Authors: Jane Hill
'Please tell me I'm right,' he said, and his voice was
gentle and pleading. 'What man can stand for that? It's
wrong, killing a child. She said it was just a foetus, that she
wasn't ready yet. She said it was just a surgical procedure,
that she had every right to do it, but she didn't. That was
my
child she killed. So I had to kill her. You do see that,
don't you?'
I could taste the skin of his hand. I could smell his scent,
sharp and lemony and old-fashioned. His hair was in my
eyes. He was crying, and I could feel the tears on my skin.
And I could feel his knife, digging into me, just above my
navel. This was how I was going to die. Finally I knew. If
I hadn't been so terrified I would have been laughing. A
mad knifeman was about to kill me, and it had absolutely
nothing to do with Rivers Carillo.
Suddenly there was a loud noise. A clicking,
mechanical sound, like someone at the door, but it came
from the kitchen. He – the knifeman, the killer – looked at
me, as if I'd somehow conjured the noise. It was the
washing machine; that was all it was. It was the washing
machine moving into a new phase of its cycle. But he
didn't know that. And as he looked at me, puzzled; as he
tried to work out what the noise was, who was there, I
grabbed his hand, the hand with the knife. I twisted it, a
sudden sharp movement. I twisted it savagely towards
him, and then I felt his hand over mine and he was helping
me, he was guiding the knife. There was a sharp stabbing
motion, and all at once there was warm liquid all over my
hand. I clutched my stomach with my hand but there was
no wound. And then I realised that his left hand had fallen
from my mouth. He had the knife in his own stomach, and
he was jagging the weapon from side to side. There was a
gaping wound. His blood was all over his shirt, his
trousers, all over me. And then he gave a strange gurgle,
and he fell forward onto me.
I tried to save him. Frantically I pressed my hands
against his stomach to try to staunch the blood, as if that
would save him, save Zoey, save Rivers Carillo. But it
didn't work. Zoey's husband died a long and painful
death.
Danny was frantic. He'd been ringing me over
and over, desperately trying to get hold of me,
to see if I was all right. He had dashed down to
Euston to meet me and he hadn't been able to find me.
He'd had announcements put out over the station tannoy
for me, about me, appealing for help to find me. He'd
asked at the information booth. He'd reported my disappearance
to British Transport Police and was about to
talk to the local police station too. He had been out of his
mind with worry, he told me.
All that time, all those missed calls. It wasn't until after
I'd dialled 999 and called for an ambulance and the police
to come to Zoey's flat, and I'd sat there with blood on my
hands for the second time in two days, that I had thought
to call him.
Danny came racing over to Zoey's flat and he hugged
me. He was annoyed and he was worried, and he was
caring and he was cross. He pushed the hair out of my
face and he sat with me and held my hand as I told a
uniformed policeman and then a pair of detectives all
about Zoey's husband, and how – and I knew this; I
knew this for sure, I wasn't making this up – how it was
his hand that had twisted the knife in his own stomach.
And I wasn't quite sure why, or how, but they seemed to
believe me.
And later, quite a lot later, several hours had gone by.
We were still at Zoey's flat and then DI Finlay arrived. He
had flown down, he said. Part of the investigation. He
mentioned Steve's name. Steve had something to do with
it. But I still couldn't work out what Finlay was doing
there. And then I had to tell the story all over again, to DI
Finlay, and while I was talking I couldn't remember
where I was, what city I was in. There was blood all over
the floor and my clothes were covered in blood and so
were my hands and it felt like déjà vu. And then I
remembered the note, but it was only when I reached into
the back pocket of my jeans, as I tried to think of a way to
explain why I'd taken the note from Zoey's body, that I
realised they weren't my jeans at all. They were Zoey's
jeans. My jeans were in Zoey's washing machine, still with
that note in the pocket.
While I was talking to DI Finlay, while I was trying to
remember who was who and where I was, I looked up and
saw my face in the antique mirror, all twisted and
distorted. And that's when I remembered how the world
had flipped around when Zoey's husband was talking to
me. I realised that I didn't have to mention Rivers Carillo
at all, because he didn't matter. He was nothing to do with
anything. None of this was connected with him at all. It's
weird how you can see things completely the wrong way
around.
