by Niki Mackay
She’s waiting for me to start, but now I have no idea what to say. I sit dumb and silent.
‘What’s changed?’ she asks.
I take a deep breath and say it aloud: ‘Nothing.’
She leans back, arms folded, eyes narrowed. She’s quite pretty in a sharp, cross sort of a way. She’s model thin, not scrawny like me. My memory is of someone softer. Kinder.
Another deep breath. The truth will set you free. I’ve read that somewhere. It’s been running amok in my brain for months. Lying in a cell, on a metal-framed prison bed dreaming of being free. But what if you don’t know the truth? How will you find freedom then? I made it here. I’m asking for help; I so want to be free.
I tell her, ‘I remember coming into the room.’
Her shoulders sag a little. She looks disappointed. It doesn’t sound like much. ‘Okay, well I’m sure it’s great that you’re starting to get your memory back,’ she says, ‘but I can’t see how this in any way equals your innocence.’
‘She was already there. Lying on the floor. I remember not knowing that . . . that she was there, if you see what I mean. Then I knelt down and held her.’ I can almost feel the weight of her body on my knees as I describe it. The sickly wet feel of her blood, spilling and still warm. I remember looking at her face and wondering what was wrong with her. So much of Naomi had been tied up in her expressions. A raised eyebrow, a puckered mouth, haughty and disapproving. She had looked almost kind that night, relaxed and benevolent. Covered in blood. I shut my eyes, inhale, exhale. When I open them again Madison is staring at me. Her mouth is set, a deep line runs between her eyebrows while she takes me in.
We are silent. A minute passes, maybe two, or maybe just seconds. I meet her gaze, unwavering, but my heart is pounding.
Her eyes narrow. ‘She was already dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know it’s not fake? Something your memory made up. I’m sure you’d like it to be true.’
‘I don’t.’
She runs a hand through her hair. She’s still looking at me suspiciously. ‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t know. Not for sure. Everything was a blur from getting arrested to the end of the trial. I think I was . . .’ I search for the words, ‘not thinking properly.’ I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes. I blink them away.
‘You confessed.’
I nod. ‘I know.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought I must be guilty. The evidence said I was guilty, I was still drunk when I was arrested, my memory was hazy at best and . . .’ I pause, I have to say it. ‘I wanted her to be dead.’
‘Best mates, eh?’ She’s half smiling and it takes a bit of the hardness out of her face. I don’t smile back. She says, ‘Shrink said you weren’t fit to stand trial?’
‘Yes, he’s been very supportive.’ This is an understatement. Without Dean I don’t think I would have survived the past six years. He’s been more than a therapist, more than a friend. Like family. How family should be.
‘You’ve brought this up with your lawyer?’
‘I did, a few months into my sentence. She said we could appeal but we’d be unlikely to win. My father refused to pay her anymore so it became irrelevant anyway.’
‘Wow, tough call from Dad. Why didn’t you go to the police?’
‘Why? It’s not hard evidence. I’m not stupid. I know it’s not enough to reopen the case or I’d have tried harder. I’m telling you.’ I hear a pleading edge creep into my voice.
‘So I can investigate?’
‘Yes.’
‘What if I don’t believe you?’
‘I’m not asking you to. I’ll pay you either way. Whether I’m right or wrong.’
‘Why on earth would I want to work with a criminal I helped lock up?’
‘Maybe you need the money?’ I’ve done my research. I’ve followed this woman’s career. The ridiculous high, rising through the ranks in record time. The humiliating series of lows that ended it. I remember her opening my fingers, standing me up, walking me from my house, her arm around my shoulders, talking. I don’t remember what she said but the tone was kind. It was the last kindness I would receive for a long time.
She’s staring at me with those piercing eyes. They are an intense shade of blue and seem to look right into me. I tell myself she’s not a mind reader and I resist the urge to fidget. ‘I’m expensive,’ she says.
