Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

  “Again?”

  “Yeah.” Jess talks over her shoulder as she hustles to the door. “She had to rescue me at Christmas. I came in without telling her and locked myself in. She completely freaked out, there’s no mobile reception in here so she thought I’d gone missing, or something, so. . . Oh, don’t worry!” Ah, so the look of horror on my face is totally obvious. “Look, I know you’re here, and I’ll only be five minutes, OK? I’ll get rid of whoever it is as fast as I can. You make a start.” And with that she leaves the room.

  I remember she has the only key a beat too late, so when I dive for the door it clicks shut in my hand. Damn it. I twist the handle but it’s like I thought – it locks from the outside. Brilliant.

  She better come back soon.

  I turn to face the gaping maw of the strange rolling shelves.

  It really is dark in there.

  “Maybe I should just wait right here.” My voice echoes and rolls around the empty space, seeming to disappear down the corridor of shelves, the books sucking up my words. Jesus, pull it together, Niamh. I straighten my shoulders and pull out my phone, turning on the flashlight. It’s not been the same since I had it fixed, they definitely used some cheapo parts, but it gives out just enough light for me to see down the row – just books, neatly arranged on shelves, nothing to worry about. I glance back down at my phone, seeing that Jess was right – no signal to speak of – and realize my shift at the museum would just be ending.

  I wonder if Tommy noticed I wasn’t there this afternoon.

  I physically shake the thought of him from my head and focus on the task in hand. I pad over to the first shelf. None of the books look familiar, in fact most seem to be handwritten, like diaries. I work my way down to the darker end of the wall. I have to hold the torch closer here, in order to make the golden titles flash, give up their secrets. I focus on one which I think looks familiar and ease it from the shelf, but my phone wobbles and the light is hidden for a moment.

  It only takes that split second to realize the main lights have gone out.

  Again.

  It’s like I’m a magnet for electrical problems. I fumble the book and my phone, panic rising when I realize I’m going to drop one of them. I grasp the phone tightly, my only source of light slick under my palm, and the book hits the floor with a muffled thud that might as well be a thunderclap. The little torchlight dances crazily. I lift my head and that’s when I see.

  There’s a shadow blocking my way out.

  “J . . . Jess?” My voice is barely more than a croak. “Ruth?” I try again, but the same thing happens, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. “Is that you?” I whisper.

  The shadow doesn’t falter and I begin to think that it’s just a trick of the light, something to do with the books and the way the big ones are stacked up. Or maybe it is Jess.

  “Jess, is that you?” My voice sounds a little more confident but I stay rooted to the spot. I’m not going any closer until I know who – or what, my brain adds unhelpfully – is there. “C’mon,” I try, though I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t pull something like this. “Not funny.”

  The shadow melts away.

  “Hey,” I call, my legs no longer cemented to the floor. “HEY.” Anger fills my voice, the last few days of fear turning into something more solid and raging. “Leave me alone!”

  There’s no reply, of course there’s not. Hot tears slide down my cheeks, burning right through the temporary rage. I scrabble around on the floor and my fingers curl around the book I dropped. As far as weapons go it’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. I shut off my light and feel my way instead, inching along the space between the shelves. If I get out of it I don’t want this cretin to know where I am.

  My skin shrinks on my bones when a high, metallic scratch pierces the silence.

  I freeze, trying to keep blind panic at bay – I can’t afford another panic attack right now. Forcing myself to think calmly, I start to list off what I know about the room.

  There are no windows in here. No phone service or Wi-Fi. There’s only one door in and out, and as far as I know Jess has the key. I can’t scream; it would find me before anyone came, even if I could be heard through the thick walls. I try to recall what the ceiling looks like – is it full of those little tiles, the kind on movies that hide tunnels and stuff? This room is kept cool, to protect the books, Jess had told me, so I guess there could be air-conditioning vents up there. I’d have to climb the shelves, though, and they’re metal, so again I’d be giving away my position if I even tried. . .

