Authors: Jane Hill
It seemed as if Zoey was angry about something.
Instead of fizzing onto the stage like she normally did, that
night it was more of a stomp. She was taking no prisoners.
Every punch line was delivered to perfection but there was
a weird tone to her voice. It was as if she really meant the
material. There was almost a note of hate in her voice.
The audience was laughing as much as usual, but some of
the laughter seemed a little uneasy, particularly amongst
the men. It was the laughter of men with crossed legs.
Sometimes the worst things happen on the best days.
The plane crashes on the way to a dream holiday, a
child is lost at sea on the perfect summer's day. A
black cloud suddenly hides the sun, and you wonder how
you had managed to let yourself believe that the sun
would shine for ever. Perhaps happiness always carries
with it the underlying threat of dread, because sometimes
you are flying so high that you know the only way to go
is down.
Or perhaps normal people – I mean people other than
me, people who don't live with fear hanging around their
necks – do know what it's like to be perfectly happy,
without any expectation or dread of the sudden chill that
can come at any moment. Perhaps I'm the only person in
the world who knows that happiness can be frightening;
that happiness can be dreadful in its own way. All I know
is this: that day, the day it happened, the day the whole
world fell apart, had been – up until then, up until the axe
fell – the happiest day I had ever known.
I had the whole day to myself. Zoey and I had agreed
that I would take a day off from flyering. I decided that I
would simply enjoy myself around Edinburgh, doing
whatever I wanted to do. I woke with a slight hangover. It
wasn't the sort of hangover that bothered me too much, or
made me think of migraines; it was merely the sort of
hangover that I knew would be over soon. It was just a
fond memory of the good time we'd had the night before.
I showered, got dressed and made coffee. I could hear
headachy groaning coming from Zoey's room, and it
could have been either her or Steve. I didn't want to be a
third wheel so I got out of the flat quickly.
I was a tourist that day. I had a wonderful time. I wore
sunglasses and another of Zoey's brightly coloured T-shirts.
I took an open-top-bus tour around the city,
getting off from time to time to visit historic buildings. I
explored Edinburgh Castle and gasped at the view of the
city from the ramparts. I toured Holyrood House, listening
to an audio guide that hung around my neck, looking
at tapestries and paintings and old gilt furniture. There'd
been a security scare at Britain's airports earlier that week,
and because of that all visitors were made to leave their
bags in the cloakroom at the entrance to the old palace.
Most tourists were complaining but I didn't mind. It was a
joy to saunter around the house, the old abbey and the
gardens without lugging my courier bag strapped across
my body as usual.
Later I went window-shopping in the New Town and
tried on clothes that I couldn't afford in Harvey Nichols.
I visited an exhibition of 1960s black and white photographs
at the beautiful National Portrait Gallery, and then
I sat in a trendy cafe with a good book and an excellent cup
of coffee and I people-watched. I saw a comedy show at
teatime, a girl called Josie Long, who was sweet and
oddball and good-natured and so funny that I forgot
myself – forgot everything – for a while.
I had an early evening meal in a little Indian vegetarian
restaurant that I happened upon in a side street. The food
and ambience were so good that it seemed like serendipity.
And then I went to see a hysterically stupid show
that Steve had recommended: three guys called We Are
Klang. 'See them this year,' said Steve, 'because by next
year they'll be big T V stars and you won't be able to get a
ticket.' I sat scrunched up on the end of a bench in a tiny
room packed with comedy fans, and I laughed so hard that
I had to wipe away the tears.
I felt a little disorientated as I left the show. It had got
very dark all of a sudden. It was getting late. I thought of
seeing another show, but then I decided that the perfect
end to the evening would be to go home, watch a bit of
television and then try to grab at least an hour's nap on the
sofa before Zoey came in all buzzed and jingly from her
performance.
