TEACHER’S PET

A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

MARK GILLESPIE

This is a work of fiction. All of the events and dialogue depicted within are a product of the author’s overactive imagination. None of this stuff happened. Except maybe in a parallel universe.

Copyright © 2026 by Mark Gillespie

www.markgillespieauthor.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

First Printing: September 2026

ALSO BY MARK GILLESPIE

You Never Came Home

The Old Boys

Find You in the Dark

Make It Up To Me

I’ll Be Next to Vanish

I Know Who You Are

The Lost Girl

Fool Me Once

While You Were Gone

DEAD MAN

CHAPTER

ONE

There’s a dead man lying in bed beside me. A dead man who isn’t my husband.

This has to be the second worst morning of my life.

I grab his shoulder and shake him. “Simon?” Cold and rigid. I shake him again and hear my voice screeching his name on loop, the demented echo of a woman who realises that her life as she knows it is over. This is no longer a him on the bed with me. It’s a thing and I keep shaking the thing even though I know he can’t and never will respond to anything again.

I push back the sheets, leap out of bed from a sitting position, all in one frantic, helter-skelter manoeuvre. Spin around, face the bed. I gawp at the dead body while a cylinder of golden light, bloated with floating dust particles, streams through a gap in the curtains. Morning sunlight feels alien. Another day. Yesterday was a lifetime ago and I was an award winner on top of the world. All of that is over.

I’m well and truly fucked.

“Simon. Get up. Pleeeease.”

One last effort, my voice shredded with hopelessness.

I’ve thrown it all away for one night of lust. I don’t need a medical expert to confirm that that is a dead body lying on the bed in this hotel room. Simon Blane is…uggghhhh. Has he been like that all night? After we…? Decomposing. Those milky, mannequin eyes. The waxy skin in shades of yellow, blue and purple. None of it looks real.

Did I reach out in the middle of the night? For warmth? Did I touch him?

Out of everything, it’s the smell that gets me in the end. Like rotten vegetables with a sickly-sweet undertone.

My stomach lurches and the sheer force of movement doubles me over. There’s a sudden whooshing sensation in my pipes and I take several staggered steps, both backwards and forwards, before throwing up all over the carpet. Doesn’t even feel like throwing up, it’s so violent. More like an exorcism through my mouth.

I straighten up and look at the body on the bed. My blood runs cold. Body trembling from head to toe.

“Simon?”

There’s no more fight in me. I feel the sudden claustrophobia of being buried alive but there’s no wooden lid to pound my fists off. No voice to scream for help.

What now? What’s going to happen to me when this gets out into the world? What’s Rory going to say after everything we’ve been through this year? After everything we’ve survived. We’ve just clawed ourselves out of the deepest darkest hole and somehow, together, we spiralled back to the light. Together, together. I thought we were stronger than ever. Rory must have thought we were stronger than ever too so what’s he going to say when he finds out what I’ve done?

Why did I have to come here? Why did I get so drunk?

Why…why…?

The scream just happens. Like steam passing through the nozzle of a kettle, all this emotion has to go somewhere. And now here I am, standing in a puddle of vomit, screaming loud enough to wake up everyone in the hotel.

My name is Gemma Taylor, and last night I won big at the Scottish Humanitarian Awards. The Community Impact Award, to be exact. That what I won. Everyone who was there thinks I really am a hero. Wherever they are right now, asleep or wide awake, they still think I’m a hero. The clock is ticking.

The free drinks, the compliments, the endless praise. There’s no denying the strong connection I felt to Simon as we talked at the bar last night. It’s been such a hard year and he, Simon, gave me the sort of attention I’ve been craving for a long time. The sort of attention that Rory won’t or can’t give me because he’s worried about having another child, about losing another child. Intimacy terrifies him.

I can already hear the footsteps and hushed voices outside the room. Won’t be long now.

I look around. My clothes are scattered across the floor. The award I won is around somewhere too. I’ve got no idea where I left it. Where I dropped it in a moment of lust.

I flinch as someone knocks on the door. Might as well be gunshots pointing my way.

“Are you okay in there?” a man asks.

I could lie and say yes. Buy myself some time, try to think of a way out of this. Tell them I stubbed my toe or the water in the shower was too hot and that’s why I screamed.

But I say nothing. There’s no more fight.

Slowly, I put on my underwear and slip into my dress. Might as well be stepping into a binbag or a stinking rag picked up from a landfill. There are more hushed voices gathering outside the room. One of them keeps pounding on the door, asking me if I’m okay.

What a ridiculous question.

I close my eyes and a strange, gargling noise begins to spill out of me. It’s the sound of my sanity melting like ice cream in the sun, the sound of a tornado rising up inside me, whirling its way from the gut to the throat.

I scream again. Soon afterwards, a loud rattle and the sharp click of a lock. The squeak of a door handle turning behind me.

They’re not waiting for me to answer the door. They’re not waiting for me to speak or reassure them that everything’s alright.

They’re coming in.

ROCK BOTTOM

CHAPTER

TWO

The worst morning of my life began just like any other morning.

There were no bad dreams the night before, no premonitions of disaster, and no icy cold feeling in my gut upon wakening to warn me that something was wrong.

Like all the other days before it, it was just another day.

CHAPTER

THREE

The three of us, Rory, Scott and I, are sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast before we go our separate ways for the day. This is before Rory drives to work and Scott and I go to school, him to the primary school and me to teach English at the nearby secondary school.

This is our normal. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee in the air. Scott’s little hands fumbling with the one-litre bottle of cold orange juice, the sort of juice with pulpy bits in them. He insists on the pulp to the point of tantrum if it’s anything else. For now at least, that’s his coffee and he can’t start the day without at least one glass.

“Everything okay?” I ask Scott.

He doesn’t look up as he struggles to screw the lid back on the bottle. “Hmm?”

“You’re quiet this morning.”

A shrug is all the response I get and, even at this early stage, I can see where this is leading to. Not good. We’re running late, I’ve got a busy day ahead and what Scott’s about to lay on me is the last thing I need.

“Rocket fuel not working?” I ask, tapping the lid of the orange juice.

His forehead crinkles above the eyes. There’s a sluggish gesture, then a whimpering groan. Scott’s fingers are all strawberry jam and toast crumbs and I’m not sure how because he’s barely eaten anything. Whenever I complain about the mess he makes (and it’s a daily ritual), Scott shows me his hands, thrusting them at me because I always make a stink face. The stink face makes him laugh. Not sure that’ll work today.

I look at the clock and my stomach flutters with anxiety. There’s a longing to go upstairs, crawl under the sheets and stay there for the rest of the day.

“We’re running late folks,” I say, my long-dead mother’s voice replacing my own. That shrill, dissonant tone I used to dread lives on in me. “Chop-chop.”

Rory nods, slurping down the last of his coffee. He glances at his watch and arches his brows. “How’d that happen?”

“Snooze button.”

“Stupid snooze button.”

Rory starts gathering some of the breakfast stuff together. “Did you see the For Sale sign next door?” he asks.

“Sure did,” I say with a groan. “It’s happening then?”

“Looks like we’re getting new neighbours.”

“Great.”

That’s a subject for another day. I try forcing eye contact from Scott. He’s looking down at the table, shoulders hunched, bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“C’mon Scott,” I say. “Finish up your breakfast.”

I want to be in school for an early start. All my good intentions in having an early night last night have gone up in smoke. Snooze button, son playing the little-boy-lost act, and my patience quickly running out.

“Did you hear me?” I ask. “Eat up and stop playing with your food.”

Rory’s up on his feet, finishing off the last of his oatmeal like I’m talking to him. “C’mon son. Listen to your mum.”

We finish a hurried breakfast on our feet and start collecting our things. I send Scott marching upstairs to brush his teeth and get his bag. He doesn’t get a chance to dilly-dally, not with me yelling up to him. He plods heavily back downstairs, still waiting for us to respond to his act. No such luck. I’m wrapping his coat around him before he’s even taken his feet off the staircase. His pained expression burns a hole through me but I do my best to ignore it.

Not today buddy.

“What about a scarf?” I ask, taking Scott by the arm and leading him towards the door. I feel the weight of him as he drags his feet behind me, head down, school bag bopping up and down on his shoulder.

“I don’t feel well.”

Thank God, Rory steps in.

“Well, that’s all the more reason to wear a scarf,” he says, throwing me a wink. Rory’s going to be late too but he’s a lot calmer about the situation than I am right now. Still, he has the luxury of working late if he wants to. I can’t. I have to pick up Scott from school which means an early start for me if I want to get away in time.

“You’re fine champ,” Rory says, ruffling Scott’s hair. Then he opens the front door and a gust of chilly air sweeps through the house. The cold bites and I shiver. Outside, I hear the chirp of birdsong and the whoosh of a car going too fast on the street that merges with our little cul-de-sac. Sounds like someone else is late for work.

Scott winces at the sunlight like a vampire.

I grab the red scarf off the coat hook in the hallway. Before wrapping it around Scott’s neck, I place a hand on his forehead.

“You don’t feel hot to me.”

“Can I stay home today?” he asks. There’s a longing in his eyes, one that cuts to the bone.

“Why?”

“I don’t feel well.”

I take my hand off his head and let out a painful sigh. “You don’t look ill to me, Scott. Are you sure you just don’t want to go to school?”

He responds with another whimper. Shakes his head, then lowers his eyes to the floor and does this subtle swaying from side-to-side thing. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. It’s the same routine every time but Scott thinks it’s a winner.

“Where does it hurt?” I ask.

He points to the side of his head in a sort of shoot-me gesture. Traces his finger from there around to the front.

“Side or front?” I ask.

“Both.”

Of course.

Rory, his car keys jingling in one hand, places the other hand on Scott’s forehead. He shakes his head. “Feels okay to me.”

Scott whimpers and this one’s a little too theatrical even by his standards. Rory and I exchange looks. He looks amused but I’m about ready to blow a gasket. Fortunately, Rory sees this and takes the lead.

“I tried the exact same thing when I was your age,” Rory says, kneeling down in front of Scott. His smile is warm and caring. “One thing you need to remember, champ. Always put your hands on a warm radiator and press them against your forehead before going downstairs. You forgot that part. Makes your skin nice and clammy.”

He winks.

“I am hot,” Scott says.

“Enough,” I say, grabbing Scott by the arm. I lead him to the door. He resists and I pull harder. There’s a stab of guilt but I push it away. He’s done this before so many times and he’s fine once he gets going. He’s always fine once he gets going. The headaches disappear like magic. Not a morning person, my son.

“Mum!”

My voice cracks with impatience. “Give it until the end of the morning, okay? Tell Mrs Soutar if you still feel sick at lunchtime. Ask her to give me a call and I’ll come get you. Okay? But you’re going to school this morning, Scott.”

“Dad!”

Rory takes up the rear and locks the front door once I manage to get Scott outside. “Just give it the morning,” he says. “Like Mum says.”

“But I don’t feel well.”

Rory’s feet crunch over the gravel as he walks to his Lexus. We exchange looks again, both of us knowing that Scott will be absolutely fine once he gets in there. Getting him out the door is the hard park. We did it. Go us.

“I’ll see you guys tonight,” Rory calls over, the Lexus chirping as it unlocks.

I manage a quick wave as I open the back door for Scott whose pitter-patter footsteps come to a halt at the car. Still pouting, he takes off his bag, then flops into the back seat and I don’t move until he buckles up. He’s no longer saying anything. Guess he’s accepted the fact that he’s going to school.

Rory blows a kiss goodbye as he reverses his car out of the driveway, clearing the path for my Corolla.

I catch the kiss and give him another wave. Then I get in the car, start the engine and breathe a sigh of relief as I turn out of the cul-de-sac. We’re on our way to school at last.

Just another day.

CHAPTER

FOUR

I drive faster than I should on the short journey from the house to the primary school. There’s a long list of things to do in my mind, all the day’s minute tasks being shuffled into position depending on their importance. A quick visit to the staff room to grab a large cup of instant coffee and then I’ll make preparations for class and all the in between stuff.

Long day coming. But I can do this.

The five-minute drive to Scott’s primary school goes past in the blink of an eye. I don’t think we say a single word to one another in those last few minutes before the bell rings. I’m just so focused on getting into work and tackling a tough day.

“Love you,” I say, after pulling up at the school gate. There are other cars idling up and down the street, kids spilling out of the back doors. The rush will be over soon. Some kids arrive on bike, others on scooter. Everyone hurrying through the open gate and up the wide, smoothly paved path that leads to the school entrance.

Scott pushes the back door open without a word. I’m not sure if I’m going to get much after the squabble about him being sick. Then he appears at the driver’s window, a big smile on his face showing off the gap in between his front teeth. Rosy red cheeks. Those incredible blue eyes, so like Rory’s.

“Love you!” he says.

My heart soars. He’s never embarrassed to say it, not even when there are other kids hanging around the school gates well within earshot. But this time, something else happens. Scott leans in and gives me a hug. It’s out of the blue and just like that, the grumbling back in the house never happened. We’ve had dozens of mornings like this where Scott can’t be bothered and then he comes to life. This is the first time I remember him coming in for a hug though. Maybe the sugar is finally kicking in.

“That’s my boy,” I say. “Go get ’em.”

One last wave. Then I watch him run through the school gate. His mad little run, the short octopus arms flapping at the sides. Along the path, up the steps and through the double doors. Disappearing into a sea of other kids, all wearing the same maroon-coloured uniforms.

The doors swing open and shut. Then he’s gone.

CHAPTER

FIVE

It happens at eleven o’clock that morning.

James Grant, a twenty-four-year-old former pupil at the primary school, pushes the double doors open. Lessons have already started for the day. No one sees him walk into the school but more than likely someone notices the smell. The body odour, pungent like wet cardboard. Sulphurous. The reek of a sewer on a hot day.

He stops at the door. Mumbles something quietly.

A name.

Grant walks down the school corridor, the worn-out soles of his trainers squeaking off the polished floor. He breathes out stale cigarette smoke. Long, greasy hair hangs loose over his shoulders. Hollow, sunken cheeks. He fidgets with the handle of the black rucksack hanging off his shoulder. The chef’s knife is inside, wrapped up in an old dishcloth. His notebooks are in there too, with the names of several other teachers at the secondary school who never understood him either. One still teaches there. Another is retired but still works at the local B&Q part time in the garden centre. He’ll visit them both. There are the names of former pupils too, adults now, who made the mistake of wronging Grant in their youth. He couldn’t do anything about it back then but he’s stronger now. Their addresses are in the book. He’ll visit them all. Everyone pays.

But first, Mrs Dixon.

This is a grudge he’s been harbouring for years. It goes back to that sunny day when the seven-year-old boy peed himself in Mrs Dixon’s class. He didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to make a mess but what a mess it was. Grant believed it was okay to pee. That his trousers would soak up the urine, absorb every last drop, and no one would ever know. He could only look down in horror as a giant puddle began to form on the floor around him. The first reaction was a girl’s shriek. Then a few gasps from those sitting closest to Grant. Then came the sniggers. Mrs Dixon, in a lapse of judgement, was angry, not sympathetic when she realised what he’d done. Bad boy. Stupid boy. That was seventeen years ago. One act of humiliation that’s festered in the boy’s mind, in the man’s mind, and that became the foundation stone upon which all his subsequent failures were built upon. His inability to make friends, to find a girlfriend. To stop his parents getting divorced, to gain any sort of meaningful qualification and to flop at every basement-level job he ever landed.

“Dixon,” he growls.

The humiliation. He’d been forced to wear flared trousers for the rest of that day because that’s all the school had to replace the soaking wet pair they’d made him take off. Were those ridiculous flares really all they had? Or did they just want to punish him? The kids laughed all day. Laughed at his funny trousers, flares, flares, flares, and they all knew why he was wearing them. But it was the look on Mrs Dixon’s face that he could never forget. A look of pure disgust. He disgusted her.

And that’s why she’s first on the list.

You should have retired, he thinks.

Then he cackles. Walks a little faster.

Grant knows the way to her classroom. He’s rehearsed the route and he knows what she looks like now too because there was an article on the school website celebrating all her years of good service to the community. Good service? Not just teaching but local charity work, especially helping the disabled get around with a free minibus service she and her husband operated for over twenty years. She was photographed with her award. A huge bouquet of flowers in her hands.

The bitch. Oblivious to what she’d done.

Grant sings a flat, tuneless melody under his breath as he continues down the corridor. Another cackle. No fear, he reminds himself.

Room Seventeen. He walks past the girl’s bathrooms, past the gym where there’s a game of basketball taking place. High-pitched whoops and cheers spill out as one of the smaller kids scores an impressive hook shot. Squeak-squeak-squeak. It’s coming from the gym floor but also from Grant’s shoes as he keeps that zombie-like stride going.

He is the avenging angel.

He doesn’t knock when he reaches the door but he doesn’t go straight in either. Grant just stands there, leaning his head against a slim glass panel and looking into the classroom. A full classroom too. There’s a strange, whooshing sensation in his lower body when he sees her at the desk.

“Hi,” he says.

A minute passes before one of the kids sitting at the front of class, a little redhead with big eyes and her hair in bunches, notices Grant at the door. She smiles at him. Grant is taken aback for a second. Then he smiles back and whatever’s in that smile, it’s enough to turn the girl chalk white.

CHAPTER

SIX

They start calling the parents at eleven-thirty.

There’s been an incident. That’s the only thing they’re told at first. There’s been an incident and they have to come to the school right away. Soon enough, everyone in the area knows that something is wrong over at the primary school. The sirens are blaring and there’s a large crowd of worried family members and curious onlookers forming at the school gate which is closed over and guarded by police.

News vans start showing up not long after the emergency services. They pull out their cameras and sound equipment. Start broadcasting even though nobody really knows anything yet.

Gemma Taylor is one of the first parents to arrive on the scene. She gets there quickly because she works at the nearby secondary school and she’s ushered into a staff room full of police officers, parents and teachers. She hears the news from Mr Christie, one of the teachers she knows quite well. He’s sobbing when he tells her but she hears it straight. Hears the reason why she’s there and that’s when her legs give way.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

We have to get through this.

If nothing else, the constant funerals and social obligations that follow keep us busy. Feels like we’re always on the move and that’s a good thing. Means we’re not thinking about what happened. At least, not as much as we would if there was nothing else to do. The sleeping pills help a little. They don’t stop the nightmares. Nothing stops the nightmares.

We get up in the morning and start moving again. The day takes over, especially with the dead to mourn and bury. It goes on like that for a while and we don’t dare to slow down.

Scott’s funeral is preceded by three others that week. Two more children who’d been targeted at random and Georgina Dixon, the teacher and original target of the murderer. Four people died in total that day and three others were hospitalised for minor injuries. James Grant, the knife-wielding maniac, was captured and arrested before he could work through the rest of the hit-list that police found in his notebook.

Captured and arrested.

I take no satisfaction in that. What sort of punishment can ever fit the crime? Will he get it cushy in a rehabilitation program and will his legal team play the ‘mental health’ card and say that he was just a messed up young man who never stood a chance? Broken home. Someone hand out the tissues, give the murderer a hug. Poor boy. He’ll get a big TV in his luxury cell. A warm bed and three meals a day. Worst of all, he’ll get released someday and have a future. A future that he's denied four other people. They’ll protect him, protect him by giving him a new identity and he’ll be walking the streets laughing and joking at how soft the system is. One day, I’ll walk past him on the street and never know.

Jesus.

I’d go mad thinking about justice for my child.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

The sheer volume of letters and cards is overwhelming. Especially in the first couple of weeks. They come from people we know and total strangers who’re reaching out with not only cards, but gifts and flowers. It’s touching and while we appreciate people thinking of us, there’s no way we can keep up.

I do notice the pink envelope. It stands out amongst a crowd of mostly white or cream-coloured envelopes and that glaring pinkness earns it an extra split second of my attention. At that point, a split second is a lot. Then I move on. Like all the others, white or cream, it’s a reminder that my son is dead.

This is the second tragedy to shatter my life in two years. In fact, it hasn’t even been a full two years since my best friend Julia died in a hit and run. Another violent death. My best friend in the world since school, gone just like that. The horrible suddenness of it all. I received lots of flowers then too but not to this extent. Same well-meaning gestures, beautiful flowers and colours that were a reminder of something terrible. I remember trying to make sense of it back then, grasping for understanding in all the pain and confusion.

I got through Julia’s death. Somehow. I’m not sure I can do the same with Scott.

Flowers in the kitchen. Flowers in the living room. Flowers lined up along the edges of both the downstairs and upstairs hallway. Flowers in vases, bouquets left to wither because we’ve nowhere to put them. It feels more like a shrine than a house. They leave them at our door and at the garden fence with notes attached. Cuddly toys. Giant cuddly toys. Candles. There’s no way I can keep up with everything and thank God for Rory’s Aunt Agnes who comes to stay with us in the immediate aftermath. She takes care of everything. Which gives Rory and I time to fall apart.

Rory’s downfall is more obvious than mine.

He goes back to work after ten days which is madness. I tell him so but he insists he needs to stay busy. I get it. I do. Everything under this roof is a reminder of Scott and there are hundreds and thousands of them. Small things, big things. Stuff I didn’t pay attention to before. I can’t bring myself to lift his toothbrush out of the jar. It’s still there, the little green one with the cartoon dragon on the handle beside Rory’s red brush and my white one. Rory hasn’t touched it either. The sensitive skin soap we used for Scott is still on the ledge in the shower. That’s just one room in the house, the tip of the iceberg.

My boy is everywhere. Are we just supposed to pick up those last reminders and throw them into a binbag?

What Rory doesn’t understand about going back to work is that I need him around. I’m nowhere near ready to go back to work, not even close. My boss at school, Helen, has already told me to take as much time as I want. Which I intend to. How can I be in a classroom full of kids after what happened?

But Rory goes back to work, leaving me in the house. Aunt Agnes returns to her own home after two weeks of taking care of us and that means it’s just me and these four walls and a very long day.

This is the beginning of ‘Rory’s shutdown period’. He’ll do anything except face up to what happened. He’s up before the alarm, then disappears for long periods of time even when he’s not working. He doesn’t want to come home and, whether he’s working or not, he stays out late and when he does eventually crawl back into the house, he goes straight to bed. We don’t talk. Communication is non-existent. Next day, it’s rinse and repeat. A wall is building up around us. Grief should bring us closer together but instead, it’s pushing us apart.

Rory’s appearance goes downhill too. My well-groomed husband has been replaced by a man with scruffy hair, shaving cuts and dark circles under his eyes. A man that barely speaks. Ten words a day, five words, then two until two becomes a grunt. A grunt about getting some fresh air and then he’ll be gone for hours. Home later, the smell of booze wafting off his skin. Anything to avoid staying in the house.

I suppose I’m a reminder of Scott too.

I don’t get angry when he returns late at night. I don’t shout and instead I embrace him but it’s like putting my arms around a standing corpse that smells like a brewery. He looks past me, no doubt seeing the little white coffin in his mind’s eye. He endures my embrace. Wondering when he can let go of me again and get the hell out of this house.

We have to get through this.

One night he comes home at nine o’clock when he’s supposed to be home around half-past six. I’m in the living room watching TV. Rory throws his jacket on the hook and goes upstairs without saying a word.

That’s the first time I feel relief. Relief that he doesn’t come in or attempt any sort of greeting. The new normal has been established.

About ten minutes later, I get up, tiptoe across the hallway and wait at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he’ll come back down. When it’s clear that Rory’s crashed out on the bed, I rummage through his jacket pockets and pull out a small bag of white powder from the inner zip pocket. I’m not surprised. I know that Rory used cocaine on and off during his university years. But that was a lifetime ago and he always said it turned him into a bit of monster. Now he’s back on it, not even trying to hide it. Now he’s bringing it home.

CHAPTER

NINE

A second pink envelope arrives.

I don’t open it.

CHAPTER

TEN

Our tenth wedding anniversary is almost two months to the day that Scott died.

I know Rory doesn’t want a fuss because I’d hinted about doing something special a couple of weeks ago and he shut me down fast. That escalated into the first proper fight we’d had in a long time. It was almost a relief to see and hear him come alive again, even if it was in anger. He called me selfish, said it was blasphemous to even think about celebrating such a thing.

I feel the opposite. Right now, it feels more important than ever.

I decide to take charge of the situation. I know it could backfire, especially with the way Rory is right now. Still, it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Scott wouldn’t want his parents to fall apart like this. I hang on to that thought.

The big day comes and I manage to secure a last-minute booking at Corinthians, the city centre restaurant where Rory proposed to me a lifetime ago. The memory of his hand trembling as he offered me the ring is still fresh. Later he told me that he thought I was going to say no and that he was about to be rejected in the worst possible way with everyone in the restaurant watching us.

That was his gamble, this is mine.

I get dressed up in a nice outfit, putting makeup on, spraying myself with perfume and all the other little things that shouldn’t feel as weird as they do. The act of making myself pretty feels wrong. It might be for nothing too, but I try to keep that thought at the back of my mind.

I’m so eager, so nervous that I get dressed far too early. I’ve been working from home for a few weeks now, mostly admin tasks in preparation of going back to school and so I tend to some emails dressed up to the nines. It doesn’t take long. Then I do a spot of minor cleaning. I text Rory, asking him when he’ll be back from work. It’s five minutes later when my phone finally chirps on the bed.

Not sure.

“Perfect,” I say, glaring at the phone.

There’s a lot of pacing the hallway, both upstairs and downstairs. The clock feels like it’s ticking backwards. It’s hot in the house and I’m starting to sweat which might mean I have to do my makeup all over again. What’s wrong with me? My heart is hammering off my ribcage. Can’t read, can’t watch TV, can’t concentrate. It’s okay. I deliberately booked the table later in the evening and I’ve also texted Marcus to ask if Rory can come in late the next day. Marcus replied, saying that Rory can take the full day if he needs it. That’ll never happen. Not unless things go well tonight.

I pick Rory’s socks up off the floor (not a rare occurrence these days) Wipe down the sink. Five o’clock becomes six o’clock. Six becomes seven and the booking at Corinthians is for eight thirty. Time is running out and I’ll have to call and cancel the table if Rory doesn’t come back by eight.

Shit, I think.

We’re ten years married for God’s sake.

I stop at a sudden outbreak of noise.

Thump-thump-thump.

Here we go. Our wonderful new neighbours have started up for the night. On top of all the other crap we’ve got to deal with, these neighbours have been making our life hell since they moved in a couple of weeks ago. The old Bryant house, as it was known, was sold a while back and because of what happened with Scott, we never really gave it much thought until a moving truck growled into our cul-de-sac, pulling up in the tight corner of the street that both the Bryant house and our house are tucked into. We’d hoped for someone quiet. Someone considerate. What we got was Jerry, Mandy and their six children. The youngest of those children are a pair of twins, boy and girl, who’re around four or five years of age and boy do they love to scream. The eldest, a long-haired teenage boy with a permanent scowl, loves to drop litter on the street and sometimes it blows onto our grass. These are the sort of people you wouldn’t want to be stuck next to in a public campsite or in a hotel room for one night, let alone have them living next door to you. And it’s right about now, early evening, that we can expect the music to start. They’ve got a little party area in their back garden with their outdoor patio heaters and nuclear speakers.

They’re horrible. A short, chubby little couple who should’ve been wrapped up in a giant condom the minute they hooked up.

Deep breaths, Gemma.

Where is Rory?

We’ve asked nicely about the music (if you can call it that) and the anti-social volume that seems to be their default. Jerry smiled to our face during that initial conversation when we told him their back garden, aka the party zone, was jammed up next to our bedroom. I’ll say this for the man. He put on a good act. Said he was on it. In reality, it was like the conversation never happened. The parties keep coming and it’s becoming quite the problem. How did people like that ever afford a house around here? My guess is they’ve inherited it from the Bryants, an older couple who we didn’t know much about. At least they were quiet.

Do Jerry and Mandy know what happened to our son?

Would it make any difference?

The neighbours from hell can wait. I’ve got other things to worry about tonight. But I’m overjoyed when Rory does come back at a decent hour (by recent standards), just after seven-thirty. He’s in a foul mood. Slamming the door shut. Dropping his bag on the floor with such force it sounds like an elephant tipped over. I walk downstairs, the bass from next door’s party making the walls shudder.

“Rory?”

He’s standing at the door, thousand-yard stare on his face.

“Rory, are you alright?”

There’s a spurt of furious blinking when he realises that I’m on the staircase talking to him. I’m under no illusions here. Getting Rory to Corinthians for a civilised, let alone romantic, meal is going to be tough, if not impossible. His suit is wrinkled. Looks like he’s been sleeping in the back of his car for weeks. Messy hair, greasy complexion and the ever-present dark circles under his eyes. I can only imagine what Marcus has been putting up with at work.

He doesn’t answer me. His feet make a dragging noise as he walks past the stairs, not seeming to notice that I’m all dressed up. Rory walks into the kitchen, a scratching noise as he fumbles for the light switch on the wall. I hear the sound of glass rattling as he pulls the fridge door open. Rory grabs one as I appear in the hallway. He never used to be the type of guy to grab a beer when he came home. Now I think it’s the only reason he comes home. It’s cheaper than spending all night in the pub.

“Rory?”

I take a deep breath and follow him into the kitchen. Besides the booze, I smell cigarette smoke on his skin and clothes. I’m almost starting to get used to it. It’s a smell that lives in the walls of our house, rising up from the floors like steam. It’s everywhere and at times, it feels like it’s trapped under my skin.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stopping at the kitchen door.

He grabs a bottle opener off the kitchen counter. Peels back the lid. Ssshhh.

“Fine.”

I give it a second, waiting to see if he’ll say anything about my appearance. Has he even looked at me yet?

“Rory?”

“What?”

“I’ve booked us a table at Corinthians for eight-thirty.”

Rory keeps drinking like he’s a student performing a dare at a frat party. The bottle is empty when he comes back up for air and he glares at it. Then his head turns towards me. I notice a narrowing of the eyes.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“For goodness’ sake, Rory. Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

A sluggish shake of the head.

I exhale.

“It’s our anniversary,” I say. “It’s our tenth wedding anniversary and I’ve booked us a table at Corinthians for eight-thirty.”

Saying it out loud like that, looking at him in this condition. It’s the first time I know for sure I’ve made a mistake. But I won’t stop fighting.

“You remember Corinthians, don’t you?” I ask. “Where you prop–”

“Of course I do,” he says, turning his attention back to the contents of the fridge. I know exactly what’s on his mind right now. Another beer, making a sandwich and disappearing upstairs for the rest of the night. The only question is whether he’ll go into the spare room or sit in the bedroom and risk having to talk to me. The spare room is seeing a lot more of him these days.

“Ten years, Rory. It means something.”

His attention is still focused on the fridge. If I keep talking and pressing him on the matter, it’ll be beer for supper. All for the sake of a quick exit. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hmm?”

“It means something.”

“What?”

“Ten years of being married.”

He slams the fridge door closed. There’s another glassy rattle from inside and the compressor fan goes silent. His eyes are hazy as he turns to face me, running a hand through his sweaty mop of hair. That aura of heaviness persists around Rory, drowning him in the solid ocean of the kitchen floor.

“What do you want from me?” he says.

“Rory, we should do something.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, no. We talked about this.”

“You talked about it.”

He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. Can’t even look me in the eye, something that’s becoming a habit.

“No.”

I don’t know why I’m fighting so hard. I do not want to sit in a restaurant with this version of Rory, anniversary or not. The idea repulses me. But even if we humiliate ourselves and even if we can never go back to the restaurant where we vowed to spend our lives together, I want him out of the house tonight and for the first time in weeks, out of the house with me. We lost our son. We’re losing each other.

Rory tosses the empty bottle into the rubbish instead of the recycling bin. I make a mental note to put it in the correct bin later.

“I don’t want to hear this, Gemma.”

I walk further into the kitchen, spotless thanks to my earlier cleaning spree. “Rory, this isn’t good.”

“I’m tired,” he says in a hoarse voice.

“Please Rory. Go upstairs, get in the shower and put on some clean clothes. We’ll–”

Rory plugs his fingers into his ears and cries out like he’s trying to take the roof off. “Tra-la-la-la-lah! Tra-la-LA!”

I stand there, horrified. Watching my husband lose his mind in front of me. At the same time, I hear a muffled squeal of excitement from next door. A series of raucous male roars, thump-thump-thump and the neighbour’s midweek party in full swing.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

Rory takes his fingers out of his ears and barrels his way past me and out of the kitchen. Then he freezes in the hallway. Turns back, looks at me. For a second, I think he’s going to apologise. All I get is a shake of the head. Then he staggers off, grabbing the banister for support as he takes the stairs. I hear the wheeziness in his breath.

I chase after him, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Scream at him in a voice that escapes from the frightened animal inside me.

“RORY!”

He stops halfway up the stairs and I see his arms shaking. Fists balled at the sides. Sounds like he’s talking through clenched teeth. “Our son’s dead, Gemma. And you want to put lipstick on and celebrate?”

A pause.

“He’s dead.”

I let him go. Rory takes the rest of the stairs. His feet are like thunder on the upstairs hallway, the noise only stopping after the spare room door slams shut. Then, silence. At least in our house. I still have the pulsing bass from next door to keep me company.

I’m not sure how long I stay there, a statue at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move. Rory’s words echo in my mind, carving me hollow. Eventually, I turn around and glance at my reflection in the hall mirror. Look at Gemma. Still pretty if she wants to be. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

I feel like an idiot for trying.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

I spend the evening of my tenth wedding anniversary sitting at home, researching ‘what to do about my partner’s mood swings’ on the internet.

It’s not like there’s any mystery behind Rory’s meltdown and there’s nothing online I haven’t heard before. As expected, there’s a lot of advice about seeking professional help but I can just imagine Rory’s response when I suggest that he talk to someone about his feelings. The way it looks right now, he doesn’t want to be saved. Misery is his addiction. For God’s sake, I can’t even get him out to dinner on a milestone anniversary.

I’m sitting on the couch with the laptop and a big glass of wine. Just one to celebrate the big ten and while I’ve never been able to hold my drink, I deserve this.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

At least the neighbours are having fun.

I take a sip of wine. This house feels empty, that emptiness like a cold draught on the back of my neck. Scott is gone, Rory might as well be. The house is a mess. There’s so much stuff lying around the coffee table and I’ve never really stopped to notice or care. The last hint of tidiness left this place with Aunt Agnes and neither Rory or I have the will to keep up with cleaning duties. And here on the coffee table and all around, all the cards, withered bouquets and stuff that I’ve never gotten around to sorting. Lots of stuff.

The pink envelopes are gathered in a pile on the coffee table. I gather them up and count six in total. I’m double-checking that number while the neighbours are out singing in their back garden.

“Morons,” I whisper.

The handwriting on the pink envelopes is the same across all six letters. Dark blue ink, neat, legible. There’s a consistent slant and spacing between letters and I’ll bet my life that’s a woman’s handwriting. It’s the sort of flawless handwriting that makes the teacher in me wonder if the writer values form over function. I think about throwing the pink envelopes back down on the table, gathering all these letters and gifts together and throwing them into a box. Put everything in the attic and maybe one day I’ll come back to them.

But that would mean going upstairs. I don’t want to go upstairs. Not until I’m sure Rory is asleep.

“Screw it,” I say.

I tear open one of the pink envelopes. There’s no date or sender’s address on the front or back. I don’t know if I’m opening the first or the last one. I pull out a neatly folded sheet of paper. Pink, of course. Unfolding it, I see the same dark blue ink in the body of the letter and my nostrils twitch at the scent of a perfume that isn’t my own. My nose leans towards the sheet and I breathe in the faint comfort of vanilla. The old-fashioned gesture of scenting the letter makes me smile. Someone put a lot of care into this.

Leaning back on the couch, I start to read. Silently mouthing the words as I go.

Dear Gemma,

I’m writing to you again because I’m not sure if you’ve received my previous letters. Completely understandable if you haven’t. You’ve got so much going on and, as I mentioned in those other letters, my heart bleeds for you and your husband because of the terrible tragedy you’ve suffered.

May time be a healer for you both.

I don’t know if you remember me or not. It’s Molly Morrison. I guess I was better known back in our schooldays as teacher’s pet, ha! Isn’t that what most people called me? Isn’t that what you called me, amongst other things, ha-ha!

Long time ago.

I hope you do remember me. You know how it is, there’s always this connection with the people you went to school with no matter how much time passes or how much distance grows between former classmates. I follow a few of the girls on Facebook but apart from that, I haven’t had much to do with the old school crowd.

But I think about that time often.

Anyway, I just want you to know I’m thinking about you now. You and your husband.

Here’s the gist of what I said in my previous letters:

I had to write to you after seeing what happened on the news. Please accept my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your beautiful boy. There are no words that will make the pain go away but I am so, so sorry. I saw the news and when I realised that one of the mothers was an old school chum, I just had to reach out. Poor Gemma. I’m sure you’ve received lots of cards and gifts (you can thank the internet for making your address public!) and all of them as well-intentioned as mine. Please take some comfort in this outpouring of love and support. You are not alone.

There’s another reason for my writing to you. Believe it or not, Gemma, I know how you’re feeling. I’ve suffered too. I didn’t lose a child but my life was ripped apart in a very different way. In a horrific way. I’m not sure where you’re at right now in the grieving process but I know you feel damaged and broken beyond repair. You’ve never felt so alone.

I understand.

I’ll leave my number below. Call me if you need someone to talk to. Someone who’s also a little damaged and who might be able to help.

Love Molly X

Sure enough, Molly’s mobile number is printed at the bottom of the page. Along with two giant love hearts and three kisses.

I place the letter on my lap.

Wow. Molly Morrison, the teacher’s pet. I’m touched by her kindness but it’s a stretch of the imagination to suggest that we were ever friends. She was far too clever for the likes of me but also, she was a bit of a Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Never shy to put her hand up in class. She wore a lot of cardigans. Always neat. Always well-groomed. Always so pink. The way I see it now, she was like an old woman trapped in a teenager’s body. So prim and proper. The kids back then gave her a hard time but it sounds like she’s grown up into a good person. I don’t think anyone else from school has reached out, not that I’ve been keeping count. Obviously, Julia would’ve been by my side if she was still alive. God, I miss her. I miss having that sort of close friendship in my life. She’d know what to do about Rory.

I drink my wine and read through Molly’s letter again. The beautiful handwriting is hypnotic and my eyes pause at one section in particular.

…my life was ripped apart in a very different way.

What happened to Molly?

With a resigned shake of the head, I lift the laptop off the coffee table and try to pick up where I was in relation to a partner’s mood swings. All these articles, all the tabs I’ve opened, are starting to bleed into one another. The words floating off the screen.

Not always a cause for concern but persistent fluctuations could be related to some sort of underlying condition.

The underlying condition of having our son murdered?

Nothing satisfies me. All these pages that claim to offer expertise on mental health aren’t telling me anything that’s going to fix the problem in this house. The truth is straightforward, the truth is cruel. Grief destroyed Rory, my Rory. Guilt too. Perhaps that’s the worst of it. We both forced Scott to go to school that day but I’m the one who pushed it more. I know it, Rory knows it. Scott said he wasn’t feeling well and we both encouraged him to give it the morning. How could I have known? God knows I replay that breakfast back and forth daily, my stomach clenching every time. One day off school, that’s all he wanted. I could’ve brought my admin home. One day.

I sit forward, seized with a sudden dizziness. A hand over my mouth as the room begins to spin. He must have been so scared. Oh God, my baby boy, I can’t imagine how scared he must have been when that maniac–

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

The party pulls me back from the brink of a panic attack. I flop back on the couch, the back of my dress hot and damp with sweat.

I pick up the sheet of pink paper on my lap.

I’ve suffered too.

I look up at the ceiling. Listening to the sound of Rory pacing back and forth upstairs. I know the routine well by now. He’ll pace, then he’ll stop outside Scott’s bedroom. Pace, then stop. Over and over again. But he won’t go in. The bedroom remains untouched and it’s pretty much the way Scott left it that morning. All the stupid things I complained about, nagged about, things that didn’t matter. The mess he made. His books on the floor and all the dirty clothes he dumped on the chair instead of putting in the washing basket where they’re supposed to be. I’ve done a little dusting, just to keep it nice. Mostly when I’m in there, I’ll stand in front of Scott’s wardrobe door, pull it open and stare at his clothes. Press my face into his t-shirts, my nostrils grabbing at the fading scent.

Rory won’t come back downstairs tonight. He’ll collapse into bed sooner or later and it’ll be the spare room for sure after the argument in the kitchen. Happy Anniversary to us. Then he’ll be gone first thing in the morning, no doubt feeling like shit but more concerned with getting out of the house as soon as possible. No more family breakfasts. No pancakes, no pulpy orange juice. After work, Rory will find somewhere to drink and snort cocaine. He’ll get in a car and drive and sooner or later he’ll kill himself or someone else.

I can’t bear the thought of going to bed alone. I’d rather the stink of booze, the snoring and even the neighbours’ racket than the coldness of that big bed upstairs. I could go into the spare room, slip into the single bed and see how he’d respond if I just held him. But Rory passes out so easily these days. I’m not sure he’d know I was there.

I raise my glass of wine and look at Molly’s letter, now sitting on the table.

Call me if you need someone to talk to.

I grab the letter, read it once more and when it’s done, I make a point of memorising Molly’s phone number.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

“Rory? Is that you?”

Clumsy footsteps in the hallway. The sound of the front door slamming shut. Rory’s late home but he’s alive. I can stop thinking the worst for another day. Rory appears at the living room door, looking at me like I’m a puzzle to be solved.