  The piercing sound of metal on metal starts up again, but this time it’s got a weird kind of rhythm, almost like whoever it is is making patterns in the metal, drawing circles. A gentle breeze raises gooseflesh on my bare arms, and I realize what the sound is.

  Someone is turning the wheel.

  “No.” My voice is a strangled whisper as I forget all about making noise. A draught rushes around me now, the closing shelves forcing the air out, creating a vacuum for the books. I stretch my arms out.

  I can touch both sides already.

  I stumble forwards, dropping both my phone and the book this time. I don’t care, I just need to get out of here. The room is so utterly thick with darkness that I seem to be swimming through molasses, my body moving in slow motion. Something tickles my neck and I jump. It’s just a book.

  But it’s a book that is way too close for comfort.

  “Please.” I’m begging now, all pride long gone. “Please.”

  The scratching stops for a second and I try to run but I’m already stuck, large folios on the bottom shelves barring my exit. I turn sideways and edge along. The noise starts up again, so close now that I know I’m near the opening.

  And then I am so nearly out, I hurl my body through the closing gap, but my leg becomes caught and before I know it, the metal ridges of the shelving are pressing painfully into my back. I yank at my leg until something pops, white hot pain searing through my ankle. I don’t mean to cry out. I clap a hand to my mouth a fraction too late and strain my ears to listen for movements, but the room is still.

  Someone is banging on the other side of the door.

  “Niamh? Niamh! Open the door!”

  “Jess!” I scream. “Jess, there’s someone in here, please, you have to help me!”

  “But you have the key!” she wails. “The key is inside.”

  “No!” I yell. “I don’t have it. Jess? Jess?”

  No response.

  “No, no, no!” I pull at my foot again and this time it releases, sending me sideways into open air so that my head is free of the shelving.

  That means my face is right next to the wheel.

  A featherlight scratch traces a path down my cheek and I freeze. It carries on, cool metal curving beneath my chin, grazing up the other side of my face. My eyes fill with horrified tears, but the touch isn’t painful or punishing.

  It’s gentle. Almost loving.

  A caress.

  “Hurry up, Mum, please hurry!” Jess’s voice bleeds through the door and suddenly a dazzling beam of light sears into my eyes.

  I can just make out a vague, blurry shape moving past me, and then the door opens and I see Jess and Ruth and I don’t care about anything any more. I close my eyes.

  I’m safe.

  Déjà vu.

  Only, not really. I’ve definitely been in this situation before, only this time I’m no longer the witness. I’m the “victim”.

  I hate that word.

  “So.” Detective Moran, the officer interviewing me, glances at his notebook. “You say that you were alone in the, ah, special collections room?”

  I nod, casting my eyes down guiltily and trying to avoid Ruth’s gaze. She reaches over to squeeze my hand, her heavily ringed fingers closing over mine. She looks tired, her skin ashy and pale.

  “It’s fine, Niamh. Just tell them what happened. All that matters is that you and Jess are safe.”

  “
But I’ve already told them everything!” I wrap the thin, police-issue blanket tighter around me, struggling to warm up. The cool draughts of air remind me of the library. I bet they do it on purpose: crank the air-con right up, just to unnerve people.

  I shift in my chair (which is so uncomfortable it surely breaks several of my human rights) trying to redistribute my weight without jarring my left foot, which is currently propped up and covered with an ice pack. One bum cheek is completely asleep, so it’s tough going, but I manage. I wiggle my toes experimentally and am relieved that, despite the definite twinge in my ankle, everything seems to be in full working order. The police doctor said it was a bad sprain but not a break.

  It’s flaming sore, though.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hughes,” Detective Moran sighs, scratching his salt and pepper stubble. “This is procedure. I know it might be difficult for you but, well, we seem to have a situation on our hands.” More hot tears streak down my face, my skin already tight from crying, and his gaze softens a little. His eyes are bloodshot, too. “Really, Niamh, your statement will be a huge help. No one else has been able to provide us with a proper account of what happened, not since the beginning.”

