by Sarah Lotz
This isn’t fun to admit, but empathy for Reba aside, it didn’t take me long to start fretting about the consequences the Sannah County Massacre would have on me personally. I knew that the Pamelists’ mass suicide would result in another wave of requests for comments and begging letters from hacks pleading with me to put them in touch with Kendra Vorhees. It was never going to be over. I guess what finally tipped me over the edge was Reynard’s address to the nation, his movie-star features carefully arranged for optimum piety: ‘Suicide is a sin, but we must pray for those who have fallen. Let us use this as a sign that we must work together, grieve together, strive together for a moral America.’
There was nothing keeping me in the US any more. Reynard, Lund, the End Timers, and the corporate fuckers who’d backed them could have it. Sam, do you blame me? Our relationship was shattered, our friends were pissed at me (either for publishing FCTC in the first place, or for wallowing in self-pity after I was called out for it) and my career had imploded. I thought about the summers I spent staying with Dad in London. Decided that England was as good a place as any.
But Sam, you have to believe me–I’d convinced myself that Reynard’s wet dream of a nation governed by biblical law was just that: a dream. Sure, I knew that Reynard and Lund’s Make America Moral campaign would unite the disparate fundamentalist factions, but I swear I underestimated how quickly the movement would spread (guess that was partly down to the Gansu Province Earthquake–another SIGN of God’s wrath). If I’d known that Reynard’s fear-mongering would infect the purple as well as the red states, and how bad it would get, I wouldn’t have left without you.
Enough excuses.
So.
I exchanged my Lower East Side hotel room for a flat in Notting Hill. The neighbourhood reminded me of Brooklyn Heights: a mix of brisk professionals with shiny hair, rich hipsters, and the occasional bum rooting through the trash. But I’d given no thought to what I’d actually do in London. Writing a sequel to FCTC was out, of course. I still can’t believe I’m the same woman who was so fired up about writing Untold Stories from Black Thursday. Interviews with the crash victims’ families (Captain Seto’s wife, and Kelvin from 277 Together, for example); profiles on the Malawian refugees still searching for their missing relatives in Khayelitsha; an exposé on the new wave of fake ‘Kenneths’ who popped up after the Mandla Inkatha debacle.
I moped around for the first few weeks, living on a diet of Stoli and take-out Thai. Barely spoke to anyone except the cashier in the off-licence and the To Thai For delivery guy. Did my best to turn into a hikikomori like Ryu. And whenever I did venture out I tried to disguise my accent. The Brits were still incredulous that Reynard could have won the election after the Kenneth Oduah scandal–and the last thing I wanted was to be dragged into political discussions about the ‘failure of democracy’. I guess the Brits thought we’d learned our lesson after Blake’s tenure. I guess we all did.
I tried to avoid the news, but I caught a clip about the anti-Biblical Law protests in Austin on my Mindspark feed. Jesus, that scared me. Scores of arrests. Tear gas. Riot police. I knew from stalking you on Twitter (I’m not proud of this, okay?) that you’d gone to Texas with Sisters Together Against Conservatism to join up with the Rationalist League’s contingent, and I didn’t sleep for two days. In the end I called Kayla–I needed to know you were safe. Did she ever tell you that?
Anyway, I’ll spare you more details about my self-inflicted London isolation and get down to what you would call ‘the juicy bits’.
A few weeks after the Austin riots, I was en route to Sainsbury’s when the headline on a Daily Mail placard caught my eye: ‘Murder House Memorial Plans.’ According to the story, a council employee was pushing for Stephen and Shelly Craddock’s house–the place where Paul had stabbed Jess to death–to be turned into another Black Thursday memorial. When I flew to the UK to meet with my British publishers and interview Marilyn Adams, I’d avoided visiting it. Didn’t want that picture in my head. But the day after that story came out, I found myself waiting on a freezing platform for a delayed train bound for Chislehurst. I told myself it was my last chance to see it before it got the National Trust treatment. But it wasn’t just that. Remember when Mel Moran said she couldn’t stop herself from going upstairs to Paul’s bedroom, even though she knew it was a bad idea? That’s how I felt–as if I had to go. (Sounds hokey and Paulo Coehlo-esque, I know–but it’s the truth.)
