I wanted it to stop, always. And once we killed that first girl, I wanted no more to do with it. I wanted out, as they say now.

I had laid the ground long before, when I set him up with his own iPad, his websites, his porno and what have you. His young girls. I tell you, there’s enough filth on there to put him away, but I guess that’s not necessary, not now. And that’s all I wanted, to put him away. To have the state take care of him. To be free to live what remained of my life.

When he said he needed another girl, that it was getting too strong again, I suggested we try a little technology. I suggested a long con. I believe that’s the term. I told him we needed to update our methods. He believed me. He’s always relied on me for everything; why wouldn’t he believe his sister? I was already living half my life online by then so there was little I couldn’t do. I lived for the people that I could meet, no, that I could be on that screen. Star of the small screen, you might say. That was, after all, my career. But my acting days were over the day he pushed me down the stairs. I had to learn to walk again, one excruciating step at a time. I had to accept that mine would be a life lived in constant pain. And so technology became my escape. I suppose it was a way of continuing the art to which I had dedicated my professional life.

I have three online boyfriends, all in their twenties.

I have seven Facebook identities, all living the most marvellous lives.

I have a neat little line in getting refunds for goods that I claim not to have received.

But these things are not relevant here.

It was technology that enabled me to avoid the shame of having to buy those filthy magazines from the local shop, and it would be technology that would lead the police to his door.

I bought Owen a phone, in his name, with his money. I set him up as Ollie Thomas and began following and friending as many local young things as I could. I went for the theatre types, the extroverts, the ones who wanted to be adored, recognised, followed. Loved. It’s a numbers game for them. They collect likes as if they were trophies. They’re dependent on them for their self-worth. It’s an epidemic! It is so easy to infiltrate a world if you know what that world wants. And all they want is looks, youth and likes.

I contacted Rosie Flint from there. I needed a shy one, one who wouldn’t cause a scene when the time came. I knew her mother was a single parent. She was perfect. Of course I knew her back to front before she’d ever met me. And Owen enjoyed his role play. It was like the old days.

I set up the agency website, the backstory, my character. And in the way of the more successful scams, much of it was true. How I had missed acting! I had missed it so much! It felt wonderful to be doing character work again. I would be outmoded, a relic, no one anyone would look at, no one anyone would give any credit to. It wasn’t far from the truth. The acting profession didn’t want me any more. They’re all over you when you’re fit and beautiful, when your limbs are strong and supple and your skin is like apricots in a basket, firm and plump and sweet. Not so great when the apricot browns and wrinkles. No one wants it then, do they? Of course not! It’s left in the bowl to rot! And I walked with a limp. Three months in a brace is no joke.

I made sure to brandish my old Nokia in front of Toni, the mother. We even shared a joke about the two of us having dinosaur phones. As far as they knew, I was hopeless.

As an actor, I had a reputation for thorough preparation. I would arrive on set, lines learnt, character developed, motivations thought through. I made bold choices, added layers of meaning the director didn’t even know were there. That’s what got me the work. I was good, you see. I was very good. And I was always good with the young ones.

It was meant to end with her, with Rosie Flint. Owen would have his last hurrah and then enough! And due to all my work behind the scenes, the police would use the girl’s phone to trace him to his house, where they would find her, the tablet, his phone. It would be over. And I would be free.

But there were so many problems. I couldn’t get her away. Every time I thought I had her, she got sick. I had not banked on the nervous disposition. And then we almost had to abandon ship because Owen became too antsy and we had to take another girl just to tide him over. I didn’t want to. I never wanted to. Rosie was supposed to be the last. Owen was supposed to go to prison. I was supposed to walk away. I should have dropped Rosie like a stone. When she said she’d forgotten her phone, I should have taken her home and waved goodbye and never gone back. I did not foresee that happening at all. And nor did I bank on the vigilante aunt. When I first met the mother, I thought my prayers had been answered. I should have known when I realised the aunt lived with them that she would be trouble. I didn’t trust my instincts, you see – that’s where I went wrong, blinded by the light at the end of my tunnel.

When I got home with the lavender soap and found him in the hallway like a broken doll, I knew it was her – the aunt. Had to be. Wasn’t going to be the mother, was it? I picked up the gun and held it to his chest.

‘Pow pow,’ I said, though of course he was already dead. I dropped the gun and went back to my own kitchen to wait for the police. I assumed the aunt would have called them. Barnaby was there, so I held him in my arms and told him he would soon be with his brothers. There’s Laurence, after Laurence Olivier, and John, after Sir John Gielgud. Barnaby isn’t named after anyone. It’s the name I would have given my son. If I’d had one.

But no sirens came. And I suppose I must have gone into a trance talking to Barnaby, because when Toni texted, I realised my tea had gone clap cold.

Rosie’s in West Mid Hospital. She’s had a nasty fright. Don’t worry, she’s OK but needs to rest. Would be lovely to see you. Call me when you can. T x

I smiled to myself. Rosie must still be out for the count, I thought. Owen must have given her too much chloroform; that would be just like him. And then I thought, if Rosie’s out for the count and her mother is texting me, she has no idea I’m involved, and if I can’t hear sirens, then the aunt hasn’t yet called the police. And if the aunt found only Owen, in a house that has not a trace of me in it, then she doesn’t know I’m involved either. And if Owen is dead, which he is, then Rosie is the only thing left between me and freedom.

I hadn’t meant for him to die, but perhaps that was better. If he was dead, the police would never figure out he knew nothing about computers, could never have conducted such a modern operation. If he was dead, all I had to do was get to the girl and shut her up. If she talked, I would be in prison quicker than you could say Madame Belle. All I had to do was get to her, get her alone and silence her. The police would trace Owen, arrest the aunt for murder, case closed.

But of course now I’ve been caught red-handed trying to smother an innocent, and my role in this woeful carry-on is exposed. It is over. The game is up, as they say. My life amounts to nothing.

But there is one good thing left that I can do. One redemptive act.