[Anh Ngữ] Because She Loves Me - Mark Edwards (English)

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 21

Monday arrived. I woke up early with butterflies in my stomach and had a last- minute panic while cleaning my teeth. Was I doing the right thing? I had a word with myself in the bathroom mirror, an out-loud pep talk that made Charlie ask, ‘Who were you talking to?’ when I went back into the bedroom.

‘Myself.’

‘First sign of madness.’ She looked me up and down. I was wearing my new work clothes. It wasn’t the kind of job that required a suit (if I’d turned up wearing one I think I would have been sent home) but I had new jeans, a new white shirt, new Converse trainers. ‘You look hot.’

‘Thanks. So do you.’

She examined herself in the full-length mirror, at her own work clothes: the pencil skirt, the blouse with the Peter Pan collar. ‘No. I definitely don’t look hot when I’m Charlotte.’

‘But it was Charlotte that first attracted me,’ I reminded her.

‘Yes. In an eye clinic.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Better go. You don’t want to be late on your first day.’
I stood at the door, crutch in hand. I didn’t need it to walk around the flat any more but still found it necessary when walking any distance. Charlie and I had agreed not to travel to work together because, Charlie told me, she was always grumpy on her journey into work and she didn’t want me to suffer, especially when it was so important for me to arrive at the office feeling relaxed.

‘I’m nervous,’ I said.

Charlie came over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You’ll be great. Don’t worry. Call me at lunchtime, OK?’
‘Maybe we could meet for lunch?’

She ruffled my hair. ‘I expect your boss or new colleagues will take you out for lunch. You normally get treated extra- special on your first day.’

On the bus, I couldn’t help but think about the lost bag. Charlie told me she was calling the lost property office every day but it hadn’t turned up. I had given up hope. Maybe it was on a landfill site somewhere. Most probably, as Charlie had said, it had already been destroyed. I had called Tilly and she’d offered to make copies of some of her photos of Mum and Dad. They wouldn’t be perfec but I didn’t have any other option. This time, I wasn’t going to hide the pictures away, unable to look at them. I was going to get them framed, put them on display.

I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t believed Charlie’s story. Something about the way she had told it, or the incredible absent-mindedness needed for her to have left it on the bus. But then, people did that kind of thing every day. I had once left my expensive laptop on a train. And why would she lie? What else would she have done with the bag? I could imagine her getting upset about the mementoes of my exes. But she hadn’t been afraid of showing her hurt when she felt insecure, like with the girl in the park, and I couldn’t imagine her sneaking the bag out of my flat and secretly destroying it. It was completely out of character. If she could do that then . . . well, it would show I didn’t know her at all.

So I cast my doubts aside, told myself I was being stupid, that it was nothing but an accident. I forgave her. Thinking, cynically, that it was one in the bank for me, if I ever did something like break one of her favourite teacups or shrink her clothes in the washing machine. All couples must go through this at some point: in our case, it was unfortunate that she was trying to do something lovely and ended up doing something that hurt me.

I changed buses and, before I knew it, I was heading past Old Street roundabout and towards Victor’s office. I was using a single crutch now, and only outdoors, but it was still slow going.

The office was on the second floor of a converted warehouse, like so many of the offices around here. A few steps led up to a solid metal door, the names of the companies in the building – all of them something to do with the media or internet – written in bright colours beside a row of buzzers. I was ten minutes early and I stood and looked up at the building, giving myself another little pep talk – silent this time.

A police car was parked outside the office in front of the steps. As people arrived and went inside, they all looked at the car. A couple of smokers stood and had a conversation beside it. I recognised one of them, was sure she worked for Victor. I’d seen her in the office and also on the Meet the Team page Charlie had been looking at. An attractive young woman with short white-blonde hair. She saw me looking and said, ‘Are you Andrew?’

I went over. ‘Hi. Yes, I start today.’ She and the guy she was with – trimmed beard, thick glasses – stared at my crutch and she said, ‘Awesome. I’m Amber. This is Pete. We heard about your accident. Very dramatic.’

‘It was more sit-com-like,’ I said.

‘So, what, did you just, like, fall?’ Pete asked.

As with Victor, I didn’t want to tell them my suspicions about being pushed. It would make me sound paranoid. ‘Yeah, it was snowing and really slippery.’

‘Tough break,’ Amber said. ‘But you’re all better now and here you are! Oh my God, we are so busy. You’re starting just in time. Victor has been telling everyone how amazing you are. Like, the Wowcom stuff you did? That was amazing.’

I probably blushed.

‘Weird shit happening in the office this morning, though,’ Amber continued. ‘I got here early—’

‘Employee of the year,’ said Pete. ‘Fuck you. I got here early and Victor was already here, like he always is—’ ‘That why you get here early? To see Victor, eh? Naughty girl.’

‘Will you let me finish, you twat?’ She rolled her eyes and Pete guffawed. He was obviously in love with her. ‘Where was I? Oh yeah. Victor has got a couple of cops in his office, sitting on the sofas with him, a man and a woman. I couldn’t see their faces but Victor looked sick. Like they were giving him really bad news.’ Her expression changed. ‘Fuck, I hope everything’s OK with, like, his wife and kids.’

‘Oh, it’s probably something to do with his parking tickets,’ Pete said. ‘He was telling me once he’s got something like ten unpaid congestion charges. He refuses to pay it on—’

He was interrupted by the metal door opening and one of the police officers emerging: the WPC. To my surprise, she was followed out by Victor, his head down, not looking at anyone, bald spot on display, the male PC coming out behind him. We watched as they put him in the back of the police car and slowly drove off.

‘Oh my days,’ said Amber. ‘What the fuck?’ said Pete.

We went upstairs to the office. My first day at work wasn’t starting as I’d imagined it. I trailed after Amber and Pete into the open-plan room, where almost everyone was standing looking dazed and worried, gathered around the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist herself, whose name was Claire, looked like she’d just been told World War 3 had started and nuclear bombs were cruising towards London.

‘We just saw Victor getting in a police car,’ Amber said.

The babble of voices was so confusing, voices overlapping, everyone saying nothing very much at the same time, that it was impossible to work out if anyone had any useful information. I saw a few people look at me, this stranger in their midst, as if I were somehow to blame. Then a voice called out from halfway down the office: ‘Guys! Look at this!’

We swarmed down the office, with me at the back of the group on my crutch, Amber darting towards the front of the crowd.

There were lots of ‘Oh my Gods’ and ‘Fucks’ and ‘Holy shits’. Lots of people, having seen what the bloke who’d called out was looking at, hurried off to peer at their own machines, giving me enough space to shuffle forward so I could see what was on the computer.

It was a web page, with Victor’s photograph at the top. The title of the page jumped out at me: Victor Codsall – Dangerous Paedophile. I couldn’t read the rest of the text from where I stood, but Amber began to read out extracts.

‘Victor Codsall is a paedophile who preys on pre-pubescent girls . . . When we baited him and sent him a message purporting to be a twelve-year-old called Lucy, he responded and arranged to meet for *** . . . Codsall was fully aware he was meeting a twelve-year-old. He also boasted of downloading vile images of underage girls . . .’ Amber broke off. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘It’s got to be bullshit,’ said a young man standing next to me.

‘There’s no way . . . He’s got kids,’ said someone else.

Apart from that, the office was hushed, with just the sound of keyboards tapping and mice clicking breaking the stunned silence as more and more people went to their machines to look at the web page. I got closer to the desk and made a mental note of the URL.

As I turned away, two more police officers came into the room and went into Victor’s office. A few minutes later they came out, carrying his desktop computer and a laptop. Everyone watched, mute.

‘What should we do?’ someone asked.

A brunette in a polka dot dress stood up. ‘I feel sick. I can’t believe we work for a paedo.’

‘He’s not a paedo!’ Amber snapped. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

I looked up. A smartly dressed woman with a blonde bob had come into the office. This was Emma, the chief operations officer, Victor’s second-in-command. She put her bag down on her desk and her hands on her hips. ‘Well, is somebody going to tell me?’

I sat down and waited while Victor’s employees crowded round Emma, filling her in, her eyes widening and jaw dropping as she made sense of the babble. But she gave the impression that this was the kind of situation she was born to deal with. Pretty soon, she had everyone back at their desks, and she was in Victor’s office, talking animatedly on the phone.

I knocked on the office door and she gave me a ‘Who on earth are you?’ look.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m meant to start work today,’ I said.

‘Oh. Andrew, is it?’ She beckoned for me to come in and sit down. ‘Hang on a minute.’

She searched through the papers on Victor’s desk, huffing and tutting.

My eye caught the photo of Victor’s children and his wife on his desk. There was no way, surely, that he was guilty of what the web page alleged. But how well did I know him?

I thought about him getting into the police car, refusing to look at anybody. The accusations on the website made me want to throw up. Twelve-year-old girls? ‘For goodness sake,’ Emma said. ‘Vic emailed me and said he was going to sort out your induction himself. He hasn’t left proper instructions.’ She sighed.

‘Listen, Andrew, I think it might be best if you go home, rather than hang around here with nothing to do. Until this . . . mess is sorted out, or at least till I’ve had a chance to talk to Vic.’

‘But . . .’

‘Yes, I think that’s best.’

Having made her mind up, she ushered me out of the office and told me she’d call me.

I stood outside, in a state of shock. My job seemed to have ended before it had even began. Maybe Victor would be back tomorrow, the police would be apologising, the whole thing would be laughed off. But if the allegations were true, my misfortune was trivial. It wasn’t my life that had just been destroyed.

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 22

I texted Charlie to tell her what had happened, but she didn’t reply so I guessed she was in a meeting. I didn’t want to hang around for three hours waiting for her lunch break so I headed home, the buses half-empty now, my head reverberating from the shock of what had just happened. Beneath the concern for Victor was a little self-interested voice: what was I going to do for money now? How long would it take for the mess to be sorted out? And if Victor didn’t come back quickly, would Emma or whoever was in charge now decide they didn’t need me after all?

By the time I got home I was in a muted state of panic. I checked my bank account online. I had enough to keep me going for another month, but that was it. Apart from Victor, and Karen, I hadn’t done any work for anyone for over six months. My contacts book was so creaky it wouldn’t have mattered if Charlie had left it on a bus instead of my bag of mementoes. I was going to have to send some emails, go fishing for work.
I made myself a coffee and tried to rein in my growing panic. This whole thing might blow over by tomorrow. I could afford to wait a day or two to see what happened before I started reaching out for work.

As I was about to switch off my computer, I remembered something: Karen still hadn’t told me if she liked the new site, meaning I couldn’t invoice her yet.

And that triggered another memory, something I’d completely forgotten. Just before I’d passed out from taking the sleeping pills, I’d received a text from Karen. What had it said? I tried to recall. . . Something about calling her urgently?

I checked my phone. There was no such text. The last text from her was from the day of our last meeting, when we’d been arranging where to meet. That was it.

I stared at the screen of my phone. I must have dreamt the text, hallucinated it as I’d slipped into my twenty-four-hour slumber. I sent Karen another reminder email and temporarily forgot about it.

At lunchtime, I called Charlie and gave her a rundown of the situation. She was shocked.

‘I’m worried about money,’ I said. ‘If this doesn’t turn out to be a big mistake – which I’m praying it will, for everyone’s sake – and whoever takes over from Victor decides they don’t need me, I’m going to be in deep shit.’

There was a pause at the other end and I knew what she was going to say before I heard the words. ‘Maybe I could move in. Then I could pay half the bills. I mean I’m there all the time anyway.’

These were exactly the same thoughts I’d had a few days ago.

Before I could respond, she said, ‘Well, let’s not make any decisions now. Maybe we can talk about it when I get home.’ She paused. ‘Oh, can you do me a big favour and take my suit to the drycleaner? It’s on the chair at the end of the bed.’

‘Sure.’ I was tempted to point out that it wasn’t that easy for me to run errands while I still wasn’t properly on two feet, but didn’t want to be a wimp.

‘Thanks, gorgeous.’

It was only later that I realised what she’d said before. Home. When I get home.

I took Charlie’s clothes – one of her ‘Charlotte’ outfits, a slim-fit grey trouser suit – to the drycleaner in Herne Hill, about ten minutes away. It didn’t look dirty to me but my standards were clearly lower than Charlie’s. I paid for the super- express service and, while waiting, went over the road to the park.

I stood by the lake where Charlie and I had made love. The ice had melted now and the ducks looked relieved. Standing by the low metal fence I closed my eyes and remembered that evening: the delicious surprise, the slap of the cold water, Charlie’s pale skin in the moonlight, the spark in her eyes. It still overwhelmed me, the way she affected me physically, that giddy intoxicated feeling that came over me when I looked at her, the naked need to touch her, to have her close to me. The taste of her kiss, the little murmuring sounds she made i n bed, the earthy scent of her flesh. A great rush of love surged through me, compelling me to take out my phone and send her a text.

