Never Alone

CHAPTER 1

Stalker

“Good morning, avid listeners. Today’s episode features murder, betrayal and two innocent lives left rotting in the back garden thanks to sibling rivalry gone wrong. As always, I’m CriminEl and this is Chasing a Killer.”

I’m not a bad person. But if you saw me now, in your garden, listening to your sickly podcast, my mud-caked fingers trembling against your dewy windowsill, I doubt you’d say I was good.

My heels dig into the sodden earth, my knees aching from the pressure of balancing my weight from teetering over. The prison smell still clings to my clothes. I should have changed before coming over here, but I needed to see you.

Raising myself, I bring you into view again.

You stand in the centre of the living room now, wearing a simple pair of blue trousers and a cream top that makes the richness in your skin tone pop.

I want to run my hands over your flesh or dig my fingers in so hard that it leaves little marks on your perfect skin.

You move across the room, talking animatedly into your phone.

As always, when I watch you, I can’t hear what you’re saying.

But from this distance, I can gather the tone of it: happy.

On the morning of your engagement party, you don’t even have the audacity to be stressed.

You turn, striding closer to where I’m hiding. I dip my head down, not letting you see me above your perfectly trimmed rose bushes. Like everything in your life, your garden is immaculate, expensive and untouched.

I wait a moment, and then another.

Pushing on the balls of my feet, I bring my face close to your window.

You lounge on one of the chairs. That’s right, lounging.

Feet up and head lolling back, while staff, literal staff, work around you.

I move slowly, sidestepping through the bush to get closer.

A window is cracked open, giving me some much-needed audio.

Your laughter travels out, echoing into the stillness of the late afternoon. My breath leaves little stagnant patches on your window, but I press my face closer, scanning yours. You smile. Have you had to try anything in your life?

“Oh no, everything is taken care of. I’m having a little rest before the makeup lady comes.” Your voice is faint, but now I hear every word. There’s a playful lightness in your tone.

A young man moves around you. His arms are ladened with a flower arrangement of peach, mauve and cream.

“Hold on one sec,” you say, a socked foot thudding to the floor as you lean forward.

“Excuse me? Hi, yes, can you put those over there with the blue ones?” You wave a hand at the poor young man, who staggers in the direction that you point.

He turns, placing them on a stand in the arch dividing your enormous living room from your unnecessarily big dining space.

“Here?” he croaks, young and nervous. I wonder if you shout at them and dock their pay if they don’t do as you ask.

“Yes, perfect. Try and match the peach with the navy across all displays, and then start working in the patio space, please.” You’re not even looking at him as you speak.

He nods, scuttling away, and you’re back on your phone again. You pick at the edge of your sleeve as you talk, moving your fingers methodically. Who are you talking to?

The decorations in your house are breathtaking and, I assume, expensive.

Glass tower vases line the wall, a makeshift bar is being set up, white linen tablecloths are being ironed out across small circular tables and festoons are ready to be unpacked.

And you sit in the middle of it all, feet up again and eyes glazed.

It’s a stark contrast to the stifling, stuffy walls of the prison where the noise is both constant and suffocating.

My fingernails dig into the soft flesh of my palm.

I could stand up now, press a muddy hand into your immaculate window and move across the side of your house until we stand face to face at your front door. Look you in the eyes, ram a knife into the soft part between your collarbones, and wait, until the light leaves your eyes.

My fingers unclench, something burning sharp in the space between my lungs.

Would that be the justice you deserve? To die on the doorstep of your seven-bedroom house, on the day of your engagement to the richest man in the wealthiest little secluded village?

My body itches with a burning prickling heat.

No, that’s no way to go. You need to suffer.

You turn your head, just enough that I catch the side of your face, and your smile widens into a laugh.

“Oh, what a hoot,” you say.

The pads of my fingers press against the window, leaving naughty little marks that are clouded by my hot breath.

My heart flutters. But what would I do if you caught me now?

I like the idea that you’d be shocked, hurt, and a little scared.

An electric buzz runs over my skin at the thought of what I’d do to you.

Another waiter, younger than the last, pushes open the doors that lead to your sweeping patio, dragging a circular table outside. Although I am at the side of your house, I know that’s my cue to leave. To slide away unnoticed.

Father said I was never the patient type, but I’ve waited long enough.

What’s a few more weeks to make you suffer?

He’d be proud. You drop the phone into your pocket, stretching theatrically.

As you walk around, you touch everything: the flowers, the table, the sweeping chiffon that runs along the arch.

There’s a moment when you might redeem yourself and help, but instead, you turn on your heels towards the exit.

I let go of the sill, landing on the soft earth.

You’re as spoilt as your expensive house and your lazy life implies.

The rose bush leaves telltale scratches on my forearm, the skin puckering red and raw, but I’ll cover it before tonight.

My feet are fast as I crouch the entire way along the edge of your house, ducking into the trees until I hit the fence.

I slip through the gap that I’ve carved out in the hedge and make my way back up the cobbled path. I work the dirt out of my nails.

I’m not a bad person, Ella.

But I think you are.

No grace, no kindness, no awareness of what you have. The sound of the guards shuffling through the grey prison doors echoes in my memory. You don’t know how good you have it, do you?

A passing dog walker catches my eye. The look on his face teeters between politeness and shock. I pull at the bottom of my stained shirt, lifting my head high. I smile back at him, nodding the way people do with strangers.

That’s the thing about strangers; they aren’t always the ones you should look out for.

Are they, Ella?