“Hi,” I say.

Jesus, his eyes. Bloodshot. Not Rory.

His haggard face is sunken in. I can smell the whisky from across the room and I know if I go through his pockets I’ll find a bag of white powder. Smells like the cigarettes are back on the menu too. He’s not a student anymore, he’s a husband and father in his mid-forties for God’s sake.

I feel a tight pinch in my abdomen.

Was a father.

He’s standing at the door, waiting for me to give him a dressing down so he can go on his way. Fridge, upstairs. TV and bed. Spare room, our room? I wonder if he’s even decided yet. Does he make the decision on the stairs? It looks like another spare room night.

I want to scream.

“Can we talk for a second please?” I ask.

He makes this childish huffing noise and I think fuck it. He wants to go upstairs and pass out so let him. There’s a stab of hatred in me for the thing he’s become. Why should I be the one who always has to make the effort? Has Rory forgotten that I’m grieving too? I’ve long since stopped offering Rory dinner when he comes home because he never eats it. It’s a waste of food and a waste of my time and energy making it. Every smile on my face is a lie. I pander to the monster in Rory’s head because what will happen to Scott’s parents if I don’t?

Fuck it.

“We never talked about your promotion,” I say.

“What?”

It’s something that’s been on my mind. Something we should have talked about but with everything that happened, it got lost in the chaos. Rory was up for a promotion at work in the weeks before Scott’s death. Marcus had been dangling the idea for several months and I know it meant a lot to Rory, even if he was trying to play it cool in front of me. After Scott died, I never heard another thing about it. Looking at the man in front of me, you’d have to be an idiot to promote him.

I persist, despite a voice in my head telling me to back off. Not so much a voice. More like a warning alarm.

“Your promotion. We never talked about it. Did Marcus ever say anything about it after you went back to work?”

Rory makes a sluggish, sweeping hand gesture. It’s this dismissive act, coupled with the glare of drunken contempt on his face, that pushes me over the edge.

I stand up off the couch. Rigid and tall, fists balled at my sides.

“What’s happening to us?”

His head tilts forward. Now he’s looking down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t want to–”

“You don’t want to talk to me?”

He shrugs.

“We can’t go on like this, Rory. We’re falling apart.”

He starts to turn around. Like that’s the end of the conversation and now he’s heading back towards the stairs. Something snaps inside me. I hear it, the sound of rope breaking in my head. Then I’m gone. I unleash hell in Rory’s face, letting it all out. It’s an emotional prison break and I scream about the bags of cocaine I found in his pockets. I accuse Rory of sleeping with other women, of using prostitutes, even though I know he’s got no interest in sex, certainly not with me and most likely not with anyone else. Rory just stands there, taking the hits. For me, it’s like an out of body experience that I watch from the ceiling. The whole thing takes less than a minute before I spiral down again. Back into my body, my feet planted on the ground while I gasp for breath.

God, that felt good.

The silence in the living room is deafening. I can feel my throat burning like I’ve swallowed hot lava. My chest and shoulders heave with abandon while Rory lingers in the doorway doing his rapid-fire blinking. He hasn’t run away. Hasn’t made for the stairs. There’s a moment where I think I see him. My husband looking back at me through the monster’s eyes. Then it’s gone. Just like that, the thing is back in his eyes. He stands upright. Then he charges at me, grabs my wrist. His face, distorted with the not-Rory look, leans into mine. Rage. Madness. It’s all there swirling in his eyes. It’s like he’s possessed.

“Rory, you’re hurting me.”

He tightens his grip on my arm. His voice comes out like a scalding hiss.

“You…”

“What?”

“You had to force him to go to school, didn’t you?” he says, spit flying from the corner of his mouth. “You had to force him!”

My diaphragm spasms. Rory might as well have punched me in the stomach. It would’ve been kinder.

“Me?”

His eyes burn a hole through my insides. He’s snarling at me.

“We both made him go,” I say, and to my surprise there’s fight in my voice. I don’t back down from that maddening stare.

Rory’s knuckles whiten and it feels like my arm is trapped in the jaws of a steel vice. Flames shoot up and down my veins.

“Rory. Let me go…now!”

It’s like a switch flips inside him. He does that mad blinking thing, like he’s waking up from a dream. Rory releases my arm and it flops to my side. His eyes fill up, he takes a step back. Then he’s gone, running upstairs, pacing up and down the hallway and it’s at least five minutes of that before he comes to a stop outside Scott’s room.

He doesn’t go in.

I sleep on the couch that night, too frightened to go upstairs. Rory didn’t hit me but that felt way too close. Somehow, I fall asleep with ease.

In the morning, I walk into the kitchen still in a daze. Still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I haven’t been upstairs or showered or done anything yet. It’s not even seven o’clock. Much to my surprise, Rory’s up and he’s making breakfast. There’s a pan on the stove. He’s making pancakes, my favourite. The kettle whistles on the counter and a cloud of steam drifts across the room in slow motion, misting the back window. Am I dreaming? It’s like stepping back in time. This could be a normal day, the sort of day we had before. The empty chair where Scott used to sit is a cutting reminder that I’m awake.

Rory looks at me as I come to a stop in the kitchen doorway. His eyes are still bloodshot but they’re clear. I wonder if he even slept at all. He’s dressed in his work shirt and for once it doesn’t look like he slept in it. Even his trousers look ironed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning to face me. His eyes echo the words.

“I know.”

Rory gives a little shake of the head.

“About the promotion,” he says. “They gave it to someone else, some scrawny kid with spots who’s been out of university less than a year.”

I nod.

“When did you find out?”

Rory looks at the pancakes as if to check their progress, then back at me. “Marcus had already made the decision. Before. I found out when I went back. I haven’t exactly been firing on all cylinders lately so I’d say he made the right call. I’m lucky he hasn’t fired me.”

My turn to say the words.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “I’ve been a nightmare. I know that. I’ve known it all along. And I’ve been selfish. Not once have I asked how you’re doing, how you’re coping…not once.”

I walk forward, placing my hand on his shoulder. There’s a surge of joy as he puts a hand on mine. I hold Rory and it frightens me how fragile he feels. We stay like that for a long time, the sugary smell of pancakes in the background and maybe, like me, he’s thinking about the last time we were all here. Right here, all three of us. And how we took it for granted that we had so many more days like that to come.

“We have to get through this,” I say.

“We will,” he says. “I promise.”

We eat breakfast together. It’s enough just to sit with him again. Before Rory goes to work, he calls me to watch as he flushes the rest of his cocaine down the toilet. Then he tells me that he’ll be back early and that he’ll speak to the neighbours about the noise. That we’ll rearrange the celebration dinner and make up for what we missed. Whatever epiphany he had last night, whatever corner he turned, I thank God for it.

I call the school once Rory has gone to work. Make arrangements with Helen to come in and have a chat about my full-time return to teaching. I’ve been gone a long time, working from home and doing what I can but I think I’m ready to go back. Not much has changed. The thought of going to school, so close to where it happened, terrifies me. But I have to do it, sooner or later.

I spend the morning on some work stuff and chores around the house. I open more of the condolence cards and I read the rest of Molly’s letters too, all of them pretty much saying the same thing as the first.

I’ve suffered too.

Three words that appear in every single letter.

I hoover the living room floor, wipe the kitchen counter clean, empty out cupboards and scrub the shower floor. Morning turns to afternoon. As I work, Molly’s words flash on and off in my mind like a neon sign in Las Vegas. The lights only get brighter until I can’t ignore the impulse any longer.

I pick up the phone and call her.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

A woman’s voice answers after two rings. Her greeting sings out at me, startled but ready, like she was sitting by the phone waiting for the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I say. “Is this Molly Morrison?”

There’s a short pause. Then the woman’s voice bounces back into my ear, giddy with excitement. “Yes! This is Molly. Who am I speaking to?”

I smile, remembering how polite and proper she was at school. The little things, the seemingly little things, rush back to me. I’m pulled back into that world of school and cliques and teenage anxiety, a world that’s been lost to me since Julia, my last connection to those days, died. Just a few words from Molly opens the door again.

I clear my throat.

“It’s Gemma Taylor.”

There’s a little gasp in my ear.

“Oh wow!”

“I got your letters,” I say. “All of your letters, and I just wanted to call and say thank you for thinking of me. That was so thoughtful of you to write.”

“Gemma!” Molly squeaks. “Oh my God, how lovely to hear from you. How are you? How are you?”

“Well, I won’t lie. It’s been hard.”

“Of course it has.”

I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed in a pair of baggy tracksuit bottoms and a pink t-shirt with a faded Minnie Mouse design. My feet are sockless. A cup of black coffee sits on the table, a trail of steam spiralling towards the ceiling. I haven’t taken a sip yet. I was too nervous about making this call.

“We’re taking it one day at a time, you know? I think we’ve actually turned a corner.”

“That’s wonderful, Gemma.”

I must admit, it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t Rory or one of the teachers from school. It’s depressing how small my social circle has become over the years. I didn’t notice, not really. I just kept myself busy being a teacher, wife and mother. Guess I turned down too many invitations and there never seemed to be time for hobbies. Hard to believe that I was one of the popular girls at school. Always surrounded by girlfriends. Boys asking me out, those who were brave enough to anyway.

Changed days.

Molly and I go back and forth, making small talk for at least ten minutes. It’s effortless thanks to Molly’s enthusiasm and even though I hadn’t given much thought to meeting up in person, I don’t recoil when she brings it up.

“When are you free, Gemma?”

“You really want to meet?” I ask.

“Yes,” Molly says without skipping a beat. “Let’s meet for a coffee or a walk or something like that. It’ll do you good. Right?”

“I’d like that. But where do you live these days?”

“Oh, I move around a lot. Work keeps me on my toes.”

“That sounds fun,” I say.

She giggles. “Not really. I’m based up north, close to Dundee. But travel comes with the type of work I’ve been involved in for the past few years. I’ll explain all about it when I see you.”

“Great.”

“It’s nothing glamorous,” she says. “I don’t want to build it up or anything like that. It’s charity work, but it takes me here there and everywhere.”

“Oh wow,” I say. “That’s fantastic. Are you married? Kids?”

“Nothing like that.” Another long pause, broken by the sound of Molly’s childlike giggling. I wince, taking my ear off the phone for a second. “I’m married to the work, you know? Isn’t that what they say?”

“Right.”

“Umm, Gemma,” she says, her voice a little muted now. “There’s something you should know about me.”

There’s that cold pinch in my abdomen.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think it’s better to get this out of the way now. Before we meet.”

I uncross my legs and sit up on the couch, jamming the phone tight against my ear. My mind is racing, wondering what she’s about to tell me.

“Okay, sure. I’m listening.”

All the enthusiasm has fizzled out of Molly’s voice. The volume drops again, this time to a profound whisper. “Something bad happened to me. Something that had a pretty big impact on…”

The line goes silent.

“Molly?”

“…on the way I look.”

A vision of Molly’s exquisite handwriting floats like driftwood before my eyes. My life was ripped apart too.

“What happened?”

“It was five years ago,” she says. “Someone attacked me out of the blue and I was…oh boy…I forgot how hard it is to tell someone for the first time. It’s umm, hard. Especially telling it to an old friend who knew me way back when.”

“You can tell me, Molly.”

“I was disfigured.”

I feel a cold pinprick in the base of my spine. My words spill out on autopilot before I have a chance to consider them. Fortunately, I hit the right notes.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say. “Oh God, that’s awful. What happened?”

“Oh…”

“If it’s too hard. If you don’t want to tell me that’s absolutely–”

“Someone threw acid at my face.”

“Oh my God.”

As I sit on the couch, my forefinger and thumb pinch nervously on my lip. The temperature in the living room might as well have plummeted to below freezing.

“I know, right?”

Her voice is animated again, like the hardest part is over and we’ve moved on to talking about cake recipes or what happened on our favourite TV show last night. I try to roll with the punches but I haven’t even begun to digest what I just heard.

“Acid attack?” I repeat. The hollowness of my voice reveals the shock I’m still processing.

“That’s right.”

“What the hell? Who? Why?”

“It was a random attack,” Molly says. “Awful luck, really. Wrong time, wrong place. A stranger, a man who hated women. He walked past me on the street and lashed out. Usual story. Horrible childhood. Couldn’t form relationships as an adult. He’s in prison now.”

“And he did that to you?”

“He did.”

“Molly, I don’t know what to say.”

“It would be easy to live a life in bitterness after something like that happens. God knows, I almost went there. But if I do, he wins.”

“Right. So you’re doing okay?”

“No,” Molly says. “Sometimes I want to scream at the injustice of it all. But what good would it do? So, I carry on. One day at a time. I’m not alright, Gemma, but I’m trying to do something positive with the worst experience of my life.”

“That’s inspiring.”

“It’s also why I reached out to you.”

“Oh?”

I hear a soft exhale in my ear. Like she’s been building up to this next part.

“I know what it’s like when someone takes everything from you,” Molly says. “The suffering you’re left with all because of the blind hatred of a stranger.”

I feel a shudder deep in my bones. Then, a sudden warmth on my cheek and I wipe the tear away quickly.

“Do you still want to meet up?” Molly asks. “After all that?”

“Yes,” I say. And then, for some reason I don’t understand, I burst out laughing. In that moment, I feel lighter than I’ve felt in a long time. “Yes Molly, I want to meet up.”

MOLLY

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

I walk into the park, glancing at my watch.

Less than fifteen minutes to kill before meeting Molly at the agreed location, a wooden bench tucked into a quiet corner of the park. It’s a bench that looks on to a statue of Robert Burns, one of the park’s lesser-known attractions. A statue that, no matter what time of year, is always covered in bird shit. That’s on the other side of the park. I’m coming in via the southern gate, next to the large boating pond. It’s a chilly evening but I’m not sure if the shiver that accompanied my entrance was because of the cold.

The sky is purple, speckled with dark clouds. It looks like there’s a giant bruise hovering over the city. Daylight is thinning. The park is well-lit for the most part with wide paths flanked by tall oaks, well-tended flower gardens and the beautiful teardrop-shaped pond, frequented daily by scores of swans and mallards. There are scattered benches, each with a personalised plaque to remember the long-gone locals who contributed to the park and its upkeep in life.

It does seem a tad late for a reunion.

Did Molly choose to meet at this time, when the light is going, because of her disfigurement?

Ten minutes to kill.

I lap the pond, not wanting to be too early. I think about the strangeness of me meeting up with Molly Morrison. I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve forgotten a lot of what happened at school. One thing I do remember. We weren’t friends. Acquaintances, I suppose that’s the right word. Seems like a very grown-up word, doesn’t it? Acquaintances. All I remember is a stumpy girl with a pink headband in her long blonde hair. Beautiful golden hair, like a princess out of a fairy tale. I do remember envying her for that. Still, she was awkward. Long socks pulled up to the knees. A pretty girl but the relentless do-gooder energy was grating. I know it rubbed some people the wrong way but thinking back, she meant well and didn’t deserve what they dished out. Children can be cruel.

I greet a couple of dogwalkers and one of the dogs, a Jack Russell called Bella (it’s stitched on her little coat), comes over to say hi. Then a teenage boy on a skateboard, headphones in, almost crashes into me. He doesn’t apologise.

I leave the pond, following one of the paths that spiral through the flower gardens. Past the coffee van (closed for the night) and towards the rugby field. This part’s not so well lit but I know where I’m going. A right turn where the rugby field ends, a short climb to the Robert Burns statue, and a glance at my watch tells me I’m one minute early. That’s me, effortlessly punctual.

There’s no sign of Molly.

The sound of traffic fades to a distant hum. I look around and it feels much darker in this corner of the park. This would be a good place to meet at ten o’clock in the morning.

Still, her face. Poor thing.

I sit down on the cold bench, aware of the tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach. Palpitations in the neck. I’m starting to regret coming here. Am I really that desperate for a friend in Julia’s absence? I’m okay. We’re okay at home. Rory’s working his way back from the brink but despite that, there’s still a longing for some kind of connection that I can’t explain. Something that it isn’t Rory, that isn’t from home. Maybe I’m trying to fill a hole that can’t be filled. Maybe it has nothing to do with friendship or lack of it. Maybe this endless ache is what it feels like to be a mother without a child.

A stiff breeze rustles the branches behind the bench. Feels like cold fingers spidering their way up the side of my face. I look at my watch. Three minutes late. C’mon Scott. Finish up your breakfast. We need to get moving.

The distant ring of a bicycle bell shatters the memory of that last breakfast. I look at Robert Burns with embarrassment, his dignified expression lost in bird shit.

Footsteps approach from the steep path that leads up from the flower gardens. Someone’s walking towards the bench. Towards me.

A shadow-like figure emerges from behind a tall hedge. She stops on the path, her features cloaked in the dark.

“Hi Gemma.”

I stand up, my heart racing.

“Hi Molly.”

She does a little hand clap of excitement. “It’s soooo good to see you.”

Neither one of us moves. I can’t see Molly’s face yet. To hell with it, I think. It’s a reunion, isn’t it? I hurry towards her and thank God, she comes to meet me. We hold one another in a tight embrace and there’s a release of nervous laughter as Molly pats me repeatedly on the back like a child who needs comforting. I’m not sure how long we stay like that before we break off the embrace and that’s when I get what I’ve been dreading since we arranged to meet up. My first proper look at her.

Molly surely notices my reaction in the fading light. But if my eyes give anything away, she doesn’t let on.

“You look well,” she says, coming to my rescue.

“So do you.”

Too fast, too forced.

She laughs and points to her face. “It’s okay, Gemma. I know this isn’t how you remember me. And I know it must be quite upsetting to see an old school friend like this.”

Even now, with everything else going on, my brain grabs at that word.

Friend.

How many times has Molly had to force herself through some version of this introduction since it happened? Is sorry the new hello for her? I make a note never to take my boring old face for granted.

I put a hand over my mouth. Then I take it away quickly.

“Oh Molly.”

My brain tries to process her face while my tongue grasps for manners.

She looks at the ground. “I know.”

I reach out and give her a little pat on the shoulder, my arm stiff and mechanical. She looks at me, braving a smile. At least I think it’s a smile.

You were so cute, I think.

Not anymore. She looks like a waxwork from Madame Tussauds. A waxwork that talks and blinks. Her nose is swollen to almost twice its original size. Thick facial scars pull her skin tight, emphasising the disfigurement. I’ve seen pictures of acid attack victims online and Molly is far from the worst of them, but her injuries are life-changing. Nothing can ever be the same after something like that.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I don’t know.”

She laughs and weirdly enough, I join in. What a useless word sorry can become over time. There was so much of that in the days and weeks after Scott’s death. Sorry. The word echoing in and out of our lives day after day and in the end, just a familiar sound stripped of meaning. A sympathetic whip.

Molly gestures to the bench and we sit down. The wood feels like a block of ice and I pull the ends of my coat together, warding off the chill. Thank God that first part is over. I’ll get used to her face in time, I’m sure of it.

“Cold?” Molly asks.

My teeth are on the brink of chattering. “I’m fine.”

“Sorry about the late hour,” she says. “I know it’s not ideal but I tend to avoid sunlight as much as possible.”

“Because of your skin?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course,” I say. “This is fine. The park is safe enough.”

Molly gestures a hand towards her face. “If you have questions, Gemma, go for it. Experience has taught me that people are more comfortable if we get the gruesome details out of the way. Rather than pretend it’s not there.”

I nod. “Right.”

“Go on,” she says in the tone of someone encouraging a toddler to take their first steps. “Go, go, go.”

“Oh, okay.”

My mind goes blank. Questions? It shouldn’t matter this much, should it? And yet here we are, the last of the sunlight inching under the horizon and Molly’s face somehow becoming brighter at the same time.

“Who did this to you?”

Molly’s head drops. Then it’s up quickly again. It’s instantaneous as if there’s an invisible puppeteer with a string attached to the top of her skull, yanking it up every time her eyes fall to the ground. I can almost hear the sound of the therapist whispering in Molly’s ear. Hold your head high at all times.

“Didn’t I tell you?” she says.

“You said it was a stranger.”

“That’s right.”

The thought of it makes me shudder all over again. “I think that’s the most frightening part. No one deserves that, no matter what they might have done. But to think there was no connection between you and this person. It’s terrifying because–”

“Because it could happen to anyone.”

I swallow. Can’t even bring myself to nod.

“What the hell makes someone do that to another person?” I ask.

Molly clears her throat. “Beats me. He wasn’t from around here.”

“A foreigner?”

A nod.

“It figures,” I say. “Go on.”

“You really want the details? We don’t have to.”

“As long as you’re okay with it.”

Molly talks in a flat, almost matter-of-fact voice. “This man had a special hatred for womankind. The court case later revealed that his upbringing was classic. Overbearing mother, sadistic grandmother. Mental and physical abuse at home, rejection from other women and so the resentment festered inside him like a sore. Remember how girly I was back in the day?”

“I remember your pink headband,” I say.

Molly laughs. “I was such a cliché, wasn’t I? Pretty dresses, makeup and yes, that pink headband. I wore that everywhere.”

“It suited you.”

Somehow, it feels right to say something nice. Complimenting Molly’s old headband is all I can come up with.

Molly opens her mouth to speak, then stops. She flinches at the sound of footsteps approaching from the same path that she was on minutes earlier. She sits upright as a tall man in a flat cap and khaki-coloured coat strolls past the bench with his border collie trotting several paces behind. A brief greeting is exchanged but Molly’s head shoots down as she mumbles a word. It’s subtle but she doesn’t lift her gaze until the dogwalker is gone.

Slowly, her head comes up.

“You were saying?” I ask.

“Umm…”

She peers over my shoulder, as if checking that the man and dog are really gone.

“About the man who attacked you.”

She nods, bringing her attention back to me. “Right. Well, I epitomised everything this man hated about women. Blonde, girly and pink. I was a symbol.”

A veil lifts in her eyes. A sudden flash of anger.

“I was something to erase.”

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“I walked past him at the wrong moment. That’s it, Gemma. That’s how the worst day of my life became a thing. Bad timing. I was on my way to the supermarket, on my way back to the supermarket, second trip of the day because I forgot to pick up a loaf of bread first time around. That’s me, had to have my bread.”

Her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t look away.

“We were on the pavement next to a busy road. Middle of the day, traffic flowing in both directions. I didn’t notice him, not until he was close. So close that it was a bit weird, you know? I remember he reached into his pocket and pulled his hand back out. He did that quick. I thought he was gesturing at me, trying to get my attention for directions or something. Then it hit. It felt like water before it started to burn. Face, neck, down my left arm.”

“Oh my God,” I say, almost touching my face.

“Felt like I was on fire. I couldn’t breathe. There were, to put it mildly, a lot of surgeries ahead.”

Molly’s back talking in that happy-clappy voice. It’s this ceaseless chirpiness that got her teased at school but as an adult, it seems kind of heartbreaking. Like she always has to be on, always has to be that version of Molly. Can’t even be down when she’s talking about her face melting.

“It has a name,” Molly says.

“What does?”

The left side of her face, the bad side, is cloaked in near darkness. “Vitriolage. It’s a form of control. Hatred against women.”

Molly’s voice becomes harder.

“They want to take everything away. Destroy a woman’s appearance and it limits her access to all sorts of opportunities in life: work, relationships, education and more. You see Gemma, despite our great technological advancements as a species, we’re still cavemen when it comes to looks. Especially women’s looks.”

Molly’s inching closer to me on the bench. She talks with a certain formality, like someone who’s giving a presentation. That’s Molly. Even the teachers had to tell her to stop talking back in the day. Always first to raise her hand, always knowing the answer to everything. Molly Morrison, teacher’s pet.

“Men get attacked too,” she says. “But for different reasons. Gang violence is a big one when it comes to men. Women, we’re different. We’re usually the victims of revenge attacks. It happens a lot in places like Bangladesh and Pakistan. Think rejected sexual advances, rejected marriage proposals and all that. Men, big cry-babies that they are, have to lash out. Just because a woman said no.”

Molly takes a big gulp of air. “I can’t ever imagine being that angry with someone.”

“Me neither,” I say.

She runs a finger over her scars. There’s a split second of laughter that’s so out of place I’m not even sure it happened. “The intent is to ruin a human face forever and as such, destroy a life. To make the victim as miserable as the assailant.”

“You have suffered,” I say, thinking back to her letter. To the three words that made me reach out to her in the end.

“People gasp at my face sometimes,” she says. “I’ve learned to live with it but there are other things too: depression, insomnia, nightmares and the constant anxiety about whether or not the man walking towards me on the street will veer in my direction and reach a hand into his pocket.”

She looks at the statue of Burns.

“And always…always the fear of ridicule.”

Molly reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. My upper body stiffens, an involuntary gesture. There’s something horribly artificial about the way that Molly’s arm moves. Up and down, up and down. Like a puppet.

“That’s why I reached out to you, Gemma.”

“Sorry?”

“I knew,” Molly says. “I knew that you were suffering too. Feeling so low, unable to imagine a future you can bear. Dark thoughts creeping in. The sort of thoughts that point to the easy way out. If you know what I mean.”

I shake my head. “Oh no. I never thought about…about that.”

Molly’s face registers surprise. “Never?”

“No.”

I flinch as she takes my hand. Her skin is like ice. Somehow, I laugh it off.

“I did,” she says. “Wouldn’t you think about it if you were like me? If your face was ruined like mine?”

I don’t answer.

Her fingers are so cold it feels like I’m holding hands with a ghost. Thank God she lets go and my blood starts circulating again.

“People come back from the worst things,” she says. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. It’s what I want you to know, old friend. That there is a ladder that leads out of hell.”

“I’m climbing it, Molly. Well, I’m trying to.”

“That’s good,” she says. “That’s good.”

“He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Hmm?”

My body gives a little shiver. I’m back in the kitchen. But instead of forcing Scott to go to school, I take him upstairs and put him to bed. Tuck him in, tell him not to worry about school and that we’ll be fine. Everything will be okay, I say. And later on, I fantasise, we’ll read about the horror at the primary school and we’ll be devastated for the families, but we’ll still be together. We’ll be safe. Our world will have cracked but not shattered.

“You were saying, Gemma? Who wasn’t feeling well?”

“Scott. He told us he wasn’t feeling well that morning and that he wanted to stay home. I said he should go to school. Give it the morning. I forced him out the door.”

Go upstairs, jump into bed and I’ll bring you something for your headache. We’ll be fine.

“It’s not your fault,” Molly says.

“Doesn’t make it any easier.”

Molly sits with her hands clasped, nodding along as I speak. “Gemma, there’s another reason I wanted to see you.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to talk to you about becoming active.”

“Active?”

“It’s easier if I show you what I mean.

Molly pulls her phone out of her pocket. Slides her thumb over the screen, then holds it up for me to see. I’m looking at a picture of a group of women in purple t-shirts, several of them with facial scars similar to Molly. Two of the women hold up large picture cards with what I assume are images of their faces before the scars. Another woman, centre screen, holds a banner and although I can’t read it all, I make out some of the words: JUSTICE, WOMEN, ATTACK, EDUCATION.

“This is what you do?” I ask.

Molly lowers the phone. “Sure is! This is from the charity I helped set up. We educate and warn about how men use acid attacks to control and uphold the patriarchy. Big picture goal?” She clicks her fingers. Riffs in that lecture voice. “To change societal norms. Any sort of flawed thinking that permits boys and men to think that doing this to a woman is okay.”

I wonder if she’s done a TED talk yet. Feels like she’s doing one now.

“Wow. That’s amazing Molly.”

She touches her face. “It gives this some sort of purpose, I suppose.”

I catch myself gawping at Molly’s side profile. There’s a sudden desire to get up and leave before I’m left alone with her in the dark.

“You have to find the good in all of this,” she says.

I shake my head. “I’m supposed to believe there’s some good to be found in my son’s death?”

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Yes.”

Molly flips the hood of her coat over her head. She stands up and faces me, a huge grin visible under the hood. “This has been lovely, Gemma. But it’s getting dark and time for me to get back to the Airbnb.”

I feel relief as I stand up.

“Sure.”

Despite my eagerness to get going, I’m a willing participant when Molly comes in for a hug. As we embrace, she whispers in my ear.

“It’s been sooo good to talk to you,” she says. “So good to see you again after all these years.”

I feel her hot breath on my neck.

“You too,” I say, giving her a little pat on the back.

“Think about what I said, okay? About becoming active. About doing something constructive with your pain.”

“I will.”

Molly lets go, backing off towards the path. I sense urgency in her retreat. Like she’s more eager to get going than I am. “Don’t hang around here too long,” she says. “I’ve heard that monsters come into this park after dark.”

She giggles, disappearing into the shadows.

“You mean junkies?” I ask.

“Monsters.”

Something about the way she says it. The word comes out with a long tail – monsterrrrrssss.

Molly remains on the path for a minute, a small silhouette in the dark. Watching me.

“So you’ll be in town for a while?” I ask.

“Yeah. We’re planning some major charity collaborations next year, several women’s charities coming together to co-organise some events, that sort of thing. I’m staying in an Airbnb in the city centre. The work will keep me here for a while.”

“Okay.”

She mimics a phone in her hand, putting it to her ear.

“Call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

A frantic wave of the hand. Then she disappears down the path, behind the hedge and down to the flower gardens.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

There’s no light at first, at least none that my eyes can cling to. Then, gloomy shapes begin to form in the darkness. My eyes adjust. A picture begins to emerge. I’m in a freezing cold room with plywood walls, a hard floor and a wide sectional door made of several horizontal panels. It’s a garage door. I’m in someone’s garage.

“Easy boy.”

There’s a dog barking somewhere nearby. Close, very close. It’s so loud it feels like the barking is coming from the inside of my skull. What the hell?

My hands press against the bars in front of me. Bars! Metal bars keeping me in. I’m trapped. My wrists are bound for God’s sake. Someone’s tied me up and put me in a crate with a big dog.

“Easy boy.”

The words are muffled. I try to push myself to a more upright sitting position and there’s a sudden, searing pain in both my wrists. It feels like a mob of rats gnawing at my skin but I realise I’ve scuffed my wrists off the loose wiring on the crate.

The dog, a shadowy figure in the corner of this gigantic crate, keeps barking at me.

I continue my frantic search for that loose piece of wiring to cut the tape. My head thumps against the roof and my lungs constrict as the horror of this enclosed space continues to sink in. None of it slows me down.

The distant sound of a party. People singing off-key.

“Easy boy.”

Airways closing. Body tensing up. I glance over at shadow dog and see his hackles up. Tail erect. Long, gooey trails of spit hanging from his lips.

I twist my arms back and forth. A sharp pain shoots up from the base of my spine to the back of my shoulders. My limbs shudder. Finally, the tape around my wrists catches on to something. Hack, hack, hack. Warm blood trickles at first, then spills down my wrists. I scream through the gag in my mouth.

Gag?

“Eeezhy boouyy.”

The wire cuts deep into my skin and it feels like surgery without anaesthetic. There’s no time to worry. I cut. I slash although it feels like I’m tearing my arm off at the wrist. Another muffled scream, knowing that no one can hear me. It’s working. The tape’s chokehold is loosening and there’s a surge of hope. Then I almost lose the wire hook. A jolt of terror. But it’s still there, I’m still working my way out. The pain is excruciating but I keep hacking at the tape.

Snap.

My arms flop at the sides, unable to comprehend their sudden freedom.

There’s no space to stand up so I crawl towards the cage door, the sensation of pain lost in the surge of adrenaline. I slip two fingers through a gap in the wiring, find the latch. I turn the latch to the sound of something like cannon fire behind me.

Shadow dog.

He’s charging at me.

No time to scream. I push the door open, throw myself out, spin around and close it as the dog rams against the cage door. He’s laughing, I swear to God. I secure the latch, stand up, rip the tape off my mouth and gasp for air. There’s a confused flutter of relief and panic in my mind. I’m out of the crate but not out of the garage.

“Help m–”

A violent shove from behind and the words are lost. I stumble forward, my arm bent, twisted and locked in a vicious grip. The pain is unbearable. Someone is pulling me across the cold, hard floor. I twist my head back to look at my captor’s face. It’s Rory. His face is bloated and purple and not Rory with anger. Spit flies from the corner of his mouth as he throws me into the corner. Then he drops to a knee, stabbing a needle-like finger in my face.

“You killed him…you forced him to go…you killed him…”

“JESUS.”

I sit up in bed, letting out a colossal gasp. I don’t move and for a second, in my mind’s eye, the dream is still playing out. Shadow dog, the sensation of blood on my wrists, and Rory’s purple face. All fresh. All my senses still on overdrive and then gradually, the horror starts to dissipate.

I’m home. I’m in bed staring at a wall of pitch black and yet my arms reach out, searching for the metal bars. For a hard floor. For a wire hook.

“Shit,” I whisper.

My heart is banging like a drum. I run my hands over my body, convinced that I’m covered in sweat and blood. I’m sweaty for sure. There’s no blood.

There’s a click as the bedside lamp is switched on.

“Are you okay?” Rory asks, sitting up beside me. He winces at the intrusion of light, his face crumpled and hair sticking up all over the place. He realises I’m not, then puts an arm around me, pinching the back of my t-shirt. “Oh wow, you’re drenched.

“I know.”

“Bad dream?”

“It was horrible.”

He takes his hand off my back. There’s a look on his face, like he doesn’t want to know the details. Still, he asks. “Was it…?”

I shake my head.

“Not this time.”

He nods.

“It was horrible,” I say. “Doesn’t make any sense. I was trapped inside a dog crate and there was a dog in there with me. Barking. Charging at me. I escaped and…”

“And?”

“And you were there.”

“Me?”

I nod. “You were angry. Blaming me for what happened.”

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP

It’s only when we stop talking, when the dream fades more, that the racket next door becomes glaringly obvious. Wasn’t that in the dream too? So loud it’s breaking into my fucking dreams. I don’t know if Rory’s noticed it because he’s still digesting what I just said with the look of someone who’s been slapped in the face.

“Gemma, I don’t blame you,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”

“It was just a dream.”

His brow wrinkles. “A dream about being trapped in a dog crate?”

“Dreams aren’t supposed to make sense,” I say with a shrug. “It was clearly just nonsense.”

He touches my shoulder. “God, you’re really sweating. Do you want me to go get you a glass of wat–?

A loud singalong breaks out next door, cutting Rory off. Whatever’s going on over there is escalating fast and sounds like there’s at least half a dozen people in Jerry and Mandy’s back garden, murdering ‘Somebody to Love’ by Queen. I glance at the clock and it’s just gone two in the morning.

I groan and fall back into the warm sweaty patch on my side of the bed. My body and brain are numb with exhaustion.

“It’s a Wednesday night for God’s sake,” I say, glaring at the bedroom window. “What the hell is wrong with these people?”

Rory’s also staring at the window. “I know.”

“Did you talk to him again?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“Same old. It seemed to register at the time and yet, this. That’s twice now and both times it’s come to nothing.”

“We’d get more consideration from chimpanzees,” I say, sitting up in bed.

I decide to change into a fresh t-shirt before the sweat cools and gives me a chill. Maybe I’ll put the spare bedsheets on because I’m wide awake now thanks to the morons next door. There’s a brief moment where I catch myself thinking about waking Scott if I have to go into the hallway and pull the sheets out of the cupboard next to his bedroom door. I pinch the skin on my leg, distracting me from the pain of remembering.

“A good night’s sleep,” Rory says. “Is it too much to ask?”

“We might have to get the police involved,” I say, peeling the covers off my legs. “We’re perfectly within our rights to do so. This is noise disturbance, plain and simple.”

Rory puts a hand on my forearm, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Let me talk to them again. I’ve been doing some research and it says on the web that these things are always better resolved without getting the police involved.”

“But–”

“We don’t need that sort of hassle, Gemma. Not if we’re going to have to live next door to them long-term.”

I don’t push but I’m not convinced. Rory’s still delicate from his breakdown and a crappy neighbour problem is the last thing he needs. The last thing we need. Surely we can make these people see sense.

“If you say so.”

I get up, grab a spare t-shirt and Rory helps me with the dry bedsheets. We’re back in bed in less than ten minutes.

“Put your headphones in,” he says, opening the drawer to get his earplugs out. “Let’s get some sleep.”

My headphones do go in and I lie there on the bed, ambient train sounds blocking out the din from next door. The thought of another dream has me fighting off the drowsiness. That leaves me awake for the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling and soaking up the sound of the Orient Express as it travels east across the European continent.

Every now and then, I run a hand over my wrists, checking for tape and blood.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

I’ve just dozed off on the couch when the doorbell rings.

“What…the…hell?”

My voice is a groggy snarl. I open my eyes, glaring into space and the second ring of the doorbell might as well be a bucket of cold water thrown on my face. Why won’t the world just go away and let me sleep?

I open the doorbell app on my phone, thinking it’s going to be Helen from school who said she’d pop around soon to finalise the details of my full-time return. It’s not Helen. The camera shows Molly Morrison standing at my front door clutching a bouquet of flowers. A wide-brimmed hat shields her face from the sun. I can’t see if Molly is looking at the camera or not. Her eyes are lost under that hat. But she is smiling. I think.

“Hello!” she calls out. “Hellooooo!”

Oh God. Not sure I can handle Molly’s Duracell bunny energy right now. Then again, what can I do? Dive behind the couch and wait it out? Doesn’t feel right to leave her standing on the doorstep, especially if she’s come all the way from an Airbnb in the city centre. Just wish she would’ve texted first.

The bell rings for a third time.

“Coming,” I call.

With heavy legs, I get up and walk to the front door. I’ve got a fair idea of what this visit is about. Molly wants to continue the conversation about my becoming ‘active’. Ugh, she’s still such a do-gooder. Damn it. Why can’t she understand that that sort of thing isn’t for everything? Deep breath, then I open the door. There’s still a thick fog swirling in my mind as I do my best impression of a welcoming smile.

“Oh wow, Molly.”

“Hi Gemma,” Molly says, lifting the brim of her hat up an inch. Sunlight reveals her scars in exceptional detail. I cling to my smile.

“So nice to see you,” I say.

“Hope you don’t mind me stopping by?” she says. “I was in the Airbnb doing all this boring spreadsheet stuff and, in the end, I just had to get out before I started climbing the walls. There’s only so much admin you can take, you know?”

I smile and nod.

“Admin sucks.”

“Big time.”

“Did you drive here?”

“Yep. I’ve got a little rental. Parked at the end of your cul-de-sac.”

“Nice. Umm, how did you find me?”

Molly giggles. “I sent you cards remember.”

I pretend to hit myself on the side of the head. “Oh yes. Sorry, I was just having a nap there.”

“It’s like I said before,” Molly says. “Blame the interweb for leaking your address. I think it was well-intentioned though. You know, if people wanted to leave flowers or send cards or whatever. That kind of thing.”

I catch myself staring at her scars.

“Right.”

“Still,” Molly says. “The individual’s right to privacy and all that jazz. You never know what crazies might show up at your door.”

My head feels so heavy.

“Well,” I say. “That’s a fight for another day.”

After all these years, she’s still so Molly. It’s like the girl I knew decades ago is standing in front of me. Teacher’s pet with scars. The pink cardigan, shiny buttons and blonde hair. She’s still so strange and doll-like. Only now it looks like someone held the pretty doll’s face in the fire for too long.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, gesturing at the flowers she’s holding. “For me?”

“Of course, silly.”

“How nice.”

She thrusts them at me. “They aren’t sympathy flowers. I’m sure you and your husband have had enough sympathy flowers to last a lifetime. No, this is just a gift from one old friend to another. Pink rhododendrons, my absolute favourite.”

The thought comes and goes like a breeze. We were never friends.

“They’re lovely. Thanks Molly.”

I take the flowers off Molly. As I do, I glance past the colossal brim of her hat, towards the street. Everything is quiet in our little cul-de-sac. There’s no one else out and about and of course, total silence from next door. They’ll be in their coffins sleeping off last night’s party. Although Jerry’s car isn’t in the driveway so who knows? Maybe he’s at work, functioning perfectly after two hours sleep.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask.

Molly’s eyes light up and she does her happy-clappy thing where she bounces on the spot. “I’d love to.”

I swallow the part of me that hoped she’d say no.

“Great.”

I show Molly into the living room, apologising several times over for the state of the place and letting her know that I wasn’t expecting visitors. I hope it doesn’t sound passive-aggressive. Then again, maybe it’ll be enough to deter her from future surprise visits.

I take the flowers into the kitchen, sit them in water, and put the kettle on. Five minutes later, I’m walking back into the living room with two teas and a plate of biscuits on a steel tray. This is the plain shortbread I’ve been trying to get rid of for ages. Neither Rory or I will eat it.

“Do you want me to open those curtains?” I ask, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “It’s gloomy in here, isn’t it?”

“Oh no,” Molly says, holding out her hands as if to block my advance to the window. “Not for my sake. I’m sorry Gemma, I had no idea you’d be sleeping.”

“It wasn’t a planned nap.”

Molly gives me the hard stare. I wish her face was capable of something more expressive. “You do look tired.”

“I am.”

“Have you been sleeping alright?”

“Not really.”

“Oh no. Are you tracking it on anything? A ring? A wristband?”

“Sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” I say with a quick shrug. “I’ve never done anything like that.”

Molly slurps her tea and it’s really loud. So loud I think it’s a joke. “Bad sleep,” she says with a little tut-tut at the end. “Hmm, they have pills for that.”

