Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Seeing the dead isn’t something you would wish for.
When I was younger, I didn’t think of it as anything more than my imagination or the norm; surely everyone sees them, right? But then I got older and quickly realised it wasn’t the norm, that talking to your dead mother isn’t considered part of daily life. And there was a time when I wished I couldn’t see her. I just wanted to be like everyone else.
But then my brother died, and I lost someone who had never missed a single beat of a single day with me; after that, seeing the dead became all I desired.
It’s difficult to pinpoint when I began to see my mother. She died in childbirth; my brother and I took the very last air she breathed. Knowing that my first feat on this earth was to murder my own mother is something that haunts me still. I’ve always felt that it tarnished us and set us up on the path of things to come.
We didn’t miss her; it’s hard to miss someone you never knew.
I don’t remember the specific day I started seeing her. She was always appearing in her glimmering halo of light—but I do recall the first time I mentioned it to my father.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” my dad cooed from the corner of the sitting room as I twirled around in my new satin dress bought especially for Christmas Day.
“Thanks, Daddy.” I giggled before looking over at my mother standing next to him, her smile as radiant as her skin. “Mummy likes it too.”
My father’s face wilted and his cheeks hollowed. It was like letting the air out of a balloon. “What did you say?”
“I said Mummy likes it too. I can tell because she’s smiling.” Flapping the skirt, I danced around the room, unaware of what I’d conjured.
“But Mummy isn’t here, sweetheart. She’s in heaven, remember?” His tone was soft but laced with conviction, and I’m still not sure who he was trying to convince that my mother wasn’t standing in the room with us.
I stopped dancing and smiled at my mother before telling my father that heaven must be here in our house, then.
We never talked about it again. I never mentioned her clasping her hands to her heart every year as I blew out the candles on my birthday cake or how brightly she appeared to shine the day I opened my exam results in the kitchen. And after I left home and bought a place of my own, she came with me, culling the idea of there being a heaven at all.
And I’ve often wondered, after Ed’s passing, why I haven’t seen him. Why he hasn’t visited me like my mother does. Ed had been the other half of me. Until the age of around seventeen, we’d been inseparable, like twins are supposed to be.
And when he died, I wanted to see him, if only to soothe the wound his death had opened.
Ten years of searching for a ghost amongst the living.
And now, he’s here, standing behind Valdemar, his face hollow, his eyes watery, the bullet hole encrusted with dried blood imbedded like a third eye in his forehead tarnishing the silver-blond of his fringe. His hand rests on Valdemar’s shoulder, his raven tattoo stark against the paleness of his skin. There’s no halo of light like there is around my mother, no shimmering translucent skin, just ghostly limbs and the smell of sulphur.
And I want to cry.
My mother, although dead, looks beautiful and at peace, whereas Ed looks lost and broken.
Why here?
Why now?
What is he doing standing behind the man who shot him?
As if this interview isn’t going to be difficult enough.
Gulping hard, I drop my gaze, not wanting to look like I’m staring at thin air. My mind is racing, my heart hammering against my ribcage as if it’s trying to break a bone. I want to talk to Ed, to reach out, but Valdemar is watching me.
Grabbing the back of the chair, I drag it out and then sit down. My hands shake as I pull out my tiny Dictaphone and notebook.
There’s an abrasive silence as I sit here, nerves swamping me, anger fermenting.
Once I’m ready, I inhale deeply before looking up to find my brother has gone. The only eyes now staring at me are those of Valdemar Montresor.
I take in his slick black hair swept back into a man bun, his murderous eyes a biting blue, his jaw covered with a close-cropped beard. The calm exterior he exudes is a sharp contrast to the concoction of emotions mixing inside me.
“Angel.” The gruffness of his voice counters with the beauty of the word, and I’m annoyed that something so innocent can come out of his mouth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your name… Evangeline. It’s a Latin name meaning gospel, the bringer of good news, and you remind me of an angel with your silver hair and pale eyes. Thank you for coming.”
He sits back in his chair, and I’m lost, his accent a melting pot of so many continents. There’s a hint of Spanish, a dash of Italian, and a smattering of New Yorker all mixed together, making it impossible to tell where he comes from. It’s like he’s brewed it himself and branded it his own.
