‘So,’ – Adriana lowers her head, back to being self-conscious once more – ‘I’ve sent her a DM, asking her to get in touch. And I also took the liberty of forwarding her Erin’s photo, the mugshot we released of her yesterday, just in the very small chance there’s a connection. I mean, it’s probably nothing, sir, just a sad memory she has of a childhood friend she once knew, someone unrelated to the case, someone with that same name, but I think we should look into it at the very least.’
THIRTY-FOUR
ERIN
I hit the brake too hard, lurch forwards onto the steering wheel.
Shit. I’ve never driven an automatic car before and it feels strange – I keep reaching for a gear stick that isn’t there through force of habit. It’s been over six years since I was behind the wheel and I’m rusty to say the least.
I check my reflection in the rear-view mirror as I blow my fringe out of my eyes, try to concentrate on the road ahead. I wish now I had just bitten the bullet and gone to a professional hairdresser’s instead of doing a hatchet job on myself. Aside from the astronomical prices, which I resent paying, I didn’t think it wise to. Spending two hours or more staring back at someone in a mirror and there’s a greater chance I’ll be recognised. If I’m to complete this mission successfully, then I have to think like Samantha Valentine would think; I have to stay one step ahead of the game. Now though, my penny-pinching feels like it’s coming back to bite me in the ass. I miss my long hair – the safety and protection it gave me – and I hate being blonde. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m fretting so much; soon it won’t matter what colour my hair is.
‘Alexandra Fisher, right?’ The receptionist at the car hire firm flashed me a disingenuous smile. I could tell it wasn’t a realsmile because it didn’t reach her eyes and had faded to nothing almost instantly. Genuine smiles leave a muscle residue that is slower to dissipate. Again, I thought of the smile that Malcolm had greeted me with when I opened the door to him the other evening, that slightly coy, stupid great grin on his face as he waggled the bottle of wine at me.
‘Shall we unscrew this bad boy then, or what?’
‘That’s me.’ My smile was largely for Malcolm as I handed over my fake driver’s licence to her. I felt a sudden flash of panic. What if creepy Pete has sold me a dud? What if they find out it’s fake and call the cops on me? I held my breath as she punched my details into the computer, stabbing the keyboard, sharply, with a long, painted fingernail.
‘Yep, you’re all paid up and good to go, Alexandra. Joe will take you to your vehicle.’ She handed me the keys, not even bothering with the disingenuous smile this time. I knew how she felt though, stuck in a dead-end job she clearly hates with colleagues that no doubt get on her wick and a pay cheque at the end of each month that does little to reflect all her hard efforts. Really though, she had no idea how truly lucky she is. I would say that ‘I’d kill’ for such an un-challenging, monotonous, dead-end,normaljob now, but that sounds like a not-so-funny joke. Even everyday, glib sayings hold a different meaning for me now.
I switch the radio on. I listened to a lot of radio while I was in Larksmere. It sometimes helped to drown out the screams at night and made me feel more attached to humanity. I always found it a more personal experience than the TV, like the actors were speaking to me directly. I often found their voices soothing. BBC4 was my favourite station to tune in to. Sheer boredom alone was enough to drive you insane in that place, if you weren’t insane already – and of course,mostpeople were. Sometimes I would sit in the recreation room with my fellow in-patients– we were never allowed to refer to ourselves as ‘prisoners’ despite it being exactly what we were – listening toThe ArchersorWoman’s Hour.It’s not that I chose to socialise with them – mental health feels contagious when you’re surrounded by it – but human beings crave company and contact. Loneliness is a debilitating disease that grows if it’s left untreated, but admittedly, it was kind of bizarre to find myself chuckling away alongside violent and disturbed murderers, arsonists and criminals, even if I was supposedly one myself. After a while, if you’re around it for long enough, crazy really does begin to feel normal.
I switch the radio on to BBC4, let it play in the background as I head towards the Airbnb that I’d hastily booked online – a trendy-looking apartment in Battersea. I might as well spend the last of what little cash I have left on something comfortable and a bit posh, to go with the new name. I like to think that maybe I’ve earned it, even if I don’t deserve it.
Delilah is waiting outside the property as I pull up. She comes towards me when she sees me, waving enthusiastically with a wide smile of relief. I’m ten minutes late.
‘Alexandra, yah?’ She stoops down as I open the electric window. ‘Alexandra Fisher?’
‘That’s me!’ Well, it is now. I switch the engine off. ‘I’m sorry I’m a little late, the London traffic…’
She rolls her eyes in sympathy, as though it needs no further explanation.
‘Dreadful, isn’t it? Can’t get around anywhere in this city anymore, too many people. Too many people who shouldn’t be here,’ she adds sniffily.
I smile, though I have no compunction to become embroiled in any kind of conversation with her, let alone one with racist undertones.
She stops for a moment, a slightly bemused look on her horsey face.
‘Gosh, have I… have we met before?’ Her brow creases.
Panic sweeps through me, but I take a deep breath, let it pass.
‘I don’t think so,’ I reply, as I snatch up my tote bag, the gun still rolled up inside it. She’s still staring at me with a perplexed expression, as though it’s going to come to her any moment. ‘I’m sure I would’ve remembered.’
‘You really look like someone I know.’ She crinkles her nose up. ‘I just can’t think who now.’
‘Really?’ I reply, pretending to busy myself with my small amount of luggage so as not to have to look at her directly. ‘I get that a lot. I must have one of those familiar faces.’
My guts tighten. I guess I can be forgiven for the paranoia. After all, my face is currently trending on social media thanks to Dan Riley and his flying monkeys. No doubt it’s the closest to being famous as I’ll ever get, while I’m still breathing at least.
‘Would you like me to show you around?’ Delilah says in her clipped home counties accent that screams of privilege and success.
I pray I haven’t just said the word ‘no’ out loud.
‘It’s all pretty straightforward, yah? There’s instructions on how to use the washing machine and the cooker, and the Wi-Fi password is underneath the fish magnet on the fridge.’
‘Perfect,’ I say, wondering what kind of person needs instructions on how to use a cooker, or if she thinks it’s just me who’s the idiot.
‘And there’s everything else you need, a rice steamer and an air fryer, a NutriBullet, cooking utensils, pots and pans and cutlery, the whole enchilada…’
