I opt against sitting down, and place my bag on the sofa before walking over to the bay window that looks out onto a brick wall and the stairs down to the flat.
“You’re not one of those nudge guys, are you?” I say. “All that people are completely irrational so let’s trick them into being healthy.”
“And there you go, that’s why I never mentioned it before. Always the critic.”
“I’m sure those things have their place. It’s good to know, it explains a lot that you’re in the business of mind control.”
“Technically behaviour control, but you know, it’s for the greater good. It balances the universe. Health inequalities.”
On one of the shelves is a stand with a wide circular base and a single pole jutting upwards, on which hang a number of brightly coloured fabric bands. I step closer. They’re festival bands in various states of tattiness, about fifteen in total.
Green Man 2010, Reading ’99, Secret Garden 2007.
One near the top, bright red, reads fest. I reach over and lift another band out of the way to confirm it says Manifest.
A sensation like déjà vu washes over me. When I spin this band around, it is going to be from last year. Somehow I know this, like I’ve been through this moment thousands of times before. Steve is going to have a wristband from last year’s Manifest.
I’m smiling, no grinning, madly, while inside things are freezing: my muscles, my lungs, my thoughts.
It doesn’t necessarily mean anything if it is from last year. It could belong to someone else. Perhaps he collects them and a friend of his…
Everything in the room is his. This is him. And whatever that wristband says, it belongs to him. But of course that could be a coincidence, too. Just because he was at Manifest last year doesn’t mean anything either. Lots of people go to festivals. Just like lots of people lived in Yor—
A spoon tings against a mug in the kitchen.
Oh yes, that other lie. That other fact he forgot to mention. Only being around Manifest at the same time Will supposedly went—although had the police actually found any evidence of that yet?—is a different thing entirely. He wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of this one using—what bullshit thing had it been?—confidentiality. This placed him at a murder scene.
I turn to the archway, just to check he isn’t there, but only the men in the The Usual Suspects poster are watching me now. How fucking perfect.
With a quick movement I reach up to the stand once again and spin the band, confirming what I already know.
The walls of the room feel miles away, my brain pulling off a Hitchcock camera trick. I want to laugh, as my mind protests that this could mean anything. It could mean anything at all.
But no it can’t, because I can see it all now, strapped helplessly to my chair in the cinema of my mind: the camera spins around Steve and Will while they sit in the corner of a dingy York pub. Will tells Steve he is putting his past behind him, then walks out. Steve is crushed at first. But then he’s angry. His face screws up in hatred. So typical of Will. Rejecting him once again. Just like when he’d not tried enough during The Dedication and finished last.
A plan begins to solidify in his head. He remembers Will’s murder spree, because in morbid moments he’s hoped Will might really do it one day, because if it happened it would dramatically reunite us all. The ones that mattered. The dedicated. Because something dramatic like Will’s murder spree… that would bring them back under different circumstances than just coffee or a meal. There would be intensity. There would be drama. The bonds would hold.
So why wait for Will? What if he just commits the murder spree, in exactly the way Will said he would? Sets it all up so that they discover Will’s crimes together. He knows Will won’t show up, will be difficult to find. It would be perfect: the gang would be together again, solving puzzles, hanging out. And he would have his revenge on Will.
Now I see a close-up of myself at a computer, committing to the reunion, and it begins. He finds patients in York that Will might also have come into contact with, ones at risk of suicide. Two people who want to die anyway—he’s being helpful, even. Maybe he charms them into it, a suicide pact. Or maybe he just arranges to meet them somewhere, drugs them, then kills them himself? Yes, it requires a lot of planning. Getting the victims to Loch Ness and into Manifest. But for Steve Litt, architect of our childhoods, planning is second nature. Maybe he even made that film of the Manifest body, or left some of those comments on the message boards Jen found, scattering clues across the internet for us to find and keep us going.
Too many images are rushing through my head now. It’s hard to focus on one.
Was killing Will always part of the plan, or had he tacked it on afterwards in addition to framing him, as revenge for holding the knife to his throat? Or had he just lost control when it looked like the gang would part ways—just as Jen had done? A penny for his thoughts at the time she started making her intervention.
He must have made up the train story, just as Rupesh said he did: and the reason why is obvious now. All that needless self-sacrifice; all that bravery in the face of danger. And what had he said that night in the hotel?
But you can’t force that kind of thing, can you? Force someone into seeing what you mean to them. And Mum; God, no, Mum. He probably thought he was doing me a favour by attacking her. Two birds with one stone: a sick romantic gift and a display of intent.
But how had he got the bodies to the pylon? Well, possibly the same way he made sure I hadn’t woken up. Because yes, Rupesh and Jen, how tired I had been those very nights things were meant to have happened, and how sick had I been in the mornings. And how strange had that awful hotel wine tasted? I see him pulling out some baggie with his back turned—because it’s always a baggie—and dropping it in. Special wine from the bar—none of that mini-bar rubbish.