As my insides harden, I remind myself of some of the rules I read online about interviewing notorious criminals.
Rule number one: Don’t let them take control of the interview. You are in charge, not them. They will try flattery, insults, outrageous remarks, and even promises of secrets they’ve never shared. Don’t be fooled. Stay in control.
But he’s already in control. He asked me to come here, and I agreed. I’m here at his behest.
“I nearly didn’t.”
“I understand, and thank you again for agreeing to be here. I know this must be very difficult for you.” I want to sense insincerity in his tone, to complete the picture of the bad guy sitting before me, but I don’t. Instead, his words are carefully placed as though he’s contemplated them for a long time.
“You have no idea.”
His jaw twitches. “I know more than you think.”
The fluorescent light flickers as a sting of cold air splinters into my lungs and almost takes my breath away. What does he mean? What does he know about me?
I tap my pencil on the first page of my notebook, trying to keep this professional and concentrate on the job I’m here to do rather than my personal reasons for being here.
Valdemar’s eyes roam the empty page. “You know why I asked you here.”
Unsure as to whether this is a question, I answer it anyway. “Your letter said you have a story to tell.”
“I do, but it’s not one that can be printed.”
Annoyance bristles my shoulders. “You asked me here as a journalist.”
“I asked you here as you . Some of the things I need to tell you can’t be printed.”
My shoulders drop. “So, you lied to get me here.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Thou shall not murder. Thou shall not bear false witness against your neighbour. The commandments seem to be a to-do list for this guy.
“Not at all. I said I have a story to tell and that I want you to hear it. I didn’t specify that you should publish it.”
I let out an audible sigh. “Then why am I here if not to write a story?”
“Because you need to be here.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but instead, he moves on.
“Before I begin, do you have any questions?” He nods to the blank page of my notebook.
“I have questions. Lots. But they’re all in here.” I tap the side of my head with my pencil.
He leans forwards, his T-shirt pulling against his chest, images of the tattoos underneath the thin material bleeding through. “I wonder what else is in there.”
Rule number two blares in my ears: Don’t let them get inside your head. They will play mind games with you and try anything to learn personal details, your strengths, and especially your weaknesses. Keep your guard up and your personal life to yourself.
But he’s already in my head. He’s been there for the past ten years.
Clearing my throat, I straighten in the flimsy chair. “I already know enough of what happened that night from the police and the press.”
Valdemar crosses his thick arms. “And working for the press, you know first-hand how much bullshit they print. And here I was thinking you were here for a real story.”
He’s playing games again, luring me in with promises of something exclusive, something sensational. But I can’t staunch the reporter in me.
“Why now?” I ask. “You’ve been locked away for the past ten years. You could have told me these things anytime.”
He clenches his jaw, and something flickers behind his eyes as if he’s contemplating his words carefully. “Because in six weeks, I’m being released.”
“What the fuck?” Anger railroads the journalist, my blood a tempest.
“My case has been reviewed and my sentence reduced.” There he goes again, being careful with his words. All I want to do is bulldoze them from the room.
“That can’t be right.” I shake my head, my hands twisting under the table.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“This cannot be happening. Who did you have to bribe for this?” Heat crawls up my neck.
“No one,” he says.
“Liar. You killed my fucking brother, and you get to walk free after ten years? Where is the justice in that?” I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get cross, that I would keep my emotions in check and not lose my shit, but I’m already a bubbling volcano of fury.
“This is why I wanted to talk to you.”
“To assuage your guilt?”
“No, to put the record straight.” He’s so calm, so cool, which makes me even madder.
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because you’re here. That alone tells me you want answers. And I can give them to you, but it’ll take more than one hour.”
I regard him with caution. What is this about? What game is he playing?
“I have a visitor slot every Thursday at four o’clock. I would like for you to attend for the next six weeks.” He sounds businesslike, formal and professional, not the hot-headed thug I’ve pictured for the last ten years.
My skin crawls at the thought of having to repeat this visit. It’s been hard enough; I’m not sure I can go through it all again. But then I remember Ed, and even though his ghost appeared ghastly—the pallid skin, the rawness of his wound—I would give anything to see my brother again, even if it means having to sit across from the monster who made him what he is now.
