Dead Head Read online

  Another audible gasp.

  ‘And it began on New Year’s Eve 2017 with her realising her boyfriend Craig was having an affair. It went on to talk about her life in minute detail, and included the murders of various people. Planning it, doing it, covering it up. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.’

  ‘Wow, that’s completely amazing.’

  ‘I read them in two days. I barely slept. From the first chapter when she killed that guy by the canal and sliced off his penis, I was stunned—’

  That bloody penis, it never stops coming up. The media’s always obsessed by that, even though there was only one. I haven’t severed a cock since but even so some magazines still insist on calling me The Slicer which sounds pretty cool, but others call me Lorena Bobbitt Two, Cock-A-Doodle Daisy or Buffy the Wangpire Slayer, which doesn’t even work. The first thing they ALWAYS mention is that fucking dick.

  I HAVE DONE OTHER THINGS. Now I know how Daniel Radcliffe feels.

  ‘So was it just the diaries she sent you? The full confession we all know?’

  ‘And a postcard,’ says Freddie.

  ‘What did it say on the postcard?’

  Freddie smiles, a secret smile. ‘The postcard said, When you’re shoving your foot in the door, make sure you’re wearing a big shoe.’

  There follows a light-hearted but confused murmuring in the audience.

  Freddie explains. ‘It relates to the last conversation we had. I told Rhiannon I was leaving the Plymouth Star, the local newspaper I used to work for, but that I still wanted to get “a foot in the door” of journalism.’

  ‘So she helped you?’ asks Bryan, swatting away a fly that seems hella interested in his left ear. Probably a doughnut parked in there for later.

  ‘Rhiannon Lewis has changed my life,’ says Freddie and the room goes silent. So quiet you can hear a fake petal fall. ‘She wanted her story to be told and she assigned me to tell it. My husband said I should take the manuscripts straight to the police. It was evidence after all and there was her ex-boyfriend Craig Wilkins, looking at a life sentence for the crimes on those pages. We had an argument about it because I was so keen to get the story out there—’

  And make shitloads of money off it—

  ‘—but in the end I did the right thing. I gave them to the police, but not before I’d made copies. I couldn’t do anything with them at that point because I’d fall foul of sub-judicial procedure but as soon as the CPS made the decision to charge Rhiannon in absentia, I took the risk.’

  Bryan scratched his temple. ‘They had a trial in the UK, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, they had a trial with a jury and they sentenced her to life, with a minimum forty-year tariff. They issued a warrant for her arrest—’

  ‘—but they never found her,’ Bryan clarified.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I don’t get how they had evidence to jail her without her being there to go to jail,’ said Bryan, like it was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard.

  ‘They had enough evidence – a written confession in her own handwriting, bearing details only the killer could possibly know. They just didn’t have her.’

  ‘Ah right. So eventually, you were allowed to release the book?’

  ‘Yeah, once she’d been confirmed as deceased, there was nothing stopping me. The rest is history.’ He beams up at the humongous poster.

  Herstory, you mean. Prick.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ says Bryan. ‘So your book went on sale globally in September and it’s sky-rocketed, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s caught fire.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but it’s been published in thirty-four countries, is that right?’

  ‘I believe it’s thirty-six now. And we’ve sold the film rights too.’

  ‘Oh wow,’ says Bryan. Cue gasping, flailing and a rapturous applause.

  Yawn.

  ‘It’s been life-changing. I can pay my bills without worrying now, myself and my husband have new cars, our kids are in good schools—’

  Freddie talks with ease, enthusiasm, and occasionally expressive flourishes of his arms. Piano player’s hands. Creative fingers. His eyes are alive and passionate about his subject, which in this case happens to be moi.

  Twenty hands shoot up into the coffee-thick air of the bookshop as we come to the Q&A.

  ‘How do you think she got out of the UK, Freddie?’ whines a Roseanne Barr-esque woman with purple hair, fifth row from the front.

  ‘I don’t know for sure,’ says Freds.

  ‘Neither do the cops!’ a Metallica-beard dude shouts from the back.