Later, Danny took me back to my flat. I had another
bath and went to bed. It was nearly morning and I
had never been so tired in my life. But despite that I lay
awake, my brain turning and turning, trying to make
sense of things. It was nothing to do with Rivers Carillo.
It was nothing to do with me. Those were the facts that
I kept coming back to. The notes I got? They'd been
for Zoey, not me. The note at school – the day we had
lunch together.
Give this note to the lady when she comes
back from lunch.
Vicky had misunderstood. She'd given
it to the wrong lady.
Remember,
that note had begun.
Remember, I'm watching you.
Why 'remember'? That
should have been the clue. It was the first note. How
could I remember anything if he'd never told me
anything before?
The comedy night in Southampton: no one had
followed me down there. Zoey's name was on the bill. He
knew she was performing there. He waited, watched us
arrive; noted the car. She'd been in my flat when the third
note arrived.
Murdering bitch,
he had written on the
envelopes, so that Zoey would know they were addressed
to her.
Zoey must have been out of her mind with fear but I
had never noticed. I was too self-centred, too self absorbed.
My fear, as it turned out, was a selfish emotion.
I got caught up in someone else's screwed-up life and
because of my fear, or because of my paranoia, or because
of my guilt, I assumed the whole thing centred on me.
Two extreme ways of dealing with fear: I, with my
imaginary threat, had been scared of ghosts and shadows.
Zoey, with her real threat, had been defiant and careless
and bold.
'She was fucking stubborn,' said Steve. He'd known, it
turned out. He'd known about the letters. He'd
known at least some of the story. The two of us were
having an early-evening drink in the upstairs room of a
pub near Piccadilly Circus where later a bunch of comics
would perform at a charity night in Zoey's memory. 'She
was so fucking stubborn. She was fierce about it. "Why
should I change my life because of him?" she said. The
more letters he sent, the angrier she got. And the more
risks she took.'
Steve had been with Zoey when one of the notes had
arrived, just before she left for Edinburgh. Eventually
he'd persuaded her to tell him about them, about the
abortion, the real story of her marriage. He'd tried to
make her go to the police. He suggested that she should
think about changing her material, stop doing jokes about
her husband. That was why they'd fallen out, why Zoey
had claimed Steve was 'clingy'. That was why she'd given
me the keys to her flat, not him.
'He didn't abuse her physically, I don't think, but he
was an emotional abuser. They met in the States and
everything was fine, apparently, but once they moved
back over to England, he turned into a fucking monster.
He tried to belittle her, to make her feel small and
worthless. She knew she couldn't bring a baby into that
relationship, and that's why she had the abortion. And
then things got worse. She said the notes started soon after
she left him and started doing comedy again, over here.
And of course, Zoey being Zoey, the worse things got, the
more bitter her jokes got. Apparently he would turn up at
gigs and watch her from the back, and she would just get
fucking angry and stubborn and refuse to compromise
even one line of her material. I guess you have to admire
the stroppy bitch. Except that's how she got herself
killed.'
None of this has changed anything I did. I still killed
Rivers Carillo. But now I'm learning to live with it.
I'm not scared of him any more. I'm not scared of any
avenging angels. It won't happen. It's over, it's in the past.
I've told a few more people what I did because I owed
some people some explanations. I needed to build some
bridges and form some normal human relationships. I
invited my older sister Sarah down to London for a
weekend, to stay at my flat. She was so surprised to get the
invitation that she claimed she nearly fainted when I asked
her. I invited Jem round for dinner while Sarah was
staying with me. After the meal, while we were all sitting
around comfortably enjoying each other's company, I
told them the story that I'd told Danny. Jem said 'Shit'
and 'Oh my God, that's fucking awesome.'
Sarah hugged me hard, and cried, and said, 'I always
wondered what happened to you over there.'
'Now you know,' I said. And it was all right. They
didn't freak. They didn't hate me. They didn't judge me.
I didn't tell my parents. That would have been a step
too far, and it would have hurt them far too much. But I've
been to see them a few times recently and my mother has
told me how happy I look. She asked me if it was because
of Danny.
