His & Hers(36)

Priya frowns. Her cheeks flush a little and she returns to her desk.

“I’m going to stay a bit longer. Goodnight, sir,” she says with a polite smile, while staring at her screen.

In trying to defuse the situation I fear I may have made it worse.

Sometimes I think people change their expressions just to give their faces something to do. A smile doesn’t mean someone is happy, just like tears don’t always mean someone is sad. Our faces lie just as often as our words do.

On the way home, I see that there is a light on in St. Hilary’s. It’s the school that Rachel and Anna went to when they were teenagers. It was where they met. It’s late, nobody should be there at this time of night, but someone clearly is.

I drive into the parking lot, but decide to have another cigarette before going inside the school. Just half should sort me out, so I snap it in two. I flick my lighter a couple of times but it doesn’t work. I shake it and try once more, but it still refuses to ignite. I scan the various nooks and crannies in the car. I don’t really want to look in the glove compartment again; I haven’t forgotten what’s in there.

I find relief in the shape of an old matchbook inside the armrest instead. I light up and take a long drag, enjoying the instant head rush. Then I flip the matches over, and see that they are from the hotel where I first spent the night with Rachel. It was months ago now, but I still remember every detail: the smell of her hair, the look on her face, the shape of her neck. The way she took pleasure from pretending to be powerless, and letting me think I was in control. I wasn’t. There are two words written on the back of the matches: Call me. Along with her number.

The sight of her handwriting seems to push me over the edge I’ve been teetering on all day. I chain-smoke for a while, simultaneously longing for a drink. I don’t even care about whoever is in the school anymore. When I’ve smoked my third full-length cigarette in a row, right down to the butt, I look back up at the building and it is in complete darkness. Maybe I imagined seeing the lights on and the shadow of someone standing in the window.

The matchbook with Rachel’s handwriting scrawled across it catches my eye again. The idea of hearing her voice, one last time, brings a strange sense of comfort. So, I dial her number. I hear a phone start to ring, but it isn’t on the other end of the line, it’s in my car.

I turn so fast, I’m amazed I don’t get whiplash, but the backseat is completely empty. I get out, still holding the phone to my ear, and walk to the back of the 4 × 4. Then I stare down at the trunk where the ringing appears to be coming from.

I look around, but the school parking lot is unsurprisingly empty at this time of night, so I open the trunk. My eyes find the phone immediately. Its ghoulish glow in the dark illuminates two other unexpected objects. When I lean in a little closer, I can see that they are Rachel’s missing shoes: expensive designer heels caked in mud.

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 trunk closed.

My hands start to shake a little 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 instead. 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 them to suit her own needs. Doing something wrong was often the only thing that made her feel right.