His & Hers(80)

As we get closer, I see Richards’s BBC crew car. Then I see Rachel’s Audi TT parked right outside.

“Isn’t that Rachel Hopkins’s missing car?” Priya whispers.

“I think it might be,” I reply, knowing that it is.

We reach the house and Priya stares at the ancient-looking front door. I wonder if her fear has finally caught up with her, but it hasn’t. I watch as she puts her gun down, before reaching up to her ponytail, to pull out one of the old-fashioned hair clips she always wears. She slides it inside the lock.

“Are you kidding me?” I say.

“Why don’t you try around the back?” she replies without looking up.

She’s got more chance of finding a one-ended stick in the woods than opening that door. We don’t have any time to lose, so I do as she suggests, and head for the rear of the house, hoping I might have better luck. Most of the curtains are drawn, but there are definitely lights on inside. I try every door that I come across, but they are all locked. Eventually I find myself back where I started at the front of the house, but Priya is gone.

I stare into the darkness that surrounds me, waiting, watching, and listening for some sign of her, but she isn’t here. Then I hear the creak of the front door slowly opening. I spin around, but can’t see who it is at first. The relief I feel when I see that it is Priya produces a nervous smile from me, and a strange one from her.

“Seriously? You managed to get in using an old trick with a hairpin?”

“Old door, old tricks,” she says, heaving the heavy door open, just wide enough for me to squeeze inside.

I’m surprised to see she is already wearing her blue plastic gloves, but then she never was one to waste time.




Smashing the glass of the kitchen door to let myself into the cottage earlier was unfortunate; I hate to make a mess. I’d forgotten to take the key. There is normally one hidden beneath the flowerpot at the front of the house, but that was missing, so I didn’t have a choice. I’ve been far more careful breaking in and out of all the other homes I have visited, and cars, and public buildings. I always wear gloves and tidy up after myself, so that nobody would ever know I was there, let alone be able to prove it.

We tend to categorize people the way we categorize books: if they don’t fit neatly into a genre, we’re not sure what to make of them. I’ve always had problems fitting in, but the older I get, the less I care. Personally, I think being the same as everybody else is overrated.

I reach inside my pocket and feel the final friendship bracelet in my hand. I like to wrap it around my fingers and wear it like a ring sometimes. I shall be sad to let it go.

There is a curtain we all hide behind; the only difference is who pulls it aside. Some people can do it themselves, while others need someone else to reveal the truth about who they really are. Those girls were not good friends, and they deserved to be silenced.

Forever.

Rachel Hopkins was a two-faced slut. She might have been beautiful on the outside, but on the inside she was ugly and rotten—a vain, selfish Barbie doll, who stole money from charity and men from their wives. I did the world a favor removing her from it.

Helen Wang was a liar, who spent a lifetime pretending to be someone she was not. The headmistress was addicted to drugs and academic admiration, always had to be the best regardless of the consequences, and did not deserve to be in charge of a school of girls.

Zoe was a monster. Even as a child. If she didn’t get her own way, she would pull off all her clothes and run around naked, before kicking and screaming on the floor. She did this until she was seven years old, and not just at home. Everyone in Blackdown must have seen at least one of her tantrums. She was a horrible little girl and grew up to be a despicable woman, whose cruelty to animals could not go unpunished. When bad things happened, she always turned a blind eye.

The other one, well, they all got what they deserved, and she is no different in my book, I don’t care what she did or didn’t do. It might have been a long time since that night in the woods—twenty years, in fact—but she was there.





Her



Thursday 01:30



Time stops as I stare at the woman standing in front of me.

My fear fades into relief before converting into confusion. She’s wearing a white cotton nightdress covered in embroidered bees, and an old pair of bee-shaped slippers on her feet. In the middle of the woods. In the middle of the night. At first, I’m convinced I must be dreaming, but she appears to be real and looks as terrified as I feel.

“Mum? What are you doing here?”

She shakes her head as though she doesn’t know, and looks so very small and old. I can see scratches and bruises on her face and arms, as though she has fallen. She turns to peer over her shoulder, as if scared of who might be listening, then starts to cry.

“Someone smashed a window in the kitchen, then broke into the house. I was so afraid, I didn’t know what to do. So I hid. Then I ran away into the woods, but I think they followed me,” she whispers.

She’s shaking, and looks more fragile than I have ever seen her. I try to stand, but my ankle gives way when I put any weight on it.

“Who is following you? Who was in the house?”

“The woman with the ponytail. I hid in the potting shed, but I saw her.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether what she is telling me is true, or just another symptom of her dementia. Jack told me she’d been found wandering around Blackdown in her nightdress, even the woman in the supermarket mentioned it, but I didn’t believe them. Sometimes we choose not to believe the things we don’t want to. I do it all the time—hide my regrets inside boxes at the back of my mind, and choose to forget the bad things that I’ve done. Just like my mother taught me.