I want you to come live with me. Share my nest. I love you and want to be with you forever xxxxxxx PS I wish you were here right now so I could kiss you . . . everywhere xxxxx

She replied almost straight away. Where exactly do you want to kiss me? Xxxx

I think you know . . . xxxx

I went back to pick up Charlie’s suit, then walked home, still buzzing from the text exchange, passers-by glancing questioningly at my dizzy grin. Whatever else happened in my life, as long as I had Charlie, everything would be OK.

Walking back to the flat, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Thinking it was probably Charlie again, I put the suit down on a wall and wrestled my phone into the open.

The message was from Sasha.

Hey you. Hope you’re OK. Can you call me? I need to talk to you. X

I contemplated the message. I hadn’t spoken to her for two weeks, though I had been meaning to get in touch. Sasha’s friendship was still important to me, even if I was going to have to find some way of having her in my life if she and Charlie couldn’t get on.

I sat on the wall, Charlie’s suit beside me, and called her straight back.

‘Andrew. Thank you so much. I didn’t know if you’d call.’

She sounded oddly formal, but when I spoke, I did too. ‘That’s all right. I’ve been meaning to call you for ages. Are you OK?’

It took a minute or two for the conversation to shift, the ice breaking off the edges, until it felt natural again, though still not like our normal easy exchanges. Not yet anyway.

I told her about Victor and we speculated about what it might mean for the Wowcom contract. Sasha told me that Wowcom had terminated contracts with suppliers in the past because they were worried their ‘brand might become contaminated’. This possibility hadn’t occurred to me.

‘Do you think he’s guilty?’ she asked. ‘No. I mean, I don’t know. He never struck me as . . . the type.’

I could almost hear her rolling her eyes. ‘You mean he didn’t wear a grubby mac and have a box of puppies in his car.’

‘You know what I mean.’ ‘Yeah, sorry.’

An awkward silence fell between us. My eye was sore. I had noticed that this happened increasingly when I was stressed. Something to do with eye pressure, perhaps. The little bubble of excitement I’d been floating in, thinking about Charlie moving in with me, had well and truly popped.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ I asked.

I heard her take a deep breath. ‘It’s kind of difficult to explain without sounding ridiculous or mad. Can you meet me after work?’

Here it was: the difficult moment that would repeat all the while I was friends with Sasha. ‘I’m not sure. Charlie’s coming round.’

Sasha was silent.

‘Are you still there?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. But it’s all right. I’ll find someone else to talk to. Don’t worry.’

‘Hang on.’ I really wanted to see Charlie tonight, but it wouldn’t do any harm to meet Sasha for an hour, would it? ‘I’m sorry, Sash, of course I’ll meet you. Where and when?’

‘My place at six-thirty?’

I texted Charlie and told her I’d be ou for a little while with Sasha. She didn’t reply.

Sasha texted me at six to ask if we could meet in The Commercial as she didn’t want to go straight home. Will all make sense later! the text read.

She was already at the pub when I got there, with a glass of red wine that was so big it was more like a bowl. I asked for what she was having and as I neared the table, Sasha got up and hugged me.

‘I really hate to admit it, but I missed you,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I kind of missed you too. A smidge.’

‘A smidge? A smidge? Bloody cheek.’ ‘So tell me what’s been going on,’ I said.

Before answering, Sasha looked around like a spy in a black and white movie. She wasn’t doing it ironically though; she genuinely appeared concerned that someone might be listening in. The pub was busy with the after-work crowd. There was an important match on later which the pub was showing on a big screen, so the pub was filling up with a second wave of drinkers: young men, mostly, in football shirts. It was noisy and Sasha should have had to raise her voice to be heard. But as she spoke, the background hubbub dropped away so all I could hear was her voice.

‘Someone’s been following me around,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that. I first noticed it a couple of weeks ago, when I was coming home from work.’

‘When it was snowing?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. I was, like, struggling home, head down like this, because the wind was trying to blow my face off, and there was hardly anyone around . . . That was when I started to think someone was behind me, like I could feel eyes on me.’

‘Go on.’

‘But when I looked round there was no one there. The street was empty. There was a van over the road and I was convinced they were hiding behind it.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I headed home as fast as I could. I tapped in 999 and had my thumb hovering over the call button, just in case. And that wasn’t the last time. It’s happened at least twice more, once when I was coming home from the pub, quite late. And once at the weekend, in the middle of the day. I was walking through the park and I was sure someone had followed me in and all the way through. But every time I looked round there was no one there.’

‘Do you think you imagined it?’

‘I’m not completely gaga yet, Andrew. But, actually, yeah, I did wonder that. Of course. But that time in the park, I retraced my footsteps and someone burst out of the bushes and legged it across the grass. Nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Christ. What did they look like?’ ‘Dressed all in black. Slim. Wearing a hat. I mean, if there was a uniform for a burglar or stalker, he or she was wearing it.’

‘He or she?’

‘Yeah. Well, they looked very slim . . . like it could be a woman. But they were moving pretty fast and were obscured by all the bushes and trees.’

I stared at her. ‘You know, I was followed by someone. Or I thought I was That night after I watched Blair Witch at yours. And so was Charlie – someone followed her through the park. But when we went to look for them there was no one there.’

‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘But, actually, if it wasn’t for the other stuff—’ She held up a hand to let her continue. ‘If it wasn’t for the other stuff, that would make me feel better. Make me think that it wasn’t me they were targeting specifically. I mean, if there was a mugger or some weirdo in the area, who was following anyone who happened by at the right time, I wouldn’t feel so paranoid.’

‘But?’ I asked.

She stood up. ‘I’m going to need another drink. Same again?’

‘Sasha, what is it?’

She glanced around her and leaned forward. ‘I haven’t told you about the other stuff yet. The really creepy stuff.’

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 23

Sasha came back from the bar and pushed a fresh glass of wine towards me. The football had started and people were shouting encouragement and abuse at the screen but I could barely hear them. I hadn’t noticed before how pale and ill Sasha looked. Dark circles under her eyes, a waxy complexion, bloodshot pupils, lank hair. She had looked like she was suffering before, when she first split with Lance, but her appearance had worsened considerably since I’d last seen her, when she came round for dinner.

‘Tell me what’s happened,’ I said.

‘OK. Well, firstly, someone’s been in my flat while I was out.’

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It happened twice. The first time, I think it took me a little while to notice, but then I realised: some of the stuff in my flat had moved. For example, I’ve got these three zebras that stand on my mantelpiece.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen them.’

‘Well, someone turned them the other way round, to face the wall. And that’s not all. You know I have my books arranged in strict alphabetical order by author?’

‘Your library, you mean?’

‘Exactly. A lot of the books had been rearranged, put out of place. DVDs had been swapped around too, so the wrong ones were in the wrong cases. I never do that. It’s one of my things.’

‘I know.’ I had once found myself at the end of a barrage of insults for returning one of Sasha’s box sets with several of the DVDs in the wrong place.

‘At first I thought I was going mad, tha I must have done it when I was cleaning.’

‘You don’t have a cleaner?’

‘No, we’re not all as middle-class as you.’

‘Hey, I only—’

‘I’m kidding. I haven’t got to the weirdest bit yet. I’ve got a load of fridge magnets – you know, those little plastic letters. The second time this happened, I got home and found that someone had left a message on the fridge door for me. KEEP AWAY. Spelt out mostly using the red letters.’

‘Oh my God.’

She nodded. ‘I know, right. And get this – my butcher’s knife was lying on the worktop above the fridge. I’m certain I’d left it in the block when I went out. When I found it, I completely freaked out. I had to go and stay with my mum for a few days. When I got back I chucked my toothbrush away – I mean, you hear all those stories, don’t you? – and scrubbed and bleached everything.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘Huh. What’s the point? There’s no evidence, is there? They’ll think it’s me, that I’m bonkers or making it all up. Anyway, that part of it has stopped. I installed a camera, pointing at the door. It’s rigged up to trigger if someone comes in. I’ve been running it for the last week and no one has entered the flat apart from me. But there’s been other stuff happening.’

‘Like what?’

‘Someone standing outside my flat at night, for one. Hang-ups on the phone. My doorbell ringing and there being no one there when I answer.’

‘Oh, Sasha.’

I reached out and took her hand. It was shaking.

‘I’m really scared,’ she said.

‘You need to go to the police,’ I said. ‘No. Because . . . because I know who it is. What it’s all connected to. It’s Lance and Mae, maybe her brothers. It has to be.’

I stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Who else would it be? Lance is still angry with me for threatening to do him for sexual harassment. And, well, I did something stupid. I went round to his house when I knew his wife was out at her gym class. We always used to meet on Tuesday evenings, when Mae was doing spinning. He said what we were doing was his exercise.’

I pulled a ‘yuk’ face.

‘Hey, I did love him, you know. Or I thought I did. We all make stupid mistakes, don’t we? Anyway, I went to their house, but she wasn’t out. She opened the door and started screeching at me. She went berserk.’

I wasn’t sure I could blame her, but I didn’t say that to Sasha. ‘Why did you go round there?’

‘Because I wanted to smooth things over. This was just after I came to yours for dinner and I was feeling wound up. It was two days later that I first thought someone was following me. I told you about the threats Mae made back when she found out about the affair, didn’t I?’ ‘Yeah, you did. But how would Mae or her brothers get into your flat?’

Sasha looked away. ‘Lance had a key. I gave it to him so he could let himself in. We had this thing where – oh, this is really embarrassing – sometimes he would let himself in during the night and sneak into my room, get into bed with me and have *** with me, then slip out without saying anything. Don’t look at me like that. It was exciting.’

‘It sounds like he was using you, Sasha.’

She shook her head. ‘We were using each other.’

‘Please tell me you’ve changed the locks now.’

A great roar swept across from the other side of the pub. Someone had scored. Sasha said, ‘No.’

‘For God’s sake . . . why not?’

‘I was hoping to catch whoever it is. So I’d have some evidence. But I’m goin to change the locks tomorrow.’

‘What a nightmare,’ I said. I paused, then added, ‘I think Charlie’s right. You should look for a new job, make a clean break.’

She scowled. ‘Why should I be the one who suffers? That prick will probably be fucking another impressionable young woman in a year’s time.’

‘Sasha, you just told me you were using him too.’

She seemed to deflate, putting her head in her hands. ‘I know. You’re right. I just don’t want to leave that job. I love it too much.’

I gave up. It wasn’t my place to tell her what to do. But I could make sure she was safe. ‘You really have to get the locks changed tomorrow. Don’t walk around on your own. I guess the police won’t do anything unless they have evidence of a crime taking place, but I think you should talk to them, get it logged, just in case. OK?’

‘OK.’

She downed the dregs of her wine. ‘Will you walk me home?’

‘Yes, of course. I was going to insist on it.’

We ended up getting a taxi as I couldn’t face the long walk with my crutch. I was physically exhausted. When we got to the flat, I said, ‘Let me come in, just in case there’s anyone there.’

She nodded, her face etched with worry.

Inside the flat, she looked around, checking the book case, the fridge, the bedroom. ‘It all looks normal. I don’t think anyone’s been here.’ She took a bottle of wine off the rack. ‘Do you want another drink?’

‘I don’t know – I should get back.’ Sasha made an ‘under the thumb’ gesture.

‘It’s not like that,’ I said.

‘You’re not going to get rolling-pinned if you’re late?’

‘You’re hilarious.’

Sasha crossed to the window and looked out. She was visibly trembling.

‘Sasha, are you going to be all right? I’m really worried about you.’ I joined her by the window. The street was deserted, trees bending in the wind, litter swirling in the dark corners.

Her voice was quiet. ‘I’m worried. What if one of Mae’s brothers tries to get in during the night? Rapes me in my bed?

I can see it happening, the night before I actually get the locks changed.’

‘I’ll stay,’ I said. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

I wasn’t sure how Charlie would react to me staying over at Sasha’s. But Sasha was my best friend. There was no way I could leave her in this state. ‘I’ll stay here on the sofa. I’ll be your guard dog. Then tomorrow, we’ll call a locksmith, get this situation sorted, and talk to the police. All right?’

Her eyes were wet. ‘You’re a good friend, Andrew.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I know. I haven’t been much of a friend recently though, have I?’

She sat down on a beanbag in front of the TV. ‘I’ll make more of an effort with Charlie, I promise. I know how importan she is to you. And if I’m still going to be your friend, I’m going to have to get on with your missus, aren’t I?’

‘It would help. Thanks Sasha.’ I took out my phone. ‘Right, I’d better call Charlie, let her know what I’m doing.’

I looked over at the dry cleaning bag, which I’d left by the door. I didn’t think Charlie needed the suit tomorrow. Regardless, this was more important.

