I AM HERE TO KILL YOU

by Chris Westlake

Rose

  After months living like a prisoner within my own home, these days I like to be outdoors, hitting the streets, listening and watching. It keeps me busy. It keeps me sane. I know my enemies. I think I know my friends.

  The events unfold almost in slow motion; clearly he is oblivious to what is about to happen. It is like observing a motorway collision from six cars back.

  Pushing open the door of his dusty, white van, he slams his crusty boot down on the pavement. He turns around. Stops dead. I feel like popping out my tongue. Surprise! Curly, salt and pepper hairs break free from the cut of his vest, just like a young Sean Connery. His five o'clock stubble came out to play before lunch. His eyes look round, like he is weighing up his options. He realises it is too late. I've nearly walked into him. Oh, young man! I may have lost a few pounds (the wrinkled loose skin hanging from my neck reminds me of a turkey), but you can't miss me from fifty yards away, let alone five.

  "Rose," he says. Lines stretch from the corners of his mouth; they're not sure which direction to head.

  "Ray."

  The poor man isn't sure whether to embrace me or shake my hand; instead he leans close and smooths a sprinkling of dandruff from my right shoulder.

  "Where's that young apprentice of yours?" I ask. "Have you two fallen out?"

  The black shadow circling Ray's eyes suggest it was a late night, last night. I wonder if that vixen wife of his kept him up. He looks over my shoulder. Forces a laugh. "Nothing like that, Rose. He's just under the weather today, that's all. Don't think he slept too well."

  "And young Bernard says he's been seeing plenty of you in the pub? I bet you chaps get up to some proper mischief, don't you?"

  Ray's squint suggests he wouldn't use this expression to describe what they've been getting up to. Bernard and Ray are like chalk and cheese. "You've been talking with Bernard?"

  I smile. "Of course. He's one of my oldest friends. There aren't many of those left."

  His creased forehead implies that maybe he's remembering that the two of us used to work together. That does feel so long ago. That does feel like a completely different world.

  "So how have you been?" he asks.

  I don't mean my laugh to be so loud, so mocking. I wish it didn't escape from my mouth. None of this is his fault, I don't think.

  "Sorry," he says, shrugging his huge shoulders. "Stupid question."

  Bunching his hands inside his dirty blue jeans, his body rocks back and forth on the spot. Whilst I'm more into the intellectual type of man, like Barack Obama or Denzil Washington (come to think of it, maybe I'm just into black guys), I can see why women might fall for this hulking specimen. Squinting, I try to push the thought from my mind. This is my friend's husband, for God's sake.

  "It's okay," I say. "It's the obvious and honest question to ask. What can I say? It's been a really shit time, Ray. But I think I'm over the worst of it. Onwards and upwards, as they say."

  He nods. A thought passes through his head. "Why did you lie, Rose?"

  "Lie?"

  I'm not being deliberately awkward - I'm just not sure which particular lie he's referring to. There have been so many.

  "Why did you say your husband had been dead all these years? Don't you think that's odd?"

  "Oh I never pretended I wasn't odd, Ray."

  He laughs with me, but his laugh is awkward. Embarrassed. So is mine.

  "I was in mourning. But not for him. For my little girl. I just couldn't face telling anyone that. It was too raw. Too brutal. People didn't need to know that Katherine and I had this connection, that her brother, and my daughter, were both killed by the same man..."

  He lowers his head. Nobody ever talks about that monster. Not anymore. He stares at the pavement, at the weeds sprouting through the cracks. He knows how difficult this is to talk about. It is difficult for him, too.

  Seconds pass before he nods.

  "In my own warped thinking it somehow felt less of a lie to tell people that somebody had died. My husband was the obvious choice. He was dead to me."

  "Didn't Kat deserve to know the truth?"

  Part of me has always admired the way Ray protects his wife. So old fashioned. Reminds me of that Bonnie Tyler song. I need a hero. He's gotta be strong and he's gotta be fast and he's gotta be larger than life.

  "Did you move to Pontbach because of Kat? Because of what you had in common?"

