‘Oh my God. I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay? Can you speak?’ A man’s face comes into focus, middle-aged, panic-stricken. He takes my hand, ‘Just hold on, love. I’m going to go and get help.’
I don’t want him to leave me and I try to grasp his hand, but he lets go gently and stands up. I hear him talking urgently to someone nearby but just out of my line of vision.
‘Can you stay here with her, just until I get back?’ he’s saying.
A young woman’s voice answers. She sounds calm and capable, just the kind of person you want around in an emergency. ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘I’m first-aid trained. Don’t worry. I know what to do.’
‘What about your son? Will he be all right?’ the man asks.
‘He’ll be okay. I’ve locked him in the car for now. I think it’s for the best. I don’t want him to see this.’
‘Okay, well, I’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll be as fast as I can. Don’t try to move her, okay?’
Then I hear the man’s footsteps receding and I feel a flicker of fear. I sit up and try to struggle to my feet, but my legs won’t co-operate, and I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me. I lie back down, fighting to stay conscious. The woman crouches beside me, her long legs folding under her.
‘Not so nice, is it, being left to die?’ she says, and I look up into a smooth, pretty face and a pair of dewy, brown eyes.
‘Lizzie . . .’ I try to say, but it comes out as a sort of gargle.
‘I could kill you now if I wanted,’ she continues conversationally. ‘It would be pretty easy. I could smother you. Everyone would think it happened in the accident, or I could run you over. But I’m not going to kill you. That would be too quick.’
‘Dylan . . .’ I choke out. ‘Dylan . . .’
‘My sister, Daisy, was the same age as Dylan. Did you know that?’
Again, I try to move. I heave myself up by the arms and try to drag myself towards the red and white mini I can see parked just a few metres away. Lizzie walks along beside me, gazing down at me dispassionately.
‘Dylan,’ I say, collapsing again after I’ve hauled myself not more than a few feet.
‘I was supposed to be watching her the night you killed her.’ Lizzie crouches down beside me again. ‘My parents left an eight-year-old in charge of a five-year-old. For a long time, I thought I was to blame, but then I realised. I was only eight years old. I should never have been left with that responsibility.’
I know it’s very important that I stay awake – that my life and Dylan’s could depend on it – but I keep drifting in and out of consciousness and Lizzie’s voice keeps getting louder and quieter, as if someone is fiddling with the volume control.
‘Then I was angry with my parents. It wasn’t until I was seventeen or eighteen that I realised I was blaming all the wrong people . . . that I should have been blaming the one person who was really responsible – the person driving the car. But of course, I didn’t know who that was. Until Charlotte came along. Do you believe in God, Catherine?’
I don’t answer. Tears are rolling down my cheeks.
‘I don’t know if I do,’ Lizzie continues. ‘But it certainly seemed as though some higher power brought Charlie to us. She confessed to everything. She thought she could make up for what happened to Daisy by giving Mum that flat,’ she snorts, scornfully. ‘As if money could make up for what we lost.’
I try to raise my head. ‘So, you killed her,’ I choke out.
She shrugs. ‘She would have died anyway. Killing Charlie was a kindness. It was you I wanted, not Charlie. I only killed her to get to you. I knew I could persuade my mother to tell the police that she’d seen you. It was only what you deserved. Okay, you didn’t kill Charlie, but you are guilty of murder and you have never paid for it.’
I feel her hatred as if it’s a physical force, and a wave of despair and hopelessness washes over me. Because she’s right. I am guilty, if not of murder than at least of manslaughter.
‘As soon as she told us about you,’ Lizzie says, ‘I started digging up all I could about you. It didn’t take me long to find out you were Ophelia Black, the writer.’ She practically spits out the words. ‘I read your book – a pile of trash. You even had the nerve to write about a girl killed in a car accident. You used Daisy’s death for your own gain.’
I want to explain that if I did use Daisy, it wasn’t for any financial gain – that it was a way to exorcise my own demons. But she continues before I can speak.
‘That made me so angry. I wanted you to feel afraid. That’s when I started sending you messages on your writer page.’
‘You’re George Wilkinson.’ I realise this with a flash of insight.
‘Why yes, little lady,’ she drawls, mimicking an American accent. And I realise with a sinking feeling that she’s completely unhinged.
She carries on dreamily, almost as if she’s talking to herself. ‘Of course, I knew your real name from Charlie and with that, it was easy enough to find out your address. So I visited your house and watched you playing with your son. You know you leave your curtains open a lot.’
I feel sick at the thought of this gross invasion of our privacy.
‘I guessed that you would enrol Dylan at Green Park Primary School. You were in the right catchment area. So I decided to apply for a job there. I didn’t really have a plan at that point, I just thought it might come in useful. And, you see, it did.’
Dylan. I can
