Ioana, The Fifth
She thought she had the strength to permanently silence me. But no one can shut out the little voice in the back of their head completely. Especially when that voice belongs to someone else. And being trapped inside her has allowed me to sense her weaknesses and exploit them. For the last ten years, I have been able to manipulate her when I feel like it, make her pay for doing what she did to me. Today is one of those days, when she will do what I say because, if she doesn’t, I’ll take her over completely. And I don’t deliver empty threats.
She’s changed a lot since her first occupant joined her on this journey. Her mother, I have learned. I suppose she only wanted the best for her daughter. To encourage her to take charge of her life. To give her a reason to continue when she was at her bleakest. And she is grateful for that. But her mother would be mortified if she realised she’d left the gates open for the rest of us to jump on board the crazy train. I assume she thought she’d be the only one to guide her child, not to then be replaced with the next fresh kill, and so on and so forth.
Of course, Zain, Jenny and Warren all wanted out of her head the moment they arrived. Why would anyone in their right mind – excuse the pun – want to be anywhere near her? They didn’t think twice aboutkilling their friends as a means to escape her. Warren even murdered me, a stranger to him, just to free himself from her toxicity. But she knows me well enough to know I’m different.
Because I want to stay here.
I’m not going to encourage her to kill anyone else. Given the choice of being out there in the real world or here, of course I’d pick out there. But being here is better than being dead and forgotten. It gives me the opportunity to continue where I left off. She and I have a common enemy and if I urged her to kill the final name on her list, what would happen to me? I’d vanish and be replaced. And I’m not ready to go anywhere.
The second counsellor she saw told her there’s a diagnosis for what she has.
‘A dissociative identity disorder that can evolve as an extreme reaction to bereavement in adolescence,’ they said.
She doesn’t agree with that evaluation, but I think it’s because accepting it means she’d be forced to admit there’s something wrong with her. That me and the others are not real. That we are in her imagination. By denying it, she can continue to blame her passengers for making her kill. Anyone but herself.
If she thought about it, she’d realise she’s lucky to have me. We’re the perfect match. However, for our relationship to work, she knows there has to be give and take. And now it’s my turn to take. I need her to listen and to do as I say. And only when I’m completely satisfied will I retire, at least for a time, to the shadows.
‘Start gathering your equipment and preparing yourself for what is to come,’ I tell her now. ‘Because later this week, all you’ll hear is my voice giving you instructions. And you’re going to follow them to the letter.’
Silence.
‘I hope you’re listening to me,’ I continue. ‘Because there will be consequences if you aren’t, Anna.’
Part Two
August
Three Months Before Bonfire Night
Chapter 45
Anna
I hear voices. I have done since I was a teenager, standing at the top of a cliff face, preparing to throw myself from it. First it was Mum and then, over time, came the others. All of them urging me to kill those who have wronged me, and I listen to them because I have no choice. Once I act out their wishes, they disappear and are replaced by the next one.
Of all my inhabitants, Ioana has spent the longest time with me, which is ironic, as she was never on my list. She is the result of me letting my guard down and allowing someone else to take advantage. She and I go through quiet and noisy spells, and for a while, I tuned her out. However, when I’m stressed or distracted, and my guard is lowered, she exploits the situation. Like now, in the aftermath of that detective’s death. It has brought about it a tension between Drew and I that exceeds anything we’ve ever experienced before. And Ioana has seeped back into me like a slow-releasing poison.
It hasn’t only taken that man’s death. The build-up to today has probably been months in the making. Ioana began her approach subtly – a stray thought here, a quiet word there, progressing everyso often to a snatched sentence before I even realised these were not my thoughts but hers. Even then, I naively assumed I could take back control at will, and certainly didn’t imagine she could harm me to the degree she did a few years back, when she was at her most vocal. But slowly and surely, her quiet voice has loudened to a roar that I can’t ignore. She reminds me again and again of who I really am, the woman who people like Liv and Margot can’t see because I’m so well hidden.
And now she wants to punish me for not listening to her. She has worn me down. Today, I’m admitting defeat.
I have the house to myself. Drew is working, but to put my mind at ease, I check the Find My iPhone app and see he’s still on a delivery somewhere between Coventry and Birmingham. I assume that somewhere en route he will find a place to dump that detective’s body.
Then I make my way along the hallway and into the bathroom. There’s no need to lock the door. I remove my socks first, then jogging bottoms, fold them up neatly then place them on the lid of the wash basket. Then I position myself on the side of the bath, both feet resting in the tub. The shower head is next to me and the tap is within easy reach. Resting on the toilet tank is a box of super-absorbent sanitary pads, gauze and tape.
And my trusted Stanley knife.
I hate myself for giving in to Ioana but her voice turns the inside of my head into a pressure cooker. The only way to release the strain is to do as she says and cut myself. Only then is she appeased and I’m back in control of my life. Until next time.
I take the knife with the freshly attached blade and position it halfway down my left thigh, placing the tip upon one of my old, raised, diagonal scars.
‘Are you ready?’ Ioana asks.
I nod. I don’t know if it’s her pulse or mine pounding in my ears, and it doesn’t matter. Because after this moment, we are united by the same cause. Slowly, I begin to cut. The pain is sharp and I gasp, until the warm blood rises to the surface, leaving scarlet candle-wax drips down each side of my thigh. I’m slow and methodical and the relief is instant. And when I finish that line, I start on a second.
‘Keep going,’ she urges. ‘I need to feel how sorry you are for what you did to me.’
