by Karen Clarke
My heart felt as if it was going to jump out of my chest. I almost dropped the phone when it pinged again. Grace, I’m worried. You said the man was Irish, not American, yet this is the same guy? PLEASE call me.
Morag was on her way back, shoulders bent against the rain driving across the forecourt. Out now, can’t talk, will call at 11 or ring me. I stabbed in the number for the cottage, then threw my phone in my bag, grimly vindicated. Patrick had sent someone after me.
I just wished with all my heart it wasn’t Declan.
*
He was tired of waiting. Where was she? He thought they’d be back by now. It had been fun, for a while, treating the place as his own. It was small, but that had never bothered him. He didn’t care about things like that. There was a lot of stuff in the cottage, most of it old, none of it attractive. Even so, it made him sick that she was living such an easy life now, getting to do whatever she wanted without a thought for what she’d left behind, or the life she could have had.
He’d eaten, filling his mouth with food as he strode around, barely tasting it. He hadn’t bothered showering after all. It was too cold in the bathroom. He’d had enough of being cold.
He tried to sleep for a while, lying on top of the bed where she lay at night. Was her sleep peaceful? He hoped not. She didn’t deserve peace. She didn’t deserve anything.
In his pocket, his phone rang. He didn’t bother to answer, didn’t feel like appeasing him anymore. It would be over soon. He’d tell him sorry, that it was for the best, that he’d done him a favour. The world would be a better place without her in it. He just had to be patient a little longer.
After checking the time, he moved upstairs to sit in the shadows once more.
Chapter 33
‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I feel a bit sick.’ More than a bit. My stomach felt like a washing machine on a spin cycle as Ana’s message played on a loop in my head. Declan had known before I told him that I’d lived in New York. He knew Patrick. He’d found me, he’d found me, he’d found me. The words pounded in time with the windscreen wipers. Rain lashed down, drumming on the roof, thunder rolling overhead. A dagger of lightning split the sky ahead. It felt like the end of the world. He found me, he found me, he found me. Had he followed me from the airport? What was the plan? He must have been watching me all this time. He’d left the note as a warning, the lock of hair that wasn’t even Lily’s. It was sick. He’d been in the cottage. But why not just confront me? Why all the cloak and dagger, pretending he wanted to get to know me? Or was that the idea? Lull me into a false sense of security so I’d leave Lily with him, like I had yesterday, and when I wasn’t expecting it, he would take her, return her to her father as instructed by Patrick.
Was Patrick calling my bluff? Maybe he’d devised a counter-attack if I went ahead and told people the truth, like I’d threatened. Or maybe he thought I wouldn’t go through with it. Maybe I wouldn’t get the chance. What exactly was the end game?
A headache began to pulse behind my eyes. My cheekbone ached. Was Declan responsible for that too? I remembered the powerful hands on my back, the force of the shove that sent me flying. My stomach rose, acid burning my throat.
‘Your mum used to get travel sick because she insisted on reading in the car whenever we went anywhere,’ Morag said. ‘Used to drive your gran nutty when we had to keep stopping so Gail could throw up in a bush.’
I thought he liked me. I’d let suspicion override my instinct that Declan was a good man but my instinct had been wrong. And yet … and yet. The look in his eyes had seemed to shine a light on everything that was good about me, had suggested he liked being with me. And he could have taken Lily already if that was his intention. Was he here to monitor me, or scare me – make sure I toed the line?
If you tell one person a secret, it’s not a secret anymore. Patrick had said that. I’d told Ana most of it, but knew she would never tell. The rest I’d kept to myself.
If I confronted Declan, told him the whole truth … My mind slammed away. He might not believe it. Patrick had power. He’d got to Declan first. What did he have over him? How had he persuaded him to come? Was he dangerous? I would have to pack up and leave tomorrow—
‘—storm should blow itself out soon,’ Morag was saying, digging her hand into a bag of crisps, the crackle of the packet competing with the thunder and rain. ‘Nearly home now.’
Home. I twisted to unstrap Lily, lifted her out and tucked her against me underneath the seatbelt.
‘You shouldn’t hold her like that, it’s not safe.’ Morag spoke with a snap of worry.
