Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  She limps home, left foot almost dragging behind her. She doesn’t know if it is broken or sprained, but she knows that it hurts, and that the hurt in her ankle has taken away the hurt in her head. Classic distraction technique – like curling your toes when the nurse sticks a needle in your arm. Her version is more extreme, but it works. It’s stopped her head from pounding, and momentarily, at least, she is thinking about her ankle, and her cut and bloodied feet, and not about all the other things that she needs to face.

  She lets herself in, closes the door carefully behind her. Something feels wrong. Disturbed. There is a chink in the curtains, and sunlight is funnelled in like a laser beam, specks of dust dancing inside. She didn’t open the curtains when she’d come back earlier. She’d splashed her face with cold water, forced contact lenses into her tired, dry eyes. She hadn’t changed. Hadn’t washed any of the party away, and now she feels clammy and grubby. She can smell herself through her T-shirt. Sweat. Fear.

  Someone is in the house.

  ‘Hello? Who’s there? If you’re here to burgle me, you’ll find slim pickings. Better just let yourself out the back door and we’ll say no more about it.’ She hears the wobble in her voice. Her bravado is just that. A front. She knows who it is. Knows how he got in, too. After all, it was her who gave him a key. She had a premonition that day at the fair. She knew this moment was going to happen, one way or another. If it hadn’t been to sit in wait for her, it would have been to save knocking the door down when they saw her through the kitchen window, dangling from the ceiling.

  A familiar figure steps out of the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Marie,’ Davie says. ‘Hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. I’ve been meaning to give you your keys back. Wasn’t sure why you wanted me to have them. I think I know now. Are you OK? Where’ve you been? We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘We?’ Marie says. She sits down on the armchair. Another figure appears from the kitchen. He’s dressed in a grey suit and a slightly crushed white shirt. She recognises him, vaguely.

  ‘Marie, you remember Malkie, don’t you? You met at the barbecue at Anne’s last summer.’

  Malkie doesn’t smile. ‘Detective Inspector Malkie Reid.’

  Davie sits down on the couch, facing Marie. Malkie stands nearby. He looks angry and bored, but Marie suspects this is just his usual look.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Marie says. She knows why they’re here, but it doesn’t harm to try to put it off for just a bit longer.

  ‘Let’s not beat around the bush, Marie,’ Malkie says. ‘We know what you did. Davie?’

  Davie stands, and she notices that his hands are shaking slightly. ‘Marie Bloomfield—’

  Marie steps back, raises a hand. ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘I need to tell you what happened. I need you to understand—’

  ‘Marie, stop. Don’t do this now. We need to take a formal statement from you. We need to make sure we get this right. I know there’s probably a lot of stuff you want to tell us—’

  ‘I need to tell you . . . I need to tell you why . . .’ She lets the sentence trail off. Davie looks uncomfortable. Gives her a tiny shake of his head. Tries to communicate through his eyes. Shut up, Marie. I can’t help you if you start talking now.

  He won’t be able to help her anyway. She’s beyond help. She knows this. She thought she could cope, living her life the way she did. But she got complacent. She should have always realised that there was a possibility that Graeme would get out. That he’d be back to torment her. She’d thought taking him in would protect him. Protect herself. But it had backfired. Badly. She wasn’t mad. She’d known exactly what she was doing. But what now?

  She sighs. Clears her throat. ‘You’d better do it then, Davie. I’m not going to stop you. Just . . . just remember this. I did have feelings for you, you know? I still do. I thought you might be the one to help me. But I realise now that could never happen. You can’t run away from your past, Davie. I . . . I’m sorry.’

  Davie glances back over his shoulder at Malkie, and the inspector nods, once. His mouth fixed in a tight, straight line.

  Davie takes a set of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Marie Bloomfield, we’re arresting you on suspicion of assisting in a multiple homicide. We have information that indicates that your actions were indirectly responsible for the serious events that took place at a party at Willow Walk yesterday evening. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say . . .’

  Marie tunes out the rest of the caution. Stands up. Says nothing.

