The Night Girl: The Complete Series Read online

  Staring at my face, I realize that I've done it. I've killed him. After all these years, he's dead. After all the pain and torture and misery, and all the nasty comments, and all the pills slipped into my food, I've done what I should have done a long, long time ago. I know most people would feel bad about killing their father, or at least they'd have some kind of regret; instead, I feel happy. I feel elated. For the first time in my life, I'm free. Never again will I have to endure his long lectures or his put-downs; never again will I have to be reminded of the fact that I'm a disappointment. I exposed his little trick with the pills, and I told him the truth about everything, and then I killed him like he was just some random vermin. My only regret is that I didn't do this soon enough.

  I stay in the bathroom for a while, figuring there's no particular hurry. After all, the only thing I really need to do is take his body out to the car and then go to work, but my shift isn't due to start for a few more hours. Eventually, I decide that hiding here in the bathroom is a totally stupid thing to do, and I'm starting to psych myself out. I need to go and face what I've done, and see his body. Checking one final time to make sure that there's no blood anywhere on me, I turn and walk slowly back through to the kitchen. I feel strangely pleased with myself, as if I've done something that would be beyond most people; I've accomplished something that has been building up for years and years. It took me a while, but I've finally done the right thing.

  "Hey!" my father says, smiling at me from the table. "You looking forward to work tonight?"

  I freeze, my mind going blank. He looks absolutely fine; it's almost as if nothing bad has happened at all. In fact, he's grinning at me as if the events of the past half hour never took place.

  "Phew," he says, patting his belly. "I'm stuffed. So, do you want dessert?"

  Chapter Four

  Eleven years ago

  The ringing stops, the machine beeps, and a familiar voice starts speaking.

  "Hi, Mr. Collier. This is Stephen Larson again. I'm just calling to check on Juliet. I noticed she missed her last session, and I wanted to make sure everything's okay. If you could give me a call some time, we can arrange a more convenient time for her to come and see me. I think it's still very important that she has some face-to-face meetings with me. We've been making progress, and I'd hate to see her start to slip back. I hope I didn't give you the impression that the medication is sufficient. She needs proper supervision, and I have a duty to track her progress and make recommendations based on my assessment of her development". There's a pause. "Okay. Call me back when you get a chance, Mr. Collier. It's in your daughter's best interests to continue the therapy. If you have any concerns or reservations, please don't hesitate to get in touch. I look forward to hearing from you".

  There's another beep, and I immediately press the 'Delete' button.

  To be honest, I don't know why my father has stopped making me go to see Dr. Larson, and I don't know why he apparently hasn't let Dr. Larson or his receptionist know about his decision. It's as if he's suddenly abandoned the whole idea. I mean, I'm really happy that I'm free of those sessions, but it's still kind of strange. The last time I went, I was given a bottle of pills, which Dr. Larson thought would make me better. At first, my father seemed to be totally enthusiastic about trying to medicate me, but suddenly he changed his mind and told me he wouldn't be forcing me to take the pills anymore. I've been puzzling over his behavior, trying to work out what he's thinking. One thing's for certain: something changed a few days ago.

  "Hello," I say, trying to make my voice sound deep, like my father's. "This is -" I pause, realizing that I don't sound like him at all. If I can mimic his voice properly, I can call Dr. Larson's office and tell him to stop calling. "This is Brian Collier," I say, but it's useless: there's no way I can make anyone think that I'm my father. I guess I'll have to find Dr. Larson's email address, or write him a letter.

  Heading through to my bedroom, I pull out an old model kit and take it through to the kitchen. This is the kit that Samantha and her mother gave to me when they came over recently; it's not exactly something I'd usually want to play with, but I figure I've got some time to kill. I pull all the pieces out, but just as I'm about to get started, I realize that there's no superglue. I search the box, but it's definitely missing. Figuring I can't make the model without glue, I put all the pieces away and then I just sit at the table, waiting until lunchtime. It's weird how some people, when they've got nothing to do, fill their time with pointless stuff; if I've got no plans, I prefer to just sit and wait for time to pass. Sometimes, I can empty my mind completely.

