Читать книгу Remember Me: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist - D. White E. - Страница 9

She’s back. I can hardly believe it. I’m sure she will appreciate the treat I have in store for her. One last time, Ava Cole.

Of course, I was prepared for her to have changed. I knew she would be harder, stronger and less of the wayward, but malleable, teenager I remembered. She has no idea that I have been watching her for years, skimming neatly below the surface of her social media accounts, her work intranet, and even her personal emails. I have access to her life, and up to a point it has kept me fed and entertained. I know her so well, but I don’t know her in the flesh anymore. I remember her taste, her touch, but the memories are dull, like faded flowers.

I tell myself this makes the rediscovery all the more exciting. I do like a challenge, so I just need to rearrange the board and we can start. Ava has no idea what I have planned. In fact, she doesn’t really know me at all. Not like I know her…

The only thing that always annoyed me is that her conscience pricks her a little too much. She would never join me in the ultimate hell slide to the finish, when you can taste the fear, and feel the hot blood slick on your body. Something in her soul is different to mine and I don’t like that, if I’m totally honest.

I always wanted Ava to admire me, to see me as more than an equal, and for a while it was wonderful. When she went it was terrible. If I was being poetic, I’d say she ripped my heart out. But you know what? I don’t think I have a heart, or I wouldn’t have been able to play my games the way I do.

Even whilst I’m thinking about Ava, I’m carefully tending to the fire. My boots are soaking from walking up the hill and down to East Wood earlier, so I should probably put some newspaper inside to dry them out.

I remember Ava at eight years old, when her parents first moved from Florida to Wales. She had that dumb American accent then, and she seems to have got it back. That’s too bad. She needs to keep her Welsh, or she’s going to struggle out on the game board. I was in the same year as Ava at school. I let her share my desk and helped her with the language. I let her share my pencils too – as soon as I saw that she used to absent-mindedly suck the ends when she was thinking hard.

When she put one down, I would pick it up, as casually as I could, and slide it into my own mouth. I could taste her sweetness, and from then on I made up my mind to own her.

I used to wait at the gate, after I helped my mum get dressed and all that shit. Ava would come running down the hill, in those blue denim shorts and a tight T-shirt, black hair flying out in the breeze. Then she’d smile at me. It was a proper smile, from a proper person – not like one of these fucking losers who just bare their teeth. She was real. And then I lost her.

If I look out of the window, I can see nothing but darkness. But I know if I went out, I could stand peacefully in the icy air, under the moon. The village would be spread before me like a chaotic nightmare, but as I watched, the stars would come out and create perfect order. The dark squares of houses criss-crossed with pale squares of gardens are like squares on a board. I see games everywhere.

There is a box of dice on the side, and instead of making a coffee I select a couple and idly give them a roll. They clatter and click across the surface before coming to rest next to the piano. I peer down. A double six. Of course – it would be. Satisfied, I pack them carefully away, revelling in what is to come.

‘Ava Cole, ydych chi’n dod allan I chwarae heno?’

‘Ava Cole, are you coming out to play tonight?’