The Fear: The sensational new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller that you need to read in 2018
The Fear: The sensational new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller that you need to read in 2018
C.L. Taylor
‘Claustrophobic and compelling’ KARIN SLAUGHTER‘A rollercoaster with multiple twists’ DAILY MAIL’A million dollar new story from a million selling author' SARAH PINBOROUGHSometimes your first love won’t let you go…When Lou Wandsworth ran away to France with her teacher Mike Hughes, she thought he was the love of her life. But Mike wasn’t what he seemed and he left her life in pieces.Now 32, Lou discovers that he is involved with teenager Chloe Meadows. Determined to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, she returns home to confront him for the damage he’s caused.But Mike is a predator of the worst kind, and as Lou tries to bring him to justice, it’s clear that she could once again become his prey…The million copy Sunday Times bestseller returns with a gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat.Praise for The Fear:‘A skewering portrait of obsessive love and psychological manipulation, this book gets under the skin from the outset and won’t let you go until you’ve gasped at THAT ending. This is Taylor’s best book yet.’CJ Cooke (author of I Know My Name)‘Wow! Such a fast-paced, gripping, tense thriller. My heart was in my mouth at the end. Her best yet!’Claire Douglas (author of Local Girl Missing)
C.L. TAYLOR
The Fear
Copyright (#u51faef6b-96d2-57e5-bd02-1c18727370ad)
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018
Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2018
Cover photographs © Henry Steadman
Cover design © Henry Steadman 2018
C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008118099
Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008118105
Version 2018-06-29
Praise for C.L. Taylor (#u51faef6b-96d2-57e5-bd02-1c18727370ad)
‘Fans of C.L. Taylor are in for a treat. The Fear is her best yet.’
Clare Mackintosh
‘Claustrophobic and compelling.’
Karin Slaughter
‘A skewering portrait of obsessive love and psychological manipulation, this book gets under the skin from the outset and won’t let you go until you’ve gasped at THAT ending. With characters so real you feel you ought to text them and a plot that keeps you tearing through the pages, this is Taylor’s best book yet.’
C.J. Cooke
‘A thoroughly enjoyable read, a highly original and timely tale that kept me utterly enthralled and entertained from beginning to end.’
Liz Nugent
‘I loved The Fear! It’s my favourite of C.L. Taylor’s novels now. I couldn’t put it down. Tense, twisty, terrifying – with one of the best premises I’ve read in ages.’
Julie Cohen
‘Many thrillers claim to be compelling: The Fear absolutely is. Breathtakingly bold, shockingly tense, you won’t be able to tear yourself away from this book. It’s dark, emotionally-charged and filled with characters who will make you question everything you think you know about them. The Fear will delight C.L. Taylor’s fans and win her an army of new ones. What a book!’
Miranda Dickinson
‘What an absolutely cracking read! Pacy, well-written,
and anxiety inducing.’
Lisa Hall
‘The Fear is a compulsive read, that forces the reader to consider just how far they would go to protect themselves and those around them. I could not put this book down!’
Emma Kavanagh
‘Dark and disturbing: this is a book I will remember
for a long time.’
Rachel Abbott
‘A terrifying glimpse into a dark subject. This brilliant book stayed with me long after I finished the last page.’
Cass Green
‘It’s a close call as the bar’s set so high but this has to be C.L. Taylor’s best yet. SO entertaining, high on the shock-factor and yet totally ‘real’.’
Caz Frear
‘The Missing has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, luring us into the heart of a family with terrible secrets and making us wait, with pounding hearts for the final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’
Fiona Barton
‘Black Narcissus for the Facebook generation, a clever exploration of how petty jealousies and misunderstandings can unravel even the tightest of friendships. Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’
Elizabeth Haynes
‘A dark and gripping read that engrossed me from start to finish.’
Mel Sherratt
‘Kept me guessing till the end.’
Sun
‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a
gripping roller coaster of suspense.’
Sunday Express
‘5/5 stars – Spine-chilling!’
Woman Magazine
‘An excellent psychological thriller.’
Heat Magazine
‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller
will get your blood pumping.’
Fabulous Magazine
‘Fast-paced, tense and atmospheric, a guaranteed bestseller.’
Mark Edwards
‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale.
Can’t recommend it enough.’
Louise Douglas
See what bloggers are saying about C.L. Taylor … (#u51faef6b-96d2-57e5-bd02-1c18727370ad)
‘An intriguing and stirring tale, overflowing with family drama.’
Lovereading.co.uk
‘Astoundingly written, The Missing pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the final full stop.’
Bibliophile Book Club
‘The Lie is an utterly gripping psychological thriller that you won’t forget for a long time. Dark, creepy and wonderfully written.’
Alba in Book Land
‘Tense and gripping with a dark, ominous feeling that seeps through the very clever writing … all praise to C.L. Taylor.’
Anne Cater, Random Things Through My Letterbox
‘C.L. Taylor has done it again, with another compelling masterpiece.’
Rachel’s Random Reads
‘In a crowded landscape of so-called domestic noir thrillers, most of which rely on clever twists and big reveals, [The Missing] stands out for its subtle and thoughtful analysis of the fallout from a loss in the family.’
Crime Fiction Lover
‘When I had finished, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and wrung it out like a dish cloth.’
By the Letter Book Reviews
‘Be prepared to be consumed by The Escape – you’ll want to read it in one sitting. Just brilliant.’
Bookliterati
‘Incredibly thrilling and utterly unpredictable! A must read!’
Aggie’s Books
‘A gripping story.’
Bibliomaniac
‘The Accident had me gnawing the inside
of my mouth!’
Beady Jan’s Bookshelf
‘Another hit from C.L. Taylor … so cleverly written and so absorbing that I completely forgot about everything else while reading it. Unmissable.’
Alba in Book Land
Dedication (#ulink_15d50a74-6191-5cf4-b442-45c55a9b8079)
To my friend Scott James
who never backs down from a dare.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u49da14fe-1c7d-5678-8f1d-2d8d4d1ef320)
Title Page (#u4eb72d3a-1fe8-5199-864a-1d46a179cd76)
Copyright (#u11d9b844-d9e8-5885-bbf7-3cbcad83c788)
Praise for C.L. Taylor (#u9dd53f96-a6f6-5afb-8729-e67c724601b9)
See What Bloggers Are Saying About C.L. Taylor … (#u40d85511-0219-58dd-8a26-21c554199ca7)
Dedication (#u13ce3373-598a-5281-99d0-300c6e325512)
Chapter 1: Lou (#ued148235-0bfe-5306-8524-940ca15ebc06)
Chapter 2: Wendy (#u4b08de4a-43bb-5cb8-b86e-466ea4d2ce8b)
Chapter 3: Lou (#u74b51ebe-3342-5599-b1a0-0f6ee4aae593)
Chapter 4: Lou (#uf167dbbe-e406-5b01-9835-735e424f4348)
Chapter 5: Chloe (#u45df1e0b-27f0-5b98-9d23-4ddc5d29b3aa)
Chapter 6: Lou (#u4273397f-42e5-5b1b-8c66-838a0ff298cf)
Chapter 7: Wendy (#u84c8b1d1-a174-59f2-a494-4fc092ca9e20)
Chapter 8: Lou (#uc89cda0d-bf6d-5211-b376-429537feed6c)
Chapter 9: Chloe (#u36afd37f-eb95-5bff-ab94-5e3f0d69d97c)
Chapter 10: Wendy (#u1f3f1bdc-b7ed-58b8-8d6e-bfb8b0370522)
Chapter 11: Lou (#u098a2e00-0019-5bfa-a08b-efed0500f3c7)
Chapter 12: Lou (#u586ce059-19ee-5170-be88-4a80a008a5ac)
Chapter 13: Lou (#u86dde5fb-91ef-56ba-ac3a-0fc329c2ef36)
Chapter 14: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26: Ben (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45: Ds Anna Hope (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48: Mavis (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Reading Group Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_b20af44b-513e-5e90-8b3e-8815a60f872a)
Lou (#ulink_b20af44b-513e-5e90-8b3e-8815a60f872a)
Saturday 24th March 2007
I hate surprises. So much so that when Ben rang me at work on Monday and told me to keep the weekend free because he was going to surprise me, I almost ended the call. Instead I pretended to be thrilled.
‘You okay?’ he asks now. ‘You don’t get travel-sick do you?’
If I look pale it’s got nothing to do with the fact that we are rocketing down the A2 in Ben’s battered VW Golf.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘But I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.’
He taps a finger against the side of his nose and smiles. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
Ben was never meant to be more than a one-night stand. I figured he’d be straight out of my bed, and my life, the moment our sweat-slicked bodies cooled. But he stuck around. He stayed all night and then insisted on taking me out for breakfast the next day. I said yes, partly because it was less awkward than saying no. Mostly because I was hungry and I didn’t have any food in the house. We ended up staying in the café for over two hours. I learnt that he was a self-employed graphic artist, he’d never been to a gig, and his dad was a massive hypochondriac. He learnt that I was an only child, a project manager for an eLearning company and that my dad had recently died. Ben immediately reached across the table, squeezed my hand and said how sorry he was. When he asked if we’d been close I changed the subject.
I need to go back there at some point, to my childhood home in the rolling green Worcestershire countryside, to clear and clean the farmhouse and put it on the market, but there’s a good reason why I haven’t been back in eighteen years.
‘Not long now,’ Ben says as a sign to Dover/Channel Tunnel/Canterbury/Chatham flashes past us. ‘Any idea where we’re going yet?’
My stomach tightens but I keep my tone light. ‘Canterbury has a nice cathedral. You’re not planning on marrying me, are you? I haven’t packed a dress.’
If Ben knew me well, he’d realise that my voice is half an octave too high and my smile is pulled too tightly over my teeth. He’d ask if I was okay instead of laughing and making a quip about Gretna Green. But Ben and I have only been seeing each other for a month. He barely knows me.
I try to quell my anxiety, first by singing along to Ben’s Artic Monkeys CD, then by talking crap. As the miles speed by we discuss the DVD boxed set we’ve been binge-watching for the last week, the latest celebrity scandal that’s been splashed all over the broadsheets and where we watched the lunar eclipse. Logically I know that I have nothing to fear. I’m thirty-two, not fourteen. And Ben didn’t ask me to pack my passport. But the knot in my stomach remains.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I ask, as Ben presses a bottle of water to his lips.
He laughs, spraying the steering wheel with a fine mist. ‘Are you five?’
‘No, just impatient.’
‘I knew I should have blindfolded you. No,’ he nudges me lightly. ‘Gagged you.’
I tense but force a laugh. ‘Please tell me you’re not into all that S&M shit.’
‘Who says it’s shit?’
More laughter. We laugh a lot. We have since we met, in a pub in Soho. I was at a work leaving party and I’d just managed to spill the best part of a glass of red wine down my top. Ben came out of the men’s toilets as I swerved into the ladies’, dropping my purse in my haste. He waited outside so he could give it back to me. He was a nice-looking bloke, friendly and, because I was drunk, I said yes when he asked if he could buy me a drink.
One month since we met. Two months until we split up. If that. Thirty-two years old and I haven’t been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than three months. Sooner or later I’ll fuck things up. I always do.
The sign as we leave the M2 at junction 7 says Canterbury/Dover/Margate/Ramsgate. I can’t imagine he’s taking me to Margate for the weekend, although it could be fun. Canterbury then. It has to be. Maybe I should have packed a white dress.
‘Please tell me where we’re going,’ I plead.
Ben smiles but says nothing. The grin doesn’t leave his face as we exit the roundabout onto the Boughton Bypass and rejoin the A2.
‘No peeking,’ he says as I reach for my phone. ‘If you look on Google Maps you’ll spoil the surprise.’
Which was exactly my plan.
My grip on the hand rest tightens as we speed past the junction to Canterbury and I spot a sign saying ‘Dover 17 miles’. The only reason we could be going there would be to get a ferry to Calais. But Ben didn’t ask me to bring my passport. He must have discovered some kind of idyll nearby, a picturesque fishing village maybe, out of sight of the ferries and the boats.
‘Nearly there,’ he says as we drive through Dover and a grey stretch of sea appears between the buildings. ‘Trust me, you’re going to love it.’
Trust me. You need to trust me, Lou. I will keep you safe, I promise. I love you. You know that don’t you?
‘Ben.’
We’re only a couple of hundred metres from the ferry terminal now, a slab of grey, slapped up against the sea. We speed along the seafront then Ben slows the car as we approach the customs gates.
‘Ben, I—’
‘Don’t stress.’ He slows the car to a halt as we join the queue. ‘I’ve got your passport. Don’t kill me but I swiped it from your desk drawer when you were cooking dinner the other—’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘What?’
I yank on the door pull but the passenger door doesn’t open.
‘Lou?’
I try again. And again. Pull. Release. Pull. Release. The piece of black plastic flaps back and forth but the door doesn’t open. He’s locked me in.
It’s going to be okay, Lou. It’s what we wanted. Just you and me. A new life. A new start in a place where no one will judge us. We can be together, forever.
The window then. If I open it, unclip my seat belt and lean out, I’ll be able to open the door from the outside. I’ll be able to get out.
‘Lou?’
I try and turn the handle on the passenger door but my hand is slick with sweat and it keeps slipping from underneath my fingertips.
‘Are you going to be sick or something? I’ve opened the door. Sorry, it’s central locking and—’
A cold gust of air whips my hair around my face as I leap out of the car. In an instant I am fourteen years old again.
Mike is the love of my life and I am his. He’s taking me to France for a romantic weekend away. This morning I put on my school uniform as usual but, instead of getting the bus all the way to school, I got off a stop early on the corner of Holy Lane. Mike was waiting with his car. He’d told me to bring toiletries, a change of clothes and my passport in my school bag. He said he’d take care of the rest.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_fb49d1a2-092d-5095-aae7-ae2e812bf340)
Wendy (#ulink_fb49d1a2-092d-5095-aae7-ae2e812bf340)
Sunday 8th April 2007
‘Monty!’ Wendy Harrison lays down her shovel, dusts the soil from her gardening gloves and stands up. ‘Monty, I’m going in now!’
At the sound of her voice, her piebald springer spaniel comes bounding out of the bushes and pads across the grass towards her, his pink tongue lolling.
‘Hello, Monts.’ Wendy rubs a hand over the top of his head. ‘I think we both deserve a treat, don’t you?’
The dog’s ears twitch at the sound of the word treat and he trots obediently beside his mistress, his eyes never leaving her face, as she makes her way inside the small terraced house on the edge of Great Malvern.
Wendy takes a bite of her custard cream, chews, swallows and then pops the other half in her mouth. When that’s gone she sips at her tea and picks up another biscuit. She was only going to have one. She’d even entered it into her Slimming World diary – custard cream, 3 syns – but somehow half of the packet has vanished.
Sod it, she thinks as she moves her finger over her laptop’s mousepad. I’ll start again tomorrow.
For the last hour she’s been flicking back and forth between the same three websites – Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. It’s the fourth time today that she’s logged on and it’s only 2 p.m. She tries to distract herself – with gardening, her part-time bookkeeping job and walking Monty – but her mind always drifts back to those websites. Has something new been posted? An update, photo or location? The panic builds in her stomach. What if the information is deleted before she reads it? What if she misses something important?
She can’t remember what first prompted her to google Lou Wandsworth. It might have been a passing conversation she’d had with her friend Angela about finding an old school friend on Facebook, an article she read in the paper, or maybe she was having one of those days where she woke up feeling as though a dark cloud had settled in her brain and nothing brought her joy, not even when Monty laid his head on her knee and stared up at her with his searching brown eyes.
It didn’t take Wendy long to track Lou down. She was the only Louise Wandsworth on Facebook. The trouble was, she could only see her name, an image of a cartoon character as her profile picture and a list of her friends. Nothing else. Angela had shown her how to set up her own Facebook page but she couldn’t use that to try and connect with Lou. She made a new page instead, called herself Saskia Kennedy, and added a few photos of a woman that she’d found online who was about the same age as Lou.
Wendy’s heart trembled in her chest when she pressed the ‘add friend’ button. But nothing happened. Her request was ignored. Days went by, then weeks. Wendy did some more googling: How do you get someone to accept a Facebook friend request?
She discovered that it looked suspicious if you didn’t have many friends, or any in common, so she set about adding random people who lived in London and looked about the same age as Louise. Men were easy – the woman in her fake profile picture was attractive – but it took a little longer for women to start accepting her requests. Once she had fifty friends and had filled her wall with silly photos and the same sort of updates as her ‘contemporaries’ she tried adding a few of Lou’s friends. To her surprise they accepted her, at least half a dozen of them. When she tried adding Lou for a second time her friend request was accepted.
She was in.
She felt jubilant as she clicked on Lou’s photo albums. All those months of detective work and she’d finally found what she had been looking for. Not just one photo of her but dozens and dozens. Lou had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. A hint of make-up around the eyes but no lipstick. Skinny. But not in an attractive way. Her jacket sloped away from her shoulders and her skirt bagged below her knees. There was a pinched, haggard look to her cheeks, despite her youth – the hollowed face of a long-distance runner or one of the dieters in Slimming World magazine who’ve lost four or five stone in a matter of months.
As Wendy clicked through the photos, a weight settled in her stomach. Lou might not be conventionally attractive but she was surrounded by people in every shot. There were photos of her in dim bars, chinking cocktail glasses with dewy-skinned friends. Shots of her running through the waves on a tropical holiday, not an ounce of fat protruding from beneath her string bikini. Lou on top of a mountain with a cagoule hood pulled tightly around her head with a look of triumph on her face. Lou in fancy dress, one foot cocked behind her like a fifties starlet, kissing a dark-haired man dressed like Clark Gable. She was vivacious, well-liked, well-travelled and content. Everything that Wendy was not.
Wendy didn’t go back on Facebook for a week after that first discovery. She didn’t even open her laptop. Just walking past it made her feel sick.
But then curiosity got the better of her.
‘I’ll just have a quick look,’ she told Monty as she settled down at her dining room table and opened the laptop lid. ‘Then I’ll stop.’
That was seven months ago.
‘Give me a second, Monty,’ Wendy says now as her dog nudges at her knee. ‘We’ll go for a walk in a minute.’
She reaches for a custard cream and pops it into her mouth. Outside, storm clouds are gathering in the sky. If they don’t go out now they’ll be in for one soggy walk. One last refresh of the screen, Wendy tells herself as she clicks the trackpad button, and then I’ll get my coat on.
What she sees on the screen makes her inhale so sharply a tiny bit of biscuit whizzes down her windpipe, making her cough. Lou has just updated her Facebook page.
I got the job in Malvern and I’m moving in a month’s time. London, I’m going to miss you.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_70448589-f204-5cf0-be81-4854ddb7763d)
Lou (#ulink_70448589-f204-5cf0-be81-4854ddb7763d)
Saturday 21st April 2007
I’ve spent the last month trying to ready myself for this moment but nothing could have prepared me for the cloud of memories that descend as I catch sight of the Malvern Hills, curving like a dragon’s back, as I head down the A4440: buying penny sweets in white paper bags from Morley’s, laughing at the girls from the local boarding school in their brown ‘Batman’ cloaks, walking up to St Anne’s Well with Mum and Dad feeling like I was climbing a mountain, and stepping into The Martial Arts Club for the first time, feeling sick with nerves. An image of Mike, smiling and holding out a hand in welcome, flashes into my brain. I try to blot it out by focussing on the road as I speed past Malvern and along the A4103 towards Acton Green. It’s not a journey I’ve ever driven before – I passed my test in London – but the road is imprinted in my memory from all the times Dad ferried me to and from karate lessons. My phone bleeps on the passenger seat as I pass Dad’s favourite drinking haunt, The Dog and Duck. I snatch it up, hoping it’s a text from Ben, knowing it won’t be.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since that awful afternoon in Dover four weeks ago. He caught up with me after I fled, half a mile or so along the seafront.
‘Louise?’ He abandoned his car on a double yellow line and ran after me, grabbing my hand, forcing me to stop. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
I shook my head, hating myself for what I was about to do.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What just happened?’
When I told him that I didn’t think we should see each other again, the concerned expression on his face morphed into confusion. Why, he wanted to know. What had he done wrong?
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’
He searched my face for an answer. ‘Then why?’
I couldn’t tell him. Not when I’ve spent the last eighteen years pretending that Mike Hughes doesn’t exist. Instead I mumbled something about things moving too quickly. I wasn’t ready for a relationship. We wanted different things.
I cried on the train back to London, turning my face to the window so the man sitting next to me couldn’t see my tears. Ben didn’t deserve what just happened. Neither did any of the men I’d dumped, run away from and lied to. If I didn’t face up to what happened to me when I was fourteen I was going to spend the rest of my life alone.
I glance at my phone. The text is from my best friend Alice, asking if I’ve got to Dad’s house safely. I drop the phone back on the seat and indicate left, taking the road towards Ledbury – and Mike’s house – instead of continuing on to Acton Green. I’ve never been to his house before. Why would I? He was a respectable member of the community, a karate teacher who raised money for charity through fun runs and tournaments. And besides, he lived with his wife Dee. Mike was very good at keeping our ‘affair’ secret. Our first kiss was in the changing rooms behind the dojo. I was fourteen and it was almost one year to the day after I first started karate, but we first fucked in—
Don’t use that word again.
Mike’s voice cuts through the memory.
Fucking is sex without emotion, Louise. That’s not something I do and it’s certainly not something we’re going to do. When we spend the night together for the first time it’s going to be because we love each other and we’ll express that by—
I turn the radio on and twist the knob round to the right. The sound explodes out of the speakers in a fury, making my eardrums pulse, but I don’t turn it back down. It’s a song I barely know but I sing along anyway, shouting nonsensical words as Mike’s voice creeps through the space between notes, demanding to be heard.
Mike might not have taken me to his house but I knew where he lived. I knew everything about him, or as much as a fourteen-year-old girl could without access to the internet, and I wrote it all down in my diary. I listened in to conversations between the parents and the other senseis. I casually quizzed the older students about him and, during the rare moments I was alone with Mike, I’d listen, enrapt, to anything he told me. This was way before we kissed for the first time. A long time before that.
As I turn right off New Mills Way – one street away from Mike’s house – my resolve vanishes and empty terror replaces it. What am I doing? My plan was to give myself a couple of weeks to sort out Dad’s house and start work before I tracked Mike down. I googled before I left, to check he hadn’t changed his name or gone underground. But no, he lives in the same house he lived in eighteen years ago and he’s got his own business – Hughes Removals and Deliveries – on the outskirts of Malvern. No karate club though, thank God.
I park up, then slump over the steering wheel as all the air leaves my body in one raggedy breath. I’ve got no idea what I’ll walk into when I knock on his door. Mike’s wife could answer. One of his children – if he has any. What do I say if that happens? Hello, I’m Louise, the girl your dad groomed. Is he in?
I don’t know why you’re blaming me for everything. You knew what you were getting yourself into.
Shut up, I tell the voice. I was fourteen. I had no idea.
If I did such a terrible thing why didn’t you testify at my trial?
Because I was terrified of what you might do if you weren’t convicted.
That’s a lie, isn’t it? You didn’t testify because you loved me.
No, that’s not true.
You were the one who said ‘I love you’ first. You said you wanted to marry me and have my children. Do you know why you can’t make a relationship work? Why you had to send Ben packing? Because you still love me.
‘No.’ I slam my fists against the steering wheel, pounding the horn to block out the soft murmur of Mike’s voice in the back of my skull. ‘I don’t. I don’t.’
Sweat prickles at my armpits as I push open the gate to Mike’s house and walk up the path. If his wife answers, I won’t recognise her. There are no photos of her on the internet and Mum made sure I didn’t get so much as a peek at the news or the front page of a newspaper after the trial. I didn’t have a mobile phone or home computer back in 1989 either.
But what if Dee Hughes recognises me? She never went to the dojo or to any of the matches but she must have tried to find out who I am. What if she screams in my face and tells me that I ruined her life? When I look at photos of fourteen-year-old me, I barely recognise myself. My face was soft and round, my hair dark and cut into a jaw-length bob with a thick heavy fringe. These days it’s lighter and longer, with pale tendrils that hang over sharp cheekbones and a tight jaw that I didn’t have eighteen years ago. But it’s not just my face that has changed. The softly curved body I despised so much as a teenager has gone. On a good day, I can look in the mirror and tell myself that I’m slender. On a bad day, my body looks wizened and androgynous, as though the years have eaten away at my femininity.
I knock three times on the front door. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times. Sometimes Mike looks shocked to see me. Occasionally he starts to cry. Once I stabbed him before he could speak. I concentrate on the thick, glossy red paint and take a deep breath. If Mike peeks from behind a curtain, I want him to see me standing here confidently, not twitching and shifting. I want to get this over and done with now, before any more memories overwhelm me. I have to do it while I’m still feeling brave. We can talk on the doorstep or in the pub down the road. If he invites me in, I’ll say no. Even if he’s home alone. Particularly if he’s home alone.
That’s her, someone shouts as I step out of the French police station. Flashbulbs light up the dark sky as I’m sandwiched between four police officers and shepherded into a black car. That’s the girl who ran away with her karate teacher.
‘Hello?’
