THIRTY-SIX
ERIN
There’s a diner, somewhere in the USA, where you can actually order the very same last meal that infamous serial killers on death row requested to eat before they were put to death. I’m not kidding. You can choose, among other delights on the menu, John Wayne Gacy’s final meal of chicken, twelve fried shrimp, French fries, and a pound of strawberries, or, if you prefer, Ted Bundy’s medium-rare steak, eggs over easy, hash browns and toast with butter and jam, all while being surrounded by artefacts and trophies of their heinous and grizzly crimes. Only in America, right?
Tonight though, I’ve opted for a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings, some French fries, a portion of chicken goujons, fried onion rings, a large Coke and a side of mac ’n’ cheese. Dessert is a tub of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream, if I’m not in a coma by then, though I’m willing to put the effort in. I’ve a hunger on me tonight, like my body knows something is about to happen and is preparing itself for what’s coming.
‘Thanks.’ The delivery driver had looked down at his hand through his helmet visor, clearly underwhelmed by the three pound coins I placed in it, my gratitude forhisefforts – this is an important meal after all. Ordinarily, I would’ve been moregenerous to him, only I’ve worked in restaurants and bars before – back when I was the younger me, when I was someone else – and as anyone who’s ever worked in the service industry knows, youalwaysremember the big tippers.
I take a few loud slurps of the ice-cold Coke through the straw and arrange the food neatly on the table, placing the gun down next to it. Observing the strange juxtaposition of the weapon next to a side order of mac ’n’ cheese, I stab at the hot and salty French fries with a fork and stuff them into my mouth. After a couple more attempts, I abandon the fork and use my fingers instead.
Once I’ve worked my way through this feast, I’ll take a hot and cold shower in Delilah’s painfully trendy, Scandi-chic bathroom that’s frankly too nice to even think about defecating in. It’s filled with palm plants and gorgeous-smelling designer wash products, which I fully intend to make use of. The cheap, harsh shower gel I had to use at Larksmere always used to give me thrush.
After, I’ll play some music and drink some wine, but not too much. I have to drive.
The only way I have even the slimmest hope of getting close to Samantha and finding the answers I need and the justice I am searching for is by getting close to Dan Riley. I find Dan, then maybe I have half a chance of finding her. I’m going to call him once I’ve digested this lot and freshened up a bit. I don’t want to be all gassy when I speak to him. That wouldn’t be polite.
Aside from an explanation as to how my DNA could’ve possibly been found at Milo Harrison’s crime scene – if indeed what’s been reported is even true – what I want from Dan Riley is access to this Tilly woman, the woman who stabbed him, just as I stabbed Bojan. I like to think that by now, I’m able to be on first-name terms with my victim. After all, I took his life, even if I didn’t mean to.
And Ireallydidn’t mean to, just as I don’t suppose Tilly ever meant to kill Milo Harrison either. I wonder why Samantha chose Milo as a target in the first place. Was it for the same reasons she chose Bojan? What had he done to secure a place on her hit list? What hadeitherof them done that she would want to groom innocent people, like Tilly and I, into ending their lives on her behalf?
Dan, who I am also on first-name terms with, has no idea how much Ineedto speak to Tilly Ward. Right now, Tilly is the only other person on this planet that I know of who knows that Samantha Valentine actually exists. And this makes her very special to me indeed. I want to meet her, in the flesh,to know it’s really real. I want to hear her story and I want to tell her mine. I want to know if it was the same tragic tale for her as it was for me. Didshefall in love with Samantha too? Did Sam drill down so hard and far into her soul that, even now,even nowTillyknowsthat she’s been betrayed and deceived by her in the worst ways imaginable, shestillloves her? Misses her? Wishes they could still be friends?
I realise, suddenly,ridiculously, that I’m crying. Tears, hot and salty, like the French fries, are sliding down my cheeks. I watch them, motionless, as they drip down onto the table and splash onto the gun, before I brush them away. I feel cross with myself,stupid. Since when have tears ever helped me? I cried a river of them while I was locked up in Larksmere. Not a day passed by during my first year inside when I didn’t shed a few,or many. I would try to cry in private – though there wasn’t such a thing as privacy in Larksmere. I couldn’t even have my period withoutsomeoneknowing about it. The moment I set foot inside that place, every part of me belonged to the doctors and nurses and therapists. Nothing was sacred, not even my thoughts, in fact,especiallynot my thoughts. They even tried to take those away from me too. Sometimes, when my brainjudders and I have split-second memory blackouts, I think they were successful.
I know that it will bring me some comfort to know that I am not Samantha’s only victim; no doubt it would bring some for this poor Tilly woman too. After all, there’s safety in numbers, right? Tilly and I are honorary members of ‘The Samantha Valentine Survivors’ Club’, a club that everyone wants to be a member of,said no one ever. But here we both are.
I know Dan won’tallowme to see her, but maybe he can lead me to her directly. That would be a start.
I flip open Molly’s laptop. I need to delete some old accounts before the feds find them, if they haven’t already. Everything’s traceable these days,everythingexcept Samantha Valentine.
I log in to my old email account, one that pre-dates Samantha. I’d forgotten I even had it, to be honest. Prisoners – sorry,patients– at Larksmere weren’t allowed to send or receive emails directly of course, but sometimes staff brought round printed correspondence that had been sent from family, friends and loved ones. I never once received one of those sought-after printouts from loved ones or friends because I never had any of those.
I scan my eyes down the inbox, it’s all just junk anyway, sales and marketing crap, most of it and… hang on!
I jolt backwards in my seat, so hard that it hurts the small of my back.
The subject matter says: My name is Tilly Ward…
Oh.My.God. My heart starts pounding, knocking hard against my ribs. It’s pulsing loudly in my ears as I touch my chest, take a breath before I click on it.
My name is Tilly Ward. You don’t know me. But I think we may have someone in common. Her name is Samantha Valentine.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DAN
‘She wrote to me.’
‘Erin!’
I was at home – I know, I could barely believe it myself – in the middle of a sign-language tuition session with Fiona and the kids, when she called.
I have to say, her timing was as lousy as ever.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I give Leanne – the interpreter – and, perhaps more importantly, my wife, the best apologetic, overburdened, somebody-help-me-I’m-drowning-type face that I can muster as I stand, ‘but I reallydohave to take this call.’
