by Jane Hill
I was a tourist that day. I had a wonderful time. I wore sunglasses and another of Zoey's brightly coloured T-shirts. I took an open-top-bus tour around the city, getting off from time to time to visit historic buildings. I explored Edinburgh Castle and gasped at the view of the city from the ramparts. I toured Holyrood House, listening to an audio guide that hung around my neck, looking at tapestries and paintings and old gilt furniture. There'd been a security scare at Britain's airports earlier that week, and because of that all visitors were made to leave their bags in the cloakroom at the entrance to the old palace. Most tourists were complaining but I didn't mind. It was a joy to saunter around the house, the old abbey and the gardens without lugging my courier bag strapped across my body as usual.
Later I went window-shopping in the New Town and tried on clothes that I couldn't afford in Harvey Nichols. I visited an exhibition of 1960s black and white photographs at the beautiful National Portrait Gallery, and then I sat in a trendy cafe with a good book and an excellent cup of coffee and I people-watched. I saw a comedy show at teatime, a girl called Josie Long, who was sweet and oddball and good-natured and so funny that I forgot myself – forgot everything – for a while.
I had an early evening meal in a little Indian vegetarian restaurant that I happened upon in a side street. The food and ambience were so good that it seemed like serendipity. And then I went to see a hysterically stupid show that Steve had recommended: three guys called We Are Klang. 'See them this year,' said Steve, 'because by next year they'll be big T V stars and you won't be able to get a ticket.' I sat scrunched up on the end of a bench in a tiny room packed with comedy fans, and I laughed so hard that I had to wipe away the tears.
I felt a little disorientated as I left the show. It had got very dark all of a sudden. It was getting late. I thought of seeing another show, but then I decided that the perfect end to the evening would be to go home, watch a bit of television and then try to grab at least an hour's nap on the sofa before Zoey came in all buzzed and jingly from her performance.
I wandered down Canongate towards Holyrood House, against the flow of pedestrian traffic. Everyone else seemed to be walking uphill into town at the start of their night out. I passed a bunch of medieval monks and two people in Tudor clothes. I decided that one of them was probably supposed to be Henry the Eighth. The night air was soft, with a hint of welcome rain. The little grey alleyways and closes – wynds, they call them in Edinburgh – offered tantalising glimpses of crooked old buildings and little bits of open land. At the bottom of the hill I ran my finger along some of the peculiar protruding bits and pieces on the walls of the Scottish parliament building. I still couldn't decide if I loved or hated this messy, ambitious, expensive bit of architecture, crammed onto a strangely shaped piece of land next to Holyrood House.
My route took me into the nearly deserted streets east of Holyrood and passed under two grimy railway bridges, where the pavements were coated in pigeon droppings. Then I trudged up a hill to the busy main road. I crossed the road and down the flight of steps that led into the street where our tenement flat was. I checked my watch. It was just after ten o'clock. Still plenty of time to unwind and nap before Zoey got home. I felt light-hearted and relaxed.
The street door to the flats was unlocked, as always. We'd learned that most of the tenants preferred it that way. I walked into the dark hallway and pressed the timer switch for the light. There was a set of metal pigeon-holes attached to the wall, where the postman delivered the mail. I fumbled in the appropriate pigeon-hole, amongst the leaflets for curry houses and kebab shops, searching for the key that Zoey always left there – hidden in an envelope – on the days that we'd decided to go our separate ways. It wasn't there.
I was annoyed. That was all – annoyed, a bit pissed-off that she'd forgotten to leave the key. It took a little of the gloss from my mood. I stood there for a while, trying to decide what to do. Maybe Steve was still in the flat, I thought. Or maybe Laura or Suze or one of our other friends had been catching up on some sleep during the day – our flat was much closer to the centre of the city than some other people's were; it had become a bit of a hangout. There'd be someone in the flat to let me in. But that would be irritating – I had wanted to spend a quiet evening by myself. Or maybe, better, Zoey had left the key in an envelope stuck to the door as she had on that first day. I shouldered my bag again and started climbing up those uncarpeted cold stone stairs.
