by Daniel Hurst
It’s as I’m lying under the duvet in my spacious double bed that I have all to myself that I realise that Anna was the only person who ever knew the real me. My colleagues have no idea who I really am, and while Megan has a much better idea now, she still has some things to learn.
Closing my eyes, I send a silent birthday wish to Anna, feeling the pain that comes with not being able to say happy birthday to her in person. Hopefully, I will see her again, somewhere in the afterlife.
Sometime when all of this is over.
61
MEGAN
Another workout is done. Time to dive back into the diary.
Sitting on the bed with my legs crossed and the pages on my lap, I’m impressed at how well my eyes have adjusted to being in this gloomy room. The main light isn’t on, but there is a little light coming under the door from the kitchen, and it is enough for me to not only read but feel completely comfortable walking around this room. My parents made me eat my carrots when I was young because they said it would help me see in the dark. I believed it when I was a child, but realised when I got older that it was just another thing mums and dads say when they want their child to eat their vegetables. But maybe there was something in it. Or maybe my body is just continuing to adapt to the new environment that it finds itself in.
Give it another month, and I might be hanging from the corner of the ceiling like a bat.
I can hear Craig pottering around in the kitchen making his dinner, but I’m not interested in that. I’m more interested in finding out what happened next with him and Anna. The last diary entry I read had the pair of them celebrating their graduation from university and planning to take a holiday in America. It’s quite an extravagant trip for a young couple to make, but from what I have gathered, both their parents have contributed to it as part of their reward for both of them leaving university with first-class honours in their chosen subject.
Swots.
As I pick up the written thoughts of Anna again, it seems they are on their way Stateside.
I hate flying. Always have. Makes me nervous. But I love travelling, so what wins? The desire to see the world or the fear of crashing into the ocean? We’re all going to die sometime. So ‘see the world’ it is.
I pause because reading about Anna talking about death feels strange now that she is actually dead. She was only twenty-one when she wrote this diary entry. She had her whole life ahead of her and probably thought death wouldn’t apply to her for many decades yet.
Little did she know that she would be dead within the decade.
We’re on the plane to America. First stop NYC. I can’t wait. The Empire State Building. The Statue of Liberty. Times Square. And all the shopping. Oh my god, I can’t wait. Craig is just as excited as me though he seems much calmer about the whole thing than I do. He’s sleeping beside me right now. Not even the turbulence a moment ago woke him up. I wish I could have slept through it. Instead, I was dry heaving into a paper bag and trying not to imagine that the engine was on fire. But it’s all calm again in the cabin now. Most people are sleeping, though a few are watching films. I’ve watched three episodes of Friends and half of the Sex In The City movie. It’s really got me in the mood for being in New York, but I’ll save the rest for later in the flight. We’ve still got a couple of hours to go, and I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep until we land. I can’t believe I’m going to America. This is going to be the best holiday ever.
I put down the diary, not because I’m no longer intrigued to read more, but because I need to wait for the feeling of envy to pass. At twenty-one years of age, Anna had a degree, a loving boyfriend and was on her way to America. She really was living her best life back then. I, on the other hand, was nothing like her at that age. I had no job, no partner and a trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach was about as glamourous as it got for me. But I shouldn’t be jealous. She was my best friend. I’m learning more about her every day with this diary, and I should be happy that she was happy. It’s just a shame that she was happy with Craig.
If only she had never met him. Then he would never have met me. But what’s done is done.
Back to the little love story.
62
CRAIG
2009
Viva Las Vegas. What a city. What a place.
I thought New York was special, but this is something else. The neon lights. The desert mountains. The weather. The casinos. The nightclubs.
The thrill of being in Sin City.
Anna and I have been here for two days after spending three action-packed days on the East Coast, and we’re due to go home tomorrow. But I don’t want this trip to end. I want to stay here forever. All there is waiting for us in England is hard work and grey skies. But here, it feels like we can have anything that we want.
Maybe we can.
“Let’s do it,” I say, no doubt encouraged by all the cheap American lager in my system.
“We can’t. It was a silly idea,” Anna replies, and she might be right, but then she might be wrong. It’s a 50/50 shot, but in the gambling capital of the world, we’ll never get better odds than those.
“We’re in love. What more do we need?” I ask, and I’m probably young enough and dumb enough to mean it.
“I don’t know. How about money?”
“We’ll have plenty of that once we start working. I’m going to be a bank manager one day!”
“Yeah, but not until you’re old!”
“I don’t care! Come on, let’s do it! It was your idea in the first place!”
“I know, but it was a stupid idea. We haven’t even asked our parents!”
“What is there to ask? We’re adults!”
I take my girlfriend by the hand, pulling her towards me as the Bellagio fountains erupt in front of us.
“I’m serious,” I say, taking the big silly grin off my face to reinforce my words.
