by Camilla Way
“Could she . . . do you think she’s found herself a job?” Doug hazarded.
It seemed unlikely. “A boyfriend?” I said, conjuring up an improbable picture of a nice, clean-cut lad for whom Hannah, blinded by love, had transformed herself. Whatever had triggered this extraordinary change, it must have been momentous. And I should have been over the moon: instead of wearing her usual slovenly attire, she looked like an ordinary, if very pretty, teenager on her way out to meet her similarly wholesome friends. She was up and out of the house by eight a.m., when normally I could barely get her to surface before noon, bad-tempered and stinking of last night’s cigarettes and beer. But the way she’d looked at me, a certain glint in her eye, had made me uneasy. I knew my daughter. I knew when she was up to something.
My eyes met Doug’s and we gazed at each other uncertainly. “Mum?” Toby’s voice was worried. “What’s going on?”
I turned to him and made myself smile. “Who knows? But come on now, love, it’s time for school. I’ll get us all a takeaway for our tea later, shall I?”
He smiled back, clearly relieved. “Okay, Mum.”
But the feeling of disquiet stayed with me. After Toby and Doug had left, I went upstairs to Hannah’s bedroom and nervously opened her door. I was usually too afraid to look in there, fearful of what I might find—a glimpse inside her head was not something I normally relished. It was always a disgusting mess anyway and today was no exception: clothes were strewn everywhere; dirty plates and mugs littered every surface. In fact, everything looked exactly as it always did. I backed out and went to work myself.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She’d looked so completely different. Could it possibly be that Hannah had somehow grown up, turned over a new leaf, and decided to become an ordinary, functioning member of society at last? I allowed myself to indulge in that fantasy all day.
When I got back home from work, however, it was to find that she was dressed again in her usual grubby attire. The nose ring and eyebrow piercing were back in place, as were the thick black eyeliner and the bad attitude. The fresh-faced and presentable young woman of earlier had completely disappeared, and my daughter was as hostile and unreachable as ever.
* * *
—
But from then on, once a week, the same thing would happen. Hannah would appear early for breakfast dressed in pretty, fashionable clothes, her hair neatly brushed and with subtle makeup in place. Sometimes she’d return within an hour, her face like thunder as she stormed upstairs to lock herself in her room, but usually she’d stay out all day, with a pleased, self-satisfied expression as she strolled back through the front door. After a while I gave up asking where she’d been: I could sense she enjoyed my confusion far too much to ever tell me.
A few weeks later the phone calls began. She always seemed to be expecting them, always ready and waiting by the upstairs extension, snatching up the receiver the moment it began to ring. She’d mumble a “hello,” then pull the lead into her room, shutting the door and talking in hushed whispers.
In the end I couldn’t stand it any longer: I decided to follow her. It was a warm day in September. She came down as usual all dressed up, and as soon as she left the house, I called in to work, quickly leaving a message to say I’d had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in until later. When I emerged on the street, I saw her disappearing around the corner and got into my car to follow her, keeping a safe distance behind and parking out of sight when I saw her waiting at the bus stop.
I followed her bus to the nearest town and when she got off, I parked and saw her hurrying toward the train station. Inside, I saw her queuing at the ticket office, and I managed to stay hidden behind a magazine stand while I listened to her ask for a ticket to a town in Suffolk, twelve miles away. I knew I’d never be able to get on the train without her seeing me, and I wouldn’t be able to get there before her in my car, so for that day, frustrated and more confused than ever, I gave up and went home.
The following week, however, I was ready for her. As soon as she came down for breakfast, I made an excuse about wanting to get to work early and drove straight to Suffolk. I arrived in a large market town not very far away from the village Doug and I grew up in. When I got there, I parked and, sure enough, ten minutes later saw her emerging from the station. Keeping a safe distance behind, I followed her as she headed into the town’s center. Eventually, to my astonishment she came to a large building with a sign outside that read CROFTON HILL SIXTH FORM COLLEGE. As I loitered at the gate, I saw her approach a bench near the main entrance, then sit down to wait.
