“I’m what?” I asked, looking into his blue eyes and smiling hopefully.
“A whore.”
I groaned. He’d been close to paying me a compliment, I know he had. His voice had taken that tender tone, the one he used so many years before, when he confessed that he wanted to be more than ‘fark-buddies’, and again when he admitted that the ring I mistook for a birthday present, had actually been intended as a marriage proposal.
It was time to make some cups of tea. The problem solving properties of hot beverages are well known, but the breathing space whilst the kettle boils can be just as effective.
As I plopped teabags into the mugs, I reflected on my fellow writers. Montgomery was a snob. Dawn was overbearing. Rafe was obnoxious. Annabel was vain. Danger was bland. However, were snobbery, dominance, obnoxiousness, vanity and blandness really precursors of murder?
Annabel had messaged me so many times, wanting to be my ‘BFF’. Had that all been an act to keep me close? Had she been assigned the role of checking what I was up to? Well, if she was in on it, that started to explain the Macarena (how exactly did she do it though?).
I’d had a pleasant lunch with Rafe, eventually. On some level, he had seemed like a reasonable person. I had begun to think that his awfulness was only skin deep — but perhaps not. Maybe wickedness pulsed through his veins, with tiny capillaries delivering little bits of evil to every corner of his body.
Why had Danger helped me protect Netta Lewis if all along he’d known they were planning to kill Amanda Kenwood? Was he keeping me out of the way so that others could carry out the murder?
Five bad guys? It all seemed pretty unlikely. Five out of six candidates on the island, all rotten. Apparently, I was the odd one out for not wanting to kill innocent people.
Flaming carrots!
I remembered, with horror, something Rafe had said: ‘The weakest, in a cannibal situation, is the one who is of least help in aiding the survival of the group as a whole.’
It suddenly struck me that they might perceive me as the weakest of the group. Five killers, intent on copying every act in the book, still had Rafe’s story to follow — a story in which a group of six people determine the weakest and ... Oh holy fracking jackbag!
“Gareth! They’re going to eat me!” I cried.
I zoomed into the living room, where he was sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the TV remote. Surely he wasn’t going to channel surf at a time like this?
“Do not turn the television on.”
“I wasn’t going to. Chill, Dee.”
“They’re going to eat me!”
“They’re what?”
“The writers! It’s just like in Rafe’s story. Six people ... they meet on an island ... all desperate to get their own way ... an assessment process ...”
“I’ve read the book, remember!”
“I’m the weak one! The one that they’re going to kill and eat.”
He was quiet for a few moments.
“Well?” I screamed, hoping — praying — that he would disagree.
He stood up and faced me, with a grim expression. “I think you might be right.”
“Heck!”
“The situation does seem to fit.”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
He looked at me with unexpected warmth and held me firmly by the shoulders. Then he said something that proved that he still cared. “Of course I’m not loving this! I mean yes, you’re a slapper, but no matter how many dead handymen you’ve slept with — you don’t deserve to be eaten.”
Chapter 18
The house felt huge that afternoon — big and empty. Was it the end for Gareth and me? I mean, certainly he sounded concerned about my imminent devourment. However, loving somebody for years can make you resistant to the idea of their being eaten, regardless of how sour things have become. It didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted me back.
If he loved me, then where was he right now? Why had he left and gone back to Barry’s, knowing that five people planned to kill me? I never thought I would say it, but I wished he would secretly follow me again. At least, when he’d skulked around in the shadows, it had showed that he cared.
The police would be here soon, to take my statement. I began to look forward to their visit — I felt that lonely.
My phone rang and I leapt off the sofa. It wasn’t Gareth’s personalised ring tone, but perhaps he was calling from a payphone or Barry’s mobile, or Penny’s or anybody’s!
Dammit! It was just one of the newspaper editors that I worked for, and not my favourite one either. Doris Glob should never have been put in charge of a paper aimed at hip graduates.
“Dee! How are you?”
She wanted a favour. She only bothered with pleasantries when she wanted something. “Okay,” I lied.
“I read about your book! Well done!”
“What?”
“The sales! Amazing.”
“Haven’t you heard? A woman was murdered!”
“Yeah, and look what it’s done for you!”
Charming woman.
“The thing is, Dee, we want a feature!”
“On the murder?”
“On the book!”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard my ideas yet.”
“The answer is ‘no’. More exposure is exactly what the killers want.”
“It might help you sell copies.”
“I said ‘no’!”
I wanted to slam the phone down, but since it has a touchscreen, instead I gently poked a red area of the screen. It wasn’t quite as satisfying but at least it got rid of that dreadful woman.
The house didn’t feel just big, but quiet too. Gareth hadn’t lived here for weeks, yet today the silence was unbearable. Without really thinking, I turned on the television.
An over-made-up TV presenter was harping on about ‘Inspiration’, which was presumably another fragrance from some laboratory in Europe. I was just about to change the channel when I saw them. I felt my blood boil. Dawn and Montgomery were on daytime TV. Dawn took up most of the guest couch. She was wearing a sparkling sequin cocktail frock and her legs splurged out like giant sausages. Montgomery was wearing one of his usual dated suits. They looked more like comedy puppets than serious guests.