I wandered down Canongate towards Holyrood
House, against the flow of pedestrian traffic. Everyone
else seemed to be walking uphill into town at the start of
their night out. I passed a bunch of medieval monks and
two people in Tudor clothes. I decided that one of them
was probably supposed to be Henry the Eighth. The night
air was soft, with a hint of welcome rain. The little grey
alleyways and closes – wynds, they call them in
Edinburgh – offered tantalising glimpses of crooked old
buildings and little bits of open land. At the bottom of the
hill I ran my finger along some of the peculiar protruding
bits and pieces on the walls of the Scottish parliament
building. I still couldn't decide if I loved or hated this
messy, ambitious, expensive bit of architecture, crammed
onto a strangely shaped piece of land next to Holyrood
House.
My route took me into the nearly deserted streets east
of Holyrood and passed under two grimy railway bridges,
where the pavements were coated in pigeon droppings.
Then I trudged up a hill to the busy main road. I crossed
the road and down the flight of steps that led into the street
where our tenement flat was. I checked my watch. It was
just after ten o'clock. Still plenty of time to unwind and
nap before Zoey got home. I felt light-hearted and
relaxed.
The street door to the flats was unlocked, as always.
We'd learned that most of the tenants preferred it that
way. I walked into the dark hallway and pressed the timer
switch for the light. There was a set of metal pigeon-holes
attached to the wall, where the postman delivered the
mail. I fumbled in the appropriate pigeon-hole, amongst
the leaflets for curry houses and kebab shops, searching
for the key that Zoey always left there – hidden in an
envelope – on the days that we'd decided to go our
separate ways. It wasn't there.
I was annoyed. That was all – annoyed, a bit pissed-off
that she'd forgotten to leave the key. It took a little of the
gloss from my mood. I stood there for a while, trying to
decide what to do. Maybe Steve was still in the flat, I
thought. Or maybe Laura or Suze or one of our other
friends had been catching up on some sleep during the day
– our flat was much closer to the centre of the city than
some other people's were; it had become a bit of a hangout.
There'd be someone in the flat to let me in. But that
would be irritating – I had wanted to spend a quiet
evening by myself. Or maybe, better, Zoey had left the
key in an envelope stuck to the door as she had on that first
day. I shouldered my bag again and started climbing up
those uncarpeted cold stone stairs.
I remembered that I'd turned my phone to silent earlier,
just before I went to the Josie Long show. Maybe Zoey
had called me with some kind of message. Maybe she had
left the key with one of the neighbours. Or maybe I was
supposed to meet her somewhere. I was midway up the
second flight of stairs. I fumbled in my courier bag for my
phone. I was greeted by a flashing message that told me
that I had eight missed calls. The flashing seemed
particularly insistent. I dialled voicemail and had the
phone clamped between my chin and shoulder as I carried
on up the stairs towards the flat. I was juggling with my
phone and my bag, and trying to concentrate on the
messages, and then the light, which was on a timer switch,
decided to go out.
I stumbled up the next few steps in the dark, and nearly
tripped as I stepped onto the second landing. I felt with my
free hand along the cold, shiny painted walls, searching
for another light switch, and all the while I was trying to
make sense of the messages that had been left on my
phone. The light made me blink when it finally came on.
The first message was from Laura, but it was a bit
garbled. Then there was someone else from Zoey's venue,
one of the front-of-house people, I think. They were
apologising for calling me, telling me that Zoey had given
them my number for emergencies; and as I started to
climb the last flight of stairs up to our flat I was trying to
work out what the emergency was. Had she been taken
ill? Had there been an accident of some sort? Up more
steps, and I was hearing more of the messages. It was Suze
next, and then Laura again, their voices growing
increasingly frantic. Zoey wasn't there. She wasn't at the
venue. She hadn't turned up. Her mobile phone was on,
they were saying. They'd left messages but she hadn't
called back. My stomach started to churn and I felt my
steps get slower. I reached the third landing. Voicemail
was about to launch into yet another panicked message,
but I just stuffed the phone into my pocket as I stared at
the front door of our flat and realised that it was ajar.
