The hive, p.1
The Hive, page 1
For Team Strong
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
‘W
HAT HAPPENS WHEN YOUR REFLECTION isn’t your own anymore? When who you were isn’t who you are? When the worst things have happened, who do you become?’ I ask this in a measured tone, looking straight at my camera phone. I take a sip of tea. The scent of the amber liquid hits my nose. The taste settles on my tongue, meddling with the cigarette I have just smoked. The tea is strong. Heady. Clean in both texture and colour with a warmth that intimately coddles me.
‘You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.’ I tilt my head, making sure I hit the right angle as my legs begin to tingle with anticipation. ‘Why I’m standing in Lincoln Jackson’s hotel suite. Streaming live from The Hive of all things. I’m not here to tell you a story you think you already know. And I’m not here for your sympathy or forgiveness. It’s gone too far for that to even be possible now. But despite everything you’ve seen, despite the headlines and blog posts, I can tell you right now – nothing is as it seems.’ I pause. My hands are shaking, but I deliberately take another long sip of tea.
‘Three things are true. First, this isn’t a story – this is my confession and everything I say here and now is the truth. Second, Linc isn’t the man you think he is – but I’ll get to that, I’ll get to all of it. Finally, and probably most importantly, this’ – I set the cup down and hold up my reddened palm to show the camera – ‘this isn’t my blood!’
A moment passes.
I take a few seconds to adjust the phone on the tripod, my agitation rising.
‘Heidi Dolak is dead. I shot her. In fact, she’s still bleeding out – see.’
I step forward, revealing the pale, limp body lying motionless on the floor. The number of people watching jumps from ten thousand, to twenty thousand, to fifty thousand right before my eyes.
‘I know a lot of you followed me to see the drama unfold. Laughed at me because . . .’
I pause, my arm feels so heavy I can barely lift it. It’s starting. A yielding reminder I don’t have much time left. ‘Because the man I thought I loved left me for another woman. Misery loves company and I guess you guys are mine. I’ve read your DMs. The inaccurate comments based on internet gossip surrounding my relationship with Linc. The comments about my life, who I am. The things I’ve done. The endless rumours. Speculation can be corrosive when it’s your skin being burned. The truth is, no one knows what happened between Linc and me. All you know is we were together and now we’re apart. He’s good at that – making people believe what he wants them to. Using the truth to tell so many lies. It’s one of the things I admire about him. One of the things I’ll always admire about him – that charisma. It’s like seeing electricity for the first time. You’ve all witnessed it. I guess in some ways you, The Hive, are responsible for it.’
Laughter escapes my mouth. It sounds unnatural, although I’m not quite sure why. I can see my image on the screen. I can hear myself speaking. I may look and sound the same, but I’m not the woman I used to be. Not anymore.
‘We weave our lives through social media. Why? Why are we so desperate to see ourselves through someone else’s eyes? We upload our thoughts, photographs and videos so our followers can live our moments, be part of our hopes and dreams. We let them feel every experience as if they were standing right here with us. Well, I’ve chosen to share this moment with you. But instead of showing you the best parts, the parts that look pretty, filtered, I’m going to show you the truth – however ugly and distorted it may be.’
I flip the camera to reveal congealed blood sprayed on the pale wall. Then, slowly, Linc ripples into focus. He’s on his knees, head down, hands tied behind his back less than a few inches from where I stand.
I refill my cup, the wafts of steam filling the air, making the room seem dense and hazy.
‘Why don’t you say hi, Linc?’
No reply. No eye contact. Just silence.
I switch the camera back to myself and continue.
‘Typical. I guess I’ll do the talking then, shall I? They say there are three sides to every story. Yours, mine and the truth, but since we don’t have much time together, we’ll just stick to the truth. The facts. No one will ever forget what happened here today.’
The next words form then break apart on my tongue like dust. My adrenaline hums, the sudden thrum of fear fighting through my pores into tiny beads of sweat. My perspiration rests in the air along with the only other odour in the room.
Death has a weird smell. And it’s hard to concentrate on anything else when Heidi’s body is only a few feet away. I regret not putting her in the bath but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
‘How do I begin to tell you a story when you already know how it ends?’
One deep breath. Two deep breaths. I think I’m going to be sick . . . I’m running out of time.
‘By now some of you will have contacted the police. Probably Instagram too. Their tech teams will be scrambling to end the feed. I wonder how long it will take them to figure out that they can’t. Or how long it will take the police to work out I’ve had help.’
Almost one hundred thousand people are watching now. I swallow, defiantly pushing the vomit back down, and lift my chin high. I’ve spent my entire life bending to the will of others. Today I wouldn’t.
‘Attached to The Hive’s Instagram story is a poll. I want you to listen carefully to every word I say. Then I want you to decide whether Lincoln Jackson should live or die.’
The camera phone depicts a horrible reflection as I stare into the lens. It shows me with wide eyes, a blank face. Detached. I don’t have long, but there’s a lot still left to say.
