The sight of her handwriting seems to push me over the edge I’ve been teetering on all day. I chain-smoke for a while, simultaneously longing for a drink. I don’t even care about whoever is in the school anymore. When I’ve smoked my third full-length cigarette in a row, right down to the butt, I look back up at the building and it is in complete darkness. Maybe I imagined seeing the lights on and the shadow of someone standing in the window.
The matchbook with Rachel’s handwriting scrawled across it catches my eye again. The idea of hearing her voice, one last time, brings a strange sense of comfort. So, I dial her number. I hear a phone start to ring, but it isn’t on the other end of the line, it’s in my car.
I turn so fast, I’m amazed I don’t get whiplash, but the backseat is completely empty. I get out, still holding the phone to my ear, and walk to the back of the 4 × 4. Then I stare down at the trunk where the ringing appears to be coming from.
I look around, but the school parking lot is unsurprisingly empty at this time of night, so I open the trunk. My eyes find the phone immediately. Its ghoulish glow in the dark illuminates two other unexpected objects. When I lean in a little closer, I can see that they are Rachel’s missing shoes: expensive designer heels caked in mud.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
I feel dizzy and strange and sick.
I think I might throw up, but then the phone clicks to voicemail and I hear her voice:
“Hi, this is Rachel. No one answers phone calls anymore, so send me a text.”
I hang up and slam the trunk closed.
My hands start to shake a little when I remember all the missed calls from her last night, and the messages she left on my mobile that I have since deleted. I have to make sure nobody finds out. If they do it will be impossible to deny being with her, or what happened. I genuinely have no idea what Rachel’s phone or shoes are doing in my car, but I know I didn’t put them there. Surely I’d remember if I had.
I remember to keep an eye on the main cast of the drama I have created. It’s informative, educational, and entertaining, which I’m sure used to be the remit of the BBC before those in charge forgot … I made it a habit not to forget anything or anyone, especially people who have wronged me. What I lack in forgiveness I make up for in patience. And I pay attention to the little things, because they are often the biggest clues to who a person really is. People rarely see themselves the way others do; we all carry broken mirrors.
There are several characters in this story, each with their own perspective of what has happened. I can only give you my own and guess at the others. Like all stories, it will come to an end. I have a plan now, one which I intend to stick to, and so far I think it is going rather well. Nobody knows it was me. Even if they did suspect something, I’m reasonably confident they could never prove it.
I had an imaginary friend when I was a child, just like a lot of lonely children. He was called Harry and I would pretend to have conversations with him. I even did a funny voice for his replies. My family thought it was hilarious, but in my mind, Harry was real. It was as though I was him and he was me. Whenever I did something wrong, I blamed Harry instead. Sometimes I insisted that he was guilty for so long, even I believed it.
I’ve almost tricked myself into believing I didn’t kill Rachel a few times now, pretended that it was someone else, or that I imagined it. But I did kill her and I’m glad. There was nothing good about that woman, nothing real anyway. She was a serpent in sheep’s clothing and I should have known better; people who charm snakes often get bitten.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, Rachel simply redefined them to suit her own needs. Doing something wrong was often the only thing that made her feel right.
Not all broken moral compasses are beyond repair. Some can start to work again with an ethical shake from another person. We all travel alone inside our own heads, but it is possible to navigate someone’s intentions north of bad and south of wrong. People can change, they just tend to choose not to.
I’ve read that some killers want to get caught, but not me. There would be no more fun if the game were over, and although I’ve lost a lot, I still have too much to lose. All I want is for people to get what’s coming to them. I don’t even think of myself as a killer really; I’m just a person who has decided to do a public service for the benefit of others. The official power of the police can be rather limited and disappointing, and it was better to take this matter into my own hands.