The Night Girl: The Complete Series Read online

  "It's cold in here," I say. "She'll rot more slowly".

  "You sound like you know what you're talking about," she replies.

  "It's just science," I say. "Every body is more or less the same, with the exception of the level of fatty tissue. Everyone basically breaks down the same way".

  "You should have been a doctor," Jennifer says.

  I pause for a moment. "There was this cat when I was younger," I say eventually. "I watched his body rot for a while. It was kind of interesting, but what I really wanted was -" I fall silent for a moment. I've never, ever told anyone about the stuff that went on back then, but there's something about Jennifer that makes me think she might actually understand my problems. "I really wanted my mother's body," I say, feeling my chest tighten as the words come out of my mouth. I've kept all of this stuff in for so, so long; I never thought I'd tell someone the truth. "I was going to dig her up. I was just a kid. It was stupid. I mean, how the hell was I supposed to dig up a coffin? But my father cremated her, so I didn't have the chance".

  "Huh," Jennifer says. "So you were a weird kid, were you?"

  "No," I say, before realizing that she's dead right. "Yeah," I say after a moment. "I mean, I didn't think I was weird at the time. I just wanted things that maybe didn't seem normal".

  "So they scattered your mother's ashes?" she asks.

  "No," I say, staring into Lizzie's dead eyes. "They stuck her in an urn and buried her".

  "Why did they do that?"

  "Don't ask me. It was my father's decision".

  "Then you can still dig her up," Jennifer says.

  "Why bother?" I ask. "It's just ashes. I might as well just open the vacuum cleaner bag".

  "Not if they neglected to grind her up," Jennifer replies.

  I turn to her. "What do you mean?"

  "When the cremation is over, there are still small pieces of bone," she says. "If the ashes are going to be scattered, the funeral directors use a grinder to pulverise those pieces. But if the ashes are just going to be buried, they don't usually bother".

  I think about this for a moment, imagining little pieces of bone in the urn. "It's not the same," I say. "It'd just be..." My voice trails off. Although I've never been very interested in bones, the thought of getting a part of my mother's body back, after all these years, is undeniably enticing.

  "I'm not saying it's a good idea," Jennifer continues. "I'm just saying it's an option. I mean, if it's something that's really bothering you..."

  I reach out and touch the skin on Lizzie's hand; she's so cold to the touch, and she feels kind of leathery. "I killed my father's girlfriend," I say suddenly. After all these years, it feels so liberating to say the words. I've kept everything bottled up, never thinking there was anyone I could talk to about what happened; there's something about Jennifer, though, that makes me think she understands me. I turn to her. "I did it on purpose".

  "Go on," she says, with a faint smile on her lips.

  "It was years ago," I continue. "She was really annoying, and it was just a few weeks after my mother died. I guess I was a bit messed up. Anyway, she'd given me this jack-in-the-box, and I'd killed her cat and put it in a box for her. Things were a bit weird, but eventually I snuck out to her car and hid the jack-in-the-box in her glove compartment. I thought she'd open it at some point while she was driving, and then she'd be so startled, she'd crash the car". I pause for a moment. "That's exactly what happened. She was killed instantly".

  "So you did it on purpose?" Jennifer asks.

  I nod. "I chose to kill her, and I did it".

  "But no-one knows?"

  "No," I say. "You're the only one I've ever told. I mean, it's not exactly the kind of thing you broadcast to everyone you meet, is it?"

  "You're ashamed?"

  I shake my head. "I'm just cautious. You can't trust anyone".

  She stares at me. "Thank you," she says after a moment. "I mean, I already knew all about it. I've been in your mind, remember? But it still means a lot to me that you actually chose to let me into your confidence. Does it feel good to finally get the whole thing off your chest?"

  "Not really," I say. "It's just something that happened". I close the cupboard door, and for a moment I've almost overwhelmed by a sense of complete blankness; it's as if all my thoughts have temporarily come to a halt. After a few seconds, everything seems to go back to normal.

  "Do you ever regret it?" Jennifer asks.

