The stranger, p.20
The Stranger, page 20
So, did you ever think it was me who was behind all of this? I’m willing to bet that you knew all along. Please don’t judge me. I’ve spent my whole life being judged. That’s why I am the way I am. You may be wondering why I chose Whitchurch, why such a small, close-knit village deserved to be subjected to such misery. I could say, Why not? But that’s not what you want to hear, is it? You need a reason. We all need reasons. And here they are.
I grew up in Whitchurch, spent my formative years there. My father was the rector at St Oswald’s over thirty years ago. We moved away after Cassandra left us. I say left us, but she never ever left me. She has always been there in my head, helping me, telling me what to do next. Lovely helpful Cassandra, with me every step of the way.
And as for my father, his heart always remained here, in the village where his daughter was born. That’s why he is buried here, alongside her. My mother’s ashes were scattered to the four winds high on a clifftop next to the North Sea, but my father had always insisted he wanted to be back here, next to Cassandra. I didn’t attend his funeral. Standing there, watching all the mourners weeping and wailing, would have made me a hypocrite so I lied, told people I was ill abroad and unable to make it back in time. After that night in the hospital, I disappeared off the radar, took a few days away on my own. It was for the best. My father still had many friends. They were able to organise his funeral. Everybody knew my father and I were estranged and had been for a long time.
And I guess you’ve already worked out whose graves were vandalised? Of course you have. You’ll be putting all the pieces together now. It’s easy when you know, isn’t it?
I thought I had been rumbled when I first bumped into Jim and Mary in the pub. It was the way she looked at me, her eyes full of knowing. I felt sure she recognised me even though I hadn’t seen her since I was a child. And then she turned up on my doorstep and simply stared at me. I’m pretty sure she was starting to piece it all together at that point. Along with the news naming me, and Mary’s possible recognition, I knew my time in Whitchurch was coming to a close. It had been brief, but fulfilling.
I’ve done my utmost to be a confident adult, different from the clumsy, awkward kid I used to be, the badly-behaved, gibbering wreck who spent his life stumbling from one catastrophe to another. I also worked really hard at being accepted as one of the locals, becoming one of them, thinking like they did and eventually being thought of as a close friend. And of course, if I sent threatening letters to myself and smeared my own car with dog shit then they were hardly likely to suspect me of any wrongdoing, were they?
Perhaps Mary always knew, deep down, from the very first time she met me. She and Jim were close to me as a child, friends of my parents. And they were culpable. I hope she realised that her past had finally caught up with her. They aided my parents, you see, helped them to inflict cruelty on me of the highest order. Avid churchgoers, they fully believed in my father’s actions, backing him up, helping him to hold me down while he carried out his highly unorthodox practices on me. Is it any wonder I wanted to see them suffer? I hadn’t seen them since we left Whitchurch shortly after Cassandra’s death but had monitored them closely. It also came as no surprise to me to hear that many people hated Jim. A man with so many enemies. And to think he believed me to be the evil one.
Battering Jim was so fucking easy. I saw him from my window, so frail looking and unsuspecting, fully immersed in his hobby, his back arched as he gazed into his beloved telescope. He quite literally didn’t know what had hit him.
I found the piece of wood in my garden, lovely and dry and solid after standing in the hot sun. Just a pity there weren’t any nails sticking out of it.
And Emily: cool, reserved, sensible Emily. Always the voice of reason. She wasn’t so reasonable when she was my teacher and made the proposal that I see a behavioural psychologist. She hadn’t forced the issue but it was exactly what my parents had wanted to hear. It reinforced their belief that I was damaged, somebody who needed to be mended. They upped their game after Emily’s unwanted intervention and recommendations.
I never did get to see a psychologist but I was subjected to more punitive punishments because of her. Did it never occur to her that my behaviour was driven by something else? That my behaviour was a manifestation of what my parents were actually doing to me? No, I don’t suppose she ever thought of that. People rarely do. Few of them see beyond the end of their own noses. They want immediacy, quick solutions in a fast-moving, difficult world. She had a boy she couldn’t control and needed a solution when all the time, it was me who needed her help.
