A weapon?
“It’s me,” she whispered.
“Sarah?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Are you alright?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened. I just wanted to talk to you.” She could feel the blood pulsing through her temples.
“In the middle of the night?”
“Sorry. I’ll go.” She backed away.
“No.” He stood up, filling the room with his height. She could barely see where he ended and the shadows began.
“It’s too dark,” she said. “And it stinks.”
“You want to go downstairs?”
She thought of the route they would have to take to get to the kitchen. Past Bill, no doubt.
“No. Come to my room.” She had a bedside lamp. It worked, amazingly; the first time she’d used an electric lamp in years. She’d been so astounded by it that she’d only allowed herself to keep it on for a minute at a time, and then waited half an hour before lighting it again.
“Sure.”
She turned into the hallway, half expecting to find Bill out there eavesdropping. But the corridor was quiet. The wind had picked up and the branch scraped more vigorously against the window pane. It needed pruning, she thought. In her village, such things were looked after, tended. If not by the inhabitants of the closest house, then by the gang that looked after the trees and shrubs that had been planted years ago, for the holidaymakers who’d once occupied the houses. Before they’d been allocated to refugees.
At her door she stopped to look back. Martin was padding silently behind her, his breathing regular.
She eased the door open then waited for him to follow her inside. She closed it again. She went to the bed and lit the lamp. She didn’t sit down, but stayed upright, watching Martin scratch his neck. He stayed by the door.
“So this was Robert’s room,” he said.
“You never came in here?”
“No. What’s that door?”
“A bathroom.”
He whistled under his breath. “Lucky bastard.” He reddened. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I know I’m a lucky bastard. Hot water and electric light.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know you didn’t.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
She sat down on the bed. It bowed under her weight then rebounded a little. “About tonight. I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not. I’m scared. I’m—I’m confused. But that’s no excuse.”
“I don’t blame you Sarah, really I don’t. After all the things I’ve done…”
She patted the bed next to her, feeling her heart thud against her rib cage. “Sit down.”
“Next to you?”
She nodded, feeling ice run down her back.
He walked slowly to the bed, his eyes not leaving hers for a second. He looked wary, as if expecting her to change her mind. To lash out at him.
He sat a foot or so away from her. The bed dipped further.
He bounced up and down. “Nice. Better than a mattress on the floor.”
“Did you know he lived like this?”
A shrug. “I guessed as much. Never talked about it though. No point.”
Her mouth was dry. “You didn’t deserve it.”
He looked at his fingers, which were twisting in his lap. “Oh, I think I did.” He looked up. “I’ve done things. Bad things.”
“We all had to, after the floods.”
“Even you?”
“Well. Not me. But my dad did. To protect me and my mum.”
“Hmm.”
She could only imagine the thoughts going through his head, wild fictionalisations of Ted’s behaviour on the road. She didn’t feel like contradicting him.
She leaned towards him and put her hand over his. He stopped moving, holding it very still.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do. You’ve looked after me. You’re helping me get home.”
He shrugged. His hand shifted and he stilled it quickly. His skin was warm.
She twisted her hand to hold his. He moved his own so that they were holding hands in his lap. He placed his free hand over hers.
“I love you,” he said.
She pushed down the fear that threatened to spill out of her. “I know.”
He was looking at her. She stared ahead, at the window. The torn curtains. She counted the rips in them. Twenty-seven. He watched her in silence.
She turned to him. “Kiss me.”
His eyes widened. “Sorry?”
“You heard.” She gave him a nervous smile.
He licked his lips, then leaned towards her. She closed her eyes. His lips brushed hers then withdrew.
She found herself leaning forwards, holding onto the kiss. The only time she’d been kissed before was by Zack Golder, at the age of fourteen. It had been dry and horrible and neither of them had mentioned it again.
His eyes widened further then closed, and she felt him leaning in. The bed shifted as he moved to sit closer. He put a hand on the back of her neck and she felt her skin shiver.
His tongue was in her mouth now, exploring. But not pushing, like Zack had.
She thought of Jess and Zack; did he kiss her like that? She laughed into Martin’s mouth.
He pulled back. “Have I done something wrong?”
She clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry! No, no you haven’t. I was just thinking of… never mind.” She swallowed. Don’t laugh.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him to her. They kissed again, faster this time, deeper. She squeezed her eyes shut.
She carried on pulling, feeling his weight fall on her as she toppled back onto the bed. She was lying down now, his weight half on her and half over the side of the bed.
She opened her eyes. He stopped kissing her to pull back, looking down at her.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
She nodded.
She shifted her weight, moving to the other side of the bed. He stroked her hair. She lay there, blinking up at him. So this was what bound her mother to her father. She’d heard them at night; his grunts and her moans.
She felt full and empty inside, both at the same time. She wanted him now, more than she’d ever wanted anything.
