by Paul Burston
So I did something I’ve been quietly regretting ever since. I jumped on the first available train and came looking for you.
34
I didn’t expect to find you so easily. I tried calling you again from the train, but you still weren’t responding and by the time we reached Hastings the battery on my phone had died. I left the station wondering what the hell I was doing. But Hastings isn’t a large town and when we last spoke you were in a pub on the seafront. I knew from our previous conversations that the place where you were staying was also on the front, close to the pier. So I followed the signs and arrived at the seafront just in time to see you heading west along the promenade.
I stood at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the lights to change. You were on the far side of the road. There were four lanes of traffic between us, but even from this distance I could tell you weren’t yourself. Your movements were erratic; you even looked a bit crazed. It was also clear from the way you walked that you were more than a little drunk. I called out to you but you didn’t seem to hear. Then a bus passed and I lost sight of you. When I looked again, you’d gone.
The lights changed, and I walked briskly across the road. Where were you? Then I saw you, about a hundred metres ahead, swaying slightly as you navigated the pavement, sidestepping a stream of people heading away from the pier and towards the Old Town. I followed you, slowly closing the gap between us. As you approached the pier, you stopped and pulled out your phone. What were you doing? You didn’t speak to anyone, just stared at the screen before stuffing the phone back in your pocket.
When I saw you descend the wooden steps to the beach, I knew something wasn’t right. It was already getting dark, the tide was rising and a bitter wind was blowing in off the sea. This was no time to be taking a leisurely stroll on the beach. Then it hit me. I’d never had you down as the type to go cruising for sex in public spaces, but what did I know? I held back, wishing I’d brought a jacket but grateful for the warmth of my cashmere sweater. The wind whipped my hair and made my eyes water.
What now? Should I wait to see if you reappeared or follow you down? If I stumbled across you having sex with someone I’d be mortified. If I stayed where I was I might lose track of you altogether. I gazed up at the stars, as if they somehow held the answer.
There was a full moon – not the blood moon I’d heard about on the radio that morning, but a big fat moon, hanging low over the horizon, as bright as a searchlight. I don’t know how long I stood there for. Ten minutes, perhaps? But then some other instinct drove me forwards. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it the desire to see things through. I’d come this far. Why turn back now?
A yellow warning sign greeted me at the top of the steps – ‘Danger. Do not walk under pier’. Next to it, another sign advised, ‘Caution. Beach levels may change. For your own safety keep off groynes and other structures’. I wondered how unsafe it was, really.
As I stepped down onto the pebbles, I spotted a couple of drunks huddled against the sea wall. Apart from them, there didn’t appear to be a soul around. Then I heard your voice cry out, ‘You fucking bitch!’ You sounded furious.
Ignoring the warning signs, I followed the source of the sound towards the pier. The shingle crunched and shifted as I walked across the groyne and down the steep bank to where the ground levelled and the pebbles finally gave way to sand. There were no stars now. The night sky was obscured by the enormous wooden deck high above my head, casting everything into deep shadow. Steel supporting pillars rose up out of the gloom, as thick as tree trunks – a forest of steel. It felt as if I’d entered an alien underworld – a strange, forbidden place where anything could happen.
The only light was the cold glow of the moon, reflecting off the black water. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw you. At first I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. You were wrapped around each other in some kind of embrace. Is that what it had been all along? You and her – lovers? But surely she’d have told me? Then I saw you pull her hands away and hold her by the wrists as she struggled. I couldn’t hear what you were saying. Your words were carried away on the wind. But I could tell from your body language that you were arguing.
I watched as she managed to free one hand and slap you hard across the face. There was a moment’s delay – shock, I imagine. Then you raised your right fist while your left hand reached for her throat. I’ve never seen you so angry. I didn’t know if you were going to choke her or punch her. When I opened my mouth to shout ‘stop!’ I gasped as a rush of cool air filled my lungs. I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath. I watched as you threw her roughly to the ground and stood over her, clenching and unclenching your fists.
Then you turned abruptly and stormed off in the opposite direction, still visibly shaking with rage.
I should have followed you. How I wish I had. We could have talked and sorted this whole thing out. Instead I made the fatal mistake of trying to talk to her. By the time I reached her she was back on her feet and staring longingly after you.
‘Are you alright?’ I called out as I approached.
Startled, she turned to face me. ‘You again. What’s the matter? Can’t leave him alone for five minutes?’
‘I think it’s you who can’t leave him alone,’ I replied.
‘He cut me,’ she said and held up her arm, showing me the gash across her wrist. ‘He had a knife. Look what he did!’
I didn’t know what to think. I hadn’t seen any knife. Of course you could have had one concealed about your person as you headed for the pier. But that would mean you’d gone there planning to use it, and that didn’t sound like you at all.
‘Tom would never do that,’ I said, though I was beginning to have my doubts.
‘You think you know him so well, don’t you?’ she sneered. ‘You don’t know him at all. It’s thanks to him that my dad is dead.’
