Chapter 30
THIRTY
ERIN
I stare at the screen, too scared to blink in case I miss a second.
Dan Riley is making a public appeal for me to come forward and – woop-de-do – he’s mentioned that I am a convicted killer who served my sentence in a secure psychiatric hospital.
Nice one, Dan! Now everyone thinks I’m a dangerous homicidal lunatic on the run.
To add further insult, they’ve only gone and shown that hideous photo of me from seven years ago – that dreadful mugshot taken at the time of my arrest. I gasp in horror as it flashes up on screen, cover my mouth with both hands.
My long, dark hair looks greasy and dishevelled, hanging lankily around my sallow-skinned face, and my eyes have practically disappeared back into my skull, with dark circles shadowing them.
As far as mentally deranged killers go, even I have to admit that I look the part.
My face flushes hot with shame and injustice.
Malcolm is probably watching this right now, asking himself what the hell he was thinking, sleeping with such an unattractive psycho killer.
To be fair to myself, I did actually tell him the truth, albeit in jest. Well, I wasn’t going to put him straight there and then, was I?
Even if Malcolm didn’t think I was a nutcase before I told him my story, he certainly would after hearing it.
I turn up the volume on my laptop; the noise of my heartbeat pounding in my ears is drowning out the sound.
‘Following a recent forensic update, we are now looking for another person of interest and potential witness…’
‘Potential witness?’ What is he talking about, when he says, ‘following a recent forensic update…’? They can’t possibly have found anything at the crime scene that links me to it. I wasn’t – I’m not – a witness. I wasn’t there. Dan already knows this because I told him – I told him everything.
‘Please contact me, Erin, it’s not too late.
We can resolve this…’ I find myself smiling.
There is something undeniably warm and genuine about Dan’s face that I can’t seem to help myself smiling at, because as it currently stands, I have very little to smile about.
But what does he mean, ‘not too late’? Late for what exactly?
I click on the clip again, play it back from the beginning with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Now that my name and picture are in the public domain, I will need to be super vigilant.
The police are looking for me, everyone will be looking for me.
I have to find Samantha before they find me. I can’t let that happen. Not now that I’m so close.
I take a bite out of the Bounty bar that’s on the table next to me, start to chew, try to think.
That dreadful picture flashes up on screen again and I hit the pause button, stare at it for a moment longer before glancing at myself in the old mirror above the stained sink.
Will I be recognised from this photo? I look so different now to how I did back then – it’s the hair mostly, but age hasn’t exactly been kind to me either.
Surprisingly, there were no on-site beauty spas at Larksmere, and being stuck inside that place has put ten extra years on me at least, but is it enough?
I’ll need to go to a charity shop, buy some different clothes and accessories, some glasses, hats, and scarves and—
The sudden sound of knuckles rapping on my door startles me. I freeze, stay radio silent and listen. Is it the police? Have they found me already? A slew of fresh panic explodes inside my belly. I press my ear to the door and listen.
‘Molly… it’s me… Open the door.’
Pete. I hesitate. Maybe Pete has seen the appeal on telly and recognises me. Maybe he’s standing behind the door right now with the police?
‘Molly…’ he repeats, urgently, ‘open the freakin’ door! I’ve…’ – he drops his voice down to a whisper – ‘… I’ve got your… shopping delivery.’
Shopping delivery? For a brief moment I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then it comes to me.
Ahh, that shopping delivery. My memory really isn’t what it once was, no doubt, down to the draconian treatments I was forced to endure at Larksmere.
My brain glitches more often now, and I experience memory blanks.
It’s unsettling, like dying for a few seconds before returning to life again.
The bolt is stiff, the metal sliding between my shaking, sweaty fingers, as I struggle to unlock it.
‘You like to keep a man waiting, you, don’t you, sister?
’ He pushes past me into the room and throws the black holdall he’s carrying down onto the bed.
The screen on my open laptop is paused on my unflattering mugshot photo and I smack it shut before he sees it.
It’s not that I necessarily think that Pete would dob me in to the cops if he found out who I was – after all, he’s hardly on the right side of the law himself, especially if I think what is in the bag, is in the bag.
But I don’t know Pete’s situation. I don’t know Pete at all.
