That’s how I feel on my bad days; whereas on my good days I accept it’s a calculated decision albeit a sacrifice, but the best choice for me. I’m the most important now, looking after number one.
Once it gets dark, I’ll head out. An extra dose of painkiller will ensure my perfect alibi won’t wake too soon. Frankie’s parents are away. I’ve watched the house for days and timers on a lampstand fool no one, especially not me. After I’ve had a scout around, I’ll lie low until it’s time to surprise good old Bea, a creature of domestic habit, school-run mum, who will no doubt be grieving her old friend, Squashed Head Scarlet.
That made me chuckle. Sometimes I can be quite funny. Nobody knows this but that’s their loss.
There’s so much people don’t know about me. Even I had no idea that I have a dual personality, and no, before you think it, I am not like Jekyll and Hyde, that’s too dramatic. Complex would be a good way to describe me, yes, I like that.
Over the past few weeks it’s as though I’ve been enlightened and so much has been revealed to me. It all makes sense: everything from the past simply clicked into place.
I regard myself as part spirit, part human. My solid body of flesh and bone has presented itself to the world in a such a way that I was always overlooked, a shadow person. Well, I certainly showed them there’s more to me than they thought but that’s down to my inner spirit. I keep it safe, harboured in the recesses of my head and heart – which I know changes colour with my mood. I can actually feel it.
Deepest black, broody and sullen: that’s when spirit is cross with me because it wants to get out. When it is unleashed it throbs red; not a bright cheerful red, no, it’s dark, almost purple, throbbing with such energy that adrenalin pulses through my veins, giving me power, making me invincible. Oh, I love that feeling and even though I have never imbibed any form of drug, I know without a doubt that the high is superior to any chemical known to man.
Perhaps there are others like me who remain dormant but I expect anything can trigger their spirit person. In some cases a coincidental meeting of the like-minded. In others, it might be years of being ridiculed, overlooked like the last bag of flour on the shelf. Or the pain of loss; that’s a biggie, having something taken away. You couldn’t imagine how it boils my bad blood.
Powerless… that’s the word, how you feel when your freedom, future, existence, destiny are snatched away because of the actions of another, anyone, or anything. We have no control over disease and death. That’s down to science or God, depending on your views. These days mine are very conflicted on that subject. It’s like when a judge brings down his gavel and condemns: he can be harsh or too lenient but either way the die is cast. There’s no going back; you can’t rewind the clock, relish and re-live the minutes before someone changed your life forever.
That was the trigger, realising I had to have control. The switch was flicked, the door to my inner soul slid open and my spirit person emerged.
Eventually I will have to cease my activities. It’s inevitable, another annoying word that removes one’s power. It’s a shame really because I could go on forever. There are plenty of people who have wronged me over the years, schoolteachers, neighbours, fair-weather friends… but hey-ho, such is life.
I’d like everyone to know, though, one day, who they were really dealing with and what I’ve done. Teenagers will sit in the dark with their friends, shining torches under their chins scaring themselves silly with horror stories about me. They might even make a documentary and my face will flash up with all the other famous murderers, or even better, someone could write a book. I’d love that, all about me, the Serial Killer of Elkdale.
22
Bea Butler let herself in to her silent home, glad to be away from the stares of other mums in the schoolyard, glad to have six hours of peace and quiet before her two kids returned to wreck the house and drive her up the wall. They’d been the only thing that kept her sane over the last week, taking her mind off what happened to Scarlet. Unfortunately, no matter how busy she was, once Bea’s head hit the pillow it was impossible to fend off the doldrums that wrapped around her like a suffocating blanket of fog.
Joe, her husband, did his best to cheer her up but it was impossible with an inquest and then a funeral to face. Bea missed Scarlet. They’d remained friends even after Frankie did her disappearing act, the two of them vowing not to lose touch, standing firm in the face of gossipmongers. They didn’t live in each other’s pocket but chatted regularly on the phone, neither forgot birthdays and Scarlet always turned up for barbeques and parties, and with stockings for the kids at Christmas.
Making her way into the kitchen, Bea flicked on the kettle, turned on the tap and squirted Fairy Liquid into the sink, the lemon scent refreshing as the bubbles covered the breakfast dishes. As she wiped the table her mind wandered to her mum who was due to call for a morning cuppa before she went to work at the supermarket. And then Bea would have the house to herself, a notion that didn’t fill her heart with joy. She wasn’t keen on being home alone since Scarlet had been killed.
