The Death Club Read online

She has no idea what she’s doing to me. The torment she’s causing. She has this infantile infatuation that she can’t let go of, and has no idea it is making me scared of everything.

  She kissed me, and whether I was consenting or not, I still will be perceived a certain way and I will lose everything.

  Not just my freedom, but Harper.

  Everything.

  She closes the door behind her and I don’t even bother to stop her anymore. She says, “Hi Will,” and her voice is bouncy and she’s wearing too much makeup and her ridiculous skirt is still too damn short.

  I bow my head and bury it in my arms. If I can’t see her, maybe she’s not there; maybe she’ll go away.

  “Have you had a good day?”

  I ignore her. Keep my head buried. Hope she gets the hint.

  “Will, hello!” Her voice is still so happy, like she thinks I’m joking; like she has no idea she’s deluded. “Come on, wakey wakey!”

  She places a hand on my back.

  “It’s me!”

  She places another hand on my arm and her arms wrap around me and I jump up, stepping out of her embrace and finally looking at her.

  I catch sight of my reflection in the window. My shirt is untucked. My collar skewed. My hair a mess. I look like shit, and still she’s obsessed.

  She comes toward me again, tries putting her arms around my neck and leans in for a kiss and this time I don’t just step away, I push her off, and my hand scrapes her breast as I do and the accident makes her giggle.

  “Go away,” I mumble, and she walks toward me again, but I move until there is a desk between us.

  “But, Will…”

  “Destiny, I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “But I—”

  “Dammit, what is wrong with you?”

  “What’s the matter? You seem flustered?”

  It’s genuine.

  Her concern is actually genuine.

  She’s clueless.

  Completely clueless.

  No idea that I am not her boyfriend and she is not my girlfriend and we are not in love and I am only a teacher who just wants to make it through the day.

  She goes to walk around the desk to get to me, and I sidestep so the desk remains between us.

  “What’s the matter? Why are you avoiding me?”

  “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but we are not a couple. I am your teacher, that’s all.”

  She smiles again. That bloody smile.

  “That’s how it all started…”

  “No!”

  I’m shouting.

  Someone might hear me.

  Screw it, who cares?

  I’ve had enough.

  I’d had enough long ago, actually, and perhaps she’s pushed me to the point at which I am shouting.

  What have I done to deserve this?

  I’m not even a good teacher. I don’t spend time developing relationships with students, so why would one think I like them?

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” she tells me.

  “I am your teacher.”

  “And my—”

  “Nothing! Nothing! I am your teacher! Your loser fucking teacher! Nothing else! Nothing!”

  She is stumped. On the verge of tears. About to burst.

  I don’t care.

  I really do not care.

  I have started, and I am on a roll, and I will go on.

  “I do not want anything to do with you besides marking your book and grading your bloody paper! We are not a couple; we are not in love — you are a student. A student! That is it, you hear me? That is it!”

  She says nothing.

  Her lip shakes. Tears dribble down her cheeks.

  But she says nothing.

  Then she reaches into her bag.

  And pulls out a knife.

  “What are you doing?”

  I get ready to run, terrified she is about to use it on me.

  But she doesn’t.

  She displays her wrist. Holds the knife over it and stares deep into my eyes; deep enough that she finds my soul, something that is buried far beneath my gut.

  “Destiny, please…”

  Her fingers flex over the knife. She tenses her muscles. Prepares herself.

  “You’re young, you’re going to find a boy your age, I bet plenty of them are after you, I bet—”

  She places the knife against her wrist and begins applying pressure.

  “Stop it!”

  A few speckles of blood ooze out of her skin.

  “Fine, stop it, fine! Whatever! I’ll be whatever, just stop!”

  She lifts the pressure from her wrist and glares at me.

  “Please, just, stop.”

  She waits a moment, and then says, “Tell me you love me.”

  I run my hands through my hair, huff, look around, try and find anything that will save me from this moment.

  “Destiny, would you just—”

  “Say it!”

  She begins applying pressure again.

  “Fine, fine!”

  She pauses.

  Watches me.

  Waits.

  And I’m going to have to say it. I have no choice; I am going to have to.

  She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

  “I love you,” I mutter.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “I said I love you. Now would you please—”

  “Now tell me you’ll always love me.”

  “Dammit, Destiny, would you—”

  “Say it!”

  I am sweating. It’s dripping into my eyes, seeping through my shirt. I’m in a cold classroom, feeling like I’m standing among flames.

  “Fine. I will always love you.”

  “And we’ll always be together.”

  “And we’ll always be together.”

  “And you will never lie to me again.”

  “Please, Destiny, I—”

  “And you will never lie to me again!”

  “Okay, fine, I will never lie to you again.”

