In this zen-like state, I travel back to my school days. My sister said I was popular until I made myself unpopular. When the past is so distant and forgotten, it’s hard to know if I experienced the laughing children’s birthday parties, or if I have created them. Are the images of Lucy and me giggling in the sand on various beach holidays real, or from a movie where I’ve replaced the characters with my own to bolster my self-esteem?
Images of darkness, confusion and tears filter into those idyllic reminiscences. Yet, there was a theme of light through much of my youth. Her name was Sally. Those memories are hard-wired. They definitely exist. I recall her chocolate breath and high-pitched titter. My fingers flex as once again I feel her small, warm, chubby hands in mine.
When I open my eyes, my body still tingles. To think we called her Fat Sally for all those years. I was joking, but I think I was the only one. Her memories of school must hurt.
A hidden event emerges from the depths of my mind. It’s of a mud-splattered Sally in her school running gear, staggering across a field back to the waiting class. She is the last to finish.
‘Hippo coming through,’ someone shouts.
‘Faster. The tuck shop’s closing.’
I can hear her hoarse breathing as she staggers towards the relative safety and darkness of the changing rooms. Even the teachers laugh. I’m there, too, watching.
As she passes, her eyes frantically search mine for kindness. I should cheer her on. Congratulate her effort. Support my friend.
‘Well done, Sally.’
But I whisper my words to the wind.
Sally never asked me for my friendship. She didn’t even tell me to stop calling her Fat Sally. She wanted nothing, and that’s what I gave her in return. I chose to be friends with Scarlett instead, who treated me in the same way as I treated Sally. Perhaps that’s how it is at that age. Chains of shame run through every school. Yet, I’m such a disgusting person that I also let Sally down as an adult.
I poke the space bar of my laptop and bring it to life. Facebook is somewhere I rarely venture. After various abuses in the past, my privacy means nobody can message me or post on my timeline. I occasionally use it to look at other people’s perfect lives when I want to hate myself. It’s a favoured form of self-harm.
I have few friends. Fewer after I removed Sally. Each one of her successes highlighted one of my failures. Why did that make me bitter rather than happy for her? What do I say after all this time? It’s been years since I even looked at Sally’s profile, never mind connected with her. I unblock her and see her page allows messages. She has a green dot on Messenger which shows she’s online right now. Sorry is the only word I can think of. Nothing else comes close. I type it and hit send.
Her profile shot is of her sitting on a big hippo at a water park. There’s only one large mammal in the picture, and it’s the one with the tusks. Sally’s smile is carefree. She looks vibrant and healthy. I flick through her photos, noting the only negative aspect of them is the cheese factor – she’s been to every Aussie tourism spot in the country.
There’s her and her handsome husband grinning on the Harbour Bridge. Her and their two boys in front of a big red rock. The four of them pulling faces next to an enormous banana in a place called Coffs Harbour. The kids have grown so much. Further back, judging by the balloons, she’s had a surprise thirtieth birthday party. She has a family, and a life, even her car beats mine hands down.
Jealousy and being pleased for her battle for supremacy. I smile afterwards. Perhaps I am human, after all. My finger hovers over sending her a friend request. I’m reminded of my second favourite film, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and the funeral poem in it – ‘nothing now can ever come to any good’. After what I’ve done, that applies to my life, but I selfishly click on that, too. I wait for a long minute, but there’s no reply to the request or the message. I frantically change my settings, so she can message me if she wants.
Ten minutes later, I feel like lobbing my laptop through the window, Scarlett style. Messaging her, though, has given me some peace. I take a quick shower and stare at a fridge without alcohol. Getting pissed won’t help my situation, but I don’t have lower to go, so what the hell? There’s another ping as I pick up my coat to leave for the shops. It’s a message from Sally.
56
The Ice Killer
My coat slips from my fingers. Grabbing the mouse, I open the message as fast as possible, so as not to let my imagination run wild. Please remember me kindly.
Hi!!! Oh my God!!! Where have you been?!! So pleased to hear from you!!!
After a few seconds, I laugh aloud. She still overuses exclamation marks.
Hey, Sally,
I type.
Lovely to read your words.
The quiet while she replies makes my mouth dry. With wide eyes, I watch the ellipsis wobbling, which means she’s typing.
You too. I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. I even tried looking for your sister, but she’s probably married.
Why? What did you want?
Duh! Stoopid! I want to keep in touch. You were my best friend at school.
My face crumples up in agony. I bare my teeth in an ugly silent cry.
That’s lovely of you to say, but I was a terrible friend,
I manage to type through watery vision.
She doesn’t reply for over a minute. I rest my head in my hands. It must be true. The ellipsis wobbles again, quivering for a full five minutes. I have time to make a cup of tea for my dry throat before the message comes through.
