The world doesn’t spin exactly but the straight edges of the bed and walls curve slightly as all the colours brighten. I frown. ‘But then who was sending Ava the messages? If Jon was dead?’
She looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘Charlotte was. Lisa. Whatever you want to call her. The laptop was in her house. Even before this development, we were working on the assumption it was her.’
I feel like I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
‘I know it’s hard to take in, but the most likely conclusion is that this is all her doing.’
‘But why?’ Oh God, Lisa. Did I know you at all?
‘We think she’s had some sort of breakdown. She’s phoned Alison – the probation officer you met – at least twice in recent weeks paranoid she was being watched. The money theft at work could be symptomatic of her mental instability. We won’t know until we find her. And until we do, we can’t be sure Ava is safe. In fact, we consider Ava to be very much at risk. Do you understand, Marilyn?’
‘But how could she—’
‘When Ava ran away she’d been alone in the flat with Lisa. Lisa reported her missing the next morning when she woke up. Anything could have happened in those hours. Lisa could have left first to set up the meeting. Anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
I nod, slowly, my skull heavy. ‘Lisa’s dangerous.’ I pause. ‘Fucking hell. She’s gone mad.’
Bray looks relieved that her point has finally sunk in. But this is easier for her. She didn’t know Lisa. But then did I? Ever?
‘I’ll call you straight away if I hear from her.’ My hands are trembling. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is insane. ‘If I think of anything else you might find useful, I’ll ring.’
‘Thank you. I know this is difficult.’ Bray stands, eager to leave me and get to her crime scene.
‘Ava’s the only thing that matters.’ My throat dries, as, in the midst of all this, a selfish thought strikes me. And why not? I should get something out of this shitstorm. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘There’s one more thing, if that’s okay.’
‘Yes?’
‘My husband. If you speak to him, be careful of what you say. He’s been trying to get me to sell my story to the papers. I wouldn’t trust him with any vital information unless you’re ready for it to be shared.’
‘Thank you. We were planning on seeing him, in case Lisa turns up there, so that’s useful to know.’
‘When you go there,’ I try to sound casual, ‘could you tell him to stay away from me and my work? It would be helpful. Until I start divorce proceedings. He can be … difficult.’ I don’t need to say more. She’s a woman. We have an implicit understanding of what sentences like that really mean.
‘No problem,’ she says. And then they’re gone.
I forget about the shower and the sandwich and go straight for the wine. I don’t want to get drunk, but I definitely need one glass. My hands are trembling as I pour it and take the first sip. Lisa. Has Lisa done all this? I remember Ava’s sixteenth birthday, only a few weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I’d asked Lisa about Ava’s dad and if she ever heard from him. She’d shut me down as she always did. Had she already killed him?
This is different from trying to accept that my best friend had once been Charlotte Nevill. That was past. This is present. She did this while going to work with me, eating Chinese takeaways, idolising my perfect marriage and worrying about Ava’s exams. How could she have been sending those messages to Ava? Killing Jon? All that while? Am I that stupid?
Someone isn’t who they say they are.
Katie’s body was never recovered.
No. No. No. Those thoughts will make me as crazy as Lisa, and she is crazy. Maybe she’s had some kind of schizophrenic breakdown and is having episodes as Katie? Maybe living as a different person for so long, always afraid of being discovered, has snapped her? Maybe she’s created a Katie to deal with the bad shit. Maybe it’s one of those psychotic breaks like in the films, and she doesn’t know when she’s being Katie?
I like that thought. It gives me a little wave of relief. It’s better than the alternative – that I didn’t notice my sweet best friend was batshit fucking dangerous crazy. I can’t get my head around the alternative at all. She couldn’t have done it consciously. Could she?
It all pummels at my skull until I realise it’s getting dark outside. It’s ten p.m. and I’m still sitting here, holding the same glass of warm wine.
Fuck the shower. Fuck it all. Without even brushing my teeth, I crawl into bed.
46
LISA
I pretend to be playing solitaire with an old deck of cards, but my ears are locked on to the quiet sound of the TV in the corner of the communal sitting room. There are only two other people in here, sipping coffee and reading the papers. I figure everyone else has gone into town for the evening. That’s what young people do, after all.
The lorry dropped me in Calthorpe and I got the bus to Ashminster from there, checking into this youth hostel for three nights, and paying the extra for a private room with a shower. First, I scrubbed myself clean, washing him off me until my skin was red raw, and then, despite the fear and nerves that have turned my guts into a painful acid tear in my midriff, I fell asleep for hours, a bleak, black empty sleep of non-existence.
When I eventually woke it was evening and I sprayed fresh colour into my hair, painted my face on and became Lily again. I think about the name. The flower of death. A mourner’s bloom. Please don’t let me be mourning Ava. Please let me have bought some time.
I’m on the news. Not Lily, but those other mes, Charlotte and Lisa. I was Lisa for so long, it should hurt more that she’s gone; but I’ve shucked her off like a snake’s shed skin. After the last time I changed my name, after what happened with Jon, I think I knew she wouldn’t be forever. Charlotte is harder to shake off. I have to die to truly end Charlotte. Maybe that’s what this will come to, this battle of wits. But I’m not ready for that yet and Charlotte definitely isn’t. I’m reclaiming the game as best I can.
It’s the second time the news report has been on and this time I’m calmer and listen properly, pushing aside my grief for poor Jon who never did anything wrong apart from fall in love too young with someone who wasn’t lovable. I try not to look at my face as it stares back at me from the screen, all Home Office anonymity deals off now I’m once again a murderer. I look so meek. So invisible. They’ve used the photo from my work pass. The newsreader says I now have shorter, blonde hair, and then there’s a farcically bad Photofit that looks like a very non-sexy blow-up doll version of me with blonde hair added. It almost makes me laugh. It almost makes Lily laugh. She’s tougher than me, whoever the hell I am. Lily’s more Charlotte than Lisa. I’m only the husk they inhabit.
I glance at the photo on the screen again. It’s nothing like me. Is that really the best the police can do? I wonder if she’s watching. What’s she thinking? This won’t be how she expected it to go. She thought I’d be locked up by now. Game over.
The newsreader tells the world I’m wanted in connection with the murder of Jon Roper whose body has been found in a rented property in Wales. After an overhead shot of the isolated cottage, the local reporter shares what they know.