The Evil Within

by S M Hardy

  I took the notebook and pen and went outside, sinking down onto the back step next to my mug of coffee. I took a swig and returned my attention to the notebook. Someone had tried to kill the killer. And someone was making damn sure I knew it.

  In all, I had written six and a half pages of notes when I flicked through and counted them. As I turned the pages I looked out for more black ink upon the pages. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or not when I found none.

  I closed my eyes and massaged the bridge of my nose. In the distance I could hear the call of a peacock and wondered where it lived.

  When I opened my eyes, a sudden movement and a flash of red at the bottom of the garden made my heart jump, but when I really looked it was just a robin hopping along the top of the fence.

  I slowly exhaled and returned my attention to the notebook. Someone had tried to kill the killer.

  He had been running along the cliff path. I thought on it a bit. I hadn’t recognised the stretch of path, but then I’d only walked it once, on my return I’d been running for my life. I did know he was running in the opposite direction to Slyford. I closed my eyes again and tried to remember how it had felt. How he had felt. He wasn’t panicked. He was running but it wasn’t to get away it was to get somewhere. It was to get to someone. He was jubilant and he wanted to share his jubilation. There was a figure waiting, waiting close to the point not far from where I’d seen him when I’d been down in the bay.

  He slowed as he reached the point, his jubilation turning to confusion and then anger. Bitch! And then he was falling and as he fell, she turned and walked away. A tall, slim figure dressed in grey.

  When I opened my eyes, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and my mouth felt very dry. She’d tried to kill him but hadn’t succeeded. He was alive – just.

  Oh my God. Was it the same woman I’d seen at the cemetery? Was that why she left flowers for Krystal? Was it because she knew what ‘the man’ had done?

  I took a swig of my coffee, but it most definitely wasn’t hitting the spot. Tough. I wasn’t about to start drinking whisky so early in the afternoon. I turned to the first page of the notebook and began to read.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the time I’d finished a chill had crept into the air and the bottom of the garden was cloaked in shadows. I was cold, but not just my skin. It felt like the chill had sunk deep into my bones and my heart had frozen into a lump of ice.

  I knew I shouldn’t have read the notes. I knew I’d been granted a reprieve when my subconscious had let the terrible images fade away. It was my mind’s way of coping. Making what was indescribably awful bearable. Now I’d made myself remember, it’d be there for good.

  You know what they say – if you can’t stand the heat …

  I rubbed a hand across my face and it came away wet. I shouldn’t have read the fucking thing. Why had I? What purpose did it serve? I should never have even written it down. I climbed to my feet and staggered inside. I should never have written it down.

  It made you feel better.

  But not now. Not now I’d read it. Oh my God, Kat – he killed a baby. He killed a tiny baby.

  And you can’t do a thing about it.

  He killed Krystal. I know he did.

  And you can’t do anything about that either.

  I threw the notebook down onto the table almost causing the carnation to topple from its glass. A second empty tumbler sat next to it and beside it was a bottle of whisky. Not the good stuff. That was long gone, the empty bottle used as incriminating evidence against me had ‘the man’s’ plan worked.

  I sat down at the table. But ‘the man’ couldn’t have been responsible, could he? He was lying comatose in a hospital bed. So who had tried to kill me, and was it the same person who had tried to kill him?

  I’d been so sure it was ‘the man’. I’d seen his hulking bulk up above me on the cliff top. True – he too had been wearing a long, grey coat, but it wasn’t the same person I’d seen hurrying from the cemetery and possibly the would-be assassin I’d seen in his memories.

  Did this mean there were not one or even two killers – there were three?

  ‘The man’ I was now sure had killed Peter Davies as well as Krystal and, if the mad rampage through his memories was anything to go by, several more poor souls, including a tiny infant. A second person, who I was pretty sure was a woman – Bitch – had tried to kill him. So, who was it who had turned on the gas in the cottage and lit the candle? Who was it who had left the empty whisky bottle at Emma’s? Who was it I’d seen on the cliff top?

  But did you? You have been seeing things.

  No – there’s a difference between seeing things and having things mysteriously move around the house.

  Shall we make a list?

  I looked down at the whisky bottle, now in my left hand while my right twisted at its cap. I dropped it on the table as if burnt and it was only the notebook that stopped it rolling off the other side to smash on the floor.

  You can’t really believe you saw a dead child running through the cemetery? You can’t really believe you saw her reflection in a window?

  I …

  As for the dead priest – even your pair of bonkers friends have trouble with that one.

  ‘I spoke to him,’ I said to the empty room. ‘I spoke to him.’

  Did you? Did you really?

  All right – who exactly did light the gas and leave the empty bottle at Emma’s? Who left the carnation? Who’s been moving the fucking bottle of whisky?

  Who do ‘you’ think? Poor, poor Jim. All alone and slowly losing it. Guilt does that to a man. Guilt and self-loathing.

  Stop it!

  And you should feel guilty, you should loathe yourself.

  ‘I said stop it!’