I am vaguely aware of a voice, a male baritone, shouting hello, but it doesn’t register. Nothing does.
I need to find out where Mike is. Did they bring him here too? Is he being interrogated behind one of these flat, beige doors?
‘Hello! You at the door of number fifty-nine!’
I turn slowly. There’s a man in his mid to late fifties, hanging out of the first-floor window of the house next to Mike’s. The upper half of his body is naked and his hair is slicked back, like he just stepped out of the shower. I try to erase the image of Mike’s face from my mind, to mentally shake myself forward in time, but the memory’s still holding me tightly, like the last vestiges of a dream. Or a nightmare.
‘Were you after Mike?’ the man asks.
Do I say yes or no? I have no idea who this person is.
‘I was, yes.’
‘Friend are you?’
I smile tightly. ‘Old friend.’
His eyes flick the length of my body and he smiles lasciviously. ‘Lucky Mike.’
I ignore him and head back down the path to my car.
‘He’s at work,’ the man shouts, making me pause as I touch a hand to the driver side door. ‘Greensleeves, the garden centre. He does their pick-ups on a Saturday.’ No mention of Mike’s wife, but I’m not about to ask.
‘Fancy going for a drink sometime?’ he adds as I get into my car. ‘Thank me properly?’
I consider shouting something abusive but I haven’t got time to explain why no sane woman would date a prick who slathers at women out of a window. It’s half past five. I need to find out where the garden centre is and get there before it closes. I need to find Mike. Now. Before the fear sets in again.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_a31d378a-497c-57c7-a86f-9ae6b3aff0a6)
Lou (#ulink_a31d378a-497c-57c7-a86f-9ae6b3aff0a6)
I change out of my uniform in the car, wriggling out of my school skirt and pulling on my jeans. When I undo my seat belt so I can take off my shirt, Mike snaps at me.
‘What the fuck are you doing? We’re on the motorway for God’s sake.’
I quickly plug my seat belt back in but tears prick at my eyes as I struggle to pull on my jumper. It was supposed to be a romantic weekend away and he’s just snapped at me like I’m misbehaving in class.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mike rests a hand on my knee. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Lou. You mean the world to me. You know that, don’t you?’
I nod, but I don’t squeeze his hand. It remains on my knee like a dead weight until he has to lift it up again to tap the indicator and change lanes.
I push open the doors to Greensleeves Garden Centre. As I step inside the woman behind the counter, dressed in a red polo shirt, shouts that they’ll be closing soon. I ignore her and speed through the shop, barely registering the shelves of bird food and ornaments and the displays of garden furniture and houseplants. The only other customer is a heavily pregnant woman pushing a trolley full of fertiliser and decorative fencing with bedding plants piled on the top.
I glance at my watch as I step through the large double doors next to the restaurant. 17.53. Seven minutes until they close. If Mike’s not out here, in the yard amongst the plants, shrubs and timber, I’ll head round the back, see if there’s some kind of loading bay. I don’t want to have to come here again or go back to his house. I want to get this over and done with now.
I walk along the length of the aisles, pausing to peer down each one as I pass. The place is deserted. I’ll just do one last loop of the yard and then head round the—
It’s the flash of blue amongst all the brown and green that makes me pause. I’m at the far end of the yard, standing beside a raised pallet full of shaped bushes and willow-like trees in decorative pots. There are six sheds and summer houses, standing in a row like sentries, directly to my left – no more than a couple of metres away. A grey-haired man wearing a blue T-shirt just ducked inside the summer house.
A sharp pain cuts across my chest, like cheese wire being pulled tight around my ribcage. It’s him. It’s Mike. I only caught a glimpse before the door closed behind him, but it was enough for me to take in the thick grey hair, the deep lines either side of his mouth and the pronounced limp as he walked. He must be forty-nine years old but he looks older. So much older than I remember, but I know it’s him. I’d stake my life on it.
I crouch down and peer from between two bushes. Unlike the two wooden sheds on either side of it, the summer house has white PVC double doors and two long windows. As Mike appears in one of the windows, someone else steps out of the shadows. As she reaches a hand to touch Mike’s face, he glances over his shoulder, back towards the yard. For one terrible second I think that he’s seen me, but he turns back to face the woman. He sweeps the hair from the side of her face, then, cradling the back of her head, leans in for a kiss.
They kiss for several seconds, then the woman pulls away and I catch a glimpse of her face. Bobbed brown hair with a thick fringe. A soft jawline. Full, plump cheeks. Jeans that cling to thick thighs. A red polo shirt pulled tight over large, weighty breasts. She’s not a woman at all. She’s a child, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old.
I don’t burst into the summer house and scream at Mike to get his hands off her. Nor do I run off in search of a staff member. Instead I turn and flee, flying through the aisles of trees and bushes, brushing past plants and dodging statues. I don’t stop running until I’m back in the safety of my car, then I smash my fists against the steering wheel until my skin is red and throbbing.
I have never hated myself more than I do right now.
I should have felt anger when I saw Mike kiss that girl. Or disgust. Instead I felt betrayed. He was kissing her the same way he kissed me: the smoothing away of the hair, the cradling of the back of the head, the teasing lip brush followed by a deeper, harder kiss as he pulled her into him.
I had to wait so very, very long for our first kiss. He pulled away so many times before our lips finally met, denying me, telling me that I was too young and it wouldn’t be right. His reticence only made me want him more. I’d lie in bed and relive every touch, every lingering look and every soft word. I’d run a finger over my mouth, then push two fingers against my lips, imagining the weight of his mouth on mine. Fourteen years old and I’d never been kissed. I never admitted it to anyone at school but teenagers can sniff out weakness and fear the same way pigs can sniff out truffles and, somehow, everyone knew. The bullying began when I was thirteen, just before Mum and Dad split up. I’ve got no idea why. One moment I was invisible, the next I was on the bullies’ radar. It was Dad that suggested the karate lessons. They’d give me an air of confidence, he said, even if I never used the moves. An air of confidence? That’s a joke.
I start as a dark green estate car pulls into the car park. It does a U-turn, then parks near the exit. The driver doesn’t get out but he does open a window and flick cigarette ash on the floor. As he does, the door to the garden centre bursts open and the girl I saw in the summer house runs down the path.
‘Chloe!’ the man in the green estate bellows, leaning out of the window.
The girl sprints across the car park. ‘Sorry, Dad, sorry,’ she calls as she rounds the car.
‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages. Get in.’
That’s a lie.
‘They needed me to work late,’ the girl says as she pulls at the car door. ‘I couldn’t just …’ The rest of her sentence is lost as she slides into the car and slams the door shut.
As the car inches forward, its right indicator blinking, I look back at the door to the garden centre. Do I wait for Mike to come out or go after the girl?
The green estate pulls out into the road and I start my engine.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_c6c93c7f-4991-5889-8235-4b5a5c1a59de)
Chloe (#ulink_c6c93c7f-4991-5889-8235-4b5a5c1a59de)
Chloe endures her dad’s rant all the way home. She’s a stupid girl. She’s got no sense of responsibility. She’s selfish. She’s fat. Most thirteen-year-olds would be grateful to have an after-school job. He hopes she’s more punctual when her boss asks her to do something. Mike’s his friend but he didn’t have to help him find his stupid daughter an after-school job. If she gets the sack, it will reflect badly on both of them.
She tries to block him out by glancing out of the window and losing herself in the green blur of the hedgerow, but each time she turns her head her dad snaps at her to look at him when he’s talking to her.
I hate you, she thinks as she looks into his eyes. You’re a bully. You bully Mum and you bully me. The only person you don’t bully is your precious little mini-me Jamie. At seven years old he’s too young to realise that his dad’s an arsehole. He thinks his dad can do no wrong, not while he’s still impressed by tickets to see Wolves play, packs of football cards and father–son trips to McDonald’s. She’d like to think that when Jamie hits his teens, the scales will fall away from his eyes and he’ll understand that it’s not okay to talk to women like they’re shit. Then again, just yesterday, when she asked him to put his plate in the dishwasher after dinner, he said, ‘Why should I? Dad doesn’t.’
Chloe’s spent a lot of time trying to work out why her dad and Mike are friends. They couldn’t be more different. Her dad, Alan, is harsh and abrasive. Mike is gentle and kind. Her dad criticises her and makes her feel like shit. Mike tells her she’s beautiful and makes her feel like she could do anything she wanted to in life. She didn’t always feel so warmly towards Mike. She used to ignore him if he came round to their house for a BBQ or to have a few beers with her dad in the garden. Putting up with her dad was bad enough, why would she want to chat to one of his arsehole mates? And when her dad suggested she get a weekend and after-school job at the garden centre she was horrified. A garden centre? How boring was that. And anyway, she had homework to do after school. ‘It’s not like you’ll ever be an A-grade student,’ her dad had snapped, ‘even if you did homework for the rest of your life. Get retail experience now, while you can.’ It was her mum who finally talked her into taking the job. ‘It’ll get you out of the house,’ she said softly, ‘and you might make some new friends.’ Chloe wasn’t sure she wanted to be friends with people who worked in a garden centre, but the idea of avoiding her dad for sixteen hours a week did appeal. And earning some money of her own so she didn’t have to ask him.
When the car finally pulls up on their street, Chloe sits tight, waiting for her dad to tell her that she can get out, then she runs up the path and into the house.
‘Mum!’ she calls. ‘I’m back!’
She pops her head into the living room to find Jamie sitting on the rug in front of the TV, the PS4 remote welded to his hands.
‘Jamie, where’s Mum?’
‘Having a lie-down. She’s got a migraine. Again.’
She takes the stairs two at a time, then gently pushes at her parents’ bedroom door. The curtains are drawn and the room is dark but she can make out the shape of her mother lying curled up on her side on the bed. She’s fast asleep. Chloe reaches into her back pocket for her phone and checks the time. 6.17 p.m. She wonders if Mike will be home yet. Not that she knows where that is. When she asked him where he lived and if he had a family, he shook his head and said, ‘All you need to know is that my life is a lonely one. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’ve got a feeling you can relate?’ She’d looked away then, unable to cope with the intensity of his gaze.
‘Chloe!’ her dad yells from downstairs. ‘If your mum’s not able to make the dinner you’ll have to do it.’
Chloe glances at her mum, her face slack, her shoulders relaxed and her breathing heavy and slow, then she makes her way back down the stairs.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_c8c77e95-e9e2-5eed-a4c5-2f015be56898)
Lou (#ulink_c8c77e95-e9e2-5eed-a4c5-2f015be56898)
Any tension between me and Mike lifts the moment the ferry pulls away from the terminal and we’re free to get out of the car. He grabs my hand and half-leads, half-pulls me up the stairs to the deck.
‘Let’s find the arcade.’ He beams, dimples puncturing his stubbly cheeks. ‘If they’ve got those grabby games, I’ll try and win you a toy.’
We move from game to game – shooting, driving and dancing. Mike wins the shooting. I win the dancing. I win the driving too when I cheat and yank on his steering wheel, making him do a U-turn. He doesn’t care. He pulls me onto his lap, then without bothering to check if anyone is looking, he covers my face in kisses. When we’ve exhausted all the games, we drop shiny ten-pence pieces into the penny shove. We work as a team first, then race each other to see who can get the most coins in. As our winnings tumble over the edge, Mike wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me clean off my feet.
‘Let’s celebrate in style!’ he laughs. ‘The burgers are on me!’
He leads me to the restaurant and orders burgers, fries and milkshakes. I get Mike to dip his fries in his milkshake (‘disgusting’) and he challenges me to see who can take the biggest bite out of our buns. I’ve seen lots of different sides to Mike’s personality in the eighteen months since I’ve known him. I’ve seen him thoughtful, sensitive, kind and strict (but only at the club). But I’ve never seen him like this before. The playful side of him is amazing. It’s like we’re the same age.
It doesn’t last forever. The closer the ferry gets to Calais, the quieter Mike becomes and as the car pulls off the rank he snaps at me to ‘wait’ when I ask where we’re going. When the customs officers check our passports, his whole body tenses and he holds himself very still. He’s worried, but he shouldn’t be. As far as Mum and Dad are concerned, I’ve gone on a karate camping trip. As long as I’m back by Sunday night they’ll be fine.
‘My niece,’ Mike says as the uniformed man looks from him to me.
‘Oui,’ I say and flash him a smile. Mike twitches, ever so slightly, like he’s annoyed with me, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the man’s face.
‘Merci.’ He gives the passports back and waves his hand for us to move on.
I almost threw up when I pulled into the parking lot of Malvern Police Station but anger propelled me out of the car and into the building. God knows what the duty sergeant made of me as I flew up to the desk and demanded to speak to someone urgently. My heart’s still pounding and I babble rather than speak, my voice filling the small, beige room. DS Hope doesn’t say a word. Instead she listens intently, her eyes on me, her pen poised over the notepad on her lap.
‘It happened at Greensleeves Garden Centre near Powick,’ I say. ‘Just before closing. The man’s name is Michael Hughes. I don’t know the girl’s surname but her first name is Chloe. I heard her dad shout to her when he picked her up. I followed them home in my car. Her address is 29, Missingham Road. It’s just off the—’
DS Hope raises an eyebrow. ‘You followed the girl home?’
‘Of course. I was worried about her. I thought if I found out where she lived, then I could pass the information on to you.’
‘Why not ask another employee? You just told me you thought she worked there. That she was wearing the same red polo top as the woman on the tills.’
‘The woman on the tills wasn’t there when I left.’ My chest tightens as the lie leaves my mouth, but what else can I say?
DS Hope is looking at me like I’m unhinged. Did I do something weird? Would a normal person not have followed Chloe home?
‘What did you do after you followed her?’
‘I drove straight here.’
‘Right, okay. So, let’s go back to the start.’ DS Hope lays her pen down on her notepad. ‘You were walking around the garden centre and you saw an adult man kissing a teenage girl?’
I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. Being in this windowless beige room is bringing back memories I’d rather forget and it’s taking all my willpower not to run from the room.
‘Yes, as I said. He went into a summer house. She was already in there, like she was waiting for him. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then he kissed her.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘Nearly six o’clock.’
‘And this …’ she glances down, ‘Michael Hughes. Does he work at Greensleeves Garden Centre too?’
‘No. He’s got a delivery company. But I think he does some of their deliveries.’
‘You know him then?’
‘I …’
I can’t tell her the truth. I told the duty sergeant that my name was Lou Smith, not Lou Wandsworth. I don’t want to talk about what happened between me and Mike. I just want the police to stop it from happening again.
‘Lou? Are you okay?’ DS Hope sits forward in her seat, her eyes scanning my face.
‘I’m just a bit hot.’ I grab a tissue from the box on the table and wipe it over my forehead. Mike kissing that girl is all my fault. If I’d testified against him, he might have been given a longer sentence. He might still be in jail. I’ve spent the last eighteen years telling myself that what happened was a one-off, that it was because of me. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – let myself believe he’d do that to anyone else.
‘What is it you’re not telling me, Lou?’ DS Hope asks. ‘What’s your relationship with this man?’
‘I haven’t got a relationship with him. I came here to report what looked like grooming. That’s all. I thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘How do you know his name then, and what he does for a living?’
‘Because I’ve used his company for removals before.’ The lies are coming thick and fast now. Why did I think this was a good idea? I didn’t think it through properly. I never should have stepped foot in here.
‘And you recognised him, when you saw him in the summer house?’
‘Yes. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘I’m just trying to establish what happened.’ Her gaze doesn’t waver. She doesn’t say anything for several seconds. She’s trying to get me to talk but I’ve said too much already. ‘The thing is, Lou, we need evidence to arrest someone and if there’s something you’re not telling me you’re going to make my job more difficult.’
‘He’s a paedophile. He’s served time for abducting …’ I pause. My heart’s beating so quickly I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack, ‘… another girl.’
DS Hope raises her eyebrows as she scribbles in her notepad. ‘When was this? Do you know?’
‘A long time ago. Look, I’ve told you everything I know. I was just trying to do the right thing, coming here and telling you what I saw.’
She gives me a lingering look then stands up.
‘All right, Lou. I’ve got enough to go on for now. I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 7 (#ulink_fd89763c-629e-552f-9fe1-b523bc308a67)
Wendy (#ulink_fd89763c-629e-552f-9fe1-b523bc308a67)
Tuesday 24th April 2007
Wendy stiffens as two young men glance her way as they walk into the café. Her preferred table, a single-seater in the window, was occupied when she came in and she had no choice but to take a four-seater in the corner. It’s a quarter past one and the café is filling up. Sooner or later someone’s going to ask if they can share her table. What if Louise Wandsworth herself took one of the seats opposite her? Wendy’s stomach clenches with a mixture of fear and excitement.
But there’s no sign of her. When Lou came into the café yesterday just after one, she went straight up to the counter and ordered a black coffee, a chicken roll and a tub of fruit salad. Wendy watched discreetly from behind her paperwork as Lou frowned over her mobile phone and picked at her food.
It was the first time she’d seen Lou up close and she was dumbstruck. It reminded her of the evening she’d been having drinks in the Royal Malvern hotel with Angela when Michael Ball had walked in. Wendy had raised a hand, waved and flashed him a smile. Michael Ball didn’t even acknowledge her. Instead his gaze swivelled across the room, to a large, raucous group of lovies by the bar. Wendy was mortified. Angela told her that she wasn’t the first person to mistake a celebrity for a friend but Wendy insisted they leave immediately. It had been the same when she’d first seen Lou – the surprise and the hollowing in her stomach – only that time she’d managed to grip the table rather than thrusting her arm into the air.
When she’d read on Facebook that Lou was going to start a new job at Consol eLearning, she’d immediately checked out the company online. According to the website, they developed eLearning solutions for the public and private sector, whatever that meant. Lou’s friends seemed to be as surprised as Wendy by her proposed move from London to Malvern. There were lots of ridiculously effusive comments begging her not to go and several ‘we’ll miss you soooooo much.’ When asked by one friend why she was making the move, Lou had replied, ‘I’ll DM you.’ That had frustrated Wendy almost as much as her initial attempt to add Lou as a friend. Wendy didn’t comment. She never did. Instead she lurked, reading and analysing everything she found.
She hadn’t planned to sit in the café directly opposite Consol eLearning on Lou’s first day but she’d woken up at 5.30 a.m. and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. With her car in the garage, Monty walked, and no meetings until that afternoon, she had found herself at a bit of a loose end.
I probably won’t see her, she told herself as she settled herself into the single window seat at 8.15 a.m. with a pot of tea. And if I don’t, that’s fine. I have work I can catch up on before I meet up with Judith.
But Wendy’s briefcase of paperwork sat untouched by her feet for an hour. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the window and the people walking past. And then she saw her, Lou, walking down the street. She’d watched, her heart pounding in her chest as Lou had pulled at the door to Consol eLearning, then slumped back in her seat, exhausted and spent, as the door closed behind her and she disappeared from view. Wendy made a snap decision. She would stay in the café until lunchtime to see where Lou went. No one could have been more surprised than her when she actually came in.
Now, she looks at her watch – 1.32 p.m. Lou’s late. Yesterday she came in at 1.05 p.m. But there’s no way Wendy can hold on for another second. She really must use the toilet. She grabs her handbag, snatches up her coat and speeds across the café.
When she walks back out again, Lou Wandsworth is standing less than five metres away from her. Shock almost propels Wendy straight back into the ladies’. Across the room, her table has already been snapped up by a family of three and there are no free seats available. She has two choices – leave without paying the bill or join the queue behind Lou?
She moves closer. She has never run off without paying a bill in her life and she’s not about to do so now.
Lou doesn’t so much as glance round as Wendy silently slips behind her and rests a quivering hand on the top of the glass cake display. Up close, Wendy is able to measure herself against the other woman. Louise Wandsworth is tall, at least five inches taller than her, and her hips – swimming in a too large skirt – are narrower than Wendy’s waist. There is mud on the heels of Lou’s shoes and the ends of her hair are split and tangled. The compulsion to reach into her bag and pull out a comb is almost more than Wendy can bear. She never leaves the house without checking that her shoes are clean and her hair is neat.
‘Order to go, please,’ Lou says as the café owner, a smiley woman about Wendy’s age in a blue and white striped apron, gives her a nod. ‘Black coffee, chicken roll and a fruit salad pot.’
‘Not stopping today?’
‘No, I need to prepare for a client meeting at three. Well, it’s more of a pitch for new business.’
‘Sounds important.’
‘It is. The boss wants me to bring in more money.’
‘Well, fingers crossed it goes well.’
Wendy stands very still, her eyes fixed to the floor as the café owner bustles about, putting the order together, and Lou stands silently beside her, waiting. After an interminable five or six minutes, she hears the clink of money changing hands, the dry rustle of a paper bag being handed over and a soft, breathy ‘thank you’.
‘Yes?’ the café owner says. ‘Hello, yes. How can I help you?’
Wendy tears her eyes away from the thin figure sprinting across the road and fixes the other woman with a big smile. She’s just had the most wonderful idea.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_bc41f5db-caef-5b56-8635-098032d292e4)
Lou (#ulink_bc41f5db-caef-5b56-8635-098032d292e4)
I can’t believe I get to spend a whole weekend with Mike in France. First stop, a hotel room just outside Calais. I’ve been in hotel rooms before, mostly on holiday with Mum and Dad, but this is only the second time I’ve been to one with Mike. The first time was to a Travelodge in Birmingham. The carpet was blue and there were stripy curtains but they weren’t what caught my attention – it was the double bed in the middle of the room. It was finally going to happen. Mike and I were going to have sex for the first time and I was utterly terrified, despite him reassuring me that we’d take our time and he’d be ever so gentle.
We’ve had sex loads of times since then, sometimes in the dojo changing rooms but mostly in his car after class. When Mike offered to start dropping me home, Dad couldn’t say yes fast enough. He said it would give him more time to get some work done but we both knew he meant more time at the pub.
When we reach our hotel room, Mike opens the door, chucks the bags in, then holds up a hand when I try to enter.
‘No, no. I need to carry you in!’
I laugh. ‘We’re not married!’
‘We will be one day!’
I try to wriggle away as he reaches for me. I’m far too heavy and I’d die of embarrassment if he drops me. But Mike scoops me up and into his arms as though I’m as light as a feather. He kicks the door closed behind me and half-drops, half-throws me onto the bed. I land on my side and twist round to pull him close for a kiss. He pecks me on the lips, then flips me onto my stomach and pulls me towards him so I’m bent over the bed.
‘Mike!’ I laugh, as he starts unbuttoning my jeans. ‘Let’s at least go out for dinner first. I thought this weekend was supposed to be romantic.’
He looks at me but it’s as though he doesn’t really see me. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes have this weird glassy sheen to them. He’s got this jubilant expression on his face, like he’s climbed a mountain or won a race.
‘It will be,’ he says as he yanks my jeans and knickers down to my ankles.
A couple of minutes later he slumps on top of me, roaring as he comes. It’s the first time we’ve had sex and haven’t looked each other in the eye.
Saturday 28th April 2007
Three days ago I caved and texted Ben. Mostly because I still feel so awful about what happened and partly because my friend Alice encouraged me to. She rang me on my mobile as I was walking to my car after work. Just for a chat, she said, but we both knew she was fishing for gossip. First she chastised me for not updating Facebook since I left London, then she told me she’d bumped into Ben in the pub. Apparently he was frosty when she asked how he was.
‘He said, I’ve been better. Those were his exact words. I think he still likes you, Lou. Are you sure you can’t sort things out with him?’
I haven’t told Alice the truth about what happened in Dover. I said we’d had an argument and decided to end things. She doesn’t know about Mike. None of my friends do.
‘I’ve told you, I’m a screw-up when it comes to men. I can’t even become a mad old cat lady because I’m allergic to them. Cats, not old ladies, although I’ve never had one rub themselves up and down my leg.’
Alice laughed. ‘Okay, well, first off, we’re all screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Secondly, what you and Ben had was pretty intense. I barely saw you when you were with him. Maybe you both just need a bit of a breather. Has he texted you since you split up? Have you texted him?’
No, I told her. I haven’t heard from him. And I haven’t texted him either. But I still feel really bad about what happened.
‘Text him then. Say sorry. You obviously like him. If you didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Anyway, what’s it like being back? How’s the farmhouse?’
She listened as I told her how I’d almost driven straight past my old family home, it had changed so much. That the neatly clipped hedges, gnarly apple trees and bright daffodils that lined the lane up to our house had been replaced by a tangle of green foliage and weeds. The trees dipped so low, their branches so tightly tangled, it was like driving through a dark tunnel. I told her how my heart had caught in my throat as I’d pulled into the driveway and spotted Dad’s parked Volvo.
‘For a second, I thought he was still alive,’ I said.
I didn’t tell her how freaked out I was when I walked into the living room and saw his old chair.
‘Bloody hell, Lou,’ she said when I finally stopped talking. ‘Sounds traumatic. Oh mate, I knew I should have come with you, at least for your first weekend.’
By the end of the phone call I felt calmer than I had done in days. I hadn’t realised how much I was bottling up my emotions or how isolated I was. Alice was the first person I’d spoken to in a week. Properly spoken to, I mean. Superficial conversations with my new colleagues at work didn’t count.
I took Alice’s advice and texted Ben before I got into my car.
