Her Final Victim

by NJ Moss

  But today I keep thinking about my follower count problem, going over and over it in my head. Since Tuesday, I’ve lost ninety-seven followers.

  I haven’t changed how I’m posting yet, because then I risk losing the audience I’m still holding on to. If I’m going to make a change, it needs to be calculated.

  “I need to do something big,” I murmur, my voice raw from the heat.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here, but I know it’s longer than twenty minutes. The sand timer ran out a while ago and I haven’t flipped it back over. I don’t want to know. I need to think, and usually the sauna helps with that.

  “A stunt.” I rub my hands up and down my legs. Saunas are good for selfies too, because they dehydrate me and give me a gaunt, tight, shiny look that’s popular online. “A big stunt, but it can’t risk our marriage. If I had a talent, that’d be one thing. But clearly nobody gives a fuck about my paintings. Maybe I’ll start doing pranks? But what if my followers don’t like pranks?”

  I bring my forearm to my mouth. I open my mouth and I bare my teeth, staring at my reddened skin.

  “No, no.”

  I need to get a hold of this. Talking to myself isn’t good.

  I’m not crazy, but when I was a child and I used to talk to myself, it led to some bad stuff.

  I talked myself into being bulimic. Was it really bad when it made me look shiny and sharp in my Facebook photos? If the other girls were liking, commenting, praising me, and if the boys wanted me, surely a little vomiting here and there was an acceptable price to pay. And I talked myself into believing dating an older boy, a drug dealer, would somehow make my parents notice I was there. I convinced myself they’d be forced to take an interest. But in the end, I had to break it off. He was possessive and scary.

  Because I was alone so much, I was sort of able to pretend my voice was somebody else’s. It made convincing myself of things easier.

  I feel that way now. Alone. I can’t think clearly. Everything’s moving too fast.

  Life is spinning and spinning and I don’t know what to do.

  I’ve worked hard to build my following. If I change my content, they might abandon me. But if I don’t change it, I could stagnate, become irrelevant, and disappear.

  Greta’s annoying me, with her one hundred and sixty-two thousand followers. She posted a video yesterday where she broke into somebody’s garden and jumped into their pool in her underwear. Never mind the fact the garden belonged to one of her friends and it was staged. It still blew up.

  Maybe I need to get Jamie to jump into the pool like he said he would last Friday. But then Greta will say I’m copying her.

  I’m meeting with Greta and Trish tomorrow for Friday-night drinks. I don’t want to. Greta constantly watches our analytics, waiting for one of us to stumble. She must be enjoying my slow downfall.

  Trish is not on social media. She’s my oldest real friend and I should probably talk to her about how I’m feeling, the same way I should talk to Jamie. But if I talk about it, it’s real. I really am failing. There’s no going back.

  I collapse against the wall as I suddenly get a head rush, and then leap up when the wood scalds my skin.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  I stand and grab the door handle, pushing it, and then pushing it again when it sticks.

  “How many times have I told him to fix this? Fix the bloody door, Jamie. Somebody’s going to get stuck in here one day. How many times?”

  Finally, it bursts open and I stumble into the rain, the cold shocking after all that heat. I sprint across the garden in my swimsuit, my bare feet sinking into the mud, forgetting my slip-on shoes until it’s too late.

  I run into the kitchen. I don’t care that I leave muddy footprints behind me. Maybe I can imagine they belong to somebody else, the same way my voice was somebody else’s when I was a girl, and I’m not alone in this big empty house.

  Get a job if you’re lonely, Jamie said once, during an argument.

  I have a job. This time next year, I’ll have a million followers.

  That was more than a year ago, and I’ve gained twenty thousand since then – twenty thousand which I’m on the verge of losing.

  I slam the door and drop onto my bum, pressing myself as close to the heater as I can get without burning. I sit here for a long time, thinking, talking through the problem and coming up with no solutions.

  Maybe I need to have a discussion with Jamie and explain he needs to be more understanding with how I display my body online. Or maybe I need to learn a skill, like an instrument, or acting, something that translates well to the videos.

  Painting is so static, and the thing is, the really horrible truth is, I’m not very good at it.

  Jamie’s lucky I love him so much. He’s lucky we bonded the way we did, primal and instant and compulsive. I own him as much as he owns me. We possess each other.

  Nobody understands him the way I do. They think they have an idea, but they don’t know what lurks beneath the surface. They don’t know how crazy he is at heart: the same way I’m a little mad myself, even if I don’t like to admit it.

  They see the sparkle and the sauna and the custom-built Aga and the swimming pool and the suits and the dresses and the jewellery, but they don’t see how broken we are. We were both half-real when we found each other. We fixed each other. We owe each other the world.

  My mobile vibrates from the kitchen island.

  It’s Greta, confirming tomorrow evening, with a stupid amount of emojis.

  I text her back: Can’t wait, gorgeous xxx

  Then I find Millie on my contacts list. We haven’t spoken in a few days. I guess she’s been busy with work. We’ve texted a little though, mostly jokes about the sounds Ray makes in his sleep.

  On a whim, I press call instead of text, even though I never ring people.

