by Louise Voss
In the nightmare, Samantha had been rising like one of the zombies in the ‘Thriller’ video, only instead of from a grave, it was from the top of one of the silos at Greenham. There were other women around her, and they were all chasing Meredith off the stage she’d been performing on with the band, the entire stadium audience coming for her in the lurching gait of the undead in horror movies, arms stretched straight ahead. Samantha was leading them, her eyes bright red and her mouth twisted in a smile of pure evil. Meredith remembered thinking, Oh shit, they know it’s me, they know who I am, because every zombie audience member was wearing a Minstead House T-shirt. Even as she was fleeing, she thought, I must re-order those, we’ll definitely have run out…
‘Fuck,’ she muttered, sitting up and reaching for her mobile. There were no messages or missed calls, which was weird. Pete usually texted her first thing, just a ‘good morning’ GIF or a cute photo of a cat, or his misty morning view of the river. She went to her favourites folder and pressed his number – he and ‘Work’ were the only numbers in there.
‘Hi, Pete, it’s me, ringing to properly fill you in on my police interview. Just woke up. Hope you’re not too hungover after your beerfest last night…’
Meredith stopped mid-message, her voice cutting out as if someone had unplugged her. She realised she didn’t even have the energy to speak.
‘Just call me?’ she begged instead, hanging up. At least she didn’t have to work today, and she was safe. Gemma was here. They could just stay holed up in the cottage all day, hopefully.
She went for a pee, opened the curtains, drank the glass of slightly stale water on her bedside table, put on her dressing gown and climbed back into bed, where, propped up on her pillows, she gazed for a long time out of her bedroom window at the fresh green morning outside. She wanted the sound of the birds tweeting in the branches and the sight of puffy clouds scudding across the sharp blue sky to wipe the mustardy-putrid nightmare rot from her head, but after ten minutes they still hadn’t. And Pete hadn’t called her back.
A worm of concern began to wriggle in her chest. Why hadn’t Pete picked up, or returned her call? He was never far from his phone and, since Ralph’s disappearance, he’d been extra-vigilant about getting back to her immediately if she called or texted. It wasn’t like him not to respond at all.
She checked the time on her phone. 08.46. He usually left the barge around now to get to the studio, so she supposed he might have been cycling over there when she was recording the voicemail.
She hadn’t had a lot of sleep before the nightmare; she’d lain staring at the dark ceiling with her eyes wide open, clutching the duvet up under her chin like a child, her thoughts racing, wishing she’d asked Gemma to drop her over at Pete’s after the interview rather than back here. She could have stayed and helped him drink the beers.
Meredith called him again, but once more the call went straight to voicemail. She tried the landline number of the studio, but that just rang out. She wished she had Johnny or Trevor’s numbers, but she didn’t. Just Andrea’s, she thought, a lump rising to her throat.
On a whim, she rang Andrea’s number and heard her familiar, accented voice: ‘Hello! I am so sorry I am not able to come to the phone, but please—’
Meredith killed the call, a tear spilling down her face. Why had she done that? It hadn’t made her feel remotely less crap – in fact, the opposite. She sniffed hard and swung her legs out of the bed, slowly, like an old lady.
She dressed and went downstairs, where she found Gemma sitting at the Formica kitchen table in a pink towelling dressing gown and slippers, working at her laptop, a cup of tea by her right hand. Her face, bare of make-up, was shiny and rosy. The woman looked about sixteen.
‘Morning Meredith,’ she said. ‘Kettle’s just boiled. Sorry, I was about to get dressed.’
‘I can’t get hold of Pete,’ Meredith said, not bothering with the small talk. ‘He isn’t picking up, or ringing me back.’
She opened the fridge door out of habit and stood for a long time looking inside. There was a bit of yogurt left, a heel of bread, enough milk for tea … but in the end she merely closed the door again. ‘I’m really worried.’
Gemma stood up. ‘Let’s get over there, then. Give me five minutes to get dressed.’
