D. E. White - Remember Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘ Oeddet ti’n gwybod, Ava Cole? ’

‘ Did you know, Ava Cole? ’

‘Did it go well last night? I expect that boy of yours was pleased to see you?’ Mrs Birtley was sitting at her little mahogany reception desk in the pink hallway as Ava passed.

Ignoring her questions, Ava zipped up her jacket, smiled and pointed to her earbuds. Luckily, like several women of her generation in the village, Mrs Birtley was not familiar with the latest technology, and clearly assumed Ava couldn’t hear her. Ava was able to escape unscathed and un-interrogated into the icy air. Her friends all laughed at her fondness for country music, but alone on a run she could indulge unhindered. Thomas Rhett and Miranda Lambert filled her head as she warmed up.

The crisp beauty of the frosty hillside and the pain in her leg muscles as she ran up the steep, muddy inclines quickly drove everything else from her mind. Her lungs burned and her breath came in gasps. Despite the cold of the morning, she was soon wiping sweat from her face. The sky was spread above like a baby-blue sheet straight out of the wash, and even East Wood, down to her right, was cloaked in glittering, mystical beauty. The ugly, pebbledash houses of Aberdyth were given a sparkling makeover that turned the place into a fantasy wonderland. Forcing herself not to consider what lay beneath the frosty charade, Ava paused at the top of the hill, glancing at her watch. Twenty minutes for a 5km. Not bad, despite the jet lag and the hills.

Her phone vibrated, and she checked it out of habit. But it wasn’t her friends back home, her mom, or even her on-off boyfriend who she hadn’t checked in with yet.

‘ Cofiwch fi ’

‘ Remember me ’

‘Oh fuck off , Leo!’ she said out loud. She didn’t doubt it was him. When the messages had first started coming she had been shocked, even scared, thinking that the horrors of her past had finally caught up with her. There had been no question the messages were related to Ellen. Only seven people knew about the carved letters on the oak trunk. Only seven people in the entire world knew exactly how much it would rattle her to get a message like that. It was more than a shadow across the sunny beach – the darkness she kept locked away had started to seep into her carefully constructed life.

Safe on her icy hilltop she allowed her mind to drift back to the first message. That had been a hell of a night shift, starting with Paul’s email of course. Her regular partner, Pete, had noticed her lack of attention on their first shout.

* * *

Pete slammed the car door. ‘Coffee and doughnuts?’

‘Please. I’m going to stay out here for a bit. I just need some fresh air.’

‘Fresh air down here? You sick? If you aren’t feeling well, go home and sleep it off. You do realise you just ran a red light back there?’

‘I’m fine. Three doughnuts and black with two sugars please!’

She could tell he wasn’t fooled for an instant – with all the smog, fresh air in LA was a joke unless you were hiking in the hills. For a moment she was tempted to bail out and go home to an empty apartment. Darkness was sneaking in from the sea, the long black fingers of shadow triggering the familiar slash of neon lights slicing along the streets. Shouts and music mingled with the smell of fries and vomit and the hot air curled around her like a snake, oppressive and threatening.