  “Yes, hello?” She sounds adorably surprised somebody has called her.

  “Hey. It’s Hazel.”

  She laughs. “I know, silly. I saw your name. What’s the matter? I can’t remember the last time somebody actually rang me.”

  “I guess I’m in a retro mood. And I wanted to ask you in person. Not in person. You know what I mean.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “If you want to come out with me and a couple of friends tomorrow night? It’s nothing mad, a few drinks at a club. To be honest, Millie, I think I need my knightess in shining armour. There’s this woman, Greta, and she can be a bit of a handful.”

  I don’t know why I’m telling her this. Maybe it’s because she’s older, more understanding, fiercer than any of my other friends. Maybe it’s because she’s a stranger. I really don’t know.

  There’s just something about Millicent Maidstone.

  “You really want me to?”

  “I’d love for you to come.”

  “That’s…” She pauses. She clears her throat. Is she crying? “That is honestly lovely, H. I’d love to come out with you and your friends. Tomorrow night, yes?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Where should I meet you, and what time?”

  “I’ll text you the details. And, Millie.”

  “Yeah?”

  I need to be careful I don’t go too far. I’ve done that in the past when I’ve felt like this. I’ve said things, done things I didn’t mean. I’ve made friends I later decided I didn’t like. I’ve started relationships I had to end once the initial shine wore off. I’ve said things – I love you, I hate you, I need you – I found ridiculous a few hours later.

  But screw it. Millie’s a good person.

  “You don’t need to sound so surprised. You’re a really, really lovely woman. I’m happy we met. And I’m happy you’ve agreed to come out with us. No matter what happens between you and Ray, I think we’re going to stay friends. I don’t care how awkward it gets for the men.”

  “Fuck the men!” Her voice cracks. “I promise I’ll meet you tomorrow evening. Nothing, nothing could stop
me from being there. This is the most excited I’ve been in a long time. Thank you.”

  “Just remember me when you’re famous, all right?”

  “Famous for what?” she snaps, a bite in her voice.

  “For being a bestselling writer, silly.”

  “Oh.” She giggles. “Yes, that’s right. Silly me. See you tomorrow.”

  I wonder why she snapped. I guess she’s sensitive about her writing.

  “Great,” I say. “See you then. Bye-bye.”

  Placing my phone down, I run my hand along the worktop, cool against my fingertips. I grab the corner of the stainless-steel chopping board and pull it over to me, staring down into it: into my partial reflection, the corner of my lip and a shimmery piece of my eye.

  “I see you, Hazel Paling,” I murmur, wishing I was back there, gazing up at him the first time he said it. His eyes were like little green fires. “I see all of you. You’re never invisible with me. Everything you do, everything you are… I’ll always be watching.”

  38

  Jamie

  Elijah Wrigley lives in a small terraced house at the end of a long row. The street is grubby, a rundown-looking place. A kid kicks a ball against a garage, making an annoying banging noise that makes me want to stab the ball to pieces. It’s loud even through the closed windows of the Range Rover, even with the hum of the air condition to dampen it.

  I rub the bridge of my nose. None of this should be happening. I’m in York. I’m here to see a cultist. It sounds like a joke. Getting through work yesterday was a nightmare. All I could think about was driving up here and sorting this.

  And of course it had to be on Mum’s bloody birthday. It’s like the universe is trying to tell me something.

  If God’s real, He’s having a whale of a time up there. I can see Him now, proud of Himself, stroking His big white beard with a big grin on His face.

  My son, the Bastard is saying, instead of celebrating your mother’s birthday with her, I shall send thee to talk to a man who might be able to tell you why a lunatic serial killer has targeted you.

  I remember Mum’s last birthday before she left, the way we sat around the dingy table in the dingy flat and Mum pretended to be happy. She smiled as she blew out the candles, but even at that age I knew something was wrong.

  I knew they were going to break-up. That was fine. I just expected her to take me with her instead of leaving me with Dad. I didn’t expect her to run off with her secret Italian boyfriend.

  Why couldn’t she take me with her? What’s wrong with me, for fuck’s sake?

  I let my head fall back. I didn’t try last year, or the year before… the year before that, I tried and it didn’t go too well. She seemed annoyed at me for even making the effort. But maybe she’s had time to think. Maybe she’s had time to remember I’m her son.

  I take out my phone and scroll to her number. Usually when I do this, I hold my thumb over the green call icon for a minute before closing my contacts list. She doesn’t want to hear from me.

  The phone rings for half a minute or so – the kid is still kicking the ball against the garage, and it’s really pissing me off – and then she picks up.

  “Pronto?” And then, after a pause, “Ciao?”

  “You don’t have my number saved.” I grip the steering wheel and stare at the kid’s mop of brown hair. It shifts around like a bunch of snakes each time he kicks the ball. I wonder why he doesn’t have any friends. I wonder why he’s not in school. I wonder what’s wrong with him.

  “Jamie?” she says, with a slight English accent.

  Not a slight Italian accent, but a slight English accent, as though she’s lived over there her whole life, as though she wants to put England and her life here behind her forever. She doesn’t even call herself Penny anymore. It’s Penelope now. Posher, I guess.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I wanted to wish you happy birthday.”