At eleven o’clock students began to pour out of the college doors, and a tall, pretty, dark-haired girl a year or so older than Hannah walked toward my daughter with a wide smile on her face. When she reached her, Hannah got up and the two girls hugged. I was dumbstruck. Who on earth was she? Was Hannah secretly studying here? I was utterly confused. A few minutes later the two linked arms—such an easy, affectionate gesture, and so unlike anything I’d seen my daughter do before that my astonishment deepened. When they turned in my direction, I hurriedly ducked out of sight, concealing myself behind a parked van. A few minutes later I saw them heading back into town, so I followed them to a café, where they sat down together at one of the outside tables.
I watched them for about an hour. Hannah looked so carefree and happy, so entirely different from her usual self as she smiled and laughed, that I felt a wave of sadness, even jealousy for this stranger, whoever she was. When, finally, the girl looked at her watch and grimaced, they both got up and hugged again, before finally going their separate ways, leaving me to drive home alone, still entirely confused.
For three weeks I remained none the wiser, and then, one morning everything suddenly became horribly clear.
It was a Sunday, and Doug had taken Toby to rugby practice as usual. Hannah had barely shown her face all morning and I was about to start the ironing. I happened to be standing right next to the downstairs phone when I heard Hannah come out of her room and pause on the landing. I knew she was in her usual spot, hand poised over the receiver, ready to lift it as soon as it rang. But this time, as soon as it started ringing, I snatched it up myself. My heart thudded: had Hannah heard the click? Apparently not. The person on the other end was speaking. “Becky, is that you?”
Becky?
“Yes! How’s it going?”
“Fine, you know, college work and stuff . . .”
“Ugh, how’d it go with that essay?” my daughter asked.
There followed a conversation about schoolwork, annoying teachers, and favorite TV shows. The usual chatter of your average teenager. I should have been used to it, should have heard this or something like it all the time. But I didn’t. Because this wasn’t my daughter talking, not really. I knew Hannah—I knew she wasn’t this girl, the sort of ordinary teenager I’d long given up wishing she’d become. This was Hannah pretending to be someone else entirely. It reminded me of the day I’d overheard her impersonating me talking to the neighbor: today, too, each girlish giggle, breathless exclamation, was nothing more than an act. It was both fascinating and utterly chilling.
As I listened, it became clear that Hannah—or “Becky”—was claiming that she, too, was at a sixth form college taking her A-levels, and after some more chat about course work and deadlines, the conversation suddenly turned to me and Doug. “What’s going on with your parents, anyway?” the girl asked.
“Doing my head in as usual,” Hannah sighed. “I wish my mum and dad were like yours. They sound so great—you’re so lucky.”
The girl snorted. “You’re joking, right? They don’t give a shit about what I want. Mum just wants me to go into medicine like her so she can show off to all her friends, and Dad only cares about his own work and what my brothers are doing.” She sighed. “They don’t take me seriously at all. Like that Greenpeace rally I went on last week, I tried to ta
lk to them about it, and they just nodded and asked me if I’d done my bloody revision. I mean, who cares about that? Half the planet’s being destroyed and they’re worried about a fucking biology exam. So as usual we ended up having a row. They don’t see how important this stuff is to me, and I’m sure I’m going to fail my exams anyway. Sometimes I feel like giving up.”
“No, you’re not,” Hannah replied. “I wish you believed in yourself more.” Then, mock sternly, she added, “Okay, repeat after me: ‘My name’s Emily Lawson and I’m going to ace all my A-levels.’ Go on, do it!”
I barely heard as the girl gigglingly obeyed. I felt as though I’d been sucker punched, the air knocked clean from my lungs. I don’t remember what they said after that, only that afterward I went into the kitchen and felt the room spin around me. As I clung to the table, I was dizzy with shock.