I’m sorry for what happened in Dover. There are reasons why I reacted the way I did that I can’t explain right now. You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you afterwards. I hope you’re okay. X
I read the message again, deleted the kiss at the end and then sent it. Ben had twenty minutes to reply before I reached the countryside and the technology dead zone that is Dad’s house. There’s no reception, no Wi-Fi and no neighbours for at least a quarter of a mile. If someone bludgeoned me in my bed, no one would hear me scream. There’s a landline phone downstairs that works, but that’s it.
It’s Saturday now and I still haven’t heard back from Ben. I haven’t heard anything from DS Hope either. When I rang for an update, she told me to ring back this afternoon. The wait has been torturous. I can’t stop thinking about Chloe, and the look on her face as she ran out of the garden centre. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. I remember how that felt – the adrenaline rush of an illicit meeting, the warmth of the kiss, the wretchedness of saying goodbye. I thought I was so grown up. That my life was a romantic movie. That I was in control. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chloe looked so damned joyful that it makes me feel sick. Sick with guilt. She should have been smiling because she’d just been kissed by a boy her own age, not a man old enough to be her father. I just pray things haven’t progressed any further. If he’s put her through what he put me through I’ll never forgive myself.
This morning I decided to try and distract myself by getting on with some of the jobs I’ve been putting off. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom and sorted through Dad’s wardrobe and chest of drawers, bundling jumpers, jeans and suits into black plastic bags for the charity shop. I had a bit of a cry when I found a framed photo of me face down in the bottom of a drawer. There was nothing else that shed any light on who he was or the life he’d lived. Just a few piles of change, some painkillers, half a tube of Deep Heat, betting slips, newspapers, an alarm clock, a radio.
I was fourteen the last time I saw him. It was the weekend before Mike’s court case. Mum waited in the car at the bottom of the track while I walked up to the house that I hadn’t called home for nearly a year. I dumped the cardboard box I was carrying outside the garage, then knocked on the side door. When no one answered, I turned the handle and let myself in. I found Dad slumped in a chair in front of the television, horse racing blaring and an empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He didn’t open his eyes when I said his name and he didn’t stir as I shook his shoulder. Only when I turned off the TV and slapped him, hard, on the back of his hand did he open his eyes.
‘I’m going, Dad,’ I said. ‘To London, with Mum. We’re not coming back. I’ve left a box of my things by the garage. Can you keep it here? Mum says there won’t be enough space in our flat in London.’
His eyes swivelled towards me. They were red-rimmed and puffy, dark pinpricks in a rough, doughy face. He was only forty-seven but he looked twenty years older. ‘Have fun,’ he murmured, then he closed his eyes again.
Now, I push open the door to my old room and throw the bin bags on the growing pile on the floor. Other than the piles of Dad’s crap, it’s exactly as I left it eighteen years ago. I hate this room. Mike never came to the house but he’s in here. He’s ingrained in the fabric of the faded yellow curtains, the peeling wallpaper and the bleached faces of the popstars I pinned to the wall. The number of nights I’d lie in bed, staring into the darkness, losing myself in my imagination. A smile during a kata, trouble finding my things as I got changed, coming out of the changing rooms to discover that I was the only one left in the dojo. Mike appearing behind me and lifting my hair from my neck and—
I back sharply out of the room and slam the door shut. I need to make the call. I can’t wait anymore.
My hand shakes as I pick up the landline and dial the station. If Mike’s been arrested and charged I’ll need to tell the truth about who I really am. And if he hasn’t … No, I’m not even going to go there.
‘Hello,’ says a male voice I don’t recognise. ‘This is DS Walters.’
‘Oh, I was expecting to speak to DS Hope.’
‘DS Hope’s not in until later. I’m her colleague. How can I help?’
He listens as I tell him my fake name and summarise what I told DS Hope, then asks me to hold the line. I can barely breathe as I wait.
‘Right, well,’ he says. ‘It looks like the CPS haven’t authorised the charges.’
‘What?’
‘We carried out a thorough investigation and referred it to the CPS, but I’m afraid there won’t be a prosecution.’
‘But he’s a paedophile! He’s abusing a young girl. I saw him!’
DS Walters sighs heavily. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Well, I can’t actually tell you anything because of data protection rules, but let’s just say that the CPS can be a strange beast sometimes.’
‘Can I speak to them? Tell them what I saw?’
He laughs dryly. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So that’s it? He just carries on doing what he’s doing?’
There’s a pause then, ‘Our hands are tied, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, there’s nothing else.’
I end the call and stare at the phone in my hand. How can this have happened? Mike was sent to jail for five years for what he did to me. Why haven’t they locked him up again? It’s my fault. I screwed up again when I didn’t tell the police who I really am. But it’s not too late to put things right.
A tall man with hollow cheeks, thinning hair and an angular face opens the blue door at 29 Missingham Road. He looks me up and down, sighs and rests against the door frame.
‘Yes?’ He doesn’t say ‘what do you want?’ but it’s written all over his face.
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you and your wife. It’s about Chloe.’
His expression darkens. ‘What’s this about?’
‘If I could just come in I’ll tell you. It’s … quite sensitive.’
‘We’ve already spoken to the police and if you’re a journalist you can fuck right off.’
‘Alan!’ a woman calls from the back of the house. ‘Who is it?’
‘No one!’
‘Please, I’m not a journalist or police. Maybe I could talk to your wife?’
‘She’s ill.’
A curtain twitches at an upstairs window.
‘Please,’ I say as Alan moves to shut the door. ‘A man called Mike Hughes is having an inappropriate relationship with your daughter and I’m worried about her.’
‘Who the fuck are you? If you’re not police or journalist …’ His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. ‘Are you the one that reported him?’
‘I … I … yes, I am.’
‘Are you now?’ He shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. ‘Got a soft spot for him have you, love? You wouldn’t be the first bored housewife to try it on. Turn you down, did he? Is that why you thought you’d get your revenge by spinning a little story?’
‘It’s not a story. I saw Mike and Chloe—’
‘You disgust me!’ He lurches towards me, forcing me to step back. ‘That man’s like a dad to my girl. I’d trust him with my life. And hers. And I’ve had it up to here,’ he jabs at his throat with a flat hand, ‘with gossips, do-gooders and shit-spreaders.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Mike Hughes is a good man. He spent five years in jail because he tried to keep one of the kids at his club safe when she ran away to France. The stupid bitch was so scared of her alky dad that she lied to the police about what had happened and I won’t let you,’ he jabs a finger at me, ‘or anyone else put him through that kind of hell again. If you ever come back here again I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you hear me? Now piss off.’
The door slams in my face. As the heavy stomp, stomp, stomp of feet on stairs rattles the house, the curtain at the upstairs window twitches again. This time I catch a glimpse of a face. It’s Chloe and she looks scared.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_d4737d25-9762-5ff8-8ea4-0c6bc50d368b)
Chloe (#ulink_d4737d25-9762-5ff8-8ea4-0c6bc50d368b)
Monday 30th April 2007
Chloe walks with her head down and her book bag gripped to her chest. Normally she’d drag her feet as she walked from the bus stop to school, but today she can’t get there quickly enough. Anything is better than being at home with her arsehole of a dad, anything. He went spare after that stupid woman turned up at the door. She tried to listen to their conversation but all she could hear was the woman pleading to come in. The second the front door slammed shut, her dad stormed up to her room. She threw herself onto her bed just as he flung open the door.
‘Is this down to you? Have you been talking shit about Mike at school?’
‘No.’ She grabbed her pillow and hugged it close. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Because she looked like a teacher. Sounded like one too.’ He crossed the room in four strides and yanked open the curtains. ‘She’s gone.’ He turned back to look at Chloe. ‘Who was she? I know you were eavesdropping.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.’
Chloe hugged her pillow tighter. Could it be the police again? Her dad hadn’t met the woman who’d knocked on the door the other day. She was wearing normal clothes but she said her name was DS Anna Hope, from West Mercia police. Chloe felt sick with fear when DS Hope asked if her parents were in. She hadn’t taken anything big from the garden centre – just a few small ornaments she thought were cute and a packet of fairy lights. They were hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, wrapped in an old dressing gown. But that wasn’t what DS Hope wanted to talk to her about, she wanted to talk about Mike. Was there somewhere they could have a little chat? Just a few questions. It wasn’t a formal interview. She said that Mum was welcome to join them if that was something Chloe wanted. It wasn’t, but her mum insisted she sit in on the conversation before she could say a word.
The next few minutes were the most excruciating of Chloe’s life. DS Hope started by asking her which her favourite bands were and which member she fancied the most, but she could feel her mum’s worried eyes boring into the side of her head as the police officer switched to using phrases like, ‘unwanted attention’, ‘inappropriate comments’ and – worst of all – ‘touching that made you feel uncomfortable or scared’. Had Mike ever asked her to do anything that made her feel bad? Had they spent time alone together? Had he bought her gifts? Had he asked her to keep something secret? Had he threatened her or her family? Chloe did her best to meet the police officer’s eyes but she could feel her cheeks burning as she answered the questions. Mike was her dad’s friend, she told the police officer. They’d chatted but only ever in front of another adult. He hadn’t touched her or done anything inappropriate. He was a nice man who said hello to her if her saw her at work and that was all. DS Hope wrote everything she said down in a little notebook, then made Chloe and her mum sign it. After that she asked to speak to her mum in the kitchen.
When they came back into the living room, her mum had a weird, vacant expression on her face. She didn’t say anything to her though, not even when DS Hope asked if she could have a look through Chloe’s room and made them sign her notebook again to say that they’d agreed. Chloe stood next to her mum at the door to her bedroom, hands clenched into tight fists, as the detective searched her jewellery box, homework books, bed and chest of drawers. Panic rose in her chest as DS Hope lifted up her dressing gown in the bottom of the wardrobe but she didn’t unfold it and her stolen stash remained hidden. When she asked if she could take a look at her mobile, Chloe handed it over. She deleted all the texts Mike sent her as soon as she’d read them (as well as the ones she sent him) and he’d warned her not to keep a diary or any mementoes of the time they spent together. But she couldn’t stop herself from reaching up behind her hairline to touch the necklace around her neck. Mike hadn’t bought her many gifts – a couple of CDs, a book, plus he’d given her forty pounds after he found her crying in one of the sheds at work. She’d accidentally run up a huge bill on her mobile by buying game add-ons and she was too scared to tell her dad. After listening to her sob, Mike reached into his wallet and handed her the money to cover it. ‘Now you don’t need to tell him,’ he said. ‘And you don’t need to cry anymore.’
Her gave her the necklace after Chloe got upset about a list the boys at school had made. It ranked the girls in her year in order of the fittest. One of her friends had managed to sneak a look at the piece of paper and Chloe’s name was last. Mike had hugged her close while she cried, then reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She ran a finger over the delicate edges of the silver daisy pendant. It was the loveliest present anyone had ever given her.
‘It is. And so are you. Those boys are idiots. When they grow up, they’ll kick themselves for not realising how stunning you are.’
She’d shivered as he fastened the necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin. Then, embarrassed by her reaction, she’d pulled away. If Mike noticed her reaction he didn’t mention it. Instead he looked from her face to the pendant, nestling above the top button of her work polo shirt and smiled.
‘It suits you.’
Chloe presses a hand against the cold chain at her neck as she spots a small group of boys hanging around the school gates. They’re the ones who started the stupid list. Five weeks she’s had the necklace and her parents haven’t said a word. There was a time when her mum would notice every little thing about her – a scrape on her knee after a fall at primary school, a new hairstyle after they took turns to braid each other’s hair at break, a spot on her chin, a rash on her chest – but it’s been a long time since her mum did more than give her a passing glance. Sometimes, when it’s just her, Mum and Jamie at home, she feels like a ghost.
‘Chloe?’
She turns sharply as someone says her name. A tall, thin woman with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail is hurrying along the pavement towards her. It’s the woman who knocked on her front door the night before.
‘Chloe, have you got a second?’
‘No.’ She continues to walk. Two girls she doesn’t recognise laugh as they overtake her and her stomach clenches with anxiety. Great, another reason for people to laugh at her.
‘Please, Chloe, just five minutes. It’s important.’
The hand on her arm makes her stop just long enough to shake it off. ‘I’ve got to get to school.’
‘I know. I won’t take up much of your time. Please, just hear me out.’
It’s the woman’s suit that makes her pause. She looks smart, like a lawyer or something.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about Mike Hughes.’
‘Oh god.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Not that again. I already talked to the police.’ She lowers her voice as a boy from her year swerves around them. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘He has,’ the woman says. ‘I saw him kiss you.’
Chloe stares at her, her throat dry, her mind empty. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. I was in the garden centre. I saw him kiss you in the summer house.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Chloe,’ the woman touches her on the shoulder again. ‘I know what you’re going through. I know what he’s like. He makes you feel special, doesn’t he? Beautiful? You feel understood and cared for, like he’s the only person in the world who really gets you.’ The woman is speaking softly and quickly, like she’s running out of breath, and she’s leaning in far closer than Chloe is comfortable with. ‘Has he told you that he loves you yet?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. I can see it in your eyes. You need to tell the police what’s going on. He’s a dangerous man. You think he’s kind and generous and caring but he’s manipulating you. He’s a paedophile, Chloe. This is all about control and nothing to do with love. Have you slept with him yet?’
‘What? No!’ The horror in Chloe’s voice is real and the other woman seems to sense it because she raises her eyebrows.
‘Good. Don’t. Whatever’s going on between you and Mike Hughes, you need to end it now. No good can come of it. You need to trust me on this.’
‘Trust you? I don’t even know who you are.’
‘I’m—’
‘Chloeeee!’ A red-haired girl with thick black eyebrows barges between them. ‘Sorry, Miss, I need to talk to Chloe. Chlo, did you do last night’s biology homework because I, like, well, didn’t. I need to borrow yours. Is this it?’ She yanks at one of the books Chloe is clutching to her chest. Normally there’s no way in hell she’d let Misty Engles anywhere near her but right now she’d take an atomic bomb over spending one more minute talking about Mike Hughes with this weirdo.
‘Course you can borrow it,’ she says, then she threads her arm through Misty’s and heads for the gates.
‘Chloe,’ the woman calls from behind her. ‘Let me give you my phone number. You can call me if—’
‘Fuck off!’ Chloe shouts without looking back. ‘Just fuck off.’
Misty Engles giggles. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just some freak. I think she fancies me.’
Chloe’s laughter lasts all of thirty seconds, then her phone bleeps with a text from her dad. She’s been sacked from the garden centre. They know about the thefts. And so does he.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_a757b129-f43a-5307-ba04-a9d3662746d7)
Wendy (#ulink_a757b129-f43a-5307-ba04-a9d3662746d7)
It’s six minutes past nine. Wendy’s irritation at being late is reflected back at her in the bathroom mirror, along with a face of carefully, if heavily, applied make-up.
‘Warpaint,’ Wendy says to her reflection, then sighs heavily. Monty, the springer spaniel at her feet, nudges her leg with his nose and she reaches down to rub him behind the ears.
She’s being ridiculous, she knows she is. Wearing a faceful of make-up isn’t going to impress Lou Wandsworth. Nor will it give her the upper hand. In fact the only message it’ll give Lou is that Wendy needs to get down to Boots for a new mascara because the clumpy eyelash look isn’t fetching on catwalk models, never mind on fifty-nine-year-old women. She reaches for a make-up wipe and roughly scrubs at her cheeks, lips and eyes. She doesn’t need make-up for what she’s about to do.
She walks into the office with her shoulders back, her chin tipped up and an uncomfortable prickling sensation under her arms. After she dropped Monty off at her sister’s house she had to put her foot down to compensate for the ridiculous amount of time she’d spent applying, and then removing, her make-up, but she parked up outside Consol eLearning right on time. And with a minute to spare too.
‘Good morning,’ she says merrily to the matronly- looking receptionist. ‘My name is Wendy Harrison. I’m here to see Louise Wandsworth.’
‘She’s expecting you. I’ll just ring through. Would you like a coffee or tea?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely. Milk no sugar.’
There’s something very pleasing about people making a fuss of you, Wendy thinks as she sits back in her chair and sips at her tea. Ever since she arrived at Consol eLearning ten minutes ago, she’s been greeted with warm smiles and firm handshakes. She was even given a plate of nice Marks and Spencer biscuits as she was shown into the meeting room by Lou and a rather balding man who introduced himself as Gary Lambley, head of sales. Wendy felt a wave of disappointment as he thrust a sweaty hand at her. She’d assumed her meeting would be with Lou and Lou alone, but actually the presence of someone else in the room has meant that she can study the other woman without being too obvious.
‘Well, that’s pretty much everything about us and what we do,’ Gary says as his presentation finally draws to a close. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, I think you’ve covered pretty much everything.’ Most of the presentation went over Wendy’s head but she’s not about to admit that.
Lou gets up from her seat and switches on the lights. She smiles warmly at Wendy as she sits back down. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, I am quite new here, but I’ve got over seven years’ experience in managing eLearning projects and I’d be your first port of call.’
‘It sounds as though I’ll be in very safe hands.’
‘You would. Absolutely. So, now we’ve told you all about us perhaps you’d like to share a bit more about the training you’d like us to develop. You said on the phone that …’ her hair falls over her face as she glances down at her notebook ‘… the nursing faculty at the University of Worcester are considering adding some eLearning to the bachelor’s degree?’
‘That’s right yes.’ Words tumble out of Wendy’s mouth like stones from a bucket. Her nursing degree is over thirty years old but she can still recall the fundamentals of her training. And besides, she practised for this question when she was out walking Monty yesterday. When she’d come up with the idea of finding out a little bit more about Lou Wandsworth by masquerading as a new customer, she’d worried that there was a flaw in her plan – that Lou might ask for a landline contact number in addition to the mobile number she’d provided, or the details of someone more senior at the university. She hadn’t. She’d taken Wendy completely at her word.
It’s astonishing how gullible and naïve some people are, Wendy thinks as Lou nods and smiles at everything she says. They’re traits you’d associate with the weak and vulnerable – children and the elderly – and yet here is a woman that’s neither of those things. Is she really that gullible? Or – Wendy sits up a little higher in her chair and looks towards the door – it could be a trap. She’d assumed that Lou wouldn’t know who she was when she walked into the office. Why would she? They’d never met before; Lou hadn’t even glanced at her when she was behind her in the queue at the café. They’d never spoken other than Wendy’s initial enquiry about a meeting and there are no photos of her on the internet for Lou to google but there’s still a small chance she might know who she is.
‘That all sounds great, Dr Harrison,’ Lou says and Wendy suppresses a smile. It was a bit of silliness, deciding to award herself a doctorate seconds before she picked up the phone to ring Consol eLearning, but she has to admit that she quite likes the sound of it.
‘Wendy, please.’
‘Do you have any questions for us?’
The male voice makes Wendy twitch. She’d been so focussed on Lou – on the muddy green hue of her irises, the enlarged pores on either side of her nose, the visible tendons in her neck and the sharp collarbones beneath them – that she’d quite forgotten they weren’t alone in the room.
‘I’d love another cup of tea please.’ She smiles tightly as she pushes her saucer in his direction.
Lou moves to get up from her seat. ‘I’ll get one for you.’
‘No, no.’ Wendy flashes her eyebrows at Gary. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, would you Gary? I’ve got a few questions for Lou. If that’s okay?’
‘That’s fine. No problem at all.’
Wendy registers a fleeting glance between Lou and her colleague as he leaves the room, but the second the door closes behind him, Lou is all smiles again. Wendy reaches down beside her and pulls her handbag onto her lap. I could have a knife in here, she thinks as she unclips the fastener and reaches in for her Laura Ashley glasses case, and no one would ever know. I could plunge it into her chest and make it back out onto the street, before anyone realised anything was wrong.
Gosh, she thinks as the case opens with a satisfying pop and she takes out her glasses. That was a bit of a dark thought.I don’t know where that came from. I’m just here to find out a little bit more about Lou Wandsworth. That’s not a crime, is it? I could have introduced myself to her in the café instead but social situations are so awkward. She could have excused herself and walked away. Office protocol means she’s got no choice but to sit here and talk to me. Whether she likes it or not.
‘So,’ she says as she hooks her glasses over her ears and pushes them up the bridge of her nose. ‘Tell me a bit about you, Lou.’
The other woman shuffles awkwardly in her chair. ‘Well, um, as I said, I’ve got seven years’ experience—’
‘No, no. Not all that corporate stuff. You as a person. If we’re going to be working together for a while it makes sense to get to know each other a little better. Doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, um. Sure. What … er … what sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘Anything you want to tell me!’
Wendy’s chest tightens as the younger woman glances towards the door. She’s overdoing it. Her convivial tone sounds forced and she’s making Lou feel ill at ease.
‘Me for example,’ she says quickly as she picks up her pen, ‘I’m fifty-nine, no children, live alone with my little dog Monty. I’m a big fan of gardening, crosswords and crime dramas.’ She laughs lightly but the pen in her hands is strained to breaking point. If the other woman notices, she doesn’t let on. ‘How about you?’
Lou shrugs. ‘There’s not much to tell you really. I’m thirty-two and er … I live just outside Malvern.’
‘Oh yes. Whereabouts?’
‘Near Bromyard.’
‘Oh, out in the sticks.’
‘Yes. It is a bit.’
‘And do you live there with your husband?’ Wendy’s gaze flicks towards the naked ring finger of Lou’s left hand.
‘I live alone.’
‘That’s something we have in common then.’
And it’s not the only thing.
‘Woah!’ Lou jerks back in her seat and raises her hands to her face as something flies across the desk towards her. ‘Your … your pen.’
‘My what?’ Wendy is genuinely surprised to look down and see two halves of a biro in her hands. She’s snapped it clean in two.
‘Tea!’ Gary walks backwards into the room, carrying a tea tray in his hands. ‘What did I miss?’ He looks at Lou as she stands up. ‘Bloody hell. What happened to you?’
‘It’s ink.’ She pulls the white shirt away from her body, but the sticky red ink isn’t only on the crisp white cotton. Her cheeks, her forehead and her throat are splattered too. ‘Wendy’s pen broke. I’d better go and clean myself up.’
‘I really am very sorry,’ Wendy says as Lou slips from the room. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘It’s fine,’ Gary says as he places a fresh cup of tea in front of her. ‘Accidents happen.’
Wendy picks up her tea cup and raises it to her mouth.
‘They do, don’t they?’ she says, then she takes a small sip.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_1002b60e-9027-5419-9aea-90b83bf5c157)
Lou (#ulink_1002b60e-9027-5419-9aea-90b83bf5c157)
When we woke up this morning we had breakfast, but not in the restaurant. We ate sandwiches in bed – Tesco sandwiches that Mike bought before he picked me up yesterday – and washed them down with warm Fanta. Afterwards, Mike told me to shower and pack up my things because we were off to Rouen. I was a bit disappointed that we weren’t going to Paris (if you have to go to France you should at least see the Eiffel Tower), but I tried not to let it show on my face. I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with Mike.
Not that I’ve seen much of Rouen, just a few old buildings and a glimpse of the river on the way to the hotel. We had sex again, pretty much as soon as we walked into our door. This time we did it face to face and Mike didn’t roar when he came. He did cry though, after he rolled off me, which I thought was a bit weird. When I asked him what was wrong he said that he’d never loved anyone as much as he loved me and that it would break him if I ever left him. I wiped the tears from his cheeks, covered his face with kisses and told him that would never happen. He was the love of my life and we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. He looked at me then for a really long time without saying anything, then he rolled away from me and got out of bed. When he started pulling on his clothes, I moved to get out of bed too but he told me to stay where I was. He had a surprise planned and he’d be back soon. I begged him to tell me what it was but he refused, laughing and saying it wouldn’t be a surprise if he told me. When he left the room, I heard the key turn in the lock.
That was six hours ago. The sun is going down, it’s seven o’clock and I’m really pissed off. I thought we’d go sightseeing together or something, walk hand in hand along the river, visit a few shops and see the ruined buildings Mike was talking about on the way here. Some romantic break this has been. It’s Saturday and we’re due to go back to the UK tomorrow and all we’ve done is have sex twice and eat sandwiches. And I’ve been stuck here alone all day. There isn’t even a TV and I didn’t bother bringing a book. All I’ve done is nap, throw balled-up socks into the bin, write my diary in the back of an exercise book and stare at the stupid painting on the wall opposite the bed. I could probably draw it with my eyes shut now. I can’t ever remember being so bored in my life.
I sit up sharply, pulling my knees into my chest as the locked bedroom door rattles and Mike steps into the room. He looks exhausted, and a tiny bit pissed, but he smiles as our eyes meet. ‘Hey, hey. How’s the love of my life then?’
I don’t return his smile. ‘Where’ve you been?’
He takes a step back, as though I’ve just landed a punch in his belly. ‘What?’
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Woah.’ His smile vanishes. ‘You don’t get to speak to me like that.’
‘I do if you leave me locked in here so you can go and get pissed.’
‘Who said I’m—’
‘You are! I can smell it. You smell like my dad. You’re a—’
‘Don’t you dare compare me to him. Don’t you dare!’
‘Get out!’ I reach for the pillow and launch it across the room. It hits him weakly on the hand and drops to the floor. ‘Get out and leave me alone. I want to go home.’
