I want to ask Molly to define what ‘normal life’ looks like, only I’d rather she just leave, so I try not to engage any more than necessary.
‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘Most of them fell by the wayside after… after everything. Though to be honest with you, I prefer it that way.’
‘Oh?’ She seems crestfallen. ‘That’s a shame.’
I assume that Molly knows my history, and about Samantha. It’s no doubt therealreason why she’s asking me about my ‘friends’ and family, or lack of them. She doesn’t appear to be scared of me though, which makes me question whether she really is familiar with my case. ‘You should come along to one of Re-Connex’s monthly social gatherings, meet some new people… It’ll do you good! Everyone’s super friendly, and it’s a mix of womenandmen. You never know, you could meet the love of your life.’ She grins. Molly’s eyes disappear into slits whenever she smiles, which is often. Her happy disposition is sometimes a painful reminder that I used to be like her once upon a time. Now though, a darkness chases me; one I can never seem to outrun.
‘The only men I like are dead ones,’ I say flatly without breaking eye contact.
A look of horror registers on her face. I’m not sure why I’m trying to provoke her. I know she’s only trying to be kind. ‘Do you know what men fear most about women, Molly?’
She shakes her head. ‘No…’
‘That women will laugh at them.’
‘Oh, really?’ She shuffles from foot to foot a little awkwardly.
‘And do you know what women fear most about men?’
‘I must admit, I’m not exactly an aficionado on the subject. I’ve not had the greatest luck myself in that department…’
‘That they’ll kill them.’
‘Any luck with the job-hunting yet?’ Molly changes the subject as she nods at the laptop on the coffee table. She has very generously gifted it to me, ostensibly so that I can search for employment. Though who in their right mind is ever going to givemea job, I can’t imagine. The job-hunting is merely a ruse anyway; it’s not jobs I’m searching for.
‘Not yet, Molly. But thanks again for the laptop.’
She stands, gives me a brief, awkward hug goodbye.Finally.
I watch Molly from the window as she scurries down the pathway in her big fluffy coat before turning left onto the main street. Now that she’s gone, I untack the tie-dye wall-hanging and stand back and stare at the collection of cuttings and maps, and heavily scribbled-on Post-it notes I’ve been compiling on the wall behind it – years of covert research and study brought to the big screen at last. I break off a couple of squares of chocolate from the open bar on the table and pop them into my mouth. Chocolate helps me to concentrate. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
How do you begin to look for someone who doesn’t exist?
Perhaps the one –the only– ‘good’ thing about spending six excruciatingly long and desperate years locked away with the criminally insane, is that I had plenty of time to start finding out.
As it transpired though, I was wrong, and the police and the judges and the doctors and the lawyers – they were right all along. Samantha Valentine reallydoesn’texist, at least not technically. She was a creation ofherown mind and notmine.
I know now of course that everything she ever told me was a lie. From the moment she took a breath to introduce herself, to the fatal second I stuck a knife into the heart of Bojan Radulovic, killing him stone cold dead. It was layer upon layer of them, a millefeuille of lies.
I open the fridge and take the cheap bottle of rosé from it, hastily pour myself a large measure into a chipped mug and swallow it back in three gulps.
The truth is, Samantha Valentine could beanywhere. Searching for her is like looking for a ghost. It’s said, however, that the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour, and so if it’s true, then shewillstrike again. She won’t be able to resist putting her head above the parapet. Her need for control and power over people and the thrill of the emotional con is just too tempting for a psychopath like her.
I can’t go to the authorities for help in finding her, at least not directly. How can I possibly turn to the very people who were so complicit in my demise? Even armed with a truckload of evidence, I’m not sure they wouldn’t just lock me right back up with the loonies in a bid to conceal their own incompetence. They got it wrong before; they could get it wrong again. Anyway, I don’t trust the police. They don’t care about truth and justice; they’re corrupt.
I almost drop the mug I’m holding as the doorbell rings, startling me.Who is that?I’m definitely not expecting any other visitors today. Maybe Molly forgot something, though she does have a key, which she’s always perfectly happy to use, announcing herself at the same time as she enters with the words, ‘Only me!’
I grab the wall-hanging and hastily tack it back up.
And then the doorbell rings again.
ELEVEN
I open the door a crack, a little breathless,a little nervous.
‘Oh! Malcolm! It’s you!’ I quickly wipe my mouth, in case there’s any chocolate around it.
Malcolm lives across the hall, directly opposite me. I get the feeling he might actually fancy me a bit. Perhaps it’s the way that whenever he smiles at me it seems to reach his sparkly eyes, and he’s always making clumsy attempts at starting conversation. Actually, I’m flattering myself; he probably doesn’t fancy me at all. Who would? Now, after everything, I’m as much of a ghost as she is.
