The Life of Death

by Lucy Booth

  17

  A DESERTED PLAYGROUND ROUND THE BACK OF A housing estate in the pouring rain. Huddled side by side on the swings as the smell of rain-soaked tarmac fills our noses and we watch the abandoned roundabout spin slowly of its own volition.

  It goes without saying that He is, of course, perfectly dressed for the weather. A skeletal, pale hand holds the carved wooden handle of a huge black umbrella over His head as He rocks His heels back and forth to propel the swing beneath. I huddle in my pacamac – the rain tip tapping on the peaked brim of my hood to drip off the edge and drop onto my nose. My feet dangle above black rubber matting laid to break the fall of small bodies.

  ‘So three down. Well done, Little D. I must say, I never thought you’d get this far. Seems I underestimated you.’ He takes a long drag on a cigarette. Breathes out a long sigh of smoke to mingle with exhaled breath in the damp air.

  I hate it, hate myself, but there’s an undeniable burst of pride. A burst of pride that shines bright to eclipse the memory of glass slicing skin. Of arterial blood spurting hot into my face and a metallic tang lingering on lips. It’s a pride that fills me with a warmth where previously there has only been a cold, churning hate. With three down, I’m over halfway. With three down, I’m nearly there.

  ‘It’s getting easier,’ I admit. ‘I didn’t think it would. I didn’t think I’d be able to carry on after Hywel. I couldn’t get that noise out of my head. Couldn’t close my eyes without seeing his bulging eyes. I felt sick all the time at the thought that I’d done that to him. That he wouldn’t be lying there if it wasn’t for me. For what I wanted …’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sitting in that hospital room with Beth was torture. Watching what I’d done to her … to them. The act of killing was, well, not easy, but … don’t get me wrong, please don’t get me wrong. I didn’t enjoy doing it. I certainly don’t want to have to do this more than absolutely necessary. But the act of killing him … I just didn’t really feel anything. I know what I did and I know what I did was wrong, but I just didn’t feel anything …’

  I look down at my dangling feet. ‘It was only when I was sitting in that hospital room with Beth. That’s when it hit home. That’s when it matters. The ones that die, they find some sort of peace. Once they know what’s happening, there’s this … calm, I guess. It’s the ones who are left behind that suffer. And I’m the one that causes that suffering. Me. And I hate myself for that.’

  ‘Oh, Little D,’ He sighs. ‘You really are too soft for your own good. Do you think I sit around beating myself up every time I kill someone? Ha!’ He laughs, a short bark of a laugh. ‘Of course I don’t! Honestly. You need to grow a backbone, my girl.’

  No I don’t. Not if it’s at the expense of everyone else I don’t. I’ll stay soft, thanks.

  ‘Well, regardless. I think we should crack on, eh? Step things up a little bit? What do you say, Little D? Ready for number four?’

  ‘Why not? Go for it.’ May as well get on with it. Only two more. How bad can it be?

  The rain has stilled and slowed to a steady, fine drizzle. Across the playing fields a couple of kids ride their bikes, a dog chasing and barking. Leaping at spinning wheels and splashing into fresh puddles on the waterlogged field. Wet hair is plastered against their faces as they head for the gap in the fence backing on to identikit eighties Barratt houses, head for warm homes and tea on the table. Head for a motherly scolding and a clean pair of jeans.

  ‘Ellie Morgan. Number four.’ He nods in the direction of the kids on the far side of the field. ‘They’re her brothers. Her older brothers …’

  Her brothers? But, they’re young. Really young. The oldest one can only be, what, twelve? How old can this Ellie be?

  ‘She’s seven,’ He lets the number float in the dank air between us.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ My head whips round to look Him in the face, though His eyes are masked by the black curve of the umbrella. ‘Seven? Seven years old? She’s a kid! Surely there’s someone else? Her mum? Dad? God, even one of the brothers – they’re at least a little bit older, right? Come on. She’s seven …’ The desperate gabble trails off to a whisper. ‘Surely you’re not serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’ He smirks at His little joke. ‘My choosing, Little D. Remember that bit? You end the lives of five people of my choosing.’ His voice adopts a mocking tone ‘“My soul … I want my soul … I want to live … Please help me …”’ Flips back to harsh reality. ‘You asked for it. I told you it wouldn’t be easy. But you asked for it. You’ve done this, Little D. With your selfishness, and this life you so desperately want. You’ve put a price on that little girl’s head. You, Little D, no one else. You.’

