Colour Series Box Set (4 page)

I expected a number of reactions. Fear, anger, rage, running away but never in a million years did I expect laughter and a thank you. I even fired my maid in anticipation of her acting like a mad woman screaming and going all nuts. It’s making me wonder why she is thankful. She had the perfect life. A husband, a home, love, and a job she had clearly loved doing. Why is she happy to be dead? Does she think she is dead?

I never thought much further than this part of my little plan which is uncharacteristically careless of me. I usually only take on a job when the plan is complete from start to finish. Watch, plan, and murder it doesn’t get simpler, but this time I just acted. I used my criminal resources and moved all her funds to the other trust that was set up in her real name and I made her ‘die’ so she could start over when I explained what happened and let her go. I don’t want to let her go. I really don’t. I told you before I am a bad man. I am a nice guy, but I am a monster inside, you see no one suspects the nice wine farmer of murder, no suspects the nice man in the bar buying you a drink of murder, no expects the nice guy to be a murderous monster underneath. Being nice works for me, I am so used to being nice on the outside and letting the killer fester inside it is comfortable. Having her here in my house, is making the monster a little harder to hide. I am uncomfortable in my house and in my skin. I itch to get control of myself. I need to kill someone. Anyone will do.

I want what I cannot possibly have. I want her. I want Mick’s baby girl. I want her so bad it hurts. I want to keep her locked up here just for me. But I am no good for her I am a monster, a murderer a cold hearted killer.

I can’t tear myself away from the monitors. I have missed watching her. She was so much like Mick in her ways. But oh was she a beauty. It had always surprised me how few men I had seen in her life up to meeting her husband. She somewhat avoided them completely. They were there looking but she never cared to notice. I didn’t mind at all in my head even then she was mine. I was there looking always then I stopped! She has her father’s bright mischievous hazel eyes and a body that I would kill to get my hands all over. Okay that’s not funny considering my current job description. Also I’m pretty sure Mick would kick my ass from his grave if he even thought I might have imagined his daughter naked. Ever. No, he would just make sure I had an accident. I’m eleven years older than her for Gods sake’s. I should not be thinking of her at all. She is a job. A never ending job it now seems. Mick told me I was his family does that make her family? I don’t like that idea so I push it aside pretty fast. I could live with just a fantasy of having a woman like her, but I have her here now locked in her room with nowhere to go because essentially she was dead. I am all she has and I like that. The thought returns the wicked smile to the corners of my mouth and I tap my fingers on the rim of my glass.

I wonder if she even remembers me. We only spent two hours together and she was just a silly teenager. She had flirted with me the whole time I thought it was so funny. She still looks the same, yet she grew into a woman somewhere along the way. Yesterday was her birthday and she ‘died’ going to her party. I should feel bad about it, but I don’t, I get a sick satisfaction sitting here watching her. Her dark hair is messy from her drug induced sleep and her makeup is smudged all over her face, the dark run of her mascara actually highlights her eyes. Her movements are fluid as she paces the room in her bare feet. I’m not too sure where shoes ended up in the chaos of getting her moved here overnight. I twist my glass in my hands and just keep watching, I cannot tear my eyes away from her.

I need to get her away from me away from this life and quickly. I know she knew what her father did for a living and he never wanted her to be a part of it. I will send her off and find her a good watcher. Lord knows I had clearly done shit job of it so far. My head is swimming with scotch and I need a break. I switch the monitor off and turn the music on the house system up high. Hope she likes my taste in music. I close my eyes and get lost in the sounds of the songs I love for a while. Lounging in my office chair, I get lost in a fantasy where I could keep a good woman like her. Run my hands through that mane of dark hair. The nice guy could have a pretty woman by his side, but the monster doesn’t have such luxuries.

I needed to get lost. I’m a bad man. She’s a good woman.

“THANK YOU GOD,
thank you dad, thank you whoever did this,” I whisper to myself.

The last eight years have been hell on earth; to an outsider looking in they were perfect. Dear God they were hell, I prayed to just die last week. I wonder again if I’m dead and this is heaven. I dreamed of coming back here so many times over the years. I can see the valley sprawling out for miles out the window. I’m in my childhood bedroom. It’s been redecorated over the years but I know where I am. My Green Day posters are all gone and my pink and black walls are now pale green and my Hello Kitty bedding has been replaced with sensible adult stuff. It’s very tasteful almost guest house looking. Whoever took me has good taste in music as it fills the air around me I can sense they have my liking for melancholy songs that stir the soul. What’s bothering me is why I am here? I read the paper whoever it was that brought me here left on the table. They wanted me to know exactly what happened to me, well what didn’t happen I think. Maybe I am dead? My head is foggy and hurts a little.