  I grimace. The truth hurts. "Yes. Katherine and her parents."

  His lowered head nods.

  "I planned to tell her. I wanted to tell her. But when I met her parents, who were exactly the same as me, I just knew I couldn't-"

  "What?"

  I take a step back. Suddenly his large frame is intimidating. Suffocating. Right now he definitely looks strong and fast and larger than life. "I knew I couldn't tell Katherine after I'd met her parents..."

  "You met her parents? But you arrived in the town after they'd passed away..."

  "No, Ray, I didn't. It took me a few months before I really ventured out, became part of the community. I met them in church only a few days after I moved here. They appeared to have finally found peace with the world. I just couldn't break their hearts, bring up horrific memories."

  His puzzled face tells me he has many more questions.

  "I must have got it wrong," he says.

  He manages to hold my eye. "The way the town treated you was wrong, Rose."

  "I know that. But what can you do...?"

  Hesitantly, he leans forward and finally gives me that hug.

  Tuesday 16th July 2019

  Sheena

  Apinya sits cross-legged next to me on the wooden bench, hands clasped together on her lap, an obedient child in assembly. We're in the shadow of the beautiful pine trees. Apparently Rob took a few days off work. Thought it was best to let the dust settle. Not only was his body bruised; his ego was, too. He has been quiet over the last few weeks.

  "And how has Bernard been?"

  Apinya looks to the blue, cloudless skies for answers. "He's a changed man-"

  "He's turned into a bitter brute?"

  Apinya shakes her head quite vehemently. What is this? Is she offended when somebody speaks ill of her darling husband? "Far from it. We've never spoken about what happened. He's been charming."

  "Are you sure he's not playing a game?"

  "Aren't we all playing a game?"

  Jesus, where did that come from? I take a double look. When the fuck did she turn into Plato?

  "Things have gotten better," she says. "He's actually making moves on me in the bedroom. He's pleasing me. He's hurting me, but in a good way..."

  I lick my lips. "So how did you feel when Bernard caught you and Rob fucking...?"

  Her eyes squint. "Ashamed. Humiliated. But-"

  "But?"

  Those almond-shaped eyes widen. Her teeth sparkle. "It made me feel like a dirty little slut. And that made me feel-"

  "Fantastic?"

  She pulls her hand to her mouth and giggles. "Yes."

  Craning my neck, I look at her like Victor Frankenstein evaluating his monster. What have I created? I tangle my long, wiry fingers together. The possibilities are endless.

  I lower my voice. She likes it when we conspire, when we discuss matters so important the rest of the world absolutely cannot overhear. Sometimes we do this when we discuss the group agenda. Does she think the trees have ears? Now who has a God complex?

  "And how did it make you feel when Bernard hit him?"

  My questions are getting progressively harder. If I keep this up, then Apinya will be answering for the million-pound jackpot. Her teeth dig into her nails.

  "Honestly? I was proud of him, Sheena. I know I'm supposed to be a feminist-"

  "Are you?"

  "Aren't you?"

  Really I just bend the rules to my advantage. I play whatever game antagonises the opposition the most. "Sometimes," I say.

  "It felt good when my wimpy husband stood up and acted like a real man.
The thrill was more powerful than any fucking. But then-"

  "Yes...?"

  She studies the lopsided concrete floor. "Then the excitement vanished. I felt ashamed. Exposed. I just wanted to cover myself up. Hide."

  So my little monster does have a conscience after all? I nod. Keep my face neutral. She needs to know that none of this is a surprise to me. My hand rubs against her smooth, hairless arm. "You know what I think, Apinya?"

  She looks at me with an open face. "Tell me," she says. "I need to know. I really don't know what to do..."

  My knee brushes against her thigh, just like I'm prone to do with her husband in the pub. I suck in air.

  "You need to end it, Apinya. With Rob..."

  Her beautiful, unlined face cracks, like she is staring at her reflection in a broken mirror. Her upper lip quivers, like she goes to ask a question but thinks better of it.

  "I've been watching him," I say.

  "Who?"

  "Rob."

  "What? Why?"