Mike crosses the room, his hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. I scoot as far back on the bed as I can and wrap my arms around my body. But he doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t say a word. Instead he stops at the end of the bed and glowers at me until I break eye contact, then he marches straight back out of the room and turns the lock.
I stare at the door, too shocked to react, but the numbness doesn’t last long and I howl with frustration and despair, then burst into tears. I cry, curled up on the bed, until the world beyond the window turns black and I pass out with exhaustion. It’s still dark when I wake but the radio alarm clock on the bedside table glows red with the time. 1.13 a.m. I pull the thin duvet up to my chin and roll over. As I do, I catch sight of a figure sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room. It’s Mike. And he’s watching me.
I’ve been living in Dad’s house for over a week now but, despite hours spent hoovering, cleaning and scrubbing, the smell still hits me the second I open the front door and step into the porch. Dampness, mustiness and cold. It’s the scent of neglect.
I glance at my watch as I step into the kitchen. Twenty to six. Mike said he would be here a little after six thirty.
I trail from the kitchen to the living room and sit down on the sofa. Dad’s chair, in all its horrible tweedy green worn glory, is closer to the TV, but I haven’t sat in it once since I got here. I’m trying to work up the nerve to throw it away.
Dad’s friend Bill was the one who found him. He realised something was wrong, he told me on the phone, when the local pub landlord told him that Dad hadn’t been in in over a week. He went to check on him after closing time. The curtains weren’t drawn, the lights were on and the TV was blaring away in the corner of the room. Bill said he could tell by the way Dad was slumped in his chair that he was dead. A heart attack, the coroner said.
It wasn’t hard to pick Bill out from the mourners at Dad’s cremation. Other than me, the only other people in the room were the celebrant, the funeral director and three elderly men. Unsure what to do after the ceremony ended, I stood by the door and shook hands with the scant group of mourners as they left. Bill gripped my hand in both of his.
‘I know your dad was a grumpy old bugger,’ he said, his voice rough and rasping, ‘but he was proud of you. He told me a few times that he had a daughter living the high life and earning herself a small fortune in London.’
I smiled and thanked Bill for his good wishes. I didn’t mention that Dad and I hadn’t spoken in over ten years – other than a brief and awkward phone call when I rang him five years ago to tell him that Mum had died of cancer – and that he had no idea what I was doing or how much I was earning in London (certainly not a small fortune). I did cry though, when I got back to my car. Proud was not a word in Dad’s vocabulary when it came to me. Disgrace – yes. Embarrassment – that too. While Mum rushed up to me and wrapped me in her arms after I was brought back from France, Dad could barely look at me. When he did it was to ask whether I had been harmed. Harmed. He meant, had I had sex with Mike? I could tell by the way his eyes swept the length of my body then focussed on a spot on the floor near my feet. Afterwards, Mum and I went back to our flat. We stayed there, locked together on the sofa with the TV on loud while the phone rang off the hook and journalists tapped at the kitchen window and thumped on the front door. One night I heard an argument between Mum and Dad on the phone. She was trying to keep her voice down but I heard her snap, ‘I can’t believe you’d suggest that, Steve. This is your daughter we’re talking about and she’s fourteen years old.’ Dad thought I’d brought it all on myself. He wasn’t the only one who thought that. I did too.
Mum tried to convince me to testify against Mike. She said she knew that I loved him but what he had done was wrong and he had to be stopped from doing it to anyone else. I started to cry then, not because of what she’d said but because she’d got me so wrong. What I felt towards Mike wasn’t love. It was a strange limbo emotion – a longing for the love I thought we’d had, wrapped up in guilt, regret and fear. When Mum, and the police, finally accepted that I wouldn’t testify against Mike, she decided that we should move to London before the trial started. Mum said it was for the best.
I turn on the TV, watch a couple of seconds of a game show, then change the channel. I watch a couple of seconds of a period drama, then press a button on the remote. I change the channel once more, then turn it off. I look at my watch again.
6.08 p.m.
Not enough time to go for a run.
Mike will be here in less than forty-five minutes.
After Chloe told me to fuck off this morning, I was so frustrated I drove to the nearest phone box, rang Mike’s work and asked to speak to him. If the police weren’t going to prosecute, and Chloe and her family refused to listen to me, the only option I had left was to confront him directly. Ringing from the phone box was a deliberate decision. It meant Mike wouldn’t have my number or any way of contacting me. He’d be shocked to hear from me, wrong-footed, and I’d be the one in control. I’d call, tell him who I was and say that I needed to speak to him in a public place (a park maybe or St Anne’s Well on the Malvern Hills). I’d tell him how he’d ruined my life. How I’d end a relationship as soon as a boyfriend told me they loved me because I associated love with control. How I’d freak out if anyone so much as brushed my neck with their fingers. How promiscuous I’d been because my self-worth was in the toilet. How I’d only have sex if I was the one who initiated it and it took place in my home. I’d tell him all of these things, and more, and then I’d scream in his face that it was his fault. That he’d made me like this. That I’d spent eighteen years denying how much of a fuck-up I was, but I wasn’t going to do it anymore. And especially not when he was about to screw up another innocent girl’s life as much as he’d screwed up mine.
I was shaking – with anger and fear – as I tapped the number out on the buttons and waited for the call to connect. My voice wavered as I asked to speak to Mike Hughes. The receptionist had to ask me to repeat myself. When she said he wasn’t in – he was already on the delivery run – I slumped against the glass side of the phone booth.
‘You could try his mobile,’ she said.
It took me three attempts to call his number. Twice I slammed the phone down before the call connected.
‘Mike Hughes speaking.’
I pressed myself up against the glass as though pinned by his voice.
‘Hello?’
Tears burned beneath my closed eyelids.
‘Hello, is there anyone there?’
My courage had vanished. I could barely breathe.
‘Are you after a delivery or a collection? Hello? I’m going to put the phone down now.’
‘Do you know who this is?’ Panic forced the words out of my mouth.
‘No? Should I?’
A pause. A silence that stretched eighteen years. I didn’t have any control. The moment I told Mike who I was he’d have a choice. He could tell me to fuck off. He could refuse to meet me and put the phone down. The only way to help myself, and save Chloe, was to take away that choice and put him in a situation where he had to listen.
‘My name is Milly Dawson. I’d like to arrange a collection please.’
‘What is it and where are you?’
‘An armchair. It needs to go to the dump. I live in Acton Green.’
‘That’s a way out so it’ll be pricey. Forty quid.’
‘That’s fine. When can you get here?’
‘Six thirty all right?’
I told him it was fine and gave him my address. I held my breath, waiting for that spark of recognition, for him to comment that he’d been to the farm before. Instead he said,
‘All right then Milly, I’ll see you later.’
Then the call ended, just like that.
By the time I got to work I didn’t have more than five minutes to run a comb through my hair and print out my emails before Alison buzzed me to tell me that Dr Wendy Harrison was waiting in reception for me. That was a strange meeting. I’ve met some interesting clients in my time – including the man who talked to my chin rather than looking me in the eye, a woman who continuously tapped a pen against her teeth and the man who addressed all of his questions to my male colleagues rather than me – but I’ve never met anyone like Dr Harrison before. She had a very odd manner for someone with a background in nursing – clinical, rather than caring. I could feel her watching me while Gary gave his presentation and then, after she’d ordered him from the room to make more tea, she stared at me like a specimen under a microscope. Then she started asking me personal questions, her strange, fixed smile not faltering once. As I wondered if she might be on the autistic spectrum, she sprayed me with ink.
Let’s just say I won’t be gutted if we don’t win the bid.
6.12 p.m.
After a week’s worth of tidying, the house finally looks as I remember it, but it doesn’t feel like the house where I grew up. I always used to feel safe here – until the arguments started between Mum and Dad anyway. It was always draughty and the ancient cracked tiles in the kitchen were so cold I’d hop from foot to foot as I poured out my cereal, but the sounds were reassuring. It was always so noisy – the radio babbling away in the kitchen, the television blaring in the living room and Dad chopping logs in the garden while the dog barked at birds. All those noises have gone now and it’s eerily quiet. It’s true what they say, about people making a house a home. I never really understood that until now.
‘Right.’ I grab the arm of Dad’s old green armchair and pull. ‘I’m not letting Mike in this house, which means you’re going in the barn.’
I am dripping with sweat by the time I reach the back garden. The lawn is more weeds than grass and the bright pots of flowers that Mum spent hours planting and tending are long gone. The only decorative touch Dad added is a pile of abandoned car tyres and a collapsed pile of logs. The gate at the back of the garden is almost rusted shut. I have to give it a good shove before it swings open, then I drag the armchair into the yard. When this was a working farm, there would have been tractors, trailers and farm machinery filling the space, but all that’s left is a huge dilapidated barn and the three fields that wrap around the house. Dad was an architect but he had designs about becoming a farmer when he bought this place. He swiftly changed his mind after the chickens he kept in the back garden were wiped out by foxes. His next bright idea was to try and convert the barn. It’s accessible by a track that runs down the side of the house as well as through the garden, but the council rejected his planning application. He pretty much gave up on the place then, and himself.
The chair’s wheeled feet creak and groan as I drag it over the concreted yard and pull at the barn door. It’s the first time I’ve been inside since I came back. Mum hated this building. I did too.
I brace myself as the barn door swings open, but the row of steel cages still makes me catch my breath. Dad’s decision to allow the local hunt to house some of their dogs here caused the biggest argument I can ever remember my parents having. Mum, an out-and-out city girl who’d met Dad at a wedding, was horrified at the idea.
‘Fox hunting!’ she screamed as I perched at the top of the stairs in my pyjamas. ‘I’m not supporting fox hunting.’
‘No one’s saying you have to support it. You’re not going to be shoved onto a horse and made to blow a bloody horn. We’ll just be looking after the dogs. Geoffrey needs somewhere to keep them for a little—’
‘I don’t want animal rights protesters throwing paint at our car and shouting and blowing whistles outside our house. We’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter, Steve. What if they set fire to our house like they did to Geoff’s barn?’
‘That’s not going to happen, and anyway, there’s no proof that they burned—’
‘Of course it was them. It was the same people who threw red paint all over William’s haulage trucks last year. If it was some random arsonist, why wait until the dogs were on a hunt?’
‘Oh, for god’s sake. No one’s going to burn the barn down or hurt Louise. Anyway, it’s just for a few months, until Geoff’s barn is rebuilt. You were the one who said we need to make more of an effort to be part of the community and it’s not like we’re doing anything with it.’
‘It’s our barn. We don’t have to—’
‘Whose barn is it?’
The cold silence that followed made me shiver.
‘I knew you’d do this,’ my mother said tightly. ‘Lay down the law when it suits you.’
‘I did buy the house, Maggie.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
I’d long stopped asking my parents why they weren’t married. They both claimed that they didn’t need a piece of paper and an expensive wedding to prove how much they loved each other, but I’d once heard my mum confess to a friend that she was sad she’d never got to have her big day.
When Mum and Dad split up, she told him that he should sell the house so she could buy somewhere for me and her to live. Dad said he wasn’t going anywhere and if she was that worried about me living somewhere nice she should leave me behind. Mum said she’d rather bring me up in a hovel.
The sound of their argument was still ringing in my ears as I trudged down the stone steps that led to the dojo and opened the door. Mike was sorting the pads and gloves in the corner of the room. He took one look at me and asked what was wrong. The concern in his voice made me burst into tears. My parents were splitting up. It was the end of my world.
He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed the top of my arm. His palm wasn’t touching the soft material of my gi for more than a couple of seconds but the warmth of his touch remained—
A violent shiver courses through me. The sun has disappeared and the sky is thick with heavy, black rain clouds so, mustering all the energy I have left, I drag the armchair into the barn. The cages are even bigger and more imposing than I remember. They’re tall enough for a man to stand up in and almost as wide, with huge great padlocks hanging from the doors. They look like somewhere to house prisoners of war, not animals. The musky, yeasty smell of dogs is long gone but the air is rich with the sour, musty scent of sawdust, hay and ammonia.
When I reach the other side of the barn, I abandon the armchair, push open the door and peer outside. Rain is bouncing off the tarmac and puddling in the cracks. The field at the end of the yard is already flooded where it dips down into the lake. Much more of this rain and the roads will flood too. I’d be cut off from the world and no one other than my solicitor and a handful of friends in London know that I’m here.
A loud, angry, insistent sound cuts through the soft pattering of the rain.
It’s a car horn.
Mike is here.
Chapter 12 (#ulink_9bf09230-8059-5e26-ab8c-eea5c3f80d80)
Lou (#ulink_9bf09230-8059-5e26-ab8c-eea5c3f80d80)
I spot the white transit van through the gap between the house and the garage as I run across the lawn. The van windows are misty with condensation and the windscreen wipers are sweeping back and forth. My hair is stuck to my cheeks, my hoody is clinging to my back and my trainers are caked in mud. I slow my pace as I reach the house and duck under the eaves, out of sight of the van. My chest is tight and I’ve got pins and needles in both of my arms. I have never, ever felt more scared in my life. Why did I think this was a good idea? I’ve got no mobile signal, no neighbours and no way of calling for help. Mike never threatened me, but I know how dangerous he can be. If anything happened to me, it would be days before anyone sounded the alarm. But why would he turn on me? When the police arrested him, he was still in love with me. I didn’t testify against him. And he has no idea that I’m the one who reported him to the police for kissing Chloe.
The horn sounds again, making me jump. There’s no way Mike could have seen me. I could just stay here, out of sight, until he gives up and drives away. I don’t have to do this.
But what about Chloe? a small voice whispers at the back of my brain. Mike will continue to abuse her. If she’s not already broken, she soon will be. Could you live with that, knowing you could have stopped it?
I tried. I rang the police. I visited her parents. I spoke to her. Even if I do talk to Mike there’s no guarantee anything I say will make a difference.
You wanted to do this. You wanted to confront him, to make him face up to what he did to you. You wanted him to know how much his ‘love’ fucked up your life. That’s why you moved up here, Lou. To exorcise your demons. If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life screwing up relationships with decent men like Ben. Just get it over and done with.
I step back into the rain, through the gap between the house and garage, and walk up to the van. The driver side window opens slowly. An elbow appears, swiftly followed by a face.
‘Milly Dawson?’
‘Mike.’
I brace myself, waiting for his eyebrows to raise and his jaw to drop. He didn’t react on the phone when I gave him my address but he had to recognise the house as he drove up the track. And he has to know who I am.
But there’s no spark of recognition in his eyes as they flit over my face.
It’s the strangest sensation, staring into the eyes of the man I once loved and feared in equal measure. It’s him and yet it’s not him. His face, once so familiar, has been stolen by a much older man. There’s a sagginess to his jawline that wasn’t there before and a hollowing beneath his cheekbones. His eyebrows are thicker and wirier, the hoods of his eyes are heavier, almost obscuring the bright blue of his irises. There’s no passion or love behind his gaze. As I continue to stare, the edges of his lips curl up into a smile and he gives me a little nod. He doesn’t recognise me at all.
‘You might want to get a coat on,’ he says. ‘Although I’m not sure you could get much wetter.’
He laughs then and the sound catches me by surprise. His face may have changed and his voice may have become a little raspier but his laugh is the same.
‘I’m …’ I pull my hood over my head and plunge my hands into the pockets of my hoody. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He gestures at the house with his thumb. ‘In there, is it?’
For a moment I have no idea what he’s talking about but then I remember – I asked him to take the armchair to the tip.
‘It’s in the barn.’
‘Interesting place to keep a chair.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Where’s the barn?’
‘In the yard, past the garden.’
He moves to look out of the window even though there’s no way he can see into the garden from the angle of the van.
‘Or you could take the track round the house and I could open the gate to the yard.’
He looks back towards the garden, as though considering his options. A dimple appears in his chin as he presses his lips together. I used to push my little finger into that indentation to try and make it disappear.
‘My left leg’s a bit fucked. I’ll drive. Get in.’
The command makes my blood run cold but, after a moment’s hesitation, I do as he says.
We are sitting so close that, when he just changed gear, I had to lean to my left to avoid his forearm brushing mine. A wave of panic courses through me. The last time I was in a car with this man we were driving through France. But Mike doesn’t recognise me. He did a quick sweep of my body as I rounded the van, a casual appraisal any man might do to a woman he’s never met before, but there was no spark of interest when I opened the passenger door and got in. Why would there be? I’m a grown woman, not a child.
As he navigates his way back down to the road and up the muddy track to the barn he chatters away about nothing in particular – the weather, the flooding, the news. I nod and shrug but I’m not really listening. I can’t stop staring at his face. He’s forty-nine now and his hair is more grey than black, but it’s still thick and wavy, cut short above the ears and at the nape of his neck. Deep lines stripe across his brow and fan out at the corner of his eyes. He looks old and tired.
I was afraid that all the feelings I’d had as a teenager would come flooding back and overwhelm me, but I don’t feel love or desire. Not even hate or fear. What I feel, as I look at his long, thick fingers curved over the steering wheel, is revulsion.
‘Here we are then.’ He pulls on the handbrake and turns off the engine. We’re in the yard. Parked up outside the barn.
‘In here is it?’ Mike says, gesturing at the barn, as he gets out of the van. It’s raining heavily now and there’s an air of impatience in his voice. Am I keeping him from something? An illicit meeting with Chloe perhaps?
‘That’s right.’
He doesn’t say anything as he lollops past me – there’s definitely something wrong with his left leg – but his head turns sharply as he opens the barn door. He’s spotted the cages.
‘Got dogs, have you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘They were—’
But he’s not interested. He’s already halfway across the barn. He grunts as he squats to pick up Dad’s green armchair. He was the strongest, fittest man I knew eighteen years ago. Now he’s unfit and wheezy, with a stomach that hangs over the belt of his jeans.
‘Mike, before you put the chair in the van you need to—’
He grunts again as he lifts the chair up. ‘I’m a bit pushed for time at the moment, but if you need to book in another job give Joy a call and she’ll sort something out.’
‘It’s not about a job.’
The expression on his face switches from friendly to irritated as he takes a step towards me. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I haven’t got time for a chat.’ He pauses to take a breath. ‘I have to be somewhere after this.’
‘I’d rather you stayed, Mike. And it would be in your best interests to listen.’
I’m not going to let him walk away without hearing me out.
‘Look,’ he sighs heavily, ‘I don’t know what this is about but this is heavy and—’
He’s interrupted by the tinny sound of a mobile phone ringtone. He lowers the chair to the ground, reaches into his pocket and presses his phone against his ear.
‘Hello Chlo, are you okay?’
I stiffen at the sound of her name. I was right. He was trying to get away so he could meet up with her. The sick bastard.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Mike says. He’s lowered his voice but I can still hear every word. ‘Take a deep breath. All right … now tell me what’s going on.’ He pauses. ‘What? Oh no. Oh, Chlo, there’s got to be a mistake. There’s no way you would …’ He pauses again. ‘What woman? What did she say?’ He turns, almost in slow motion, and his eyes meet mine. He scans my face, his eyes clouded with confusion, as the tinny voice in his ear rattles on. The confidence I felt less than a minute ago vanishes. Why is he looking at me like that?
‘Mike,’ I say as the confusion on his face is replaced by shock. ‘Mike you need to—’
He holds out a hand, silencing me.
I don’t breathe a word. Instead I take a step backwards, towards the door. I shouldn’t have done this.
‘I’ll give you a ring back in a bit, Chloe. Okay? Stay where you are and I’ll come and get you. It’s going to be okay. I promise.’
I take another step back. My heel catches on something and I have to steady myself on the wall.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Mike says, looking straight at me as he hangs up. ‘You fucking bitch.’
Chapter 13 (#ulink_54124ed3-5796-529c-9c67-d365183a9729)
Lou (#ulink_54124ed3-5796-529c-9c67-d365183a9729)
It all happens so quickly. One second Mike is on the other side of the barn, the next he’s speeding towards me, a look of absolute fury on his face. With no time to run, all I can do is raise my hands in self-defence and brace myself. In a heartbeat he’s right next to me but he’s unsteady on his feet and I’m quicker and fitter than he is and, as his fingers grasp at my hair, I swerve out of reach. Before he can regain his balance, I shift my weight to the left and kick out with my right leg. The sole of my trainer smashes into Mike’s bad leg. It’s like felling a tree with a single axe blow, the way he lurches to one side, his left leg crumpling beneath him. I kick out at him again, this time landing my foot square in his chest. The force of the blow sends him reeling backwards and through the open door of one of the cages. His arms flail at his sides as he tries and fails to weave his fingers through the metal bars, then SMACK, the back of his head makes contact with a pile of bricks stacked up next to a bucket.
He’s not moving. His eyes are closed, his neck tilted to the left, his head propped up on a brick, his fingers unfurled and slack at his sides. Across the barn the armchair lies on its side; Mike’s mobile phone is half-buried in the straw beside it. I reach into my back pocket for my mobile. No reception.
‘Mike?’ I take a step towards the cage. My heart is beating so hard I feel sick. When his head hit the brick it sounded like a watermelon being hurled at the floor. If he’s not dead he’s badly injured. I need to call an ambulance.
I move towards the entrance to the barn, hesitate, then walk back to the cage. I should lock it. Just in case he comes round and tries to find me. Mike’s eyes are still closed and he hasn’t changed position.
‘Mike!’ I shout his name. ‘Mike, wake up!’
When he doesn’t stir, I cross the barn and pull a bamboo stick from a pile propped up in the corner. I push it into Mike’s leg. He doesn’t so much as twitch. I prod him harder. Nothing.
I step into the cage, not taking my eyes off his face as I crouch down and reach for his wrist. His eyes remain closed, his lips slightly parted as I extend the first two fingers of my left hand and feel for his pulse. If he’s got one, I’ll lock him in and ring an ambulance. If he’s dead, I’ll ring the police.
My hand is shaking so much I can’t hold my fingers still against the thin skin of his wrist. I try again, wrapping my thumb around to anchor them in place, but I can’t feel anything. I’ve only ever taken my own pulse before. Rain is battering against the roof of the shed and the wind is whistling through the open door. Was that a dull throb I just felt beneath my fingertips? I close my eyes to concentrate. Yes, there’s a pulse. It’s strong and deep and—
A scream catches in my throat as Mike’s arm twists beneath my hand, his fingers close around my wrist and he looks straight at me.
‘It’s you.’
It’s not the tone of his voice that makes me scrabble to my feet, run out of the cage and slam the door shut. It’s the hate in his eyes.
I grab at the padlock, dangling from the catch, but I’m shaking so much I drop it. As I crouch down to pick it up, Mike presses his hand to the back of his head and rolls onto his side. He groans as he gets to his knees.
‘Lou! What the fuck are you doing, you stupid—’
He slams up against the door and tries to grab my hand through the bars but he’s too slow.
Click.
I squeeze the lock shut and jump away from the cage.
Mike grabs hold of the bars and shakes the door. All six cages rattle and shake and, for one horrible moment, I think the whole thing is going to tip over and pin me to the ground, but it holds firm. It must be bolted to the floor.
‘Open the fucking door!’ Mike shouts. He reaches a hand behind his head, then looks at his fingers. They’re slick with blood. There’s blood on one of the bricks in the pile in the corner too. He sees me looking and picks one up.
‘The police are going to have a field day with you,’ he says as he walks back to the door. ‘Assault and imprisonment. Five years is nothing compared to what you’re going to get.’ I inch to my left, preparing to run. He’s going to push the brick through the bars and try and smash the lock off.
But the brick won’t fit between the bars, no matter which way he turns it. The gap is too small.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ He takes two steps back, then hurls the brick at the door. It bounces straight off, narrowly missing his foot as it lands.
Mike launches himself at the door. SMASH! He drives his shoulder into the bars. The padlock swings back and forth, but it doesn’t open.
‘Open the fucking door!’ He grips the bars and shakes the cage. ‘Lou … Louise … what are you fucking doing? Just open the fucking door.’
I’m as far away from him as I can get, backed up against the barn wall, my hands pressed against the wood. Rough, spiky splinters scratch at my fingertips.
‘Lou, please.’ He softens his tone. ‘Just open the door. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. I promise,’ he holds up his hands, palms out, ‘I won’t lay a finger on you. I’ll just get back in my van and go home. Neither of us need ever mention this again.’
‘You’ll go to the police.’
‘I won’t. I swear. I know what it’s like inside. I wouldn’t put you through that.’
‘Yes you would.’ I’m surprised to hear myself laugh.
