There’s the slightest pause on the phone. ‘Ava Lindsey? I’ve heard about you on the news. You must have been through so much. I’m really sorry. But you’re going to be OK now, Ava, help’s on its way. We’ve found you, you’re near Feltwell in Norfolk. A caller had already sent the police to your address. They’re going to be with you really soon. Are you injured?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve not been shot, but I don’t know, it’s hard to remember everything that’s happened since he took me. Please, when are the police going to be here? Please don’t let her die.’
‘It’s OK, you’re being really brave, the police are right round the corner, and there’s an ambulance with them. They’re already on Black Drove, that’s the road near where you are. You should be able to hear them soon. Can you hear them?’
I pause, straining to listen. At first I think the sirens must be my imagination, but then the sound gets louder and louder. ‘I can hear them, I can hear them! But he’s parked his car across the gateway!’
‘The police will get rid of it, don’t worry.’ As the operator speaks, I can see two panda cars and an ambulance over the hedgerow.
‘Over here! Over here!’ I scream. The tops of heads bob up and down as they run alongside the hedge, then I see two uniformed officers scramble over the bonnet of the silver car, followed by paramedics. ‘They’re here, they’re here,’ I say.
I drop the phone as I reach out my arm to the paramedic running towards me.
One of them, a man in his thirties, kneels beside me. ‘We’ve got it from here, don’t worry. We’ve got her.’
I feel warmth – perhaps a coat – around my shoulders and somebody is lifting me to my feet. ‘It’s OK, Ava, you’re safe now. My name’s PC Anne Ratcliffe.’ There’s an arm round my waist and a gentle tug, but I don’t move. I don’t want to walk away from Frankie, leave her lying there. ‘Don’t worry. They’re going to look after her, we need to get you warm.’
I stumble towards the gate without looking back. I can’t bear to see anyone offering the bastard first aid. The police are already moving the silver car; I guess he must have given them the keys. Fat Head has a name, Frankie said his name, I should tell the police what he’s called, but I can’t remember what she said. Anne Ratcliffe is opening the back door of a panda car, we must have walked to the other side of the hedgerow without me realising. She’s holding the door open, saying something, but I can’t hear her over the buzzing in my ears. The inside of the car yawns dark and cramped, like a cage. I don’t want to get in there. I start struggling against her.
‘No, no, no!’
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I’ll get in with you, you won’t be on your own. I’m sorry, but we have to get you to hospital. And on the way, we can try and get your family on the phone.’
Another police officer comes round from the front of the car while she’s trying to get me into the back. ‘We don’t know if the family’s been told yet,’ he says.
‘Well radio now and get them to call!’
I don’t get into the car, but I stop resisting. ‘Is my brother OK? Can I speak to him? Is he OK?’
Anne looks uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know your family, love, sorry. But there’s no reason your brother wouldn’t be OK, is there?’
‘He said Matt was dead.’ I gesture at the silver car. ‘When I was . . . when I was locked away, he said Matt was dead. But he must have been lying, he was lying, wasn’t he? He was lying!’
‘I’m sure he must have been. We will try to get hold of your family as soon as we can. But you’re freezing. Please, Ava, you can trust me, you have to get in the car. We need to get you to hospital. And the sooner we get there the sooner you can see your family.’
I clutch hold of her hand as she helps me into the car, and then she follows me in, sitting beside me. I look down at my hand gripping hers and am shocked by how filthy it is. My skin looks grey. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘You’re OK, Ava,’ she says. ‘You’re being really brave.’
The officer in front has started up the engine. I crane my head to look round. I can’t see Frankie. I don’t know if they’ve already loaded her into the ambulance. ‘She’ll be OK, won’t she? I’d be dead if it weren’t for her.’ Flat fields, the waving heads of reeds, all are a blur as we drive along, the ambulance getting smaller behind us. The road must be very rough; we’re jouncing around and I can feel my bruises as we thump along the tarmac. I hate to think of Frankie racing along this road with her injury. ‘They won’t let her die, will they? Can’t they send a helicopter?’
