by Naomi Joy
Mandy pauses, lets it sink in.
‘I also, I don’t know if you know, but have you seen this?’ There’s a short pause as Mandy fiddles with something. ‘Top story on the Mail Online. Horror surgeon butchers young woman in South London surgery.’
‘Oh God,’ Kay exclaims. ‘We’ll post a picture to our Instagram so everyone can see this but, my God, it’s a real hatchet job.’
‘I’ve been looking through the comments, trying to get to the bottom of it, and that’s when I found out: It was Annabella who did this. A top aesthetic nurse. A qualified, well-trained, highly respected practitioner. It got me thinking, well, what if it wasn’t Annabella? What if it was Tabby? Tabby’s no aesthetic nurse, she’s no expert, she’s a receptionist, and not a very good one at that. She must have watched the original Annabella perform hundreds of procedures. What if she’s been living in her shoes for five years?’
Kay cuts in. ‘I don’t want to pile in here, this is quite a leap, we need to hear Annabella’s side of the story too.’
Took her a while.
‘Except,’ Kay continues, just as I’m expecting her to back me up, ‘I like your theory.’
I jerk my neck towards the window, my face bunched with confusion.
‘Not many listeners will know this,’ Kay continues. ‘But Annabella and I have been working on this podcast together from the very beginning. I found the case and reached out to her because she was the only person – as far as I could tell – who had spoken in defence of Tabby in the early days.’
Mandy gasps. ‘It’s true, then. It’s her, it’s Tabitha.’
How does that prove anything?
‘But – what I want to know is – if Tabby altered her looks via plastic surgery to look more like Annabella, why did she then draw attention back to her case by getting involved in it? Why did she agree to this podcast? How could it end in any other way than complete exposure?’
Kay’s just playing devil’s advocate, I tell myself. She doesn’t seriously believe Mandy, how can she?
Mandy ploughs in, twisting the knife. ‘I think Tabby felt short-changed that everyone had given up on her, that everyone just wanted to move on and forget. I think your podcast offer was too tempting to pass up. And, with Tabby at the helm of her own investigation, she could steer the case in whichever direction she liked, as long as it was away from her own guilt.’
‘You think she’s successfully pulled the wool over my eyes?’ Kay asks, heat rising in her voice.
‘I do.’
‘Another thing,’ continues Kay. ‘Annabella hired a private detective.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
Kay tells Mandy the rest of the story. ‘His name was Chad – American guy – and he didn’t uncover anything of real interest. He was so useless, in fact, that I thought it was possible Rick had paid him off to keep quiet. Why would Tabby – now living as Annabella – hire a professional to look into the detail? He could have found her out then and there.’
‘Well,’ Mandy replies, deep in thought. ‘What if she hired him to figure out what other evidence was out there? Maybe she wanted to know how much the police knew, how much they could know, and whether there were any loose ends she could do with tying up? I think she’d have killed Chad if he’d found anything that pointed the finger in her direction. She did it once…’
‘Right,’ Kay muses. ‘There’s something else,’ Kay says.
I look up towards the sky, clouds forming in black barrels.
‘Go on…’ encourages Mandy.
‘Annabella,’ Kay begins, then falters. I already know what she’s going to say. ‘Annabella was the one who broke into your home that night. She was the one who attacked you.’
I squeeze my legs close to my chest. Is this really happening?
I hear a theatrical shriek fly from Mandy’s lips, imagine her flinging the back of her hand to her forehead in dramatic fashion.
‘No,’ Mandy proclaims, groggy as she thinks it through, replays the scene with my face behind the mask. ‘It was Rick. It was him, he was in a mask but… I was sure.’
‘The listeners might remember from the live episode that our recording ended abruptly when Mandy accused Rick of attacking her. What was happening behind the scenes was that Annabella killed the recording. When you told us you were sure it was Rick, Annabella took it as proof that you were lying, but you weren’t lying, you were sure it was Rick.’
‘Oh, absolutely I was, absolutely sure.’
