Sixth Victim

by Kate Mitchell

  22

  Weak and haunted by memories, Cecelia saw Phoebe in one sudden image alive and chatting to her about their plans. Then in a flash, she was lying dead with the word whore etched into her naked breasts and above a stake that had cleft her heart in two. If she took just one of those tablets, this image would go away, just for a little while, until she could deal with it.

  ‘I think I’ve got a link,’ said Detective Travis, her eyes fixed on her computer. ‘I think we are on the wrong trail with the black man. I don’t know what this Jackson man is all about because there is no history of him on the records. The only information I can find on this man’s identity is that he comes from San Luis Obispo. Around about thirty-seven and a lawyer—a much-respected man who has gone on the wander. But why? Except that ten years ago, he lost someone. But that doesn’t give him any reason to rape and murder women if he is the right person.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ replied Cecelia, who was unable to concentrate.

  ‘We need to get this man in to talk to him. If he is the right man who’s been sighted, I doubt if he is the murderer. But I don’t know, I just don’t know. It’s all guesswork.’

  Hours passed slowly for Cecelia. Someone had been brought in drunk from a family domestic while his partner was now being treated in hospital. What was wrong with people, they married someone who they were supposed to love, and then they tried their damnedest to destroy them? Just like her mother, Tina. When her mother dies, she wouldn’t rejoice. As far as Cecelia could see, this had been a wasted life.

  Everywhere Cecelia looked, people were trying to destroy each other, why? It just didn’t make sense.

  Another emergency, and if Cecelia calculated right, she might not be on her own this evening. A man tried to stab his wife, and now his wife was terrified and rightly. He said that she had incited him. This was a bible fearing city. Did they not read their bibles?

  ‘I’m going home,’ Cecelia told Detective Travis, who looked up from her desk surprised.

  Nodding her head gently and thoughtfully, Detective Travis was not going to prevent Cecelia from going. After all, it’s still a free country.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ It was seven o’clock in the evening, picking up her light jacket. The world had turned ugly as page after page threw itself down on her vision, now distorting her reality. Her life was a mess. She couldn’t get anything right. She had killed her father with words. Her mother was right, she was a waste of time while Thomas used her. Phoebe, the only friend she ever had, was murdered. Isn’t that telling you something, Cecelia? I feel like I am going mad.

  How very fragile Cecelia felt, probably to do with the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything substantial for the last three days and neither had she slept, which must be why she shook. Coming off the drugs had given her hallucinations. Shadows turned into monsters, sneaking out from corners, unknown and threatening to beat her. Several times she thought she had seen William from the edge of her eyes. A double look revealed a poster of a man advertising toothpaste. Was she going mad again?

  People who had been to the bleak scope of madness will find themselves traveling again down the same warped route. An inevitability that was prophetically horrendous. Why not give up and walk straight into deformed reality instead of avoiding the detours? You are going to go there in the end, so make it easy on yourself, don’t fight it. Another person—William? Watching her? But no. Turning back, this time it was a cat staring at her from the fence.

  Let’s be sensible. There is no way William would know where she lived unless Mary Ann told him, but Mary Ann didn’t know where she lived either. Logic and rationality were clever, but it didn’t offload Cecelia’s well-constructed fear. She caught the shuttle bus to Huntingdon and then walked the rest of the journey.

  Her house was still the same, nothing had changed in the last six weeks. Strange to be back here when so much had altered, but nothing significant had happened to her house. Did the wood and bricks miss her as much as she had missed them? But of course, it wouldn’t. Mortar and bricks, the sturdy substance in life never feel anything, not even when pulled down.

  The telephone started ringing just as Cecelia closed her door. Shut the door to keep the world out, keep the noise and the flashy lights away; the world was already running down for the night. There was a kind of poetry in this understanding. A kind of fatalistic harmony.

  Well, now, she had two choices on whether to answer the telephone or not. The luxury of choice. This was her world, and she was in control. She would answer the telephone, but two steps towards it and it rang off. Now she didn’t have to worry about it, that world could stay outside.