  ‘We’ve found Graeme,’ Davie continues. ‘We know you just came from seeing him. DC Jennings has taken him in. DI Reid and I will be joining her later to commence questioning . . .’

  Marie offers him her wrists, ready for the cuffs. He closes his eyes. Opens them again. Takes her by the elbow.

  ‘I don’t think we need the cuffs.’

  Marie lets Davie lead her out of the door. She is still limping, but he doesn’t ask her what happened. She hears Malkie following close behind. Then another sound, a scratching, a quiet mewl.

  ‘Wait,’ she says, spinning back round. ‘The kitchen window . . . Cadbury . . .’

  ‘Who the fuck is Cadbury?’ Malkie says, impatient now. He turns and Marie knows he can see the brown ball of fur with the angry eyes, staring at them through the window.

  Davie ushers her through the hall and out the main entrance. Marie hears the door slamming behind her. She’s about to say something about the mailbox. The letters. She keeps quiet. They’ll find them soon enough, if they haven’t already. Outside, Malkie overtakes them both and opens the door to the back seat.

  Davie leans in close as he helps her into the car. He places a hand on her head. Whispers into her ear. ‘I wish you’d come to me. I could’ve helped you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘Please, Davie. Look after the cat.’

  Davie pushes her door shut. Stares in at her through the window. He nods once, and then he turns away. He climbs into the driver’s seat. Malkie is already sitting in the passenger seat. He doesn’t look back.

  Davie catches her eye in the rear-view mirror.

  It’s her turn to look away.

  Marie leans back in the seat and realises she’s not scared.

  Not any more.

  29th July 2015

  Dear Marie,

  I know, I know. I’m blowing hot and cold here. I don’t know what else to do. Help me out. Please. Tell me about life. Tell me what it’s like to live a life and be free to do whatever you want, to go where you want, to eat where you want. Tell me about a bedroom with pictures on the walls, books on the shelves. A window without bars. How many times have you been to a pub, do you think? Do you know how many times I have? Four. Three times with you, Mummy and Daddy for Sunday lunches – remember they made us get dressed up, like we were going to the bloody Oscars or something? And the roast was always tepid, the gravy thin and weak. Daddy always had a pint of bitter and Mummy had a small port.

  We were fourteen, Marie. We had Babycham. Do you remember? That little prancing deer on the side of the bottle. I don’t know who decided to stop taking us, but three times . . . that’s pretty low, I think. I only went one other time, on my own. That day I left you. They served me a pint of lager, even though they knew I was underage. I think they were scared of me.

  Maybe it was the blood.

  I remember thinking, when the police walked in: ‘That was quick.’ I didn’t get a chance to finish my pint, so technically I have never even drunk a pint.

  Can you imagine that, Marie?

  I liked it when we went into the woods with the cans of shandy from the corner shop. We thought if we drank enough, we’d have to get drunk eventually. We never did, but we had fun, didn’t we? Just the two of us.

  I miss you, Marie. I miss the feel of your skin against mine.

  Please write back. Please.

  Love,

  Graeme xx

  42

  Davie watches he
r on the monitor. He’s sitting in a small room that isn’t much more than a broom cupboard, but it has a large screen and three chairs. She is in another room, just along the corridor. She has a beige cup on the table in front of her. He has one just the same, sitting next to the keyboard. The machine said it was café au lait, but it smells of burnt tyres. Like his burnt-out scooter that he left on the side of the road. Louise Jennings sits beside him. She’s zooming in and out of the screen. Trying to get the best position so that they can see Marie, as well as those on the other side of the table. Malkie Reid and Simon Richards.

  Simon was recently promoted to detective sergeant, according to Louise. Her tone suggests she’s not happy about it. He imagines that she wants to be in there, taking the centre stage. He can see the gleam in her eye. What an exciting case this is, she is probably thinking: I’d love to be involved. That should be me. He wants to be angry about it, but he sees a bit of himself in her eyes. He can almost smell the buzz coming off her and he wishes he could feel like that now. Eager. Enthralled. Involved.

