The Night Girl: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  I push his bedroom door open and stare into the darkness. Creeping across the room, I stand by his bed and stare straight at his sleeping face. After a moment, I'm able to ignore the snoring and imagine what it would be like if he was dead. I stand there for a few minutes, and apart from the snoring, there's no sign of life: I can't see the bedsheets moving as he breathes, and it's as if he hasn't sensed that I'm here at all. The whole room stinks of garlic and clarinet reeds, mixed with a little body odor and flatulence, and to be honest it's a bit gross being in here, but I want to test how close I can get to him before he wakes up. I reach my hand out, keeping it hovering close to his face for a moment, but nothing happens. I guess maybe he had a couple of glasses of wine and now he's passed out for the night. I take a deep breath and finally I poke his shoulder. I figure that if he wakes up, I can always claim to be scared or something like that, but he doesn't even stir. It's useful to know that he's such a heavy sleeper, since my experiments with the cat's dead body are going to have to take place mostly at night. I prod him a couple more times, just to make sure, and although he finally shifts a little under the duvet, he doesn't actually wake up.

  Finally satisfied that he's fast asleep, I turn to walk out of the room, but at the last moment I spot a pair of nail scissors on the bedside table. After staring at them for what feels like the longest time, I go back to my room.

  Epilogue

  Today

  I usually only visit my mother's grave once or twice a year. This morning, I'm back for the second time in as many days. Although the sky is a dull gray color, and a biting wind threatens rain at any moment, I'm determined to sit here for as long as it takes until I get some kind of emotional reaction. So far, I feel absolutely nothing, but I'm convinced that if I sit here long enough, eventually something will happen. I just have to be patient. I mean, what kind of monster wouldn't cry at her own mother's graveside?

  "Come on," I whisper quietly, staring at the spot where the ashes were buried. "Come on". I feel something, maybe, but it's little more than a slight heaviness behind my eyes. It's as if my body wants to cry, but my mind is holding the tears back; or maybe it's the opposite, and my mind wants to cry, but my body is... Sighing, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the wind tearing around the cemetery. After a moment, I feel the first cold drops of rain on my face and hands.

  "Fine!" I say, standing up and walking over to the spot where my mother is buried. I kneel on the cold, damp grass and stare directly at the patch of grass. I still remember the funeral, all those years ago, and how I was upset by my father's decision to burn the body rather than bury my mother properly. It's hard to believe that so many years have passed, but in many ways I still feel exactly the same way. I'm still pissed off at him, and I still think it was a lousy thing to do. Besides, when people cremate a loved one, they usually scatter the ashes somewhere meaningful. I don't know why my father chose to bury my mother's burned remains, but I don't believe he was being honest when he claimed he'd asked my mother what she wanted. He was probably just being cheap; I mean, he didn't even pay for a headstone, which means I only know the exact spot where she's buried because I made a conscious effort to commit it to memory. Still, at least I paid him back for his decision.

  California. My mother always wanted to take me to California. I don't know why this has just popped into my head right now, but I can't stop thinking about what it would have been like if we'd ended up there together.

  Standing up, I take a deep breath and realize that this isn't working. There's no way I can just sit around in the rain all day, on the off-chance that somehow I'll end up crying. Whatever's wrong with me, it's going to take a lot more work to get it fixed, and shivering on a wooden bench in a freezing cold cemetery isn't going to help. As I walk across the grass, I find myself thinking more and more about the abandoned ward and about the outpouring of emotion I experienced on my first visit. Although Jennifer tried to use that emotion to make me kill myself, I can't help wondering whether I could use her powers to unlock my true feelings in a more controlled and ordered way. I've delayed the moment long enough; I have to start planning my return to the abandoned ward. Instead of being scared of Jennifer Mathis, I see her as an opportunity, but it's an opportunity that I have to approach carefully in order to make sure I don't get hurt.

  As I'm nearing the cemetery gate, I glance over at a nearby spot and stop in my tracks. Nearby, a small black headstone pokes out of the ground, almost as if it's calling me over. I walk toward the spot and stare down at the inscription. This is where Martina Hopkins, my father's girlfriend from the funeral home, is buried. At least she got a full coffin rather than being cremated, but then my father wasn't in charge of her funeral, even though they were very close by the time she died. Just as I remember the details of my mother's funeral, I also remember Martina's. Everyone was so shocked and upset following her sudden death, and my father was viewed with great sympathy. He didn't deserve that sympathy, but it was kind of funny to watch him muddle through another close death. As a faint smile crosses my lips, I turn and walk out of the cemetery.

  Book 3:

  Bandages

  Prologue

  Today

  "You off to work?" my father asks.

  "Yeah," I say, putting my backpack on the table as I wander over to the fridge. It's close to 9pm and I'm supposed to be at the retirement home in an hour. Since my father has decided to stop giving me a lift every night, I have to take the bus, which means heading out into the cold and waiting at the nearby stop. I know it might make me sound like a pampered little princess, but I really wish he'd get off his ass and give me a lift rather than lounging around in his dressing gown, proving some pathetic point. He thinks he's making me understand the realities of the working world, but he's doing it in a totally self-satisfied way.

