The image was simultaneously revolting and, though he would never admit it, exciting. Disgusted with himself, Jamie left the room. In the kitchen, he ran a glass of water, downing it so quickly he felt like he was drowning. He leaned against the counter, heart thumping, trying to calm down. How many hours till morning? How long until—
Ping.
Irrationally, he thought it might be a text message from Kirsty. As he hurried back to the bedroom he dreamed up a scenario in which Brian had passed on his number and Kirsty was messaging him, keen to get back in touch. Telling him she missed him, was going to get on a plane, fly out to be with him.
Jesus, what was wrong with him?
He snatched up his phone from the bedside. No messages. So where had the ping come from?
He turned towards his laptop, which was still open on the Dark Angel forum. There was a little red dot at the top of the screen. Someone had sent him a private message.
He sat on the bed and pulled the laptop towards him. His finger hovered over the trackpad. He knew he should ignore it, close the site, disconnect the Wi-Fi. But the magnetic pull of fate was too powerful.
He opened the message.
It was entitled HELP ME.
Three
The message was from someone who called herself ANITA82. Her avatar was a picture of a cat so Jamie had no idea what she looked like. According to the stats that appeared beneath her username, she had only just joined the forum and hadn’t posted before.
Jamie read her message, not realising till afterwards that he was gripping the bedsheets so hard his knuckles had turned white.
Hi KITT
You don’t know me (obviously!) and I’m not exactly sure where to start.
I need advice. Or maybe I need someone to convince me I’m not going crazy.
Six months ago I moved into my new home. It’s an old farmhouse which has been redeveloped and divided into two maisonettes. It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere, in the countryside close to Ludlow in Shropshire. It’s a beautiful place, peaceful and secluded.
It would be paradise. Except for my neighbour.
I’m convinced she is trying to drive me out. I’ve hardly seen her, but when I first moved in she came round to complain about noise (I was putting up some pictures and she said the hammering woke her up, though it was mid-afternoon) and to ask me to move my car because it was in her space (there’s PLENTY of room). Then I started to get notes pushed under the door, again asking me to keep the noise down. Like she was complaining about the sound of me breathing.
Anyway, that was all annoying but I could cope with it. However, things have got more . . . well, the only word I can use is ‘sinister’.
I keep hearing strange noises in the night. A baby crying, even though there are no babies around here for miles. There’s also this weird scraping sound, like there’s something in the loft. I thought maybe it was bats or rats but I’ve had pest control round and they couldn’t find anything.
I’ve had hoax parcels too. Books about black magic and witches. I was sent a load of really horrible pornography. On top of that I’ve had angry taxi drivers turning up at all hours, and an ambulance turned up one day saying someone had called 999 to report a serious accident.
Sometimes this peculiar smell wafts into the building too. A smell like sulphur, combined with something rotting.
On top of all that, my cat keeps going missing for days at a time. She might be out hunting mice – I’ve had quite a few left on my doorstep – but I’ve seen my neighbour holding her in the garden, stroking and whispering to her.
I’m guessing by now you’re wondering if I’m making all this up and why I’m telling you about it.
Well . . . here’s the thing: my neighbour calls herself Lizzie Dawson. But I’m pretty sure that’s an alias.
I’m not the kind of person who follows the news much. I don’t buy tabloid newspapers. I prefer to bury my head in the sand and ignore all the shit that’s going on in the world. But when I moved in, I thought Lizzie Dawson looked familiar. That I’d seen her somewhere before.
A week ago, another taxi driver turned up. He shouted at me for being a time-waster, telling me he was going to ensure my name and address went on a blacklist. Then he went quiet for a moment, looking over my shoulder. I turned and saw Lizzie standing in her front window, watching us.
The cabbie’s eyes grew wide and he swore under his breath.
As he hurried back to his taxi I followed him, asking him what he’d seen. He seemed amazed that I didn’t know.
‘That’s whatsername,’ he said before he drove away. ‘The Dark Angel.’
The Dark Angel. I searched online and there she was. Lucy Newton. She looks different now. Her hair is shorter and she’s dyed it brown. She’s put on weight too. Her face is rounder, softer.
But the more I read up about her, the more convinced I became that Lizzie is actually Lucy. I read as much as I could about the court cases she was involved in. I even read that novel by Brian Mortlake.
I couldn’t believe it. She’s using the same methods she used years ago. Using them on me.
So why am I reaching out to you? I’ve been to the police but they say there’s nothing they can do. She’s not breaking the law and I have no proof that it’s her ordering taxis and sending me porn.
Maybe I could go to the press. Perhaps she would leave if a load of reporters turned up here. But I don’t want my name and face to appear in the papers (without going into great detail, I don’t want my ex to know where I live).
I could move home, put this place on the market and find somewhere else to live. But I love it here and, like the main character in One For Sorrow, I don’t want to give in. I refuse to be driven out.
So I’m stuck. And I don’t know what to do, which is why I’m reaching out. I saw you were online and had a look through your posts. I can see you’re no fan of Lucy, and you seem to know a lot about everything she’s done. That’s why I’m messaging you.
I’m desperate. Sick with fear. Losing weight. Unable to sleep. I want to fight back but I don’t know how.
Maybe if I could get in touch with Jamie Knight. He fought Lucy before and beat her . . . He went through the same thing, so maybe he could help me.
Do you have any idea how I could find him?
Yours in hope
Anita Riley
Jamie closed the laptop and went over to the window, stepping out on to the balcony. He hugged himself against the chill and gazed out towards the sea. The red lights of a ship crossed the horizon. Soon, the morning trains would start up, making the short journey to Perth.
He couldn’t stop shivering. A line from the message was stuck on repeat in his head: He fought Lucy before and beat her. What a joke that was. He should write back to Anita and tell her exactly what victory felt like, how he’d lost his home, his wife, his sanity. He wanted to scream at her to leave him alone, to rewind time to this afternoon, take a different route home. Climb back into his anaesthetised bubble. He got up, ready to tell Anita that he had no idea where Jamie Knight was, that Jamie Knight probably wanted to be left the fuck alone, when it struck him.
It was possible that Anita had messaged all the ‘justice seekers’ on the forum, but that didn’t seem likely. So it would be a massive coincidence, wouldn’t it, her just happening to contact the very person she was looking for? And he didn’t believe in coincidences.