Marie's pretty, plump face stares up at me, the large oval eyes burning my skin. I run the tip of my middle finger along the edge of her outline. She was only nineteen when her throat was shredded - two years older than I was - and she looked younger. The smile is wide, gap-toothed and innocent. The murders started in Cardiff and they had been getting closer and closer to home. This was the first - but not the last- in Bridgend. It was only after this murder that people in my home town truly felt that they were at risk on a night out. Cardiff was close, but still far enough. It was still happening somewhere else, in the newspapers and on the TV. They walked past this murder scene on a daily basis. This was when it truly got real. This was when my parents really got concerned.
Marie was on a night out with her friend in Sinatra's nightclub. They were enjoying a drink when Marie got up and left. Her friend saw Marie leave on her own. They were sat together when Marie just stood up, gave her friend the briefest of waves and walked out without uttering a word. Apparently, her friend considered going after her, checking that she was alright, but then thought better of it; she assumed she was just a bit worse for wear and had popped out for some fresh air. It was only when Marie didn't return ten minutes or so later that she started panicking. She went looking for her outside the club, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The doormen confirmed they saw a girl matching Marie's description leave the club at the approximate time her friend said she just upped and left. They said she turned left out of the club; this tallied with where she was found dead the next morning. And, most importantly, the doormen confirmed that she left alone. Sure, people came and went shortly after her, but they headed in different directions. The two knucklehead bouncers were adamant that nobody followed her; the police had no reason to suspect they weren't telling the truth.
The police investigation, headed up by DCI Baldwin, concluded that, just with the first two murders, Spartacus most likely came into contact with his victim on her way home. It begged the question, though: who picked up whom?
I slam the book shut. Circle my forehead with my fingers. Open up another book. There I am. Me. Staring back at myself. Only, it truly does feel like a previous version of myself, from a past life. I am seventeen and clean-cut, without a glimmer of a hair on my chin. My cheeks are puffy, my skin is oily and there are black shadows under my eyes. The blond hair is cut short at the sides and is spiky on top. My heavy eyes look tired and uncertain.
I'm ravenous now, desperate to view more of my old life. It was a closed book for so many years and now - literally - I've opened the book again. I open another. There I am again. The photograph is almost a replica of the first; it is just as unflattering. I long to read what is written about me, but I dare not. Richard's whispering, disapproving voice taunts me. The horrific memories knock on my front door and somehow I need to keep them on the doorstep. It is futile. I am suddenly an addict, desperate for my next hit.
I open the final book and the title chapter is big and bold.
Jeffrey Allen - A lucky escape?
I stare at this title until the words are a blur. I blink my eyes to re-focus. There is nothing particularly extravagant or creative about this title. It doesn't vary much from the titles of the numerous books I picked up. None of those captivated my attention. The hairs on my forearms didn't prickle like they do now. There is a solitary difference with this title. What is it? The question mark. It changes everything.
I flip to the back cover and look at the photograph of the writer in the bottom corner. I stifle a smirk. Was this the best photograph he could find? It looks like a police mug shot. The writer could be a serial killer himself. I make a mental note of the name; I'm not quite sure why.
Something flashes past my eye line on the far side of the book shelves. I glance up; nothing is there. I lower my head and start reading the pages of the book, but almost instantly I'm distracted again. I jerk my head up. Nothing, or nobody, is there. This time I keep looking, certain that as soon as I lower my gaze it will appear again. I keep looking, but nothing appears, and nothing disappears.
I tell myself that this is a slippery slope to paranoia. I remind myself what DCI Reeves said: it is probably nothing, that I should just forget about it, that I should just get on with my life. I curse myself for even being here, for letting Spartacus back into my life, for opening the door even though I know he is an uninvited guest. Richard will not be impressed.
I leave the books on the desk and rise to my feet. The light on the other side of the window is fading. The librarian announces that the library will be shutting in ten minutes. I glance around. The rows of computers are mainly vacant. Newspapers have been scattered on tables. I've been oblivious to the time passing. There are only a few people left now; they are probably homeless or don't have a home they want to go home to. I am neither of those things.