  She holds the blade in place a few seconds longer, then she lifts it from her skin and holds it by her side.

  She moves around the desk to get to me, and this time, I don’t move out of her reach.

  I just watch the knife.

  She places her free hand on the side of my face and places a delicate kiss on my lips; one that, if it were from Natalie, I would saviour and cherish and feel it electrifying my entire body. As it is, this kiss makes me want to be sick, and I struggle to breathe.

  She steps away and puts the knife back in her bag.

  Her phone makes a noise.

  She picks it up.

  And, for a fleeting moment, I am sure that there is a message calling her by another name. Like Danny.

  But her name is Destiny, and it looks similar, and I shouldn’t be so ridiculous; she is crazy, not calculated, and I need to get a hold of myself.

  She holds her phone to her face so I can’t see it. Then she sees me looking worried.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s not another boy or anything. Just my dad. I have to go.”

  She types a message and puts her phone away.

  “I will see you tomorrow, Will,” she says, then places another kiss on my lips.

  She turns and leaves.

  There are a few drops of red on the carpet where she’d been standing.

  I have to be home to meet Felix at four, but I can’t leave the blood there, even just a few drops, it would pose too many questions, so I retrieve some bleach from the cleaner’s cupboard and scrub it clean, then hurry home so I can be there for my daughter.

  31

  Harper

  You know that feeling when you’re tuned into what’s happening, but you aren’t really paying attention? When you are aware enough to react to the words that are spoken to you, but in such a trance that you would not remember them?

  That’s what it’s like. To sit here. With the pol
ice officer. Going through text messages he’s prepared and confirming whether or not they sound like me.

  Which is ridiculous.

  Does anyone actually know what they sound like? Is anyone aware of the idiosyncrasies of their language, or what sociolect they use with different groups of people?

  He asks me stupid questions, like, “Would you use a smiley here?” or “Would you abbreviate this word?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it, but Danny rarely abbreviates words. He never even says rofl or lmao or lol, he says haha. It’s one of the reasons I love him; he never talks like a stupid person, even when texting.

  I go along with it. I tell Felix how I think I would phrase a sentence and what words I wouldn’t use.

  Danny doesn’t text back. He will when we’re alone, when I can text him from the secret phone and let him know it’s okay to talk.

  Felix wants me to agree to meet Danny.

  They want to use me as bait, like I’m a worm on the end of a fishhook and Danny’s the trophy catch.

  I say no.

  Felix asks why.

  Because I’m not ready yet.

  In truth, I am both elated and terrified at the thought of meeting Danny. I would love to see him in person so I can know what it feels like to have his arms around me, but I would be petrified that he would see me and decide he’d made a mistake.

  Either way, I am not going to meet him on the officer’s terms. And I am not going to meet him so they can arrest the wrong person and put him in a cell.

  I could tell Felix the truth. That Danny is innocent. That he has a second-hand phone and the last owner was dodgy. But I know what they’d say.

  “Don’t be so naive.”

  “That’s what he wants you to think.”

  “Trust us, we’ve been onto this guy for a while.”

  And that’s why I say nothing.

  Neither Felix nor my dad know what it’s like to be completely unheard. To be wanting to scream so loud they can’t help but hear your voice, but knowing that, if you did, they would just cover their ears.

  Dad doesn’t even sit with us as we do this. Felix said that, due to my age, I have the right to have an appropriate adult with me. But I wasn’t bothered about him being here, and he seems far too engrossed in something on the computer to even care.

  Felix shows me some more messages. Asks me to check them.

  He says he’ll send them for me. I don’t need to do anything but keep the phone nearby. They’ll see everything that’s done on the phone, so I needn’t worry.

  Except, it does make me worry. They have access to everything. All my messages. All my apps. They will know my high score on Candy Crush and they will see the photos I took of myself to send to Danny.

  It makes me feel sick to think how keen they are to invade my privacy, and how much they thought I’d be happy to go along with it.

  But I will go along with it.

  For now.

  Because I’m waiting to talk to you, Danny.

  I’m waiting to let you know I’ll never betray your trust.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  We are in love, and they will not understand.

  32

  Will

  I leave Harper and Felix to it. There’s nothing I can do to help. I’d just get in the way.

  And it gives me a moment, undisturbed, to search the internet for… Well, I don’t know what. Information, I guess. A diagnosis.

  I search for delusion disorders. The normal ones are there: psychosis, schizophrenia, delusional disorder.

  They are all close, but not quite there.

  I add keywords to my search; words like relationship and convinced.

  And I come across a condition called erotomania.

  The term sounds too close to ‘erotic’, as Destiny’s behaviour is more obsessional than sexual, but the text beneath the headline strikes a familiarity:

  A man or woman with erotomania is a person with a delusional belief that another person is in love with them, despite that person providing no indication or evidence that they are.