I touched the door with my right index finger. The
door moved slightly. I pushed it open. I stepped inside,
tentatively. The hallway light was on. That was odd.
Almost instinctively, I checked the doormat for an
envelope, an anonymous letter. I put my hand on the wall
to support myself as I felt my knees start to shake. I
swallowed hard. I tried to regulate my breathing. There
was no envelope on the doormat, no envelope underneath
it. Nothing. I wanted to shout, 'Zoey! Are you there?' But
as I opened my mouth I realised my voice wouldn't let me.
I walked further into the flat. Gingerly I pushed open the
bedroom door and tried to see if Zoey was in bed. Maybe
she was ill. Maybe she wasn't answering her phone
because she was ill, she was asleep, she was buried under
the duvet. Maybe she was still in bed with Steve. Perhaps
I had accidentally left the door ajar when I'd left that
morning; left it ajar in my bid to creep out quietly without
waking them. 'Zoey . . .' I whispered. The bedroom
curtains were open; I could tell that by the way the
moonlight cast a silver path on the floor. The bed was
empty, the duvet thrown carelessly to one side, the sheets
wrinkled – just as she would have left it when she got up.
There was a smell. Not from the bedroom but from
somewhere else in the flat. I could feel it hitting the back
of my throat. It smelled familiar, but it was a familiarity
that I had never experienced this strongly. I could taste
something metallic in my mouth. The smell hit harder as
I walked towards the kitchen-living room. I trailed my
right hand along the wall as I walked, feeling the need of
some support, some security. There was something sticky
on the floor in the hallway. I could hear the sucky sound
as I lifted my shoes with each step. I looked down. It was
dark, the sticky stuff. Dark reddish-brown.
Zoey had fallen asleep on the settee. Of course. That
was all. That was why she hadn't turned up for her show.
She had fallen asleep. Look: there was her hair cascading
over the back of the settee. There was nothing to worry
about.
My feet stuck to the floor again. I looked down. I
touched the reddish-brown stuff with my finger. I looked
at my finger. I smelled it. Oh God, oh Jesus. It was blood.
That was blood on the floor. Lots of it. Where had it come
from? Why had someone bled all over the floor?
Zoey had fallen asleep in a really awkward position, her
neck twisted uncomfortably against the back of the settee.
She would be so stiff when she finally woke up, and so
annoyed with herself for missing her show. I walked further
into the living room, across the sticky floor. I walked
around the end of the sofa, to face Zoey, to wake her up.
Her eyes were already open. That was odd.
Her legs were splayed awkwardly.
She was clutching her stomach with her hands.
Her hands were red.
Her stomach was bleeding. That was where the blood
was coming from.
'Zoey. . .'
I knelt down at her feet. My knees stuck in the blood.
I pulled her hands away from her stomach.
Her hands were holding something in.
Bits of her. Bits of her insides.
She had been cut open.
Someone had cut her open.
I put my hands on her stomach to try to hold her
together; trying, somehow, to push the pieces back in, as
if that would have helped her.
I couldn't. I couldn't do it. It was too much. There was
too much blood, too much of her.
I rocked back on my heels, then forwards again.
Backwards and forwards, rhythmically, my bloody hands
clutched to my face, my mouth open in a silent scream.
There was a piece of paper resting on Zoey's chest.
Eventually I made myself stand up. I leaned over her –
over her body. I picked up the note and I read it.
You murdering bitch. Now you know what it feels like.
What was I supposed to do? What the hell
was I supposed to do? I tried to think. It felt
like I was paralysed. I didn't know how long
I'd been there. I couldn't move. I was standing there, with
that note in my hand, and I couldn't move. I couldn't take
my eyes off Zoey. I wanted to look away but I couldn't.
Her mobile funny face was all twisted and frozen, and it
was all because of me. I killed her. He killed her because
of me. He killed her to teach me a lesson, to show me what
it felt like to lose someone I cared about.
