Like This, for Ever

30




With his long sharp nails he opened a vein in his breast. When the blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one of his, holding them tight and with the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to the wound so that I must either suffocate or swallow … some of the … Oh my god … my god. What have I done?

LACEY CLOSED HER Kindle. Jesus, she’d forgotten what a creepy book Dracula was. A phantom that gained power from the blood of its prey, that grew stronger with every fresh victim it claimed. It was a truly horrible thought. And now people were being led to believe there was a real one running around South London. It was no wonder they were getting twitchy.

She got up off the sofa and stretched. There was noise in the street outside, people gathered just above her window. Lacey walked across and pulled the curtains apart an inch. Kids – one of whom looked like Barney – and something was up. They were edgy, nervous; waiting for Barney to open the front door, they kept glancing down the street. She was half tempted to go out, make sure they were OK, then they filed into the house and the door slammed shut.

Over at her desk, her laptop was still open and Lacey soon found the Missing Boys page. Honestly, the drivel people were prepared to post was endless. And she wasn’t the only one to have rediscovered Dracula that weekend. The page had any number of posts linking passages in the book with some aspect of the murders. Most of the connections seemed pretty spurious.

A number of the posts were from self-proclaimed vampires, all of them with glamorous names. Others, rejecting outlandish and sensationalist labels, talked about the very real condition of being obsessed by the sight of their own blood.

I can’t explain my need for blood. I think about it all the time, craving the smell, the sight, the taste of it. It’s like a secret I share with myself. And my sharp knife, I suppose. LOL.

It’s like a scream building up inside me. When it gets to the point where I have to let go, I cut. Just those first few droplets of blood oozing up through my skin are enough to make me feel better. Sometimes I don’t even have to taste it, although I always do.

It’s getting harder and harder to hide what I do from my mum. She’s getting suspicious about me sneaking rubbish (bloodstained tissues I daren’t let her see) out of the house. And she’s always trying to sneak a look at my arms. I’m ahead of her there, though. I cut my legs now.

Some of my scars have got infected. They hurt and they look awful, but I can’t see a doctor because he’ll know what I’ve been doing.

Nutters! Stupid, self-obsessed fruitcakes. Lacey logged off and closed the laptop. Nearly eleven o’clock. God, was she ever going to start sleeping again? It didn’t seem to matter how much she wore out her body, her mind wouldn’t shut down. Was it even her mind anyway? This burning feeling in her chest didn’t have anything to do with intellect.

Like a scream building up inside me.

Lacey pushed up the sleeve of her sweater. The scar, running vertically the length of her wrist, was nearly four inches long. It had been itching a lot lately; sometimes in the mornings it looked pink and sore and she suspected she’d been scratching it in the night.

Without realizing, she’d walked into the kitchen. The breadknife was on the worktop. She’d used it earlier to cut bread for toast. It was probably the sharpest knife she had. She picked it up, realizing, possibly for the first time, how comfortable knives felt, how well they seemed to fit in the hand. There were smears on the blade, and crumbs left over from the bread. She should wash it, really. If you were going to cut yourself, it should be with a clean knife. She reached out to turn on the tap and hold the knife in the water, while the saner, smaller part of her yelled, Lacey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

The sound of the text message made her jump, as though she’d been caught in the act of something shameful. She dropped the knife in the sink and found her phone. She didn’t recognize the number. And yet she could count on the fingers of one hand how many people had her private number.

The words of the text didn’t register for a second, but then – good God, was this some kind of sick joke?

Body of Tyler King found at Deptford Creek, Theatre Arm Marina. Enter through lock-up yard. Come now.