I can only assume you’re talking about what happened in the final years. You were ill then, Ellen. You wouldn’t have acted and behaved in that manner if you’d been well. You were much better when they got your medication sorted. We had some fun times. I loved our Friends marathons.
You’re just being nice, because you were always a nice person. I even let you down when we were going to go travelling.
You were in love. It was okay for you to want to be happy.
I put myself first. I didn’t consider you.
What are you talking about? You came around and we discussed it over and over again. I told you to stay in the end. You were supposed to come to Australia and see me if it didn’t work out. I assumed it had, and you were content.
No, I made a mess of it. Fucked up a lot of things and I’m still making stupid choices. I don’t seem to have done anything with my life apart from upset other people and myself. I hurt everyone around me.
There’s another big wait before she replies.
Are you taking your medication?
Yes.
Make sure you take your tablets, please. You end up in a desperate place without them. And you saved me at school. How can you think you’re not amazing?
Eh?
Ellen. From the very first moment at school, everyone wanted to be your friend. You were so tall and cool and beautiful. I was always short and chubby. The kids surrounded me in the playground on my second day. All of them chanting the words, Fat Sally, Fat Sally. You strode through them and linked arms with me. You said, “She’s my Fat Sally”.
I don’t remember that.
How can’t you? We had our birthday parties together for years because they were close. You could have been friends with anyone, and you chose me. I’ll be grateful until the day I die.
And I was popular?
Well, you were liked. There was always something about you that made people wary. I used to think it was your height and looks, but when you finished puberty, you became what we were wary of.
I don’t understand.
You went from wary to scary.
She adds a few joke emojis.
And I hurt people.
It’s a statement, not a question.
Yes, a little. You had a really short fuse. A boy from the year below squeezed your bum once. You choked him until the teachers pulled you off.
Was I mean to you?
No, when you changed, I
kept out of your way. The others gave me a bit more grief, but they were conscious of the fact we were friends before. If they upset me and you changed your mind about who you hung around with, they’d have feared for their lives.
What?
It’s just a turn of phrase. But you did go proper mental.
I hold my breath for a couple of seconds, then type fast.
Can I ask you a question?
Sure, but you’ll need to be quick. The kids will be up in a minute and it’ll be all go for the school run.
You remember the girl who fell when we were in the sixth form.
Sure.
Do you think I pushed her?
What? Why the hell would you think that?
I spoke to Scarlett recently, and she implied it.
Her response is instant, and would be a shout in person.
Don’t listen to a word that witch says. She was the evil one. Stay away from her, you understand. She manipulated and provoked you when you had your troubles. I once heard her spreading those rumours that maybe she was pushed. Scarlett enjoyed the notoriety of it all. If anyone killed that poor girl, it was Scarlett. I’m telling you, she’s the psycho.
I close my eyes and concentrate hard. Something inside me screams that she is right, but Scarlett picked on Sally. Maybe Sally would say it was her.
Thank you, Sally. For everything.
Don’t talk like a ratbag. Look, I’ve got to go. Let’s chat soon, maybe over the weekend, and do not disappear. You have to come and visit. You’d love it out here.
She finishes with approximately a hundred kisses. I smile at her Australianisms and imagine her making the kids Vegemite sandwiches and packing them off in sun hats. They’ll have a plunge in the pool later, and bloody barbecued shrimps, and mates over, and all the things that I don’t have.
I stare at the puddle of water next to the washing machine. Perfect. I drag the clothes out. Not only are they soaking, they’re covered in powder. I leave them on the floor in a big pile. Now I need alcohol. There’s a knock at the door, but it’s only the pharmacy guy wanting a signature.
After he’s gone, I take four deep inhales and four longer exhales to try to clear my mind. Sally has given me good news, saying I wasn’t always unpleasant. That’s something to be proud of. Then why do I feel ruinous? If I could beat myself with something, I would.
She mentioned the pills though, as did my sister. I’m not supposed to drink too much on them. Right. One night of drunkenness this evening, and I’m back on the drugs tomorrow. I’ll punish myself with alcohol. I might even get Brad round. Anything to feel good about myself.
My phone beeps, informing me of two unread messages.
The first is from the nice lady, Millie, at the charity shop.
Missed you for the stock take. Will you come next? I enjoy your company. We’ll have a laugh and I could do with the help.
I send her a smiley face. Non-committal, but I’ll need her sanity next week as my brain deals with the mood swings the drugs cause as my body gets used to them again. The second text is from Scarlett.
Tonight’s the night. I have a plan. Be here at eight.
I grit my teeth and make fists to stop myself smashing my phone into a million pieces on the tiled floor. I’m surprised I don’t crack the screen with my reply.
