‘We should meet up again sometime.’ Mark nods in reply. It’s the safest option. Right now, all he can think about is the sanctuary of his car, driving back to Bristol, ensuring Adam doesn’t follow him. Even worse, find out where he lives. Unlikely, but then he’s no real idea what this man is capable of doing.
Michelle Morgan is right, he thinks. Adam Campbell is a sick bastard who should never have been released.
24
NO MORE THE VICTIM
Natalie’s fury burns fiercely, worse than almost anything she’s suffered to date. Greater than her ongoing anger at her father for abandoning his family; sharper than the pain inflicted by her errant ex-boyfriends prior to Mark. Only two things top what she’s now experiencing. One is the memory of rough fingers forcing themselves inside her fourteen years ago.
Him.
The second being her discovery that Mark’s a convicted child killer.
Her fantasy mocks her now. The one where she’s so understanding, so compassionate, about his past. So naïve, in hindsight.
Stupid
, she berates herself.
You bloody daft bitch
.
A weird memory comes back. What the hell was that other crap he spouted?
I’ve got something else to tell you. It’s important. About how we met.
Natalie’s mind veers back to her first sighting of Mark Slater.
It’s a Sunday; she’s just arrived at her mother’s house. Natalie steps out of her car, her mind on Callie Richards’s lamb roast, when a male voice stops her. All the man says is ‘Excuse me?’ but she freezes, her old irrational terror the catalyst.
‘Frigging fat bitch.’ The contemptuous phrase that always sounds in her head when she’s startled by strange men. In an instant, Natalie’s mind reverts to the copse in the park. She’s pressed against the earth again, a dog turd inches from her nose, rough fingers inside her.
‘Are you all right?’ The voice sounds concerned. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Natalie turns. The man is sitting behind the wheel of a parked car, his window lowered. Mark Slater. A dark hunk of eye candy, with a sexy lilt to boot. He needs directions, apparently. She points him towards where he wants to go, but the conversation doesn’t end there. They chat, the air turning flirtatious between them. She mentions how the television studio she works for is nearby. How she often treats herself to lunch from the little deli opposite. The fact their Szechuan beef rolls are sublime.
The next time Natalie goes to grab a bite in between logging shots and organising scripts, Mark’s sitting at one of the deli’s tables. He asks her to join him. Things move quickly between them after that.
She’s puzzled about what he said.
I’ve not been entirely truthful.
Then she shrugs. The man’s an inveterate liar. She’ll never get to the bottom of what he meant. Best not to concern herself with it.
Her thoughts turn to Rachel Morgan. The real reason Natalie’s so pissed off. Slim, athletic Rachel, with her copper hair and air of vulnerability, with whom Natalie can never compete due to her excess weight. She glances down at her generous belly, the curve of which even her new jeans can’t disguise, at her lavish breasts, which now appear vulgar instead of sexy. Her hatred of her body surges up, thick and nauseating, along with her jealousy, and if Rachel Morgan were in the room right now, Natalie’s unable to answer as to what she’d do.
Hang on a minute, though. She remembers Mark’s words about Rachel cutting herself. She represses a shudder; to her, the idea is repulsive. What kind of person draws a knife through her own flesh? The girl has to be disturbed, seriously fucked up in fact, and it’s with that realisation that Natalie’s jealousy of Rachel melts away. This woman isn’t so very different from herself. They’ve both been badly damaged by life; they simply express their hurt in different ways. For Rachel, it’s cutting herself; for Natalie, it’s the biscuit tin. Rachel’s pain, along with her method of self-medication, seems far worse than Natalie’s.
Something else they share is the fact they’ve both been duped, well and truly, by Mark Slater. What dark emotions must Rachel be experiencing after finding out she’s been lunching with her sister’s killer? Who then piles on more mockery by kissing her?
Only a truly sick bastard would behave in such a way. Natalie no longer believes Mark’s excuses about Abby Morgan. A man who seeks out his victim’s sister and kisses her must be so warped, so twisted, that he’s definitely capable of brutally murdering a child. Natalie now agrees, heart and soul, with Michelle Morgan. A pair of child killers has been let off too lightly and both the fuckers belong back in jail.
