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06:57

Saturday 31 October

The front door banged behind Freddie, making her jump. She was buzzing. High on adrenaline. She could hear her flatmate Anton getting ready to leave for his job in The City. Freddie found it ironic that someone who worked in HR could be so void of communication skills. Unless you were talking about cycling he wasn’t interested. Least he paid his rent on time, and he’d sourced the new guy, who was apparently a friend of his cousins, when their last flatmate moved out. Anton was dredging his throat of phlegm in the bathroom. A ritual cleansing necessitated by the flat’s wall mould. Freddie had grown accustomed to it. Her snot was no longer grey. Spores and pollution colonised her respiratory system. Emphysema or lung cancer, or some other mincemeat maker of her lungs, would no doubt kill her.

Death felt close. She’d leant over Alun Mardling’s stiffening body. The world had a new intensity. Riffling through her bedding, she located her Mac. Freddie, adrenaline setting the tempo of her heart, her fingers firing Gatling gun words across the page, typed:

The blood-splattered body of a man was discovered in the early hours of this morning in the East End. Bent over a computer, his lifeless hand still gripping the mouse, the victim had been trolling at the time he was slaughtered. A growing number of cases of online abuse, often of a threatening, violent and graphic sexual nature, have been brought to light recently. Social media sites, like Twitter and Facebook, have been criticised for their lack of response to complaints of misogynistic language, threats of rape and violence, and online bullying. Campaigners have called for an end to the rape culture that is prevalent online. As police seem ill-informed, ill-equipped and ill-inclined to deal with this growing epidemic of online abuse, has someone decided to take the law into their own hands? Is there a Troll hunter out there?

Maybe slaughtered was too much? Slayed? Butchered? Exterminated?

Unconfirmed reports suggest the murder suspect has tweeted a photo of the crime scene. As the popularity of social media sites like Twitter grow, and society struggles
to fashion new moral structures to keep pace with increasing technology developments, have we reached a threshold: is this the first #murder?

Freddie was finishing editing when her phone rang.

‘Freddie, it’s Neil Sanderson, what have you got? Some It girl have a fight in the coffee shop you work in?’

‘Try trolling, Paige Klinger, revenge and a tweeting murderer.’ Freddie heard the pleasing clunk of Neil’s coffee mug as he put it down on his desk. ‘An Internet troll who was hurling online abuse at the model Paige Klinger has been murdered. And a photo of the dead bloke has turned up on Twitter. It looks like whoever took it was the same sicko who bumped this guy off.’

‘Is this verified? Have you got quotes from witnesses?’

‘Better than that,’ said Freddie. ‘I was there. Saw it with my own eyes. The tweets. The body. The lot.’

Neil exhaled. ‘Attagirl. How long till it’s ready?’

‘Emailing it over now.’

There was a momentary silence in which Freddie guessed (correctly) that Neil impatiently clicked refresh on his inbox. ‘Got it. I’ll call you back.’

Freddie hung up. The flat was silent. Anton and Pete had both left for work, the kitchen tap dripped into a sink of dishes. She thought of Alun Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor and shuddered. She was back in that room: the rustling of the plastic overalls, the taste of metal and the unnerved look in Nasreen’s eyes. She rubbed at her face. She was stained. She stood under the hot shower until the water ran red from her hair chalk, and then clear. Only then did she feel like she’d washed all the blood off.

She towelled her hair while she read an email from Neil:

She was going to get paid. Properly. She’d be in print: it might be in the hundreds. She could take a chunk out of her phone bill, the electricity bill – she still owed her flatmates for the council tax. There was a hole in her Converse trainers – she should look for a new pair of those in Oxfam. Anything left over could reduce her overdraft, stop its slow, steady growth. Multiplying with each basic need, as her pitiful two-pound boxes of cereal and forty-nine pence pints of milk fed the overdraft fees. Burgeoning. Would there be enough left for a few drinks? The warning letters, the overdue bills, the exceeded limits, the stopped cards, swam through Freddie’s mind making her feel at once angry and sick. Perhaps she could wring a few more stories out of this? A few more big paydays and the river of debt might slow, subside, trickle.

