After several hours, they take her to a cell. They leave her there, with a plastic cup of water. They have given her a pair of shoe covers to wear over her feet, as they were scraped and bloody from walking. She hadn’t thought to put on shoes when Davie had taken her away from the flat.
She’s asked them for some paper and a pencil, so that she can write everything down. They hummed and hawed about the pencil, worried she might stick it through her eye and puncture her brain. She hadn’t even considered that as an option, but it will stay in her head now. A possibility.
Eventually, they allow her a pen, but only if someone sits with her.
‘It’d be quicker if you just told them in the interview room, love,’ the young detective says. Her name is Louise. Marie sees glee in her eyes when she talks to her. She is desperate to know the full story.
Marie smiles at her. ‘I’m not in a hurry. Besides, I don’t want to miss anything out. I want to make sure you understand. You need to understand it all.’
Louise shrugs. ‘You know they’ve taken your brother to Carstairs. He won’t be getting out. There’ll be an inquiry. About why he was downgraded to medium risk. About how he ended up on that day trip. He hasn’t confessed to that attack yet, but we know it was him. DNA. He’s never getting out again. He can’t hurt you any more, Marie. It’ll help you out if you tell us everything now.’
‘What’ll happen to me?’ Marie says. Her voice is barely a whisper.
‘I don’t know. DI Reid is finalising your charge sheet. Might be conspiracy to commit murder. You did want to kill your brother, didn’t you?’
Marie says nothing.
‘Or they might charge you as an accomplice for the six that your brother killed. Depends on your mitigating circumstances. Might be time for you to think about getting that solicitor . . .’ She lets the sentence trail off.
Marie can tell that she doesn’t know. It’s conjecture. She’ll find out soon enough. In some ways, getting sent to prison would be a blessing. She won’t have to worry about Graeme in there. Won’t have to continue her attempt at a normal life.
Marie picks up the pen, starts to write.
My name is Marie Stephanie Bloomfield. My date of birth is 15th July 1974. I live at Flat 7, Marnie House, Colbert Road, Banktoun. I’ve lived there for twenty-five years, most of those on my own when my parents moved away to Spain. They’d had enough, they said. Felt like they were looking over their shoulders all the time. Waiting for someone to work out who they were. Make their lives hell.
It was me who should’ve been worried about that. My life was hell from the minute I was born, three minutes and forty-four seconds after the screaming lump that was my twin brother. They put us in cots next to each other and, if I didn’t know better – if I didn’t know that babies had no memory – I’d swear he started watching me from the very minute we were born.
Sometimes it was fun, growing up. We could read each other’s thoughts. We knew what each other liked and hated. We played games, and we made up worlds. It was our world. Graeme and Marie. We even made up our own language, so we could say things to each other and no one else would know.
It was just a temper he had, sometimes. Nothing to worry about. Everyone gets annoyed about stuff. But it started to happen more. Things seemed to trigger it. Mum blamed herself, for that time when the two of us got scalded in the baby walker. Said he was never the same after that. But we were only two. How could she know? I think she always knew. Dad too. They just didn’t want to admit it. Couldn’t accept it. I know now that if they’d got help for him sooner none of it would have happened.
That’s their burden. Their guilt.
I saved him that day in the pool when he nearly drowned. He tried to hold his breath for too long. He passed out. I dragged him up from the bottom, gave him the kiss of life. He woke up, choked up pool water into my face. Smiled at me. Told me he loved me. I kissed him again then, even when he wasn’t choking any more. I could taste the chlorine on his lips. Felt the warmth of his mouth against mine. We’d been close all our lives but something changed that day. I realised that I loved him too. Properly. More than a sister should love a brother. A stronger love. Deeper. One that only the two of us could understand.
It was our little secret.
When he started to smoke weed, that’s when I lost him. That’s when he changed. The tantrums became rages. He broke things. Threw things. Mum was scared of him. She told me that one day. Told me she couldn’t wait until we were old enough to leave home, so he could go away. So I could escape.
I think Mum knew.
She caught us once. In Graeme’s bed, under the covers. We were just cuddling then, but I think she knew what we were doing. She could smell it. That musty stink of bodies too close.
When I was fifteen, a boy from my English class asked me to go out with him to the cinema. We went to watch Ghostbusters. It was in one of the arts cinemas, a special double bill. We ate popcorn and he put his arm along the back of the seat behind me. I didn’t see Graeme until we were back outside. He was standing in a dark space in the corridor near the toilets. He smiled at me, and I realised then he was never going to let me go.
He wanted me.
But I didn’t want him any more. Not like that. Not like the things we used to do when we were kids. We were just children. We were experimenting. Was it really so wrong? I knew that it had to stop. I pleaded with him one day. Begged him to stop following me. Stop waiting for me outside my classes. Outside the toilets. No one liked him. They liked me, but I think a lot of it was pity. ‘Poor Marie, her brother’s a weirdo.’
