Читать книгу Remember Me: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist - D. White E. - Страница 11

Don’t get me wrong, I like the kid. He’s got guts, and that stubborn streak I admire. Of course, he’s also got a look of Ava, which helps. He does his thing, and I do mine. Outwardly it seems like I’m doing a whole lot more, but I think I’ve mentioned that I’m pretty clever. I know how people tick, what they admire, and how nobody really looks that deep if they have something else to focus on.

He’s just another piece on the game board. It wouldn’t bother me if he had to be sacrificed at the roll of a dice. Honestly, it wouldn’t.

Tonight I was up late, planning my moves, irritated to see the clock ticking onwards, killing my peace. I like the blackness of night. It excites me. Often I wonder if it is light or dark that you see when your time comes.

There are photographs up on my computer screen. This particular girl looks beautiful, and I’m sure she’ll remember that night for the rest of her life. She has no idea the magic I worked later on, and the horrors I added. I imagine she’ll never see the finished product, which in a way is a shame. I’ve turned something sick and twisted into an art form, simply by being cleverer than them all. Hollywood would welcome me with open arms if I let people know what I could do. But those people will never see that side of me.

A notification pops up on the screen, and I click to see more Instagram followers. My social media is perfection, so glossy and sexy, and fake. It’s a distracting game to play, and out here in the harsh daylight people are easy to fool. Or perhaps not? Is it all a double bluff? The thought makes me sigh with pleasure.

How have I waited so long for Ava? I’ve been planning. It keeps me sane, and I did have one little leap across the board. I was right about Fate, and he stepped in, in a totally unexpected but totally deserving way. I landed right on the edge of a black square. The memory of his useless screams comfort me during the long hours of daylight. I watched him frantically trying to regain control, using everything he had to survive. But it was impossible, the odds were stacked against him, and when it was over I went to check, inhaling the luscious smells of blood and terror. I could almost taste it, but I couldn’t linger long.

The road was lonely, but fuel spilling from his bike into the dry summer grass might cause a fire. Not that it mattered because he was gone, but I needed to be at home, waiting to hear the news. It was an accident, the diesel in the road that caused the bike to skid could have come from any tractor, any delivery lorry… or from a can in the back of my Land Rover.

I didn’t enjoy that move, but when fate presents an opportunity I’d be a fool to turn it down. Still, it was never part of the game plan. My first ever kill was the same. It was rushed, and although better planned, I made mistakes. Naturally, at thirteen years old, I was a beginner, but everyone has to start somewhere. With the darkness still complete, my mind wanders back to that day…

I knew that morning before school that she had to die. It just came to me in a rush as I helped her wash and dress, chucked her shitty knickers in the bin, and made us both some breakfast. She mumbled something incoherent, and when the doctor telephoned to check on us, I was careful to say she seemed a bit better and had taken her tablets. I mentioned that I was going out with a friend after school so I wouldn’t be back until about four. There was nobody else in the house that day.

Before I left the house, she had heaved herself onto the sofa, and was shouting for me to bring her cigarettes and a cup of tea. I knew she had a couple of bottles stashed under the sofa, but instead of emptying them as usual, I left everything as it was. Only the thought of freedom kept me going. I don’t relish the memories of this kill. As she bled out, it was more a rush of relief so intense I nearly threw up, than any actual enjoyment. I was careful to leave the knife in her hand, and the note propped on the Welsh oak dresser.

When it was all over, I lingered in the kitchen for a full five minutes, savouring the peace I had created. Then I got to work.

Back in the present I close my game board with a sigh and walk carefully to the spotless bathroom. My footsteps are stealthy in the darkness, and the shadows leer and dance in doorways and on window ledges.

In some ways my whole life is just spent waiting for the next game, the next high. Killing is great, but the rush of playing the game is better than anything. No artificial high, no orgasm ever beats that feeling of my players moving to an unseen order, inching closer to their fates.

I flush the toilet, and head across to wash my hands. It has always been important to be very clean, I suppose a therapist might track the compulsion back to earlier childhood. I count the number of times I apply soap and lather up. After the sixth rinse, I am sated. The water gurgles away with a satisfying gasp, but there’s a smear across the tap in the bathroom. Red. Is it blood? A tiny paper cut on my thumb trickles a rebellious streak of scarlet. My mind races again, scrabbling with the image, skittering back to my childhood and the day of that first kill…

As I stood in the kitchen after it was all over, staring out the window, I noticed a smear of blood on an apple – spoiling the ripe, juicy perfection of the pile. There were green pears, and orange apricots too, carefully arranged in a white dish on the sunlit windowsill. The arrangement was a gift from a well-meaning, but deluded neighbour. The fruit seemed almost too bright, the colours too perfect, given what they had witnessed.

It was annoying, that smear, spoiling my view, spoiling my happiness. But whoever knew that blood could gush and spurt so far? I licked my finger thoughtfully and leant across the sink to remove the offending stain, inhaling a lungful of bleach as I did so. Cleaning had been easy – I was used to it, and had got stuck in. I’d given myself twenty minutes to finish, and the tick-tock of the yellow alarm clock had driven me on. When I was done, the house was looking like a normal home, as opposed to somewhere social services would have been called to in an instant. That’s what I mean about taking time with appearances. People see what they want to see, and if you can help them along…

By the time the uniformed police officers arrived, I was sitting on the bottom step, teary-eyed and snotty. They fell for it, of course. It was the easiest thing to do. The alternative was to believe a thirteen-year-old was capable of murder. She always said I looked like butter wouldn’t melt, with my charm and wide-eyed stare – well, in this case blood didn’t stick either.

‘Oeddet ti’n gwybod, Ava Cole?’

‘Did you know, Ava Cole?’