  "You don't sound very enthusiastic," he says, biting into a slice of garlic bread. He's got a book open on the table in front of him, and he seems to be studying a bunch of chess moves. Typical. The two great loves of my father's life are chess and jazz, and if he's not engaged in one of those passions, you can be sure it'll be the other. Once I'm out the door, he'll probably spend the evening playing chess against his laptop, listening to some old jazz albums, and then maybe looking at some of the dodgy websites I once found in his browser's history.

  "It's a job," I say. "Why should I be enthusiastic?"

  "Depends," he says, looking down at his book.

  "Depends on what?" I ask.

  "On how you want to present yourself at work". He looks back up at me. "One of the most important things you can learn, Juliet, is the value of comportment. Do you even know what comportment is?"

  I shake my head.

  "It's the way you hold yourself. The way you go about your daily business. If you comport yourself in a happy, enthusiastic manner, people will pick up on that and treat you accordingly. But if you slouch into work like you don't want to be there... well, you get the idea. If you want people to think you're just going through the motions in order to get a pay-packet, then fine, carry on the same way. But if you really want to get somewhere in life, you might need to rethink your approach".

  "So it's about body language?" I ask, stuffing a bottle of water and a pre-packaged sandwich into my backpack. The truth is, I already know what he's talking about, but I have to ask questions occasionally; it's the only way to make sure he accepts that I'm paying attention.

  "In a way," he says. "But it's more than that, really. It's about your approach to life".

  "What's wrong with my approach to life?" I ask.

  "I didn't say there's anything wrong with it," he says, "but do you think there's really anything very right with it? You're starting college in a few months. First impressions count. I was hoping you might learn this kind of stuff over the summer".

  "Guess not," I say, zipping up my backpack. "I'd love to stay and talk, but I have a bus to catch".

  "Good luck," he replies, looking down at h
is book. "If you need me, you know where to find me".

  I stare at him for a moment. "Dad?" I say eventually.

  "What?" he asks, not looking at me.

  "You remember Martina?"

  He looks at me, and I can see I've got his attention. "Of course," he says. "Why do you ask?"

  "Do you think about her much?" I ask.

  He pauses. "Sometimes".

  "Do you miss her?"

  "Why?"

  "It's just a question," I say. "I was wondering, that's all. You don't have to answer".

  He stares at me. "Sometimes".

  "Huh," I say. "That's what I thought". With that, I turn and head out the door, walking through the garden to the cold street. That little question about Martina was probably mean, but I've been thinking about her a lot lately. It's more than ten years since she died, and I can't help but wonder what the past decade would have been like if she's been around. If she and my father had stayed together, everything would have been so different. In the years since her death, I've mostly managed to put her out of my mind, but lately I've been thinking about her more and more. It's almost as if, in some way, my memories of her have been reawakened by recent events. Hopefully it's just a temporary thing; the last thing I want is for Martina Hopkins to take up permanent residence in my thoughts.

  The bus journey to the retirement home is slow, and a bunch of rowdy guys call out to me from the back seats. I ignore them, though inside I'm burning up with fear in case they come closer. They whistle at me and generally make a nuisance of themselves, but fortunately I'm eventually able to get off the bus without being bothered directly. I stand on the sidewalk and watch as the bus heads off into the distance. I know I should be more open to experiences, but in general I hate people. They're loud and obnoxious, and they just cause trouble. I'd be much happier floating through the world in my own little bubble, not having to interact with anything. The problem is that I inevitably have to spend time with other people, and bad things usually happen. I don't know why, but other people seem to bring out the worst in me. I'm pretty sure I'd be just fine if I never had to see anyone else.

  Chapter One

  Today

  "Kenneth Jenkins pissed himself again," says Lizzie, storming into the office while I'm writing some notes in the logbook. It's 2am and we're almost halfway through the night shift; so far, we've been so busy, there's barely been a moment to stop and take a breath.

  "What?" I ask, turning to her.

  "Jenkins," she snaps, grabbing a box of paper towels from one of the lockers. "He's pissed the bed. Now I've got to change everything". Lizzie's mood has been getting stormier by the hour; she's always seemed to have a level of anger simmering away beneath the surface, but tonight she's particularly tetchy. "Can you do me a favor? While I do the sheets, can you hose him down?"

  "Sure," I reply. "You mean, like, in the shower?"

  "Yeah," she says, hurrying back over to the door. "Just take him to the bathroom, stick him in the shower and make sure all the piss is washed off. Then dry him, get him into some new pajamas, and bring him back to his room".

  "Okay," I say, closing the logbook and following her through to the red ward. "I didn't know Mr. Jenkins was -"

  "There's no need for a fucking debate about it," she replies, clearly pissed off. "The old guy pissed himself, and he needs cleaning up. You've only worked here a couple of weeks, Juliet. Trust me; when you've been here longer, you'll get used to the crap the residents try to pull. This is nothing. Wait 'til you've literally had to reach your hand up someone's ass to pull out a piece of shit that's got lodged up there".

