by Lake, Alex
Annabelle stood by the history section. There were maybe thirty books piled on the table in front of the chairs, so presumably Nicole had been expecting around that many guests, and that many book sales.
As it was she would get four, maximum, although since one woman already had it and the other two were here for Diary of a Wimpy Kid, it was more likely she would sell one, and that assumed the man was a potential customer, and not just someone looking for a way to pass half an hour in a warm room in the company of others.
She wanted to apologize, buy the thirty books herself, and run out of the bookshop.
Nicole walked over, a bottle of water in her hand. It was unlikely she’d make enough money to cover the cost of it.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Should we get started?’
‘Yes,’ Annabelle said, trying to put as much of a note of optimism in her voice as she could. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ She felt suddenly guilty at the way the words had come out. They had sounded negative and ungrateful and she did not want Nicole to think she was blaming her.
‘OK,’ Nicole said. ‘I’ll do an introduction and then hand it over to you.’
She walked to the table and clapped her hands together.
‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘And thank you for coming. I am delighted to have as our guest—’
There was a loud crashing noise from the door. Annabelle looked up. A man was standing at the entrance, a large pile of books at his feet.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I knocked into the table.’ He began to pick them up, but Nicole waved a hand.
‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘We’re just getting started. I’ll deal with those later. It’s no problem.’
The man shuffled over and sat down. He was tall, mid-thirties, and balding. He walked with a stoop, as though trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
‘OK,’ Nicole said. ‘Like I was saying, I am delighted to have Annabelle Anderson as our guest. Annabelle is the author of Still Waters, which had been described as a “twisty tale of a relationship gone desperately wrong”. It is her debut novel, and no doubt the first of many. I read it and enjoyed it immensely. Ladies and gentlemen, Annabelle Anderson.’
There was a smattering of applause as Annabelle took the few steps to the table.
‘Thank you, Nicole, for such a lovely introduction.’ She sat in the chair next to the table and picked up the copy of the book she had made her notes in. ‘And thank you for being here.’ She opened the book. ‘I thought I would do three readings from the book, and then open it up for questions.’
She cleared her throat, and began.
3
The Wimpy Kid seekers left as the last of the brief and almost apologetic applause finished. Annabelle’s talk evidently hadn’t inspired them to buy a copy of the book.
The man in his sixties picked up his phone, looked at the screen, then got to his feet. He lifted it his ear.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Hang on one second.’
He caught Annabelle’s eye and gave an apologetic half-shrug, then headed for the door.
An imaginary phone call, Annabelle thought. Not even original.
‘Well,’ she said, looking from the woman in her fifties to the man who had knocked over the books. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Nicole stood up. ‘There are books for sale on the table,’ she said. ‘Annabelle will sign them, if you wish.’
Form a queue, Annabelle thought. Both of you.
The man in his thirties walked up to the table. He picked up a copy of the book and riffled through the pages. He didn’t pause to read any of the words before fixing her with an intense stare. His eyes were a dark blue, under wild, uncombed hair.
‘I’m a writer, too,’ he said suddenly.
‘Oh,’ Annabelle replied. ‘Congratulations. What do you write?’
‘Poems.’ He took a thin book from the pocket of his battered canvas coat. It looked home-made, the pages printed and stapled together. ‘This is my book.’ He held it out to Annabelle. ‘Here. Take it.’
‘That’s very generous,’ she said, glancing at Matt, who moved a step closer to her. ‘But I couldn’t. It’s yours.’
‘I want you to have it. That’s why I came!’ He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘We’re both writers! We have to stick together.’ He thrust it at her again. ‘Here. It’s yours.’
The book, printed on light green paper, hovered between them. Annabelle reached out a hand and took it. ‘Very kind of you,’ she said. ‘I look forward to reading your poems.’
He nodded. ‘I’m Carl,’ he said. ‘My name’s on the front.’
She looked at the cover. There was a clumsy line drawing of a cat, below the words, all in capitals, POEMS AND SONGS by CARL JAMESON.
She opened it. There was an inscription, in block capitals:
TO ANNABELLE
FROM ONE WRITER TO ANOTHER; WE SHARE A SPECIAL BOND
YOURS MOST FAITHFULLY
CARL JAMESON
‘Thank you, Carl,’ she said.
He nodded again and held up the copy of her book he had taken. ‘Can I have this?’ he said. ‘A swap?’
It seemed impossible to say no. She’d have to pay Nicole for it later. ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to sign it?’
‘Yes. Put “To Carl, from your fellow writer, Annabelle”. Like I did. OK?’
‘OK.’ She wrote the message, exactly as he’d said it. Something told her he would check. She handed the book to him. ‘Good luck with your poetry, Carl.’
‘Do you want to talk about it? Writing?’ he said.
‘I’d love to,’ Annabelle said. ‘But maybe another time.’ The lady in her fifties was still in her chair, holding the copy she’d brought in with her. ‘But I think I need to sign someone else’s book.’
His face flickered with disappointment. ‘Oh. All right. Another time, then.’
‘Yes. Another time.’ She looked past him at the woman. ‘Would you like me to sign that?’
