Chapter 41
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
EMMA
After experiencing the most amazing morning of my life, Alex apologised profusely about having to leave me to go to work. He had a few appointments that he had to keep, which meant leaving me alone in the house again. But I didn’t mind. I was on cloud nine.
Before he left, he’d asked the staff about the rose that’d been decimated in my room the night before.
No one admitted to anything, not that I expected them to after what’d happened to Alma, being fired after working on the estate for thirty-eight years.
Yes, the drugged tea was worse than a damaged rose, but the fear was there now.
I don’t think the staff trusted me, and because of that, I wanted to keep a low profile. I didn’t trust them either.
I decided to head to Alex’s office again and see if, after the shot of adrenaline and endorphins he’d given me that morning, I could do something more meaningful with my day.
I walked into the office and headed for the desk. Then I sat down in his comfy leather chair and gave the mouse a wiggle. His screen came to life, but when I saw what was on there, my heart sank to my feet.
I swallowed, feeling sick as I read the title of the video, ‘S.K.A.M. Performance, Italy.’
I should’ve walked away and spoken to Alex about it when he got home. He’d told me this fucker was locked up. That he was in a secure unit and wouldn’t be let out for a long time.
So why was he in Italy performing like nothing had happened?
What the fuck was going on?
Morbid curiosity got the better of me, and with a shaky hand, I moved the mouse and clicked the play button to start the video. Then I sat forward, feeling tension in every inch of my body as I watched the performance play out.
At the beginning, I could hear the murmur of voices as the people in the crowd waited for the show to start. It looked like it’d been recorded in an old warehouse, and on the back wall, at the rear of the building, were the words ‘Life in Reverse’ projected onto the brick with stark white lights.
Eventually, the murmur of voices died down, and the sound of a life support machine flatlining, with the familiar constant ‘burrrrrr’ noise sounded throughout the warehouse.
Two figures dressed all in black came running into shot from the bottom of the screen, pushing a gurney through the crowds with a body bag on it.
When they reached the front, they moved to stand beside the gurney and face the audience, their faces hidden behind black masks.
One of them unzipped the body bag, and the other picked up two shock pads from a defibrillator.
A mechanical voice boomed, “Stand clear.” As the masked guy placed the pads onto the body in the bag and zapped it.
The body jumped. He shocked it again. Another jump.
And then, the flatline noise turned to the sound of a pulsing heartbeat, with the pulse pattern displayed on a huge monitor behind them.
They’d brought him back to life.
The heartbeat morphed into thumping bass as the body in the bag sat up and then jumped off the gurney.
He stood in front of them in his signature blue boiler suit, but this time he had a black balaclava on and a blue LED mask to cover his face, with crosses for the eyes and a stitched-up mouth. As the crowd cheered, he tilted his head to make himself look more demonic. If that were at all possible.
The two men who’d wheeled him on faded into the background, standing against the wall as the spotlight focused on him. And then a deep voice spoke, and my stomach rolled.
“Life in reverse.
A story must be told.”
The screen behind started to roll old black and white photographs really fast across the screen. Starting with elderly men and women, turning into older adults, then getting younger and younger, until it slowed down as images of babies appeared. And then his mechanical voice bellowed loudly.
"As a child, he saw more crime,
from his crib that was filled with dirt and grime,
than any child should ever see.
It was such a fucking tragedy.
His life ended the day he came into theirs.
There was no point in wishes.
Hopes.
Or prayers.
The innocence of youth violently ripped away.
No one wants another mouth to feed when you can’t afford to pay,
for the drugs.
The alcohol.
The whores.
All is not as it seems.
Behind closed doors.
When happy smiles hide teeth and claws.
A life in reverse.
Pay close attention as I talk.
About the boy whose life was over,
before he’d even learned to walk.”
The image of a little boy appeared on the screen behind him, a boy sitting in a crib with a dirty face and filthy clothes, crying, but it was clear no one was going to come. And then he went on proclaiming to the crowd.
“Arran was a silent boy.
But his demons they roared loud.
And the voices in his head,
told him you shouldn’t be here; you should be dead.”
The warehouse went pitch black, then a single spotlight lit him up again, in his blue mask and boiler suit.
The image of a teenage boy appeared behind him in place of the child.
The teen was leaning against a wall, with his hood down, smoking a cigarette.
