by Camilla Way
He looked worried. “Maybe I should come with you.”
“No,” I said decisively. “Wait here with Toby in case Hannah comes back. She was probably just trying to scare us.”
It took me forty minutes to drive to the Willows, the clock on my dashboard telling me it was ten forty-five when I pulled up outside. I half expected the house to be in darkness, but in fact I could see a light burning brightly from the living room. They must have changed their phone number, I thought, and remembered how Rose had told me never to contact her again, the last time we’d met. When I knocked, the look on Rose’s face told me all I needed to know. She nodded silently at me to come in, and when I followed her into the kitchen, Oliver was there, white as a sheet. Fear trailed its fingers along my spine. “Do you know?” I blurted. “That Hannah has been meeting with Emily? I came here to warn you. I don’t know what she’s planning to do, but—”
“You’re too late, Beth,” Rose replied quietly. “Emily got a phone call and she went out, saying she was going to meet her friend Becky. When she came back, she knew everything. It was Hannah she’d been meeting all along. She’d told her everything.”
I sank onto a chair. “Oh, Rose.”
Her face twisted in pain. “She’s gone,” she said. “Emily has gone. We don’t know where she is. She says she never wants to see or speak to us again. She hates us—she thinks we’re monsters!” And then Rose told me what had happened. Emily had come home from seeing Hannah, beside herself with fury. “She kept shouting, ‘Is it true? Is it true?’ She knew everything. About Oliver’s affair, Nadia’s death, how Hannah had been given away. Hannah even told her that I had killed Nadia, that I’d pushed her into the sea in revenge for sleeping with Oliver!”
“My God,” I said. “Did Emily believe her?”
She put her head in her hands. “I don’t know. I hope not—I don’t think so. . . . I don’t know! She said that even if it wasn’t true, it was still Oliver’s fault she jumped, that he drove her to it.” Rose burst into tears. “And she said I was as bad as Oliver, because I’d known all along about Hannah, about Oliver’s affair and Nadia’s death, and didn’t tell her. She said I’d covered up for him, that I was as disgusting as he was. God, it’s all such a mess. She hates us, absolutely hates us.”
I looked at Oliver, and he put a hand on his wife’s arm, but she snatched it away, continuing to cry bitterly. “She said she never wanted to see us again, that we repulsed her, and then she ran off and locked herself in her bedroom. When I went up to see her an hour later, she was gone. There was only a note, saying she never wanted to see us again.” Her eyes welled with fresh tears. “I don’t think she’ll ever forgive us.”
“Oh, Rose,” I whispered. “I’m so dreadfully sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that she’d been there that day?” she asked angrily. “That she’d overheard us talking? We would have had some warning—we could have been prepared!”
“Because you told me not to contact you again!” I cried. “And I had no idea that she would go looking for you all, that she’d been watching you all this time and would eventually do this! How could I have known? I told you nine years ago that I wanted to come clean, that I wanted to put this right, but you said no—you told me to keep out of your life and leave you alone!”
* * *
—
I stayed with them for a long time, and it was past midnight by the time I left. On the drive back, the feeling of dread built and built. Would Hannah be home when I returned? What would I say to her if she was? I thought about Emily, how distressed she must be, and then of Oliver and Rose, their shock and devastation. It made me think of Toby, of how I’d feel if he told me he hated me, and the idea of it made me physically sick. I longed suddenly to be home with him and Doug, and I put my foot on the accelerator and headed back as fast as I could toward Cambridgeshire.
As I turned the corner into our road, it was almost one a.m., and I was met by a scene of such pandemonium that at first my eyes couldn’t make sense of it. The street was full of our neighbors; black smoke billowed from the upstairs windows of our home. My stomach dropped. At that moment I heard the sound of sirens, followed by two fire engines screaming down the street after me. I screeched to a halt, then scrambled out of the car, stumbling and tripping in my haste as I ran toward my burning house.