Danny. I could give you a happy ending. I could give
you Danny and me in love, together for ever, but it
wouldn't be true. Danny was too nice to me after it all
happened, and he asked too many questions: how I felt
about it, was I okay, did I need anything?
I treated Danny so badly. I took him for granted. I
dangled him on a string and I used him when I needed
him, and then I didn't even think to tell him where I was
on that final evening, when he was searching for me at
Euston. I was snug in Zoey's flat, lying in a bath, and I
didn't even remember to phone Danny to tell him that I
was okay. I didn't even answer his phone calls. I was off in
my own little paranoid self-centred world.
Everything I ever felt for Danny was a muffled
emotion: a vague fondness, goodwill, a general feeling of
warmth. I took advantage of his feelings for me, of his
good nature and his kindness and his sensible normality.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to
let them go. Danny deserves someone nicer, someone
good, someone who won't take him for granted. He's
moved away now; he's found another flat. Jem bumped
into him recently and said that he seemed okay. I hope he
finds someone nice, someone who will love him properly.
Steve asks questions too. Maybe he asks too many
questions as well, but they're interesting ones, and
because he seems to know something about darkness it's
somehow easier to answer them. We've been seeing quite
a bit of each other recently, and it's good. It feels strange,
though, as if we're betraying Zoey in some way.
Sometimes it seems as if Zoey's still in the room, and that
it's not right that Steve and I are going on with our lives
without her, and it's not right that we're finding comfort
with each other. And sometimes I wonder if I'll ever allow
myself to be completely happy, completely at ease in a
relationship.
Because, whatever happens, Rivers Carillo will
always haunt me. I'm not scared of him any more. I'm
not scared of his ghost, and I'm not scared of being
caught. But I'm scared of myself. Sometimes I get that
same old urge: an urge to blurt out the truth. Sometimes
I wonder if it's time to let go, if I could possibly tell Steve
the truth.
When I was eighteen I killed a man. No. Tell it
properly. When I was eighteen I murdered a man
and got away with it. I'm a murderer. I murdered Rivers
Carillo. I kicked him and he fell backwards over the cliff.
I stood on that clifftop in San Francisco and I fought off
Rivers Carillo. But he wouldn't have raped me. He was
too sensible. He would have stopped sooner or later. He
was only trying to scare me, to scare some sense into me.
I pushed him and he fell. That's true. I pushed him over
the cliff, and when I did it I was scared. I was pushing him
away, and he fell over the cliff.
Onto a little ledge just a few feet below.
The second time I pushed him, I meant to kill him. He
was lying there, on that ledge, looking up at me, pleading
for help. I think he'd broken his leg or twisted his ankle.
He couldn't get up. He was lying there, and he needed my
help. And I pushed him again. This time he fell onto the
rocks below, and his skull cracked open and I knew he was
dead. I knew he was dead because I murdered him.
Why did I do it? I wish I knew. But there is no 'why',
and that's the thing that scares me most of all, more than
anything. I killed him for no reason. I could say that I saw
red, or that I saw my chance, or that I was covering my
tracks. Or maybe that I figured I could do it and no one
would ever know. I had the chance to kill someone and no
one would ever know. I hated Rivers Carillo, and I had
loved him too. He'd made me feel wonderful. He'd made
me feel ridiculous. Maybe I saw a big red button and just
had to push it. Maybe the imp of the perverse sat on my
shoulder and told me to do it.
So that's it. That's why he's been haunting me all this
time. Now you know. Now you finally know. And I
deserved it – I deserved every single little bit of fear and
self-loathing that I've felt over the last seventeen years. I
deserved it. I murdered a man and got away with it, so
instead of the law doing it I have had to punish myself.
What would Steve say if I told him? I have no idea.
And it doesn't matter anyway, because I never will. I will
never let go. I've kept the secret for so long. I've kept the
secret for seventeen years. I think I will probably keep it
for the rest of my life. And I think Rivers Carillo will
probably haunt me for the rest of my life, too. He's been
doing it for seventeen years. Why would he stop now?