30 Days in June Page 7

  I pull across the bolt and push open the cubicle door. I take one step forward and then stop. My eyes widen as they fix on the mirror, on the words that have been scrawled in blood.

  Twenty-three days.

  DAY EIGHT

  8TH JUNE 1988

  Kate Phillips grips her mother's hand as they walk down the library's concrete steps.

  Fair play, the afternoon had passed surprisingly quickly since her mum picked her up from school. Kate wasn't going to tell her mum that, though; she knew her game. It was a strategic game of chess. Her mother's tactic was to keep her busy, keep her focussed on anything but the damn Amstrad CPC she'd bought Kate for her 9th birthday. Kate knew her mum and dad rued the day they decided to buy her that computer. She didn't feel too much guilt, though; it was their fault that they were so naive. They had these grand ideas that she'd spend hours, days, writing stories about fairies, and creating pie charts. Just who did they think she was? Just why would they possibly think she wouldn't waste endless hours in her bedroom on the computer playing Double Dragon? Her mum was at her wits' end. Said Kate would get square eyes if she didn't stop playing on that damn computer. But then, she also said her face would stay like that if the wind changed, and Kate knew that simply wasn't true (she'd tested the theory).

  Yesterday they'd followed the twisting trail of the river. Last time she'd been down by the river, the water had been choppy and aggressive, but this time there was so much less of it, and it seemed so much calmer and at peace with the world. They spotted a couple of dead fish floating on the surface of the water, just lying there, exposed. It seemed so degrading and yet - and yet - so freakishly fascinating. Today they'd located a table in the corner of the library and flicked through books. Her mum tried to get her interested in Cinderalla, but Kate picked up a picture book about Jossy's Giants. Regardless, the quiet and tranquillity of the library made a pleasant change to the non-stop action of her computer games.

  The other children are all home from school by now and yet, as the shops and offices are not quite shut, the streets are quiet as they head to the bus stop. They cross the road, then turn the corner.

  "Look, Mum. Look!" Kate raises her hand and points.

  Her mother tugs on her hand. "Oh, yes," she says. "How odd."

  Kate knew this tactic, too. Mum tried to dismiss anything that was even remotely different by saying it was odd, just like she did when those two men kissed on Eastenders. Seriously, Kate thinks; she is just so embarrassing sometimes. Kate plays her own chess move. She tugs at her mother's arm so they step off the bumpy, hot pavement and onto the road. Her mother is sure to tell her off for this later, Kate thinks; but later is later and this is now. Now they are crossing the road and they will have no choice but to speak to the man waiting for them on the other side. It was rude not to, and her mother was forever saying that rudeness was a disease of modern society.

  The man bounces up and down on the spot in black and white striped trousers and blazer, reminding Kate of an American Football referee. He wears bulky leather boots. His frizzy green hair has the look of a mad professor, or somebody who has been electrocuted. The chalk white face highlights the blood red lips and the black circles around his eyes. His tongue hangs out of his mouth like a thirsty dog.

  Mummy isn't going to like this man one bit, Kate thinks, as she picks up her pace and widens her smile.

  "We come for your daughter, Chuck," he announces as they move within touching distance. Kate notices that his manic eyes dart everywhere. He bows to Kate's mum. "I'm the ghost with the most, babe!"

  Kate puts her hand to her mouth. Her mother's hand feels cold against her own. "Look, Mum," Kate says. "It's Beetlejuice."

  "Oh, yes," her mum says, "so it is. How very odd."

  Beetlejuice jiggles a red bucket under their noses. Kate hears the jingling of coins. "Just doing my bit for charity, ma'am," he explains. "Raising money for cancer research."

  Kate's mother crinkles her nose as though sniffing dog muck. "Quite," she says. "Very good."

  The bucket remains dangling and Mrs Phillips has no choice but to open her handbag and dig inside her purse. She drops a few bronze and silver coins inside. Kate feels a tug at her hand. She goes to protest, but when she looks up she thinks better of it: her mum has the same face she had when gypsies settled on their local park.