  As soon as we get to Kenneth's room, I see him sitting on the edge of the bed, completely naked, looking embarrassed and sad. It's a kind of heartbreaking sight, especially when I spot the large wet patch on the bedsheets.

  "Juliet's gonna clean you up," Lizzie says, showing no sign of sympathy at all. "Get up. Go with her".

  Slowly, Kenneth gets to his feet and comes over to the door. I step back, immediately smelling the urine. As Lizzie starts removing the soiled sheets, I take Kenneth by the hand and lead him along the corridor. Maybe I'm being overly sensitive, but I can't help thinking that Lizzie's attitude is a little over-the-top; it's pretty clear that Kenneth is feeling humiliated, especially as he's still naked, and I kind of think that maybe Lizzie could be nicer to the residents.

  "Don't worry," I say, leading him into the bathroom. "You'll be all fixed up in a couple of minutes".

  He doesn't say anything. Kenneth Jenkins is usually one of the most talkative and friendly residents, but he seems totally crushed right now. He just sits on a nearby chair and waits while I turn the shower on; I wait for a moment, checking the temperature of the water with my hand until finally it starts to heat up a little.

  "How do you like it?" I ask. "Warm? Hot?"

  He slowly turns to look at me, and I realize there are tears in his eyes.

  "It's not that bad," I say. "Everyone has accidents".

  He stares at me, and a tear rolls down his cheek. Grabbing some toilet paper from nearby, I go over to him and gently wipe the tear away.

  "Do you want to get in the shower now?" I ask, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "It'll feel good to get it washed off, won't it?"

  "I didn't do it," he says suddenly.

  "You didn't do it?" I ask, wiping away another tear.

  He shakes his head.

  "It's okay," I say, "there's no -"

  "She did it," he says, staring at me with his sad, old eyes. "She did it to me!"

  "Come on," I say, "let's get you into the shower".

  "It's hers!" he says as he stands up. I get him into the water, and then I quickly lather up a sponge and wipe him down.

  "Doesn't this feel good?" I ask. "There's no need to be embarrassed. Accidents happen to everyone".

  "I didn't have an accident," he replies. "She came in and did this to me".

  "What do you mean?" I ask as I run the sponge over his back.

  "She came into my room," he continues, "and she sat on my bed, and she told me no-one'd believe me if I said it wasn't her. And then she did it, and then she came and found you and told you it was me".

  I take a deep breath. I understand why Kenneth is embarrassed, but it seems kind of over-the-top to start accusing Lizzie of wetting his bed. Lizzie might be a little harsh at times, but I don't think she's vindictive. Besides, why the hell would anyone do something like that? It's pretty sick.

  "You don't believe me," he says.

  "I'm sure it's not quite like that," I say, turning off the shower. "There. All clean". I grab a towel and start gently patting him dry.

  "It's exactly like that," he says. "She was right. No-one believes me. No-one ever believes me, or the others. Most of them are too far gone to even know it wasn't their fault, but she can't trick me the way she tricks everyone else". He turns to me. "There are some evil people in the world, you know".

  "I know," I say.

  "Just because you're sweet and innocent, doesn't mean everyone's the same".

  "I'm not sweet and innocent," I say, forcing myself to smile as I finish getting him dry. "There," I add, before going over to the cupboard and pulling out a dressing gown. "You can wear this back to your room," I continue, "and then we can get you into some pajamas".

  "I don't want to go back there," he says.

  "And where else are you going to sleep?"

  "I want a camera," he continues. "I know you can get little cameras these days. I want one in my room, so you can catch her doing it to me".

  "I really don't think that's necessary," I say as I help him into the dressing gown. "Let's just stop over-reacting and get back to your room". I feel bad for patronizing him like this, but the stuff he's coming out with is kind of crazy. There's no way Lizzie, despite all her faults, is going around peeing in the residents' beds so she can blame them; I mean, she might be a bit of a bitch sometimes, but she's not cruel.

  "Get me a
camera," he says as I lead him back out into the hallway. "You know what I'm talking about. Get me a little one I can hide somewhere. I'll give you money, but you have to pick it up for me".

  "Let's not worry about cameras right now," I tell him.

  "And don't tell her I told you this," he says. "If she finds out I told you, she'll do something even worse".

  "I won't tell her," I reply, "but you have to promise me that you'll realize this isn't as bad as it seems. A little accident isn't the end of the world".

  We walk in silence for a moment. "I thought you'd believe me," he says eventually. "I thought you were one of the good ones. We haven't had a good one since Jennifer Mathis left".

  I take a deep breath. Even the mention of that name, Jennifer Mathis, is enough to put me on edge. I haven't gone anywhere near the abandoned ward for a few days, and I haven't had any strange encounters since the night that Ruth Brown died. I have no doubt that Jennifer Mathis is still about somewhere, waiting for me, but for now she seems to be leaving me alone, and for that at least I'm grateful. When I've come up with my own plan, I'm going to go back in there and confront her properly, and find out what how she managed to get so deep into my head.

  "You must be tired," I say as we reach his room. Lizzie is just finishing up with the bed, and there's a pile of dirty sheets in the corner. "Hey," I continue as I guide him to the bed, "at least now everything's clean and new".