by A J McDine
‘What about the kids? We can’t leave them in the house on their own.’
Stuart touched my arm. ‘They’d be absolutely fine, you know. But if you’re worried, they can come out and help.’
Bundled up in wellies and waterproofs, Nate and Immy took it in turns to ride atop the sandbags as we wheeled them from the front of the house to the back.
‘Will we be safe from the river now?’ Nate asked, once we’d finished stacking the sandbags in front of the patio and back doors.
Stuart prodded one with his foot. It didn’t budge. ‘Safe as houses,’ he said. ‘Now, who’s for a hot chocolate? I reckon we’ve earned it.’
‘Me!’ Immy cried.
‘Me, too!’ Nate yelled.
We laughed as they clambered over the sandbags and into the kitchen, discarding wellies and coats along the way.
‘Funny kids,’ I said, my heart expanding with love.
Stuart’s arm snaked around my shoulders, reassuringly familiar, and I sank against him.
‘Cleo….’ he murmured into my hair. ‘Do you think…?’
He left the question dangling, his lips warm against my ear.
‘I don’t know, Stu.’ I turned to face him. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘We should try. For the kids. Don’t you think?’
Suddenly I didn’t want to think at all. I didn’t want to consider the consequences, worry about the future. In that moment, as the rain dripped off our hoods and splashed onto the patio, as the river surged and frothed at the bottom of the garden, I wanted to feel cherished, desired. I wanted my husband to hold me close and tell me he loved me. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted him.
That night, instead of wriggling into a sleeping bag on the camp bed in Immy’s room, I followed Stuart up the stairs to our bedroom and we made love as rain buffeted the window and cars swished through puddles in the street outside. As I drifted off to sleep, a memory of the evening I’d gone to the warehouse looking for Niamh came to me. I’d imagined myself standing at a junction with half a dozen paths ahead, each representing a different future for our family.
I’d found Immy at the end of the path I’d taken, but what happened next? Would we have our happy ever after, or did another fate await us?
I woke with a start, groggy and disorientated, my heart hammering in my chest. I’d dreamt I was locked in Sheila’s box room, coarse carpet tiles wiry against my cheek, a glint of metal above me, and the air ringing with Sheila’s crazed laughter, as deadly as shattering glass.
I stretched out a tentative hand, almost sobbing with relief when my fingers grazed the smooth silkiness of our Egyptian cotton sheet. My hand crept towards Stuart’s solid back and I spooned against him and forced myself to breathe deeply. There was nothing to worry about. I’d had a bad dream, that was all. I curved myself around Stuart and closed my eyes, but the dull ache of a full bladder had killed any chances of nodding off.
I crept out of bed and was on my way to the en suite when I changed my mind. If I used the family bathroom, I could check on the children on the way back to bed. Then I might stand a chance of falling asleep. I crossed the landing to the bathroom, yelping as I stubbed my toe on the edge of the bath.
Now thoroughly awake, I checked on Nate first. The previous winter he’d declared night lights were for wimps, although the streetlight outside his window ensured his room was never in total darkness. Bathed in a faint orange glow, he was lying on his back snoring softly. I straightened his duvet and kissed his damp forehead, smiling as he murmured, ‘Not now, Obi-Wan, my tea’s ready.’
Immy’s room was at the back of the house. We’d bought her a lamp that projected a starry night sky onto her walls and ceiling for her birthday, and the stars revolved around me as I tiptoed over to her bed. Her eyes opened as I smoothed her hair away from her face, and for a second I thought I saw a flash of fear in them. But I must have imagined it, because the moment I stroked her cheek, her eyes fluttered closed again and her breathing deepened.
‘Sweet dreams, sweetheart,’ I whispered, dropping a kiss on her cheek.
There was nothing to worry about. The children were safe.
But as I padded towards the door, I noticed a roaring sound from outside. I crept over to the window, pulled back a curtain and looked out.
My blood ran cold.