‘I know; I called earlier for a rough idea. Money’s no object. I’ll pay you twice your daily rate.’ At least the money is there. To be honest I’m not entirely sure Dad had a choice. I know there was inheritance due to me from my mother’s death that I would have collected around the time I was arrested. It had been written into her will that we ought to be provided for in case of her death. As if she knew, which I suppose she did. I want to believe it’s from him though, a sign that he cares.
‘To do what? Investigate a memory that may or may not be real?’ Madison asks.
‘If you like.’
She shrugs. ‘Why does it matter?’
‘Because if I didn’t kill her, it changes everything.’
‘You want what? An apology? A clean record? Clearly you have money – why not just disappear, change your name, start over?’
‘I don’t want to. I want to find out who killed her, and why.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘Then nothing’s changed. Then I’ll deal with it.’ I don’t know if that’s true but hopefully I look like I mean it.
There is another long silence. It stretches out. I hold my nerve, her gaze. She drums long, thin fingers on the table in front of her. Once, twice. I can hear the clock on the wall tick. I say, ‘Please.’
She shrugs again. ‘It’s your money to waste.’
I resist the urge to hug her.
What I remember most about that night isn’t the blood or the gore; the horror of flesh ripped open. It’s not that I’ve forgotten it. Of course I haven’t. The gruesome images still fill my head at least once a day. Sometimes when I’m awake, more often penetrating my nightmares. But they are fading now, altered by the hands of time. One thing that never changes though is the look on her face. Almost peaceful. Almost alive. Kinder somehow than she usually looked. If anyone had ever perfected resting-bitch face, it was Naomi, but that drained away with her life, or so it seemed to me. I remember holding that face, confused, not quite understanding what had happened. I kept talking to her, asking what was wrong. Even after the police officer arrived, I don’t think I got it. Hours later when I was locked in the cell, in and out of an interrogation room, it sank in. She was dead. Gone, not coming back. The feel of it cut through everything else. Crystal clear.
The first thing I felt, when I realised she was dead, was relief. But then came the guilt.
I’ve only been out a day. Everything is odd. I waited yesterday at the prison gates for my release. My stomach was like a bile-filled washing machine. My hands were sweating. Dean Hall, my therapist, was waiting for me. He took me from the prison gates to Kingston in a sleek black car. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and scary. I’m still heady, unsure how to pursue it. Freedom. The sharp, exquisite taste of it. I saw him stealing glances at me in the car, checking. I drank in everything, houses, shops, people, cars whizzing past the other way at what seemed to be five hundred miles an hour. I opened the window, listened to noises that seemed new and deafening. Eventually, things started to become familiar. Bus stops I had stood at, a pub that used to serve us underage – streets I had walked along, before.
I was heading to a flat owned by my dad. I’m lucky in that respect. Although he hasn’t spoken to me for over five years, he seems happy to share the comfort of his finances, though not for a lawyer. I should be grateful for the money, the stability – and I am. I really am. But I want his love more. When Dean final
ly parked, stepped out and opened my door, I found myself frozen, stuck to the seat. He reached down, gently encircling my arm with his hand, and helped me out. Proper out. Fresh air with no walls. A woman walked by and I jumped. He kept hold of me, walking me to my door, handing me the keys, making me open it myself.
I should be relieved. To be out. And God knows I’m glad to get out of that cell. I’m glad not to have to listen to other women fighting, crying, shouting. But the thought of a new and better life still feels out of reach, like I can just about see it but I’m not allowed to touch.
I hate being here, if I’m honest. It’s giving me the creeps, the whole town. Everywhere I turn feels familiar and strange. When this is over I’ll leave and never come back.
3.