‘It just happened you weren’t right. When you left, I pushed Annabella to tell me why she was so sure that it wasn’t Rick behind the mask, how she could possibly know with any certainty that you were lying. And that’s when she came clean about that night. She’d broken into your home to find evidence, to get something that, I suppose, she planned to bring to me. I fired her from the podcast, obviously, hence why she’s not here today, and that’s why I got back in touch with you to come and tell your side in more detail.’
‘I can’t believe it was her. She hit me so hard…’ Mandy continues. ‘She fractured my skull! I could have died…’
‘I know,’ Kay says. ‘Isn’t it awful?’
Covering her tracks… Smart. Kay doesn’t get her hands dirty, and it makes sense, she’s planned for a moment like this. She knows what she’s doing, Kay, this podcast isn’t her first rodeo.
‘So, what’s next for Annabella… or should I say Tabby?’ Mandy asks Kay.
‘We need to find her,’ Kay replies. ‘That’s what’s next.’
In the thick of the overgrown grass a few feet away, I spot something twitching. It’s a squirrel, over-fed and grey, bushy-tailed and bright eyed in the distance. If Kay comes outside now to grab something from the shed, I’ll be seen – I have to move – so I scramble into the overgrowth, the squirrel darting away, to buy some time to think about what to do next. This area is relatively vast and nettles sting at my ankles, exposed, as I venture in. The grass rises tall around me, skyscraper strands at least five feet high and, then, my hand touches something. Metal.
I keep moving, deeper and deeper, willing myself around the object, and, at some point, I complete the circle. Just as I’m worming my way back to take it in, to be sure of what I can see, a series of noises erupt from the house and doors slam like drumsticks striking timpani. I shuffle myself in the thicket like a field-mouse, sniffing for a hiding place from the circling birds.
I watch the kitchen window through the grass. Kay comes into view and rubs her hands, washing them under the tap. Then, inexplicably, she begins to laugh. I can hear the gargling sounds she’s making, her shoulders shaking by her ears. The kitchen light glows around her, illuminating her features, casting the purple bags beneath her eyes an even darker shade. Piles of rubbish climbing the walls at her sides: old toasters that no longer function, defunct fridges, ancient microwaves, piles and piles of Tupperware, cracked china crockery and, in among them, never-opened appliances like bread bins and ice cream makers, still sitting in their packaging waiting to see the light of day. Her eyes focus on the middle-distance and she runs her hand under her nose, then wipes it on her jumper.
I reach my hand out towards the object, touching the rusted edges. It’s a car. I cover my hand with my sleeve and swipe away the green dirt that clings to the number plate. As soon as it’s revealed, I immediately wish I hadn’t. An EU flag at the side, PL underneath. I take a picture with my phone, my hands fighting an insatiable itch, my throat struggling to contain my fear.
4
I am a freak, a Frankenstein, my face is part paralysed, part pumped. I’ve locked myself in my bedroom because I can’t let anyone see me like this. I’d rather die.
And that’s when the thought hits and there’s hope once more. The world spins colourful and iridescent and I log into my computer and start Googling what it is that I have to do.
*
Later that night, I sneak into the woods. I feel as though I’m experiencing everything in crystal cla
rity – the world is vivid and magnified and perfectly clear. It is so obvious to me that this is what I have to do. No doctor will be able to reverse what’s been done to me and, even if something could be done, I wouldn’t be able to afford it.
The woods loom overhead, tree branches like fingers blocking the moonlight from the path below. I grimace as I pace forwards, leaves beneath my trainers, a river nearby. I listen to it burble and cry. The smell of soil rises as I take a deep breath in.
My gut clenches as I climb the first section of the tree and loop the rope around the branch. The wind chills my cheeks, buffets my hair against my face. I tell myself to be strong: this is the only way out of this mess.
I vomit on my feet, bile and water, when I climb back down and look up at the rope, swinging. I am immediately reminded of haunted house images, of Victorian children hanging at awkward angles from their necks at the edge of their childhood garden, brought to their end by a possessed demon.