‘I really wouldn’t …’ he tails off as he looks me up and down. His eyes linger on my small breasts, then drift southwards. ‘You’ve changed.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/c-l-taylor-2/the-fear-the-sensational-new-thriller-from-the-sunday-times-b/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
C.L. Taylor
‘Claustrophobic and compelling’ KARIN SLAUGHTER‘A rollercoaster with multiple twists’ DAILY MAIL’A million dollar new story from a million selling author' SARAH PINBOROUGHSometimes your first love won’t let you go…When Lou Wandsworth ran away to France with her teacher Mike Hughes, she thought he was the love of her life. But Mike wasn’t what he seemed and he left her life in pieces.Now 32, Lou discovers that he is involved with teenager Chloe Meadows. Determined to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, she returns home to confront him for the damage he’s caused.But Mike is a predator of the worst kind, and as Lou tries to bring him to justice, it’s clear that she could once again become his prey…The million copy Sunday Times bestseller returns with a gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat.Praise for The Fear:‘A skewering portrait of obsessive love and psychological manipulation, this book gets under the skin from the outset and won’t let you go until you’ve gasped at THAT ending. This is Taylor’s best book yet.’CJ Cooke (author of I Know My Name)‘Wow! Such a fast-paced, gripping, tense thriller. My heart was in my mouth at the end. Her best yet!’Claire Douglas (author of Local Girl Missing)
C.L. TAYLOR
The Fear
Copyright (#u51faef6b-96d2-57e5-bd02-1c18727370ad)
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018
Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2018
Cover photographs © Henry Steadman
Cover design © Henry Steadman 2018
C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008118099
Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008118105
Version 2018-06-29
Praise for C.L. Taylor (#u51faef6b-96d2-57e5-bd02-1c18727370ad)
‘Fans of C.L. Taylor are in for a treat. The Fear is her best yet.’
Clare Mackintosh
‘Claustrophobic and compelling.’
Karin Slaughter
‘A skewering portrait of obsessive love and psychological manipulation, this book gets under the skin from the outset and won’t let you go until you’ve gasped at THAT ending. With characters so real you feel you ought to text them and a plot that keeps you tearing through the pages, this is Taylor’s best book yet.’
C.J. Cooke
‘A thoroughly enjoyable read, a highly original and timely tale that kept me utterly enthralled and entertained from beginning to end.’
Liz Nugent
‘I loved The Fear! It’s my favourite of C.L. Taylor’s novels now. I couldn’t put it down. Tense, twisty, terrifying – with one of the best premises I’ve read in ages.’
Julie Cohen
‘Many thrillers claim to be compelling: The Fear absolutely is. Breathtakingly bold, shockingly tense, you won’t be able to tear yourself away from this book. It’s dark, emotionally-charged and filled with characters who will make you question everything you think you know about them. The Fear will delight C.L. Taylor’s fans and win her an army of new ones. What a book!’
Miranda Dickinson
‘What an absolutely cracking read! Pacy, well-written,
and anxiety inducing.’
Lisa Hall
‘The Fear is a compulsive read, that forces the reader to consider just how far they would go to protect themselves and those around them. I could not put this book down!’
Emma Kavanagh
‘Dark and disturbing: this is a book I will remember
for a long time.’
Rachel Abbott
‘A terrifying glimpse into a dark subject. This brilliant book stayed with me long after I finished the last page.’
Cass Green
‘It’s a close call as the bar’s set so high but this has to be C.L. Taylor’s best yet. SO entertaining, high on the shock-factor and yet totally ‘real’.’
Caz Frear
‘The Missing has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, luring us into the heart of a family with terrible secrets and making us wait, with pounding hearts for the final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’
Fiona Barton
‘Black Narcissus for the Facebook generation, a clever exploration of how petty jealousies and misunderstandings can unravel even the tightest of friendships. Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’
Elizabeth Haynes
‘A dark and gripping read that engrossed me from start to finish.’
Mel Sherratt
‘Kept me guessing till the end.’
Sun
‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a
gripping roller coaster of suspense.’
Sunday Express
‘5/5 stars – Spine-chilling!’
Woman Magazine
‘An excellent psychological thriller.’
Heat Magazine
‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller
will get your blood pumping.’
Fabulous Magazine
‘Fast-paced, tense and atmospheric, a guaranteed bestseller.’
Mark Edwards
‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale.
Can’t recommend it enough.’
Louise Douglas
See what bloggers are saying about C.L. Taylor … (#u51faef6b-96d2-57e5-bd02-1c18727370ad)
‘An intriguing and stirring tale, overflowing with family drama.’
Lovereading.co.uk
‘Astoundingly written, The Missing pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the final full stop.’
Bibliophile Book Club
‘The Lie is an utterly gripping psychological thriller that you won’t forget for a long time. Dark, creepy and wonderfully written.’
Alba in Book Land
‘Tense and gripping with a dark, ominous feeling that seeps through the very clever writing … all praise to C.L. Taylor.’
Anne Cater, Random Things Through My Letterbox
‘C.L. Taylor has done it again, with another compelling masterpiece.’
Rachel’s Random Reads
‘In a crowded landscape of so-called domestic noir thrillers, most of which rely on clever twists and big reveals, [The Missing] stands out for its subtle and thoughtful analysis of the fallout from a loss in the family.’
Crime Fiction Lover
‘When I had finished, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and wrung it out like a dish cloth.’
By the Letter Book Reviews
‘Be prepared to be consumed by The Escape – you’ll want to read it in one sitting. Just brilliant.’
Bookliterati
‘Incredibly thrilling and utterly unpredictable! A must read!’
Aggie’s Books
‘A gripping story.’
Bibliomaniac
‘The Accident had me gnawing the inside
of my mouth!’
Beady Jan’s Bookshelf
‘Another hit from C.L. Taylor … so cleverly written and so absorbing that I completely forgot about everything else while reading it. Unmissable.’
Alba in Book Land
Dedication (#ulink_15d50a74-6191-5cf4-b442-45c55a9b8079)
To my friend Scott James
who never backs down from a dare.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u49da14fe-1c7d-5678-8f1d-2d8d4d1ef320)
Title Page (#u4eb72d3a-1fe8-5199-864a-1d46a179cd76)
Copyright (#u11d9b844-d9e8-5885-bbf7-3cbcad83c788)
Praise for C.L. Taylor (#u9dd53f96-a6f6-5afb-8729-e67c724601b9)
See What Bloggers Are Saying About C.L. Taylor … (#u40d85511-0219-58dd-8a26-21c554199ca7)
Dedication (#u13ce3373-598a-5281-99d0-300c6e325512)
Chapter 1: Lou (#ued148235-0bfe-5306-8524-940ca15ebc06)
Chapter 2: Wendy (#u4b08de4a-43bb-5cb8-b86e-466ea4d2ce8b)
Chapter 3: Lou (#u74b51ebe-3342-5599-b1a0-0f6ee4aae593)
Chapter 4: Lou (#uf167dbbe-e406-5b01-9835-735e424f4348)
Chapter 5: Chloe (#u45df1e0b-27f0-5b98-9d23-4ddc5d29b3aa)
Chapter 6: Lou (#u4273397f-42e5-5b1b-8c66-838a0ff298cf)
Chapter 7: Wendy (#u84c8b1d1-a174-59f2-a494-4fc092ca9e20)
Chapter 8: Lou (#uc89cda0d-bf6d-5211-b376-429537feed6c)
Chapter 9: Chloe (#u36afd37f-eb95-5bff-ab94-5e3f0d69d97c)
Chapter 10: Wendy (#u1f3f1bdc-b7ed-58b8-8d6e-bfb8b0370522)
Chapter 11: Lou (#u098a2e00-0019-5bfa-a08b-efed0500f3c7)
Chapter 12: Lou (#u586ce059-19ee-5170-be88-4a80a008a5ac)
Chapter 13: Lou (#u86dde5fb-91ef-56ba-ac3a-0fc329c2ef36)
Chapter 14: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26: Ben (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42: Chloe (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45: Ds Anna Hope (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46: Wendy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47: Lou (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48: Mavis (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Reading Group Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_b20af44b-513e-5e90-8b3e-8815a60f872a)
Lou (#ulink_b20af44b-513e-5e90-8b3e-8815a60f872a)
Saturday 24th March 2007
I hate surprises. So much so that when Ben rang me at work on Monday and told me to keep the weekend free because he was going to surprise me, I almost ended the call. Instead I pretended to be thrilled.
‘You okay?’ he asks now. ‘You don’t get travel-sick do you?’
If I look pale it’s got nothing to do with the fact that we are rocketing down the A2 in Ben’s battered VW Golf.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘But I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.’
He taps a finger against the side of his nose and smiles. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
Ben was never meant to be more than a one-night stand. I figured he’d be straight out of my bed, and my life, the moment our sweat-slicked bodies cooled. But he stuck around. He stayed all night and then insisted on taking me out for breakfast the next day. I said yes, partly because it was less awkward than saying no. Mostly because I was hungry and I didn’t have any food in the house. We ended up staying in the café for over two hours. I learnt that he was a self-employed graphic artist, he’d never been to a gig, and his dad was a massive hypochondriac. He learnt that I was an only child, a project manager for an eLearning company and that my dad had recently died. Ben immediately reached across the table, squeezed my hand and said how sorry he was. When he asked if we’d been close I changed the subject.
I need to go back there at some point, to my childhood home in the rolling green Worcestershire countryside, to clear and clean the farmhouse and put it on the market, but there’s a good reason why I haven’t been back in eighteen years.
‘Not long now,’ Ben says as a sign to Dover/Channel Tunnel/Canterbury/Chatham flashes past us. ‘Any idea where we’re going yet?’
My stomach tightens but I keep my tone light. ‘Canterbury has a nice cathedral. You’re not planning on marrying me, are you? I haven’t packed a dress.’
If Ben knew me well, he’d realise that my voice is half an octave too high and my smile is pulled too tightly over my teeth. He’d ask if I was okay instead of laughing and making a quip about Gretna Green. But Ben and I have only been seeing each other for a month. He barely knows me.
I try to quell my anxiety, first by singing along to Ben’s Artic Monkeys CD, then by talking crap. As the miles speed by we discuss the DVD boxed set we’ve been binge-watching for the last week, the latest celebrity scandal that’s been splashed all over the broadsheets and where we watched the lunar eclipse. Logically I know that I have nothing to fear. I’m thirty-two, not fourteen. And Ben didn’t ask me to pack my passport. But the knot in my stomach remains.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I ask, as Ben presses a bottle of water to his lips.
He laughs, spraying the steering wheel with a fine mist. ‘Are you five?’
‘No, just impatient.’
‘I knew I should have blindfolded you. No,’ he nudges me lightly. ‘Gagged you.’
I tense but force a laugh. ‘Please tell me you’re not into all that S&M shit.’
‘Who says it’s shit?’
More laughter. We laugh a lot. We have since we met, in a pub in Soho. I was at a work leaving party and I’d just managed to spill the best part of a glass of red wine down my top. Ben came out of the men’s toilets as I swerved into the ladies’, dropping my purse in my haste. He waited outside so he could give it back to me. He was a nice-looking bloke, friendly and, because I was drunk, I said yes when he asked if he could buy me a drink.
One month since we met. Two months until we split up. If that. Thirty-two years old and I haven’t been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than three months. Sooner or later I’ll fuck things up. I always do.
The sign as we leave the M2 at junction 7 says Canterbury/Dover/Margate/Ramsgate. I can’t imagine he’s taking me to Margate for the weekend, although it could be fun. Canterbury then. It has to be. Maybe I should have packed a white dress.
‘Please tell me where we’re going,’ I plead.
Ben smiles but says nothing. The grin doesn’t leave his face as we exit the roundabout onto the Boughton Bypass and rejoin the A2.
‘No peeking,’ he says as I reach for my phone. ‘If you look on Google Maps you’ll spoil the surprise.’
Which was exactly my plan.
My grip on the hand rest tightens as we speed past the junction to Canterbury and I spot a sign saying ‘Dover 17 miles’. The only reason we could be going there would be to get a ferry to Calais. But Ben didn’t ask me to bring my passport. He must have discovered some kind of idyll nearby, a picturesque fishing village maybe, out of sight of the ferries and the boats.
‘Nearly there,’ he says as we drive through Dover and a grey stretch of sea appears between the buildings. ‘Trust me, you’re going to love it.’
Trust me. You need to trust me, Lou. I will keep you safe, I promise. I love you. You know that don’t you?
‘Ben.’
We’re only a couple of hundred metres from the ferry terminal now, a slab of grey, slapped up against the sea. We speed along the seafront then Ben slows the car as we approach the customs gates.
‘Ben, I—’
‘Don’t stress.’ He slows the car to a halt as we join the queue. ‘I’ve got your passport. Don’t kill me but I swiped it from your desk drawer when you were cooking dinner the other—’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘What?’
I yank on the door pull but the passenger door doesn’t open.
‘Lou?’
I try again. And again. Pull. Release. Pull. Release. The piece of black plastic flaps back and forth but the door doesn’t open. He’s locked me in.
It’s going to be okay, Lou. It’s what we wanted. Just you and me. A new life. A new start in a place where no one will judge us. We can be together, forever.
The window then. If I open it, unclip my seat belt and lean out, I’ll be able to open the door from the outside. I’ll be able to get out.
‘Lou?’
I try and turn the handle on the passenger door but my hand is slick with sweat and it keeps slipping from underneath my fingertips.
‘Are you going to be sick or something? I’ve opened the door. Sorry, it’s central locking and—’
A cold gust of air whips my hair around my face as I leap out of the car. In an instant I am fourteen years old again.
Mike is the love of my life and I am his. He’s taking me to France for a romantic weekend away. This morning I put on my school uniform as usual but, instead of getting the bus all the way to school, I got off a stop early on the corner of Holy Lane. Mike was waiting with his car. He’d told me to bring toiletries, a change of clothes and my passport in my school bag. He said he’d take care of the rest.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_fb49d1a2-092d-5095-aae7-ae2e812bf340)
Wendy (#ulink_fb49d1a2-092d-5095-aae7-ae2e812bf340)
Sunday 8th April 2007
‘Monty!’ Wendy Harrison lays down her shovel, dusts the soil from her gardening gloves and stands up. ‘Monty, I’m going in now!’
At the sound of her voice, her piebald springer spaniel comes bounding out of the bushes and pads across the grass towards her, his pink tongue lolling.
‘Hello, Monts.’ Wendy rubs a hand over the top of his head. ‘I think we both deserve a treat, don’t you?’
The dog’s ears twitch at the sound of the word treat and he trots obediently beside his mistress, his eyes never leaving her face, as she makes her way inside the small terraced house on the edge of Great Malvern.
Wendy takes a bite of her custard cream, chews, swallows and then pops the other half in her mouth. When that’s gone she sips at her tea and picks up another biscuit. She was only going to have one. She’d even entered it into her Slimming World diary – custard cream, 3 syns – but somehow half of the packet has vanished.
Sod it, she thinks as she moves her finger over her laptop’s mousepad. I’ll start again tomorrow.
For the last hour she’s been flicking back and forth between the same three websites – Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. It’s the fourth time today that she’s logged on and it’s only 2 p.m. She tries to distract herself – with gardening, her part-time bookkeeping job and walking Monty – but her mind always drifts back to those websites. Has something new been posted? An update, photo or location? The panic builds in her stomach. What if the information is deleted before she reads it? What if she misses something important?
She can’t remember what first prompted her to google Lou Wandsworth. It might have been a passing conversation she’d had with her friend Angela about finding an old school friend on Facebook, an article she read in the paper, or maybe she was having one of those days where she woke up feeling as though a dark cloud had settled in her brain and nothing brought her joy, not even when Monty laid his head on her knee and stared up at her with his searching brown eyes.
It didn’t take Wendy long to track Lou down. She was the only Louise Wandsworth on Facebook. The trouble was, she could only see her name, an image of a cartoon character as her profile picture and a list of her friends. Nothing else. Angela had shown her how to set up her own Facebook page but she couldn’t use that to try and connect with Lou. She made a new page instead, called herself Saskia Kennedy, and added a few photos of a woman that she’d found online who was about the same age as Lou.
Wendy’s heart trembled in her chest when she pressed the ‘add friend’ button. But nothing happened. Her request was ignored. Days went by, then weeks. Wendy did some more googling: How do you get someone to accept a Facebook friend request?
She discovered that it looked suspicious if you didn’t have many friends, or any in common, so she set about adding random people who lived in London and looked about the same age as Louise. Men were easy – the woman in her fake profile picture was attractive – but it took a little longer for women to start accepting her requests. Once she had fifty friends and had filled her wall with silly photos and the same sort of updates as her ‘contemporaries’ she tried adding a few of Lou’s friends. To her surprise they accepted her, at least half a dozen of them. When she tried adding Lou for a second time her friend request was accepted.
She was in.
She felt jubilant as she clicked on Lou’s photo albums. All those months of detective work and she’d finally found what she had been looking for. Not just one photo of her but dozens and dozens. Lou had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. A hint of make-up around the eyes but no lipstick. Skinny. But not in an attractive way. Her jacket sloped away from her shoulders and her skirt bagged below her knees. There was a pinched, haggard look to her cheeks, despite her youth – the hollowed face of a long-distance runner or one of the dieters in Slimming World magazine who’ve lost four or five stone in a matter of months.
As Wendy clicked through the photos, a weight settled in her stomach. Lou might not be conventionally attractive but she was surrounded by people in every shot. There were photos of her in dim bars, chinking cocktail glasses with dewy-skinned friends. Shots of her running through the waves on a tropical holiday, not an ounce of fat protruding from beneath her string bikini. Lou on top of a mountain with a cagoule hood pulled tightly around her head with a look of triumph on her face. Lou in fancy dress, one foot cocked behind her like a fifties starlet, kissing a dark-haired man dressed like Clark Gable. She was vivacious, well-liked, well-travelled and content. Everything that Wendy was not.
Wendy didn’t go back on Facebook for a week after that first discovery. She didn’t even open her laptop. Just walking past it made her feel sick.
But then curiosity got the better of her.
‘I’ll just have a quick look,’ she told Monty as she settled down at her dining room table and opened the laptop lid. ‘Then I’ll stop.’
That was seven months ago.
‘Give me a second, Monty,’ Wendy says now as her dog nudges at her knee. ‘We’ll go for a walk in a minute.’
She reaches for a custard cream and pops it into her mouth. Outside, storm clouds are gathering in the sky. If they don’t go out now they’ll be in for one soggy walk. One last refresh of the screen, Wendy tells herself as she clicks the trackpad button, and then I’ll get my coat on.
What she sees on the screen makes her inhale so sharply a tiny bit of biscuit whizzes down her windpipe, making her cough. Lou has just updated her Facebook page.
I got the job in Malvern and I’m moving in a month’s time. London, I’m going to miss you.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_70448589-f204-5cf0-be81-4854ddb7763d)
Lou (#ulink_70448589-f204-5cf0-be81-4854ddb7763d)
Saturday 21st April 2007
I’ve spent the last month trying to ready myself for this moment but nothing could have prepared me for the cloud of memories that descend as I catch sight of the Malvern Hills, curving like a dragon’s back, as I head down the A4440: buying penny sweets in white paper bags from Morley’s, laughing at the girls from the local boarding school in their brown ‘Batman’ cloaks, walking up to St Anne’s Well with Mum and Dad feeling like I was climbing a mountain, and stepping into The Martial Arts Club for the first time, feeling sick with nerves. An image of Mike, smiling and holding out a hand in welcome, flashes into my brain. I try to blot it out by focussing on the road as I speed past Malvern and along the A4103 towards Acton Green. It’s not a journey I’ve ever driven before – I passed my test in London – but the road is imprinted in my memory from all the times Dad ferried me to and from karate lessons. My phone bleeps on the passenger seat as I pass Dad’s favourite drinking haunt, The Dog and Duck. I snatch it up, hoping it’s a text from Ben, knowing it won’t be.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since that awful afternoon in Dover four weeks ago. He caught up with me after I fled, half a mile or so along the seafront.
‘Louise?’ He abandoned his car on a double yellow line and ran after me, grabbing my hand, forcing me to stop. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
I shook my head, hating myself for what I was about to do.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What just happened?’
When I told him that I didn’t think we should see each other again, the concerned expression on his face morphed into confusion. Why, he wanted to know. What had he done wrong?
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’
He searched my face for an answer. ‘Then why?’
I couldn’t tell him. Not when I’ve spent the last eighteen years pretending that Mike Hughes doesn’t exist. Instead I mumbled something about things moving too quickly. I wasn’t ready for a relationship. We wanted different things.
I cried on the train back to London, turning my face to the window so the man sitting next to me couldn’t see my tears. Ben didn’t deserve what just happened. Neither did any of the men I’d dumped, run away from and lied to. If I didn’t face up to what happened to me when I was fourteen I was going to spend the rest of my life alone.
I glance at my phone. The text is from my best friend Alice, asking if I’ve got to Dad’s house safely. I drop the phone back on the seat and indicate left, taking the road towards Ledbury – and Mike’s house – instead of continuing on to Acton Green. I’ve never been to his house before. Why would I? He was a respectable member of the community, a karate teacher who raised money for charity through fun runs and tournaments. And besides, he lived with his wife Dee. Mike was very good at keeping our ‘affair’ secret. Our first kiss was in the changing rooms behind the dojo. I was fourteen and it was almost one year to the day after I first started karate, but we first fucked in—
Don’t use that word again.
Mike’s voice cuts through the memory.
Fucking is sex without emotion, Louise. That’s not something I do and it’s certainly not something we’re going to do. When we spend the night together for the first time it’s going to be because we love each other and we’ll express that by—
I turn the radio on and twist the knob round to the right. The sound explodes out of the speakers in a fury, making my eardrums pulse, but I don’t turn it back down. It’s a song I barely know but I sing along anyway, shouting nonsensical words as Mike’s voice creeps through the space between notes, demanding to be heard.
Mike might not have taken me to his house but I knew where he lived. I knew everything about him, or as much as a fourteen-year-old girl could without access to the internet, and I wrote it all down in my diary. I listened in to conversations between the parents and the other senseis. I casually quizzed the older students about him and, during the rare moments I was alone with Mike, I’d listen, enrapt, to anything he told me. This was way before we kissed for the first time. A long time before that.
As I turn right off New Mills Way – one street away from Mike’s house – my resolve vanishes and empty terror replaces it. What am I doing? My plan was to give myself a couple of weeks to sort out Dad’s house and start work before I tracked Mike down. I googled before I left, to check he hadn’t changed his name or gone underground. But no, he lives in the same house he lived in eighteen years ago and he’s got his own business – Hughes Removals and Deliveries – on the outskirts of Malvern. No karate club though, thank God.
I park up, then slump over the steering wheel as all the air leaves my body in one raggedy breath. I’ve got no idea what I’ll walk into when I knock on his door. Mike’s wife could answer. One of his children – if he has any. What do I say if that happens? Hello, I’m Louise, the girl your dad groomed. Is he in?
I don’t know why you’re blaming me for everything. You knew what you were getting yourself into.
Shut up, I tell the voice. I was fourteen. I had no idea.
If I did such a terrible thing why didn’t you testify at my trial?
Because I was terrified of what you might do if you weren’t convicted.
That’s a lie, isn’t it? You didn’t testify because you loved me.
No, that’s not true.
You were the one who said ‘I love you’ first. You said you wanted to marry me and have my children. Do you know why you can’t make a relationship work? Why you had to send Ben packing? Because you still love me.
‘No.’ I slam my fists against the steering wheel, pounding the horn to block out the soft murmur of Mike’s voice in the back of my skull. ‘I don’t. I don’t.’
Sweat prickles at my armpits as I push open the gate to Mike’s house and walk up the path. If his wife answers, I won’t recognise her. There are no photos of her on the internet and Mum made sure I didn’t get so much as a peek at the news or the front page of a newspaper after the trial. I didn’t have a mobile phone or home computer back in 1989 either.
But what if Dee Hughes recognises me? She never went to the dojo or to any of the matches but she must have tried to find out who I am. What if she screams in my face and tells me that I ruined her life? When I look at photos of fourteen-year-old me, I barely recognise myself. My face was soft and round, my hair dark and cut into a jaw-length bob with a thick heavy fringe. These days it’s lighter and longer, with pale tendrils that hang over sharp cheekbones and a tight jaw that I didn’t have eighteen years ago. But it’s not just my face that has changed. The softly curved body I despised so much as a teenager has gone. On a good day, I can look in the mirror and tell myself that I’m slender. On a bad day, my body looks wizened and androgynous, as though the years have eaten away at my femininity.
I knock three times on the front door. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times. Sometimes Mike looks shocked to see me. Occasionally he starts to cry. Once I stabbed him before he could speak. I concentrate on the thick, glossy red paint and take a deep breath. If Mike peeks from behind a curtain, I want him to see me standing here confidently, not twitching and shifting. I want to get this over and done with now, before any more memories overwhelm me. I have to do it while I’m still feeling brave. We can talk on the doorstep or in the pub down the road. If he invites me in, I’ll say no. Even if he’s home alone. Particularly if he’s home alone.
That’s her, someone shouts as I step out of the French police station. Flashbulbs light up the dark sky as I’m sandwiched between four police officers and shepherded into a black car. That’s the girl who ran away with her karate teacher.
‘Hello?’
I am vaguely aware of a voice, a male baritone, shouting hello, but it doesn’t register. Nothing does.
I need to find out where Mike is. Did they bring him here too? Is he being interrogated behind one of these flat, beige doors?
‘Hello! You at the door of number fifty-nine!’
I turn slowly. There’s a man in his mid to late fifties, hanging out of the first-floor window of the house next to Mike’s. The upper half of his body is naked and his hair is slicked back, like he just stepped out of the shower. I try to erase the image of Mike’s face from my mind, to mentally shake myself forward in time, but the memory’s still holding me tightly, like the last vestiges of a dream. Or a nightmare.
