by Dan Scottow
Drugging Diana, swapping her various meds with placebos, aspirin, paracetamol… it was not an easy thing to do, but Lucy was driven by her end goal. She needed Diana out of the way. And her admission that her mother had suffered with schizophrenia had been a nugget of information that she couldn’t afford to ignore. Diana’s dependency on the drugs she was taking meant that withdrawing these without weening her off them first, pushed her towards a psychosis. The addition of ketamine, administered in varying doses, and other herbal remedies, increased her symptoms, speeding up the entire process.
If Lucy hadn’t known better, she herself would have even believed Diana was going insane. She’d had to stop for a bit, after the episode with the bugs… but it had only set her back a few days really. Rushing to her room, she throws a few things into a bag. Just the essentials. Clothes can be replaced. There’s very little she actually needs to take. She hurries down to the phone in the lounge, taking the card the taxi driver gave her when she arrived out from her purse. That day seems so long ago now.
Dialling, she turns it over between her thumb and fingers, waiting for someone to pick up. After a few rings, a woman with a gravelly voice answers.
‘Aye?’ she growls, emitting a series of guttural coughs and wheezes, sounding like she’s lived on a diet of cigarettes and whisky for most of her life. Lucy orders a cab, asking her to send it as soon as she can. Now the deed is done, she needs to be gone. She gets to work cleaning; she must erase all the evidence.
When she is satisfied, she returns to the garden to wait, warming herself next to the fire. Standing on the grass, staring at the cottage, she recalls the first time she saw it. So pretty. So peaceful. Starlings twitter as they dart around her head. A blackbird forages for worms a few metres away. All is calm.
It is over, she thinks.
97
Mylo
The light is almost gone when Mylo finally arrives at Willow Cottage. The front door is locked and there are no lights on inside. Crossing to the living-room window, to the right of the door, he presses his hands against the glass; he peers inside. The lounge is empty.
He heads around the back, frowning as he sees the embers from a fire glowing in the middle of the lawn.
He makes his way to the kitchen door, opens it, and steps inside. Sniffing, he screws up his face as the smell of bleach assaults his nostrils. Covering his mouth and nose with his hand, he makes his way across the kitchen.
‘Hello?’ he shouts.
There is no reply. The house is silent.
He steps into the hallway, poking his head into Richard’s room. It’s empty.
‘Lucy?’ he shouts, panic beginning to creep into his voice.
He edges along the hallway, trying not to look at the dark stain.
Must. Not. Look, he thinks.
But he knows he will.
He places a foot onto the bottom step. Gripping the bannister, he scoots up the stairs; knows the layout like the back of his hand. He’s been into this room many times.
Pushing inside, he leaves the door open so he can hear any noise from downstairs.
As he scans the space, he stops at the dressing table. He takes a few steps forward, picking up the item that caught his attention. Sniffing it, he closes his eyes.
He’d know the scent anywhere. It’s ingrained in his senses. Perfume. Rose’s perfume, to be exact.
He places it down, frowning. Coincidence?
Perhaps. But Lucy had told him in the woods that she didn’t wear perfume.
Crossing to the wardrobe, opening the doors, he rifles through a rail filled with sweaters. Pairs of jeans folded on shelves. Nothing sinister. Nothing hidden. The room is sparse. Nowhere else to conceal things.
He runs a hand through his bushy hair, letting out a long breath. Suddenly he feels guilty and foolish. Until now, she hasn’t given him any reason to distrust her. And on the word of one of the local gossips, he’s searching her bedroom behind her back.
He returns downstairs, entering the living room. It’s spotless, gleaming, like the rest of the house.
Darting from room to room, he checks the entire space, but the place is deserted.
Lucy is gone.
98
Lucy
Five months later, London
She works her way along the bustling street, making her way back from the postbox, winding between people blocking the path. It’s hectic, but it’s wonderful. She exhales and her warm breath clouds in front of her face, rising up to the sky.
She wonders briefly if posting the letter to Mylo had been the right thing to do. But then she realises, of course it was. He and Cassie had a right to know what had happened to their friend.
She hadn’t meant to kill Sadiya, of course.
The girl had recognised her from London. From another life… a life that Lucy would rather forget entirely. She couldn’t recall meeting her, but she has met so many people over the years, mostly at drunken parties. She’d come to confront Lucy at the cottage that night, after they had met at the marina. They’d walked along the jetty in the thick fog, which in hindsight hadn’t been the most sensible idea, but she couldn’t risk Diana overhearing their conversation. Sadiya had demanded to know why she was lying to Mylo about her identity, insisted she tell him the truth. Lucy had tried to tell her she was mistaken, but she wouldn’t back down. There had been a scuffle, and Sadiya slipped, fell from the edge. Lucy had tried to help her, but the mist was so thick, she couldn’t see. Could only listen helplessly as the girl thrashed about. And after everything went quiet, she returned to the house feeling terrible, but it was done, and she was too driven to let anything get in the way of her plan. It was a tragic accident which Lucy would regret for the rest of her life.
