Close My Eyes

by Sophie McKenzie

  ‘He isn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .’ Hen sobs. ‘Oh, Gen, no.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She sniffs again. ‘It’s nothing.’

  She’s definitely hiding something. I can hear it in her voice. ‘Okay, if you’re not going to tell me . . .’ I wait.

  There’s a tense pause, then Hen’s voice cracks. ‘It was . . . it is, oh Gen, I didn’t want you to know . . .’

  My stomach twists into knots. ‘Know what?’

  Hen takes a deep breath. ‘Art paid that fifty grand for me,’ Hen explains. ‘I was broke, okay? Nat had just been born and I was in terrible debt, worse than I ever admitted to you. I’d signed up with Manage Debt Online because I thought it would all be clean and simple and done over the internet, but they’re loan sharks. When I couldn’t pay the loan back, they added interest, then they came after me, threatening me . . . and Nat . . .’

  I think back. Hen was certainly in debt all the time I knew her, until her marriage to Rob. But could things really have been that bad without her telling me?

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ I said.

  ‘At first because I was embarrassed . . . ashamed, almost . . . I mean you were so sorted about everything. You’d got your books published, you’d found Art . . . I had nothing. No job, no man.’ She pauses. ‘Then you lost your baby and my worries seemed pathetic next to that, so . . .’ She tails off.

  ‘But you told Art?’ She’s surely making this up. ‘Art gave you fifty grand?’

  ‘He loaned it to me,’ Hen insists. ‘He found me crying when I came to see you after Beth . . . I poured it all out to him and he offered to help. God, Gen, I paid him back. Bits here and there for years. And Rob paid off the balance last year, so it’s all over, Gen. Finished.’

  I still can’t believe this is all Art’s MDO payment amounts to. ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘That you needed the money? That Art gave it to you? Why didn’t he tell me?’ Terrifying possibilities crowd my head. My husband and my best friend in hushed conversation behind my back. One thing leading to another. Secrets.

  More secrets.

  ‘Were you . . . did you . . .?’

  ‘No,’ Hen wails. ‘No, Gen, how can you think that? I just owed a lot of money and Art helped. You know I was in debt back then.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something when I asked you last week?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you last week because I didn’t tell you eight years ago. And I didn’t tell you eight years ago because . . .’ She hesitates.

  ‘Why?’ I sit up in the passenger seat, trembling. I’m aware of Lorcan beside me. He’s staring at me, his eyes filled with concern. ‘Give me one good reason why you didn’t tell me, your best friend, that your debts were that bad?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  What the hell does that mean? ‘I don’t—’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Gen; your baby had just bloody died. You couldn’t look at mine without crying.’

  ‘But you could have still told me.’

  ‘Could I?’ Hen’s voice hardens. ‘The way I remember it, no one else was really allowed to have anything bad going on in their lives back then.’

  I gasp. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Hen snaps. ‘D’you have any idea how hard it was for me to be a single mother . . . a first-time mother . . . and have my best friend completely cut off from me?’

  ‘I know I wasn’t there for you but—’

  ‘I’m not blaming you! Jesus.’ Hen sobs, her voice softening again. ‘I know how hard it was for you and how hard it was for you to see me with Nat. I’m just trying to explain that I was desperate and Art offered to help. That’s all there was to it.’

  ‘No.’ I won’t believe it. Hen has betrayed me, just like Art did. And now there’s no way I can trust anything she tells me. It’s possible her story is true. But isn’t it equally possible that Art paid her the money for some other reason? Could she have found out he took our baby away? Did she know about Art’s other family?

  ‘Were you blackmailing him?’ I demand.

  ‘No, oh, for God’s sake, Gen. Eight years ago it was like you died. Art was devastated, yes, but he carried on with his life. You . . . you stopped living. To be honest, I don’t think you’ve started living again. Not properly.’

  For a moment I feel the truth of what she’s said: the weight of the past few years crushing me; not just losing my baby, but everything damaged or destroyed because of that loss.

  ‘I have to go now,’ I say. The air in the car feels heavy. Dull. Flat. There’s no point talking to Hen. I still can’t trust what she tells me.

