ONE
You think you know this story. I think I do. But how much do any of us really know?
I’d like to think I always had a feeling. That a part of me always suspected something was amiss. Though the truth is I didn’t suspect anything. Of course, there are things I look back on now which make me think, Was that a clue, a sign? But if so, it’s only because of what I learned later. Back then, it wasn’t a clue. It wasn’t an anything.
That’s the problem with hindsight. It distorts memory, superimposes warning flags where before there were none. Makes you question yourself. Turns the past into a series of whys and recriminations.
Why didn’t I see what was happening? Why didn’t I realise sooner?
I know the answer. It doesn’t help though. If anything, it makes it worse—
No one saw. No one realised. I wasn’t the only one who was fooled.
The letter lands on the doormat with a soft plmp as I’m tying my Merrells; steeling myself to take the dog out and brave the biting rain. Wishing I’d drunk a little less last night. Fighting a hangover. Same old, same old.
I pause, hunched over my shoes, laces looped around my fingers, eyes snared by the flat Manila rectangle. By the name I know it contains.
The air has gone still. I’m conscious of my breathing; of a dull ringing in my ears, the drumbeat of my heart.
BATTLEMOUTH PRISON
The words are stamped in bold red lettering across the top of the envelope the way a farmer might brand a lamb.
My stomach knots. I bite down on my tongue, taste the backwash of acid mixed with my morning coffee. Smell the alcohol-stained sweat breaking out over my skin.
He broke out too, escaped his cell just six months after his incarceration. Another of his smoke-and-mirrors tricks.
I run my thumbnail under the flap, pull out the letter. Underlined at the top:
Re: Matthew Melgren
‘Matthew’, even though everyone always calls him ‘Matty’. Us, the press, the true crime shows. All the channels have run them.
Matty fascinates people; his apparent normalness, his charming smile. Handsome and educated. A killer who doesn’t fit the stereotype. He wasn’t a loner, wasn’t socially awkward, held down a good job.
He had a girlfriend too, so no markers in that direction either. There was one of those straight-to-DVD movies made recently about his relationship with my mother. The producers got some stick for using such a handsome actor. It was all over Twitter; how they were playing up Matty’s golden good looks. How it was an affront to his victims.
They missed the point though, those up-in-armers. Never mind that he still has more than his fair share of female fans sending him panties and porn, playing down his attractiveness would have been the real insult to the women he killed. Revisionist history. After all, if Matty had been some socially awkward troll, he’d hardly have been able to lure his prey, to get them to trust him. I should know.
Re: Matthew Melgren
My eyes move down the page, the air thickening in my gullet. I speak to my mother as I reach the end; head pounding, mouth dry. At first, I deflect.
‘I broke up with Tom,’ I tell her, steeling myself for what I need to say, gathering my thoughts.
‘Oh, Soph, I’m sorry. What happened? He seemed nice.’
I scoff.
‘Everyone’s nice at the beginning.’
The words hang between us, conjuring the same face in both our heads.
‘Did he hurt you?’
I laugh– it’s hollow.
‘He told me I should wear skirts more.’