Cornwall 2016
I’m taking each twist and turn one at a time, driving home to St Agnes.
I’m wondering, do we always have a say in who we are, who we become? I’d argue a say, but not always authority. I never saw myself as a killer. I was wrong. I clearly would kill if the stakes demand it. I skim the clock. Jack will already be home by now. His homework completed against a stopwatch, snacking on cereal bars, negotiating with his Xbox. I’m taking him to St Ives, to his favourite burger joint on the seafront, after I’ve shown my face at The Wheal. We need to begin living all over again.
My premeditated plan circling all the time, above me, like a halo. A cold-blooded killer?
I wrap my hands tightly around the steering wheel, to help ease the feeling of detachment. Reflecting on my clinic appointment earlier. Words falling from the trained therapist’s mouth. I, and her, now two separate entities. Dissociated, this is what I need to be. She says, ‘Your imagination is such a powerful tool. If you visualise something, your brain responds as though it’s truly happening. It cannot always differentiate between the imagined and reality. Under extreme stress, we call this psychosis. Under normal states of mind, we call it positive reality generating.’ She continues, ‘Consider the power of seeing things that frighten us. Even our most irrational fears are then terrifying. Alternatively, your imagination is a free rehearsal platform, for practising and perfecting anticipated experiences. It is particularly effective, if you imagine how exactly you wish for it to happen. Engage all your senses, to the finest of details,’ she says.
I pass the last sign for my home village, only ten minutes remaining to visualise the reunion, of me and you.
Pulling up alongside the wall, elbowing through the gate. Through the front door. I feel an increase in my heart rate, a shortness to my breath. I reach for the light switch, observing, Jack’s rucksack thrown haphazardly on the sofa. Everything normal. I hear him chatting upstairs, presumably into the microphone on his Xbox headset. A taste of sour bile plugs my throat. I force it away, swallow.
Humphrey is posturing up and down the kitchen window sill.
‘Jack?’
I hear him mumble, ‘Just a sec.’
‘Yep?’ he calls down.
‘I need to pop back out. Shouldn’t be too long, an hour or so. Can you come down, feed Humphrey, please?’
‘Yeah, be there in ten.’
I dart out into the garden to gather my tools. It’s been raining; the ground is soggy and wet. I inhale the scent as I kneel in the earth and dig. Feeling muddy knees, seeing spoiled trousers, I eventually stand, clutching. Scared.
‘Jack?’ I call up the stairs again. ‘I’m off now, see you in a while. Don’t forget Humphrey!’
‘Yeah,’ trails down the stairs.
I leave to make my way to the beach car park, sliding into a space furthest from the entrance. Wet, cold, and sweating. With ham-fisted fingers, I check my mobile. You’ve replied; you’ll see me at Trevellas Porth. What am I doing? I visually slap my hesitant face. Focus. The meeting point is the perfect place, out of sight, remote, yet accessible. A ten-minute climb along the footpath. Quite a fall, treacherous. The slam of my car door echoes somewhere in the distance as I begin my journey. Pulling my coat tightly around my shivering form, with the rush of anticipation. A determined calmness taking my hand. I feel my feet roaming over rocky terrain as I scramble the last steps to the cliff top.
Then, I stop in my tracks. I see you. Frozen.
Cold robotic eyes survey me, defined lips, mimicking a smile. Years haven’t been kind to you; a broken android stands before me. I sense your game. Your eyes acknowledge my fingerprints on the gun I hold in my hand. Your gun, I took with the flash-drive from the house. You knew I had your gun, didn’t you? I have anticipated your plan too. All that watching, learning and logging. You suppose, your own suicide would ensure my fate. You’re not here for the flash-drive, are you? This is to be your last gift to me: a life sentence. You reason, if you take your own life, I will carry the sentence. Jack will then appreciate his mother in true colours. His father’s killer. Genius, Gregg, I take the blame. But you will still be dead. Also, I am wearing gloves; you cannot see this, from where you loiter. See-through clinical gloves. I feel the silky texture between my fingers.
Furthermore, you don’t know these waters as I do, do you? You’ll be washed away, forgotten. Who knows you are here? Sam, she may well. But she won’t tell; she’s a prisoner too. It’s just me and you. I’m willing to take the chance. Especially as, technically, I’m not truly going to kill you, depending on your perspective. You are going to kill you. Your last act of power.
Arrogance, hate and ego will kill you, not me.
I see you, free-falling from the cliff top. Arms and legs at angles. I stand over, witnessing your final gasps. Neglecting to breathe myself. Until a feeling of peacefulness washes over me.
With quickened, shallow breathing, I arrive home. My knuckles white, from clamping the steering wheel. My jaw aching, from biting down on gritted teeth. I wobble my way to the front door. Odd, the front room is in darkness. Once inside, I reach for the light switch, dropping my briefcase to the floor. Strange, no rucksack? Not like Jack. Trying to ignore the upsurge in my heart rate, I call out – nothing.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t foresee this. ‘Jack?’ I cry out. I scamper up the stairs as fast as my legs allow, bouncing off the walls. Throwing open the door to Jack’s bedroom. Nothing but darkness?
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Jack should be at home.