Murder Game

by Emmy Ellis

  BLOOD. CAR CRASH. FIRE. GOING TO BE SICK AGAIN

  —and if Nora walked away now when Sarah was in such a strange state of mind, what kind of person did that make Nora?

  “See you later,” Sarah said, voice full of cheer.

  Nora’s blood chilled again, and she groped at her letterbox, barrelling inside so fast she banged her arm on the wall. She closed the door with her foot then made it to the sofa before she collapsed. Breathing in slowly, she got her nausea under control, thankful that she wouldn’t vomit on her nice cream carpet.

  Tears came then.

  Tears that Sarah should have been shedding.

  “I’ll cry for you, Michael,” she whispered.

  Nora cried for quite a while.

  She got up, wrung out and tired, and swilled her face with cold water from the kitchen tap. After drying her face, she went to the mirror in the hallway to see what state she’d be presenting to the neighbours. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy, her skin pink with ugly blotches. The ends of her fringe were wet from her quick wash, but none of it mattered. She’d loved Michael—from afar, but she’d loved him, had secretly wished he’d been hers—and if going out there to tell everyone that he was dead and wouldn’t be coming home—oh, don’t; I can’t cry again—then that’s what she’d do.

  As she imparted the news to all who were in, it got easier with each telling. Like she was helping herself to accept it with every new revelation. All were shocked, as they should be, and it went some way to making Nora feel better.

  The problem was, she now had a nugget of dislike inside her for Sarah, and as she walked home, it grew.

  * * * *

  Wearing gloves, I fold the cheque that had fallen from Ted’s pocket. Put it back in the envelope and stuff it in my pocket. There hasn’t been much time to think about it—about what’s to be done with it. And after last night’s fiasco with Robert and Michael, tiredness is a big factor that bellows in my ears that I need sleep, and it sucks energy from my body. One left, that’s all, and then it’ll be over. It’s still a toss up between two people.

  A choice has to be made.

  There’s also another issue that’s bothersome. The plan had been five graves, but really there’s only one. Can my conscience be soothed with knowing each person has been covered with mud individually? Does that count as separate? Deviating from the plan isn’t something The Sender wants, because I was told to do it by the book. It tempted bad karma, changing things, not sticking to things. Michael’s death has shown that much. He’d poked his nose in, stomping on my territory with his size whatever boots, and look what happened. Flattened like a bug, burned like a motherfucker.

  The cheque. It’s a quandary, not to mention a surprise. Cashing it might be a problem. But then The Sender could do it if I offer to split it fifty-fifty. There would be no risk of me being seen going into the bank then, and if luck is kind, being given half in cash would be even better. A suitcase, large box, or in a bag under the mattress is an option on where to store it. Amounts could be taken as needed, and large purchases could be explained away in the future as money being saved up diligently, that credit cards weren’t something that appealed.

  I need to sleep. Then I can decide who number five is. Yes, I’ll do that. Everything’s always better when you’ve had a bit of shuteye.

  Chapter Twenty

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:29 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  Okay, I’ve got everything sorted. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Getting it all ready was more of a bitch than I thought it would be. The thing is, you don’t realise how much coding is needed, do you, and even the small things were sprouting glitches. Still, I’ve done it now; it’s as ready as it’ll ever be, so we just need to work out when we’re going to start.

  I take it you haven’t done a dry run, then? I haven’t seen any activity, see, which is why I mentioned it. The zone you were going to practice on wasn’t anything to do with the final one—the one we’ll actually be using together—so you wouldn’t have messed anything up. Is that why you didn’t bother with it, in case you messed things up?

  Now, if you can just let me know when you want to begin, I’ll send you the rules. Treat them as you would any other game for now, right? No bending them, even though we can because it’s our creation. What we’ll do is write down where we see blips or fuck-ups, and I’ll fix them once the whole game is complete. Then we can put feelers out, to friends or whatever, and see if anyone would be interested in trying it for free. Once that’s done, I can concentrate on creating the perfected version when they give us feedback, and we can go live. It’s so easy to make an app, you wouldn’t believe.

  I’ll be here for you until about ten, then I need to do other stuff. So get in touch. Oh, the login screen’s a bit wanky—I need to fine-tune the layout and the look of everything. All I wanted to do for now was see if we could actually play, whether making money off this could really work.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:35 P.M.

  I don’t understand. I have been doing a dry run. I’ve got four people off my list. Been really busy doing it, that’s why I haven’t written back. It’s tiring, and I’m so knackered that if we’re doing it again after I’ve finished number five, I’m going to need a couple of weeks to catch up on sleep. Is that going to be all right?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:42 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  I’ve just checked the platform. Seriously, there’s nothing on there. No activity at all since the last time I logged in. Where did you go to play?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:44 P.M.

  Um, I don’t get what you mean.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:46 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  Where did you log in?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:47 P.M.