I shake my head. “Oh no, I could sleep fine if it wasn’t for the…well, let’s just say this is a different sort of sleeping problem.”

I make a dismissive, sweeping gesture with my hand.

“Not your problem.”

“Tell me,” Molly says. “What’s going on?”

My thumb jerks to the left. “We’re having new neighbour problems.”

A little gasp. “Uh-oh.”

“It’s been going on for quite a while,” I say. “But with everything else that’s happened, well, we’ve kind of let it slide by. Feels like it’s getting worse.”

Molly takes another loud sip of tea. She leans forward on the couch, eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh nooooo. Is it–?”

“Bit of a party house, yep.”

“Around here?” Molly asks. “But it’s so nice. So suburban and–”

“Bland?”

She sniggers and so do I.

“Point being,” Molly says, “that it doesn’t seem like that type of neighbourhood. Everyone here has two cars and a mortgage, right?”

She holds up a hand. I’ve noticed Molly has little hands but with long, tapered fingers. Pianist fingers. The creative type.

“Sorry Gemma. No offence meant.”

I smile and flop into the armchair. “Well, it is boring around here. I guess we like it that way. I’d love to have it back and I guess you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”

Shit.

Why did I have to say that?

“We’re not the party girls we used to be,” Molly says, with a grin. “Are we?” Another slurp as she drinks and I sink my fingernails into the armrest.

“I guess not.”

Molly’s giving me one of those hard stares. I tell myself she doesn’t mean anything by it. She was a socially awkward girl at school, to put it mildly, and there’s bound to be some spillover into adulthood. Still, it’s like a human doll gawping at me.

“Everyone’s quiet around here,” I say. “No one bothers anyone. Well, that’s the way it used to be.”

Molly leaps into that presentation style of talking. “Sleep is important, Gemma. How you feel when you’re awake is determined by how well you sleep. The health benefits of good sleep are both physical and mental. Seven to nine hours a night, that’s what you want to aim for.”

Wow, I think.

That’s the way she used to speak at school when she answered every question in class. Hand up before everyone else. Arm shuddering with excitement. Molly was always the smartest person in the room, at least when it came to formal, academic smarts. Street smarts? That’s a gaping hole in her life. Seeing her again is like being in a time machine. Those weird little quirks. These days she’d probably be diagnosed with some complicated-sounding, manufactured condition rather than just admit the obvious. She’s weird.

“I know,” I say. “We do miss a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s so disrespectful,” Molly says. “Have you spoken to them?”

“We have.”

“And?”

“It’s not sinking in. Or it is and they just don’t care.”

Molly tut-tuts again. “Do they know what you guys have been through?”

“No idea,” I say.

Molly leans back against the cushions, still wrinkled after my nap. “Gemma, you can’t sacrifice your health for idiots.”

“You’ve convinced me,” I say. “Any chance you could pop over there and convince them?”

Molly’s eyes give a little shimmer of excitement.

“I could.”

“I was only joking, Molly.”

She smiles. “You’d be surprised. I’m more persuasive than you might think.”

“Oh really? What would you even say to them?”

“You needn’t concern yourself with the details,” Molly says. “But I can help you. I’m very good at negotiation. And I’m good at sniffing out weakness.”

My head tilts to the side.

“Weakness?”

“Yes. Everyone has a weakness, a crack in the armour. It just so happens I’ve got a knack for finding them.”

She explodes with laughter and I wait for her to tell me that she’s only joking. But she doesn’t.

Molly, now looking at me with a steeliness in her eyes, really wants to help.

I divert the conversation away from the neighbours with small talk. As tired as I am, it’s quite the effort and I’m glad when Molly finally stands up with hat in hand because she’s late to a meeting with a domestic violence charity group in Edinburgh. She asks if I’d like to join her (there’ll be cake and tea) but I quickly decline, telling her that I have to call my boss and discuss my full-time return to school. It’s not a total lie. What I really want to do is go back to sleep while it’s quiet. I have to bank as much quality sleep as I can during daytime. Whether it’ll be enough to shake off this constant sluggishness, who knows?

“So nice to see you again,” I say, leading Molly towards the front door. “And thanks again for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

“You’re welcome, Gemma.”

Molly stops and uses the hall mirror to adjust her hat. It’s so wide that she barely makes it out of the front door. She walks down the driveway and I see her glance towards Jerry and Mandy’s house. Then she heads off, walking in the middle of the road like she’s a car.

“Byeeee,” she calls back to me.

“Bye Molly.”

I close the door with an exhausted sigh, then walk back into the living room. The house is so quiet. Enjoy it while it lasts, I tell myself. I decide to keep the curtains closed over even though it’s depressing. Then I gather the cups and the plate of biscuits, put them on the tray and go back into the kitchen. As I put the tray down on the worktop, I look at the pink rhododendrons now sitting in water. I smile, thinking about Molly’s offer to speak to the neighbours on our behalf.

They’d tear you to shreds.

Humming a little improvised melody, I pour the last of Molly’s tea down the sink. Then I place her cup on the kitchen counter and stare at the rim where her lips were. I hear the slurping noise all over again. Long and loud, echoing in my mind.

“No thanks,” I whisper.

I pinch the cup by the handle, feeling myself blush as I do so. Then I walk over to the pedal bin and drop it inside.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Party house is getting out of control.

We get a couple of quiet nights after Rory speaks with Jerry for the third time. This well-earned peace doesn’t last long. After that, the neighbours go hard. And that’s hard even by their standards. The parties drag into the wee hours, the bass making our walls shudder, hitting us like a sledgehammer to the head. They’re so loud. Screaming and shouting, the hiss of ring-pulls on beer cans pulled back, regular like punctuation breaking up their slurred banter. The kids stay up too, making noise with the best of them. And on a school night? The dog barks. It just goes on and on.

We’re living in one of those neighbours from hell documentaries.

I don’t understand people like this. They’re living in their own bubble and to hell with anyone else.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP

WOOF-WOOF

WAAAAAHHHHGH!

Maybe this is why I had that dream about the dog crate. A dream about being trapped, nothing to do with Scott’s death, and everything to do with this spiralling nightmare with the people next door. These bastards are the shadow dog barking at me. Chasing me. I’m trying to sleep with headphones in and I’ve had the ambient whirr of an electric fan in my ears for the past two nights. It works to a point but I still hear plenty of that racket from next door, not to mention it’s uncomfortable for me to sleep with headphones in.

What are we going to do about these people? It can’t go on like this.

At breakfast, I see how much this is stressing Rory out. He’s in desperate need of a good night’s sleep and I’m frightened he’ll go backwards after making so much progress. Feels like we’re at a tipping point.

“We need to do something about them,” I say.

Rory looks up from his coffee. Eyelids slow and heavy.

“Agreed.”

I point to my phone on the table. “I’ve been working on it. Looking at a few websites about problematic neighbours and you’re right. They all say the same thing, that the best thing to do is talk it out.”

Rory shrugs like there are heavy dumbbells on his shoulders. “Except we’ve tried that. More than once.”

I nod. “Well, let’s try again.”

Rory’s tired face crumples into a doubtful expression. “I’ve spoken to him. I’ve banged the window till my fists hurt and shouted at them in the middle of the night. It’s not sinking in, Gemma.”

“We can’t go on like this.”

“I know, I know.”

Rory lets out a painful sigh. I wouldn’t be surprised if he fell asleep and cracked his head off the kitchen table. The thought of him driving into work like this makes me uneasy. There’s only so much caffeine anyone can take before eight o’clock in the morning. I know that, once he leaves, I’ll spend too much time on the FamilyFind app tracking his journey along the motorway. Not relaxing until I know he’s made it into work okay. Same thing when he’s coming home tonight.

“What do we do?” he asks.

I reach over and take his hand. It’s cold.

“Let’s both go over there,” I say, summoning up a determined tone. “And we’ll do it now, before they disappear for the day.”

“Now?”

“Right now. You and me.”

Rory’s frazzled smile isn’t inspiring. “United front?”

“United front,” I say, pulling back my chair. The legs squawk off the floor and I stand up, raising my hands in a boxer’s stance.

“Let’s give these bastards what for.”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

We walk down the driveway. I take Rory’s hand in mine, squeezing tight as I experience a sudden rush of nerves. Rory gives me a tired smile.

“We settle this once and for all,” I say, walking up their driveway.

Rory nods.

It’s a glorious morning with blue skies and chirping birds calling to one another from the branches and rooftops. We shouldn’t feel this wrecked, unable to enjoy the simple pleasures that come with a morning like this. I tell myself that knocking on Jerry and Mandy’s door will result in a positive outcome.

We walk past Jerry’s car, a black Ford Focus that’s begging for a wash. It’s still there which means that someone is at home even though it’s all quiet on the western front. It’s always quiet after a big night. I’ve often fantasised about taking revenge on these selfish bastards. About hiring a massive set of six-foot speakers from a music store, jamming them up against Jerry and Mandy’s bedroom window and blasting the shit out of the loudest music I can find.

See how you like it.

I look at the overgrown grass, thinking to myself how John and Mary Bryant would be horrified to see what these people have done to their well-tended garden. John, in particular, took genuine pride in tending to his flowerbeds and now those same beds are empty except for a plethora of straggly weeds, a plastic water pistol and two soggy cigarette butts.

We stop at the door. There’s another fluttering sensation in my stomach. A voice in my head telling me to abandon the mission, turn around and go home.

“Ready?” Rory asks.

“Ready.”

Rory rings the doorbell and that sets the dog off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jerry and Mandy’s dog but we’ve heard him alright. God knows if the poor creature ever gets out for a walk. The squeal of a child accompanies the barking. There’s a twitch at the front curtain and a brief hint of a child’s face looking out at us. The curtain twitches again and the face is gone.

“C’mon,” I say.

I’m about to ring the bell and keep my finger pressed on it when I hear the click of a key turning in the lock. The door creaks open and Jerry appears in the doorway. He’s not much to look at. A short man with a low forehead, oily black hair and a bizarre fringe that looks like a barcode. Late thirties, early forties. He’s wearing a crumpled blue shirt with a red eagle logo stitched on the breast pocket. His work shirt, I guess?

His eyes are red and bleary. They almost roll over when he sees us and that lights a fire inside me. That’s when I realise. We’re the annoying neighbours. The grumpy ones. The party poopers. My arms stiffen with tension.

“What’s up?” he says in a gruff voice. There’s an accent that Rory and I haven’t placed yet. Eastern European?

Rory looks wide awake now. “Have a guess, Jerry.”

Jerry coughs into the back of his hand. His chubby fingers are stained yellow-brown and the smell of stale cigarette smoke wafts off his skin like aftershave. “Look mate, we’re not causing any harm. Just a bit of fun, eh? Some friends, some beers. We’re not taking advantage.”

My hands ball into tight fists. Every muscle in my body is pulled tight.

“You are taking advantage,” I say. “In fact, you’re taking the piss. This is beyond ridiculous.”

Even in my anger, I notice Rory’s subtle glance in my direction. He takes my hand again and I’m not sure if that’s to say go girl or if he wants me to cool it.

Jerry gestures to all the other houses in the cul-de-sac.

“No one else is complaining, are they? Can’t be that bad.”

“That’s because their bedrooms aren’t stuck beside your garden,” I say. “Are they?”

Jerry nods. “We’ll try and keep it down.”

Rory and I exchange looks that land somewhere between horror and mild amusement. We both know by this point what Jerry’s really saying. Nothing will change. Deal with it.

“We’ve heard it all before,” Rory says.

“Best I can do mate.”

“Where are you from, Jerry?” I ask, letting go of Rory’s hand. I fold my arms, taking a subtle step forward. “Hmm?”

A flash of anger in his eyes. Got him, the bastard.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s a simple question.”

Rory jumps in. “How about we agree on a cut-off point?”

Jerry blinks like there’s dust in his eyes.

“Eh?”

“A cut-off point,” I say, taking over. “We both agree on a time where the music outside comes to a stop. A complete stop. Say nine o’clock.”

Jerry lets out a loud snort of derision. “Nine o’clock? Are you joking?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Rory asks.

Jerry chuckles, showing off a set of crooked, yellowing teeth that belong in a Charles Dickens novel. “Party’s just getting started at nine.”

“Don’t your kids need to sleep?” I ask.

“They sleep just fine.”

“Of course they do,” I say. “Let me guess. Their bedrooms are on the other side of the house from the party palace, right? Of course they sleep. They don’t get it anywhere near as loud as we do every night.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I see that Rory’s on his toes, stretched to his full height. His shoulders have broadened and ever since he left the house he’s been in fight or flight mode. He wants to punch Jerry. Hell, I want to punch Jerry. Take that smug look off his face.

“We don’t want to have to take this further,” Rory says. “We’d rather settle it here and now but we will if we have to.”

Jerry opens the door a couple of inches. Comes forward, glaring at Rory.

“Take it further?”

Holy shit, I think. This guy is a moron.

“The police,” Rory says. “The council. Anyone who can take legal action. You know there are noise laws, don’t you? Rules against loud music between eleven at night and seven in the morning?”

That irritating smirk lingers on Jerry’s face. He looks at his watch, then lets out a long yawn that I’m sure has nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with winding us up. “Look, I’m going to be late for work. We done here?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Are we?”

“Yeah, we’re done.”

“What about the music?” I ask. “We’re not leaving until we get a promise, Jerry. It’s either that or we take the matter further.”

I make it sound convincing. I’ll make this knuckle dragger get the message no matter what it takes.

Jerry retreats backwards into the house. Slowly, he starts to shuts the door over in our faces. “Listen up. I’m not about to stop living my life for a couple of whiny Karens next door. That family time at the end of the day? It’s important and you want to take it away from us? Give us a curfew? Like I say, we’ll try and keep it down. Best I can do.”

The door is almost shut.

“What about ten o’clock for a cut-off?” Rory asks. “Ten o’clock. Shake on it?”

Rory offers his hand, thrusts his hand at Jerry. I want to swat it away and scold him for the desperation in his voice. The desperation in his gesture. What, we’re begging this idiot now? Begging for common decency?

Jerry looks at Rory’s hand and pulls a stink face. He continues to close the door over. “Sure mate. Ten o’clock.”

I hold up a hand to stop him shutting the door in our faces. Jerry’s head and stupid fringe are just about visible through the narrow gap. The menacing glare is back in his eyes. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for asking where he comes from.

“How do we resolve this without taking it further?” I say.

“How about we just live and let live?” Jerry says.

Rory’s voice cracks with frustration. He throws his arms in the air. “How about we just call the police?”

“Call them.”

With that, Jerry slams the door shut in our faces. But not before he gets the final word in, along with the extension of his middle finger.

“See you later Karens.”

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

There are no parties that night. We don’t hear a single peep the following night either. Or the night after that.

“We did it,” Rory says at the dinner table on the third night. “It’s over.”

We clink glasses of water together like they’re flutes of champagne. It’s a big win because I’m the first to admit that our little chat with Jerry felt hopeless at the time. Rory and I had walked back to the house frustrated and helpless, expecting that night to be like most other nights, a long sleepless nightmare. We’d even discussed moving. But in what universe was that okay? Pack up Scott’s room and leave the house he’d grown up in all because the idiots next door couldn’t behave in a civilised manner?

No chance.

But that first night came and went without a sound. It wasn’t the best night’s sleep because I was lying in bed waiting for it to kick off and somehow the anticipation was almost as bad as the racket itself. It never happened. Three days and nights of silence. We realised that Jerry’s bravado at the door was just him putting on a front. He got the message even though he was acting like he couldn’t give a toss. Maybe it was the threat of getting the police involved or going down the council route. Either way, Rory and I must have been more convincing than we thought.

“I’ll never take peace and quiet for granted again,” I say, gathering up the dinner plates. “Never.”

Rory stands up and starts helping me with the clearing up. He opens the dishwasher and starts loading.

“Me neither.”

The doorbell rings as I’m programming the dishwasher, setting it to eco mode. I stare down the hallway with all the apprehension of someone expecting bad news. It’s been like that ever since I got the phone call at school about Scott. Somehow, everything, every little scream of something that wants my attention, feels like the beginning of bad news.

Rory glances at the vintage clock on the kitchen wall. Almost seven o’clock in the evening. It’s dark outside.

“Are you expecting anyone?” he asks.

“No. You?”

“Nope.”

I hurry over to the kitchen counter, grab the phone and open the doorbell cam app. The gasp that follows is enough to make Rory hurry over to my side.

“What is it?” Rory asks.

I hold up the phone.

Rory narrows his eyes.

“What the hell?” he says, his brow creasing up. “Is that–?”

“Yes.”

It’s one of the brats from next door. Haven’t got a clue what his name is but it’s the oldest boy, I think. He’s about fourteen or fifteen, with long black hair and right now, as we stare at the app, he’s urinating on our flowers.

Rory thumps the kitchen counter so hard that the walls tremble. His face is distorted with anger, almost cartoonishly so.

“Bastard!”

He bursts into a furious gallop, down the hallway. I chase after him, taking the phone with me, still watching Jerry and Mandy’s son pissing in our garden and doing my best not to trip over my feet. The boy is done, zipping up. Then he bounds over the grass and runs off down the street. He doesn’t go home.

Rory almost separates the front door from the hinges as he grabs the handle and pulls it open. The red mist has him. There’s no calling him back. He charges down the path, driving his arms to gather speed. He stops at the gate, looks left then right. Unlatches the gate, steps onto the pavement, both fists clenched at his sides.

“Where are you?” he yells. “C’mere you little fucker.”

“He’s gone,” I say, following Rory through the open gate and onto the pavement. Breathing hard, I point to the end of the street. “He went that way.”

Rory’s shoulders are heaving.

“Pissing in our garden?”

He makes for Jerry’s house and I grab his arm to stop him. Holy shit. It’s like trying to pull back an angry bear but I don’t want Rory knocking on their door, not at this time of day and especially in the state he’s in now. If ever things were going to spill over into violence, it would be now. And God knows what state Jerry’s in or if he’s had a few beers. It wouldn’t take much for things to get ugly right now.

“I’m sure it’s just a once-off,” I say.

Rory stares at the house, his eyes burning with hatred. His body trembles in my grip and it takes all my strength to steer him back through the gate, down the path towards the house and thank God, he comes with me.

We get inside and I close the door, turning the key in the lock I take the key out, pocket it. Then I watch as Rory paces the hallway, muttering to himself what he’s going to do to that boy when he gets a hold of him.

“I’m sure it’s just a once-off,” I repeat.

It’s not.

Jerry and Mandy’s little monsters, six children in total, have begun their reign of terror against us.

I don’t know if they’ve received instructions from their parents to make our lives a misery. It’s anyone’s guess. Perhaps one of the older ones overheard a conversation between Jerry and Mandy bitching about the ‘Karens’ next door. One thing is clear. We’re the enemy. We’re the fun police. And now we’re the targets.

Their favourite game is chappy. At least, that’s what we used to call it when I was growing up. Knocking on the door (mostly late at night) and running away, usually before I can get the doorbell app open. They think they’re being clever by knocking instead of ringing the doorbell and triggering the app. Little do they know I’ve got knock detection but they’re fast little buggers, I’ll give them that, and the best I can do is get a glimpse of them running down the street. Then they’re gone.

They’re dropping dog shit on our grass. That and plastic bottles, takeaway bags, sweet wrappers and other types of rubbish. Dumped on our path and doorstep too.

We’ve gone next door to complain but at this point they’re not answering the door to us. I don’t see a doorbell cam at their front door but they know it’s us. Somehow they know. Can’t seem to catch Jerry or Mandy coming out of the house either. Or coming back. They’re terrorising us and ignoring us.

The parties are back in full swing too. We had less than two weeks of peace in total. It’s almost like they wanted to give us a brief taste of peace and then rip it away from us. Wouldn’t put it past them. Now we’ve got the kids up to their shenanigans and the adults up to theirs.

It’s a living hell.

We’re not sleeping. I’ve called the police and the council and I’ve also spoken to a woman at citizens advice, pretty much begging for help. So far? Nothing. The police advised us to talk to them again and if necessary, sit down with a mediator. The man I spoke to at the council couldn’t have seemed less interested in what I was telling him. Sounded like he was eating when I called and that he just wanted me off the line as soon as possible after handing out generic advice about talking to the neighbours ‘calmly’ and once again, bringing in a mediator from outside if possible. Same crap I got from the police.

How can we bring in a mediator if they won’t answer the door?

I’m back at school full-time and noticeably sluggish in the afternoon. Pretty much a zombie between one o’clock and four and it’s all down to stress and lack of sleep. I’m worried sick about Rory. He comes back from work and is asleep on the couch from about seven o’clock. Sometimes, I leave him there, putting a blanket over him for the night. It’s not the most comfortable bed but the noise isn’t so bad on this side of the house.

This should be easy to fix. You think people would be reasonable when you tell them they’re making your life a nightmare. That they’ll make some kind of adjustment and that we can all live happily together. That the police or council or anyone in a position of authority will take you seriously and do something. Well, not this time. No one cares. That’s what it feels like as we slowly lose our minds all over again. To them, it’s just a little bit of music at night and some mischievous but good-hearted kids dropping rubbish in our garden.

Life is so unfair.

First, Scott. Now this.

I don’t think I can take much more of it.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

I almost fall off the armchair when the doorbell rings. But that’s me right now. Nerves shot to hell, jumping at the slightest thing, at every toot of a car horn, squawking bird and crack of the floorboards.

I don’t bother with the doorbell cam app. Best chance of catching the little buggers in the act is to move fast. I’m up like an Olympic sprinter off the starting blocks. A blur of furious movement, arms pumping, racing down the hallway and pulling the front door open with the intent of giving chase.

I gasp at the figure in the doorway.

“Hi Gemma,” Molly says.

I jerk to a sudden stop, my legs still in hunter mode. Twitching in confusion. All parts of me are disjointed and I almost tip over face first.

“Molly.”

Her smile fizzles out.

“Gemma. Are you okay?”

My animal brain grapples with the question. What am I looking at? Molly. Pink blazer, blue jeans and the straw-coloured hat with the wide brim. Eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Given how quickly I’d covered the distance between living room and door, the disappointment is overwhelming. I might’ve had a chance of catching one of the little fuckers this time. I’m still looking over Molly’s shoulders, past the rings of Saturn-esque width of her hat when she calls me back.

“Gemma?”

She clicks her fingers.

I blink. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?” she asks. “You look a little manic. Like you were expecting someone else. Like Jack the Ripper or something.”

“I’m fine.”

I see Rory’s car parked in the driveway and remember he’s upstairs. He’s got a day off and so far he’s spent it in bed catching up on lost sleep. I’m working from home and even though it’s only mid-morning and two coffees down, my eyelids feel like lead. I must have been nodding off for the umpteenth time when the doorbell rang.

My attention skips to the grass, searching for some fresh deposit of dogshit from the Munster kids. Nothing. No rubbish either. Could they finally be getting bored of terrorising us? Please God let it be true.

I hear the sound of Jerry chuckling in my head.

No. They’re not done with us yet. But next time, when they come back I’ll be–

“Gemma?”

“Oh…right…what can I do for you, Molly?”

“Just checking in,” she says.

I nod but even in my exhausted hazy state of mind, I register it as a weird thing for her to say. Julia, my best friend since school, used to check in. That’s what best friends do. Molly and I are old acquaintances at best.

“You’re still in town?”

Her voice is a distorted, high-pitched echo in my ears. “Oh yes. I’ll be here for a while. We’ve still got a lot of work to do: planning future conferences, strategy brainstorming, trying to get everyone’s schedule on the same page, you know? Coordinating with other charities, let me tell you, it’s harder than it sounds.”

She giggles and I’m back to staring at the street. At the house next door. No cars in the driveway.

“Gemma?”

“Hmm?”

“Have I called at a bad time?”

I flop against the edge of the doorway. “No, it’s fine. Sorry, I’m just a little bit on edge at the moment.”

Molly lowers her sunglasses, showing me her eyes. “Has this got something to do with your neighbours?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you’ve looked over at that house at least four times since you opened the door. And it’s the way you’re looking.”

It’s too much effort to fend her off. I invite Molly in and she gets the full story over a cup of tea (she insists on making it, saying I look too tired) I tell her about the neighbours, the parties and the little bastards’ reign of terror, littering our garden and knocking on our front door at all hours.

“That’s awful,” Molly says, hands clasped, sitting on the couch. She’s listened to every word intently. Sympathised. Given me everything I need right now. “And the police won’t do anything?”

I shake my head. “We’ve tried.”

“What do they say?”

“They keep fobbing us off. Saying they’ll come round and speak to us. I’ve called twice, maybe three times now, and it’s come to nothing. The council couldn’t care less. All these authorities, they think it’s just a minor domestic squabble that should resolve itself. It’s not that easy though. And I’m running out of energy.”

I sound flat. Like some shellshocked soldier recounting the horrors of war.

“Do you know what the scariest part is, Molly?”

She shakes her head. “What?”

“It’s the thought that, somehow, I deserve this.”

Molly gasps. “But that’s crazy.”

I tell her what I’ve been thinking for a while now. This is the first time I’ve said it out loud and it feels very much like a confession. “Maybe this is what I get for forcing Scott go to school that morning. For being a bad mother who didn’t listen when he–”

“Don’t Gemma,” Molly says, cutting me off. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.”

“Too late. It’s all I think about.”

“Well, stop. Please. You’re not being punished for anything. You’ve just got insensitive cretins living next door. It happens.”

“Well,” I say, feeling a sudden rush of warmth in my hands. I look down and remember there’s a cup of tea waiting for me. I take a sip. Put the cup down on the coaster and let out a long sigh. “At the very least, we’re thinking about moving.”

Molly frowns. It feels like she’s looking straight through me. “You shouldn’t have to move.”

“I know.”

“These people are awful, Gemma. They shouldn’t get to chase you and Rory out of your precious family home.”

I sink down into the cushion. “We’re exploring our options.”

“Citizens advice?” Molly asks.

I shrug. “No one’s coming to the rescue, Molly. That’s why I feel like it must be some sort of punishment for what happened. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“You poor thing,” she says.

Maybe it’s the sympathy, I don’t know. But the tears come easily. It’s as sudden and unstoppable a gust of cold air down the back of my neck. Molly jumps to her feet, rushing over as I bury my face in my hands. She grabs hold of my arms and I let her pull me up to my feet where my head flops onto her shoulder.

She pats my back like a mother soothing a child.

“Poor Gemma. You do not deserve this.”

My words stagger out in frantic gasps. “I don’t know what do, Molly. I’m worried that Rory’s on the brink of another breakdown. He did so well to come back and…we just don’t have the strength to fight this. Not after what happened.”

I cry on her shoulder for the next five minutes. The fact that Rory hasn’t woken up and come downstairs tells me just how exhausted he is. Good. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t need him worrying about me on top of everything else he’s worrying about.

Eventually, I lift my head off Molly’s shoulder and wipe my eyes dry. I must look a right state but I’m too tired to care. All I want to do is go to sleep. Still, I do feel a little better for letting it all out.

I fall back down into my seat. Molly sits on the armchair, her eyes never leaving me.

“Gemma?”

“Hmm?”

“Let me take care of this for you.”

“What do you mean?”

A ghoulish smile emerges on Molly’s face. It’s unsettling, so much so that I stand up and walk over to the window on rubbery legs that would much rather I remained sitting down. I fidget with the curtains. Then I hear Molly stand up behind me. I turn around and she’s right there. The light streaming through a gap in the curtains illuminates her scars, giving her eyes a glassy shine.

“I’ll deal with them,” she says.

Her tone isn’t playful.

I shake my head. “I don’t understand, Molly.”

“I know how to fix this. How to fix your neighbours and get your quiet life back.”

“How?”

She floats towards me with that hollow stare. I watch as Molly brushes a finger over her scars, her eyes suddenly distant. “I’ve had my fair share of idiots to deal with over the years,” she says. “You can imagine.”

I nod.

“These people next door,” she says, pointing in the direction of Jerry and Mandy’s house. “I know how to handle them.”

She smiles then twitches her nostrils. Sniffs the air.

“Weakness.”

I realise my back is pressed against the living room window. Pressed tight, like I’ve been on the retreat. But there’s nowhere else to go. Fortunately, the sweet smile returns to Molly’s face. The summery chirp is back in her voice as she sits down on the armchair, slurps at her tea, and starts talking about the weather.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

We’re giving Molly’s plan a go. That’s how desperate we are.

She comes over to the house on Saturday night. She’s so insistent about ‘fixing’ the neighbours, as she puts it, that Rory and I relent. She says she has a plan but whatever that is, we’re kept in the dark.

She arrives with a little overnight bag on her shoulder, packed with clothes and toiletries. She told us she doesn’t actually intend to spend the night. Best be prepared, she told us in that girl scout’s voice. We’ve asked her to sleep in our bed if she does stay and we’ll take the spare bedroom with the brick-like mattress. Molly insists that the couch is fine. We don’t discuss the possibility of sleeping in Scott’s room.

The three of us sit in the living room, sharing a bottle of wine (except Rory who’s on tea) and watching the absolute dross that passes for Saturday night TV.

It’s been quiet next door but it’s early. Saturday night is a surefire bet for a party but right now Jerry and Mandy are probably in a pub somewhere. At some point, after chucking out time, they’ll pull up in several Ubers with all their drunken mates spilling out, ready for an all-nighter at our expense. Because the party always has to be in their house.

“I hope we haven’t wasted your time,” I say to Molly as the night starts to drag on. “Usually they’d be firing on all cylinders by now.”

“Not at all,” Molly says. “It’s nice sitting with you guys. The Airbnb is alright but it can be a little boring at the weekends.”

“You must miss home,” I say. “Can’t be easy living out of an Airbnb for this long.”

“Well, at least I’m not paying for it.”

“Are you married?” Rory asks, sitting forward on the couch. He’s been quiet for the past ten minutes so the question comes like a bolt out of the blue. “Gemma didn’t tell me if you were married or not.”

I nudge him gently. “Rory, that’s none of your business.”

Molly laughs, brushing away my dismissal. “That’s alright,” she says. “And no, I’m not married.”

“What about your parents?” I ask, jumping in before Rory can ask if Molly if there’s a boyfriend on the scene. “Are they still around?”

“No. Mum died a few years ago. Dad’s been gone for at least twelve now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rory says.

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t you have a brother?” I say. “I’m sure I remember a–”

“Sister,” Molly says.

I click my fingers. “That’s right. Is she…?”

Molly nods. “Oh yeah, she’s still very much alive. But we don’t keep in touch. No biggie, it’s just the way it is but work keeps me busy. The people in the charity, I guess they’re my true family. The sort that don’t judge.”

God, I think. The poor woman. Doesn’t sound like she has much going on in life apart from a neverending circle of philanthropic admin to juggle. I guess she’s lucky to have that role and get financial support from patrons or however the full-timers make their money. Can’t imagine too many employers outside the charity world would rush to hire Molly. People can be shallow.

“I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” I say, steering the conversation back to the neighbours. “They always come back sooner or later. More’s the pity.”

“Yeah,” Rory says, nodding. “You’re up there lying in bed, thinking you’ve made it through the night. Then the cars arrive. The sound of slamming doors, shouting, and beer cans dropped onto the street. Children start squealing like they’re in an amusement park. The dog starts barking. It almost feels like deliberate cruelty.”

Molly makes a tut-tutting noise. “You think people would be more considerate, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d hope so,” I say. “But you’d be wrong, at least around here.”

Rory puts a hand to his mouth, covering a yawn. It’s contagious and I feel my jaw stretching too.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Feel free to doze off,” Molly says. “We can switch off the TV. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Aren’t you tired?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m used to operating on very little sleep.”

“Oh.”

“Seriously,” Molly says. “Just relax.”

We doze, despite our best efforts to stay awake. Molly watches TV with the volume lowered after we insist that she leaves it on. What else is she going to do to pass the time? Stare at us while we sleep? Rory and I are out for the count when the first car pulls up outside. It feels like the street is vibrating with the distorted bass blasting out of someone’s car speakers. Here it comes. The Saturday night symphony of doors slamming shut, loud voices, blaring music, and a barking dog.

Rory sits up. He stares wide-eyed at the window.

“Oh no.”

I feel him trembling beside me. His body prepping itself, as it’s done so many nights before, for the stress to come.

I touch his arm. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Rory?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

The noise levels pick up fast. Sounds like Jerry and Mandy have a small army out there on the street. Friends, cousins, random drunks they’ve latched on to in the pub. God knows who else they’ve brought back. There’s a series of crashing, thumping, banging noises. Loud, obnoxious laughter that hammers my head like a pneumatic drill. Sounds like they’re falling over themselves. I hear the tinny plonk of a beer can dropped on concrete. Someone probably chucked it over our fence and onto the driveway. I don’t even want to look outside. It sounds like a big party is coming to the cul-de-sac. One of their biggest yet and that’s saying something for these morons.

I glance at Molly who’s listening with her eyes closed. There’s a serene smile on her face. Looks like she could be listening to Classic FM on a Sunday afternoon with a cup of hot cocoa on her lap.

How the hell is she going to fix this?

Another loud bang as Jerry and Mandy’s front door is slammed shut. They’re inside now. I know exactly what’s coming next. They’ll spend a few minutes in the kitchen, getting their beers, snacks and whatever else they need for the party. Then they’ll start pouring into the back garden where Jerry will turn the crackly outdoor heater on and also the back light that intrudes into our bedroom. They’ll sit down, get comfortable. Music will explode from the speakers. Another reminder that all our complaints have fallen on deaf ears.

I look at my hand. It’s shaking.

Molly remains seated, listening with the stillness of a monk in prayer.

“Here it comes,” Rory says. His finger mimics a conductor’s baton as, right on cue, we get an avalanche of distorted bass from the outdoor setup. The walls buzz and tremble. They’re all singing now, if you can call it singing. Doing their best to make up for the silence we’ve enjoyed so far tonight.

Molly has her phone and the TV remote beside her on the armrest. She picks up the remote and turns off the TV.

“Wow,” she says. “You weren’t kidding.”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

Molly glances at her phone. “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. Does he really think that’s what trying-to-keep-the-noise-down sounds like?”

“Trust me,” I say. “The party’s just getting started.”

“And none of the other neighbours complain?”

I shake my head. “I’m sure they hear it. Not like we do though.”

Rory drums his fingers off his leg with metronomic precision. He was the same in the funeral director’s office, planning coffins and flowers. Rory drumming away on the table. The same hollowed out look in his eyes.

Fuck. I can’t believe we’re back there.

I take his hand, desperate to stop that drumming. It’s cold. But the drumming does stop, slowing to a couple of infrequent twitches.

There’s a slow, almost imperceptible shake of the head from Molly. “These people deserve a swift return to reality. Don’t you think?”

“Molly,” I say. “What exactly are you going to do?”

“Fix it.”

“Yes. But how?”

She puts a finger to her lips. “Trust me. I’m a skilled negotiator. I know how to talk to people like that.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I say. “I’m worried about…well, it’s not safe. These aren’t nice people, Molly, and they’re off their heads with drink and probably drugs too.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Molly’s mannequin face is a picture of concentration. As if she’s listening to every little thing spilling out from next door. Both Rory’s legs are twitching now. l wonder if he thinks he should’ve sorted all this out by now. Like a real man, right? If only life was so simple.

“I’ll wait for a bit,” Molly says. “Wait for that crowd to thin out. You two should go back to sleep.”

“Fat chance,” I say.

“Well, you should try.”

“Molly,” I say. I think we should call this off.”

“Why?”

It’s Rory who answers. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t think it’s safe you going over there,” I say. “Especially so with…”

I glance at Rory for help. It doesn’t come.

“With my face?” Molly asks.

I swallow a sip of wine. It might as well be oil for all I can taste of it.

“People can be cruel,” I say. “That’s all I meant.”

Molly’s voice cuts through the tension in the living room. “I know what I’m doing. Let’s just wait a little longer, okay?”

I nod. “Okay. How about a coffee?”

The smile is back on Molly’s face.

“I’d loooove one.”

Another hour passes. Molly and I sit there drinking coffee (Rory sticks to tea) and it’s somewhere in between two and three o’clock in the morning when we hear a couple of cars pulling up outside the Munster residence. Some of the guests pile out and the entire neighbourhood hears drunken exclamations of love and goodbyes that take far too long. Shhh. Beer cans still being opened. Another car arrives forty minutes later. Molly gets up this time and stands at the window, peeling the curtain back an inch.

“I’d say about twelve to fifteen people have left the party.”

“There can’t be that many left,” I say.

“Right,” Molly says, dropping the curtain. She turns to face us, two exhausted wrecks in human form sprawled out on the couch. In contrast, Molly looks fresh. Focused. “Think it’s about time I go over there.”

My pulse is pounding at the thought of it. The party has thinned out, that’s true, but the music is still blaring at full volume which tells me it’s far from over. Having a word with those people right now is the last thing I’d recommend. This was a mistake. This was a huge mistake and eager beaver Molly, ever the do-gooder, won’t be able to fix it.

I stand up, the blood in my veins fizzing with anxiety.

“Molly, we can’t–”

She holds up a hand. Gives me a reassuring smile.

“Relax, Gemma. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

She slides her phone into her pocket. Then she grabs her coat off the back of the chair, threads her arms through the sleeves, and zips it up to the neck. At the same time, she hums a cheerful melody to herself. Then she gives us a little wave before exiting the living room for the hallway. She might as well be walking to the kitchen to make another coffee.

A voice whispers in my head.

She’s mad. The acid attack drove her mad.

I’m about to protest again. Now it feels like we’re taking advantage of someone with a disability. Molly is so desperate to please, to be loved, that she’ll do anything. And we’re so desperate to sort out this neighbour problem that we wanted to believe it would work. That somehow, Molly’s self-proclaimed negotiating skills would have an effect. We have to call it off. Call it off now. I’m about to tell her just that when she holds her hands up again as if intercepting my thoughts.

“Please, you guys. Leave it to me.”

Rory’s up on his feet too. Beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “I’ll come with you.”

Molly’s response is a firm shake of the head. “No. That won’t work. They need to see a different face tonight.”

She’s smiling. It’s that ghoulish smile that freaked me out once before.

“They need to see this face.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

The music stops. It cuts out, just like that. There’s no gradual decrease in volume, no muted drumbeat still throbbing away in the background. No voices, no hiss of beer cans, no hint of a party. It’s like there’s a power cut and in its wake, an unexpected silence drifts across the street like a menacing fog.

“What the hell?” I say.

Rory jumps to his feet. He runs to the window and pulls back the curtains, almost yanking the rod out the wall. His knuckles whiten as he maintains a tight grip on the fabric. He stares at Jerry’s house with the expression of someone who’s just seen an incoming twister.

“Why didn’t we stop her?” he says.

“Rory, the music’s stopped.”

He drops the curtains and turns around. Blinks like a bug just flew into his eyes.

“What does that mean though?”

“I don’t know. That they’re talking?”

Rory starts pacing. It lasts for a minute, then he’s back with his face pressed up against the window. His skin bullying the glass. He’s waiting for a scream, I think.

“They’ll make fun of her…they’ll–”

I hurry over to the window and grab his arm.

“Rory, the music’s stopped. It’s stopped.”

“You think that’s a good thing? You think they’re talking in there? That’s what reasonable people do. These people are idiots and probably violent when they’re drunk. Violent, Gemma. We let it happen. We let Molly walk into…that.”

“Hey, take it easy. We don’t know what’s going on.”

He pulls his arm out of my grip. “C’mon. She’s doing this to impress you.”

My face creases into a puzzled frown. “What?”

“You were the cool kid at school and she was the teacher’s pet.”

“So what?”

Rory lowers his voice like there’s someone else in the house who isn’t supposed to overhear. “We never really slip out of those childhood roles, do we? She wants to impress you. She wants you to like her. To accept her.”

I shake my head. “School was a long time ago.”

“Have you seen the way she looks at you?”

A cold pinch on the back of my neck.

“You’re being silly,” I say. “You’re freaking yourself out. Talking nonsense.”

Rory points at the window. “I expected her back after a minute or two,” he says. “Saying, yeah it’s worse than I thought. But she’s been gone for what, ten minutes now? Fifteen?”

“She’ll be back soon.”

Rory’s nod is unconvincing.

We both stand in the living room, listening for raised voices. The silence is disorientating. The total silence. Even in the absence of music, the dog isn’t barking. The kids aren’t yelling. What’s going on over there? How did they react to Molly’s appearance? Did they taunt her or will they just stare at her?

Without saying anything to Rory, I go upstairs to the bedroom window, the one that faces on to Jerry and Mandy’s garden fence. I peel back the curtains, peering over the tip of the fence. A whisper of pale light seeps over from the back of their house. Can’t see much with the light, can’t see any movement. That damn fence. The Bryants built it tall and while it’s good for privacy, it’s no good for spying.

I flinch as the floorboards creak behind me.

“See anything?” Rory whispers.

“Nothing.”

“Oh shit, Gemma.”

He joins me at the window. We stare at the fence, cowering at the very silence we’ve longed for since all this began.

I let out a quiet gasp.

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

“What?”

“Thought I heard something.”

“Like what?”

“Footsteps.”

Rory’s expression is strained. Like he’s trying to hear it too. “Nope.”

“I heard footsteps,” I say.

Even before I’ve said it, I’m doubting myself.

My fingers reach for the brass handles. I turn them slowly, waiting for them to make a sound and betray our presence at the window. With both handles turned upright, I push the window open as far as it goes. A chilly breeze invades the house but I pay little attention to the cold. It’s dead silent outside. No footsteps. At this point, I think both Rory and I would almost welcome the music coming back on.