She grabbed the hand that was in her hair and brought it to her mouth. She kissed it. She smiled at him.
She reached up for his shoulder and pulled him down on top of her. He cupped her head in his hand and kissed her deeply. She pushed back with her tongue, losing herself.
His hand was on her arm, creeping towards her breast. She didn’t stop it. She stiffened as she felt his hand rest there, and tried her hardest to keep breathing.
She reached down between them and unbuttoned her shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out thoughts of Robert wearing this shirt.
For a second she thought she’d ruined the moment, that the memory of that bastard would get in the way. But she managed to push him away and now Martin’s hand was inside the shirt, stroking her nipple.
She moaned.
His face was in her hair now, his mouth at her ear. “When you want me to stop, just say,” he said.
She let out a long, shaky breath.
“Don’t stop,” she told him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The room was dim when Sarah woke, sunlight just beginning to filter through the curtains.
She lay perfectly still, her eyes closed. Her fingers tingled and her body felt as if it had been filled with liquid fire.
And today, they were both leaving.
She blinked her eyes open, focusing on the wall next to the bed. There was a damp patch halfway up the wall, and the wallpaper was peeling at the edge. It was textured, painted in a shade of white that had yellowed with time.
She took a few slow breaths,
not wanting to wake up. Not wanting the day to start.
At home, she’d have to face her father. Her mother—her mother would know, surely. She’d see it in Sarah’s eyes. In the way her skin glowed. And Sam. Would she have to settle for Sam now? The safety, the dependability of Sam?
No, she wouldn’t. Not if she convinced Martin to come with her.
She turned in the bed, ready to wake him, to tell him her plan. The bed shifted under her weight, springs squeaking.
Had they squeaked like that last night? Would Bill have been listening?
The bed next to her was empty.
She pushed herself up, clutching her arms around her chest. She was still naked, and suddenly cold.
She looked at the bathroom door. It was open, with no sound coming from beyond.
She turned towards the door to the corridor; it was closed.
She sat up to check the floor. His clothes would be there; she’d peeled them off him last night, letting them slide to the floor. He’d pulled her shirt off with his teeth.
The floor was empty.
She slumped back.
How could she be so stupid? So naive, and trusting, and stupid? He’d lied to her, had got what he wanted from her, and now he’d left. He was no better than Robert Cope.
How would she ever look her mother in the eye again? She should have listened to her. Should have chosen Sam.
Bill would be down there, pottering around the kitchen as he always did. He’d have seen Martin leave. It would be humiliating.
She couldn’t face him. She would creep down the stairs and let herself out. If she couldn’t get the boat to start, she’d walk home. She’d run. She’d swim if that was what it took.
She wanted her mother.
She crept to the wardrobe, aware that the kitchen was directly below, and took out another clean shirt. Her own skirt and blouse, the soaked clothes she’d arrived in, were nowhere to be seen.
Not to matter. Robert’s clothes would be more practical anyway.
She flung on a shirt, then another one on top. It was cold out there, and the coats were by the back door. She grabbed another and pulled it over the first two. It was tight now, but that was good. Tight meant no drafts.
She pulled on a pair of jeans then three pairs of socks. She picked up yesterday’s jeans from the floor, blushing to think of how they’d been removed, and slid out the belt. She belted her clean jeans.
Shoes.
The sodden trainers were by the door. She’d lost one of her own, and the other was downstairs somewhere. With all these socks the trainers would fit better.
She slid them on and tied the laces tightly. It hurt, but she knew they mustn’t move, mustn’t rub. Tight was good.
She grabbed the door handle and turned it slowly. The door opened silently. She crept along the corridor to the stairs. There was a bend – she paused to listen before rounding it, afraid of bumping into Bill – but at last she was at the top of the stairs.
She held the bannister, trying to control her breathing. Her stomach felt as if it would expel its contents at any moment, and she couldn’t be sure how. She swallowed. Keep it down.
The kitchen door, towards the back of the house, was closed. Thank God. She crossed herself, imagining how pleased Dawn would be to see her.
She placed a foot on the top step, gritting her teeth. It creaked slightly, but nothing that could be heard through a closed door. She took another step, and another, wishing she could tumble down and run through the front door.
As she neared the bottom of the stairs, she heard voices. She stopped, one foot hovering over the next step. She lowered it carefully, then turned to listen.
Bill; she knew his voice. The other was deeper, as if it belonged to someone tall and broad. Not Martin. And was that a woman?
She felt her heart pick up pace. They couldn’t hear her.
But then—
What if they’d taken more women? What if the other men had come back, with more captives? What if they were women from her village?
She slid to the bottom of the stairs, wishing she’d thought to wait before putting the shoes on. She stood next to the kitchen door, her chest rising and falling, her stomach growling. Her thighs smarted from last night. She hated them.
