Precious Thing (31 page)

I scanned the beach ahead for moving shadows. There were none. In the distance, I saw a row of weather-beaten beach huts sitting in darkness and I thought he must have gone into one. But as I approached there were no sounds, no signs of life. The wind chilled me; I looked around, aware that you or James could see me and pounce. What then? No one knew where I was. No one would know where to look for me.

Then, my eyes caught sight of a smaller row of huts set back into the sand dunes. At the very end, one painted in yellow. An orangey light seeped out from underneath the door. As I approached I realised I had seen it before. The photograph of your dad sitting over a camping stove, the framed picture from your bedroom. It was your dad’s hut. How poignant it had become your chosen hiding place.

I edged closer, the chatter finally drifting out towards me, broken up by the scream of the wind. Unmistakably, it was your voice, and his too. Even after all those years, I could still hear his words:

You fucking bitch, Rachel.

I turned, suddenly craving the safety of the car, and began the walk back, the wind whipping the sand up into my eyes. I don’t know how far I’d got – not far enough – when I heard the sound of the door creaking open, voices – yours and his – saying goodbye and I was aware that he was walking behind me, in my footsteps. My blood rushed to my head, dizzying me; the drip-drip of cold fear ran down my spine.

My body screamed at me to run but I had to fight the urge. If he hadn’t seen me in the pitch dark, running would certainly attract his attention.

He was moving quicker, quicker, the noise of sand shifting underfoot deafened me. He was gaining ground and his breath, a wheezy rattle, tingled through me –

Stay calm, don’t panic.

And then I reached the turning.

There was a black industrial bin, wide enough to hide me. I ducked down behind it. All the time I could hear his footsteps closer and closer, vibrating through me.

One, two, three, four … I counted.

… nine, ten seconds.

He passed me at thirteen.

I waited, unable to move, until finally the sound of a car door opening and an engine starting flooded me with relief and I sat back and inhaled greedy breaths of air for the first time in minutes.

Back at the car I ripped a sheet of paper from my pad and wrote you a note.

Dear Clara,

The truth, once and for all.

No lies.

Just you and me.

I’ll be waiting, at home, alone, for you.

Rachel

I read it over to myself, folded it and crept back along the beach to the yellow hut. There was no light on now but I was sure you were still inside and I slipped it quietly under the door.

I
T WAS THE
end of the world today, or that was how it felt – don’t plan anything, don’t look to the future, just wait for it all to come crashing down.

Jake phoned from work – ‘Out on a shoot until evening in deepest Essex, I’ll call when I’m finished,’ he breezed, offering me a snapshot of my old life. And then he paused as if he was going to tell me something.

‘What is it?’ I asked irritably.

‘Nah.’ He gave a little giggle. ‘I’ll save it for later, it’s a surprise.’ He sounded pleased with himself.

‘You’ll come round tonight, won’t you?’ I asked.

‘It’ll be a late finish.’

‘I don’t care. I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I’ll be there. But Rach …’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re going to be fine, you know. I’ll make sure of it.’ And then he hung up. I pictured him at work directing the shoot with another reporter and here was me with no idea when (if) I would return to work. An undetermined period of compassionate leave had been thrust upon me. My bosses had insisted I take time off
until everything sorted itself out,
when what they really wanted to say was
stay away until we know you’re not a psychotic killer.

Where work had kept me busy I was now held hostage by my thoughts, imprisoned by the constant churn of them, preparing for endless, ever-changing scenarios and consequences. The planning and plotting and thinking created a relentless whirr of noise that hammered into my skull. I would have given anything for a moment of silence, to be set free from my mind. But you were the only person who could give me a way out, Clara.

Would you show your face today?