  I feel sick. This morning’s bubbles of pride burst to seep bitter bile into my stomach. My mouth has filled with a cloying saliva and I’m fighting the urge to vomit right there. Right onto the rubber matting. Right onto His pristine loafers. A child. A bloody, bloody child.

  ‘And what if I say no? What if I don’t do it? For pity’s sake – she’s a child. I can’t … No, I won’t. There has to be someone else. Please …’

  ‘You can, Little D, and you will. Because if you don’t, well … If you don’t then the deal’s off, isn’t it? It’s no skin off my nose, you know, for you to head back to your old life. I don’t really see what was wrong with that life in the first place. People would kill for that, you know, immortality. Eternal youth. You really do want to have your cake and eat it, don’t you, Little D? I don’t know why I bother …’

  How can I do this? How can I sit here and accept that I’m going to have to kill this child. To hell with all that euphemistic ‘ending a life’ crap. I’m killing people. And now I’m supposed to kill this little girl. All for a life that holds no guarantee. All for a man who might not even want me.

  I screw my eyes closed against the drizzle, rubbing cold fingers against the furrows in my brow as if pressing hard enough will smooth all of this away. ‘I can’t do it.’ Barely a whisper. Breathed words don’t even disturb the air around me. ‘Not a child. Not a little girl. No. The deal’s off.’

  Before He can speak I’m up and walking. Putting as much distance as I can between me and His twisted, fucked-up games. Between me and the wheedling and cajoling that will convince me that this is all normal. That this is all justifiable.

  I can hear Him shouting after me as I cross the field. ‘Lizzy! Elizabeth!’ No one has called me Elizabeth in four hundred years.

  I walk for what seems like hours. It could be minutes. It could be days. The drizzle alights in tiny droplets on my hair and mists the world with an impressionist brush-stroke. Aimless wandering with no direction has brought me straight to one place. One place I feel safe and one place I have no right to be. Tom’s flat.

  I let myself in to the empty hallway. He’s back at work now, and it’s mid-afternoon on a Monday and I know he’ll be staring blankly at a computer screen in his office while the hours tick away and he can come home to stare blankly at a TV screen before closing his eyes against the horror of another day without her.

  I go straight through to the bedroom. To the battered old leather armchair in the corner strewn with yesterday’s clothes. Grab a pillow from the bed on my way across the room and bury my face in it, wiping away tears and breathing in his smell. I’ve never met anyone who’s smelled like him before. The faintest whiff prompts an involuntary pulse.

  Behind scrunched lids I can see him as I left him last night. Head tucked into the crook of his elbow to blind eyes from the pervasive neon glow of a bedside alarm clock. Fingers curled to hold my hand so recently slipped free of his grasp. Closed eyelids kissed softly shut above soft lips slightly parted. He sleeps, intermittently. A disturbed sleep that he wakes from with a jump. A start of understanding that drags him into a cold consciousness when he reaches out an arm to find she’s not there.

  How can He even think I would do this? How could I take this little girl’s life before it�
��s even had a chance to be lived? Why is this one so much more difficult? Why should one life carry any more weight than another? The questions flit through my mind like moths on a summer’s evening – as I register one, it’s gone to be replaced by another and another and another, relentlessly bashing against the inside of my skull. And threaded through all of these thoughts, one that shouts louder than the rest. You got yourself here. You’re the one who struck the deal. What were you thinking? Making a deal with the Devil. Stupid girl.