She tried to relax her shoulders. Her right index finger drummed against her phone. A siren sounded outside and she flinched. She needed a release. Her phone said it was 09:02. Vacate Bar on Kingsland would be serving. She scrolled through her messages: there he was. Ajay, a local Tinder find. Didn’t he work night shifts? They’d messaged enough during the day. Struggling to do up her size 12 skinny jeans, she typed with her thumb:

Freddie pulled the plaid shirt she’d pinched from her dad’s wardrobe over her head and adjusted her glasses. She poked her moon-shaped face. Her skin looked sallow. When was the last time she’d eaten vegetables? Her hair, having dried naturally, was almost spherical, in a brown halo round her head. Scraping the remnants from a tub of hair wax, she attempted to flatten it.
Mission unsuccessful.
Coat, mobile, wallet, keys.

Freddie paused at the top of the stairs, undid one more button on her shirt, reached into her bra and hoisted her breasts up and together. No harm in maximising her best asset. Clattering down the shared stairs and out onto the private pathway that ran alongside the Queen Elizabeth pub, which was under their flat. The Elizabeth’s garden – a concrete square strung with half-broken fairy lights – was empty. It didn’t open till 11am. Freddie punched the code into the security gate at the end of the path and walked the back roads to Vacate.

The wet pavement was pockmarked with chewing gum. Takeaway cartons blew into her shins. Her fellow Londoners walked with their heads down, bent against the weather or looking at their phones. Cyclists streamed past. Everything and everyone was on the move. She passed the industrial Dalston Department Store. The pop-up boutiques and restaurants. The try-hards. The wannabes. The sky was grey and oppressive, like a Tupperware lid pressing down onto the tops of the buildings.

Vacate was mostly empty; there was a group of bearded men and childlike girls in polyester housecoats discussing their latest free-form art installation. Freddie caught snippets of their conversation. ‘I’m really pumped over this.’ ‘Daryl’s PR is
sick
.’ ‘Is this muesli hand-milled?’
How did they afford to live?

Crossing the stripped floorboards, navigating the reclaimed crates that doubled as chairs, Freddie reached the concrete bar. A man with a beard shaped into a squirrel stood polishing baked-bean cans – which were used for glasses. Freddie rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll have a beer please, mate?’

‘Any particular brand – we’ve got some excellent local-brewed, microbiotic, carbon-neutral ales?’

‘Just a beer. In a bottle. The cheapest one. Thanks.’ When she blinked she could see Alun Mardling’s body, except now it was in tweet form. A digital image. Her brain was so used to seeing images framed by her phone, it stored it in her memory alongside Beyoncé memes and artful Instagrams of avocado on toast. She couldn’t shake it. @Apollyon.

‘Freddie?’

The lad looked close enough to Ajay’s profile picture: dark hair, which hung in a long asymmetric fringe over his face, kicking out on the ends like he’d used hair straighteners. ‘Ajay?’

‘Sup?’ He kept flicking his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. Like a shampoo advert gif.

‘Nice jumper.’ She signalled at his 80s knit decorated with elephants and paisley. Didn’t matter. She’d seen what was underneath. ‘Fancy a beer?’

‘Sure, why not,’ he shrugged.

They took their drinks to a small round vinyl-topped table. ‘Thanks for coming out.’

Flick
. ‘No problem.’

‘It’s good to meet in person after…’ Freddie thought about the last Snapchat video he’d sent of him masturbating his hard cock. ‘Er…talking so much.’

Flick
. ‘Sure.’

‘You work in a bar, right?’

Flick
. ‘Yeah. Worked last night. Only had a couple of hours’ kip when you messaged.’
Flick.
‘Couldn’t pass up the chance to see you.’
Flick
.

Freddie laughed.

Flick
. ‘What was up with your night?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya.’ She pulled a strip from her bottle’s label.

Flick
. ‘I can imagine. We get all kinds of nutters in the bar I work in.’

She nodded.

Flick
. ‘I’m the manager actually. Spend most of my time out back.’
Flick
. ‘Working on rotas and shit.’

‘Mmmm.’ She tried to shake the image of her boss Dan from her mind.

Flick
. ‘You should come by sometime. I’ll shout you a couple of…’

‘I’m not looking for a relationship right now, just to be up front with you,’ she interrupted him. She didn’t need some boy expecting her to spend all their time together. She needed to focus on work.

Flick
. ‘That’s cool, I’m easy.’

‘Ajay?’ Blinked stills of Dan and Alun Mardling vied for her attention. She had to shake this off. She gulped from her bottle.

Flick
. ‘Yeah?’ His beer hovered by his lips. His dark eyes looked straight at her.

‘You ever done it in a disabled toilet?’