Emily.
Emily Lawson.
Oh please God, no.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
TWENTY-ONE
LONDON, 2017
Her head felt full of cotton wool, her mouth and throat dry as sand. She became aware of the strong whiff of disinfectant mixed with the boiled-veg-and-gravy smell of school dinners. Her closed eyelids prickled. For a while she drifted, sleep ebbing and flowing.
“Clara?” A voice from far away, then the gradual shift forward into consciousness. “Clara, can you hear me?”
A sudden sharp awareness of pain in her throat and chest, each breath a dragging rasp. She opened her eyes, daylight harsh against her retinas. A face leaning in that was female, middle-aged, framed by a dark bob. The features took shape, a stranger’s patient gaze upon her. Clara tried to speak. “Uh—”
“Well, good! You’re awake.” The voice was briskly kind.
All at once, the memories rushed back: her smoke-filled flat, the looming threat of Alison, and her fear returned in one violent rush. She tried to raise her head.
“How are you feeling?” The stranger’s face was nearer now: pale pink lipstick, crow’s-feet around wide blue eyes, a white coat.
“What happened?” Clara asked.
“You were in a fire. You were brought in last night suffering from smoke inhalation. I’m Dr. Patricia Holloway. We had to sedate you in order to examine the extent of the damage to your lungs and throat.”
“Alison. She . . . it was her . . . in my flat. . . .”
The doctor got up and wrote something on her clipboard. She shot Clara a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any information on what happened. The police were here earlier. They’ll be back later, I’m sure.” She smiled. “The good news is you’re going to be fine. You were remarkably lucky.”
“But . . .”
“Try to relax now. You’re quite safe.”
* * *
—
It was half an hour later when Anderson knocked on her door. He looked incongruous here, besuited and authoritative amidst the pale green hush of the hospital room. He also looked exhausted, and she had the vague memory of him saying he had one-year-old twins at home. “How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting heavily down on the chair by her bed. She caught the faint whiff of coffee and cigarette smoke.
“I . . . don’t know. What happened? Did Alison . . . did you catch her? It was her. . . . She tried to kill me.”
He considered her for a moment, brow furrowed. “It was Alison Fournier who alerted the emergency services, Clara. She and your downstairs neighbors dragged you out of your flat. She helped save your life.”
She stared at him, stunned. “But . . . are you sure? I mean, how did she get in?”
“Your door was open when the couple in the flat below went to investigate the smell of smoke.”
Clara shook her head, unable to make sense of this new information. “Open? But—”
“Were you alone when you went to bed?” he asked.
“I—yes. Yes, of course I was. . . .”
“And you shut the door to your flat securely?”
“Yes! I mean, I think so.” She remembered how upset she’d been about Mac, the wine she’d drunk, her wooziness as she’d fallen into bed. The door had been closed, though; she was sure of it.
“How’s Mac?” she asked. “Is he okay?”
Anderson nodded. “He’s going to be fine. He’s been discharged already.” He leaned forward, fixing her with his tired gray eyes. “The fire was caused deliberately. Officers found a bottle of lighter fluid in your lounge near where it looks to have started. If you’re quite sure you closed the door behind you when you got home last night, whoever got in must have used a key.” He paused. “Is there anyone apart from yourself who has a copy?”
She pulled herself more upright in the bed, aware suddenly that her head ached horribly. “I . . . no. I changed my locks after it was broken into last week.”
“How many copies of the key did you make?”
“There were three: one I dropped off at the letting agent, the other I kept, and the only other one I left at Mac’s. I went to stay with him after the break-in.”
Anderson nodded. “I see.”
She stared at him, the fog in her brain slowly clearing. Her throat still felt horribly sore. “Whoever broke into Mac’s flat yesterday turned it upside down—they were looking for something. They could have taken my key. It was in my bag in Mac’s spare room.”