I tap Rory on the shoulder. “Let’s go back to the living room.”

We do and after another five minutes there’s still there’s no sign of Molly. My heart is pounding. While I pace the living room, I feel the sensation of clammy fingers running down the back of my neck.

“What if they’ve hurt her?” I ask.

Rory’s face is as white as a sheet. If he’s looking to me for reassurance, he won’t find it. We’re both on the panic train by this point.

“What?”

“What if something’s gone wrong?” I say. I’m speed-talking. Spitting out worst-case scenarios without pausing for breath. “What if it got heated? What if someone pushed her and she lost her footing and banged her head off the door and now they’re in there freaking out and trying to–”

“Gemma!”

“What?”

Rory tries to talk me down but it’s too late. I’m the one spiralling now. I’ve got this vision of Molly lying on the floor of Jerry’s hallway, surrounded by beer cans and bottles, children’s toys and a giant dog barking in her face. There’s a pool of blood streaming from her head. Dark blood. The dog is licking it up while the drunken mob stand over her, their simple unga-bunga brains trying to process why she won’t get up.

My windpipe tightens with a jolt of sudden pressure. It feels like there’s a pair of invisible hands wrapped around my throat, choking me.

“We need to get over there,” I say, grabbing Rory’s arm. Like a stubborn dog on a leash, I start to drag him out of the living room. “We need to call the police and–”

The sound of the front door opening stops us in our tracks.

Rory and I exchange wild-eyed looks. Did we imagine that? Both of us? I take off and it’s a short, record-breaking sprint to the hallway with Rory’s galloping footsteps hot on my heels.

Molly’s closing the door over when she sees us. She gives me a cheery wave.

“Hey.”

My mouth hangs open and it must look like I’m waiting to catch flies for supper. There’s no hint of damage. No blood, torn clothing, no tears. No sign of trauma in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Molly giggles, then dusts off her shoulders. It’s a slow, theatrical gesture that seems like madness. “Never been better.”

“Are you sure?” Rory asks, sounding as bewildered as I feel.

“Sure.”

I glance over Molly’s shoulder, my ears pricking up for the sound of the stampede that might be chasing after her. The angry mob on her heels. Something. But…nothing. No music, no loud voices, nothing. The street remains cloaked in silence. It’s like we’ve slipped into an alternate universe where we live beside respectful people.

“What happened?” I ask.

Molly nods. “It’s all sorted.”

“Sorted?”

“Those people will never bother you again,” Molly says. “You have my word.”

I’m still waiting to catch flies. The way she says it. With absolute certainty. The sort of certainty that, in this context, is bordering on insanity. Not for the first time that night, Rory and I exchange desperate looks.

“What happened?” Rory asks, echoing my question. He points in the direction of Jerry and Mandy’s house. “What the…what the hell just happened in there?”

Molly shrugs.

“Don’t worry about the details you two. I went over, rang the doorbell, we sat down together and I explained a few things to them.”

“Explained a few things,” Rory says in a confused mumbling voice.

“To them?” I gasp. “And they listened?”

“Sure they did,” Molly says. “I might’ve exaggerated a few legal issues here and there for effect. Inserted some veiled threats.”

She giggles.

“Once I dropped those into the conversation, they were more receptive than you might think.”

More giggling.

“Those people?” Rory says, his eyes bulging with disbelief. “Receptive?”

Molly glances at her watch. “Well, it’s been a long night. I’m going to call an Uber and go back to my Airbnb. You guys need to sleep.”

“I’ll drive you,” Rory says, making for the hook where we hang the car keys.

“No need,” Molly says, holding up a hand to decline Rory’s offer. “You guys go to bed and get that well-earned rest.”

I can’t stop shaking my head.

“Molly,” I say. “What happened?”

All I get is that strange, unsettling smile. Then she’s on her phone, opening up the Uber app and organising a ride back to the Airbnb. When her car arrives not long afterwards, she grabs her overnight bag and leaves.

She never answers the question.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

I’m driving home from school on Monday afternoon when I see it.

“What the fuu-?”

My foot misses the brake and slams the accelerator. The car lurches, then races forward, speeding onto the driveway. The engine roars as the garage door rushes towards me. I scream and floor the brake and this time, thank God, it is the brake. The car shrieks to a sudden halt and I sit there motionless in the driver’s seat. My hands grip the wheel. Arms outstretched, rigid. Body still on red alert, preparing itself for impact.

I turn off the engine, pull the handle and step outside. My legs are surprisingly sturdy after that near miss with the garage door.

“Good God,” I whisper.

There’s a For Sale sign on Jerry and Mandy’s front lawn. I stare at it while debating whether or not to pinch the skin on the back of my wrist. Is this a dream?

“This can’t be real,” I say, looking around the rest of the street. I feel like everyone should be out, not just me.

I turn back to the sign.

Today is Monday and it’s been less than two full days since Molly paid our neighbours a late-night visit. Haven’t heard a peep since. Nothing. Haven’t heard anything from their kids either and even the dog’s been quiet. And now this. A For Sale sign in the garden.

I walk down the driveway like someone with acrophobia approaching the edge of a tall cliff. The street is so quiet. A little too early for the rest of the commuters to start pouring in and for now, it’s just me and the sign.

The joy I feel is like a current of electricity pulsing through my body. I’m too scared to let this fully in yet. But the sign is still there. My hand fumbles into my bag, searching for my phone. The first thing I do is text Rory at work. I make at least a dozen typos before my frantic fingers get the spelling right.

You’re never going to believe this!

Then I call Molly. Doesn’t seem right to text her and besides, I have questions. Boy, do I have questions. I walk back up the driveway, phone jammed against my ear. One last glance to make sure the sign is there. It’s there. This is not a drill.

A click.

“Gemmmaaaa!” she chirps.

“Molly, what the hell did you say to them?”

A pause.

“Say to who?”

I’m out of breath and a little dizzy but I keep talking. “Molly, I’ve just come home from, oh, never mind that. There’s a For Sale sign in their garden. They’re moving. They’re leaving for God’s sake!”

“Whose garden?” Molly asks.

Is she for real?

“The neighbours from hell.”

“Oh…wow.”

“Please tell me. I have to know. What did you say to them?”

The faint sound of giggling trickles out of the earpiece. “Oh Gemma,” she says. “I doubt it’s got anything to do with me. It must be a coincidence.”

“Coincidence? Are you…are you serious? What the bloody hell did you say to them?”

“I told you. Just legal this, legal that.”

I gasp with frustration. “Give me some details, will you? Is it something to do with…”

I lower my voice.

“…Jerry’s accent? Something about deportation?”

She giggles again, louder this time, and I want to scream at her to stop. The sound is starting to grate on me. We’re not kids anymore. She did something. Said something. Now they’re leaving.

“I meant what I said, Gemma. Don’t sweat the details. Just enjoy the peace and quiet that you and Rory deserve.”

“Molly–”

“It’s my gift to you.”

My head is spinning like a disco ball. I don’t know what to think anymore. On one hand, I’m overjoyed at the thought of getting rid of those selfish idiots. On the other, I can’t believe that little teacher’s pet Molly Morrison, scarred face and all, went in there and waved a magic wand. Could she be right that it’s just a coincidence? Maybe Jerry and Mandy were only ever here on a short-term basis and that’s why they never really gave a crap about being decent neighbours.

Nah, I don’t believe it. Molly said something. Did something.

But she won’t tell me what it was.

“Maybe they’re fed up of us complaining,” I say.

“That’s probably it.”

I stand on the driveway, looking at the house that’s now on the market. I didn’t even notice how tidy the garden is: no toys dumped all over the path, no discarded beer cans on the grass, no more empty crisp packets for the wind to blow over our fence.

“It’s weird though,” I say. “They’ve got kids enrolled in the local school. Moving is no small thing, not for a family that size.”

Molly’s tone is blunt. “That’s their problem.”

I sigh. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should just let go and enjoy this. “I don’t know how to thank you, Molly.”

She answers without hesitation. “I do.”

“Oh?”

I feel a sudden sense of apprehension that comes and goes quickly, as does the feeling of thick glue in my throat.

“Name it,” I say.

“I want you to reconsider what we talked about in the park.”

“The park?”

“Yeah, on the night we met…again.”

“Oh, right.”

That first meeting with Molly feels like a lifetime ago. Scott’s death and Rory’s breakdown have made everything else seem like a blur. And I’m still very much living one day at a time. The hours and minutes are still punctuated with moments of horrifying clarity about what happened in that classroom. The little details that haunt my nightmares. And the neighbours from hell thing, that’s been a constant distraction from the process of healing. As a result, most of what Molly and I spoke about that night in the park is lost in a thick fog.

“Remind me?” I ask.

“About you becoming active.”

“Active.”

“Gemma,” Molly says, “we have to do something with these horrific tragedies of ours, whether it’s an attack on children or women. We have to speak out. Educate the people. Do everything we can to ensure there won’t be any more victims.”

The back of my neck prickles.

“Nothing will ever bring Scott back,” she says. “But awareness is everything, awareness is prevention, and you can bring that awareness to the world. That’s if you’re brave enough and willing enough to use your voice for the children. Someone has to do it or it’ll just keep happening over and over again. What do you say?”

My phone vibrates as a text comes in. It’s Rory. I’ll never believe what?

I press the phone against my ear.

“Molly, I don’t disagree with anything you say. On the contrary, I know you’re right. But I’m not the person to step up here.”

“Why not?”

“Who’d listen to me for starters?”

“Lots of people.”

“Why?”

“You’re the mother of one of the victims for a start,” Molly says. “That gives you instant credibility. When you speak, people will listen.”

I swallow a hard rock in my throat.

“Did people listen to you right away?” I ask.

The silence on the other end is long.

“Because of my face?”

“Yes.”

“It brought them in,” she says in a quiet voice. “Even if that was just to stare. To gawp at me. But in the end, they did listen.”

I’m still thinking about what happened in Jerry and Mandy’s house on Saturday night. Molly must have walked in there with supreme confidence. To kill the party stone dead. Is that what becoming ‘active’ did for her?

“Well,” I say. “I doubt they’d listen to me.”

Molly laughs. “Are you kidding, Miss Charisma? You’re the complete package. You’re a good-looking woman with presence and credibility on the subject matter. That’s a winning combination for a leader.”

“Leader? Woah, I’m just a teacher.”

“Listen to me, Gemma. This isn’t something you can sit on for long. These things are forgotten so quickly. Doesn’t matter if it’s a school massacre or a man throwing acid over a woman’s face. There’s always fresh noise to distract the masses. Countless preventable tragedies get buried in that noise.”

I sit down on the doorstep, watching a sparrow hop along the gate.

“Gemma?”

“I don’t know, Molly.”

She keeps talking while I stare down the driveway, onto the street where Scott learned how to ride a bike. The little stabilisers on his wheels. Rory on one side, me on the other. Guiding him along, encouraging him. He didn’t think he could do it. And the joy on his face, the squeal of excitement that pierced the neighbourhood when he realised that he could. That was a good day, when the possibility of memories felt limitless.

My throat fills with glue again.

“Gemma?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

And yet now I’m somewhere else. Thinking about the little boy or girl walking home from school. The one waiting to be picked up by Mum or Dad, the one who’s already home, the one sitting on the floor playing with their toys, watching TV, absorbed in the present moment. And I’m thinking about all the James Grants, about the intense, violent self-loathing that surges through their veins and has to come out somewhere. What those people will rip away from those children.

All this time, Scott’s death felt like the end. There was no way to get past it, not ever. There was no jumping that wall.

But was it a beginning?

Is Molly right? Have I got work to do? Can something good come out of the worst thing that ever happened to me?

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

The doorbell rings at 12:14 am.

Rory and I sit up in bed, both of us unsure if we really heard what we heard. We manage a few choice words, groggy and incoherent. Rory reaches for the bedside lamp. The light stings my eyes and I check the time on the clock. Then I double, triple check the numbers. Just seeing Rory sitting up beside me, that scrunched-up look of confusion on his face, convinces me that I didn’t dream the sound of the doorbell.

“What time is it?” he asks.

He groans when I tell him. Buries his head in his hands.

“What now?”

The doorbell rings again. Angry. Impatient.

“It’s those little bastards from next door,” Rory says through clenched teeth. He stares at the bedroom door. Beyond that, a thick darkness permeates the hallway although there’s a crack of light from a wall panel that controls the ventilation. “This is what we’re going to get every night until they move.”

I reach for the bedside table. “Let me check the app.”

“Way ahead of you.”

Rory’s finger slides up and down his phone screen as he opens the app. He holds it up so I can see too. The video footage pops up quickly, showing us the view at the front door. I strain my eyes, studying the grainy footage.

“There’s no one there,” I say.

Rory nods. “They’ve scarpered. They’re just messing with us.”

“Can we rewind it?”

“Nope. We don’t have the fancy version. You didn’t want that option, remember?”

I take the verbal jab on the chin. “Okay. I was just trying to save us some money. We didn’t need all the bells and whistles.”

“Would be handy right now,” Rory says.

“Well, we know who it is.”

“I should go down there,” Rory says, a grim expression on his face. He glances at the bedroom door, then at me. “Gemma. I thought this was over.”

I put a hand on his chest and feel his heart thumping. “There’s no need to go down. We won, remember? They’re leaving.”

“How long will that take?” Rory says. “I’m not putting up with this shit every night until they go.”

“I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”

“What good will that do?”

I force a tired shrug of the shoulders. “I’ll let it slip that we have recording equipment at the front door. That we’ll be taking legal action if it continues. I think that’s the magic word in all of this, legal. That’s how Molly got to them.”

“You think?”

I nod. “I don’t think Jerry has all the right paperwork.”

We sit in silence for a while longer, finally convinced the doorbell isn’t going to ring again. Rory turns off the lamp and wraps his arms around me. I bury my head in the warmth of his chest. Listen to his heart, still pounding.

“It’ll be alright,” I whisper. “It’ll be over soon.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

I ring Jerry’s doorbell first thing in the morning, leaving my finger on the button for a full ten seconds. And yes, I count.

There’s no response. I don’t hear the sound of kids shouting or screaming and the dog hasn’t exploded into a barking fit. I look at the streaky windows with dirt build-up around the frames, expecting the curtains to twitch. Nothing happens. That’s followed by a brief glance at the driveway. No car. No sign of life anywhere.

This time I knock. Then I take a step back, my eyes never leaving the door.

“Where are you?”

I stand on the driveway, debating whether to go back into the house, write a note, then slip it through the letterbox. I’m still mulling it over when a red Toyota turns into the cul-de-sac and pulls up outside the house. A huge estate agent’s logo is emblazoned on both sides of the car in blue and yellow print.

A tall redhead steps out of the car. She looks like she’s in her early forties, and she’s wearing an on-brand colour blazer and skirt combo. The garish company logo is unmissable on the blazer breast-pocket.

“Hi,” she says.

We meet halfway on the driveway. Her overpowering perfume reaches me first, causing a split second of dizziness. The woman’s face is covered in heavy makeup and orange spray tan. She points over my shoulder towards the house, showing off a set of long red nails. Claws, more like. She must have to get up at three o’clock in the morning to get ready for a day’s work.

“Interested?”

I shake my head. “Oh no. I live next door. I just wanted a word with Jerry and Mandy about something.”

The woman’s heels click off the driveway as she comes closer. “I’m Carol. I’m dealing with the sale of the house.”

She offers her hand and I shake it. Her skin is warm and soft. A steely grip.

“Gemma Taylor.”

“Pleased to meet you, Gemma.” She points to the house again. “Hope it was nothing urgent because they’re not here anymore. They’ve been living with a relative for the past few days in Perthshire.”

Carol’s words hit like an electrical shock.

“They’re in Perth?”

Carol nods. “Yes, with Mandy’s sister.”

I scratch the back of my neck. A gesture of confusion, not necessity. “You mean, they’ve moved out already?”

“That’s right.”

“But the house isn’t sold, is it?”

“Not yet.”

I nod but I’m miles away, hearing the sound of my doorbell ring at 12:14am. The Doorcam app showing no one at the door. But we heard it. Rory and I both heard it. It’s exactly what the little fuckers next door have done to us in the past.

“Are you sure they’re all gone?” I ask. “I think someone was here last night.”

Carol’s face wrinkles at the question. I have a feeling she’d be horrified if she could see the gigantic crow’s feet that have just formed around her eyes. “Here? At the house?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it,” she says.

“But you can’t be sure, right?”

She lowers her voice, her bright blue eyes shimmering with excitement as she talks. “Honestly, Gemma. They seem very reluctant to come back here. I don’t understand it.”

“Reluctant?”

Carol throws a quick glance around the street. Then she nods. “Very. Do you know if something happened here?”

I feel like someone just shoved me.

“Something? Like what?”

Carol laughs and I do my best to join in. All I can manage is a few demented grunts.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they saw a ghost.”

“They didn’t say what the problem was?”

Carol’s shoulders stop jerking up and down as the laughter subsides. “No, I didn’t push. All they said was that it wasn’t working out but it was clear that something else was going on. That they were in no hurry to come back. They’ve hired a moving company to collect the furniture.”

“Strange,” I say. “I was sure someone was here last night.”

“Maybe it was the ghost.”

“Maybe.”

Carol’s phone pings in her hand. She nods as she reads whatever message just came in. “Well, I can say with some certainty that it wasn’t Jerry, Mandy or any of the kids. Doubt you’ll ever see them around here again.”

That should be the best news ever.

“Okay,” I say, realising that we’re going around in circles. “Well, good luck with the sale.”

“Thanks Gemma.”

We say our goodbyes and I walk down the driveway in a daze, thinking about who rang our doorbell last night. I have my suspicions. The oldest boy, never did learn his name, the one who liked to piss in our garden and throw his litter over the fence, it must be him. He's old enough to have friends with a car. Maybe he came back to pay us a visit.

Little fucker.

But there’s a much bigger question on my mind. Jerry and Mandy and their kids aren’t in the process of moving anymore. They’ve moved. It’s done. They couldn’t get out of the house quickly enough and if Carol’s to be believed (and why would she lie?) they’re too scared to come back. I don’t believe there’s a ghost in that house.

Which begs the question.

What did Molly say to them?

THE PHOENIX

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

“Is someone there?”

I stop and stare down the winding trail, gnarled by ancient tree roots and wooden stumps. A row of brightly painted shells borders this section of the trail, gifted to the local reserve by children at a nearby school. It’s a nice touch but I can’t appreciate it, not right now, because I have the strangest feeling.

Someone is following me. I’m sure of it.

“Hello?”

I stare through the gaps in the trees, waiting for movement to appear in the cool, shimmering light. The constant chatter of birds is everywhere. I watch and wait. For anything. A face. An arm. A leg.

I’ve come here for a walk and to clear my head. The reserve is the best quiet spot within a short walking distance of the house. A little woodland paradise tucked away in the heart of the suburbs, popular with dogwalkers and anyone who wants to feel like they’ve stepped back in time to millions of years ago when everything around here was heavy forest.

“Is anyone there?”

The reserve, although peaceful, is the sort of place, the sort of quiet place, that encourages the mind to run away with itself.

I continue walking along the trail. I’m here to mentally rehearse the questions that I’ll most likely be asked on TV tomorrow. Vivian McAlpine, the TV reporter who’s interviewing me, is always well prepared. I want to be well-prepared too. We’re talking about my charity organisation, Scott’s Angels. About its rapid growth, about what it means for the safety of children in schools. There won’t be any surprises (I hope) but I want the answers to flow.

This is our biggest platform yet by far. It’s a great opportunity to talk about school slayings and the challenges that our young people face.

I still can’t believe this is happening. It's all taken off so fast. Crazy fast. I don’t know how Molly talked me into getting this beast up and running but it’s going better than I thought it would. Much better. I guess I can say that to myself without sounding arrogant. To the rest of the world, I’ll play the part of humble leader.

I rehearse the questions in my mind.

Mental health is important, Vivian, but there’s a lot more to it. Life stressors, nihilistic tendencies, particularly in young men, and a desire for notoriety all play their part.

Too stiff? Too scripted?

It’s been non-stop for the past two months but the sudden rise of Scott’s Angels, instead of exhausting me, has energised me. Molly was right. People are listening to me because of what happened and the Angels got a lot of attention straight off the bat. It was hard at first, excruciating even, to put myself out there but I’m warming up to my role as the face of the Angels. So far, along with some excellent volunteers, I’ve been visiting schools, giving talks and offering help to troubled teenagers and their families. Encouraging people, especially young men, to speak up about their mental health issues. They’re responding in ways I never imagined. People are approaching us. Approaching me.

It feels like I’m making a difference.

I turn at the sound of footsteps.

There’s no mistaking it now. That’s not my imagination playing tricks on me. There’s someone else on the path up ahead. At least, I think it’s the path ahead. It’s hard to tell in this place where every sound comes from.

There’s a split second of sudden terror. A deep-rooted animal fear that screams from the depths of my being, telling me to run. Which way? If the footsteps are ahead of me, I’ll have to flee in the opposite direction. That’s not the easiest of escape paths with thick roots everywhere and a steep set of stairs that’ll take me to the northern side of the reserve and back onto the road. Have I even got the fitness to run away?

I jump at a wheezy breathing sound in front of me. A chocolate-coloured labradoodle bounds out from behind a thick tree stump, racing towards me. Head down, sniffing the edges of the path. Then a woman appears on the path. She starts calling after her dog. I’m frozen on the spot by the time she reaches me. God knows what my face must look like as we exchange polite greetings. Feels like my heart is lodged in my throat.

“It’s beautiful in here, isn’t it?” the woman says as she passes.

I nod. “It is.”

That’s all the small talk we manage.

“Come along Lottie,” she says in a shrill voice. Lottie, who’s busy sniffing around a pile of fallen branches, lifts her head and takes off after the woman.

A single fleeting encounter and I’m a wreck. The reserve has lost all its peace for me and I can’t think here. I start walking along the path to the exit, taking a sharp corner, still unable to shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Someone. Some…thing. Feels like the trees have eyes and that they’re starting to lean over me, too close for comfort. Not exactly the prep I wanted for tomorrow’s interview. I pick up the pace, listening to my voice in my head, still answering Vivian’s probing questions.

The cultural romanticisation of violence in movies and video games is another thing. There’s so much we need to think about when it comes to why these violent attacks happen.

I leave the reserve five minutes later, drenched in sweat.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

A brief photoshoot takes place at the school before the interview.

The other volunteers and I wear our green ‘Scott’s Angels’ t-shirts with the iris logo on the breast. I was involved with every stage of the t-shirt’s design and personally chose the logo, which symbolises hope. And it’s hope that all of us have come to represent as we stand on the school steps, holding up photos of Scott and the other children killed by James Grant. There’s a nice framed photograph of Mrs Dixon too.

It's the first time I’ve been back at the primary school since it happened.

All things considered, I’m doing okay. I was expecting it to be a lot harder but I’m here with a purpose and that helps. Still, I’ve got no intention of actually going inside the school. Fortunately, no one’s asked. Seems like the photoshoot and interview will take place outside. Fine with me.

The photographer, a chirpy fast-talking Londoner called Dave, shows me some of the photos on his camera in between set-ups. I’m delighted. I look good, and a far cry from the haggard and exhausted woman of a few months back. I’ve been taking care of myself, especially since Scott’s Angels has put me front and centre in a variety of scenarios. Nothing fancy; a gym membership, some improved diet choices, a new wardrobe and a good makeup team have given me a new lease of life. Nice to have confirmation that there’s still a good-looking woman in there somewhere.

Dave snaps away, calling out instructions on where we stand, how we stand. We hold up our cards and signs and after the shoot is done, I sit down on the concrete steps with Vivian McAlpine. She’s every bit as glamorous as she appears on the news and on those BBC current affairs shows that she hosts on a Monday night. Smart and beautiful. It’s hard not to be impressed. As she chats to the camera operator and producer, I sit on the top step, staring down the long path that leads to the school gate. I look at the kerbside spot where I dropped Scott off that morning. The warmth of his final ‘love you’ rings in my ears. His silly little run, that last glimpse before he disappeared through the school doors forever.

“Gemma?”

I blink hard. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

Vivian smiles and then gestures to the camera. Looks like everyone’s in position.

“All set?”

VIVIAN MCALPINE (to camera): Well, joining us now for our ‘Local Hero’ segment is Gemma Taylor, the English teacher who founded Scott’s Angels. The Angels, based in the north Glasgow area, is an organisation dedicated to raising awareness around the many issues that surround a type of crime that is on the increase, that of violent attacks in schools. Gemma, it’s hard to believe that Scott’s Angels has made so much progress in such a short space of time. You must be delighted with how it’s going.

GEMMA: Yes, absolutely.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: And of course, the motivation behind all this, was the tragic death of your son in this very school right behind us.

Gemma nods.

GEMMA: Yes, that’s right. I had to do something. Even in my darkest hour, the motivation was there to do…something. It’s hard to find a positive in such a horrific experience, but I had to try. To do nothing would have been a betrayal of Scott’s memory. And the memory of all those who died that day.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Why is it, Gemma, that we’re seeing an increase in violent attacks in schools? Is it mental illness on the part of the attacker?

GEMMA: Mental health is important but it’s not everything. Life stressors, nihilistic tendencies, particularly in young men, and a desire for notoriety all play their part. So too does the need for purpose. Access to weapons, there’s that. There’s so much to consider and that includes the garbage they’re ingesting on social media. All that ignorance and hate coming at young people who’re still trying to figure themselves out. The cultural romanticisation of violence in movies and video games is another thing to consider. Mental health is important, Vivian, but there are other factors.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Most of these attacks are carried out by loners. Is that right?

GEMMA: Outcasts, not loners. True loners are content to be alone. Outcasts are quite the opposite. They long for acceptance and inclusion and when they’re rejected, they lash out.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Are we, the media, guilty of oversimplifying the subject?

GEMMA: Perhaps. The fact is that people don’t commit these atrocities in a vacuum. They’re exposed to violence often from a young age and, at a certain point, weapon carrying becomes the norm for them. That, combined with the suffering they’ve experienced first-hand, makes them a very dangerous individual.

We have to recognise when a young person is suffering. In particular, when they’re suffering to the extent that it might lead to future acts of violence. The depression. The suicidal tendencies. Misconduct. Look for those who have grievances with classmates or, in the case of what happened here, with a teacher.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: You’re doing incredible work, Gemma. It’s clear that the community has a true hero on its side. Now, we do have a bit of a surprise for you.

GEMMA: Oh?

VIVIAN MCALPINE: We’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.

Vivian signals to someone off-camera.

Simon?

GEMMA (hand over mouth): Oh my God.

A handsome, well-dressed man walks into shot. He sits down beside Gemma on the steps. He’s in his early sixties, tanned and slim with a shock of dyed black hair. He shakes Vivian’s hand before turning to Gemma and doing the same.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Well, here’s a man who needs no introduction. One of the most successful businessmen and philanthropists this country has ever produced. Simon Blane, thanks so much for joining us.

SIMON BLANE (talking in a hybrid Scottish/American accent. Looks straight at the camera as he talks): My absolute pleasure to be here, Vivian.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Are you blushing yet, Gemma?

Gemma laughs.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Simon, now that we’ve got you here today, what would you like to say to Gemma?

Simon turns to Gemma. He takes her by the hand and her face turns even redder.

SIMON BLANE: Gemma, my darling, the work you’re doing with Scott’s Angels is nothing short of inspiring. In-spiring! The way you’ve handled tragedy and turned it into something positive. It’s incredible. With that said, I’m delighted to inform you that you, Gemma Taylor, have been nominated for the Community Impact Award at this year’s Scottish Humanitarian of the Year awards. Congratulations, it’s very well deserved.

Gemma lets out a loud gasp. The sound of applause breaks out from behind the camera.

GEMMA: Wow.

Simon Blane puts his arm around both women. Looks at the camera and smiles.

VIVIAN MCALPINE: Thanks for joining us, Simon. You’ll be hosting the awards in Edinburgh again this year, won’t you?

SIMON BLANE: Eleventh year in a row. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

He looks at Gemma. Gives her a little squeeze on the shoulder. She can’t take her eyes off him as he addresses the camera again.

SIMON BLANE: The Scottish Humanitarian of the Year Awards are for the best of the best. I’m sure it’s going to be an incredible night in Edinburgh.

A final glance in Gemma’s direction.

SIMON BLANE: And I wish you the very best of luck, Gemma. Mark my words, you’re a winner, no matter what happens on the night.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Oh my God,” I groan.

“What is it?” Rory asks.

I point at the TV. We’re watching the Vivian McAlpine interview as it’s broadcast that evening. I’ve been dreading it all day, ever since we wrapped up at the school. Seeing myself on TV. Gushing over Simon. I fear I’ve made an idiot of myself.

“I thought the camera was only supposed to add ten pounds. I’m a balloon!”

I’m sinking into the couch, hand to my face, peering at the screen through the gaps in my fingers.

“And what’s wrong with my voice? That’s not what I really sound like, is it? Is that what I sound like?”

Rory laughs so hard that the couch shudders. He puts an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close for a pity hug.

“You look amazing.”

“And sound…?”

“Yeah, that’s what you sound like.”

I grimace at my stilted responses to Vivian’s questions and it’s about another minute before I can take my hand away from my face. This is excruciating and we haven’t even gotten around to Simon Blane yet. I knew it would be bad but not this bad. As I feared, the answers sound too rehearsed. Maybe I overprepared? Note for next time. Wing it and hope I sound natural. Good God, I sound like Molly, spitting out information like a robot and trying to come off as too clever. Cringe.

“The t-shirts look good though,” I say. “That green colour really pops, don’t you think?”

Rory nods. “You made a good call. Although–”

“What? Blue was better?”

“No,” Rory says. “It’s not the t-shirt. It’s what you were saying in the interview about motivation, about being motivated in your darkest hour. All that stuff.”

“What about it?”

“That’s what Molly said to you, right?”

I resist the urge to look away. “Well, not entirely. I did think of it myself too.”

Rory makes a face and I know he doesn’t believe a word of it. He’s about to say something else but the image of Simon Blane entering the interview, sitting down on the school steps beside Vivian and I, distracts him.

“That guy is so cringey,” Rory says.

“Who? Simon?”

Oh, Simon, is it?”

Rory points at the TV. “How the hell is that guy still hosting the awards?”

I hit him on the arm. “He’s a national treasure, that’s why.”

“Oh c’mon,” Rory says, sitting up. There’s another stab of the finger in the direction of the TV. “Your national treasure has been busted for cocaine twice. He cheats on his wife, his third wife, with a woman at least half his age. It’s common knowledge. The guy’s a creep.”

His voice leaps an octave on creep.

“Didn’t know you were such a prude,” I say.

Rory shakes his head. “I’m not. But why are we still pretending that Simon Blane is a decent human being instead of a walking sleazebag? And why is he still hosting the country’s biggest humanitarian awards show?”

Rory mumbles something under his breath.

My ears prick up.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I said,” Rory says, “that he’s a lecherous old duffer. And that he needs to lay off the spray tan.”

“It’s just gossip,” I say, squirming at the way I’m looking at Simon Blane on TV. I’m fangirling and Stevie Wonder could see it. Is that why Rory’s annoyed? What he doesn’t know is that Simon was all over me after the interview during a private chat we had at the school gates. Said he couldn’t wait to see me at the awards. Something about the way he said it too. Can’t say I didn’t play along. Just a bit of harmless flirting.

“Gossip?” Rory says. “You think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s far from gossip, Gemma. He confessed to both the drugs and adultery.”

I let out a groan. With any luck, Rory will take the hint.

“He must have some serious connections,” Rory says. “To still be offered so much work. Amazing how we forgive the rich and shameless, isn’t it?”

Maybe I’ll try something else to distract him.

I lean into Rory, my fingers crawling up his chest like a spider. Then I start making little circles with my fingertip. My eyes never leave the TV.

“Well,” I say, watching Simon address the camera like a seasoned pro. “He’s good at presenting the awards.”

“Quite smitten,” Rory says. “Aren’t you?”

I laugh while my finger applies more pressure on Rory’s chest. The spirit takes me and I lean into him harder, his warmth seeping into my body. My breath quickens. Now my other hand is reaching for Rory’s neck. That’s when my phone chirps on the armrest.

“Damn it,” I say, pulling my hand back.

“Is that a member of your fan club?” Rory says. He’s still watching TV. The interview has come to an end and the news has moved on from the local hero segment to a preview of the weekend’s sport.

“Didn’t know I had a fan club,” I say, reaching for the phone. It’s a congratulatory text from Molly and judging by the preview on my home screen it’s a long one. I turn the phone over. Put it on the floor.

“Who is it?” Rory asks.

“Molly.”

“You’re not going to reply?”

“Later.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll do it later.”

Rory points the remote control at the TV. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Gemma. But she’s the one you have to thank for all this. You wouldn’t be getting interviewed on TV, talking to a national treasure, if she hadn’t pushed you.”

“Nothing to do with all my hard work?” I ask.

“Just saying. You could have mentioned her at least once.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll mention her in my speech if I win. Happy?”

“Delirious.”

I snuggle up to him on the couch again. He’s so warm and I resume making circles on his chest with my finger. “Do we have to talk about Molly Morrison?”

There’s a long silence.

“Is she still living in that Airbnb?” Rory asks.

I groan.

“Actually,” I say, “I haven’t spoken to her in a while. She must be finished with all the charity stuff. If so, she’s gone home.”

“Did we ever ask where home was?”

“Can’t remember.”

I snatch the remote out of Rory’s hand before he can ask another question about Molly. Then I lower the volume as the weather forecast begins and the boyish forecaster’s enthusiasm about a sunny weekend fades to a whisper.

“You should get involved with the Angels,” I say.

“Me?”

“You were Scott’s dad after all.”

Shit. Too much emphasis on were. I feel Rory tense up like he’s being inflated with air. That was stupid, Gemma.

“I think it’s great what you’re doing,” he says.

“But?”

“But it’s not for me.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“I can’t do what you’re doing,” he says, sounding annoyed and on the defensive. “I can’t stand in front of a bunch of strangers and talk about what happened. I’m not there. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.”

“That’s alright,” I say.”

“Thanks.”

“There are other things you could do,” I say. “Lots of behind-the-scenes stuff, logistics and all the rest. We could use a smart guy like you.”

Rory’s nodding along. But it’s a let’s-get-this-out-of-the-way gesture.

“Seems like you’ve got a lot of smart cookies at the helm,” he says. “Like you. I mean, that interview was great. All that stuff about root causes and societal factors. Sounded like you really knew what you were talking about.”

I laugh.

“Didn’t sound too stilted?”

He leans over, gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re going to win that award.”

Rory pats me on the shoulder, then starts to move away. I slip my arm around his waist, catching him. Holding him there. His eyes register confusion. Or is it fear? There’s a smile, the flicker of discomfort that accompanies a second attempt to pull away from me. My grip is firm and tender. It holds and I sit up straight. With my other hand, I reach over and start stroking the back of his neck.

“Your skin is nice and warm,” I say.

A slight tremor in his voice. “Is it?”

My fingers dig, working deep into the fleshy surface of his neck. There’s more resistance then Rory’s head tilts forward, rotating in slow motion. It’s like my hand is casting a magic spell. I’ve got complete control and yet, despite the fact that it looks like he’s going with this, I sense a wall of apprehension in front of me.

“You’re tense,” I say. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine.”

His skin is hot. He wants this as much as I do.

I talk in a soft voice. “I know that both school and Scott’s Angels are taking up a lot of my time,” I say, still pressing myself into him. His eyes are closed now. “Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you. About us.”

“I know.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

I take my hand of his neck. Gently rub my finger in between his eyebrows. His skin is on fire. “Relax, Rory.” Then I touch the side of his face, turning him gently towards me.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

What follows is the first real kiss we’ve shared in months. No dry, listless peck. No routine gesture to replace something from the heart. This is something we almost forgot. Rory’s body is a giant knot tightening in my arms but I pull him closer. We need this.

Rory hesitates. It feels like I’m losing him but then, out of nowhere, he responds. He grabs me with both hands and leans into the kiss. My body pulses as we fall backwards onto the couch. There’s a moment of shared laughter. We pause and look at one another. Then, passion overwhelms us. Without words, we remember how we once were. We kiss like it’s the first time, our hands exploring and rediscovering one another. Wild, unrestrained. It feels like I’m with a stranger and the man I love at the same time.

I feel his hot frantic breath on my neck.

“Rory…”

He’s in charge now. His hands roam, grasping underneath my T-shirt. He grabs and caresses. I reach for his belt and start to unbuckle it and that’s when Rory flinches. It’s sudden and violent. With a horrified gasp, he pulls himself off me and it’s done with so much force that he almost falls off the couch. He falls backwards. Hits his back off the armrest and Jesus, the look in his eyes. It’s that look again. Not Rory.

I’m still on the other side of the couch, not sure if what happened just happened. My chest is heaving and it feels like someone threw a bucket of cold water over my head. I sit up, pulling my t-shirt down to cover my exposed waist. Suddenly that feels wrong. Across the couch, Rory’s hollow eyes burn a hole through to my soul.

“Rory?”

It’s almost a minute before he comes out of it. The emptiness in his eyes fills with sadness and it’s like a knife in my chest.

I reach for him. He pulls back.

“Rory? What is it?”

“I can’t,” he whispers.

He swings his legs over the couch. Sits doubled over, head in hands. I move closer, sitting beside him but Rory won’t look at me. We stay like that, not talking. A soap opera plays on the TV at low volume.

“Rory, it’s okay.”

“I know.”

I stroke his neck and he tightens up like a guitar string about to snap. The irritation in my voice comes as a surprise even to me.

“Just relax.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m not trying to get pregnant.”

“I know.”

He still won’t look at me. “I just want us to be together,” I say. “We’re allowed, you know? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

My voice wobbles on wrong.

Rory just sits there, the corners of his mouth pulling down. Then he stands up off the couch, clothes wrinkled, his forehead glistening as he trudges towards the door like a sleepwalker wading through mud. He fumbles for the handle.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?” I say, calling after him. “Or won’t?”

“Sorry.”

Rory hurries his way out of the living room. Plods up the staircase. I stay put on the couch, straighten out my clothes and stare at the TV. For the first time in a long time, I’m afraid to go upstairs.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Thank God, the new neighbours look normal.

“Morning,” I call out, walking down the driveway to greet them. I’ve been hovering at the living room window for the past ten minutes, watching them pull up outside the house, inspect the garden, then go inside for a while. Then I waited for them to come back out.

It’s as good a time as any to say hello.

The older couple standing on the kerb turn their heads in unison when I call out to them. I wave and they wave back.

We shake hands and I introduce myself. Doesn’t take me long to find out that our soon-to-be neighbours, Kathy and Blake (both retired university professors – hallelujah!) have stopped by the house ahead of the official moving date to explore some potential renovations, both exterior and interior. I’ve seen them viewing the house twice before (spying from the window again) but this is their first visit since the house was sold. I couldn’t resist coming outside this time. I was desperate to make contact and, after the last lot, who can blame me?

Can’t see these people having a party at three o’clock in the morning.

I gush. It’s embarrassing but I totally do. I tell them how excited I am to have them moving in and that I hope we can be friends, blah-blah. Following that, they surprise me by bringing up my work with Scott’s Angels.

“You know about that?” I ask.

Blake, a handsome man in his late sixties, grins. “Oh, of course. We know all about you.”

Wow, they know all about me. All about me? From Jerry and Mandy, to Kathy and Blake. From neighbour hell to heaven. I’ll never take people like this for granted again. Good people. Our kind of people.

“I didn’t know I was famous,” I say.

Kathy talks with a Welsh accent, emphasising that beautiful rolling of the ‘R’ sound. “We saw the Vivian McAlpine interview on TV the other night and were so impressed with how you came across.”

Blake nods in agreement. “And now we’re lucky enough to be living next door to an actual saint.”

We laugh, all of us.

“Believe me,” I say, holding my hands up. “The honour is all mine. You should have seen the people who lived here before. They were a total nightmare.”

Kathy pulls a face, causing her neck veins to bulge. “Oh no. That bad, was it?”

“Worse.”

They sympathise. Tell me over and over that most of the time we won’t even know they’re there. Oh my God, I love them. I love them both. I can’t wait to have quiet and respectful people living next door.

“Well,” Kathy says. “I hope you’re a little more reassured now. Having met us.”

“I am.”

“We will be inviting you over for a drink,” Blake adds. “So we hope you don’t mind seeing just a little of us every now and then.”

He’s got such an elegant voice. His lectures must have been fantastic to listen to back in the day and come to think of it, he’s in fantastic shape for a man of his age. I can’t help but imagine him still getting up early in the morning for run, for a workout, wearing a singlet and showing off a set of amazing arms.

Holy fucking shit. Am I fantasising about the new neighbour?

“We really were so impressed with what you said on TV,” Blake says.

“Thank you,” I say. My face is on fire. Hopefully they’ll think I’m embarrassed about the compliments.

We’re still chatting when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice the metallic blue Polo making a right turn into the cul-de-sac. The car crawls at the side of the kerb, slowing to a stop. Even from the other end of the street, I hear the ratcheting noise of the handbrake being pulled.

My heart sinks.

Molly.

She’s still in town.

“Best of luck with the awards,” Kathy says, a set of jangling keys in her hand. They’re both walking towards their car and I feel a surge of relief. They won’t meet Molly, not if they’re quick. “We’ll be rooting for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, glancing at the Polo.