“What about your other visitors?” Does he have any visitors? Friends, family?
“They can wait.”
Uncertainty mixes with my curiosity. “What can you possibly have to tell me that will take us six weeks?”
“Everything you want to know.”
This thought rattles about in my skull.
He’s a murderer. What else is there to know?
“I know you’re the head of one of the most prolific organisations in Amontillado. I know you’re a ruthless monster with no soul, no empathy, and certainly no morals. And I know you killed my brother.”
Valdemar places his elbows on the table, his restraints jangling as they slide down his forearms. “Wouldn’t you like to know why?”
“The papers reported?—”
“What they wanted to report.”
I try a different angle. “At the hearing, the witnesses said?—”
Again, he interrupts me. “What they were told to say. No one was interested in my past or my reasons behind what happened. But you, angel—you are. You deserve to know the truth and to hear it from me rather than anyone else.”
I tut. “And I’m sure it’ll be a pack of lies.”
“What would be the point? And, like you said, I have no morals, so why would I feel the need to lie to you?”
Valdemar is giving me six weeks of access to him and an exclusive story that most journalists would give their right arm for. He said I can’t publish it, but what right does he have to ask that of me?
I owe him nothing.
He owes me everything.
After Ed’s death, I was a mess, incomplete, half of me having died with my brother. I was on sick leave from the paper for over twelve months, and when I did return on a part-time basis, I functioned on a cocktail of drugs and grief. I felt like a ghost. Dead on the inside, dead on the outside, sharing my days with my deceased mother, wishing I could join her.
And then one day, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the person staring back at me, saw nothing of my brother, only a shell with vacant eyes. So I decided enough was enough. I couldn’t languish with the dead any longer.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to retrieve the dream of being a successful journalist, but my past won’t seem to let me, and other reporters are being assigned the best leads while Captain views me with wary eyes, as if I might break down at the slightest sign of stress.
This could be my big break. This could be the story that puts me up there with the greats. But do I want that? Could I live with myself knowing that the death of my brother put me in the limelight? But Valdemar is right—I don’t want anyone else reporting on this. I don’t want to read about it in some other paper, some bull-headed journalist putting their slant on things. If this story is to be told, it has to be by me.
“All right,” I reply slowly, unsure of what exactly I’m agreeing to.
“Thank you.” He shifts in his seat like the handcuffs aren’t the only thing restraining him. “Being locked away makes you realise you won’t be around forever, and I don’t want my story to die with me.”
The sound of me swallowing is louder than I would like.
“You don’t sound like a man who is being given a second chance and being released in six weeks,” I say.
“Maybe not. But I’ve been safe in here. Well, as safe as a man can be, locked away with a thousand other criminals. But I’m well aware of the price on my head, angel.”
It’s as if he’s sliced through my cranium and examined my brain, and for the first time since this all began, I wonder just what and who I’m tangling with.
“I’m sure your flock will keep you safe,” I say before I have time to think.
“What is it they say—keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” I wait for him to smile at this little joke, but his mouth remains firmly set, which suggests he isn’t joking at all.
“Five minutes,” the guard says.
I’d forgotten all about the prison guard standing behind me, and his announcement makes me jump as I automatically look to the clock for confirmation.
“I have one question before I leave.” I close the empty notebook and tidy away my scant belongings.
“Go ahead.”
My hand hovers over the Dictaphone. And I’m not sure where the question comes from, but it’s out before I can stop it.
“Do you regret killing him?”
Valdemar’s face hardens as if he isn’t going to dignify my query with an answer.
“Time’s up.” The prison guard appears to my left, and I rise, wondering whether if Valdemar were to answer, it would change anything.
The guard ushers me to the door, and I turn to get one last look at Valdemar, but he’s not alone. My brother has returned, blood spattered on his white shirt, his empty eyes staring right at me as his waxen hand rests on Valdemar’s shoulder.
Blinking to clear my vision, I try to erase the blood, the bullet hole, and the look of sorrow on his face, but Ed isn’t some hallucination to be tampered with. My brother remains as Valdemar answers me.
“There’s a famous saying by a man named Sydney J. Harris,” he begins, his eyes narrowing. “‘Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.’”