“My inspiration was a house we stayed at in Cornwall,” explained Dawn. “What was it called again, Monty?”
“Pompomberry.”
“Yes, that’s it — Pompomberry.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Just a few weeks.”
“So things move quickly in the eBook business?”
“Very quickly. Back then, we had no idea that our book would become a number one bestseller.”
“And how much of your success do you attribute to the controversy about the content?”
“Don’t listen to everything you hear,” said Montgomery. “There is no evidence whatsoever that there is any conspiracy to copy our plotlines.”
Oh please! I couldn’t listen to any more of this. I wanted to kick the television in, but it was a wall-mounted flat-screen and it seemed likely that I would come off worse than it would. Why did new technology make it so much harder to express rage?
Just as I was about to use the remote to end this display of disgustingness, I noticed something even more vile and retchworthy — Netta Lewis.
The attention seeking, two-faced, sour runner up of the Porter and Miller competition, strutted onto the stage. The presenter showed her to a seat next to Dawn and Montgomery, the people who had almost certainly murdered her fellow contestant.
“I’m just devastated by the whole situation,” she said, wiping away non-existent tears. “I just wanna lock myself away and cry, but I said to myself, ‘No Netta! No! You must go on the show and pay respects to your dear, dear friend.’”
I looked at the three guests sitting together on the sofa. Did none of them have any shame? I knew I should turn it off, but I felt compelled to
watch, like a spectator at a particularly grizzly road traffic accident (‘Where’s her head? Oh, I hope I don’t see her head! Oh minced oath! There’s her head, up a tree! Why did I look for the head?’).
Montgomery droned on. “The book feels like our baby.”
The vision of Dawn and Montgomery’s child popped into my head once again and I felt even more nauseous. One more assault and I was actually going to throw up.
“It does,” agreed Dawn. “Me and Monty ...”
“Monty and I,” he corrected.
“We had the idea, then we rounded up the writers, then we helped them with their ideas, and once they’d had a bash, we did all the editing. So yes, it feels like our baby.”
What? Dawn and Montgomery did not give us our ideas! And what did she mean ‘had a bash’ — apart from Danger, we were all professional, published writers, not newbies having a go at something we’d never done before. As for editing, it didn’t look as though they’d even run a spell check on the text.
I was livid. How dare they take credit for the book? Although, on many levels I wanted to disassociate myself from the pile of crap that was The Book of Most Quality Writers, I wanted that to be my decision. I didn’t like having my contribution to the book undermined by these hypocrites.
My phone rang again — still not Gareth’s ringtone, but I grabbed it anyway. It was Annabel. I looked at the television, then at Annabel’s avatar glowing on my phone, then back at the television. After careful assessment, I concluded that talking to one lunatic on the phone was mildly better than watching three on the television.
“Yes?” I asked, somewhat coolly. Then I wondered whether I should try to be a little more friendly, so as not to alert her to the fact that I knew she was in on the plot.
“Dee, it’s me!” she said. Her voice sounded shaky and sharp.
“Yes?”
“Are you watching the telly?”
“Yes,” I said, grimly.
“What the heck are they playing at? It’s our book! Ours! All six of us!”
“I know.” For a moment I forgot that Annabel was probably planning to kill me. It was easy when I agreed with her sentiments exactly. “Who the heck do they think they are?”
“How can they make out that ‘Gnome-man Art More Lovely Than Thou’ was their idea? I mean, do you remember when I had the idea?”
“Vividly.”
“They’re so controlling! They’re always so controlling!”
“Annabel, did you ring me just to complain about the chat show?”
“No. there was something else ...” She seemed to be lost in thought. “Oh, that’s right — Dee, I’m scared!”
“Scared? Why?”
“I think somebody wants to kill me!”
“Why would you think that?”
“It’s Rafe’s story. I think we’re the group!” she cried.
This was interesting. I had similar suspicions. However, Annabel was one of the conspirators, so surely she knew who the next target was. If we really were the group that represented the one in Rafe’s story, then why would she tip me off? Perhaps she was a friend after all. “What makes you think that?” I asked.
“Because we’re the right size of group, and we met on an island.”
“That’s because the story was inspired by us. Remember? The storm, the sense that we were stranded ... That’s what gave Rafe the idea for the story in the first place.”
“Yes! Exactly like your story. It was inspired by the Porter and Miller contest, and a Porter and Miller contestant was the eventual victim. We’re the obvious targets!”
I felt mixed emotions. On the one hand, if we were the group, I was in mortal danger, but on the other hand, the fact that Annabel was sharing this information suggested that I’d got a part of the jigsaw wrong. Also, while I felt that I would be considered the weakest, Annabel felt that the killer would target her.
“What makes you think that you’re the weakest?” I asked her.
“It’s my work — I just got a terrible review.”
Was she serious? She thought the killer would consider her the weakest because of one review? Mind you, this whole conspiracy was about selling books, so perhaps she had a point.