“So you’re saying you haven’t seen him since the incident?” The man, the one with the deep voice. Robert?
No. He’s dead. One of the other men. There’d been another older man, like Bill. Robert’s lieutenants.
“Sorry, but the last time I saw him was when he left here with the people from the village up the coast.”
“The village you visited.”
A pause. “We got into difficulties at sea. They came out for us. They were very kind.”
“And you brought some of them back here with you?”
“There aren’t a lot of people like us around here. Refugees. We wanted to make links with them.”
Liar, she thought.
People like us. If he wasn’t talking to his own men, who was he talking to? Newcomers? The owner of the farm?
“We need to speak to him in connection with a murder investigation.”
Sarah held her breath. It was the police. Did they still have Ruth? And why hadn’t Ruth or Jess told them about the abductions? Surely the villagers weren’t that mistrustful of the authorities.
Then she remembered the time the village had been invaded by kids from the nearby estate. Their parents too, on the second night. The police had taken the side of the locals.
“Very well. We may have to take you in for questioning.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”
“Very well, Mr Peterson. I expect you to tell us if you see him or the girl.”
Sarah clapped her hand to her mouth. The girl?
She backed away from the door. She looked at the front door. They could be out there, blue lights flashing. Waiting for her. For Martin.
She lifted a foot behind her, to the bottom step. She retreated backwards up the stairs, not taking her eyes off the kitchen door.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dawn was asleep when Ted returned. She’d hidden the rope under Sarah’s bed, crossing herself and asking God for forgiveness as she did so. When she heard Ted slam the front door, felt the bed dip under his weight, she hadn’t moved.
Now it was morning and she was in the kitchen, making breakfast. Fried eggs from the village hens, his favourite.
She knew he’d been awake when she got out of bed, but hadn’t had the courage to turn and make eye contact. Go easy on her, she’d told him, referring to their daughter. But would he go easy on her?
He stumbled down the stairs, muttering under his breath, and slumped into a chair. He smelled of sweat, and teeth that hadn’t been brushed. She pursed her lips, determined to put on a smile. But first, the eggs. She pushed them around the pan, focusing on their spitting, on the way they gradually changed colour as they solidified in the heat.
At last the eggs were cooked. Ted, behind her, was silent. Watching her, no doubt.
She scooped them onto a plate and added a hunk of bread. The bread was rough but satisfying, and always fresh. Although this was yesterday’s; today, she couldn’t face going to the village shop for her ration. The eyes, the questions. Where is your daughter? Does your husband hit you?
She pushed her shoulders back and took a shallow breath. She forced a smile onto her lips; she should be pleased, at least he hadn’t been arrested.
She turned, holding the plate. Trying to still her hand.
“Morning love,” she said, holding her voice steady.
He was looking past her, out of the window. It faced the side of their house, looking at Sanjeev’s wall.
He said nothing.
She placed the plate in front of him and turned back to the bread. She sawed off a piece for herself, cursing her own clumsiness.
“What’
s this?”
She stopped cutting. “Eggs.”
“Where’s the bacon?”
She turned. He was holding the plate up at an angle, like it was something detestable. The eggs would slip to the floor if he wasn’t careful.
“I haven’t had a chance to go to the shop. We ran out—”
He dropped the plate. It clattered to the floor but didn’t smash. She couldn’t see if the eggs had stayed in place.
“I want bacon.”
She hurried towards the hall, to fetch her coat. She would have to face them.
He put out a foot. She tripped over it, landing next to the eggs. Her fingers were in them. The yolks felt thick and viscous. She retched.
“Get up!”
She pulled her fingers out of the eggs and grabbed the plate. She stood, placing it on the table.
He pushed it to one side, sending it to the floor. This time, it smashed. She kept herself from crying out.
“I didn’t tell you to leave.”
“You wanted bacon.”
He grabbed the fingers on her right hand, which were resting on the table, where the plate had been. He twisted a fingernail into her ring finger.
“You’re not going out there.”
“Right.”
He stood up. “Clean up this mess. I’m going to find her.”
She looked up from the floor where she was trying to collect pieces of egg white in her shaking fingers. “What?”
“You heard. I’ll get some men together. We’ll go after them.”
“But it’s been two days.”
“So?”
“She’ll be miles away.”
He bent over her. She clasped her lips shut, trying not to gag at the smell of his breath combined with the egg.
“How would you know that, woman?”
She pulled away from him, her bottom landing on the cold floor. “The boat. It’s fast. Isn’t it?”
“How do you know she hasn’t stopped somewhere? How do you know he hasn’t taken her to that wretched farm?”
“I don’t. But you tried this before and—”
He kicked the plate out of her hands. She yelped and shrank back. “Don’t you remind me of that! This is different.”
Sea of Lies Page 13