Screw you. Kill him yourself, you bitch.
Stars appear in my vision. I’m losing control as there’s another knock at the door.
57
The Ice Killer
I’m not sure who I expect at the door, but it’s a relief when it’s him from downstairs. He’s hopping from foot to foot. If I didn’t know him better, I’d suspect he needed the toilet.
‘Spit it out, Trent.’
‘I think the police are looking for you.’
‘Why would the police want me?’
God, how could I forget? It’s only been a few days. ‘Are they asking for me by name?’
‘No. They have pictures from the accident where that man fell under the bus. It was on the news again this morning, with grainy footage of someone similar to you running away, but with blonde hair. It’s not clear, but I’ve seen you in the black hoodie you have on in the image they were showing. When I first saw the news clip, I thought it looked a bit like you but dismissed the idea. That was stupid because I’ve seen your blonde wig. I also know what your run is like. There’s not much I don’t know about you.’
I frown at that statement. Why would you say that to someone you didn’t want to freak out? Nevertheless, I have bigger problems than his stalkerish behaviour.
‘Were they just asking if people have seen anyone with blonde hair in those clothes?’
‘Yes, they also said tall and mid-thirties.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any alcohol in your flat?’
‘I could get some?’
His keen little face makes me smile. I’d better not sleep with him again or I’ll find him parked on my doorstep every morning with his tongue lolling out.
‘Just kidding. I need to pop out anyway. It was self-defence, by the way. That man was a pervert, and he wanted to hurt me.’
‘Yes, the policeman said something similar. I’d never doubt you. Seems to me he got what he deserved.’
I stare at his zealous, bulging expression. It’s a shame he’s such an oddball. Even so, I relax a little knowing I have someone in my corner. Perhaps I should take the pills now and not get drunk. I’ll need a straight head when they find me, which I’ve no doubt they will, and soon. They are closing in.
‘How about we watch a film at yours?’ I ask.
His eyebrows hit the ceiling. ‘Sure, I’ve got loads of movies. I’ve downloaded thousands. I bet you enjoy romcoms.'
‘You choose. I need to do a couple of things, but I’ll be around ten minutes. Put the popcorn on.’
His face falls.
‘It was a joke. Just put the kettle on.’
Shaking my head, I usher him out, making sure he doesn’t trip over the washing. I trust him not to say anything. I spread my pills on the table and take the doses prescribed. I hate the side effects. One of the earlier ones made my breasts bigger. It was a shame that I wanted to kill myself while I was on them. This current lot steal my appetite and confuse my memory. Are they treating me or just ensuring I’m not a danger? I can’t think straight on them. It’s no wonder I’m unable to hold down a decent job when I’m so forgetful.
I know I have to keep taking them. When I stopped taking them in the past, my mother would realise. She’d mention it on her daily texts and in most phone calls. Even if I still forgot, she would know. She was more than just Mum; she was also my therapist. Without her, bad Ellen has returned, but part of me loves the drama, and the ruthlessness.
Deep down, I used to think I was attracted to unsuitable men, but I’m not certain that’s the complete truth. In reality, I believe I want to find someone like me. Don’t birds of a feather flock together? The drugs deaden those urges, but they’re still present. Perhaps I was drawn to Brad because he was fairly decent, but without my medication, he doesn’t interest me enough. Is that why I spend my time with Scarlett? Am I drawn to instability?
I learnt enough in therapy to know to take the pills though. Otherwise, I self-destruct. I just need to find a new method to remind me now Mum’s not here to do it for me.
I step from my flat and consider my predicament. The police will be with me soon. They’ll connect the dots. Is it possible to explain everything though? Who have I killed? That girl at school or the strangled man shortly after? There’s no getting away from the fact I slaughtered the three men in their house. I can deny any knowledge of the overdoses, but it’s possible they’ll find DNA to put me in that room. They’ve seen me shove Hofstadt into the road in self-defence. There are so many deaths; surely too many to explain. When does coincidence exceed reasonable doubt?
I hammer my fist on Trent’s door. The thudding sound echoes in the hall. It feels li
ke it’s in my head as I try to think straight. Do the things I’ve done matter to me, apart from my imminent arrest? Is there any regret? I haven’t been killing the innocent. The conundrum appeals to my intelligence. Trent opens up, waving a white DVD box at me.
‘How about Four Weddings and a Funeral? Old but good, and one of your top three.’
I wryly smile and follow him in. Trust him to remember. His bedroom door is slightly open. There’s a computer screen with a topless image on it. I’m just moving away with another grin, when I do a double take at the face of the model. I step inside and realise that’s because it’s me.
58
Acting DCI Barton
The Ice Killer (The DI Barton Series) Page 22