Ralph’s car had gone from the car park – it must have been taken away at some point, probably while she’d been staying at Pete’s, Meredith thought, as they got into Gemma’s Ford Focus. She wondered how Paula was getting on at her sister’s. She should ring her … once she knew that Pete was safe, of course. There was little room in her head for anything else at the moment.
Gemma drove them slowly out onto the access road that ran behind the house and fed into the public car park and to the main exit. Hardly anyone was around this early, and they didn’t even pass another car on the short drive into Minstead Village.
Parking up at the top of the steps leading to the pontoon, Gemma was just pulling the handbrake up when a gentle rap on the passenger window made Meredith jump. It was Trevor, Pete’s neighbour. She wound down the window and managed a smile, which he didn’t reciprocate – in fact his expression was a mixture of puzzlement and worry.
‘Hi Meredith … hopefully you can solve the mystery.’
‘Hi Trevor. What mystery?’
‘Where your twin’s taken himself off to.’
The breath stopped in her throat, and she had to cough to get it started again. ‘What do you mean?’
Trevor moved to one side and made a gesture with his arm towards the river. ‘He’s moved the boat. Didn’t tell any of us he was going, though, and he must have gone in the middle of the night. Is everything OK?’ He scratched his head contemplatively. ‘I mean, obviously everything is not OK…’
They both stared at Andrea’s barge, still taped off and now, next to it, the empty mooring where Bruton Bee had been.
‘Oh my God,’ Meredith said, opening the car door so fast she caught Trevor’s elbow on the edge of the door. ‘Sorry,’ she said automatically, running over to the edge of the pontoon to look again at the space. ‘Fucking hell. Gemma! I knew something was wrong. I’ve been trying to ring him but it just goes to voicemail. He wouldn’t go anywhere – I mean, not without telling me. Shit, Trevor, something’s happened to him, I know it has. When did you last see his boat?’
Trevor gripped her shoulders gently, kindly, trying to get her to make eye contact. Gemma rushed over too, her brow creased with concern.
‘Shhh,’ Trevor soothed, as if she was a teething toddler. ‘Don’t panic, sweetie. Stay calm. It could be nothing. Someone could’ve undone his moorings. You know kids were doing that last summer, the little bastards…’
‘But why isn’t he answering his phone?’ Meredith wailed, hyperventilating, clutching Trevor. It seemed only minutes since the last time she was losing the plot, Andrea’s body bobbing against the pontoon, her hair in black ribbons swirling around her head … Meredith tried to shake off the horrific mental image of Pete’s bloated corpse in the same place.
‘I’ll call it in,’ Gemma said, pulling out her phone and stepping a short distance away.
Footsteps rang out on the iron stairs, and Johnny’s head appeared. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Pete?’
Meredith was shaking so much that she thought her legs were about to give way. ‘Not Pete. Oh God, not Pete. Help, please, we have to find him…’ she beseeched.
Trevor folded her into a claustrophobic and unwelcome hug, which she fought her way out of.
‘Come on board with us,’ Johnny said, exchanging worried looks with his partner. ‘In fact, stay here today, in case there’s any news. We’ll look after you.’
They walked her slowly down the stairs, flanking her as if they were prison guards taking her to the gallows, Meredith thought, a flash of her zombie nightmare coming back to her. She had to grasp the handrail tightly on both sides, worried that her knees were about to buckle.
They’d just
managed to persuade Meredith to sit down in the galley, and Trevor had put the kettle on, when Gemma climbed on board, her face grave. Meredith jumped straight back up.
‘Is he dead? Please don’t tell me he’s dead.’ She was almost howling out the words.
Gemma came over to her and put a hand on her arm. ‘We have no reports of that,’ she said gently. ‘But his boat was reported this morning, found drifting about ten miles downstream. Nobody on board. We’ll launch an investigation immediately.’
45
Pete
When Pete juddered back into consciousness, he couldn’t at first work out where he was or what was going on. It felt like he was in a spindryer in the dark, until he realised that was just because his head was swimming so badly. Then he had a weird flying, falling sensation, as if he was plummeting off a dream cliff – no hands, no idea how far below him the water was or how hard he’d hit it, just a freakish sensation of free-falling through his own pain.