‘What’s that?’ Sasha asked.

‘Oh, just a suit of Charlie’s. I had it cleaned today.’

She laughed. ‘You’re turning into a good little house-husband, aren’t you?’

‘Sasha.’

‘Yes?’ ‘Fuck off.’

Sasha dug a blanket and spare pillow out of her airing cupboard and I lay on the sofa, uncomfortable but pretty drunk. Sasha and I had polished off a bottle of wine after we’d got back, then she’d ordered a delivery pizza and we’d spent the evening watching television, taking the piss out of reality TV contestants like we were students again, though our hearts weren’t in it. Every now and then, Sasha would get up and look out the front window, but there was never anything to see.

To my relief, Charlie had been cool about me staying over at Sasha’s, making a joke about how it was my loss, and I was pleased to have made things up with my best friend. The unspoken falling out had been stupid and I wouldn’t let it happen again.

I must have fallen into a drunken sleep after a long time fidgeting on the sofa. The next thing I knew, someone was hissing my name.

‘Andrew.’

I opened my eyes, groggy and confused. ‘What? What is it?’

‘I think someone just tried to get in.’

I sat up. Sasha was in a pair of fleece pyjamas, holding a bread knife.

‘What the hell are you doing with that?’ I asked.

She just looked at me with wild eyes. ‘Sasha, put it back. What happened?’

‘I put the chain on the door before I went to bed. I just heard it rattle. Someone was trying to get in.’
I pulled on my jeans and hobbled over to the front door. I wouldn’t be much use with my bad leg if I needed to chase someone. Or run away. The door seemed securely closed, the chain in place. I slid it back and opened the door, looking out into the hallway, which always smelled of some kind of meat stew.

‘Hello?’ I said, my voice echoing in the darkness. I stepped into the hall. ‘Don’t go out there,’ Sasha said,
peering through the doorway behind me. ‘It’s fine. There’s no one here.’

Sasha went back inside and I heard her pad over to the window. Then she shouted, ‘There!’

I rushed in, as fast as I could – which was frustratingly slowly – and found her pointing at the street.

‘Down there,’ she said, her voice squeaking. ‘I saw someone. They went behind that van.’

‘Call the police,’ I said. ‘But—’

‘Please, Sasha. Just do it.’

She went off to find her mobile in the bedroom. When she came back, her face was so pale it was almost transparent.

‘There was a new message on my phone,’ she said. ‘Like the ones I got before. But worse.’

She gulped.

‘What does it say?’ I asked, still looking at the street. I couldn’t see anybody out there. The wind was still blowing hard.

‘Take a look,’ Sasha said, handing me the phone.

There were two words on the screen, written in block capitals.

YOU’RE DEAD.

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 24

Neither Sasha nor I could get back to sleep after that. I sat on the sofa drinking weak coffee while she paced the room, staring out the window and checking the chain was on the door every two minutes. By the time the sun came up I was exhausted, had that post-red-eye flight feeling, scratchy eyes and fuzzy brain.

The text had been sent from a blocked number. A quick Google search showed us how easy this is to do: there are numerous apps that allow you to either create a fake number to send from or block the caller ID altogether.

As soon as it got light, Sasha called a locksmith, telling them it was an emergency, and they promised to arrive within the hour.

‘You need to call the police next,’ I said.

She chewed her lip. ‘I really don’t want to. What am I going to do, tell them I suspect the boss I had an affair with, or his wife? It’s going to cause so much shit. I’ll be humiliated. It will be the talk of the office and most people will think I deserve it. Oh God . . .’

I took her by the shoulders. ‘Sasha, you have to do it.’

‘OK, OK.’ She took a shuddering breath. She held the phone to her ear and dialled the police station, and I listened to her tell someone what had happened. ‘They’re going to send someone round a bit later.’

I tried to bite down on a yawn but she saw.

‘You look knackered. You should go home.’

‘No, I’ll stay and wait for the police to come.’

This time, I was unable to suppress the yawn. I was dizzy and my body was screaming at me to let it sleep.
‘No, honestly. You get back, get some kip. I’ll be fine. The locksmith will be here soon and then I’ll wait in for the police. You don’t need to be here for that.’

‘All right. If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ She gave me a hug. She was still trembling. ‘Thank you so much for staying the night. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

‘That’s what friends are for, Sash.’

I practically floated home. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this tired. It was about ten thirty when I let myself in the front door and entered my flat, dropping Charlie’s dry cleaning in the hallway and heading straight into the bedroom.

‘Jesus, you made me jump!’

Charlie was lying in my bed. As soon as I came in she sat up, in a move that reminded me of Nosferatu sitting upright in his coffin, a smooth elevation. And she looked like the living dead: her eyes were ringed with mascara smudges and streaks, her face white, her red hair sticking out at crazy angles, matted and stiff. She stared at me vacantly. She was wearing a pink camisole which looked like it had been scrunched up; there was a black stain on the front, like dried blood.

‘Charlie, are you all right? What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.’

She said something in such a low voice I couldn’t hear it.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, did you enjoy fucking her?’

I hadn’t really been paying much attention, had been too tired, too busy trying to take my shoes off. Now, though, my head snapped towards her.

‘What?’

Her face twisted with anger, lip curled into a sneer. ‘I’m not. Going to. Fucking repeat myself. Andrew.’
Ice water had replaced the blood in my veins. I sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to her and saying, ‘Charlie, why are you—’

She shrank away like a vampire from garlic. ‘Get away from me. You stink of her.’

I had never had to deal with a situation like this before. What was I supposed to do? Part of me, the very tired part, wanted to ignore her and curl up with the quilt over my head. But this was not a mild attack of jealousy. She was shaking, and all I wanted to do was hold her, reassure her, make her feel better. Get this sorted out. The other option – getting defensive, starting an argument and telling her not to be so fucking stupid – barely entered my mind.

‘Charlie, sweetheart, what are you talking about? I slept on her sofa. Actually, I barely even slept. Sasha—’

‘I you didn’t. You were too busy fucking her. How does she like it, huh? Is she really dirty? No, no, that’s not right. She’s far too repressed, probably only wants it in the missionary position. Is that what you like, Andrew? You don’t actually want a woman like me, someone who is free, a proper, hot-blooded woman. You want that stuck-up, rude, cheating little bitch, someone who will fuck her boss and then boo-hoo-hoo about it like she’s the fucking victim.’ The last word came out as a strangled yelp.

I had no words.

‘What?’ Charlie said. ‘Are you just going to stand there with your mouth gaping open like a fucking goldfish? Not going to defend your girlfriend?’

‘You’re my girlfriend,’ I said.

She spat out a laugh and pushed herself up onto her knees. That was when I noticed the knife on the pillow: my sharpest kitchen knife, black handle, the one Charlie so often used to chop vegetables. Some dark substance clung to the blade.

‘I’m your girlfriend. Yes, yes I am. So why – why? – do you spend the night with another woman? Answer me that.’

My voice, when it came out, sounded weak. ‘But I told you I was going to stay over. You said it was fine.’
She didn’t respond, just stared at me with a thunderous expression.

‘Sasha has been having loads of weird stuff going on and she wanted me to stay over, make sure she was safe. You knew that.’

She tipped her head to one side. ‘The knight in shining armour. Saving the poor little damsel in distress. Come on, tell me, how many times did you fuck her? What are her blow jobs like? Better than mine? What’s her cunt like, eh? Nice and fucking tight?’

‘Oh my God. Charlie. This is ridiculous. Come on, please.’

Her face was red with rage. She jabbed a finger at me but her voice was quieter. ‘You can tell her . . . tell your bitch, that if she wants you she’s got to get past me first. I’m not the kind of woman who’ll sit back and let another woman steal from her.’

Tears dripped from her cheeks and the flesh was mottled pink around her collarbone, the same flush she got when she was aroused. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol came off her, which led me to spot the two bottles of red wine, one on the bed, folded in the quilt, another tipped over on the floor, a stain like blood on the carpet.

She picked up the knife from the pillow. I was sitting sideways on the bed, my torso twisted towards her. I backed away, held my palms up towards her. ‘Charlie, put that down, please.’

She didn’t put it down. She pulled up the front of the camisole with her free hand, revealing two long slashes across her belly, one either side of her navel. They were shallow, more like scratches than cuts. She held the long blade of the knife against her stomach, across her belly button, and stared at me staring at her.

‘Oh my God.’ I moved towards her. ‘Don’t,’ she hissed.

‘Charlie. Please. I love you. I promise nothing happened. Nothing will ever happen between me and Sasha. Please, put the knife down. Don’t hurt yourself.’

She continued to stare at me.

‘I see Sasha like a sister. A friend. That’s all.’

I edged closer. Her arm was rigid, knuckles white where they gripped the knife handle. I reached out, terrified she would cut herself, a little part of me scared that she would lash out at me. She was silent, tears running down across her face, snot glistening in her nostrils, breathing audibly, deep, wet breaths.

My fingertips touched her arm. With all my might, I forced my hand not to shake.

‘Please, sweetheart,’ I whispered. My fingers closed around her forearm, and I felt her relax slightly. She let me gently pull her arm away, extricate the knife from her hand. I threw it across the room, where it skidded and spun beneath the chest of drawers.

I tugged the front of her camisole down and, shuffling towards her on my knees, pulled her into an embrace. Her body was rigid at first, but as I whispered to her and told her everything was going to be all right, she slowly relaxed. Finally, she hugged me back and started to sob.

We stayed like that for a long time before either of us spoke.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry, oh Andrew, I’m so—’

‘Sshhh. It’s OK, it’s OK.’

It was so quiet in the room that I could hear children playing in the grounds of the school three streets away, could make out the song on a radio playing somewhere else in the building.

Finally, Charlie pulled away from me and said, ‘Let me go to the bathroom.’

After she’d left the room I wandered into the living room. The TV was on and muted, the sink full of food, pasta splattered up the wall. A smashed glass lay on the floor.

The picture of me and Sasha on holiday had been taken down, removed from its frame, torn into strips and left on the carpet. I picked it up, shook my head. I could picture Charlie here during the night, drinking, going crazy, like a wild animal in a cage. I was amazed that she hadn’t bombarded me with calls or texts, hadn’t done so at all. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted me to know how she felt, had wrestled to control it, but finally lost the battle.

Charlie was taking ages in the bathroom and concern sent me into the bedroom to check she didn’t have the knife with her. I remembered it was under the chest of drawers and was bending to retrieve it when she came into the room behind me. I stood up and turned to meet her.

She had washed her face and pinned her hair up. Although she was still very pale, she looked a lot better, the mascara tears scrubbed away, her wild hair tamed. She wore a loose T-shirt and pyjamas bottoms. Her expression was sheepish.

‘Come here,’ I said, hugging her. My body felt alien, adrenaline draining, replaced by a profound tiredness. I guess I was in shock.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

We sat down together on the bed, holding hands.

‘I don’t want to make any excuses,’ she said. ‘I was fine when you told me you were staying over, at first. Then I started drinking, got quite drunk, and I looked up and saw the photo of you and Sasha and started to feel paranoid. I guess . . . I worked myself into a frenzy over the next few hours.’

‘How’s your stomach?’ I whispered.

She pulled up her T-shirt and looked down. The scratches were shallow.

‘Quite sore. But I’m too much of a wimp to really hurt myself.’

‘Have you . . . have you done that before?’ There were no scars on her body so I knew she had never self-harmed in that way.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘I promise you, Charlie, there is nothing between Sasha and me. I have no interest in any other women. I love you.’

‘I know. I’m an idiot.’

‘I’m so tired. Can we talk more later?’ ‘OK. I’m exhausted too. You won’t believe what happened—’

She held up a hand. ‘Later. Please.’ ‘All right.’

I undressed and slipped into bed beside her. We held each other. My brain was whirring, popping. The emotional storm echoed in the room, keeping us awake. Soon, we were kissing silently, and Charlie shrugged off her T-shirt and I ducked beneath the quilt and pulled off her PJ bottoms, and then we were making love, wordless, intense *** where we couldn’t get close enough to each other, though we tried, kissing hungrily, pressing our bodies together as hard as we could bear, arms and legs wrapped tight, like we were trying to melt into one another. A corporeal bliss touched every inch of my skin, buffed away the emotional pain. It was the best *** we’d ever had.

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 25

I awoke in the early afternoon, lay there for a while listening to the rain lashing against the window. Charlie was deeply asleep and I left her there, hair splayed across the pillow, while I spent the next hour clearing up the mess she’d made during the night. I binned the wine bottles, threw away, with a flare of sad anger, the ripped-up picture of Sasha and me. When I’d finished I peeked into the bedroom: Charlie was still asleep, the picture of tranquil innocence. She’d slept through my futile attempts to scrub away the wine stain on the bedroom carpet.

