I wake up on the cold stone floor of my art studio. I’m lying on my side, shivery and hungry, and still in the clothes I was wearing last night. For one blissful moment I forget that he was here in my house, that he’d grabbed me by the waist and tried to assault me. But then, just like that, it all comes back to me with startling clarity. And I wonder to myself how many other women he violated back then? How many children he tormented.
How many more since?
What happened? And how the hell did he get in? Clearly, he was lying about a friend of mine giving him the code to the spare key box because only family members have it. I suppose, if he’s been watching me it’s possible he figured out a way to get inside. He may be a scumbag, but he’s a clever scumbag. After all, he’s managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes until now.
I slowly raise myself up, feeling groggy and a little unsteady on my feet, almost like I’ve been drugged. I glance to my right, and that’s when I see him. Lying spreadeagled on the floor. My heart pounds. I automatically look around for the knife I brought down from the kitchen, thinking maybe I killed him in self-defence, but it’s still lying on the workbench in the exact same place I found it, plus I see no sign of blood.
Is he actually dead or has he passed out? Slowly, I stand up, go over to the workbench and grab the knife, just in case. Nausea grips me like barbed wire around my insides and it’s a struggle not to vomit as I creep over to where he’s lying to take a closer look. There’s definitely no blood. But he’s lying so still he must be dead. I bend down on my knees, lean over and put my ear to his chest. Hear nothing. See no sign of it moving. No indication that his ugly heart is beating inside it. He is dead, that much is clear. But how? A heart attack perhaps? Did we struggle, and in that struggle, he went into cardiac arrest? It’s all such a blur. The last thing I remember is him grabbing me by my waist.
But it’s then, as I look up to my right, in the direction of the door, that I see something pinned to it. A piece of paper that wasn’t there last night. Gingerly, my heart beating so fast I almost can’t breathe, I get up and go over to the door. Read the note.
You’re welcome. He won’t hurt you any more. You’re free. Report this, and you will go to prison and Charles will be ruined. I’ll see to that. Keep it a secret, hide the evidence, and you’ll never hear from me again. Your choice. I hope you choose wisely.
Fear pulses through me as I realise what this means. That the man I hated with every inch of my being didn’t have a heart attack, but was murdered. But how, and by whom? Someone else he abused? A victim’s loved one seeking revenge? Perhaps they followed him here, hell-bent on revenge? I’ve not been upstairs yet. They may have smashed a window for all I know. I never switched on the alarm. Or perhaps it’s someone from my past who knows what I suffered at his hands? Could it have been the same person who gave him the code to the key box? Did they drug me? Is that why I feel so woozy?
I won’t lie. I’m glad the bastard is dead. I’m not sorry one bit about that. But it doesn’t change the fact that his corpse is lying in my studio and I need to think quickly. I can’t go to the police, tell them what happened, that much is clear from the note. There’s also every chance they won’t believe me and will think I killed him. Neither can I risk Charles’s good name being dragged through the mud by allowing the truth to come out. I know it’s a risk, that someone may have seen him enter the premises last night, Stella at number 6, for example. But even if she was watching, like I know she often does because she has nothing better to do than spy on her neighbours, I have to hope she was plastered as usual. No one will believe her fantasy stories then.
I frantically look around the room, my mind working overtime, desperately trying to think of a way out of this. I mean, it’s a dead body, it’s going to stink to high heaven before long, so what the fuck am I going to do? But that’s when, as blind panic shoots through me, I spy my drying cabinet in the far-left corner, where I store and protect my ceramic pieces during the drying period. Yes, yes, that’s it, I’ll hide him in there. With the high humidity it’s my best option to mask the smell. I’ll cover the cabinet with a weighted blanket, and pray for a miracle. Pray that the heat will shrivel his body to bones before long.
I’m too nervous about trying to get the body out of the house. I’d have to bury it in the woods or throw it out to sea, but what if I’m caught in the act? Or the police find it – they’re bound to conduct a widespread search – and discover traces of my DNA despite me taking precautions. Or worse, I’m spotted on CCTV. No, it’s safest keeping the evidence in my studio. Charles never comes in here without asking me, he knows it’s my sanctuary.
This is the safest place. No one will ever know the man who made my life a misery lies within these four walls.
I will tell no one. My secret will be safe. And, with any luck, I’ll never hear from Jason Stevens’s killer again.