And he was in pain. Bad pain. His whole skull throbbed, his eyeballs pressing painfully against their sockets, huge and swollen, like his teeth, ears, nose. Everything ached, worse than the most severe hangover he’d ever had. He tried to lift his hands to stop himself belly flopping into the water; but there was no water. And he could not move his arms from where they were lifted behind him. He tugged, feeling the pull in the sockets of his shoulders. Nothing.
Gradually, he became aware that he was in a dark place, moving, but in a strange, immobile position. Kneeling, arms pinned by his sides, forehead resting on a thin metal edge as if he was about to be executed.
Was he about to be executed?
He tried to call out but he couldn’t open his mouth – couldn’t part his lips at all. Tape across his face. He lifted his head with difficulty, but the pain was too great and bile rose in his throat.
No, man. Fuck no. You can’t be sick, he thought in panic. If he was sick he could choke and die.
He brought his head gently back down to feel the metal edge again, but at that moment the moving floor beneath him jumped, hard, and the metal edge smacked against his brow, making his head hurt even more.
A bump, he thought. That was like a bump, in a road. I’m in a van, being taken somewhere.
Meredith had been taken somewhere in a van, all those years ago.
He tried to push away the thought of her poor ruined hand, the constant reminder of the torture she’d endured that night, forcing himself instead to stay calm, work out what was happening.
He wasn’t on the van floor. He realised he was in some kind of open container, which in turn was in the van. The container was small, just large enough to accommodate his kneeling form, and cold against his bare knees and shins. Metal, he thought, puzzled. It feels like metal. He slumped over to his left and then, with difficulty, to his right, to see where the sides were. It seemed wider at the front than the back. Could he be in a wheelbarrow? The sides were about that height. He tried to unfold his legs and climb out, but then became aware that his hands and ankles were bound together too.
This must be how Meredith had felt, he thought, and had to swallow back down the vomit in his throat. The thought of her feeling half as terrified as he did now made tears of horror spring thickly into his eyes. How had he never properly understood before? He’d been a terrible brother. They hadn’t even been talking at that stage. She’d gone through all that – all this – on her own.
Stop it, Pete. Focus.
His kidnapper must have used the wheelbarrow to transport him from the barge into the van. Perhaps he put a plank across to wheel it ashore. Couldn’t have been easy. Pete was skinny, but six feet tall. He must have been forced into the kneeling position first, taped together like a Christmas turkey, then lifted into the wheelbarrow. Jesus. There must be at least two of them; surely that would be too hard on your own? He strained his ears to hear if there was any conversation going on in the van’s cabin, but he heard nothing apart from his own panting breaths and the van’s engine. He couldn’t tell what sort of vehicle it was. He didn’t think the engine was throaty enough to be a lorry, and although he couldn’t see anything, the space felt bigger than a micro van.
He needed to get out of this wheelbarrow.
He rocked himself from side to side, as vigorously as he could, trying to ignore the howling pain in his head. If it was a twin-wheeled one, he was screwed, but if it was a traditional one-wheeler, he might just be able to tip himself…
Crash. He’d done it! He lay gasping on his side on the van floor, his heart hammering as he waited for the van’s driver to slam on the brakes and come round to see what the noise was. But nothing. The vehicle continued to bounce along. They hadn’t noticed.
But what good had it done him? He was still immobilised.
The van seemed to be going uphill. Pete could hear the strain of the engine, and feel the tilt of gravity as it made him slide backwards a little way. They’d been driving for at least twenty minutes, he guessed – but it could’ve been much longer, depending on how long he was unconscious for. Twenty minutes or so since he came round.
With the long fingernails of his right hand, the ones he’d cultivated to be able to play the guitar without a plectrum, he scratched away at the tape around his ankles. But it felt like that thick black electrical tape, and it wasn’t giving an inch. Straining against it did no good at all, of course, but he found himself repeatedly doing so anyway, making his wrists cramp and throb in tandem with his head.