  I didn’t. You don’t login to real life!

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:49 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  Now I’m confused.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:51 P.M.

  I chose five people, okay? Like you said. Then I killed four, like you said. Now I have just one more to do. What’s confusing about that?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:55 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  Hang on a minute. I just need a second or two…

  Okay, you chose five people in your life who bug you, yes? And you killed them. For real? As in, you went out there and killed them with your bare hands?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 7:58 P.M.

  Yes. That’s what you told me to do, wasn’t it?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:00 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  I did but… Shit. Fuck. You’re being serious? You actually did it?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:01 P.M.

  I’m serious. That’s why I wasn’t sure about the whole thing at first. Killing people for real isn’t normal, is it? But you insisted it’d make us loads of money, so I did it.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:03 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  It will make us loads of money. The game will. Jesus Christ. Who are these people? How did you kill them? Where the hell have you put them?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:04 P.M.

  They’re just neighbours. They didn’t bother me, but they upset someone I love so I picked them because of that. I used the baseball bat to subdue—you said that was the easiest and most effective tool; you know, the one from that show you said to watch—then I killed them with whatever was associated with them and why they annoyed. So one man was strangled with a towel, the other smacked with his cane, that kind of thing. I followed the rules. You said to kill them that way. So what’s the problem?

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:07 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  Christ. Oh my fucking GOD. This was an ONLINE game, you fucking freak. ONLINE! That’s where the money was going to come from. I’m developing a game—do you understand that? A GAME. I can’t believe you went out and killed people for real.

  Dread. It hits you so hard sometimes. It’s hit me, and I don’t k
now whether to throw up or what. An online game? He never mentioned that. I swear to God he never mentioned that. My head’s spinning, my guts are sore, and I just…

  Fuck. I’ve killed people.

  Shit. Shitshitshit.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:10 P.M.

  I don’t know why I thought you’d meant anything other than online. I don’t bloody KNOW anything at the moment! What shall I do? I’m…fucking hell, I’m so screwed up. What if I get caught? You said I wouldn’t if I followed the rules. I did, I made a suit like the one you described. I didn’t have rubber or anything like that, it was just black bags, but I made it and wore it every time. And no one knows these people are missing in that kind of way—like, there are excuses as to why they’re not here anymore. No reason to think they’re actually DEAD. That was in the rules, wasn’t it. But…I’m going to be sick. These people are in a mass grave in the woods by my house. My house! What…I need to go.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:13 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  And do what? Make more of a mess of things? We need to talk about this. Think. I’m trying to think what you should do. I could be implicated, and all I did was discuss our game. YOU were the one who didn’t read my messages properly. Why didn’t you ask if you weren’t sure? Who goes out and DOES that shit for real? You, obviously. Crap. I have no damn idea what you’re meant to do now.

  I run to the bathroom.

  “What’s up?” I’m asked, but I ignore the voice.

  I throw up. My whole guts are down the toilet yet more keeps coming. I’m cold, so bloody cold, and I can’t stop shaking. I am so in the shit. I thought…I thought The Sender would have sorted everything, that The Sender was sorting everything while I was playing. I didn’t think I had much to worry about with The Sender covering my back. I need…I have to get away from here. I have to go, to fix this. I can’t risk being caught. This is all too much. I just need…to go.

  That reminds me of writing Mo’s letter, the one where it said she had to go. I’d copied her writing, and it looked exactly the same. I shouldn’t have done any of this. Shouldn’t have got any joy out of it either, but I had.

  I’m sick.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:20 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  Are you there? Listen, meet me. We’ll talk about this. Tell me exactly what you did, and I’ll see if I think you can get away with it. Don’t panic, that’s the main thing. I’ll meet you at the water tower, all right?

  The water tower. I know why The Sender wants me to go there. That’s where The Sender said things would have to end if everything went wrong. I stare at the computer screen, conscious that someone else is in the room with me, right there, probably wondering why I’d gone into the bathroom to vomit. Why I’m sitting here shaking. Why I’ve been going out at night and coming back, creeping through the house on tiptoes. I have no choice but to go out again now. The water tower is the best bet. Best for everyone.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:32 P.M.

  All right. I’ll be there in ten minutes.

  MESSAGE SENT AT 8:36 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  I’ll end this discussion now—close the box and log the hell out, will you? I’ll delete everything. I’ll make sure our conversations disappear for good. We’ll sort something. Just…fucking hell, just go to the water tower. If I’m not there in half an hour, you’ll know why. You’ll know what you have to do next.

  I leave the house, not speaking to anyone. I just have to get out, to keep what I’ve done away from them. I imagine what it’ll do to them if those bodies get found, if it leads back to me. Their lives…they’ll be ruined, as if they haven’t been ruined enough. I promised myself I wouldn’t be a burden, wouldn’t bring more shame and upset, but I’ve done it anyway. The money from this game was supposed to make it all better, help us live a great life away from here and all the memories. We wouldn’t need to worry. I don’t know where the money was supposed to come from. I didn’t question—The Sender seemed to know what they were doing. I trusted them. And now it all makes sense. An online game. An app creation.

