Remember Me: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist. D. White E.
tell Penny that part of her deal with Paul was never to contact Penny either? She could still remember his exact words. ‘You fucked up, so make your own life and stay away from all of us. I’ll give Stephen the choice when he’s old enough, but don’t expect miracles. That part of your life is over now, so piss off and waste someone else’s time.’
Paul was calling for his wife now, asking for another drink, and she smiled apologetically at Ava before answering him, and disappearing into the living room.
Alone in the hall, Ava wanted to make a quick getaway. As she grabbed her coat the door swung open and Leo smiled out at her. His eyes had that familiar glitter of annoyance, and his mouth was stiff. ‘Aren’t you coming in to talk to us now, Ava? Paul’s just having some more painkillers. He’ll be fine after a few minutes. We need to catch up, and fifteen years is a long time. I suppose we could always play a quick game of “Spin the Bottle” to make you feel right at home.’
‘Funny, aren’t you?’ Darting a quick glance towards the kitchen, she lowered her voice. ‘Why would I want to come and have a little chat? Oh, yes, so you and Paul can take it in turns to try and wind me up. I don’t think so, Leo. Grow up, the both of you.’
His expression changed and the naughtiness was back. ‘That’s a bit harsh. I thought we might talk about old times. I’m proud of how you turned your life around, but out of everyone, only you and me managed to get away. It proves something, doesn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t prove anything. Fuck off, Leo.’
Ignoring her warning, he was coming closer. So close that she took a step back and came up hard against the wall. His breath was warm on her cheek, and she could smell the sourness of alcohol. One hand slid around her waist. ‘I missed you, Ava.’
Horrified, Ava shoved him away and hissed back, ‘And I think you must have turned stupid in your old age. Either that, or you really are still a sick bastard. Just fuck off and keep away from me, Leo!’
Leo shrugged, accepting her words, still amused, still smiling and swaying slightly from the drink. It was always like that. She argued, threw insults, and he stayed serene and got what he wanted. Well, not this time. Ava pulled on her coat, shouted goodbye and swung the iron latch on the front door. The icy air blasted in, and the darkness hid everything but her first few steps. She strode carelessly down the slippery path, sure-footed from instinct as fury drove her back out onto the hills.
Before she was quite out of earshot, his words floated after her. ‘Be careful on the hill tonight, Ava, and remember to go left at the lambing pen…’
Don’t get me wrong, I like the kid. He’s got guts, and that stubborn streak I admire. Of course, he’s also got a look of Ava, which helps. He does his thing, and I do mine. Outwardly it seems like I’m doing a whole lot more, but I think I’ve mentioned that I’m pretty clever. I know how people tick, what they admire, and how nobody really looks that deep if they have something else to focus on.
He’s just another piece on the game board. It wouldn’t bother me if he had to be sacrificed at the roll of a dice. Honestly, it wouldn’t.
Tonight I was up late, planning my moves, irritated to see the clock ticking onwards, killing my peace. I like the blackness of night. It excites me. Often I wonder if it is light or dark that you see when your time comes.
There are photographs up on my computer screen. This particular girl looks beautiful, and I’m sure she’ll remember that night for the rest of her life. She has no idea the magic I worked later on, and the horrors I added. I imagine she’ll never see the finished product, which in a way is a shame. I’ve turned something sick and twisted into an art form, simply by being cleverer than them all. Hollywood would welcome me with open arms if I let people know what I could do. But those people will never see that side of me.
A notification pops up on the screen, and I click to see more Instagram followers. My social media is perfection, so glossy and sexy, and fake. It’s a distracting game to play, and out here in the harsh daylight people are easy to fool. Or perhaps not? Is it all a double bluff? The thought makes me sigh with pleasure.
How have I waited so long for Ava? I’ve been planning. It keeps me sane, and I did have one little leap across the board. I was right about Fate, and he stepped in, in a totally unexpected but totally deserving way. I landed right on the edge of a black square. The memory of his useless screams comfort me during the long hours of daylight. I watched him frantically trying to regain control, using everything he had to survive. But it was impossible, the odds were stacked against him, and when it was over I went to check, inhaling the luscious smells of blood and terror. I could almost taste it, but I couldn’t linger long.
The road was lonely, but fuel spilling from his bike into the dry summer grass might cause a fire. Not that it mattered because he was gone, but I needed to be at home, waiting to hear the news. It was an accident, the diesel in the road that caused the bike to skid could have come from any tractor, any delivery lorry… or from a can in the back of my Land Rover.
I didn’t enjoy that move, but when fate presents an opportunity I’d be a fool to turn it down. Still, it was never part of the game plan. My first ever kill was the same. It was rushed, and although better planned, I made mistakes. Naturally, at thirteen years old, I was a beginner, but everyone has to start somewhere. With the darkness still complete, my mind wanders back to that day…
I knew that morning before school that she had to die. It just came to me in a rush as I helped her wash and dress, chucked her shitty knickers in the bin, and made us both some breakfast. She mumbled something incoherent, and when the doctor telephoned to check on us, I was careful to say she seemed a bit better and had taken her tablets. I mentioned that I was going out with a friend after school so I wouldn’t be back until about four. There was nobody else in the house that day.
Before I left the house, she had heaved herself onto the sofa, and was shouting for me to bring her cigarettes and a cup of tea. I knew she had a couple of bottles stashed under the sofa, but instead of emptying them as usual, I left everything as it was. Only the thought of freedom kept me going. I don’t relish the memories of this kill. As she bled out, it was more a rush of relief so intense I nearly threw up, than any actual enjoyment. I was careful to leave the knife in her hand, and the note propped on the Welsh oak dresser.
When it was all over, I lingered in the kitchen for a full five minutes, savouring the peace I had created. Then I got to work.
Back in the present I close my game board with a sigh and walk carefully to the spotless bathroom. My footsteps are stealthy in the darkness, and the shadows leer and dance in doorways and on window ledges.
In some ways my whole life is just spent waiting for the next game, the next high. Killing is great, but the rush of playing the game is better than anything. No artificial high, no orgasm ever beats that feeling of my players moving to an unseen order, inching closer to their fates.
I flush the toilet, and head across to wash my hands. It has always been important to be very clean, I suppose a therapist might track the compulsion back to earlier childhood. I count the number of times I apply soap and lather up. After the sixth rinse, I am sated. The water gurgles away with a satisfying gasp, but there’s a smear across the tap in the bathroom. Red. Is it blood? A tiny paper cut on my thumb trickles a rebellious streak of scarlet. My mind races again, scrabbling with the image, skittering back to my childhood and the day of that first kill…
As I stood in the kitchen after it was all over, staring out the window, I noticed a smear of blood on an apple – spoiling the ripe, juicy perfection of the pile. There were green pears, and orange apricots too, carefully arranged in a white dish on the sunlit windowsill. The arrangement was a gift from a well-meaning, but deluded neighbour. The fruit seemed almost too bright, the colours too perfect, given what they had witnessed.
It was annoying, that smear, spoiling my view, spoiling my happiness. But