I thought of Charlotte and how if only Laura had encouraged her to stay on the road for a little longer, I’d be watching my four-month-old baby son playing with soft toys on the floor right now. I wouldn’t be planning to take down the woman who destroyed his mother and his own life.
‘Have you ever thought afterwards that you might have got it wrong with someone? Have you helped them and thought later that maybe they should have just held on for that bit longer?’
‘No,’ she replied without a pause. ‘Everyone who comes to me is a volunteer, like you are. I don’t seek people out, they seek me. I have never – and will never – regret anything I do.’
I had a feeling Laura would soon be changing her mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SEVEN MONTHS, ONE WEEK AFTER CHARLOTTE
Steven’s day of reckoning had arrived.
It was early afternoon when I trampled across the overgrown lawn to face the cottage I’d bought as a surprise for my wife.
An estate agent’s white and blue ‘Sold’ board was still hammered into the ground, so I yanked it out and threw it behind some bushes. Paint was flaking from the original window frames. Patches of cement between the brickwork were cracked and needed repointing. Some of the grey slate tiles were off-kilter and would need replacing or straightening before the roof leaked. The seven months of neglect I’d shown, on top of the four and a half years it had already been empty, meant two-feet-high thistles and stinging nettles in the borders met with the dandelions hiding the gravel path.
My parents had given me a £30,000 loan to put down as a deposit, and a mortgage took care of the rest. Charlotte and I had some savings to pay for the urgent repairs and the rest I’d thought we’d do in due course. It was a win/win situation – my dad loved his DIY, and with nothing left to alter in his own house, he was itching for a new project to sink his teeth into. He was set to save us a fortune in workmen’s bills.
But the cottage that had promised so much was never given the chance to deliver, because Charlotte killed herself the day I got the keys. Since then, I hadn’t been able to face even driving past it, let alone going inside.
‘Are you thinking of buying it?’ asked a woman with a headscarf and a tiny rat-like dog on a pink lead as she walked past.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she continued before shuffling off. ‘It’d make a lovely family home again.’ Her casual observation choked me. I’m sure it would, one day. But not tonight. Tonight I needed it to deal with Laura Morris.
Back at the car, I removed a rope, a lightbulb, three cardboard folders stuffed with photographs of her and her family, and two rolls of tape, and carried them to the front door. Hesitantly I unlocked it and pushed it open. I’d already paid to have the electricity turned back on, so I flicked the light switch and the hallway slowly illuminated. A few pieces of old furniture and ornaments thick with dust had been left behind by the previous occupant, but the place was largely bare.
I set to work covering every available inch of the bedroom wall with pictures until there was no space left. I screwed in a low-watt lightbulb so she wouldn’t spot them immediately and, step by step, memorised which stairs creaked and how to avoid them. Then I spent twenty minutes tying and retying the noose until it was exactly how she expected it to be, before hanging it from the wooden beams. What I had planned for Laura she deserved, I had no doubt about that. But I wasn’t going to kill her. I wanted her to admit what she’d done to Charlotte and then terrify her by making her think she wouldn’t be leaving that room alive. I would let her go – but I wanted her to know that her actions had consequences. Maybe then she would stop.
I sat on the floor of the bedroom and at our prearranged time she called the pay-as-you-go mobile phone I’d bought, to find out where I lived.
‘There’s definitely not going to be anyone who might just turn up unexpectedly?’ she asked. For the first time since I’d unmasked the Helpline Heroine, I sensed real fear.
‘No – nobody,’ I replied in my usual pensive tone.
‘And you’ll remember to keep the front door open and the lights on?’
‘Yes. Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I do. But you are a human being and, by design, human beings let you down. I need to be as sure as I possibly can that you have listened to everything I’ve told you, so that there are no surprises or complications. Now, run me through the procedure again.’
‘You’ll get here for eight p.m. sharp. If you see anything suspicious or you’re not comfortable, you’ll drive away. I will be on my own, in my bedroom, which is the second on the left at the top of the landing. The rope will be affixed to the beams and the knot will be padded and tied correctly as you’ve told me. You’ll then watch as I climb on a chair and take one step off it. When you’re sure I’m dead, you’ll leave.’
‘Good. And Steven, I know I haven’t said this to you before, but thank you for asking me to be there with you. I have enjoyed talking to you these last couple of months. If you have any doubts, just keep reminding yourself why you came looking for me in the first place. Together, we explored every avenue before you decided this is the only route that makes sense. You are moving on and allowing everyone else you love to do the same. And I admire that so much.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied. Her speech sounded rehearsed and I wondered if Charlotte had heard these exact same words.
It was just before eight o’clock and getting dark when I saw her from where I was standing behind the overgrown conifers in the front garden. She couldn’t see me. I held my breath and watched as her car pulled over to the kerb. My eyes were drawn to her fingers as they gripped the steering wheel. She waited, unsure whether to follow her heart and enter the house ahead, or listen to her head and get out of there. She turned around a handful of times in as many seconds to examine the cottage from every angle her position would allow.
She’s here. She’s actually here. Laura Morris is here because she wants to watch me die.
I clenched my fists as I willed her to go inside. After looking around one last time, she opened the door I’d left ajar, then returned seconds later to prop it open with a chair. My stomach was in knots, as if I desperately needed the toilet.
I gave her time to make her way up the stairs to our meeting place before I followed, careful to avoid the noisy steps. I watched from the darkness of the corridor as she frantically pulled at the photographs on the wall. I moved silently into the room and when I spoke, she spun around, her eyes wide at the sound of my voice. I stepped forward and she retreated.
‘What . . . what do you want from me?’ she asked, in a tone I’d never heard her speak in before. She didn’t even try to disguise her fear.
I moved towards her again to intimidate her further, telling her I wanted to know why she did what she did to vulnerable people. She responded by pulling out what looked like a kitchen knife from her coat pocket, waving it weakly in front of her. She didn’t have the balls to use it, and I told her so.
Suddenly came the unmistakeable smell of urine and I realised she had pissed herself in her panic. Guilt briefly hit me, before I remembered what she had driven Charlotte to do and why she was here – to watch me die. I edged closer to her.
‘You see that rope?’ I asked. Of course she had. ‘It’s not me who’s going to be hanging from the beams tonight. It’s you.’