Madison Attallee
What a fucking weird one. I feel like I should call it in, run it past a superior, but I no longer have one. And also, fuck them, right? I’m at home. My stupid cat is trying to kill me every time I move. She’s literally everywhere I’m about to put my foot. Dumb creature. She’s Molly’s actually. If she wasn’t I’d drown her, or at least give her away. I’m going to keep her. As some kind of lure. She’s what I got out of the divorce. Actually, that’s a lie. I got money. Not as much as I put in. Enough for my shithole flat and my crappy office. But I didn’t get any of the stuff. None of the familiar items that make a life. Rob got it all. I agreed to it when Molly said she wanted to stay with him. Not that the courts were likely to grant me custody anyway, even if she’d wanted to come with me. Either way, I didn’t have the heart to have saddled her with the world’s crappiest mum and then start taking away bits of the life she had left as well. Apparently the cat missed me. I reckon Rob couldn’t be arsed to feed her. He never wanted the damn thing anyway.
I look in the fridge. It’s pretty bare so I brew a pot of coffee and light a cigarette in place of dinner, then I switch on the computer and start googling Kate Reynolds. Nothing new. The latest article was the one I read earlier. Heavy on sensationalism, light on facts. I worked the case under DS Tom Malone. I was impressed with him at the time. He seemed in control and unfazed. A few cases later and with a bit of experience my opinion changed. Two years ago we both went for the same promotion. I got it. He never let it go. Until now. Now he’s probably gloating. He finally made DI, albeit by default. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t much care how he wins. Whatever. I light another cigarette. The smoke stings my eyes. I squint at the screen. So many pictures. Kate smiling at the camera. Very good-looking, on the cusp of adulthood. Everything to look forward to. Naomi, all dark curly hair and bright white teeth. Best friends. Inseparable, by all accounts.
Naomi sounded like a bitch, according to just about everyone we interviewed, though since her death she’s been depicted as white as the driven snow. Often the way. Apparently she’d had a few boyfriends on the go, one of them Kate’s brother. We never did find the others, though admittedly we didn’t look too hard.
There’s a rather vile piece in one of the nationals about genetic mental health problems. It details the history of issues in Kate’s family, namely her mother who committed suicide, and her older sister Martha who has been institutionalised several times. It must have been an awful time for the Reynolds family already. Having had my own taste of tabloid fame I can imagine the damage. There’s a quote from Kate’s headmistress, Mrs Anselm, stating she felt the family were ‘never quite right’. I remember sitting in on her interview. A chilly, formidable woman. Mostly concerned about the reflection Naomi’s death would have on her school. An exclusive fee-paying establishment, Warrene Academy is set in beautiful grounds and steeped in privilege. A far cry from the grey breeze-blocked comprehensive I attended. I didn’t like the feel of it though. The place had the same coldness as its headmistress.
I remember Naomi’s family. She had been a doted-on only child. Her mother Anthea was one of those child-centric yummy mummies. She must have had Naomi in her early forties and from what I gathered later on, Naomi was an IVF baby and the Andrews had been trying for a long time. She broke when we turned up at the door. That extra sense that mums have just knew why we were there before we even said a word. Naomi’s father left the room. I pause for a moment letting the horror of that day sink in. I work for the victim, after all, no matter who’s paying.
I think about Naomi. Forcing an image of her messy body at the scene into my mind. Later, clean and sterile, lying on a mortuary slab. Her mother losing it during the ID, a wailing sound escaping from her, more animal than human. Her little girl. Her baby. Half-child, half-woman – lifeless. Everyone deserves justice. I see Kate with her hands curled like claws; I remember prising those fingers open, the half-moon crescent cuts post-mortem from where her nails dug in as she had held her friend. Kate had been confused, dissociated. She didn’t seem to recognise Naomi.
Later she sat in the interrogation room, no time for a shower, she was bloody and raw. Red soaked through a cream-coloured party dress. Laddered tights fed into sparkly high heels. The remnants of a night of fun gone horribly wrong. She looked tiny, sad, bewildered and said she couldn’t remember what happened. We hadn’t spent long looking into it. Why would we? A confession, then Kate’s journal. Awful handwritten descriptions of a death that later came to fruition. Everything so neat, handed to us with all the loose ends neatly tied. Well, mostly.