  I look up.

  “Beginning? You mean Sara?”

  “Uh, no.” Detective Moran flips back to the start of his notebook. “There was an attack on June 28th. The young woman survived but she was badly shaken. She was walking home from. . .”

  “June 28th?” I interrupt him again and he clears his throat irritably.

  “Yes.”

  My mind whirs. Late June – I was still at home then! I didn’t even arrive here until the middle of July. Some of the tension in my shoulders begins to unravel and I feel lighter than I have in a while.

  I can’t be the link, after all.

  “Niamh?” Detective Moran’s voice nudges me back to the present. “Is everything OK?”

  “Yes, yeah it’s fine. I’m fine.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what happened as best I can.”

  And I try, going over every little detail I can dredge up. Brains are weird, though; what was once so clear is now a hazy mash of heightened survival instincts and pure horror. The actual events have been diluted and I’m already sifting through the events, starting to assign a rational explanation to each part.

  “And you said that the perpetrator touched you?”

  “Yes.” This is one memory that still has the power to bring up bile from the pit of my stomach.

  “On your face?” The detective mimics the movement with his blue biro, the chewed end tracing a path down his rough cheek.

  I nod.

  “You don’t have any visible marks, though. In fact, you only suffered one injury.” He gestures to my elevated foot. “Why do you think he left your face uninjured?

  I shrug, still cold despite the blanket. How should I know? Detective Moran leans across the table, shifting his empty coffee cup out of the way to show me his notes.

  “First victim: Mary Stevens. Injuries to the face and head. Second victim: Sara Mondrial, deceased. Injuries to the face, head and neck. Third victim: Natasha. . .”

  The heavy metal door of the interview room crashes open. I realize I’ve physically recoiled from Detective Moran’s words, now all curled up and small in my chair.

  “That’s enough!” A voice booms as someone comes through the door.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

  “Derek?”

  “Sir.” I stare as Moran leaps out of his seat to address the older man. What the hell is going on?

  Derek nods at Ruth and fixes his eyes on me, completely ignoring the detective, who sinks back down into his seat.

  “You all right, Irish?” he says. I nod mutely. “Getting yourself in all sorts of trouble, I hear.” He stalks around to the other side of the desk and peers at the notebook over Moran’s shoulder. “Shame on you, Pete. She’s a young girl, you’re scaring the jeepers out of her.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, sir, I was just trying to. . .”

  “Less of the sir nonsense, Pete. I’m retired and all the better off for it.”

  “Yes, of course s . . . Derek.” He says it hesitantly, like a child calling a teacher by their first name.

  “What are you doing here?” I manage to ask. The adults in the room all turn to look at me in surprise, as if they’ve forgotten I’m here.

  “Told you before, Missy, didn’t I? I’m your legal guardian while you’re under the care of the college.”

  I look at Ruth, bewildered, who nods in agreement. “He’s right, petal. Derek’s been looking after students here for the last two years. Part of the university’s safety scheme.”

  “Trying to,” he mutters, glaring at Ruth. “How could you leave them in that library all alone?”

  “They weren’t alone, they were in a building full of students and staff.” Her voice is calm, but there’s a wobble to it. “I would never, ever. . .”

  “Stop.” I massage my tight forehead and the scratchy blanket slips from around my shoulders. “Am I done now? Please? I just want to sleep.”

  Derek walks over and places both hands on the back of my chair, glaring at Detective Moran – Pete – over my head until he sighs. He flips his notebook closed and looks at me.

  “Yes, fine. But if we need to speak to you again. . .”

  “You come speak to me,” Derek says firmly, before gesturing for Pete to help me up from the chair. “C’mon, Irish, let’s get you home.”

  “No way! So, the fella running your flats is an ex-Guard?”

  “Yeah. It was brilliant, he put the detective right back in his box.” I grin into the little screen, happy just to see my sister’s face. She has her phone propped up on our shared dresser and is playing with her hair, tonging it into ringlets and admiring herself in the mirror. “Where are you off to?”

