I might’ve found it properly bone-chilling if a dishevelled, 90-per-cent-alcohol bloke on the train hadn’t stood up and yelled mostly incoherently to the whole carriage:
‘Who wants to see how many Babybels I can fit up my bum?’
And there were indeed takers.
PART FIVE
THIRTY-TWO
You know it’s weird – real serial killers rarely resemble their fictional counterparts. On page or on screen, they are often given a code, a neat rationale, because we, the audience, find comfort in believing that something specific, something rigid, drives the horror they create. We want a simple reason for them doing what they do. The truth is, unfortunately, a little more prosaic. Most killers are fuelled by narcissism and the thrill of control; above all, they do it because they want to.
I was finally facing that truth. Right from the beginning, the TellTale Killer had been Jago’s own invention for the papers. The man craved the limelight, and now both halves of his nature were revelling in it, one collecting journalism prizes and front-page headlines, the other supplying the atrocities he so brilliantly reported on.
I hadn’t stopped running since the Tube, terrified I would get home and find either Jago waiting for me with a cup of tea in the kitchen and Ben’s heart nestled in his hand, or Detective Carlota, saying I had won an all-expenses paid trip to jail. Either way, I needed to face it. I pelted up the path, grabbed my key and rammed it into the lock before thrusting it open.
‘Ruth? Hi?’ Bill’s voice floated from the landingas I slammed the door shut, wind-tossed, skin moist and face flushed. ‘You okay?’ I heard him say.
‘Fine,’ I lied as I inspected the downstairs for any sign of Jago and/or Carlota. I had a feeling that being honest with Bill wouldn’t do the investigation any favours. The man was wound pretty tight, even on a good day.
He slowly descended from the top of the stairs, uncharacteristically, and infuriatingly, in the mood for some chit-chat. Exactly what I didn’t have time for right now. Could he not have picked any day of the previous few hundred I have lived here for a chinwag?
‘So, Ben’s taking a nap,’ Bill said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and rather awkwardly slapping his hands together. ‘And I just wanted to take a moment to say thanks, Ruth. For everything you’re doing for Ben and me. We really do appreciate it,’ he said, genuinely earnest.
‘No problem,’ I said, my eyes darting towards the clock on the wall to see what time it was. ‘Has anyone called for me? A detective? A journalist?’
‘Nope, no one, as far as I’m aware,’ Bill replied, really not picking up the urgency in my tone. ‘It’s funny, though, I’ve just been working on a bid for overhauling the Met Police’s software, actually, maybe you could introduce me to someone?’
I know it probably seemed rude, but I didn’t even bother to laugh at that comment.
Bill lingered, exhaling as he shuffled a little closer to me, his heels scuffing the floor like a teenager caught out smoking weed in the greenhouse. ‘Look Ruth, I know I can be an arse sometimes,’ he said frankly. ‘I’m working on it, I’ve always had a problem with my… feelings and I guess, feeling them. Honestly, a lot of days I’m not particularly fond of myself. So, I’m trying to get better.’
I caught Bill’s eye and realised I had been nodding along, over and over, but not taking in a whole lot of what he was saying. My mind was still locked on Jago and his next move. And what about Detective Carlota, was she going to give all of my evidence to thepolice? Was she planning to arrest me just to keep me safe in a prison cell?
‘I don’t know how long we’ve got left with Ben,’ Bill went on, the tone of his voice continued to progressively soften and weaken, showing a level of vulnerability I’d never seen from him before, ‘but I’d really like for you and I to still be in touch after he’s… gone. I know I can get quite angry but I am working on it and I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t really want to be on my own and, I think, I’d miss you.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ I snapped rather curtly as I walked out to the shed to make sure neither Jago nor Carlota were hiding out there, waiting for me. Bill was a bit taken back by that, but I think he assumed it was just the months of resentment finally coming to the surface. I just didn’t want to think about Ben right now. Besides, the man still had years left to live, even with his diagnosis. Right now, absurd as it sounded, a deranged journalist was more of a threat to Ben’s life than his brain tumour. But despite every passive-aggressive word we had exchanged with one another, there was a new sincerity in Bill’s words, an honesty I’d never heard from him before. He was trying to open up to me; I only wished it had come at a different time, when I might have been more receptive, but it was a morsel of comfort, nevertheless. On the off chance I did make it out alive from this, it would be nice to have a friend.
‘I understand,’ he responded as I opened the shed and checked every inch of it for intruders. It would have been nice if Toast had some security impulses as opposed to carnal ones.
‘Look, you mustn’t breathe a word of this to him,’ Bill continued as he followed me inside, ‘but… Ben is not sure he wants treatment anymore. Last night, just before the detective came by, he said he wanted quality, not quantity, with… his life.’
I kept searching frantically around the shed, which made Bill realise he had to spell out exactly what he meant when I didn’t react right away.
‘I think he wants to stop chemo entirely.’
While most of my focus was firmly lockedon Jago, this news still managed to rattle something loose in me. I stopped dead, that familiar, sinking weight settling into my chest like an unwelcome guest I’d never once invited to stay.
I watched Bill slump against one of the walls of the shed, clearly devastated, his hands falling limp against his lap as his head bowed forward a little. Clearly, he had been needing to talk to someone about this.
‘I don’t think he wants to keep fighting anymore,’ he said quietly. ‘He says he wants some grace in his death, whatever the hell that means.’
I suppose I’d half expected it. Ben hated the chemo, dreaded what it was doing to his dignity. I knew he would be worried about becoming a burden – though, of course, both of us would do anything for him. I mean, Bill and I would struggle to make each other a single cup of tea if our life depended on it, but for Ben, the rarest Chinese blend wouldn’t be too much trouble. We both loved him, we both knew how important he was.
‘You think he’ll really stop?’ I asked, scanning Bill’s face for the reassurance he didn’t seem to have. ‘He can’t do that. That would mean… just a few more months.’
‘I do,’ he said quietly. ‘I think he just wants to enjoy what time’s left, without being in a hospital ward. He’s tired, Ruth, he’s so tired.’
My phone vibrated, forcing me to shove all the complex feelings I was experiencing to the side. Was it Carlota? A message saying get ready for my mugshot? Or Jago? Saying get ready for stabby time. Who was to know at this point.