‘Neither’s eating while you’re driving,’ I snapped back. I wanted to hold Lily, to feel the rise and fall of her breath, to inhale the baby-sweet scent of her. She was safer in my arms than anywhere else.
‘You’re right.’ Morag crumpled the bag and shoved it under the dashboard. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ Guilt lit a flame in my churning stomach. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’
She turned quickly, trying to read my face but I stared ahead, arms curled around Lily. ‘Sure you’re all right?’
‘Queasy, that’s all.’ If only I could tell her. ‘I think I might have a nap.’
‘At least put the baby … put Lily down.’
I reluctantly strapped her back in and arranged her blanket, turning so I could watch her sleep, my head resting against the back of the seat. My mind felt dense and heavy, my thoughts growing sludgy. Thunder rumbled again but it sounded distant as the storm moved away. The rain was lighter, tyres swishing on the wet road.
‘It’s been a long day.’ Morag reached over to place a hand on my knee. Her touch was warm, her presence like a fortress, solid and protective. ‘There’s a lot to think about.’
I would call Declan in the morning, I decided. Arrange to meet, just the two of us. Lily would be safe with Morag for an hour. I would talk to him. Tell him as much of the truth as I dared and take a chance he would understand and leave us alone, report back to Patrick that there was nothing to worry about.
Or … I shifted, pain circling my head. Or I could arrange to meet him at a time and place that would give me a chance to run, to be gone before he realised I wasn’t going to turn up, too late to come after me this time.
But I didn’t want to run. And even if I did, there was nowhere to go apart from Mum’s, where I’d be easy to find. Ana’s family? I could stay up north with them for a while. I knew they’d make me welcome.
Loneliness engulfed me. I didn’t want to run away. In a short space of time, Fenbrith had begun to feel like home; a good place to stay and raise my daughter. Despite everything, I didn’t want to leave.
My eyelids drooped, grew heavier as the van sped through the darkness and Lily slept on, oblivious. I would figure it out in the morning.
*
‘We’re here.’
I jolted upright, wincing as my neck protested. Lily was awake, kicking and fussing under her blanket, eyes gleaming in the darkness.
‘What time is it?’ I stretched and yawned, a moment of peace before everything rushed back. Declan. Had he followed us up the motorway to find out where I was going? The other night, I hadn’t seen the car properly when he turned up at the cottage. He’d parked too far away. Deliberately?
‘It’s just gone eleven.’ Morag switched off the engine and flexed her arms. ‘There was a lot of traffic on the A55.’ I felt her gaze on me. ‘You were out of it, mumbling in your sleep.’
‘I was?’
‘Lot on your mind, I suppose.’
You don’t know the half of it. ‘Something like that.’
‘I’m pleased you and your mum are back in touch.’
‘So am I.’ With the heating off, the van’s interior quickly cooled. I shivered as I reached to unclip the belt from around Lily’s car seat. ‘I’m glad you are too,’ I said. ‘Thanks for driving us. You must be shattered.’
‘I must admit I�
��m looking forward to my bed.’
‘Why don’t you take it tonight and I’ll sleep downstairs?’
‘I’ve told you, that sofa’s comfy.’ She sounded tired but content. ‘It’s actually done my back the world of good.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
Was Declan here, waiting, watching? Or now he thought he had me convinced he was a good guy, was he resting easy in Caernarfon at his friend’s place? A thought hit. Was Hugh even his friend? A spike of sadness lodged in my heart. I’d really believed Declan and I could be friends. Maybe more, one day.
‘Are you coming in?’
Morag held out her hand to take the car seat. I handed it to her, remembering I was supposed to have called Ana at eleven. Maybe I’d leave it until tomorrow. I jumped out, a throb of pain lancing through my head as I landed. The earth had been churned up by the rain and … I tensed as my gaze landed on what looked like a set of fresh footprints leading up to the cottage. Then I remembered, Ifan had arranged to come over and take Skip out.
‘The dog’s quiet,’ Morag said, as though reading my thoughts. ‘I thought he’d be barking the place down.’