‘I can’t tell you how to vote but what I will tell you is who I am now isn’t who I was at the start of all of this. I guess in some ways it doesn’t matter who I am now. Not to you. You only see what’s in front of you. How Charlotte Goodwin went from Lincoln Jackson’s girlfriend to Heidi Dolak’s murderer. But at least you’ll understand why.’
I take another sip of tea, before setting aside the cup and slouching back into a chair. I angle the phone down to face me before lighting a cigarette with bloodied fingers.
‘How about we start at the beginning?’
THE HIVE
LIVE 312.4K
kingvince — This has got to be a wind up lol I’m clicking die for bants @thehive #votedie
lee_leeks — @lincolnjackson what in the bunny boiler is going on here??
bernicehawk — This is awful someone do something call the police! #votelive
joancreek46 — Did @charlottegoodwin kill @heididolak ?????
garrymilkybar — @joancreek46 Well who else would she kill other than @lincolnjackson fiancé, she’s clearly lost it or are you not watching the same thing the rest of us are?
reecehamiton33 — Who else is voting die just to see if she really does it? #CharlotteUnhinged #thehive #votedie
joancreek46 — @garrymilkybar I just got here, I don’t know why ur coming for me like @charlottegoodwin isn’t the mad woman about to kill one of the most famous men in Britain on Instagram Live
garrymilkybar — All right luv don’t lose ur knickers, I swear all u women are the same, batshit crazy
nevosbrim_3 — Let’s look at this logically, this is either a stunt for @lincolnjackson next fight or @charlottegoodwin has really lost her mind, my money’s on it being a stunt she’s streaming from @thehive not her own account #staywoke
unga45 — For a woman to do this she must be in so much pain, I don’t know what happened but I’m praying for you @charlottegoodwin
claytonfook — Wooow u women are psychopaths I don’t even know what to say just wooooooooow #votelive
ebonyblue — Everyone vote to save @lincolnjackson, this woman belongs behind bars #charlotteunhinged #savelincolnjackson #thehive #votelive
willsgreen — @ebonyblue I’m voting die, LJs a shit boxer better Instagram than the ring tbh lol #votedie
realcaterg — Lmao how can u be an undefeated boxer but get kidnapped by your ex gf, r u not embarrasseddd @lincolnjackson #thehive #votedie
p_stardust Oi oi @kandon @frankiereed Lincoln Jackson’s being held hostage by some bird looool priceless
CHAPTER ONE
One year earlier
‘J
ESUS, YOU DON’T LOOK SO good. I’m pulling over.’
A sudden, putrid stream of bile erupted from Poppy’s mouth into the footwell, as I swerved to the side of the road beneath a row of autumn-coloured trees. The car door swung open, and I watched on as those golden yellow, vibrant orange and fire-red leaves were then permanently soiled by whatever was left in her stomach. I leaned across to my anaemic, wafer-thin friend and stroked the centre of her back. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. Her face looked grey and tired, and her blonde hair hung limply, clinging to her forehead as she straightened up, ignoring the mess at her feet.
‘Sorry, Char. Trix is gonna go apeshit when she sees the state of her car. I’ll pay to have it cleaned,’ Poppy said in her lilting Irish accent.
‘Don’t worry about the car, Trix will understand. You feeling any better?’ I asked, fumbling in the glovebox for old McDonald’s napkins.
‘I’m fine. A bit shaken and the car stinks, but I’m fine. Thanks for taking the day off to come with me. I don’t know how I would have got through the last few hours without you.’
‘We’re not through it yet. I’ve still got to get you home and all these Essex back roads look the same. Besides, I couldn’t let you go alone, although you could have picked a clinic a little closer to civilisation.’
‘And risk running into someone I know? Or worse, a work colleague? No, Essex was the safer option. I’m just happy I’m not alone.’
‘I expected more from Brad if I’m being totally honest with you.’
It was true. I’d barely recognised Poppy when I fetched her from her flat in Bethnal Green that morning. I was racked with guilt since I was the one who’d introduced her to that worm Brad in the first place. An abortion was no walk in the park and Brad hadn’t spoken to Poppy since she had texted him the picture of her positive pregnancy test four weeks ago. I felt guilty for him ghosting her.
‘I thought he would’ve been here today. He owed me that much after two years. At least I thought he did. I can’t believe he’s done this to me. I hate him so much.’
In no way was I blaming Poppy, but Brad was a self-serving dickhead who practically idolised his own reflection. It should have come as no surprise to her that a man like that was incapable of empathy. In fact, I was shocked he didn’t dramatise the whole thing and make it a spectacle, in true Brad fashion.
‘Some people just don’t appreciate what they have in front of them. You’re an amazing girl, Pops. What Brad did to you . . .’ I trailed off, not sure how to proceed, plus the vomit had started to smell acidic and linger heavily in the air around us. ‘Well, I wouldn’t wish that on any woman. You deserve better, so much better.’