‘What?’
‘A few hours ago. They called me from the hospital.’
I stared at her, not knowing whether to believe her or what to say.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Oh, Evie,’ I said. ‘I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’
Her eyes glistened, and for a moment I thought she might break down and cry. Then it was as if a mask slipped. Her face changed, hardening into a look of pure hatred. ‘I don’t need your pity,’ she spat. ‘You of all people.’
‘This has to stop, Evie,’ I said gently. ‘It’s not doing you any good. You need help.’
‘Don’t fucking patronise me! You condescending bitch!’
And that was it – she launched herself at me.
I thought I’d be able to get through to her. I thought she’d listen. After everything she’d been through, I didn’t think there’d be any fight left in her. How wrong I was. But let’s not go over all that again.
It wasn’t until afterwards, as I hurried back to the station, that the full magnitude of what I’d done really sank in. I kept seeing her face and hearing the sound of her skull cracking. I pictured her lying there under the pier, lifeless. It was a high price to pay for getting involved with a man like you.
The last train from Hastings to Charing Cross leaves at 9.50 p.m. I caught it with minutes to spare. The station toilets were locked, so as soon as I boarded the train I made straight for the toilet, where I took out my compact and checked my reflection. There was a red welt with signs of bruising around the base of my throat. I covered it by turning up the collar of my shirt.
It was then that I saw the blood stain. It wasn’t large, but it was noticeable – a blot of red on my right shoulder, blossoming darkly against the cream cashmere of my sweater. I pictured her head against my shoulder. My stomach spasmed, and I vomited into the sink. I rinsed my mouth before taking off the sweater and stuffing it into my handbag. When I looked in the mirror I barely recognised myself. I was altered in a way I would never have thought possible. It wasn’t my face staring back at me but the face of a k
iller.
I found a window seat in a quiet carriage and sank into it. As the train lurched forwards, I watched the town slide away and wished I’d never set foot in the place. The air-con was on full blast, so it was hard to tell if I was shivering due to the cold or from shock. A prickle of sweat broke out on my upper lip. When the guard came to inspect my ticket I almost jumped out of my skin. Gradually the carriage filled and the hum of conversation drowned out the hammering in my chest. A couple of transport police boarded the train at Battle, and I shrank down in my seat, convinced that they’d come looking for me. I needn’t have worried. They made their presence felt for a few stops and left the train at Tonbridge.
As we passed through Kent and the familiar stations of outer London, I weighed up my options. It wasn’t too late to confess. Leaving the scene of the crime would count against me, but at least my conscience would be clear. On the other hand, what was the point? You’d already destroyed her life. Why should I allow you to destroy mine? I thought of all the times you’d abandoned me, all the times you’ve taken me for granted – and now I was the one left to clear up your mess? Panic turned to fury, and I struggled to get a grip on myself. I needed to stay calm and think clearly.
By the time I reached my destination, I’d made my decision. As I left the train at Charing Cross and crossed the concourse to the underground, an automated voice warned that ‘CCTV is in operation at this station’. Fair enough, I thought. If the police came for me, I’d confess. If not, I’d wait and see how this played out.
The missing-person digital poster I’d seen earlier was displayed on the southbound Northern Line platform, her face staring back at me accusingly. I had to avert my eyes until the train came screeching and rattling into the station, obscuring her from view. The carriage was crowded and for once I was glad of it, as if the presence of all those living, breathing, sweaty Londoners drew me back from the brink and into a world I knew.
Sleep eluded me that night. At 4.00 a.m. I climbed out of bed, went out into the garden and stared up at the sky. And there it was – the lunar eclipse we’d been promised. The moon was no longer white but steeped with red – a blood moon.
I thought of that bloodied stone on the beach in Hastings and wondered if I’d ever sleep again.
35
I didn’t expect them to find her so quickly. But then, she’d always said you wouldn’t get rid of her easily. It seems she was right about that. The next morning, a man was walking his dog down by the pier and there she was – no longer missing but soon to be the subject of a murder investigation. She hadn’t been swept out to sea as I’d anticipated. Her body was caught on one of the wooden piles.
The first few hours of any crime scene are the most critical. Everyone knows that. And the body had been submerged in sea water, making forensic analysis more difficult. But the police had a lead. A man fitting your description was seen leaving the scene of the crime on the night in question. One witness recognised you from that newspaper article and described you as looking ‘extremely agitated’. Another said he’d seen you earlier in the pub, behaving erratically.
Face it, Tom. You were bound to be the first person they’d want to speak to. You had motive, means and opportunity. She wouldn’t leave you alone. You’d wished her dead on several occasions. You were in the Hastings area at the time the crime was committed. You’d even called the police to say she was still stalking you. Of course you’d be their prime suspect.
What I didn’t know then was that you had another motive for killing her. You’d made a new friend in Hastings – an old man who lived in the flat downstairs. You went back that night expecting to find him dead, murdered by the woman whose murder you’re now charged with. Instead you found him somewhat alarmed by your dishevelled state but very much alive.