I remembered that I'd turned my phone to silent earlier, just before I went to the Josie Long show. Maybe Zoey had called me with some kind of message. Maybe she had left the key with one of the neighbours. Or maybe I was supposed to meet her somewhere. I was midway up the second flight of stairs. I fumbled in my courier bag for my phone. I was greeted by a flashing message that told me that I had eight missed calls. The flashing seemed particularly insistent. I dialled voicemail and had the phone clamped between my chin and shoulder as I carried on up the stairs towards the flat. I was juggling with my phone and my bag, and trying to concentrate on the messages, and then the light, which was on a timer switch, decided to go out.
I stumbled up the next few steps in the dark, and nearly tripped as I stepped onto the second landing. I felt with my free hand along the cold, shiny painted walls, searching for another light switch, and all the while I was trying to make sense of the messages that had been left on my phone. The light made me blink when it finally came on.
The first message was from Laura, but it was a bit garbled. Then there was someone else from Zoey's venue, one of the front-of-house people, I think. They were apologising for calling me, telling me that Zoey had given them my number for emergencies; and as I started to climb the last flight of stairs up to our flat I was trying to work out what the emergency was. Had she been taken ill? Had there been an accident of some sort? Up more steps, and I was hearing more of the messages. It was Suze next, and then Laura again, their voices growing increasingly frantic. Zoey wasn't there. She wasn't at the venue. She hadn't turned up. Her mobile phone was on, they were saying. They'd left messages but she hadn't called back. My stomach started to churn and I felt my steps get slower. I reached the third landing. Voicemail was about to launch into yet another panicked message, but I just stuffed the phone into my pocket as I stared at the front door of our flat and realised that it was ajar.
I touched the door with my right index finger. The door moved slightly. I pushed it open. I stepped inside, tentatively. The hallway light was on. That was odd. Almost instinctively, I checked the doormat for an envelope, an anonymous letter. I put my hand on the wall to support myself as I felt my knees start to shake. I swallowed hard. I tried to regulate my breathing. There was no envelope on the doormat, no envelope underneath it. Nothing. I wanted to shout, 'Zoey! Are you there?' But as I opened my mouth I realised my voice wouldn't let me. I walked further into the flat. Gingerly I pushed open the bedroom door and tried to see if Zoey was in bed. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she wasn't answering her phone because she was ill, she was asleep, she was buried under the duvet. Maybe she was still in bed with Steve. Perhaps I had accidentally left the door ajar when I'd left that morning; left it ajar in my bid to creep out quietly without waking them. 'Zoey . . .' I whispered. The bedroom curtains were open; I could tell that by the way the moonlight cast a silver path on the floor. The bed was empty, the duvet thrown carelessly to one side, the sheets wrinkled – just as she would have left it when she got up.
There was a smell. Not from the bedroom but from somewhere else in the flat. I could feel it hitting the back of my throat. It smelled familiar, but it was a familiarity that I had never experienced this strongly. I could taste something metallic in my mouth. The smell hit harder as I walked towards the kitchen-living room. I trailed my right hand along the wall as I walked, feeling the need of some support, some security. There was something sticky on the floor in the hallway. I could hear the sucky sound as I lifted my shoes with each step. I looked down. It was dark, the sticky stuff. Dark r
eddish-brown.
Zoey had fallen asleep on the settee. Of course. That was all. That was why she hadn't turned up for her show. She had fallen asleep. Look: there was her hair cascading over the back of the settee. There was nothing to worry about.
My feet stuck to the floor again. I looked down. I touched the reddish-brown stuff with my finger. I looked at my finger. I smelled it. Oh God, oh Jesus. It was blood. That was blood on the floor. Lots of it. Where had it come from? Why had someone bled all over the floor?
Zoey had fallen asleep in a really awkward position, her neck twisted uncomfortably against the back of the settee.
She would be so stiff when she finally woke up, and so annoyed with herself for missing her show. I walked further into the living room, across the sticky floor. I walked around the end of the sofa, to face Zoey, to wake her up.