I made myself a coffee and sat at my desk. I checked my phone. Sasha’s locks were changed and the police had been round. She had to go to the station to make a statement. She ended her text with Thank you so much for last night. I don’t know I’d have coped without you. Love S xx

My thumb hovered over the text. Should I delete it? If Charlie saw it, i might cause another outbreak of jealous rage. I put the phone down. I couldn’t start hiding things, modifying my behaviour. The moment I did that, our relationship would be tainted. Doomed.

But what was I going to do? I had seen glimpses of Charlie’s jealousy before, like with the girl in the park, but this? This was something new. Something deeply disturbing.

A friend of mine called Belinda, whom Sasha and I had known at uni, had a jealous boyfriend. She told us about him after they finally split up, because she said she was too ashamed to tell anyone while it was going on. She said that if she ever spoke to another man, if she was late home from work, if she got a message or a text from any other young male, he would go mad.

‘He’d go quiet at first, which was when I knew what was brewing. Then he’d start asking snide questions, making sarcastic comments. Eventually, he’d get angry, start shouting, throwing things. He never hit me but he’d scream at me and threaten me and whoever it was he was convinced I was screwing. After that was over he’d be contrite, crying, telling me he was sorry, that he would get help. But he never did get help. It happened over and over again and every time I forgave him.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘I loved him. Because the rest of the time he was lovely. But it was always there, like a little . . . gremlin that lived in our flat, hiding, waiting to come out.’

I had shaken my head. ‘If that ever happened to me, I’d be out of there like a shot. There’s no way I’d put up with it.’

I looked towards the bedroom. It’s easy to feel certain of how you would act when you don’t have a real situation, real emotions, to deal with. I was shocked and upset by what Charlie had done, what she’d accused me of. I had a sickening vision of a future in which I could never relax, would repeatedly find myself in dramatic, disturbing scenes, a life where I could never accept the innocent offer of a lunchtime drink from a girl at work, never click ‘like’ on the picture of a woman I was friends with, eventually give in to the pressure to break contact with my female friends.

But when I pictured another future, one without Charlie in it, where I was alone again, the pain was even sharper. I was in love with her. Besotted. When we were together, the rest of my life felt sepia, dull, a black-and-white movie. The thought of losing her made me panic.

I hated to think of her suffering too. I wanted to make everything all right, make her happy. Perhaps, a little voice murmured, I had been in the wrong. I shouldn’t have spent the night at my friend’s flat, leaving Charlie here on her own, especially when we had been planning to talk about her moving in, when we were both expecting a fun evening together.

No, I told myself firmly. You are not in the wrong. You were being a friend to Sasha, that’s all. Charlie should understand that. And even if she was upset, she shouldn’t have reacted like that.

I knew that I was going to have to do something about this. Nip it in the bud.

I woke the computer from sleep and Googled ‘jealousy’. Unsurprisingly, the internet was awash with information. I quickly found an article about something called ‘morbid jealousy’, which is also known as the Othello syndrome, a suitably dramatic label. Morbid jealousy, I read, is where a person is convinced their partner is being unfaithful despite having no proof. They are delusional and become obsessed with the notion, torturing themselves and their other half.

The more I read, the more worried I became. The articles and Wiki pages were stuffed full of terms like ‘psychological illness’, ‘mental disorder’, ‘insecure attachment’ and ‘extreme obsession’. There were endless news reports of people – mostly men, which gave me some reassurance – who had become violent and attacked their partner because of perceived infidelity. Othello, if I remembered correctly, murdered his wife, but most sufferers of morbid jealousy kill nothing more than their relationship.

I read on. Apparently, for women, jealousy is more likely to be triggered by emotional infidelity than by sexual betrayal. I thought about Charlie’s rant about what she believed I’d done with Sasha. It had been intently focused on ***. But maybe, really, the attack was caused by me offering Sasha emotional support, my closeness to her similar, in Charlie’s mind, to a romantic attachment.

Charlie had, I was sure, a psychological issue, probably with its roots in something that happened in her childhood. She was so sketchy when it came to talking about her past that it seemed logical that there was something hidden in her past that she didn’t want to face; a history that was causing her to be jealous now.
Pleased with myself for finding a rational explanation, I sat back.

We would find Charlie a counsellor, a therapist. Someone who could help her get to the root cause of her jealousy. Then, I assured myself, everything would be all right.

I made coffee for Charlie and took it in to her, gently shaking her awake.

Her eyes were wild for a second before she focused on me.

‘What time is it?’ she asked as if she had somewhere she urgently needed to be. ‘It’s three o’clock.’ I handed her the coffee. Sitting up, she took a sip, grimaced and put it on the bedside table. ‘Listen, Charlie, I’ve been thinking, abou this morning.’

‘Oh God.’

‘I think that we should find you help. You know, like a counsellor or a therapist.’

She looked at me sharply. ‘I’m not crazy.’

I was aware that I was talking to her like I would a child who’d done something very naughty. I changed my tone. ‘I know you’re not. But jealousy . . . It must be rooted in some . . .’ I struggled to find the right words. ‘. . . self-esteem issue or insecurity.’

She groaned and pulled the quilt over her head.

Flummoxed, I said, ‘Charlie?’

‘Yes,’ she said eventually from beneath the quilt.

‘Will you please talk to me?’

She slowly pulled the quilt down to reveal her face. ‘Do we have to talk about this now? I feel like shit and I don’t want. . . I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Can’t we just forget it happened?’ She reached out and took my hand. ‘I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘That’s what Belinda’s bloke used to say.’ I wished I could remember his bloody name.

Charlie blinked. ‘Who?’

I explained about Belinda and her jealous boyfriend.

‘And you think that’s what I’m like? A jealous nutter?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t think you’re a nutter. But this morning, well, you scared me.’

She put her hands over her face. After a long pause she said, ‘Is it a condition of us staying together?’

‘What?’

‘If I don’t see a therapist, will you dump me?’ Her voice trembled on the last two words.

I was about to say no, to back down, but I stopped myself. I needed to be strong. ‘I think so. Yes. I don’t want anything to spoil what we have, Charlie.’

She stared at me with liquid eyes. ‘I don’t either. But this morning – it wasn’t me.’

‘You’ve never done that before? With anyone else?’

‘No. That’s why it got so out of control, I think, because I didn’t know how to cope with the feelings, with the
. . .’

‘The what?’

She sank back into the bed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

‘But we have to,’ I said.

‘No. No we don’t. It won’t happen again. That’s all you have to know.’

This was so frustrating. But I was coming to see this was typical of her, clamming up, refusing to talk about things she didn’t want to face. ‘I want you to see someone, Charlie. Please. For me Because morbid jealousy . . .’

‘Hang on,’ she interrupted. ‘Have you been Googling this? Trying to diagnose me?’

I didn’t reply.

‘Ha. You have. And you’re probably feeling pleased with yourself because Charlie has a problem and Andrew is going to fix it. Like I’m a leaky tap and the therapist is a plumber. You’re such a typical man.’ She pulled back the quilt and got out of bed, turning to face me, covering her breasts with a forearm. The scratches on her belly were red and livid.

‘Sometimes people act out of character. They get irrational. Do stupid things. That’s what this was. An aberration. But if you want me to see a therapist, fine. I’ll go. OK?’

She walked out of the room.

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 26

I walked out of the hospital, thankful that for the second time in just a few months I had been discharged from medical care. My leg was all better, though still a little stiff and sore, and I made a solemn vow to myself: no more accidents. I was going to be more careful from now on.

I was supposed to be meeting Charlie for lunch near Moorfields, but she’d texted me to say there was some kind of crisis going on at work. I didn’t want to go straight home so decided I would have lunch out by myself, but would first drop by Victor’s office to see what was going on there.

A week had passed since he had been arrested and I hadn’t heard anything. I guessed I was very low priority. With every day that went by I became more convinced that my career as a senior designer had ended before it had begun. I’d sent a number of emails and enquiries to rival agencies and a few other contacts, but everyone came back with the same response: sorry, but they didn’t need any work at the moment, maybe after Easter. . .

Charlie assured me things would be OK, that I didn’t need to find a job, and last night we had talked again about her moving in, a topic that I’d avoided since her jealous meltdown.

‘So, do you still want to come and live with me?’ I asked.

‘Hmm, it depends . . . Do you promise not to take me for granted?’

‘I could never do that, Charlie.’ ‘Not even in bed?’

‘I definitely won’t do that.’

She had smiled slyly. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Within a month, I’ll be in bed alone with an erotica novel and you’ll be staying up playing video games. Then you’ll get annoyed with me for rearranging the bookshelves and taking over the wardrobe. You’ll expect me to cook your dinner every night while you lounge around in a pair of stained underpants drinking beer.’

I laughed. ‘Hang on, I thought it was you who wanted to move in.’

‘I thought it was something we both wanted.’

‘Sorry. Yes. It is. I mean, I do want it.’ ‘It’s settled then.’ She looked around the living room. ‘I can’t wait to completely redecorate this place.’

‘Hey!’

I smiled now at the memory. Charlie was going away on a training course in a few days’ time and we had agreed she would move in when she got back from that. I felt excited and a little nervous. I had considered bringing up her jealousy again, to say that if I had to promise not to take her for granted, she needed to promise not to have any more jealous outbursts. But she had made an appointment with a therapist and I had decided to leave it at that, to carry on as normal and deal with if it happened again. The therapist was a woman called Dr Branson, whose practice was based in Islington, not too far from Moorfields. ‘It’s costing a fucking fortune,’ Charlie said when she told me about making the first appointment.

‘I’ll contribute.’

‘No. You haven’t got any money. And it’s my problem, isn’t it? I still think it’s unnecessary, but I love you so I’ll do it.’

I was buzzed into Victor’s building and took the lift up. The offices were quiet, most of the staff sitting with headphones on, gazing at their screens. Among them was Amber. I approached her desk.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘No crutch? ’

‘No, I’m all better. Do you know if Emma is around?’ I asked.

She sighed heavily. ‘I think she’s at a meeting, trying to persuade the client that just because the head honcho has been accused of being a paedophile, it doesn’t mean they should cancel their contract.’

‘Not Wowcom?’

‘I don’t think so. Though they’ve been in, going on about their brand image.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘They’re all bastards.

What happened to innocent till proven guilty, eh?’

‘Do you know what’s going on with Victor?’

‘You haven’t heard anything from him? He’s been released on police bail but he’s hiding out at home. He said he can’t face seeing anyone at the moment. Plus his wife doesn’t want him to leave the house.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘Yeah. He swears blind that he’s innocent, that this web page is a total fabrication. He said no one ever contacted him making out they were a twelve-year-old girl, that he definitely wouldn’t have responded if they had, and he has no idea how the porn got onto his computer.’

‘Hang on – porn?’

She leaned forward. ‘They found loads of kiddie porn on his work machine, apparently. Really sickening stuff. That’s what they’re doing him for, because the people who set up the website are remaining anonymous and they haven’t provided any proof. Victor is arguing that loads of people could have got onto his computer. The cleaners, anyone who works here. He reckons it might even have been done remotely, though I don’t know if that’s possible.’

She looked at me hopefully. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Hmm. Well, anyway, I hope it all gets sorted out quickly because it feels like we’re living under a black cloud. The trial is months away though.’

I left the office feeling even more worried about money than before. I stood outside and tapped out an email to Emma on my phone, but it seemed to me that if they were so worried about losing business they would be reluctant to take anyone new on. The chances of starting my new job receded with every day that Victor was off work. If Emma didn’t reply with good news, I was heading towards deep financial trouble. Even with Charlie moving in, I still needed a regular income. I didn’t want to become dependent on her, to become a kept man. The thought was anathema to me.

Sure enough, Emma replied almost straight away.

Sorry Andrew. We have a freeze on new hires at the moment, while this mess is sorted out. But we’ll be in touch as soon as we know more . . .

If I’d still been carrying my crutch I would have chucked it at something.

My blood sugar was low and I needed to eat something. I walked down Old Stree towards Hoxton, deep in thought. With the freelance situation looking gloomy, I was going to have to find a job. As I was mulling over what to do, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. It was Sasha.

The police have been to see Lance. He denies everything. X

I replied: He would. Do they have any way of tracing that text? X No. Can’t trace blocked numbers. Also, he had an alibi so says he couldn’t have come to my flat that night. But his alibi is Mae! Police say nothing more they can do at mo esp as nothing has happened since. X

I went into a cafe – a kind of ironic greasy spoon – and got my laptop out, connecting to the wifi. As the waitress brought me my all-day breakfast, I started working on my CV, using a template I found online. I had decided: I didn’t want to be a freelancer any more. I was tired of being on my own all day every day. I wanted to meet new people. As this thought entered my head, it was chased by another: Charlie wouldn’t like it. It almost made me change my mind back immediately, to stay working freelance. I didn’t want to upset her . . . But then I asked myself what the hell I was thinking? I couldn’t modify my behaviour, go against my own needs like that. I wanted a job and I was going to find one.

