The Killer Inside. Cass Green

close to home.

       IRENE

      There was a ginger cat lying across the middle of the carpet. It wore a grumpy expression and gave a silent, shivery mewl as she stepped over it and looked for somewhere to sit down.

      A quite astonishingly ugly dog – a pug, perhaps; Irene didn’t really ‘do’ dogs – wandered over and made snuffling noises while pawing at her foot. It was almost spherical, neck wrinkles spilling onto its fat little body.

      ‘Come on, Elvis,’ said the woman, and scooped the animal up, ‘you need to be on good behaviour for our visitor.’

      The room was dimly lit, some kind of Turkish rug slung over the window. It didn’t fit, and daylight streamed from the sides. Otherwise the room was lit by a series of lamps. There was a sofa so low to the ground, Irene worried about getting back out of it again, covered in a pale orange sheet and piled with cushions. Most of them had colourful prints that Irene thought of as Moroccan.

      On various surfaces were remnants of half-melted puddles of candles. Along with the sweet drug scent, Irene could smell garlic and some sort of musky perfume from the woman.

      ‘Can I get you anything to drink? You look a bit peaky,’ said the woman, in that girlish voice. The dog panted in her arms, ham-like tongue lolling, giving it an even more unappealing look.

      Irene carefully lowered herself onto the sofa, which gave even more than she’d expected. She tried to cover up her discomfort by smoothing her skirt over her knees and fixing the woman with a dignified stare. She wanted to decline the offer, but she really could do with a cup of tea. For a moment she worried that the woman might only have strange druggie tea, then said, ‘Yes please. Do you have tea?’

      ‘Only PG Tips, I’m afraid,’ said the woman and Irene felt relief flooding her veins.

      ‘Then yes please,’ she said.

      The kitchen was behind a beaded curtain and Irene could see the woman (Rowan, was it?) collecting cups from a tree mug as the kettle boiled.

      When she came back into the room, she was also carrying a few misshapen biscuits on a plate, along with Irene’s drink. Irene took the slightly chipped mug, which seemed clean enough, and eyed the strange biscuits now on the coffee table, which was otherwise covered in copies of a magazine called Spirit and Destiny and an almost full ashtray.

      ‘Have a biscuit,’ said Rowan, taking one herself and biting into it with a loud crunch. ‘They’re made from hemp and flax seeds. Really good for you.’

      Hemp definitely sounded druggie. And this person looked very much like the sort who wouldn’t wash her hands after touching an animal. Irene declined, even though her stomach was rumbling, and took a sip of her tea. It was strong and milky, just how she liked it, and she could feel it restoring her almost straight away.

      ‘I’m Rowan,’ said the woman. She was looking at Irene in that way people do when you get to a certain age; as if you’re daft. The dog settled onto her lap and regarded Irene with the occasional nasal wheeze, like it had a head cold.

      ‘Yes, I know,’ said Irene and was taken aback to see the bright eagerness on Rowan’s face now.

      ‘Oh, did he talk about me then?’ she said. ‘Michael?’

      ‘Sorry, no,’ Irene said quickly. She hadn’t intended this to be cruel but the other woman’s mouth turned down at the sides.

      Oh Michael, she thought. This isn’t your sort of person. She wondered if that was why he went away. Had he got in too deep with this woman?

      ‘He’s talked about you a lot,’ said Rowan, blowing on her tea. Hers was in one of those impractical teacups with a huge circumference and a tiny handle. Steam curled up from it and she seemed to cradle it more for comfort than from a desire to drink. ‘Very warmly.’

      Irene couldn’t help the rush of pleasure at hearing these words. It wasn’t something she would have assumed at all. Sometimes she thought she was an annoyance to her eldest son. She didn’t trust herself to speak and instead nodded and took another sip of the tea.

      Rowan watched her carefully. Irene got the strange feeling that the other woman knew exactly what she was thinking. Michael wouldn’t have liked that. He was always private.

      ‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘he said that you’re the strongest woman he has ever known.’

      Irene put the mug onto the table too briskly, so that the tea almost slopped out of the top. She mashed her trembling hands together in her lap. Impossible to hold onto any reserve now.

      ‘Did he really?’ she managed, emotion coagulating in her voice.

      Rowan leaned forward and clasped her own hands together, as though praying. The dog slid off her lap and went into the kitchen, where Irene could hear it lustily slurping from a water bowl.

      ‘He really did.’ She paused. ‘Look,’ she said and gave a deep, wheezy breath inwards, ‘I know all about … well, Liam going missing.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Irene. ‘That’s not quite what …’ She picked up the cup again for something to do, even though she no longer wanted the tea. It felt strange to say he was ‘missing’ but wasn’t that word painfully on the money in so many ways? There was a long, strained silence. Then she said, ‘Where is Michael, Rowan? Where has he gone?’

      ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Rowan. ‘I think he’s gone looking for him.’

      ‘What makes you say that?’ This came out too sharply, but Irene couldn’t help it. It touched on the same painful well of hope that allowed her to get out of bed each morning. ‘Has he heard from him?’

      Rowan blushed now, unexpectedly, and stared down at her cup. It was very bizarre. She didn’t seem like a woman easily given to embarrassment. Then she looked up and there was something in her eyes that Irene felt herself drawing away from.

      ‘What is it?’ she said tightly.

      ‘It came out wrong just now … about looking for him.’

      Irene was beginning to feel exhausted from this visit. It was an emotional rollercoaster. Now she was getting irritated with this woman and her riddles.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean,’ said Rowan with excruciating patience, ‘that I think he’s trying to find out exactly what happened to him all those years ago.’

      All those years ago … As if it were a hundred. As if it were a thousand. As if it didn’t matter any more.

      ‘Mrs Copeland,’ said Rowan. ‘You know Michael believes Liam is dead, don’t you?’

       ELLIOTT

      I was cycling home when it happened.

      I’d naïvely thought, moving from London, that it would be easy to cycle here. I’m not exactly sure what planet I was on, thinking city drivers were the aggressive ones, but the way they hammered round the narrow lanes here at all hours had come as a bit of a shock. Still, we only had one car and Anya needed to drive to the next station along for the better train connection to London, where she worked, so I cycled in every day.

      I was on the road that led from the top end of town when I heard the sound of a car behind me. It didn’t overtake as I’d expected it to where the road got wider. I turned to look behind me, but the driver had on a baseball cap and sunglasses; plus, they were sort of hunkered down in their seat. The car was a dark SUV – black or dark blue, I couldn’t really tell.

      An uneasy feeling rippled up my neck and I pedalled harder, knowing that the turning to lead me off this road was coming up soon. The car just seemed to purr