It is all so believable, not least because of what he was like during it all. So calm, so composed, until the end when he was so sure. In my memory the colour of him is still red, but now it’s a dangerous, keep-a-safe-distance red. And okay, so that might have been because he knew all the things Will told him in private that he supposedly couldn’t share.
Only it hasn’t worked. Unless I, even as a consolation prize, am enough for Steve. Because he must love me, in some strange, crazy way. Our relationship is important to the whole story, the King and Queen of Elm Close.
“What do you think of the place?” Steve says from somewhere behind me.
I’ve loved films long enough to know this is the bit where I jump and spin around and fail to hide how flustered I am. So I keep looking forward at the wrist bands, the matchbook, the nostalgia. And oh, what’s this? A fading newspaper cutting from the Marlstone Times, with four of us posed behind Will, who stands at the front of the picture holding up a Roman pot. How happy we look.
Breathing deeply, I turn and face Steve. His smile is shy and warm; those adorable little crinkles are back at the edges of his eyes. I don’t really believe he killed those women, I can’t really believe it. Can I?
He holds out a cup of tea. There’s concern in his face. “I hope I didn’t put too much milk in.”
“I’m sure you—” I stop crossing the room, stop talking. I am no longer looking at his face but at his T-shirt, the design of which is no longer concealed by the buttoned-up jacket.
“It’s cool, isn’t it?” he says, looking down at his chest.
The screen-printed square at the centre of the otherwise red fabric depicts Shaggy holding a terrified Scooby Doo, both looking behind them at three ghosts emerging from a Grandfather clock. Scooby Doo Meets the Boo Brothers is printed above them all in white bubble letters, the two Os in Boo form two eyes.
“I wish the others could see it,” he says.
“It might be one for the crusher,” I say.
He laughs at this, then says, “You were looking quite intently at that wall. What did you see?”
“I just don’t think I’d ever seen
that newspaper cutting.” The front door is so far away from where I’m standing, and Steve fills up so much of the archway between it and me.
“Maybe I should take it down now,” he says. “Or blank their faces out.”
I take a step towards him, wanting to at least close the distance between me and my way out. I take the tea and he stretches out his hand to lean on the archway wall to his left. To seal my exit completely.
“I think I left a very important part of myself behind back then,” he says, feral eyes working me out.
“Yes, I think you did.”
“I think I need to let it go sometimes.”
“That’s always healthy.” I’m worried he can sense my fear. I try changing the subject. “Where’s your loo?”
He pauses to think, like he doesn’t know where the toilet is in his own flat. Like he’s forgotten where he is. That’s it, yes, like he’d been drifting to another place. He stands aside and points to a door on the opposite side of the flat. He lets me pass. I hand him my tea to occupy his hand, then walk right by the front door. It’s the size of a cupboard, just a bright white sink and a bright white toilet, the colour scheme making up for lack of windows.
I can’t call the police. He’d hear me. Can you text the police? Instead, I text Rupesh and Jen. I tell them where I am, that I believe them now, and that I need them to help me. That I need an excuse to get out the flat. I flush the chain then leave, hoping the text sent.
“I should probably think about going.”
He hands me back my tea, touches my shoulder and puts his forehead to mine. I resist the urge to pull away.
“Please don’t,” he says. “We could do a marathon. Films from Our Past.”
“That would be fun,” I say. Now I step away, wondering if the tea is hot enough to throw at him should it come to it. I sip, but it’s lukewarm. “Grosse Pointe Blank.”
“Exactly.” His gaze is hungry: more, more, more.
“Men in Black,” I say.
“Yeah.” He closes the gap between us once more.
“Uh…” He’s an alpha wolf, trying to decide if I’m part of his pack.
My phone rings. Loud, obnoxious, beautiful.
I bring it out, glance at the screen, and act the shit out of looking concerned. “It might be about Mum.”
I answer it. “Hi, Dad.” I force my mug over to Steve again.
“Adeline, are you okay?” Rupesh says. I hope to God Steve can’t hear me.
“Hang on, Dad, I can’t hear you.” I bring the phone to my chest and say to him: “God, you were right, the reception is terrible here.”
Without hesitation, like ripping off a plaster or jumping into an ice-cold lake in order to fake getting cramp and drowning, I bring the phone to my ear and make for the front door. I reach up for the latch. “Give me a sec, Dad.”
I wait for the hand on my shoulder, the arms around my waist, the sounds of pursuit. But the door opens, and fresh air blesses my face. He doesn’t stop me walking through the door. He doesn’t stop me walking up the stairs. He doesn’t stop me walking down the end of the drive, by which point I am both out of danger and, surely, out of earshot.
“Fucking hell, Rupesh,” I say. Looking back I see Steve’s Octavia parked to one side of the building. Such a big car for a single man. With such a big boot, too. How new it had smelled. Like he’d bought it recently. Like, just before we all met up again. “Fucking hell.”
I tell Rupesh everything while making my reaction look as much like a concerned daughter as possible. He is calm, tells me that I just need to get out of there first, then get to a police station, preferably Marlstone if I feel safe doing so—all without Steve knowing what I’ve seen.
