All These Perfect Strangers

by Aoife Clifford

  He ran to college, got changed, climbed into my room to leave the article so I would know I was safe. He saw the Rohypnol sitting out and took that with him. All my secrets protected. Heading back to the bar to find me, he saw Rogan and me kissing, holding hands and walking out the door. Following us, he watched as we discovered Rachel’s body, saw Rogan stuff Rachel’s bag full of drugs and realised that with Rachel gone, he was the new finder of secrets. Rachel’s mistake had been that she couldn’t keep them. Michael was sure he would.

  ‘I decided not to tell you. Punishment for Rogan. But then that day in the laundry when I was washing the clothes I had killed Rachel in, I overheard Leiza threatening you.’

  ‘Not threatening,’ I whispered. ‘Talking to me.’

  He looked at me dismissively, a snarl in his voice. ‘Leiza was a threat. Her whole campaign was a threat. Any police investigation was. They nearly caught you last time. I couldn’t risk losing you.’

  ‘You killed her.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I didn’t just want to kill her. I wanted to send a message. Everyone else would think it was part of the attacks. Blame the Screwdriver Man or the bikers at the bar. But really it was for you. That’s why I left the Rohypnol. I was the only person who knew what you had done to Rachel. I wanted you to realise all that I had done for you. That we killed Leiza together just like we had killed Rachel.’

  He sat there and smiled at me, the savage smile of someone who truly believed that. What he had done was more than a gesture. My tablets tied me to both deaths.

  He kept talking about his plans but I couldn’t listen. I didn’t want to hear any more. I thought about the people who had been caught in Michael’s web. Rachel. Leiza. Even Nico. He had thought, like everyone else, that the bikers killed Leiza. He went to the police and ended up dead. Even Rogan and Marcus, guilty of their own crimes, were now wrapped up in something far more sinister.

  I thought about them and I thought about me. How responsible was I for all of this? How guilty should I feel? I had spent all semester studying subjects that professed to have discovered the formula to allocate blame, to apportion guilt. But courts never find people innocent. They find them not guilty. There is a difference. Here, I was not innocent. I was not blameless. Most of what Michael thought had been distorted through the fairground mirror of his mind, but he had seen me clearly, perhaps more accurately than I was willing to admit. For a fleeting moment I had wanted to kill Rachel, and I, out of everyone, should have understood the repercussions of acting on a murderous impulse, on decisions made in the blink of an eye.

  A breeze picked up, moving through the trees, poking holes in the mist. It tasted cold on my tongue.

  The day Tracey and I had stolen from the gift shop had been cold.

  ‘Let’s get something to eat.’ Tracey pulled my arm as she walked into Cook-a-Chook. The thick-necked owner looked up in anticipation when the bell rang. His sweaty face soured when he saw it was us.

  ‘Let me guess, one chips with gravy to share.’

  The cheapest thing on the menu.

  ‘Two Cokes as well,’ added Tracey.

  ‘Youse are big spenders.’ He grunted, reaching into the fridge behind him.

  ‘Pay the man, Pen,’ said Tracey. She was broke as usual.

  Annoyed, I handed over the money. ‘I’m supposed to be saving for Mother’s Day. If I don’t get something, she’s going to nag me for the rest of the year.’

  Tracey laughed. ‘She’s going to nag you anyway.’

  She picked up the aluminium foil container, careful not to squeeze it so the gravy wouldn’t spill. The door dinged on our way out.

  ‘Maybe we should try the gift shop?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Tracey. ‘You’ll look guilty and give the game away.’ She fished out a chip, swore when a blob of hot gravy landed on her wrist and thrust the container at me.

  ‘I won’t.’ I balanced it in both hands, feeling the heat radiating outwards. ‘Besides, you said it was easy. That the guy’s too busy reading his newspaper to notice.’

  Tracey sucked the gravy off her skin and said nothing.

  ‘You’re chicken,’ I said. ‘Dare you.’

  There was a red welt where the gravy had been.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But only because I haven’t got anything for Mother’s Day either.’

