It had been necessary.
A means to an end.
This time, when death came, I’d make sure not to be staring into Olivia’s eyes. I wasn’t sure I could deal with being haunted by another. I didn’t know this woman; her death would leave no absence in my life. This time would be different in another way… this time I knew the reality of death. The stakes were higher too, this wasn’t only for me, this was for that woman staring fixedly into space in that private clinic. I was going to ensure her treatment continued, and if the worst happened, if she never recovered, I was going to make sure her life was comfortable.
She deserved it. It was easy to put the cycle of neglect I’d suffered out of my head, to simply focus on how indulgent she had been, and how much she had adored me. I had to – I had to have something to cling to. If this meant reinventing my past, well so be it.
I spent a couple of hours hanging around before Olivia Burton left her house and climbed into the Volvo parked in the driveway. The photograph didn’t do her justice. In reality, she was certainly a bigger woman than my delicate mother, but she wasn’t hefty, and only maybe three or four inches taller than my mother and me. I didn’t think she’d cause me any trouble.
There was no option to change my mind. Olivia’s death would be the solution to a problem.
Back in our bungalow, it took only a minute to find what I was looking for… a knife, sharp and long enough to be effective. The handle was solid, a firm weight in my hand. I waved and lunged with it, practising how I was going to drive it under Olivia’s ribs and into her heart.
My mother kept a supply of sturdy shopping bags and the knife fit neatly along the bottom of the first one I pulled out, a canvas bag decorated with owls. There wasn’t one with the grim reaper, anyway, owls were quick to pounce on a prey and this is what Olivia had become.
The following day, with the bag hung casually from my hand, I did the journey back to Thornbury. I’d timed it well, hitting the quiet spot that settled over the area between nearby schools releasing students and the start of rush hour. During my foray the day before, I’d checked for any CCTV cameras. There weren’t any. There was no signal-controlled junction to cross, no shops, no businesses. I had debated wearing some form of disguise but decided that my small slight frame was sufficient to allow me to pass unnoticed.
The house was semi-detached, an ivy-clad fence separating it from its other half, a wall dividing it from the house on the other side. A wooden gate in need of repair hung open, the concrete driveway green with moss on the side sheltered by the wall. The air of neglect wasn’t carried to the house. It was neat, with a bay window on both the ground and upper floors. The front door was glossy black, with two glass panels, a brass letter box and doorknob, a doorbell on the wall to one side.
Solid details. They helped me focus thoughts that were ducking and diving. What the hell was I doing? Murdering an unknown woman because my idiot lying cheat of a father had left us in dire straits? She’d committed no crime. Or maybe she had – maybe she knew. Perhaps the life interest in the house had been her idea? Yes, that was it. She deserved to die for that.
I didn’t move, but perhaps a cloud had drifted across the sun because suddenly, I could see my reflection in the glass panels. My reflection – Jemma’s eyes – and I would swear – swear – she winked at me.
A shiver slid over me – anticipation, fear, desperation – perhaps a combination of all, or maybe it was simple disbelief that I was really going to go ahead with this, that I was going to kill again. I’d thought this second time would be easier – it wasn’t.
I checked the bag to ensure the knife handle was in the right place for me to grab. As with Jemma, there had been no time to practice, and if I was really going to go ahead with this there’d be no second chances. Only in that moment, did I realise my father would have had a key to the house. It would have been with the keys to the car. I could have asked for them, could have let myself in and dealt with Olivia in a different way.
Or would it always have come down to this? History repeating itself in my use of a sharp instrument. Perhaps it was better to stick to one weapon. Become an expert – in case I ever needed to kill again. Anyway, my tools of destruction were limited to what was easily acquired.
It was time. I reached forward and pressed my finger firmly to the doorbell. I heard it ring inside, a sad ding dong to announce the coming death. Send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. Or for Olivia Burton in this case.
Luckily for me, the woman who answered the door wasn’t aware her end was nigh. ‘Hello,’ she said, and waited expectantly.
I had time to register her pallor, the reddened eyes, the black shirt and trousers she wore. Grieving for her husband? I wondered if, like me, she was also in mourning for the death of truth. It wasn’t something I could ask. It was better to get on with my plan, the words I’d practised in my head as I’d walked. ‘Hi, I’m looking for Mrs Downs.’ I blinked in feigned confusion. ‘I thought she lived here.’
‘No, I’m sorry, she doesn’t.’ Confusion faded her smile and corrugated her forehead.
‘Oh, that’s strange, this is the address I was given.’ I lifted the bag I held, as if to look inside to check. My hand slipped in to close over the knife handle and I pulled it out in one smooth motion, lunging to drive it into her chest before she’d time to register what was happening, and long before she’d time to react and run from the grim reaper who’d darkened the sunny day.
Instinctively, she stepped away from the knife, backward into the hallway. As I’d anticipated. I followed, keeping the pressure up, driving the blade further in, angling it upward, ducking away from her pathetically reaching hands.
Once inside, I kicked the door shut behind, never taking my eyes from where the blood had begun to seep around the by now deeply embedded knife. If I was right, more blood was filling her chest cavity.
‘I-I-I…’ It was all she could manage in her disbelief and confusion, in the stark knowledge that there was no hope.
I wasn’t sure if it would make any difference, but I refused to meet her eyes. It was possible that her death would haunt me regardless of whether I did or not. It seemed better not to take the risk.
Even when she dropped heavily to the floor, I kept the pressure on the knife. I didn’t have to see her face, I could hear her breathing change, slowing, becoming a desperate gasp, growing quieter, and quieter. Slower and slower.
Only then did I release my grip and stand back. Her hands flailed uselessly as they sought to remove the knife. I could have told her that it wouldn’t have done any good. The time for that had passed.
Blood was pooling from the stab wound, forming a crimson puddle on the cream carpet. Her hands had flopped uselessly to the floor, the movement of her ribcage barely discernible as each breath came slower and slower. Death was creeping over her.
I wasn’t watching its arrival. Not this time. Oddly, although I knew she couldn’t move, I was afraid to turn away from her, and stepped backwards into the kitchen. I washed the blood from my hands and wrists, checking further along my arm for any spatters. But there were none, and none on my clothes. Any pumping and spurting of blood had taken place inside Olivia’s chest.