as I am. More. That’s why he keeps talking, because he knows, as all those who wait in terror know, that when silence and fear combine, they form a compound a thousand times more horrifying than the sum of its parts.
‘The Gilpatricks,’ he says, tears streaking his face.
I watch the door in the mirror above the fireplace. It looks smaller and further away than it would if I turned and looked at it directly. The mirror is shaped like a fat gravestone: three straight sides and an arch at the top.
‘I didn’t believe in them. The name sounded made up.’ Kit laughs, chokes on a sob. All of him is shaking, even his voice. ‘Gilpatrick’s the sort of name you’d make up if you were inventing a person. Mr Gilpatrick. If only I’d believed in him, none of this would have happened. We’d have been safe. If I’d only . . .’
He stops, backs away from the locked door. He hears the same footsteps I hear – rushing, a stampede. They’re here. The police are finally here. Holding the handle of the knife with both hands, Kit drives it into his chest. The last thing he says is, ‘Sorry’.
*
POLICE EXHIBIT REF: CB13345/432/29IG
Caroline Capps
43 Stover Street
Birmingham
24/12/93
Dear Caroline
Sorry if this letter is blunt, but some of us prefer to be straightforward than two-faced – not you, obviously. You told me you believed me, but now Vicki and Laura are telling me you don’t – apparently you only said you did to be polite, and because you feel sorry for me.
Luckily, I don’t need your sympathy. In my eyes, you’re the one who needs pity, if not full-blown psychotherapy. I have been dumped several times in my life, and have never had a problem admitting to it. And I have NEVER sent dozens of photos of myself to an ex-boyfriend either – why would I? Do I seem that insane to you?
Your boyfriend is the insane one around here – he’s a loony as well as a liar. He took the photos you found – he’s obsessed with me, though I’ve spoken to him for a total of about ten minutes. Why don’t you prove it to yourself? Follow him one day – it won’t take you long to catch him pursuing me round Cambridge with a camera. By the way, if you could ask him to stop, I’d be very grateful.
And just to clarify one more thing: yes, I’m saying he didn’t dump me, but I’m not claiming I dumped him, as you seem to think I am. No one dumped anyone – THERE WAS NO RELATIONSHIP IN THE FIRST PLACE!!! I shouldn’t have to tell you this – if your radar hasn’t detected that I’m your friend and he’s a creep, there’s no hope for you.
Elise
Friday 17 September 2010
I ought to sit down, relax, but I can’t. I stand by the lounge window, next to the Christmas tree stain. Waiting. Still twenty minutes before she’s due to arrive. When I see a car pull up outside, I assume it can’t be her. When a tall redhead with a long, elegant neck gets out of the car, I tell myself she can’t be Lorraine Turner, she must be someone else.
I’m wrong. ‘Sorry I’m so early,’ she says, shaking my hand.
‘I’m glad you are,’ I tell her. ‘Come in.’
She crosses the threshold tentatively, as if afraid she might regret it. ‘I can’t pretend to understand,’ she says. Giving me the chance to explain if I want to.
I don’t. I smile, say nothing.
‘You’re absolutely sure you want to sell the house?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’ She can’t question me for too long without seeming rude. Knowing a little of what I’ve been through, she won’t want to upset me.
She makes one last effort to get me to talk. ‘When did you complete on the purchase?’ she says. Estate agent language.
‘Yesterday. I rang you straight away.’
She gives up then, goes upstairs to start taking her photographs. The second she’s left the room, I regret my reticence. She seems nice, and I need to stop assuming everyone’s untrustworthy. Most people aren’t Kit Bowskill and Jackie Napier.
Nobody is Kit Bowskill, and nobody is Jackie Napier – not any more.
When Lorraine comes downstairs, perhaps I’ll tell her. I’m not ashamed of any of it. I bought 11 Bentley Grove because I promised Selina Gane that I would. How could I let her down, after giving her my word? When I made the promise, I thought I’d be able to live