‘Were you after Mike?’ the man asks.
Do I say yes or no? I have no idea who this person is.
‘I was, yes.’
‘Friend are you?’
I smile tightly. ‘Old friend.’
His eyes flick the length of my body and he smiles lasciviously. ‘Lucky Mike.’
I ignore him and head back down the path to my car.
‘He’s at work,’ the man shouts, making me pause as I touch a hand to the driver side door. ‘Greensleeves, the garden centre. He does their pick-ups on a Saturday.’ No mention of Mike’s wife, but I’m not about to ask.
‘Fancy going for a drink sometime?’ he adds as I get into my car. ‘Thank me properly?’
I consider shouting something abusive but I haven’t got time to explain why no sane woman would date a prick who slathers at women out of a window. It’s half past five. I need to find out where the garden centre is and get there before it closes. I need to find Mike. Now. Before the fear sets in again.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_a31d378a-497c-57c7-a86f-9ae6b3aff0a6)
Lou (#ulink_a31d378a-497c-57c7-a86f-9ae6b3aff0a6)
I change out of my uniform in the car, wriggling out of my school skirt and pulling on my jeans. When I undo my seat belt so I can take off my shirt, Mike snaps at me.
‘What the fuck are you doing? We’re on the motorway for God’s sake.’
I quickly plug my seat belt back in but tears prick at my eyes as I struggle to pull on my jumper. It was supposed to be a romantic weekend away and he’s just snapped at me like I’m misbehaving in class.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mike rests a hand on my knee. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Lou. You mean the world to me. You know that, don’t you?’
I nod, but I don’t squeeze his hand. It remains on my knee like a dead weight until he has to lift it up again to tap the indicator and change lanes.
I push open the doors to Greensleeves Garden Centre. As I step inside the woman behind the counter, dressed in a red polo shirt, shouts that they’ll be closing soon. I ignore her and speed through the shop, barely registering the shelves of bird food and ornaments and the displays of garden furniture and houseplants. The only other customer is a heavily pregnant woman pushing a trolley full of fertiliser and decorative fencing with bedding plants piled on the top.
I glance at my watch as I step through the large double doors next to the restaurant. 17.53. Seven minutes until they close. If Mike’s not out here, in the yard amongst the plants, shrubs and timber, I’ll head round the back, see if there’s some kind of loading bay. I don’t want to have to come here again or go back to his house. I want to get this over and done with now.
I walk along the length of the aisles, pausing to peer down each one as I pass. The place is deserted. I’ll just do one last loop of the yard and then head round the—
It’s the flash of blue amongst all the brown and green that makes me pause. I’m at the far end of the yard, standing beside a raised pallet full of shaped bushes and willow-like trees in decorative pots. There are six sheds and summer houses, standing in a row like sentries, directly to my left – no more than a couple of metres away. A grey-haired man wearing a blue T-shirt just ducked inside the summer house.
A sharp pain cuts across my chest, like cheese wire being pulled tight around my ribcage. It’s him. It’s Mike. I only caught a glimpse before the door closed behind him, but it was enough for me to take in the thick grey hair, the deep lines either side of his mouth and the pronounced limp as he walked. He must be forty-nine years old but he looks older. So much older than I remember, but I know it’s him. I’d stake my life on it.
I crouch down and peer from between two bushes. Unlike the two wooden sheds on either side of it, the summer house has white PVC double doors and two long windows. As Mike appears in one of the windows, someone else steps out of the shadows. As she reaches a hand to touch Mike’s face, he glances over his shoulder, back towards the yard. For one terrible second I think that he’s seen me, but he turns back to face the woman. He sweeps the hair from the side of her face, then, cradling the back of her head, leans in for a kiss.
They kiss for several seconds, then the woman pulls away and I catch a glimpse of her face. Bobbed brown hair with a thick fringe. A soft jawline. Full, plump cheeks. Jeans that cling to thick thighs. A red polo shirt pulled tight over large, weighty breasts. She’s not a woman at all. She’s a child, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old.
I don’t burst into the summer house and scream at Mike to get his hands off her. Nor do I run off in search of a staff member. Instead I turn and flee, flying through the aisles of trees and bushes, brushing past plants and dodging statues. I don’t stop running until I’m back in the safety of my car, then I smash my fists against the steering wheel until my skin is red and throbbing.
I have never hated myself more than I do right now.
I should have felt anger when I saw Mike kiss that girl. Or disgust. Instead I felt betrayed. He was kissing her the same way he kissed me: the smoothing away of the hair, the cradling of the back of the head, the teasing lip brush followed by a deeper, harder kiss as he pulled her into him.
I had to wait so very, very long for our first kiss. He pulled away so many times before our lips finally met, denying me, telling me that I was too young and it wouldn’t be right. His reticence only made me want him more. I’d lie in bed and relive every touch, every lingering look and every soft word. I’d run a finger over my mouth, then push two fingers against my lips, imagining the weight of his mouth on mine. Fourteen years old and I’d never been kissed. I never admitted it to anyone at school but teenagers can sniff out weakness and fear the same way pigs can sniff out truffles and, somehow, everyone knew. The bullying began when I was thirteen, just before Mum and Dad split up. I’ve got no idea why. One moment I was invisible, the next I was on the bullies’ radar. It was Dad that suggested the karate lessons. They’d give me an air of confidence, he said, even if I never used the moves. An air of confidence? That’s a joke.
I start as a dark green estate car pulls into the car park. It does a U-turn, then parks near the exit. The driver doesn’t get out but he does open a window and flick cigarette ash on the floor. As he does, the door to the garden centre bursts open and the girl I saw in the summer house runs down the path.
‘Chloe!’ the man in the green estate bellows, leaning out of the window.
The girl sprints across the car park. ‘Sorry, Dad, sorry,’ she calls as she rounds the car.
‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages. Get in.’
That’s a lie.
‘They needed me to work late,’ the girl says as she pulls at the car door. ‘I couldn’t just …’ The rest of her sentence is lost as she slides into the car and slams the door shut.
As the car inches forward, its right indicator blinking, I look back at the door to the garden centre. Do I wait for Mike to come out or go after the girl?
The green estate pulls out into the road and I start my engine.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_c6c93c7f-4991-5889-8235-4b5a5c1a59de)
Chloe (#ulink_c6c93c7f-4991-5889-8235-4b5a5c1a59de)
Chloe endures her dad’s rant all the way home. She’s a stupid girl. She’s got no sense of responsibility. She’s selfish. She’s fat. Most thirteen-year-olds would be grateful to have an after-school job. He hopes she’s more punctual when her boss asks her to do something. Mike’s his friend but he didn’t have to help him find his stupid daughter an after-school job. If she gets the sack, it will reflect badly on both of them.
She tries to block him out by glancing out of the window and losing herself in the green blur of the hedgerow, but each time she turns her head her dad snaps at her to look at him when he’s talking to her.
I hate you, she thinks as she looks into his eyes. You’re a bully. You bully Mum and you bully me. The only person you don’t bully is your precious little mini-me Jamie. At seven years old he’s too young to realise that his dad’s an arsehole. He thinks his dad can do no wrong, not while he’s still impressed by tickets to see Wolves play, packs of football cards and father–son trips to McDonald’s. She’d like to think that when Jamie hits his teens, the scales will fall away from his eyes and he’ll understand that it’s not okay to talk to women like they’re shit. Then again, just yesterday, when she asked him to put his plate in the dishwasher after dinner, he said, ‘Why should I? Dad doesn’t.’
Chloe’s spent a lot of time trying to work out why her dad and Mike are friends. They couldn’t be more different. Her dad, Alan, is harsh and abrasive. Mike is gentle and kind. Her dad criticises her and makes her feel like shit. Mike tells her she’s beautiful and makes her feel like she could do anything she wanted to in life. She didn’t always feel so warmly towards Mike. She used to ignore him if he came round to their house for a BBQ or to have a few beers with her dad in the garden. Putting up with her dad was bad enough, why would she want to chat to one of his arsehole mates? And when her dad suggested she get a weekend and after-school job at the garden centre she was horrified. A garden centre? How boring was that. And anyway, she had homework to do after school. ‘It’s not like you’ll ever be an A-grade student,’ her dad had snapped, ‘even if you did homework for the rest of your life. Get retail experience now, while you can.’ It was her mum who finally talked her into taking the job. ‘It’ll get you out of the house,’ she said softly, ‘and you might make some new friends.’ Chloe wasn’t sure she wanted to be friends with people who worked in a garden centre, but the idea of avoiding her dad for sixteen hours a week did appeal. And earning some money of her own so she didn’t have to ask him.
When the car finally pulls up on their street, Chloe sits tight, waiting for her dad to tell her that she can get out, then she runs up the path and into the house.
‘Mum!’ she calls. ‘I’m back!’
She pops her head into the living room to find Jamie sitting on the rug in front of the TV, the PS4 remote welded to his hands.
‘Jamie, where’s Mum?’
‘Having a lie-down. She’s got a migraine. Again.’
She takes the stairs two at a time, then gently pushes at her parents’ bedroom door. The curtains are drawn and the room is dark but she can make out the shape of her mother lying curled up on her side on the bed. She’s fast asleep. Chloe reaches into her back pocket for her phone and checks the time. 6.17 p.m. She wonders if Mike will be home yet. Not that she knows where that is. When she asked him where he lived and if he had a family, he shook his head and said, ‘All you need to know is that my life is a lonely one. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’ve got a feeling you can relate?’ She’d looked away then, unable to cope with the intensity of his gaze.
‘Chloe!’ her dad yells from downstairs. ‘If your mum’s not able to make the dinner you’ll have to do it.’
Chloe glances at her mum, her face slack, her shoulders relaxed and her breathing heavy and slow, then she makes her way back down the stairs.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_c8c77e95-e9e2-5eed-a4c5-2f015be56898)
Lou (#ulink_c8c77e95-e9e2-5eed-a4c5-2f015be56898)
Any tension between me and Mike lifts the moment the ferry pulls away from the terminal and we’re free to get out of the car. He grabs my hand and half-leads, half-pulls me up the stairs to the deck.
‘Let’s find the arcade.’ He beams, dimples puncturing his stubbly cheeks. ‘If they’ve got those grabby games, I’ll try and win you a toy.’
We move from game to game – shooting, driving and dancing. Mike wins the shooting. I win the dancing. I win the driving too when I cheat and yank on his steering wheel, making him do a U-turn. He doesn’t care. He pulls me onto his lap, then without bothering to check if anyone is looking, he covers my face in kisses. When we’ve exhausted all the games, we drop shiny ten-pence pieces into the penny shove. We work as a team first, then race each other to see who can get the most coins in. As our winnings tumble over the edge, Mike wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me clean off my feet.
‘Let’s celebrate in style!’ he laughs. ‘The burgers are on me!’
He leads me to the restaurant and orders burgers, fries and milkshakes. I get Mike to dip his fries in his milkshake (‘disgusting’) and he challenges me to see who can take the biggest bite out of our buns. I’ve seen lots of different sides to Mike’s personality in the eighteen months since I’ve known him. I’ve seen him thoughtful, sensitive, kind and strict (but only at the club). But I’ve never seen him like this before. The playful side of him is amazing. It’s like we’re the same age.
It doesn’t last forever. The closer the ferry gets to Calais, the quieter Mike becomes and as the car pulls off the rank he snaps at me to ‘wait’ when I ask where we’re going. When the customs officers check our passports, his whole body tenses and he holds himself very still. He’s worried, but he shouldn’t be. As far as Mum and Dad are concerned, I’ve gone on a karate camping trip. As long as I’m back by Sunday night they’ll be fine.
‘My niece,’ Mike says as the uniformed man looks from him to me.
‘Oui,’ I say and flash him a smile. Mike twitches, ever so slightly, like he’s annoyed with me, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the man’s face.
‘Merci.’ He gives the passports back and waves his hand for us to move on.
I almost threw up when I pulled into the parking lot of Malvern Police Station but anger propelled me out of the car and into the building. God knows what the duty sergeant made of me as I flew up to the desk and demanded to speak to someone urgently. My heart’s still pounding and I babble rather than speak, my voice filling the small, beige room. DS Hope doesn’t say a word. Instead she listens intently, her eyes on me, her pen poised over the notepad on her lap.
‘It happened at Greensleeves Garden Centre near Powick,’ I say. ‘Just before closing. The man’s name is Michael Hughes. I don’t know the girl’s surname but her first name is Chloe. I heard her dad shout to her when he picked her up. I followed them home in my car. Her address is 29, Missingham Road. It’s just off the—’
DS Hope raises an eyebrow. ‘You followed the girl home?’
‘Of course. I was worried about her. I thought if I found out where she lived, then I could pass the information on to you.’
‘Why not ask another employee? You just told me you thought she worked there. That she was wearing the same red polo top as the woman on the tills.’
‘The woman on the tills wasn’t there when I left.’ My chest tightens as the lie leaves my mouth, but what else can I say?
DS Hope is looking at me like I’m unhinged. Did I do something weird? Would a normal person not have followed Chloe home?
‘What did you do after you followed her?’
‘I drove straight here.’
‘Right, okay. So, let’s go back to the start.’ DS Hope lays her pen down on her notepad. ‘You were walking around the garden centre and you saw an adult man kissing a teenage girl?’
I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. Being in this windowless beige room is bringing back memories I’d rather forget and it’s taking all my willpower not to run from the room.
‘Yes, as I said. He went into a summer house. She was already in there, like she was waiting for him. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then he kissed her.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘Nearly six o’clock.’
‘And this …’ she glances down, ‘Michael Hughes. Does he work at Greensleeves Garden Centre too?’
‘No. He’s got a delivery company. But I think he does some of their deliveries.’
‘You know him then?’
‘I …’
I can’t tell her the truth. I told the duty sergeant that my name was Lou Smith, not Lou Wandsworth. I don’t want to talk about what happened between me and Mike. I just want the police to stop it from happening again.
‘Lou? Are you okay?’ DS Hope sits forward in her seat, her eyes scanning my face.
‘I’m just a bit hot.’ I grab a tissue from the box on the table and wipe it over my forehead. Mike kissing that girl is all my fault. If I’d testified against him, he might have been given a longer sentence. He might still be in jail. I’ve spent the last eighteen years telling myself that what happened was a one-off, that it was because of me. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – let myself believe he’d do that to anyone else.
‘What is it you’re not telling me, Lou?’ DS Hope asks. ‘What’s your relationship with this man?’
‘I haven’t got a relationship with him. I came here to report what looked like grooming. That’s all. I thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘How do you know his name then, and what he does for a living?’
‘Because I’ve used his company for removals before.’ The lies are coming thick and fast now. Why did I think this was a good idea? I didn’t think it through properly. I never should have stepped foot in here.
‘And you recognised him, when you saw him in the summer house?’
‘Yes. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘I’m just trying to establish what happened.’ Her gaze doesn’t waver. She doesn’t say anything for several seconds. She’s trying to get me to talk but I’ve said too much already. ‘The thing is, Lou, we need evidence to arrest someone and if there’s something you’re not telling me you’re going to make my job more difficult.’
‘He’s a paedophile. He’s served time for abducting …’ I pause. My heart’s beating so quickly I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack, ‘… another girl.’
DS Hope raises her eyebrows as she scribbles in her notepad. ‘When was this? Do you know?’
‘A long time ago. Look, I’ve told you everything I know. I was just trying to do the right thing, coming here and telling you what I saw.’
She gives me a lingering look then stands up.
‘All right, Lou. I’ve got enough to go on for now. I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 7 (#ulink_fd89763c-629e-552f-9fe1-b523bc308a67)
Wendy (#ulink_fd89763c-629e-552f-9fe1-b523bc308a67)
Tuesday 24th April 2007
Wendy stiffens as two young men glance her way as they walk into the café. Her preferred table, a single-seater in the window, was occupied when she came in and she had no choice but to take a four-seater in the corner. It’s a quarter past one and the café is filling up. Sooner or later someone’s going to ask if they can share her table. What if Louise Wandsworth herself took one of the seats opposite her? Wendy’s stomach clenches with a mixture of fear and excitement.
But there’s no sign of her. When Lou came into the café yesterday just after one, she went straight up to the counter and ordered a black coffee, a chicken roll and a tub of fruit salad. Wendy watched discreetly from behind her paperwork as Lou frowned over her mobile phone and picked at her food.
It was the first time she’d seen Lou up close and she was dumbstruck. It reminded her of the evening she’d been having drinks in the Royal Malvern hotel with Angela when Michael Ball had walked in. Wendy had raised a hand, waved and flashed him a smile. Michael Ball didn’t even acknowledge her. Instead his gaze swivelled across the room, to a large, raucous group of lovies by the bar. Wendy was mortified. Angela told her that she wasn’t the first person to mistake a celebrity for a friend but Wendy insisted they leave immediately. It had been the same when she’d first seen Lou – the surprise and the hollowing in her stomach – only that time she’d managed to grip the table rather than thrusting her arm into the air.
When she’d read on Facebook that Lou was going to start a new job at Consol eLearning, she’d immediately checked out the company online. According to the website, they developed eLearning solutions for the public and private sector, whatever that meant. Lou’s friends seemed to be as surprised as Wendy by her proposed move from London to Malvern. There were lots of ridiculously effusive comments begging her not to go and several ‘we’ll miss you soooooo much.’ When asked by one friend why she was making the move, Lou had replied, ‘I’ll DM you.’ That had frustrated Wendy almost as much as her initial attempt to add Lou as a friend. Wendy didn’t comment. She never did. Instead she lurked, reading and analysing everything she found.
She hadn’t planned to sit in the café directly opposite Consol eLearning on Lou’s first day but she’d woken up at 5.30 a.m. and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. With her car in the garage, Monty walked, and no meetings until that afternoon, she had found herself at a bit of a loose end.
I probably won’t see her, she told herself as she settled herself into the single window seat at 8.15 a.m. with a pot of tea. And if I don’t, that’s fine. I have work I can catch up on before I meet up with Judith.
But Wendy’s briefcase of paperwork sat untouched by her feet for an hour. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the window and the people walking past. And then she saw her, Lou, walking down the street. She’d watched, her heart pounding in her chest as Lou had pulled at the door to Consol eLearning, then slumped back in her seat, exhausted and spent, as the door closed behind her and she disappeared from view. Wendy made a snap decision. She would stay in the café until lunchtime to see where Lou went. No one could have been more surprised than her when she actually came in.
Now, she looks at her watch – 1.32 p.m. Lou’s late. Yesterday she came in at 1.05 p.m. But there’s no way Wendy can hold on for another second. She really must use the toilet. She grabs her handbag, snatches up her coat and speeds across the café.
When she walks back out again, Lou Wandsworth is standing less than five metres away from her. Shock almost propels Wendy straight back into the ladies’. Across the room, her table has already been snapped up by a family of three and there are no free seats available. She has two choices – leave without paying the bill or join the queue behind Lou?
She moves closer. She has never run off without paying a bill in her life and she’s not about to do so now.
Lou doesn’t so much as glance round as Wendy silently slips behind her and rests a quivering hand on the top of the glass cake display. Up close, Wendy is able to measure herself against the other woman. Louise Wandsworth is tall, at least five inches taller than her, and her hips – swimming in a too large skirt – are narrower than Wendy’s waist. There is mud on the heels of Lou’s shoes and the ends of her hair are split and tangled. The compulsion to reach into her bag and pull out a comb is almost more than Wendy can bear. She never leaves the house without checking that her shoes are clean and her hair is neat.
‘Order to go, please,’ Lou says as the café owner, a smiley woman about Wendy’s age in a blue and white striped apron, gives her a nod. ‘Black coffee, chicken roll and a fruit salad pot.’
‘Not stopping today?’
‘No, I need to prepare for a client meeting at three. Well, it’s more of a pitch for new business.’
‘Sounds important.’
‘It is. The boss wants me to bring in more money.’
‘Well, fingers crossed it goes well.’
Wendy stands very still, her eyes fixed to the floor as the café owner bustles about, putting the order together, and Lou stands silently beside her, waiting. After an interminable five or six minutes, she hears the clink of money changing hands, the dry rustle of a paper bag being handed over and a soft, breathy ‘thank you’.
‘Yes?’ the café owner says. ‘Hello, yes. How can I help you?’
Wendy tears her eyes away from the thin figure sprinting across the road and fixes the other woman with a big smile. She’s just had the most wonderful idea.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_bc41f5db-caef-5b56-8635-098032d292e4)
Lou (#ulink_bc41f5db-caef-5b56-8635-098032d292e4)
I can’t believe I get to spend a whole weekend with Mike in France. First stop, a hotel room just outside Calais. I’ve been in hotel rooms before, mostly on holiday with Mum and Dad, but this is only the second time I’ve been to one with Mike. The first time was to a Travelodge in Birmingham. The carpet was blue and there were stripy curtains but they weren’t what caught my attention – it was the double bed in the middle of the room. It was finally going to happen. Mike and I were going to have sex for the first time and I was utterly terrified, despite him reassuring me that we’d take our time and he’d be ever so gentle.
We’ve had sex loads of times since then, sometimes in the dojo changing rooms but mostly in his car after class. When Mike offered to start dropping me home, Dad couldn’t say yes fast enough. He said it would give him more time to get some work done but we both knew he meant more time at the pub.
When we reach our hotel room, Mike opens the door, chucks the bags in, then holds up a hand when I try to enter.
‘No, no. I need to carry you in!’
I laugh. ‘We’re not married!’
‘We will be one day!’
I try to wriggle away as he reaches for me. I’m far too heavy and I’d die of embarrassment if he drops me. But Mike scoops me up and into his arms as though I’m as light as a feather. He kicks the door closed behind me and half-drops, half-throws me onto the bed. I land on my side and twist round to pull him close for a kiss. He pecks me on the lips, then flips me onto my stomach and pulls me towards him so I’m bent over the bed.
‘Mike!’ I laugh, as he starts unbuttoning my jeans. ‘Let’s at least go out for dinner first. I thought this weekend was supposed to be romantic.’
He looks at me but it’s as though he doesn’t really see me. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes have this weird glassy sheen to them. He’s got this jubilant expression on his face, like he’s climbed a mountain or won a race.
‘It will be,’ he says as he yanks my jeans and knickers down to my ankles.
A couple of minutes later he slumps on top of me, roaring as he comes. It’s the first time we’ve had sex and haven’t looked each other in the eye.
Saturday 28th April 2007
Three days ago I caved and texted Ben. Mostly because I still feel so awful about what happened and partly because my friend Alice encouraged me to. She rang me on my mobile as I was walking to my car after work. Just for a chat, she said, but we both knew she was fishing for gossip. First she chastised me for not updating Facebook since I left London, then she told me she’d bumped into Ben in the pub. Apparently he was frosty when she asked how he was.
‘He said, I’ve been better. Those were his exact words. I think he still likes you, Lou. Are you sure you can’t sort things out with him?’
I haven’t told Alice the truth about what happened in Dover. I said we’d had an argument and decided to end things. She doesn’t know about Mike. None of my friends do.
‘I’ve told you, I’m a screw-up when it comes to men. I can’t even become a mad old cat lady because I’m allergic to them. Cats, not old ladies, although I’ve never had one rub themselves up and down my leg.’
Alice laughed. ‘Okay, well, first off, we’re all screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Secondly, what you and Ben had was pretty intense. I barely saw you when you were with him. Maybe you both just need a bit of a breather. Has he texted you since you split up? Have you texted him?’
No, I told her. I haven’t heard from him. And I haven’t texted him either. But I still feel really bad about what happened.
‘Text him then. Say sorry. You obviously like him. If you didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Anyway, what’s it like being back? How’s the farmhouse?’
She listened as I told her how I’d almost driven straight past my old family home, it had changed so much. That the neatly clipped hedges, gnarly apple trees and bright daffodils that lined the lane up to our house had been replaced by a tangle of green foliage and weeds. The trees dipped so low, their branches so tightly tangled, it was like driving through a dark tunnel. I told her how my heart had caught in my throat as I’d pulled into the driveway and spotted Dad’s parked Volvo.
‘For a second, I thought he was still alive,’ I said.
I didn’t tell her how freaked out I was when I walked into the living room and saw his old chair.
‘Bloody hell, Lou,’ she said when I finally stopped talking. ‘Sounds traumatic. Oh mate, I knew I should have come with you, at least for your first weekend.’
By the end of the phone call I felt calmer than I had done in days. I hadn’t realised how much I was bottling up my emotions or how isolated I was. Alice was the first person I’d spoken to in a week. Properly spoken to, I mean. Superficial conversations with my new colleagues at work didn’t count.
I took Alice’s advice and texted Ben before I got into my car.
I’m sorry for what happened in Dover. There are reasons why I reacted the way I did that I can’t explain right now. You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you afterwards. I hope you’re okay. X
I read the message again, deleted the kiss at the end and then sent it. Ben had twenty minutes to reply before I reached the countryside and the technology dead zone that is Dad’s house. There’s no reception, no Wi-Fi and no neighbours for at least a quarter of a mile. If someone bludgeoned me in my bed, no one would hear me scream. There’s a landline phone downstairs that works, but that’s it.
