Chapter 32

Oh, no. What have I done? As she lies there, silent and still, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.

It wasn’t her voice, not her scream. It isn’t her. Not who I had expected it to be at all. This isn’t the actress. It should have been the actress. The other one, the young girl, had gone, and the place was empty again. Had been for days. Untidy, messy, but empty. She’d gone. I was sure she had. But I was wrong.

What was she doing, creeping in here so late at night? Like some kind of thief or intruder. What did she have to do that for? She shouldn’t have been here. She wasn’t coming back. I didn’t mean her any harm. She was an inconvenience, that was all. Gone back where she came from, not part of my story. Our story. She was irrelevant, a nobody. But a nobody who was standing between me and the door, in the way, stopping my escape.

I thought it was the actress. I really did. I heard her come in, I tried to get out, but she sensed me, knew I was there, because she stopped, waited … What could I do? I had to do something. It was me or her. Just as it always has been. The game was so nearly up. And I didn’t have time to think, to plan. Action. Reaction. Instinct. A way to finish it, once and for all. And with her own award too. Justice. That was all it was. And poetic justice, at that. But it wasn’t her.

And now her stupid, shiny statuette is in my hands, still clutched tightly despite the trembling, and she’s lying on the floor at my feet – her, the other one – and I don’t even know if she’s alive or dead.

I should do something. What should I do? Bend down. Touch her. Check her. Call for help. The police. Ambulance. Or run? Should I run? Just go, hide, leave her to her fate? I know I should. It’s my only hope. But I also know I shouldn’t.

I put it down, slowly, on the carpet. The award she won. The weapon. Should I wipe it with something? Remove my fingerprints? Ah, but they’ll be everywhere, won’t they? On all the things I’ve touched. Not just tonight. All those other nights.

My toe meets something hard as I move towards her. Hard and hot. The floor is so wet my foot slides and I almost fall. I bend down, shaking, scared. The kettle is lying beside her. I push it away, touch her, and she is wet too. Her face. Her hair. I put my wet fingers to my lips. Not water. Blood.

I can’t do it. Can’t think. Can’t move. Can’t decide.

In the end, I just stand and pick up the statue thing and go, slowly, carefully, and as silently as I can.

I leave the door open, onto the landing. Someone will find her. Someone will help her. But it’s not going to be me.