* * *
—
Doug and Toby died that night. I could describe the horror of those hours, the brutal, freeze-frame panic as I watched the firefighters battle their way through the bonfire of my house, the endless awful waiting for my husband and son to be saved. And then that moment, when all hope was lost, their bodies dragged out into the cold night air. I remember the arms and hands of strangers, neighbors, police, restraining me, stopping me from running to them, the ungodly sound of my scream.
I could describe the aftermath, the blind stumbling through what remained of my derelict life. But I won’t. I can’t relive it all again. I will tell you only the facts of what she did, Hannah, of how she paid me back.
After she left Emily, she bought petrol, two cans of it, from the local garage, then walked the streets with brazen carelessness with one in each hand. And finding the house in darkness as she’d expected (assuming, I suppose, that I, too, was safely tucked up in bed), she set to work. Afterward, a neighbor saw her running from the flames across the fields. Somewhere her plan must have gone wrong, because she was found by the police less than a mile away, badly burned herself. I imagine she wanted me to die too, but in the end the outcome was probably better for her. She had said she wanted to punish all of us: what greater punishment could there be than allowing me to go on living?
* * *
—
The trial lasted seven days. There was never any question of her being acquitted; the evidence against her was too overwhelming—not least the CCTV footage of her buying the petrol that day. And in fact I don’t think she actually cared about being caught; her aim was to destroy as many lives as possible, by whatever means, so her punishment was the least of her concerns.
The trial attracted a fair amount of media attention—the tabloids, especially, baying for her blood. TEEN SLAYS FAMILY, that sort of thing. They, like me, wanted retribution. Yet the Hannah who appeared in court defied all expectations, knocked the wind out of the jury’s sails with her doe-eyed fragility, her tears, and her beauty. She looked much younger than her years as she stood in the dock wearing a simple, childlike dress, trembling and remorseful, a beautiful yet troubled waif in desperate need of help.
The prosecution tried their best: calling in a psychiatrist as their expert witness who said he was certain Hannah posed a significant and ongoing threat to society. They even got Kathy Philips, Hannah’s old childminder, to describe how Hannah had set fire to her son’s room all those years before. But despite all this, despite the fact that she deliberately burned down her family home, in the end her fate hung on the performance she gave, the jury’s belief of whether she’d really intended to kill or not. She sobbed as she said she hadn’t meant for the fire to spread, that she’d tried to go back to save her father and brother, that she had the burns on her back to prove it. The jury was divided, uncertain, and in the end the murder charge was reduced to involuntary manslaughter and, because of her age, she got just five years.
At first I was shocked that she didn’t come clean about the discoveries she’d made, had shied away from a heartrending description of how she’d found out, aged seven, the awful truth. Such a pitiful tale could only have worked in her favor, after all. But I think she knew that there was no need. That story was too valuable to be given up so easily, when she still had so much more suffering in store for her father, and for Rose.
I could have told the police myself, confessed to them about Hannah’s real mother, how she died, how Rose and Oliver and I were involved in it all, but what good would that have done? My chil
d was dead. I thought of the two Lawson boys, so young still, and I didn’t think I could be responsible for destroying their lives too. I was drowning in grief, capable only of wishing with all my heart that I’d died with Doug and Toby that night, as I’m sure Hannah knew. I wish that I’d died too.
TWENTY-NINE
SUFFOLK, 2017
As Rose described the fire and Hannah’s trial, Clara felt cold waves of panic wash over her. This was the person who had hold of Luke? This murderer, this madwoman? And Rose, Oliver—they had known it all along? She stared at them, anger and shock mingling with her despair.
It was Tom who spoke first. “How old was he, the boy?” he asked, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
Rose hung her head. “Ten. Toby was ten years old.”
“Jesus! Oh, Jesus Christ!” He got up and paced the room, coming to a halt in front of his father. “She’s killed before—what’s to stop her doing it again? What’s to stop her from murdering Luke too?”