  The people who had rented her house left nothing of themselves. A strange sensation to understand how people can quickly disappear as if they had never been. Just over a week ago, other people had walked about here, talking, and perhaps laughing, sharing their feelings with one another. Their footsteps from a week ago, if not in a physical form became another type of knowledge, an imprint on this life. A peculiar possession to have to be able to build up a picture from nothing. It was the same feeling she had when she first moved into her house. Other people had been there making their lives. If she listened hard enough, she was sure she could hear them talking.

  Did her living make any impact on other people? Do we make an impact on others while we are alive? Perhaps some people do. Cecelia went to the kitchen. Although it was warm in the house, yet she still felt cold.

  Don’t be unhappy. It was Phoebe, she was sitting in the chair by the window, her shoulder-length hair was again multi-colored.

  We were supposed to do life together, at least set up the flower business, and then you died.

  Yes, I know, and I am sorry for that.

  Couldn’t you have put up a fight and tried to get away from him?

  I’m sorry. She was fading fast into the chair as if she had never been.

  ‘Wait, Phoebe, don’t go. Please don’t go. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get at you. But I’m left on my own here. You have deserted me. Phoebe.’

  You will get over me, just give it time, Cecelia. Just give it time.

  ‘Phoebe,’ Cecelia ran to the chair, but the image was gone.

  The kettle boiling hollered out in temper. To the kitchen, tired body trying to hurry, bothered that it was being made to do so. It was imperative to turn off its gas. And then the world was thrown back into silence, the hush Cecelia had longed for when she was in the station cell. Suddenly it felt like a tomb in this house with everything listening to her.

  Someone had thoughtfully left their instant coffee at the front of the cupboard, a little thoughtful expression of welcome. Such consideration. Obviously, the last people who couldn’t take it with them on their journey back to the UK had left it. How kind of them, a reminder that there are some good people in this world. A heaped spoon of granules and hot water; this would have to sustain her until tomorrow. Until she got herself down to the shops to get herself something to eat if she didn’t want a takeaway delivery.

  How very cold she was.

  No, Phoebe had never been here; never left the morgue where she was still being kept until she was collected by her husband, Harold Hardaker. What right had he to be alive when she was not? If he had never beaten her up, she would never have fled to America, and she would not be dead. But then, she would never have known Phoebe.

  Going to the chair by the window, Cecelia sat down on it, imagining that it was still warm from Phoebe’s cold body. The pain of losing Phoebe was the biggest agony she had ever come across, far bigger than losing her father. Wasn’t that strange?

  ‘Your father’s dead at last.’ And mom getting ready to go out on a date.

  No, that wasn’t right. Mom was stuffing dad’s clothes into a bag.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Your dad’s dead. He won’t need these anymore.’

  No, that wasn’t true either. She was the one who had killed dad. It didn’t ma
tter that he had abandoned her. Thirteen, and carrying the weight of a juggernaut on her shoulders, and still reliving memories again.

  ‘You had better behave yourself,’ Tina had warned her after the funeral. ‘If you don’t behave yourself, then you’re off to a home unless someone adopts you. But who would do that? Look at you; you’re fat and ugly. No one would want you.’

  Sipping her cooling coffee, Cecelia looked out of the window. The night was drifting in faster and blacking out the world. Was this her imagination or was someone standing by the bushes outside the house opposite? From the low creeping breeze, the bush rustled, picking this figure out and then concealing him between the movement of the light wind.

  Yet, there was definitely someone waiting at the front of the house opposite, and this time, it was not her imagination.

  Just coincidence, that was all, don’t read too much into anything. Just someone hanging around, waiting for a friend. You know where your mind is? It’s not in a good place.

