‘Well done. You got there in the end. Took you a while, didn’t it? But you have finally woken up. Poor, sad little Peter. Dear God, I don’t know how you function with that small brain of yours.’
‘Why?’ The sound of his heartbeat drowns out everything else. ‘Why would you do such a thing? You were really prepared to let her die?’
‘She didn’t die though, did she?’ Alice points down at Lauren’s slumped body. ‘I mean, look at her. She’s still here, isn’t she? She’s still breathing. What’s your problem?’
Over the past twenty years, he has been on numerous sales courses, learned how to elicit the correct responses from customers, how to build up relationships and make people comfortable while he takes the lead and talks about his expertise in engineering but for once, he is lost for words, unable to do anything except gasp and stare at this creature before him, this woman he thought he knew. This monster.
‘Go. Get out of my house. Leave us both alone. Just fuck off out of here and don’t ever come back!’
No movement. She carries on pacing around the room, appraising them, picking over the carcass of their weakened position. A vulture circling, wheeling above them. Waiting. He wonders what she’s planning, what her next destructive move will be. He doesn’t have to wonder for long.
Alice disappears for a brief second – not long enough for him to do anything, to rouse Lauren and grab at his phone – and returns carrying a knife, the metal blade glinting under the glare of the lamp.
Next to him, Lauren stirs again, her strength returning, her floppy limbs gradually gaining some rigidity. She pushes herself up on her hands and sits next to her father, her skin pale and waxy, her eyes glazed and full of horror.
‘Missing child. The news. Alice,’ is all she can say before she bursts into tears, places her head in her hands and sobs.
43LAUREN
I thought I was going to die. I really thought it was the end for me. If Dad hadn’t managed to get hold of the adrenaline, then I might not be here. It makes me shudder, that possibility, the thought of dying, slowly choking to death. And all the while, she sat by and watched, doing nothing to help. She was prepared to watch me suffer and gasp my last. I knew it. I just knew that something was amiss with her. I thought she was a gold digger, an opportunist, a sad, old woman who seeks out grieving men. I didn’t know that she wanted to kill me. I definitely didn’t see that coming.
I need to speak clearly, to tell Dad about Alice, about the kidnapping but my throat is still swollen and sore. I try to concentrate, to get the words out properly, be clear and coherent. I want him to listen. I want Alice to listen. She needs to know that I know. Dad may have been blinkered to her ways and blinded by her charms but I knew. I just knew there was something murky, something sinister going on. And now I’ve found it.
The news broke while I was sitting upstairs eating the food she gave me. Her weapon of destruction. My plate of poison.
I can hear Dad shouting at her. I listen to the click of her heels as she paces around us, circling and circling wildly, her feet hitting the ground like gunshots. Then I hear Dad gasp and suck in his breath. He is staring up at her; his heartbeat is thick and fast. I can feel it as I sit next to him, his body helping to prop me up. I regain more strength, pushing myself up on my hands. I need to pull myself round, be a force to be reckoned with, not a floppy, useless mess who is unable to defend herself. I won’t get caught out again by this woman. I’ll do whatever it takes to get her out of this house.
Only when I can look at her, really see her properly, does my stomach sink. She is holding a knife. The blade is pointing at us. Her hand is wobbling about, her eyes glistening, her mouth twisted and menacing. Jade Kennedy is here. Not Alice Godwin. Phillip Kennedy’s wife is here in our house.
I saw it when I was upstairs browsing the internet. Her face was there next to a bold headline about a missing child. The police had said she goes under the name of Alice Godwin but is also known as Jade Kennedy. A neighbour had seen the photograph and passed on information about her true identity. That’s when it hit me – the thought that I’d seen her elsewhere, the familiarity of her features. Those few times I attended Mum’s murder trial. I saw her there. She looked very different with short, dark hair and no glasses. She was also much heavier, sitting on the bench hunched over, shoulders slumped, wearing a dark, frumpy overcoat and a downcast expression. But now that I know, there’s no mistaking the cut of her jaw, her piercing, blue eyes. It’s definitely her. Here in our house.
‘Missing child. The news. Alice,’ is all I can manage before the shock catches up with me and I am unable to control the tears that come thick and fast. My chest heaves, my stomach contracts, stars burst behind my eyes as I press my hands into them to suppress the wave of terror that is washing over me. It’s such a mess. Everything is such an awful mess. We need to garner our strength, Dad and I. We need to show her that this is our house, that she isn’t wanted here and should leave.
Except she has a knife and by the look in her eyes, that dark, bottomless pit of nothingness in them, I know she’s willing to use it, slitting us from ear to ear, smiling as she does it.
‘Dad,’ I whisper, my throat still sore and croaky. ‘The news. She’s on the news.’
His warm breath filters over to me, reminding me of when I was a child and how safe I felt when I was around him, how he used to pick me up in his big, strong arms and cuddle me into his chest. I want to be that child again, invincible in an ever-changing and increasingly perilous world. Except I’m not. I’m almost an adult and now here we are in this situation, being held hostage by somebody who’s clearly deranged and unpredictable. We don’t know her. Not at all. And she doesn’t know us. Or me. Not the real me. The one who is capable of so much more than anybody knows or realises. But not at the minute. Not like this with my weakened body and an immune system that’s trying to fight off a perceived poison I’ve ingested.