I looked again, in case my mind was playing tricks on me. It wasn’t. With a backwards glance at Immy, I sprinted from the room and crashed into our bedroom.
‘Stu, Stuart, you need to wake up,’ I said, shaking his shoulder.
‘Wha’s the matter?’ he mumbled, batting me away.
‘Stuart!’ I cried, ‘For pity’s sake, wake up! The river’s burst its banks!’
Chapter Fifty-Four
We pulled on the first clothes we could find and clattered downstairs.
‘You stay here while I check the levels,’ Stuart said, grabbing the torch by the back door.
‘Be careful!’ I called after him.
He nodded and disappeared into the night. I ran to the window and looked out. Rain was still lashing against the glass, making it impossible to see the garden. Something jarred. I realised what it was. I’d been able to see the swollen river from Immy’s room because the security light had been on. But now the garden was in darkness, even though Stuart should have triggered the light the moment he stepped onto the patio.
I tried the kitchen light switch, wincing at the sudden glare. Not a power cut, then. Feeling exposed, I turned the light off. On my way back to the window, I stopped by the island. My fingers hovered over the panic button for the briefest of moments, then I snatched my hand away. The police hadn’t installed the alarm to summon help in the event of a flood.
I opened the back door, screwing my face up against the rain, and yelled Stuart’s name. But all I could hear was the roar of the river, louder than I’d ever heard it.
‘Stuart!’ I shouted again. No answer. I pushed the door closed and wondered whether I should call the fire brigade. When I’d looked out of Immy’s window, the lower half of the garden had been submerged, but there was still at least ten metres between the edge of the water and the back of the house. There were countless other homes much closer to the river than ours. Even if I called 999, I knew we wouldn’t be a priority. The important thing was that the children, asleep upstairs, were safe from the floodwater. Insurance would cover any damaged furniture. I was better off checking our sandbags were in place. I pulled on my wellies, shrugged on my waterproof jacket and let myself out of the back door.
I flapped my arms in front of the security light sensor, but the light still didn’t come on, so I pulled my phone out. Turning on the light, I pointed it towards the river.
‘Jesus,’ I breathed. Dirty river water was lapping at the rose border less than four metres from my feet. I calculated in my head. If the river had encroached another five metres of the garden in less than ten minutes, how long did we have before it reached the house?
Not long enough.
‘STUART!’ I yelled a third time. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ But the moment the words left my mouth, the wind whipped them away. Calling him was pointless. I needed to find him.
I waved my phone in front of me as I sloshed my way towards the back wall. At the edge of the water, I stopped. Flood water was gushing through the first water gate with a terrifying speed before disappearing with a whoosh through the second gate. No, wait. Through the gap where the second gate should have been. Because the gate itself was wide open.
Before I could wonder why, I noticed a rhythmical banging at the side of the house. It sounded like… I shook my head, because it couldn’t be… could it? I ran towards the sound, following the jerking beam of the light as I squinted into the driving rain. The side gate was open and was bashing against the wall of the house, bang, bang, bang.
‘Stuart!’ I shouted, looking up and down the street, expecting to see him knocking on our neighbours’ doors warning them about the river, but the st
reet was empty. I ran back into the garden, leaving the gate open in case I’d missed him.
A figure stepped into my path and shone a torch in my eyes.
‘Where the hell were you?’ I cried.
‘Drop your phone.’
I stumbled backwards. ‘Sheila!’
‘Drop it!’
The spindly light from my phone was no match for the powerful beam of her torch, but I pointed it at her, anyway. All I could make out around the halo of light was a length of metal swinging by her side. A length of metal with a flattened chisel end.
‘I said drop the fucking phone!’ Sheila screamed, lunging towards me with the crowbar raised high.
‘All right, I’ll drop it,’ I yelled back, holding the phone out so she could see it slip to the ground. ‘But I should warn you before you try anything stupid that Stuart’s with me.’