  But there was definitely somebody there. Not everything was in her imagination. Eyes clung to the silhouette, holding on to him in the certainty that he was real. She was certain that the man across the road was black, there was no reason why except because of his build, and the way he stood. By his confident stance, he looked like the sort of man who was not afraid of anything. He was young, although not very young. Someone with that kind of confidence had to be in his mid-thirties, he held himself proud with shoulders back waiting for something to happen. With the light still off, Cecelia was able to observe him undetected. Alone in this house, she had nothing else to do except to be paranoid. Just recently, she had put plenty of time into practicing paranoia.

  Now came the questions—you see, she had not avoided paranoia. Had he followed her home? If he had, why was he stalking her? Was this to get Cecelia, or to make her go mad? And another question. Why had Phoebe been killed? Hadn’t he guessed that she wasn’t a virgin? The Slasher couldn’t have done his homework.

  Something dropped in the house and landed on the floor above with a crash. This was all she needed. Something to go bang in the night. Well, was she going to see what it was to find that imaginary rapist waiting for her upstairs in the bedroom?

  She laughed. Hearing her voice in the house gave her power. This was her house, and she was safe. And yet, still afraid. This was no way to live always in fear, as her father always lived, terrified, demoralized until he killed himself.

  ‘Dad, I’m afraid. Tell me, was the only way to stop being afraid was to kill yourself? Why didn’t you tell me? Weren’t we supposed to be friends? I thought you were better than mom. I wanted you to stand up for yourself—you know, have some self-respect. I thought you were worth it, why didn’t you?’

  Well, you had better do something about the noise. This would be Phoebe now. Just because I am not here for you is no excuse for you to give up. But that is the thing with you, any old excuse to give up. Why don’t you try surviving, and not only just surviving, but making a success of your life? So, I am dead, so what? It’s only you who can make yourself happy. Haven’t you worked this one out yet? And then she laughed and disappeared.

  Was she going mad?

  Look out to the road again. The man had gone. Frowning to the place where he should have been. Was he the Alandra Slasher?

  Tonight, in her bed, she would sleep well. Which reminded Cecelia that her leather bag containing her notes was still at the crime scene. There was a possibility that next week her things would be returned. Nothing she could do about it now. But she had a mind, didn’t she? She would recall most of what she had written. It would be like editing.

  Time to get herself ready for bed. A long night of sleeping wouldn’t do any harm. Half-finished black coffee on the kitchen side. And now to tackle her bed for, of course, it wouldn’t be made.

  Now you’ve made your bed, you lie in it. Tina’s voice.

  Cecelia turned her back and began walking upstairs. Laughing in the background was mom, why can’t you grow up and leave me alone. Look, Mom, what sort of person takes pleasure in hurting their daughter? I’m only doing it for your own good. If you can face up to me, you’ll be able to deal with anyone.

  Yes, without a doubt, the renters would have walked up and down these same stairs. Lowering her eyes, treading the steps, she could sense their presence from their lives in the past now laid down and sleeping.

  Sworn that her bedroom door was closed. Strange, in fact scary. Oh, dear, here we go again, spooking herself. Take one of her tablets just for tonight and sleep.

  Deal with your feelings. This time it was Detective Travis’s voice. You will have to do it sometime. It’s better to get it over with now instead of leaving it until later. Pain has to come out one way or another.

  Her room smelt heavy of perfume, the scent reminding Cecelia of flowers. Had Phoebe passed this way and lay a ghostly wreath on her bed? Enough to make her shudder. Someone dies and the entire world becomes dead.

  In a locked cupboard were stashed spare pillows and covers. Freshly laundered sheets on the shelf waited. So grateful to be used, so wonderfully fresh. There’s nothing like physical work to purify the terror and despair. Cecelia picked up her bedding and carried them back into her room.

  Oh, bloody hell. The door closed behind her. Sometimes, Cecelia felt like kicking hard at life for being so awkward. Why couldn’t it give her just one break?

  Open the bedroom windows open to allow the fresh air to come in. But what has happened here? The windows have stuck; it couldn’t have been the renters. Tomorrow, she would have to get it sorted out, or if not tomorrow, another day.