‘Thanks. I know I do. I just . . . I guess, I just thought we had a connection. I thought I loved him, I thought he loved me too.’
‘That’s what we all think. I’ve been where you are too, remember?’
Poppy’s blue eyes darted to me as the memories flooded back.
‘I remember my mum going nuts because I kept bunking off school with you and Zee.’
It was twelve years ago. I was sixteen. Jason Millington, a so-called drug dealer on our estate, who sold ten-pound bags of cannabis and strange purple pills he insisted were Valium – they were actually multivitamins – lived two doors down from me. My mother, the local council estate drunk, had pissed off for two weeks with Garry, another unpalatable, wannabe replacement for my dad. She left me to fend for myself alone at home. Jason showed up one evening in summer. It was after eight, he had a six-pack of cider with him and claimed his parents had locked him out. I don’t really remember what happened after I polished off the first three cans. But I know we had sex. Three weeks later, I missed my period, took a test Poppy and I stole from Boots and discovered I was pregnant. Jason reacted like any eighteen-year-old boy would when I told him he’d knocked up the girl next door. He told me to get rid of it.
I didn’t blame him. We were both young and stupid, but what I didn’t know, I wouldn’t realise until I was in the clinic and it was too late.
I wanted my baby.
I wanted to be a mother. My pregnancy wasn’t planned, but the love I felt growing inside me was.
I stayed with Trix at her parents’ house after we came back from the abortion clinic, because I was too scared to go home by myself. Poppy came over with watermelon Bacardi Breezers and cannabis she had stolen from her brother’s room. We smoked, laughed and watched Harry Potter films while eating pizza. Then we listened to Destiny’s Child, belting out the lyrics to ‘Survivor’ at the top of our lungs. I had soon forgotten about my emotional morning, even the crippling pain had subsided, slipping away as the drugs and alcohol blocked my pain receptors. It was euphoric.
Until I got the urge to get up and go for a piss. A thick stream of red warmed the inside of my leg as I stared down. I had only a millisecond to process my thoughts before Trix came charging in, took one look at me and shrieked, going pale. I knew then the horror of what I had done. It was written all over her face. I had ended a life before it had even begun. I vowed then I would never make that mistake again. If I ever got the chance to be a mother, I would do it right. I would be a good mum.
‘Trix’s face was a picture. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.’ I said, patting Poppy’s knee.
‘I think that was the moment I decided to become a nurse.’
‘It was a doctor back then. Remember “paging Dr Leigh”?’
‘Yeah, but thanks to you, Trix and Zee I didn’t quite get the grades now, did I? Must have been all those uni days I missed, and all those nights I can’t remember.’
‘Maybe it’s best you never do. We were pretty wild back then. But we had lots of fun. That’s what really matters.’
‘Oh, we had fun all right, but it came at the expense of becoming “Dr Leigh”,’ she said, air-quoting.
‘It’s never too late. You’re only twenty-eight, Pops. You can always make your dream a reality, go back to uni.’
‘Sadly, I think that ship has sailed. Besides, I like being a nurse. The emergency ward is life and death most days. I live for those moments. I love what I do.’
Poppy always took an immense sense of pride in her job. It was one of the things I envied about her. She knew what she wanted and went after it with ferocity. So, if she said she was happy being a trauma nurse at the Royal Free Hospital then I knew she meant it. Besides, if it wasn’t for Poppy being such a kick-ass nurse I wouldn’t have got my job at the aesthetic clinic. It was just an administration role, but it gave me a brief sense of purpose, and it made Poppy proud of me. That constant surety would often bring me back twenty years to the little girl perched on the red bike just off the corner of my street. She’s changed far less than she probably knows. Her golden curls still catch the dregs of what’s left of the afternoon sunshine. Just like it did the first time I saw her. From my vantage point on the window ledge across the street, I was mesmerised. I imagined her smile being so bright it could ignite a blaze. But she wasn’t smiling. She was crying. Hot, angry tears streaming down her devastatingly beautiful face. Curiosity struck. As I got closer, to what I thought was an angel, I noticed the bruises. Realising my mistake, I asked her what happened and as she spoke, small and low at first, she explained what her father had done to her. Even back then, at eight years old, I wanted to protect her. I wanted to take away her pain and replace it with something, anything that wouldn’t hurt her anymore. The more time we spent together over the summer the more the thought of Poppy’s father hurting her grated at me. Eventually, one year later, on a bone-chilling winter’s night, I grew tired of looking at new water-coloured pigments of greens, blues and purples swirling on Poppy’s pale skin. I couldn’t take it anymore. I made Poppy’s pain go away. Thanks to what I did on that bridge years ago her father never hurt her again.
‘Hey, I know today’s been hard but just know I’ll always be here for you when you need me, even if that means being trapped in a car with your sick. I love you. I also think my eyes are starting to sting. I’ll look at Google Maps, get us home. There must be a petrol station in Buckhurst Hill somewhere.’
