I can’t delay it any longer. The longer I hold back from calling for help, the stranger it looks and the harder it is to explain.
I’m going to have to call the police, using one of the house’s landlines.
My book, which had tied me to the murder, has thankfully vanished.
As for the tumbler’s fingerprint, I ever so accidently and gently smudged that.
There’s still the question, of course, as to who took the book: but that’s a minor consideration now I’m off the hook for that poor girl’s death.
Veronica approaches me. It’s truly eerie, the way she seems to have abruptly grown in stature. Her back’s straight, making her appear taller and more imposing than I’d originally taken her to be.
‘No one entered the room.’ Her voice is husky from all her shouting, even a little bit regal. ‘Phil might have gone off for a little while, but he had enough sense to ask Mary to cover for him.’
She indicates the Goth girl with a sneering sidelong glance.
‘Thanks for asking around, Veronica.’
Fortunately, it no longer matters that no one had seen who had taken the book.
Not because I’ve lost all interest in its disappearance.
No, it’s because I’ve just seen Barbie politely worming away through the bustling hall. Making her way towards the even more crowded front room.
And, probably to avoid it getting damaged, she’s holding the book high above her head.
*
Chapter 13
You resent the restraints upon your desire to freely express yourself
And who is the one curbing that desire most?
Why, you of course!
The Desire
It figures, doesn’t it?
Barbie: plastic Barbie.
She’s completely changed her face, maybe even her body in some ways too.
That’s what these people who want to look like dolls do, isn’t it?
How hard is it to change your fingerprints when you’ve put yourself through all that?
When you’re going around, too, telling everyone you’re Kate Denham?
Why’s she done it though?
What’s her motive?
That, for the life of me, I just can’t work out.
The only way I’m going to find out is to ask her.
I more or less bound down the stairs, rudely pushing aside a white-armoured Storm Trooper, an irately shocked Roman Emperor.
In the front room, it’s ridiculously crowded, with hardly room for people to move. There are a number of characters I haven’t encountered until now: Stalin, a woman in medieval dress who might be the Arthurian Morgana le Fey, a cloaked, red-faced Jedi Knight, a wickedly grinning, tousle-haired Charlie Manson (or The Shining’s Jack Nicholson?). There are also a few witches, including a green Wicked Witch of the West.
Barbie is elegantly passing through them all, her book still held high above her head, out of harm’s way. She’s heading towards a closed door at the far end of the room.
With a demure, polite nod of her head to Two-Face and a tentacle-strewn Davy Jones, Barbie opens and slips through the door, silently closing it behind her.
When I get to the door, I see there’s a large, handwritten sign taped to it, stating that the room is off limits. Deftly nipping inside, I’m amazed by the abrupt change to a relative silence. The vibrant, pounding sounds of the party are muffled by thick, oak-panelled walls.
It’s an office cum small library. Cosy, old fashioned. No doubt it’s Veronica’s dad’s hideaway. Hence the off limits sign outside.
Barbie is seated in a quilted red-leather chair. As I enter she looks up, surprised but not particularly startled or worried by my appearance.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says gaily enough, smiling warmly if a little ashamedly. ‘Sorry if I’m not really supposed to be in here. I just wanted a quiet moment to myself; so I could check something in my book.’
She innocently holds up the book rather than making any belated attempt to hide it. There’s still a slight smattering of blood on the book’s corner.
She hasn’t even bothered to try and clean it.
‘How’d you get that book?’
Naturally, I already know the answer. But I have to ask.
She rewards me with a quizzical frown.
‘It’s mine. I brought it with me.’
There’s a hint of irritation in her voice. Like she really really really doesn’t see what this has to do with me.
I shake my head.
‘That book was upstairs, on the bed. Someone’s taken it. And now I find you with it.’
Now she shakes her head.
‘It wasn’t me. This is my copy.’
‘You sure? It looks a pretty old and rare book to me. And it has blood on it.’
‘Blood?’
She bemusedly glances at the book she’s holding. She giggles.
‘No, no! It’s not blood. It’s lipstick – see?’
Rubbing a finger in the red stain, she holds out a reddened fingertip towards me. I step closer, take a look at the fingertip, a part of my mind scolding me for not using this opportunity to check her fingerprints.
But she’s right: it’s not blood. It’s lipstick.
‘I’ve had the book in my bag. I must’ve left an open lipstick in there with it.’
She purses her lips, obviously angry with herself for being so careless with the book.
‘Do you have any proof that this book is yours?’
‘What’s all this about my book?’ She glowers, but it has little effect on her otherwise flawless, unlined skin. ‘But yes, I do have proof, as it happens.’
She flips a thin slip of paper from between the book’s pages, handing it to me with a triumphant flourish.
Of course; I always use the receipt as a bookmark.
‘Satisfied?’ she asks.
‘It doesn’t prove anything.’
I can’t help sounding sour, beaten.