Her eyes were already open. That was odd.
Her legs were splayed awkwardly.
She was clutching her stomach with her hands.
Her hands were red.
Her stomach was bleeding. That was where the blood was coming from.
'Zoey. . .'
I knelt down at her feet. My knees stuck in the blood.
I pulled her hands away from her stomach.
Her hands were holding something in.
Bits of her. Bits of her insides.
She had been cut open.
Someone had cut her open.
I put my hands on her stomach to try to hold her together; trying, somehow, to push the pieces back in, as if that would have helped her.
I couldn't. I couldn't do it. It was too much. There was too much blood, too much of her.
I rocked back on my heels, then forwards again. Backwards and forwards, rhythmically, my bloody hands clutched to my face, my mouth open in a silent scream.
There was a piece of paper resting on Zoey's chest. Eventually I made myself stand up. I leaned over her – over her body. I picked up the note and I read it.
You murdering bitch. Now you know what it feels like.
Thirty-four
What was I supposed to do? What the hell was I supposed to do? I tried to think. It felt like I was paralysed. I didn't know how long I'd been there. I couldn't move. I was standing there, with that note in my hand, and I couldn't move. I couldn't take my eyes off Zoey. I wanted to look away but I couldn't. Her mobile funny face was all twisted and frozen, and it was all because of me. I killed her. He killed her because of me. He killed her to teach me a lesson, to show me what it felt like to lose someone I cared about.
What was I supposed to do? I knew I should call the police. What would I tell them? How could I explain the note? I looked at it again; read it through one more time. With shaking hands I folded it up and slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. They didn't need to see it. Not yet; not until I'd got it all straight in my head. Not until I'd worked out what I would say.
I staggered across to the kitchen area to get myself a glass of water. I picked a glass from the draining board and I was about to turn on the tap, but then I realised there was blood all over the sink. He must have washed his hands here. He had stood there, washing his hands in the very place where I was standing now.
Now you know what it feels like. How what feels like? To have someone I cared about snatched away from me? Why Zoey? Why had he picked Zoey? Because she was there, in the flat where I was living? Or because . . . oh Christ, the thought came to me with a flood of ice through my veins: maybe he'd meant to kill me.
The blood on the floor was still sticky. Did that mean he was still here, in this tenement building? How long had Zoey been dead? Was he still here, waiting for me? Had he been lurking in the shadows when I'd arrived? Had he been watching me, waiting for the scream when I found her body? Had I screamed? Had I actually screamed? I couldn't remember.
I could feel myself struggling for breath. I was about to have a panic attack. It felt as if someone's hands were around my neck. I turned on the tap, watched the blood swirl around the plughole. I filled my glass and tried to drink; tried to calm myself down. And then I heard something, and I froze. Footsteps. Outside, downstairs, somewhere in the hallway. Footsteps, very deliberate footsteps, were climbing steadily, quietly, purposefully up the echoey staircase. I put the glass down. I walked out into the hallway. Still those footsteps kept coming. I darted into the bedroom. I pushed the sash window up, my hands leaving blood all over the white-painted window frame. The moon stared at me, placid and uncaring. Two storeys below, the garden was nothing but a scrappy lawn and a gravel path. Could I jump? No. No, it would kill me. I knew about falls. I knew that a fall from that height could be fatal.
The footsteps were coming closer. My heart was in my mouth. I went to the front door of the flat. I stood there, and put my eye to the spy hole. I was holding my breath. I was ready to fight. I was desperate to know who he was. I was more scared than I had ever been, but despite that I was ready for him.
The footsteps were there. And then they weren't. They moved away. They moved away down the landing and then I could hear them turn and climb the next flight of stairs. I heard a door open and a muffled sound of greeting. The people upstairs were going on with their normal life as I stood there convinced that I was about to be killed.