And smoke billowed into the crowd alongside the faint chatter of voices from the speakers, cursing and swearing, sounding like bullies taunting their victim. And he continued his performance.
“As life went on and he got older,
the punches and kicks became much bolder.
But now there’s another factor of his misery they own
Fists hurt,
but words?
They can cut.
To.
The.
Bone.”
The room was bathed in red light as the effect of red water trickling down the walls behind him suddenly appeared, making it look like blood pouring free.
Then the image of the teen was replaced by one of an arm, covered in cuts and scars.
A stark image that gave me a visceral reaction, because that was a young man’s arm, just a boy. And with his booming voice, he asked,
“Does it make you proud to drag others down?
Smiling for the world while you hide your frown.
Your hate.
Your anger.
Your vicious bile.
How far would you go?
Would you walk a mile?
To ensure he hears every vulgar word.
Because you want to destroy him.
That’s what I’ve heard.”
He paused for a moment, and you could hear a pin drop in the warehouse.
“Words can hurt.
They can cut so deep.
We see it in the media.
When you all weep.
After driving them to take their life.
With words of hate that cut like a knife.
If we’d known the risk, then we’d do better.
We’d protect them, you say.
If we’d been kinder, they’d live to see another day.
Too little.
Too late.
Too broken,
to wait.
The ones who hurt the most are the ones who say,
I’m fine, I’m great, I’m doing okay.
And you accept it.
You’re glad.
You never ask yourself why,
the smile was wide, but the eyes said,
Want.
To.
Die.”
The room fell into darkness again as he uttered his next verse.
“Arran was a quiet teen.
But his demons begged for freedom.
And the voices in his head,
told him, kill them all.
Leave them for dead.”
The spotlight came back on, illuminating him for all to see. He held a knife in one gloved hand and a rope in the other. And behind him flashed headlines of murder, using phrases such as ‘Planned Massacre’, ‘Hate Crime’ and ‘Horror Assassin’. And standing tall and proud, he exclaimed,
“Until one day he finds his power,
or the power, it finds him.
He won’t take it anymore.
He will become the law.
The crimes he witnessed as a kid,
will be avenged when he lifts that lid,
on the box they tried to keep hidden.
The life that was forbidden.
Because sins can’t be washed away.
They always come back to haunt you some day.
And for him, that day was now.
He was older.
And stronger.
And wiser.
And, wow.
He tells his father, “You can’t beat me now.
I tower over you.
I’m more aggressive, too.”
See, that’s what happens after years of abuse.
But you don’t care.
You’re too fucking obtuse,
to see what you have done.
That the monster you created has already won.”
I felt sick when I saw the headline for Sirius Bell’s murder flash onto the wall behind him. And I expected to see the one for Stephen Gold, too, but it didn’t appear.
Was he outing himself in plain sight?
Showing the world who he was without coming out and saying it. The crowd applauded his words. Not realising who he really was. And he was lapping it up, holding his arms up as he said,
“Arran was a tortured man.
But his demons were unleashed.
And the voices in his head,
were proud of the beast who trampled on the dead.”
Eventually, the room fell silent, and the heartbeat from the beginning began to echo throughout the room again. S.K.A.M. moved back and sat on the gurney before addressing the crowd.
“They say try to leave the world a better place than you found it.
Life’s a journey, after all.
None of us survive the fall.
And death.
Comes.
For.
Us.
All.
It’s guaranteed.
Like the taxes you need,
to pay to the people who are full of greed.
None of us make it out alive.
But while we’re here,
we can do better than survive.
We can thrive.
We can create.
We can sing.
And we can paint.
We can live.
And breathe.
And smile.
And then.
Leave the world a better place,
for the next generation of the human race.”
He paused, and then, as he started to manoeuvre himself onto the gurney to lie down, he said,
“Arran was a broken soul.
But his demons roamed the earth.
And the voices of those that are left behind,
will pity him over what they find.
But don’t feel sorry for Arran.
No.
He lived his life as the star of the show.
He always had the last word.
And on the day he died,
he did so with pride.
From the depths of hell...
He made his life a story worthy to tell.”
I jumped as the flatline sound he’d been wheeled in with blared loudly across the warehouse.
The two men in the shadows stepped forward, as S.K.A.M. slumped backwards.
Then they zipped the body bag up and slowly pushed the gurney back through the crowd as everyone stood to the side and watched in stunned silence as he was slowly carried away.