The woman stood up and handed her the book.
‘I loved it,’ she said, in a soft voice. ‘I felt the pain. I thought to myself, here is someone who really understands pain. It helped me, at a difficult time in my life.’ She looked left and right, then lowered her voice. ‘I went through the same thing. I hope it’s over for you.’
‘Yes,’ Annabelle said, unsure what else to say. ‘It’s only a novel, obviously. A story.’
‘Nothing’s only a story,’ the woman whispered. ‘Especially not this.’
‘That’s so wonderful to hear,’ Annabelle said. ‘Thank you for saying that.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ The woman smiled. ‘Would you sign it for me?’
‘I’d be delighted.’ Annabelle opened the book. It looked like it had been read more than once. ‘Who should I make it out to?’
‘Rachel,’ the woman said. ‘Make it out to Rachel.’
When Rachel had left, Annabelle looked at the table.
One fewer book on it than at the start. Nicole was putting away the chairs.
‘I’m sorry,’ Annabelle said. ‘That was a bit of a waste of your time.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Nicole said. ‘At least you had five show up. We’ve had worse.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought it could be much worse.’
‘We had zero, once. No one came at all. And only one, another time. So five is pretty respectable.’
‘That makes me feel a little better, I suppose.’ Annabelle gestured at chairs. ‘Can Matt and I help tidy up?’
‘No, that’s fine. It won’t take me long. Thanks for offering, though. You two go off and enjoy the evening. Have a drink somewhere.’
‘By the way, I owe you for a book. That guy took one. He swapped it for his volume of poetry.’
Nicole laughed. ‘Was that what he was saying?’
‘Yes. One writer to another. He was very particular about the message I wrote in his book.’
‘You get all sorts,’ Nico
le said. ‘Come to the till and I’ll ring it up.’
‘Drink?’ Matt said as they left.
‘I need one. That was embarrassing.’
He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘No it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘And who cares, anyway?’
‘It bloody was,’ Annabelle said. ‘There was an audience of five. One was you, two were there by accident, one swapped his hand-made pamphlet of poems for a book which I had to pay for, and the other already had one.’
‘When you put it like that,’ Matt said. ‘You do have a point. Although, look on the bright side. By buying a book for that guy you generated sales of minus one. That’s got to be some kind of a record.’
‘Thanks,’ Annabelle said. ‘That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.’
‘How about a drink? Drown your sorrows?’
‘Now you’re talking,’ Annabelle said. ‘That was what I wanted to hear.’
Sunday, 8 March 2020, 2 p.m.
Matt
The doorbell rang just after 2 p.m. Rob was standing outside. He had left a few hours ago and now he was back, accompanied by a slender, tall woman. She had a thin face, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
‘This is Brenda,’ he said.
‘All right,’ Brenda said, in a strong Birmingham accent. She did not smile.
‘Come in,’ Matt said. ‘Follow me.’
He showed them into the living room. Annabelle was upstairs, resting in bed. Tessa and Mike were standing by the window.
Brenda nodded at Tessa and Mike, then looked at Matt.
‘Payment?’ she said. ‘Has to be upfront.’
‘We …’ He paused. ‘The banks are closed. This came up last night. But we’ll give you the money. I promise.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t take promises to the bank. Sorry.’
‘Then what do you want?’ Matt said. ‘Jewellery? My watch? The car? You can have anything.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Cash. That’s what the boss wants and what the boss wants, she gets.’
Tessa stepped away from the window. ‘I can get cash tomorrow morning, as soon as the bank opens. I’m a doctor. I have money.’
‘I believe you, love,’ Brenda said, ‘I really do. But I don’t have any wiggle room.’
There was a cough from the door. Annabelle was standing there, her eyes sunken.
‘I’m Annabelle,’ she said. ‘My children are gone, and I’m the price of their safety. Did Rob explain that?’
‘He did, love.’
‘Are you a mother?’
‘I am,’ Brenda said.
‘Then you’ll know how desperate I am. And that we’ll find a way to pay you. You have to trust us.’
‘There’s the rub,’ Brenda said. ‘My boss doesn’t trust anyone she doesn’t know. It’s nothing personal, but that’s how it is.’
‘She knows me,’ Rob said. He folded his arms. ‘You know me. I’ll guarantee it. If they don’t pay, I will.’
‘Let me make a phone call,’ Brenda said. She left the room. A few minutes later, she was back.
‘You guarantee it?’ she said. ‘You know what that means?’
‘I do, and I do,’ Rob replied.
‘Then we have a deal. So. Tell me everything you know.’
Annabelle
Brenda listened as they explained everything that had happened. When they had finished, she puffed out her cheeks.
‘Any idea who this is, love?’ she said.
‘None,’ Annabelle said. ‘That’s what makes it so hard.’
‘And you find out the location around five p.m., right? Handover five-thirty p.m.?’
‘Right,’ Annabelle said.
‘Good,’ Brenda said. ‘There’ll be enough light. This is what I think’s going to happen. The location is going to be quiet and hidden away, but with more than one way of getting in and out. When the kidnapper has Annabelle, the children will be returned. There’ll be a delay in handing the kids over so they can get away from the location without you following them.’