What was I supposed to do? I knew I should call the
police. What would I tell them? How could I explain the
note? I looked at it again; read it through one more time.
With shaking hands I folded it up and slipped it into the
back pocket of my jeans. They didn't need to see it. Not
yet; not until I'd got it all straight in my head. Not until I'd
worked out what I would say.
I staggered across to the kitchen area to get myself a
glass of water. I picked a glass from the draining board
and I was about to turn on the tap, but then I realised there
was blood all over the sink. He must have washed his
hands here. He had stood there, washing his hands in the
very place where I was standing now.
Now you know what it feels like.
How what feels like? To
have someone I cared about snatched away from me?
Why Zoey? Why had he picked Zoey? Because she was
there, in the flat where I was living? Or because . . . oh
Christ, the thought came to me with a flood of ice through
my veins: maybe he'd meant to kill
me.
The blood on the floor was still sticky. Did that mean
he was still here, in this tenement building? How long had
Zoey been dead? Was he still here, waiting for me? Had
he been lurking in the shadows when I'd arrived? Had he
been watching me, waiting for the scream when I found
her body? Had I screamed? Had I actually screamed? I
couldn't remember.
I could feel myself struggling for breath. I was about to
have a panic attack. It felt as if someone's hands were
around my neck. I turned on the tap, watched the blood
swirl around the plughole. I filled my glass and tried to
drink; tried to calm myself down. And then I heard
something, and I froze. Footsteps. Outside, downstairs,
somewhere in the hallway. Footsteps, very deliberate
footsteps, were climbing steadily, quietly, purposefully up
the echoey staircase. I put the glass down. I walked out
into the hallway. Still those footsteps kept coming. I
darted into the bedroom. I pushed the sash window up,
my hands leaving blood all over the white-painted
window frame. The moon stared at me, placid and
uncaring. Two storeys below, the garden was nothing but
a scrappy lawn and a gravel path. Could I jump? No. No,
it would kill me. I knew about falls. I knew that a fall from
that height could be fatal.
The footsteps were coming closer. My heart was in my
mouth. I went to the front door of the flat. I stood there,
and put my eye to the spy hole. I was holding my breath. I
was ready to fight. I was desperate to know who he was.
I was more scared than I had ever been, but despite that I
was ready for him.
The footsteps were there. And then they weren't. They
moved away. They moved away down the landing and
then I could hear them turn and climb the next flight of
stairs. I heard a door open and a muffled sound of
greeting. The people upstairs were going on with their
normal life as I stood there convinced that I was about to
be killed.
I had no choice. I couldn't stay there. He could still be
lying in wait for me. I had no choice. I had to run. I crept
out of the door and then I hurtled down the stairs. I dashed
out of the door and onto the street. I looked around me: no
one. I pulled my bag against me, making sure the strap
was safe around my body. I ran up the stone steps and out
onto the main road. I pushed through the swarms of
people who were out on the street; the people who were
standing outside the pub smoking, as if nothing had
happened; the drunks queuing outside the chippie; the
couples waiting at the taxi rank. I took a deep breath and
then I crossed the busy road and I started to run for my
life.
My chest hurt. It was tight and burning and I couldn't
catch my breath. I was running faster than I'd ever
run. Down the hill, down, down to where the railway
bridges crossed the road. I was retracing my steps. Stop –
there – breathe. I leaned against the wall and left a red
palm-print on the bricks. I leaned forward, hands on my
thighs, legs apart. Pigeon shit all over the pavement. I
wanted to throw up but it caught in my throat and I
coughed, nearly choked. Footsteps coming round the
corner. Not him, not him following me; wrong direction.
Ambling footsteps, voices. I stepped backwards and made
myself as small as possible, leaning my back against the
wall. Kids. Students. A big group, five or six of them.