She laughed manically, then shone the torch towards the kitchen garden. Slumped over the nearest raised bed, his head hidden by a butterhead lettuce, was Stuart’s prone body.
‘Oh my God, what have you done to him?’
She laughed again. ‘You think I’ve killed him? I wouldn’t waste my time. It’s Imogen I want.’
‘How the hell did you get in?’
She held the crowbar up. ‘Side gate.’
‘Why did you crowbar open the water gate?’
‘What?’
I shook my head. It wasn’t important. ‘How d’you think you’re going to get away? The police are looking for you.’
‘The police think I killed myself. We’ll be in France before they’ve even realised I’m not dead.’
‘You’re going to walk there, are you?’
‘Bill wasn’t the only one with a car in a lock-up. I’ve taken care of everything. Passports, money, somewhere to live. Everything. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to fetch what I came for.’
Blood pounded in my head, and I stepped towards her.
‘Sheila, don’t do this. It’s not too late. I won’t tell the police you were here if you leave now. You can still go to France. In fact, you can live the rest of your days eating Camembert and drinking fucking Beaujolais, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. As long as you piss off now and leave my family alone!’
She was silent for a moment and I wondered if I’d got through to her, but then she threw her head back and laughed. A wicked laugh that sent shivers down my spine. I knew in that moment that Bill’s death had pushed her over the edge into insanity. I tensed my body, ready to leap towards her the moment she turned towards the house.
But before she made a move, a huge form sprang from the darkness to our right, charged at her and, with a roar, rugby-tackled her to the floor.
‘Stuart!’ I cried.
Sheila screamed, clawing at him like a crazed cat, but he grabbed her arms and held them behind her back as easily as if he was holding a child.
I scrabbled on the ground for my phone.
‘The panic button,’ he panted. ‘It’ll be quicker.’
‘Will you be OK?’
‘I’ll be fine. Just go.’
I sprinted to the back door and stumbled over the sandbags into the kitchen. Groping for the panic button, I pressed it several times, then called 999 to be sure. Only when the dispatcher assured me patrols were on their way did I pull open a drawer and grab a roll of raffia I’d brought home from work. Using it to tie Sheila’s wrists and ankles while we waited for the police to arrive seemed like poetic justice.
I ran back into the garden, shocked to see that the water had risen by another couple of feet in the short time I’d been inside. Clasping the raffia in one hand and my phone in the other, I followed its beam around the back of the house to the kitchen garden.
When I reached the first of the raised beds, my breath caught in my throat. Because Stuart was bent double before me, cradling his wrist, a stream of expletives pouring from his mouth.
And Sheila was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Fifty-Five
‘Where is she?’ I shouted into the wind.
‘The bitch bit me,’ he said, his face contorted with anger.
‘Which way did she go?’
He shook his head. ‘One minute she was here, then she wasn’t.’
I shuddered. Just like Immy.
I pressed the back-door key into his hand. ‘Make sure the children are safe. I’ll see if I can find her.’
‘Be careful, Cleo. The woman’s unhinged. And violent.’ He waved his arm in my face. Blood oozed from a ring of red bite marks on the inside of his wrist.
‘The police are on their way,’ I said, ignoring him. ‘Just look after Nate and Immy.’
Nodding, he turned and loped towards the house. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I turned off the light on my phone and stood and listened while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. But it was impossible to hear anything above the roar of the river.
I took a step forwards, then another. The third step sent a spray of water up my jeans. I felt the swirl of surging water around my feet. That we could be minutes away from being flooded was of little consequence to me. I had to find Sheila.
Using the faint glow from the street lamps to guide me, I began systematically searching the garden. As I passed the kids’ half-submerged den, I saw our torch bobbing about in the water. I picked it up, gave it a shake, and turned it on. After a second the beam flickered on and I swept it from side to side in an arc as the water surged around my feet.
Afterwards, I couldn’t remember which I heard first: the faint wail of sirens or Sheila’s screams. Funny how memory plays tricks on you like that, when every other detail of the night was etched on my mind.