  "I'm home!" my father calls out suddenly.

  Turning to look at the clock, I see that it's 6pm. I must have sat in silence for more than six hours, which is way longer than I'd planned. I've missed the lunchtime check of my dead animals, but I guess I can make up for that when it's time for the late-night analysis. As my father comes through, placing his briefcase on one of the chairs, he smiles at me and then takes a look at the model kit.

  "Right," he says, "I remember this. You giving it a try?"

  "I can't," I reply. "The glue's missing".

  "Is it?" He frowns. "Well, I'll see what I can find. I don't think I have any superglue in the house, but I can pick some up tomorrow. Would you like that?"

  I stare at him.

  "I'll pick some up," he continues, putting the box back down and walking over to the fridge. "Anyway, right now I'm starving," he says, opening the door and looking inside. "You didn't touch the burgers, huh? How about I cook them up with some fries and salad? You think we can be a little unhealthy tonight?"

  I nod.

  "Just a father and his daughter enjoy some good old burgers," he continues, grinning at me.

  I stare at him.

  "Good choice," he mutters, starting to set everything out.

  "I'll do it," I say suddenly, getting up and hurrying over. I grab the frying pan from his hand. "Let me cook," I tell him.

  "You want to?"

  I nod.

  "Okay," he says, smiling. "You don't have to offer twice". Walking over to the kitchen table, he sits down and lets out a long sigh. "You wouldn't believe the day I've had, Juliet. All I want to do right now is kick back, have a good dinner, and relax. I've spent hours and hours staring at a bunch of stupid forms. I swear, some day I'm just going to crack".

  "Mr. Harriman wants you to clean the yard," I say as I pour oil into the pan. "He says the smell's getting bad, and he doesn't like the flies".

  "Mr. Harriman can go fuck himself," my father says. "Seriously, that guy's the most annoying person I've ever met. I've been living next to his place for almost a decade, and he's been nothing but trouble. Always complaining about one thing or another. I think it's his hobby or something; I guess his life's so dull and empty, this is the only way he can get any kicks". He pauses for a moment. "Do you think you can make it smell worse out there, just to piss him off?"

  "I could," I say quietly.

  "Do it. Get those flies buzzing all around his back door".

  "He said he might call the authorities," I continue. "Is that possible? Could he get us into trouble?" I wait for him to answer; when he doesn't say anything, I turn to him. "Could he cause a problem?"

  "No!" my father says, as if it's the craziest idea in the world. "Well, I suppose maybe he could. If it's a health hazard, he could kick up a fuss about environmental factors or quality of life, maybe get some inspectors called in to take a look. I suppose we could get fined or something. Maybe we should clean it up a little. I can -"

  "I'll do it," I say. I take the burgers and drop them into the frying pan. "He said to use bleach".

  "That should work just fine," he replies.

  "I'll do it tomorrow morning".

  "Well, that's another load off my mind. I've got to admit, Juliet, you're becoming very resourceful these days. But what about your animal projects? Aren't you bothered about having to cut your experiments short?"

>   "I can live with it," I say. "I mean, I'd rather keep going, but I don't want to have Mr. Harriman causing any problems. If there's a chance he could call the authorities, I'd rather just forget about the whole thing. Maybe there'll be other opportunities to do some experiments another time. Anyway, I've got other things to be doing".

  "That's a very mature way of looking at the situation. Very mature indeed. Besides, I bet you've already got some good information, right?"

  I nod.

  "Enough to be working with?"

  I nod again.

  "Okay, so I can stop worrying about what's behind the woodshed, can I?"

  I pause for a moment. "Yes".

  At that moment, the phone starts to ring. My father doesn't answer, and moments later there's a beep.

