Beneath The Skin

I stared at them.

“This was the first,” he said, pointing at the sheet on the left.

It read:

Dear Nadia,

I want to fuck you to death. And I want you to think about that.

“Oh,” I said.

“This came two days ago,” Stadler said.

Dear Nadia,

I don’t know what the police are saying to you. They can’t stop me. They know that. In a few days or a week or two weeks you’ll be dead.

“I wanted to be honest with you,” he said.

“You know, it had been a very small comfort to me that there was just the one letter. I thought maybe he was going to kill someone else.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking around. “I’ve got to get this stuff into the car. But I’m very sorry.”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” I said. “I mean, at least that must be what you think.”

He already had a box in his hand.

“No, no,” he said, moving toward the door. “You’ll be fine.”

THIRTEEN

“I’m going to Camden Market,” I said. “Straightaway.”

Ly

“It’ll be crowded,” she said doubtfully.

“Just what I need. Crowds, music, cheap clothes and jewelry. I want to buy lots of useless things. You don’t need to come with me.”

“I’ll come, of course.”

“You’ve got to, haven’t you. Poor Ly

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I know you don’t wear a wedding ring. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes.” Her familiar blush spread over her pale face, her birthmark flamed.

“Hmmm. You must be wishing this was all over. One way or another. Come on. It’s only five minutes’ walk away.”

Ly

There were stalls selling freshly squeezed juices on the corners and I got us each a tumbler of mango and orange and a pretzel. Then I bought twenty thin silver bangles for £5, and slipped them onto my wrist, where they clinked satisfyingly. I bought a floaty silk scarf, a pair of tiny earrings, some flamboyant clips for my hair. Nothing I couldn’t put on immediately. I didn’t want to be carrying anything. Then, while Ly

I went quickly down the staircases that led to the canal and ran along the path until I got to the main road. It was still crowded and I was just another body in the crowd. I ducked and weaved between them. If Ly

I felt free, quite different, as if I’d shaken off all the rubbish that had been clinging to me over the past weeks: The fear and the desire and the irritation fell away. I felt better than I had in days. I knew where I was going. I had pla

I had to ring the bell several times. I thought maybe he had gone out, although the curtains in the upstairs windows were still closed. But then I heard footsteps, a muffled curse.

The man who opened the front door was taller and younger than I had expected, and more handsome. He had pale hair flopping over his brow, pale eyes in a ta

“Yes?” His tone wasn’t exactly friendly.

“Are you Fred?” I tried to smile at him.

“Yes. Do I know you?” He spoke with a languid self-assurance. I imagined Zoe beside him, her eager, pretty face looking up at his.

“Sorry to wake you up, but it’s urgent. Can I come in?”

He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Nadia Blake. I’m here because I am being threatened by the same man who killed Zoe.”

I thought this would surprise him, but it clearly hit him like a physical blow. He almost fell backward.

“What?” he said.

“Can I come in?”

He stepped back and held the door open. He looked utterly dazed. I was past him before he could say anything more. He followed me upstairs to a small cluttered living room.

“I’m sorry about Zoe, by the way,” I said.

He was looking at me intently.

“How did you hear about me?”

“I saw you on a list of witnesses,” I said.

He ran his hand through his tousled hair and then rubbed his eyes.

“Want some coffee?”

“Thanks.”

He went into the adjoining kitchen and I stared around me. I thought there might be a photograph of Zoe, something that would remind me of her, but there was nothing. I picked up some of the magazines lying on the floor: horticultural manuals, a guide to London club life, a TV guide. There was a heap of round stones on one of the shelves and I picked up a marbled one that looked like a duck’s egg and held it in the palm of my hand. I put it carefully back and picked up a brown felt hat that was hung on the edge of the chair, swung it round on my forefinger. I wanted to feel close to Zoe, but she felt utterly absent. I picked up a carved wooden duck from a shelf and examined it. When Fred came back into the room I hastily restored it to the shelf.

“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.

“Just fidgeting. I’m sorry.”

“Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.” I had forgotten to tell him I don’t like it with milk.

Fred sat on a sofa that looked as if it had been retrieved from a dump and motioned me into the chair. He held his mug in both hands and stared into it. He didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry about Zoe,” I said again, for want of anything better.

“Yeah,” he said.

He shrugged and looked away. What had I been expecting? I had felt that there was a bond between us, because he had known Zoe and that made him, in a quite irrational way, closer to me in my imagination than any of my friends.

“What was she like?”

“Like?” He looked up sulkily. “She was nice, attractive, happy, you know, all that, but what do you want from me?”

“It’s stupid, I know. I want to know silly things about her: her favorite color, her clothes, her dreams, what she felt like when she got the letters, everything…” I ran out of breath.

He looked uncomfortable, almost disgusted.

“I can’t help you,” he said.

“Did you love her?” I asked abruptly.

He stared at me as if I had said something obscene.

“We had good fun.”

Good fun. My heart sank. He hadn’t even known her, or didn’t want me to know her through him. Good fun: what an epitaph.