Shaking her head, she stops for a moment, staring at all the people rushing around, doing their chores. Filing in and out of the busy shops. Spending money. Enjoying life.
It’s marvellous to be alive, she thinks.
Continuing along the pavement, she takes a few last drags on her cigarette, before dropping it onto the frosty ground and treading on it, swivelling her foot to extinguish it. She blows out a plume of white smoke as she fumbles in the pocket of her duffle coat, searching for her key. Somebody collides with her from the side, almost knocking her off her feet.
‘Sorry!’ the woman says without turning, as she walks away down the street.
Lucy stares after her, but she has disappeared among the throng of shoppers. Rubbing a sore patch on her arm, she frowns. She finds the key, sliding it into the lock, and pushes the door open. Pulling off her pink bobble hat, she shakes her head, ruffling her bleached blonde hair, trying to get some life back into it. She was glad to be able to return to something closer to her own colour.
She removes her woollen gloves, jamming them into her coat pocket, and slides the duffle coat from her shoulders, hanging it on a hook at the foot of the stairs, before ascending the steps to the apartment proper. The flat is bijou but has everything she needs. An open-plan lounge with a kitchen in one corner. A single, good-sized bedroom to the right, with plenty of storage. She never has guests, doesn’t need more beds. A door to the left leads to a small, but well-equipped bathroom. A bath, being her only prerequisite while searching for this property. It’s one of the few pleasures she gets from life. A long, hot soak.
At the far end of the lounge, opposite the kitchen, large windows overlook the street below. This view, along with the faint but constant sound of horse racing coming through the floor from the bookies beneath her, means she rarely feels alone.
And who wants to feel alone?
She smiles to herself, picking up a small green scented candle from the coffee table. She holds it under her nose, inhaling the fresh, sweet aroma of jasmine and ylang-ylang. Closing her eyes, she smiles sadly, thinking how amazing it is; the power of certain smells, to take you back to an exact time, or place… or person. She lights it and places it on a coaster, before returning to the kitchen.
/> Pulling open the fridge door, she takes out a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio. She unscrews the top, grabbing a glass from the draining board, and fills it with the pale liquid. She sips, strolling to the windows. In the street below, people swarm like ants, narrowly avoiding collision everywhere she looks. Rubbing her arm again, she crosses the room, topping up her wine. Blinking a few times, she staggers, steadying herself on the edge of the worktop. She stares at the glass, thinking how strange it is that her vision is becoming double.
The drink slips from her hand, shattering with a loud smash on the bare boards below.
Frowning, she takes a few steps towards the settee, fearing she may pass out. But she makes the move too late.
She blacks out before her head collides with the floor.
99
Lucy
Slowly opening her eyes, she wants to throw up. She sits on the sofa, slumped over. Feeling groggy, she glances about the room; vision blurred. She’s aware of somebody moving around at her sideboard near the window.
A dark silhouette in her periphery. Rummaging.
Trying to sit up, she groans as her head pounds. Each movement makes her feel like an ice pick has been plunged into her brain.
‘Ah, you’re awake?’ the voice rings into her ears.
She’d know it anywhere. She stares defiantly ahead.
‘Interesting record collection you have there. I might have to take a few of those after I’m finished with you.’
The woman smiles; a wicked, knowing smile.
‘I like the new hairdo. Blonde suits you. The brown made you look a little… frumpy.’
‘Hello, Diana.’
She stands, holding a pistol up, pointing it towards the sofa. Her hair has now been styled into a neat pixie, dyed jet-black. It takes years off her.
‘Hello, Lucy. I’d love to say it’s nice to see you… but it’s not.’
‘The feeling is mutual.’ The words slur from her mouth, making her sound drunk. Her head still spins. She attempts to stand, but her legs won’t obey her; won’t bear any weight. She falls in a crumpled heap on the sofa. Diana pouts.
‘I’d take it easy if I were you… that was quite a heavy dose I injected you with.’
‘Wh… what have you done to me?’
‘It’s not nice to be drugged against your will, is it?’
‘How…’ She can’t get the words out.
Diana smirks.
‘Busy street. Syringe. Collision. Simple.’ She shrugs, clearly pleased with herself.
Lucy rubs her arm, remembering the clumsy cow bumping into her at the front door.
‘Getting inside wasn’t hard either. It really is true what they say about London… nobody gives a damn. I can literally pick a lock standing on a street in broad daylight, and not one person stops me, or even gives me a second glance. Not one!’
The women look at each other. Lucy shuffles forwards in her seat, starting to feel more human.
‘Don’t!’ Diana shouts, raising her weapon.
‘A gun? Impressive. I didn’t think you had it in you.’
‘It was my grandfather’s service pistol. And before you consider trying anything, I assure you it is in full working order.’
Diana paces the room, picking up ornaments, stroking her fingers across surfaces, as if checking for dust. She’s limping, but managing without her stick, which is propped against a wall by the door.
‘How did you find me? I’m intrigued.’
She laughs.
‘When you have enough money, anything is possible.’