Oliver looked up at his son imploringly. “If she was going to kill Luke, she would have done so by now, not continued to send pictures and taunt us like this. She knows if she kills him, there’s nothing to stop us going to the police. It wouldn’t be in her best interests; she wants us to suffer for as long as possible. It’s a game to her, that’s all. It’s my and Rose’s punishment.”
As Clara listened to Oliver talk, she remembered how frequently Hannah had inquired after her father’s and Rose’s well-being during their meetings, how avidly she listened when Clara described their suffering. Her desire to see Clara wasn’t just to keep abreast of the police search; it was an opportunity to revel in the havoc she had caused.
Rose got to her feet then and, approaching her son, put her hand on his arm. “Tom, you have to understand that Hannah has never given us a straight answer about Emily’s whereabouts. Sometimes she says she knows; other times she denies it. She might have some information, no matter how small, that could let us know what happened to her. If the police catch Hannah before us, then she’ll never tell us; she’d go to prison and keep quiet just to spite us. At least this way, if we do what she wants, there’s still a chance that she could tell us something, anything, that might help us find Emily.”
“Christ.” Tom shook off his mother’s hand. “What the fuck are we going to do, then? How are we going to find Luke?”
There was a silence, and then Clara said, “She doesn’t know that I know who she really is yet. She thinks I still believe she’s Emily.”
Tom looked at her. “That’s true.”
“So if I arranged to meet her again, one of us could follow her, to see where she goes.”
Mac shook his head. “That’s too risky—she knows what we all look like, even me. She’d spot us a mile away.”
“Then who?” said Tom.
* * *
—
The following morning, Tom, Mac, and Clara sat in a café in Greenwich, nervously looking at the door. “Do you think she’s going to come?” asked Mac.
Clara nodded. “She wouldn’t let me down.”
A moment later, a tall, auburn-haired woman with a baby strapped to her chest walked through the door.
It took nearly half an hour to bring Zoe up to speed. When they’d finished, she looked at each of them for a long moment, speechless with shock. Finally she spoke. “Holy fuck,” she said, shaking her head. She looked at Clara. “Why didn’t you tell me this was going on?”
Clara took hold of her hand. “I’m sorry. But will you do it? I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t absolutely desperate. We just need you to follow her as far as you can.”
“If there’s any sign of anything dodgy, if you feel like she’s spotted you, or you feel nervous in any way, just turn around and come home again,” said Mac.
“Only follow her as far as you feel comfortable,” Tom added. “If she leads you somewhere isolated, don’t go any further.”
Zoe looked from one to the other of their tense faces, then down at a fast-asleep Oscar. Finally she looked up and, meeting Clara’s gaze, said, “Of course I’ll do it.”
Clara closed her eyes for a moment. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Are you kidding? A chance to leave Oscar with Adam and go and do something more exciting than puree carrots? Hell yeah.”
While Mac and Tom breathed a sigh of relief, Clara chewed her thumbnail unhappily. She felt a fresh surge of anger toward Rose and Oliver. This was their mess, their doing, yet they’d jumped at the chance to send a young woman they didn’t know, a young mother, into danger to help clear it up. “What if it goes wrong?” she asked.
“Like you said, Hannah doesn’t know me; she doesn’t know what I look like. I’ll keep way back. Listen, Clara, I’m going to do this; you’d do the same for me. I’m not stupid—if I start getting a bad vibe, then I’ll back the fuck off. But let’s give it a try, yeah? Let me help you find Luke.”
“And if she lives out of London? Miles away? What if it’s a wild-goose chase?” said Mac worriedly.
“As soon as it looks like she’s heading out of town, I’ll abort the mission, okay?” Zoe replied. “Seriously, guys, it’ll be fine.”
Later that day, as Clara sat with Tom and Mac, she sent the message to Hannah. Can we meet?
The reply came quickly. Of course. Do you have any news?
“What shall I say?” she asked the others.