Shaggy-haired guys, a couple of girls. They jumped when
they saw me. One of them asked for directions. Posh,
Oxbridge-type voice. He named a street. I didn't know it.
Maybe I did. I don't know what I said. He apologised,
reached out a hand to steady me, and I ran. Hurtled. Fast
as I could.
My ankles hurt. My knees hurt. I was clutching my side
as I ran. He was behind me, somewhere; him, the man
who was following me; the man who'd killed Zoey. I
knew he was there, somewhere in the darkness. I ran
across the road; a car screeched and stopped just inches
from me. I didn't even look back, just kept on running.
Holyrood Park was dark and empty. The Scottish
Parliament building loomed, grey and spiky in the night
sky. I stopped again, leaned against it, felt the protruding
stones with my hands. I had my back against the wall and
I looked around me. Shadows of buildings, narrow
alleyways. No sign of him but I knew he could be
anywhere.
Walking now, but fast. Alleyways off to my right and
left; I darted past them quickly, not even daring to look
into the shadows. Up the hill, up Canongate, up the Royal
Mile. I checked my watch: just gone eleven. I had thought
it was much later. Time was doing odd things. It wasn't
running how it should. Too many things had happened in
just one hour. Things were happening too fast. Every
breath I took was burning in my throat and in my chest.
I needed to find somewhere to stop, to hide, to gather
my thoughts. I looked up the street and I could see Henry
the Eighth and his group of monks standing on the
pavement smoking outside a pub.
They'll keep me safe,
I
thought. I thought of them as old friends. It looked as
though they were standing guard outside the pub. I sidled
in amongst them. Then, when I was sure no one could see
me, I dashed into the pub and I was immediately in the
middle of a rowdy crowd of people. I pushed through the
crowd. Some people looked at me oddly. I didn't stop. I
didn't make eye contact. Down a flight of stairs to the
ladies'; just one toilet cubicle with a basin, and it was
empty, thank God. I bolted the door, but the bolt didn't
seem very secure. I pushed the sanitary-disposal bin
against the door as an extra precaution. I finally looked at
myself in the mirror. I looked like a ghost. A ghost with
bloody fingerprints all over my white cheeks.
I splashed my face. No towels. I grabbed a bunch of
toilet paper and I wiped myself with it. Better. But there
was still blood on my hands, all around my fingernails and
under the nails. I tried to scrape it off but it had embedded
itself deep and had dried there. Someone was trying the
door of the toilet. Someone was trying to get in. I looked
at myself again. My face was now hectic, white and red
patches. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was wild and
wavy. I took a deep breath and another and another. I was
telling myself how to breathe.
Out of the door. The girl who was waiting to use the
loo gave me a concerned look. I thought that she was
going to ask me if I was all right but she didn't. I was about
to go back upstairs into the pub but there was a noise from
a room along the corridor. Laughs. Shouts. A bunch of
people were standing at the door, about to go in. I tagged
along, as inconspicuously as possible. A comedy night,
free to enter. It was a dark room, tatty old sofas and
armchairs arranged in rows facing the stage. I found a
spare seat in a corner where almost no one could see me. I
curled up in the chair, hugged my knees to myself and
started to rock.
'This is safe', I told myself, like a mantra. 'This place is
safe.' No one was looking at me. I was secure and hidden
in my deep, dark corner. There was a guy on stage: a kid,
no more than twenty-five. He was talking into the
microphone, telling jokes. He had just split up with his
girlfriend, he said. The audience – ten, fifteen people –
said 'Ah!'
Zoey said that was always a lie. The biggest cliche with
male stand-ups, she said. 'They've always just split up
with their girlfriends. Like, they even had one to start
with.' That was what she said. That was what she used to
say. I could hear her voice saying it. Her voice, with its
confident sharp, zingy tones. The voice that was always so
sure of itself. Zoey's voice. Zoey, who was lying dead on
a sofa in a tenement flat a mile from here. Zoey, whose
insides had spilled out onto the floor.