“Be seeing you soon,” Blake calls out, climbing into the passenger seat. Kathy is already in the driver’s seat. She closes the door, turns on the EV and gives me a final wave.

“Have a lovely day,” I say, clinging to a manic smile.

The car glides down the street in slow motion, passing the stationary Polo tucked in at the side of the street.

“Thank God,” I whisper.

Molly is still in the car. She’s not moving. Not getting out and rushing over towards me with arms open wide, a high-pitched bundle of excitement and energy. Might as well be a crash test dummy sitting behind the wheel.

What did she say to Jerry and Mandy?

I want to pretend that I didn’t see the Polo. Fat chance. She didn’t even call or text to say she was coming over although I’ve not exactly been paying much attention to anything with ‘Molly’ on my phone lately. There have been texts, I think.

The Angels have been keeping me very busy.

“Shit.”

I step off the kerb. Even now, Molly remains in the car. All I can see is the shape of her in the driver’s seat. Her clothes, a pink blur. Hard to see her face, hard to make out any expression at the best of times let alone from this far back. As I get closer though, her waxy features slowly come into focus.

Yes, for sure.

She’s smiling at me.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

“Morning Gemma!” Molly says, finally stepping out of the car.

Her heels click and scrape off the asphalt as she comes to meet me in the middle of the road. It sounds like a little horse rushing towards me. The gap between us narrows and Molly lifts the brim of her hat. That first shudder, cold and instantaneous. Even after all this time, it’s still hard to look at her. Poor thing.

“Hi Molly, how are you?”

“Great.”

She devours me in an embrace. I force my muscles to relax but she must feel it. The tension, nothing coming back.

“Sorry,” I say, breaking it off as gently as I can. A subtle step backwards. “I forgot to text you back, yesterday?”

She smiles. “The day before.”

I do my best to look horrified. “Oh my goodness. I’m such an idiot but it’s been so hectic, Molly. So hectic.”

Molly giggles into the back of her hand.

I swallow a silent scream.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” she says. “No worries, you’re in demand. Look at you rocking it on TV, eh? Rubbing shoulders with the likes of Vivian McAlpine and Simon Blane. You were incredible by the way. And sooo knowledgeable.”

“You watched?”

“Gemmaaaaa! As if I’d miss it.”

I feel my cheeks burning up.

“Well,” I say. “I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement.”

Molly giggles again and a hot pinching sensation flares up inside me. It comes and goes with equal suddenness.

“Simon Blane was very impressed with you.”

“Have you met him before?” I ask. “Thought you two might have crossed paths in the charity world.”

Molly shakes her head. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

She cups a hand over the side of her mouth. “Can’t say I’m too bothered. He’s got a bit of a reputation, hasn’t he? Ladies man and all that jazz. Likes to powder his nose with the old marching dust, hmm?”

“Oh, he’s very nice.”

“I’m sure he is.”

I shiver as a sudden cold breeze touches the back of my neck. “Is there something I can do for you, Molly?”

It comes out too formal.

“Oh,” she says, glancing at my house. “Sorry. Am I disturbing you?”

“Of course not. No, I didn’t mean it like that. Just wondering why you came over, that’s all. What can I help you with?”

“Well,” Molly says, looking down, avoiding eye contact. “You’ve got the award ceremony coming up and I’d say it’s a sure fire bet you’re going to win that Community Impact Award.”

“There are a lot of worthy contenders,” I say.

“None of them taking off like the Angels.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

“Point being,” Molly says, looking up again. “I can help you prepare your acceptance speech. If you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Stop being so modest. You’re going to win.”

“It’s arrogant to think I’ve even got a chance of winning. I’m honoured to be nominated, really.”

“Either way,” Molly says, “it’s good to be prepared for these things. This is a massive platform and what you say up there matters. You know, Gemma, you can attract the right type of attention and investment, all of which could be a gamechanger for Scott’s Angels.”

No point in telling her I’ve already written three-quarters of my speech. Well, first draft at least. And rehearsed it.

“I’m good thanks, Molly.”

“What about the admin side of things?” she asks. “God knows I’m doing enough of that with these other charities but my brain is sharp.”

“I’ve got someone on my team who takes care of that. Lydia. She’s excellent.”

Molly laughs. “Well, it sounds like you don’t need me anymore.”

I hear an inner voice scolding me for my behaviour. It sounds a lot like my dead mother’s voice come to think of it. I should ask Molly how she’s getting on with all the charity work that’s been going on for…months?

“I want to thank you,” I say. “You really picked me up when I was down. Not to mention, you saved us from the neighbours. Thank you for everything, Molly.”

This is good. It feels final. And friendly too, I think.

“A pleasure,” Molly says. She offers me her hand and I take it. When I do, she pulls me into another tight hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.

I give her a little pat on the back.

Molly lets go and my chest sinks with a massive exhale. She walks back to her car, that strange shuffling motion eating up the road. We’re done. It was nice to see Molly after all these years and God knows I appreciate her help with the neighbours. But the truth is she was always hard to be around, even back in the day, long before the scars. Such an awkward soul. Her life made harder by the acid attack. But that’s it. Nothing else has changed and after all these years we’re still not friends.

Still, it was good to catch up.

I wish her all the best.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

“FUCK!”

The front door slams shut making the walls shudder. Rory’s thunderous footsteps follow and he storms into the kitchen where I’m making pancakes for breakfast. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve made pancakes. Breakfast, once a happy family affair, has been a non-event in this house for months. Toast, fruit or cereal. That’s always been plenty and when Rory was having his problems, we never ate together. This morning however, I woke up with a ravenous appetite. Having something to do also stops me fretting about the award ceremony this week. It’s creeping up fast.

The pancakes are almost ready. The aroma, sugary and warm, brings black blissful memories. That’s all gone when Rory explodes into the kitchen.

“What is it?” I ask, dread rising in my stomach.

“They’re up to their old tricks,” Rory says, skidding to a clumsy stop in the doorway. Even from the other side of the kitchen, I can see that an angry rash is sprouting on his neck. Orange-red, the colour of instant stress. He’s looking at me with the eyes of a madman looking through barred windows.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“They’re back.”

A prickling sensation claws at my neck.

“They’re…what?”

Rory, still breathing hard, walks into the kitchen like he’s got lead feet. His shoulders drop as he starts pacing the length of the dining table.

“They’ve left something in our garden. A little present.”

“Like what?”

“A dog crate. It’s been dumped on the grass. And it’s…it’s…”

His face scrunches with disgust.

“Rory, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“There’s shit inside it,” Rory says. “A lot of shit in this crate. The garden fucking stinks.”

He slams a fist off the kitchen table.

“FUCK!”

I turn off the heat and let go of the pan. The sizzling and hissing noises of what was supposed to be a happy breakfast fade to silence. The sweet aroma clings to my nostrils but my appetite is gone.

“But they’re gone,” I say. “They’ve moved. Why would they come back and do something like that?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

I glance over his shoulder.

“I think I’m starting to smell it.”

“Yep.”

“Can you see anyone?”

“No,” he says with that haunted glazy look back in his eyes. “They’re long gone. Must have done it overnight.”

My head feels like it’s trapped in a steel vice. “They came all the way from Perth for that?”

But there’s no answer because Rory’s gone, stampeding out of the kitchen, down the hallway and towards the front door. He calls back to me. “Must be the teenager. The one knocking on our door in the middle of the night, the one who likes pissing in the garden and running away. Swear to God, I’ll wring his bloody neck.”

I chase after Rory.

“These people need to move on. They left. They sold their house.”

Rory stops at the door. He turns back, looking at me in a way that turns my blood cold. I know what he’s about to say before he says it. “What did Molly say to them? Because they’re clearly still pissed off. Frightened maybe, but pissed off.”

“I’ll bet they’re illegal,” I say. “Don’t have the right paperwork.”

“And how would Molly know that?”

“I don’t know.”

Rory sighs, then walks past me, back into the kitchen. I hear him rummaging around the cupboard under the sink. Looking back, I see him pull out a pair of rubber gloves and a roll of heavy duty binbags. He makes for the door.

“I’d better get it off the grass.”

I block his route and reach for the clean-up materials in his hands. “You’re going to be late for work. I’ll do it.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll call in. Tell Marcus I’m going to be late.”

“Rory,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Look, those pancakes are pretty much ready to go. Get a plate, sit down and have some breakfast. I’ll get the crate. Give me those gloves and bags.”

Rory looks at the gloves and the roll of bags in his hands. The fire in his eyes is cooling. “You sure? It’s a pretty big crate.”

“I’m sure,” I tell him. “Your commute is a lot longer than mine. You know where the maple syrup is?”

He gives a distracted nod.

I take the gloves and bags off Rory, leave him in the kitchen, and walk outside. The smell of shit makes my nostrils flinch.

“Oh God.”

I close the door to keep the cold (and the worst of the smell) out of the house. Then I cut off the path, stepping onto the grass that’s wet with dew. The crate is a big one, sure enough. Big enough for Jerry’s dog to fit inside. Poor thing was probably stuck in there during the parties, hence all the barking.

A worried glance across the street. Any faces at the window? Most of the blinds and curtains are still pulled over, thank goodness. The neighbourhood hasn’t quite woken up and nobody’s spilling out of their doors and into their cars yet. Won’t be long though. Have they noticed the smell?

Kathy and Blake haven’t moved in next door yet. Thank God for that at least.

“Little bastard,” I growl, thinking about Jerry’s teenage brat. About the pleasure I’d feel watching Rory wring his scrawny neck.

Was it really worth it? Travelling all the way from Perth for such a petty act of vandalism? That’s over an hour’s drive just to lash out and achieve what exactly? It doesn’t make sense but then again, neither does keeping my neighbours awake all night. Still, if they’re scared enough to move, if they’re quaking in their boots after whatever Molly said to–

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

“Oh Jesus.”

The memory comes without warning and it’s like being punched in the face. So sudden, so jarring that I nearly tip over.

How could I have forgotten?

I stand there on the grass, filling with cold terror. The sun is rising and the birds are belting out the dawn chorus from trees and rooftops. Meanwhile, it feels like there’s an earthquake in my mind, ripping open the mental landscape to expose a gaping chasm and a truth that’s just landed with blood-curdling clarity.

I stagger backwards, almost tripping over my feet. My arms flail for a second. Somehow, I’m still standing.

The dream I had about the dog crate. It had nothing to do with what happened to Scott. Nothing to do with the neighbours or feeling trapped. It was about Molly. It was about the past.

The onslaught of shame is overwhelming. I’d forgotten what we did. Forgotten how cruel teenagers could be.

But it wasn’t that bad, was it?

Clearly, Molly would beg to differ. She did this. She dropped the crate here. Put the dogshit inside too.

Don’t shit your pants Molly!

I imagine her standing outside my house last night. Her scarred face, glowing in the moonlight. Eyes seething, the tightness of her face denying her a gleeful expression.

I pinch my nostrils tight. There’s a fresh spurt of panic which my body translates as energy. I use it to drag the crate off the grass, wincing and turning my head away from the foul smell. I reach the garage door, pull the handle and thank God, Rory must have unlocked it. I pull the crate in, still holding my breath. I drop it, suck in a lungful of musty air. I’ll clean and spray it later. Jesus, there’s a mountain of shit in there. Solid, wet. Fuck.

Despite the smell, I stand there in the garage. Thinking of what to say when I go back in the house. Eventually, I leave and close the garage door behind me. Then I rush to the house, almost knocking Rory off his feet as he’s taking his coat off the hook.

I let out a quiet shriek.

“Woah!” he says, backing up. He looks me up and down, as if searching for a wound. “Are you alright?”

I hold my hands out, roadblocking Rory’s progress to the door. My heart is hammering against my ribcage.

“Gemma? You’re freaking me out. You’re as white as a ghost.”

“Did you have breakfast?” I blurt out.

That’s what comes out. That’s what comes out?

Rory manages a confused nod. His eyes are hazy, his mind clearly still on what he found in the garden this morning. “Had to shove it down,” he says, threading his arms through his coat. He zips up quickly, inching forward but I don’t clear the path.

He looks at me.

“I’d better get moving. Traffic.”

“Rory, we need to talk.”

“Now?”

I grab his arm. My mind is racing. Trying to find the right words, that’s if the right words even exist.

“Gemma?”

“It wasn’t the neighbours,” I say.

Rory scratches the top of his head, waiting for me to elaborate. From outside, I hear the chirp of someone’s car being unlocked. The neighbours are stirring. At least the crate is hidden in the garage.

“What do you mean?” Rory asks.

“The neighbours didn’t dump the crate on our garden.”

“Then who did?”

“This is going to be hard for you to believe,” I say.

“Try me.”

I take a deep breath.

“Molly.”

Rory stares deep into my eyes. He goes to pull the zip on his jacket, not realising it’s already zipped Then his arms flop to the sides. “Molly? Molly Morrison?”

“Yes.”

“Gemma, I don’t understand.”

“She’s not stable.”

“What?”

“Listen, there’s a lot you don’t know about Molly. About the history.”

“Like what?”

“I must have buried it in the back of my mind or something.”

Rory looks more confused than ever. “What are we talking about here, Gemma?”

I point a thumb to the garden. “I was standing outside, looking at the crate. It just came back to me. I can’t believe I didn’t remember.”

“Woah,” Rory says.

“I know,” I say. “I know.”

I feel a cold shiver in my spine.

“Molly had a dark side,” I say. “Back in school.”

A muscle twitches on one side of Rory’s face. I don’t know if he even registers it.

“I thought she was the teacher’s pet?”

“Little Miss Goody Two Shoes,” I say. “At least whenever the teacher was watching. Or any adult. But there was another side to her. She used to do some pretty sick things to the other kids. Me included.”

Rory glances at his watch. He’s caught in between trying not to be late for work and having this Molly thing make sense. “I don’t understand. Why have you guys been acting like friends if she’s a total psycho?”

“We were never friends.”

“Okay. Why was she here at all? Why did you let her into the house?”

I can feel Rory’s eyes burning a hole in me. “Because I was vulnerable after Scott. You weren’t there, Rory. And that’s when Molly reached out. I thought she’d changed after the attack. It’s been over thirty years, people do change.”

Rory hangs his head. “I feel sick.”

“Maybe she can smell weakness,” I say. “Who knows why she got in touch with me? But now I’m thinking, maybe the attack pushed her in the other direction. Made her even more deranged.”

This draws a blank stare from Rory.

“What did she say to Jerry and Mandy?”

“I don’t know.”

He takes a step closer to me. “Okay. What did she do to you?”

Rory puts a hand on my arm. I close my eyes, put my hand over his. The grip tightens, his skin pulsing warmth into my icy fingers.

“I used to suffer from claustrophobia as a child,” I say.

“I never knew that.”

“I got over it long before we met but it’s never fully gone away. It was pretty bad when I was a teenager. As if being a teenage girl wasn’t hard enough, you know?”

I shake my head. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” he says in a soothing voice. “You can tell me.”

“I must have buried it, Rory.”

“Buried what?”

He smiles to encourage me.

“I was fourteen when it happened,” I say. “It was just another weekday, four o’clock, and I was walking home from school. Must have been halfway there when I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path behind me.”

“Molly?”

“Yep.”

“She followed you?”

“Yeah, I used to walk on a gravel path alongside a football pitch. It was only a short walk from there to my house. It wasn’t the first time she’d followed me.”

“Jesus.”

I nod. “She used to stare at me in class sometimes.”

“What happened?” Rory asks.

“Most of the time when she was following me,” I say, “she’d get bored and wander off. This time she called out to me. At first, she was doing her teacher’s pet, nicey-nicey act. Said something about me forgetting a book or whatever. I went over, she reached into her bag and it wasn’t a book she pulled out.”

“What was it?”

“A knife.”

Rory gasps. “Seriously? A knife?”

“A little pocket knife,” I say. “Wooden handle, crusty blade. It was the look in her eyes that freaked me out.”

Rory puts his arms around me. I feel the soothing motion of his hand on my back and I take a deep breath.

“I was terrified. I kept saying to her, why are you doing this? Why are you doing this?”

“She was in our house,” Rory says. “This woman was in our house.”

I nod. “That’s my fault. I should never have responded to her letters.”

Rory keeps rubbing my back. “It’s okay. Go on. What happened?”

“I had no idea what she wanted. But she told me to walk with her and so I did. I walked in front and she kept close behind, the knife tucked into her jacket pocket. It was about a fifteen-minute walk to this house. God knows if it was even her house or someone she knew. She followed me up the driveway, this neat little driveway with potted plants on either side, and pulled the garage door open.”

I shake my head.

“It’s so clear now. The memory of it. And yet before I saw that crate outside–”

“Trauma,” Rory says. “It happens. People bury their memories all the time. Keep going. What did she do?”

“I saw the crate first.,” I say. “And then movement from inside.”

“A dog?”

“A giant dog.”

Rory’s stroking the back of my neck now.

“We went in and she closed the garage door over. I kept begging for her to let me go. Asking her why she was doing it. Molly just held the knife out. She forced me to go inside the crate with the dog. I had to do it because she said she’d cut me in the face if I didn’t. Ruin my pretty face. She just stood there, watching. Taunting me. Don’t shit your pants, Gemma.”

“But the dog didn’t hurt you?” Rory asks.

I shake my head. “I think he was harmless. Probably confused. But he barked a lot. Molly did it because she knew I was scared of dogs and confined spaces.”

“You’re scared of dogs?”

“I was back then. I got over it.”

I flinch as Rory hammers a fist off the wall. He curses under his breath then seems to pull himself back together.

“For what? Why did she do it?”

“To scare me. To watch it.”

“How long were you in there for?” he asks.

“Not that long, I suppose. Molly said she’d do a lot worse if I said anything to anyone. As if. Who’d believe me if I told them the teacher’s pet was a psycho? That was what she hid behind. The act. The image. As for me, I buried it. The easiest way to cope is to pretend it never happened.”

Rory lets go of me, takes a step back.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

I brave a smile.

“I think she’s had her fun,” I say. “So, I guess we hope that’s it. Act like it never happened.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO

The Scottish Humanitarian Awards ceremony takes place in a five-star hotel in Edinburgh.

The ceremony itself is routine and takes just over an hour. That’s followed by an aftershow party in the hotel basement, which doubles as a nightclub and private function bar.

After a long photo session upstairs, I walk or rather float into the bar, clutching my award. Still riding a high, not sure when or if my feet will touch the ground again. The basement is a blur of bright lights and noise. Voices battling to be heard over the music, as well as the clink of glasses and cutlery on plates.

I’m a little drunk.

People know me as I make my way into the club, gliding past tables, past huddles of bodies. Congratulations, they say. Congratulations Gemma. The headrush is incredible. They shake my hand. Some of them pull me in for a hug and what the hell, I go with it. Then one of the hostesses escorts me and a quartet of the other winners to a VIP table near the main bar.

I feel like a movie star.

We sit at the VIP table, and there are lots of new faces coming and going. Handshakes, hugs and the constant stream of congratulations. I, along with the other winners, sit there soaking up every moment. It hasn’t sunk in yet. I did it. I won the Community Impact Award, and all this after Scott’s Angels has only existed for a short period of time. Feels like the sky’s the limit. After everything that happened, and boy did we chisel down to rock bottom, I can’t believe how things have turned out for us.

I’m more than a little drunk.

Drunk or not, all of this feels right. Like it’s my time to step out of the shadows. At school, I was the girl that classmates and teachers alike expected to do great things. I never forgot what they wrote in my yearbook. You are going to soar! Good luck being a model! Enjoy being a millionaire while I’m stuck in a dead-end job! Don’t get me wrong, I love my life with Rory. And Scott, rest in peace my darling, was the best thing that ever happened to me. To us. But there was always that niggling doubt at the back of my mind that I’d failed to reach my potential. That I’d settled for less. This award feels like the beginning of a second chance.

All this free champagne is very nice. Already, three different waiters have brought drinks over, compliments from my admirers. Oh boy, I should stop. I’m not sure how many glasses I sink before getting up from the table to stretch my legs. I manage a quick visit to the ladies’ room to pee and powder my nose. When I come back the basement is busier, louder and brighter. The music is a blurred thump in my ears.

I find my way back to the VIP table. A waiter brings me a glass of wine. He leans over and shouts something in my ear. I think he says the wine is a gift from Simon Blane and that Simon wants to talk to me. That he’s waiting in the small bar through the archway.

I look around the sea of bodies.

Simon told me after the ceremony that he was going down to the basement for a drink. Was that an invitation? Thinking back, it feels like an invitation.

I thank the waiter. Stay put at the VIP table, making small talk with the other winners. All the while, twirling the wedding ring on my finger.

I get up without too much thought. Thread my way through the bodies, clutching my award like it’s a torch in a dark underground cave.

Simon Blane is sitting alone at the half-moon shaped bar that’s partitioned off from the main basement. It’s dimly lit. I see the silhouettes of other people scattered around. Their muted voices free of the muffled racket from next door.

I’m touching my wedding ring again.

I look at Simon. He gives off old-school movie star vibes: chiselled jaw, slicked back hair, piercing blue eyes. His designer navy-blue suit fits him like a glove. Why is he alone? It feels right to offer him some company.

Oh Gemma, you’re so drunk right now.

“Hello again,” I say, approaching the bar.

Simon Blane looks up from a whisky glass. A split second of nothing in his eyes.

“Hmm?”

I flash my award in his face.

“It’s Gemma.”

“Ah,” he says, the light flickering on and off in his eyes like a faulty streetlight. “Gemma. You found me.”

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

His lips peel back into a hungry smile. “Yes, you did.”

“You did a great job tonight,” I say.

I see a flash of boredom in his eyes like he’s heard it a thousand times before. I’m sure he probably has. “Thank you so much, umm…”

“Gemma.”

“Gemmaaa.”

He reaches over, pulls one of the barstools back. Gives it a little pat.

“Won’t you join me?”

I glance around the room. “Are you sure I’m not disturbing you? Looks like you’re enjoying the peace and quiet in here.”

“You caught me in a lull. That’s all.”

He grins.

“Sit down, Gemma. I wouldn’t ask if you were disturbing me.”

His right leg jerks under the table like he’s a nervous schoolboy with the exam jitters. He makes a loud sniffing noise. Wipes his nose.

“Drink?” he asks.

I show him the champagne glass I brought from the table. “I have one, thanks. And thanks for the wine you sent over to the VIP table.”

“What’s that?”

“I got your wine. Thank you.”

“Oh…my pleasure.”

He lets out a manic guffaw then claps his hands together. “Ha! She’s got champagne in one hand and an award in the other. Successful and a party girl. My kind of woman.”

Simon’s matinee idol face lights up like a Christmas tree. The ravenous grin locked in place. “What’s a beautiful, award-winning woman like you doing all alone?” he asks. His eyes perform an exaggerated sweep of the room. “Where’s your husband?”

I blush despite the champagne.

“He was at the ceremony. But he’s got work in the morning and had to skip the party.”

“Skip the party?”

“Couldn’t be helped.”

“Such a pity,” Blane says.

Simon doesn’t need to know that Rory was borderline alcoholic after Scott. That, while he’s fine if I’m having a glass of wine at home, he doesn’t want to be around it on this scale. I get it. It’s disappointing but he does have work in the morning. That leaves me with a lovely hotel room here in Edinburgh all to myself. I told him I’d put the award on his side of the bed and that it wouldn’t snore. We kissed and said our goodbyes. He’s so happy for me, his eyes welling up with pride when my name was called out tonight. Knowing what I’d done for Scott. For all the children we’ll save with Scott’s Angels.

Simon points towards a porthole style window that offers a glimpse of the VIP table. “What esteemed company we’re in tonight. Don’t you think?”

“It’s incredible,” I say. “I’m so lucky to be here surrounded by such great people.”

Simon nods like someone who isn’t really listening. Then he narrows his eyes, leans over and taps my eco-friendly award made from reclaimed wood in the shape of a human with outstretched arms.

“Which one?”

“Community Impact Award,” I say in a clipped tone. “You handed it to me, remember?”

Simon flashes the million-dollar grin. “I’m sorry my darling. As host, I’m so focused on getting the running order correct. The little details sometimes pass me by. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

His leg is still jerking frantically under the counter.

“That’s alright.”

He winks at me. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“Of course.”

He looks at me.

“Tell the truth, Gemma. It was kind of boring, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe for you. It’s a first for me and it was an honour to win.”

Simon guffaws again. His shoulders drop, then he gives the whisky a little swirl around the glass. “Your speech is over, darling. Save it for next year.”

“I mean it. It’s an honour.”

Simon’s cheeks twitch. He sits upright, clasping his hands together. Instant formality. “Oh really. An honour?”

“It is.”

“And yet,” he says, “you’re sitting over here at this end of the bar. As bored as I am with the whole smug, self-congratulatory affair.”

“Well, well. Simon Blane. You’re showing your true colours.”

His shuddering leg finally comes to a halt. But his shoe keeps tapping off the barstool foot rest.

“I’ve been doing this for a very long time,” he says. His voice is a dull growl, the million-dollar grin nowhere to be seen. “Trust me. It’s the same old shit wrapped up in different packaging.”

He looks at me.

“Are you shocked?”

“No.”

“Disappointed?”

I shake my head. He’s a colossal prick, I know that. And yet there’s something about the man that stops me from getting up and leaving. From going back to the VIP table and drinking free champagne for the rest of the night. Maybe it’s the surge of fast-flowing electricity in my veins. The rush of excitement that’s been missing in my life.

“No,” I say. “There’s nothing disappointing about you.”

“So pleased to hear it.”

“Excuse me,” says a voice from behind.

A tall waiter with a ginger goatee approaches the bar. He’s holding a tray with two glasses of red wine on it. “Compliments of the lady back there at the arch,” he says, placing the drinks on the counter.

The waiter signals towards the arch that separates the two basement bars. His brow wrinkles as he scans the tables, the arch again and through the porthole into the main bar.

“She was there. Just a second ago.”

Simon wags a knowing finger in the air. “Ahh.” He reaches for the glass and toasts the waiter. “I suspect this is another gift from my number one fan.”

“Your number one fan?” I say.

“Hmm. She’s been keeping me supplied all night.”

“Supplied?”

A loud guffaw.

“Aren’t you the popular one?” I say after the waiter leaves us.

“Don’t you worry, Gemma. I’m interested in yooou tonight my darling. My number one fan isn’t on my radar.”

The bastard. This is his superpower. I can’t remember the last time Rory looked at me like that or made me feel like this. The alarm bells scream loud and clear. Get out of here. I know Simon’s off his face on God knows what right now but the truth is I couldn’t care less. The desire is overwhelming.

“Imagine there’s a parallel universe right now,” he says. “A parallel universe where all the same people in this room are celebrating the worst thing they ever did.”

“Would you feel more at home there?” I ask.

He puts a finger to his lips.

“Shh…don’t tell everyone.”

His eyes glaze over as he finishes off the last of the whisky. Then he slides the wine glass in front of him. No qualms about mixing his drinks.

“I’m not a very nice man, Gemma.”

I’m about to respond when I feel my phone vibrate in my bag. Thinking it’s Rory, I take it out and see a text from Molly.

Are you around? Standing at the front door. Come say hello!

My shoulders lock up with tension. She knows damn well that I’m around and even so, I think about ignoring the text. But that won’t work and I know it. I slide off the barstool, trying to hide the irritation I feel. Molly Morrison. I should’ve known she’d be here.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

“Leaving so soon?” Simon asks.

“I’ll be back.”

I touch his arm.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

Simon’s gaze scalds the back of my neck as I walk away. And once again, the inner voice reminds me that I’m a married woman, a happily married woman. That unwelcome reminder is countered by the memory of Rory pushing me away on the couch. The coldness of his eyes. The fear of touching me.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

“Congratulations,” Molly says, throwing her arms around me. She pulls me down to her height, almost bending me in half. I don’t put my arms around her. I can’t fake a smile, even if I wanted to.

“You did it. You won!”

I pull out of her grip. Take a step back.

“Yes, I did.”

We’re standing at the basement entrance. Behind Molly, a neon-lit staircase leads up to the hotel reception and the ballroom where the awards ceremony took place. Behind me, in the basement, the aftershow party is in full swing. We have to raise our voices in order to be heard.

“I can’t believe it,” Molly says, still gushing. “I mean, I can. I can believe it but winning an award after such a short time? Wow! You’ve done so much.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“And yet here I am.”

Molly’s wearing a pink blazer with blue jeans and pink slip-on shoes. She’s a lot less formal than most other people around here, myself included. Of course, no one’s looking at her clothes. Still, she’s not the only disfigured person walking around the hotel tonight. One of the other award winners was a burns victim with a face that’s every bit as hard to look at. I spoke to her at the VIP table and she seems like a nice girl.

“Here you are,” I say.”

“I wouldn’t have missed the ceremony. Not for the world. Besides, it’s my last night before I go back home.”

I exhale with relief. Making no effort to hide it.

“Well,” I say. “Safe trip. It was lovely to see you again after all these years.”

The words feel like acid on my tongue.

I turn away. I don’t want to leave Simon waiting too long in case he gets up and leaves. He’s drunk. Someone else might start talking to him. He might forget we were even talking at all.

My award is still sitting on the counter. I have to go back.

Molly breaks into a frantic giggle. “Going back to your not-so secret admirer?”

I freeze, then turn back to her. The warm champagne buzz in my head is starting to chill. Even the fuzzy aftermath of victory is wearing off in Molly’s presence. She’s taking this away from me. The best night of my life and she’s ruining it.

My voice cuts through the music.

“We’re just talking.”

“Watch out for Simon Blane,” Molly says. “That ring on your finger won’t deter him. It’ll excite him.”

The veins on my neck stiffen like taut rope.

Molly takes a step forward. “Is everything okay, Gemma? Feels like I’m doing all the talking here.”

“Molly, quit the crap. I know it was you.”

She tilts her head to the side like a puppy responding to a new sound. “Can you speak up a little please? It’s so loud down here.”

“The dog crate.”

“Dog crate?”

“Okay,” I say. “Play dumb if you want to. But I know you did it. I know you dumped the crate on our grass. A crate full of dogshit.”

I can’t read the expression on her face.

“Why would I do something like that?” Molly asks. She talks loud and slowly, like someone who’s been asked to repeat something. “Why would I put a dog crate in your garden?”

It’s a performance. We both know it.

“Stop it, Molly.”

She shrugs. “No, I’m serious. Why would I do that? Why?”

“Because of what happened in the past.”

Molly gives a knowing nod. “Uh-huh. And what did happen in the past?”

“Did you write those letters to help me?” I ask. “Or was it just a way to squirm back into my life?”

“Gemma, I don’t know what you’re t-”

“Stop it,” I say, jabbing a finger in her face. My legs are trembling and the music feels like a sledgehammer on my skull. “No more stupid games. Why did you write those letters? What is it you want?”

She opens her mouth to say something and I hold up both my hands. It works in class with the most stubborn of pupils and it works now. In my own private sign language, it means shut the fuck up.

“Listen,” I say. “The past is the past. It was over thirty years ago and I’m willing to leave it dead and buried. I suggest you do the same. Now we’re done. This is the last time we talk, understand?”

Her blank face. Blank eyes. Jesus.

“Whatever you say, Gemma.”

“I mean it, Molly. Stay away from me and my family. I don’t want any trouble.”

Once again, I’m in the process of turning away when she says something that pulls me back.

“Just one more thing.”

I suck in a deep breath. Turn back to her, a loud hum in my ears and the fingers of my right hand curled into a clenched fist.

“What?”

I look at her, my insides cold. Her eyes are black. There’s no pretence of happy-clappy Molly, the teacher’s pet. Not anymore. She speaks, her voice a crackling hiss.

“I will never forget what you did.”

“Oh, grow up Molly.”

I walk away and this time there’s no turning back. Despite Molly’s threat, it feels like I’ve lifted a weight off my shoulders by getting rid of her for good. Maybe it’s still the champagne. Whatever. I exit the main bar, walking through the arch. I smile at Simon Blane, still sitting at the half-moon bar. Still on his own. He’s waiting for me and despite the alarm bells, I’ve already decided how this night will end.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

“NO!”

I’m standing in a puddle of vomit, screaming, when I hear the door handle turning. There’s someone out there who keeps asking if I’m okay. Okay? The word is madness. I’ll never be okay. Never.

BANG-BANG!

“Are you okay in there?”

The hotel room door opens. There’s a rush of footsteps, gasps, more footsteps. I say nothing. The room fills with faceless shadows. I look at no one.

“Jesus,” a woman’s voice says. “Somebody call an ambulance.”

“Too late for that,” someone else says.

My chest muscles squeeze tight. There’s a vile taste in my mouth that I want to spit out.

What follows is a blur of faces and questions that I can’t keep up with. The vomit on my skin cools and I’m limp in someone’s arms as they hold me up, but still cognizant enough to hear the endless gasps and whispers from the hallway. Then the voice of a man telling everyone to keep back. I make a silent wish for death.

“GET BACK!” the man yells. “Everyone back to your rooms now!”

More voices, more noises. It never stops. Someone in the room, a rare calm voice, is the first one to say the words out loud. Four words. Simon Blane is dead. I don’t react when they remove a small packet of cocaine from my bag. I see it happen, register it, knowing that the drugs aren’t mine. Still, I don’t react. I’ve got no will to protest. I’m drowning here.

Come and take me away, Scott. Come and get me out of here. Mummy is in a lot of trouble.

A female officer in uniform stands in front of me. “What happened?” says the woman. “Can you hear me? What happened?”

My voice is detached. Sounds like it’s coming from another part of the room.

“Molly Morrison.”

The woman’s face floats towards me. Something she’s wearing, her shirt or trousers or something for God’s sake, make a creaking noise when she moves. It’s like suddenly I’m sensitive to every little thing. Sight, sound, taste. Senses heightened. I’m alive with terror. She looks at me like I’m an ornament that started talking. She glances at one of her colleagues, then she’s back on me. I see a look of compassion in her eyes. I want it to be compassion.

“Excuse me?”

“Molly Morrison,” I repeat.

“Molly Morrison? Who’s that?”

I swallow hard, my saliva bitter and thick. Feels like it’s coming back up on me. “She was at the awards last night. At the party. She gave him…Simon…the cocaine. She must have put some of it in my bag. It’s not mine. It’s not, I swear.”

“The drugs aren’t yours?” the woman asks. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“She set me up.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she hates me.”

It feels like there’s a sharp rock wedged in my throat. Despite this, I talk, telling the woman about Molly and how she came back into my life, about how she kept showing up, harassing me, knocking on the door and running away, the dog crate incident and how she was angry because I rejected her as a friend. It sounds plausible. Disfigured teacher’s pet wants revenge on the popular girl.

I skip the part where we used Molly to get rid of the neighbours.

I have no idea how much time passes before the female officer comes back to me. By this point, I’m sitting on the bed, close to the corpse of Simon Blane. No one’s covered him up. No one’s doing anything about the smell. They’re not even opening a window to let fresh air in. I’m flanked by two burly male officers on their feet and there’s a fly buzzing around the room, summoned by the reek of decaying flesh. The woman, whose name I didn’t catch, is standing over me. A probing look on her face.

“Molly Morrison? That’s who you claim set you up.”

I nod.

“Yes.”

“And you say this Molly Morrison is someone you went to school with?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure she was at the ceremony last night, Gemma?”

“Oh my God…yes.”

The officer exchanges a what-the-hell look with her colleagues. It cuts hard. Why are they so cold with me? Why so stern? Look at my award over there on the chair and tell me I’m a bad person. That’s my award. Community Impact. I’m a local hero…with cocaine in her bag and a dead body on the bed.

The woman fixes me with a hard stare. “Sorry. You’re going to have to do better than that, Gemma.”

I look at her unforgiving expression. From where I’m sitting on the bed, she towers over me like a giant.

“What do you mean?”

I laugh out loud before she can answer. Laughter, holy shit. Shrill, manic laughter. I don’t know where it comes from. An involuntary gesture born of stress, I suppose. I laugh and slap my knee like an idiot. “Ah right, I know what’s coming next. Don’t bother, I already know what’s coming next. What you’re going to say.”

“What’s coming next?” she asks. “Please, tell me.”

“This is the part where you tell me that Molly Morrison doesn’t exist. Right? That my son’s death drove me crazy, yes? I imagined her and I’m putting the blame on the Molly part of me because the Gemma part can’t cope with my son being murdered in a classroom. Right? Because I’m a psycho. Split personality, that it?”

The officer shakes her head.

“Wrong.”

“What then?”

“I believe you went to school with Molly Morrison,” she says. “In fact, I know you did. That part checks out alright.”

“Of course it does. So, did you find her?”

Her brown eyes skip back and forth between me and the bloated corpse that used to be Simon Blane.

“No.”

“No?”

Her voice cracks like a whip.

“Molly Morrison is dead.”

I go numb except for a strange tingling sensation in my feet. The numbness passes, leaving an intolerable onslaught of cold from head to toe. My shoulders shake first. It spreads to the rest of my body.

“That’s not true,” I say in a shuddery voice.

“I’m afraid it is true.”

“When? When did she die?”

“She died over twenty years ago, Gemma.”

A sort of blackness takes over. It’s only later, after waking up in the back of a police car, handcuffed and informed of my hysterics in the hotel room, kicking, screaming and lashing out, that I remember what they said. Molly Morrison is dead. She’s been dead for decades.

I flop into the backseat of the car, a screaming headache and the city outside melting into a shimmering blur of coloured lights. The smell of fresh corpse is everywhere. Where did they put him? I imagine Simon Blane stuffed into the boot of the car, stiff and decomposing. That hungry grin, the leg still shuddering. One last night of passion, waiting to live in my nightmares.

I close my eyes.

Oh Scott.

Mummy is in SO MUCH trouble.

THE OPPORTUNITY

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FIVE

“What the ACTUAL…fuuuu?”

Kat winces at both the sound and suddenness of Sheree’s voice in the work trailer. It sounds like someone strangling a seagull into a microphone but Sheree, God love her, doesn’t seem concerned about shattering the silence. A silence that Kat, up until that moment, had been enjoying to the point of dozing off.

“What the hell?” Kat asks, sitting up. “Are we being robbed?”

Sheree takes her eyes off the newspaper. Glances over at Kat. “Sorry. Am I being loud?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Kat points at the crumpled Daily whatever in Sheree’s hands.

“What’s going on?”

Sheree lowers the newspaper onto her lap. Her face wrinkles in disgust and Kat wonders if there’s a dead rat stuck to the inside pages. “Oh, it’s nothing. Well, not nothing. Just more information about that sick bastard who walked into the primary school and killed a teacher and four children.”

“Oh, right.”

“They’ve named him.”

“Hmm.”

“James Grant,” Sheree says. Then she presses a finger to her lips. “Oh no. I shouldn’t even say his name, should I? We don’t want to make these people famous.”

“No one’s listening, Sheree.”

“You did hear about the killings, didn’t you?”

Kat leans back in her chair, clasping her hands and missing the silence like an old friend. “I don’t watch the news.”

Sheree makes a snorting noise. “But you did hear? Everyone heard about this. He walked into a school and killed a teacher and some kids.”

“I heard.”

Kat knows the bare bones of the story. It was all over every form of news for days, therefore hard to avoid. A massacre at a primary school. Creep walked in, killed teacher and four kids. Creep had a list, was going to kill others but got caught and didn’t have the balls to take himself out. A rare school massacre that wasn’t in America. Kat didn’t spend too much time with it because the news will drive her crazy if she lets it in. She tried being informed about global events once. It was a horrifying mistake.

“Everyone who knew this guy said he was a nutcase,” Sheree says. “So why didn’t they do anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t we try and stop these things before they happen?”

“Not every nutjob is a mass murderer.”

Sheree sighs and drops the paper on the desk. A shake of the head, then she slides it down towards Kat.

“I don’t want it,” Kat says.

Sheree studies her reflection in the mirror with an absent look. “It’s not good to be uninformed, Katherine.”

“Don’t call me Katherine.”

“This is local news,” Sheree says, ignoring Kat’s little grumble. “You need to know what’s going on around here. Especially that sort of news.”

“Why?”

No answer.

Kat curses under her breath, hoping Sheree will hear it. Then she looks at the newspaper, lying open at the double page spread about the killer. Yep, who’d have guessed? A miserable-looking white dude, a picture-postcard incel martyr with an axe to grind. Creep, she thinks. He should’ve done the world a favour and bumped himself off before the police grabbed him. Below the killer’s photograph, as if less important, the faces of the dead children and their teacher look up at her. Kat’s stomach clenches but she doesn’t look away.

“Like seriously,” Sheree says. “The signs were there. This stuff shouldn’t be happening anymore. It’s totally preventable.”

“Hmm.”

Kat finds herself skimming a few paragraphs. The worst of the details have clearly been left out. The omission is worse in a way, leaving room for the reader’s imagination to fill in the blanks and conjure up their own nightmarish version of the incident. The psycho went ballistic with a knife in his old primary school, killing a teacher who pissed him off years ago and taking out some kids with her. More kids got injured. Jesus, she should feel something more than, yeah it’s horrible but it happens.

Kat closes her eyes, retreating into darkness. It’s been a long day on set. The cleaners will be coming in soon now that the last of the cast, extras and stunt doubles have left for the day. Wigs removed, makeup scraped off. Nice bunch, Kat thought about the cast of the film, a contemporary drama or whatever it’s being labelled. Everyone is polite, everyone says thank you. But for the makeup team, the work has been tame. Nothing even remotely challenging. Still, it’s a decent payday for Kat and Sheree’s fledgling business, Indigo, which is slowly gaining a solid reputation in the local film and TV industry.