  "Because you're my best friend, Apinya. Best friends look out for each other."

  Her uncertain face smiles.

  "I've been watching him watching you. Does he tell you that he follows you, Apinya?"

  "What do you mean?"

  I repeat the question. Just slower, like I'm ordering wine at a bar in France.

  "No. No, he doesn't."

  "Did you know that when you go for walks - for runs - he is often lurking behind you, hidden away...?"

  Apinya's hand stifles her gasp.

  "He's obsessed, Apinya."

  Apinya smiles. "I've never had a stalker before."

  "This isn't a fucking good thing," I snap. "It isn't a badge of honour to have a stalker, you silly girl..."

  She shrinks and shrivels, a dog caught pissing on the carpet. I suspected she might react like this, that she'd surmise she must be absolutely irresistible if a man is so infatuated that he wants to follow her everywhere.

  "He's dangerous," I say. "He's out of control. And - don't forget - he's wounded. He's going to want revenge-"

  "On Bernard?"

  I wait a few moments before replying, before I shake my head. "Maybe. But most likely, he won't blame Bernard. Rob knows that Bernard had no choice. More likely, he'll blame you. He knows you set him up. Bernard was bound to come home, catch you two at it. And in Bernard's bed. What were you thinking, Apinya?"

  "You said I should let him catch us-"

  "Not in his bed!"

  Apinya shakes her head.

  "He'll want to revenge you..."

  She shrieks. "Oh God. What will he do...?"

  I pull Apinya close to me, put an arm around her. My soothing voice, my protective arm, tells her that she'll be fine with me.

  "He won't do anything to you Apinya..."

  She sighs with relief.

  "That is, not so long as you get to him first..."

  Katherine

  This mirror is a snarling, taunting playground bully.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. I, better than anyone, know this is bullshit. I know that words can cause much greater harm, both psychological and physical, than any sticks or stones. And the (imaginary) words the mirror hurls at me hurt more than any other.

  Except for his words, of course.

  Naturally, I try to spend as little time with my nemesis as possible. The harder I try, the more the mirror follows me - I cannot pass one without grimacing, without taking a second, or a third, glance. Does he ever make me feel good? Does he ever provide the reassurance I crave? Of course he fucking doesn't.

  This morning, however, the bullied and the bully made friends. They kissed and made up. This morning the mirror paid compliments, told me I looked real good. The words were warm and soothing and syrupy.

  Of course, I've been here before. The mirror has done this countless times. The mirror has paid me compliments, made me feel good about myself, and then - just when I actually start believing it - it has started laughing, quietly at first and then building to a crescendo. I was ready for this. I waited. And there was no laughing.

  I so wanted to be my worst critic, the Simon Cowell of the judging world, but I couldn't help but agree that my calves looked shapely in the white floral skirt. I did go in and out at the waist. Did the frilly, loose blouse display too much cleavage? Probably. Was it likely to make people point at me in despair? Unlikely.

  Walking down the high street with my handbag dangling at my side, I'm more self-conscious than usual. I'm not usually self-conscious. This is deliberate. For years and years, I've hidden. I've become oblivious, just morphed into the background. Now, after months and months of eating healthily and exercising, I'm wearing clothes that show me rather than hide me. There is some resemblance to the teenager that was ready to take on the world, before my brother died.

  All of this is his fault.

  I want to slap my wrist, tell myself off for being so ridiculous, so utterly and disgracefully disrespectful to the dead; I can't help my burning resentment, though. If he hadn't died, then my life would have been so different. I would have remained that vivacious, energetic, gorgeous, slim girl I remember at seventeen or eighteen. I've always wanted to be her again.

  Ben scraped through his O Levels, despite the distractions, despite the thoughts constantly invading his mind. Some colour returned to his cheeks and some vibrancy returned to his personality during that long summer break. He started coming out of his bedroom more. We started getting closer again. We never discussed his homosexuality; we were just aware of it.

  Ben was there by my side the day I fell in love, too. I woke restless one morning; kicking off my bed sheet, I realised I couldn't face yet another long day of nothingness. I had to do something. I knocked on my brother's door, entered without waiting for his approval.

