So, the question remained: which kind of sick puppy was I?
The problem was, I didn’t think I was any one of the four, but also maybe I was a mix of all of them. I did think I was doing society a favour, I had got a bit of a kick out of it, and I had enjoyed the power I’d wielded on O’Neill before – you know – killing him. The look in his eyes when he’d finally realised who I was. I wasn’t quite sure how the Visionary part factored in yet, considering I was a dirty little atheist who thought that God and heaven were just elements of a kid’s fairy tale that had got out of hand (don’t tell my husband that). But, admittedly, the fact that we’d moved in next door to O’Neill had seemed to be just like fate. The universe seemed to have crafted the perfect situation to kill him, just for me. But despite the initial euphoria I had felt, the almost paralytic anxiety which had been festering in my chest since O’Neill’s death was beginning to pulsate and grow.
‘Do what?!’ O’Neill had said, as he’d realised he may only have a few more words left to utter in his life. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘You can tell the world what you did twenty years ago or I’m going to kill you.’
The look on his face – it had been almost the same as Macleod’s, but O’Neill had slightly more integrity. I had seen the small tremor of fear in his eye, yet I’d known it wasn’t me he was most afraid of. We both knew who the boss was.
‘No,’ he’d said with quiet determination, as we both stood there taking in the moment.
Then, of course, I’d killed him.
I swiped my finger through the notes on my phone whilst power walking through the field. It wasn’t until I was halfway across that I realised I had been practically dragging poor Tony’s body through the grass as I marched, unaware he was being slightly throttled as his tiny legs weren’t able to keep up with my aggressive strides. As I forced my feet to slow down to avoid explaining to Beryl how I had choked her beloved Shih Tzu, I kept thinking of any possible way I could be linked to the crime scene, or any kind of evidence of foul play that could be discovered by the police. I wanted to ring Gareth and ask him a million questions. Maybe I could say I was asking for a friend of a friend’s cousin’s auntie who had just murdered his next-door neighbour and wanted a few small tips and tricks on evading arrest? That would be plausible, right?
I took a deep breath, and my mind gradually began to calm itself. Then a thought would pop into my head, and I would instantly feel an overwhelming sensation of panic.What if I’d left a strand of hair there that a few tests will instantly verify is mine?Then I would remember I had my cover story: I was there to help him with his shopping. I put some stuff away, made some polite chit-chat that went on far too long, put his rubbish out and then left an hour or so later. I ran it through my head again and again, trying to think of any inconsistencies or errors I could getcaught out on. Most murderers are stupid, but there had to be a few clever ones who got away with it.
Gareth had once told me about a workshop he’d attended, led by one of the senior detectives: a ‘lunch and learn’, as they called it internally at the station. The session had uncovered some new-wave psychodynamic theory that suggested killers harbour a deep, unconscious feeling of guilt for their crimes. At their core, the murderer wants to be caught, driven by a death drive, or Thanatos, that ensures they can never truly escape the consequences of their misdeeds. Subconsciously, they want to be brought to justice.
So, while I thought this was a massive load of poppycock, I figured if I kept running and rerunning the cover story through my mind, maybe my brain would somehow accept it as fact, and then it wouldn’t even feel like lying any more. The only problem was that, despite the anxiety, I still got somewhat of an intense, deplorable dopamine rush when I remembered that I had been the one to kill O’Neill. It had been so long since Macleod that I had forgotten what it felt like. I just couldn’t help but let the biggest smile creep across my face whenever I remembered that feeling of clasping my left hand around O’Neill’s elderly, saggy throat, gripping, and squeezing it as tight as I could, and then sliding the blade slowly, precisely into his eye…
Hmm, now, that was quite serial killer of me, wasn’t it?
I finished the walk, trying to be more aware of my power-walking tendencies for the sake of the five-kilo dog I was meant to be looking after. I gave a small sigh of relief when we turned into our street and saw there were no flashing police cars outside my home, nor a sudden text from Gareth asking where I was as he prepared the handcuffs on our dining room table. Positive thinking, I told myself. I strolled up Beryl’s path, knocked on the door, and passed her Tony.
I gave her a warm smile after the exchange we had performed what felt like a million times before, and I turned around to leave.
‘Have a good one!’ I said as I began to trot down her path.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she called after me, ‘I’m sure you’ve noticed already, but it seems you may have lost an earring?’
I stopped in my tracks, frozen, and jerked my hands up to touch my earlobes. On my left, I felt the metal of a small gold hoop. On the other, I just felt the tiny pinprick of a hole. Suddenly, this idea that my superego was out to get me didn’t seem so implausible.
‘Shit,’ I cursed quietly, as out of the corner of my eye, I could see Beryl’s mouth drop, aghast.
I searched the whole house. I emptied every drawer; I smoothed my hands along every square inch of the carpet – nothing. I even rang up the restaurant from last night with a fake identity and asked if anyone had handed anything in, but still – nada. There was absolutely no trace of the earring anywhere. I realised that it could be in any one of a hundred different places. It could have plopped into our loo, or be nestled in the long grass in the park where I walked Tony. But the same terrifying image kept popping into my head. A perfect gold hoop, lying right in the middle of O’Neill’s bedroom carpet.
I was sure I could add it to my cover story, right? I’d used his en suite loo rather than the downstairs loo, as maybe O’Neill had said that one was clogged. That was why I’d had to go upstairs. Would that work?
But what if a detective went and checked the loo and found out it was working absolutely fine?
Maybe I had to go up and help O’Neill move some things around?
I kept reminding myself that it was now six days since I had killed O’Neill. Surely, I would have noticed a missing earring by now if I’d lost it when I was there? But the fact that I usually left my hair down and seldom took out my earrings only added to my unease.
I texted Gareth to ask if he’d remembered or noticed if I was wearing earrings last night, but he responded with an expected eloquent and helpful answer.
No. Soz.
I couldn’t exactly go into O’Neill’s house now to check the place. If the police had been there, they had undoubtedly put some temporary lock and security scheme in place. There was simply nothing I could do now but wait.
I needed to get away with this.
SEVEN
GARETH
‘Oh, Gareth, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this again,’ Cis said to me, out of breath and wiping the dense sweat off her brow.