  I remember the cheque. The Sender knows what’s what—that cheque could be cashed without it coming back on us, I think. That money could save us all, but I’d be forever worrying that I’ll get found out. I know damn well if we move, what I’ve done will follow—I’ll get caught eventually. I’m not stupid. I’ve had a bloody decent education, something many people haven’t had—so why didn’t I think this through? Why did I go ahead with this stupid dry run without proper clarification?

  I should have waited for the main game to be ready. None of this would have happened then. I’d have got login details, would have realised what was really going on, that it was supposed to be online. Now? Jesus, now there’s a massive mess and it’s all my fault for not taking things in properly. For not thinking. And that’s what’s always been my problem, so Dad always used to say. I’m a good-for-nothing prick who doesn’t LISTEN!

  I stumble through the woods. Pick up a couple of dead magpies I’d killed earlier. Cram them inside the front of my jacket and hold them there by doing up the zip.

  The water tower’s ahead, but I can’t see anyone else there. Maybe The Sender is still hacking the system so our stuff’s deleted. If they’re even a real hacker, like they told me. But they showed me something once, proved they are. They got into my bank account just by knowing my name and where I live. I was scared then, thought I’d better stay friends with them, get on their good side so they didn’t hack into anyone else’s accounts at home and bleed them dry. We couldn’t face that. I couldn’t face knowing if money was taken it would have been down to me.

  I just wanted to make everything all right. I chose those people because without them there’s less stress—or there would be, given time. No more irritating things to piss anyone off.

  I’m standing by the water tower. The thing hasn’t been used for years. As kids we used to dare each other to climb that long ladder up the side there, get to the top and peer over, see whether it was full of rust or if water was still inside. But now I look back on it, that was stupid. It has a lid on it, so of course we wouldn’t have seen anything inside. And we never made it past around twenty rungs anyway. It was too high and made my stomach churn.

  I laugh.

  The way it churned back then is nothing compared to what it’s churning like now.

  I’ll wait. Got no choice. The Sender’ll be here in a minute.

  But what if The Sender calls the police? What if they come instead?

  Shit. I don’t like the police. Bring back too many memories.

  It’s cold. Time’s going by so fast and still no message sender.

  I think of the people at home.

  I have to do this. For them.

  I start climbing the ladder, the sides of it sharp with peeling bits of rust. It hurts, slices into my palms, but I don’t care. I can fix this by myself, like The Sender said I must if things went wrong. The height…sodding hell, the height is so high, you know? Like, higher than I’ve ever been and I’m not even at the top yet.

  Don’t look down. Just keep going.

  At the top there’s a lip surrounding the lid. It looks like a path made of metal—probably where the workers used to walk to maintain the structure or whatever they did back then. I clamber onto it, my nerves shot to fuck, my legs faring just as badly. If I just stand at the edge and lean forward, everything will be all right. Won’t it?

  It will.

  Because I’m neighbour number five.

  Chapter Twenty

  Whoever was banging had a bloody problem. Loud, it was, insistent, and altogether rude. Nearly ten fifteen too—not the kind of hour at night you wanted anyone bashing the shit out of your door.

  Where was the damn fire?

  I shouldn’t have thought that, not with what happened at Mo’s.

  Nora opened the door to find Vicky Staff on her step, her facial expression one of pain, her breaths coming out in ran
cid, alcohol-riddled pants. Nora reeled back a bit, frowning and thinking Vicky had better want her for something other than a lift to the shop for a fresh bottle of booze. Nora had only just got back from there—she’d worked until nine-thirty—and returning so soon wasn’t something she relished.

  “What’s the problem?” Nora asked, her tone not as hard as she’d intended. She never could give out an air of authority.

  “It’s Luke…”

  “What about him?”

  Nora braced herself for a drunken tirade about the language coming through the boys’ bedroom window. That was rich, considering Vicky swore like a navvy. If the only thing her sons did was speak too loudly—give or take a curse or two—she hadn’t done too badly considering how their lives had started out.

  “He’s…you need to come and see.” Vicky clutched her hair, scrunched her hands into fists, and jerked about on the path. “He’s…he’s in the fucking woods. I…I saw him go…”

  “Go?” Nora let the frown deepen. It brought on wrinkles, but for this episode she’d let that knowledge pass. “So what if he’s in the woods? No crime against it—unless he’s committing a crime?”

  “No, he’s…you need to come and see. Oh my God, you need to come and see.”

  The first stirrings of unease spiked inside Nora. Luke was usually upstairs at this time of night, playing that war game of his.