  When one action is satisfactorily carried out, the world ticks over with pleasure, with one success, another will follow. This was going to be a positive - brilliant evening. She was home, safe, and getting on with life.

  Finish her coffee off, find herself a nightie, and then write out a list of things to do tomorrow. Ticking things off a list shows results, positive marks that prove her sanity.

  Too quiet in this house, to solve this she would sing to herself. Okay, not sing but at least hum. Perhaps the bad spirits would quit her house if they could tell that she wasn’t afraid—well, she wasn’t, was she?

  Pretend, as Cecelia was drinking the rest of her coffee that she had taken two sleepers instead of one. After all, it’s about fooling your mind. Tell your mind, the part monitoring your life that everything is good and that you are happy. After a while, your mind has no choice but to believe it is happy. Coffee tastes stale. Tomorrow, she would get fresh coffee.

  With the light on and the curtains pulled, Cecelia sat at the table with an unused notebook making notes on what she was going to do tomorrow. God, that coffee was foul.

  Quickly penned notes covered the blank sheet of paper, strides of letters proposing her life in a series of actions. She was going to rewrite her notes on the Davis’s, but now these have to be done more sensitively because of their deaths. How would she put it across sympathetically about the murder of Tony Hare? This needed some thinking about, but in this climate of fear and paranoia, she had the advantage.

  Scrawling more notes, long loops covering over the page, and then sliding off onto the table. Tired? Very tired. Can hardly keep her eyes open. But then, she’d hardly slept last night, and now sleep came gratefully, slipping its long fingers through her hair, over her eyes and pulling her eyelids down. For a couple of weeks, the effect of tiredness had forgotten to touch her. Erratic thoughts covered in madness. But now it was coming over her fast.

  So heavy trying to climb the stairs, and the ghosts which had been waiting for her, laying their baited forms in tight corners had vanished. So, it was wonderful not to care anymore, not to be checked with fearful superstitions. The bed, how she loved the bed, and how her bed loved her. Pulling open her covers, she climbed into it and fell gratefully and heavily asleep.

  23

  Thomas was looking down, lying beside her, and smiling at her.<
br />
  ‘Did you really think I would drop you just like that? You don’t know me very well. You are my love, Cecelia; you always have been. As soon as I saw you when you were at my door, I fell hook, line, and sinker, in love with you.’

  ‘But you stayed with your wife,’ Cecelia smiled dreamily trying to stretch up and touch him.

  But he took her hand and gently bit her finger, rounding his lips over her soft digit and pulling her hand to his face where he nuzzled his nose tenderly. She was so precious to him.

  ‘You are my wife.’ He moved further towards her, now stroking her face. ‘We will always be together now. No one is ever going to come between us. I want to touch you everywhere, Cecelia. I am obsessed with you.’

  She laughed. These were the most pleasant dreams she had ever had. To have the man who you love, love you back, is surely the answer to every woman’s dreams.

  And then his breath was on her neck, lips touching her flesh sending thrills of sensation down her body. This was what she had always dreamed of. His soft hands now so carefully pulling off her sheet, she felt the cooler air taking its cognizance, checking out her body.

  ‘But what about your wife?’

  ‘My wife? Think nothing of her. She’s gone from my life.’

  The strings of her nightie were being slipped off and down her shoulders. He gasped when her breasts were exposed. Such sweetness, she felt his full soft mouth over her nipple as he began sucking and sucking, the softer down pulling. This was so wonderful. Thomas was better than he had been before. She giggled softly to herself.

  Naked now, he was going down on her. Such ecstasy as the tongue flickering from one side to the other, she pushed her pelvis up ready for him.

  ‘Go in now and take me. Quickly. I can’t stand it any longer. Mount me.’

  ‘Oh, Cecelia. I never thought it would be like this. Wait for me.’

  Smiling Cecelia’s eyes flickered open for the briefest of seconds. She wanted to see her lover naked, to see Thomas’s beautiful, tanned form reared up and ready for her.