  ‘Gen?’

  ‘Bye.’ I ring off and close my eyes. How has my life come to this? That I’m sitting here, having to face the fact that my husband and my best friend have kept so much hidden from me; that I can’t trust a word either of them says; that a man I have known for less than a week should be the one sitting beside me at the most important moment of my life.

  ‘What was that—?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ I turn to Lorcan. He’s holding his phone in his hand, still looking troubled. ‘Have you found the nearest police station?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s about five miles away, in a town called Enshott. I’ve called you a cab.’

  I stare out of the window at the house where my child lives. I am still so far from the whole truth.

  The taxi arrives. I glance over at the house again. There’s no sign of anyone coming or going. I lean over and kiss Lorcan on the cheek. ‘Stay safe,’ I say.

  ‘Gen?’

  ‘I’ll call you from the police station.’

  As the cab heads off towards Enshott, my phone rings again. I’m anticipating another call from Hen – or maybe Art, but when I glance at the screen I see that the caller is Bernard O’Donnell. We haven’t spoken since Lorcan and I set off for Shepton Longchamp hours earlier. Discovering Ed pushed all thoughts of Bernard out of my head.

  I snatch the phone to my ear. ‘Bernard? I’m sorry I haven’t called. We’re in Shepton Longchamp and—’

  ‘I’m here too.’ Bernard’s voice cuts through mine. I stop talking instantly, wondering what new revelation is coming.

  ‘I’ve been following your husband. He went to the Wardingham Arms again, early this afternoon.’

  I gasp. Art must have arrived soon after Lorcan and I left for Somerset.

  ‘This time I waited outside and I saw him leave and walk to another hotel . . . the . . . the Princess Alice.’ Bernard is speaking so fast the words are tumbling over themselves. ‘I saw him get into a VW car. I followed him here, to Shepton Longchamp. He’s just parked outside a garage . . . a lock-up on the edge of town. Looks like he’s waiting for something.’

  My head spins. I look back towards the house as my taxi driver turns the corner. ‘Oh God, Bernard.’

  ‘Did you find the shop you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes, and . . .’ I lower my voice so the driver can’t hear. ‘And we found my little boy. Bernard, he’s a boy, not a girl. Did your wife . . . did Lucy know about that?’

  Bernard draws in his breath, clearly shocked. ‘No. Mary just told Lucy “baby”, but when we looked you up online we saw the references to “Beth” so we assumed the baby was a girl. You’re sure it’s a boy?’

  ‘Yes.’ I try to focus. ‘Where exactly is this lock-up?’

  ‘Rushdown Road. It’s round the back of some woodland. The place looks pretty beat-up from the outside.’ Bernard sucks in his breath. ‘Wait, there’s a woman – she just got out of a cab. She’s going over to Mr Loxley.’

  Fear mingles with furious curiosity. ‘Who is she? What does she look like?’

  ‘I don’t know; she’s wearing a blue hat or cap or something. It’s pulled low over her face. She’s slim. I can see blonde hair. Your husband is just getting out of his car. The cab she came in is drivin
g off. They’re talking together.’

  I clutch my mobile more tightly. The taxi driver is watching me curiously in the rear-view mirror. I turn away, holding the phone closer to my mouth.

  ‘Is there a child with them?’

  ‘No. Now they’re going inside the lock-up.’

  My heart races. Is it possible that Art is with this woman he calls his wife – and that Ed is going to be brought to them? Surely Lorcan would have seen if Ed had left the house? Except . . . my thoughts run over each other. Lorcan is waiting outside the front of the house. There could easily be a back door . . . maybe it leads to the woodland . . . maybe Ed has been taken through the woods to the lock-up . . . maybe Art and the woman are waiting for him right now, ready to make their escape . . .

  Another thought presses down on me. It’s possible that Lorcan is somehow involved. I push this away. I can’t let myself doubt him too.

  ‘I’m on my way.’ I ring off and give the Rushdown Road address to the cab driver. ‘How far from there are we?’