Kat and Sheree, along with a couple of makeup assistants, have been on their feet for twelve hours straight. No allocated lunch break. Lunch is available of course, and the instructions from the higher-ups are to get lunch ‘at their discretion.’ Which means sneaking off to the catering bus at the first opportunity to grab a plate of something alongside the extras and cast members. Sometimes that’s easier said than done.

All they have left to do now is wait for the cleaners. Hand the keys over so the cleaners can lock up after themselves.

“It’s just one thing after another,” Sheree says, pointing at the newspaper. “It’s bloody depressing.”

Kat groans. “No one’s making you read this stuff, are they? Do you honestly think that tabloid rag is informing you about anything? Newspapers have owners, owners have agendas. Same with all the websites and the social media and whatevers. Besides, have you seen the world lately? What’s so great about being informed?”

Sheree draws an offended gasp. “Katherine, ignorance isn’t bliss.”

“It’s our only shot at bliss.”

Sheree makes a tut-tutting noise. “Not for me. I’ve got a husband and three children and I want to know what’s going on in the world.”

“That’s what’s going on,” Kat says, stabbing her index finger off the newspaper. She gives it three hard taps. “And let me tell you something else. You were in a perfectly good mood until you picked up that paper.”

“Where are those cleaners?” Sheree asks.

“Don’t know.”

They sit through a frosty stalemate. Both tired, both hungry and ready for home.

Kat’s the one staring at her reflection in the long, well-lit mirror. Her pixie-like features are still youthful but buried deep behind those chestnut eyes is a woman older than her mid-forties. She clings to the dress code of her youth. Everything black: the skinny jeans, chunky trainers, t-shirt and studded belt. Her long hair, tied back into a ponytail for work, has been dyed jet black for as long as she can remember.

She looks away. Even the newspaper is easier to look at.

“Are you still dating that gangster?” Sheree asks.

Kat is no longer taken aback by Sheree’s boldness. The woman was born with zero filter and that’s why Kat loves her.

“I’m not dating anyone.”

“Keep your hair on,” Sheree says with a smirk. She glances at her watch. “Oh c’mon. Where are those cleaners? You know we should just get a spare key cut and leave a set with them. Just during production. We’ll get it back at the end. Saves us waiting around for them every night to do a handover. What do you think?”

Silence.

“Kat?”

Kat hears her name but it’s a call from the void. She doesn’t even register it as Sheree’s voice. Something in the newspaper article has caught her eye. Two words. A name that’s printed in the main body of the article. Two words that force her to grab the paper off the table and bring it so close to her face that she can smell the ink. She speed-reads. There’s a bunch of quotes from people who knew the dead teacher and kids, alongside more quotes from friends and direct family members. It’s what you’d expect. Nice words, sad words, agonising words about what the deceased meant to them, about how things will never be the same again. It’s a hard read but there’s one name in all of this, one name that stands out.

Gemma Taylor.

“Kat?” Sheree says in a voice that beams in from another planet. “Can I have the paper back please?”

Gemma Taylor, 46 and a local teacher, lost her son, Scott in the attack…

46.

Kat doesn’t skim this time. She reads slowly, her heart racing. Gemma Taylor is the mother of Scott Taylor, one of the victims. There are no pictures of the parents. Kat thumbs through the rest of the pages and finds them bloated with news about the American President’s visit to the UK later this month, about the protests involved and blah-blah. Apart from that, celebrity gossip, ads and the usual shite.

Forty-six.

She would be forty-six.

“KATHERINE?”

Kat looks at Sheree like she just materialised out of thin air. “What’s wrong? Do you hear the cleaners?”

“The paper?”

“What about it?”

“Can I have it back please?”

“Oh, right.” There’s a fluttering noise as she closes the sheets over in a hurry. Her hands are trembling. It’s harder work than it should be. “Umm, actually…do you think I could keep it?”

“Eh?”

“Can I keep the paper?”

Sheree scrunches up her face, looks at the paper then at Kat. “Have you run out of toilet paper at home or something?”

“Just taking your advice. Trying to stay informed.”

“Well,” Sheree says. “That’s all very nice but I was going to take that particular paper home to Amir. He likes to read it after dinner with his–”

“Pipe and slippers?”

Kat smiles but she’s on the edge of her seat, feet twitching on the blocks, ready to get the hell out of this trailer and back to the flat. She’s got some googling to do. “Do you mind?”

Sheree shakes her head. “Go ahead. I’ll grab another one on the way home.”

Kat rolls the paper into a tube. Holds it up. “Thanks. You’re a star.”

“You’re buying the next one,” Sheree says.

“Will do.”

“A tabloid rag, mind. I want you blushing when you go to the counter to pay for it.”

Kat gives a distracted nod as she gets to her feet. “I’ll use the self-service checkouts.”

“Smart arse. Wait…sounds like the cleaners, right?”

“Right.”

“About time.”

Sheree stands up and threads her arms through the sleeves of her coat. She grabs a lint roller off the table and rolls it off the front. “Pizza night for me and Amir tonight. The kids are with his sister. You want to share an Uber?”

“I’ve got the car.”

“Cool. Wanna give me a lift in return for stealing my paper?”

Kat pulls a face. “That would take me, what? Thirty minutes out of my way. Then thirty minutes back. Love you, but no.”

Sheree sniggers, turning off some of the bigger desk lights to preserve the bulbs. “I was only joking.”

“No you weren’t.”

Kat grabs her faux studded leather jacket off the hook. Black, of course. She grabs the newspaper off the counter and waves to Sheree at the door. “Say hi to Amir and the kids for me. Enjoy pizza night and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sheree waves back as she gathers the last of her things off the counter.

“Bright and early.”

“Bright and early!”

Kat’s somewhere in between a walk and a jog as she leaves the trailer, passing the incoming cleaners on her way. She tells them that Sheree has the keys, then hurries towards the gate. There are some rushed goodbyes to the security staff staying on site overnight to guard the set. She’s only a short walk from the car park but it can’t wait. In the end, she stops at the gate, unrolls the paper and finds the name again.

Gemma Taylor.

It’s her.

Somehow, without seeing a photograph, Kat knows it’s her.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

“You’re quiet tonight,” Iain says, sitting up in bed.

Kat’s sitting up, the sheets pulled over her chest. Not so much to protect her modesty but rather to protect her from a chill that seems to permanently haunt the flat. Doesn’t matter how high she blasts the radiators, the damn place is always cold. She should really make an effort, put some rugs down to insulate the floor. Truth is she can’t be bothered. Maybe she’s just getting used to it being freezing all the time. Her back leans against the headboard which feels like a block of ice.

“Didn’t realise you came here for the conversation.”

Iain reaches for the cigarettes on the bedside table. “Something on your mind?”

“Nope.”

Kat and Iain. This is their relationship, not cosy, not warm. Certainly not boyfriend and girlfriend and even lovers would be a stretch of the imagination because that would imply the presence of love. Two people who come and go out of each other’s lives as it pleases them. Who use each other, often at short notice. Shallow. Convenient. Iain isn’t the sort of man you bring home to meet mother and yet he’s exactly the type of man that Kat wants. In small doses.

He'll leave after he’s smoked that cigarette down to the butt. Iain smokes a lot, like someone born decades before all the health warnings. Smoking every cigarette like it’s his last one, which in his line of work, it might be.

It’s been like this for nearly a year and a half. Kat doesn’t know much about Iain except that he’s involved in organised crime, something that’s been getting a lot of attention in the news with gang feuds flaring up in both Glasgow and Edinburgh. Kat doesn’t ask. Likewise, Iain doesn’t ask what famous face Kat might have painted at work that day. He’s a quiet man, a neat man who takes care of himself, who doesn’t drink and if he’s to be believed, visits his parents every Friday night for a family dinner and to play with his nieces. What matters to Kat is that Iain doesn’t expect her to be loyal or wash his clothes or to have dinner ready whenever he drops by her flat. The relationship is on autopilot and has been ever since they met in a southside pub and hooked up. Whatever this is, it works.

Kat can’t help herself. She leans over the side of the bed and picks Sheree’s newspaper up off the dusty wooden floor. She unfolds it and the paper crackles. It sits open at the story about the school massacre.

Iain glances at the paper.

“You read newspapers now?”

“I don’t.”

“Looks like you do.”

“Special circumstances.”

Kat takes one of Iain’s cigarettes out the pack and lights up. She does it without thinking, never taking her eyes off the double spread. She’s lost count of how many times she’s read the article since bringing Sheree’s paper back from work. She keeps thinking there’s some little detail in there she might have missed. A golden crumb.

Iain watches as she exhales smoke across the room. “Thought you’d quit.”

“I have.”

“Righty-ho.”

She flicks the newspaper, drawing his attention to the article. “Heard about that, did you?”

“Aye.”

“And?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Kat shrugs, then points to the block of text that caught her eye in the trailer. “You see that name?”

Iain strokes his clean-shaven chin, the cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. A faint nod. “Aye.”

“Say it.”

“Gemma Taylor.”

Kat stares at the paper.

“I never told you what happened to my sister,” she says.

Iain flicks ash into the empty glass on the bedside table. A hint of curiosity in his eyes. “Never told me you had a sister.”

She nods.

“Had?” Iain asks.

“Aye.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

It’s one of the few times, even after all these years, that she’s said it out loud to another person. Feels like a fresh slap in the face every time.

She stabs a finger off the paper. Hitting the name that leapt out at her in the trailer. “Her…she was the worst of them.”

Iain leans back against the headboard, picks up the paper and skims the article. His face shows no emotion. “Gemma Taylor?”

“Aye.”

“She was the worst of what?” Iain asks.

“The monsters.”

Anyone else would be spitting out questions by now. Probing for more information but not Iain. That’s why he’s here. That’s why Kat opens the door for him and why that first night turned into a second night and a third.

“It’s like the universe just handed her to me.”

Iain waits before finally speaking.

“You sure it’s the same person? Maybe it’s a married name.”

“I know how to use Google.”

“Oh, right. You’ve been busy then?”

“She’s married but she kept her surname,” Kat says. “She’s an English teacher at a secondary school, near the primary school where it happened. I’ve seen the LinkedIn photos. The school website. It’s her. No doubt about it.”

“Glad we got that sorted,” Iain says.

He pushes back the sheets. Swings his skinny pale legs over the side of the bed. One last lung-busting inhale, then he stubs out the cigarette and drops it into the empty glass. He reaches for his trousers, neatly folded on the chair. Blows smoke towards the ceiling. Slips into his underwear, trousers then lifts his plain white shirt off the chair. He stands up, turning to face Kat while he buttons up.

“Her kid was killed?” he asks.

“That’s right.”

Iain points to the paper. “Isn’t that enough for anyone?”

Kat stubs out the cigarette, not even half-smoked. She glares at him. “What’s that got to do with my sister?”

Iain tucks his shirt in at the waist. Buckles up the belt and puts his suit jacket on. Now he looks like a geography teacher.

“You’re thinking about doing something, aren’t you?”

“Something?” Kat asks. “Like what?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good to see you again, Kat.”

Iain lets himself out, leaving Kat alone in the chilly bedroom. She closes her eyes, not to sleep but to let the memories back in. To go back to the dark place.

A speeding car, always a speeding car. A hasty arrival at her sister’s flat, knowing that something terrible had happened in that building. A jump back in time to when Molly, young, pink and pretty, came home from school in tears. The light in her eyes gone, something having snapped inside her. Mum and Dad weren’t home that day so there was only Kat to hold Molly as they sat on the kitchen floor, two sisters with their backs pressed up against the wall. Took nearly an hour for Molly to open up, to tell her what happened that day and even then it only came out in broken pieces. Half words and grunts. Something about a dog crate. How they’d tricked her. Trapped her. Laughed at her.

Four girls, four monsters. They even took photos. The photos were printed, blown up and posted all over town. Everyone would see Molly sitting in a puddle of her own urine. Screaming. Crying.

Gemma Taylor was the ringleader.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SEVEN

A light rain falls on Kat as she walks through the cemetery gate. It’s not unpleasant. Not cold. More like a soft whisper in the ear, reassuring. A reminder of her teenage years when rainy days came like a friend. When she dreaded the sun.

She’s come here straight from another long day at work. A forty-minute drive northeast of the city centre. Familiar roads. Distant hills and scenery that made Kat feel like she was driving back in time. This is after a sleepless night of staring at the ceiling, feeling the darkness stirring inside her. All the memories: the speeding car, the arrival at her sister’s flat and always the sudden leap back to the kitchen floor of their childhood home with Molly sobbing on her shoulder. Dog crate. Monsters. Photos all over town.

Don’t shit your pants, Molly.

She walks among the graves. There’s an earthy scent in the air that evokes a forest floor. Moody clouds linger, bleak and threatening.

She finds Molly’s grave without too much fuss. It’s a simple headstone and Kat kneels down and starts picking at a cluster of weeds choking the base.

“Sorry,” she says.

She pulls her jacket sleeve over her hand. Wipes dirt and water off the front of the headstone. When that’s done, her fingers trace the words carved into the rock.

Molly Morrison.

1977-2002

Beloved daughter and sister

There used to be a photo of Molly on the grave. Her parents put it there after the funeral. It was classic Molly, peak Molly. Bright-eyed, smiling and pink. Thank God they took it down after a while.

Satisfied with her brief tidying, Kat straightens up and steps off the grass. Looks like she’s alone in the cemetery. Hard to tell as the light starts to fade. Rolling hills offer pleasant views, even on grey days like this one. The rustle of leaves is constant on the outskirts of the cemetery wall where the trees stand watch. Old trees, their bark covered in lichen. The rain picks up again, making Kat wish she had a hood to put up.

What do you say to the dead?

She wants to feel Molly’s presence in this place. Above ground, not down there in the box. They weren’t close when Molly died. They weren’t fighting either; it was like their sisterhood had cooled. Another thing for Kat to feel guilty about but Molly wasn’t close with anyone at that point. She was a closed door.

Kat reaches into her coat pocket. She takes out the double spread from Sheree’s newspaper and shows it to the grave as if the stone has eyes. The drizzle makes short work of it. It folds over, blurring the ink and Gemma’s name is quickly illegible.

“Fuck,” she says, shoving the soggy sheet back in her pocket.

It’s taking over now. The thought of action. Something bigger than herself has revealed Gemma Taylor’s whereabouts for a reason. Wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. It’s all she can think about. She’d functioned well enough in the makeup trailer, chatting to crew and extras, doing her best to focus on the work and not look at the clock. Just going through the motions. Sheree was both a blessing and a curse, filling in all the awkward silences with her God-given gift of the gab. Small talk. Kids, weather, politics and by the latter half of the day, it was excruciating.

This is why she doesn’t come here. That gnawing sense of helplessness. Kat hates thinking about their final meeting, an accidental bumping into one another at the local supermarket. Nothing bad happened. Nothing happened at all. In fact, Molly looked better than she’d looked in a long time. Within five days, she was gone. There were no signs. Their last exchange had been small talk.

Everyone said it was her failed relationships with men. Or maybe a lack of professional fulfilment, a sense of purposelessness that did her in. Kat knew better. Those four monsters, they didn’t just destroy Molly. They destroyed the family. Nothing was ever the same.

The rain eases off. In its absence, an eerie silence drifts across the cemetery.

“I’ve made a decision,” she says.

It feels weird talking to a headstone. To the trees. To the dead and whatever else might be listening from the shadows. But she does it anyway. It’ll only feel real if she says it out loud.

“I’m going after her.”

Kat stands there, waiting for something to acknowledge her words. Some kind of response. A reaction from whatever force sent that newspaper and that name into her life. Sight, sound, whatever. But there’s nothing. She pulls the zip on her coat up to the neck and wipes a sheet of rainwater off her forehead. At the same time, she shudders as a droplet flees down the back of her neck.

Kat walks away. Then she stops, turns back and looks at her sister’s grave. A stone. A marker. A reminder that Molly once lived. The sheer loneliness of where Kat’s big sister ended up lands like a sucker punch to the stomach. With darkness on its way, it’s even more devastating.

Kat hurries down the damp and narrow path towards the gate.

Pink roses.

Molly’s favourite.

“I’ll bring them next time,” she says without looking back.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

How to do it?

That’s the question that haunts Kat for the next few days.

What scares her the most, more than the lack of inspiration, is that the anger will go away. That it’ll sink back inside her, compartmentalise itself, and that she’ll lose her nerve. Yeah, maybe it was the failed relationships. The shitty jobs. No hope. That can’t happen. The universe has dropped Gemma Taylor right in front of her. It’s a gift. To do nothing is to betray the gift.

Her work in the makeup trailer does little to take her mind off things. She goes through the routine. Eat, sleep and work. Wait for lightning to strike. Three days of that before Iain comes around to break up the routine. He follows her into the bedroom and the sex is good but it doesn’t take Kat’s mind off things for long.

“What are you going to do?” Iain asks, sitting up in bed.

Cigarettes and small talk. This is the routine. Then Iain will vanish into the night.

“About what?”

A rare smile from Iain. He doesn’t push and they smoke in silence. Kat’s bedside lamp, its tired shade fraying at the edges, casts a dull orangey-red glow around the room. Curtains closed. The occasional hum of traffic passing by on the street below.

Iain slips out of bed and starts putting his clothes on.

“I know when someone is preoccupied,” he says. He points two fingers to his eyes. “It’s right here.”

Kat blows a ring of smoke at him. “If you say so.”

“It’s that woman, isn’t it? The one you blame for your sister. You’re still thinking about it.”

“About what?”

“About revenge.”

“Oh,” Kat says, turning her eyes to the wall. “Thanks for letting me know.”

That woman. It’s hard to even think of Gemma Taylor as a grown woman in her late forties. Harder still to think of her as a grieving mother, a victim, someone to be pitied. To Kat, she’s still the tall girl with the well-defined cheekbones, walking up and down the school corridor with an almost ethereal arrogance. Her and the little gang that followed. The boys loved them. Other girls wanted to be them or at least be tolerated by them.

Monsters.

Iain threads his arms through the sleeves of a white shirt that looks like it just came out of the packet. Then he sits down, picks up his shoes and unknots the laces.

“Gemma Taylor,” he says. “You’re not going to leave it, are you?”

“Ever have a sister?” Kat asks.

“Nope.”

“What about a brother?”

“Aye.”

Iain stops tying his laces and shoves a hand into his pocket. He pulls out a small square of lined paper with a deckled edge. Walks over. Puts it down on the bed beside Kat.

“What’s that?” Kat asks.

“For you.”

Iain’s back to tying his laces. “I’ve always been able to read people. And I know you’re not going to leave it, are you?”

“Would you?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“School was a long time ago,” Iain says with a subtle shrug of the shoulders. “Didn’t your sister die in her early twenties?”

Kat feels a pinprick of irritation. She knows what’s coming.

“So what?”

“Didn’t something else happen? Something that made her do it?”

“The girls who tortured her,” Kat says, ignoring the question. “They don’t even know she’s dead. How is that fair?”

Iain is a statue sitting at the side of the bed. He points at the slip of paper.

“Her address.”

Kat feels a pinch of excitement. She looks at the sheet, at the words and numbers written in black ink. Neat handwriting. Could be a woman’s handwriting.

“And there was me thinking you didn’t care,” she says.

There’s no hint of emotion in Iain’s eyes. His head looks like it’s been carved out of granite. “What are you going to do?”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t know.”

“Really?”

“It’s the truth.”

“But you’re going to do something?”

Kat gives a brief nod and that’s the last exchange before Iain lets himself out of the flat. He’s a ghost, closing the door, exiting without making a sound. Kat waits a minute before she picks up the piece of paper. Reads the address. Gemma doesn’t live too far away. She’s in the suburbs, northeast of the city, not far from where Molly is buried.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE

Filming wraps at the end of the week and Sheree begs Kat to come to the cast and crew party. Once again, they’re sitting in the trailer waiting for the cleaners. Tomorrow morning, Sheree and her husband Amir will drive the trailer off the set for good.

“I already told you,” Kat says. “I’m not in a party mood.”

“Why not?” Sheree asks, chewing walnuts from a giant bag that’s been sitting on the counter for the past week. She’s trying to get rid of the last of them before the cleaners arrive. “We’ve bloody earned it mate. We did a good job here.”

“I know.”

“Right. So we celebrate?”

“You celebrate.”

Sheree gives up on the walnuts. The bag is far from finished as she drops it on the counter and seals it shut. She flops into a chair and starts fidgeting with her hair in the mirror.

“C’mon,” she says. “I’ve got a babysitter in. Amir is coming and I want to go wild but it won’t be the same if I don’t have my partner-in-crime with me.”

“Isn’t Amir your partner-in-crime?”

Sheree almost chokes on the last crumbs of walnut. She swallows, then doubles over with sudden laughter. “Amir? You’re kidding, right? He’ll want to go home as soon as he arrives. Plus, he’s staying sober so he can get up early and drive the trailer out of here tomorrow. I need someone to get wasted with. That someone honey…is you.”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“When have you ever turned down a wrap party?”

“Got plans,” Kat says, standing up and twirling her car key around her finger. She can hear the cleaners walking across the lot. Talking. They’re always talking.

“Like what?” Sheree asks.

“What?”

“What plans do you have?”

Click. The door opens and Marjorie, chief cleaner, waves to signal their arrival. Kat almost hugs her. Instead, a quick thank you is exchanged. Then Kat grabs her bag off the counter, gives Sheree a hurried embrace and kiss on the cheek, and then hurries towards the gate and exit. Fast feet. The site is busy. A lot of bodies and vehicles moving back and forth. Equipment being packed up and placed in storage or moved off the site. It’s been a pleasant shoot. Back when she first started working on film and TV shoots, Kat used to make a point of asking the production team the broadcast date so she could sit back and enjoy the fruits of her labour. She stopped doing that ages ago. Once the job’s done, it’s done. Sheree always gives her the lowdown anyway.

Out of nowhere, her mother’s voice in her ear. Frantic. Frail.

“She’s not picking up the phone, Katherine. Can you go around and check on her? You’ll get there so much quicker than we can.”

Kat drives for a solid hour, no destination in mind. The chaos of the final day on set recedes into memory. As do all the small dramas, the problems that popped up during the shoot. The entire experience will have deleted itself by tomorrow and Kat will be free to move on. There’s no hook-up with Iain later and she can’t bring herself to go home because of the lack of inspiration in her flat. It’s depressing. She’s lived there for seven years, leaving no trace of her personality within those four walls. She lives like someone who might have to flee the country at short notice.

The first move against Gemma is the all-important move. If that fails, everything fails. She’s already Google mapped Gemma’s house. Looked at it on street view, hoping there might be the blurred-out image of a woman standing on the pavement or driveway. A woman that could be Gemma.

Right now, she’s got nothing. A desert instead of inspiration. But she’s not too worried, at least not yet.

Something will come to her.

The car glides along the blackened asphalt. Streetlights shimmer on the edge of the road, bright and hypnotic. Eventually, Kat drives home, finds a parking space outside the flat and turns off the engine. There’s a brief whirring noise as the car shuts down for the night. She grabs her phone off the dash mount, opens Google and reads a dozen articles about the school attack. She devours every word. She’s read most of the articles before and has conjured up a decent timeline of what happened leading up to the attack and same with the aftermath. She tries to imagine the state of the parents. That day, the following day. The week after. It’d be impossible if she hadn’t also lost someone early.

Kat sits in the dark. She’s falling asleep in the driver’s seat when the answer comes.

She has to become someone who’s suffered like Gemma. Someone who knows pain, not just any old pain but the sort of pain that Gemma is feeling now. That’s how they’ll bond. Over grief. Over tragedy. Shared suffering is the key. Kat has never been a mother but can she convince Gemma that she’s not only a mother but a grieving one?

She has no choice. She has to make it work.

That’s her way in.

CHAPTER

FORTY

This is the third hairstyle she’s experimented with. It’s ugly, horrific. The best one yet.

Kat looks at her reflection in the spare room mirror, unsure whether to laugh or pour petrol over her head and light a match.

“Oh God,” she says.

It’s mumsy. It’s mousy. It’s everything she’s not but that’s the point. To disappear behind the mask of a grieving mother. Even so, Kat will never get used to the dyed reddish-brown hair, cut to shoulder length. Long fringe. Looks like she’s wearing a helmet. She spent the previous Saturday browsing mainstream shopping malls for the right clothes and she’s testing out an orange sweater with jeans and a pair of second-hand New Balance trainers. All the clothes she’s picked up are a million miles away from her own preferences. She’s bright. She’s colourful. She looks almost approachable.

“Who are you?” she whispers to the reflection.

The clothes are only the beginning. There’s an entire character to build but that’s the commitment required if she’s going to pull it off. Kat almost became an actor before realising that her talent was in makeup and that it was easier to pay the bills that way. When she was a teenager, Kat would raid her mother’s makeup drawer and Molly would happily let her little sister go to town on her face and hair. Molly was the sister who liked to dress up. Molly was the one who bugged their mum to get the girls some makeup of their own and oh boy, the pink lipstick, she loved that. Loved it to the point of obsession.

Kat studies her reflection. There was always something about acting that she found comforting. About disappearing into someone else’s skin.

But can she still do it?

The first big test comes tonight.

The meeting takes place in a small community centre in the southside of Glasgow. Kat drives there, sweaty palms clamped to the steering wheel. She’s got butterflies in her stomach and a tightening sensation in her throat. Every red light is a chance to turn back. Somehow, she presses on and parks in a deserted supermarket car park before making the five-minute walk to the community centre.

On the way, Kat experiments with a walk to match her disguise. Her own walk, according to Sheree, is the walk of someone coming over to punch you in the face. That won’t work so she tries an older, tentative stroll. A walk slowed by grief. It feels awkward and yet everything she tries is too casual or too forced. Kat gives up on the walk by the time she reaches the entrance to the community centre. No point in trying to do too much too soon. Everything will come later as she further develops the character.

She looks at the poster on the front door.

Bereaved Hearts.

Wednesdays (first of every month) 6pm. All welcome.

Kat squeezes down on the car key, wincing as the metal grooves bite her skin. She walks into the meeting and it hits her like a sledgehammer. Grief. The sheer weight of grief. All the light sucked out of the room. A stale, musty smell that seeps up from the carpet. God help me, she thinks. All those faces with their haunted eyes. The tired smiles greeting her as she walks into a plain, carpeted room with a small window. A few bookshelves, paintings on the wall and along with the lingering mustiness, a hint of cleaning chemicals in the air, like someone just blitzed the place five minutes ago.

It’s the visual cliché of chairs formed in a circle. With too many eyeballs on her, Kat resists the urge to leave. She pulls a chair back and sits down, feeling every inch the imposter. This feels blasphemous but she reminds herself it’s for Molly.

Breathe it in, she tells herself. Big picture thinking.

The meeting begins and Kat sits with her hands clasped, listening to those in the room who choose to speak about lost loved ones and the impact on their lives. The flow is effortless. The willingness to talk, which she supposes is what they come here for. To get it out. Maybe no one else in their everyday life wants to listen anymore and this, a roomful of strangers, is as good as it gets. Some of the grief is raw. It comes with tears and anger. Some of it is old and hardened, manifested through hollow eyes and slumped postures.

This is wrong, Kat thinks.

There’s a small radiator in the corner of the room and she wonders if someone has turned it up to full. Droplets of sweat gather on the back of her neck. Trapped in this circle of grief, she catches her reflection in the window. The disguise takes her by surprise. How does this help? How does coming to a place like this help? And yet it does. At least, it has to. It’s not just sadness that she’s here to soak up. There’s anger too and that’s what Kat relates to because when she thinks about what happened to Molly the first thing she feels is anger. It goes even further. Her sister’s untimely death caused so much trauma that Kat began to suffer blackouts. Rage-induced blackouts that took her outside herself. She carried so much hatred for the monsters that it felt like she would go mad. But she had to get on with life. She’s got a little more control over it these days but it’s never gone away. Never will go away. The grief, the anger, the blackouts. It’s part of who she is.

The meeting drags on, the room gets hotter.

Martina, the group leader, is softly-spoken with a Cork accent. She has kind eyes and Kat finds herself ready to open up when Martina encourages her. Maybe it’s the heat melting her resistance. But she’s open to talking.

“Tell us what brought you here,” Martina says, sitting upright with clasped hands. Kat sees the hint of a tattoo creeping up Martina’s wrist, most of the design lost under the sleeve of a thick jumper. “Just tell it any way you want. But there’s no pressure, Rayna.”

Rayna.

It was the first name Kat could think of when someone asked. One of the leads on the TV show she just finished working on was called Rayna. Really, what a fucking oversight. She went to all the effort of hair and clothes and even a walk, and yet forgot to give herself a name.

Martina leans forward in her chair. Her big, mannish hands unclasp as she speaks in that gentle but persuasive tone. “Take your time. You’re with friends here.”

Kat nods and experiences the rare sensation of blushing. A roomful of strangers and everyone keeps saying it’s okay to talk, it’s good to talk and let it all out. Where was that option twenty years ago after she walked into Molly’s flat and found her sister, bug-eyed and purple, hanging at the end of a rope?

All the faces in the room melt into a blurry background. The musty odour, the chemicals, all gone.

She clears her throat. Stares at the floor, waiting for the blushing to pass.

“Molly, my daughter was bullied at school.”

She looks up, glancing around the circle. They nod, some of them. Others in the Bereaved Hearts group look at the floor, at their feet, at the drab paintings on the wall. Are they listening? Are they waiting to talk?

“She was the teacher’s pet at school,” Kat says. “Pretty in a barbie doll kind of way. A girly-girl, socially a bit awkward and I suppose, easy pickings for the bullies.”

Kat pauses, leaving a painful silence. This is weird. She’s never been much of a talker and yet here she is opening up with ease. Come to think of it, she’s never talked about Molly, not really. Who would she talk to? Iain? Her mother? Forget it. They didn’t have that type of relationship before Molly died and it’s the same with her dad. Kat had been so detached from everyone, including Molly, in the lead-up to Molly’s death that she felt like a hypocrite for turning up at the funeral.

Too late, her mother’s eyes had said. Too late to help her now.

“They bullied her for years. Name-calling, shoving, intimidation.”

She pulls at the collar of the orange sweater. Way too thick for this room. For that radiator.

“It was all bad,” she says. “But there was this one thing they did to her after school. One thing that tipped Molly over the edge. She never came back from it. I think something inside just broke.”

Kat pauses.

This is a dream, she tells herself. The alarm is about to go off. You’ll get up. You’ll move around, start doing all the things. Painting faces. Styling hair. Pushing back the rage, pushing it deep down because bad things happen when it comes out. You know what I’m talking about.

“Molly was terrified of dogs. Big dogs more than anything. German Shepherds, Dobermans, Rottweilers. She was claustrophobic too. Confined spaces, even being in a lift, freaked her out.”

More sympathetic nods around the circle.

Her breath quickens. They’re all looking at her now. No longer staring at the floor, at the wall, at their fingernails.

“Gemma, Julia, Ash and Thea.”

Their names come out of her mouth like a hiss.

“They made her feel wanted. Took her back to a house and led her into the garage. All smiles, you know? Said they wanted to show her DVDs or something. It was planned. That’s how cold and cunning these girls were. They knew all about Molly’s fears so they combined the two into one horrifying experience. Big dogs and claustrophobia. They shoved her into a dog crate with a German Shepherd inside. The dog barked and barked. Molly tried to turn away and they grabbed her. Locked her inside.”

Kat empties her glass of water. She would’ve picked up an extra one on the way in if she’d known how hot it was going to get inside the room. She clears her throat and keeps talking. Her voice remains calm.

“She was kicking and screaming. The other girls were laughing. Just standing there, laughing and taking photos.”

She pulls at the sweater. The urge to scratch is overwhelming.

“Molly peed herself in the crate and had to walk home like that. She told me what happened and we sat on the kitchen floor for what felt like hours. Molly cried and I held her.”

Kat’s pulse is throbbing. She can see Rayna looking back at her in the window. The reflection clear as the night grows darker.

This is wrong, she thinks.

“We made complaints,” she says, “but nothing happened. Not even when the bullies put pictures up all over the school, on noticeboards, lampposts, walls and on the back of cars. Photos of Molly’s terrified face. The damp patch on her skirt.”

Someone across the room whistles in disbelief.

Kat’s stomach clenches. A rush of lightheadedness, a split second of lights out. She has to wrap it up. Get the hell out of here.

“Molly was never the same again. There are some people who say I’m blowing up that one incident, making it out to be bigger than it was. That there were other reasons she–”

She shakes her head, stands up and walks over to the table to get a glass of water. Hands in pockets as she walks, the metal grooves of the key unbearable as she squeezes down. Her mind travels again. This time it’s Molly’s spare key in her hand. The spare key to Molly’s flat. The one with the fluffy elephant keyring.

Speeding car. The engine roars and a big bump. Pounding her fists on Molly’s front door. Sitting on the kitchen floor as a child. Older, distant and yet her mother’s frantic voice down the phone like they’ve been close. “Can you check on her, Katherine?”

Kat sits down at the circle again. She tries sipping the water this time. It’s not nearly cold enough. “Those four girls didn’t give it a second thought. How is that fair?”

She reminds herself that she’s supposed to be talking about a girl. About her daughter. Rayna’s daughter. She’s already taken too many risks by talking. She only came here to soak up the atmosphere and boy did she underestimate what that would feel like.

“That’s all I have to say.”

“Thank you for sharing, Rayna,” Martina says.

There are a few mumbles of thank you from within the circle. Kat stays to the end, listening to everyone who speaks. She drinks five glasses of water, sweat pouring down her back. When it’s over and people start standing up, she hurries out, feeling Martina’s eyes on the back of her head.

She walks to the door.

“Rayna?”

Kat doesn’t stop. She hurries down a narrow corridor with noticeboards and posters on one side of the wall. She doesn’t bother to read them. She stumbles outside, lets out a gasp like someone who’s surfaced after a near-drowning incident. There’s a moment of dizziness. It clears leaving only the desire to escape. A hurried walk past the primary school turns into a run because she’s worried that Martina will try and catch up with her. Talk to her. Try to persuade her, persuade Rayna to come back. To talk some more. Socialise. To stay in that room, breathing in that dead air for longer.

She reaches the supermarket car park.

Her plan is dead in the water. The broken mother act, over before it began. The thought of carrying on after the meeting, feels like ants crawling under her skin.

She balls her hands into fists, doubles over and swallows a scream. The cold night blurs around her, so does the supermarket, the sound of traffic and the rest of this place. A blackout is coming. She wants to punch the wall. She wants to go to Gemma’s house, skip the elaborate plan and do something terrible. Just give in to the rage.

“Fuck,” she says through a frantic exhale.

It will happen. She’ll black out if she doesn’t get her shit together.

Voices in the car park pull her back. Two women pushing a large shopping trolley towards a maroon SUV. They’re talking but one of them might be looking over at Kat. Sure enough, their conversation cuts off. Now they’re both looking at her.

“Are you okay?” one of them asks.

Kat says nothing. She finds her keys in Rayna’s ugly bag, unlocks the car and leaps inside. She starts the engine and backs out of the parking space. She drives past the two women and the SUV, noticing their bewildered expressions. She reaches the road, turns left without indicating. She was supposed to go right.

“Fuck.”

She ruffles her mousy hair and speeds off into the night.

CHAPTER

FORTY-ONE

So many missed calls and texts waiting for Kat when she finally surfaces from her bed. Most of them from Sheree.

She scrolls through the texts. Looks like Sheree was getting frantic at the end there, calling every hour. Texting every half hour. Poor woman. Kat’s lucky the police aren’t knocking on her door. Still, nice to have someone out there worried about her. Nice to know someone’s paying attention. She doesn’t want to become one of those people who die alone at home and months pass before anyone notices. Emergency services breaking into her flat, finding a horror movie prop on the couch.

It’s been several days since the Bereaved Hearts meeting and since then Kat’s checked out from the world. The collapse of her grieving mother plan knocked her sideways. More than she expected. She’s been in bed, her phone switched off. Someone did knock on the door last night but she didn’t answer. Maybe she dreamed it.

Kat skims the messages from Sheree for a second time and then texts back to let her know that she’s okay. Sheree texts back right away, raging at Kat for not getting in touch sooner, and then letting her know that she’s emailed through a work schedule for Kat to sign off on. They’ve got a few weeks break after a busy four months of constant commitments. Next up is a series of Scottish historical docudramas for the BBC. Lots of scenic exteriors, Sheree writes. Kat was kind of looking forward to the gig but she’s barely given it a second thought since Gemma Taylor came back into her life. She replies to Sheree, confirming she got the schedule. Tells her she’ll take a look.

A few weeks off. Will that be enough? She hasn’t even got a plan anymore.

One day at a time. Kat and Sheree do have a list of freelancers they can call upon if one of them is unavailable or if they need an extra pair of hands, but Kat will make the decision nearer the time. Sheree will understand, she hopes. But this came out of nowhere she can’t just drop it. This is the priority. Work can wait.

She switches her phone off and goes back to bed.

Kat gets rid of the mumsy haircut. It’s the only positive she takes from the failure of the grieving mother plan. She goes back to black, ties her hair in a rigid ponytail and tries to come up with the next plan. Something better. Something sustainable. But she’s hit the wall and the lack of inspiration is depressing. For the most part, she lies on her bed, eating toast, drinking tea and looking at internet memes and social media for distraction.

How to get inside Gemma’s life? How to get inside and turn that life upside down? How to destroy it?

The problem is her son was just murdered. It’s already destroyed. Whatever else happens, Gemma will have to rise before Kat can pull her down again.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

It feels like an impossible task.

She paces the flat, walking into every room and slamming doors shut. Pressure follows like a shadow. She checks the front door is locked at least seven times. Spends time at the stove, checking the dials are off. Checks the front door again. The sort of stupid shit she used to do when she was younger.

Something’s wrong, Katherine. Molly isn’t answering the phone.

Why did their mother have to say it that way? In that tone. Even then, even in the heat of the moment, Kat felt like her mother was blaming her. Like she was supposed to be keeping an eye on Molly. Poor over-sensitive Molly. The older they got, the more it felt like Kat was the big sister. It was exhausting.

Kat flicks the kettle on. Flicks it off, fills it with water then flicks it on again. She chucks a spoonful of instant coffee into a cup and after pouring in the hot water, decides she doesn’t want it.

“What about a nurse?” she says, putting the coffee jar back on the shelf.

Everyone trusts nurses.

She stands still, testing the idea. Waiting to see if this latest eureka moment will fizzle out. Her muscles tense up, legs shuddering like she’s in the middle of a five-minute wall sit. The tension thins, then vanishes.

“Shit.”

It won’t work.

Too easy to expose the ‘nurse’ if someone asked the right questions. Kat knows nothing about nursing and that’s a whole lot of study she’d have to do that would slow her down. She doesn’t like the sight of blood. That might expose her if something happened. A position of authority, be it nurse or a doctor is one thing, but it’s not the way into Gemma’s heart. Kat needs to earn Gemma’s trust and impress her at the same time. There has to be a story. Something that will click with Gemma who, right now, will still be inundated with messages of sympathy and other well-meaning forms of distraction.

Kat needs to stand out from the crowd. Become something that can’t be ignored.

But how?

She takes two sips of coffee and then pours it down the sink. It’s Molly’s voice that chastises her. Oh Kat, what a waste! That dull gnawing sensation in her stomach isn’t good. She’s not eating much besides toast.

She grabs a can of beer out of the fridge, pulls the tab and goes back to pacing barefoot in the hallway. Her heel scuffs off crumbs, socks and dead insects.

Gemma’s a teacher now. What if Kat pretends to be a teacher? Not just any old teacher but a teacher who survived a school shooting.

There’s more gun violence in schools in the States. If Kat created the character of an American teacher, it’d be harder for Gemma to check up even if she felt inclined to do so. Kat could make a point of keeping the details vague. She could just make up a town – Bullshitsville, Ohio. Something like that. What about a name? Mrs Jarvis, Miss Jarvis. She drinks beer and paces the flat. What do Ohioans sound like? She works on a walk right there in the hallway. Get the walk in early this time, might change the eventual outcome. She hurries into the bedroom, dives onto the bed. Grabs her pen and A4 notebook, opening to a blank page.

Kat scribbles down the teacher’s backstory. The pen struggles to keep up with her vision of Miss Jarvis and the narrative pours onto the page without effort. First name, Anita. Middle name, Lee. Kat writes her frenzied notes, then she grabs her phone and goes online. She reads the accounts of people, teachers in particular, who’ve survived school shootings. It feels like she’s found it. Her way in.

She goes back to the spare room, a buzzing sensation in her chest. Kicks some boxes and other junk out of the way to clear a space, then stands in front of the mirror. Stands tall, stands different. A minute passes before she speaks.

“I understand, Gemma” she says in a generic American accent. “I understand. I know, I know what you’re going through.”

She frowns. Why would a teacher from America reach out to Gemma in the first place? Why is she in Scotland?

It’s okay. There’s time to work on the finer details. Miss Anita Jarvis will come alive in time. Miss Anita Jarvis, a survivor from Ohio. It’s going to be great. Kat drinks some more to celebrate. One beer becomes two beers and then Kat’s smoking like a chimney. Waiting for the realisation that this idea, like all the other ideas, is doomed to failure.