There should have been others I hit back at, but as is usually the way, many of them had moved away from Whitchurch or died. I suppose that worked in my favour. Less is more. And I was running out of time. Simon was just an added bonus. I’d had no truck with him apart from the fact that he was an idiot who had tried to steal my thunder, dragging Gavin’s name into it time and time again.
Changing my name helped my anonymity. As a child I was Charles Raymond Smith. As an adult, I became Ray. Having one of the most common surnames in England was fortuitous. I turned from Charlie Smith the scoundrel and often uncontrollable child, to Ray Smith the psychopath.
And I’m not a teacher. Not any more anyway. I left that thankless profession years ago. Funny, isn’t it? The government think they’ve got it sorted with their DBS checks whenever anybody enters the job but of course that particular system only checks for people who have criminal records. What about those of us who’ve never been caught?
After leaving teaching, I spent my days doing something many people only ever dream of doing – absolutely nothing. It was Samantha who had the high-flying career as a sales director for a well-known pharmaceutical company. I had a bit of money saved up and after moving in with her into her large apartment, we pooled our resources, which came to a pretty hefty sum, leaving me sitting pretty. But then the nagging started. On and on she went, asking when I was going to start looking for a new job, telling me she didn’t feel comfortable with the fact that I was sitting at home all day while she worked her arse off. There was no end to it. Day after day after day she went on, her voice droning on in the background about how unfair it was that she was keeping me, that she was tired, that I was making the place look untidy. She became such a mean bitch. The happy-go-lucky woman I’d met the previous year had turned into a complete harridan and I became tired of it.
It was an added bonus that she travelled as part of her job. It made it easy for me to dispose of her. I planned on putting her disappearance down to her work. Of course, I knew that story would only hold for so long. And that’s when Delores started to hound me with her relentless messages and emails. I kind of knew after getting rid of Samantha that the game would be up. Moving to Whitchurch to get my revenge on the people who helped to make me into the man I am today was my swansong. They are the ones who should be held responsible for Samantha’s death; they made me do it. They helped form me, manipulate me, assisted my slow but sure transition into the psychopath that I surely am.
But what about the other things that happened in Whitchurch last year, I hear you ask? Just a stroke of luck for me. The gods were smiling down on me when that body turned up. I did a bit of research and as far as I can gather, the woman whose body was found in the woods just beyond the village green had previously been subjected to domestic abuse. Her husband, a man from a village in North Yorkshire, had an alibi for the night she died and as much as the police tried, they couldn’t get enough evidence to charge him. The case was closed and police issued a statement saying they weren’t looking for anybody else in connection with the crime.
That body and an unsolved case put everybody in Whitchurch on red alert, set their minds off looking for things that ordinarily would have gone unnoticed or been put down as isolated incidents. But under such circumstances, people get whipped into a frenzy, their imaginations pushed into overdrive as they convince themselves and others that something is amiss, that their usually quiet village is practically under siege.
The girls who saw somebody hanging around the youth club? Probably no more than a passer-by, an innocent man who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the person in the car outside the school? Again, the police came up with nothing. All it takes in such situations is for one person to see something innocuous, put a suspicious slant on it, and suddenly every parent is convinced somebody is out to kidnap their child. The local gossips fan the flames of the fire and before you know it, the whole place is ablaze with unfounded theories and unlikely scenarios.
But what about the child who disappeared into the woods? I did some digging into that particular story as well and, as is usually the case, all was not what it first appeared to be with that tale. The boy had been in trouble at school and was worried about his parents’ reactions. My guess is he went into hiding, hoping their distress and ensuing sympathy at him going missing would outweigh their anger at him for being in trouble at school, and that when he finally emerged a few hours later, everything would be forgiven and forgotten.