Why didn’t you call the police there and then? Was it shock? Were you still drunk? The way you described it, it was your neighbour’s idea to leave it until the morning, when you’d sobered up and could give a better account of yourself. Perhaps he thought there was more to this than you were letting on, that you’d done something you shouldn’t have and were in danger of incriminating yourself. The police came soon enough anyway – not in answer to your call but to take you in for questioning.
The day you were arrested, I was at work. The call came through just before lunch.
You sounded panicked. ‘It’s me, Em. You won’t believe this, but Evie is dead, and the police think I killed her.’
Oh, I believed it alright. How could I not? Though, naturally, I feigned surprise. ‘Christ, Tom! That’s awful. But try to stay calm. And don’t say anything until you’ve seen a solicitor.’
Your voice shook. ‘What am I going to do, Em?’
‘It’ll be okay,’ I assured you, knowing full well that it probably wouldn’t. ‘If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about.’
‘What do you mean, “if”? Of course I’m innocent!’
‘Of course you are,’ I said. But we both know you’re not. Not entirely.
I came to the magistrates’ court the following morning and to the first Crown Court hearing two days later, where the judge granted your application for bail based on your previous good character and with certain conditions attached. You were ordered to hand over your passport, remain at your registered address and report to the police station once a week.
‘Fail to comply with these conditions and you will be rearrested and remanded in custody until your trial.’
A few days later, back at your flat, I watched as you tried to make sense of what was happening to you. It was less than a week since you were first taken into custody, but the difference in you was shocking. You looked lost. We were sitting in your living room overlooking the river, but already you had the air of a man condemned to a prison cell.
‘She killed her own mother,’ you said, leaping up from the sofa and pacing the room. ‘She was going to kill me.’
I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘So it was self-defence.’
You turned on me then, your face ashen and unshaven, eyes blazing. ‘I didn’t kill her, Em! Christ, if you don’t believe me, what hope is there?’
What hope indeed? The witness statement isn’t the only evidence they have against you. Forensics came back with a partial thumbprint on her wrist where your hands had gripped her, and they found a gay dating app on her phone. No prizes for guessing what that was doing there, or how she lured you to the pier that night. Typical man, always thinking with your dick. The messages you’d exchanged with ‘Regular Guy’ that night were still on your phone, confirming the time and place of your hook-up. The same technology that led you to her that night led the police back to you.
They also found a kitchen knife with your fingerprints, and hers. There was blood, too – mostly hers and a trace of yours from the wound on your hand, the kind easily inflicted during a struggle. The stone that broke her skull was never found. But even without the murder weapon, the prosecution seem confident they have enough to convict. It’s their contention that you intended to kill her. She’d harassed you, humiliated you, injured your male pride and lured you to the scene of the crime under false pretences. You don’t deny any of that but insist that she pulled the knife on you, that you have no knowledge of how she died, that she was still alive when you left the scene. But we only have your word for that, don’t we?
As news of your arrest spread, your ex, Aidan, crawled out of the woodwork to say you had a history of violence, that you raised your fist to him on more than one occasion. I’m pretty sure he’s lying, but his testimony suits my purposes. All in all, it’s not looking too good for you.
‘You believe me, don’t you?’ you asked me that day at your flat. ‘You know I didn’t kill her?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘I know you’re not capable of killing anyone.’
I wonder how true that really is. If there’s one lesson I’ve taken from all of this, it’s that we’re all capable of things w
e never thought possible. Even me.
Don’t think these past few months have been easy for me. They haven’t. I think about her often. I think about what you said: that she killed her own mother. I wonder what would drive someone to commit such an unspeakable act. Behaviour like that doesn’t just come from nowhere. She was clearly damaged – a broken, twisted thing. I have nightmares about that night under the pier. I remember her fingers closing around my throat and that crazed look in her eyes. Then I picture the blood oozing from her shattered skull and I wake up gasping for air.
I’ve had more than my share of sleepless nights. I took time off work. I even bought sleeping pills on the internet. I didn’t want my GP knowing, in case questions were ever asked. I don’t think it’s very likely, not when the police and prosecution already have their killer. But you can’t be too careful, not when there’s so much at stake.
Watching you suffer has been unbearable. I do feel for you, Tom. I guess that’s part of the problem. I feel for you too much. I always have. But I can’t take the fall for this. We did this together, you and me. Between us, we destroyed her. But it was mostly your doing. You created the monster. You set this whole chain of events in motion. All I did was try to tidy up your mess.
I’ll see you in court. They’re calling me as a character witness. Of course I’ll tell them there’s no way on earth you could be guilty of such a heinous crime. Not you. Not my Tom. And when you’re found guilty, as I’m sure you will be, I promise I’ll visit you in prison. I’ll come as often as you like – and on the day you’re finally released, I’ll be there waiting for you. It’s what you’d expect, after all.