No, she thinks. It’s a winner this time.

Miss Anita Jarvis lives for little more than an hour. That’s when Kat pulls the plug. Too many holes. A stupid idea destined to fail. She sits on the floor in the living room, getting drunk alone and waiting to pass out.

She looks at the notebook on the floor. Skims the pages. A graveyard of ideas.

She was mad for trying. All this, the deluded behaviour of an angry little sister. It’s guilt. Guilt for not being there. Guilt for letting Molly die. What if they’re right? What if that fucking dog crate had nothing to do with Molly’s death? What if it was something else? What if it was the fact that Molly’s little sister turned her back on her?

Kat snaps the notebook shut. Hurries to the fridge only to find she’s run out of alcohol.

CHAPTER

FORTY-TWO

Kat showers the next morning and it feels good. The water is scalding hot and she scrubs hard, scraping her skin until it’s red raw. She closes her eyes, inhales the steam. Tries to forget the failure of the past few days.

She finds some clean clothes and nurses a mild hangover with a pot of black coffee and toast.

Unable to sit still, Kat sprays air freshener around the flat to get rid of the smell of stale smoke. She empties a full can and it’s not enough. A quick wrestle with the hoover, a relic from decades past, and she gets it working. Runs it over the floor, damn near choking the poor thing with all the crap it swallows. The flat still feels dirty.

She even opens the curtains, recoiling like a vampire at the sunlight.

“Jesus.”

All that cleaning earns her a second cup of coffee and she sits at the kitchen table, catching up with some of the emails she’s neglected. Her inbox is flooded. She runs through them, deleting the crap or anything that looks like crap. The rest she moves into appropriate folders for later. Lots of work stuff, mostly. Indigo is in demand which is good. No Hollywood studios knocking on the door yet but there are some nice approaches that Sheree has forwarded. There’s one that catches her eye in particular; an indie movie with a modest budget but it’s still three day’s work. A horror film, lots of gore and splatter. Kat reads over the proposal. A good old-fashioned splatter movie that involves making up a wide range of characters with facial deformities: one who’s been in a car crash, another from a bomb blast and there’s one female character who is the victim of an acid attack.

Kat lowers her coffee cup onto the table. Stares at the screen. At the last six words.

A victim of an acid attack.

There’s no eureka moment. What she gets is a cool but blinding clarity. This is something she can do, something she can sustain. A combination of both her acting and makeup skills is required. She doesn’t need to get her notebook. Without effort, her mind is filling with ideas to the point of overspill.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks herself.

The first thing she does is fire off an email to Sheree, saying that all the offers sound great and that she’ll be out of touch for a while. No need to freak out if you don’t hear from me. She also makes a note to get in touch with Emily, the best freelancer they’ve worked with and check out how she’s fixed for work over the next few months. Emily might need to do the docudrama stuff with Sheree.

Kat spends the rest of the morning on the couch, browsing the internet. She opens multiple tabs on Google Images, searching for the best quality photos of acid attack victims. She reads about the assaults, both on men and women and the different reasons that both happen in the first place. It’s grim reading. Men are targeted mostly because of gangs fighting and for women and in particular, women in the region of South Asia, it’s because of men who’ve been rejected.

“Crazy,” she says. There’s a cold churning sensation in her stomach.

The photos are hard to look at. Hard but fascinating. Kat stretches two fingers on the touchpad, zooming in to explore the little details, making both mental and written notes. There’s an occasional pinprick of guilt for using these unfortunate people, for exploiting their worst nightmare for her personal gain. The guilt doesn’t last long.

She leaves her phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’. No chance of Iain or Sheree getting in the way and blocking her flow. Best of all, the idea sticks. It doesn’t fizzle out like all the others. And it’s about eleven o’clock at night that the next piece of the jigsaw puzzle, the best piece of all, falls into place. It happens after she turns off the lights. Her head hits the pillow and without effort, the answer swarms her in the darkness of her bedroom. Kat sits up in bed, switches the light back on and stares through the cracks in the white wall, cracks that shimmer in pale blue moonlight.

Can she really make it work?

“Yes.”

She throws back the sheets, hurries to the spare room and turns on the big light. Standing in front of the mirror, a fresh jolt of adrenaline courses through her veins. Already, Kat knows there won’t be much sleep tonight. She studies her reflection. She’s about the same size and shape as Molly was. Both sisters were on the petite side. Kat, just an inch or two taller.

It’s crazy. Destined to fail. Gemma will recognise her, won’t she? Then what? As kids they passed each other in the school corridor plenty of times but if ‘Molly’ has scars, how will Gemma ever know for sure?

CHAPTER

FORTY-THREE

Kat’s got plenty of materials lying around the house: gelatine, brushes, spatulas, silk strips and the makeup colours, and what she doesn’t have she goes out to buy. That’s the only time she goes out. She lives off a thrice-daily supply of Uber Eats deliveries. Left outside the door. There’s only been one delivery guy who knocked, insisting on some kind of face-to-face encounter. Kat figured he was on a crusade for a tip. Told him to fuck off.

The work isn’t easy. There’s a lot of trial and error involved and Kat’s skin goes through hell trying to get it right, particularly as she experiments with colours to make the scars look authentic. That’s the hard part. The average joe won’t know any better but it has to convince Kat first and foremost. That’s the only way she’s willing to take this outside.

The floor is covered in empty food wrappers and brown paper bags. The window ledge is clogged with tea cups. Most noticeable of all, the smell of chemicals haunts the flat, particularly the spare room where all the working materials are laid out.

Kat sits close to the mirror, applying the burns to the left side of her face. She applies little washes of colour with the brushes and sponge, making sure it blends with her natural skin tone. Stop, check, proceed, that’s her mantra. She keeps the colours muted. It can’t be overkill and it can’t look too fresh. Just as important, it has to be something she can replicate with ease because she doesn’t know how long it’ll take. It could take a long time and that’s if she even gets close to Gemma in the first place.

She works long hours, totally in the zone. She examines her face with as much detachment as possible. So far, so good, She’s tempted to close one eye over and bury it under the scars. In the end, she encircles the area with some cracked skin.

The face is coming along. What about the hair?

Molly’s golden locks dulled in her late teens. Not quite overnight but it was a rapid change. Nonetheless, ‘Classic’ Molly is what’s required. If Gemma remembers anything, apart from the pink clothes, it’s the blonde hair. Loose, always clean. Kat briefly toys with the idea of a blonde wig but opts to dye her hair instead.

As she works, her dead sister slowly comes back to life. Each step in the process is like a thrust of the shovel in the dirt, pulling her coffin lid open and finding Molly just as she was. The human Barbie doll.

She can’t help but think about that day. About answering her mother’s panic call and letting herself into Molly’s place. After fumbling to find the right key, the one with the fluffy elephant keyring, Kat opened the door to an eerie quiet. The smell of fruit gone bad. The cold air that felt like a shove backwards. The long walk down the hallway, stepping over the pink and white shoes on the floor, past the wilted flowers drooped over the window ledge. Kat was on autopilot by that point, knowing that something terrible was about to happen. That it had happened.

The floor had creaked under her boots. Several moments of hesitation, the bitter regret of not answering Molly’s calls. Of not being there. A right turn into the living room. That’s when she found her big sister. Now it was her burden to remember the bulging eyes, the protruding tongue and the rope. The human waste on the floor.

And somehow in that moment, the voice of four girls as one. Four girls, four monsters, that Molly hadn’t seen in years before she died.

Don’t shit your pants, Molly.

CHAPTER

FORTY-FOUR

Kat begins by scribbling Molly’s story into a fresh notepad.

The story is every bit as important as the makeup. It’s the story of a hate crime victim who rose from her trauma to educate the public about the evils of acid attacks on women. This version of Molly rose from the ashes. Gemma will have to do the same if Kat is going to knock her down again.

Despite the grim subject matter, Kat finds it pleasant resurrecting her sister like this. By writing a heroic backstory. She finds herself going back to the notepad, even when there isn’t much else to add.

She creates a fake website, using a professional trial with a host platform. The website represents the fictional charity that her version of Molly advocates for. It’s a basic, minimalist design that doesn’t take too long to set up. Once the foundation is there, Kat adds photos of real acid attack victims taken from Google Images. Not the ones at the top of the search results, just in case anyone goes looking.

The website won’t go live. But she’ll leave it on the platform as a template so that she can view it and show it on her phone to Gemma as if it was up and running. All Gemma needs is a quick glance. No thorough examination, no names, no titles. The old Gemma wouldn’t give a crap about the details.

That’s all the plan Kat has, at least for now. Gemma has to resurrect herself. There’s no glory in hurting Gemma when she’s already hurt. She has to get past the horrific loss of her son. Then she’ll pay for what she did to Molly.

Kat orders the pink paper online. It’s not cheap but Molly wouldn’t have done cheap so neither will she. After that, Kat spends nearly two hours looking at old birthday cards from Molly, one of the few mementos left from her childhood. She keeps them in a box in her bedroom cupboard. Hasn’t opened the box in years.

She tries to mimic her sister’s flawless handwriting at the back of her notebook. It’s bloody hard work and most likely, it won’t even matter but the writing, done well, is another sign that Molly is back in the room. It’s never perfect but Kat gets to a point where she’s happy with it.

She writes to Gemma on the pink paper. Then she scents the letter with perfume, spraying in the air and bringing the letter through the mist. She folds the letter neatly, seals it inside a pink envelope and posts it first class. She hopes Iain got the address right. She’s confident enough. He’s too meticulous to make that sort of mistake. Nevertheless, Kat stands beside the post box, staring at the narrow opening that just swallowed the envelope.

It feels hopeless. Will Gemma even see the letter, let alone read it? Won’t she be drowning in cards, flowers and well-wishes? It’s been weeks since the massacre. The pain will be raw and unimaginable. Kat couldn’t stop thinking about Molly’s last moments for months after she died. The thought of Molly clawing frantically at the knot, eyes bulging, realising she’d made a mistake.

What was it like for Gemma when she closed her eyes at night? When she thought about her boy.

Kat stares at the post box. A pink envelope might stand out in a crowd. It probably won’t be enough.

She walks away, ignoring the voice that tells her to give up. The left side of her face is prickly. It’s lathered in moisturiser for the trip to the post box. The redness, not to mention the itchiness has persisted, but she’ll have to get used to a lot worse if she’s going to stick with the makeup for as long as this thing lasts. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. The colour, as described on the dye bottle, is golden blonde. The stuff of fairytales, shimmery and soft, according to the description. Molly had it for real, unlike Kat whose natural colour is bronde, as their mother used to say.

She squints when she catches her reflection in a shop window. That could be Molly walking down the street.

She hears nothing back from Gemma. One week becomes two becomes three, each one passing slower than the previous seven days.

Kat is too preoccupied for the BBC docudrama work and she arranges for Emily to take over. Sheree, in typical fashion, bombards Kat with calls and texts. Kat comes up with a ‘family emergency’ and doesn’t elaborate. She tells Sheree that she needs time away from work, reassuring her that she’ll be back for the film work later in the year. It’s a big ask but Sheree, God bless her, wishes Kat all the best with the ‘emergency’. Tells her to reach out if she needs anything.

Kat sends another letter to Gemma. Pink paper, pink envelope. The timing is rushed, she knows that. It’s borderline harassment but maybe the letters being pink isn’t enough. Numbers, that’s the way to get noticed. Volume. Send her more than one. More than two if necessary. It’s fine. The first one must’ve gotten lost in the pile. Kat knows she’ll just have to dominate that pile.

Gemma will see the next one.

Another week passes, still no word from Gemma. Kat wonders if she should’ve been more explicit in asking Gemma to call her. She freaks out and sends more letters. There’s a release when she lets them slide through the opening in the post box. Pink envelopes, one a week. She sits in the flat watching interviews and news clips about victims of acid attacks. Documentaries. Watches them on loop. She absorbs the way the victims talk and their mannerisms. She goes to the full-length mirror in the spare room, trying on the pink cardigan and jacket. She does this over and over again. Day by day, she slips further into her sister’s skin. It’s clumsy but Kat perseveres and every little thing that once felt laboured, starts to feel natural.

She plays music in the flat. The music that Molly used to love back in the nineties. Spice Girls and All Saints. Girl groups. Kat was more of a Britpop girl but listening to Molly’s music, stuff that she still doesn’t care much for, almost brings her to tears. It’s crazy. Music can do that. The closest thing she’ll ever have to a time machine.

Kat takes her first walk outside as Molly. It’s something she’s put off for long enough and now it’s time to put everything to the test. Not just the makeup (she’s confident in her work) but the feel of it. The attitude. She decides on a simple ten-minute out and back to the main street which is nothing. At least, it’s nothing on a normal day. Kat doesn’t show her face much around here so it’s not like any of the locals will recognise her behind the makeup. She hopes.

In full costume, she stands at the flat door, staring at the handle. At least five minutes have passed since she last moved. With a sigh, she forces herself to unlock the door. Takes the lift down to the ground floor, hoping that no one stops it on the way down and gets in with her. That would be a bad start. Her jelly legs exit the lift as the doors slide open and she walks to the building exit. It’s twelve-thirty in the afternoon and the streets will be busyish. A lot of people on their lunch break.

One last deep breath. Then she hits the exit button, pushes the door and steps outside.

The effect is far more powerful than she was expecting. People stare, they really stare. It’s beyond belief and when Kat catches their eyes, most don’t even bother to look away. She glares at them. It’s not part of the character, she knows, but she can’t help it. There’s too much Kat, not enough Molly. What’s wrong with all these people? Her fists are clenched and have been since she left the building. Now her arms are shaking. One guy, a balding man in his sixties, doesn’t look away when he walks past. He even cranks his head back. An expression on his face like he just inhaled a stink bomb.

Kat spins around to face him.

“The fuck you looking at?”

She stands like a tightly coiled spring.

Baldie holds the stink face but doesn’t say anything. Then he’s on his way, hands shoved into his pockets. Like nothing happened.

Kat touches the scars on the left side of her face and recoils a little. A scream in her head tells her to abandon the trek and go home. She resists the urge, keeps walking and makes it to the local park. Not focusing on anyone or anything in particular. Just her steps. She taps the metal fence at the park entrance and turns around. Quickens her step on the return leg, walks through a sea of people, and is exhausted by the time she makes it back to the flat. Up the steps, staggering into the lift. She runs down the hallway. Fumbles with the keys at the front door. Opens the flat and slams the door shut.

“FUCK!”

She drips sweat on the floor.

Finally, the phone rings and it’s Gemma Taylor.

Kat is stunned when she realises that Gemma has taken the bait. She has to jumpstart her brain and leap into the character of her dead sister. Seconds earlier, she’d been curled up on the couch, watching a documentary on Netflix about frogs in South America. Pretty much dozing off. Now she’s wide awake and this is where all the practice pays off. All those weeks of waiting and dedicating herself to the part instead of prepping for the next film or TV job with Sheree.

“Hi Molly, it’s Gemma Taylor. I got your letters, I got all of your letters, and just wanted to call and say thank you for thinking of me. That was so thoughtful of you to write.”

“Something happened to me. Something bad. Something that had a profound impact on the way I look.”

“I know what it’s like when another person tries to take everything from you. Take everything with one act of blind hatred.”

“Do you still want to meet up?”

“Yes, I do. More than ever.”

Gemma’s voice is hoarse. Old-sounding. Kat can almost feel the sheer weight of exhaustion seeping out of the phone. She gets the impression that Gemma’s been crying or she’s been in an argument. Perhaps it’s lack of sleep. Kat just sits there on the couch, listening and talking with a strange lightheadedness. Watching the silent images on TV. The rainforest. The blue and black brilliance of a poison dart frog resting on a wet leaf.

It worked.

They arrange to meet in a park close to where Gemma lives. Kat insists on making things as easy as possible for Gemma. Tells her she’s happy to travel although she does request that they meet around early evening time. Despite the quality of her work, Kat’s not ready to take the disguise out in daylight, not for the length of time required to get there and back. She’s not sure her temper will stand up to all the staring.

There’s a sudden lurching sensation in her stomach when she hangs up the phone. It hurts like hell and Kat cries out. The pain twists and pulls. She grabs the paper basket off the floor and waits to throw up. Nothing happens but the room keeps spinning. Round, round, round. It’s hot. It’s very hot.

She doesn’t have a plan for God’s sake.

Kat closes her eyes, thinks back to the photos of Molly inside the dog crate. Limbs all twisted in the corner, her face distorted with terror. Kat can still hear her sister screaming through those images. Begging for it to stop. The A4 printouts posted all over town were taken down quickly but the odd one slipped through the net and would show up in school over the next couple of weeks. Word did reach their parents. Their dad did go to school and talk to the headteacher about the photos but by then they’d been taken down. There was no hard evidence and Molly didn’t want to push. Molly never wanted to push. She downplayed the whole thing as a silly prank but Kat knew better. Kat had seen her crying on the kitchen floor. She’d watched her sister break.

Gemma, Julia, Ash and Thea.

They got away with it. The sheer capacity for cruelty that existed in those teenage girls would never be forgotten. Children destroying children. So fuck it. Kat will meet Gemma tomorrow night despite feeling sick with nerves. And whenever in doubt, all she has to do is close her eyes and remember.

They got away with it.

Iain comes to the flat later that night. Kat’s glad for the distraction. He doesn’t complain that she’s been unavailable in recent weeks. That’s not his style. She wouldn’t answer the door to him if it was Tonight, they sit on the couch like a married couple, watching TV. It’s like this sometimes when they’re both tired and a little company is enough. Kat doesn’t ask why he’s tired. That part of his life is none of her concern and she senses that he needs this. Something outside the world he operates in. What a weird arrangement they have. Kat wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’re quiet,” he says after watching about twenty minutes of Coronation Street.

“Sorry.”

“No need for that. Everything alright?”

“I’ve taken some time off work,” Kat says.

“Oh?”

Fuck it, she thinks.

“I’m going to get revenge on the woman who killed my sister.”

Iain keeps his eyes on the TV.

“Are you sure about this, Katherine?”

He rarely says her name but when he does it’s always Katherine. And Kat never scolds him for it like she does with Sheree. Somehow, in some bizarre way, it feels okay. Acceptable.

“I’m sure.”

It sounds convincing.

“Okay,” Iain says. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“No plan?”

“More like an outline.”

His expression remains neutral. It’s almost maddening.

“Listen,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But how do you know it wouldn’t have happened anyway?”

Kat grabs the remote and turns off the TV. She tosses it onto the far side of the couch, just missing Iain’s head. He doesn’t flinch but he does finally look at her. With the TV off, the flat is eerily silent.

“What are you talking about?” Kat asks.

“Your sister. How do you know she wouldn’t have gone down that road?”

“What road?”

“Taking her own life.”

Kat bristles. “Are you telling me I didn’t know my sister? What those bitches did or the effect it had on her?”

A cool shake of the head from Iain. “No. But I got the feeling you two weren’t close at the end.”

“Ever heard of childhood trauma emerging in adulthood?”

“I have but it could’ve been a bad relationship. Money worries. Depression. Something else that set the rot in.”

Kat nods. “I see. So, you’re an expert now? And I’m just a complete psycho looking for someone, anyone, to blame because my sister killed herself. Correct?”

“Isn’t it possible?”

“Fuck you.”

Iain holds up his hands, not keen to press the matter further. “Sorry. You’re right. You wouldn’t commit if you weren’t sure.”

“Is that another question?”

“Listen,” he says. “I can help.”

Kat looks at Iain like he just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Her eyes narrow to the point of suspicion. “Help?”

“Aye, if you want.”

She gives him a playful tap on the arm. “Are you going soft on me?”

Iain’s face, the eternal block of granite, permits a half-smile.

“Definitely.”

“Thanks,” Kat says, turning away. “But I don’t need help.”

“The offer stands.”

Kat shrugs. “Why? You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know.”

He stands up, stretches his arms out to the sides, then turns to face her. He leans over, gets up close and it’s a miracle their noses aren’t touching. His eyes, she thinks. It’s his eyes. Something dark, dead even. Holy shit. She wonders if he’s a monster in his other life. The life he lives outside the flat.

“Anything you want,” he says.

Kat nods.

“Okay.”

Iain offers his hand. Kat takes it and they walk to the bedroom.

CHAPTER

FORTY-FIVE

The ‘first date’ feels. Sweaty palms, the racing heart and the constant fidgeting of body parts that don’t know what to do with themselves. And always the desire to turn back. To abandon ship and go home.

That’s how Kat feels as she walks into the park to meet Gemma.

She finds the meeting place early, a bench opposite an ugly statue of Robert Burns that overlooks the flower gardens. Kat, with the hood of her coat up, follows the winding path from the rugby field uphill to the bench. A neverending walk like most uphill walks. It’s early evening. Light is fading in the park. She keeps her head down, still hypersensitive to every glance in her direction.

Kat walks past the bench and takes up position behind one of the tall, well-groomed hedges that flank the path down to the flower gardens. She’ll wait her. Let Gemma arrive first.

She touches her face, tracing the coarse scars with a finger. Her skin is cold. Fingertips tingling. She has the sudden urge to go to the bathroom.

It’s only a couple of minutes before she hears footsteps on the path ahead. It flicks a switch inside her. She is Molly.

All good things come to those wait, she reminds herself.

She puts a hand over her mouth, suppressing a sudden desire to laugh. At what exactly, Kat has no idea.

The tall figure of Gemma Taylor appears on the path. She glides like a phantom stepping out of the mist. It’s a moment before she sits down on the bench. The movement is slow, reluctant. Kat peers through a gap in the hedge. Gets a good look. She hates to admit it, even to herself, but Gemma has aged well. At least from where she’s standing it looks that way. There’s still a great figure under her coat.

C’mon, she tells herself.

She closes her eyes, battling the nerves. The urge to puke. She remembers Molly, lying alone in a grave far from everything and everyone she ever loved. It always does the trick. Kat touches her scars again. Then she takes that first all-important step, turns to exit the hedge and walks onto the path.

In that moment, Molly Morrison lives. And she calls to the monster on the bench.

“Hi Gemma.”

CHAPTER

FORTY-SIX

Thank God for shitty neighbours. It’s the shitty neighbours that finally allow Gemma to let ‘Molly’ in. That’s when she shows trust. Doesn’t matter that it’s out of desperation, it’s the open door that Kat’s been waiting for.

They kept in touch after that first meeting in the park which went as well as could be expected. There was no awkwardness from Gemma, no hint of regret in the way she might have treated Molly in the past. All the taunting and cruelty. How quickly teenagers forget.

Kat played along. Felt her way in as Molly. Still, it seemed like Gemma was getting bored of Molly quickly though, like she’d served whatever short-term purpose was required. Kat was doing all the reaching out, trying to establish some kind of relationship. This reaching out was mostly in the form of texts and visits to Gemma’s house that she made in a rental car, a shitty little Polo that she’d hired for the job. But Gemma remained cool, even distant. Maybe it was the makeup. Maybe she’d purged herself of her curiosity in regards to Molly’s ‘suffering’.

Patience. That was Kat’s mantra. Easier said than done.

Thank God for those shitty neighbours. A large family of idiots who’d moved in next door while the Taylors were trying to recover from losing their son. Whether or not these people knew what Rory and Gemma had been through wasn’t known. Even Kat had to admit that their behaviour was shocking.

Poor Rory was on the brink of another nervous breakdown. Apparently, he went downhill bad after Scott. Drink, drugs. A wreck by the sound of it. Gemma wasn’t too far behind. Nothing worked. Talking to the neighbours, reaching out to the police or council or whatever authorities were supposed to help.

Eventually, Gemma told Molly what was happening.

Kat saw it as another sign that she was on the right path. It was time for ‘Molly’ to ride to the rescue.

But first she was going to have to ask for a favour.

There’s no casual sex when Iain visits the flat that evening. No kissing, no undressing, one cigarette and see you later. Kat’s got other things on her mind as she opens the door and lets him in. Iain walks in, dressed like an office worker. There’s no tired slumping shoulders of a desk slave. He stands upright, almost formally so. His clothes immaculate. Not a crease in sight.

“Bit dark in here,” he says.

He’s right. The recessed lighting in the kitchen is the only light in the flat, dimmed partly because Kat’s self-conscious about her skin but also she likes it this way. If she lit a few candles, the light would feel close to spiritual.

“Are you holding a séance or something?” Iain asks.

“Something.”

“Righty-ho.”

A shadow passes over Iain’s eyes. Then he takes a step back, leans against the door. “Everything alright?”

“Calling in that favour,” Kat asks. “That’s if the offer still stands?”

Iain’s expression remains lost in the gloomy hallway. “Didn’t think you needed help?”

“Me neither.”

“So you finally came up with a plan?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Oh?”

“The plan,” she says, “feels more like a jigsaw puzzle. I don’t have a box and I don’t have a reference photo.”

“So you’re winging it?”

“I need her to trust me,” Kat says. “I need her to let me in.”

“What happens when you’re in?” Iain asks.

“I can start pulling the strings. But right now I’m on the outside. That’s where you come in.”

Iain nods.

Kat’s muscles ache from the constant twenty-four-seven tension in her body. She feels like a knot that’s constantly tightening from morning to night. “You know what the crazy thing is? She doesn’t remember what she did to my sister.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

There’s a brief stinging sensation on the left side of her face. A reminder of the makeup that’s being put on and scraped off every day. She wonders if Iain’s noticed. Wonders what he’d think if he knew the details and just how committed she is to this. Then again, maybe he knows.

“What can I do?” Iain asks.

“You’ll help?”

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

Kat’s tempted to ask why he’s so willing to help. At the same time, she’s not sure she wants to know the answer. Is there more to Iain than meets the eye? Something warm under that stern, uncompromising exterior? The thought occurs to Kat, not for the first time, that he might have feelings for her. Feelings that go beyond the casual hook up. That frightens her. That he might want something more.

She lays it all out in front of him. Tells Iain about Gemma’s neighbours, that the Taylors are on the brink of losing their minds. She doesn’t mince her words either. He’ll either say yes or no and at least she’ll know where she stands.

Iain listens without interruption. He only speaks when it’s clear that Kat is done.

“That’s a big favour,” he says. “You’re talking about messing with civilians. People who aren’t in the business. It’s risky.”

Kat’s still fighting the urge to scratch the side of her face. Feels like an army of ants nibbling away at her skin. “Don’t try and talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Iain says, “But when I said I’d help you, I was thinking more along the lines of money. You know, when you’re not working?”

“You said anything.”

“I guess I did.”

Kat shakes her head. “You can say no. I’ll understand.”

“Aye.”

Would Kat do the same for him if the roles were reversed? It’s all risk, no reward for Iain. At least, no reward other than staying on her good side. Does that matter to him?

Iain’s grim expression seems to float towards her. His feet are silent on the floor as he approaches. Kat turns the reddened side of her face away. She wishes she’d dimmed the lights further. Iain reaches out with a hand, turns her head back. He examines the marks on her face, then takes his hand away.

“When?” he asks.

Kat, Gemma and Rory are sitting up late, waiting for the neighbours from hell.

Where are they?

It’s excruciating. Sitting with these people. Kat is exhausted from keeping up the Molly act into the wee hours of morning. She’s taken caffeine pills in the bathroom, enough to keep her alert. She’s already jittery enough, knowing that Iain and his crew are waiting around for a green light, and that all this risk might be for nothing. All that effort he’s gone to and the morons next door are nowhere to be seen.

At what point does she give up? Call it and go home.

“I hope we haven’t wasted your time,” Gemma says, as if reading Kat’s mind.

Gemma and Rory are sinking into the couch while Kat’s on the two-seater opposite. The TV is in between, spewing out Saturday night dross. Dancing shows, talent shows. Molly would’ve loved this crap and so Kat, sticking close to character, forces herself to laugh every now and then. All the little extras to keep Molly alive. Inside she’s freaking out about Iain, about wasting his time and coming to the conclusion that the neighbours have gone away on holiday. That they’ve chosen the worst night to do this.

“Not at all,” she says in her sweetest Molly voice. “It’s nice sitting with you guys. Better than sitting in all by myself.”

The night drags on like that for hours. Rory and Gemma asking her questions about anything and everything. Digging for gossip about her marital status. About her mum and even her sister, which would be mildly amusing at another time. It’s small talk that feels like pulling teeth. But this is what all those hours spent perfecting the role was for. Writing out the backstory in the notebook. Rehearsing, rehearsing, rehearsing. To make the character feel natural.

Still, the neighbours don’t come back.

Gemma takes the dirty cups into the kitchen. Kat, with no desire to sit around the nervous Rory on her own, excuses herself to use the downstairs bathroom yet again. She trots out of the living room, across the hallway. Slows to her normal walk when she’s sure no one is watching. There’s a gasp of relief as she closes the bathroom door behind her. The spicy cinnamon hit of potpourri is strong but it’s better than the stilted, awkward atmosphere in the living room.

It’ll all be worth it, she tells her reflection.

Her skin continues to itch. Invisible fucking ants gorging on her face. She longs to scratch the makeup off her face and call it a night. Just barely resisting, she scratches her arm instead and covers the marks with her sleeve. Then she flops onto the toilet seat, the faint sound of the television seeping in through the living room.

After a minute of sitting with her head in her hands, Kat sends a text to Iain giving him an update. Expects an immediate reply calling it off but gets a thumbs-up instead. A man of few words but he likes an emoji. When she’s done, Kat flushes the toilet and makes her way back to the living room and the sound of the TV.

She walks down the hallway. Catches a flicker of something. Movement, on her right coming from the kitchen.

It’s Gemma. She’s leaning over the metal rubbish bin at the back door, a tall and graceful silhouette under the hazy downlights. There’s a cup in her hand. It’s Kat’s cup, Molly’s cup. Gemma’s holding it by the handle with an expression on her face that would suggest she just found maggots wriggling around inside. Gemma remains still for a moment. Then her foot nudges the pedal. The lid flips open and Gemma lets the cup fall out of her hand.

Kat smiles.

There you are, she thinks.

The neighbours return in the early hours of morning. They’ve got company and judging by the shouting, singing, swearing and the sound of people falling over, it sounds like they’ve brought all the Saturday night drunks home with them.

Kat listens, her emotions conflicted. On one hand, she’s relieved that she hasn’t wasted Iain’s time but at the same time, there’s a cold churning sensation in her gut. She has no idea what’s coming next.

It doesn’t take long for the party next door to get in full swing. The dog barks, kids squeal and the outdoor speakers thump with such ferocity that the Taylors’ bedroom wall is vibrating. Same with the floor. Laughter, so much loud squawking laughter. Whoops, yells and screams of drunken nonsense.

They are obnoxious, Kat thinks. She’d go crazy too living next door to people like this. It makes her feel less sick about what’s coming. Call it a reality check. Maybe it’ll be good for these so-called neighbours to learn some manners.

Still, there are kids. Sounds like there are a lot of kids.

The party rages on and Kat, Gemma and Rory sit it out in the living room, waiting for the guests to thin out. Kat keeps her phone close. She texts Iain, keeping him in the loop. She gets a lot of thumbs up and smiling emojis in return. Doesn’t seem like he’s pissed off with her. Eventually, taxis start pulling up outside the problem house and a steady stream of drunks spill out onto the street. Their exit is every bit as loud as their entrance. They won’t all be gone, Kat knows that, but the less people the better.

She texts Iain again, checking on his whereabouts. How many texts is that now?

Her phone buzzes.

Be there in five.

She feels a sudden rush of excitement as she looks over at a visibly exhausted Gemma and Rory on the big couch. They’re leaning against each other. Pale, sick with worry. Kat almost feels sorry for them.

Kat steps outside, closing the front door behind her. She gives a little shiver even though it’s not that cold.

She walks past the cars, down the driveway. A brief glance back at the house. At all the windows at the front. All curtains and blinds are closed, no twitching. She told Gemma and Rory to relax but there’s fat chance of that happening. They’re worried sick and must think she’s mad, that Molly is mad, by promising them a solution to the neighbour problem.

What can one tiny disfigured woman do to make the world a better place? Or at least, this little corner of the world.

Some of the guests might have gone home but party house is still blasting out music, the bass fuzzy and prominent. Standing on the street feels like being trapped inside a giant bass drum. The other neighbours must hear it too but they aren’t close enough for it to be a major hassle. Gemma and Rory’s bedroom is right up against it.

Kat’s phone vibrates in her pocket. Another text from Iain.

Here. Wait around the side of the house. Do NOT come in.

Kat exhales a soft whistle.

“Oh shit.”

She looks up at the house, then at the text again. Reads the last part three times over.

Do NOT come in.

No more playful emojis.

She knows, from instinct more than anything else, that Iain is a man who likes to be prepared. He’ll have checked out the area in advance and figured out the fastest way in, fastest way back onto the motorway and home to the city. Kat imagines the cars, two or maybe three of them, will have pulled up on the street directly behind the neighbour’s back fence. Electric cars, quiet and idling.

Kat jerks forward. She’s standing in plain sight and needs to get off the street. Another glance over her shoulder to make sure Gemma and Rory aren’t watching. All clear. Then she makes a beeline for the neighbour’s house, hurrying onto the unkempt driveway, past the car and around the side of the house. So many discarded beer cans lying around.

She puts her back against the house. Immediately, she hears a sound. A whooshing noise, just barely cutting through the deep rumble of bass from inside the house where the party has relocated from the back garden. Kat freezes. Then she lifts her head off the brick surface, peers to the right. Her eyes struggle with the lack of light but she catches sight of a flurry of movement at the back fence. Bodies climbing over, swooping down onto the grass. Hushed voices. How many? It’s impossible to tell.

Kat puts a hand over her mouth.

Holy shit, she thinks. Iain’s in love with me.

Her heart bangs against her ribcage as she braves a second look towards the back garden.

There! Five, six, seven shadows leaping over the back fence. It’s hard to make out anything with only a faint trickle of light spilling out from a gap in the living room curtains. Kat doesn’t miss one thing: the balaclavas on their heads. She curses without thinking. Jumps back out of sight, presses herself tight against the cold bricks. Closes her eyes, waiting for the silent swarm to enter the house.

“What have I done?” she whispers.

Despite Iain’s warning, she can’t resist inching her way towards the back of the house. She’s on her tiptoes, holding her breath. There’ll be a window at the back and if she can get close enough without being seen, she can take a quick–

The music stops.

It’s so sudden that Kat gasps. The gasp itself, so physical that she almost topples over. In the immediate silence, she hears something. A scream cut short. One second it’s party town, the next it’s a monastery. Kat closes her eyes, winces and listens to another muffled scream. There are several loud thumps and the crash of something big falling over. Furniture? Or a person? Oh shit, she thinks. Then it’s quiet and stays quiet. The struggle, if that’s what it was, over. Kat’s knees tremble but the urge to look is too strong. She inches closer to the back of the house, her jelly legs guiding her around the corner in tiny pitter-patter steps. She goes to the big window where the meagre spill of light is coming from.

There’s a muffled dog bark from one of the bedroom windows. Someone’s locked him in. Thank God, Kat thinks. They could have done much worse.

Kat’s wading through quicksand by the time she reaches the window. The curtains are barely open but there’s enough there to offer a view. She kneels down, looks into a large, brightly-lit living room. Beer cans on the floor, wine bottles and takeaway boxes. Children’s toys. A massive flatscreen TV is fixed to the wall, a western film playing, the sound low or muted. The family on their knees. Heads bowed. The men in balaclavas standing over them, guns in hand.

Guns.

Kat leaps back to her feet. Shuffles back onto the side path. Shoves her back against the wall and fights for a clean breath.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

There it is. Her first glimpse of what Iain is and what he’s capable of doing. He never hid the fact that he was involved in organised crime. Their arrangement is simple and convenient. It doesn’t require the other person’s life story. They’re not married. They’re not even boyfriend and girlfriend. So why is he doing this? Does he love her or does Iain simply enjoy this kind of work?

Which one is worse?

Kat stays put and has no desire to see any more. A few minutes later, she glances to her right and watches as the shadows jump the fence. Whoosh. Silent, fast. It’s like a masterfully choreographed routine in a horror-ballet. That’s followed by the subtle hum of an electric vehicle driving off into the night and that’s when Kat is tempted to go back to the window and check on these people. They’re selfish. They’re obnoxious but did they deserve a gun to their heads? How many kids? Five? Six? Did they understand what was happening? Will they ever get past the nightmares?

Her phone vibrates. A text from Iain.

Smiley face.

He does enjoy it, she thinks.

Kat needs to move and quickly. She has to get out of there before it all kicks off inside the house. And she has no idea what that’s going to look like. Iain would’ve told them to be quiet. No police. But will they listen?

She hurries back towards the Taylor house. It feels like there’s a scalding blanket over her face as her legs struggle to keep up with the desire to flee. The dog is louder now. They’ve let him out of his prison cell. There’s something else too, the sound of a woman’s high-pitched wailing. The family are starting to come around.

Kat swallows a silent scream. The light is on outside Gemma’s house and Kat stops at the sight of her reflection in the panelled door. It’s like a slap in the face. The scars bring her back to Molly and the mission. Back to the character. A queasy feeling comes and goes. She grabs the handle, opens the door and there’s a pounding of footsteps as Gemma and Rory rush into the hallway to greet her. Rory’s forehead is glistening with sweat. Eyes bulging. Looks like he’s about to pass out.

Somehow, Kat finds the character. She manages a casual wave.

“Are you okay?” Gemma asks, as if talking to someone who just walked out of a burning building.

Kat dusts off her shoulders and smiles.

“Never been better.”

CHAPTER

FORTY-SEVEN

The plan works. Gemma calls Kat two days later, gushing with shock and gratitude. Tells her there’s a For Sale sign in the neighbour’s garden.

Kat finishes the call, then texts Iain to let him know. She doesn’t ask for the fine details. What he said to the neighbours, what he demanded, he can keep it. Iain doesn’t seem surprised. He replies with ‘Good’ followed by a thumbs-up emoji.

“Holy Shit,” she says, sitting down on the bed.

A For Sale sign?

The operation, as unsettling as it was, is a success. And it’s Gemma’s gratitude that takes their relationship to the next level. ‘Molly’ is no longer just a face from the past. She’s Gemma and Rory’s saviour and Kat has to take advantage of that trust while it lasts. Which, if Kat’s instincts are correct, won’t be for very long.

She starts to encourage Gemma to put herself out there. To rise up from the unthinkable tragedy, to speak out just like Kat’s version of Molly did for acid attack victims. Kat pushes hard, urging Gemma to take action and prevent what happened to Scott happening to other children. It’s not easy but eventually, it works.

Gemma soars in this newfound role of urban saint. And with the ever-enthusiastic Molly’s help, she establishes Scott’s Angels and once she gets going, she takes to the project like a duck to water. Kat watches as Gemma speaks out at those early meetings, on her first steps to becoming a local hero. She does have talent. She’s an excellent public speaker, she’s easy on the eyes, and the passion is there too.

This is the start of her new beginning. Kat is thrilled. Gemma will be happy again. She’ll have something that Kat can take away.

But although ‘Molly’ is there to encourage Gemma at the beginning, it soon becomes clear that she’s not wanted. Gemma doesn’t have time for anyone who isn’t deemed useful. And if someone isn’t useful, Gemma will gladly throw them out, just like the cup that touched Molly’s lips.

Doesn’t matter.

Kat is overjoyed. The way that people look at Gemma, the way they behave around her. It wouldn’t be any fun pulling a broken mother down. An urban saint, that’s different. Still, it’s not all plain sailing. There are a couple of blips. Blips that almost ruin everything. Kat’s temper, that old devil, comes back to haunt her. One night, she wakes up in the early hours, covered in sweat. She’s convinced that the plan is doomed to fail. It’s stupid. It’s too complex. Too much patience is required.

She throws back the sheets, gets dressed and drives to Gemma’s house. Parks at the side of the road. Glares at the Taylor residence. It happens more than once. A couple of times, Kat rings the doorbell and runs. Afterwards, she scolds herself. She always scolds herself. Stupid Kat. Angry Kat. She goes to Molly’s grave because she can’t bear the thought of going home. The cemetery is dark but comforting. Kat sits in a corner under the trees, stifled and unable to cry. She almost blew it. Almost let her sister down again.

Gemma’s true personality starts to shine. The little reminders, they do come. The way that she treats those around her. Kat sees it even if nobody else does. The woman who makes the tea at the community centre where the first big meetings are held. Someone who’s made a tiny mistake, causing some measure of inconvenience. Gemma has manners when people are watching but Kat’s always watching. A couple of times, Kat attends an Angels meeting as herself, no makeup. She stands at the back of the hall, her face buried under a cap or hood. Watching in silence. Witnessing as Gemma becomes a voice for the community and, as Gemma herself likes to call it, a voice for the children. In the end, Kat stops receiving texts from Gemma altogether. No more questions about website maintenance, about public speaking or how to do this or that in terms of admin. The communication doesn’t dry up. It stops.

The plan is simple. Public humiliation. Kick Gemma off her pedestal in the most destructive possible fashion.

How?

The answer comes when Gemma, much to Kat’s amazement, is interviewed on national TV. When it’s revealed that she’s been nominated for the Community Impact Award at the Scottish Humanitarian Awards of the Year.

The magic ingredient is Simon Blane.

Blane is the philanthropist scumbag junkie womaniser, and the answer to Kat’s prayers. He shows up halfway through the TV interview and Kat doesn’t miss the chemistry that oozes off the screen. Blane would bang anything with a pulse. Everyone knows that. In turn, she can imagine Gemma using Blane to climb onto the next rung of the social ladder.