“I know you are, that’s what scares me,” Anna replies, but I can tell that she is thinking about it.
“You know what scares me?” I tell her, gazing into her eyes because nothing else can distract me right now, not even the jets of water shooting up into the dark desert sky.
“What?” she asks, her beautiful eyes just as focused on me.
“Not spending the rest of my life with you by my side.”
That’s when I take my chance.
Dropping to one knee, I ignore the gasps from the people around us and keep my focus on my girl.
“Anna Benson. Will you marry me?”
It’s as if time stands still in the middle of the craziest city in the world. But when it starts again, it’s as if it has sped up to a hundred miles an hour.
“Yes!”
We’re hugging again, and I can hear the cheering and the applause from all the strangers around us.
It’s official. We’re engaged. But it’s not going to last long.
By the end of the night, we will be married.
63
MEGAN
I can’t believe they got married in Vegas. And I can’t believe they didn’t tell anybody about it when they got back home.
When did the marriage end? Before Anna died? Or after?
Craig might not just be a crazy husband.
He might be a crazy widow too.
I throw the diary onto the floor because my mind is overwhelmed with the information contained in its pages. Without thinking, I get up off the bed and rush towards the door, the glimmer of light underneath it telling me that Craig is probably still awake and hopefully not too far away. That’s good.
Because I want to talk.
“Open this fucking door!” I shout, hammering my fists against it like a mad person. But that’s exactly what I am. I’m mad that I didn’t know my best friend or my husband at all. Not only were Anna and Craig together before I met either of them, but they were married.
Fucking married.
“Craig! I’m not going to stop banging!” I shout, and I mean it. I haven’t h
ammered on the door like this since the first day I got locked in here. Back then, I had innocently thought there had been a mistake, before quickly realising that my husband was crazy. But several weeks on and I now know the truth.
My husband is worse than crazy.
He’s clever.
“Megan, what are you doing?”
The sound of his calm voice on the other side of the door is enough to get me to stop beating on it, but I want more than to hear him.
I want to see him.
“Open this door and face me like a man!” I scream, my fists clenched and my body trembling.
“Are you going to play nice if I do?” he asks me, his voice smug and confident.
“Open it!” I scream again, even though it probably isn’t the best way to get him to do what I want him to do.
I stand and wait, my body seething with rage, hoping that I will get to see his face in a few seconds. Then I hear the sound of the key in the lock, and I can’t believe he is actually going to open the door when he knows I am like this.
Screw my plan.
Maybe this is my chance to get out now.
No sooner is the door unlocked and ajar then I rush forward towards the opening, my hands stretched out in front of me and my teeth clenched. I’m not expecting it to be pain-free, but maybe I can force my way out of here with sheer aggression and willpower.
Then again, maybe not.
The door is instantly slammed shut, sending me crashing into it before I fall backwards onto the cold, concrete floor.
As I put my hand up to feel what I suspect will be a bloody nose, I hear the door open again and see the light from the kitchen floor flooding the garage. The silhouette of my husband occupies the doorway.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be running into doors?” Craig asks me, and while my vision is still adjusting to the sudden brightness, I am pretty sure that I can see him smiling.
“You married her!” I snarl, looking down at my hand and seeing a small amount of blood.
Yep, my nose is bleeding.
“I was wondering which part you were up to,” he says, stepping inside and almost teasing me to try and have another go at getting past him.
“When did it end?” I ask, quickly getting back to my feet.
“When do you think?” he replies, but the smile has now gone from his face.
I don’t need to ask another question about their marriage. Instead, I focus on myself again.
“How long are you going to keep me in here?”
“How long do you think you deserve to be in here?”
“You’re sick,” I tell him. “A real psycho.”
“You’re the one who married me,” he says. “And by the way, you’re definitely the worst wife I’ve ever had.”
He is taunting me. He wants me to go for him again. He wants me to try and escape, only so he can laugh at me when I fail. He’s bigger than me and stronger than me. He knows it, and so do I. It can’t just be brawn that gets me out of here.
I have to use my brain too.
That’s why I say nothing. Instead, I retreat to the camp bed. Tonight was an unplanned incident, but it has taught me something. He will come and open the door if I make him. Now I just need to make sure I pick my moment a little better.
The next time he comes in here, it won’t be me who ends up on the floor.
It will be him.
And there will be a lot more blood than this.
64
CRAIG
Megan is only going to get worse. I had rather hoped that she was just going to lie on that camp bed and accept her fate. But I can see now that she still has plenty of fight inside her. Maybe I’ve been feeding her a little too well for a prisoner, giving her more strength than is wise. Maybe she has been working harder than I thought on that treadmill, keeping the adrenaline pumping through her body. Or maybe the diary is so much more brutal for her to read than even I had anticipated it to be.
While I do like the thought of her dying a little on the inside with every page that she turns, I also need to be aware that she is only going to get angrier.
