by Emmy Ellis
“That happens to me when I’m coming down. Do you want this blanket?” Amanda pushed it through the gap between the front seats.
Jenny took it. “Thanks.” She wanted to tell this girl what Ollie had said, get it out of her head, feel better for sharing the shocking news, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It would be a betrayal, and who knew how Amanda would take it. She’d probably tell the police. But should Amanda be in the car with a stabber? Should Jenny?
She looked in the side mirror. Ollie had got some of the bottled water out of the boot and was washing his hands.
Washing the blood off.
He lobbed the empty bottle. It bounced off a neighbouring car then fell to the ground. He got in the driver’s seat and stuck the keys in the ignition. Glanced across at Jenny. “Okay?”
Jenny nodded, draping the blanket over her, pulling it up to her chin, a useless shroud of protection against him.
He peered in the rearview. “You all right there, Amanda?”
“Yeah. I just want my bed.” She yawned loudly.
“I don’t blame you.” Ollie switched the CD player on, and music blasted out.
It hadn’t seemed loud and grating on the way here, what with Jenny’s excitement at the coming rave, the fun they’d have, but now it was too much, too abrasive, and she clamped her teeth, stopping herself from screaming at him to turn it off.
With Ollie’s bizarre chatter about murder, which she’d thought was just bullshit up until now, did that mean by stabbing that man he’d escalated? That’s what the newspapers called it when someone went from thinking about things to doing them. What would he do next? Would he be satisfied he’d shanked someone, or would he want to do it again? What if someone else ‘eyed her up’? Would he get his knife out then, too?
How could he be so lovely yet do something like that?
He drove off, singing away to the song at the top of his voice. Jenny checked over her shoulder. Amanda had her head back, her eyes closed. What was she thinking about? Her boyfriend? Whether they’d get back together tomorrow, make up? Jenny wished that was all she was thinking about. Instead, she had a mind full of whether her bloke was a killer in the making. Why had she brushed off his murder talk?
Because she was stupid, in love, and desperate for him to love her back. Well, now he did, enough to confess to what he’d done, so he must trust her.
What should she do? Betray that trust?
Ten minutes of excruciating music later, they entered Landerlay, and Jenny silenced the CD then turned to ask Amanda where she lived. The girl was asleep, snoring lightly, so Jenny looked at Ollie.
“What shall we do?” she asked.
A streetlight lit up his face as he glanced at her. A gleam twinkled in his eyes, and a sly smile spread.
She didn’t like it.
“We’ll take her back to mine,” he said. “She can kip on the sofa bed.”
Jenny didn’t mind. That would mean Ollie wouldn’t want to do anything rude. He’d fall asleep and leave her to her thoughts. At least then she could think, decide what to do for the best. Maybe he had just nicked the bloke and nothing would come of it.
But what if it was more than that?
Ollie swerved down the sloping driveway and parked round the back. The place was empty this weekend, the house-share people off visiting their parents, and Jenny wished they hadn’t gone. Why? Did she think Ollie would use his knife on her? That was just daft. She didn’t know why she’d thought the same at the rave either. He wouldn’t hurt her. But he’d hurt someone else, and that was a gigantic red flag. She didn’t like being the reason for it either. It meant some of the onus was on her.
God, her mind went from one thing to another.
He shut the engine off, the headlights going dark.
“Where are we?” Amanda asked groggily.
Ollie shifted round, got onto his knees, and poked his head over the back of his seat. “We’re at my place. We didn’t like to wake you.”
We?
“I have to get to my digs,” Amanda said. “My mum will worry if I don’t ring to let her know I’m back.”
“Don’t be daft. You can phone her when we get inside.”
Amanda moved her hand to open the door. Jenny willed her to get out. Run. Put distance between them. Something told her Ollie’s mood had soured. The air seemed filled with tension, the buzzing kind, or maybe that was her coming down from the drugs.
“Don’t,” Ollie said.
