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I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
I feel dizzy and strange and sick.
I think I might throw up, but then the phone clicks to voicemail and I hear her voice:
‘Hi, this is Rachel. No one answers phone calls anymore, so send me a text.’
I hang up and slam the boot closed.
My hands start to shake when I remember all the missed calls from her last night, and the messages she left on my mobile that I have since deleted. I have to make sure nobody finds out. If they do it will be impossible to deny being with her, or what happened. I genuinely have no idea what Rachel’s phone or shoes are doing in my car, but I know I didn’t put them there. Surely I’d remember if I had.
I remember to keep an eye on the main cast of the drama I have created. It’s informative, educational and entertaining, which I’m sure used to be the remit of the BBC before those in charge forgot. I made it a habit not to forget anything or anyone, especially people who have wronged me. What I lack in forgiveness I make up for in patience. And I pay attention to the little things, because they are often the biggest clues to who a person really is. People rarely see themselves the way others do; we all carry broken mirrors.
There are several characters in this story, each with their own perspective of what has happened. I can only give you my own and guess at the others. Like all stories, it will come to an end. I have a plan now, one which I intend to stick to, and so far I think it is going rather well. Nobody knows it was me. Even if they did suspect something, I’m reasonably confident they could never prove it.
I had an imaginary friend when I was a child, just like a lot of lonely children. He was called Harry and I would pretend to have conversations with him. I even did a funny voice for his replies. My family thought it was hilarious, but in my mind, Harry was real. It was as though I was him and he was me. Whenever I did something wrong, I blamed Harry. Sometimes I insisted that he was guilty for so long, even I believed it.
I’ve almost tricked myself into believing I didn’t kill Rachel a few times now, pretended that it was someone else, or that I imagined it. But I did kill her and I’m glad. There was nothing good about that woman, nothing real anyway. She was a serpent in sheep’s clothing and I should have known better; people who charm snakes often get bitten.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, Rachel simply redefined their definitions to suit her own needs. Doing something wrong was often the only thing that made her feel right.
Not all broken moral compasses are beyond repair. Some can start to work again with an ethical shake from another person. We all travel alone inside our own heads, but it is possible to navigate someone’s intentions north of bad and south of wrong. People can change, they just tend to choose not to.
I’ve read that some killers want to get caught, but not me. There would be no more fun if the game were over, and although I’ve lost a lot, I still have too much to lose. All I want is for people to get what’s coming to them. I don’t even think of myself as a killer really; I’m just a person who has decided to do a public service for the benefit of others. The official power of the police can be rather limited and disappointing, and it was better to take this matter into my own hands.
It’s taken me a long time, but I understand now where and why and when things went wrong for me. It all leads back to here, to this place, and to the people who did something they shouldn’t have. It is time for me to move on now, and finish what I started.
Her
Tuesday 22:30
I don’t think I’ve ever really moved on since Jack left.
I might have been the one to ask for the divorce, but he withdrew from our marriage long before then. For me, the benefits of being alone outweigh the pain of it. Plus, I think it’s what I deserve. The sting of loneliness is only ever temporary, like that of a nettle. If you don’t scratch at the solitude, it starts to feel normal again soon enough. But I still think about him, and us, and her. Some memories refuse to be forgotten.
I think about Jack all afternoon and all night, despite the steady stream of live interviews for various BBC outlets: the News Channel, Radio 4, Five Live, the Six, everything from BBC London to BBC World. By the time I wrap up my final two-way on the Ten O’Clock News, we are no longer the only ones broadcasting from the woods. Sky, ITN, and CNN are here too, each with their own team and satellite trucks. They might all have the story now, but I was the one who broke it. I knew the identity of the victim before anyone else, even if nobody knows how.
Given it’s so late, and the ridiculously early time they want us to start doing lives on BBC Breakfast tomorrow morning, the overnight news editor offers to pay for a hotel for Richard and me. The engineers will head back to London, to be replaced by the early team tomorrow, but I think it makes sense for us to stay down here, rather than drive back to the city only to have to return a few hours later. We’ll get more sleep this way, and be close by should there be any further developments. Richard agrees.
I didn’t need to ask what hotel we had been booked into; there is only one, and I know it well. The White Hart is more of a pub really, with some rooms upstairs. The only other accommodation in the village are a couple of cute B&Bs, or my old bedroom at my mother’s house. That isn’t somewhere I want to go.
We’re too late for food – the restaurant is long closed – but Richard suggests getting a drink in the bar before last orders. Against my better judgement, I say yes. A bottle of Malbec and two packets of salt-and-vinegar crisps later, I can feel myself start to relax, and I’m glad. Sometimes colleagues are like old friends, the kind you can not see for a few months and then pick up right where you left off.
‘Fancy another?’ I ask, taking out my purse.
Richard smiles. His jokes and easy conversation have made me feel young again tonight, as though I might still be someone fun to hang out with. It’s a shame he dresses in retro clothes and refuses to cut his hair. I think there is a man hiding inside the boy he pretends to be.
‘Tempting,’ he says. ‘But we have a very early start, and the bar is closed now.’
I look behind me and see that he’s right. Most of the lights have been dimmed already, and it would appear that the staff have left us to it.
‘Shame,’ I say, sliding my hand across the table until it is almost touching his. ‘Could always check out the minibar in my room?’
He moves his hand away and holds it up, pointing at the ring on his finger.
‘Married, remember?’
The rejection smarts a little, and I say something I already know I’m going to regret.
‘It never bothered you before.’
His face stretches into a polite and apologetic smile, which only makes me feel worse.
‘That was different. We have the kids now, it changes things. It changed us,’ he says.
Being patronised stings far more than being rejected, and he’s telling me something I already know. Having a child changed things for me too, until I lost her. I never talk about what happened with people at work, or anyone else really.
I was on attachment to the Arts and Entertainment unit when I was pregnant – a department that lives on the top floor of the BBC – so most people in the newsroom rarely saw me. And if they did, I honestly think they just thought I had put on weight. There were complications that meant I was at home, confined to weeks of bedrest for the final few months. So a lot of people didn’t know I was pregnant in the first place. Or that my daughter died three months after she was born.
