‘I know what she’s done to you… how she befriended you, how she got inside your head and exploited your trauma, your insecurities, your loneliness,your pain. She took advantage of you. But it’s not too late, Erin. You have the rest of your life, as a free woman, to rebuild, to put this all behind you.’
The gun is vibrating in her hand; it’s shaking so much that I’m concerned it’ll go off. If I can get the timing right, if I can edge a little closer to her, then I may just be able to snatch it from her fragile grip. But I can feel Tilly moving from behind me now, like she’s about to make a break for it and…
‘“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” says the Lord! Romans 12:19!’ Erin’s voice is a loud and slightly manic projection, as she turns and points the gun at Tilly. ‘And today,Iam the Lord.’
Then she pulls the trigger.
FIFTY-ONE
The sound of the firearm discharging is, ironically, deafening. Instinctively, I place my hands over my ears, crouch down on the floor for cover. Tilly Ward is down. She’s been hit. But she’s still alive. I hear her moaning, where she’s fallen, next to the sofa. I turn myself towards her, I can smell the blood and sulphur in the air.
‘Is she alive?’
Erin is standing in the same position as she was, pointing the gun at Tilly’s body on the floor. Her face looks pale with fear now though, like she can’t quite believe what she’s done.This is a disaster.
‘Please, Erin.’ I look up at her, implore her, ‘Not like this.’ I don’t believe that she plans to kill me, or even harm me in any way. It’s not me she’s after. It never was. But now I seem to have got in the way. ‘Put the gun down. Just… just put the gun down and we can talk, Erin.’
‘It’s too late for talking now, Dan,’ she says. ‘Seven years too late. Anyway, there’s nothing more to be said. It’s over.’
Tilly is groaning underneath me. The blood is starting to disperse in a river along the cheap laminate flooring. I think she’s slipping in and out of consciousness.
‘Help me, Dan. She’s crazy… she tried to kill me… I’m d…dying…’
‘Goddamn it.’ Erin steps forwards to look at her. ‘Did Imiss?’
‘Stay back, Erin.’ I hold my hand up. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
She sighs heavily, goes to the table and takes a seat. She’s still holding the weapon.
I stay still. No sudden moves.
‘I was always a terrible aim,’ she says miserably. ‘Though maybe with a bit of luck, she’ll bleed to death.’
I check Tilly’s pulse. It’s slowing down, but it’s there. She’s alive.The devil really does look after its own.
‘We need to call an ambulance, Erin.’
‘Whoisshe, Dan? Whoisshe really?’ She drops the gun onto the table then and buries her head into her hands. I sit up against the sofa, bring my knees up to my chest. Tilly’s blood is all over my shirt and trousers, I can feel it, wet against my skin as it soaks through the fabric, turning it crimson. I see the coat then, a burgundy red coat, hanging up behind the front door. It looks just like the coat the redhead was wearing at the press conference. The one posing as a journalist who was seen coming out of Tilly’s apartment.My God.It was her! She had been there, right in front of me, asking me questions! Taunting me.
‘Her name is Julie Edwards.’
Erin’s hands slide from her face. ‘Julie… who?’
‘Edwards,’ I repeat. ‘Julie Edwards.’
‘Noooo!’ she says, her brow wrinkling. ‘That sounds like a boring name, very… average.’ She snorts. ‘Huh, no wonder she preferred Samantha Valentine. Julie Edwards,’ she repeats, in a childish, silly high-pitched voice. ‘It makes her sound like she wears a tabard and works in Greggs.’
‘Samantha Valentine was the name of an old school friend of hers, from Perth, in Australia,’ I tell her. ‘Someone she knew as a child. Samantha hanged herself, when she was eleven yearsold, thirty years ago. No one knew why. I spoke to her mother on the phone. She told me that Samantha was a loving, happy little girl until she met Julie Edwards. Within a few months of them becoming friends, Samantha was dead. I suspect that’s why she used the name. In some kind of homage to her friend, her first victim maybe?’
Erin’s eyes are transfixed upon my own.
‘Nothing was proven, but it seems that there was suspicion, even back then, of coercive control, psychopathy even…’
‘Good God,’ she says. ‘Eleven years old.’ Her whole body visibly sags.
I can see that Tilly’s been hit in the left leg. Instinctively, I place my hand on the wound, try to stem the blood that’s flowing from it.
‘Her father was Ray Denis, Erin. The man who killed your mother.’