Killed.Bea couldn’t believe she was saying that word in the same sentence as her friend’s name. Going into the utility room, determined to keep her mind and body occupied she unloaded the washing machine and then refilled it with Joe’s work clothes before picking up the basket of soggy clothes, tutting when she returned to the kitchen and realised she’d not locked the back door.I could have sworn I locked it…you stupid, stupid woman, especially when there’s a burglar on the loose.
The gardens on either side were deserted as she pegged out the washing. The only company she had were the horses in the field on the other side of the lane that spanned the row of houses. Bea concentrated on her task and pondered another dilemma: what to do about Frankie. She had absolutely no idea how to contact her. The only phone number she had was for Frankie’s parents who still lived in the same house. Bea’s numerous calls had been unanswered so, presuming they must be away on holiday, she’d left them a short message. Bea thought Frankie might want to know about Scarlet, maybe send a card or flowers, or maybe not.
It made Bea sad that they’d lost touch, although she understood why. Frankie was always the most sensitive of them, the one who hadn’t been able to shake things off and couldn’t cope with how cruel and unforgiving some people had been. Bea and Scarlet were made of sterner stuff and stuck it out while Frankie simply ran away. She didn’t feel resentment towards her old friend. Friends shouldn’t do that, not real ones, but as far as Bea was concerned so long as Frankie was happy, that’s what mattered. They were all entitled to get on with their lives, and now Scarlet had hers taken away. Tears threatened and Bea struggled to focus elsewhere. Out of the blue she pictured Frankie. She would have loved to hear her voice.
The washing blew in the wind: two greying school shirts and her six-year-old son’s trousers that were splattered with yellow paint after a very messy art lesson. Russell was such a scruff and his clothes always needed a hot wash whereas her daughter, Isla, was the complete opposite, their very own spotless fairy princess. It was the last week of the summer term and she intended chucking the faded school clothes out and buying new for September. Once sports day was over with the finish line was in sight, then they could all look forward to going camping. Two weeks in Tenby would do her the world of good, away from Elkdale and its horrors.
Bea checked her watch. Her mum would be there any minute, which meant the beds would need to be made. If Grandma Yvonne (clean freak extraordinaire) went upstairs for a wee and noticed the kids’ bedrooms in a mess Bea would get the look.Owt for a quiet life, she thought as she went inside and cast a glance over the kitchen –it’ll do– then made her way down the hall, picking up Joe’s trainers which she placed on top of Russell’s box of toy cars. How many times had she told them both not to abandon stuff at the foot of the stairs?
Arms laden, she made her way upwards, a head full of thoughts, miles away and distracted by bed-making and the imminent arrival of her mum. She’d reached the second-to-top step when something caught her eye, then there was a moment of utter confusion, a million stupid erratic thoughts zapped:It’sa ghost, the killer burglar, white suit, please let this be a dream,don’t drop the box,mum…followed by terror when blue hands thudded into her chest, winding her immediately, jettisoning her backwards.
In that split second of confusion Bea looked into the eyes of the ghost, angry eyes, that’s all she could see because the hood of the paper suit was pulled up high, obscuring the face. As the ghost burglar receded, it watched her descent from the top of the stairs as Bea flew through the air, cars and trainers tumbling with her and once she landed, her body rolled and twisted and thumped along the wall and banister.
When her head connected with the radiator at the foot of the stairs, she wouldn’t have heard the sound of her skull splitting or her neck snapping, or the heavy breathing of the white ghost burglar after it raced down the stairs and crouched by her side, checking for signs of life.
Seconds passed. The doorbell rang. It rang again, then the latch on the side gate clicked, the hinge creaked and slammed shut and Grandma Yvonne let herself in the back door, calling out from the kitchen, ‘Only me, I’ll put the kettle on, love. I got us bacon butties from the cake shop, and some iced fingers.’
Bea also didn’t hear the screams when Grandma Yvonne came into the hall to find the crumpled body of her daughter whose head lay in a pool of blood. Somehow, in her panic and distress, as she knelt on the floor, despite trembling jelly hands, sobbing Grandma Yvonne managed to call 999.
* * *
The white ghost listened from the utility room as the hysterical woman told the emergency services that her daughter had fallen down the stairs and to hurry, there was blood everywhere and she was a funny colour. Then the ghost slipped out of the back door unseen, disappearing along the quiet lane, as though it had never even been there at all.
23
Frankie stepped back and admired her handiwork. The solid oak dining table and chairs had been delivered the day before and were now to the right of an oak veranda that ran along the front of her house.
