CHAPTER 10
Stalker
I flick the screen off, and the grainy pixels that form your face judder before they fade to black, leaving me with a reflection of myself. I smile and then frown, and the reflection crudely copies.
Over the last few days, I’ve watched you tell fictional versions of events to your friends and your fiancé, contorting your face into a model of fear and worry.
The wind blows in through the small gap in the curtains, the temperature is starting to drop, and that’s exciting, isn’t it?
Cold, dark nights and plenty of places to watch you.
Since setting up the surveillance, I can see your sad little face whenever I want. And God, is it sad. You’re so unhappy, trying to chase the invisible figure from your past, Ella. Have you ever stopped to think why someone might want to stalk you?
The papers scatter across the desk, piling high over every inch of the wood, rustling in the breeze. I flick on the overhanging light, waiting for my eyes to adjust before I move. There’s work to be done, Ella.
I pick up a sheet of A4, the paper still warm from the printer, and carefully work the scissors around the sides of the image.
Your face is pixelated in this one, small and hard to find.
But you’re there, and I circle your face with a red marker.
Just in case you can’t see it. I’ve looked at this picture more times than I should have.
There’s something about it. A young boy, with dark floppy hair and strong shoulders, is cuffed and in the foreground.
But that’s not where my eyes are drawn. They go to the group on the far left, beyond the second police car.
There’s a huddle of them, onlookers. Morbid attention seekers.
And then, behind them, there’s you, young and hopeful. Barefoot. Guilty.
I wonder how long it took them to find you. To notice you in the crowd, far from where you should have been. I place the picture down on the pile and reach for the next.
The papers were the hardest part to find, but a newspaper cutout adds more gravitas, don’t you think? I could see it now: you are standing in your silk underwear, opening an envelope to find clippings and clippings of your past.
It gives this whole thing some creative flare.
But no one cuts out news stories anymore, and even the library was no use. Gone are the days when they’d keep historical data of local press.
Nevertheless, I found you.
“The murders at Househill Manor,” I say into the silence.
It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? After some quick research online, I was able to print off the news stories. What a novel idea.
There are so many articles, Ella. However did you think you could hide from this? I snip the last of the news clippings, this one talking about the trial, and so I highlight your two names. Just in case you forgot.
A voice carries from downstairs as I add another picture of your face to the pile. “Do you want anything to eat?”
The cost of stamps for this alone will be extortionate, but delivering them by hand is risky. You’re wary now, and with your cronies on your side it’ll be harder to slip through the barriers. But not impossible.
I’m quite invisible to you, Ella. That’s the beauty of people.
Sometimes you get so used to their faces that it doesn’t bother you to see them outside your house at seven in the morning.
I place the last of the clippings into the envelope and stick it down with a soft, wet sponge.
Long looping letters intertwine to etch out your name on the front.
Taking off the gloves, I pick up a spare piece of printed paper, the one explaining a dark theory of how two of the four young people survived the horrors at Househill Manor.
“I said, do you want breakfast?” The words carry and bounce off the stairs, weaving under the closed door and slamming against my temples.
I wheel in the chair, the movement forcing a stack of papers to the floor in a flurry. The door swings open with a crash, which is crass for me, but my fingers are shaking and the handle slips away. I find him in the kitchen, hunched over the cooker which sizzles sporadically.
“Oh, there you are. Did you hear me? I’m cooking–” His words fall short as my finger rams inches from his face, my form pressed against his so the thick marble pushes into the small of his back.
“Don’t you ever shout at me in my own home.” I keep my voice low, the only way to teach a broken animal.
“I wasn’t shouting, I just didn’t know–”
“You come to find me if you want to talk to me. You speak to me.” Spittle lands on his cheek, congealing in the prickle of his stubble. Stubble looks cheap on weak men.
After a moment he nods, his mouth pressed into a thin line. I drop him, his shirt unfurling from my clenched fists. I count to five, pulling in small steady breaths before returning to my work.
“Where were we, Ella?” I sink into the chair again, collecting your fallen images and reorganising them. Father always taught me that organisation was the key to success. Know your target and focus on what they don’t do, then do that.
You don’t always lock the door when you get home.
You don’t vary your running route or days.
You don’t turn off your noise-cancelling headphones when you’re alone.
My phone pings, a notification coming up from our synched calendar.
Father was wrong, though, sometimes acting rashly has its benefits.
In a moment of weakness, as I wandered through your house, I picked up your phone.
Taking a risk was the smartest decision, as I shared your calendar publicly for anyone to find. We can all see where you’re going.
Lunch with J at Huntlow.