“We’ll look into it,” Anderson said.
Suddenly she remembered Emily’s visit to her flat and, her words coming out in a rush, blurted, “I think it was Tom.”
He looked up sharply. “I’m sorry?”
“I think it was Tom Lawson, Luke’s brother, who attacked Mac and set fire to my flat.”
Anderson blinked. “And what makes you say that?”
Quickly she told him how Tom, who never came to London, had been in the city the first time she’d been broken into, how he’d turned up at hers shortly afterward. How the day that Mac had been attacked, he’d phoned to say he’d just been over there; then that same night her flat was set on fire. She didn’t mention the scene she’d walked in on between him and his mother, the strange feeling she’d always gotten from him, Emily’s palpable fear at the mention of his name.
Anderson nodded slowly. “And why do you think Mr. Lawson would want to hurt you?”
“I don’t know! I don’t understand any of it!” A nurse came in and they watched her in silence as she cheerfully took Clara’s blood pressure, then wrote something on her clipboard before leaving again. “What about Alison? Is she all right?” Clara asked.
“She’ll be fine, minor smoke inhalation, but she was very lucky. You both were.”
He left, finally, trailing distracted promises he’d be in touch, and Clara lay back, her eyes on the window by her bed.
Outside, the sun shone brightly through a fine mist of drizzle. She could almost smell the damp grass and flower beds of the hospital grounds below. Spring suffused the world beyond the airless, seasonless confines of this room, and she listened to the sounds of the hospital: the bleeps of the machine next to her bed, the brisk clip-clop of a passing stranger’s shoes, the continual swish and thump of unseen swing doors.
She felt utterly, horribly alone—who would visit her? Who would even know that she was here? Did her parents know? Would they come? She was surprised how desperately she wanted to see them. She closed her eyes, trying to fight the waves of anxiety, and when she opened them, she found Mac standing at her door, his familiar face triggering such a rush of relief in Clara that she had to choke back a sob. He crossed the room in three quick strides and, when he reached her, took her hand in his. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I had no idea you were here. Anderson told me and I came straight over. I phoned Zoe—she’s on her way too.” He stared down at her, and she saw that he was dangerously close to te
ars. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you.”
“God, it’s so good to see you,” she told him. “I’m fine, I’m fine, and don’t be silly—this is hardly your fault. But what about you? I’ve been so worried. How’s your head?”
He grimaced and turned to show a large shaved area of scalp, the exposed white skin severed by an ugly scar. “Attractive, huh?”
Her eyes widened. “Jesus. What did the doctors—?”
“It’s just a scrape,” he said, waving her concern away. “I’m far more worried about you. Anderson said you’re going to be okay, but how do you feel?”
“I’m so scared, Mac. Who’d want to kill me, or hurt you? Who the fuck is doing this to us?”
He took the seat Anderson had just vacated and put his face in his hands, taking a long breath. “I wish I knew,” he said at last. Reaching over, he squeezed her hand. “Tell me about the fire. What happened exactly?”
So she described how she’d woken to billowing smoke, the sight of Alison looming over her. “Anderson said she saved me, but who on earth started it?” When he shrugged helplessly, she asked, “And how about you? Do you have any idea who hit you? Did you see who it was?”
“No. I was standing in the kitchen with my back to the door. It all happened so quickly. I had music playing; the kettle was boiling; whoever it was crept up behind me. . . .” Tiredly he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been back to my flat. It’s a right state.”
She leaned forward. “Was anything missing? I think whoever it was must have taken the key to my flat—that’s how they got in. It was in my bag in your spare room. Did it look like someone had been through it?”
“I don’t know. Everything was a complete mess, but I’ll check when I get back.”
“And nothing of yours was taken?”
“My Leica’s missing—you know the one I take everywhere with me? Why, out of everything, out of all the expensive kit I’ve got in my flat, they’d only take that, I’ve no idea.”