  "What happened with Martina?" I take a deep breath. "No. It was the most convenient thing. I didn't like her much anyway. Sometimes I imagine what it would have been like if she was still around, and..." I pause for a moment. "There was just something about her".

  "So that's two people you've killed in your life," she says. "Not bad going".

  "Three," I say quietly.

  "Who was the third?" she asks.

  "It was a long time ago," I tell her.

  "Spill," she says. "I want to know everything".

  I stare at her. I've always been so careful to keep these things away from other people, but there's something about Jennifer that makes me think she truly understands me.

  "It was -" I start to say.

  "Wait!" She pauses for a moment. "You can tell me later. Something's wrong".

  "What?" I ask, standing up. "What is it?"

  "That angry man from earlier," she says. "He's back. Piotr Cymbalista".

  "I don't hear anything," I say.

  "Trust me," she replies, "he's back".

  "Fuck," I mutter, hurrying along the corridor, heading back toward the main part of the building. Visitors aren't supposed to come to the home this late, and I locked the front door, so there's no way that asshole should be inside; nevertheless, as I get to the door and step back into the warmer, occupied side of the facility, I can immediately hear movement off in one of the distant corridors. Closing the door to the abandoned ward, I hurry through to Barbara Cymbalista's room; sure enough, the door is wide open, the light is on, and Mr. Cymbalista is in there, pulling his mother out of bed.

  "What are you doing?" I ask, my heart racing.

  "I'm doing what you lot should have done," he says. "I'm changing my mother's bedsheets. They're filthy".

  "They're not filthy," I say, looking down at the bed. "You can't do this. You can't even be here right now. I'll change the bed, but you have to -"

  "Yeah," he says, not even bothering to look at me as he settles a startled-looking Barbara into a chair, "I'm sure you'll get around to it just as soon as you've finished having a fucking cigarette break. Where is everyone, anyway? It's like this place is fucking abandoned. Do you just leave everyone to rot during the night?"

  "I was helping another resident," I say, realizing I have to be careful not to let him see that I'm the only person on duty. "We're always very busy overnight".

  "Whatever," he spits back at me. "I'm sure you lot have got an excuse for everything. How many of you are working tonight, anyway? Two? Three? However many, it's not enough". He pulls the bedsheets off and dumps them in a pile on the floor. "Well? Are you going to go and get fresh sheets, or do I have to tear this place apart with my bare hands until I find them?"

  Panicking, I hurry out of the room and along to the laundry closet. I grab a pile of sheets and carry them back through, at which point Mr. Cymbalista immediately pulls them out of my arms. It's as if he's on some kind of manic crusade to change his mother's bed as quickly as possible.

  "How did you get in?" I ask.

  "That's for me to know," he says, checking the fresh sheets.

  "You can't be here," I continue, feeling as if I'm sounding a little whiny.

  "Do you know how much I pay for her to live here?" he asks as he angrily starts re-making the bed. "Do you have any fucking idea how much money I hand over every month so that my mother is looked after properly?"

  "No," I say, hurrying over to Barbara. "Are you okay?" I ask, kneeling next to her. "I'm sorry about this".

  She turns to me
with tears in her eyes.

  "It won't be a moment," I say, taking her hand in mine. "You can go back to bed soon. You just have to wait a little longer".

  "You're not a nurse," Mr. Cymbalista says as he struggles to fit a new cover over the duvet. "What are you, just some hired help? I want to speak to a proper nurse. Someone with actual medical training".

  "I think she's busy," I say, "but I'm sure -"

  "I don't give a shit," he replies. "I'm not leaving until I've spoken to a nurse. This place is run like a fucking lunatic asylum. I swear to God, you're cutting corners so bad, you're gonna end up killing someone. Hell, she could die in the middle of the night, and you lot wouldn't find her for hours!"

  "You're scaring your mother," I say, looking at Barbara and seeing a tear roll down her cheek. One of the oldest residents, Barbara suffers from a form of dementia that makes it difficult for her to remember her surroundings. She's clearly upset by the fact that her son has stormed into her bedroom in the middle of the night; in fact, I'm not even sure that she understands who he is, since she's staring at him with a look of absolute terror.