His face cracked into a huge smile.
Flick
.

‘Meet me there in a minute. Knock twice.’ She downed the rest of her drink. Just before she reached the hallway she looked back and winked at Ajay.
Cheesy, Freddie, cheesy.
Whatever. She wasn’t looking for
The One
. There wasn’t enough time for a relationship. But why shouldn’t she have a release? Some fun?

The disabled toilet was thankfully clean. The smell of bleach gave a sort of swimming pool vibe. A long mirror ran down one wall at right angles to the sink. She practised a couple of poses. Duck face. Leaning over the sink, she could turn back and see the reflection of him behind.

Two knocks sounded on the door. She opened it a crack.

Flick.
Ajay squeezed through the door and they both fell against the inside giggling.

‘Shusshhhh!’ She placed a finger against his lips.

He pulled her into him, his hair falling over both their faces. She pulled his T-shirt up and ran her hands over his smooth chest. He was fiddling with her jeans. She yanked them and her knickers down as he turned her and lifted her up onto the sink. She inhaled sharply as she saw her reflection in the mirror.
Heck, this could work too.
Her shirt was open and Ajay was kissing down, over her breasts, her stomach. He pulled her jeans down further. Kissing up from her knees, the inside of her thighs. She watched his head get closer.

Flick
.

She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the moan.

19:26

Saturday 31 October

Alun Mardling’s face, his eyes wide and bloodshot, loomed. His hand, bloody and cold, reached for hers. There was a thud. Freddie jolted. It was dark. She was sweat-soaked. Fabric was wrapped around her, a shroud. Her eyes struggled to focus. Where was she? Freddie could hear Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor. No! No, it was the kitchen tap. She was home. Alone. Another boom shook through her skull. Ajay? They’d left the bar. There’d been a bottle of wine in the park. Some cans. How’d she got home? She groped for her glasses. Her head reverberated with another bang. The door. Someone was hammering on the door. Ajay? Her flatmates? She stumbled out of bed, grabbed the nearest thing: her H&M Espress-oh’s shirt, still half-buttoned, she pulled it over her head. Dizzying herself with the effort.

Her eyes were stuck at the corners, she followed the crystallised salt tracks with her fingers. Peeling her Sellotaped tongue from the roof of her mouth, she managed: ‘Coming!’ The word was wet, sodden, heavy, though her mouth was dry. Everywhere was darkness. Another thud landed on her like a punch. How much sleep? Still drunk. Boom: her mind shook with fragments of memory. She tried to rub the image of Mardling’s body from her eyes with her fingers.
Would a murderer knock?

‘Freddie Venton!’ a male voice shouted from the other side. Bailiffs? Like before. She tried to formulate her thoughts, sort them into order. What was she to say? The Mac was P-something’s. A flatmate’s. They couldn’t take it.

‘Freddie Venton, open up!’ The noise crashed like thunder over her head. Stumbling, she got a hand on the lock, pulled.

Light from the hallway sent her reeling back.

Nas was there, in a black trouser suit, white shirt. Her dark hair swept up away from her face. Chocolate eyes flashing in creamy whites. She had chunky boots on. Next to her: the blue puffa jacket guy who’d been with her at St Pancras. Up close, Freddie could see his blonde hair was silvering, thinning, probably why he had it shaved to a bristly number one. Unfortunately his close-cropped hair accentuated the square shape of his head. He looked like a Lego man. He was in pale pink shirtsleeves, jeans, glowing white trainers: ready to pounce. She could see their mouths open and close like fish. The air pressed upon her, heavy, as if she were underwater, words bubbled toward her. Don’t. Be. Sick.

‘Venton…you…connection…harm…defence.’ Their fish words didn’t fit together.

‘Nas?’

What was puffa saying? Concentrate on breathing. Don’t. Be. Sick. In. Out. In.

Nas’s hands gripped her shoulders. Anchoring her. ‘Freddie? Do you understand? You have to come with us?’ Freddie nodded. Her brain shrank away from her skull, dehydrated, a husk. Nasreen’s face came into focus. She looked older. Colder. Distant. ‘Put some trousers on,’ Nasreen said.

Freddie looked down. She was wearing her Little Mermaid pants. Tufts of mousey pubic hair curled round the edges.

What was going on? They walked in close formation down the stairs. In silence. Each step an earthquake in Freddie’s body. She needed a Coke. A bacon sandwich. Her stomach tidal-waved. No, no food yet. In. Out. In. Out.