After all, she hasn’t even got to the best bit yet.
While I do want her to read on through Anna’s diary and learn about why I am like I am, I also now need to prepare for the endgame. I have enjoyed keeping Megan on a tight leash all these years, and I love the fact that she is now kept under lock and key and entirely at my command. But there has to come a point where I quit while I’m ahead.
There has to come a point when I get rid of her and end her life so I can start to move forward with my own.
That time is approaching now. Of course, I could just leave her behind that locked door forever, not bringing her food and ignoring her cries for confrontation. She would eventually grow weak and waste away, meaning the banging would stop, shortly before her heartbeat does the same. But there are a couple of problems with doing that.
One, if I just leave her to die, then I will have to get rid of the body myself and spend the rest of my days wondering if anybody will ever find out what I have done. And two, I find it almost impossible not to open that door and face Megan when she is angry, simply because I get a kick out of seeing her suffer.
But it’s time to stop indulging that whim, just as much as it is time to start thinking practically. I know exactly how to get rid of Megan and make myself look innocent in the process. I have a plan, and I am going to start putting it into motion.
Next Tuesday.
That’s when I’ll do it.
It’s an innocuous day, no more meaningful than the Monday before it or the Wednesday after it, which is what makes it ideal. That day will not raise any suspicions with the police, nor will the cause of death and my whereabouts at the time.
I am going to start adding sleeping pills to Megan’s meals, crushing them up and mixing the powder in with her food, increasing the volume gradually until my wife is practically comatose. She has an old prescription for them, and while she hasn’t used them for a long time, she is about to start taking them again.
After increasing her dosage steadily over the next several days, I will enter the garage while she is sleeping and hook one of my belts over the wooden beams in the ceiling, making a noose. I won’t even have to wear gloves or wipe the belt clean because the police will be expecting to find my fingerprints on my item of clothing. Then, I will turn to my drowsy wife dozing on the camp bed, before gently picking her up and helping her onto the exercise bench, where she will be at the right height for me to place her head through the noose.
After kissing her goodbye, I will kick out the bench from under her, smiling as I watch her wriggle, choke and finally die.
After my wife has departed, I will quickly clear away the bed and the box of diaries so that the police will never know that Megan was sleeping in here for so long, nor will they have any reason to suspect that her husband was involved in this.
Then, after leaving the house and driving to the train station, I will complete a full and busy day at work, making sure to see as many colleagues as possible, but making sure to not behave any differently than I normally do. They will be my alibi, after all. Then, after leaving my office at the usual time, I will go home, eventually returning to my house at seven, just like I do every other day.
I will walk through the front door. I will call out to my wife. I will go looking for her when I get no response. And I will scream when I find her body. Then I will call the police, and they will come quickly because it isn’t every day that they get told about a dead body in this part of the world.
They will cut her down. They will lay her lifeless body on the floor. And they will comfort me.
Most of all, they will believe me.
All I will have to do then is stay calm for a few days until the police are happy that there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding my wife’s suicide and the funeral will be able to go ahead.
I can’t wait for the day I will bury my
wife. It will be the second time I have done such a thing, but this time won’t be anywhere near as painful as the first.
With Megan in the ground, I will be left as a grieving widow. I will focus on my career whilst putting the house up for sale. “There are too many memories here,” I’ll say to friends, and no one will blame me for wanting to leave. Maybe I’ll buy a house closer to the city or maybe I’ll just get a bachelor pad in the heart of it. Or maybe I’ll even start listening to some of the offers from the head-hunters who tell me that they can get me a General Manager position at a bank abroad for double what I currently earn in London.
The world will be my oyster. I will still be young, good-looking and best of all, single again. All I need to do before that is get rid of the problem in the garage.
Roll on Tuesday.
65
MEGAN
I have no idea what day it is, but I do know one thing.
I’m almost ready to make my move.
I lost my temper the other day after reading about Anna and Craig’s spontaneous wedding in Vegas. But while it wasn’t planned, it has inadvertently improved the odds of my actual plan being successful. Craig thinks that the worst I can do is bang my fists on the door and end up on the ground when he walks in.
But he has no idea.
I’ve just completed another run on the treadmill, and I’m back on the bed. With my body tired from another workout, I lie back and entertain the idea of just going to sleep. I don’t have to read the diary. I could have a night off. I could leave Anna’s personal thoughts alone.
But trying to resist the lure of the inner thoughts of my husband’s ex-wife is impossible.
Sitting back up, I retrieve the diary from where I last left it and open the pages. Anna wrote so much, and for so long, that I feel like I’m reading an epic series of books and not just somebody’s internal monologue. Harry Potter. Game of Thrones. Anna Benson’s diaries. Okay, so there aren’t any wizards, dragons and epic battles within these pages, but it is gripping, nonetheless. Or at least it is to me.