Chapter Thirty-Two Jade #2
I use too much of Bella’s shampoo. It comes in a frosted glass bottle with a label that reads, in tiny serif font, ‘Restorative Marine Cleansing Elixir’.
I lather it through my hair and try to imagine what it would be like to have always lived like this.
My hair smells like expensive holidays, like spa days and French mothers who call you ma chérie.
No three-for-two deals from Superdrug here.
Even the water feels softer and less limescale-y.
Back in the bedroom, I towel off, take time styling my hair into soft waves, and dress in cream joggers and a soft navy sweater. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed and content in my life.
In the kitchen, I pour oat milk over a bowl of organic granola.
I eat it slowly, reading the back of the box for lack of anything else to do.
Every mouthful tastes like ‘wellness’ and ‘intentional living’.
I let my mind drift. I do not, under any circumstances, allow myself to think about Zac or Mum again.
Instead, I imagine my life stretching out before me like one of those time-lapse videos online.
I watch myself ageing in this flat, growing more and more like Bella every day, until at last no one could possibly distinguish us.
That’s when the intercom buzzes. Just the once – sharp and insistent.
My mind immediately serves up the memory of Mum’s old flat, how people would lean on the buzzer at all hours.
Random kids, bored, pressing every flat’s bell at once; delivery guys wanting you to take in someone else’s parcel; sometimes just strangers, lost, needing to get in from the rain.
We learned to filter out the noise, even when it was intended for us.
But here, in this world, no one buzzes unless they mean it.
That makes the buzz feel worse.
Maybe it’s someone trying to break into the building.
The buzz comes again, longer this time. I look at Bella’s phone – no new messages, no missed calls, nothing on the building’s WhatsApp group. I let the granola go soggy in its lake of milk and listen to the silence that follows, waiting for the third buzz that will prove it’s not a mistake.
It comes. It could be one of Bella’s friends. But what if it’s not? My peaceful frame of mind is evaporating fast. I know I should answer it. Put myself out of my misery, but something is telling me not to.
A few moments later, the buzzer sounds again, but this time it’s not tentative. It’s a long, insistent blast. After a couple of minutes, there’s a heavy pounding on the apartment door. Someone has let them in to the block.
This is where every cell in my body starts to panic.
I freeze, and for a full ten seconds, I am absolutely certain that I am going to die, or go to prison, or both. The world telescopes, sharp and focused – the nail polish chipped on my thumb, a couple of dropped coffee beans on the kitchen floor, the slow, cold seep of dread into my bones.
A man’s voice booms from the landing – deep and aggressive, not the sing-song tone of an or Sainsbury’s delivery person. Not the friendly banter of a friend.
‘Open up, this is the police!’
I drop the bowl that’s in my hands. It smashes – pottery shards, milk, and granola scattering across the oak floorboards beneath my feet.
My mind goes instantly and completely blank, the way a computer screen whites out after a crash. There’s a long silence as I try to process it. Then everything collapses inward, and my thoughts splinter into a thousand tiny, panicked questions.
Did they find Bella’s body, or catch me on CCTV, or find some digital breadcrumb I failed to sweep up?
Did someone from the party last night grow suspicious of me?
Did someone at the train station recognise me?
Has Mum discovered what I’ve done? Could Zac have guessed my plan?
What about Dodgy Steve, or the Corolla Man himself?
I want to blame someone, but the truth is, I have no one to blame except myself.
My hands are sticky with sweat. I grab a carving knife from the block, then immediately realise how insane that looks and put it back, wiping the handle on a tea towel.
A part of me wants to laugh hysterically. The other part wants to sob, or run, or melt into the floor like one of those cartoon cats who survive only by defying the laws of physics.
The banging starts again – hammering, persistent, echoing through the flat so it sounds like it’s coming from everywhere, from inside the walls and under the floor.
I dart into the living room, moving automatically, looking for escape, but there’s nothing – no back door, no fire escape, no window that a human being could squeeze through without plummeting three storeys to their death, or at least without inflicting serious injury.
My eyes flick to the Juliet balcony in the bedroom, but the metal railing doesn’t offer an escape route, locked behind double glass. I’m caged.
I return to the living room, ignoring the hammering and the repeated requests for me to open up.
This isn’t the time for logic, but I try to reason with myself. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe it’s a routine check, a noise complaint, a neighbour dispute. Maybe they want to ask about someone else in the building.
Every fibre in my body wants to run, but there’s nowhere to run to. If I don’t answer, they’ll get in. If I do answer, it’s over. I force myself to recall every step of the original plan, every what-if, every backup and failsafe I told myself I had. Turns out, I had exactly zero.
I make myself walk to the front door and try to steady my breathing. My legs are shaking so badly it feels like my bones might slip out and clatter on to the floor.
They bang again, louder than before.
I jump.
Then I unlock the door and open it.