  You might as well have thrown that poor young woman into the river yourself.

  ‘No,’ I said, but it came out more as a gasp because the voice was right. It was so fucking right. And I hunched forward over the table, covered my face with my hands and began to sob.

  Why not have a drink, Jim? It’ll make you feel so much better.

  I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve, still snivelling. The bottle was upright on the table and the tumbler was half full of golden liquid.

  Just one. You know you want it.

  I reached for the glass, fingers outstretched and—my mobile began to ring.

  My first, my last, my …

  I staggered to my feet, groping in my back pocket, but it wasn’t there. I was sure I’d had it. No – it was coming from out in the hall. I blundered across the kitchen, knocking the table as I went. The ringtone was playing in the hallway. My jacket. My jacket was hanging on the post at the bottom of the stairs.

  I rummaged in the pockets in a frenzied panic. I had to answer it. I had to answer it before she rang off. If I could just hear her voice one more time. If I could just hear her say she forgave me.

  I had the phone in my hand. I looked down at the image on the display. Her face leapt up at me. I swiped my finger across the screen and put the phone to my ear. ‘Kat!’

  Nothing.

  ‘Kat? Can you hear me? Kat?’

  There was something there. I could hear something other than silence.

  ‘Kat, please. Please!’

  Then it did go dead.

  ‘Kat. Oh, Kat,’ and I sank down onto my knees. ‘Oh, Kat.’ I wiped away the tears that began to well up. ‘Enough. Enough,’ I mumbled to myself. I was not going to be that man. That’s what he wanted. He wanted me to break down and fall apart. He wanted me to think I was going mad. Is that what had happened to him?

  I climbed to my feet, shoved the phone in my back pocket and returned to the kitchen. The open notebook and half a glass of whisky were where I’d left them. The other glass was on its side, water all over the table. A casualty of when I’d knocked it as I careered out of the room, I supposed. I picked up the glasses, dropping them both in the sink and grabbed a handful of kitchen
towel to mop up the water.

  I wiped the table and then knelt down to soak up anything that may have dripped down onto the floor. What was left of the carnation was scattered beneath the table. It looked as though someone had crushed the head within their fist and then wrenched the petals from the stem, throwing them down in impotent rage.

  It brought a grim smile to my face. ‘Not getting all your own way, then,’ I muttered to myself as I swept the petals up into the paper towel.

  I had half-clambered to my feet when I noticed a small sliver of white poking out from beneath one of the table legs. I bunched the towel around the petals, dropping it on the table and crouched back down.

  It looked like a white business card had somehow got caught under the foot of the table leg. Probably one of Jed’s, I thought to myself.

  I reached out and flicked up the edge with my nail, taking the corner between my thumb and forefinger and giving it a tug. The table moved slightly but the card didn’t budge. It was well trapped. I scrambled a little closer and took hold of the table leg with one hand, lifting it slightly while pulling the card free with the other.

  ‘Doesn’t say much for my housekeeping,’ I said, getting to my feet and glancing down at the card.

  It was blank on one side and when I flipped it over in a plain black font it read: David Baker – Handyman – No Job Too Small.

  Not Jed’s card, after all. Where on earth had this come from? I closed my eyes as black despair rose up inside me. Not another mystery. Not another ghostly happening. My eyelids snapped opened. No – I remembered. The card wasn’t some supernatural joke being played on me. It wasn’t me playing tricks on myself during some fugue of mental illness. I’d been searching for Jed’s card and when I took it from the pinboard I’d dislodged this one. I’d seen it flutter to the floor but was distracted by Jed’s knock on the door and then had forgotten all about it.

  I looked back down at the card. The name was vaguely familiar. David Baker, both fairly common names. Hadn’t I worked with a David Baker?

  Why would the Morgans have had another handyman’s card? They trusted Jed enough that they left him with keys to the cottage and in charge of maintenance while they were away.

  I dropped the card on the table. Maybe this David Baker was trying to drum up trade and had popped it through the Morgans’ letter box. I supposed it didn’t hurt to have a standby in case of an emergency.

  I picked up the kitchen towel I’d wrapped around the mangled carnation and dropped it in the bin. Pity – I’d liked the pretty pink flower. It reminded me of Krystal.

  The two glasses were in the sink where I’d left them, one still half full of whisky.

  It’d be a shame to waste it.

  I picked it up and with a flick of the wrist poured it away. I still had half a bottle and I could always buy more. I washed the glasses, dried them and, picking up the bottle from off the table, carried them through to the living room and locked them back in the cabinet where they belonged.

  I was going to hide the key again, but then thought why bother? I doubted it would make the slightest difference.

  I returned to the kitchen – the further I was away from that bottle of whisky the better.

  Perhaps you should’ve emptied the whole bottle down the sink.

  Perhaps I should have.

  I sat back down at the kitchen table. The notebook was lying where I’d left it, the pen by its side.

  ‘Who are you?’ I muttered to myself, tapping the notebook with my forefinger. ‘Whoever you are, you are sure one sick fuck.’