“Look, thanks for the lift and everything, but I’ll walk to the taxi rank.” Amanda went to open the door again.
“I said, don’t.”
Ollie punched her in the face.
The sound of bone crunching churned Jenny’s stomach, and she screamed along with Amanda. “What are you doing, Ollie?”
“She pissed me off. Ungrateful cow. Slapper.”
Amanda cradled her nose. “What are you, some kind of nutter?”
“Something like that.” Ollie dug into his pocket and brought out a black thing. He pressed a button, and a blade popped out, murky in the darkness. “Now get out nice and slow. And if you scream again, I’ll kill you sooner.”
Chapter Eight
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO - PRISON
Ollie and Craig had become close. Good mates. Ollie had known that would happen, ensured it went the way he wanted by being kind and attentive, like he’d been with Jenny. He’d learnt with her that the nicer you were, the more it got folks liking you, trusting you. Then you could smatter in your bad side a bit, like when he’d talked about murder with her, testing the waters.
He hadn’t expected her to feel the same. What a bonus.
Shame he hadn’t thought to be nice to Mum once Dad had walked out. Maybe she’d have liked him then, too.
Employing that tactic with Craig had worked like a charm. He’d accepted Ollie’s ‘quirk’ (that’s what he’d called it) regarding murder chatter. They ate together, exercised together, and worked in the laundry together, a cushy job most prisoners wanted because it meant they got higher pay. It wasn’t much but enough to buy chocolate and whatever, a treat to look forward to.
He couldn’t deviate from his plan. It was what kept him going. A focus. He needed Craig to speak to Jenny later down the line when the time came to get reacquainted with her. Give her a message that Ollie wanted to meet. In the lonely hours of an insomnia-riddled night, he’d come up with something that would make sure she complied. Craig would need to take a trip to Landerlay, buy a postcard with a picture of the place on it, maybe the pier, but she’d get the message, along with the words Ollie wanted written on the back. What those words were depended on whether she stayed true to him. He could be nice or…not.
His mind wandered back to his cellmate. If Craig could just stay here for his whole sentence, Ollie would be happy. The thing was, sometimes the wing’s Senior Officer put in for transfers if lags didn’t behave. They did swaps with other prisons, eager to keep their wing nice and tidy, no one creating a ruckus, or ‘upsetting my nice apple cart’ as the SO said. Saying that, as far as Ollie had seen, most lifers just wanted to get through their term, heads down. It was the new ones with chips on their shoulders who caused problems. They were resentful at getting caught, being sent down, unable to see why they had to pay for what they’d done, and made a fuss to begin with until they realised it got them nowhere but placed in segregation.
Belligerent pricks.
Ollie didn’t much like paying either, but he hadn’t said so, not to their SO anyway. Steven Vaughn was a decent bloke who talked to them as if they were human beings who’d made a terrible mistake, people who could redeem themselves, not dangerous animals to be caged. Some of them were dangerous, obviously, but they were nice enough if you didn’t cross them.
Ollie had had many a conversation with Vaughn outside his cell, arms draped over the balcony rail, staring through the reinforced netting at the inmates below milling about on free time. That netting was there to catch any
one with a mind to kill themselves. Years past, people had jumped and ended up splattered on the floor, but that was before Ollie’s time.
Shame. He’d like to have seen a broken, bleeding body and imagine it as his mother’s. Thoughts of murder still plagued him, kept him going in the dead of night, even when he was doing the laundry. He hadn’t told Vaughn that either, else when the time came for parole, that confession would be in his file and end up as a big fat bucket of no to getting out early.
The man had given Ollie sound advice: Behave, be polite to the screws, and stay in your own lane. Ollie had taken it to heart. If he had Vaughn on his side, got him to like him, if someone had excess energy and attacked Ollie for no reason, Vaughn would be in his corner, not theirs.
You have to play the game in here more than you do outside.