‘She’s in the best hands,’ says Anne. ‘Colin, any news on the family please?’
‘They’re calling them now. Then they’ll ring through on your phone.’
‘Can’t I call? Can’t I call my mum?’ I can’t believe this didn’t occur to me before, I’m not thinking straight, and make a grab for Anne’s phone as she gets it out of her pocket, but she keeps hold of it. ‘Please! I want to speak to her, she’ll be so worried.’
‘I promise you it’s better this way, sweetheart. After something like this, even good news can be a shock. It’s best they tell her and then put you straight on the phone afterwards.’ I’m about to argue, but the phone rings, and the sound of it feels like a punch in the stomach. I sit frozen. I can’t believe this is happening, that I’m going to hear my mum’s voice, that I’m alive, that I’m going to see her again. Anne has answered the call. ‘She’s sitting right here, I’ll put her on.’ She hands me the phone but I’m so overwhelmed, I can’t find the words.
‘Ava? Mon ange! C’est toi? Vraiment c’est toi?’
‘Mum, it’s me.’ She’s crying, asking me over and over if I’m OK, if it’s really me. ‘I promise I’m OK, I promise, but what about Matt?’ I finally manage to say. ‘Is he all right? Can I speak to him? Is he there?’
‘Oui, oui, il est ici!’
‘Sis?’
It’s Matt’s voice. It’s really him. ‘You’re OK! Oh Matt thank God, you’re OK! I’ve been so worried.’
‘You were worried about me? You were fucking kidnapped and you were worried about me? You mentalist!’ He’s laughing and crying at the same time. But I’m sobbing so hard I can’t answer him, I can’t speak at all.
One Year Later
‘Take your time, Ava, remember what we talked about. Just centre yourself, breathe in deeply and count to seven as you let the breath go.’
Air exhales from my nose, slowly, slowly. I’m in Dr Scott’s office, or Rosie as I call her. I like this space. Clean lines and bright. Always feels sunny, even on an overcast day. I don’t like the dark.
She wants me to talk about how I feel now the trial’s over, now that he’s doing life. What do I feel? I think there are many types of prison. That’s what I’m discovering. I can’t tell her that.
Does that sound ungrateful? I hope not. It’s hard for me to admit that some days can be difficult. How can anything be hard after what I went through? Survivor’s guilt is what Rosie calls it, that and a large helping of post-traumatic stress.
Of course, I’m glad Grant Allen is in an actual prison. That he’s never coming out. I call him that now, rather than Fat Head, though it was hard at first to acknowledge he even had a name, that he could be a real person and have done what he did. After I escaped, he still wasn’t done with me. He tried to file an attempted murder charge. When that wouldn’t fly, he went for GBH, his lawyer arguing that the force I’d used wasn’t ‘proportionate’. That’s not uncommon, the police told me. It’s a way of continuing to victimise somebody, a refusal to let go. They didn’t press charges.
Rosie is looking at me, waiting for me to say something. She has a kind face, dark curly hair and bright red glasses. I’ve never told her, but her hair reminds me of Daisy sometimes. But then so much makes me think of Daisy, it’s not like looking at Rosie is harder than anything else; she’s never out of my head. ‘I feel relieved, I do feel relieved that part of it’s over, th
at they found him guilty. And I’m glad he didn’t get parole. It means a lot I’m never going to have to worry about him getting out, and go through all that. But it still doesn’t feel finished, not the way I expected it to.’
The trial was everywhere, on the news every evening, then again in my nightmares. Giving evidence brought it all back. I wasn’t in court for the verdict; it made my skin crawl to be in the same room with him. I imagined myself being brave, staring him down in the dock, but when I took the stand I found I didn’t want to look at him. And then all the families; I could feel their eyes on me as I spoke, wishing it was their daughter who had lived to give evidence rather than me. Rosie told me it wouldn’t have been like that, that they would have felt pleased I escaped, that I helped get them justice, but I’m not so sure. Either way, I didn’t want to be there. The liaison officer told me any details I asked to know.