  Takes one to know one.

  ‘Least I’ve never killed anyone.’

  Are you sure?

  I flipped the notebook shut and got to my feet, pushing the chair back hard enough that the legs screeched against the floor tiles. I strode towards the door and then, as an afterthought, turned back and picked up the business card and shoved it in my back pocket.

  You can run, but you can’t—

  I slammed the kitchen door hard enough that the wall shook, pulled on my jacket and, picking up my keys, strode out the front door, again slamming it probably harder than I should have. Halfway along the lane I suddenly realised I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. But I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t sit there alone for one moment longer. I knew for a certainty if the loneliness didn’t drive me mad, the voices in my head most certainly would.

  Or was it too late? Back in the city I’d had fits of depression and bad dreams, but I’d never heard voices or seen dead people. My doctor had been so positive that I wasn’t having a breakdown, but could she have been wrong?

  ‘What’s wrong, Jim? You look like you’ve lost a fiver and found a quid.’

  I flinched and the smile slipped from Lucy’s face to be replaced by concern.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, laying a hand on my sleeve.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, forcing my lips to curl into a smile, but I think it must have looked more like a grimace as she didn’t appear convinced.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘No, really,’ I said, pulling myself together. What must the woman think of me?

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Just deep in thought.’

  ‘Sorry I made you jump.’

  ‘That’s OK. Maybe it’s just as well, I’d probably have got run over by a bus or something.’

  ‘Fat chance around here. There’re only two a day.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, though I’ve never actually seen one.’

  ‘Were you going to the pub?’

  ‘No,’ I said, not wanting her to think I’d no life at all. ‘Just taking a stroll.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘No, not at all. I was wondering where to go, actually.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you my favourite walk.’

  And as she linked her arm through mine and turned me around, I just knew where she was taking me, and sure enough, she led me along past my lane towards Emma’s house and the cliff path.

  ‘It’s almost dark,’ I said, hoping to put her off.

  She rummaged in her pocket and held up a torch. ‘I used to be a Girl Guide.’

  ‘Really?’

  She looked at me, pulling a face and then began to laugh. ‘Nooo!’

  And soon I was laughing too and, despite our destination, feeling one hundred times better than I had only fifteen or twenty minutes before.

  It was actually too dark to go very far and we turned back after only ten minutes, but she told me where it led to and how I could get down to Fisherman’s Cove or another small bay a bit further along, and if I was really feeling energetic, I could walk all the way to Chalfont. It was all stuff I already knew, but I enjoyed listening to her.

  ‘If you like, we could walk to one of the bays tomorrow. The weather’s meant to be fine,’ she said, and I heard myself saying yes, I’d like that very much.

  ‘I’ll knock for you about ten, or is that too early?’

  ‘That’s good for me.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get back. I told Dad I’d help him finish up.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ I said.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  I saw her teeth glint in the dark as she smiled. ‘Good.’

  I saw her to the pub and watched her go inside but didn’t go in myself. I wasn’t sure what the score would be with George and decided it was probably best to leave it that way, or at least until Lucy and I’d had our day out together.

  I was up and dressed by eight-thirty after a surprisingly good night’s sleep. I couldn’t help thinking these mood swings from the lowest low to a happy high weren’t a good sign, but happy was definitely better than sad so I’d make the most of it while I could. Besides, I didn’t want Lucy to think I was bad company.

  The notebook was still on the kitchen table where I’d left it and it did cross my mind that I wouldn’t much care if it disapp
eared like my original set of house keys. Unfortunately, lately things were more likely to appear from nowhere than for ever vanish.

  I munched on a slice of toast and washed it down with a mug of coffee, not knowing whether we would stop anywhere for something to eat or even where she was intending to take me. I guessed if we walked all the way to Chalfont, we could get a bite of something there.

  At ten on the dot there was a knock on the front door and just seeing her standing there as I pulled it open made my welcoming smile twitch up a notch or two.

  ‘Come in a sec while I grab my sweatshirt,’ I said, seeing the cardigan she had tied around her waist, and gestured for her to come inside.

  ‘Hopefully we shouldn’t need them, but the weather around here can take a sudden turn for the worse.’

  When I came down from the bedroom, she was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘It’s a nice little cottage,’ she said, ‘and you’ve a lovely garden.’

  I gave a non-committal ‘hmm’ as I opened the front door and gestured for her to go first, noticing she had a blue rucksack on her back.

  ‘Do you want me to take that?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your bag?’

  She grinned at me. ‘You can if you like. It’s not too heavy,’ she said, shrugging it off of her shoulders and passing it to me. ‘I’ll carry it on the way back when it’s lighter.’

  ‘What’s in it, anyway?’ I asked as she helped me put my arms through the straps and heave it up onto my back. Despite what she said, it was heavy enough, though once I’d got it sitting comfortably it didn’t feel particularly weighty at all.

  ‘Provisions,’ she said.

  ‘Provisions?’

  She stuck her arm through mine and steered me towards the gate. ‘You’ll see.’ And off we went.