In a way, I can relate. I feel possessed by myself, by my own mind, somehow.
I climb the ladder, the wet of my trainers squeaking against each rung. My eyes leak as I near the top and the scared part of me tries to talk the determined me out of it. There will be another way, just step down. But the louder voice wins out. Just put it around your neck and take a step. Then it will be done. Two actions to end all of this.
I take the rope, it’s so much heavier than I expected, and poke my head through it. It hangs round my neck, sweeps my collarbone, the most morbid of accessories. The tears come faster, my cheeks suddenly sodden, and I mutter to myself that I can do it, that I must be brave. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, I hear the faint sound of footsteps.
I panic, step, then swing.
Kay
Five Years Ago
I drive way out past the edge of the capital, the tarmac roads turning to dirt, a loose can shaking in the footwell of the backseat, my hands pressed tighter to the steering wheel as the road turns bumpy beneath the tyres.
I feel psychedelic this evening, my head jarring with how lucky I am. I’ve found her: the woman who killed my teenage daughter. I am pleased.
I have shed real blood, sweat, and tears to get here.
This woman, this untrained charlatan, a receptionist at a salon posing as a professional nurse, pumped my girl’s face with unlicensed poison simply to make a bit of extra money. My daughter killed herself because of what Tabitha Rice did and yet there’s been no justice. Suicide, the coroner ruled. End of story.
I take a drag from the stick in my hand, the smell of grass puffing around me. I am high, not much, just enough that my teeth hum and my neck feels loose, like it used to when I was younger and things weren’t as complicated as they are now.
The lights of the city fade in the rear view, miles of dirt and field in front, my headlights like torches in the great outdoor expanse, molehills jutting from the dirt, the occasional tumble of barbed wire stuck in the ground, but mostly nothing-ness, just dirt and mud and grass, and the further I drive, the freer I feel. An hour or so later, I take a ninety-degree turn off the dirt path and follow the signs for the dual-carriage way back to the city, the names of towns I don’t recognise shining back at me. The road is treelined and it swallows my car as I speed through. I like to lose myself, to unwind in the great wide nowhere, be somewhere else for a change. Someone else.
Soon, I will follow her to the meeting place.
She knows me as the doctor.
And because of that she trusts me. Just like my girl trusted her.
*
There she is: at the side of the road, staggering in drunken steps off the pavement and back on it again. I slow the car and trundle closer. A minute later and she’s there, at the window, the murderer, her face covered with too much make-up.
My daughter, Orla, made contact with Tabitha Rice via an Instagram page offering a range of cosmetic procedures ‘in the comfort of a home setting.’ Perfect for those who are scared of hospitals and clinics, Tabitha had written in the bio. When Orla died, I’d believed the story the police had fed me – death by hanging – and the coroner had confirmed it soon afterwards. Months later, I was granted access to Orla’s social media accounts, and I’d landed upon the last thing message she’d received: an appointment confirmation offering Botox with ‘Tabby’. Suddenly it all made sense. My girl’s face, so badly bruised when I’d gone to identify her, had been disfigured by this Instagram clinic. Whatever had happened in the ‘comfort’ of that woman’s home had been the catalyst that had sparked Orla’s suicide. I was sure of it.
By that time, though, Tabitha Rice had shut-up shop, deleted all traces of her practice from the world-wide-web and, with it, all hope of convincing the police to follow the lead, to bring her to justice. They’d humoured me, the officers involved with the case, but the reality was, in the eyes of the law, Tabitha Rice was just one of hundreds of fraudulent Botox practitioners across the UK, working through loopholes and hoping no one would notice. I’d did some digging, had become obsessed with finding out more about this woman. I Google-image-searched the screen-shoots that Orla had taken and saved on her account and, shortly afterwards, linked the original images to Pure You. I’d assumed they’d been stolen but then, there she was, the smiling face of Tabitha Rice on the screen before me. The clinic’s receptionist. I wagered it was more than a coincidence that ‘Tabby’ was the name behind the woman on the Instagram account, too. And so the picture of what she’d been doing began to emerge. Tabitha Rice had stolen Annabella’s pictures – Annabella was a qualified aesthetic nurse with hundreds of procedures under her belt – passed them off as her own, and used them to convince vulnerable young women on a budget, like my Orla, to go to her directly.
