One by One (5 page)

‘I was gutted when I found out she'd died,' continued Pat, a dark cloud of emotion crossing his face, ‘but I thought when Danny was found guilty that at least some semblance of justice had been done. I went off to the army, served in wars, and I suppose I forgot about it. But Rachel's dad, Brian, didn't forget. Nor was he ever fully convinced that Danny was guilty, and the more he looked into it, the more he felt that there'd been a major miscarriage of justice. In fact it was he who helped get Danny's case taken up by the court of appeal. He also became convinced you six had covered the murder up to suit your own ends.' He paused. ‘So when I was discharged from the army, Brian approached me with a proposition. He wanted me to get close to Charlie and find out what I could about his involvement. At the time I had nothing. No money, no prospects, so I changed my name and moved down here after Charlie bought this place. It didn't take long to get myself on his radar and he ended up hiring me to run this place while he was away. But I was a lot more than a caretaker. I became his confidant. He trusted me completely. So much so that he even told me about Rachel, and you know what? He was always convinced you were the killer. He said you slept with her a number of times, and he told me how jealous you became when she went back to Danny. And when she slept with Luke that night…' He whistled through his teeth. ‘Well, that would have been the final straw, wouldn't it?'

‘It's bullshit. That's what it is. Just because I slept with her doesn't mean I killed her.'

‘It took me a long time to get all the evidence we needed to act,' continued Pat, ignoring my protestations as if he hadn't heard them, ‘and by that time it was obvious Danny was going to be released. So as soon as he got out, I made him an offer. Earn some serious money and get revenge on the people who'd destroyed his life.'

‘And I'm glad I did,' said Corridge, ‘because making you bastards suffer for what you did to me has been worth every penny. And this is the bit I've been looking forward to most. Watching the one who started it all die.' His face contorted into a snarl of pure hatred as all those years of pain were relived. ‘But I'm going to hurt you first.'

‘Don't forget, Danny,' Pat warned. ‘No obvious injuries on her. She's the one who's going to be held responsible for the murders when someone finally turns up here and discovers all this.'

‘That's right,' chuckled Corridge. ‘We're going to make your death look like murder-suicide so that your family know you're nothing more than a sick, twisted killer. Or what's left of your family anyway.' He leaned forward, grinning. ‘I heard about what happened to your kid. I'm fucking glad the little brat died. I hope it was painful.'

I felt a wave of anger then. If I had to die, so be it. I'd sinned in the past and now I was being made to pay for it. But to bring my daughter – my poor, beautiful, innocent Lily – into this was a deliberate affront to everything that was good and decent in the world.

I wasn't just going to sit here and beg for my life. One way or another, I was going to resist.

That was when it occurred to me that my lighter was still tucked into the sleeve of my hoodie. Using my fingers I managed to slip it free. If I could somehow burn the rope binding my wrists… It was a ridiculous plan, of course. I was totally helpless and one way or another they were going to kill me. But there was no way I was going to waste any more breath begging for mercy. I wasn't going to give these pieces of shit the satisfaction.

It was then that a very strange thing happened. As Corridge continued to goad me – his words nothing more than a single blurred noise that I was now shutting out – Pat came up behind him, slipped an arm almost leisurely round his neck and dragged him back into a chokehold.

Corridge's eyes widened then almost immediately closed and he went limp in Pat's arms.

‘That's enough, Danny,' said Pat, winking at me as he dragged Corridge's body over to the chair with the noose hanging above it. ‘The problem with civilians is that they're just too damn confident in their own abilities. And yet so many of them are idiots. You know you can't afford to be an idiot in the army, Karen. If you are, you die. But Charlie, and Danny here, they went to their doom never realizing how much they were being played.' As he spoke he sat Corridge in the chair, lowered the rope, and placed the noose carefully around his neck, tightening it so it was a nice snug fit.

I knew I only had one chance. ‘Why are you doing this?' I asked, at the same time touching the lighter to the rope binding my wrists and flicking it on.

Pat reached round behind the desk and untied the other end of the rope before giving it a hard pull. Corridge's body straightened in the chair as it was lifted upwards and his eyes began to flicker open. ‘There's no way anyone will believe that you managed to kill all five of your friends, and particularly that you decapitated them. But they'll believe that Danny Corridge – former violent criminal hell-bent on revenge would have. No one will know how he got on the island or how he managed to do it, but that won't matter. The police will have their victims and their perpetrator, and that'll be enough. And if you're wondering what the camera's there for, it's to record your confession followed by your dying moments.' He kept pulling on the rope, lifting Corridge to his feet so that only his toes were touching the floor.

I could smell burning and I knew that any moment Pat would be able to as well, but I could also feel the rope giving.

Corridge's eyes opened properly now and, as he belatedly realized what was going on and grabbed at the noose, Pat gave another big tug, putting all his weight into it. Corridge's feet left the floor and he bucked and kicked wildly but Pat held on tight, his face reddening with the effort.

I felt the lighter scalding my skin and the next second the rope burnt through and my hands were free. I tried to wriggle out of the ropes binding my body but they were too tight. I managed to lift my forearm a few inches so that the lighter was close to the bottom of the two ropes and I flicked it on again.

Corridge was making horrible gasping sounds now as his face went a mottled purple. His thrashing got worse then began to subside as the life was sucked out of him. The smell of smoke was really obvious now and for the first time Pat glanced my way, a puzzled expression on his face, and I knew he smelled it too, but he was holding the rope that was throttling Corridge and he was in no position to do anything about it.

I could feel my back burning and knew that I'd probably set fire to the hoodie as well but I ignored the pain. All that mattered right now was escape. And I was inching ever closer to it.