  Davie is involved, but not in the way he wants to be. He aches, looking at her there in that room. Sitting on the plastic chair. Her hands clasped in front of her. She has refused a solicitor. She will need one eventually, but it’s her choice to be interviewed without one. Davie wishes he’d had a chance to talk to her. He has no idea what she is thinking. He still doesn’t know exactly what she did, or why. Before her arrest, Marie was ready to tell them everything. But, sitting there in the interview room, she seems to have retreated into a shell. She is answering with one-word replies. Giving them nothing. Davie can sense that Malkie is getting annoyed.

  Let me in there, Davie thinks. She’ll talk to me. Then again, though, would she? She had plenty of chances to do it before. Before her brother turned up at her flat. Before he followed her to the party and stabbed six people.

  All six of them are dead. Two hung on for as long as they could, but they’d lost too much blood. The knife had been driven in too deep. The pathologist said it looked like the knife had been plunged in like a sword. There were a few defensive wounds here and there, slashes to palms and suchlike, but they had been attacked in their most vulnerable state. Off their heads. They never saw it coming. Were too slow to fight him off. They probably thought they were having a bad trip.

  He hopes so. He hopes that they didn’t know what was really happening.

  ‘Marie, it’ll be easier for us all if you can just tell us everything now. If you’d prefer, we can still call in a solicitor for you. We strongly advise that you listen to us on this. Your brother might be the one who stabbed them, but something triggered his psychotic episode. The doctors have taken samples. They’ll find out what he took. You can save us a lot of time if you help us out.’

  Marie shuffles in her seat. Looks up at the camera. Davie knows that she can’t see him. Doesn’t even know that he’s there. But it feels like she is looking straight into his eyes.

  ‘Wow, she’s creeping me out now,’ Louise says.

  Davie wants to say: Shut the fuck up. You don’t even know her. But he realises there is no point. Louise isn’t doing anything wrong. Marie is a suspect now. No one is going to cut her any slack. Not if she’s responsible for this. Not if she gave something to her brother that set him off. Davie knows what she did. He knows she somehow got hold of some of that shitty herbal drug that’s been doing the rounds. He wants to burst into the room. He wants to save her. But it’s too late. He wants to take her in his arms and squeeze her. He wants to say he’s sorry. If he’d acted sooner. If only he’d got to her before she went to that party . . .

  Marie is staring into the camera. Staring into his eyes. He shivers.

  ‘I just wanted him to go to sleep,’ she says. ‘I just wanted him to leave me alone.’

  43

  After several hours, they take her to a cell. They leave her there, with a plastic cup of water. They have given her a pair of shoe covers to wear over her feet, as they were scraped and bloody from walking. She hadn’t thought to put on shoes when Davie had taken her away from the flat.

  She’s asked them for some paper and a pencil, so that she can write everything down. They hummed and hawed about the pencil, worried she might stick it through her eye and puncture her brain. She hadn’t even considered that as an option, but it will stay in her head now. A possibility.

  Eventually, they allow her a pen, but only if someone sits with her.

  ‘It’d be quicker if you just told them in the interview room, love,’ the young detective says. Her name is Louise. Marie sees glee in her eyes when she talks to her. She is desperate to know the full story.

  Marie smiles at her. ‘I’m not in a hurry. Besides, I don’t want to miss anything out. I want to make sure you understand. You need to understand it all.’

  Louise shrugs. ‘You know they’ve taken your brother to Carstairs. He won’t be getting out. There’ll be an inquiry. About why he was downgraded to medium risk. About how he ended up on that day trip. He hasn’t confessed to that attack yet, but we know it was him. DNA. He’s never getting out again. He can’t hurt you any more, Marie. It’ll help you out if you tell us everything now.’

  ‘What’ll happen to me?’ Marie says. Her voice is barely a whisper.

  ‘I don’t know. DI Reid is finalising your charge sheet. Might be conspiracy to commit murder. You did want to kill your brother, didn’t you?’

  Marie says nothing.