  · · ·

  I began all this.

  Michael stood up on the roof.

  ‘Now you know my secrets and I know yours. We’ll keep each other safe,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ My voice was as thin as vapour. I wasn’t sure he heard what I had said, but he turned and looked at me.

  I spoke louder this time, the wind catching my words, hurling them at him.

  ‘We’re never going to be together.’

  He began to slowly crawl towards me across the tiles like a spider. The door to the roof lay between us but all my courage had been used up. I couldn’t force myself to get any nearer to him.

  Suddenly, he began to move unbearably fast.

  Too late for the door now. My only thought was to put space between him and me.

  I began clambering up to the top of the roof, my numb feet sliding on the wet tiles. But momentum was on his side and as I reached the top, his arm stretched out and grabbed my foot, a gloved hand against my icy skin. Clinging to the roofline, I kicked back viciously and felt something give way. He let go and I threw my body over the far side. My clothes and feet snagged on loose tiles as I slid down away from him, grabbing at an old roof turbine to help stop my fall. I only just managed to slow down before the edge. Tiles cascaded over the side and I could hear them smashing down the four storeys.

  I thought I could hear movement below us. A sluggish world was beginning to wake up.

  I stayed as close to the edge as I could, trying to brace myself on the uneven wet surface. Michael came over the ridge. As I watched him move down the roof, part of me couldn’t believe that Michael would actually hurt me. But the screwdriver in his hand told me otherwise.

  Indistinct voices began floating up towards us, curious and puzzled. I tried to scream but the sound caught in my mouth. No one could help. I watched him come nearer. His nose was broken. I had done that much. I felt a surge of hopeful anger, a moment of exhilaration. This wasn’t some monster and I wasn’t a scared fifteen-year-old. I hunted around for something to use as a weapon. A cracked piece of tile broken by my fall was lying near my feet. It fitted in my hand perfectly. There was a weight to it, a sharp edge.

  ‘You’re smarter than this,’ Michael said. ‘You don’t need to be scared of me.’

  In a single movement, he knocked the tile out of my hand and pushed me backwards onto the roof. My head slammed against the surface and, pinned together, we juddered towards the edge, my feet scrabbling to push back on the gutter and not slide off the roof.

  He lay on top of me now. I could feel his heartbeat in my chest. In the struggle, the screwdriver had sliced a large cut near my eyebrow. A flap of skin. Warm blood trickled out of me.

  I looked straight into the light-blue eyes that I had tried to avoid. Blood began to cloud my vision but I saw the truth at last. There were similarities between Michael and me that couldn’t be denied, but fundamentally we were different.

  I was a survivor and he was not.

  Michael shifted slightly and his weight lessened. Distracted, he reached out to touch my face. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said. ‘I love you.’ He dropped the screwdriver. It rolled down and fell into the gutter, out of his reach.

  ‘I’ve got something that belongs to you,’ I said. I lifted up my arm with the bangles. He sat up and pulled back my sleeve and I slipped them off into his hand. Then with my heels braced against the gutter, I pushed him as hard as I could. Two great shoves to his chest. The first pushed him off me, arms flailing. The second pushed him right over the edge.

  Lying on my stomach, I peered over. There were holes in the mist and the ground was
visible in large patches. Michael lay there.

  He could have been asleep.

  Chapter 27

  I am sitting in the waiting room looking at Ivy’s red circles on the wall. Today, for the first time, they really are balloons, floating away, free. Escaping like me. The train ticket is in my blue diary which sits on my lap. Most roads are open. My bags are packed. I am leaving again, as I did before, except I am heading to a different university in a different city. I’ve got time to settle in and find a place to stay. After Christmas, I’ll catch up what I missed at summer school and by the time first semester begins, everything will be back to how it should be.

  The town is cleaning up now that the flood has started to recede. We didn’t beat the 1923 record and Mum was disappointed. The whole place stinks of dirt and the river, as though we were buried alive and have just been dug up.

