Then She Vanishes
Claire Douglas
To my dad,
for encouraging me to pursue my dream
Prologue
March 2012
I feel calm as I watch the sun rise behind the row of ice-cream-coloured houses. Not as I imagined a person would feel who’s about to commit murder. I’m not nervous, or sweaty-palmed. My heart isn’t even racing. There’s no adrenalin pumping through my veins. Not yet, anyway. Maybe that will come later. But now, in this moment, I’m overcome with a kind of peace. As though everything that has happened in my life so far has led up to this point. There’s no going back.
Now, which house?
They are all Georgian, beautiful, tall and elegant, with their perfectly proportioned windows and arched front doors. They remind me of an illustration in a children’s book, some long and thin, others stocky and square. They face towards the choppy, wind-beaten sea and the small port, with its handful of fishing boats, marooned on the sloping sands now that the tide is out. Perfect holiday homes, even out of season. Even on a cold, gusty March day such as this.
Powder blue, soft peach, pale pink, clotted cream. Which one?
And then I see it. A brilliant white with cobalt-painted window frames, dwarfed by the taller, more graceful houses either side of it. It’s the West Ham sticker nestled into the corner of the top right-hand window that sways me.
That’s the house.
I pick up the shotgun from the footwell, enjoying the weight of it in my hands, the power of it, and for the first time I feel a frisson of … what? Fear? No, not fear. Because I’ve never felt less afraid. What, then? Control? Yes, that’s exactly it. At last I feel totally and utterly in control.
I step out of the car. The wind has picked up and I almost trap the end of my scarf in the door. It’s as if the elements are out to get me. To stop me.
It’s just gone 6.30 a.m. The road is quiet, the front gardens tidy, with a row of black wheelie-bins left out for the refuse collectors. One has been pushed over by the wind, its contents spilling onto the pavement and coating the tarmac with potato peelings, empty baked-beans tins and wet kitchen roll. To my left I can see a solitary dog-walker on the beach, just a black silhouette in the distance. They are too far out to see me. And what I’m about to do.
I move the shotgun to eye-height and stride towards the white house, confidence brimming with every step I take. Everything has taken on a surreal quality, as if I’m in a video game. I stop when I get to the front door. I pull back the trigger, firing a single shot, and the lock splinters. The noise is bound to alert the neighbours and the occupants. I’d better be quick.
I kick the door open and stride into a narrow hallway. The staircase is straight ahead and I dart up it, every one of my senses alert. At the top is a door. I push it open and see a man getting out of bed. On his bottom half he’s wearing a pair of striped pyjama trousers, his large stomach hanging over the waistband. He has a gold rope necklace at his throat and wiry grey hairs covering his chest. The gunshot must have woken him. He’s older, late fifties, with thinning hair and broad shoulders. I’m repulsed by the sight of him. He tries to stand up when he sees me in the doorframe, his mouth slack, his brow furrowed. ‘What the …?’ Before he has time to finish his sentence I aim the gun at his head and watch in fascination as his blood splatters the Regency-striped wallpaper behind him. He flops back against the duvet, staining it red, his eyes still open.
I turn to leave. A woman is blocking my way. She’s even older than the man, and has white candyfloss curls. She’s wearing a flowery nightie. She’s stunned at first, her eyes widening in recognition at the sight of me. And then she starts screaming. I silence her with a bullet to her chest, which propels her down the stairs as though she’s a ragdoll. She lies in a crumpled heap at the bottom and, calmly, I step over her to leave. I can hear a dog barking somewhere in the house, maybe the kitchen, and I falter for just a few seconds. Then I stride out of the front door.
A young guy wearing Lycra is in the neighbouring front garden, wheeling his bin down the path. When he notices me all the colour drains from his face, his jaw slack. I must look mad with my unwashed hair and crumpled clothes. It’s almost funny. I ignore him and get into the car, throwing the gun onto the back seat.
I can see Lycra Guy through my rear-view mirror as I pull away. A mobile phone is pressed to his ear and he’s gesticulating. I think I hear another scream although it could be the seagulls lined up on the wall, their beady eyes watching me, judging me.
It’s only then that I begin to shake uncontrollably. I can’t be sure whether it’s the adrenalin, or the realization that there is definitely no going back for me. For us.
This is just the beginning.
1
Jess
BRISTOL AND SOMERSET HERALD
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
DOUBLE MURDER SHOCKS SLEEPY SEASIDE TOWN
by Jessica Fox
A murder investigation is under way after two people were found dead at a house in the seaside Somerset town of Tilby on Friday.
Detectives were called to the beachside property in Shackleton Road just after 7 a.m. When the police entered the cottage they found two bodies, thought to be local businessman Clive Wilson, 58, and his mother, Deirdre Wilson, 76. They had been shot. The property was cordoned off and police and forensics officers were at the scene throughout the day.