  "Are you deaf?" he asks, turning to me. "I want to see your supervisor, or your boss, or whoever the hell's in charge".

  I take a deep breath; frankly, I want to throw this guy out right now. I'm pretty sure he's technically trespassing, and I'm still not certain how he managed to get into the building. "Let's get your mother back to bed," I say, seeing that he's finished changing the sheets. "Then we can talk".

  "Get off her," he says, storming over and taking his mother's arm, half-pulling her from the chair. "Come on, bedtime".

  Looking lost and confused, Barbara gets to her feet and staggers back over to the bed. Her son drops her down roughly onto the mattress and then lifts her legs over the side. "Don't worry," he says, putting the duvet back over her, "I'm gonna talk to these morons and make sure they treat you better". After casting an angry look at me, he heads out of the room and stands in the corridor. He's clearly waiting for me, so I go over to Barbara and check she's okay, before turning the light out and leaving the room.

  "Okay," I say, pulling the door shut, "I don't think -"

  "Shut up," he snaps at me. "I'm sick and tired of my mother being treated like a piece of furniture in this place. You think just because she's a bit soft in the head, you can get away with shoving her about and leaving her to rot in her own filth?"

  "I'm sure it's not like that," I reply. "Maybe if -"

  "Don't answer back to me," he says firmly. "You're not a nurse. Do you have any medical training at all?"

  "I've been here for quite a while now -" I start to say.

  "Just like I thought," he says, laughing, "you're just some kid who's been hired to do the heavy lifting". He clears his throat. "So where's your supervisor?"

  I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment I hear movement nearby. Turning, I spot Jennifer walking along the corridor.

  "Hello," she says, smiling broadly, "is there a problem here?"

  "You in charge?" Mr. Cymbalista asks.

  "I'm the senior staff member on duty tonight," Jennifer tells him, conspicuously avoiding making eye contact with me. "Can I ask what's causing all the commotion?"

  "Me," he says angrily. "I'm causing the fucking commotion. My mother, she was left in dirty bedsheets. You think these people aren't worth shit, just 'cause they're old. Well, that might be fine for the rest of them, but my mother's not being treated like this. I know our rights. You don't show these people no dignity at all".

  "Why don't we go and discuss this in the office?" Jennifer says, smiling as puts a hand on Mr. Cymbalista's arm and steers him along the corridor. "We don't want to wake the residents up, do we? Besides, I'm sure we can find a way to resolve this situation amicably". She glances briefly at me, before continuing to lead him along the corridor. "I guarantee," she continues, "that everything's going to be okay".

  I stand and watch as they walk away. Up until this moment, I had no idea that other people could even see Jennifer; now she seems to be taking the lead in dealing with this asshole. While I'd like to think that she's going to resolve the problem without any drama, something tells me that Jennifer's intentions might not be entirely honorable. As she leads Mr. Cymbalista away, I find myself realizing that in many ways I'm in a perfect situation. After all, if this asshole causes too many problems, I can get rid of him without any risk. Maybe that's what Jennifer has been trying to tell me all along; with her help, I can be almost like a superhero, getting rid of people who cause problems. Finally, for the first time in my life, I start to feel as if I have a purpose.

  Chapter Four

  Eleven years ago

  "You're going to see Dr. Larson once every two weeks," my father says as we sit at the kitchen table. "Between those sessions, you'll have certain exercises to carry out. You'll also be writing your thoughts in here". He slides a small notebook over to me. "Congratulations, Juliet. It's your first diary".

  I stare at the little book. It's just a tatty little spiral-bound jotter; in fact, I think I've seen it in the kitchen drawer for a while, so it's not like he went out and bought a proper diary for me. Perhaps if it was big and bulky, maybe with a lock on the side, I'd be interested. But this thing doesn't look very inspiring.

  "Why don't you give it a try?" my father continues, passing me a ballpoint pen. "Open it up and write down how you're feeling right now. Don't forget to include the date and time".