As for Mrs Batton’s feline friend? Well, cats roam the streets eating everything and anything. The likelihood is it swallowed something it shouldn’t have and paid the ultimate price.
Put all these things together along with a healthy dose of fear and people start believing that they are all linked. Folk are actually really easy to work out if you’re prepared to take the time to study them, to watch their reactions, to get inside their heads and think like they do. Some, like me, are quite unique but in the main people are all the same. They follow each other like sheep and are so easily prone to panic when tragedy strikes. They rarely use logic to solve crimes or unpalatable occurrences, relying instead on their hearts. This is their downfall. For them, anyway. For people like me, it’s an opportunity. I was able to step in and add to their misery, to watch their dramatic downfall in all its glory, knowing worse was yet to come.
My daily walks allowed me plenty of time to do things like send threatening letters, smear dog shit and spray paint on my sister and father’s headstones. Seeing Gavin Yuill sneak out of the graveyard was just a bizarre coincidence. I spoke to Dominic and found out that Gavin had been visiting him regularly, helping out with bits of DIY in the crumbling interior. Dominic needed a helper and Gavin was bored and ostracised. What better place to hide than in church when services weren’t taking place?
Setting fire to Emily’s house proved to be relatively easy too. Whitchurch is mainly full of retirees who close their curtains and go to bed early. Creeping along in the early hours, dressed all in black, was one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Nobody saw a thing. The whole thing was so easy it was pitiful. A piece of lit paper wrapped around a few pieces of dried wood did the trick. I shoved them through her letterbox knowing they would go up a treat.
I didn’t hang around to watch. Instead, I went back home and slipped back into bed, falling quickly into a deep sleep. So it was true that the smoke alarm did actually wake me up. That part wasn’t a lie.
For years, I have dreamed about returning to Whitchurch. My parents and I moved away when I was eleven years old but I always knew I’d be back at some point. Wanting to leave Samantha coincided with a vacant house being available in the village. It didn’t take me long to set my plan in motion. Samantha had become a source of real irritation. It was time for her to go. I emptied our bank account before I left, and I knew then that my actions would be deemed suspicious. At that point, I knew my time to get even was limited. And that was when it all began.
My only regret is not getting to know Lily a little better. We had so much in common. Both of our fathers were evil bastards. Both were also men of the cloth in positions of trust that they abused. I did ponder over such a coincidence and wondered if it was a prerequisite that all religious leaders had to possess a certain amount of malevolence in order to fulfil their duties. But then, Dominic skews that particular theory, doesn’t he? Such a quiet, kind soul. I don’t mind admitting that I kind of envy his morality and integrity, something I don’t possess. I’m glad he’s the rector of St Oswald’s. The place needs a sprinkling of goodness. Whitchurch also deserves to be blessed by somebody who actually cares, and is compassionate and generous of nature after years of being led by holy people who were actually the Devil in disguise.
And now here I am, with a corpse in the back of my car, the body of a local man I actually murdered, and I find myself thinking of Dominic and his parishioners and wondering – when they hear of this terrible deed, will they pray for my soul?
41
The rain was a force to be reckoned with as I made my way to the place I needed to be. The place that had called to me as I hauled Simon’s body across the garden in the darkness and into the boot of my car. A vision of its heart-pounding, gut-wrenching beauty had filled my mind. I remembered the first time I had seen the location. I was completely mesmerised by it, held captive by its sheer magnificence and the way it commanded respect and attention just by being there. Its very existence was enough to strike wonder into the hearts of the hardest of individuals.
Simon seemed to have gained another half a stone as I lifted him into my vehicle, his limbs stiff and inflexible as nature took hold of his body and began its ugly course. Cleaning up had taken longer than I had expected, after which I’d needed a shower. Time had run away with me. By the time I got the body to the car, rigor mortis had begun to set in, making the process so much more difficult than it should have been.
