Mirrorland, Carole Johnstone [spiritual books to read .txt] 📗

‘Why?’

Vik blinks at me. ‘Why what?’

‘Why did he kill her?’

‘Because she wanted to leave. She’d planned to leave.’

‘Then why didn’t she just leave? Why didn’t she go to the police?’

‘I don’t know. I wish she had.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you go to the police?’

‘I did! After she went missing, I phoned them. Told them about her being scared of him, being scared he was going to do something to her. I told them—’

‘No. The police haven’t mentioned you, Vik. I only know you exist because apparently you’ve been following me around for two weeks!’

‘I didn’t give them my name. I didn’t want—’

‘What?’ I spread my hands wide across the space between us. ‘To be involved?’

‘You don’t understand. El made me promise not to contact the police at all. She said she was afraid Ross might come after me. I couldn’t have given a shit about that, but I was afraid that … I’m engaged. And I—’

‘You’re engaged.’

He looks at me, and not even the defiant square of his shoulders or clench of his jaw can hide the shame in his eyes. ‘El made me promise, Cat.’

‘Right.’ I can’t look at him any more; I look at the rusty wet hull, its peeling paint instead. ‘What about Mouse? Does she know about all of this? Is she involved?’

‘I don’t even know who she is,’ Vik says, subdued now. ‘El said that pretending to be her would help you remember.’

‘What about Marie? D’you know her?’

‘No. I swear.’

‘Have you been in the house?’ And I’m not only thinking of the diary pages, the lantern, the pirate code taped to Mirrorland’s ceiling, but the kayak in the shed, the whispers in my ear, the feeling that I am never alone inside 36 Westeryk Road.

‘Of course not. What—’

‘Did you leave pink gerberas at Mum’s grave?’

‘Yes. El—’

‘Asked you to.’ When he only looks more miserable, my flagging anger revives. ‘Just over a week ago, you stood here and comforted me. You made me feel better. I liked you. You cried.’

‘Cat, I—’

‘And when I told you that I didn’t think El was dead because she’d been sending me emails, you stood there shaking your head and didn’t say a word. Not a fucking word! And now you expect me to believe a single thing you say?’

‘Don’t you get it?’ He looks frustrated now, as if he suspects he’s failing. ‘She knew this would happen – all of it! She knew he’d kill her, and he did. She knew you’d come back, and you did. She knew what questions you’d ask. She knew the police would think it was an accident.’ He looks at me. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Cat. You have to believe me.’

But I don’t. Vik loved El, I can see that. I can see, too, that his devastation is just as real, and maybe his conviction, but I can see something else too. In his eyes, his body language. I’m good at pretending. Better than Vik is. And I can recognise another liar with my eyes closed. This isn’t just guilt or some kind of warped obligation. He wanted to follow me, to spy on me, because then El isn’t dead. She’s still in the messages he sends, and she’s in me – her eyes, her face, her voice; that mirror I always carry under my arm. I’m his last remaining link to her.

How? How is it possible that she can still be manipulating all of us like this? Me, Vik, Ross. The police. And without any of us having the first clue why.

‘I’m going to the police today,’ Vik says, staring down at his boots. ‘Make a proper statement this time, tell them everything El told me. I should never have—’

‘Are there any more?’

‘What?’

‘Are there any more messages that you haven’t sent me yet?’

‘No.’

‘Vik.’

His shoulders sag. ‘One more, that’s all.’

‘Show me.’

Vik reaches for his phone. And for the first time since confronting and punching him in the chest, I can feel the rain streaming down my face, running off my nose and chin and fingers, drumming hard against my skull. I can hear it: tinny and quick against metal masts and frames, duller and slower against concrete, tarmac, wood. Loudest of all against the firth: deep and sharp and resonant, like an old memory, a forgotten fear, a yank – hard and sharp and real.

‘Here,’ he says, handing the phone back, and when I take it, I stare at him long enough that he has to meet my gaze.

‘Don’t go to the police yet, Vik. Not yet. If needs be, we’ll go together. But I need you to let me do this first. You owe me that.’

When he nods, slow and uncertain, I take a long, deep breath. Okay, El. One more, that’s all. And then we’re done.

Drafts

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Cat Morgan

CLUE 11. THE ONLY PLACE OUTSIDE MIRRORLAND WHERE YOU WERE EVER RED INSTEAD OF WHITE.

Sent from my iPhone

CHAPTER 25

I stand on the paving in the back garden. I’m soaked to the skin. But my head no longer pounds or pulses. I feel more clear and awake than I have in a long time. I pace in circles a few times before realising what I’m doing: kicking up silver and grey chuckies, pulling up old waxy fishing dungarees. Marching around the exercise yard behind El’s Andy Dufresne. The only time I was Red instead of White.

I go to the first ugly concrete plinth, look inside its urn. Empty. When I try to shift it, it doesn’t budge. The second is empty, too, but it moves when I push – enough that I have to grab hold of it before it topples to the ground. Underneath, there’s an envelope inside a ziplocked freezer bag. I pick it up, push the urn back into place, and climb the stairs to the scullery. In the kitchen, I pour myself a vodka I probably shouldn’t have and sit at the table. I should go to the Clown Café, in case Ross comes back, but