‘Who, sweetheart? Who’s on the news?’ He tries to whisper but I know she can hear him. I can tell by her unwavering gaze, her pinched features that she is listening to every word we say. Despite her proximity, despite her crazed expression, she is tuned in to every single thing that we say and do.
‘Her,’ I hiss as I attempt to dip my head, to get him to lean in closer to me so she can’t hear what we’re saying. ‘It’s his wife. Kennedy. Phillip Kennedy. She’s not Alice. She’s Jade. Jade Kennedy.’
‘Stop talking!’ Her face looms close to mine, her fetid, sour breath causing me to back away. ‘Stop saying those things! I’m Alice, you hear me? Alice Godwin.’ She laughs, her voice oscillating wildly between a childish giggle and a loud aggressive roar. ‘Except I’m not, am I?’
She moves away from us, her face creased with laughter as she continues her gawkish, macabre display. A display of madness, of somebody rapidly losing their grip. ‘I’m Alice, I’m not! I’m Alice, I’m not. I’m Alice…’ Her voice fades. She dances around the room, skipping, swirling, sashaying, the metal blade glinting, before coming to a rapid halt. ‘I’m not!’ Her hands are still clutching the knife as she spins around, stares at us, her eyes dead and fathomless. Only darkness there. No logic, no rational thought. Nothing but darkness.
‘Where is he, Jade? Where’s the little boy you took from his parents?’ I’m taking a chance, trying to reason with her. I have no idea what she is capable of. I don’t know her; I don’t know what levels she will stoop to. How far she has fallen. Although judging by the blade she’s holding, I have a fair idea. I’m trying to appeal to her better nature, the softer side she showed us at the beginning of her relationship with Dad.
I need to do something. It’s not just about us. There’s another family out there who is missing their child. Where is that boy? What the hell has she done with him?
There’s stillness in the room, a sharp moment of reckoning as we wait for her reply. Then a noise. Not a voice. Not at first. A dull, clicking sound followed by a slam of a door. Then the voice comes and I go faint once more.
44JADE/ALICE
They’ve called somebody. I don’t know how they did it or when, but I do know that whoever it is coming through that door will have to be dealt with. I can’t come this far and then lose everything before it’s finished: before I’ve had a chance to reveal my hand and show them what I’m capable of.
The words are out of Lauren’s mouth as I spin around, blade outstretched. There’s a screech, a deathly hollering from both Peter and his daughter when I catch the intruder with the knife, the sharp blade sliding across their skin, cold metal against warm flesh. I watch transfixed as they slump to the floor, arms covering their midriff, small trickles of blood seeping from between their fingers. A rose hue of blood blossoming and oozing out of her. So much of it. It’s both wonderful and utterly grotesque. A mesmerising sight.
‘Grandma!’ Lauren screams, her face deathly pale.
‘Oh my God! What the hell have you done?’ Peter is up on his feet now, racing towards me. I’m too quick for him. He’s tall, broad shouldered. Solid and cumbersome. I’m lighter, more agile and able to dodge his towering approach.
Clutching the knife, I slalom out of his way, watching as Lauren attempts to slide over to the bleeding woman, her limbs floppy and weak after her own near-death experience. She throws her arms around the older woman’s body and sobs. Something nips at me, a usually concealed emotion. An unfamiliar emotion. Guilt. It’s a new sensation. I don’t care for it. I push it away. This is on them. They gave me no choice. Everything that has happened so far in my life has been thrust upon me by other people. They put me here. They made me do it.
My childhood, my marriage. My life. All taken from me. You can’t just do that to people, can you? Rob them of things that are rightfully theirs: my parents, my husband, my short-lived relationship with Tom, all of them saying the same thing – that I should be locked away, kept separate from other people.
My past creeps in, bites at me, my mind debilitated by this turn of events, the appearance of this woman in the house. I close my eyes, trying to escape the memories: that child. My sister. All these years on and still her face haunts me, how she clawed and fought as I held her under the bathwater: the desperation, the fear, her bucking body, her bulging eyes. Her open mouth and thrashing limbs. The way she looked at me, blaming me even though it wasn’t my fault. She made me do it, you see. She made me hold her down until she stopped fighting. That’s what it was. A silent request. I had no choice. I didn’t enjoy it. It was gruesome, difficult. Not a natural thing to do, but I did it anyway. I had to. That’s what people don’t understand. I simply had no choice. There was no other way.
She’s at rest now, just sleeping. That’s all it is. A long and peaceful slumber. An eternal one. No having to endure this cruel world. No having to endure the temperaments of others. No having to be subjected to their unsubstantiated accusations and hatred and sharp, unforgiving words that cut deeper than they will ever know.
A sound penetrates my thoughts.
It’s Peter. He’s running at me, his face contorted with anger. I’ve hurt that lady and he is furious. But so am I. He needs to remember that. I had a life until Sophia Saunders ruined it. Until Peter made her so miserable that she turned to somebody else for succour and sex and happiness.
I hold out the knife to stop him, my body bent low. I jab at his middle, slashing the air repeatedly, trying to connect with him. He moves back and forth, the two of us dancing around each other until a voice stops him in his tracks.
‘Dad, we need an ambulance. Grandma’s dying. Please, somebody help her!’