  This is it.

  I read on.

  A person with erotomania will often focus on a celebrity, or a person of a higher status, such as a doctor or teacher.

  They will believe that the object of their infatuation is confirming that they are in love too, such as through secret messages, and can be quite scary for the person they become obsessed with.

  Scary?

  Bloody right it’s scary.

  This is… her.

  All of it.

  It is just her.

  Erotomania is uncommon, but when a patient with this paranoid delusion believes that the individual is in love with them, their behaviour can become obsessive and, often, dangerous.

  The symptoms can start suddenly, but the fixation may not be immediately apparent. The object of affection, often an inaccessible older or higher status person who has previously had little contact with the patient, can remain unaware of the infatuation until the patient’s behaviour becomes erratic.

  I search for other websites associated with erotomania.

  The first one that stands out is entitled How to Spot the Symptoms of Erotomania.

  I click on it, although I’m fairly sure I could already guess the signs.

  The stalker may make contact through written communication.

  The stalker will believe that the object of affection is returning their love.

  When the stalked makes it apparent that the attention is unwelcome, bizarrely, this can serve to confirm the stalker’s love.

  The stalker gets angry and threatening when told that their affections are not returned.

  The stalker poses a threat to the stalked.

  It’s as if someone has watched Destiny and written down her behaviour.

  I search for erotomania cases.

  I regret it.

  Immediately, there are such headlines as Victim of Unwanted Affection Killed in Sleep, and Family of Stalked Murdered, and Erotomania Patient Murders Doctor for Denying Love.

  And that is when it becomes all the more alarming.

  I’m thrilled that I’ve found an explanation — but now I am scared. Worried for what she might do, for how Harper might suffer because of it.

  What if I showed this to Destiny?

  What if I explained that this is what she has?

  Maybe she would understand that it’s not real. That she needs help. That it’s a mental health issue, and not a sad tale of unrequited love.

  I go onto Facebook. Out of curiosity, I type her name, Destiny Hill, and she is the first to come up in the results. Her profile picture shows her pouting at the camera. She’s wearing a low-cut top you can see right down, and the skirt in her cover photo is as short as her school skirt.

  “Dad?”

  Harper makes me jump. I quickly close down the browser.

  “I don’t feel comfortable with this,” she says.

  “Uh huh.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Sure.”

  “Really, Danny isn’t going to hurt me.”

  I don’t reply. I don’t have the energy for this argument.

  “Officer Felix is going,” she says.

  “Okay, see him out for me.”

  “Don’t you want to…”

  She trails off.

  Perhaps she sees me rubbing my eyes, or huffing, or running my hands through my hair, and thinks I don’t want to talk to her.

  I do. I want to pay attention to her. I want to be a dad.

  But when I turn around to tell her, she’s gone.

  Felix says his goodbye and goes.

  I try calling out to Harper to come back, but she’s already in her room.

  I return my attention to the computer and print off all the pages I’ve looked at today. Once Destiny sees that there’s a diagnosis for it, she’ll realise it’s wrong.

  She will.

  I’m sure of i
t.

  She has to.

  Doesn’t she?

  33

  Harper

  That was it. That was my attempt at talking to Dad, at reasoning with him, at taking him at face value when he said he wanted to be more of a father.

  He didn’t take it.

  And now I sit in my room, waiting for him to come up, to finish what he was doing and to come speak to me.

  But he doesn’t.

  Why?

  Why doesn’t he?

  It’s not like he has loads of stuff going on in his life, and it’s not like he’s too busy, so there must be a reason he’s too distracted to talk to me, there must be!

  What is it?

  I feel myself crying and I hate myself for it. I never want to give tears to someone who doesn’t deserve it. I never want to let someone else have control over my emotions.

  But what do you want me to say?

  I’m alone in every way. At school. At home. And now they are trying to take away Danny.

  Danny’s right. Maybe Dad doesn’t deserve to live.

  Would it really be a loss to the world if he wasn’t here?

  I don’t know if he’s a popular teacher at his school, but I doubt it. I wouldn’t like him as my teacher. If he’s as neglectful of his students as he is of me then I doubt anyone would miss him if he was gone.

  And I don’t care.

  I don’t care if he doesn’t care.

  I don’t care if he never talks to me or makes an effort. Once I reach eighteen, I am gone.

  Only thing is…

  I’m lying. I do care.

  And I hate that I care. I despise myself for being unable to help it.

  He’s not overtly abusive, he’s never laid a hand on me, or hurt me, or hated me, but he’s never bothered to love me either.

  I lie in bed. In the dark. Pull the duvet over me. And lie beneath it by the light of my secret phone.

  I already have a message from Danny.