It lurked in a street full of pristine mini-mansions, its windows boarded up; the walls smeared with blood-red paint and graffiti (‘beware the DEVIL lives here’). The driveway was choked with weeds and a ‘for sale’ sign leaned mournfully next to the garage. Most disturbing of all was the mini-shrine of mildewed soft toys piled outside the front door. I spotted several My Little Ponies–some still in their packaging–littered on the steps.
I was thinking about climbing over the locked garden gate to check out the backyard, when I heard a voice shouting: ‘Oy!’
I turned to see a stout woman with stern grey hair striding up the driveway towards me, dragging a small elderly dog on a lead. ‘You are trespassing, young woman! This is private property.’
I recognised her immediately from the photographs taken at Jess’s funeral. She hadn’t changed a bit. ‘Mrs Ellington-Burn?’
She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders. Despite the military stance, there was something melancholy about her. A general who’d been decommissioned before her time. ‘Who wants to know? Are you another journalist? Can’t you people stay away?’
‘I’m not a journalist. Not any more, at any rate.’
‘You’re American.’
‘I am.’ I walked up to her and the small dog collapsed at my feet. I scratched its ears and it looked up at me through smoky, cataracted eyes. It resembled Snookie (both in appearance and smell), which made me think of Kendra Vorhees (the last time I heard from her–just after the Sannah County Massacre–she said she’d changed her name and was planning to move to Colorado to join a vegan commune).
Mrs Ellington-Burn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait… Don’t I know you?’
I cursed the giant photo the marketing people had slapped on the back of FCTC. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes I do. You wrote that book. That ghoulish book. What do you want here?’
‘I was just curious to see the house.’
‘Prurience, is it? You should be ashamed of yourself.’
I couldn’t stop myself from asking: ‘Do you still see Paul?’
‘What if I do? What’s it to you? Now leave, before I call the police.’
A year ago I would’ve waited until she’d returned to her house and poked around a bit more, but instead, I got out of there.
A week later the phone rang, which was something of an event–the only people who had my new number were my soon-to-be-ex-agent Madeleine and the spammers. I was completely thrown when the guy on the other end of the line introduced himself as Paul Craddock (I later discovered that Madeleine’s new PA had been taken by his British accent and given him my number). He said that Mrs E-B had mentioned I was in London, and told me matter-of-factly that in a rather controversial move, one of his consultant psychiatrists had encouraged him to read FCTC, in order to help him ‘come to terms with what he’d done’. And Sam, this man–who let’s not forget had stabbed his niece to death–sounded completely sane: coherent and even witty. He brought me up to speed on Mel and Geoff Moran (who’d moved to Portugal to be closer to their daughter Danielle’s resting place) and Mandi Solomon, his ghost writer, who’d joined a splinter End Times sect in the Cotswolds.
He asked me to apply for a visitation order, so that ‘we could have a little chat face to face’.
I agreed to visit him. Of course I did. I may have been in the midst of a self-pitying, depressive funk, I may have moved to London to get away from the fallout of the goddamned book, but how could I pass up that opportunity? Do I need to explain why I jumped at the chance, Sam? You
know me better than that.
That night I listened to his voice recordings again (I’ll admit I got spooked–had to leave the bedroom light on). I replayed Jess saying, ‘Hello, Uncle Paul,’ over and over again, trying to detect something other than playfulness in her tone. I couldn’t.
According to Google Images, Kent House–the high security psychiatric facility where Paul was incarcerated–was a dour, grey-stone monolith. I couldn’t help but think that insane asylums (okay, I know this isn’t the PC term) shouldn’t be allowed to look so stereotypical and Dickensian.