They’ll meet again at the awards.

It’s a long shot. But the thought of Gemma and Blane putting themselves in a compromising position, of exposing Saint Gemma as an adulterer to the widest possible audience, is tempting. And Kat would happily ‘encourage’ them to let their guards down on the big night, somehow. Wouldn’t be hard to get Blane wrecked and making stupid choices. And if Gemma wins the award, who knows?

Gemma was happy enough to share photos of Molly in the dog crate. In turn, Kat will take photos. She’ll post them everywhere, not just on streetlights or school noticeboards. Everywhere.

It'll be karma. Too late for Molly, but better than nothing.

CHAPTER

FORTY-EIGHT

Kat sits bolt upright in bed, her insides wrapped in tight knots.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The skin on her face is burning and she kicks back the sheets like they’re suffocating her. She swats the air with her arm until she finds the bedside light. Then she’s up, throwing on tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a jacket. She’s in the lift, exiting the building, sitting in her car and firing up the engine. Her car, not ‘Molly’s’ rental.

She’d gone to Gemma’s house that morning. Pulled up in full makeup, just as Gemma was chatting to an elderly couple outside the house next door. New neighbours? Even from afar, Kat saw the cold look in Gemma’s eyes when she realised it was Molly. The same Molly who’d reached out when Gemma was at her lowest. The same Molly who’d sympathised with her. Who’d encouraged her. Who’d gotten rid of the neighbours from hell, saved her and her husband’s sanity, and then held Gemma’s hand as she took her first steps towards forming Scott’s Angels and getting nominated for a Community Impact Award in record time.

Where was the fucking gratitude? This woman. This monster. She couldn’t even remember what she’d done to Molly, could she?

Why bother with a plan at all?

She could settle it tonight.

Now here she is, racing her car onto the motorway. Driving like a madwoman to Gemma’s house, a twenty-minute journey northeast out of the city. Very little traffic at this time of day.

Kat grips the wheel tight. Her rational mind is in there, witness to another blackout. But it’s helpless. Both arms fill with lead as the cat’s eyes on the motorway’s centre line blink and shimmer. She steers onto the exit lane, trying to stick to the speed limit. There’s always a police car waiting somewhere, especially close to a motorway that serves as the main route between Glasgow and Edinburgh.

She follows the new road layout that leads through a myriad of roundabouts. Takes a wrong exit that leads north.

“Shit.”

The unplanned detour adds another ten minutes onto the journey. It’s the final nail in the coffin for the murderous rage that woke her up, dragged her out of bed and into the car. Still, she persists and continues towards Gemma’s house. The anger isn’t gone for the night, not even close.

The car is on a quiet suburban road, climbing a steep hill when Kat slams her foot off the brake pedal. The car screeches, then jerks to a sudden stop. Kat pulls at her clothes. Everything is soaked with sweat.

There’s a steel rubbish skip at the side of the road. Kat has no idea if the skip belongs to the council or if it’s privately owned. She’s more interested in what’s lying on the kerb beside it. At its base, a pile of free junk: a deck chair, an ironing board, some sort of children’s scooter with a busted front wheel. And something else. The something that made her stop the car.

Kat turns the engine off, leaving the car in the middle of the road. The street is deserted. No people, no cars. Everyone who isn’t crazy or working nights is in bed.

She gets out of the car. Walks over to the dog crate that’s sitting next to all the other junk. Using her phone as a torch, she examines her discovery in closer detail. It’s not big. Mid-size. There’s a tattered dog bed inside the crate, ripped open at the edges and centre with bits of foam exposed. The mangled remains of an old hoover are squashed up inside the bed. So too other loose parts of machinery.

The crate has a broken latch. The base, damp and dirty. Kat hopes the wet patches are just rainwater as she thrusts her arm through the door and pulls out the bed. She winces. Dumps it at the side of the road. She does the same with the hoover and the other loose bits and pieces, then folds up the crate, which feels like it might fall apart at any moment. She carries it gently. Takes it back to the car, puts it in the boot.

She gets in the car and continues to Gemma’s house. Another unplanned stop quickly gets in the way.

It’s a small swing park, less than a five-minute-walk from Gemma’s house. Kat imagines that Scott came here, holding hands with his parents, one on either side. This might have been his first playground. There’s a nice little dog park in there too. A busy one.

She gets out of the car, taking an old plastic shopping bag from the boot. Then she hurries over to the park entrance, stopping at the dog waste bin. After a wary glance in all directions, she lifts the red handle.

The smell.

“Oh God.”

She pulls out ten bags, dropping them into the open shopping bag in her other hand. The heavier the bag, the better. Some are packed like there’s elephant dung inside. Kat holds her breath until it hurts. She closes the bin over, puts the bag in the boot and drives to Gemma’s house. The air con is blowing hard at the front of the car.

It’s just after three o’clock when she pulls into Gemma’s cul-de-sac. She parks near the junction, keeping a safe distance from the Taylor house. Then she gets to work. Drags the crate out of the boot, followed by the plastic bag with all the poo bags. Then she starts ripping open the bags, gagging a little as she empties the contents into the crate. The wet slopping as it lands on the crate floor makes her laugh. Jesus, the smell. It’s ten times worse now it’s out the bag.

She looks around. Doesn’t seem like anyone’s spying from a window.

Kat grabs a coat out of the backseat, puts it on and throws up the hood to cover her face. Then she picks up the crate, gets on her tiptoes and carries it over to the nice garden in the corner of the street. She puts it down. Studies it. Adjusts the angle, although she doesn’t know why. Aesthetics, what the hell?

Kat takes a step back, stares at the front of Gemma’s house. The blackout rage is gone but this will do for now. Maybe if the awards show plan doesn’t work out, she’ll come back.

She drives home. Even after all that effort, there’s no feeling of satisfaction as she covers the empty motorway back to the city. She won’t even get to see Gemma’s reaction in the morning when she discovers her little present. It feels like a childish, stupid prank. Something to appease the angry animal.

It’s Molly’s voice she hears in her head. Quizzing her. Asking why she’s doing it. Why she’s fixating on four girls from school when there were so many other things that went wrong in Molly’s life. So many other things that contributed to–

“Shut up!”

Kat pounds her fist on the steering wheel, harder and harder until her sister’s voice goes away.

Back in the flat, she pours herself a glass of cold water and empties it. She stands at the kitchen sink, feeling numb. Her hand is throbbing. There’s no chance of sleep tonight. She can’t stop thinking about the awards show.

What if Blane is on his best behaviour in Edinburgh? What if she imagined the chemistry between Gemma and Blane? Maybe she wanted inspiration so bad she conjured sexual attraction up out of nothing. She’s the sort of grown-up woman who spends her nights filling abandoned dog crates with dogshit after all.

What if she’s crazy? What if she’s destined to fail Molly all over again?

These, and more, are the doubts that will keep her awake tonight. And over the next few nights as the ceremony approaches.

CHAPTER

FORTY-NINE

“It’s such a tremendous honour to meet you,” Kat says, squeaking with excitement like Molly used to do.

Simon Blane grins like it’s the first time he’s ever heard such a thing. It’s the man’s superpower, that he can make each and every person in his orbit feel special. Respond to the same old lines like he hasn’t heard it a thousand times before from the hordes of middle-aged and older women who flock to him like ants to jam.

“Well,” he says, shaking her hand. “It’s delightful to meet you too. Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Molly!”

“Of course, Molly.”

She nods. “Molly Morrison. I’m friends with one of the big winners tonight. Gemma Taylor. You presented her with an award.”

Blane doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by her scars. He’s tipsy for sure, but he’s been to so many of these charity events that he’s probably immune to the inner discomfort that most people experience around physical afflictions.

The ceremony wrapped a half hour ago. Behind Kat and Blane, in the main function room, people are spilling in from the ballroom upstairs. After the awards there were other obligations for the winners such as photographs and interviews with local media outlets. Simon Blane skipped all of that nonsense, making straight for the aftershow party. He found himself a space at the smaller of the two bars and started in on the free whiskies. Doesn’t look like he’s interested in mixing with the plebs but eager beaver Molly, steamrollering her excitement in his face, isn’t giving him the chance to hide.

“Gemma Taylor?” he says, eyes narrowing.

“She’s incredible, isn’t she?”

Blane’s eyes light up. “The tall one. Scott’s Angels. She won the Community Impact Award, didn’t she?”

Kat smiles. Feels like the fake scars on her face moved in response. “That’s her. She’s such a good person. Such an inspiration.”

She leans closer to Blane, cupping a hand over the side of her mouth.

“And quite beautiful too, don’t you think?”

Blane licks his lips. Slowly.

“Mmm. I’ll say.”

She smiles, not an easy task in the sleazebag’s presence. He’s swaying from side to side and Kat’s not sure if he’s trying to dance or just stay upright. Blane’s suit jacket is off. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the overcooked bronze skin. His smile is shark-like and even under the crappy basement lights, Kat doesn’t miss the white powder traces around his nostrils. Sloppy, but great news for Kat. He’s well on his way to oblivion. Just so long as he doesn’t go overboard too soon.

Blane studies her face a little closer, eyes straining. Looks like he’s noticed the scars at last. “Were yooou up for an award tonight, Molly?”

“Not this year.”

“Ah, I see. And which charities are you involved with?”

“Oh, too many to mention, Simon. But my speciality is helping people to understand the consequences of cruelty.”

Blane’s head jolts back.

“You’re doing God’s work,” he says. His fingers twitch and he reaches for the glass of whisky on the counter. He drinks, then wipes his nose with a vigorous finger. A delayed response at hiding the evidence?

“I’d love to buy you a drink,” Molly says.

Blane frowns. Then he jumps back into character with a wink, showing her the chunky gold ring on his finger. He holds it up like a shield. “I’m a married man,” he says. “Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

You mean more trouble, Kat thinks.

“Oh, you’re safe with me,” she says, patting him on the arm.

Blane looks relieved.

“I’m such a fan, that’s all. And I was a fan long before the charity stuff, you know? Your acting career, Simon, that was incredible. I just know you could have been the biggest movie star in the world and yet you chose to become a saint instead.”

Blane’s eyes cloud over for a second. Maybe he’s thinking about the lousy reviews he used to get in the papers. The ridicule at his attempts to become a romantic lead, then an action star. And rightly so. The man was as wooden as a fence post.

“It would be an honour for me to buy you a drink,” Kat says.

Blane bows swiftly, then salutes her. “In that case, I’m all yours.”

She points at his glass. “Another whisky?”

“Please.”

“You like Glenfiddich, don’t you?”

His eyes widen. “You are a fan, aren’t you?”

She shrieks with laughter. Holds up her index finger. “Don’t you know? I’m your number one fan.”

Blane’s laughter is stilted. “Quite.”

“So…whisky?”

“How about a nice glass of red, hmm?”

“Sure. Back in a minute.”

The small bar is unmanned so Kat exits through the arch, stepping back into the larger room where most of the people are enjoying the aftershow party. She needs to work quickly before any groupies move in on Blane.

She orders two red wines after waving down the barman. He smiles a lot, compensating for the brief moment of shock that registered on his face when he first looked at her. Kat doesn’t even react to this sort of thing anymore. She waits for the drinks, watching the main entrance for Gemma’s impending arrival. The photoshoot upstairs surely must have wrapped by now. As if on cue, Gemma, dressed to kill in a strapless evening gown, appears in the doorway, clutching her trophy and grinning from ear to ear. People approach like she’s a Hollywood star who just won the Best Actress Oscar. They say things that make her laugh, a little too theatrically. Thank God, she’s escorted away from the bar where Kat’s standing, towards a table in the corner with some of the other winners.

Kat watches like a hawk. Rory is nowhere to be seen, thank God. He was upstairs at the ceremony but Kat had banked on him bailing early, thanks to the sob stories she’d heard about his problems with alcohol. If he’s really gone for the night, then Gemma has a hotel room all to herself.

She looks over at the VIP table.

Gemma does indeed look beautiful but the eyes are glassy and hollow. Face flushed. Too much free champagne.

Perfect, she thinks. It’s still a long shot. Catch them in a compromising position. But Kat didn’t come all the way to Edinburgh for nothing. She has to try.

The barman puts two glasses of red wine on the counter. Kat thanks him, pays him and puts her bag on the table. She waits a moment. Casts a furtive glance around to see if anyone at the bar or any of the tables is paying attention to her. Convinced the coast is clear, she pulls her purse out of the inside pocket, doing her best impression of someone looking for her phone or keys. She hums to herself. Another glance, still no one looking. Then Kat pinches the vial that’s also tucked into the inner pocket. Locks it between forefinger and thumb. With her other hand she unscrews the lid and in a lightning-quick manoeuvre, Kat pours the cocaine into the nearest wine glass.

She snaps the bag shut. Waits. There’s a surge of dread pooling in her stomach, the expectation of a firm hand on her shoulder. I saw that.

Nothing happens.

Kat breathes a sigh of relief. Then she carries the two glasses back into the small bar, relieved to see that Simon Blane is still a solitary shadow in the corner, a man who doesn’t want to be found. He’s fidgety. Staring at his phone. Constant, jerky movement.

It’s nicer in here, Kat thinks, approaching the bar. The dim lighting. Fewer people.

“Thank you,” Blane says when Kat puts the wine glass in front of him. His eyes are two sheets of dull glass. He smiles at her. Takes in the scars like it’s the first time he’s noticed them.

“Umm…”

“Molly.”

“Molleeee. Thank you, Molly.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Cheers,” he says, lifting the wine glass. He freezes, doesn’t drink. Kat feels her jaw tighten and wills him to put the glass to his lips. Instead, he lowers it back onto the wooden counter. His eyes are foggier than ever. He mumbles something to himself.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

His shoulders rise and fall. If there was a sigh or answer with that motion, it’s lost in the music.

Jesus, he looks rough, Kat thinks. Like an old man trying to keep pace with his youth.

“Guess who I just saw?” Kat says, her voice shooting up an octave.

“Hmm?”

“Guess who just turned up next door?”

He shakes his head.

“Gemma.”

“Gemma…?”

“She must have finished the photoshoot upstairs,” Kat says. “You know, with all the rest of the winners. She’s through there right now.”

Blane nods. “Oh, right. They have a VIP table.”

“I saw it. Sooo impressive.”

Blane gives a distracted nod. Then, realising there’s still a drop of whisky in his glass, he empties it with a loud slurp. Slams the glass on the bar and turns his attention on the wine glass. His head lolls to the side as he studies the dark red liquid.

Kat’s heart is thumping. Despite that, a manic Molly grin is clamped to her face. “Anything wrong, Simon?”

Blane is grinning like a shark again. He points at the glass.

“That does look good.”

Kat almost bursts with the flood of relief that fills her body. She picks up her own glass and clinks it off the side of Blane’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers Molly.”

At last, he drinks. A big one too. Then he lowers the glass back onto the counter, expressing pleasure with a loud lip-smacking noise that goes right through Kat’s bones. Not even the music can drown that out.

“Mmm. Very nice.”

Kat tips her own glass back and lets the wine touch her lips. But she doesn’t drink. She’s stone-cold sober and has every intention of staying that way.

“I spoke to Gemma while I was through there,” she says, raising her voice above the throbbing bass.

His blank face. Holy fucking shit.

“GEMMA, your Community Impact Award winner.”

Maybe if she says Gemma’s name enough times it’ll stick in the drug-addled ruin of Blane’s mind. Gemma, Gemma, Gemma.

Blane is licking his lips, still tasting the wine.

“You know her?”

“Gemma and I went to school together. I’ve been helping her with Scott’s Angels from the very beginning.”

Blane takes another sip of wine. Yet again, he looks at the glass in a curious manner. Kat’s throat tightens but then he’s smiling at her again. He takes a third sip.

“Very nice.”

“Anyway, I won’t keep you much longer,” Kat says. She taps a finger off his chest, just to make sure he isn’t zoning out on her. Talks loud and slowly. “Because, and I really shouldn’t be saying this, but she’s back there waiting in the wings to pounce on you. And she can’t very well do that with me hogging you all night, can she?”

Blane sniffs, wipes his nostrils again with the edge of his finger. “Really?”

“Don’t act all coy with me mister.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you feel it?” Kat asks.

“What?”

She giggles, then gives him a playful punch on the arm. “Ohhh, you’re so funny! Well, I guess she is a married woman, isn’t she? Forbidden fruit and all that. You silly-billy. I’m talking about the chemistry between you two.”

“Chemistry,” Blane repeats. The word sounds alien coming out of his mouth.

“Oh my God,” Kat squeaks. “I had to fan myself when I was watching you two on TV together. Oh my days.”

Blane licks his lips again. “Oh…she’s sweet.”

He gives Kat another one of those naughty winks. Leans in closer.

“Fuckable too, isn’t she?”

And he barks with laughter in a way that makes his shoulders do a twisted dance. Then he’s fidgety again. Fingers, bouncing knee and the occasional tapping foot. The ‘wine’ is working but so too is all the other stuff he’s on. Kat’s a little freaked out about just how wired he is.

“She was soooo popular with the boys back in the day,” she says. “I was so jealous of that.”

Blane cackles and looks at her. “Why do I feel like I’m back in the playground at school? And a little dolly bird is telling me that her best friend fancies me?”

“Doesn’t everyone fancy you, Simon?”

He leans in closer. Kat’s hit by an onslaught of boozy chemicals seeping off the old bastard’s skin and she has to resist the natural instinct to recoil.

“Well,” he says. “That wouldn’t be very humble of me, would it? If I were to answer that question honestly.”

Kat’s well aware of Blane’s accent changing throughout the course of their conversation. The working-class Glaswegian accent, buried under all the years of showbiz refinement, is chiselling its way back to the surface.

She has to wrap this up. Get them together before Blane passes out.

“I think,” Kat says. “That I should go so you two can have a catch up. What do you say, hot stuff? Want me to send her over to you?”

“Actually,” Blane says, “I had considered an early night.”

“You’re so funny.”

His leg remains a constant shudder under the bar stool. “Then again, I’ll bet you know her room number, don’t you?”

Kat doesn’t miss a beat. “212.”

Upon her arrival at the hotel that afternoon, sweet little Molly with her scars had shuffled over to reception and enquired to the nice man behind the desk about dropping off a gift for Community Impact Award nominee, Gemma Taylor. She’d expected more resistance but the nice man with the pitying eyes was never going to say no. Not to that face. He spoke in a gentle voice like there was a risk she’d break if he spoke too harshly. Molly was ever so grateful.

“212?” Blane repeats.

“That’s the one. Still, no use to you if you’re having an early night.”

He looks at her, the wickedness blossoming in his eyes. A hunger for something more than wine and cocaine. For forbidden fruit.

“She’s very beautiful,” he says.

His eyes are clearer now.

Maybe he will make it through the night, Kat thinks. Although she doubts what she put in the wine has fully kicked in. That’s the good stuff right there.

He looks at Kat, touching her hand over the counter. His skin is warm, damp with sweat. “And so are you my dear. So are you.”

“Thank you.”

Kat isn’t looking at Blane anymore. She’s following the path of a slim waiter with a stoic expression who just walked under the arched entrance and went into the main bar. He’s carrying a silver tray with a glass of wine on it. A glass that Kat knows is dosed to the hilt. Just like Blane’s. Kat spies the waiter again through one of the little portholes that offers a view of the next room. He’s on his way to the winners’ table. And when he gets there, he’ll tell Gemma that the wine is a gift from Simon Blane.

CHAPTER

FIFTY

At a little after eleven o’clock, Gemma and Blane leave the bar together. They pass through the arch, up the staircase that leads back to the hotel reception. Gemma’s award is in her left hand. Her right hand is on the small of Blane’s back.

Snap.

Kat, now with makeup removed and hair tied back, has already taken photos of them together at the bar. It’s not enough but she takes them anyway in case that’s as good as it gets. She’d hoped for a bit of kissing. A hand on a face. Something that would send a clear message to Rory and the world about Saint Gemma.

Still, she’s not worried. She thinks it’s about to get much better.

The problem is they’re about to disappear into a hotel room for the night. After that, she’ll have to wait until morning and there’s no guarantee she’ll get anything then. Not after the drink and drugs have worn off. When they’ve both crashed back to earth with a hangover.

They’re holding hands now.

Snap.

That’s good. They’re so wasted they can’t wait until they get in the room.

Kat hurries through the arch, onto the staircase, following the lovebirds as they make their way up to the bright lights of the hotel reception. The light upstairs is mellow and yet, in contrast to the darkness in the club, feels like a wasp sting in the eyeballs. Colours flash on and off. She blinks and shapes begin to form in front of her. Words attach themselves to the shapes. People, furniture, ornaments. Her eyesight recovers and she’s walking quickly. She turns the corner at the top of the stairs only to see the lift door sliding shut with Gemma and Blane inside. They’re turning to face each other as the doors meet.

A ping. The lift is moving.

She’s losing them.

“Oh shit.”

Kat, now in New Balance trainers instead of heels, sprints upstairs after the lift. Second floor, she reminds herself. 212. It’s only two flights of stairs but her legs have filled with cement by the time she passes the first-floor exit. More stairs. Somehow, she powers up. She turns the corridor, blowing hard, falls through a set of double doors, certain that she’s missed them. That she’s lost her best chance of catching Gemma and Blane in the act. She’s about to kick the wall when she hears something.

The sharp ping of the lift doors.

They’re coming.

Which way? She runs left, the door numbers a blur as she passes. 202, 203, 204. A right turn and she almost cries out as her heels skid to a sudden stop. Room 212. They’re at the door. A frenzy of kissing and octopus arm groping. Wet slurping noises. Gasps. Gemma saying his name. Simon, Simon, Simon.

Too busy to notice her.

Kat freezes. She’s standing in plain sight in the hotel corridor and if they stop now, they’ll see her. But this is it. This is what she’s been waiting for.

She lifts her phone. Her heart thumping with joy and excitement. Hand shaking. She wills them to stop so she can take a good photo.

Snap, snap, snap.

A rush of blood to the head. She takes a few steps closer despite the risk. Snap. A few more then finally, she backs off in a hurry, sidestepping around the corner on her tiptoes. She peers around the edge and they’re still there at the door. Still at it. There’s a brief moment when Gemma comes up for air and Kat’s head ducks out of sight, not a split-second to lose. She thrusts her back against the wall, waiting for Gemma’s footsteps to come crashing down the hallway. Then what? A life-or-death struggle for her phone?

Instead, more kissing noises. Then a click. The door to 212 opening. That’s followed by a bang as it slams shut. Muffled laughter. Then, silence.

A minute passes. Kat’s back slides down the wall and she lands in a weird sitting position on the carpet. Legs tangled up. Arms flopped at the sides, useless. She’s too nervous to check the photos. But she has to and thank God, they’re all there. The hotel door shots are the clear winners. Gemma and Blane, all over one another. No mistaking that it’s Saint Gemma sucking the face off another man.

It starts without Kat even sensing it. Laughter. Hard laughter, unstoppable like an avalanche. In the end, she’s lying on the floor, hands over her abdomen. Staring at the ceiling. Letting go.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-ONE

Kat sleeps in the backseat of her car in the hotel car park. Sets her alarm for five o’clock. Waking up with a start when it starts blaring, she allows herself the luxury of a cup of coffee from the flask she brought. Then she eats a banana, slips her trainers on and goes back into the hotel, retracing her steps from last night.

She’s got everything she needs but she still wants more. A timestamped shot of Blane leaving Gemma’s hotel room. The icing on the cake. How will Saint Gemma explain that to Rory? To all the people who think she’s a hero?

Kat arrives on the second floor and stops dead. The long, carpeted corridor is chock-full of people and the air humming with nervous chatter. Dozens of worried faces peer out of their rooms, all of them staring in the same direction. Towards Room 212.

“What happened?” Kat asks a flustered-looking woman lingering in the doorway of Room 202. The woman is dressed in a heavily wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. Looks like she threw them on in a hurry. She’s barefoot. Hair like a bird’s nest. Her anxious expression gives Kat the once-over. Then she points down the corridor, talks in a hushed voice.

“Room 212.”

“What happened?”

“Someone screamed,” the woman says.

Kat’s head fills with the rhythmic pounding of her heart. Her stomach churns and the knot inside tightens. A scream? Who screamed? Gemma? Blane? Why? Does she really want to stick around and find out the answers? She could just slip away, go downstairs, get in her car and drive.

She stays though, staring down the corridor like everyone else. A corridor that feels like it’s narrowing by the second, chewing up all the air and space. Did the security cameras capture her following them last night? Will it matter? She should go. She should really go now.

“Screamed?”

The woman nods. “Twice. Something’s happened and whatever it is, it isn’t good. She’s not coming out.”

Kat nods, mumbles a thank you and floats down the hallway. Past doors, faces and constant whispers. The smell of coffee escapes from one room. The faint sound of a TV news report.

A stocky man in a blue dressing gown is banging his fist on the door to 212. “Are you okay in there?”

Something’s happened, the woman said.

Kat gets a rush of lightheadedness. Leans against the wall, just in case. Still she doesn’t turn and leave. She, along with everyone else, watches as the man continues to thump the door. Are you okay? There’s no response from inside. Someone puts a call out for the police and that’s when Kat finds herself backing off down the corridor. Slow, tentative steps. There’s still a part of her that’s not ready to give up on those final photos. But Kat knows that Blane and Gemma aren’t going to appear at the door, kissing and making secret plans for the next time. That was the cherry on top but it’s gone.

The man in the dressing gown yells into the room.

“We’ve called the police.”

Kat’s still there when the police arrive. A couple of uniformed officers show up on the second floor, then others start pouring in, along with a pencil-thin man in a suit, most likely the hotel manager. The manager fumbles with a set of hotel key cards, then after getting confirmation from the officer in charge, unlocks the door. He gets out of the way as the police enter Room 212.

A flurry of gasps travel down the hallway. Several curious onlookers surge forward for a better look while the police yell at them to keep back. But it’s too late. Those at the front have already seen inside 212, seen enough that the news travels swiftly down the line.

Simon Blane is dead.

He’s lying on the bed. The great philanthropist who did so much for the needy of the world is no more. There’s a woman in there too. The woman isn’t his wife, Nikita.

That’s enough for Kat. She slips through the double doors, onto the staircase and down to reception. She thinks about the text that came in from Iain last night, the one he sent while she was trying to get to sleep in the car. He told her that while dressed as a waiter, he’d planted a stash of cocaine in Gemma’s bag. Easy enough to do considering the state she was in. Rory was supposed to find the stash when Gemma went home in the morning. It was a nice touch. Not a disaster if Rory didn’t see it, not with everything else Kat had in terms of incriminating evidence. Now, with the police in the room and a dead body on the bed, the cocaine in Gemma’s bag was something else. It was evidence that Gemma had supplied the drugs that would later be found in Blane’s system during the autopsy.

Kat hurries downstairs on autopilot, past reception. There are a lot of people standing around. Police, civilians, perhaps some journalists. The gossip is in full swing as she makes for the exit. Holy shit, she thinks, Blane is dead. This is so much better than photos, so much better than anything she could ever have planned. She was out to wreck Gemma’s reputation and marriage.

But this?

Kat glides through the sliding doors, takes a left towards the car park. She’s laughing now. God bless Simon Blane and his clogged arteries and whatever else killed him. A life of excess caught up with him at the perfect moment. Kat doesn’t care what they say about the old sleazebag. If they call him saint or legend or whatever. All she cares about is that the rest of the world will finally catch up. They’ll know what Kat has known for years.

Gemma Taylor is a killer.

TEACHER’S PET

CHAPTER

FIFTY-TWO

“You’ve got a visitor, Gemma.”

I’m quick to stand at the sound of Mr Johnstone’s voice. He’s calling to me through the hatch in the cell door. I jump to my feet when I greet him. He likes me on my feet when he walks in, not sitting on the bed or in the corner with my head in my hands. He wrestles the key in the lock and the rusty hinges groan as the door opens.

Mr Johnstone walks into my cell.

I don’t want to disappoint him. I’ve been doing well. Paying attention to what he’s told me so far about good behaviour, about doing what I’m told and how good behaviour is the secret sauce that will increase my chances of getting out early. I’m eating more. He doesn’t want me wasting away. Said I look better with a little flesh on my bones. I’ll eat. I’ll do whatever it takes.

“Visitor,” he repeats, standing at the door,

He inspects the cell with those cold eyes. Mr Johnstone, a block of six-foot muscle, broad shoulders and blessed with the sort of deep booming voice that all prison officers wish they had. Dark blue uniform. Matching hat. A picture of dour authority to the point of being a cliché.

“A visitor?”

“I like what you did in here,” he says, a subtle nod of approval. “Made it nice and tidy. Good girl.”

“Thank you, Mr Johnstone.”

He takes a step forward. His eyes back on me.

“It’s Callum when no one else is around, remember?”

I nod.

“Not so formal,” he says. “We’re in this place for different reasons but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

His lips pull back in a smile. The eyes remain dull and listless.

“Sorry, Callum.”

“Hmm.”

He approaches me and is once again looking around the cell when he touches my arm. I don’t flinch, not anymore. Mr Johnstone doesn’t like that. Why so jumpy? I don’t think he really wants me to call him Callum either. But I’ll roll with it. Good behaviour, that’s the ticket. That’s my way out of here and when I’m out of here, I can rebuild my life.

His soft, spidery fingers crawl up and down my forearm. The discomfort in my eyes excites him, I know it does.

“My visitor?”

Slowly, Mr Johnstone takes his hand off my arm. Then he looks at his fingers and there’s a brief flash of longing like he wants to smell them.

“First one that isn’t a lawyer, right?”

He takes a step back.

Mr Johnstone delights in delivering those daily little pinpricks, reminding me of what I’ve lost. Reminding me that no friends or family have come to visit me. He knows that’s where the real pain lives. Knowing that no one out there is waiting for me. That no one would care if I died in prison tomorrow. That’s hard to swallow, especially when I can’t sleep at night.

“You’ll keep your cell tidy,” he whispers. “Won’t you? No more outbursts, Gemma. No more mess to clean up, okay?”

“I won’t do that anymore.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Callum.”

“Good. Now c’mon, we’d better not keep your visitor waiting.”

“Who is it?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He steps back, turns to the side and waits for me to go first. Not this again, I think. I walk quickly towards the door, my neck and shoulders rigid with tension.

“Go on,” he says.

Mr Johnstone grabs my arm and, unable to stop myself, I let out a little gasp. He won’t like that. Then again, maybe he will.

“You don’t have a long sentence,” he says in a quiet voice. “All things considered. But you did supply the Class A drugs that killed a beloved celebrity, didn’t you? Did I tell you that my wife adored Simon Blane?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Well don’t forget it.”

He lets go of my arm, points to the door.

“Hurry up now.”

“Yes, Callum.”

He gives me a little pat on the backside, pushing me towards the door.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-THREE

Kat sits in the visitor’s room, watching as the prisoners start to file in. She thought she’d be more nervous. It’s a risk coming here, it’s stupid too, but she needs this face-to-face before she can close the door on Gemma Taylor.

The visitor’s room is a large open space with round tables and chairs and the layout reminds her of the cafeteria back in high school. The smell of disinfectant clogs the air. White walls, no windows and the constant bird-like shriek of chair legs moving as people get up and sit down. There are two vending machines. Kat bought herself a black coffee upon arrival, expecting it to taste like oil. It’s not bad.

She sits at a table in the middle of the room. It’s a little exposed but it was the only free table left by the time she’d grabbed her coffee. The other visitors clearly prefer the less noticeable tables, the ones that hug the edges of the room. More discreet, Kat imagines. Some of those other visitors are allowed into an adjoining children’s play area where the prisoners can interact with their kids.

Gemma is escorted in by a burly prison guard with a pug face. Kat, ever the close observer, picks up on their chemistry straight away. She notices how submissive Gemma is with the giant. The fearful attentiveness in her eyes as he whispers something in her ear. The constant nodding. Hanging on his every word. So eager to please.

Kat smiles.

Teacher’s pet.

What else is she doing to please teacher when no one is looking?

The look on Gemma’s face upon seeing her visitor is priceless. That alone is worth the risk that Kat took in coming here. No more makeup, her hair black once more and tied back, and no more pink clothes or hints of Molly in her appearance. She’s back at work with Sheree, living her normal life, working in a makeup trailer and doing her thing with Iain.

Gemma walks over, eyes locked on Kat. She stands at the table, then after a long wait, pulls a chair and sits down.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-FOUR

“Who are you?” I ask the woman sitting in front of me.

Her voice cuts like a razor blade.

“You know who I am,” she says.

It’s true, I do know. I know now. The resemblance to her sister is quite remarkable. Different hair, different style, but that’s one of the Morrison girls alright. It’s in the face. And as I look at her, pieces of the puzzle at last begin to slide into place. A puzzle that’s been tormenting me ever since that day in the hotel when I learned that Molly Morrison had been dead for years. It was clear someone was out to get me. I had no idea who. Until now.

“You’re Molly’s sister.”

“Well done,” she says.

“How did you get on the visitor’s list?”

“That wasn’t easy,” she says. “But I’m a pretty resourceful person and I’ve got one or two contacts. People who get things done.”

“Get things done? Like scaring off the neighbours?”

No answer.

“I don’t remember you,” I say. “Not really. I recognise the face but that’s about it. All I remember is you were a bit of a weird kid. Looks like you’ve graduated to full-blown insanity. Sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

She shrugs her shoulders.

“Get many visitors?” she asks.

I look down at the steaming cup of coffee in front of her. Inhale the burnt aroma. It looks vile but I could do with one of those right now. I could do with something. Getting coffee however, would involve getting up and walking back to the vending machine and I know Mr Johnstone is still there. His eyes are always on me.

“The scars were good,” I say, pointing at her face. She’s trying to hide a red patch on her left cheek under too much concealer. The cold sterile light in the visitor’s room isn’t doing her any favours.

“Thanks Gemma. Oh, I was sorry to hear that Rory moved out of the house. Not easy for anyone is it? You fucking Simon Blane to death. Poor Rory. Must be hard knowing you’ll have no one to go back.”

I inhale and exhale slowly. Since coming here, I’ve learned that proper breathing can help keep me calm. It’s not easy but it works if I persevere. Still, my leg is shuddering under the table, not willing to play along. I don’t know if Molly’s sister, whatever her name is, has noticed.

“What do you want?” I ask.

She turns her hands over. “This. You, in here.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you dare ask that question. Don’t you dare.”

I nod. “What makes you think I won’t talk?”

“And say what? To who?”

“About the fact that you killed Simon Blane, not me. I know I didn’t take cocaine which means I was drugged. I guess Simon was too.”

“No one forced you to take him to your room, Gemma.”

She’s smiling. Good God, my words have no effect on her. It’s like jabbing a piece of barbed wire fence with my finger.

“I could call one of the guards right now,” I say. “Get them to call the police. Tell them everything.”

Her eyes light up. “One of the guards? Like your boyfriend over there?”

“Think I won’t do it?”

“I think you’re not as brave or as smart as you think you are, Gemma. You didn’t even have the brains to think about recording this conversation. You could’ve asked your friend for something. Promised him something back in return.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Like I said, you’re not that smart.”

I shake my head. I can just imagine what Mr Johnstone would’ve said if I asked for a recording device for my only visitor. As I walked here from my cell, there was some part of me that hoped it was Rory. That somehow, he’d forgiven me. Or at least, see me. Talk to me. Know how sorry I was.

She presses a finger to her lips. “No talking to anyone, okay?”

“You think I’m going to put your mind at ease?” I ask.

“It’s your mind we’ll put at ease, Gemma. Remember what happened with your neighbours, okay? Think about what’ll happen if I set those people on Rory.”

I’ve never felt so defeated.

“You love him,” she says. “So protect him. Take your punishment.”

She might as well have thrown the coffee in my face. “Punishment? You really think I’m responsible for Molly killing herself, don’t you?”

Her eyes are vacant.

“Listen to me,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m not responsible for Molly’s death. Yes, we were cruel. But we were not monsters. Just stupid girls. None of these things had the impact you think they did. You don’t think I’ve heard about Molly’s shitty boyfriends since I was arrested? About her career failure? The drinking? And you think it had something to do with four girls who put her in a dog crate for less than a minute?”

Her ghostly complexion is glowing across the table. She’s smiling at me. That’s when I realise. She doesn’t care about the truth. She just wants someone to blame.

“What did you come here for?” I ask.

No answer.

“Fine.”

I push back the chair, the legs honking off the tiled floor. I stand up, start to turn around when she speaks.

“Julia,” she says.

I freeze. Feel an icy cold tingle at the base of my spine. I turn back to her.

“What did you say?”

She points to the chair. I sit down, trapped in between the sadistic Mr Johnstone and this crazy woman.

“You can’t go yet,” she says. “Not until I tell you what happened to Julia.”

CHAPTER

FIFTY-FIVE

There’s always a speeding car in Kat’s memories.

Sometimes, most of the time in fact, it’s the high-speed, white-knuckled ride from her flat to Molly’s house. Gripping the steering wheel, running through red lights. Ignoring the verbal and middle finger protests of other drivers and not even thinking about the risk of being pulled over by the police. Everything was a blur except the gnawing sense of dread eating up her insides. Why hadn’t she made more of an effort with Molly? Might as well be a stranger rushing over to her flat.

She dreams about that car ride a lot.

But there’s another speeding car in her dreams. This one has nothing to do with finding her sister. There’s no sense of dread here.

“I was working on a job,” she says to Gemma. “It was in a little village, a few miles south of Dumfries, close to the border. Not even much of a village. Just a few houses, some shops and this one little road that went in and out. A nothing town, I suppose. Blink and you’ll miss it. We had this wrap party in the local pub. It was busy that night, very busy for a village pub and I found out later that’s because there was another party too, just as big, just as boisterous as ours.”

As Kat talks, a child screams with excitement from the playroom. Laughter follows. Happy noises that might as well be coming from another planet.

Gemma looks pale and haggard. “Dumfries?”

Kat nods. “Yes.”

Gemma closes her eyes, swallows a hard rock. “What did you do?”

“Turns out this other party was a banking group from Glasgow. They were down there on a team-building exercise in a nearby town. You know the thing? Lots of outdoors stuff. Scavenger hunts, tug-of-war, all that. I didn’t pay much attention to them, not at first. They were on one side of the pub and we were on the other. It was a pretty good night.”

Kat smiles.

“And then…”

Gemma looks like she’s about to throw up.

“I saw a familiar face amongst the crowd,” Kat says. “Julia O’Connell. Imagine my surprise. I hadn’t seen her in years.”

Gemma sits still and silent, like a mannequin. And then, ever so subtly, her bottom lip trembles while the sound of children playing escalates from the adjoining room.

“No,” she says.

Kat nods.

“It was you,” Gemma says.

Kat’s voice is breathy with excitement. “One minute I’m celebrating a job well done, the next I’m throwing up in the bathroom. But after I’m done being sick, then everything is clear. I was meant to find Julia that night.”

Kat’s heart quickens. “I was drunk. It was quick. Not very satisfying except for one big bump. She didn’t even scream.”

She taps a finger off her head.

“Anger management, you know? I’ve got a problem with it.”

“I don’t care what you say,” Gemma says. “I’m telling the police.”

“I made my excuses and left the pub,” Kat says, reliving the night it happened. “Hurried back to where I was staying, about a five-minute walk, got my car and parked across the street from the pub. Maybe if Julia had stayed in there longer, I would’ve calmed down. And it wouldn’t have happened like that.”

Gemma balls her hand into a fist and it looks like she’s about to bring it down on the table. She resists. It falls to her side. “Can’t you see you’re sick in the head? Julia did not kill Molly. I didn’t kill her either.”

“She started walking back to her accommodation,” Kat says. “Past the bridge, away from the lights of the village and the noise of the pub. The moon was full. Pink and full. That was the last moon she ever saw so I hope she took it in. Probably took it in too much because she sure as hell didn’t notice the car creeping up from behind with the lights off, not until it was too late. Then I floored it. Big bump. All over. Not nearly as satisfying as it was with you.”

Gemma holds up a hand, begging Kat to spare her the details. Then she sinks into the chair, bowing her head.

“I just wanted you to know,” Kat says, pushing her chair back and standing up. “Someone or some thing keeps sending you girls back to me.”

She glances into the brightly lit playroom where two little blonde girls, squealing with excitement, tackle a climbing frame while their parents are cheering on from the sidelines.

“Enjoy your cage,” she says. “And remember what happens to Rory if you talk.”

Gemma sits motionless in the chair, her face shrivelled up like someone wasting away from a terminal disease. Kat walks to the exit, the sound of children’s laughter ringing in her ears. One last look back. She sees a slightly stooped-over Gemma being led away by her prison guard daddy. Past the vending machine, around the corner.

Then she’s gone.

Kat lets out a quiet sigh. She thought it would feel so much better. She thought it would feel like…something. Julia, Gemma, two very different methods of revenge and yet she feels nothing.

Molly is still dead.

Things will get better.

Maybe next time, she thinks walking into an empty corridor. The children’s laughter recedes but the overpowering smell of disinfectant follows her like a shadow. The persistent itch on the left side of her face follows her too, and the sensation is maddening.

Next time.

Ash and Thea are still out there somewhere. Living their lives, doing all the things they denied Molly. Two more bullies, two monsters who sooner or later, will find themselves in Kat’s orbit.

ALSO BY MARK GILLESPIE

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The Lost Girl

Fool Me Once

While You Were Gone

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