As I worked on the CV, I felt eyes on me. I looked up and a guy across the cafe looked away quickly. He was younger than me, with a little beard, and was wearing a black beanie hat. There was an iPad on the table in front of him which he now appeared absorbed in.

I returned to my CV and my online portfolio, trying to pick out my best pieces of work so I could link to them from the CV. After about ten minutes, I became aware that the guy in the beanie hat was looking over at me again. As I turned my face towards him he ducked his head so fast it must have hurt his neck.

I hesitated. Who was he? I tried to catch his eye but he swiftly packed up his stuff, almost knocking his chair over in his haste to get out, paying his bill at the counter on the way out.

I stood up, craning to see which way he had gone, but he crossed the road and vanished. I was tempted to go after him, but he’d be long gone by the time I’d paid and got outside. Besides, maybe he was simply interested in my computer.

By the time I’d finished messing around with my CV and was ready to leave, I’d put the incident from my mind.

Heading home, I realised I wasn’t too far from Karen’s place. She still hadn’t told me if she was happy with my work, which meant I still couldn’t invoice her. She wasn’t answering her phone either. I couldn’t afford to let it go, especially not now. I stood on the street for a moment before deciding I would go to see her. It would be embarrassing, but what the hell. I needed the money.

I jumped onto a bus and, fifteen minutes later, found myself standing outside Karen’s place. She lived in a beautiful Georgian conversion on a ludicrously expensive street. The first time I’d visited I’d told myself that, one day, I would live in a place like this. She could certainly afford to pay me my £500. I rang the buzzer. There was no reply. I sighed. She was most likely out, seeing a client, shopping, lunching or whatever it was she did with her days. Five hundred pounds was nothing to her. Why was she taking so long to pay up? Most likely she couldn’t imagine why anyone would make such a fuss about what to her was a trivial amount. Well, I was going to set her straight. I’d wait here all day if I had to. . .

I pulled the brakes on my train of thought. What was wrong with me? This issue with the money was making me resentful and angry. But I had warm memories of my time with Karen, liked her and respected her. I didn’t need to be an arsehole about what was almost certainly an oversight. I’d call her when I got home, let her know that it would be extremely helpful if she could pay the invoice without any more delay.

As I turned to leave, an elderly man wearing a cravat came out of the front door. He had a small black and white terrier on a lead, and the dog nearly sent me flying as it jumped up at me.

‘Sorry about that,’ said the man, squinting at me like he recognised me. Maybe he did. I’d been a frequent visitor here once. ‘Were you looking for someone?’ he asked. The dog was sniffing my leg furiously and I wished he’d pull it away.

‘Yes. Karen in flat 3?’

His face creased with pain. ‘Oh dear. Are you a friend?’

I felt my blood drain. ‘Yes. I’ve been trying to get hold of her but she never answers her phone.’

He looked up and down the road, as if searching for help.

‘Perhaps you’d better come inside.’ To the dog, he said, ‘Come on, Dickens.’

He dragged the terrier back inside the building, with me following. My stomach fluttered, the kind of feeling you get when a doctor pauses before giving you the prognosis.

‘I’m Harold, by the way,’ he said, opening the door of the ground floor flat, which was stuffed full of antiques and objets d’art, statues and African masks, so many books crammed into the bookcases I was surprised the floorboards could hold them. He gestured for me to sit in an armchair that almost swallowed me.

‘I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this,’ he said. ‘Were you very close?’

‘We used to be,’ I replied.

He exhaled noisily. ‘Would you like a drink? Scotch? Malt whisky?’

Normally, I would have said no – I wasn’t a big drinker of spirits and it was only two o’clock – but I understood that he was telling me I might need one. He got up and poured Scotch into two large tumblers. I took a sip. It burned and I coughed.

Harold stared at me with his milky eyes while the dog sat at his feet.

‘So . . . Karen?’ I said.

He ignored me. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Andrew.’

I didn’t like the way he was suddenly looking at me.

‘There’s something following you, Andrew,’ he said in a hushed voice, leaning forward. I leant back. On the wall behind him was a canvas with a disturbing image: a woman with no eyes in her face, reaching out while flames danced around her. I looked at the nearest bookshelf: fat tomes with titles like English Magick: The Dark Art and The Life and Eternal Death of Aleister Crowley stood out. ‘Following me?’ I said.

His earlier smile had vanished. ‘Something has attached itself to you. A. . . a dark spirit. It’s hiding – or trying to hide.’ He peered closer, and I looked behind me to see what he was staring at, half-expecting to see a demon, crouched and giggling behind its wing, on the back of the chair.

‘You won’t be able to see it, Andrew.

But it’s there.’ He gasped.

This was extremely unnerving.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Have you suffered a lot of . . . bad luck recently?’

I hesitated. ‘I’ve had some.’

‘I thought as much. It’s a mischief maker, this spirit. It likes to create chaos.’ He narrowed his eyes and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s dangerous, Andrew. But I could help you rid yourself of it. Perhaps.’
My flesh was coarse with goose bumps. ‘No offence, but you’re giving me the creeps.’

He smiled. ‘You’re a sceptic. Most people are, unfortunately. But when it’s too late, then you’ll believe.’

I stood up, setting the Scotch aside. I couldn’t wait to tell Charlie about this later. She would laugh at my description of the old man and his portentous warnings. ‘Can you tell me about Karen? Where is she?’

He frowned and said, ‘Oh dear’ again. ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Andrew. But she’s dead. She died some days ago.’

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 27

Trains clattered in and out of Victoria station, lovers kissed goodbye, mothers tilted buggies into carriages, commuters headed home, pigeons fluttered and crapped, cleaners cleaned, guards guarded, bodies streamed and jostled and shoved. And among it all, I stood as still as death, fixed in place while the entire world – or so it felt – jostled past me, and I half-listened to the eardrum-pounding announcements: I am sorry . . . Due to an accident . . . The 17:45 to Orpington is currently delayed . . . A person being killed on the tracks.

I had called Charlie, who told me she was going to have to work late, wouldn’t be back till after eight at the earliest. I tried Sasha. She wasn’t answering. But needed to talk to someone. If I didn’t see a friendly face I might be driven crazy by the voices in my head. Tilly. I would go to see Tilly. It would get me out of London too, if only for an evening. The news of Karen’s death had sent me spinning. In my head: a clamour of voices, swirling question marks, sparking connections. I couldn’t process it all, couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even make sense of the displays and the announcements at the station, getting in everyone’s way as they tutted and pushed me. If you want to know what it would be like if civilisation broke down, go to a train station in London at rush hour, where it’s every man for himself, every woman too. The state I was in now, I would be one of the first to perish in a dog-eat-dog world. One of the first to die.

A dark spirit has attached itself to you.

Harold Franklin, Spiritualist – tha was the job title on the business card he pressed into my palm when he saw me out – didn’t know how Karen had died.

‘It was all very mysterious,’ he said, trying to conceal how he relished the intrigue of it. ‘An ambulance turned up in the middle of the night. Next thing, they’re carrying her out . . . Two days later, her sister is here, cleaning out the fridge and no doubt helping herself to anything she fancied. All she told me was that Karen was dead. Such a pity. She was a beauty, wasn’t she?’

‘Can’t the spirits tell you what happened?’ I asked.

His face darkened. ‘There’s no need to take that attitude, young man.’ And with that, he ushered me out.
Somehow, I made it onto an Eastbourne-bound train, crammed in by the luggage racks. All the way to the coast, I kept picturing Karen the last time I’d seen her. She hadn’t looked well. Certainly not the vital, sexy woman I’d once known, the woman with a zest for life and a don’t-give-a-shit attitude. She had once told me that the most important lesson she’d learned in life was a simple one. ‘It’s short. Much too short. And I intend to make the most of every minute of it.’

She hadn’t realised how brief her own life would be. Karen was, what? Forty- one, I think. She should have been halfway through her time on this planet; not even that. What the hell had taken her away? How had it happened?

The train sped south, and questions ricocheted around my skull, almost making connections. Almost.

‘What are you doing here?’ ‘That’s a nice greeting, sis.’

Tilly looked up at me from her wheelchair. ‘Sorry, it’s just . . . I haven’t seen you for ages. Has something happened? Is Charlie OK?’

‘She’s fine. She’s at work. Can I come in?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

I followed her into the living room. The smell of perfume hung in the air, threatening to make me sneeze. I looked at Tilly properly. She was dressed up, wearing a pair of black trousers and a tight top, her hair curled and voluminous.

‘Oh shit, are you going out? Have you got a date?’

Tilly laughed. ‘I am going out, yes. You should have called. But it’s not a date. I’m going out with Rachel and her bloke.’

‘The Hells Angel?’

She grinned. ‘Yes! The very same. His name’s Henry. But they’re not real Hells Angels. It’s just a motorcycle club.’

‘Oh, yes, you told me that, I think.’ ‘He’s actually very nice.’ She appraised what I was wearing. ‘You’re a bit scruffy but I’m guessing Henry won’t be wearing a suit. You’ll be fine.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You can come with us. I was worried about being a gooseberry. I’m so glad you’ve come to rescue me.’

A horn sounded outside and Tilly said, ‘That’ll be them. Come on.’

‘But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘You can tell me over dinner. Unless it’s something private.’

‘Well . . .’

She looked at me seriously. ‘It’s not. . . your old problem, is it?’

I shook my head quickly. ‘No. I’m fine.’

This wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. Not now, not ever. My sister knew this and I was irritated with her for even alluding to it.

‘OK. So maybe . . .’ I saw the face she always pulled when she was about to say something rude.

‘No,’ I said, cutting her off. ‘I’m not suffering from any sexual problems, I haven’t got an STI, Charlie’s no pregnant.’

‘Oh. I was going to ask if you were going to tell me you’ve proposed to Charlie. She told me that you’re moving in together.’

I stared at her. ‘You’re in touch with Charlie?’

‘Oh yes. She friended me on Facebook. We chat all the time. She’s hilarious. And she’s mad about you. Actually, she must be mad, if she loves you as much as she seems to. She talks about you like you’re some dragon-slaying hero, a cross between Brad Pitt, Mr Darcy and Nelson Mandela.’

‘But . . . Charlie’s not on Facebook,’ I said.

‘Yes she is.’ From outside, Rachel and Henry beeped their car horn again. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go.’

Sitting in the back of Rachel’s converted MPV, I made small talk with Henry, who was a giant of a man, barely able to fit inside the huge vehicle. I was slightly disappointed that he wasn’t wearing a bandanna or a leather jacket. Instead, he wore a checked shirt that looked like it was going to pop open at any minute. He was like the Incredible Hulk with white skin and a ginger beard. When he laughed, which he did frequently, the car shook.

‘Do you normally ride a Harley?’ I asked. ‘Rachel took me on the back of hers. It was terrifying.’ Although, really, I had found it exciting, exhilarating even.

‘I’ll have to take you for a ride sometime – if you think Rachel rides fast. . .’ His laughter boomed and reverberated around the people carrier and he squeezed Rachel’s knee.

‘Not when I’m driving,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the road.

He smiled at her but Rachel’s expression remained unamused. Henry gave me a look that said ‘Women, huh?’ before turning back to the front. I wondered if they would argue about it later, if he would be annoyed that she publically rejected him, if he would see it like that.

I looked back at Tilly.

‘Why would Charlie tell me she wasn’t on Facebook?’

She didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t want you stalking her on there. Watching what she’s up to.’

‘She probably wants to avoid that whole “in a relationship” dilemma,’ Henry said.

I mulled this over. ‘I can understand that she might have felt like that at first.

And if she said she didn’t want us to be friends on Facebook because it’s a bit naff or awkward or whatever, that would be cool. But I’m surprised she lied to me about it.’

‘Ah, it’s only a white lie,’ Tilly said.

I got my phone out, went to my Facebook app and found Tilly’s account. Scrolling through her friend list I found Charlie, using her unshortened name, Charlotte. I tried to look at her wall but I was completely blocked from seeing her posts. I felt genuinely hurt that she’d lied to me about it.
‘She never lets me go to her flat, either,’ I said, almost to myself. ‘I feel really worried now. What’s she hiding?’

Henry snorted. ‘Maybe she’s leading a secret life. She’s probably married, with kids. You’re her dirty secret.’
‘Oh yes, you hear about things like that, don’t you?’ Rachel said, pulling in to the car park of the country pub where we were having dinner.