I had to sign a waiver saying that I wouldn’t publish the details about my meeting with Paul, and my police clearance and visitation order came through on the last day of October–Halloween. Coincidentally the same day that Reddit first aired the rumour that Reynard was planning to repeal the First Amendment. I was still avoiding Sky and CNN, but I couldn’t avoid the newspaper billboards. I remember thinking, how could it be unravelling so fast? But even then, I didn’t allow myself to believe that Reynard would manage to secure Congress and the two thirds majority he’d need. I assumed we’d just have to ride out his presidency, deal with the fallout after the next election. Stupid, I know. By then the Catholic church and the Mormons had pledged their support to the Make America Moral campaign–even a moron could have seen where it was heading.
I decided to shell out for a taxi rather than play Russian Roulette with the train service, and I was right on time for my meeting with Paul. Kent House was as forbidding in real life as it looked on Google Images. A recent addition–a brick and glass carbuncle tacked onto the building’s exterior–somehow made the whole place look more intimidating. After being searched and scanned by a couple of incongruously cheerful security staff, I was escorted to the carbuncle by a jovial male nurse with skin as grey as his hair. I’d been picturing meeting Paul in a stark cell, bars on the doors, a couple of grim-faced jailors and several psychiatrists watching our every move. Instead, I was buzzed through a glass door and into a large airy room furnished with chairs so brightly coloured they looked insane. The nurse told me that there would be no other visitors that day–apparently the bus service to the institution had been cancelled that afternoon. That wasn’t unusual. The UK wasn’t immune to the recession caused by Reynard’s meddling in the Middle East. But I have to say, there was an admirable lack of grumbling when the electricity and fuel rationing was proposed; maybe the end of the world is Prozac for the Brits.
[Sam–I couldn’t record our conversation as I’d had to leave my iPhone at security, so this is all from memory. I know you don’t care about these sorts of details, but I do.]
The door on the opposite side of the room clicked open and a morbidly obese man dressed in a tent-sized T-shirt and carrying a Tesco’s bag waddled in. The nurse called out, ‘All right, Paul? Your visitor’s here.’
I immediately assumed there must have been a mix-up. ‘That’s Paul? Paul Craddock?’
‘Hello, Miss Martins,’ Paul said in the voice I recognised from the recordings. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
I’d checked out the YouTube clips of Paul’s acting roles just before I left, and I searched in vain for any sign of his conventionally handsome features in the sagging jowls and doughy cheeks. Only the eyes were the same. ‘Please, call me Elspeth.’
‘Elspeth, then.’ We shook hands. His palm was clammy and I resisted the urge to wipe mine on my trousers.
The nurse clapped Paul on the shoulder and nodded to a glass-fronted cubicle a few yards from our table. ‘I’ll be over there, Paul.’
‘Cheers, Duncan.’ Paul’s chair squeaked as he sat down. ‘Ah! Before I forget.’ He rummaged in the plastic bag and pulled out a copy of FCTC and a red sharpie pen. ‘Will you sign it?’
Sam–it was going from the bizarre to the surreal. ‘Um… sure. What do you want me to put?’
‘To Paul. I couldn’t have done it without you.’ I flinched, and he laughed. ‘Don’t mind me. Put what you like.’
I scribbled, ‘Best Wishes, Elspeth,’ and pushed the book back across the table to him.‘Please excuse my appearance,’ he said. ‘I’m turning into a pudding. There’s not much to do in here except eat. Are you shocked that I’ve let myself go like this?’
I murmured something about a few extra pounds not being the end of the world. My nerves were on edge. Paul certainly didn’t look or act like a raving lunatic–(not entirely sure what I’d been expecting, maybe some kind of strait-jacketed madman with rolling eyes)–but if he suddenly lost it, lunged across the table and tried to throttle me, there was only one weedy nurse to stop him.
Paul read my mind: ‘Are you surprised at the lack of supervision? Staff cut-backs. But don’t worry, Duncan’s a black belt in karate. Aren’t you, Duncan?’ Paul waved at the nurse who chuckled and shook his head. ‘What are you doing in London, Elspeth? Your agent said you’d moved here. Did you leave the States because of the unfortunate political climate?’