Careful. Don't cry. Don't do anything stupid. Someone
might notice me.
I pressed my fist against my mouth and
my head against my knees, trying to block everything out.
Zoey was bleeding. Zoey was lying in a pool of blood.
Zoey was dead. Zoey, my friend. He killed her. He killed
her to teach me a lesson. People around me were
laughing. I couldn't believe they were laughing. Zoey was
dead and they were laughing. I looked up. He was still on
stage, that young comedian. He was still on stage, skinny
and awkward and full of fake woe and Zoey was fucking
dead. I wanted to leap up on stage and tell everyone. How
the fuck could you keep on telling jokes? How could
everyone keep on doing this, this fucking pointless
charade?
A noise came out of my mouth. Someone looked round
from a sofa in the row in front of me, shushed me.
Suddenly everyone was looking at me. Concerned faces.
Was I crying? Could they tell there was something wrong?
I pushed my way out of that room. An arm reached out for
me and I dodged it. I can hear the comedian's voice as I ran
up the corridor and back up the stairs. 'Well, my jokes
have never had that effect before . . .'
Midnight. Too many people still on the streets. Faces
looming out of the darkness. People reaching out to me as
I ran past. Questions: 'Are you all right, love?' 'Hey, stop,
what's wrong?' Other people laughing in big groups,
outside pubs, cigarettes in hand; stopping to turn and stare
at me. Gangs of drunks, four or five abreast, pushing me
into the gutter as they went past. It was too crowded; too
scary. He could be anywhere. He could be one of these
smokers, masquerading as part of a group. He could be
reaching out to help me, tempting me away down an
alleyway. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone.
I saw a church. The word 'sanctuary' came into my
head. I had a half-remembered piece of information stuck
in my brain, something my father had told me once, or
that I'd read somewhere: you could take sanctuary behind
the altar of a church, whatever you'd done. They would
have to protect you in a church, even if you were a killer.
I needed to get in. A church would be safe. There'd be
pews to sleep on, and kneelers, and maybe a sympathetic
priest, someone like my dad. I tried the door. I lifted the
big brass ring in my hand, feeling its cold weight, and I
turned it, hoping against hope that the door would open.
It didn't. I tried turning the handle in the other direction
but that didn't work either. The door was locked, of
course. But I rattled it, anyway, as if it would suddenly
spring open. Round the back of the church there was a
small bit of open space – a square, concreted over. There
was another doorway, hidden from the main road. By
now it was becoming a matter of life or death to get into
the church. I was desperate. I just wanted somewhere to
sit down; to lie down, in safety. I wanted to make the
world stop for a while. All I had to do was to get into that
church and I would be safe, and everything would be
okay, at least for a while.
But the side door was locked too. I rattled the handle
frantically. I knocked on that wooden door until I scraped
my knuckles and they started bleeding. I pushed it as hard
as I could. I rammed it with my shoulder; I kicked and
punched at it. But it was locked, and there was no answer
and there was no way I could get in. All I was doing was
hurting myself. Sucking the blood from my grazed
knuckles, I sank down on the ground, onto the cold
flagstones, and I started crying with huge heaving sobs
that could probably be heard from the street. I needed to
rest. I needed to gather my thoughts. I leaned my back
against the door and tried to stop crying, tried to count,
tried to breathe normally.
I must have closed my eyes. I must have gone to sleep,
because suddenly a huge hand gripped my shoulder and
wrenched me from some kind of dark, amorphous
nightmare. An undefined face loomed over me. I was
terrified. I probably cried out – screamed – something
like, 'No! Leave me alone!' This is it, I thought; he's found
me. The huge hand shook me fully awake. There were
Scotch-whisky fumes in my face. I opened my eyes fully
and saw a big grey beard covering a red face. A homeless
man: that was all. He wanted me to move. The doorway I
was slumped in, the doorway that I'd been trying to get
through: that was his bed for the night.