I had no choice. I couldn't stay there. He could still be lying in wait for me. I had no choice. I had to run. I crept out of the door and then I hurtled down the stairs. I dashed out of the door and onto the street. I looked around me: no one. I pulled my bag against me, making sure the strap was safe around my body. I ran up the stone steps and out onto the main road. I pushed through the swarms of people who were out on the street; the people who were standing outside the pub smoking, as if nothing had happened; the drunks queuing outside the chippie; the couples waiting at the taxi rank. I took a deep breath and then I crossed the busy road and I started to run for my life.
My chest hurt. It was tight and burning and I couldn't catch my breath. I was running faster than I'd ever run. Down the hill, down, down to where the railway bridges crossed the road. I was retracing my steps. Stop – there – breathe. I leaned against the wall and left a red palm-print on the bricks. I leaned forward, hands on my thighs, legs apart. Pigeon shit all over the pavement. I wanted to throw up but it caught in my throat and I coughed, nearly choked. Footsteps coming round the corner. Not him, not him following me; wrong direction. Ambling footsteps, voices. I stepped backwards and made myself as small as possible, leaning my back against the wall. Kids. Students. A big group, five or six of them. Shaggy-haired guys, a couple of girls. They jumped when they saw me. One of them asked for directions. Posh, Oxbridge-type voice. He named a street. I didn't know it. Maybe I did. I don't know what I said. He apologised, reached out a hand to steady me, and I ran. Hurtled. Fast as I could.
My ankles hurt. My knees hurt. I was clutching my side as I ran. He was behind me, somewhere; him, the man who was following me; the man who'd killed Zoey. I knew he was there, somewhere in the darkness. I ran across the road; a car screeched and stopped just inches from me. I didn't even look back, just kept on running. Holyrood Park was dark and empty. The Scottish Parliament building loomed, grey and spiky in the night sky. I stopped again, leaned against it, felt the protruding stones with my hands. I had my back against the wall and I looked around me. Shadows of buildings, narrow alleyways. No sign of him but I knew he could be anywhere.
Walking now, but fast. Alleyways off to my right and left; I darted past them quickly, not even daring to look into the shadows. Up the hill, up Canongate, up the Royal Mile. I checked my watch: just gone eleven. I had thought it was much later. Time was doing odd things. It wasn't running how it should. Too many things had happened in just one hour. Things were happening too fast. Every breath I took was burning in my throat and in my chest.
I needed to find somewhere to stop, to hide, to gather my thoughts. I looked up the street and I could see Henry the Eighth and his group of monks standing on the pavement smokin
g outside a pub. They'll keep me safe, I thought. I thought of them as old friends. It looked as though they were standing guard outside the pub. I sidled in amongst them. Then, when I was sure no one could see me, I dashed into the pub and I was immediately in the middle of a rowdy crowd of people. I pushed through the crowd. Some people looked at me oddly. I didn't stop. I didn't make eye contact. Down a flight of stairs to the ladies'; just one toilet cubicle with a basin, and it was empty, thank God. I bolted the door, but the bolt didn't seem very secure. I pushed the sanitary-disposal bin against the door as an extra precaution. I finally looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a ghost. A ghost with bloody fingerprints all over my white cheeks.
I splashed my face. No towels. I grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and I wiped myself with it. Better. But there was still blood on my hands, all around my fingernails and under the nails. I tried to scrape it off but it had embedded itself deep and had dried there. Someone was trying the door of the toilet. Someone was trying to get in. I looked at myself again. My face was now hectic, white and red patches. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was wild and wavy. I took a deep breath and another and another. I was telling myself how to breathe.
Out of the door. The girl who was waiting to use the loo gave me a concerned look. I thought that she was going to ask me if I was all right but she didn't. I was about to go back upstairs into the pub but there was a noise from a room along the corridor. Laughs. Shouts. A bunch of people were standing at the door, about to go in. I tagged along, as inconspicuously as possible. A comedy night, free to enter. It was a dark room, tatty old sofas and armchairs arranged in rows facing the stage. I found a spare seat in a corner where almost no one could see me. I curled up in the chair, hugged my knees to myself and started to rock.