‘Ask around!’ She sounds irate, frustrated. ‘People have seen me with it! It’s my book! I haven’t taken it from anywhere, or anyone!’
‘Why’d you come in here with it?’ I indicate the quiet room with a wave of a hand. ‘Where no one can see you with it?’
‘Do you think I should be trying to read it out there? Amongst all that craziness?’
‘Why would you want to be reading when you’re at a party?’
Lowering her head, her cheeks burst out in the slightest blush.
‘Hah, well now… Well, here’s something even crazier – no, no; you really wouldn’t believe me.’
I sigh.
‘Try me.’
‘I…well; I just had to find out what happened next.’
It’s said with an embarrassed chuckle. Yet, at last, I know for sure that she’s lying.
The Desire isn’t a story. It’s more just a collection of…well, what? Musings? Advice? I’m not really sure myself what you’d call it.
But I do know for sure that it isn’t a story. There’s no ‘what happened next’.
‘It’s not a story,’ I say to her bluntly.
She’s shocked that I know this: her already wide eyes widen all the more. There are no signs of guilt or of having been caught out, however.
Perhaps her face is no longer capable of displaying the more subtle emotions.
‘Not the words, no,’ she agrees. ‘But the pictures; they’re a story. A story that’s changing all the time.’
‘Are you saying…are you saying the illustrations are changing?’
I almost stumble on my words. I didn’t have to interpret her description of the pictures in this way, did I?
Am I giving away too much? Am I revealing to this girl that, earlier, I’d also fooled myself into believing I’d spotted changes in the book’s pictures?
Her eyes widen in surprise again.
‘You know that too?’
‘How…in what way do you think these pictures have changed
?’
‘I don’t think; I know! They’re lovers, you know that, yes?’
She sees the light of recognition in my eyes.
‘But…it’s all become more threatening. Like the girl – this truly beautiful, most perfect girl – is really a prisoner. Like she’s imprisoned in the book.’
She hands the book to me, randomly flipping it open to display one of the book’s dark etchings.
I almost choke in amazement.
‘What’s happening?’ An anguished Barbie rises to her feet, stepping towards me. ‘Is it worse?’
I flip through to another illustration, then another. Barbie pulls the book more towards her, so she can also see the pictures, the changes.
The girl is running away. The man – the man we had mistakenly taken to be her lover, not her jailer – is chasing after her. He’s reaching out for her. Ferociously grabbing at her.
The girl looks out of the book towards us, pleading for help.
But no; it’s not just the pictures giving this impression. Somewhere within me there’s a sense of flowing emotions, filling in the blanks between the illustrations, creating that feeling of movement.
‘It is even worse!’ Barbie fearfully wails.
She looks to me, her eyes as pleading as the girl’s in the book.
‘I have to help her!’
The same thought has flashed through my mind.
Only I believe the girl is begging for my help, not hers.
*
Chapter 14
Even when we doubt what we are told
We find reasons to accept it
The Desire
But…how can the girl be begging for help?
Bizarrely, when I put this question to myself, it’s not because I doubt she can be calling from out of a book for my help.
No, it’s because I find it hard to believe she would ask for help.
What does she herself say, in her writing? That we create our own fears and weaknesses when we believe power lies outside rather than within ourselves? That we shouldn’t let the actions of others define who we are?
Which, I suppose, if I’m reading that more in relation to myself, is another way of saying don’t be defined by your career.
Wait, wait.
What am I doing?
I’d almost forgotten why I’m really here.
To arrest Barbie for the murder of the poor girl upstairs.
These pictures – well, I don’t how it’s happening. But it must be something to do with faulty memory. Something to do with my memories playing stupid tricks on me.
I close the book with a dull thump.
‘I need to see your fingerprints.’
‘What? Are you serious? You’ve seen what’s happening in the book! I need to help her.’
‘No; no you don’t!’
I briefly close my eyes tightly, trying to look at everything that’s happening in a more logical, reasoned manner.
The pictures can’t be changing
That would be; what? Magic?
I refuse to accept that that’s what’s happening here!
‘Fingerprints!’ I snap. ‘I need to see them!’
Although she gives me an exasperated huff, an irate glower, she opens up her palm towards me. Taking her hand in one of mine, I flip out my cellphone. I take a photo of her fingertip, blow up the picture.
It’s my fingerprint.
The one that was on the tumbler.
*
Chapter 15
People falsely think that success and power are measurable
They strive for this reward and that reward
They strive to empower themselves at the expense of others
They ask the world to assess and acknowledge their value in this way (before they have even learned how to value themselves)
When you believe all power is external to you, when you yourself seek that external power, seek power over others, then you fear the external
And thereby, you are powerless
The Desire
‘Why’d you do it?’
‘Do what?’
She’s still playing the innocent. It’s easy, with such a smoothly perfect, doll’s face.
‘I’m still not sure what it is I’m supposed to have done!’ she insists. ‘You haven’t told me yet!’