Tom thought about it. “We need to give her a reason to meet us. We can’t afford for her to drop contact now.”
Clara considered for a moment, then typed, There’s been an interesting development that I want to talk over with you. And then she pressed Send.
For the next hour or so, they waited for a reply. “Maybe she’s onto us,” Clara said nervously to Tom. “Your mum said that she somehow seems able to track their every move. What if she’s figured out that I know she’s not really Emily?” She sighed in frustration. “Where the fuck is she?” she muttered.
Finally, another message came through. Tomorrow? Same bar as last time?
Sure, Clara wrote, feeling a rush of relief. I’ll see you there at six.
She put her phone down and looked first at Tom and then at Mac. “Looks like we’re on.”
THIRTY
LONDON, 2017
Clara felt as though a balloon were slowly expanding inside her chest. Whenever she checked her watch, time seemed to have stood still, though it felt like hours since last she’d looked. Rose and Oliver had driven down from Suffolk, and the five of them were now sitting around Mac’s kitchen table, restlessly waiting for the moment when Clara would leave to meet Hannah. “We’re coming with you,” Rose announced. “After Zoe follows her and finds out where Hannah lives, I mean. We’re going to come with you to confront her.”
Tom shook his head. “No, you and Dad should stay here.”
“We’re coming,” Oliver told him grimly. “It’s us she’s doing this for. We need to try to reason with her.”
“And I need to know for certain if she knows where Emily is,” Rose added. “I need to look Hannah in the eye and ask her what happened to my daughter.”
Clara felt the tightening in her chest intensify. She couldn’t stop thinking about Doug and Toby. If Hannah was capable of killing them, then what else might she do? Was Luke even still alive? She checked her watch again—it was still only quarter to four.
The minutes passed so tensely that, despite her fear, Clara was almost relieved when it was finally time for her to leave. “Remember,” Tom said as they all anxiously gathered around her in the hall, “if you think she’s on to you, just make your excuses and leave. We’ve got Zoe’s number; we’ll tell her to back off too.”
She nodded, then took a deep breath, looking from one to the other of their anxious faces. “Don’t worry,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt
. “I’ll be fine.”
* * *
—
The tube journey from Highbury to Old Street seemed to take forever, her nerves winding tighter and tighter as her train rattled through the black tunnels. By the time she reached east London, she felt sick with fear. She emerged onto the street to find that a cool wind had picked up, sending scraps of litter dancing across the pavement as she walked. Finally, she spied Great Eastern Street ahead of her and as she turned in to it, her mobile buzzed, causing her to almost leap out of her skin. It was a text from Zoe. I’m at the pub a little way down from the Octopus. I’ll call you as soon as I can afterward.
And then there Clara was at the bar. To her relief, there was no sign of Hannah yet, and she took a seat at the same table as before. There was the same quiet, early-evening buzz in the air and the same barman smiling at her from behind the bar. She both longed for and dreaded Hannah’s arrival. Would she be able to tell, just by looking at her, what was going on? Fear and adrenaline surged through her. Right at that moment a shadow fell across the table.
“Clara?” Hannah was dressed as usual in dark jeans and a hoodie. She tucked her hair behind her ear in a familiar nervous gesture that had once seemed endearing, but now seemed entirely staged, her smile oozing warmth and gentleness. It was utterly chilling how convincing she was.
Clara forced herself to return her smile, digging her fingernails into the palm of her hand, endeavoring to keep her voice steady as she said, “Hi, Emily, it’s good to see you. How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Hannah sat down and they stared at each other for a beat or two before she said, concern furrowing her brow, “God, you look awful. Are you all right?”
“No, not really,” Clara said quietly. “Emily, after we last met my flat was set on fire. Luke’s friend Mac was attacked and his camera stolen. I just wanted to talk it over with you. I know how concerned you are about how the search is going. I thought I should let you know. To be honest, I’m still really shaken.”