I turned the TV on to still my head. It worked for a while, sucking me into
This Morning
and a slot on erectile dysfunction. There was a man in his forties,
a case study,
admitting he had suffered from it for a decade. I found myself hoping they paid him well to do it, because however much it was it couldn’t have been enough. Then it was over and next up was a couple whose son went missing two years ago. They were on the sofa talking to Fern Britton, holding hands, tissues wiping tears, Fern’s head cocked to one side in sympathy. I turned it off, choosing to wander through the flat instead, watering my plants, lighting scented candles, dusting, making coffee I wouldn’t drink. The minutes dragging, stretched out, time never ending.

At midday, the news. Richard Goldman’s slimy face all over a terrorism story that should have been mine. I watched him, willing him to fuck up.

It was word-perfect.

It’s a sign.

Nothing will go my way today.

I tried to drive the thought away. Too late. It slid down through me like liquid mercury, settling deep in my stomach.

Outside my door, chatter, mums on the way to the park with whingeing children,
Arthur darling don’t do that, Tilly sweetie don’t be rude otherwise there will be no treats after Tumbletots.

Lives moving on, but not mine: stuck here on rewind, being dragged back into the past.

Hours later, the doorbell. A ring, an intake of breath, the sharp stab of panic.
It’s you.
I walked to the door,
slowly,
no rush, take it easy
.
Breathe deep
. Then I unlocked it and saw a young bloke in tatty jeans and a shell top waving cloths and ironing-board covers in my face. He flashed an ID card, a smile, and started on his sob story.

Fuck off.

I shuffled back inside, every sound amplified; the creak of the pipes were your footsteps, the draught from the door your breath sneaking up on me. Cortisol flushing through my blood. I wondered how long I could take this.

You are not coming

But I knew you would.

The truth, it’s what you’ve always wanted.

It’s all anyone wants.

At some point in the afternoon the light disappeared, the way it does in winter: one minute it is day and then you blink and night has fallen too soon. I peeped out through the shutters, the inky blackness broken up by the lights of the city. I needed air.

Food, fresh air, I was calculating in my head. Ten minutes. I could be out and back in ten minutes. Then my coat and keys and phone were in my hands and I was heading for the door, leaving my world of waiting behind, stepping out into a different one of movement and bustle and change. The cold slapped my face. I steadied myself for a moment on the gate before marching ahead.

The headlights and streetlamps cast shadows that danced on the path. Horns and sirens went off, erupting in my ear. I was walking forward but looking back all the time, scanning the street for you.

In the takeaway, a woman in front of me. Fat enough to be a regular customer:
Sausage and chips, no make that fish and chips … actually throw in another portion of chips. And a Coke, make that two.

Hurry the fuck up.

I asked for chips, open, and sprinkled them with extra salt and vinegar. They were too hot to eat, but walking back home I shovelled them in anyway, mouth half open,
huh huh huh
blowing air to cool them.

Turning into Kempe Road I saw two figures walking in the distance, moving away from me. One, a man, crossed the road to the other side. The second person carried on past my door as if heading down towards Queen’s Park. Then suddenly my view was obscured; I was on the ground, chips sprayed out in front of me. I looked around and saw a stray paving slab.

‘Fuck.’

On my feet again I scanned the street once more. Then, a jolt surged through me, as if my eyes had sent the message to my body before I understood what was happening. The figure that had been moving away was getting bigger now. It was coming towards me, edging closer.

Closer and closer still.

Someone in the darkness, collar pulled up against the cold. Hair covered by a hat. But the walk, that strange lollop, I would have recognised it anywhere.

I stopped outside my flat, the beat of my heart coming up through my throat, banging in my head. I swallowed hard. And then I looked up and saw your face.

‘You’d better come inside.’

We didn’t breathe. There was silence, even our feet were soundless on the floorboards, as we floated like ghosts through the hallway.

The air was stretched, taut, my heart thumping,
boom, boom, boom
. Or maybe it was yours I could hear too. Stereo sound.

In the living room we sat on the sofa. There were two to choose from but you sat on the same one as me. We did this without exchanging a word.
Who blinks first?

I’d had enough of the games, Clara. I wanted to hear it all, to shake it out of you. You killed Jonny:
why, why, why
?