“You call me and let me know you’re on the road,” Rupesh says. “If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes I’m calling 999.”
I hang up and walk back down the drive. I yell down: “Steve.”
He appears in stairwell looking up at me. Waiting inside the door for me to finish. Listening, maybe.
“I need to leave now, Mum’s taken a bad turn. Dad’s in a right state.”
“Oh no,” he says. “Do you need company?”
“No.” Then it hits me. I’ve left my bag in the lounge. My car keys are in there. “Could you just grab my bag?”
“Where is it?” he says. “Why don’t you just come and get it?”
He stands aside, making it necessary for me to walk right by him in that tight space.
“It’s in the lounge,” I say.
“Won’t it just be easier—”
“Steve, can you just get it for me. I don’t want to lose signal in case he calls again.” He doesn’t move. He’s actually glaring at me. “She might be on her way out.”
This painful lie apparently sinks in, and slowly he turns and goes back into the house. He takes his time. He must know I’ve seen the band. He must be working out how he can turn things back. Or maybe not. The level of arrogance required to even leave it up on display suggests he is so out of his mind that—
“Here,” he says, holding up the bag by the straps. He wants me to collect it from him. Down where no one can see us.
“Can you bring it to me,” I say. “You’re being a bit weird.”
“Am I? I think if anyone’s being weird—”
“The reception. Steve, my bag.”
He sighs. He glances into his flat again. For a moment I wonder if he is going to go back inside with it. Make me come for it. I won’t. If he does that I’ll run.
I won’t have to. Step by agonising step he brings me the bag. When I take it he offers no resistance. I have it in my hand. I’m pulling it up to my shoulder, my head turned for just a second, when he grabs my shoulder. I jump. No, he’s not grabbing it. He’s only touching it gently.
“Are you okay?” he says. The wolf is gone. Now Steve Litt, concerned and a little hurt, has returned to say goodbye. “I do love you. You know that, don’t you?”
And even now I feel something like tenderness towards him. Just for a fraction of a second, but it’s there nonetheless. Some insane biological, pheromonal coup attempt, or perhaps some trick of nostalgia, one to which I should have an immunity by now.
“Thanks, Steve,” I say. “I really need to go.”
And without looking back, I walk as calmly as I can to the end of his drive, then out of sight I run to my car. I sit inside for a moment, stunned, out of breath. I slide the keys into the ignition, then place my shaking hands on the steering wheel, noticing the length of my nails: when did I stop biting them? I get the car moving and head straight for Blythe, and when I finally arrive, the winding roads behind me, I’ll never be more grateful to see it.
Adeline, 1998
They lay spooning in Steve’s bed facing the window, his arms around her chest. The curtains were open. Not that she cared right now, her body still trembling with excitement and shock, hot all over despite it being cold in the farmhouse. It could never be cold again.
She turned and kissed him, and he kissed her back. Facing the window again, she looked up at all the stars.
“Can you always see this many?” she said.
“There’s no light pollution. That’s why I leave the curtains open.”
His hand moved down to stroke her stomach just below the belly button, exploring. Funny there’d been a time she worried and fretted about whether she needed to do anything to the hair there. Worried about whether he would expect it to feel like it did? That thick, that coarse. Now that was just idiotic to her, his own, similar hairs all pressed up against her bum.
“Did you see Men in Black?” he said. “The Will Smith film?”
Not the most romantic topic, but right now he could talk about anything and she wouldn’t care. Everything was right, balanced, complete. Even in this room, that smelled of old socks and had a dead dog’s collar and a matchbook pinned to the wall between two of the various movie posters on display.
“We watched it together last summer
.”
“So you remember the ending? When it zooms out and the earth is a marble?”
“And the aliens are playing with it. Of course. I always think of that when I look at the stars. It makes you realise just how small we are in the scheme of things.”
“And how pointless it all is, really.” Steve kissed her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she said. Although was that what she thought? In the philosophy books she had started reading they mentioned that feeling of insignificance, but one of the philosophers had made a clever argument that challenged the idea.
“Actually, no. I think it makes you change your idea of significance,” she said. “Maybe significance is all in the eye of the beholder, you know? Like, to those big aliens we are insignificant, but then to us they are insignificant. So why should another’s idea of significance have any impact on ours?”
“I suppose I just liked the idea of nothing mattering really, because it makes me fearless. Makes it feel like the world is there for the taking.”
Steve was silent then. Was he annoyed? He kissed her shoulder again, so probably not.
“Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?” Adeline said. “The gang, I mean.”
“Probably not,” Steve said. “It’s easier being in gangs as kids. We’ve all got a lot in common because we’ve not really done anything yet. Adults just pair off and don’t seem to have friends any more, just work colleagues.”
It’s true enough, Adeline’s parents have a smattering of people they call friends but they rarely see them outside of birthdays. Or funerals.
“If we all met up in the future,” he continued, “we’d have completely different lives and probably resent interrupting them with a stupid reunion with people we don’t know any more. Sad, really.”
The Killer You Know Page 38