  Frank had to be a ‘real’ doctor during the flood. He delivered a baby and treated a couple of broken legs, one concussion and Bob, who had a suspected heart attack trying to help move racehorses to higher ground. It turned out to be angina. There is a picture of Frank on the front page of the newspaper, standing next to Bob’s hospital bed. Bob is looking paler than usual, but maybe that’s just the printing because Frank is looking a little green. I’ll send Bob a card when I get settled.

  Frank the Hero. Our local paper deals in absolutes. Ivy bought multiple copies and has put them around the waiting room. But I’m the only person here to enjoy them, which I find a bit odd. I would have thought everyone would be wanting an appointment but they must still be sweeping mud out of their houses.

  Ivy is distracted by her new computer today. It’s a light-grey beehive of a box that hums all the time. I can tell she’s a bit on edge by the way she presses a key and then pulls her hand back as if it’s got teeth.

  In my mind I am saying goodbye to all of this. To Ivy. To the balloons. To the newspaper. To the waiting room. I didn’t get a chance to do that at Scullin.

  By the time they got me off the roof I had lost a lot of blood and was fading in and out of consciousness. As I was bundled into the ambulance, I could see Scullin disappearing forever.

  Kesh and Toby visited me at the hospital. Kesh cried a lot and Toby chatted up the cute male nurse. Rogan stayed away. The police were a constant presence but having a head injury helped me avoid difficult questions until I’d come up with the right answers. In the end, I told them what they wanted to hear: Michael had killed himself after admitting he had murdered Rachel and Leiza. I tried to stop him and that’s how I got injured. I even made him responsible for the attack on Alice. That was easy with the balaclava and screwdriver on the roof. I figured Rogan had tried to protect me from Marcus, so I owed him that much. It was also neater that way. Real life is never simple, but I’ve found people like to pretend that it is.

  The only person I didn’t mention was Nico. But then I thought I didn’t have to, because I expected the nice, fatherly sergeant, who I suspected was on the bikers’ payroll, and who spoke to me in a gentle voice and occasionally held my hand when my head hurt too much, knew exactly what had happened to him.

  When they discharged me from hospital, I was put into my mother’s car, and found all my belongings packed next to me. The Sub-Dean had convinced Mum that it was ‘for the best’, if not for me then definitely for his budget. He tried to get her to sign a waiver against suing the college but she didn’t fall for that one.

  · · ·

  The telephone rings and Ivy pounces on it. She transfers the caller through to Frank but only after she whispers who it is. It is the whispering I notice. It cuts through the room the way a soft murmur never does. Something about ‘insurance’ and the ‘medico-legal department’. Her head bobs up and down as she puts through the call.

  I wonder what trouble Frank is in. Maybe a patient has made a complaint. Must go with the territory when they’re mad in the first place.

  Ivy sees me looking and she smiles nervously. Something is definitely wrong. But before I can ask any questions, Frank is standing there and he’s not smiling at all.

  ‘Thanks for coming in today,’ he says, after I follow him to his office. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would after you cancelled your last appointment.’

  ‘I tried to get one yesterday,’ I say. ‘But Ivy said you were busy.’

  Frank’s lower lip juts out and he nods his head slowly, as if he’s not sure he believes me.

  A little stung by this, I take the initiative. ‘I wanted to see you because I’m leaving town on the train tonight.’

  If he is surprised, sitting there in his chair, he hides it well.

  ‘My settlement came through. There’s enough money for me to start studying again. Bob’s organised my new university.’

  He asks me which one and I tell him. It’s actually his old university, which I had forgotten. He doesn’t seem very happy for me.

  ‘Pen, I am obliged to tell you that the police have been in contact with me.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘They wanted to know if you are my patient.’

  This is a ridiculous question because everyone in town knows who Frank’s patients are.

  Unless these police aren’t from our town.

  ‘Did you tell them?’

  ‘Do you remember what I explained to you about confidentiality at our very first appointment?’