I said that that was one of the reasons.
‘I can’t say I blame you. If that prick in the White House gets his way, soon you’ll all be Living with Leviticus. Where the gays and naughty children are stoned to death and the acned and menstrual are shunned. Lovely. Almost makes me grateful to be in here.’
‘Why did you want to see me, Paul?’
‘Like I said on the phone, I heard you were in England. I thought it would be nice to meet face to face. Dr Atkinson was in agreement that it might do me good to meet one of my biographers.’ He belched behind his hand. ‘He’s the one who gave me your book to read. And it’s lovely to see a fresh face in here. Mrs E-B comes once a month, but she can get a bit much. Not that I’m short of requests for visitation.’ He glanced at the nurse in the booth. ‘Sometimes I get as many as fifty a week–mostly from the conspiracy nuts, of course, but I’ve had a fair few marriage proposals. Not as many as Jurgen has, but close.’
‘Jurgen?’
‘Oh! You must have heard of Jurgen Williams. He’s in here too. He murdered five school children, but you’d never know it to look at him. He’s actually rather dull.’ I had no clue how to respond to that. ‘Elspeth, when you put my story in the book… Did you listen to the original recordings, or just read the transcripts?’
‘Both.’
‘And?’
‘They scared me.’
‘Psychosis isn’t pretty. You must have lots of questions for me. You can ask me anything.’
I took him at his word. ‘Please let me know if I’m crossing the line here… but what happened in the last few days before Jess died? Did she say anything to you that made you… made you…’
‘Stab her to death? You can say it. Those are the facts. But no. She didn’t. What I did was unforgivable. She was put in my care, and I killed her.’
‘In your recordings… you said she taunted you.’
‘Paranoid delusions.’ He frowned. ‘All in my head. There was nothing strange about Jess. It was all me. Dr Atkinson has made that very clear.’ He glanced at the nurse again. ‘I had a psychotic break, brought on by alcohol abuse and stress. End of. You can put that in your next book. May I ask you a favour, Elspeth?’
‘Of course.’
He rummaged in the plastic packet again, this time extracting a slim exercise pad. He handed it to me. ‘I’ve been doing some writing. It’s not much… some poetry. Would you mind reading it and letting me know what you think? Maybe your publishers would be interested.’
I decided not to mention that I didn’t have a publisher any more, although I suspected they would jump at the opportunity to publish poetry written by a notorious child murderer. Instead I said I’d be happy to and shook his hand again.
‘Make sure you read all of it.’
‘I will.’
I watched him waddling away, and the grey-skinned nurse escorted me back to the security entrance. I started reading the book on the taxi ride home. The first three pages were filled with short, appalling verse with titles
like: Cavendish Dreams (Reading a line/For the twentieth time/Makes me reflect/We are all actors) and Flesh Prison (I eat to forget/Yet it makes my soul sweat/I think… will I yet/Ever say no?).
The other pages were blank, but on the inside of the cardboard back cover were the words:
Jess wanted me to do it. She MADE ME do it. Before she went she said that they’ve been before and sometimes she decides not to die. She said that sometimes they give people what they want, sometimes they don’t. Ask the others, THEY KNOW.
Sam, what would you have done with this? Knowing you, you would have contacted Paul’s psychiatrist immediately, let him know that Paul was still in the midst of some sort of psychotic break.
That would have been the right thing to do.
But I’m not you.
After FCTC came out, I thought maybe I was the only person in the world who didn’t think there was something supernatural (for want of a better word) about The Three. I’ve lost count of the number of whack-jobs who pleaded with me to puff their self-published books on how The Three were still alive and living with a Maori woman in New Zealand/being experimented on in a secret Cape Town military base/hanging out with aliens in Dulce Air Force Base New Mexico (I have proof, miss martins!!!! Why else is the world still going to hell!!!!!). And then there are the countless conspiracy sites that use quotes or extracts from FCTC to ‘prove’ their theories that The Three were possessed by aliens or were multi-dimensional time-travellers. (The following are the ones they tend to fixate on:)