‘Welcome back from the dead,’ I said, looking at you properly for the first time since you’d gone. You looked like a ghost. How fitting.

You said nothing, but your staring eyes didn’t stray from me. They had a strange reflective quality to them. I could see myself in them. Could you see yourself in mine?

You removed your hat slowly to reveal bottle-blond hair, telltale dark roots beginning to creep through. You’d cut it short, or hacked it to be precise. I wondered if you’d done it yourself, or if James had done it for you. How romantic, your little game of playing dead.

In other circumstances I would have told you the colour made your skin look sallow and tired and highlighted the dark circles under your eyes. It made you look like a hooker, Clara, but I didn’t want to provoke you. Besides, I was mesmerised by your appearance. You had loomed so large in my head, this powerful mastermind of my downfall. And now? Now I saw you for who you were. The skin around your face was pinched, your eyes still heartbreak blue but tired and beaten. Under your fingernails, thick rims of dirt. Life was eating away at you. I wondered how many more bites it would take to finish you off completely.

‘Jonny,’ I said. It was a question, a statement, an accusation all rolled into one. You looked down at the table, shaking your head.

‘Later …’

‘Tell me.’

‘You get to go first, and when you’ve told me everything, I will tell you about Jonny,’ you said. I felt the heat prick my face, my anger frothing to the surface. My reward for telling you what you want to hear was to find out how my boyfriend died. In my head I counted, one … two … three.
Don’t rise to the bait.
You were in control, that’s what you wanted to think. I would play your game. For now.

I was focusing on that thought,
control, stay calm,
when I saw your hand slip down and fumble in the pocket of your thick black coat. When you pulled it back out I saw the glint of metal.

My eyelids clicked. I blinked. I was staring at the object in your hand. The light bouncing off the metal.

The glint of metal on a knife.

Something slipped in my head. My plan, so tightly woven, began to unravel. My plan to lure you here and keep you talking until Jake came back and found us. My plan for him to call the police. My plan to clear my name and prove my case. Because only when the police saw you here, alive and breathing, could I finally convince them I hadn’t killed you.

But now you were sitting in my living room where I watched TV and read the papers and drank wine and relaxed, and you were sitting here with a knife.

Everything had changed.

Your fingers skimmed the top of the blade. You smiled.

The thought of you smiling as you closed your eyes and sank it into me sent waves of icy panic through my body.

You could still surprise me, Clara.

I found myself smiling back because if I didn’t I might have laughed, manically, or screamed in fear and frustration. I felt the momentum slip away from me. I thought I was in control but you had wrested it from me.

I needed to clear my mind, to think of a way through.

And then your voice pierced my brain like a hot needle.

‘You think I won’t, but I will, trust me, Rachel. I’ve got nothing left to lose.’

I nodded slowly.

I understand.

‘Where shall we start?’ I asked, at pains to steady my voice.

‘Tell me the truth about Niamh.’

Everything always started with Niamh.

I sat for a moment thinking of what you wanted me to say, before you said it for me.

‘You killed her,’ you told me.

‘So why all this,’ I said, pointing at the knife, ‘if you’re so sure you know already?’

‘I’ll tell you what I know, what you tried to cover up for years. You gave her the sleeping pills and you killed her and then you let me believe I had done it. You twisted it all and made me think I had killed my own mother,’ you said, your voice rising to a shriek.

‘I didn’t know she was your mother. I’m sorry about that.’

‘Sorry?’ You sounded surprised to hear the word come from my mouth. ‘Sorry?’

‘I’m sorry she was your mother. I’m sorry she was mine.’

‘You fucking bitch. You cold-hearted fucking bitch. She loved me.’

I couldn’t help it; rich, ironic laughter was escaping from me.
She loved you
. I tried to bring it under control as your eyes burnt into me.

‘She loved you so much she fucked someone up against a wall and then left you. Some love,’ I said.

‘If she could have turned back the clock she would have.’

‘And not given birth to me? Is that what you mean?’