I close the window. It’s time we move this plan forward.
The café is busy for an early morning on a weekday, the windows steaming up and the heat pushing out of the door whenever it’s yanked open by some cold dishevelled being.
Today is a grey day, where everyone wraps up and the sky sits heavily above ready to burst open at any given moment.
I left the house smelling of cooked bacon and burning bread to be greeted with the smell of stale coffee.
Neither would be preferable.
I stand by the counter, eyeing up the pastries and chewing my lip as though making an impossible decision. The woman behind the counter edges closer to me, her eagerness to serve me so she can return to the phone that’s tucked by the cash register is palpable. I drag out making my selection.
When I am done, I sit at the back of the café near the book swap case and the emergency exit.
I’ve never been here but I like it. The walls are dark and strewn with gold frames of stylised animals dressed up as farmers, chefs or office workers.
A woman sitting under a picture of an otter dressed as a sailor eyes me.
She leans forward, whispering something to her partner from across the table, but he scarcely looks up from his paper.
I’m not a threat, so I smile, my teeth baring at her.
If I wanted to I could wring her bony neck with that thin lime scarf hanging over her chair.
She looks malnourished in a way that was popular with the older generation, leaving her all sinew and bone. She blinks before turning away.
The pastry is far too sweet and leaves a sticky residue on my fingers that I run over my bottom lip.
This place is a hub of conversation, with people turning animatedly to one another and voices clambering over each other.
It makes the bottom of my throat scratchy with a desperate need to shout and draw the whole space to silence.
I should have ordered a coffee but I wanted this sighting to be natural, that I happened upon you and Jude rather than followed you.
A baby wails from its seat, the shriek piercing through the conversation and bringing the volume down slightly.
Its mother picks it up and it arches its back in desperate, painful wails.
I shouldn’t watch but I can’t draw my eyes away.
Its face turns pink with the effort of trying to communicate how it feels.
Suddenly, I feel very similar to the baby.
My phone holds no answers to where you are, but there’s a tightening in the middle of my chest. This isn’t quite right.
I glance around, hoping to spy you at the edges of my vision, but you’re not here.
I flick open your calendar, scrolling through all the various invitations that are colourful and marked with locations or names.
There has to be a clue here somewhere. My finger leaves streaks of sticky glaze on the phone screen.
“God.” I wipe them unceremoniously as I flick from your calendar to your social media, searching every area, hoping for any semblance of a clue. But there isn’t one. You haven’t updated in a day. So unlike you, so cautious. It’s as if you…
Suddenly it’s too hot and the people are too present. I stumble to my feet, knocking the table as I go. Of course, you’re not here. It was silly of me to assume you’d follow your old routine when you know what’s coming.
“Is this seat taken?” A young man with thick brows stands opposite me, but the words I need don’t find their way out.
Stupid. How stupid of me. My nails sink little half-moons into the palm of my hand.
The man keeps looking at me, blinking with dark, confused eyes.
Of course, you’re not coming here. You were never coming here.
“I need to go,” is all I manage, my thigh jolting the table as I step around it.
Being here is too dangerous.
“Nutjob,” the young man mutters from behind me. Let him. I’ll come back for him, but now I need to focus on you. Where are you? And more importantly, what are you doing?
Oh, Ella, you’ve messed up this game.
The memory of Father crashes in as I stumble past the counter and out into the crowded, overcast streets. Left or right?
“Make a decision,” Father had said all those years ago, and just like now, my pulse quickened and my palms became clammy.
“You’re panicking,” he had said, the lines around his mouth prominent. Never a good sign.
God, am I going left or right? Where am I going? Where are you? If only I had tracked your phone, then I could follow you. Or you’re following me. A message pings up, rain droplets falling over the screen as I read. My vision swims.
“How do you know I am panicking?” I had asked Father back then, sticking my chin high in the air, the choppy cut they’d given me days earlier falling into my eyes.
“That’s easy,” Father simply replied, “make a move.”
Now, I run a hand over my face, the rain leaving it slick.
“But I don’t know what you’re planning to do,” I moaned, juvenile and desperate.
He leaned forward, his elbows nudging the pieces of the chess board so they all sat slightly to the left.
His knuckles were chapped and there was a bruise forming over his right thumb.
He folded his fingers into an arch and brought his nose level to mine, pushing in.
“You’ll never know what your opponent is thinking. What matters is what you do. Never panic.” His words had stung, his breath hot and rancid from beer.
Now, a woman pushes past me, pulling me to the present.
Left or right, Ella? It doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re not here, and no one is watching you.
I need to fix that.