S. Bolton - Dead Scared

A twig snapped behind her and Jessica began to run. She didn’t dare look back, just kept on running, over rough ground, dodging undergrowth, finding narrow paths through the trees. She saw the lights and the thought flashed into her head that this might be fresh danger. She didn’t process it in time. She’d reached the clearing, had stumbled among them, before she saw the clowns.

I was in no hurry to get back to polite conversation with strangers, but when I reached the back garden I saw the fire-pit was still lit. Two men and a girl were gathered on fold-up chairs around it. Maybe I’d join them. I’d heard people say smokers were the best fun at a social gathering. I was just drawing close when Evi appeared at the back door wearing a blue woollen coat speckled with snowflakes.

‘There you are, Laura,’ she said. ‘Any chance of you walking me to my car?’

Evi didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who’d need walking to her car, disabled or not, so I figured she wanted to talk to me.

‘You’re leaving early,’ I said. ‘Or is it over? Does everybody have to get up for milking?’

‘No, it’s just me,’ she said. ‘I don’t really do late nights.’

Evi’s car was parked next to mine. I held the door open for her and she looked around, as though checking we were alone.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

She didn’t reply for a moment, letting her eyes fall to the steering wheel then raising them back to me again. In the dim light they looked black. Then, ‘Do you know much about IT, Laura?’ she said. ‘From a forensic point of view?’

‘A bit,’ I replied. ‘What’s happened?’

Other people were leaving too and drawing closer. I walked round and climbed into the passenger seat of Evi’s car.

‘There’s another track twenty yards down the lane,’ I said, as she turned to me in surprise. ‘You can drop me off there.’

We drove for a second or two and then she pulled over. The car behind passed us.

‘I didn’t realize you knew Nick,’ Evi said.

‘I met him a few days ago at the hospital,’ I replied. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘We both studied medicine here,’ she told me. ‘Nick was a couple of years ahead of me.’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘He came to see me yesterday. He’s worried about the suicides too. He was quite relieved to know someone is doing something.’

Worried about the suicides? Or worried that Evi might be on to him?

‘You didn’t tell him about me?’ I asked.

Her eyes opened wider. ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘I just thought you might have done.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘No, I haven’t. He can’t know.’ If there was one thing Joesbury and the others had impressed upon me it was that no one could know who I was. Trust no one.

‘So your IT problem,’ I said. ‘What’s that all about?’

She turned away again, tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, glanced into the mirror. There was nothing behind us, just dark shapes all around. ‘I may have a stalker,’ she said eventually. ‘But the police don’t take me terribly seriously. They think I’m a bit … hysterical.’

Hysterical wasn’t a word I’d use to describe Evi Oliver. Anxious maybe, suffering from poor health certainly, but otherwise very considered in everything she said and did.

‘What sort of stalker?’ I asked.

‘I had a couple of threatening emails the other night,’ she told me. ‘But when I tried to forward them on to the detective I’ve been speaking to, they disappeared from my system completely. Now he doubts whether they ever existed in the first place and I’m beginning to think the same thing myself.’

‘They vanished when you forwarded them on?’

‘Yes. Is that possible?’

‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘They’ll have had some sort of malware built into them that activated when you tried to forward, save or print them. They’ll still be on your computer somewhere. We have forensic computer analysts in the Met. They’d find them in a jiffy.’

‘I’m not sure it merits the attention of the Metropolitan Police,’ said Evi. ‘But it’s good to know I might not be losing it completely.’

‘You and I probably shouldn’t exchange any more emails until we know your system’s secure,’ I said.

She sighed and looked worried.

‘Is that it?’ I asked, pretty certain it wasn’t.

She shook her head. ‘There were phone calls too,’ she said. ‘A lot of them, one after the other on my mobile and my home phone. Nobody there. Number withheld.’

‘When?’ I asked again.

‘Two nights ago,’ she said. ‘Wednesday was when they started. There were more last night and tonight before I came out. I switched both phones off in the end. Which doesn’t really work given that I have to be on call next week.’

‘It’s a real pain,’ I said. ‘But it happens, sadly. You may have to change your numbers and hope they give up. It’s probably not personal.’

Evi said nothing. She didn’t have to. The way she tucked both thumbs into her mouth in a desperate, childlike gesture spoke volumes. I waited, counting in my head. At thirty, she looked at me again.

‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘It’s very personal.’

Three clowns were sitting around a slatted wooden crate that served as a tea table. A teapot, white with coloured spots, and three matching cups and saucers stood on the crate. There was a plate of cupcakes and another of sandwiches. One clown, dressed in a patchwork jumpsuit, was being mother. It had huge, white, skeletal hands that shook as it raised the pot and poured. All three clowns giggled when the steaming liquid spilled on to the ground. The clown with the teapot had three tufts of scarlet hair that bounced up and down as he laughed. The lower third of his white face was all teeth.

The clown who took the outstretched teacup wore the red and yellow checked suit of an eccentric English country squire. His face seemed twice the normal length, tapering into a sharp point that reached almost to his breastbone. His hair was long, wild and a lurid green.

The third clown seemed enormous. It wore layer after layer of multicoloured ruff round its neck and red and white striped trousers. Its belly and bottom were massive. So were its feet, in the clown’s traditional enormous shoes. This clown’s face, like the others, was mostly grinning yellow teeth.

‘Hello, Jessica,’ it said.

Ten minutes later I watched the tail lights of Evi’s car disappear, then turned back to the house, wondering if I’d done the right thing telling her not to worry and that I’d see her on Tuesday.

Creepy toys. Masked figures in the garden. Blood – albeit fake – in the bath. Those were the actions of a seriously disturbed mind. And a clever one at that.

Two more cars passed me in the lane and I could hear more cars starting up. Country folk obviously did keep earlier hours. I really had to go myself. Evi’s story had worried me. I also wanted to think about Nick Bell and whether I really suspected him. And if he was involved, involved with what? Then there was Scott Thornton, a senior member of my college who, together with a couple of mates, had dressed up like Zorro and borrowed a well-established college ritual in order to scare and humiliate a new student.

Then all thoughts of Bell and Thornton fled, to be replaced by the most hideous sound. Several short guttural sounds, in fact. Like someone trying to scream and having the breath choked out of them at each attempt.

Run ! The voice in my head told me. Hide !

Telling myself the sounds had been faint, that whatever had made them was almost certainly some distance away, and that they’d been carried to me on the wind, I nevertheless stepped into the lane, not wanting to be too close to the hedge. Or to anything that might be hiding. The night had fallen silent again.