  ‘Well, quite,’ Freddie chuckles. ‘According to the police, the last phone signal that came through on her mobile bounced off a transmitter on the Western Esplanade in Southampton which suggests she left from Southampton Docks, doesn’t it? But there was no record of anyone called Rhiannon Lewis boarding a cruise ship at the terminal. She simply disappeared.’

  ‘Did she catch a ride on some smaller boat?’ suggests a small guy near me who had been watching videos of himself dicking about with his cat on Tik Tok before the gig had got going.

  ‘There were theories that she was hiding in Portugal or Spain with one of her dad’s cronies. There were sightings of her in Africa, Thailand, Buenos Aires as well but there was no telling what was true.’

  Old Lady Chunky Blue Heels on the aisle shoots her bingo wing up. ‘What do you think made Rhianna murder in the first place, Mr Cheney?’

  Rose West Fucking Wept – my name’s on the cover of the damn book she’s bought and she still can’t say it right.

  ‘Could be any manner of things,’ says Freddie. ‘We could speculate that it comes from the brain injury she suffered when she was six. Her father was a vigilante and she used to watch him at work in wild fascination for his violence – and this was from an early age, remember.’

  Cue serious faces all round, one batting of eyelids and several lost little headshakes. Poor kid, poor poor Rhianna.

  ‘Studies have shown that children with weak or dispassionate relationships with their mothers often lapse into patterns of violent crime—’

  He’s talking like a criminology YouTuber. I’m briefly impressed.

  ‘—or you could surmise that she was just a bad seed.’

  ‘Amen,’ says Old Lady Chunky Blue Heels.

  A woman with a beaky nose and Pot Noodle perm gets the roving mic. ‘Did you get to interview her sister? Do you know how she feels about it all?’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t talk to me,’ says Freddie. ‘She wanted no part in this story. Which is ironic when you consider her role in it.’

  Another Texan throwback pipes up. ‘I read that most serial killers don’t just stop killing – that there may be a cooling-off period but that they never stop because it is a predilection which cannot ever be curbed or rehabilitated. Now what I want to know and what you might be able to tell me, sir—’

  There’s always one. It’s as certain as the scrawny autistic kid will win Countdown – the guy who takes as long as he pleases to ask a question.

  ‘—in your opinion do you think she carried on killing people after she left the UK, sir? Because we don’t know anything about what she did after killing that woman at the farm shop up until the point she—’

  Freddie butts in. ‘Yes, I do. I do think she carried on killing.’

  The lesser-known Carry On film.

  ‘Rhiannon Lewis is a killer. That’s what she did, that’s what she enjoyed. I’ve spoken to a number of criminal psychologists while working on the book, and they’re all in agreement: there is no way she stopped after Sandra Huggins. She got better at hiding it, that’s all. And herself.’

  Another arm shoots up. Guy with big cheeks and a stained Jeffrey Dahmer T-shirt gets the mic. His hand’s been up a while. He’d cream his jeans if he knew I was in the room.

  ‘Why d’you think Rhian left her story for you to tell, Mr Litton-Cheney?’

  ‘I th
ink I got lucky,’ he replies. ‘If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else. Maybe at the newspaper office where she used to work.’

  Mmm, no, he has me wrong there. I wouldn’t piss on anyone in that office if they were thirsty, let alone give them the scoop of the century.

  Woman in yellow coat with too-red lipstick and smokers’ mouth creases shoots up a hand. ‘I didn’t appreciate all the cursing in the book,’ she complains. ‘Was that your input or hers? Some of it was quite disgusting.’

  ‘It’s all hers,’ Freddie smiles ruefully.

  ‘Why does she have such a filthy mouth?’ the old bint quacks on.

  Freddie laughs. ‘I don’t know why you’re more offended by that than her killings, madam, but I guess the amount of rage Rhiannon carried around with her could help to explain it.’

  A chorus of giggles follows, like he’s offered a wittier bon mot than Oscar Wilde. He hasn’t, the malodorous cockswerve. Getting my laughs. But I might rescind that insult if he defends me again to one of these nobs.