  "Let's catch a bus," I said, talking to a bumpy mound underneath his sheet. "Go somewhere. Anywhere. Just to get out of this town for the day."

  Even he could tell, through sticky, sleep-crusted eyes that, despite the darkness in his room, a glorious day existed outside. His dazed head nodded. His mouth didn't even open.

  With plastic shopping bags packed with towels and suntan lotion, we ended up huddled together on a sweaty bus twisting and turning towards the coast. My arms prickled from the heat, from the excitement.

  That was the day I met him. Stripped to the waist, he stood in the sea with the gentle waves slapping against his thighs. With his broad shoulders and narrowed waist, I thought he was majestic. My arms hung low, self-consciously covering my exposed flesh. He looked up, and smiled at me. No boy had ever smiled at me like that before.

  That was the moment my life really changed forever.

  I enter Robsons, the largest clothes shop in the town. A young girl leans over the counter, fingers manically typing on her phone; her lips mouthing the words of the background song - You are Always on my Mind. I'm not expecting a red carpet, but it would be nice for someone to acknowledge my existence. My fingertips brush over the metal railing. My old sizes call out for me like a three-legged dog at the kennels. A ceiling fan fires cold air over my body, drying a sliver of sweat from my chest.

  Two young girls skip into the shop holding hands. I smile - I was like that with my brother at their age. Perfectly straight blonde hair falls to their chests. God, I think, their dad is going to have problems fighting off the boys in a few years' time. If the one girl wasn't a foot or so taller than the other then they could be twins. I spot a few missing front teeth in the younger girl; if I had to guess, I'd probably say they were about six and eight. Disappearing from my eye-line, they're replaced by their two straggling parents.

  It is as if the two little princesses have sucked all the vitality and vivacity from their poor mother. Mum's greased-back hair is pulled so tight I'm surprised it doesn't raise her eyebrows a couple of inches. Blue-rimmed square glasses magnify her heavy-lidded eyes. Whilst her skinny frame probably prompts envious eyes fr
om other mums at the school gates, her body is so void of any bumps and curves that, to me, it resembles an ironing board.

  Her face brightens when she catches my smile; she recognises my look - I've been there, and it will get better. I don't recognise her. This is unusual, but not unheard of. We do get visitors from the neighbouring villages, often just looking for a change of scenery; additionally, I'm not yet familiar with everyone from the new build development that the villagers vehemently protested against a few years back.

  I'm aware of the outline of another figure, probably Dad; I don't look, and I don't acknowledge him.

  My hand lingers on a hanger. I glance around. Am I being ridiculous? Nobody is looking. I unhook the hanger. Subconsciously, I pretend I'm merely curious, like I'm eying the Porsche at the showroom with no money to buy one. I hold the size 10 strapless red dress up against my size 12 body. The hem falls mid-thigh. It would look sensational on the right woman, on a digitally-enhanced catalogue model. Surely that right woman isn't me?

  I glance up. Somebody is looking. I address Dad for the first time. My eyes lock with his. Jesus, even he appears to have sucked the energy from the mother. His eyes aren't red-rimmed; they are sky blue and sparkling. Do my own eyes voluntarily wander? His white tee-shirt tightens at the shoulders and loosens at the waist and then dangles seductively at the crotch. I can't help but think that - naked - his body probably forms a beautiful v-shape. I imagine fine dark hair forming a line from his belly-button downwards.

  My eyes dare to flicker back up. He is still looking at me. His eyes drop. They take in the gorgeous red dress, held up tight against my body. He smiles.

  "Daddy, we're going..."

  The man is pulled from the shop by his two gregarious daughters. I return Mum's wave as she skips to keep up with them. The automatic doors open and then close.

  "Hold up, Grant," she says.

  I glance out of the window; they headed in the other direction. I look over at the young assistant; she still stares at her screen. Did she even notice them come in and out of the shop? She looks away from her screen. Looks directly at me. Raises her two painted eyebrows. Flashes perfectly white teeth.