Craig wasn’t the type to act up, was a bit of a wet lettuce with a slug on top to be fair, but Ollie still worried. His friend might snap one day, his calm demeanour changing from the pressures of being inside. But at the moment, neither of them were the type to end up in segregation, solitary confinement for a fortnight, a tiny room with a bed and toilet in it. No reading, telly, recreation, and only an hour of exercise, alone, every day—as solitary as it gets. He supposed it was to teach you some manners, to realise your usual cell wasn’t that bad, and things could be worse. Some crims said they thought too much in segregation and behaved after they’d had a stint in there, because who wanted to think that kind of thinking? It could drive a man mad. But despite Ollie knowing Craig wouldn’t crack, there was always that little voice inside his head that said: What if…?
There was no way things could go tits up. No way the plan could be allowed to go wrong. He needed Craig, who’d said he understood why Ollie had killed Cutting. It stood to reason that if someone looked like the mum you hated, and you’d hallucinated after taking acid, you’d go off the rails.
Maybe Craig had said it so Ollie didn’t turn on him, but nah, Ollie reckoned the bloke was genuine.
He sighed. Two letters had arrived, and Ollie had been putting off reading them. He’d wanted to prolong the Christmas feeling, to stretch out the anticipation, but his mind had wandered, as it tended to do. Now he’d had a think, it was about time he got on with seeing what Nigel had to say this week. One was thicker than the other, so he opted for that. The thin one was probably a P.S. or something.
Dear Ollie,
She’s still on the corner.
Bit of sad news. Sad for her anyway, but maybe good for you as it might mean she feels lonely and takes it upon herself to contact you. Her mum and dad died. Nasty car crash. It was front-page news in the local paper and everything. Fuck me, their car got squashed by a big van. Can you imagine what that must have done to their bodies? The van driver is dead as well. Went flying through the windscreen and got impaled on one of those metal spikes they use when mending the road, the ones they tie tape to for a cordon, always rusty-looking, know the sort I mean? It went right in his eye and out through the back of his head. Talk about an unlucky landing. Three or four inches over, and he’d have just had broken bones, could have spent a few days in hospital and gone home to his wife and little kids.
As you can imagine, our mutual friend is well cut up about it, but she said she’d carry on working through the grief or she’d go mental if she had time to think. We know how that feels, don’t we.
She got their house. Found one of those DIY wills that said everything was hers. The mortgage is paid up. I asked her if she thought of selling, sodding off elsewhere now, but she said no, she loves London and plans to stay. I thought you’d want to know she has the means to disappear, though. When probate’s gone through anyway. So let’s hope nothing sends her running, eh?
I thought of the future, her meeting someone, having a boyfriend, wanting a change of scenery with him. So I asked her about that, just to cover all bases. She said she never would, she doesn’t trust men anymore because of something that happened, and she’s better off alone. I said she must have been hurt if she’s been scared off for life, and she replied with something. I’ll try to remember it word for word: “When you’re shown the nice side of someone and believe they’re kind and genuine, then find out they’re a monster, it puts you off meeting anyone else.”
You must be the monster. Sorry about that, fella. You’ve always been good to me, and I never saw a different side to you. There must be one, or you wouldn’t have done what you did, but you know what I mean. I take as I find, and you’re a solid sort in my book.
I’ve been paying for two hours of her time lately, like you said, trying to get her to squeal about what you did before you did what you did, if you know what I mean. Four years have passed, yet she’s still keeping it to herself. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, mate. Honestly, she’s not going to tell a soul about you know what. It’s a secret, never to be told.
In other news, I’ve met someone. She’s a new girl at the factory, works in the offices. Comes from Manchester. I won’t be telling her what I do with our friend unless you say it’s all right, but like I said to you before I met her, I’m worried my bird will find out and think I’m doing shit with a prosser when I’m not. Well, apart from touching her over her clothes; she still insists on that. If I can just say I talk to her for you, that I’m keeping an eye on her, that’d be great. I won’t mention who you are or what you’ve done. Let me know, because it’s keeping me up at night worrying about it.