Not that it mattered. Because when the beam of the torch found Sheila, she was already in the water under the pergola, her arms flailing, and her face pinched with terror.
‘Try to grab one of the posts,’ I shouted. ‘I’m coming for you.’
I waded deeper, trying not to think about the force of the water around my boots. Six inches was enough to knock you off your feet. I remembered seeing a documentary about it once. And the river was already near the top of my boots. Reaching the pergola, I grabbed the nearest post. The oak felt rough to the touch, but reassuringly solid. Sheila was already a couple of feet beyond the furthest post. I splashed through the water, my arm outstretched, grabbed the next post and held it tight. I repeated this until I reached the last post. Water sloshed over the top of my boots.
‘Sheila!’ I cried. I shone the torch at her face. She no longer looked terrified. She looked… contemptuous. Transfixed, I watched as her cheeks worked and her lips pursed. She tipped her head back and spat. She was too far away for it to land anywhere near me, but the meaning was clear. She despised me, and saving her life wouldn’t change that.
I faltered. Instinct urged me to extend a hand to a fellow human being, but reason urged caution. If Sheila lived, the fear that she would one day come back for Immy would always be there.
But I couldn’t let her drown. It was inhuman. Sheila was immoral, but I wasn’t.
‘Sheila!’ I yelled. ‘Take my hand.’
She struggled to her feet, her arms wide as she fought for her balance against the raging river. I leaned towards her, every sinew in my arm stretched to breaking point. Our fingers touched for the briefest second. And then a surge of water swept her off her feet, flinging her body against the back wall as if it was a piece of flotsam.
I watched, mesmerised, as the river carried her through the open water gate and away.
Epilogue
THREE MONTHS LATER
Traffic was heavier than usual on the drive to work, and when the red lights began flashing on the level crossing at Sturry as I reached it, I called the office.
After a single ring the phone was answered with a cheerful, ‘FoodWrapped. How may I help?’
‘Emily, it’s Cleo. I’m running ten minutes late. Is everyone there?’
‘Oh, hi Cleo, yes they’re in the co
nference room. I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee and set out the Marks and Spencer shortbread. They seem happy enough.’
‘You’re an angel. Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Of course. You drive safely.’
I ended the call and smiled to myself as a South Eastern train rumbled past on its way to Canterbury. For the first few weeks after the flood, I used a series of temps to man the phones. Then, out of the blue, I had a text from our old secretary, Emily, asking if I had any part-time work that she could fit around her young family. I said yes on the spot, and she started the following week.
It had been a wrench, sending the children back to school, going back to work. But we couldn’t hide from the world forever.
While Immy had remained remarkably unaffected by her ordeal, it had left a lasting impact on me. I still had nightmares about those dark days following her abduction. I was hyper-vigilant in crowds and reluctant to let the children out of my sight. Confident and self-assured all my life, I now understood how crippling anxiety could be.
The counsellor I was seeing told me it would pass. That time was a great healer. And he was right. The nightmares were becoming less frequent, the panic attacks less severe. And Stuart had been amazing. He talked me down when anxiety threatened to overwhelm me and understood my need to know where Nate and Immy were at all times.
He was also fully supportive of my decision to sell FoodWrapped. As was Melanie. She had no interest in stepping into Bill’s shoes and so, less than a fortnight after the flood, I started putting out feelers for a buyer.
It wasn’t long before I had an expression of interest from Templemans, a well-known Kent-based firm that supplied restaurant chains, hotels, hospitals and schools across the UK and was keen to make the move into meal kits.
Templemans had the factories and distribution chains in place to see FoodWrapped go to the next level. As Dave Templeman, the company’s managing director, said to me the first time we met, ‘We want a piece of the meal kit pie.’ And then he pushed a piece of paper across the table towards me with an eye-wateringly large amount of money scrawled on it. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is what we’re willing to pay for a piece of that pie.’