‘What do you mean, delay?’ Matt said.
‘They’ll make it take a while – have the kids walk to you, something like that.’
‘But we’ll be watching,’ Matt said.
‘We’ll be watching,’ Brenda said. ‘I’ll be close enough – maybe half a mile – so that Rob and I can come and pick you up. Someone else needs to get the children. Then we track Annabelle.’
‘I can get the kids,’ Mike said.
‘I’ll go with him,’ Tessa added.
‘What if the drone is visible?’
‘It won’t be,’ Brenda said. ‘It’ll be too high. And even if it is, once the kids are with us it doesn’t matter. All that matters is we don’t lose Annabelle.’
‘And if the drone can’t keep up?’ Tessa said.
‘It will, unless they go on the motorway,’ Rob said. ‘Which I doubt will happen.’
‘Why not?’ Annabelle said.
‘Because they’ll stick to back roads. Motorways aren’t safe. Not enough ways off. It’s easy to apprehend someone on a motorway.’
‘Then, once we have the children, we call the cops,’ Tessa said.
‘Right,’ Rob said. ‘Once the cops are informed, Brenda’s involvement is over.’
‘You know,’ Brenda said, looking at Annabelle. ‘You might want to think about being ready to do something. Once the kids are safe.’
‘Like what?’ Annabelle said.
‘Take something with you. Something sharp. A blade, or another weapon. The kidnapper’s probably going to restrain you – handcuffs, something like that – but there’ll be an opportunity to attack them. And if you have a weapon, your chances will be much higher.’
‘It’s a good idea,’ Rob said. ‘You could conceal something in a shoe, or a sleeve. A large nail, or a screwdriver. Anything.’
‘And the sooner you use it,’ Brenda said. ‘The better.’
Annabelle looked at Matt. He was nodding, but she didn’t think this would work. She didn’t think that whoever was doing this was foolish enough to make it that easy, but she didn’t want to say that. She didn’t want to break Matt’s heart.
Plus, it was something to think about.
‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’
They settled on the head of a hammer sewn into the cuff of her coat. It was a large puffer coat, so the hammer-head didn’t stick out. It did make it hang a bit strangely, but if she put her hand in her jeans pocket it was reasonably well disguised.
‘You use that,’ Brenda said. ‘The first chance you get, and as hard as you can.’
‘I don’t know if I can,’ Annabelle said.
‘You can,’ Brenda replied. ‘There’s no doubt. Just remember what they’ve put you through. Someone has chosen to do this to you, and they deserve to be hit with that hammer as hard as you can swing it. Harder.’
‘I will,’ Annabelle said.
‘There’s something odd about this,’ Brenda said. ‘Something personal. But whoever is doing this is deluded. Deranged, almost.’
Annabelle stared at her. Deluded. Deranged. A memory came to her of the last time she’d heard those words together. It was a long time ago, but the memory was as clear as if it had been the day before.
‘Matt,’ she said. ‘Do you remember before we got married there were those messages?’
He nodded slowly.
‘Do you think – do you think they have anything to do with this?’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But how would that help? We never found out who that was.’
‘I know. But it’s something.’
‘What happened?’ Tessa said.
‘I haven’t thought of it since,’ Annabelle replied. ‘But it was pretty weird.’
Summer 2012
1
The message came from an anonymous account. It was a Hotmail account; the name was just a string of letters and numbers.
You don’t have to do this.
T
hat was all it said. Annabelle would never have opened the message – she would have assumed it was spam – were it not for the subject.
Your Wedding
Since she was getting married in three weeks, that had caught her eye and she had opened it.
And there it was.
You don’t have to do this.
It was unsigned. She read it again. Someone had sent it, someone who knew she and Matt were getting married. That was quite a lot of people.
She felt a flush of anger. Who would send something like this? It wasn’t as though she was demanding everyone treat her like a princess on her special day – she was trying to be reasonable – but she didn’t need this. It was either someone who didn’t want her to get married – who, she had no idea, since the only other serious boyfriend she’d had was now living in Paris with his French wife – or someone who thought she needed rescuing. Either way, it was selfish.
She deleted it. Whoever it was, she wanted nothing to do with it.
2
The next morning, when she had made her coffee, she opened her laptop. There was another email.
It was a follow-up to the previous message.
I’m serious. You don’t have to do this. It’s not too late.
She was about to delete it, but paused. It was better to put a stop to this, once and for all. She typed a reply.
I don’t know who this is, but please stop sending me messages.
The reply came immediately.
I know what he does to you. I know you are unhappy. You don’t have to go through with this. There’s still time.
What – and who – the fuck was this? She sent a reply.
I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t want to hear any more from you.
She watched her inbox with bated breath. For a minute or two there was nothing, and then the reply came:
You don’t have to lie to me, Annabelle. Just say the word, and I can get you out of this. I know you’re scared, but trust me.
Trust them? An anonymous emailer warning her not to get married? Not likely.
Who is this? she wrote