It’s Saturday now and I still haven’t heard back from Ben. I haven’t heard anything from DS Hope either. When I rang for an update, she told me to ring back this afternoon. The wait has been torturous. I can’t stop thinking about Chloe, and the look on her face as she ran out of the garden centre. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. I remember how that felt – the adrenaline rush of an illicit meeting, the warmth of the kiss, the wretchedness of saying goodbye. I thought I was so grown up. That my life was a romantic movie. That I was in control. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chloe looked so damned joyful that it makes me feel sick. Sick with guilt. She should have been smiling because she’d just been kissed by a boy her own age, not a man old enough to be her father. I just pray things haven’t progressed any further. If he’s put her through what he put me through I’ll never forgive myself.
This morning I decided to try and distract myself by getting on with some of the jobs I’ve been putting off. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom and sorted through Dad’s wardrobe and chest of drawers, bundling jumpers, jeans and suits into black plastic bags for the charity shop. I had a bit of a cry when I found a framed photo of me face down in the bottom of a drawer. There was nothing else that shed any light on who he was or the life he’d lived. Just a few piles of change, some painkillers, half a tube of Deep Heat, betting slips, newspapers, an alarm clock, a radio.
I was fourteen the last time I saw him. It was the weekend before Mike’s court case. Mum waited in the car at the bottom of the track while I walked up to the house that I hadn’t called home for nearly a year. I dumped the cardboard box I was carrying outside the garage, then knocked on the side door. When no one answered, I turned the handle and let myself in. I found Dad slumped in a chair in front of the television, horse racing blaring and an empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He didn’t open his eyes when I said his name and he didn’t stir as I shook his shoulder. Only when I turned off the TV and slapped him, hard, on the back of his hand did he open his eyes.
‘I’m going, Dad,’ I said. ‘To London, with Mum. We’re not coming back. I’ve left a box of my things by the garage. Can you keep it here? Mum says there won’t be enough space in our flat in London.’
His eyes swivelled towards me. They were red-rimmed and puffy, dark pinpricks in a rough, doughy face. He was only forty-seven but he looked twenty years older. ‘Have fun,’ he murmured, then he closed his eyes again.
Now, I push open the door to my old room and throw the bin bags on the growing pile on the floor. Other than the piles of Dad’s crap, it’s exactly as I left it eighteen years ago. I hate this room. Mike never came to the house but he’s in here. He’s ingrained in the fabric of the faded yellow curtains, the peeling wallpaper and the bleached faces of the popstars I pinned to the wall. The number of nights I’d lie in bed, staring into the darkness, losing myself in my imagination. A smile during a kata, trouble finding my things as I got changed, coming out of the changing rooms to discover that I was the only one left in the dojo. Mike appearing behind me and lifting my hair from my neck and—
I back sharply out of the room and slam the door shut. I need to make the call. I can’t wait anymore.
My hand shakes as I pick up the landline and dial the station. If Mike’s been arrested and charged I’ll need to tell the truth about who I really am. And if he hasn’t … No, I’m not even going to go there.
‘Hello,’ says a male voice I don’t recognise. ‘This is DS Walters.’
‘Oh, I was expecting to speak to DS Hope.’
‘DS Hope’s not in until later. I’m her colleague. How can I help?’
He listens as I tell him my fake name and summarise what I told DS Hope, then asks me to hold the line. I can barely breathe as I wait.
‘Right, well,’ he says. ‘It looks like the CPS haven’t authorised the charges.’
‘What?’
‘We carried out a thorough investigation and referred it to the CPS, but I’m afraid there won’t be a prosecution.’
‘But he’s a paedophile! He’s abusing a young girl. I saw him!’
DS Walters sighs heavily. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Well, I can’t actually tell you anything because of data protection rules, but let’s just say that the CPS can be a strange beast sometimes.’
‘Can I speak to them? Tell them what I saw?’
He laughs dryly. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So that’s it? He just carries on doing what he’s doing?’
There’s a pause then, ‘Our hands are tied, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, there’s nothing else.’
I end the call and stare at the phone in my hand. How can this have happened? Mike was sent to jail for five years for what he did to me. Why haven’t they locked him up again? It’s my fault. I screwed up again when I didn’t tell the police who I really am. But it’s not too late to put things right.
A tall man with hollow cheeks, thinning hair and an angular face opens the blue door at 29 Missingham Road. He looks me up and down, sighs and rests against the door frame.
‘Yes?’ He doesn’t say ‘what do you want?’ but it’s written all over his face.
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you and your wife. It’s about Chloe.’
His expression darkens. ‘What’s this about?’
‘If I could just come in I’ll tell you. It’s … quite sensitive.’
‘We’ve already spoken to the police and if you’re a journalist you can fuck right off.’
‘Alan!’ a woman calls from the back of the house. ‘Who is it?’
‘No one!’
‘Please, I’m not a journalist or police. Maybe I could talk to your wife?’
‘She’s ill.’
A curtain twitches at an upstairs window.
‘Please,’ I say as Alan moves to shut the door. ‘A man called Mike Hughes is having an inappropriate relationship with your daughter and I’m worried about her.’
‘Who the fuck are you? If you’re not police or journalist …’ His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. ‘Are you the one that reported him?’
‘I … I … yes, I am.’
‘Are you now?’ He shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. ‘Got a soft spot for him have you, love? You wouldn’t be the first bored housewife to try it on. Turn you down, did he? Is that why you thought you’d get your revenge by spinning a little story?’
‘It’s not a story. I saw Mike and Chloe—’
‘You disgust me!’ He lurches towards me, forcing me to step back. ‘That man’s like a dad to my girl. I’d trust him with my life. And hers. And I’ve had it up to here,’ he jabs at his throat with a flat hand, ‘with gossips, do-gooders and shit-spreaders.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Mike Hughes is a good man. He spent five years in jail because he tried to keep one of the kids at his club safe when she ran away to France. The stupid bitch was so scared of her alky dad that she lied to the police about what had happened and I won’t let you,’ he jabs a finger at me, ‘or anyone else put him through that kind of hell again. If you ever come back here again I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you hear me? Now piss off.’
The door slams in my face. As the heavy stomp, stomp, stomp of feet on stairs rattles the house, the curtain at the upstairs window twitches again. This time I catch a glimpse of a face. It’s Chloe and she looks scared.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_d4737d25-9762-5ff8-8ea4-0c6bc50d368b)
Chloe (#ulink_d4737d25-9762-5ff8-8ea4-0c6bc50d368b)
Monday 30th April 2007
Chloe walks with her head down and her book bag gripped to her chest. Normally she’d drag her feet as she walked from the bus stop to school, but today she can’t get there quickly enough. Anything is better than being at home with her arsehole of a dad, anything. He went spare after that stupid woman turned up at the door. She tried to listen to their conversation but all she could hear was the woman pleading to come in. The second the front door slammed shut, her dad stormed up to her room. She threw herself onto her bed just as he flung open the door.
‘Is this down to you? Have you been talking shit about Mike at school?’
‘No.’ She grabbed her pillow and hugged it close. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Because she looked like a teacher. Sounded like one too.’ He crossed the room in four strides and yanked open the curtains. ‘She’s gone.’ He turned back to look at Chloe. ‘Who was she? I know you were eavesdropping.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.’
Chloe hugged her pillow tighter. Could it be the police again? Her dad hadn’t met the woman who’d knocked on the door the other day. She was wearing normal clothes but she said her name was DS Anna Hope, from West Mercia police. Chloe felt sick with fear when DS Hope asked if her parents were in. She hadn’t taken anything big from the garden centre – just a few small ornaments she thought were cute and a packet of fairy lights. They were hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, wrapped in an old dressing gown. But that wasn’t what DS Hope wanted to talk to her about, she wanted to talk about Mike. Was there somewhere they could have a little chat? Just a few questions. It wasn’t a formal interview. She said that Mum was welcome to join them if that was something Chloe wanted. It wasn’t, but her mum insisted she sit in on the conversation before she could say a word.
The next few minutes were the most excruciating of Chloe’s life. DS Hope started by asking her which her favourite bands were and which member she fancied the most, but she could feel her mum’s worried eyes boring into the side of her head as the police officer switched to using phrases like, ‘unwanted attention’, ‘inappropriate comments’ and – worst of all – ‘touching that made you feel uncomfortable or scared’. Had Mike ever asked her to do anything that made her feel bad? Had they spent time alone together? Had he bought her gifts? Had he asked her to keep something secret? Had he threatened her or her family? Chloe did her best to meet the police officer’s eyes but she could feel her cheeks burning as she answered the questions. Mike was her dad’s friend, she told the police officer. They’d chatted but only ever in front of another adult. He hadn’t touched her or done anything inappropriate. He was a nice man who said hello to her if her saw her at work and that was all. DS Hope wrote everything she said down in a little notebook, then made Chloe and her mum sign it. After that she asked to speak to her mum in the kitchen.
When they came back into the living room, her mum had a weird, vacant expression on her face. She didn’t say anything to her though, not even when DS Hope asked if she could have a look through Chloe’s room and made them sign her notebook again to say that they’d agreed. Chloe stood next to her mum at the door to her bedroom, hands clenched into tight fists, as the detective searched her jewellery box, homework books, bed and chest of drawers. Panic rose in her chest as DS Hope lifted up her dressing gown in the bottom of the wardrobe but she didn’t unfold it and her stolen stash remained hidden. When she asked if she could take a look at her mobile, Chloe handed it over. She deleted all the texts Mike sent her as soon as she’d read them (as well as the ones she sent him) and he’d warned her not to keep a diary or any mementoes of the time they spent together. But she couldn’t stop herself from reaching up behind her hairline to touch the necklace around her neck. Mike hadn’t bought her many gifts – a couple of CDs, a book, plus he’d given her forty pounds after he found her crying in one of the sheds at work. She’d accidentally run up a huge bill on her mobile by buying game add-ons and she was too scared to tell her dad. After listening to her sob, Mike reached into his wallet and handed her the money to cover it. ‘Now you don’t need to tell him,’ he said. ‘And you don’t need to cry anymore.’
Her gave her the necklace after Chloe got upset about a list the boys at school had made. It ranked the girls in her year in order of the fittest. One of her friends had managed to sneak a look at the piece of paper and Chloe’s name was last. Mike had hugged her close while she cried, then reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She ran a finger over the delicate edges of the silver daisy pendant. It was the loveliest present anyone had ever given her.
‘It is. And so are you. Those boys are idiots. When they grow up, they’ll kick themselves for not realising how stunning you are.’
She’d shivered as he fastened the necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin. Then, embarrassed by her reaction, she’d pulled away. If Mike noticed her reaction he didn’t mention it. Instead he looked from her face to the pendant, nestling above the top button of her work polo shirt and smiled.
‘It suits you.’
Chloe presses a hand against the cold chain at her neck as she spots a small group of boys hanging around the school gates. They’re the ones who started the stupid list. Five weeks she’s had the necklace and her parents haven’t said a word. There was a time when her mum would notice every little thing about her – a scrape on her knee after a fall at primary school, a new hairstyle after they took turns to braid each other’s hair at break, a spot on her chin, a rash on her chest – but it’s been a long time since her mum did more than give her a passing glance. Sometimes, when it’s just her, Mum and Jamie at home, she feels like a ghost.
‘Chloe?’
She turns sharply as someone says her name. A tall, thin woman with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail is hurrying along the pavement towards her. It’s the woman who knocked on her front door the night before.
‘Chloe, have you got a second?’
‘No.’ She continues to walk. Two girls she doesn’t recognise laugh as they overtake her and her stomach clenches with anxiety. Great, another reason for people to laugh at her.
‘Please, Chloe, just five minutes. It’s important.’
The hand on her arm makes her stop just long enough to shake it off. ‘I’ve got to get to school.’
‘I know. I won’t take up much of your time. Please, just hear me out.’
It’s the woman’s suit that makes her pause. She looks smart, like a lawyer or something.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about Mike Hughes.’
‘Oh god.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Not that again. I already talked to the police.’ She lowers her voice as a boy from her year swerves around them. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘He has,’ the woman says. ‘I saw him kiss you.’
Chloe stares at her, her throat dry, her mind empty. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. I was in the garden centre. I saw him kiss you in the summer house.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Chloe,’ the woman touches her on the shoulder again. ‘I know what you’re going through. I know what he’s like. He makes you feel special, doesn’t he? Beautiful? You feel understood and cared for, like he’s the only person in the world who really gets you.’ The woman is speaking softly and quickly, like she’s running out of breath, and she’s leaning in far closer than Chloe is comfortable with. ‘Has he told you that he loves you yet?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. I can see it in your eyes. You need to tell the police what’s going on. He’s a dangerous man. You think he’s kind and generous and caring but he’s manipulating you. He’s a paedophile, Chloe. This is all about control and nothing to do with love. Have you slept with him yet?’
‘What? No!’ The horror in Chloe’s voice is real and the other woman seems to sense it because she raises her eyebrows.
‘Good. Don’t. Whatever’s going on between you and Mike Hughes, you need to end it now. No good can come of it. You need to trust me on this.’
‘Trust you? I don’t even know who you are.’
‘I’m—’
‘Chloeeee!’ A red-haired girl with thick black eyebrows barges between them. ‘Sorry, Miss, I need to talk to Chloe. Chlo, did you do last night’s biology homework because I, like, well, didn’t. I need to borrow yours. Is this it?’ She yanks at one of the books Chloe is clutching to her chest. Normally there’s no way in hell she’d let Misty Engles anywhere near her but right now she’d take an atomic bomb over spending one more minute talking about Mike Hughes with this weirdo.
‘Course you can borrow it,’ she says, then she threads her arm through Misty’s and heads for the gates.
‘Chloe,’ the woman calls from behind her. ‘Let me give you my phone number. You can call me if—’
‘Fuck off!’ Chloe shouts without looking back. ‘Just fuck off.’
Misty Engles giggles. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just some freak. I think she fancies me.’
Chloe’s laughter lasts all of thirty seconds, then her phone bleeps with a text from her dad. She’s been sacked from the garden centre. They know about the thefts. And so does he.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_a757b129-f43a-5307-ba04-a9d3662746d7)
Wendy (#ulink_a757b129-f43a-5307-ba04-a9d3662746d7)
It’s six minutes past nine. Wendy’s irritation at being late is reflected back at her in the bathroom mirror, along with a face of carefully, if heavily, applied make-up.
‘Warpaint,’ Wendy says to her reflection, then sighs heavily. Monty, the springer spaniel at her feet, nudges her leg with his nose and she reaches down to rub him behind the ears.
She’s being ridiculous, she knows she is. Wearing a faceful of make-up isn’t going to impress Lou Wandsworth. Nor will it give her the upper hand. In fact the only message it’ll give Lou is that Wendy needs to get down to Boots for a new mascara because the clumpy eyelash look isn’t fetching on catwalk models, never mind on fifty-nine-year-old women. She reaches for a make-up wipe and roughly scrubs at her cheeks, lips and eyes. She doesn’t need make-up for what she’s about to do.
She walks into the office with her shoulders back, her chin tipped up and an uncomfortable prickling sensation under her arms. After she dropped Monty off at her sister’s house she had to put her foot down to compensate for the ridiculous amount of time she’d spent applying, and then removing, her make-up, but she parked up outside Consol eLearning right on time. And with a minute to spare too.
‘Good morning,’ she says merrily to the matronly- looking receptionist. ‘My name is Wendy Harrison. I’m here to see Louise Wandsworth.’
‘She’s expecting you. I’ll just ring through. Would you like a coffee or tea?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely. Milk no sugar.’
There’s something very pleasing about people making a fuss of you, Wendy thinks as she sits back in her chair and sips at her tea. Ever since she arrived at Consol eLearning ten minutes ago, she’s been greeted with warm smiles and firm handshakes. She was even given a plate of nice Marks and Spencer biscuits as she was shown into the meeting room by Lou and a rather balding man who introduced himself as Gary Lambley, head of sales. Wendy felt a wave of disappointment as he thrust a sweaty hand at her. She’d assumed her meeting would be with Lou and Lou alone, but actually the presence of someone else in the room has meant that she can study the other woman without being too obvious.
‘Well, that’s pretty much everything about us and what we do,’ Gary says as his presentation finally draws to a close. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, I think you’ve covered pretty much everything.’ Most of the presentation went over Wendy’s head but she’s not about to admit that.
Lou gets up from her seat and switches on the lights. She smiles warmly at Wendy as she sits back down. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, I am quite new here, but I’ve got over seven years’ experience in managing eLearning projects and I’d be your first port of call.’
‘It sounds as though I’ll be in very safe hands.’
‘You would. Absolutely. So, now we’ve told you all about us perhaps you’d like to share a bit more about the training you’d like us to develop. You said on the phone that …’ her hair falls over her face as she glances down at her notebook ‘… the nursing faculty at the University of Worcester are considering adding some eLearning to the bachelor’s degree?’
‘That’s right yes.’ Words tumble out of Wendy’s mouth like stones from a bucket. Her nursing degree is over thirty years old but she can still recall the fundamentals of her training. And besides, she practised for this question when she was out walking Monty yesterday. When she’d come up with the idea of finding out a little bit more about Lou Wandsworth by masquerading as a new customer, she’d worried that there was a flaw in her plan – that Lou might ask for a landline contact number in addition to the mobile number she’d provided, or the details of someone more senior at the university. She hadn’t. She’d taken Wendy completely at her word.
It’s astonishing how gullible and naïve some people are, Wendy thinks as Lou nods and smiles at everything she says. They’re traits you’d associate with the weak and vulnerable – children and the elderly – and yet here is a woman that’s neither of those things. Is she really that gullible? Or – Wendy sits up a little higher in her chair and looks towards the door – it could be a trap. She’d assumed that Lou wouldn’t know who she was when she walked into the office. Why would she? They’d never met before; Lou hadn’t even glanced at her when she was behind her in the queue at the café. They’d never spoken other than Wendy’s initial enquiry about a meeting and there are no photos of her on the internet for Lou to google but there’s still a small chance she might know who she is.
‘That all sounds great, Dr Harrison,’ Lou says and Wendy suppresses a smile. It was a bit of silliness, deciding to award herself a doctorate seconds before she picked up the phone to ring Consol eLearning, but she has to admit that she quite likes the sound of it.
‘Wendy, please.’
‘Do you have any questions for us?’
The male voice makes Wendy twitch. She’d been so focussed on Lou – on the muddy green hue of her irises, the enlarged pores on either side of her nose, the visible tendons in her neck and the sharp collarbones beneath them – that she’d quite forgotten they weren’t alone in the room.
‘I’d love another cup of tea please.’ She smiles tightly as she pushes her saucer in his direction.
Lou moves to get up from her seat. ‘I’ll get one for you.’
‘No, no.’ Wendy flashes her eyebrows at Gary. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, would you Gary? I’ve got a few questions for Lou. If that’s okay?’
‘That’s fine. No problem at all.’
Wendy registers a fleeting glance between Lou and her colleague as he leaves the room, but the second the door closes behind him, Lou is all smiles again. Wendy reaches down beside her and pulls her handbag onto her lap. I could have a knife in here, she thinks as she unclips the fastener and reaches in for her Laura Ashley glasses case, and no one would ever know. I could plunge it into her chest and make it back out onto the street, before anyone realised anything was wrong.
Gosh, she thinks as the case opens with a satisfying pop and she takes out her glasses. That was a bit of a dark thought.I don’t know where that came from. I’m just here to find out a little bit more about Lou Wandsworth. That’s not a crime, is it? I could have introduced myself to her in the café instead but social situations are so awkward. She could have excused herself and walked away. Office protocol means she’s got no choice but to sit here and talk to me. Whether she likes it or not.
‘So,’ she says as she hooks her glasses over her ears and pushes them up the bridge of her nose. ‘Tell me a bit about you, Lou.’
The other woman shuffles awkwardly in her chair. ‘Well, um, as I said, I’ve got seven years’ experience—’
‘No, no. Not all that corporate stuff. You as a person. If we’re going to be working together for a while it makes sense to get to know each other a little better. Doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, um. Sure. What … er … what sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘Anything you want to tell me!’
Wendy’s chest tightens as the younger woman glances towards the door. She’s overdoing it. Her convivial tone sounds forced and she’s making Lou feel ill at ease.
‘Me for example,’ she says quickly as she picks up her pen, ‘I’m fifty-nine, no children, live alone with my little dog Monty. I’m a big fan of gardening, crosswords and crime dramas.’ She laughs lightly but the pen in her hands is strained to breaking point. If the other woman notices, she doesn’t let on. ‘How about you?’
Lou shrugs. ‘There’s not much to tell you really. I’m thirty-two and er … I live just outside Malvern.’
‘Oh yes. Whereabouts?’
‘Near Bromyard.’
‘Oh, out in the sticks.’
‘Yes. It is a bit.’
‘And do you live there with your husband?’ Wendy’s gaze flicks towards the naked ring finger of Lou’s left hand.
‘I live alone.’
‘That’s something we have in common then.’
And it’s not the only thing.
‘Woah!’ Lou jerks back in her seat and raises her hands to her face as something flies across the desk towards her. ‘Your … your pen.’
‘My what?’ Wendy is genuinely surprised to look down and see two halves of a biro in her hands. She’s snapped it clean in two.
‘Tea!’ Gary walks backwards into the room, carrying a tea tray in his hands. ‘What did I miss?’ He looks at Lou as she stands up. ‘Bloody hell. What happened to you?’
‘It’s ink.’ She pulls the white shirt away from her body, but the sticky red ink isn’t only on the crisp white cotton. Her cheeks, her forehead and her throat are splattered too. ‘Wendy’s pen broke. I’d better go and clean myself up.’
‘I really am very sorry,’ Wendy says as Lou slips from the room. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘It’s fine,’ Gary says as he places a fresh cup of tea in front of her. ‘Accidents happen.’
Wendy picks up her tea cup and raises it to her mouth.
‘They do, don’t they?’ she says, then she takes a small sip.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_1002b60e-9027-5419-9aea-90b83bf5c157)
Lou (#ulink_1002b60e-9027-5419-9aea-90b83bf5c157)
When we woke up this morning we had breakfast, but not in the restaurant. We ate sandwiches in bed – Tesco sandwiches that Mike bought before he picked me up yesterday – and washed them down with warm Fanta. Afterwards, Mike told me to shower and pack up my things because we were off to Rouen. I was a bit disappointed that we weren’t going to Paris (if you have to go to France you should at least see the Eiffel Tower), but I tried not to let it show on my face. I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with Mike.
Not that I’ve seen much of Rouen, just a few old buildings and a glimpse of the river on the way to the hotel. We had sex again, pretty much as soon as we walked into our door. This time we did it face to face and Mike didn’t roar when he came. He did cry though, after he rolled off me, which I thought was a bit weird. When I asked him what was wrong he said that he’d never loved anyone as much as he loved me and that it would break him if I ever left him. I wiped the tears from his cheeks, covered his face with kisses and told him that would never happen. He was the love of my life and we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. He looked at me then for a really long time without saying anything, then he rolled away from me and got out of bed. When he started pulling on his clothes, I moved to get out of bed too but he told me to stay where I was. He had a surprise planned and he’d be back soon. I begged him to tell me what it was but he refused, laughing and saying it wouldn’t be a surprise if he told me. When he left the room, I heard the key turn in the lock.
That was six hours ago. The sun is going down, it’s seven o’clock and I’m really pissed off. I thought we’d go sightseeing together or something, walk hand in hand along the river, visit a few shops and see the ruined buildings Mike was talking about on the way here. Some romantic break this has been. It’s Saturday and we’re due to go back to the UK tomorrow and all we’ve done is have sex twice and eat sandwiches. And I’ve been stuck here alone all day. There isn’t even a TV and I didn’t bother bringing a book. All I’ve done is nap, throw balled-up socks into the bin, write my diary in the back of an exercise book and stare at the stupid painting on the wall opposite the bed. I could probably draw it with my eyes shut now. I can’t ever remember being so bored in my life.
I sit up sharply, pulling my knees into my chest as the locked bedroom door rattles and Mike steps into the room. He looks exhausted, and a tiny bit pissed, but he smiles as our eyes meet. ‘Hey, hey. How’s the love of my life then?’
I don’t return his smile. ‘Where’ve you been?’
He takes a step back, as though I’ve just landed a punch in his belly. ‘What?’
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Woah.’ His smile vanishes. ‘You don’t get to speak to me like that.’
‘I do if you leave me locked in here so you can go and get pissed.’
‘Who said I’m—’
‘You are! I can smell it. You smell like my dad. You’re a—’
‘Don’t you dare compare me to him. Don’t you dare!’
‘Get out!’ I reach for the pillow and launch it across the room. It hits him weakly on the hand and drops to the floor. ‘Get out and leave me alone. I want to go home.’
Mike crosses the room, his hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. I scoot as far back on the bed as I can and wrap my arms around my body. But he doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t say a word. Instead he stops at the end of the bed and glowers at me until I break eye contact, then he marches straight back out of the room and turns the lock.
I stare at the door, too shocked to react, but the numbness doesn’t last long and I howl with frustration and despair, then burst into tears. I cry, curled up on the bed, until the world beyond the window turns black and I pass out with exhaustion. It’s still dark when I wake but the radio alarm clock on the bedside table glows red with the time. 1.13 a.m. I pull the thin duvet up to my chin and roll over. As I do, I catch sight of a figure sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room. It’s Mike. And he’s watching me.