  I do. What Frank doesn’t know is that I looked it up again this year. It was mentioned in a lecture and I did some extra reading in the library. I could cite the cases for him. Explain how strict his obligations are in favour of the patient. In favour of me. I have been so very careful not to give him any reason to go to the police.

  ‘I neither confirmed nor denied that you were my patient. I asked them to put their request in writing and explained to them that I would have to discuss the matter with you, if you were actually my patient. They faxed it through yesterday.’

  He shows me a piece of paper. A smudged official-looking crest is at the top.

  ‘Their request concerns a murder investigation and they are considering whether to apply to the courts for all my notes concerning you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  He holds up a hand to quieten me. ‘There’s more. It asks whether a certain diary makes up part of my patient notes. They provide a description. A4 size, dark blue, hard-cover, gold embossed writing on the front.’ He glances at what I am holding in my hands. ‘They describe that book exactly.’

  Sun is pouring into the room. There is a spider’s web under the eaves.

  Who would have told the police about my diary?

  I wonder if that was what Terry was looking for in my room. I can’t believe he would get the police involved. Others would though. Julie Cuttmore for a start. She’d do it in a heartbeat if she thought it would get me into trouble. She’d ask Terry to steal it and when he couldn’t find it, go to the police and tell them I was keeping one. It seems farfetched but still the police know about my diary. Someone told them.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to my insurer’s lawyer. Your diary isn’t part of my notes. It belongs to you, as we agreed at the beginning, so it isn’t protected.’

  I put the diary down on the table in front of us, carefully, as if with one false move it might explode.

  ‘But what if I give it to you?’ I say. ‘I could give it to you now and then it’s part of your notes.’

  Frank puts his hands in his lap, as though he doesn’t want to accidentally touch it.

  ‘You would only be giving it to me to attract the privilege, not as part of a genuine treatment. I cannot lie to the police. I will have to tell them that there is no diary in my file.’

  There is a flatness to the way he says this, rehearsed almost. He is not outraged or flustered. He’s not even surprised. And I wonder how long he has known about this. Did it begin with the phone call from the police or was this something he knew from our first session?

  I turn my head away from him and l
ook at the spider’s web again as I work through the implications of what’s happening. Raindrops still cling to the web like crystal beads, a beautiful deadly trap.

  ‘You said if I wanted to continue with you, I had to put everything down in writing. Did you tell the police?’

  He looks straight at me and says, ‘Why would you think that?’ and I almost laugh that I expected an answer from the man who only ever asks questions. It doesn’t matter though. I may not have been as successful a liar as I thought, but I’m better than he is. I stare at him and for a moment I think he is going to say sorry, but instead, he says, ‘Pen, what have you done?’ Something he has probably been wanting to ask me every session.

  I don’t answer him. He doesn’t deserve it. But that isn’t important now. I need to get rid of the diary. I pull it back towards me.

  ‘You can call me anytime. You know that.’

  I shake my head. I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody. I’m starting again.

  As I tuck the diary into my bag I’m already thinking of ways to get rid of it. Burning it would be the best. I imagine ripping out the pages and watching them, one by one, fuel a fire. Ashes to Ashes. Rachel, Leiza, Michael, Tracey, disappearing forever. But the cover probably wouldn’t burn. Too waxy.

  No, that idea isn’t practical. The ground is too damp to light a fire outside. But also, part of me knows even if there was a fire right in front of me, I wouldn’t put the diary in. I’m not ready to get rid of it, to say goodbye to the people inside it. I can’t let them go. If I go straight home perhaps I can hide it under the floorboard. It worked before.

  I walk out of the door. Frank is behind me. There are tall people in blue uniforms standing in reception. Frank says, ‘What on earth is going on?’ but we all ignore him. They surround me. A shorter one steps forward. I recognise Constable Morriset. I scan the rest of the faces. Another man looks familiar, but then all policemen look the same.

  ‘Penelope Sheppard, you are not obliged to say . . .’ she begins. I don’t even bother listening to the rest of it and say ‘Yes’ before I am supposed to. Ivy stays well back from it all, behind the reception desk.