  "You are a queen, ma'am," the man says, bowing down again. "That twenty pence will surely go a long way to saving the lives of the sick and vulnerable."

  "Quite," Mrs Phillips says. Kate can tell by the flush to her mother's cheeks that even she can tell the man isn't being straight with her.

  "That Spartacus is killing so many innocent people that I think we need to save as many as we can," the man says. He fixes Mrs Phillips with a pensive look."Wouldn't you agree?"

  Kate feels her mother's eyes on her, but she looks away. They don't talk about that man in their house. Her mother turns the channel when he comes on the news. Of course, Kate knew everything there was to know about the crazy killer who was roaming the streets of South Wales. They had a game in school where one of the kids pretended to be him and chased after the other children, with a stick as a prop.

  "He's killed again. Did you know?" he asks.

  Kate feels the grip on her hand tighten. She is hurting her now.

  "Really? You sure? I read the newspaper this morning and there was nothing about it in there. Since when? When did somebody die?"

  Kate is surprised by the sharpness of her mother's tone. She can tell that, for whatever reason, her mother doesn't like this man. Maybe she thinks he is the real Beetlejuice?

  The man taps the side of his nose. "Since today, madam. Another innocent victim is dead."

  "No. No, I didn't know that," Mrs Phillips says. "How very awful."

  Kate looks up at Beetlejuice as he leans close to her mother; close enough, she thinks, for her to feel his breath on her face. Kate tugs at her hand. She wants to leave now. There is something about this man that she doesn't like now, either. She doesn't like the way he speaks to her mum, the way he looks at her, the way he doesn't seem to mean any of what he says.

  The man leans even closer now, close enough to dig his teeth into her neck, and then he whispers in her ear. Kate can see his lips moving, the spit on his tongue. Her mother's jaw drops and her hand turns icy cold, then her body goes oddly still, like she is frozen in time.

  The man raises his hand in the air to bid farewell as he moves swiftly down the street, happily jingling the bucket down by his side. Takes a turn. Then he is gone.

  "Come on, Kate, we need to get a hurry on before we miss that bus."

  Kate is relieved to see her mum alert again, to see her back to normal. Suddenly, she is full of energy, like she has been on the Lucozade again. Kate has to skip to keep up with her. Her mum moves daintily, like she is walking on hot coals. Suddenly, she stops. She closes her eyes, just for a few seconds, before opening them again. Kate dreads to think what thoughts go through her mind. She puts her palms on Kate's shoulders and speaks very clearly.

  "Kate. Wait here. Just one moment. Please, do not move."

  Kate watches her mother turn back in the same direction they just came from. Kate has no idea why she is going back, but she is certain nothing good can come of it. Just what did that odd man whisper to her? It is like some magnificent invisible force is pulling her mum by the wrists. Her movements are slower now, more reluctant. She stops again. Stands still. Maybe she is having second thoughts? Then, just as Kate thinks she might turn around and come back - and she really hopes that she does - her mum disappears down a dark, narrow alleyway.

  Seconds pass in silence. Kate taps the soles of her black school shoes against the crooked pavement. She eyes the moss that sprouts from the cracks. She begins to worry for her mother.

  Her head jerks up. The silence has been broken by the horrific sound of her mother screaming.

  DAY NINE

  9TH JUNE 2018

  Sink
ing my buttocks deeply into the sofa that curves in a u-shape , my shoulders slope downwards and my hands rest on the flat of my thighs. My feet are somewhere - attached to my legs, no doubt, as they usually are - and yet they're so numb and heavy that I can barely feel them.

  My eyes blink open. My back straightens and I pull my shoulders almost up to my ears. What was that? Moments earlier I was oblivious to my surroundings on the boat, my home. I'm here alone because it is the middle of the day and Erica is in her workshop. Now I push my neck forward and squint, actively searching for things, chasing shadows - seeking out danger. Stop doing this. You know it is all in your head; all in your mind.