Tabitha Rice might have ended up with a fine, if they’d even bothered to investigate, and she’d probably have lost her job, but she’d almost certainly have been spared jailtime. In my eyes, she deserved the death penalty. And, in all my years of reporting, I’ve come to realise that if you want justice, you have to exact it yourself.
I call out to her from the car window.
‘Do you want a lift?’
Tabitha spins in my direction and I watch her relax when our faces meet and she realises I am a woman and not a prostitute-seeking scumbag or a murderer with mummy-issues in a stained baseball cap and egg-smelling sweatpants.
‘Oh thank God,’ she wails. ‘Yes please.’
She’s too stupid to see past the stereotype – women don’t hurt women – so she grabs the door handle with eager mitts, blowing steam from her mouth and nose, animal-like, as she exhales with relief, nostrils panting. I take her in. She has a sweet-looking mouth. It’s overridden by her plastic-looking face, though, and her pale expression sits beneath a mop of dyed browny-blonde hair. Not content with stealing Annabella’s work, she’d sent the doctor Annabella’s pictures too, and I deduce her latest hair colouring must have been an attempt to look more like her colleague. Her eyes are dark-rimmed with make-up which only serves to make them look beady.
‘I’m Tabby,’ she says as she sinks into the seat beside me, bringing a number of different scents into the car with her: hairspray, white wine, cheap perfume. My eyes shoot to the low-cut of her top, her waist filling the new pair of white jeans she’s bought for tonight – I guess she’s gone for a size smaller than usual, judging by the way her body presses against them, every detail of the jeans undoubtedly stamped into her flesh in red markings and yellow depressions. When I look back up, she’s grinning at me with wide teeth.
‘Kay,’ I reply.
I lock the doors and windows as soon as she’s inside, the sound of five locks thwacking into place thudding through us both. Tabby ruffles in her seat, her guard suddenly up, a flurry of nerves rippling through the claustrophobic space between us.
‘Do you mind?’ I ask. ‘Sorry, I just don’t like to drive at night without the locks.’
She relaxes. ‘Oh no, of course not. You can never be too careful.�
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Because I’m a woman she thinks she knows me, thinks she understands my motivations.
I give her a weird, frenetic smile in response. I want to scare her, just a little bit. Her blue eyes narrow and I watch the cogs in her brain whir, imagining her inner monologue: There’s something off – but this crazy woman is doing me a favour, I should be grateful. Judging by the smell of the car, she’s probably just stoned.
‘Bad night?’ I ask, pressing down on the accelerator.
‘The worst,’ she sighs.
‘Where are you heading?’ I keep my eyes in front, mesmerised by the way the car sucks up the white lines of the road in repetitive, rhythmic fashion.
‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘Wherever you’re going. I’ll figure out what to do tomorrow, right now I can’t think straight.’
My pupils dilate.
‘You want to talk about it?’ I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders to her ears.
‘Go on,’ I encourage. ‘Start with tonight. What happened?’
‘Uh,’ Tabby groans. ‘Well, I was supposed to meet someone. A man. A doctor. But he didn’t show up.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A plastic surgeon I met online.’
‘Oh!’ I remark.
‘I was going to move to Turkey to be with him.’
‘Really?’ I repeat, the tone a little different.
‘I know – even saying it out loud sounds ridiculous. I’m so stupid. I just, I guess I let my imagination, my optimism, run away with itself.’
She laughs gently, though I’m not sure why, it’s not very funny.
We drive, air cooling around us, for a little longer and I listen carefully, mentally taking notes, listening to her story, an idea formulating.
Annabella