According to the police report in the paper, I am dead. I smile. I died yesterday on the way to my own birthday dinner party. I stopped to draw cash to pay the hire company who insisted on cash at the last second. Clearly now not such a coincidence. The ATM I was using blew up in one our notorious weekly or sometimes daily ATM bombings. There’s a photo of me inset into the picture from the blast site along with an article on how the young wife of prominent local business man died. Even in death he stole my identity. I loathe my husband with every fibre of my being. He’s robbed me of myself for eight long years. Tortured and punished me behind closed doors and made us seem so perfect to anyone on the other side of those doors. I wish he would have an accident. Fucker.

It dawned on me that Dad had said I would have a watcher making sure I was happy. Did my watcher see what was happening? Not possible. Besides which if I did have one he was a seriously crap watcher to take eight fucking years to do something. I have to admit killing me was genius. A divorce would never have happened if I had tried to run or tried to hide he would have made me pay and I would have to live with even worse consequences. My husband made that clear so many times. “You are mine Ellia, you will never leave me unless you are dead you are mine.” I get goose bumps remembering his words. I never noticed a watcher. I used to look in the beginning wishing for someone anyone who I could beg to save me from my personal hell. This however smacks of Dad. An accident, coming home, my real home. But now it seems it’s a prison I can’t escape. Even locked in like a prisoner, I feel at home, safe and mostly relieved. Maybe I really am dead and this is heaven … or hell maybe? I was never that good at the whole church and God thing. This could not have been Renzo, I am not in any pain, and no one has hurt me or tried to hurt me, yet? I bite back the rising panic I start to feel. I don’t want who ever took me to see my weakness, I focus on breathing in and out and the advantage I have at knowing exactly where I am.

It’s kind of hard to believe that God cares for you when your dad is a murderer. My dad believed in god or so he led me to believe, until he died he dragged me to Mass every Sunday. When he died I stopped believing that God cared for people like me and then once I was married I decided if there even was a God he chose not to see me.

So I am technically dead. I am not sure if I am or not right now. I am locked away in my childhood home. And once again in my life I am all alone. Yet I have never felt so free.

I just want to know the who and the why of this so I can understand.

I wonder if I will stay here forever. I want to. I love it here, I always did, and this is home.

I SIT BEHIND THE
stark white desk in my office and watch for a long time she seems so very calm. Almost happy to be honest and I am so very confused. This is not at all what I expected to happen. This is not how a prisoner acts. I have treated her like a prisoner. This woman is made of steel under that soft shell. She hasn’t cried or yelled or anything. I brought her back home, it’s my home now, the house is set far from the commercial buildings on the wine estate and I am rarely disturbed by visitors that I don’t bring here myself. I remodelled the inside and made it my own space. It was designed for hiding in plain sight and suits all my needs perfectly.

The sun is setting and its soft glow sets the vineyards alight with colours you only see this time of day. It looks almost unreal with the blur created in the orange light. As the late afternoon sun hangs in the air I can feel a cool crisp bite in the air coming in from my open window. I leave my office into the modern open plan kitchen I never really use to get some dinner. I decide to cook for myself. I know it sounds like a joke and if you actually knew me it is. I can’t cook, at all, but I don’t want to leave her here alone and no one delivers anything decent out here in the sticks.

I pour a scotch while trying to master scrambled eggs on toast. I’m possibly the world’s worst cook. I think most of the eggshell is still in the egg mixture and I get frustrated just trying to master a simple meal. I am clumsy and awkward in the kitchen and I am pretty sure that simple scrambled eggs should not result in this amount of mess. I can kill a man and not leave a trace but I cannot cook my own food. I eat out a whole lot. The eggs pass my taste test, barely, I don’t gag on them but they are not great. I make a plate for Ellia too. I smile to myself. I have to feed her something I don’t want her to really die, but there is no way she will eat this shit, my runny eggs and slightly charred toast. She is chef, a damned good one at that! I’m an idiot. I really haven’t thought this shit out clearly. I was in such a weird headspace when I realized who my job was that I’ve broken a hundred rules by not only bringing her here but keeping her here. I am losing my shit and I blame the whiskey. I shake my head in an attempt to clear the brain fog as I walk down the passage to her room.