  I close my eyes again. Force them shut. Teasing my forehead with the tips of my fingers, I sink my face into the comfort and security of my palms. I count one, two, three as I inhale through my nose; count one, two, three as I exhale out from my mouth. My body feels so heavy that I am disappearing into the floor, tumbling into the grotty, rancid canal water that lies below, sinking into the epicentre of the earth.

  I spring to attention, suddenly alert. I am not imagining it this time. My mind is not playing games. This is not paranoia. I did hear something. I heard somebody. My mind plays tricks; my ears do not lie. There is somebody outside. I can hear him moving. He is circling the boat, a predator assessing the prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce, to attack.

  The windows span all the way along the boat, on both sides. The glass is flimsy, easily broken. I look up. Sun roof. I look for hiding places. There are none.

  Bang.

  What was that? Something hit the boat, struck it with force. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, curl up into a ball. The noise came from the far end of the boat, the other side, furthest away from me. This is the safest place. Right here. Right where I am.

  I want to stand up to him, my fists raised and ready, just like Luke would. I want to hunt down the intruder, to turn the tables, to become the attacker. I can't. My body feels like it has been stuck to the seat with superglue. I am strapped down, completely and utterly defenceless.

  I see it happening. See it with my own eyes. Like it is in slow motion. The door handle pushes down. The door slides open. The door slides shut. He is on my boat, in my home. The feet move towards me. Slowly, like they are treading through water. He is getting closer, though. He will reach me, eventually.

  I try to lift my legs. The resistance is much stronger now. They are tied down with rope. I no longer want to attack. I just want to escape, to run.

  He moves close enough for me to see his face. He looks exactly the same. He has not changed. He still looks beautiful, like his features have been sculpted by hand. His smile is subtle, unnerving. It widens; stretches his face.

  I am distracted for a moment. But then I see it. In his hand. There is something in his hand. The light rebounds from it so sharply that I cover my eyes. I glimpse over the top of my hand and I watch him raise his own hand, high above his head.

  Suddenly, I can move. My body has never felt so free, so light, so capable. I jump up from the chair. My fists are like shovels. I swing with speed, with force. My fists sink into his face. I grip his skull. I have so much power that it feels like I can crush his skull until it disintegrates like dust. He squeals like a pig, but my teeth are sharp and I have never felt so fantastic.

  The cabin stops moving, stops swaying from side to side. Comes into focus. My forehead is damp. I feel slender arms clinging tightly to my body. He talks to me, pleads with me.

  "Stop, Marcus. Please, stop."

  My eyes are open, wide like hollows. I pull away, sit up. I pull my hands behind my back and twist them together to stop me throwing wild and dangerous punches, to stop them from doing anything.

  Erica pulls her own hands to her face. She looks tinier than ever, more fragile and delicate than I've ever seen her, so feline and childlike, lying with her back pressed against the bed sheet. I dab my forehead with my finger and realise that the dampness is a dreadful cocktail of sweat, tears and blood.

  Erica's blood.

  I lean down and nestle my forehead against hers. Her hands part and her arms wrap around me. I tell her that I am sorry; tell her again and again.

  "It is okay," she says. Her breathing has calmed. She whispers the words. They are soothing. Her fingers caress my naked back now, run down the curve of my spine. "It is just a dream. Everything is fine, Marcus. Everything is fine."

  I bury my head in the warmth of her neck. My hand caresses her long, soft hair. Her body is floppy and relaxed. My own body is rigid. I cling to her tighter. I need to wash the blood from her forehead, need to clean her up, but for now she is content to just drift, to daydream, safely wrapped in my arms.

  I have a nagging thought, that just keeps repeating in my mind. I try to push it away, but it pushes back, even stronger.

  It would be so much better if this whole nightmare was just a dream.

  DAY TEN

  10TH JUNE 2018

  Twisting his face into an array of shapes, Richard digs his hefty hand inside the dark depths of his even heftier black bag. He has placed the bag on the table that separates us, and it stretches all the way up to his chin. Pulling out a banana, all bruised, brown patches and decaying yellow, Richard crinkles his nose like he has never seen one quite like this before.