‘Maybe he knows it’s us.’ I look Lily’s seat from her and Morag strode towards the cottage. I followed, treading carefully in the mud, trying not to imagine eyes trained on my back. The rain had stopped, but all around was the sound of dripping water. The clouds parted briefly, moonlight shining a path to the door where Morag had stopped, shoulders rigid. The security light hadn’t come on.
‘What is it?’ As I drew closer, I saw why she’d stopped. The door was ajar, blackness around the opening.
My stomach felt oily with fear. ‘Morag, don’t go inside,’ I hissed.
But she’d already pushed it wide and was stepping over the threshold, reaching round for the switch on the wall. Light sprang out. There was a moment when everything seemed frozen in time before Morag stepped back, a hand to her throat.
‘Bastards.’ Her voice was tight with anger. ‘They’ve trashed the place.’
‘What?’ Gripping the car seat with both hands, I joined Morag in the doorway and stared at the scene of devastation. Drawers had been yanked out of the dresser, the contents strewn everywhere, the doors hanging off their hinges, shattered china all over the floor. The sofa cushions had been upended and slashed, the stuffing spilling out like innards. Books with their pages torn out were tossed about like confetti.
It was a similar scene of mayhem in the kitchen – flour dusting the surfaces, sugar gritting the worktops, eggs smashed against the tiles, yolks dripping. The fridge door hung open, food scattered, ruined, on the floor in a lake of milk.
When I saw the pages had been ripped from the photo album, pictures torn in half, and my grandfather’s wall map on the rug, its frame splintered among the debris, I let out a cry. Surely this couldn’t be Declan’s doing. Why, why, why?
Only the fire hadn’t been disturbed, flickering in the grate as if recently attended to, the dancing flames adding a sense of the macabre. I spun to see Morag standing among the wreckage, red splodges staining her cheeks, her eyes flashing with fury.
‘Whoever did this could still be here.’ My voice wavered as shock set in. I didn’t want Lily seeing this, absorbing the air of menace. If we weren’t alone, we could be in danger.
Morag shook her head. ‘Bloody cowards, they wouldn’t hang around.’ Her voice was a growl as she stepped over the broken china to where the phone was lying, the receiver separated from the base. The cord had been yanked from the socket and she bent to jab it back in. I looked around, seeking signs that someone was there, eyes travelling to the shady area of the loft, the bedroom. A prickle of goose bumps ran up my arms, but no … there was nowhere to hide up there, and if the teenagers had done this I doubted they would have stayed. They couldn’t have known how long we’d be away.
‘I wonder if there’s any damage upstairs and in the bathroom.’ I swivelled to look at the door behind me, standing slightly ajar. Lily’s gaze was wide, moving around the room. I thanked God she was too little to know what was happening.
The place even smelt different, something unfamiliar lingering, like unwashed bodies. I imagined vandals here earlier, admiring their work as if they were starring in an episode of a crime drama.
‘Don’t touch anything.’ Morag’s head jerked round. ‘It’s a crime scene.’
She picked up the phone and pressed the dial pad three times: 999. Frowning, she pressed the numbers again then rattled the receiver pins, like I’d seen people do countless times in old movies. ‘It’s not working.’
Horror exploded in my chest. ‘But it was only just fixed.’
‘Listen.’ She came over and jammed the receiver to my ear. Nothing but dead air. The room felt too hot, despite cool air flowing through the open door. ‘No dial tone.’ She made an angry sound and threw the phone down. ‘Must have been the storm. I’ll have to drive back to the village.’ Her eyes were like coals, bluish shadows beneath. I wanted to cry, to hug her, to make all this go away. ‘You’d better come with me.’
‘I think someone cut the connection.’ It felt like being sick as the words erupted. ‘I’m not sure it’s teenagers. I think someone’s doing this because of me.’
‘What?’ Morag’s gaze shrivelled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘She’s right.’ The voice cut through the silence like a knife. A scream flew from my throat as I spun to see a figure at the top of the stairs, shrouded in shadow, Morag’s rifle cradled in his arms. ‘I did do it deliberately.’ He allowed the words a moment of space before adding, ‘No one’s coming to help you.’
Chapter 34
Morag was breathing hard, both hands pressed to her heart. My stomach vaulted with shock at the look on her face.