It was hopeless. He’d just have to take his chances when the van finally stopped.
His heart thudded with fear. Meredith had once – just once – told him about what happened when the van she was in had stopped.
As if prompted by his terror, the van’s gears changed down with a crunch, and Pete felt it slow to a halt.
This was it.
Van door opening. Heavy footsteps, no voices. The click of a lighter. A pause. Pete couldn’t hear the inhalation, but imagined his kidnapper sucking on a cigarette, leaning contemplatively against the van side just inches away from him, perhaps keeping it alight to burn him with…
Then a few more footsteps, the crunch of the door opening. The glare of a torch in his eyes, and the sweet scent of country night air. A familiar, comforting smell: sheep and grass and sleepy, droopy-headed flowers after dark.
‘Rolled out, you bastard, did ya?’
A strange growly voice; Pete honestly couldn’t tell if it was high or low.
At least there only seemed to be one person out there. He could take him on. Kick him, hard, even though his feet were bare; his flip-flops having vanished at some point. Maybe kicking wouldn’t be so effective. He decided to think of him as Rolli, as the word ‘rolled’ had snagged in his head. Better to give him a name; made him feel less monstrous. Rolli was small, cute and cuddly. He, Pete, could take a Rolli.
He’d just have to bide his time.
‘Rolli’ hauled himself into the van, making it creak and rock. Silhouetted against the black night, he was barrel-shaped, solid. Wearing a balaclava. Not remotely small, cuddly or cute.
Pete’s heart sank. It was the same guy who’d taken Meredith, it had to be. Van, tape, balaclava. When would the knife be brandished? Pete could already see it glinting in the moonlight; imagine its flash through the air and the slice – or stab. Perhaps he’d be branded in the same place that Meredith was; they could have twin injuries. There was something faintly reassuring about that, even while the skin on his hands twitched with fearful anticipation at how much it would hurt to be impaled by a knife. But what could this guy want? What could they have ever done to deserve this?
He watched Rolli’s shape pull the wheelbarrow out and place it with a bang on the ground beneath the ledge of the van. Rolli heaved himself back inside the vehicle and now it was Pete he was coming for. He got behind him and, grunting with effort, shoved him towards the edge, as if Pete was a rock. Pete felt his shins scrape and protest on the van’s metal floor. Then he was un
ceremoniously rolled off the edge, back into the barrow. He landed painfully, face upwards, which spared his poor head from more trauma, but meant his tied feet and arms took the impact. He feared he’d broken something in one of his arms – he couldn’t even tell which – so intense was the pain.
Rolli loomed forwards over him, into his eyeline, and Pete’s heart almost seized up in his chest. He was panting with fear. His assailant wore a woolly beanie hat pulled low over his forehead, and a scarf tied tightly around the lower half of his face, so that only his eyes were on display. Not the balaclava Pete had at first assumed it was. If he survived this, he thought, he’d recognise those eyes again anywhere. Even in the dark, he could see how pale they were, washed-out looking, with light, stubby lashes.
But instead of the knife Pete expected, when Rolli’s hands shot forwards they were holding a long, thin piece of fabric, like a strip ripped from a curtain. Was he going to be throttled? His windpipe shrank and recoiled in his throat. But instead, Rolli tied the fabric around his eyes, wrapping it around Pete’s head twice and securing it at the front, squeezing the bridge of Pete’s nose.
Then he felt himself being wheeled off, which jarred his arm further. On his back in a haze of agony and confusion, Pete had the weird sensation of being a baby again, wheeled along in a pram in the dark, but instead of his loving mother’s face peering in at him with clucks and smiles, there was just blackness where her face should be. Silence, apart from the squeak of the barrow’s wheel and the man’s breathing, still laboured from the effort of moving him.
He remembered again the missing piece of Andrea’s jigsaw, the one that she had obsessed about. The face of the baby in the pram. She and Meredith had discussed it that night on his boat.
He was that missing baby. Andrea had been right to obsess about it, and he hadn’t listened. If he had, perhaps they could’ve saved her.