  Old man hand goes up. He’s bought a stack of books about the Civil War and hasn’t bought Freddie’s yet. This is clearly a subject too beneath him to spend good money on but he was in the bookshop anyway and it’s a free event so he thought, Why not? ‘That last murder in the dairy – why was it so disproportionately brutal, do you think?’

  It was a farm shop but thanks for listening.

  ‘Well, she had just given birth,’ says Freddie. ‘I think it may have been a hormonal surge. She’d been tracking Sandra Huggins for some time.’

  My chest clenches with the mention of the birth but I sweep it away quickly, thankful that one of the Frow blondes, who’s had so much facial surgery she looks like she’s been set on fire and stamped out, finally gets her time to shine.

  ‘Hey, Freddie.’ Cue inexplicable giggle. ‘It’s so great to meet you.’ Another giggle. ‘We met when you were doing a signing in Austin last week—’

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember you, thanks for coming along.’ He clearly doesn’t remember her at all. I’m better at reading people’s real meanings now. His tongue paints the lie while his eyes shield the truth.

  ‘Could you tell us what you working on now?’ Another inexplicable giggle.

  ‘Uh, I have a few ideas in the pipeline that I’m working on but to be honest with you, this one has taken over my life somewhat.’ He scratches his eyebrow. ‘There’s so many people who want to hear Rhiannon’s story and in lieu of Rhiannon herself, it has befallen me to tell it.’

  Hmmm, chin rub. Sounds disturbingly like he’s run out of ideas. Hardly surprising since I was the one who gave him this one.

  I want to ask him a question, but refrain from doing so because that’s who I am now: reticent. Quiet. Calm. As invisible as mist. There but not there.

  Pretty soon the Q&A comes to an end and Bryan announces where Freddie will be sitting to sign books. Everyone rushes off. A tall Trump pout-alike with tits to her knees pushes me out of the way to get in front, her too-fat-for-rings fingers clutching my story like a portable life support machine.

  I retrieve my bag and my box from under a table of half-eaten iced biscuits and pass a stand with the few remaining books on. I pick one up. On the central pages there are pictures – me and Craig on some night out, me with the PICSOs – People I Can’t Shake Off – me looking bored next to Elaine at some prayer evening, banging a tambourine. Joining WOMBAT – the Women of Monks Bay and Temperley – had been a brief and ill-fated attempt to get good with God. I didn’t last long before they kicked my ass out.

  A line snakes back from Freddie’s signing table. I take the book to the tills.

  And I wait. Listening to the chatter. Theories. Opinions. Did my mother hit me? Did I actually kill my own dad? Why did I use so much cling film when I chopped AJ up and buried him in the flower beds – didn’t I care about the environment at all? I watch Freddie, sipping his Huel, interacting with his fans, posing for selfies, kissing cheeks, baptising babies, curing cancer.

  My turn comes. I stand before the table and slide the book towards him.

  ‘Hey, thanks for coming.’ He smiles easily, looking up briefly before opening the front cover, readying his pen. ‘What name was it?’

  I clear my throat. ‘Deloris.’

  ‘De-lo-ris,’ he writes.

  ‘—Van Cartier,’ I add in my best American accent.

  He slowly looks up at me, his smile vanishing as colour drains from his cheeks. His pen hovers but after a moment he hands the book back trying not to look directly at me. I don’t take it from him until our eyes meet.

  He stares until he blinks. His brow sweats. Gotcha.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Fancy meeting me for a drink? If you’ve got time.’

  His mouth hangs open, but snaps shut quickly. ‘I h-h-have a flight.’

  ‘Ah, no worries.’ His fingertips press down on the page he’s signed. ‘Hey, be careful, don’t smudge the ink.’

  The lady behind me giggles, gazing at Freddie adoringly. She doesn’t hear our conversation because my voice is set to a volume only he can hear and everyone else is gossiping too loudly. He reaches for his drink again.

  ‘There’s a bar down the street. Sluggers. I’ll be in there.’