I’m still not prepared to admit we have a dead body upstairs. Crazy, I know. Because if she’s the murderer, she’ll be fully aware that Paul’s girlfriend is lying across the bed with a bloodied head.
But, then again, it wasn’t blood on her book was it?
So, what if I’m wrong?
What if she’s managing to pull off this remarkable air of innocence because she really is innocent?
‘Okay, okay: so, let’s try another question. Why did you make all these changes to yourself? The face, the body – the fingerprints?’
Her frown could be one of puzzlement. It’s not clearly enough defined for me to be sure.
‘I’m not sure such personal questioning comes under police interrogation.’
‘Why not just humour me? You know, if I admitted to you that, at one point in my life, I’d even considered doing what you’ve done; going for the full-on change. Transforming myself into my childhood idea of beauty.’
She eyes me curiously, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m making fun of her.
‘Well, there’s a coincidence,’ she says, playing it safe. ‘At one point, I’d considered joining the police.’
Is she mocking me?
‘But you didn’t; you changed yourself in this way instead. Your version of Kate Denham.’
‘Yep, my ideal Kate Denham.’
I’m tempted to arrest her. But what proof do I have that she did it?
She’s got the book – which have my fingerprints all over it anyway.
I’ve smudged the fingerprint on the tumbler – which is also my fingerprint.
‘Did you kill her? The girl who came with Paul: was it jealousy?’
‘Kill her? She’s dead?’
She raises a hand to her mouth. She seems genuinely astonished, even frightened.
‘And you think I did it?’
She’s even more astonished, even more frightened.
‘Who else? I found you holding the murder weapon; the book, I mean.’
I’m still holding the book. I raise it slightly in front of her.
‘But I’ve already told you: I brought it with me! It can’t be the murder weapon! This whole thing gets crazier by the minute, you know that? Accusing me of killing someone I’ve only just met!’
With an angry, bewildered shake of her head, she makes a snatch for the book. Instinctively, I push her back, harder than I’d intended. It sends her stumbling back against a sideboard.
Reaching out with a steadying hand across the sideboard’s top, she stops herself from falling too badly. Her hand naturally falls against a shiny, silver object. Her fingers mechanically curl around its strangely reassuring shape, a shape built for holding.
Without seeming to really think about it, almost in a daze, she drags the object towards her. She lifts it up towards her face, so she can get a better look at it.
It’s a gun.
Once again in an impulsive rather than a rationally motivated way, she moves the gun in her hand. Embracing it correctly, by its satisfactorily shaped butt. A finger naturally slipping into the trigger guard.
She aims the gun at me.
She seems as surprised as I am that she’s doing this.
Like it’s all just happened by chance. Not by choice.
Fortunately, I hear that calming inner voice again.
Don’t worry.
Everything will sort itself out.
‘I really have got no idea what’s going on here!’ She speaks almost apologetically, yet there’s still a determined edge there. ‘But I do know you’re not even a real policewoman!’
‘And that’s not even a real gun.’
&nb
sp; At last, I realise why I’m taking all this so calmly.
Why would anyone have a real gun just lying on a sideboard in their office? It had lain next to a silver tray of cigarettes. It’s a novelty cigarette lighter, that’s all.
‘Ohh!’
She sounds both disappointed and relieved. She pulls a disconcerted smirk, briefly glancing at the fake gun she’s holding.
Realising I’m right, she loosens her grip a little. Her pointing of the barrel slightly wavers, before turning directly towards me once more.
She grins wanly. Just for the hell of it, I suppose, she clicks the trigger. Twice.
Blam!
Blam!
That’s the nosiest novelty lighter I’ve ever heard.
There’s complete shock in her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that!
Neither was I, of course.
Everything seems to slow down.
Isn’t that what they say happens when your life’s in danger? You brain working at supper speed?
As if I’m in some clever, digitally-enhanced movie, I see the bullets worming their unstoppable way through the air towards me.
Thump!
Thump!
They hit me. Either in or at least so damn close to my heart it really doesn’t make much difference.
The force throws me back off my feet.
Once again, all in that bizarrely delightful slow motion.
I land painfully against the wall, slumping to the floor. Blood spurts from around my heart.
Languidly spouting red fountains.
Glistening. Beautiful.
My life, draining away.
Who’s the most surprised? Her or me?
No contest.
It’s me. Definitely.
I’m the one who’s dying, after all.
*
Chapter 16
Although you want to let people in
You never reveal the real you
The Desire
She looks so shocked.
She can’t believe this has happened to her
I can’t believe it, either.
It wasn’t a real gun!
I checked, I looked closely at it; it was a novelty lighter! That’s all!
Just to prove it to myself, I click the trigger.
The end of the barrel lights up in a flickering, blue flame.
She grins, sickly. Like she’s amused that I’m every bit as surprised as she is.
She’s breathing hard, heavily; her eyes have already lost their sparkle.
Then her head drops.
She’s dead.
I’ve killed her.
I’ve killed the policewoman.