  But then what happens if I don’t follow through? If I don’t at least try my every day from here to eternity will be overshadowed with what might have been. And if I thought it was unbearable before, God only knows how I will manage then. And if I don’t carry on, then why did Hywel die? And Rose? And Rob? All dead. Because of me. All died in vain as part of a task that I can’t bring myself to complete?

  And I know. I know that I’ll continue. That though the stakes were high and have just got higher, I have only myself to blame.

  Without opening my eyes, I know He’s there. Know He’ll have followed me. Hell, He probably knew where I would end up before I did. Was probably sitting in the lounge waiting for me as I slipped through the front door. I can’t look at Him.

  ‘I don’t like to be messed around, Little D.’ His voice is surprisingly level. Calm. I know.

  ‘I’m not doing this for me. You asked for this. You. I didn’t seek you out for this game of yours. You did this. You came to me. Remember that, Little D. You came to me. Do you want this or not?’

  I do.

  ‘I don’t like second chances, Little D. I’m not chasing you round waiting for you to complete this. If you want it, if you want to continue, it has to be your decision and you have to make it now.’

  I take a deep breath in. Release a long breath out. A resigned sigh. ‘OK.’ I can barely hear myself, it comes out in the quietest of whispers.

  ‘Sorry? What was that? I’m not sure I heard you.’

  ‘OK. I’ll do it. Ellie.’

  ‘Well done. I knew you’d see sense.’ He crosses the room from the sash window He’s been gazing out of. Leans in close, face lowered level with mine. ‘Don’t cross me, Little D. Don’t play games with me. You will always, always come off worse.’

  I will. I know that.

  ‘Two weeks, Little D. You have two weeks for this one. And if it doesn’t happen in two weeks, that’s it. No more chances. Do you understand? I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you’re done.’

  He stands and sweeps out of the room, slamming the door in His wake. I grab the pillow I’ve been hugging and hurl it in His direction with a howl.

  I’ve never hated Him more. I’ve never hated myself more. Ellie Morgan.

  Number 4.

  18

  THE MEDIA CIRCUS HAS COME TO TOWN. HUGE Winnebagos line the streets, aerials jutting skyward as if hoping to snare a clue on the breeze, to catch a truth in the scudding clouds. The tweets have taken flight, to dip and dive through the evening air as a family’s grief is parcelled into the bite-sized, gossipy chunks of a 140-character limit. From all around voices of different accents, different languages report the same news. A startling lack of information to warrant such numbers, but they wait, terriers at the edge of a rabbit hole, held static in time by the scent of a story.

  ‘Ellie Morgan was last seen here, outside the Shipley’s newsagent on Station Road at around six thirty on Tuesday evening. Nothing has been heard of her since. Local man, Ian Morris, has been helping with the search.

  ‘Ian, did you know Ellie?’

  ‘Only by sight. She seemed like such a lovely little thing. Always laughing. So sad. Horrid to think what could’ve happened to her.’

  ‘And how have you been helping with the search?’

  ‘Doing whatever I can really – we need as many people looking as we can. Checking your sheds and garages and cellars. There’s a scared little girl out there – I’m sure of it. And we need to find her as soon as we can.’

  ‘Thanks for talking to us, Ian. Good luck with the search.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Come off it, Ian. You know, and I know, exactly where that little girl is, and searching sheds and garages and cellars isn’t going to help, is it? Is it, Ian? As police search teams fan out across wasteland, an army on the march, as divers drag the depths and dogs sniff for a whiff of her, as Mum and Dad wipe away silent tears and gulp back deep, shuddering breaths, Ellie and I sit. Quietly in the darkness. And we wait.

