‘Good.’ Josh kissed the back of her head and then stepped away from her. As he did, he took her good feeling with him. ‘Well, I’ve got to get going. Make sure you’re not late for work again today.’
‘Mmm.’ Now, the light outside was singeing her eyes, but Beth stayed at the window, waiting until Josh’s van reversed out of their driveway. Still she lingered, unable to move out of the warming touch of the sun. A single question burned in her mind even brighter than the vast ball of fire and gas that hung above in a pale blue sky.
It looked like someone had killed Joanne Rowles. But why? What had a twenty-nine-year-old woman from Bridgnorth done to deserve such a brutal end? Beth wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. But, as usual, her curiosity was leading her down a path from which there was no return.
And the other three names on the list. Who were they? Where were they? If Beth managed to track down Joanne, would that trail lead to them too? The names all surely had to be connected to one another. But how?
Eight
Beth was running. She hurried along the familiar woodland trail, slowing briefly as she passed the elderly lady with her excitable poodles who was always out at dawn. They yapped manically as she jogged by, straining on their leads.
‘Magnus, Morticia, hush now,’ the woman chastised them in a sing-song voice as she fumbled in her coat pocket for some biscuits.
Beth extended her strides once again. The sun warmed her bare arms as she passed through an open part of the woods. Here, the path had been scorched dry. A cloud of dust accompanied every footstep. Beth pushed herself to go faster. She rounded a tight corner and saw that ahead of her the route lay empty and clear.
Her iPod was just reaching the end of one of her favourite songs, Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Go Your Own Way’. Beth released her breaths in tight, carefully timed gasps. Her muscles were clenching. Soon she’d reach a point where she’d have to lower her speed. Sweat shone at the top of her back, on her forehead. But Beth knew she needed to go faster, needed to outrun the questions which kept snapping at her heels.
What had really happened to Joanne Rowles?
Had someone killed her?
Did that same someone leave this list out here specially for Beth to find?
Were there other lists out there? Like this one?
Were the other names now reading her own name, googling her, trying to find her?
A tree snapped in the nearby undergrowth and Beth’s attention spun in its direction with hawklike intensity. Still running, she studied the shrubs and bushes that swelled at the base of tall, grand trees. Was someone watching her at that very moment?
More speed. She needed to run until the woods became a blur in her peripheral vision, needed to run until she felt numb, until her mind was too exhausted to keep bombarding her with unanswerable questions. The fog of fatigue. She needed it. Craved it.
The Fleetwood Mac track concluded and the iPod loaded the next song in her playlist. It was an old song, one which Beth hadn’t listened to for many years. She wondered if Josh had added it to her library. But any curiosities she had about the song’s origins were silenced when the tune got going. Tom Jones belted out a duet about burning down a house. Beth ground to a halt, one hand slamming against her chest as her knees buckled. As she bowed in the centre of the path, the song kept playing, the crooning Welshman jovially singing about fighting fire with fire.
Tears stung at Beth’s eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. It was just a song, just a coincidence. With a grunt, she straightened up, reached into her pocket and turned off her iPod. All she could hear was the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. Her heart was a jackhammer in her chest and she knew that she couldn’t run the rest of the way home, she’d have to be satisfied with a brisk walk. Tightening her sweat-soaked ponytail, she set off, trying not to hum the catchy tune which had now infected her thoughts.
Why the running? Is it a hobby? A habit? Do you imagine that you’re being chased as you race around the woods? At the very least, do you know you’re being watched? Have you ever sensed me there, tracking your every movement?
Your house … it was so easy to get inside. I notice things, you see. Like when you and your boyfriend place a spare key under that little cactus in the tan plant pot. I’ve seen you do that. Don’t worry, I didn’t stay too long in your lovely home. Even though I wanted to. I was pushing things, I knew that. Like I pushed with the others. Only … I’ve learnt now to pull back. Not to leave the tap running, or random items out of place. And I put the key back where it belongs. So much magnolia. But I couldn’t resist leaving a little something behind, something on your iPod. Just in case you weren’t thinking about my note from the woods. Which you should be. It should be infecting your every thought in the same way it does mine.
Roger always said I was observant. At first, it was a compliment. But later he would linger on it, as though it were an excuse. He’d look at me with those pale, watery eyes of his and ask how I could have failed to see it coming.
‘After all, you’re so very observant.’
I reminded him that being observant isn’t the same as being a fucking clairvoyant. But like so much of the stuff he said, it got under my skin. A parasite to which I became the unwitting host. How could I ever have seen what was coming? And even if I had, even if I’d known what might happen, there was no way I could have stopped it. No way. Roger didn’t understand that.
But you would.
It’s why you’re running, isn’t it? Why you sprint through the woods until your skin shines with sweat. You can run as fast as you fucking want, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. This time … this time, I’m going to wait it out. You’re going to do the right thing, I know you are.
‘You can be so obsessive,’ Josh had said when Beth had been consumed with suspicion about her neighbours.
He was wrong, of course. She wasn’t obsessed, she was paranoid. Paranoia was like the plague: it came in and ruined everything. Wherever Beth looked, she saw signs that she was being watched, or that she was hated. For days, she walked around holding her breath, waiting for the axe above her head to drop. But it never did. And eventually she had to accept that a neglected greeting might really be just that.
‘Not everyone has an agenda,’ was something else Josh liked to add during that turbulent time. Again, she wanted to point out that he was incorrect. Everyone did have an agenda, it was just that very few people were brave enough to own up to it, most spent their lives feigning ignorance. Beth wasn’t sure which was worse.
Back home, Beth put the shower on. It splashed loudly against the base of the cubicle and slowly filled the little bathroom up with steam. She was still in her running gear, hands clasped against either side of the white porcelain sink as she regarded her reflection with pained curiosity.
Her nightmares were there, held beneath her brown eyes in sunken shadows. Her paranoia was there too; a patchwork of lines around her mouth and across her forehead. Was there beauty? If there was, Beth never saw it. When she’d finally worked up the strength to look into a mirror for the first time all those years ago, she still saw a frightened little girl. Now, that little girl was partially hidden by lines and ageing skin, but behind the eyes, she stood in plain sight, peering out in terrified awe at the world around her.