We weren’t the only ones, me, Daisy, Hanna, Lily and Sandra. The police found three more bodies at the farm. Two other sex workers, a woman called Mary Fenny and another they’ve yet to identify. The police say she might have been an illegal immigrant, here for a better life, but she met Grant Allen instead. And then there was Carol Denham, his former sister-in-law, buried in her own fields. She was retired, a widow with no children, and a recluse. Almost a year she’d been dead, and nobody reported her missing.
The prosecution argued that in some ways Grant Allen wanted to be found. The way he kept going for higher-profile victims, no longer leaving them buried in the mud on Hock Drove, but dumping them where the police were sure to discover them. All those deaths raised questions about the disappearance of his wife, Lydia Allen, the mother of his son Zach. Police dug up every address he’s ever lived at, but there was no body, and if she really had fled abroad, as he claimed, all those years ago, she’s proved impossible to trace.
Zach. I cannot believe Grant Allen was a father, that he watched his own baby grow up, cared about him even. There was talk that Zach might not have killed his girlfriend at all, that he took the rap for his dad, and that’s why Grant started the Justice4Jailbirds campaign: guilt. Rosie says it might make sense, that perhaps all that rage he inflicted on others was displaced anger he felt towards himself. But who knows. They were never able to bring that up at trial. Zachary Allen, whoever he is now, didn’t take the chance to claim his innocence. I’m not sure I even care why Grant Allen did it; there’s no explanation that would make me feel better about what happened.
I’ve been staring at Rosie’s pale grey carpet so long, it takes me a while to realise it’s started to blur, that my eyes have filled with tears. That happens a lot. ‘Sorry,’ I say, though she’s told me a million times I’ve nothing to say sorry for. ‘It’s just . . . Whatever he gets, it doesn’t bring back the lives he took.’
The lives he took. How inadequate. But I find it painful to name them aloud, even Hanna who I never met.
‘No,’ says Rosie. ‘You’re right.’
‘So in that sense justice isn’t fair, is it? Just an exercise in damage limitation, after all the damage has been done.’
‘But it’s good that you helped ensure he can’t hurt anyone else, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but only after it was too late.’
‘Ava, we’ve talked about this. You can’t blame yourself. If it were reversed, what would you want Daisy to feel about you?’
‘I’d want her to live her life, to be happy.’
‘Exactly. And by doing that, by allowing yourself to be happy, it’s a form of honouring her memory.’
I know she’s right. Partly. But I also know there were times when Daisy and I were together that I didn’t feel that way. That part of me wanted to be the one who lived, and I can’t help feeling, if she exists somewhere, she must feel cheated, maybe even angry that I’m living my life while hers was stolen. There’s an empty space in the world I can never fill; not only Daisy, but the child she wanted but never carried.
I look at the clock. I can’t believe an hour has gone by already. ‘I’m making you late,’ I say.
Rosie shakes her head. ‘There’s no rush. And it’s a big day today. How are you feeling about the meeting now it’s finally here?’
‘Nervous. But in a good way, I think.’
She smiles at me. ‘It’s all going to go well. And I’m here, if you need to speak to me before next week.’
I wait downstairs in the hospital canteen. I’m early, and every time somebody walks in, my heart beats a bit quicker, then I relax again. This isn’t the best place perhaps; it’s the same hospital Frankie was brought after Grant shot her, where her family were rushed when she lay unconscious and critical.
Frankie. She and Daisy are entwined in my memories, the women who took my place. She was Grant’s next target, that’s what the prosecution argued. That blog had alerted the police, made her more challenging prey, but Grant had still wanted to kill her, he would have gone for her anyway. The car chase proves it. Or that’s what I tell myself.
I’ve seen her a million times in my imagination. The way she stood in that doorway, the light behind her, so I couldn’t see her face. I’ve watched her old reports online too. It was painful to see her covering my case, to look at her standing just feet away from where Daisy’s body had been dumped. I couldn’t escape those reports of hers this last week. They were used endlessly in the television coverage of the verdict; the reporter at the scene who rescued the girl but paid the price.