  ‘Or they might charge you as an accomplice for the six that your brother killed. Depends on your mitigating circumstances. Might be time for you to think about getting that solicitor . . .’ She lets the sentence trail off.

  Marie can tell that she doesn’t know. It’s conjecture. She’ll find out soon enough. In some ways, getting sent to prison would be a blessing. She won’t have to worry about Graeme in there. Won’t have to continue her attempt at a normal life.

  Marie picks up the pen, starts to write.

  My name is Marie Stephanie Bloomfield. My date of birth is 15th July 1974. I live at Flat 7, Marnie House, Colbert Road, Banktoun. I’ve lived there for twenty-five years, most of those on my own when my parents moved away to Spain. They’d had enough, they said. Felt like they were looking over their shoulders all the time. Waiting for someone to work out who they were. Make their lives hell.

  It was me who should’ve been worried about that. My life was hell from the minute I was born, three minutes and forty-four seconds after the screaming lump that was my twin brother. They put us in cots next to each other and, if I didn’t know better – if I didn’t know that babies had no memory – I’d swear he started watching me from the very minute we were born.

  Sometimes it was fun, growing up. We could read each other’s thoughts. We knew what each other liked and hated. We played games, and we made up worlds. It was our world. Graeme and Marie. We even made up our own language, so we could say things to each other and no one else would know.

  It was just a temper he had, sometimes. Nothing to worry about. Everyone gets annoyed about stuff. But it started to happen more. Things seemed to trigger it. Mum blamed herself, for that time when the two of us got scalded in the baby walker. Said he was never the same after that. But we were only two. How could she know? I think she always knew. Dad too. They just didn’t want to admit it. Couldn’t accept it. I know now that if they’d got help for him sooner none of it would have happened.

  That’s their burden. Their guilt.

  I saved him that day in the pool when he nearly drowned. He tried to hold his breath for too long. He passed out. I dragged him up from the bottom, gave him the kiss of life. He woke up, choked up pool water into my face. Smiled at me. Told me he loved me. I kissed him again then, even when he wasn’t choking any more. I could taste the chlorine on his lips. Felt the warmth of his mouth against mine. We’d been close all our lives but something changed that day. I realised that I loved him too. Properly. More than a sister should love a brother. A stron
ger love. Deeper. One that only the two of us could understand.

  It was our little secret.

  When he started to smoke weed, that’s when I lost him. That’s when he changed. The tantrums became rages. He broke things. Threw things. Mum was scared of him. She told me that one day. Told me she couldn’t wait until we were old enough to leave home, so he could go away. So I could escape.

  I think Mum knew.

  She caught us once. In Graeme’s bed, under the covers. We were just cuddling then, but I think she knew what we were doing. She could smell it. That musty stink of bodies too close.

  When I was fifteen, a boy from my English class asked me to go out with him to the cinema. We went to watch Ghostbusters. It was in one of the arts cinemas, a special double bill. We ate popcorn and he put his arm along the back of the seat behind me. I didn’t see Graeme until we were back outside. He was standing in a dark space in the corridor near the toilets. He smiled at me, and I realised then he was never going to let me go.

  He wanted me.

  But I didn’t want him any more. Not like that. Not like the things we used to do when we were kids. We were just children. We were experimenting. Was it really so wrong? I knew that it had to stop. I pleaded with him one day. Begged him to stop following me. Stop waiting for me outside my classes. Outside the toilets. No one liked him. They liked me, but I think a lot of it was pity. ‘Poor Marie, her brother’s a weirdo.’

  I waited until I was sixteen. I was in love with Howie. He was pleased that I’d waited for him. Lots of other girls had already done it, he said. He didn’t know that I had . . . and I would never tell him.

  Graeme walked in on us. He’d followed us home. We were having a party that night. Our 16th birthday. Mum and Dad had gone out to buy balloons. He started on Howie. He hit him with the rolling pin, smashed it over his head. No. No. I begged him. Please, it’s not his fault. I shouted at Howie, told him to run, get help. Graeme let him go. It wasn’t Howie he wanted to punish.