I felt at the time we’d let her down. I couldn’t have articulated it though. It wasn’t that I thought she hadn’t done it, though we never looked at any other possibilities, I just wasn’t sure she was culpable. Ultimately, it’s always the facts that decide where the guilt lies. My job is to unearth all the facts. To dig through the lives of the players, brush away the soil and see what’s left. I’m not convinced we did enough digging.
Despite myself, I feel a thrill; my head is whirring. Ideas are flitting, just out of reach for now but there nonetheless. I switch off the computer, smoke another couple of cigarettes and for the first time in a long time my eyes close shortly after my head hits the pillow.
4.
Kate Reynolds
Oliver was my obsession. I thought about him every waking moment. When it first started, I was barely sixteen. Everything at home was falling apart. Marcus stropped around. Martha was almost catatonic half the time and my dad was an empty vessel. Weighted down by grief and inadequacy. I’d spend hours lying there just thinking about Oli. When would I next see him? When would he call? Should I call him? Dean said he had been a distraction from the bigger problems, the ones at home.
Then there was Naomi. One night in the pub I got there late and she was at the bar, a hand on his arm, a smile on her face. He was smiling back, leaning in close. I sidled over, slid myself between them, my back pressed against his body. She’d laughed and I’d wanted to hit her, hard in the face. I didn’t though, it wasn’t my style. It still isn’t. I’ve thought more than once over the past six years that it would have been better if I’d been dead and Naomi had been in prison. She would have dealt with it, fought back. Not crumbled under the taunts of ‘posh bitch’. She would have stood up for herself. Like I should have stood up to her. But I hadn’t, even when she was all over my boyfriend. I’d smiled and danced and pretended everything was okay, because she was my other obsession. At the time it felt like they were the only people I had.
The night of the party Naomi had been on particularly fine form. She’d been cheating on my brother, Marcus, who thought he was head-over-heels in love with her. She wouldn’t say who with but he’d found evidence. When he confronted her earlier that evening, red-faced with his anger, she’d just laughed. We’d argued. I’d backed down but it had ruined my mood, made me reckless and cross. I’d drunk more quickly than I usually would, taken more drugs. Trying to keep up with her, impress her, match her drink for drink, line for line, whereas usually I was cautious.
At some point she’d disappeared. I went looking for her, high as a kite. Ever
ything was blurred around the edges. I was shouting her name, opening doors, giggling, unsteady and obnoxious. I passed Marcus on the stairs. He was topless, looking worse for wear, ready to hurl. And then I found her. I was almost triumphant when I swung open the door and saw her sitting there. And then everything stopped, it seemed to take me ages to notice. Or maybe it didn’t, maybe it was just a second or two. Drug-time, drunk-time, unreal-time. I closed the door behind me. I don’t know why. I pressed my back to it and sank down. I recall wooden floorboards on my shins, snagging my tights, then crawling to her slowly, slowly and then I was holding her head in my arms, fascinated with her face which was not right, wet blood soaking into me. I remember thinking she’d finally got what she deserved and yet I couldn’t think how I’d done it.
Now I’ve taken a step towards proving what I know to be true, that no matter how much I might have wished her dead, wishing hadn’t killed her.
My body clock is well programmed to wake up at six a.m. I doubt I’ll ever sleep any later, but I am not getting up this morning. No one is rattling at my door. It’s completely silent and everything around me is fresh. I breathe in and out. When I was first locked up I’d had a cellmate. She quickly worked out that I was ‘prison rich’. This isn’t exactly the same as being actually rich. There’s only so much you have access to, but my family had money. My dad cut all contact, but still sent in the maximum amount every week, fifteen pounds. Doesn’t sound like much but you can buy a lot of drugs and booze for that inside and my cellmate wanted both. I wasn’t the same as the other women. Women who shouted and swore. I was a jumpy, nervous wreck. I find my hand running along various scars on my body, ones I didn’t have six years ago.