Memories force themselves into Natalie’s brain. Herself and her mother, watching a Channel 4 documentary about American women who contact serial killers on Death Row. How they imagine themselves in love with them, even marry them. At the time, both Natalie and Callie Richards are incredulous; how can anyone sane want to connect in a romantic way with such evil? The programme goes on to interview various psychologists as to the root cause.
‘These women are driven by a misguided belief that the power of their love can transform these men. That they can reach in and nurture the wounded child inside these killers,’ is the comment of one self-styled expert in the psychology of these matters. Natalie remembers her own disbelief at the time. The man’s words are reinforced when a woman says she believes her husband, who she married after his conviction for butchering six prostitutes in South Carolina, is a loving and gentle soul who’s desperate to prove how repentant he is.
‘He’s a changed man since he fell in love with me.’ Her voice smacks of certainty as she addresses the camera. ‘So kind and caring.’
‘What a deluded woman,’ Callie Richards comments. ‘Probably doesn’t think she can get any other man to love her. Not that he does, of course.’
At the time, Natalie’s fascinated by these women’s refusal to acknowledge how irredeemably warped their men’s souls are. By their need to transform, like some weird form of alchemy, evil into good, oblivious to the futility of their mission. She’s also embarrassed by the gender issue. By women being the ones who gravitate towards serial killers, who are predominantly male. OK, so female multiple murderers are rare, but Natalie’s prepared to bet legions of lonely men aren’t desperate to write to the ones that do exist. Have sex with them. Marry them. Certainly the documentary makes no mention of men who convince themselves love conquers evil when it comes to female killers. Men, Natalie decides bitterly, have more common sense to act in such a fucked up way. What that says about her gender, she’s not sure, although she suspects it’s nothing good. Maybe her sex is too prone to searching for everyone’s wounded inner child, even when it’s evil lurking within.
She compares herself to the women from the documentary. Hell, her own behaviour isn’t so different. After all, some of the interviewees in the programme exhibit a stubborn refusal to believe in their men’s guilt, despite overwhelming evidence. Natalie now understands she’s been doing the same. Believing Mark innocent, because it suits her, when both the facts and his conviction scream otherwise.
She can always go to the police, of course, reveal Mark’s parole violations, get his arse locked up in jail again, but Rachel Morgan will probably do that anyway. Something else is called for. Revenge, dark and satisfying, to quench the lust for payback lurking within her. If Mark were here right now, she’d pound her fists into him, hard, fury at his betrayal in every blow.
With that thought, an idea thrusts itself into her brain.
Enough, thinks Natalie. She’s done with playing the victim. She’s spent enough time crying over the hurt caused by the men in her life. No more behaving like the women from the documentary, blindly believing that love triumphs over evil. No more persuading herself hope exists for a successful relationship with a child killer.
The memory of the Morgan family at the vigil comes back to her. Not Rachel or Michelle, but Shaun, the tall, stocky guy whose meaty arms suggest a familiarity with the gym. Her idea crystallises then, although she’s unsure how to execute her plan. Of course, she can always try to get phone numbers for the Morgans, but she’s no idea where they live. They’re still local to the Exeter area, she thinks. The name’s too common to search on, though, so she’ll need to find some other route.
The answer clicks into her head almost immediately.
On Wednesday morning, Natalie calls in sick. She waits until she’s sure Mark will have left for the day and drives over to his flat. For the second time in recent weeks, she retrieves the key from under the potted plant. A sense of self-righteousness guiding her steps, she enters her bastard ex-boyfriend’s flat, dumping any guilt at the door. Devious she may be, but Natalie’s a woman on a mission. Seek and destroy
.
As usual, the place is pristine; to Natalie, the neatness that once struck her as merely amusing now seems symbolic of a twisted, obsessive personality. Patrick Bergin, a.k.a. Martin Burney in
Sleeping With The Enemy
. She shudders when she enters the bedroom where, not so long before, they last had sex. Natalie no longer considers what they did as making love. She avoids the bedside cabinet, where the letter from Linda Curtis lives. Mark Slater’s laptop is what Natalie’s after and there it sits, where it always does, on the tiny table he uses as a desk. She switches it on and prepares to try to crack his password.