The three of them laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. But this, piled on top of Karen’s death – and everything else – made me feel cold and nauseated.
Before we got out of the MPV I sen Charlie a friend request. I wanted to see what she’d do.

I wasn’t hungry, and picked at my food while the other three laughed and joked. Henry really was a nice bloke, a bit gruff and rude, but funny. Rachel talked to him like he was a naughty child, a role he played with relish. Tilly seemed in excellent spirits too, much better than she had at the turn of the year. I hadn’t seen her so happy for a long time. It turned out she’d found out today that she was being promoted at work and getting a decent pay rise.

‘What’s up, bruv?’ she asked, eyeing the way I was picking at my food. ‘You’re not really worried that Charlie has a secret husband, are you? There’s no sign of one on Facebook. Not that you’d know.’

They all started laughing and I said, ‘Karen died.’

The laughter stopped.

‘Karen?’ Tilly said. ‘What, that older woman you had a thing with?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh my God, what happened?’

‘I don’t know. I saw her a few weeks ago. I did some work for her. I went round there today because she owed me for the work, and her neighbour told me she was dead. He didn’t know what caused it.’ I rubbed my arms. ‘He also told me some really spooky shit about a dark spirit following me around, causing all my bad luck.’

Henry gave me a serious look. ‘A dark spirit? Really?’

‘Don’t tell me you believe in all that stuff,’ I said.

‘Yeah, I do. Spirits are real. My mum’s a clairvoyant. She talks to them all the time.’

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. The three of them – and everyone around our table – stared at me as I doubled over, tears streaming, my stomach convulsing at the image of Henry’s mum, who I pictured as a middle-aged female biker, chatting with ghosts in her kitchen.

Seamlessly, the laughter turned into tears, and instead of laughing, I was weeping, my face in my hands, body shaking, and I felt a broad arm around my shoulders and could feel all the eyes that had been staring at me turning away.

‘Come on, mate,’ Henry said. ‘Let’s go and get some air, eh?’

‘No, it’s fine. I’m just going—’

I dashed off to the gents and locked myself in a cubicle, sitting on the closed toilet lid, letting the last of the tears come. When I’d finished, I blew my nose, lef the cubicle and washed my face.

I rejoined the others at the table.

‘Are you OK?’ Tilly asked, a concerned expression on her face.

‘Yeah. I’m good. I just – I don’t know. It’s not just Karen. So much stuff has happened recently. I think it all just hit me at once.’

‘What else has happened?’ Tilly asked. ‘Apart from your accident.’

‘Accident?’ Henry asked.

I told them everything. Falling – or being pushed – down the steps at the Tube station. My new job being scuppered when Victor was arrested for being a paedophile. The weird stuff with Sasha and Lance and the ‘You’re Dead’ text. How I was sure I’d been followed, as had Charlie, and the guy staring at me in the cafe that afternoon. Charlie losing the bag of mementoes.

‘Even my cleaner,’ I said, remembering. ‘She was attacked in the street – someone threw acid in her face.’ ‘What, the really pretty one you told me about?’ Tilly said.

‘Yes. Now this, with Karen.’

Henry had been watching me solemnly through the whole tale. Now he nodded. ‘It sounds like that neighbour was right. Something has attached itself to you.’

‘Henry,’ I said. ‘With all due respect, that’s bullshit. I really don’t believe in all that stuff.’

‘Then how else do you explain it?’ he asked, pointing at me with his fork.

‘It’s just bad luck.’

Tilly seemed far less bright than she had before my laughing-crying fit. ‘That’s a lot of bad luck, Andrew, for one person.’

‘Maybe. But I’ve always had bad luck Right back to Mum and Dad . . . And my detached retina last year.’

‘Perhaps it’s a curse,’ Henry said seriously. ‘You haven’t crossed any gypsies, have you?’

I spluttered. ‘Please. You’ll set me off again.’

The waiter brought the dessert menu to the table. I didn’t want anything. All I wanted was to get drunk, and I downed my third large glass of red wine.

‘So,’ Henry said, after he’d ordered key lime pie with cream and ice cream. ‘All this stuff that’s happened – is it since you’ve met your bird? This Charlie chick.’

‘You think she might have something to do with it?’ Rachel said to Henry. As our designated driver, she was stone-cold sober.

He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I don’t know the girl. But it seems like a lot of this stuff has happened since Andrew met her.’ He addressed me. ‘If you don’t believe in spirits and curses, there are only two possible reasons: one is sheer chance, or bad luck as you say. The other is that someone is behind it.’

‘That’s even more ridiculous than blaming a gypsy curse or an evil spirit,’ I said.

But even as I said the words, I fel something crawl beneath my skin, an itch in my head, like the questions that had darted around my head since I’d heard about Karen’s death were trying to connect, to knit together.

Henry took a big mouthful of lager, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, maybe. It does seem pretty crazy, doesn’t it? I mean, the amount of planning, the level of obsession required to do all the stuff you list . . . Fuck, you’d have to be some kind of maniac. Clever too.’

‘And why would she do it?’ Rachel said.

Henry’s dessert came and he shovelled it in, thinking while he chewed. ‘I don’t know. Because she wants him all for herself? Look at the people who’ve been affected: a woman he used to shag, his best friend who happens to be female, a cleaner who was apparently a real fittie before she got acid chucked in her face. Then two things have happened to stop Andrew starting his new job, where he’d be working with other women. A bag full of pictures of all his exes goes conveniently lost. Fuck, the more I think about it, the more likely it seems!’

A cold, clammy sweat had broken out across my body. I stared at Henry. He didn’t even know about the other stuff: Harriet being burgled and presents I’d given her stolen; my female friends vanishing from Facebook; my book containing nude photos going missing.

‘Is she the jealous type, this Charlie?’ Henry asked.

Before I could make my mouth work – and I was going to lie, say no, because I didn’t want to tell them – Tilly banged the table and said, ‘For fuck’s sake, this is insane!’

We all looked at her.

‘Charlie’s lovely. She’s sweet and funny and cool and she’s completely besotted with you, Andrew. To say she could be responsible for all the stuff that’s happened to you – all this random, unconnected stuff – it’s bullshit, like the ramblings of an insane conspiracy theorist. What are you going to say next, that she somehow caused your retina to detach last year?’

I shook my head weakly in the face of Tilly’s fury.

‘It’s bad luck, that’s all. The world throwing shit at you. That’s what happens in life. We had a huge pile of shit thrown at us when we were kids, killing our parents and landing me in this fucking wheelchair. And now life’s chucking crap at lots of people you know. I mean, fuck, it’s actually pretty egocentric to think it’s all down to you. The only thing that’s happened to you directly is that you slipped down some icy steps and, from what you’ve told me, Charlie was there afterwards to look after you.’ She was red in the face. ‘My God, if Charlie could hear all of this. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

I think I must have been red in the face too, but from embarrassment, not anger.

‘Well,’ said Henry, puncturing the silence that followed, moments after swallowing the last piece of pie. ‘That told us.’

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 28

‘Where have you been?’

Charlie was waiting for me when I got home, curled up on the sofa, the TV on with the volume muted. She sounded like she was trying hard to keep her voice even.

I was drunk, hardly able to walk in a straight line, especially with my sore leg. All I wanted to do was go to bed and not think or talk about anything. So my voice came out harsher than I intended. ‘I was with my sister. Didn’t you get my text?’

‘No. I’ve been trying to call you all evening. I was worried sick.’

I examined my phone. The text I’d sen Charlie had an exclamation mark beside it, meaning it hadn’t sent.
‘Twenty-three missed calls?’ I said. ‘That’s a bit fucking excessive, isn’t it? I’m going to bed.’

She stared at me with wide eyes, as silent as the TV.

A while later, I felt her crawl into bed beside me, then put her arm around me, nestling against my naked back. She stroked my chest, moved her hand down to my belly, but when I didn’t respond she gave up and soon the pattern of her breathing changed.

Even though I was drunk and exhausted, I couldn’t sleep, was unable to get the conversation with Tilly, Rachel and Henry out of my head. I had decided, perhaps because it was what I wanted to believe, that Tilly was right. To blame Charlie for all the weird stuff that had happened lately was like embracing a crazy conspiracy theory. Everything had a logical explanation. Charlie hadn’t been anywhere near me when I’d slipped down the steps. Sasha’s problems were almost certainly down to her affair with Lance. Kristi had either been targeted by a random nutter or attacked by a spurned boyfriend. None of it could be connected.
I felt terrible. I had been horrible to Charlie when I’d got home. She didn’ deserve it. I wriggled around, put my arms round her and kissed her. She stirred and I whispered that I loved her. Her lips twitched into a smile and pretty soon I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke early and made Charlie breakfast, taking it to her in bed. Scrambled eggs on toast, coffee, a note telling her how much I loved her.

‘What’s all this for?’ she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

‘I was a dickhead last night. This is my attempt at saying sorry.’

‘It’s OK. But you should have let me know where you were.’

‘I know. I didn’t realise my text didn’t send.’

‘All right. But I was worried. And wanted to see you. You know I’m going away on my course today?’

I frowned. The course was in Newcastle and I wouldn’t see her for four days. But when she got back, she’d be moving in.

‘I’ll sort the flat out while you’re away,’ I said. ‘Make room for your stuff.’ She gave me her sweetest smile. ‘I can’t wait. But you don’t have to. I don’t have much stuff. A lot of it is here already.’

As she ate her breakfast, I told her about my visit to Victor’s office and about Karen, which made her gasp. I told her about the old man, too, but left out the part about the dark spirit. I would tell her another time, when I was able to turn it into a joke. I had thought I’d be able to do that already, but as I opened my mouth to talk about it I went cold and the joke died in my throat.

‘Oh, how did the session go with the therapist?’ I asked. The first one had been the evening before.

‘It was fine.’ She paused. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s private. But I think it’s going to help. Actually, I think it’s helping already. Like, last night. . . I didn’t accuse you of being with another woman, did I?’

‘No.’

She was quiet for a moment. ‘You weren’t, were you?’

‘Of course—’

‘I’m joking, Andrew. And by the way, I got your Facebook friend request.’

‘I was going to ask you about that.’ ‘I’m really sorry. It’s just that I knew that you would want us to be friends on there if you knew I had an account, but I think it’s silly. I mean, why do we have to communicate online when we can do it in the flesh? I know couples who talk to each other more on Facebook than they do verbally. It’s stupid. I don’t want us to be like that. I want our relationship to be special. Does that make sense?’

‘I think so. Charlie . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘You haven’t ever . . . been on my Facebook account on my computer . . .’

She interrupted. ‘No, of course not. What are you talking about?’ ‘Nothing. Just being an idiot.’

The women who unfriended me on Facebook must have done it themselves. Maybe they were tired of reading about my new girlfriend and my leg injury. I had been pretty boring on there recently, I had to admit.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ I said a bit later, as she stood in the doorway with her little suitcase.
We hugged and kissed. I had tears in my eyes.

‘It’s only a few days, silly,’ she said. ‘I know.’

‘And when I get back—’ ‘We’ll be living together.’

She kissed me and ran her hand over my chest. ‘How am I going to get through four days without your body?’

‘I don’t want you to go, Charlie.’

She laughed. ‘Oh God, look at us Lovesick before we’ve even parted.’ She gave me the naughty look I liked so much. ‘But our reunion will be fun.’

I went downstairs with her and waved her off. I watched her walk along the road, her black coat flapping about her, red hair whipped by the breeze. She turned and blew me a kiss. She was lovely. How could I ever have doubted her?

My mobile rang as I was going up the stairs.

‘All right, mate?’

‘Victor!’ I was lost for words temporarily. ‘How are you?’

He made a familiar groaning noise. ‘A lot fucking better than I have been. I’m in Brixton at the moment. That’s near you, isn’t it? Fancy meeting for a coffee? Oh, and by the way, I’m not a fucking paedophile.’

We met at a coffee shop in the market and as I approached the table Victor stood and gave me a bear hug. His eyes were moist and he smelled of cigarette smoke.

‘You OK?’ I asked. I had never known him to be tactile before and was sure he didn’t smoke.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Do I smell of fags?’

I nodded.

‘I need to quit again. You know, I hadn’t even thought about smoking for ten years. Then as soon as all this shit kicked off, the only way I could get through it was by chain smoking.’ He drummed his fingers on the big wooden table. He was all nervous energy, twitches and tics. ‘I got a call from the police this morning. They’re dropping all charges.’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant.’

‘Isn’t it? Though they shouldn’t have charged me in the first place. I mean, me, a paedo! I’m the kind of bloke who thinks people like that should be strung up by their bollocks in public. The thought of it. . . Jesus.’

‘So – what happened?’

He blew on his coffee. ‘The police don’t know who’s behind it, but someone set that site up to stitch me up. This whole thing about me going to meet a young girl. . . I’ll tell you what happened.’