Lucy nods, raising an eyebrow.
‘You were very clever… I’ve got to hand it to you. The whole ghost thing. Very clever indeed. In hindsight, I’ve figured out how you did most of it… but I have a few questions. The message… on the bathroom mirror. How did you do that?’
‘It was exhausting. Climbing in and out of windows, sneaking about. Tape recordings, remote controls. The message wasn’t hard in comparison. I wrote it in Vaseline, then dabbed it off. I knew eventually the mirror would steam up, and you’d see it.’
Diana nods, clearly impressed with her ingenuity.
‘One other thing I can’t work out. The photograph of Rose on my dresser. How on earth did you make it topple?’
Lucy furrows her brow, tilting her head. She looks confused.
‘Not that it matters… I was simply intrigued. But if you don’t wish to tell me, I’ll not lose any sleep over it.’
‘What do you want, Diana?’
She turns to face Lucy, incredulous.
‘Where is my husband?’
Lucy pauses, waiting for her brain to catch up. The effects of whatever she’s been dosed with making her sluggish.
‘He’s at the bottom of the loch.’
Diana smirks.
‘I did wonder. So you killed him?’
Lucy slowly nods again.
‘Yes. Yes, I did. About that… I’ve been studying the news every day since I left Scotland. There’s been no mention of what happened. I’m… curious as to why.’
Diana laughs.
‘I didn’t report it.’
Lucy cocks her head, questioningly.
‘I wanted to deal with you myself. And if the police were looking for you, that would have made my job… problematic.’
‘Mylo called round a lot looking for you. I told him you’d handed in your resignation after the incident in the woods, hadn’t left a forwarding address. Poor man looked crestfallen.’
Lucy winces at the mention of his name, as Diana perches her bottom on the edge of a wooden chair.
‘It was never personal, Diana. I hope you know that,’ Lucy says sadly, but sincerely.
Diana doesn’t reply. Raises one eyebrow.
‘I needed you out of the way, so I could deal with Richard. Your family history made my plan so much easier to execute. I also hoped that with everybody thinking you were crazy and addicted to drugs, any suspicion would be diverted from me… for a little while at least. But Diana… you have to believe me when I tell you… your husband was not a good man.’
Diana smiles.
‘He was a rapist… and a murderer.’
She actually laughs.
Throws back her head and lets out a heartfelt, hysterical cackle.
‘I swear to you. He kidnapped me… held me captive… did… unspeakable things to me. And to other girls too. Christopher Kernick was not The Butcher. Richard was.’
‘Shut up!’ Diana spits. ‘You stupid, stupid girl.’
Lucy’s mouth hangs open. Diana pulls a record from the shelf, flicking on the stereo, she places it onto the deck, lowering the needle. The speakers crackle to life, and the familiar vocal begins.
Lucy stares at the older woman as the melody fills the room.
The fifties ballad with the lovesick singer proclaiming that he and the object of his affection would always be together, and that she belongs to him.
She stiffens in her seat, thinks she might throw up. She hasn’t heard the song in a very long time, but the music acts as a trigger. Suddenly, she is back there. Strapped to a gurney, naked, while he watches. Red camera light blinking. She trembles.
‘Turn it off…’
‘Don’t you like it? Ritchie Valens was my favourite. This song, “We Belong Together”… Richard and I used to fuck while we listened to it. I’m surprised you have it though… if what I suspect about you is correct. You were one of his girls, weren’t you? I wonder which one you were? It’s impossible to know with those leather masks he used to put on you. I watch the videos on my old television from time to time. They still excite me. I wonder if I can find you among them.’ She smiles wickedly.
Lucy can’t bring herself to speak for a moment. Tears well in her eyes as she stares at Diana’s smiling face.
‘You knew?’
‘Of course I did! Behind every dangerous man, is an even more dangerous woman. Whose benefit did you think the camera was for?’
&
nbsp; 100
Lucy
A chill runs through her. Until that very moment, she had believed she would be able to talk Diana round. Convince her that her husband had deserved to die, and that she would understand.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘You were in on it? How? How could you let that happen to us… those poor girls? Me?’
‘It was my idea!’ Diana beams, as if she has just won the lottery.
‘But I am intrigued to know how you got away. Richard was always so careful about these things. And he never told me one escaped.’ She sneers, looking at Lucy as if she is a piece of dirt that has been trailed on a clean carpet.
‘Oh, he didn’t tell you?’ Lucy forces a smile, although it’s the last thing she feels like doing. Diana shrugs, waiting.
‘I befriended him. He said I was… special. I knew when he hadn’t killed me as quickly as the others, he must’ve had a soft spot for me.’
The smile falls from Diana’s face.
‘You’re lying. Richard would never–’
‘Oh, but he did, Diana. He cared about me. I think he may have even been in love with me. I died on that gurney. I could feel it coming, and I rejoiced that the suffering would finally be over. And then the bastard revived me. He told me he wasn’t ready to let me go. And I can’t tell you how I despised him for that. He wouldn’t even let me have my peace in death. So I played him…’