Only when I turned onto the main road out of Whitchurch did I begin to relax. The rain continued to lash down, the windscreen wipers dragging back and forth at high speed, making me slightly dizzy. Having a corpse in the car with me didn’t faze me in the slightest. I’d done it before.
The dead can’t harm us. It’s the living we should fear. I’m proof of that.
I tore down the country lanes at speed, enjoying the rush of adrenaline that surged through my system as I pushed my foot further to the floor. The movement and rhythm of the wipers as they cleared the windscreen of the deluge that slammed against it with force helped to focus my mind, to streamline my thoughts and shut out all the peripheral things that no longer meant anything to me. Delores, Samantha, Whitchurch – they were all behind me now. Cassandra’s voice soothed me, her whispers urging me on, telling me I was doing the right thing.
As assured and confident as I am, it’s been a relief having her beside me. She is my voice of reason, my purpose for doing what I do. Everything that has led me to this point has all been driven by her. She was the starting point of my actions and will be waiting for me at the finish line. Gentle, compassionate Cassandra, the one who got to leave this cruel world while I was left to live it, to endure all that life had to throw at me.
The route there took longer than I expected, the adverse weather conditions hindering my progress. The country lanes were flooded, large muddy puddles almost taking the steering wheel out of my hands as I manoeuvred my way around the sharp bends and tight corners. The hedgerows and nearby towering foliage were a smear of dark green as I hurtled down each winding narrow lane, refusing to slow down. I had to get there. I suddenly felt a clawing need to reach my special location. I just knew that I would feel at peace once I got there. Even the downpour couldn’t dampen my spirits. I felt as though I was already elevating to a higher plane. My soul literally sang at the thought of what I would do next.
I pulled out of the tiny lane and onto the main road that would lead me to my place, to where it would all happen. My stomach tightened at the thought of it and a pleasant buzzing sensation took hold in my head.
A sudden piercing sound behind me cut into my thoughts, slicing through the sense of calm and solitude that had settled upon me, killing the moment. I looked into the rear-view mirror and saw the flash of a blue light as it hurtled closer and closer, the fluorescent hue causing me to squint against its glare. I blinked and swallowed hard. The sound of the siren in the distance stirred a furnace of fear that had begun to build in my abdomen. I screwed up my eyes and concentrated as the noise grew in crescendo. I exhaled and tried to steady my breathing, small staccato gasps coming out of my chest in fluttery bursts. This wasn’t how I had planned it. I had a scenario in my head – a clear picture of how things would work out – and speaking to the police didn’t figure in it. I’d done my bit in assisting them already. Three times I had spoken to them in as many weeks. Enough was enough. I deserved to be left alone to get on with the next part of my plan.
My fingers tapped heavily at the steering wheel, my knuckles white and jammed into position. They felt like blocks of wood as I braced myself for being pulled over and speaking to a couple of stern-faced officers who would probe and ask questions, perhaps even requesting that I step out of the car while they search mine. I had no idea what my next move would be, what I would say. I had never been backed into a corner before. It wasn’t a sensation I was familiar with and one I didn’t care for. I’m used to being in control, being the cool, calm and collected one.
Fear coursed through my veins as I tried to think rationally. Had somebody seen me load Simon’s body into the car? Had somebody discovered Samantha’s decomposed corpse, informed the police and they were now onto me, tracking my movements? Both ideas were unlikely and improbable, but not impossible. At some point, some poor, unwary dog walker would possibly stumble upon Samantha’s dead body, but not just yet. I hoped I’d made her final resting place so hard to find that locating her would take years rather than months, especially with the density of the foliage in the forest. It would take more than any normal family pet to sniff her out. Even a cadaver dog would struggle to find her body under all the leaves and soil and logs that I had piled on top of her. Though if I do say so myself, I did a fine job of disguising her body. Still, nobody disappears forever. I had a mental picture of some cute, unsuspecting Labrador stumbling upon her stinking flesh, or running back to its owner with one of her fingers lodged between its teeth. A pulse began to tap at my temple as I put my foot down and increased my speed.