I waited while he pulled the words together in his head.

‘So, a few days before this all kicked off, I had this weird friend request on Facebook. Someone called Sarah Smith Middle-aged, quite attractive, same age as me. I thought it must be some old classmate I don’t remember and accepted it. Didn’t think nothing of it.

‘Then I started getting messages from her, saying I looked really fit in my pictures.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘So I made the mistake of responding, didn’t I? Flirting. I mean, I thought it was just a bi of harmless fun. I wasn’t going to do anything.’ He sighed. ‘Then she suggested meeting up and I said yes.’ He pulled a face. ‘That’s the bit my missus is upset about. But I really wasn’t intending to do anything. I was just, I don’t know, curious.’

He fiddled with a cigarette packet as he spoke, turning it over and round in his hands, picking at the edges, the gruesome image of a man with a throat tumour rotating in front of my eyes.

‘Except she didn’t turn up, which to be honest was a massive relief. I went home and the next day the police turn up and show me that website. They’ve got all these screenshots from Facebook—’

‘I’ve seen it,’ I said.

‘I thought you might have. But the screenshots were Photoshopped and Sarah Smith’s profile was changed to that of a twelve-year-old girl. Same profile but new photo, new age, new everything. And there were photos of me at the meeting point, lurking about looking shifty. Someone must have been taking pictures of me with a long-lens camera.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, the police tracked down the IP address of this Sarah Smith who was obviously a made-up person, to an internet cafe here in Brixton. No CCTV or anything, though, not that the police are really that interested.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

He nodded. ‘I wanted to check the place out. See if I saw anyone I recognised. But no joy, just a load of students.’

‘What about the images on your computer?’

He rubbed his face. ‘Christ. The police showed me the pictures. I’m never going to get over it, mate. Little kids . . . Actually, I can’t even talk about it. Heartbreaking stuff. The kind of stuff that makes you want to seriously hurt the people responsible.’

‘I don’t even want to imagine it.’

‘Vile stuff. Anyway, the police accept that they have no evidence that it was me who downloaded the pictures. Loads of people have access to my computer – the cleaners, the IT department. Plus we had a break-in a few days before this all happened. I didn’t report it because nothing got nicked and I didn’t want the hassle. So the police thought I was lying at first.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, my lawyer was able to persuade them they didn’t have a leg to stand on and they’ve finally dropped the case.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘Too right. Come on, let’s go outside. I need one of these.’

We stood outside in the cold and he lit up. ‘I’ll quit soon. Maybe I should try one of those e-cigarettes. Anyway, there are two things I need to talk to you about. The first one is the job. I’m really sorry, mate, but business is pretty bad at the moment. Emma and the others did their best while I was away but there are a lot of twats out there who decided they didn’t want to do business with us anymore. Now I’ve been cleared I’m hoping they’ll come crawling back. But in the meantime, I can’t afford to take anyone on. I feel crap about it, but. . .’

‘It’s fine.’ I tried not to show my disappointment. ‘I’m just happy the mess is being sorted. What was the second thing?’

He blew out smoke and squinted at me. ‘Have you . . . heard about Karen?’

I stared at the ground. ‘Yes. Awful. Do you know how it happened?’

‘It was a heroin overdose.’ ‘What?’

‘Yeah. I heard from her sister, Violet, who’s a friend of the missus. They had the coroner’s report yesterday. Heroin. I can’t believe Karen was into that shit.’

I couldn’t either. ‘She wasn’t into drugs when I was with her. The odd spliff. We took E together once because she’d heard it was meant to be an amazing experience. But heroin?’

‘I know. I spoke to her a few weeks ago, just before all this paedo crap happened. God, that seems like a long time ago now. We mainly talked about me but I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think if she seemed different in any way. Like I’d be able to tell. Most drug users function pretty normally, especially early on.’ He tutted. ‘We talked about you a **** She told me she was really happy with the work you did for her, in the end anyway.

She thought it was a bit weird though.’

I hadn’t been listening properly, because I’d been remembering the phantom text I’d received from her the night I’d taken the sleeping pills, asking me to call her. The text that I was sure I’d hallucinated. I snapped out of my reverie. ‘What was weird?’

‘You. Sending your girlfriend round there to get your money.’

It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘What?’

‘Karen said that you sent your bird round to see her, to have a go at her about making you do all that work again. She was really surprised, thought you’d turned into a right wanker. Karen said your bird said something about how no one could get away with trying to take advantage of you anymore. Hey, are you all right, mate? You look like you’re about to have a funny turn.’

I sat down. All I could think about was what Charlie had said the night Sasha had come round for dinner. If you wanted to murder someone, the best way to do it would be to make it look like a drug overdose.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I said.

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 29

Victor took me back to my flat in a taxi and escorted me up the stairs, huffing and puffing behind me and exclaiming loudly about how someone ‘should put a fucking lift it here.’

Sat down at the table with a cup of tea – three sugars – in front of me, Victor said, ‘Fucking hell, Andrew, talk about an attack of the vapours. I thought I was going to have to carry you to the cab.’

‘It’s the hangover,’ I said. ‘Low blood sugar.’ I sipped the hot tea, the sweetness bringing me back to life. But my heart was skittering, banging.

‘Whatever you say.’ Victor had found a can of Coke in the back of the fridge, which he cracked open, a little wisp of condensation rising and catching my eye. ‘So are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

I couldn’t meet his eye. ‘Finding out about Karen – that’s all it is. It’s such a shock.’

He scrutinised me. ‘So you knew your girlfriend had been to see her?’

‘I . . . Yeah. I didn’t want her to, but. . .’ I trailed off, unable to force the lie out.

‘Pretty shitty thing to do, if you ask me,’ Victor said. ‘Maybe I got you all wrong, Andrew. Maybe you’re not the decent bloke I thought you were.’ I couldn’t speak.

‘Anyway, I need to get home. The missus is cooking a special celebratory dinner tonight.’

‘All right. Thank you for, well . . .’ ‘Yeah. Whatever.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘Better make sure I don’t piss you off, hadn’t I? Don’t want your girlfriend paying me any unexpected visits.’

I watched from the window as he headed off down the road, then sank onto the sofa, head in hands.
I hated lying to him, but I had no other choice, not until I had all this straight in my head. If I had told Victor that I hadn’ known about Charlie going to see Karen he would have started asking questions – questions which would lead on to me telling him all the things I had suspected her of, before Tilly had sprung to her defence, including setting him up. And if I told him that, he would go to the police.

I couldn’t have that, not now. Not before I had figured it all out. I couldn’t risk it. I loved her. If she was innocent and got the slightest hint that I suspected her of doing these terrible things, I’d lose her. No relationship could survive such an accusation.

I made myself a coffee, splashed my face with freezing water from the tap. My head felt clearer.

Here was what I knew: Charlie had said, albeit in a jokey way, that if she were going to murder someone, she would fake a drug overdose. Karen, who had never been into drugs, as far as I knew, had died from a heroin OD. Charlie had secretly visited her shortly before Karen died. Also, she had said to me, by text, that she thought Karen had taken advantage of me – the words she had used when she went to see Karen.
If I was on a jury, would I convict her on that basis? It was – what was it called? – circumstantial evidence. Charlie’s defence would be that she was only kidding about the heroin overdose, that she would never actually kill anyone.

What about her motivation?

That was simple: jealousy. Charlie hated me working for Karen, loathed me having anything to do with her. Maybe she thought I was still interested in her, that we would have an affair. But I hadn’t shown any signs that I was still into Karen, had been moaning to Charlie about how annoyed I was with her. I could picture Charlie going to see Karen on my behalf, thinking she was doing me a favour, getting my money. But why do it without telling me? And where was the cheque? She hadn’t given it to me.

I tried to think it through, how it might have happened. Charlie goes to see her, on the pretext of getting my money, and then – what? Did she always intend to kill her or was it only something that happened after she’d met Karen? Did Karen say something that enraged her, that made her flip out, her jealous fury driving her to do something terrible? She hadn’t done anything on their first meeting, so she would have had to go back.

How do you give someone a smack overdose anyway? I imagined the possible scenarios: Charlie slipping a loaded syringe out of her bag, plunging it into Karen’s arm; hiding in her flat when she was asleep and slipping the needle into her skin; holding a gun to her head and instructing her to inject herself. None of these scenes, especially the one involving the gun, seemed realistic. They were like snatches from noir films, with Charlie in the role of the deadly femme fatale. Maybe Karen really was into drugs. Thinking about it, it did fit with her experimental, hedonistic persona. She had told me on many occasions that she was willing to try anything once, that she believed in having as many interesting experiences as possible before she died. Karen had seemed ill and pale the last time I’d seen her; her tardiness in paying my invoice was uncharacteristic. If she had been addicted to heroin, and Charlie had somehow found out, all she would have to do would be to turn up with a narcotic peace offering, some extra-pure gear that Karen couldn’t cope with.

The light-headed sensation was returning, like there were huge, rubbery bubbles floating in my skull. Could I picture Charlie doing those things? I’d already been through this once, had shared my fears with the group the night before, and convinced myself it was ridiculous. Charlie was lovely. Warm, generous, kind, nurturing, sensitive. Almost everything she had done for me had been sweet and selfless, the actions of a woman in love. She had a strong moral core too: she loathed exploitation, as I had seen when she’d discovered I had a cleaner; she cried if she saw someone being bullied on TV; she refused to watch films or programmes in which children were hurt because it affected her too much. She had told me she worked for the NHS, when she could have made more money accepting contracts to work for private companies, because she believed in the cause.

‘They helped my mum when she had cancer,’ she told me. ‘For a while, I wanted to be a nurse or a doctor, but I wasn’t cut out for medicine in the end. Hence project management.’

The Charlie I knew and loved was a good person.

And yet. There was her jealousy. The explosion of fury and self-destruction the night I’d stayed over at Sasha’s. She had shown a violent side that night, even if it had been directed at herself. She could be confrontational. The very first time I’d been out with her, she’d started an argument in the pub. She definitely had a dark side, a wild aspect to her personality that made her do things that most other people wouldn’t do: like have *** in a freezing lake in the middle of winter. These were just the things I knew about. Because as Henry had said, all the weird stuff in my life had started after I met Charlie.

I vacillated. Could she have done it? As I grappled with the question, a voice inside my head shouted at me to stop. The word ‘love’ wasn’t strong enough for how I felt about her. I could hardly imagine life without her. So how could I entertain the notion that she was a killer? This notion was like a virus invading my bloodstream, and my love made antibodies that fought and rejected every negative thought.

I got up and made another coffee, leaned on the worktop – one of the many places in the flat that bore a ghostly imprint of our lovemaking – and waited for the kettle to boil.

What did I really know about Charlie? I hardly knew a thing about her past. She was cagey about her entire existence before she’d met me; was equally secretive about the parts of her life that didn’t involve me now. I’d never been to her place, though she told me it was because it made sense for her to come here, where we had privacy, no housemates listening outside the door.

I had never met any of her friends. But she hadn’t lived in London long, said she didn’t know anyone here.
I imagined myself in court again, a witness – for the prosecution! – explaining my relationship with Charlie. Would I look like a fool? The guy who doesn’t know anything about the woman he’s been sleeping with for the last two months, who he’s about to move in with. I tried to justify it to myself. It had been an insane rush, passionate, exciting, with no pause for reflection. Charlie had a talent for diverting me if I asked her anything. I had been concerned about it at first, about how little she gave away, but then I decided to let it go. All I really cared about was what she was like in the present, who she was when she was with me. There would, I had thought, be plenty of time for us to share stories about the past.

This was agony. I knew people would say that if I refused to go to the police, I should talk to her about it. But what was I supposed to say? ‘Charlie, did you kill Karen and arrange to have me pushed down the stairs? Oh, no reason – just curious.’

It wasn’t funny though. It really wasn’t. Because this was not just about me and Charlie and the things I thought she might have done. It was also about what she might do in the future if I didn’t act.

If Charlie had killed Karen, then surely any woman I had a relationship with would be in danger. Like Sasha, I realised. Could Charlie be responsible for the stuff that had happened to her too? Sasha was convinced it was Lance and Mae, but she might change her mind if I told her about Charlie’s jealousy. There was Harriet, too. She’d already been burgled – and the thief appeared to have targeted the lingerie I bought her, a detail that made my head hurt. What if that was only the beginning? Again, I found it painful to contemplate. But if Charlie was really behind this, then everyone I knew, including me – especially me – was in danger.

What could I do? I tried to think of it in a legal way again. I either needed hard evidence or, failing that, I needed to know more about Charlie and her past, find people who knew her. Did she have a criminal record? Had anything like this ever happened before? Maybe I would uncover an alibi for the night Karen died.