  I can hear people in the background, happy voices raised. Somebody laughs and somebody else claps. Everybody is speaking Italian. There are adults and children, a whole mess of joy on the other side of the phone.

  She’s had two children since abandoning me, a boy and a girl, little Luca and Flavia. She posts photos of them on Instagram. They’re beautiful and happy and nothing like the tragic bastard I became after she left.

  The kid picks up his ball and sits against the garage, legs splayed, staring across the street at the terraced houses. He’s got a hole in his shoe so I can see his sock, a blue sock, and Mum still hasn’t said anything.

  “Hello?”

  “Sì, I’m here. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Maybe thank you.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for wishing me happy birthday.”

  I wish she was here so I could… I don’t know, I don’t know what I’d do. But I’d do something. It would be easier if I knew where she lived, but she won’t give me her address. She didn’t even give me her phone number. I found it on Dad’s phone. Last time we spoke, she threatened to change it if I rang her too often. My own mother.

  She’s never said why she behaves this way. She’s never offered an excuse.

  “Un momento.” She’s talking to somebody in that other world. That happy, happy world. “Jamie, I have to go. Thank you for calling me.”

  “I love you.” A pause, a too-long pause. “Mum, did you hear me? I said I loved you.”

  “Please don’t make me lie.” She hangs up.

  I don’t know what happens next.

  Everything goes dark and then I wake up, as if I’ve just gotten blackout drunk in world-record time. There are tears in my eyes and my hands ache from where I’ve been slamming my palms against the steering wheel. My ears ring like somebody’s kicking a football against the inside of my skull.

  I rub my sleeve across my face, cleaning myself up. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t mean anything. She’s just a woman I used to know. She’s nothing to me. Her shiny new life could burst into flames and I wouldn’t shed a single tear.

  I climb from the car and pace across the street, making toward Elijah’s sad little house. But then I stop and change direction, walking over to the kid.

  He bolts to his feet, grabbing his ball.

  “Stay where you are,” I snap.

  He freezes, gazing up at me, his leg tapping frantically. “I didn’t know it was your garage.”

  “It’s not. Why aren’t you in school?”

  He shrugs.

  “All right then. Why aren’t you at home?”

  “Can’t go home. Can’t go to school.”

  “Why?”

  He looks up, his eyes red. He’s been crying, like me. We were both crying at the same time, maybe twenty feet from each other, and we never would’ve known if I hadn’t come over here. We never would’ve cared.

  “I said why.”

  “I can’t,” he whines. “I’m—it’s bad. It’s just bad.”

  “I get that. But listen, all right? Are you listening?”

  He nods.

  “It’s not going to get better unless you get the fuck out of there. And the only way you can do that is by going to school. You work your arse off even if you hate it. I hated it. But I worked. Work sets you free. A great man said that. I can’t remember who. But it’s the truth. Work hard, keep your head down, and one day you’ll have a car like mine. You like my car?”

  He nods again. “The windows are really dark.”

  “Because I paid through the nose to make them that way. You’re getting bullied in school, right?”

  “Yeah. Because we’re poor.”

  “Suck it up. That bully’s gonna end up a crackhead choking on his own vomit. And so will you if you sit around waiting for somebody else to fix your problems. Don’t be a loser. It’s the worst fucking thing you can be.” I take out my wallet and grab five twenty-pound notes. “Here. Enjoy yourself today. Get some new trainers. But tomorrow, you drag yourself to school.”

  He grins. “But it’s Saturday t
omorrow.”

  “All right, smartass. Monday, then. But you have to promise, or you don’t get the money.”

  “I promise. I swear I’ll go.”

  “All right.” I hand him the notes. He grabs them, but I hold on a moment longer, staring hard into his eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t let your parents see this. It doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to you.”

  He takes the notes and shoves them into his pocket, like he’s scared I’m going to snatch them away. Then he breaks my heart. He picks up the ball and he holds it out to me. It’s old and half the leather’s peeled off, but he offers it like it’s made of gold.

  “Cheers.” I take it. “Now fuck off. I’ve got things to do.”

  He runs down the street, grinning as he yells over his shoulder. “I’ve got things to do as well!”

  I watch him go and then drop the football, letting it roll away. It’s a nice gesture. But I’m a rugby man, always have been.

  I walk over to Elijah’s house and slam my fist against the door. This bloke better give me some answers. I’m not in the mood to be messed around.

  “One second,” he calls, his voice weak-sounding. He reminds me of the interns we get at work, the whiners who can never hack it. He opens the door and frowns at me. It’s difficult not to notice the purple birthmark that spreads across half his face. “How can I help?”

  39

  Millicent

  “Give us a spin, darling,” Ray says.

  I stand in the centre of his absurdly large bedroom, the afternoon sun blaring deafeningly through the window, in a sequinned dress the colour of gold. The sun catches the gold and it lights me up, up, up, so I’m brimming with so much light I almost think – for a mad confused moment – I don’t have to kill Jamie Smithson.

  Perhaps I can be Millie, instead of Millicent. Perhaps Hazel truly does desire my friendship.