‘You can thank me later,’ he says, nodding at the holdall. ‘Go on, open it then, check it, make sure it’s what you’re looking for.’ I unzip it, cautiously. ‘It’s all there,’ he sniffs, ‘the piece, the bullets, and the ID – passport, driver’s licence and a new NI number. You’re good to go, cupcake.’
I perch on the edge of the bed, open the passport.
My new name is Alexandra Louise Fisher. I quite like it, it sounds a bit posh.
Sadly though, the picture accompanying it is anything but.
I’d got the pictures taken in haste at one of those self-serve photo booths at the train station earlier.
I realise that no one’s passport photo is particularly flattering, but this one is a real doozy.
The new blonde hair looks dry and frazzled, like a straw wig perched on top of my head, and the colour washes me out, like I’ve been dead for a week and dug up.
I pick up the gun. I’ve never seen a gun up close before, let alone handled one.
It’s cool to the touch and heavier than I expected.
I can already sense its power between my fingertips, the weight of life and death hanging in the balance at the squeeze of the trigger.
‘You ever used a gun before, Molly?’ Pete is watching me with vague amusement. I shake my head. ‘Nah, I thought not.’ He comes behind me, presses himself into the small of my back and places an arm around my waist. I try to forget it’s there as I raise my hand and point the weapon at the wall.
‘You’re a left-hander…’ he observes, ‘you should’ve said.’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘Not if you’re on target,’ he snorts. ‘It’s a semi-auto.’
‘What does that mean…?’
‘It means when you fire a bullet, another one will automatically load for you. BANG, BANG, BANG!’
I flinch in shock, and he laughs, clearly amused. What an asshole.
‘Want me to load it for you?’
I reluctantly nod.
‘Give it here then, cupcake.’ I watch as he cocks the gun, pushes the bullets inside the barrel and flicks it shut. Clearly, one of us has done this before.
‘There’s a spare box of bullets in the bag.’ He nods to it.
‘Thanks, but really I only need two.’
He shoots me a curious glance.
‘Why only two bullets?’
‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
He shrugs.
‘Your business, sister. Just don’t be bringing whatever it is to my door, you understand?
This is a respectable establishment. And blood is a real mothertrucker to get out of the sheets.
And…’ his voice drops down a notch, hardens slightly, ‘I don’t want the filth sniffing round here neither.
Any feds at my front door and there’ll be a bloodbath on your hands, most of it your own, you get me? ’
‘Yes,’ – I spin round to face him, the loaded gun still raised in my hand – ‘perfectly.’
‘Whoa! Jesus! Easy there, blondie.’ He leaps backwards, places a hand in front of him. ‘That thing’s loaded! You want to splash my brains all over the walls, do you?’
I think about answering him truthfully.
‘No, of course not, sorry,’ I say, placing it back down onto the bed.
‘So…?’ He looks at me. ‘Do we have a deal?’
I stare down at the gun; its dark, hard metal edges gleaming, menacing.
‘It’s a quality weapon, that one. I could’ve got you a small sawn-off for one-fifty, but something tells me a girl like you might prefer to carry a bit of class, am I right?’
I go over to my tote bag, unzip it.
‘I’ll do the piece for seven-fifty, the ID in total comes to a bag of sand, so it’s a round one seven-fifty in total.’
‘There’s two thousand pounds there,’ I say, dumping the cash on the bed. ‘Keep the change. You can count it if you like.’
‘I trust you, sister.’ He looks into my eyes and – uh-oh – I’m getting the vibe he may want to stay for a ‘drink’ and ‘keep me company’. I’ll have to let him down gently – either that or shoot him.
‘And that’s very generous of you.’ He raises his eyebrows as he looks at the cash on the bed, grinning manically. ‘How about I throw in a bit of scampi and chips for dinner, eh? I don’t usually mix business with pleasure, but I could make an exception for you, blondie.’
‘Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit,’ I say. ‘I’ll need to freshen up first and I’ve got a phone call to make – an important one.’
He seems pleased.
‘I’ll hold you to that, Molly, or should I say, Alexandra?’ His gold teeth twinkle as he grins.
‘Please,’ – I force a smile – ‘call me Alex.’