Why I Want You Dead
Page 18
Diane looked up at him. He was beaming. He must’ve been desperate to make that suggestion all along. “In fact,” Toby glanced at his watch. “I think it’s beer o’clock right now. Interested?”
Diane smiled. “I certainly am.” They both stood, she took his arm, and they strolled out of the park together.
As one.
THE THIRD ALTER
EPILOGUE
Everything had gone perfectly to plan. Mary didn’t know about me. The third personality.
I was the violent alter. The true protector. But I would protect without reason, without conscience. I loved to get revenge. I loved to inflict pain onto those who had happily done the same to me. It was fair, after all. An eye for an eye.
For me, there is no such thing as empathy. No such thing as shame, or guilt. Mary and Agnes, they had all of that. I was made with what was left. What is buried deep inside most people, what is always present but never shown in the face of others. The deepest, darkest thoughts.
I don’t even have a name.
Mary was our host and we couldn’t choose when to switch. She had all the control, all without realising. But I could switch with Agnes whenever I wanted.
Agnes was never violent. She would never hurt a fly. It was me. I did all those things. I was the one who used to claw at Elizabeth. I was the one who used to take out my anger on Greg. I flew into a rage and beat him when I could. Of course, only in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. In turn, he would bruise my arms in self-defense, as I throttled him. He would grasp at my wrists in panic, his eyes wide and fearful as I encased his throat with my hands. It only made Mary more suspicious of Greg, to see her arms littered with hand-shaped bruises. I threatened him to never speak about what happened. And he didn’t. The shame of having a wife who beat him was too much. For his own pride, he kept it quiet. Until he started meeting our sister. It was me who ran Greg into debt. I spent his money on finery, expensive clothes, overpriced furniture even though I knew he could no longer afford it. He gave me an allowance as I had no money of my own, but I always asked for more. And he was too afraid to stop me. It was easier for him to keep me happy.
I was the one that Greg was fearful of. It was him who was afraid of divorcing, afraid of what I would do to him at the very suggestion of it. At the best of times, I was the one in complete control.
So much so that I could switch into Agnes without anybody realising and takeover. It was me who convinced Nellie to murder Greg. A plan so simple, so easy. I barely had to lift a finger. Though I was sad to have missed out on the kill.
Agnes tried to warn Mary. She left notes in her scrawling handwriting. But I got rid of them. I was stronger than Agnes. I could always take over from her, effortlessly.
It was me who found the body initially. Mary switched as soon as she had laid eyes on the bloody scene. I saw that Nellie had done a good job. There was a clean cut across his throat, just as planned. But I wanted to add something more.
I picked up the knife that had been left at the scene. It was me who etched that forever smile on the corners of his mouth.
I finally got my revenge.
It was because of all of those things that he used to do, taking control of my life; rendering me defenseless, penniless and childless; and now it was too late to undo any of it. Because of Mary’s fury, her bottled anger, I had thrived. I was strong. She was right to fear herself, to fear me. I wasn’t a good alter, I had no morals. But at least I didn’t pretend. That was what made Greg evil. His feigning innocence. Forging my name into his business and then what he did to Nellie. The affair.
It was the affair that wriggled underneath my skin the most. How dare he. And how dare he choose Elizabeth, our sister. He could’ve gone off with anyone, but he chose her. He knew exactly how to get back at me.
But now I was happy. He was gone. And I was free to roam. In a way, it was nice not to have to get my hands dirty this time; to have the ultimate control. I had killed my father, only a couple of weeks before. My father didn’t die when I was a child. We ran away from him instead. We uprooted ourselves and fled into the night, moving into a flat on the other side of London; one that belonged to one of my mother’s friends. My mother and I had told Elizabeth that our father was dead, and to this day, she still believed it. She was told he had got into a fight at a bar and knocked himself out to death. But it was all a lie. It was just easier to pretend he was dead.
He’d never tried to chase us. He wasn’t that interested. He simply didn’t care for us enough. We were safe.
Of course, later on in life he tried to contact me. He sent me letters, begging for forgiveness, for me to visit him, to reconnect before it was too late. He was unwell, he didn’t have long left, blah blah. Once, I had caught him standing outside of the house, bloated, breathless and clinging on desperately to a walking frame. I was terrified that he would try to talk to Elizabeth. That she would find out how we lied to her. But fortunately, he had never been able to locate her by himself.
I had dreamt for years about getting revenge on my father. It bothered me that he was still alive. It was only recently, I realised I could simply deal with that.
I went to visit him. He let me inside. I was careful to keep my distance from him. My hair was carefully contained inside a hat, so not one hair could drop onto the floor. I wore thick gloves. My father thought nothing of it. We sat down, in an awkward silence. And then I got to work.
I stabbed him repeatedly. Once for Elizabeth. Twice for my mother. And thrice for myself. For all the pain we had all endured. When I could see the light going from his eyes, I could only remember how it felt when the light had gone from mine; when he had hurt me.
I rummaged around the flat, to make it look like a robbery. I stole some of his money, an ugly painting to make it look more authentic. I shone a light around the crime scene to double check I hadn’t dropped anything. I made sure to bag up and remove the knife.
Before I left, I couldn’t help but feel something was missing. I felt I should leave something behind, like the signature of an artist on the corner of a masterpiece. I went back to the body and I etched on that haunting grin. My mark.
I had a taste for revenge. I loved the high and adrenaline of the kill. I couldn’t describe how good it felt to be in ultimate control.
Who else could I get my claws into? Stan Hudson was in prison now; paying the price for the crime that he didn’t commit. Though of course he was guilty too. Him and Greg, they were bad people. Manipulating, fraudulent behaviour and hurting others, all out of pure greed.
There was only one person left. The final person who had deeply betrayed me. And they thought they had gotten away with it.
My dear sister, Elizabeth.
And she’d better watch out.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all family and friends that have supported me throughout the making of this novel (you all know who you are!) and the kind reviews and encouragement from my first book - The Imposter’s Wife.
Special thanks to Lavanya Huria all the way over in Canada, who took the time to edit the first draft and was the first to tell me that the end left her ‘trippingggg ouutt’.
I am also grateful to all my work colleagues during my short period of time on the Covid 19 front line when everything was still very scary. You were all amazing to work with! We did it!
And a huge thank you to Ben Wardle for putting up with me all these years. I won’t force you to read this one as well!
REFERENCES
Below is a link to more information regarding DID and was referenced in the making of this novel:
● Psychology Today: Dissociative Identity Disorder (Multiple Personality Disorder). https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/conditions/ dissociative-identity-disorder-multiple-personalitydisorder