No success with his name or date of birth in any combination. In the mood for some self-flagellation, she types in her own name, and sadness tugs at her as the laptop whizzes into action.
I must have meant something to him after all
, is her initial reaction.
Then the doubts kick in; she reminds herself she’s dealing with a brutal child murderer, who probably uses her name out of some warped sense of gratification. Pleased with himself about how easily he’s fooled her. Natalie’s anger returns, elbowing out her wistfulness.
On his desktop, she sees the icon for his mobile; she’s grateful for Mark being anal enough to back up his phone on his computer. She’s relying on Rachel’s number being in his contacts list; whilst she’s in there she’ll check how many other women he’s been hoodwinking, because there’ll be more, Natalie’s jealous streak is certain of that.
She clicks the icon, navigating to his messages and contacts. The one at the top of the list leaps out at her, with the sole initial A. Nothing else, just A. Natalie’s sure at first it’s another of Mark’s female conquests but then she reads the accompanying text. ‘Got your message. Things a bit busy right now. Will be in contact.’ The truth, foul and disgusting, hits her. A stands for Adam Campbell, his co-murderer. He’s admitted they’ve been back in touch, after all. The thought strengthens her lust for revenge. The bastard’s going to get what he deserves and she’ll be the one to gift-wrap his retribution with the tatters of their relationship.
Underneath A is a number for A.J. The bitch he’s been shagging on the side. Then Natalie remembers; A.J. is the police officer supervising his parole. Does she believe him, though? Who’s to say it’s not some other female?
Natalie taps the number into her mobile and places the call. A brusque male voice answers. ‘Tony Jackson.’
She excuses herself, pleading a wrong number. Her bastard ex wasn’t lying about A.J., then. Probably the only thing about which he’s ever been truthful. She adds the number to her phone contacts. Might be handy to have if Rachel Morgan chickens out on shopping Mark for his parole violations. What she has in mind right now, though, is something best kept well away from police involvement.
Her stomach growls. Food is singing its usual siren song to Natalie. She breaks off, striding into the kitchenette to raid Mark’s biscuit tin. Carbohydrate comfort beckons from within. She settles down on his sofa, cramming digestives into her mouth, taking pleasure in the crumbs falling between the cushions. Bloody neat freak, she thinks. He won’t be around much longer to care what’s festering down there anyway.
Her greed sated, Natalie seats herself back down at the laptop, Mark’s contact list in front of her. Something strikes her, a weirdness that hasn’t been noticeable before due to her preoccupation with the entries under A. The brevity of the list. If she ignores Mark’s garage, doctor, dentist, etc., there are only five personal contacts. Surely far less than most people have. Hers is there, as well as Steve Taylor, Mark’s boss at the building yard. For an instant, compassion hits her for this man who has no friends, whose contacts are so limited. Then her desire to punish Mark kicks in, elbowing out the empathy. Self-righteous judgement replaces sadness; here’s a man who’s obviously a loner, a word loaded with negative connotations. All those newspaper articles about rapists and murderers; they always describe such people as loners. Sad bastards who find it impossible to interact with their fellow humans. What she’s previously viewed as Mark’s social awkwardness is now transformed, like his neatness, into a dark personality flaw.
The other name is, of course, Rachel Morgan. Natalie checks the messages between her and Mark, but, perversely, finds nothing to fuel her jealousy. Simply confirmation of their lunch date in Exeter the previous weekend. Rachel’s number also gets added to her phone contacts. Then the real self-flagellation comes. Natalie skims through her own recent texts with Mark. ‘Missing you’, she reads, her heart tight against her ribcage, before she reminds herself how the bastard’s practised in the art of deception. She clamps down on her regrets. No more of that shit. She refuses to be like those gullible women from the Channel 4 programme. She’s here for a reason, to ensure Mark Slater, child killer and sociopath, receives his comeuppance. What they shared is now long past – she squashes down a flicker of disappointment at the way things have turned out – because if it’s not, she’s no different from the deluded women in the documentary.