by Ese McGowan
‘Sorry? When was that?’
‘I was four. I pushed him off a balcony when we were on holiday in Wales. It was an accident. We were playing but no one will ever see it like that. No one does when they hear a truth like that.’
‘Is that why you are estranged from your mother?’
‘I wasn’t until Adam changed that. I caught him talking to her alone and he would do that more and more until she longer looked at me with anything other than hatred. He reminded her of what I did. He must have done. Him and Joel. They were out to destroy me and I wanted it all to stop. I prayed for it all to stop.’
‘But you could have stopped it. Why didn’t you get help?’
‘Try stopping someone who does something because they can. Because it’s fun.’
‘Were they trying to push you over the edge do you think?’
‘No, they wanted to keep me teetering on edge because where would the fun be if they managed to kill me off?’
Miriam rearranges herself in the chair. She breathes in deeply. She remembers Joel. She isn’t surprised his surname changed, people do that, divorces, marriages, nothing unusual there. She isn’t surprised that he was a bully. It fits.
‘Erin, I need to ask you this and you need to tell me the truth. Did you push Joel Mason off the roof?’
‘No,’ I shout vehemently.
And I know I did not do this.
‘Everything you have told me gives you a motive to do it Erin. You must see that don’t you?’
‘Not really. I’m being honest with you. And you should remember what he was like and I know that you do.’
‘In the eyes of the law Erin, my feelings count for nothing.’ She stops and stares at me with her penetrating eyes. ‘Let me ask you again, Erin. Did you kill Joel Mason?’
And again I tell her, flatly, ‘No.’ And then I remark on how feverish she looks.
You take the temperature of a situation to gauge how to play it. I took hers.
22
That was March. This is May.
I never saw Detective Miriam Sykes again. The interview ended fairly swiftly as she choked out her words, and excused herself through the dry cough. No one else in the Police Station was much interested in following anything up. I was driven home and instructed to wait in the police car while the accompanying officer kicked out Adam and Alicia. It was quite enjoyable to watch. So they live next door to me now but not with the children. No one has ever mentioned them since. She and I never speak. No one on the street talks to me, not that I’m going out. I was never charged with anything. Coroner ruled an accidental death and Miriam condoned it, from her sick bed. Must have felt bad for me. They all have CCTV now, on the street; idle times and DIY minds. Huddled together outside my front window they frequently gossip, spying over into my lounge and releasing rounds of fake raucous laughter in my direction. I don’t care. As I told you, I was never charged.
Adam denied ever knowing Joel when he worked with me as he did ever having had constant contact with him. He said I was always hallucinating, seeing people who were never there and sightings of Joel on our holidays bordered on his utter disbelief that he had ever found me attractive. All he admitted to was his long-standing affair with Alicia that he insisted was approved by Joel and she in turn continued to insist that I killed her husband.
You can think what you want about it all. I really don’t care. I’m free of them to a degree. They don’t come near me now for fear of Miriam appearing and asking questions of harassment. Anything they do to me now would enable my truth and possibly disable theirs.
I want them gone from next door. Only way to do that is to force a sale of Pearl Ritter’s house. She’ll never sell it to them but her relatives will want to move in if she’s no longer in the picture, I remember her telling me that. Her daughter-in-law loves the area. Good schools apparently. Think she’s got that a bit wrong but there you go.
It’s funny how difficult it has been buying things online in the pandemic but it’s funnier still what things are despatched fast when all others’ are interested in stockpiling food and booze.
I had a shoulder length blonde wig delivered to me this morning. It looks exactly like Alicia’s hair and as luck would have it, exactly the length it has grown to in the absence of her having a hairdresser to prune it. Wearing a scarf around your face is all the rage now. No one knows who is who. I have a red one just like Alicia’s. And I know Adam far better than she does so far. Better than she thinks she does. I know how to push his buttons and I know the number of his secret mobile phone. You can bet she doesn’t have a clue he has one. Adam cannot remain faithful to any woman. It’s far too dull an existence for him. Sexually he could never have enough of me. He could never say no to me and tonight, we’ll meet on the rooftop when Alicia’s has gone to bed. She’s a heavy sleeper he tells me. She’ll never know. He’ll leave the front door on the latch and I’ll walk out into the pitch-black moonless night, into the alleyway by the cemetery at the back of our gardens and walk around the block via Pearl’s house where I will pop a finger smudged smear of peanut butter in a letter through her door. If the allergy doesn’t kill her, a stay in hospital probably will and no one will think to wonder if a letter was the cause of her death. Then I’ll ramble along the heated pavement under the silky night sky until I reach Alicia’s front door, wearing the blonde wig and red scarf around my face. I’ll leave the scarf at the back door, once inside, (to ensure I collect it on my way out) before climbing the stairs to the roof to meet Adam. And then after, I’ll hop back over the garden wall and into my kitchen from where I will climb up my own stairs and into my bed at the back of the house, only to be woken by a thud, I will say, around 2am, that unnerved me enough to switch on the outside light and discover a man’s body lying face down on Alicia’s patio.
Probably don’t need to kill Pearl but it’s an insurance policy. Everyone needs a back-up plan, don’t they?
Sometimes I lie but listen, I can breathe now.
I needed them gone. I’m sure you’d understand if it was happening to you, if you believe something’s happening to you enough to convince the world it’s a truth.
It can almost become a hobby. I’m sure you’ve met someone like that, if you really think about it. Maybe you’re lying next to them at night.
I’ll do anything to get the result I want.
Happy fucking days.