Sorry to have to say this, but I’ve gone right back to the start and made a record of the payments so I know the total of what you owe me once you get out. Been thinking, with all the years you still have left, then inflation, it’s a bit much to expect me to shell out for the visits and not get paid back. I’m working a third evening of overtime to afford it as it is, else I wouldn’t have enough. If things go well with the girlfriend, who knows, I might end up married and having kids. They cost a fair bit of money, don’t they, so I might have to only see ‘her’ once a month at that point. Maybe it won’t be a problem. Your mum might leave you all her cash when she dies. So far, the total is close to two grand, just so you know. That’s two visits a week since I started, then there’s upping the time this week, and she charges more for that.
So, my girlfriend. She’s nice, knows I’ve been inside. Says everyone deserves a second chance, that I was young when I robbed the grannies, and people do silly things when they don’t know any better. It wasn’t silly, it was downright stupid, especially when those kids took the money from the graveyard. I spent time in the nick for no reason, no reward when I came out.
That still bugs me, the theft of the spoils. The girlfriend said that was rich, seeing as I’d thieved off the old ladies, so that should tell me how they’d felt.
She’s got a point. She’s good for me, showing me a better way to live, a better way to think about things. I’m a nicer person for having her in my life.
Anyway, it’s time to go and see You Know Who. Maybe tonight’s the night she’ll spill the baked beans. At least then you’ll know she can’t be trusted. I’m sticking by my original feelings on the matter: she won’t blab.
All the best,
Nige
Ollie would have to get word out to Mike. Nigel was right, he needed paying, and there was so much money from the graveyard that handing over cash every month wouldn’t be a problem. And it wasn’t like Ollie would be doling out his own money, was it. Mike wouldn’t mind, he knew Nigel anyway from the factory, and it’d be a case of a handshake in the staffroom, payment transferred, and Bob’s your creepy little uncle with his forever winking eye.
So Jenny was a woman of means now then, a house paid for, maybe dosh left by her parents. Sad they were dead. Jenny had talked about them with respect, and she’d be gutted, Ollie knew that much. Poor cow.
And Nigel was right on another score, too. If Jenny wasn’t talking after all these years—and she’d admitted to Nigel she thought of him as her friend, so if she
was going to tell anyone, it’d be him—Ollie was safe regarding the rave stabbing. He’d kept the newspaper clipping about it, stashed with the earring and Polaroid in his mother’s loft. Handy that the police thought he’d only lived in the Landerlay bedsit so they had no need to poke about at Mum’s, who’d lied to the coppers at her door asking about Cutting, saying she hadn’t spoken to him for ages and, “I wouldn’t know what he was up to, thank you very much, and you can kindly go now and leave me in peace.”
He could hear her saying it and gritted his teeth.
Ollie wasn’t a div, he knew she’d done it to distance herself from whatever crime he’d committed. He’d come home from work that night, and she’d gone off on one about having the police on her front step—“Two officers in unform, Oliver. The neighbours could have seen them, for goodness sake! And what the hell have you been up to?”
That was when he’d known they were zeroing in on him, the net getting closer. They didn’t believe his and Jenny’s story about being on the beach and coming home to find Cutting at his place, all dead and covered in blood.
They had been on that beach. They had come back to see her dead.
He’d just so happened to have killed her beforehand.
He smiled at the memory. God, he’d felt invincible.
Ollie sighed and opened the second letter. Stared at the words, his blood going cold.
Dear Ollie,
Bad news. I’ve put in for an emergency visiting order.
All the best,
Nige
That was their code for Jenny saying something she shouldn’t. Fuck. Nigel coming for an unexpected visit meant it was information he couldn’t write in a letter. The screws could read it and put two and two together.
What had she said?
It was going to be seem a long wait to find out.
* * * *
Three excruciatingly slow weeks later, snail’s pace wasn’t the word, the visiting room was awash with chatter and laughter. If Ollie closed his eyes, he could pretend he was in a pub on the outside, but he didn’t. No point in tormenting himself.