I grabbed a piece of paper from the printer and listed the various crimes Charlie might be behind, starting with the attacks on other women:

Karen’s death.

That was the big one, the worst. Could Charlie really be capable of murder? Had her jealousy really spun so far out of control? With a swirling sensation in my gut, I carried on.

Threats against Sasha. Harriet – burglary.

Kristi – acid in face.

My hand trembled as I wrote these down, each name. My best friend, my ex, my attractive cleaner, whose now-ruined face had been so pretty. To do these terrible things, my girlfriend would have to be insane. Could I really be sleeping with someone who was capable of these terrible things? I moved on to the other weird occurrences that had impacted on my life since I’d fallen for Charlie.

Victor framed for paedophilia.

Why would she do this? To stop me working for Victor. But why – to stop me working with a bunch of cool, attractive women? There was a certain warped logic to it. But was Charlie capable of such a complex set-up?

The thing was, I didn’t know what she was capable of. Large parts of Charlie’s life, her past, were still shrouded in secrecy. I shook my head, was tempted to screw up the paper, rip it to shreds. Was I the crazy one, entertaining these possibilities? I forced myself to carry on, to write down the last suspected crime.

Me pushed down steps.

Why would she do this? If she loved me, why would she want to hurt me? The answer came quickly:
To keep you trapped in your flat. To stop you starting your job. To make you her prisoner, like a pet in a cage.

Was that her idea of love?

I got up, paced the room, feeling light- headed and nauseated, then returned to the list, trying to view these possible crimes coolly, rationally.

All of them had a logical explanation that didn’t involve Charlie. She definitely hadn’t been there the day I’d fallen down the steps. Did that mean she had enlisted someone else’s help? The more I studied the list, the more my head hurt. Perhaps I should go to the police, let them gather the evidence . . . No, I couldn’t. I didn’t wan to risk her leaving me before I knew for certain. But if I distrusted her enough to suspect her of any of this, could I really love her as much as I claimed? Yes, yes I could.

Another little voice in my head whispered: And if she is guilty – would you forgive her? Would you want to be with her anyway? Maybe it excites you, turns you on?

I shook my head violently.

It came down to this: I loved her. I wanted her to be innocent but I didn’t know if she was. I needed more proof before I went to the police or confronted her. And if, as I prayed, she was innocent, I could clear my head of all this and we could go on as before. But she could never know I had suspected her. I had to be discreet.

I walked across the room, thinking about secrets stacked upon secrets, and as I reached the window, something crashed into the glass.

‘Jesus!’ I cried out. What the hell was that?

I looked down. A small bird – a sparrow or starling – lay dead on the tiny balcony. I rubbed my arms and heard Karen’s neighbour’s voice in my head. A dark spirit has attached itself to you. I shivered. It was getting dark outside, the streetlights flicking on. I stared at the dead bird, with its broken neck and mashed beak, and realised I needed to retrieve it so it didn’t rot and start to stink.

I pushed the sash window up and went to look for a carrier bag. As I was hunting beneath the sink, where dozens of plastic bags lived inside other plastic bags, the doorbell rang.

I pressed the intercom. ‘Hello?’

The voice at the other end sounded faint, nervous.

‘Hello, Andrew? Can I come up? It’s Rachel.’

Rachel? What on earth was she doing here?

 

[kenny0112]

BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS

Genre: Mystery Thriller
​

Spoiler: Chapter 30

Rachel came up the stairs and stood blinking at me, her shoulders hunched inside her leather jacket, crash helmet in hand. Her short dark hair was squashed and she had grey crescents beneath her eyes. She was wearing her full biker gear: leather trousers, boots, gloves. She smelled faintly of petrol and fresh sweat.
‘I’ve left the bike outside. Is that OK?’ ‘Yeah, sure. Er . . . come in.’

She followed me into the flat. She looked like a fox that had evaded the hunt, eyes darting about nervously. Taking off her biker gear made her appear even more vulnerable, like she was removing her armour, a turtle rolling over to reveal its belly. Having her here made me feel nervous too. A young woman in my flat. But Charlie was hundreds of miles away. She would never know.

‘Are you on your own?’ she asked. ‘Yes. Charlie’s on a course in Newcastle.’

‘Oh.’ She relaxed a little.

‘What is it, Rachel? Why are you here? Is Tilly all right?’

She gripped her crash helmet. She was trembling. As she answered me she put her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Yeah, she’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.’

I was perplexed but decided to let her tell me in her own time. I offered her a tea and she accepted gratefully.

We sat down and I waited.

‘I like your flat,’ she said, glancing around.

‘Thanks.’

It was dark outside now and I hadn’t removed the dead bird. I’d have to do it in the morning. I went over and shut the window, wondered if I should offer Rachel a blanket. She was still shivering.

‘I’m really sorry to barge in on you,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t think of anyone. . . You’re the only person I know in London and I had to get out of Eastbourne.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Henry. I needed to get away from him.’

She burst into tears. Awkwardly, I went into the bathroom and came back with a loo roll which I passed to her. After she’d stopped crying and blown her nose a couple of times, she apologised again.

‘It’s OK, Rachel. What’s happened?

What’s Henry done?’

She was, I realised, terrified. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He attacked me. I thought he was going to kill me.’

‘Oh my God. What . . . why?’

‘He . . .’ She trailed off, squirmed in her seat. ‘I don’t . . . really . . . I can’t.

I’m sorry.’ Her hand crept up to obscure her whole face. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hey, it’s OK. I don’t need to know.’ I paused. ‘He seemed like a nice guy.’

‘Despite what he looks like?’ I smiled.

‘That’s what I thought. He was at first. Sweet and funny but with that edge of danger. It’s attractive, you know?’

I nodded. ‘I know.’

‘But I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You should go to the police,’ I said, fully aware of the irony.

‘I don’t want to. What will they do? He’ll deny it and then it will be even worse for me.’

‘Did he actually . . . hit you?’

She stood up and took off her leather jacket and for a moment I thought she was going to show me her bruises. Instead, she sat back down and said, ‘It was more like pushing and shouting and . . . he spat at me. In my face.’

‘Fuck.’

‘It’s next time I’m worried about. He said they’d get me.’

‘They?’

‘Him and the other bikers. His mates. I think it was just an idle threat, but . . . He said I’d tricked him. Made him think I was into him.’

‘I see.’

‘But he was always pestering me to go out with him and, in the end, I thought why not? I haven’t been with anyone for ages and I thought going out with Henry would be fun, just like going out with a friend. It was when it came to *** that . . .’ Her words trailed off.

‘You don’t have to tell me any more,’ I said, embarrassed for her.

‘Thanks. To be honest, I don’t think he even noticed that I didn’t really fancy him. . . I mean, I like ***, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but not with . . .’ She trailed off again.

I squirmed. This really was embarrassing.

She gathered herself. ‘It was when I tried to end it, after I realised what a stupid mistake the whole thing was, that he went mad.’

A horrible, selfish thought struck me. ‘Hang on – does he know you’ve come here?’

She shook her head quickly. ‘No!’ ‘You’re sure he didn’t follow you?’

My pulse accelerated at the sound of a motorbike on the street and I rushed to the window. But it was some guy on a little Honda.

‘He’s at work. He definitely didn’t follow me. Don’t worry.’

‘OK. So what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I just thought if I could get away for a few days, then I’ll talk to him. My sister lives in Cardiff. I’m going to head up there tomorrow.’ She met my eye for the first time. ‘I don’t want to be with him anymore. But maybe if I give him a few days to calm down, he’ll leave me alone.’

‘My God, Rachel. If he continues to threaten you, you have to call the police.’ I sipped my tea but it had gone cold and I spat it back into the mug. ‘Does Tilly know what’s going on?’

‘Yes. But don’t worry, she’ll be safe. He’s not going to attack her. He really likes her.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have left her alone if I wasn’t one hundred per cent confident.’

I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. ‘I think we should open some wine. I could do with a drink.’

‘I’ll give you some money for it.’ ‘Don’t be silly.’

I opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. It slipped down, making me feel better almost immediately.
‘So is it OK for me to stay the night?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, of course. You have my bed and I’ll have the sofa.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’ ‘Rachel. I insist.’

By nine o’clock, after we’d eaten a delivery pizza and watched a rubbish film on TV, Rachel told me she was exhausted and asked would I mind if she went to bed. She’d spent the evening checking her phone compulsively. I wasn’t sure if she was receiving messages from Henry; the phone didn’t beep but it could have been on silent. She didn’t appear to reply to any.

A short while after she’d shut the bedroom door, my phone rang.

‘Hi sexy.’

‘Hi Charlie.’ My heart surged and I forced myself to stay calm, sound normal. ‘How’s it going? How’s the training?’

‘Oh God. Boring with a capital B. Bu there’s this cool woman on the course from Birmingham and I’m going to the bar with her in a **** I’m just in my hotel room. The bed’s all lovely and springy. Wish you were here.’

‘I wish you were here.’

‘Yeah, me too. But hotel rooms can be very sexy.’ She paused and, with a smile in her voice, said, ‘I’m getting changed. I’m just sitting here in my underwear at the moment.’

‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh. What about you?’

‘Oh, you know, just lounging about in my posing pouch.’

‘You’re funny. Hang on.’

It had almost become a regular part of our relationship, Charlie sending me pictures of herself in a state of undress. A few seconds later, the photo arrived, her body from the neck to the tops of her thighs, clad in red underwear, stretched out on the hotel bed.

‘Like what you see?’ she asked.

I swallowed. Was I talking to a killer? Of course, the photo was glorious. She was glorious. Perhaps another man would have found the extra layer of danger, the possibility that Charlie was a murderer, exciting. I had kissed and touched every inch of her. I had spent almost every waking minute since we’d met thinking about her. But looking at the photo now, I felt lost. Did I really know her? Who was she? I felt sick with anxiety.

‘I’m touching myself,’ she said. ‘Stroking my clitoris.’ She let out a long, breathy sigh. ‘Ah, that feels amazing. I’m so wet, Andrew. Why don’t you touch yourself?’

‘I am,’ I whispered. But I was lying. ‘Are you hard?’

‘Rock hard.’

She giggled. ‘I love your hard cock. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like to do with it.’

I was aware of Rachel in the next room. Would she be able to hear? I got up and shut the living room door.

‘What was that?’ Charlie asked, her tone changing.

‘Oh, nothing. I shut the door.’

‘Why? There’s no one there to hear you, is there?’

‘No. It’s just . . . cold. I’m trying to keep the warmth in the room.’

She was quiet for a few seconds. ‘You’ve broken the spell now,’ she said. ‘The mood’s gone.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was relieved.

Charlie sighed. ‘It’s OK. I’ve got to meet Brenda anyway. Maybe I’ll Skype you later. Then I’ll be able to see you.’

My eyes filled with tears. ‘Sounds good.’

‘All right. I love you.’ ‘I love you too.’

I awoke with a stiff neck and fluff in my mouth. I groaned and sat up. My sofa was not designed to be slept on. Charlie hadn’t called me back, just sent me a text at 1 a.m. saying she was drunk and going to sleep.
Rachel stayed for breakfast then told me she was going to head to Cardiff.

‘On your bike?’ I asked.

She grinned. She seemed brighter this morning. ‘How else?’

‘Well, be careful.’

‘Are you relieved there isn’t a gang of bikers parked outside?’

‘Nah, I was hoping they’d turn up so I could take them on. I’ve got a big rolling pin.’

She giggled. ‘They’d be terrified.’

I saw her out. She hesitated on the threshold and, on the spur of the moment, I gave her a hug. She looked like she needed one. Her muscles were so tense that it was like hugging a statue.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said, shielding her mouth. ‘You saved my life.’ ‘Slight exaggeration perhaps, but you’re welcome.’

After she’d gone, I retrieved the dead bird from the balcony and stuffed it into the bin, tied up in a carrier bag. I found the list on which I’d written Charlie’s possible crimes from my pocket and stared at it. I needed to get started.

But where was I going to start? The logical place had to be her house. I could meet her housemates, take a look through her stuff, even though this made me feel deeply uncomfortable. I needed an excuse for going round there, but I’d think of one. The bigger problem was that I didn’t know her address. All I knew was that
she lived in Camberwell.

I went on to Google. There were hundreds of Charlotte Summers, dozens in London alone, but none with an address in Camberwell.

Then it struck me: Charlie had loads of stuff in the flat. There was an old bag of hers in the wardrobe, a coat, various items of clothing, including her work suits. I went through to the bedroom and retrieved the bag, searching through it. A hairbrush, lipstick, an empty packet of contraceptive pills, numerous hair grips, packets of tissues, a box of condoms, a loose key . . . All this detritus tumbled out. Among it, an envelope, folded in half. I opened it and inside was a payslip with her address printed in the top left.

‘Bingo,’ I said.