I can watch her without her being aware of it as she attempts to stand on her head. It seems to have become a ritual of hers, that and the endless singing. She is nothing like Claire, nothing like what I’ve come to expect. After so many days, she is still wildly unpredictable. If I were to go in there right now, I don’t know whether she would attack me or beg for her life. I’ve allowed barely enough rations to keep her alive and yet she’s not as worn down as I would expect. It’s as if she has an extra energy source I don’t know about. I wanted another Claire. I’m beginning to think this one’s more trouble than she’s worth.

  “So, I forgot to ask, how was the abbey?” Dylan asked over tea at Sapphire’s the next morning.

  Jock shrugged. “About the same as a cathedral. What’s the difference anyway?”

  “An abbey is a monk’s house,” Anthony butted in. “A cathedral’s more like a church. The main one in the diocese.”

  “Why are you using words like ‘diocese’ at your age?” Dylan asked with distaste. “Don’t you know how to set traps and light fireworks?”

  Anthony looked perplexed. He pulled out his phone and selected a game.

  “Whatcha playing?” Dylan asked.

  “Chess.”

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  “Because it’s hard.”

  “Like a challenge, do you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever tried this?” He showed him what he was playing on his own phone.

  “Angry Birds? That’s for kids.”

  “It is not!” snorted Verity from the next table. She held up her phone to show that she was playing, too.

  Dylan smirked. “See?”

  Jock’s phone vibrated abruptly and he lifted it to his ear without thinking.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh! Thank God!”

  “Mum.”

  He glanced around the room, looking for an excuse. “Mum, I’ve got to go. I’m in a meeting. Yes, yes. I’ll ring you later. Bye.”

  “You told a lie,” Anthony accused him.

  “Not a lie, a fib.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A fib is harmless.”

  Anthony met his eyes but Jock out-stared him. Eventually, Anthony got bored.

  “My mum’s got blonder hair than you,” he told Angie, as she walked by.

  “I expect she uses hair dye,” she replied.

  “I bet she’s got more shoes than you,” he went on, undeterred. “How many pairs have you got?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “What, you know that, without even counting?”

  “Yup.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  He folded his arms. “My mum can eat more ice cream than you.”

  Angie smiled. “I’ll give her that one.”

  “OK.”

  “OK.”

  Satisfied, he looked around for someone else to pester.

  Jock holed up in the library for the day. His meeting with Hilary had given him a renewed enthusiasm for his book, in spite of the way she had reacted. He couldn’t wait to get it finished. It felt so amazing to write something the way he wanted, without having to tone down his language and bury the real him. The clock moved without his noticing, the minutes running into hours. By the time he plodded back down the hill towards the Dragon, his body was stiff and aching, but his mind was free.

  He trudged up to his room. There was something lying on the stairs: a shirt. It looked like one of Dylan’s. He bent down to pick it up. It was covered in blood – lots of it, all down the front. He quickened his pace.

  “Dylan?”

  He climbed the steps that led to Dylan’s attic bedroom. The door was ajar, but no sound came from inside.

  “Dylan, are you alright?”

  He pushed the door open. Dylan lay slumped on the floor in the middle of the carpet. The room reeked of alcohol, the source of which appeared to be a combination of Dylan’s breath and the empty glass that lay beside him.

  “Dylan?”

  Dylan let out a loud grunt, but did not wake up from his stupor. On closer inspection, Jock saw that the blood had come from his nose, but had since dried. He wondered if the nosebleed was the product of a bar brawl.

  He was tempted to leave him there, but Dylan was in such a state, he felt compelled to do something, so he pulled him into a sitting position. Experience had taught him that this was the best thing to do with the drunk. He picked up the empty glass and walked over to the sink to fill it with water. On his way back, he stumbled over one of Dylan’s boots and as he did so, he nudged the computer. The screensaver vanished, giving way to a frozen image. It was a still of Sapphire, waving to the crowd from her May Queen float.

  Jock’s eyes darted to the left. On the wall next to the computer was a map of Britain. The map was dotted with pins, each pointing out to pictures of missing May Queens. His eyes travelled the length of the wall. The names of all the missing May Queens were up there with notes about their backgrounds, jobs and other attributes. He backed towards the door. If Dylan was investigating the May Queen abductions then why hadn’t he told him? Quietly as he could, he pulled the curtains open to let in a little more light. He darted a glance at Dylan, but he was still sleeping heavily. Taking his phone from his pocket, he raised it to the wall and photographed each section as close up as he could.

  Once he was sure he had got it all, he closed the curtains again and hurried back to his own room, where he locked the door behind him. He plugged his phone in and synced the pictures with his laptop; it would be easier to view them on a larger screen. All the time, he felt a deep feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. What wasn’t Dylan telling him?

  20

  Dylan staggered into the tea shop, clutching his stomach like a woman in labour.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Jock asked.

  He had a face like a bruised banana. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his nose was purple and swollen.

  “I think somebody slipped a hangover in my drink,” he complained. He sat down gingerly as if he thought bits would come off him.

  “That bad?” Jock asked.

  “It’s my stomach,” Dylan moaned. “Right now, I can’t trust my arse with a fart.”

  Jock inched his chair away a little.

  “You look as rough as the bottom of a bird cage,” Angie said, her arms folded.

  “Rougher,” Dylan said.

  “Right, I’m making you a cup of my special tea,” she said.

  “Oh no! I’m feeling better already,” he protested. But there was no arguing with Angie. He turned his head to look at Jock. “Stop blinking, will you? You’re giving me a headache.”

  Jock watched him carefully. He looked rather pathetic, lying back against the edge of his seat.

  “Now drink this down,” said Angie, returning with an extremely pungent brew.

  “What’s in that?” he asked, covering his nose with his hand.

  “Ah,
you know. Eye of newt, wart of toad.”

  “All I need is a little hair of the dog!” Dylan wailed.

  “Just get it down your neck,” she said. “Go on. Not a word out of you till you do.”

  Dylan did as he was told.

  “What happened?” Jock asked. “I thought you were immune to hangovers.”

  Dylan laid a hand on his shoulder. “None of us are immune, my friend. We are all but soldiers in the fight against sobriety.”

  “You go home to bed now,” Angie said when he had drunk the last of the vile concoction. “Go on with you and don’t come back till there’s a splash of colour in those cheeks.”

  “You’re a hard woman!” Dylan muttered.

  “Well, you’ve no one but yourself to blame,” she called after him.

  Jock watched as he walked out the door. Whatever was going on with Dylan, it would have to wait.

  “Where’s Simon today?” he asked.

  “He’s off visiting the Museum of Agriculture with Anthony.”

  Poor Anthony.

  “He’s still off work, then?”

  “It’s half term this week, so he’s hoping things will have died down by the time he goes back.”

  “It’s not fair,” Jock sympathised.

  “Too right it isn’t! The things they’ve written about him in the papers. They’ve just decided he’s guilty, even though they don’t know the first thing about what happened.”

  “Maybe he should sue,” he suggested.

  “That’s what I keep telling him, but he’s not interested. He just wants it all to go away.”

  It would probably never go away, Jock thought. If the police didn’t know that Sapphire might be Gertrude, they might not be looking in the right places. He thought again about how Dylan had reacted when he suggested telling Stavely. What if he was wrong? Or worse still, what if there was a reason he didn’t want the police involved?