  The driver glances over his shoulder at me. ‘Just a couple of streets,’ he says.

  ‘Go there,’ I say. ‘As fast as you can.’

  As the taxi reaches the woods Bernard described, the cab slows down. My heart is pounding as I catch sight of the lock-ups. There’s a car parked just beyond. It’s not Art’s VW. Still, I’ve only been a few minutes. Art and his woman must be here. I’ve got them at last. Violent images of what I’ll do flash into my head. I imagine the burning fury inside me erupting out of my hands . . . my nails clawing at her face . . . my feet trampling her into the ground . . .

  And then all of a sudden I see Ed in my mind’s eye. My baby is this woman’s little boy. At least, that’s what he has become after nearly eight years.

  It sickens me, but hurting her will hurt him too. The argument rages inside my head as the taxi slows to a stop. When Ed was an idea, it was easy . . . he was my child and I had a right to take him back. But now I’ve seen his school and his home and his nanny and, most of all, I’ve seen him. He’s a real person with a settled life. It might be the wrong life – but it’s his life. The one he’s used to. And I’m about to explode it into tiny pieces. I grit my teeth. I’ll just have to work that out later. I’m his mother. And he has a right to know me . . . to be with me, just as I have a right to be with him.

  The driver looks round at me. ‘That’s four pounds fifty, please.’

  ‘Would you mind just waiting for a minute?’ As I speak, I look on the seat for my bag and realize to my horror that I left it on the floor of Lorcan’s car. My purse is inside it. I look up to find the cab driver staring at me. He looks furious.

  ‘What, you were going to do a runner?’

  ‘No. It’s not that . . . oh, shit . . .’ I stammer. ‘I’m sorry, look, please wait. I’m meeting someone here. I’m sure they’ll help.’

  The cab driver indicates the road ahead. ‘Where is he then?’ he asks aggressively.

  I follow his gaze. The row of lock-ups starts just a few metres in front of us, exactly as Bernard described. But there’s no sign of Bernard himself. I look around, feeling desperate. Traffic is passing, but there’s only one car parked – it’s on the other side of the road, but quite clearly empty.

  ‘I don’t know where he is . . .’ I delve into my pockets, hoping to find some cash, but there’s nothing in my jeans apart from a screwed-up paper tissue.

  ‘Get out,’ the driver says roughly.

  ‘No, please . . . please wait . . . how am I going to get to the police station? I’ve got to—’

  ‘Piss off.’

  I have no choice but to scramble out of the taxi. I catch sight of my pale, strained face in the wing mirror as I open the cab door. I can hardly blame the driver for not trusting me. I look deranged.

  I slam the door shut and the car zooms off. I scuttle along the side of the road, looking around for Bernard. No sign. I reach the lock-ups. There are three of them in a row. Each one has a metal door covered in rust. Half the side wall of the first is missing. It’s obvious no one is using them as garages any more.

  I stand there, as two cars swoosh by. The sun is out and beating down on my head. Where the hell is Bernard?

  I look up and down the road. The parked car must surely be his, so why isn’t he waiting for me? And where is Art’s VW? I try Bernard’s phone. It goes to voicemail.

  Shit. I leave a message saying that I’m outside the lock-up, and wait a minute, hoping he’ll call back.

  My heart is thumping so hard I can hear it over the noise of the next car that passes. I carry on waiting in an agony of indecision. Seconds pass that feel like minutes. Still no sign of Bernard. A succession of possibilities grip me, paralyzing me.

  Suppose Bernard has left?

  Suppose Art and the woman have left too?

  Suppose, in fact, the whole thing was a ruse to get me away from Ed’s house so that I wouldn’t witness Art collecting him? Or a trap to bring me here?

  Except . . . I glance over at the car parked opposite again. It’s a hire car. Bernard must be here. Maybe he’s simply inside one of these lock-ups, checking it out. If Art and the woman have left, then Bernard might be snooping about in there. I have to find out. It’ll only take a second, then I can go.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk on, past the first broken-down lock-up. Thanks to the collapsed wall I can see at a glance that there’s no one inside it. I get a glimpse of the woods behind. The trees are densely packed together, surrounding the lock-ups on three sides. Bernard was right – it would be easy to bring somebody in and out through the back. The second lock-up is boarded up. I can’t see any way of getting past the padlock chained to the front.