The door opens and it’s a brunette. I’m about to turn back to my coffee, then I freeze, because I recognise that face, even without the blonde hair. She’s walking over to my table, stooped slightly to one side: the consequence of her meeting with Grant. But instead of the guilt I expected, I feel the same flood of relief as when I first saw her. Yes, she’s marked because she found me, will always bear the scars, but she’s alive. And that’s partly thanks to me too.
‘Ava,’ she says, standing over my table. She’s smiling, her eyes shining with tears. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
Frankie hugs Ava close to her. It’s a relief to see her looking so much stronger than she remembered. The thin, filthy creature who clung to her at the farm on Hock Drove is gone, and in her place is a tall young woman with a dark crew cut. It doesn’t look as pretty as the pink bob, but it suits her better.
‘God, it’s good to see you,’ she says, finally letting go. ‘Thank you so much. The hospital told me what you did. After all you’d been through I can’t believe you had the presence of mind. It’s thanks to you I didn’t bleed to death.’
Ava turns red. ‘Oh, it’s all anybody would have done. You were the one who saved me.’
‘Well, we’re quits then, as my friend Zara would say. Fancy another coffee? And maybe a cake or something?’
‘Great, thank you.’ Ava reaches for her purse, but Frankie waves her away.
‘Don’t be daft.’
From the queue she glances back at Ava. It makes her ridiculously happy to see her sitting there, like a normal student, like any twenty-one-year-old. On the outside at least. Frankie knows Ava quit her course at the UEA, that the pair of them have spent the past year in a state of stasis. Although she suspects that the business of recovery has been harder work for Ava than it has for her. Frankie has just had to learn how to live with one lung. God knows what memories Ava is still laying to rest.
She returns to the table with the coffees and two huge brownies. ‘I know for a fact these are good. I lived on them during rehab, much to the doctors’ disapproval.’
Ava takes a sip of coffee. ‘You look great.’
‘Thanks. You too,’ Frankie says. There’s a pause as she works up the courage to broach the unmentionable. ‘I’m so glad you shot him.’ Ava looks startled and Frankie wonders if she’s said the wrong thing. But there’s not much room for small talk after what they’ve been through. She ploughs on. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I know you had to shoot him. But I’m also really glad. Is it OK to talk about this?’
>
‘Yeah, it is. I don’t normally, I try to give him as little space in my life as possible, but this feels sort of different.’
‘How you didn’t blow his head off, I’ve no idea.’
‘I don’t know either,’ says Ava. ‘I’ve thought about it. It’s almost like I knew he wasn’t worth it. Though sometimes I’m sorry I didn’t, to be honest.’
‘Don’t be. Prison’s no fun for control freaks like that. This way the bastard gets to suffer for longer.’ Frankie’s will to vengeance is cheerily expressed and rounded off with a bite of brownie.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Ava says. ‘Why were you there that day?’
‘Nosiness really.’ Frankie makes a face. ‘Or rather it was mainly because some dickhead, a guy called Brian Clifton, was writing a nasty blog about me.’
‘That’s the guy who had the photos, isn’t it?’
‘Um, yeah,’ says Frankie, aware that this must be yet another trauma for Ava, knowing that pictures of her being tortured are still out there somewhere on the Internet. The police will never be sure they’ve traced them all, neither the photos of her nor of the other women Grant Allen abused. ‘That’s the one,’ she says. ‘He had incriminating stuff on his phone, and I really thought he was the killer. He was arrested for it and everything. At the same time my boyfriend had been playing about on the deep web, trying to track down the website that was hosting Brian’s blog posts. He connected with some pretty unsavoury types, did some snooping through personal data and came up with an address. It was the farm. I went there hoping to catch the person who hosted it, force them to admit what they’d done. I thought they might even be able to put pressure on Brian to say where you were.’ She pauses, not wanting to make herself out to be more of a hero than is honest. ‘And it wasn’t entirely selfless, I was also beyond furious about the blogging. It made my life utter hell.’ Frankie blushes, suddenly aware that her stress over Feminazi Slayer was nothing compared to what Ava went through.
The Death Knock Page 32
