Page 31

Chapter 30

Jenny, The Third

I’m not the one who should be dead. And I fucking hate my murderer for it. I detest each and every single molecule that makes up their presence in the world they’ve taken me from, and I remind them of this fact every single day.

When I first found myself imprisoned here, my captor kept me effectively gagged and paid me not the slightest mind. Out of sight, out of mind. Helpless passenger that I was, all I could do was watch, listen and feel their staggering progress through the days following my killing. At least I had that: a savage price was being paid for the act of ending my life. My murderer vowed their killing days were over. It took too much out of them to kill. For weeks after my death, I watched them stumbling through life, exhausted and barely able to function. Because we were now one, I felt each ache of their body, their fitful sleeps and muddled thoughts, until eventually, they began to heal.

But each time I tried to speak up, my words were batted away like the swatting of mosquitos. However, in time, I realised all I had to do was wait. Because I was never going to remain at the back of someone’s mind for long. Especially after what they did. And what they took from me.

The power balance between us shifted during the inquest into my death. I begged my captor not to attend, because as their reluctant hostage, it meant I would be forced to go too. I didn’t need to hear any more details than what we both already knew. But my appeals fell on deaf ears. What neither of us expected to hear was that, at the time of my murder, I had been ten weeks pregnant. If I’d known, I’d have used it to barter my way out of being plied with vodka. And, from my husband’s tearful reaction at the inquest, he hadn’t been aware I was carrying our child, either.

With no evidence to suggest my death was deliberate, the coroner ruled it an accidental overdose. I hate that everyone now believes I died a lapsed addict.

In the corridor on our way out, the two of us watched my husband hug my mum tightly and overheard him ask her if there had been a chance my death was suicide. Had I perhaps known I was pregnant, and couldn’t handle the responsibility of juggling motherhood with recovery? She said no. But I’ll be forever haunted that he’ll always have that niggling doubt.

The revelation of my pregnancy pricked what little remained of the conscience I now find myself sharing. And with my murderer’s ( Our murderer’s!) defences down, I found myself being listened to. Here was someone to help slake this new thirst for self-punishment, a tireless torturer only too happy to bring down the lash! I’d remind them in ever more baroque terms of the depth of my hatred, and catalogue all that they already feared about themselves – that they were worthless and how they would never accomplish anything because they were nothing.

And the longer I’ve remained inside them, the louder I’ve become until, now, they just can’t handle it anymore. The only way to be free of me is to kill again, despite the toll it will take on them. So they have turned to the next name on their list: Warren.

Shortly before I died that afternoon, I was asked about him.

‘Was he the one who pulled the trigger?’ came the question. ‘I heard a man’s voice shouting before the first shot. And I learned later that he was the only one of you who had a criminal record for violence.’

My answer was garbled. By then, the alcohol and ketamine had taken a firm hold.

Perhaps Warren will give a better answer later tonight. Because he’s in the car that we’re following.

The excitement we are both feeling inside this vehicle is palpable. I feel inside my captor a terrific surge of power when they’re in control. They are no longer that helpless kid hiding under the bed as their parents died in the next room. First their mum and then their dad. Two bullets fired, four lives destroyed.

But even though this night has been planned, there are still many elements of chance and luck involved.

Warren is expecting to meet a woman who, for months, was writing to him while he was behind bars. He has no idea that a catfish with a taste for blood exists, and awaits.

We begin by overtaking him, and then, once our car pulls even with his, we swerve into his path. The crunch of metal as our doors collide takes him by surprise and sends him veering towards the kerb. Our vehicle holds steady while he struggles to regain control of his. When he manages it, we immediately swerve into him again. A small car can make a big impact. This time, he loses control and his car leaves the road, ploughs through hedges and, from what we can see in our rearview mirror, collides with a tree. Then we calmly pull over into a lay-by.

The odours of rubber tyres, acrid smoke and petrol permeate the night air as we approach him. There are no street lights on this country road, so we must rely on a phone’s torch to light our way. Warren’s vehicle rests on its side, its engine still running, its headlight beams illuminating the trees.

Warren remains inside the car, conscious. He has come to rest against the passenger door. No seatbelt for him. But rules never applied to Warren.

I can barely make out the features of the man I knew so long ago, through the blood pouring from multiple facial lacerations and head wounds. For a second, I forget myself and where I am now, and wonder if he can see me. It’s only as the torchlight is held upon him that I can see the force of the collision has pushed his left eyeball from its socket. It hangs by its optic nerve on his cheek.

His voice is little more than a croak and he extends a tattooed arm towards us. His wrist points at an unnatural angle. He is desperate for help but we offer him nothing.

I sense my, and soon to be Warren’s, killer wants to stay here for as long as possible, but the risk is too great. It won’t be long before another car passes and clocks what has happened. So they lean in through the broken driver’s window and turn off his headlights to buy a little more time.

We stroll around the car until the petrol cap is located, then unscrew it. My killer strips a sleeve from a thin hoodie, rolls it into a tight cylindrical shape, and shoves into the hole. After several attempts, a cigarette lighter ignites the material. We should get the hell away, but can’t resist one last look at Warren. I feel pity for what’s to come for him, but our murderer certainly doesn’t. They hope just enough life remains inside him to know that he’s about to burn to death. And then we step away.

We make our way towards the car we arrived in, only turning at the sound of the explosion and accompanying fireball that shoots up into the air. We can feel the intensity of the heat on our back when it reaches us. Our murderer’s only regret is being unable to hear Warren screaming for help over the noise of shattering glass and the crackles of burning leather and skin.

I only know for certain that Warren is dead when I sense I have been left behind on this road. As our killer’s back is illuminated by the flames’ orange light, I feel him emerging inside his new home, one I am sure he will detest with the same intensity as I felt. Finally they are both swallowed by the darkness.

As am I.