  Poor Ian. You see, he wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for me. He’s had these thoughts for years, dark thoughts looming at the back of his mind in his late-night moments. Little voices chirruping in the darkness. He’s sat at home, shoulders hunched over a glowing screen in a dimly lit room, looking at pictures that would horrify even the hardiest. Watched by Bella in the corner, resting a chin on crossed paws and raising a disdainful eyebrow in his direction. But he’d never act on these thoughts, never see these pictures brought to life. Would he? Turns out, with a gentle nudge in the wrong direction, he would. He’ll never know what drove him to drive to the shop that day instead of walking, what prompted him to park in the alley while he let the dog out to snuffle in the grass. He’ll never remember a figure in the front passenger seat, one hand guiding the wheel. A passenger who gave the dog a shove as they turned into the alley, causing her to whimper and whine and scrape at the door to be let out. But what he does know is that it was as easy as pie when he saw her, blonde and grubby in jeans and a pink T-shirt printed with princesses dancing a waltz in their floating ballgowns of blue and green. Thin arm thrown around Bella’s neck to tug on her ear. It was easy as pie to tell her about the puppies at home. Did she want to see them? He only lived around the corner. Did she want to hop in? He’d drop her off home later – he had her mum’s number so he’d give her a call and let her know. And he had fish fingers in for tea if she got hungry. So she hopped in, the lure of puppies too great to ignore. And the black thoughts were overwhelming. All those black, black thoughts, fought against for so long, crowded into his head. Chattering and yabbering and whispering suggestions into his ear.

  And at the junction, where he could turn right to her home, to his home, to the estate where they both live, he pauses. Looks both ways. Checks his mirrors. Drops hand to indicator. Turns left. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre.

  They’ve been in the car five minutes before she speaks. ‘What’s your dog’s name?’

  ‘Betty.’ Better safe than sorry.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Michael.’ No trace. Not if she gets away. Give him a chance to escape before anyone cottons on. Better safe than sorry.

  Ellie pauses. Her dad’s called Michael, but people call him Mike. And although she doesn’t know exactly what this man’s name is, she’s heard her mum talk to him before and she’s sure it’s not Michael.

  ‘You live near my house, don’t you? I think you’re going the wrong way. I think my house is back there.’ She’s bouncing round the back seat, trying to look out the back window, past the boxes stacked in the boot blocking a clear view through the glass. The roads are empty – it’s a self-sufficient Peak District town, no commuters to drive in or out at the end of a day. No rush-hour drivers to recognise a small blonde accompanying a local man without a daughter.

  ‘The puppies aren’t at my house.’ He clears his throat. Shifts in his seat. ‘A friend of mine’s looking after them. They don’t live far. Don’t worry – we’ll see them quickly and then I’ll get you home. Bel … Betty wants to see them. Check they’re all OK. She is their mum, after all! Wants to make sure they’re not missing her.’

  But he said. He said they were at his house. He said.

  ‘I think I should go home. I don’t think my mummy will want me to see the puppies without her.’

  He’s speeding now – not too fast to draw attention, but subtly accelerating to put distance between him and a mother in a Derbyshire front room with a
niggling feeling that all is not well.

  ‘Nearly there!’ Keep the tone light, Ian. No need to scare her.

  Bugger. Traffic lights. He’s going to have to slow down. Jumping them would only draw attention if there’s anyone about. Are the child locks on in the back seat? Lock the doors in case she thinks about hopping out. Better safe than sorry. Who puts a set of traffic lights in the middle of bloody nowhere? He can feel a fine film of sweat forming on the nape of his neck. Knuckles white as he grips the wheel. But he’s done it now. No going back. No unwinding the clock. If he takes her home now and she blabs – chatting away like little girls do. Blethering away to all and sundry. And they’ll know there were no puppies. And they’ll want to know why he said there were. So what could he possibly say to explain? No, he has to keep going. Better safe than sorry.

  She’s silent in the back. Arm looped around Bella, lifting her ear to whisper and chat. To soothe herself in the silence. He flips the switch on the central locking and the gears clunk into place – unmistakeable in the quiet car.

  ‘What was that noise, Michael? Could I go home please? I don’t think my mummy would like this.’ He can hear the rising panic in her voice. Still so polite. So polite despite her fear.

  ‘Sorry! Just knocked the switch by accident. Nearly there!’

  Come on … Come on come on. The cherry red light shines for what seems like a lifetime. Without thinking his right foot pulses on the accelerator, revving the engine. He looks in the rear-view mirror – she’s clambered over to the window and is tugging at the door release.