  “Nowhere, just bored.” She wraps a long, dark lock around the metal barrel and fixes me with a look that I can feel all the way from Kilkenny. “So, when are you coming home?”

  “Don’t start, Megs.”

  “OK, OK, but let’s get serious for a minute. Let’s say this killer is after you. What if next time they succeed?”

  “They won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.” She lets the curler loosen its grip, a ringlet springing up around her face, and starts the process again on a fresh strand of hair. “I want you to come home in one piece, you know.”

  “I know.” I watch as she curls two, three, four more sections of hair, an easy silence between us, even though I’ve barely spoken to her for a week. “Megs, I need you to do something for me.”

  She puts the curler down and looks at me expectantly.

  “Why do I feel like this won’t be a good idea?”

  “Just listen.” I take a deep breath, knowing that if she agrees and something does happen to me, she’ll never forgive herself. “I need you to pretend to be Mammy.”

  “What?” She picks up the phone now and for a second I see flashes of our familiar bedroom. My stomach clenches.

  “If the Guards, or Derek, call home, I need you to pick up the phone first and pretend to be Mammy.”

  “But why?”

  “They might call and ask some questions, that’s all. And then Mammy will know. I’m just being cautious. I’m not ready to come home yet,” I add, quietly.

  “Fine,” she says. Her expression is worried, but she forces a smile. “But you let me borrow anything I want when you come home. . .”

  “Sure.”

  “From your London wardrobe.”

  I grit my teeth. “Fine.”

  “Grand! Dying of boredom over here, anyway. It shouldn’t be too hard.” She hesitates. “Mammy and Daddy are busy with Granny H again.”

  “Oh, no, not again. What happened this time?”

  “She went a bit loopy at the home. Doctors said she was dehydrated, which she was, but turns out she also had an infection. She hadn�
��t drunk properly for days, they’ve had to sedate her to put a drip in. You know what she’s like.”

  “I do.” Poor Granny.

  “Anyway, they’ve been rushed off their feet between work and visiting her.” Meghan smiles proudly. “I’ve been cooking the dinners.”

  “Good girl.” I smile.

  “Yeah, I’m hoping if I keep the house nice they might let me over to see you after all.”

  Something like ice trickles through my veins. “Megs, I don’t know. . .”

  “Fine. I guess I’ll just have to tell them how much fun you’re having.” Her voice drips with sarcasm and I curse myself for training her so well.

  “Oh, shut up. Just keep yourself out of trouble, OK?”

  “Says you.” She sticks her tongue out and I see the room blur as she throws herself back on the bed. She now has one huge, curled mop of hair on one side of her head, and the other is poker straight. “Right, I’d better go, they’ll be back in a bit and I’ve got to put the spuds on. Speak soon?”

  “Of course.” She plants a big, squelchy kiss on the screen, her lips filling it. I do the same, guilt beginning to gnaw at my tummy. “Love you, Megs. And thanks.”

  She waves it off. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Stay safe, you. Byeeeeeeee—”

  The screen goes dark and she’s gone.

  I copy her, flopping back on my own bed in the new room. It’s smaller than my first room – the one I never slept in. The view’s rubbish too – a car park and some office buildings. Gutted. I stare up at the grimy ceiling, my eyes tracking the grid pattern of the tiles. It would be so easy to go home, now. Jump on a boat or the next cheap flight and go back to normal.

  But that was what was wrong with my life, wasn’t it? It was too “normal”. Boring, in other words. And, my word, have I worked hard to get here. All those shifts at the café after school, the farm jobs at the weekend. All that time and money spent on drama lessons, travelling to London to audition. Will I have to give it up, just because some creeper is stalking me?

  Well, yeah, probably. It would be the sensible thing to do.

  I let my imagination take over. What if I do write the best essay and win the scholarship? I can see it so clearly – my life in London at drama college, working at the museum, Tommy. . .