Corridge stopped moving. His body went limp and almost immediately a strong smell of shit filled the air, temporarily masking that of the smoke.

‘What are you doing over there?' snarled Pat. ‘If you try anything I'll make your death slow as well.'

The bottom rope split, leaving only one left and, as Pat reached round to re-tie the other end of his hangman's noose now that Corridge was dead, I managed to pull off my hoodie, giving me enough wriggle room to slide down the chair and free myself from the last length of rope still binding me.

I was on my feet in an instant as the adrenaline surged through me. Hope. I finally had hope. The door was still open and I charged through it and along the landing, taking the stairs three at a time.

He was right behind me as I leaped the last five steps, landing in a squat. The front door was bolted and the key was no longer in it. I had to use the back door or nothing.

It was then that I remembered something. Turning a sharp left I ran into the lounge and over to the grand old fireplace, silently thanking God, or whoever it was protecting me today, that what I was looking for was there.

The door slammed shut behind me and I could hear him in the room.

Crouching down, I grabbed the ornamental poker and swung round just in time to see him running towards me – a long-bladed, bloodied knife in his gloved hand.

With a bloodcurdling scream, I swung the poker as hard as I could in a tight arc, putting every ounce of strength into it.

Pat tried to throw up an arm and get out of the way at the same time but he'd miscalculated and he wasn't fast enough. The poker caught him right in the throat, knocking him to one side. He stumbled into a footrest and fell to the floor, managing to keep hold of the knife while clutching his throat with his free hand.

I didn't hesitate. As he rolled round to face me, I lifted the poker above my head and hit him a second time, the blow making a sickening crunch as it struck the bridge of his nose, shattering bone and cartilage. Then I was hitting him again and again, a cloud of rage, euphoria and power swirling through my mind and, in that moment, I was transported back to that dark bloody night all those years ago. I'd used a hammer then but the feeling was exactly the same. Complete and utter release. Blood splattered the floorboards, the furniture, even the walls. But still I didn't stop until Pat's head was nothing more than a pulped, bloody mess and he'd finally stopped breathing. Only then did I drop the poker and step back from his body.

I'd felt the same way when I'd killed Rachel. Sated. At least for the first few seconds. Then reality had set in, followed by regret, because I genuinely hadn't wanted to kill her. It's true. I was obsessed with her. I think I'd had a crush on her right from the moment we'd moved into the same house but then, after she'd seduced me one night, it moved from crush into far deeper, darker territories. We had a brief relationship. It was our secret. I didn't think anyone knew about it, especially not Crispin or Charlie. I loved Crispin but I was infatuated with Rachel and when it became obvious that she didn't feel the same way – that, as far as she was concerned, I was just another notch on her bedpost – it made me angry. Angry and jealous. I hated the way she toyed with people, and that night, when she'd started getting off with Luke in front of me, my rage had become uncontrollable. I confronted her in the toilets and she'd dismissed me like I was nothing, telling me to, in her words, ‘get a fucking life'.

But I didn't get a life. I took one. More sober than the rest of them, I'd waited until she and Luke were comatose in his room and then I'd crept in, naked, with the hammer, and killed her. How Luke didn't wake up I'll never know, but he didn't, even though he was splattered with her blood.

After I'd finished I washed myself, washed the hammer, put it away in the cupboard I'd got it from and went into Marla's bedroom and lay on the spare mattress on her floor, wondering what I was going to do, until eventually I fell asleep.

I'm glad I've told you everything. The guilt's haunted me over the years and, as you know, I've been paid back many times for the sin I committed that night. I'm sorry Rachel's dead. I always have been. I'm sorry the others are dead too.

On the way over in the boat, I'd offered Pat a smoke and he'd taken it, so I searched through his pockets now, and struck lucky, finding a half-full pack of Rothmans and a box of matches, as well as a bunch of keys. I found the one that opened the front door, then, as my breathing slowed to normal, I lit a cigarette and used the rest of the matches to set fire to the lounge curtain, before wandering round downstairs, setting more fires.

Only when the flames began to really take hold did I leave through the front door and, with barely a look behind me, I started the walk through the trees down to the beach and the jetty, finally enjoying breathing in the fresh country air.

It was time to begin the rest of my life.

I've been worried that I'm not who they say I am for a while now.

It started a week or so back after I fell down the cellar steps en route to getting a bottle of red wine and smacked my head on the stone floor. They kept me in the local hospital overnight as I was showing the symptoms for mild concussion, and ever since they let me out, things haven't felt quite right.

To be honest, the whole set-up here's pretty odd. According to my sister, she's been looking after me at her house for over two months now, and that feels about right, although it's impossible to tell for sure because the days just seem to drift into one another in a kind of soft fog. The thing is, I'm not sure whether I'm being paranoid or not. When you've got no long-term memory you're as helpless as a young child, which means you've got to trust the people around you. And particularly those whose job it is to bring your memory back – like the man sitting opposite me across the room.

Dr Bronson's a big, dapper man at the wrong end of his fifties with a quite magnificent mane of black hair, tinged with silver, and a long, thoughtful face that would have been described as ruggedly handsome a few years back but which is now beginning to lose its fight with gravity. Even so, you can still imagine that he'd have his pick of single ladies of a certain age. He has that kind of gravitas, but at the same time he also gives off the impression that he doesn't take himself too seriously – not if the clothes he's wearing today are anything to go by, anyway. His latest adornment is a tweed three-piece suit, a red bow tie that matches the rims of his glasses, well-worn brown brogues, and loud pink socks.