  He nods as the giggle bitch urges me out of the way so she can have Freddie to herself, starting with some interminable anecdote about how she’s making a special pilgrimage to attend every event on his US tour. She asks for a selfie and a ‘cheeky smooch’. She’s a Brit. Ugh. They’re everywhere.

  Freddie stares at me as I walk away from his table, a trickle of sweat snaking down his temple. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a trickle of piss escaping the confines of those tight tight trews.

  I head straight out into the icy wind howling up Fifth Avenue towards Sluggers which is dark but atmospheric and I grab the last booth, furthest away from the TV monitors booming out some baseball game – the Cincinnati Cocksuckers versus the New England Bollockheads or something.

  I don’t have to wait long. As sure as huevos is huevos, Freddie walks in half an hour later, breathing heavily as if he ran here.

  ‘That was quick,’ I say as he approaches my booth. I close his book that I’ve started reading and push his beer towards him.

  ‘Told Bryan I wasn’t feeling well.’ He slides in opposite me. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

  ‘Take your coat off then, if you’re stopping.’

  He wriggles himself out of it with some difficulty because, like everything he wears, it’s a size too small. Still can’t catch his breath. His eyes drift to the square box beside me. To my bag, my folded-up coat. Back to me.

  ‘So… how have you been?’ I ask.

  It takes him ages to speak and when he does, it’s almost too quiet to hear. ‘You’re dead. You’re… dead.’

  I check my pulse in my neck with two fingers. ‘Nope, still here.’

  ‘They identified you. Seren identified you. They shut the case. But … you’re here.’

  ‘Yes, Freddie.’ I remove Richard E. Grunt from my pocket and make him do a wave. ‘I’m here too, Freddie,’ Richard squeaks.

  Freddie’s eyes go too wide. He still hasn’t touched his beer.

  ‘I didn’t drug it, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  He nods, looking down at the bottle. ‘I don’t understand this. You look… like a different person.’

  I pocket Richard and sip my cocktail. ‘Yeah, I kind of am.’

  He peeks under my Yankee cap, looks around my face, down to my denim dungaree dress and roll-neck. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’

  Freddie goes into the kind of blink overdrive you only do in a sandstorm.

  I sip my drink. ‘Mmm, this is lovely. It’s called a Pink Panther. Vodka, pineapple juice and grenadine. Did I tell you about the time I was on the dole and I got a job dressing up as the Pink Panther giving out leaflets on Weston-super-Mare se
afront? Only lasted a day. Five pounds fifty-seven an hour to climb into a sweatsuit a million nonces had wanked in? So not worth it.’

  ‘Rhiann—’

  ‘—no, no no, don’t speak the name that shall not be spoken, Freddo.’

  He leans in as a home run is scored and loud booming cheers go up around the bar. ‘How did you do it? How?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ‘I have money. From the book. I’ve put it to one side. I did everything you wanted me to. Changed your friend’s name, your solicitor, your dad’s friends—’

  ‘Didn’t matter anyway. They still arrested Heather and Marnie for “aiding and abetting”. Never caught Keston though.’

  ‘No. He vanished.’

  ‘We’re good at that. I was glad Marnie and Heather didn’t do jail time.’

  ‘They both spoke up for you.’

  ‘I know. Good friends. The PICSOs all sang like canaries. Hashtag bad friends. Still, it’s nice when the trash takes itself out.’ I drained my Pink Panther and signalled to the waitress for another one.

  ‘You seem… happy. Confident. Sort of settled.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’

  He shakes his head and sinks a few gulps of his beer. Wipes his mouth. Looks back to the bar. Looks back at me. ‘Am I dreaming?’

  The cluster of fat, baseball-capped men around the TV screens whoop at something and there follows a hasty symposium on whether the referee’s decision is correct or not. Someone didn’t hit a ball right or something.

  ‘I can get it to you, the money. A fake account or something—’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘Nope. I’m on a layover. Had some time to kill before my connection. Brought a present for someone…’ I tap the top of the box, ‘and I was walking past the bookstore when I saw the poster in the window. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. Complete coincidence.’

  ‘A layover from where? Where do you live? Where have you been?’