Page 2 of The Guilty Girl

Careful not to stand on the blood spatter – he was frightened but not stupid – he found himself on a carpeted landing. The smell of blood was as strong as the silence was palpable.

He crept along the landing, following the trail into a bedroom. The sheets on the bed were tangled, as if someone had tugged at them, dragging them to the floor. At the far side, he came face to face with the horror he had hoped he would not see, though subconsciously he’d known it would be bad.

The body was on the floor, arms outstretched, legs crossed. Clothing in disarray. There were many wounds, but the neck wound was the most disturbing in the sea of blood.

His stomach rumbled. A wave of nausea shot up to his throat. Clamping a hand to his mouth, he shook his head in disbelief, as if that action would rid him of the sight of the broken body on the floor. This couldn’t be happening. He backed out of the room before realising that maybe he should check for signs of life.

Preparing himself, he took a deep breath outside the door before creeping inside, aware that his runners could leave imprints on the soft carpet if he wasn’t careful. But he had to know if an ambulance was needed. He gagged as he tentatively put his fingers around the wrist, checking for a pulse, knowing he would not find one. Hoping all the same.

No sign of life. No hope.

Fear squeezed his heart and goose bumps rose on his skin. This wasn’t a PlayStation game. This was in front of his eyes and there was nothing he could do. No way to reboot. No option to start again. No second lives. This was reality.

He remembered the voices he’d heard a few moments earlier. Were the killers still here?

He wasn’t waiting to find out. Making his decision, right or wrong – probably wrong – he backed out onto the landing. Turned and fled down the main stairs. Before leaving, he glanced into the desecrated living room, as if hoping his jacket might suddenly appear. But he couldn’t see it. A rucksack and a few cushions were thrown around on the couch. He couldn’t go in there again. His terror was too real.

He flew out the front door. He could phone 999 anonymously, couldn’t he? But first he had to get away, before the killer came for him.

2

NINE HOURS EARLIER

That night, the fateful night, fifteen-year-old Jake Flood was full of how he was going to overcome all his difficulties and make something of himself. Become someone important. Someone to be reckoned with. A hero. Yeah, he wanted to be everyone’s hero, but most of all, he wanted to make money.

Top of the list, he saw himself as an Olympian. A gold medal shining brightly around his neck as he stood on a podium with the Irish flag fluttering in the breeze behind him. Everyone said he could run, and he knew he had stamina. Only last week he had outrun the guards, and they’d been on bikes! That had been a great laugh. Nothing could stop Jake Flood becoming just about anything he wanted to be. He was the man! Or so he thought.

He lifted his black T-shirt, the one that had once belonged to his dad, the one with the Blizzards photo cracking from wear, that one, and sprayed Lynx Africa under his arms. He marvelled at how his abs were coming along. Nights in the gym were not wasted on Jake. The Leinster boxing championships were next week, and though he had no interest in them, he didn’t want to piss off his coach, Barney. Barney had encouraged him to enter the lightweight under-sixteen competition. Jake knew he could win easily; once he put his mind to it, he could do anything. The question was, could he be bothered? Once maybe, but not any more. Sure, he wanted to be an Olympic boxer, but he also wanted to earn money.

Tucking his top into his faded black jeans with the knees torn out – he’d used a steak knife on them, even though it was blunt as shit – he decided to let it fall loose over his belt instead. Black Converse with pristine white laces completed the look. The look he strived for: namely, cool dude, like the guys on YouTube. The guys who made loads of money.

He ran his hand through his black hair and smoothed down a few errant strands around his left ear that he’d missed with the gel. He’d had the hair shaved over the right one. He winked a green eye at himself in the mirror.

‘Ready to rock and roll,’ he sang.

‘You look like a goth, Jake.’ A voice from the doorway.

‘Go away, Shaz.’ He shook his head slowly. Why did she have to break the spell he’d cast for himself? Sharon was the reality from which he constantly sought escape. He fought the urge to tell his ten-year-old sister, the most annoying person on the planet, to shut up and get out, but the truth was he couldn’t bear her tears.

With a sigh, he turned from the mirror and caught her swinging on the door handle.

‘You’ll break it, Shaz.’

‘Won’t.’

‘Will.’

‘Don’t care. Where you going?’

‘Out.’

‘Can I go with you?’

‘For crying out loud, squirt, you should be in bed.’

‘Duh.’ Sharon rolled her eyes like she’d seen him do a thousand times and tugged at the too-short legs of the Disney pyjamas she’d got last Christmas. She’d shot up at least six inches since then. His little sister was growing up fast. That made him fearful.

‘Jake, you know Mam will have a canary if you’re not here when she gets home.’

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