The journey back to Kirkleithen was one of the longest of my life. I could barely sit still, my eyes watching the clock as each minute that ticked by felt like an hour. I could barely sit still, itching to get home and praying it was just a coincidence; Granda’s screwdriver would be in his shed, nestled amongst the other matching tools.
The policeman in the drivers’ seat caught my eye in the rear view mirror. “You got ants in your pants hen?”
I forced a smile, settling back into my seat. “It’s just been a long day.”
“You’ll be home soon.”
It was dark by the time we pulled up outside my house on what felt like the edge of the earth. I thanked the driver and made my way up the path. The whole journey id been twisting and turning in my seat, eager to get here, but now I was home I hesitated. I took each step slowly up the creaky porch steps, my body heavy like a dead weight. Before I had made it to the door, the porch light lit up and mum threw the door open.
Her eyes were wide and wild as she shrieked: “What were you thinking? Appearing on a talk show like that? The Khalid’s are furious!”
I dodged my around her and forced my way into the house. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? Did you not just go live on national TV and defend her suspected killer?”
“Yes, yes I did! Because I know it wasn’t him – and I can prove it.”
She grabbed my arm and spun me around, slamming me against the hallway wall, knocking a picture frame to the ground. “What do you mean you can prove it? What’s going on Blair?”
I shrugged free, stepping over the broken glass. “Just let me go!”
“I know you’ve been off your meds!” I heard her shout after me, “Jamie found the pills you threw away in the bucket. You’re not well Blair, you need to calm down!”
I ignored her, instead unlocking the backdoor and breaking into a sprint to the shed. I forced the warped door open and pulled my phone from my pocket to use as a torch. I threw open drawers and upturned boxes in search for the toolbox.
I muttered to myself in frustration as each box came up empty. “Come on, come on. Where the fuck are you?”
Eventually I found it, on a shelf above me. Tins of paint and old dusty cloths fell to the ground and as I grasped at it and pulled it to the ground. I opened it up and immediately saw the empty indentation where the screwdriver once sat. I fell back against the wall, closing my eyes and swallowing the sick that was rising in my throat. A vision of Dayna, floating face down in the hot tub flashed through my head, the screwdriver sticking out of her back. I could feel her wet, lifeless body against mine, the smell of blood and chlorine thick in the air. No! No! That couldn’t be! It was my mind playing tricks on me. I didn’t go to the lodge that night.
I had to remember what I knew was real, and focused on the image of her feet walking away from me as I lay in a puddle of mud; that was the last time I had seen her. That was the last time I seen her. That…
“Are you ok poppet?”
Granda’s voice caused me to jump, his silhouette lit up by moonlight as he leaned against the doorway.
I pointed to the toolbox “Granda! Where’s your screwdriver?”
He shrugged. “It should be in there.”
“Well, it’s not! Did you misplace it somewhere? Did somebody borrow it?”
“I suppose Jamie or your mum might have been in and borrowed it without me knowing. Or you, of course. You live here too.”
I clutched my head in my hands in frustration. “You don’t understand.”
He crouched down and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Well if you explain, maybe I can try and understand.”
“I’m scared… I might have done something really bad.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No… I can’t remember clearly. I feel like my heads been fuzzy ever since…”
“You’ve been under a lot of stress my dear, not sleeping, you’re grieving…”
My voice cracked as the tears spilled down my cheeks. “If I can’t remember… how do I know I didn’t hurt her?”
“Oh…” He sat back leaning against the workbench opposite me, staring at me through the glow of the moonlight with intensity. “If something happened, Blair, I understand. Passion is a powerful thing. Sometimes we can act out of the frustration love and do or say things we don’t mean. Sometimes we do it because we believe it’s what is right for the people we care about.”
My mind flashed to the skeletal remains I had found in the woods. “Granda, what are you saying?”
His face turned blank, giving nothing away. “All I’m saying is I understand that sometimes we hurt the people closest to us. There’s a fine line between love and hate, and sometimes the pain of loving someone can lead us to do hurtful things. I understand, Blair.”
“Granda… Margaret Mullins… Did you…”
But he didn’t answer, he stood up and left the shed without another word.
His words bothered me as I lay in bed that night. “I understand”. He understood what? Did he think I was a killer? Was I a killer? Why couldn’t I fucking remember? I had read about this before; your brain blocking out memories to protect you from trauma, but it felt like something more. There was a thick fog blocking out chunks of the last few weeks; the memories lurked on the other side; I knew it. I racked my brain going over that night systematically, clinging to every snippet of conversation I could remember right up until my fight with Dayna. It wasn’t enough. I read through the messages we had sent each other before meeting.
You still ok to record the podcast before we go out? B x
If I have to. Lol. D x I
Plzzzzzzz. I’ll love u forever. B x
You already do… ok. Be over in 10. D x
I had never released that podcast to the public. I wasn’t even sure I had listened to it back. I got out of bed, opened my laptop, and scrolled through my files until I found it. It startedoff as I had remembered, a discussion about crimes of passion, but it hadn’t ended quite how I had remembered. I gasped in disbelief at what I was hearing, and that’s when it all came back to me. Running through my mind as clear as a 3D movie. I slammed my laptop shut as I heard creaking on the floorboards on the other side of my door. I sat dead still until the creaking stopped and the footsteps made their way to bed. All I could hear now was my own laboured breathing and a voice in my head screaming, “You have to get out! There’s a killer under this roof!”
Shaking, I stood up from my desk, taking my laptop with me. It wasn’t safe in my own home anymore.
I slipped my feet into a pair of shoes and pulled on a jacket; I had to go to the radio station. I had to get the word out there. It was time that everyone knew the truth of what happened that night, before the killer realised I had remembered; despite their efforts to snuff out my memories the way they had snuffed out her life.
The Murder Sessions 