I waited until I was sixteen. I was in love with Howie. He was pleased that I’d waited for him. Lots of other girls had already done it, he said. He didn’t know that I had . . . and I would never tell him.
Graeme walked in on us. He’d followed us home. We were having a party that night. Our 16th birthday. Mum and Dad had gone out to buy balloons. He started on Howie. He hit him with the rolling pin, smashed it over his head. No. No. I begged him. Please, it’s not his fault. I shouted at Howie, told him to run, get help. Graeme let him go. It wasn’t Howie he wanted to punish.
He started on my face. I tried to fight him off, but in the end I just gave up. I’d already passed out by the time he started to shove it inside me. I think he tried to wake me up. I have vague memories of him slapping me, spitting on me, shouting in my face. ‘How do you like this, sweet Marie? How do you like this?’
He stopped, eventually. Jumped out of my bedroom window onto the roof of the outhouse at the back. Disappeared. They found me, then they found him. They thought I was dead. There was so much blood. The whole place had to be bleached down and re-carpeted afterwards. A specialist team came in to do it. Crime-scene cleaners. Who knew those things even existed?
I stayed in hospital for six months. They patched me up. Let me convalesce. When I came out, Mum and Dad had already sold the house. They’d enrolled me in a new school. Given me a new name. I liked Bloomfield. It reminded me of my gran. But the best thing was, it was something that Graeme would never have. He would always be Graeme Woodley.
They’d managed to prise us apart.
I missed him at first. I know that probably sounds strange. But before he hurt me, I loved him so much. He was my best friend. He taught me everything. I never laughed with anyone as much as I did with him.
Therapy helped. They taught me that it wasn’t my fault. That Graeme had developed an obsession with me. It wasn’t natural. He wasn’t well. They’d diagnosed him a schizophrenic. It explained a lot of the things he’d done over the years. The paranoia, the delusions. The nightmares that turned out to be hallucinations.
When he came back, I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to see him. Talk to him. Ask him why he did it. I wanted him to be better. I wanted him to be the old Graeme, the brother I loved.
But it became obvious that he wasn’t better. He would never be better. He was still obsessed with me. He would always be obsessed with me. I didn’t have a choice. I’d seen what that drug did to Harry. I knew it could kill – especially if it was given to someone who had other issues. Other problems. Someone who hadn’t drunk alcohol for more than twenty years.
I just wanted him to go to sleep.
I’m sorry for what happened. I never thought it would react so badly in his system, sending him into a frenzy like that. I thought he’d have a fit. Choke on his own vomit.
I thought he would die . . . I didn’t even know he had the knife.
Maybe he’s told you now, what he had planned. But I think I know. He took that knife and he followed me to that party. He wanted to kill me. Just me. Kill or be killed. He’s not stupid. He must’ve known I wasn’t going to let him stay with me any longer. If only I’d called the police. If only I’d told Davie. Forgive me.
Marie lays the pen on the plastic mattress. Folds the sheets of paper in half. Louise is still watching, waiting.
‘I’m done,’ Marie says. She offers Louise the papers. ‘Here. I suppose you’re getting the exclusive.’
DC Louise Jennings tries to suppress a smile. She takes the papers from Marie, picks up the pen from beside her. She walks out of the cell, leaving Marie on her own. With just the plastic cup. The water inside is cloudy. Lukewarm.
Marie lies back on the narrow bed. Throws her arms back behind her head. She is tired. So very tired. She takes a breath.
Sixty . . . fifty-nine . . . fifty-eight . . .
Closes her eyes.
Waits for whatever is going to come.
30th July 2015
Dear Marie,
Remember when we used to go swimming? I loved those days with you. I loved the shape of your body inside your costume. That shiny pink Lycra with the silver stripes on the sides. The way your hip bones jutted through the fabric. I loved your hair when it was wet, slicked back smooth and flat over your head. You reminded me of a baby otter. Flipping and swimming and popping your head up out of the water. Remember how we used to hold our breath and sink to the bottom of the pool? I used to love to sit there on the bottom, looking up at you, watching your legs scissor-kicking up above me. I could make out the shape of you beneath the fabric. Every last shape and fold of your skin. I longed to touch you there, but I stopped myself. I know we had to keep our little secret.
You saved me that day. The day I stayed down for too long. One hundred . . . ninety-nine . . . too much. Too long. But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to watch you. I don’t remember you coming down there to get me, but I know you did.
I woke up when you kissed me.
I could taste your lips.
I love you, Marie. I’ll always love you, Marie. No matter what. We’re one, Marie. One being, split into two. Fused together, split apart. But we don’t need to be apart any more.
Ever.
I’ll always be watching, Marie.
With love,
Graeme xx