  Reluctantly, I open the notebook to the first page. "Who's going to read it?" I ask, staring at the white, ruled page.

  "Dr. Larson will read it at the start of every session," he says. "I'll read it, too. And any other healthcare professions who get involved".

  I pause. "So it's not really a diary," I say after a moment.

  "It's a diary, Juliet. That's exactly what it is".

  "Aren't diaries supposed to be private?"

  "Not necessarily. In this case, the aim is for you to write down how you're feeling, so Dr. Larson understands the emotional rhythms of your days. You can write as many times as you want every day. Whenever something happens, or you get a strong emotion, just make a note of it". He waits for me to get started. "How are you feeling right now, Juliet?"

  I stare at him. How do I feel? I have no idea how I feel. How am I supposed to answer that question?

  "Okay," he says, clearly a little disappointed, "maybe we can get there through a process of elimination. How do you not feel?"

  I blink. "How do I not feel?"

  "Do you feel ecstatically happy?"

  I shake my head.

  "Do you feel absolutely miserable?"

  Again, I shake my head.

  "Okay, so somewhere in-between the two. Good. We're making progress. Do you feel angry?"

  I shake my head.

  "Do you feel resentful?"

  I shake my head.

  "Do you feel... depressed?"

  I shake my head.

  "Do you feel grateful?"

  I shake my head.

  "Are you scared?"

  I shake my head.

  He sighs. "Help me out, Juliet. How do you feel? Sum it all up in one word".

  I take a deep breath. "I'm kinda hungry," I say quietly.

  "You can eat when we're done with this exercise," he says. "How do you feel?"

  To be honest, I kind of need the toilet, but I guess that's not what he wants to hear. I look down at the notebook and realize that my best bet is just to make something up. "I feel sorry," I say eventually.

  "Sorry?" he asks. "About what?"

  "About what I did to Martina," I say. "I mean, about the cat".

  "Okay," he says, "that's good. Write that down".

  I carefully write the word 'Sorry' in big letters on the first page of the notebook, before adding today's date on the next line. After a moment, I add 'about Martina'.

  "Do you feel as if Martina's death robbed you of the chance to make it up to her?" he asks.


  "I guess," I say, pretending to be upset. It's pretty easy to work out what my father wants, and to give it to him on a plate. Dr. Larson's probably going to be a lot more tricky, but at least this way I can practice.

  "I'm sure she would have forgiven you eventually," he replies. "She was a very nice, very considerate person. She was upset, but I think the pair of you would have become really good friends over time. You know she wasn't trying to replace your mother, right?"

  I nod.

  "It's just that people have to move on with their lives," he continues. "You can't sit in stasis forever. You're a very smart girl, Juliet, but you have certain emotional problems. I'm sure you recognize that there are certain things about you that aren't quiet normal. That's why you're writing this diary. I want you to come out of your shell a little and learn to embrace your other identities". He stares at me. "Don't you want to be like everyone else? Have friends? Go out? Go to college? You're too young for all these things now, but in nine or ten years, you're going to really miss out on life if you haven't wrinkled out these problems".

  I nod.

  "It's for your own benefit," he adds. "I'm your father, Juliet, and that means sometimes making you do things you'd rather avoid. Do you really think I'm going to just let you go sit in your room and play all alone? No. I'm going to push you out there and make you become more social". He gets up and walks over to the fridge, pulling open the door and taking a look inside. "I know it seems daunting right now, but that's only because you're right at the beginning. Imagine you're at the bottom of a steep slope. Sure, it looks impossible from here, but eventually you'll be at the top. Now, what do you want for dinner? Pancakes?"

  "Yeah," I say. "Can I go to my room?"

  "What do you want to go to your room for?" he asks.

  "I want to put my diary away," I say.

  He pauses for a moment. "Okay, but come back quickly. I don't want you sitting alone in there. It's bad for your head".

  "Okay," I say, getting off the chair. I'm about to go out of the room when I realize I should probably do something to make him think he's making progress with me. Walking over to him, I kiss his arm. "Thank you, Daddy," I say, with a big smile.