Outside was a waiting police car. Nasreen held open the back door for her. Nasreen’s patronising hand guided the top of her head. At the edges of her consciousness something flickered. A warning. Freddie leant her head against the cool glass of the window, closed her eyes and willed herself not to vom. She was thankful they travelled in silence.

They were at Jubilee police station, the aging 1970s jewel in the Tower Hamlets policing borough, a clusterfuck of concrete and white metal-framed windows. She recognised it from the TV news. Nas held the door for her again. Freddie took some steadying gulps of air. The street lights hurt her eyes. The puffa guy strode off. Nas looked pissed.

Freddie’s mouth moistened enough to speak. The words disjointed. ‘This about the dead dude?’

‘Sergeant Byrne will check you in.’

They were stood inside the entrance hall of the station – it looked nothing like
Heartbeat
, the ancient cop show her mum was always re-watching. Scratched wooden-framed glass doors, which reminded Freddie of her old school maths classrooms, were at each end of the room. The geometric pattern of green shatterproof glass filled every available pane, blocking out all hope of natural light. Posters warning of car theft and pickpockets barely clung to the walls. Fluorescent strip lighting finished off the effect: everything had a cold blue tinge to it. It was as comforting as being inside an ice cube. Sergeant Byrne, a fat man in his fifties, leant against the desk like he couldn’t support his own weight.

Booked in?
What was this?

‘Please empty all your pockets into the tray,’ the Duty Sergeant’s voice was heavy with contempt. Either that or he had a nasty sinus infection, Freddie thought.

Nas stood wordless.

The contents of Freddie’s hastily pulled on jeans pockets and jacket were documented and placed in individual plastic bags: ‘One iPhone, one wallet; contents: a Hackney library card, a Visa debit card, two Visa credit cards, one receipt from Vacate bar, fifty-seven pence in loose change. One set of keys. Two unopened banana-flavoured condoms.’

‘It’s easier to get into the airport than in here!’ Freddie said. No one laughed.

The copper pulled a small white powdery triangle out of her pocket and held it up to her.

‘It’s a Smint,’ her eyes were too gritty to roll. ‘No one has time to do drugs.’

He sniffed it. ‘One fluffy mint.’ The Sergeant dropped it into a bag and plunged his hand back into her jacket pocket.

‘You can chuck that if you want,’ Freddie nodded at the empty sanitary towel wrapper he pulled out. He dropped the wrapper into its own sealed plastic bag and placed it on top of her other belongings in the tray.

‘Remove the laces from your shoes.’ He took a sip from a vending machine plastic cup of coffee he had under the desk.

Her synapses crackled, her neurotransmitters jump-started. ‘What? This is a fucking joke, right? I’m being punked?’

‘Mind your language.’ He spoke like her dad.
Why Is a Young Woman Swearing So Offensive to Men?

‘Dude, these are DMs, it’ll take me half an hour.’

‘Now,’ he said. His small piggy eyes disappearing into the fat of his face.

Freddie looked at Nasreen who was staring straight ahead. Her stomach settled into a hollow feeling of dread. What had Nas and that guy said to her when they picked her up from her flat? She flopped onto a plastic bench that was bolted to the ground.
100 Everyday Objects That Can Kill You.

‘There,’ she slapped the laces onto the counter. ‘I’ll never get them back the way they were. Happy?’

‘This way, Miss Venton.’ Nasreen pushed a button to release the interconnecting door.

Miss Venton?
‘When can I have my phone back? I need to let my boss know I’ll be late.’ Freddie followed Nasreen’s silent back; her boots flapping round her ankles with each step. ‘Seriously, Nas, what the hell is going on? I’m sorry ’bout what I said earlier. About you sounding like your mum, and that.’ She limped behind Nas as they passed offices with blinds pulled down and closed blue-painted MDF doors. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I was just doing my job.’

Nasreen stopped and spun round, her nostrils flaring. Then she turned and set off again even faster.

‘This isn’t funny anymore,’ Freddie called after her as she wrenched her lace-less Dr Martens off and tucked them under her arm. Her feet, damp from sweat, left tiny prints on the mottled grey wipe-clean floor.

Nasreen stopped and held open a door. ‘In here, Miss Venton.’

Freddie peered into the room: a table, three chairs. An empty interview room. ‘How long is this going to take?’

