Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
HAVEN
Entering the home of a woman who passed away recently feels strange, as if I’m walking in the footsteps of the deceased, moving around in a space where their soul left their body and departed this world.
If I believed in things like ghosts and ghouls, I probably wouldn’t have come here, as I’d be terrified that I might encounter the spirit of Valerie in this cold, dark house, coming face to face with her spectre at the foot of the staircase where she lost her life.
Such a spooky sight would have me running back out of this house and into the night, screaming for the help of a stranger, but fortunately, I don’t believe in ghosts.
That’s why, after using the spare key I stole from Liane’s house when I saw it lying on the side, I simply walk into this house without fearing an apparition from the afterlife.
I close the door behind me but decide not to turn on any of the lights in here.
I have to assume Valerie’s neighbours know about her passing, so they wouldn’t be expecting to see this property looking inhabited at this time.
I can’t risk anyone sensing something might be wrong and calling the police, so I’ll keep this house shrouded in darkness.
I’m only planning on trying to get some sleep anyway, so that should help with that too.
As I go upstairs in search of a bed, I tell myself that I’m not being disrespectful to the late woman who lived here, but just doing what I need to survive.
I have nowhere else to go and it would be very risky of me to sleep rough on the streets.
It’s risky for anyone to do such a thing, but for a young woman who could be preyed upon by any shady characters lurking around at this time of night, it could be downright life-threatening.
Having messaged Valerie and got to know her that way, I have no doubt she wouldn’t want me to be sleeping on the streets tonight.
She was a kind soul, and no matter what might have been said, she would have made sure everyone was safe until sunrise.
Unlike her daughter, who doesn’t seem to care about what happens to me at all.
The staircase creaks underfoot as I ascend it, but every little noise is amplified in this otherwise silent home.
Can it even be called a home anymore? Or is it just an empty vessel, waiting to be sold, and it will only become a home again when somebody else takes ownership of it and fills it with the sound of conversation, laughter and a little music or television?
Until then, this house is in a state of limbo.
Just like I am.
Having been here before when I came with Joel to help Liane pack some of Valerie’s old items into boxes, I have a rough sense of direction, despite the darkness.
I know that there is a single bed in what is a spare bedroom just ahead of me, so I push that particular door open and go inside.
The moonlight filtering in through the thin curtains allows me to see the bed I plan to make mine for the night, whilst also adding an element of spookiness to this uncomfortably quiet house.
It’s even chillier in this room than it was downstairs, but I should warm up once I’m underneath the duvet that covers the spare bed, so I drop my meagre bag of belongings to the floor and try to get warm.
Snuggling under the duvet, I don’t know if I will achieve sleep but know I should try because I won’t get away with staying here for very long, so this might be the last time I get to rest in a comfortable bed for a while.
Before closing my eyes, I set an alarm on my phone for 6 a.m. I figure that is early enough for me to get up and get out of here before Liane or anyone else in her family might call around to resume the packing.
I can’t afford for anybody to catch me here and have no doubt that Liane would call the police if she knew that I had been trespassing, so I will be sure to be gone early, just in case.
With my alarm set, I place my phone down before closing my eyes and letting out a deep sigh.
This might be an unusual sleeping situation, but it’s far from the strangest place I have laid my head in an effort to get some rest. Having had a troubled upbringing in the foster care system, the concept of a safe and stable environment is a rarity to me, not a guarantee.
The same goes for my brother. Both of us know what it is like to sleep on the streets, in shop doorways or in homeless shelters, with nothing but a blanket, a stolen sleeping bag, or just the clothes on our bodies to keep us warm from the elements.
That sleeping situation was often preferable to wherever the foster system placed us.
Many backpackers who travel around Australia and other such places think they are slumming it by staying in cramped hostels and eight-bed dormitories, but they have no idea.
That’s why backpacking to me felt like a holiday, even when I was sharing sleeping quarters with several other people and being subjected to their snoring, alarms or all other manner of noises they made at various hours of the night.
But I never told Joel about this fact. I have never mentioned to him that I know what it is like to not have a home and to wake up each morning with no idea where I might be sleeping that night.
Instead, I just listened and laughed as he moaned about the state of the showers in one of the hostels we stayed in in Sydney, pretending that I was just like him and everyone else there, in that I was used to five-star facilities back at my parents’ house in the UK like they all were.
If only Joel knew the truth. But I kept it from him because I guess I’m ashamed of it.
I’m ashamed of my difficult upbringing and how me and my brother had to do whatever we could to survive for several years as teenagers, even through times when we would steal food from supermarket bins and sneak into some unsavoury places to try and get a couple of hours of sleep.
What guy wants to hear that their girlfriend has done things like that?
Better to pretend I’m just like every other girl Joel encountered in Australia.
Just somebody who was normal, up for fun, and didn’t come with a load of emotional baggage that not even a highly paid, highly qualified therapist could hope to figure out.
I have no doubt that if Joel did know about my unorthodox upbringing, he would think it has contributed to what is happening now.
He would think that my experiences have made me paranoid and a little crazy, and that’s why I am making all sorts of wild accusations about his brother killing his grandmother for her inheritance.
His mother would certainly think that if she knew about my background.
She’s clearly a very troubled young woman and while I hope she gets the help she needs, you’re better off without her, I imagine she would tell her son in the process of ‘helping him’ move on from me.
Liane might be right in that I am trouble and that I probably do need help, but that’s all she would be right about.
Joel is not better off without me, because I loved him.
I still do. That’s why I hope we can figure things out one day.
It seems unlikely now, even ill-advised, but who knows?
But one thing is for sure. I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not giving up on my relationship, nor am I giving up on getting the truth about what really happened to the woman who lived in this house I am now trespassing in.
I believe Scott killed his grandmother and I am going to prove it.
Nobody is going to stop me.
Not Liane. Not Frederik. Not Scott.
I’m going to show Joel that he should trust me, not his brother.
I’m going to show everyone what kind of monster is hiding in that family.
I’m going to let the world know what I already know.
Scott is dangerous.
I realised it the first time I met him…