‘Go, Grace.’ I hardly recognised her voice. ‘Take the van and go.’
I tore my gaze away and looked at the man. Not Declan, after all, but recognisable as he came down one step, two, moving into the light. He was the man I’d seen in the photo: Bernhard.
Here for Morag, not me. It had never been me.
‘Leave, now, Grace.’ She made an anguished sound, like an animal in pain. ‘Run!’
My feet felt nailed to the spot. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
The man came closer, his movements stealthy. His pale eyes were cold and glittery, like broken glass, his silver hair cut close to his scalp, matching the stubble on his narrow jaw. He was dressed in combat trousers, a camouflage jacket and desert boots. Despite being thin to the point of emaciation, he radiated something powerful and dangerous.
‘You probably should go.’ He didn’t look at me, his stare on Morag as if pinning a butterfly. ‘I don’t wish you or your baby any harm.’ He barked out a mirthless laugh. ‘Did you know she had one? We had one,’ he corrected. ‘A little boy. Isn’t that right, Morag?’ His accent was stilted, Eastern European, maybe German. ‘Have you talked about him, or do you still pretend he never existed?’
‘Don’t do this.’ Morag’s voice was hoarse. ‘What do you want, Bernhard?’
‘He got in touch with me.’ The man took another step forward. ‘The baby you gave away. He’s all grown up now. Wanted to know about his mother. He managed to find me, couldn’t find you. I told him I would do it for him. I’ve wanted to find you for a long time but you did a good job of disappearing.’ Another edgy laugh. ‘Although, when I put my mind to it, it was pretty simple.’
He seemed to have forgotten I was there, as though face to face with Morag at last, he couldn’t stop the words he’d been saving up from tumbling out. ‘I thought it would be fun to use my old skills,’ he said. ‘And a chance to pay you back for destroying my career.’
‘You did that yourself.’ Morag’s voice was thick with emotion. ‘You killed that soldier in cold blood. I watched you do it and try to cover it up. That’s why I reported you.’
‘I was doing my job.’ His words were frighteningly cold. ‘
I went to prison because of you; my reputation was ruined.’
I was trying to absorb what he’d said. Morag had a child? A son? It seemed impossible, yet made a weird kind of sense. It explained her reaction to Lily, was perhaps the reason she’d made us welcome – a bittersweet reminder of her own baby. Oh, Morag. Why hadn’t she told anyone?
‘How did he find you?’ Her vocal cords sounded strained. I could only imagine what it was costing her to mention him when I was certain she’d never spoken about her baby to anyone, what a shock it must be to hear her son had been looking for her.
‘My name was on the birth certificate, remember? I made sure of that.’
I imagined a fling, Morag falling for Bernhard, discovering too late that he wasn’t a man designed to be a father, that she’d made a catastrophic mistake – one that might ruin her son’s life and her own.
‘He must have known you were in prison, what you’d done,’ she said.
‘I told him you set me up, that it was all a mistake. He wasn’t hard to convince. The poor guy is desperate to replace the old couple who adopted him with his real parents. Did you know they died several years ago, that he’s all alone now?’
Morag was motionless, as if the slightest movement could create a landslide, a collapse so great she might never stand up again.
‘You left the note.’ My voice was too loud. He blinked as though remembering I was there. ‘Keep her close. You were talking about me.’
‘Note?’ Morag’s head turned slowly as if it was too heavy for her body. ‘What note?’
‘I recognised the writing from the letter. The letter in the picture frame.’ Her gaze was uncomprehending. I wondered whether she’d forgotten about it, until she suddenly dived for the painting lying face down on the floor beneath its hook. She tugged out the folded paper and hurled it into the fire. Bernhard watched with narrowed eyes, as if he had no idea what I was talking about. ‘He left a note upstairs a couple of days ago,’ I said. ‘I thought it was for me, but it was meant for you.’ I turned to him. ‘You let yourself in when we were out. He took one of the rabbits from the fridge,’ I said to Morag. I remembered the wisps of smoke I’d seen above the trees and how I’d convinced myself it was coming from a steam train in the valley. ‘You were living out there.’