Nasreen closed the door on her. She went to get her phone from her pocket before she remembered it wasn’t there. Behind her a wall clock ticked toward ten to nine at night. What time had they left the flat? What time had she got home? She struggled to piece together the last sixteen hours. Everything had twisted after she’d seen the dead body. It must be shock. She shivered in the empty room. Ten to nine. She’d be fired for sure.

Three hundred people had applied for her job. She’d spun Dan the corporate line he loved, but she knew it was down to Milena that she’d got it. Milena had a little boy. Probably two, she guessed from photos. He was back in Bulgaria, with Milena’s mother. A shortlisted eight had worked an unpaid ten-hour test shift as part of the interview process. On the night of Freddie’s trial, Milena’s son was rushed to hospital. Milena was distraught and out of phone credit. Skype and FaceTime wouldn’t connect. Freddie lent Milena her phone, trying not to think about how expensive an international call would be. Her little boy was going to be okay. And so was Freddie: Milena recommended her as the best candidate. She wouldn’t be so lucky again. How would she pay her rent now? ‘This isn’t funny, guys.’ Her voice sounded small. If anyone heard her they didn’t reply.

Was she locked in? She stormed over to the door and forcefully tried the handle. It swung open with ease, sending her off balance. The back of the policeman outside turned to face her. It was the kid who’d been sick at 39 Blackbird Road. ‘Are you chief of door guarding? That your sole bleedin’ job?’ His forehead crinkled. The freckles spattered across his nose made him look quite cute. He had that whole little boy lost thing going on that made some women go gaga. Not her type, though. ‘Sorry, mate. Just wondered how long I was going to be in here for?’

He shrugged and pressed his lips together, making them even thinner. ‘I can get you a drink if you like?’

‘Suppose a double vodka and Coke is out?’ His lips disappeared completely.

‘Coffee?’ She remembered the piss-poor excuse for caffeine the Duty Sergeant had been drinking. ‘I’m having the shittiest hangover.’

‘Yes, Miss. If you take a seat I’ll bring you one.’

She scraped one of the chairs at the table back, her eyelids fluttering at the noise. She hadn’t showered since she’d had sex. She sniffed the underarm of her shirt: funky.

The door opened and the freckled copper came in with a beige plastic cup. ‘Sorry – the milk’s off.’ He placed the cup and a pile of sugar sachets on the table.

‘Cheers.’ She tore open four sachets and emptied the lot into the liquid. He gave her half a smile and then retreated, closing the door behind him.

The sides of the cup were too hot to touch. She got up and paced. The gnawing feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. She thought of Nas’s cold stare. Her tongue niggled against something stuck between her front two teeth. It better not be a pubic hair. Working the gap with her fingernail, she sat back down at the table. The coffee was still too hot. It was gone 9pm now. She rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes. Too tired to think straight.

The door handle clicked and she straightened up. How long had she been asleep for?

‘Not boring you are we?’ The puffa jacket man from earlier entered, with Nas trotting behind him.

‘Hey what’s the idea, keeping me waiting in here?’ Her mouth was made of carpet again – she took a gulp of the now cold coffee. Rancid.

Nas and the puffa jacket guy took the two seats opposite her. What did he say his name was? Moist? Toast?

Nas pressed a button on the device on the table.

‘Interview with Freddie Venton, Thirty-first of October, commencing eleven zero nine pm.’ The man spoke. ‘Officers present: DCI Edwin Moast.’

That was it!

‘And Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore.’

This was bullshit. ‘Can I get a fresh coffee?’ Freddie asked.

Moast exchanged a look with Nasreen. ‘Miss Venton, I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of…’

‘What is it with all the “Miss’’ stuff? I’m not a bloody schoolteacher. Besides, it’s Ms Venton.’

‘
Miss
Venton…I don’t think…’

‘Ms. As I said. I prefer Ms.’ You waste my time and I’ll waste yours, bucko, Freddie thought.

‘Freddie.’ Nas leant toward her, looking concerned.

As the last of the alcohol passed out of her bloodstream, as the few hours of sleep worked their magic on Freddie’s twenty-three-year-old body, she felt bruised but alert. Moast’s earlier words drifted back. Slotting into place.
You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court…
She started to shake. Her stomach twisted away from her sides.
No. They can’t think…

‘This is serious,’ Nas said.

Black dots spread like ink droplets in water across Freddie’s vision, obscuring Nasreen’s face. She focused on her voice. On the sickening words.

‘Freddie, you are accused of the murder of Alun Mardling.’