  I stop outside the third and final lock-up. The metal door set into the front has been pulled to, but it’s not properly shut. A rusting handle hangs limply at waist height. There’s a stillness about this place, the only sound the light ruffle of the wind in the branches of the surrounding trees. I push at the door. It creaks halfway open. Holding my breath, I peer into the gloom.

  ‘Bernard?’ I whisper.

  No reply.

  A single car zooms along the road behind me. I hesitate for a second, not wanting to go inside. Christ, maybe I’m being supremely stupid and this is a trap . . . with Bernard in on the whole thing, and Art and his bloody woman waiting inside to grab me and . . .

  I have to know for sure. I don’t have time to work out what’s going on. I pick up a large stick that’s lying on the ground. It is heavy and feels solid and sturdy in my hands. It’s not much of a weapon but it’s better than nothing. Heart racing, I push the door open fully and step inside.

  It’s empty. I’m sure it’s empty. There’s not much light and I can’t see the corners of the room, but the door at the other end is wide open, letting in enough sunshine for me to see stacks of dust-covered crates piled against the walls. Gripping my stick, I tiptoe towards the far door, every nerve in my body tensed, listening for any sounds.

  I reach the far door. There’s a patch of battered grass straight ahead, bright in the sunlight, then the woods beyond. A shoe lies on the ground, just past the door.

  I stare at it, taking a moment to register what I see. My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

  It’s not just a shoe. It’s a foot.

  Sweat beads on my forehead. For a moment I’m too terrified to move. Then I take another step to the door. Everything twists and tightens inside me as the body on the grass comes into full view.

  It’s a man’s body: face-down, slightly curled over, with one hand clutching something. I creep towards him, out of the lock-up, onto the grass, into the sunshine. Birds are singing in the woods beyond. There is no one around.

  Numb, I crouch down and peer at the man’s pale face.

  It’s Bernard O’Donnell. I place my shaking fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. The fading warmth of his skin and the blank, soulless stare of his open eyes confirm what is already obvio
us.

  Bernard O’Donnell is dead.

  I stare at his face for a few moments, then reach out and close his eyes. Strangely, I feel quite calm. My eyes travel slowly down his body. His shirt is strained over his stomach, one of the buttons hanging by a thread. Blood is seeping through a hole in his jacket. I know nothing about such things, but it looks like a bullet hole. My eyes rest on his right hand. The fingers are curled over something small and black. Numbly, carefully, I prise them open and pull out the phone he is holding. I take a step back from the body and try to work out what to do. I’m still strangely calm, but I can’t seem to think straight.

  Bernard O’Donnell is dead. That’s all that my head seems able to take in. Why would he have come inside the lock-up? To follow Art and the woman? I gaze down at the phone in my hand. My own call, made from outside, just a moment ago, will be logged here. A thought strikes me. What if Bernard used his mobile to take a picture of the woman Art was with?

  I press at the keys. With trembling fingers I select the images file. The most recent pictures are of Lucy O’Donnell. There’s nothing here from today.

  A scraping noise – like a crate being pushed across concrete – sounds from inside the lock-up. Someone is there.

  I back away, my eyes on the door.

  Footsteps cross the lock-up. They’re coming towards me.

  Terror rises, a noose around my throat. My feet seem to move of their own accord and before I know what I’m doing I’ve turned and am running, full pelt, into the wood behind the lock-ups.

  I crash through the undergrowth. The trees are set close together, the branches hanging low over my head. I pound the twig-strewn earth beneath my feet. It’s muddy from the recent rain. I’m panting, listening out for the sound of someone following me. I duck behind a large tree, flattening myself against the trunk.

  I listen again. There’s no sound in the woods apart from the birds and the wind and the distant hum of the road.

  My mind is in freefall – a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and images. I see Ed being dragged along the road, then Lorcan’s smile, then Bernard’s body lying twisted on the grass.