  "Mr. Collier," says Dr. Larson, "I'm just calling one final time to let you know that I'll be taking Juliet off my books, as per your email earlier today. This isn't something I want to do, but you've left me no choice. As I've already stated, I feel it's a mistake to end the sessions, but as her parent, you obviously have the right to do as you wish, and I can't force her to keep coming. If you change your mind at any point, I will of course be happy to continue our sessions provided I can be assured that there will be some continuity. This kind of stop-start situation could be damaging for her. I hope you'll understand that I'll be unable to continue issuing prescriptions for Juliet in light of the termination of our arrangement. Anyway, I wish you both the best of luck and I hope Juliet continues to make progress. I do wish to stress one final time, however, that I am very much against this course of action. Nevertheless, I'm sure that Juliet and I made some progress, and hopefully that'll continue despite the rather abrupt end to our sessions together".

  There's a brief pause, and then the line goes dead.

  "Well..." my father says, seemingly a little confused. "I suppose that's..." He pauses. "Did I email him today?"

  "Didn't you?" I ask.

  "Did I?"

  I stare at him.

  "I suppose I did," he says, frowning. "Fuck it. To be honest, I've been so busy, I can barely remember what I have and haven't been doing". He laughs nervously, as if he's not quite certain. "It's all kind of rolled into one. But it's probably a good thing that you're not going to see him anymore. I mean, I always got the impression that you hated the sessions. You tended to have this sad look in your eyes whenever you came out".

  "You noticed that?" I ask.

  "Of course. I mean, not many people would. It was very subtle. Very, very subtle. But I spotted it every time". He pauses for a moment. "I was right, wasn't I?"

  I nod.

  "Exactly. There's no point continuing to bang our heads against a brick wall. It was worth a try, but Dr. Larson wasn't the right person for you, Juliet. I think we'll just try to manage things ourselves, a little less formally. Doesn't that sound better?"

  I watch as the burgers sizzle in the frying pan. As my father has been talking, I've been starting to feel as if there's something I'm forgetting. This whole situation doesn't make a whole lot of sense: why would my father suddenly decide to ignore Dr. Larson, and why would he not even remember sending him an email? I take a deep breath, trying to rationalize everything, and eventually I decide that there's not much point attempting to get inside my father's head. It doesn't matter why he makes certain decisions; what matters is that I no longer have to see Dr. Larson, and I no longer have to take those pills. I need to lighten up and stop worrying about why things are going my way. Glancing over at my father, I see that he's sitting quite happily at the table, reading his newspaper. As long as things are like this, I don't see that there's any kind of problem. Slowly, a faint smile crosses my lips.

  Chapter Five

  Today

  "What?" my father asks, staring at me with a slight grin on his face. "Do I have ketchup somewhere?" He grabs a napkin and dabs at the side of his mouth. "Is it gone?" He pauses for a moment. "Juliet? What's wrong?"

  "What are you doing?" I ask, still standing in the doorway. I feel like I might be about to have some kind of seizure: what I'm seeing, right in front of me, can't possibly be true.

  "I'm..." He pauses, looking pretty confused. "Well, I guess I'm slowly digesting dinner, and I guess now I'm going to stick the dish-washer on, and then go play a game of chess on the laptop. Just like every night". He stands up and gathers together the plates, before carrying them over to the counter. He's acting as if nothing happened: he seems to have completely forgotten everything I told him, and as he opens the dish-washer and starts loading the plates, I can see that there's no sign of an injury on top of his head. I remember stabbing him, but now it's as if it never happened.

  "Are you..." I start to say, as my heart pounds in my chest.

  "Am I what? Stuffed? Totally. Feeling pretty bloated? You bet I am!" He glances over at me. "Seriously, I don't think I'll eat another thing for at least a couple of days. Aren't you full too?"

  "I..." Turning and hurrying back to the bathroom, I grab the towel I just used and try to find any traces of blood. Just a couple of minutes ago, I stood in here and wiped the blood from my face, but now there's nothing. When I realize that there's nothing, I turn and look at myself in the mirror again. Am I going crazy? I swear to God, I just stabbed him in the head and watched him die, after telling him about all the people I've killed over the years. Now it's as if the whole situation has been completely reset, and none of it happened.

  Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on the fact that I'm not crazy. I'm not; I can't be. Whatever's happening, there has to be a rational explanation. I know what happened, and I know what's happening now, so I just have to find some kind of logical through-line from one point to the other. The only thing that makes sense is that when I stabbed him in the head, I didn't actually kill him: instead, I must have damaged the part of his brain that deals with short-term memory. That'd explain why he doesn't seem to remember the things I just told him. The wound on the top of his head must be there; it's just that, in my confused state, I didn't spot it under his hair. As for the lack of blood on the towel, I'm not quite sure how to explain that, but I'll work it out later. Right now, my father is walking about in the kitchen, with a serious head injury, and I need to go and finish him off.

  My hands are shaking. Why the hell are my hands shaking? It's almost as if I'm becoming emotional, but that's not like me at all. I have to stay calm.

  "Juliet?" my father asks from the doorway.

  Almost jumping out of my skin, I turn to find that he's standing right behind me, smiling.

  "Honey, are you okay?" he asks. "You're acting kind of weird".

  "I'm fine," I blurt back at him. "But you, are you okay?"

  "I'm a bit tired," he says. "Got a bit of a headache. I think I'll just have a glass of red wine and relax for the evening". He stares at me for a moment, as if nothing's wrong. "Well," he says eventually, "if you want me, I guess you know where to find me". Another pause. "You do know where to find me, don't you?" He waits for me to answer. "Juliet? You know where to find me, don't you?"

  I nod.

  "Excellent," he says, turning and heading through to the lounge. Forcing myself to stay focus on the task at hand, I hurry back through to the kitchen. There's no sign of the knife I used to stab him, which I guess means he must have tidied it away when he was loading the dish-washer. Determined to make sure that I get it right this time, I take the large bread knife from one of the drawers, before making my way to the lounge. I figure this shouldn't be too hard; after all, he's basically brain-damaged already, so I'm just completing a job that's already almost done. I managed to attack him once, so why can't I do it again? I just need to make sure I don't psych myself out and allow my doubts to pull me back. I have to focus on the truth: he deserves this.

  "This is for the pills," I say, marching quickly into the room.

  "Say what?" he replies, glancing up from his laptop, on which he's already got a chess match started. "P
ills?"

  "This is for the pills," I say again, holding the knife behind my back, "and the bullshit and the lies and the looks and everything. But most of all, it's for those fucking pills you forced down my throat. Every last fucking one of them. How many were there? It's been more than a decade, so how many of those dirty little things did you slip into my food? Thousands?"

  Closing the lid of his laptop, he stares at me with a confused look on his face, almost as if this is the first he's heard of any anger that I might be feeling. "Come and sit down," he says. "If there's something you want to talk about -"

  "I don't want to talk," I say, hurrying around the sofa and kneeling behind him, before pulling out the knife and reaching over his shoulders. "You deserve this. You deserve every second of pain and fear that you're going to feel. I fell for your little trick with the pills for a hell of a long time, but now it's over, okay? No more. Just be glad that this is going to be quick, because if I could figure out a way to make you suffer the way I suffered, I'd do it in a flash". With that, I slice his neck open; this time, I make sure to see the blood flowing from the wound, and I hold his shoulders firmly to make sure he can't get up. He struggles a little, but the brain injury has clearly slowed his reflexes. When he tries to stand up, I pull him back down, and finally his body goes limp. I wait a moment longer, and this time it's definitely over. He's dead.

  "Fuck you," I say, throwing the knife across the room and sitting back on the floor. My heart is racing, but at least I know I've finished the job. "Fuck you," I whisper. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck -"

  "Juliet?"

  I look up, to find him looking at me with a puzzled expression. There's no blood, no wound, no sign of trauma at all; he's staring at me blankly, as if he's merely confused.

  "What's wrong?" he asks. "You seem troubled".