  "What on earth...?" he says, returning the banana back into the bag.

  My eyes are drawn alluringly to the fabulous cuckoo clock on the wall to my right. Even I know it is nine minutes past eleven, though since I quit my job in the city five years ago, I try my best not to take much notice of the time. The slip of paper on the table has my name and then '11am' scrawled on it in Richard's fantastically messy handwriting. I'm forever pulling these slips out of my pocket with the odd coin and tissue. Why is he only searching for this now? Surely this cannot be his first appointment of the day? I smile. I thought I was supposed to be the one that needed help. It doesn't bother me, really. I am not often in a rush to be anywhere else.

  To think, though, I thought I might be late myself this morning. I just knew I needn't have worried, that however late I might be, Richard would surely be even later. Erica made an early start. Her parting kiss was a distant memory when I finally rose from my pit. It was only when I was ready to leave I realised I couldn't locate the door key. Normally this wouldn't be too much of a worry - I'd just leave it unlocked; not any more. I checked an array of pockets, a range of hiding places. Nothing. My temperature was beginning to rise, my temper starting to be tested. I was just about ready to pull my phone from my pocket, ring Richard and tell him that I wouldn't be able to make it today, when I spotted it. I blew air from my mouth and cursed myself for being such a drama queen. I picked it up from the doormat and hurriedly went on my way, just about ahead of time. I must have dropped it after I'd unlocked the door last night.

  This room is like a second home, I am here so often. It must be ten years or so since the letter unexpectedly dropped through my letterbox in Clapham inviting me for an appointment with Richard McCoy. I say unexpectedly, but by that time I'd come to expect the unexpected.

  I’d been receiving support for my mental health ever since the attack. Back then it wasn’t fashionable to see a psychiatrist or a counsellor, especially for men. Mental health was another term for madness. It was spoken about in hushed tones, if at all. This was a million miles from the Prozac age that followed in the nineties. Initially the support I received was mandatory. I was a victim and so I needed support. Even as a naive and pretty dumb eighteen-year-old kid lost in the big city I could see that there was a fair amount of box ticking involved – the system needed to ensure that they had taken the appropriate steps to cover their own butt should I decide to harm myself or somebody else. I was high profile, wasn't I? I went along to whatever they sent me to and nodded my head and made all the right noises without really thinking too much about it.

  It is difficult to say whether any of the treatment worke
d, because I don’t know what I would have been like had I not received it. For all I know, I could be ten feet under now were it not for the drugs. None of it was visibly useful, though. I was a revolutionary, however, because I was on drugs a decade before it became fashionable. The counsellor usually prescribed me on a dose of antidepressants, sent me away, called me back and then asked whether they'd worked. I’d tell him (or her, of course) that it felt like I'd been walking through a black fog, that I barely felt alive any more. They told me that wasn't their desired effect. No shit. And so they'd take me off that medication and put me on another one that was fundamentally the same but with a different name and then we'd start the process again and have the same conversation in another four weeks. I was a test rat in a laboratory.

  My file is big, but then it isn't all about size, is it? I know it is big because I saw it, back before data was transferred onto the computer. The file was A4 and breaking at the seams. I’d received the full works of support; the deluxe package. The group sessions were the worst. The crux of the idea was that I’d be able to converse with other people with similar problems I could relate to. It was just like on the TV. We sat on stained, plastic chairs in a small room with no air. Nearly everybody looked what they were: a victim. There was a specific reason I only attended one session, though. One guy told his story, just like all the others. Unlike all the others, though, his was a success story. He told us that he had been huddled on bare floorboards covered in his own faeces, high on drugs and low on life. And yet he pulled it all around and now he had a home, a job and a wife. The broadness of his smile told you everything you needed to know.

  “Do you know how I did it?” he asked the group, glancing around the circle one by one. We each in turn shook our heads. This felt like a monumental moment for me. This guy had it sorted. He was a genie with a bottle. He was going to tell us the secret. He was my way out of this pit of misery. I was on my way back up.