I’ve been living in Dad’s house for over a week now but, despite hours spent hoovering, cleaning and scrubbing, the smell still hits me the second I open the front door and step into the porch. Dampness, mustiness and cold. It’s the scent of neglect.
I glance at my watch as I step into the kitchen. Twenty to six. Mike said he would be here a little after six thirty.
I trail from the kitchen to the living room and sit down on the sofa. Dad’s chair, in all its horrible tweedy green worn glory, is closer to the TV, but I haven’t sat in it once since I got here. I’m trying to work up the nerve to throw it away.
Dad’s friend Bill was the one who found him. He realised something was wrong, he told me on the phone, when the local pub landlord told him that Dad hadn’t been in in over a week. He went to check on him after closing time. The curtains weren’t drawn, the lights were on and the TV was blaring away in the corner of the room. Bill said he could tell by the way Dad was slumped in his chair that he was dead. A heart attack, the coroner said.
It wasn’t hard to pick Bill out from the mourners at Dad’s cremation. Other than me, the only other people in the room were the celebrant, the funeral director and three elderly men. Unsure what to do after the ceremony ended, I stood by the door and shook hands with the scant group of mourners as they left. Bill gripped my hand in both of his.
‘I know your dad was a grumpy old bugger,’ he said, his voice rough and rasping, ‘but he was proud of you. He told me a few times that he had a daughter living the high life and earning herself a small fortune in London.’
I smiled and thanked Bill for his good wishes. I didn’t mention that Dad and I hadn’t spoken in over ten years – other than a brief and awkward phone call when I rang him five years ago to tell him that Mum had died of cancer – and that he had no idea what I was doing or how much I was earning in London (certainly not a small fortune). I did cry though, when I got back to my car. Proud was not a word in Dad’s vocabulary when it came to me. Disgrace – yes. Embarrassment – that too. While Mum rushed up to me and wrapped me in her arms after I was brought back from France, Dad could barely look at me. When he did it was to ask whether I had been harmed. Harmed. He meant, had I had sex with Mike? I could tell by the way his eyes swept the length of my body then focussed on a spot on the floor near my feet. Afterwards, Mum and I went back to our flat. We stayed there, locked together on the sofa with the TV on loud while the phone rang off the hook and journalists tapped at the kitchen window and thumped on the front door. One night I heard an argument between Mum and Dad on the phone. She was trying to keep her voice down but I heard her snap, ‘I can’t believe you’d suggest that, Steve. This is your daughter we’re talking about and she’s fourteen years old.’ Dad thought I’d brought it all on myself. He wasn’t the only one who thought that. I did too.
Mum tried to convince me to testify against Mike. She said she knew that I loved him but what he had done was wrong and he had to be stopped from doing it to anyone else. I started to cry then, not because of what she’d said but because she’d got me so wrong. What I felt towards Mike wasn’t love. It was a strange limbo emotion – a longing for the love I thought we’d had, wrapped up in guilt, regret and fear. When Mum, and the police, finally accepted that I wouldn’t testify against Mike, she decided that we should move to London before the trial started. Mum said it was for the best.
I turn on the TV, watch a couple of seconds of a game show, then change the channel. I watch a couple of seconds of a period drama, then press a button on the remote. I change the channel once more, then turn it off. I look at my watch again.
6.08 p.m.
Not enough time to go for a run.
Mike will be here in less than forty-five minutes.
After Chloe told me to fuck off this morning, I was so frustrated I drove to the nearest phone box, rang Mike’s work and asked to speak to him. If the police weren’t going to prosecute, and Chloe and her family refused to listen to me, the only option I had left was to confront him directly. Ringing from the phone box was a deliberate decision. It meant Mike wouldn’t have my number or any way of contacting me. He’d be shocked to hear from me, wrong-footed, and I’d be the one in control. I’d call, tell him who I was and say that I needed to speak to him in a public place (a park maybe or St Anne’s Well on the Malvern Hills). I’d tell him how he’d ruined my life. How I’d end a relationship as soon as a boyfriend told me they loved me because I associated love with control. How I’d freak out if anyone so much as brushed my neck with their fingers. How promiscuous I’d been because my self-worth was in the toilet. How I’d only have sex if I was the one who initiated it and it took place in my home. I’d tell him all of these things, and more, and then I’d scream in his face that it was his fault. That he’d made me like this. That I’d spent eighteen years denying how much of a fuck-up I was, but I wasn’t going to do it anymore. And especially not when he was about to screw up another innocent girl’s life as much as he’d screwed up mine.
I was shaking – with anger and fear – as I tapped the number out on the buttons and waited for the call to connect. My voice wavered as I asked to speak to Mike Hughes. The receptionist had to ask me to repeat myself. When she said he wasn’t in – he was already on the delivery run – I slumped against the glass side of the phone booth.
‘You could try his mobile,’ she said.
It took me three attempts to call his number. Twice I slammed the phone down before the call connected.
‘Mike Hughes speaking.’
I pressed myself up against the glass as though pinned by his voice.
‘Hello?’
Tears burned beneath my closed eyelids.
‘Hello, is there anyone there?’
My courage had vanished. I could barely breathe.
‘Are you after a delivery or a collection? Hello? I’m going to put the phone down now.’
‘Do you know who this is?’ Panic forced the words out of my mouth.
‘No? Should I?’
A pause. A silence that stretched eighteen years. I didn’t have any control. The moment I told Mike who I was he’d have a choice. He could tell me to fuck off. He could refuse to meet me and put the phone down. The only way to help myself, and save Chloe, was to take away that choice and put him in a situation where he had to listen.
‘My name is Milly Dawson. I’d like to arrange a collection please.’
‘What is it and where are you?’
‘An armchair. It needs to go to the dump. I live in Acton Green.’
‘That’s a way out so it’ll be pricey. Forty quid.’
‘That’s fine. When can you get here?’
‘Six thirty all right?’
I told him it was fine and gave him my address. I held my breath, waiting for that spark of recognition, for him to comment that he’d been to the farm before. Instead he said,
‘All right then Milly, I’ll see you later.’
Then the call ended, just like that.
By the time I got to work I didn’t have more than five minutes to run a comb through my hair and print out my emails before Alison buzzed me to tell me that Dr Wendy Harrison was waiting in reception for me. That was a strange meeting. I’ve met some interesting clients in my time – including the man who talked to my chin rather than looking me in the eye, a woman who continuously tapped a pen against her teeth and the man who addressed all of his questions to my male colleagues rather than me – but I’ve never met anyone like Dr Harrison before. She had a very odd manner for someone with a background in nursing – clinical, rather than caring. I could feel her watching me while Gary gave his presentation and then, after she’d ordered him from the room to make more tea, she stared at me like a specimen under a microscope. Then she started asking me personal questions, her strange, fixed smile not faltering once. As I wondered if she might be on the autistic spectrum, she sprayed me with ink.
Let’s just say I won’t be gutted if we don’t win the bid.
6.12 p.m.
After a week’s worth of tidying, the house finally looks as I remember it, but it doesn’t feel like the house where I grew up. I always used to feel safe here – until the arguments started between Mum and Dad anyway. It was always draughty and the ancient cracked tiles in the kitchen were so cold I’d hop from foot to foot as I poured out my cereal, but the sounds were reassuring. It was always so noisy – the radio babbling away in the kitchen, the television blaring in the living room and Dad chopping logs in the garden while the dog barked at birds. All those noises have gone now and it’s eerily quiet. It’s true what they say, about people making a house a home. I never really understood that until now.
‘Right.’ I grab the arm of Dad’s old green armchair and pull. ‘I’m not letting Mike in this house, which means you’re going in the barn.’
I am dripping with sweat by the time I reach the back garden. The lawn is more weeds than grass and the bright pots of flowers that Mum spent hours planting and tending are long gone. The only decorative touch Dad added is a pile of abandoned car tyres and a collapsed pile of logs. The gate at the back of the garden is almost rusted shut. I have to give it a good shove before it swings open, then I drag the armchair into the yard. When this was a working farm, there would have been tractors, trailers and farm machinery filling the space, but all that’s left is a huge dilapidated barn and the three fields that wrap around the house. Dad was an architect but he had designs about becoming a farmer when he bought this place. He swiftly changed his mind after the chickens he kept in the back garden were wiped out by foxes. His next bright idea was to try and convert the barn. It’s accessible by a track that runs down the side of the house as well as through the garden, but the council rejected his planning application. He pretty much gave up on the place then, and himself.
The chair’s wheeled feet creak and groan as I drag it over the concreted yard and pull at the barn door. It’s the first time I’ve been inside since I came back. Mum hated this building. I did too.
I brace myself as the barn door swings open, but the row of steel cages still makes me catch my breath. Dad’s decision to allow the local hunt to house some of their dogs here caused the biggest argument I can ever remember my parents having. Mum, an out-and-out city girl who’d met Dad at a wedding, was horrified at the idea.
‘Fox hunting!’ she screamed as I perched at the top of the stairs in my pyjamas. ‘I’m not supporting fox hunting.’
‘No one’s saying you have to support it. You’re not going to be shoved onto a horse and made to blow a bloody horn. We’ll just be looking after the dogs. Geoffrey needs somewhere to keep them for a little—’
‘I don’t want animal rights protesters throwing paint at our car and shouting and blowing whistles outside our house. We’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter, Steve. What if they set fire to our house like they did to Geoff’s barn?’
‘That’s not going to happen, and anyway, there’s no proof that they burned—’
‘Of course it was them. It was the same people who threw red paint all over William’s haulage trucks last year. If it was some random arsonist, why wait until the dogs were on a hunt?’
‘Oh, for god’s sake. No one’s going to burn the barn down or hurt Louise. Anyway, it’s just for a few months, until Geoff’s barn is rebuilt. You were the one who said we need to make more of an effort to be part of the community and it’s not like we’re doing anything with it.’
‘It’s our barn. We don’t have to—’
‘Whose barn is it?’
The cold silence that followed made me shiver.
‘I knew you’d do this,’ my mother said tightly. ‘Lay down the law when it suits you.’
‘I did buy the house, Maggie.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
I’d long stopped asking my parents why they weren’t married. They both claimed that they didn’t need a piece of paper and an expensive wedding to prove how much they loved each other, but I’d once heard my mum confess to a friend that she was sad she’d never got to have her big day.
When Mum and Dad split up, she told him that he should sell the house so she could buy somewhere for me and her to live. Dad said he wasn’t going anywhere and if she was that worried about me living somewhere nice she should leave me behind. Mum said she’d rather bring me up in a hovel.
The sound of their argument was still ringing in my ears as I trudged down the stone steps that led to the dojo and opened the door. Mike was sorting the pads and gloves in the corner of the room. He took one look at me and asked what was wrong. The concern in his voice made me burst into tears. My parents were splitting up. It was the end of my world.
He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed the top of my arm. His palm wasn’t touching the soft material of my gi for more than a couple of seconds but the warmth of his touch remained—
A violent shiver courses through me. The sun has disappeared and the sky is thick with heavy, black rain clouds so, mustering all the energy I have left, I drag the armchair into the barn. The cages are even bigger and more imposing than I remember. They’re tall enough for a man to stand up in and almost as wide, with huge great padlocks hanging from the doors. They look like somewhere to house prisoners of war, not animals. The musky, yeasty smell of dogs is long gone but the air is rich with the sour, musty scent of sawdust, hay and ammonia.
When I reach the other side of the barn, I abandon the armchair, push open the door and peer outside. Rain is bouncing off the tarmac and puddling in the cracks. The field at the end of the yard is already flooded where it dips down into the lake. Much more of this rain and the roads will flood too. I’d be cut off from the world and no one other than my solicitor and a handful of friends in London know that I’m here.
A loud, angry, insistent sound cuts through the soft pattering of the rain.
It’s a car horn.
Mike is here.
Chapter 12 (#ulink_9bf09230-8059-5e26-ab8c-eea5c3f80d80)
Lou (#ulink_9bf09230-8059-5e26-ab8c-eea5c3f80d80)
I spot the white transit van through the gap between the house and the garage as I run across the lawn. The van windows are misty with condensation and the windscreen wipers are sweeping back and forth. My hair is stuck to my cheeks, my hoody is clinging to my back and my trainers are caked in mud. I slow my pace as I reach the house and duck under the eaves, out of sight of the van. My chest is tight and I’ve got pins and needles in both of my arms. I have never, ever felt more scared in my life. Why did I think this was a good idea? I’ve got no mobile signal, no neighbours and no way of calling for help. Mike never threatened me, but I know how dangerous he can be. If anything happened to me, it would be days before anyone sounded the alarm. But why would he turn on me? When the police arrested him, he was still in love with me. I didn’t testify against him. And he has no idea that I’m the one who reported him to the police for kissing Chloe.
The horn sounds again, making me jump. There’s no way Mike could have seen me. I could just stay here, out of sight, until he gives up and drives away. I don’t have to do this.
But what about Chloe? a small voice whispers at the back of my brain. Mike will continue to abuse her. If she’s not already broken, she soon will be. Could you live with that, knowing you could have stopped it?
I tried. I rang the police. I visited her parents. I spoke to her. Even if I do talk to Mike there’s no guarantee anything I say will make a difference.
You wanted to do this. You wanted to confront him, to make him face up to what he did to you. You wanted him to know how much his ‘love’ fucked up your life. That’s why you moved up here, Lou. To exorcise your demons. If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life screwing up relationships with decent men like Ben. Just get it over and done with.
I step back into the rain, through the gap between the house and garage, and walk up to the van. The driver side window opens slowly. An elbow appears, swiftly followed by a face.
‘Milly Dawson?’
‘Mike.’
I brace myself, waiting for his eyebrows to raise and his jaw to drop. He didn’t react on the phone when I gave him my address but he had to recognise the house as he drove up the track. And he has to know who I am.
But there’s no spark of recognition in his eyes as they flit over my face.
It’s the strangest sensation, staring into the eyes of the man I once loved and feared in equal measure. It’s him and yet it’s not him. His face, once so familiar, has been stolen by a much older man. There’s a sagginess to his jawline that wasn’t there before and a hollowing beneath his cheekbones. His eyebrows are thicker and wirier, the hoods of his eyes are heavier, almost obscuring the bright blue of his irises. There’s no passion or love behind his gaze. As I continue to stare, the edges of his lips curl up into a smile and he gives me a little nod. He doesn’t recognise me at all.
‘You might want to get a coat on,’ he says. ‘Although I’m not sure you could get much wetter.’
He laughs then and the sound catches me by surprise. His face may have changed and his voice may have become a little raspier but his laugh is the same.
‘I’m …’ I pull my hood over my head and plunge my hands into the pockets of my hoody. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He gestures at the house with his thumb. ‘In there, is it?’
For a moment I have no idea what he’s talking about but then I remember – I asked him to take the armchair to the tip.
‘It’s in the barn.’
‘Interesting place to keep a chair.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Where’s the barn?’
‘In the yard, past the garden.’
He moves to look out of the window even though there’s no way he can see into the garden from the angle of the van.
‘Or you could take the track round the house and I could open the gate to the yard.’
He looks back towards the garden, as though considering his options. A dimple appears in his chin as he presses his lips together. I used to push my little finger into that indentation to try and make it disappear.
‘My left leg’s a bit fucked. I’ll drive. Get in.’
The command makes my blood run cold but, after a moment’s hesitation, I do as he says.
We are sitting so close that, when he just changed gear, I had to lean to my left to avoid his forearm brushing mine. A wave of panic courses through me. The last time I was in a car with this man we were driving through France. But Mike doesn’t recognise me. He did a quick sweep of my body as I rounded the van, a casual appraisal any man might do to a woman he’s never met before, but there was no spark of interest when I opened the passenger door and got in. Why would there be? I’m a grown woman, not a child.
As he navigates his way back down to the road and up the muddy track to the barn he chatters away about nothing in particular – the weather, the flooding, the news. I nod and shrug but I’m not really listening. I can’t stop staring at his face. He’s forty-nine now and his hair is more grey than black, but it’s still thick and wavy, cut short above the ears and at the nape of his neck. Deep lines stripe across his brow and fan out at the corner of his eyes. He looks old and tired.
I was afraid that all the feelings I’d had as a teenager would come flooding back and overwhelm me, but I don’t feel love or desire. Not even hate or fear. What I feel, as I look at his long, thick fingers curved over the steering wheel, is revulsion.
‘Here we are then.’ He pulls on the handbrake and turns off the engine. We’re in the yard. Parked up outside the barn.
‘In here is it?’ Mike says, gesturing at the barn, as he gets out of the van. It’s raining heavily now and there’s an air of impatience in his voice. Am I keeping him from something? An illicit meeting with Chloe perhaps?
‘That’s right.’
He doesn’t say anything as he lollops past me – there’s definitely something wrong with his left leg – but his head turns sharply as he opens the barn door. He’s spotted the cages.
‘Got dogs, have you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘They were—’
But he’s not interested. He’s already halfway across the barn. He grunts as he squats to pick up Dad’s green armchair. He was the strongest, fittest man I knew eighteen years ago. Now he’s unfit and wheezy, with a stomach that hangs over the belt of his jeans.
‘Mike, before you put the chair in the van you need to—’
He grunts again as he lifts the chair up. ‘I’m a bit pushed for time at the moment, but if you need to book in another job give Joy a call and she’ll sort something out.’
‘It’s not about a job.’
The expression on his face switches from friendly to irritated as he takes a step towards me. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I haven’t got time for a chat.’ He pauses to take a breath. ‘I have to be somewhere after this.’
‘I’d rather you stayed, Mike. And it would be in your best interests to listen.’
I’m not going to let him walk away without hearing me out.
‘Look,’ he sighs heavily, ‘I don’t know what this is about but this is heavy and—’
He’s interrupted by the tinny sound of a mobile phone ringtone. He lowers the chair to the ground, reaches into his pocket and presses his phone against his ear.
‘Hello Chlo, are you okay?’
I stiffen at the sound of her name. I was right. He was trying to get away so he could meet up with her. The sick bastard.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Mike says. He’s lowered his voice but I can still hear every word. ‘Take a deep breath. All right … now tell me what’s going on.’ He pauses. ‘What? Oh no. Oh, Chlo, there’s got to be a mistake. There’s no way you would …’ He pauses again. ‘What woman? What did she say?’ He turns, almost in slow motion, and his eyes meet mine. He scans my face, his eyes clouded with confusion, as the tinny voice in his ear rattles on. The confidence I felt less than a minute ago vanishes. Why is he looking at me like that?
‘Mike,’ I say as the confusion on his face is replaced by shock. ‘Mike you need to—’
He holds out a hand, silencing me.
I don’t breathe a word. Instead I take a step backwards, towards the door. I shouldn’t have done this.
‘I’ll give you a ring back in a bit, Chloe. Okay? Stay where you are and I’ll come and get you. It’s going to be okay. I promise.’
I take another step back. My heel catches on something and I have to steady myself on the wall.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Mike says, looking straight at me as he hangs up. ‘You fucking bitch.’
Chapter 13 (#ulink_54124ed3-5796-529c-9c67-d365183a9729)
Lou (#ulink_54124ed3-5796-529c-9c67-d365183a9729)
It all happens so quickly. One second Mike is on the other side of the barn, the next he’s speeding towards me, a look of absolute fury on his face. With no time to run, all I can do is raise my hands in self-defence and brace myself. In a heartbeat he’s right next to me but he’s unsteady on his feet and I’m quicker and fitter than he is and, as his fingers grasp at my hair, I swerve out of reach. Before he can regain his balance, I shift my weight to the left and kick out with my right leg. The sole of my trainer smashes into Mike’s bad leg. It’s like felling a tree with a single axe blow, the way he lurches to one side, his left leg crumpling beneath him. I kick out at him again, this time landing my foot square in his chest. The force of the blow sends him reeling backwards and through the open door of one of the cages. His arms flail at his sides as he tries and fails to weave his fingers through the metal bars, then SMACK, the back of his head makes contact with a pile of bricks stacked up next to a bucket.
He’s not moving. His eyes are closed, his neck tilted to the left, his head propped up on a brick, his fingers unfurled and slack at his sides. Across the barn the armchair lies on its side; Mike’s mobile phone is half-buried in the straw beside it. I reach into my back pocket for my mobile. No reception.
‘Mike?’ I take a step towards the cage. My heart is beating so hard I feel sick. When his head hit the brick it sounded like a watermelon being hurled at the floor. If he’s not dead he’s badly injured. I need to call an ambulance.
I move towards the entrance to the barn, hesitate, then walk back to the cage. I should lock it. Just in case he comes round and tries to find me. Mike’s eyes are still closed and he hasn’t changed position.
‘Mike!’ I shout his name. ‘Mike, wake up!’
When he doesn’t stir, I cross the barn and pull a bamboo stick from a pile propped up in the corner. I push it into Mike’s leg. He doesn’t so much as twitch. I prod him harder. Nothing.
I step into the cage, not taking my eyes off his face as I crouch down and reach for his wrist. His eyes remain closed, his lips slightly parted as I extend the first two fingers of my left hand and feel for his pulse. If he’s got one, I’ll lock him in and ring an ambulance. If he’s dead, I’ll ring the police.
My hand is shaking so much I can’t hold my fingers still against the thin skin of his wrist. I try again, wrapping my thumb around to anchor them in place, but I can’t feel anything. I’ve only ever taken my own pulse before. Rain is battering against the roof of the shed and the wind is whistling through the open door. Was that a dull throb I just felt beneath my fingertips? I close my eyes to concentrate. Yes, there’s a pulse. It’s strong and deep and—
A scream catches in my throat as Mike’s arm twists beneath my hand, his fingers close around my wrist and he looks straight at me.
‘It’s you.’
It’s not the tone of his voice that makes me scrabble to my feet, run out of the cage and slam the door shut. It’s the hate in his eyes.
I grab at the padlock, dangling from the catch, but I’m shaking so much I drop it. As I crouch down to pick it up, Mike presses his hand to the back of his head and rolls onto his side. He groans as he gets to his knees.
‘Lou! What the fuck are you doing, you stupid—’
He slams up against the door and tries to grab my hand through the bars but he’s too slow.
Click.
I squeeze the lock shut and jump away from the cage.
Mike grabs hold of the bars and shakes the door. All six cages rattle and shake and, for one horrible moment, I think the whole thing is going to tip over and pin me to the ground, but it holds firm. It must be bolted to the floor.
‘Open the fucking door!’ Mike shouts. He reaches a hand behind his head, then looks at his fingers. They’re slick with blood. There’s blood on one of the bricks in the pile in the corner too. He sees me looking and picks one up.
‘The police are going to have a field day with you,’ he says as he walks back to the door. ‘Assault and imprisonment. Five years is nothing compared to what you’re going to get.’ I inch to my left, preparing to run. He’s going to push the brick through the bars and try and smash the lock off.
But the brick won’t fit between the bars, no matter which way he turns it. The gap is too small.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ He takes two steps back, then hurls the brick at the door. It bounces straight off, narrowly missing his foot as it lands.
Mike launches himself at the door. SMASH! He drives his shoulder into the bars. The padlock swings back and forth, but it doesn’t open.
‘Open the fucking door!’ He grips the bars and shakes the cage. ‘Lou … Louise … what are you fucking doing? Just open the fucking door.’
I’m as far away from him as I can get, backed up against the barn wall, my hands pressed against the wood. Rough, spiky splinters scratch at my fingertips.
‘Lou, please.’ He softens his tone. ‘Just open the door. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. I promise,’ he holds up his hands, palms out, ‘I won’t lay a finger on you. I’ll just get back in my van and go home. Neither of us need ever mention this again.’
‘You’ll go to the police.’
‘I won’t. I swear. I know what it’s like inside. I wouldn’t put you through that.’
‘Yes you would.’ I’m surprised to hear myself laugh.
‘I really wouldn’t …’ he tails off as he looks me up and down. His eyes linger on my small breasts, then drift southwards. ‘You’ve changed.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/c-l-taylor-2/the-fear-the-sensational-new-thriller-from-the-sunday-times-b/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
C.L. Taylor
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: ‘Claustrophobic and compelling’ KARIN SLAUGHTER‘A rollercoaster with multiple twists’ DAILY MAIL’A million dollar new story from a million selling author′ SARAH PINBOROUGHSometimes your first love won’t let you go…When Lou Wandsworth ran away to France with her teacher Mike Hughes, she thought he was the love of her life. But Mike wasn’t what he seemed and he left her life in pieces.Now 32, Lou discovers that he is involved with teenager Chloe Meadows. Determined to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, she returns home to confront him for the damage he’s caused.But Mike is a predator of the worst kind, and as Lou tries to bring him to justice, it’s clear that she could once again become his prey…The million copy Sunday Times bestseller returns with a gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat.Praise for The Fear:‘A skewering portrait of obsessive love and psychological manipulation, this book gets under the skin from the outset and won’t let you go until you’ve gasped at THAT ending. This is Taylor’s best book yet.’CJ Cooke (author of I Know My Name)‘Wow! Such a fast-paced, gripping, tense thriller. My heart was in my mouth at the end. Her best yet!’Claire Douglas (author of Local Girl Missing)