I re-examined my evidence that Annabel was involved. Biff has said she knew he wasn’t dead. But then Gareth had seen her at a bar on the night of Amanda’s murder. Perhaps she had been involved in the earlier incidents and then backed out once murder was involved.
“Had you always planned to go to Green Bar that night?”
“What night?”
“On Friday, the night Amanda Kenwood was killed.”
“I wasn’t at Green Bar that night.”
“Yes, you were, you were seen.”
“I’ve never been to Green Bar. I was at home on my own.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was!”
The doorbell rang. I hoped it would be Gareth, even though I could see fuzzy officer shapes through the frosted glass.
“I have to go,” I told her. I was confused, to say the least, why would she deny a perfectly good alibi to suggest that she was home without one?
When I opened the door, I was unsurprised to note that once again, it was the haughty dismissive skinny cop and his more charming, buxom sidekick.
“Dee Whittaker?” asked Taylor.
“You know it is. You’ve been here several times.”
“Can we come in?”
I showed them in. Taylor seemed grumpier than usual and even Forrester was a little standoffish. Neither wanted a cup of tea, even though I informed them that I had a new improved blend of Earl Grey.
Taylor dropped some papers onto the coffee table. At first, I thought he was just putting his things down, but his purposeful stare told me that these papers were significant.
“What?” I asked.
“These are bank statements from ‘Gnome Place Like Gnome’,” explained Taylor.
“Okay ...”
“Would you mind telling us why you bought one hundred garden gnomes on Wednesday 7th March?”
“I didn’t!”
“Well, we have a bank statement that proves otherwise. That is your credit card number?”
“I’ll have to check,” I said, looking for my handbag. I found it on the floor beside the sofa. “I don’t use my credit cards very often. I prefer to use my debit ... Oh yes, here it is!”
I handed Taylor the card. He looked at Forrester, and then he looked at me with the most seriousness anybody has ever used in the context of a garden gnome purchase.
The news baffled me. I certainly hadn’t purchased one hundred garden gnomes. I quickly glanced at the badly-painted defecating gnome in the corner of the room. Why hadn’t I got rid of the monstrosity?
“Would you mind explaining how you knew that Amanda Kenwood was going to be murdered?”
“Netta! Netta was supposed to die, not Amanda. I’ve told you that already! Hasn’t anybody read my story?”
Taylor and Forrester exchanged grave looks.
I gulped. I realised how things might look from their perspective. I’d predicted a murder. My credit card had been used to buy gnomes. The ear of wheat ... The footprints at the farm ...
Once again, I caught sight of the DVDs that Gareth had returned — Fight Club, Shutter Island, The Others and Identity. What did all of those films have in common?
I let the wallet I was holding fall to the ground. The room around me started to spin. It was almost incomprehensible. The last two months of my life flashed before my eyes, only this time I wasn’t watching from the outside, trying to figure out what was going on. I saw myself hand Ricky Foster a cheque for ten thousand pounds.
Screeching bananas!
I had done this. I was the killer.
As hard as it was, I tried to remember, I tried to understand. Why would I have done this? Had the stress of ending my marriage turned me to crime? Was it all a big scheme to get Gareth back? I already knew the answer.
I’d started committing crimes to make my husband think that I was in danger so that he’d come to my side!
My heart pounding in my chest. Facing the terrible truth was the most horrendous thing I’d ever had to do. I was bombarded by images of breaking into Amanda’s flat, killing her, carrying her to Waterloo Bridge ... I should turn myself in. No, don’t turn yourself in!
“Are you all right, Mrs Whittaker?” asked Forrester.
At first, the awareness of somebody else in the room made me jump, but then I remembered where I was, and who I was with. More importantly, I recognised the improbable nature of my investigating a mystery for many weeks, only to discover that I was the perpetrator. Of course I wasn’t the copycat. Clearly, I was overtired and had been reading too many books again.
“Yes, sorry,” I said, hazily. “I was daydreaming. It’s difficult being a writer; sometimes your imagination runs away with you.”
“Daydreaming?” scoffed Taylor. “You do realise how much trouble you could be in?”
“It wasn’t me,” I said. “But I think I know who did do it.”
And so I told the police officers that Biff was alive, and explained Gareth’s theory about Dawn and Montgomery hiring Biff to test us.
“Did you notice your credit card going missing at any point?” asked Forrester.
“No,” I said, thinking about it. “But I don’t use it very often. It could disappear for weeks and I wouldn’t notice.”
“Is there anybody who might have had the opportunity to remove it and put it back again?”
“No, not that I can think of. I always keep my handbag close to me.”
About an hour later, the police appeared to be wrapping things up for the day. However, they informed me that they would almost certainly be back, which I didn’t doubt for one second. Taylor and Forrester seemed to be on a piece of elastic tied to my front door.
I contemplated telling them about Rafe’s story, and my fear of being eaten. However, I decided not to share that part of the story. As things stood, I felt that they had started to take me seriously and I didn’t want to spoil it. No matter how strong my fear of being devoured, I realised it would sound ludicrous to a cynic like Taylor.
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