by Adam Croft
She’s right. I know she’s right. And the problem is that even she doesn’t know how right she is.
‘Jesus Christ, this is all just so . . .’
I break down before I can finish the sentence. It’s all got too much. The thought that I left Lisa lying there, in that bath. Even though she was dead, it was still Lisa. It was still my wife. And I left her. I should’ve stayed, should’ve fought. So what if I’d been arrested, or even convicted? It wouldn’t have come to that, surely. There’d be DNA evidence, for a start. Like what, though? My DNA in the bathroom? My DNA on her? Well, yeah, she’s my wife. What else would they have to go on? The text message? The fact that she was murdered in my room?
All of that aside, there’s one enormous elephant in the room: the fact that the idea of running away, starting afresh and using this awful situation to do just that, is hugely appealing. It’s something I couldn’t deny if I wanted to. I was happy enough with Lisa, but I’ve never been the kind of guy to get emotionally attached to people. I learnt the hard way that most people aren’t to be trusted. And who can honestly say they’ve never wanted to just up sticks and leave, start again?
‘Where’s the nearest airport?’ I say, once I’ve managed to recover myself.
‘Dan, we can’t just—’
‘I’m not going to go home,’ I say. ‘I mean to get further away. If we get on a plane, think how far away we can be by lunchtime.’
‘So you want us to book tickets in our own names and use our passports, too, yeah? Great idea. We’re trying to keep away from where people might spot us. As far as anyone is concerned, the last time we were seen anywhere was at Calais.’
‘What about CCTV and cameras on the roads?’ I ask.
‘Not since we left the motorway by Valenciennes. Anyway, even if they manage to get that far and start looking for the car, they’ll be looking for yours. Not this one.’
This is fucking with my head. ‘So they’re going to start searching the area for my car. And eventually they’ll come here, and they’ll find it.’
‘I doubt that,’ Jess replies. ‘Not if I know Claude. And they’re hardly going to manage that by lunchtime, are they?’
I scratch my head. Just when I thought I’d got it all squared with myself, she goes and throws these spanners in the works, getting me even more worried and confused. ‘What about a train?’ I say.
‘Same problem. We need to stay away from cameras. We should be okay on the roads, as they won’t be looking for this car. If you’re worried, we can stick to the back roads but we won’t get as far in the time we’ve got.’ She looks me in the eye, a moment of deep seriousness. ‘You need to learn that you can’t have it both ways, Dan.’
I swallow, stand and walk over to the Citroën before opening the car door and looking back at her. ‘Which way’s Switzerland?’
17
We decide to use the main roads, and for the first three hours the car seems to be doing surprisingly well. Considering its age, it’s holding out. I drive the car at a steady speed, keeping up with the bulk of traffic, without trying to stand out in any way. Around the cities, most of the cars seem to be much newer and I worry that we’re going to stick out like a sore thumb, but Jess tells me I’m worrying too much.
At the end of the day, we’re on French roads in a French car, and no-one has any reason to think there’s anything suspicious about that. With the probability being that no-one will yet have realised Lisa’s been killed, we have the added advantage of being on the run from people who don’t yet know they’re meant to be chasing us.
As we come within touching distance of Dijon, though, the car starts to become noisy and I convince myself I can smell burning. Jess tells me she can’t smell anything, but I pull over at the next service station, sure something’s wrong. We were going to need some petrol at some point soon, anyway.
I drive up and let the car sit idling for a while.
‘It probably just needs to rest for a bit. It’s an old car,’ Jess says. ‘It’s probably not been used for a while. Certainly not on long runs like this.’
‘Judging by the layer of dust on it last night, it’s not left the barn in the best part of a decade,’ I reply.
‘I know Claude. He will have made sure it was in good shape. He wouldn’t let me down.’
‘You put a lot of faith in Claude,’ I say, after a few seconds of silence. She doesn’t respond. I decide that if we’re going to be spending God knows how much time in each other’s company, and if we’re going to be essentially beholden to this Claude guy, I need to know what the deal is. ‘Tell me what happened with him. I need to know.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘Isn’t it enough to take my word for it that he’s a good guy?’
‘I’m not being funny, Jess, but I don’t know him and I barely know you. Do you actually realise what you’re asking me to do? What you’ve already had me do?’
‘Do I look like I’m an idiot?’ she asks, quite curtly.
‘Jess, this isn’t a fucking game. This is my life. My marriage. My—’
‘Your marriage is over. Your wife is dead.’
I look at her coldly. It’s because of her that I’m here, in a petrol station in France, filling up a car belonging to some bloke I don’t know, with a girl I met only a few days ago, about to become the most wanted man in Europe. I’m angry at Jess for taking advantage of the situation, I’m angry at myself and I’m fucking furious at whoever’s done this to me. ‘She’s not the only one, it seems. Is there any spark of emotion inside you at all?’
‘Dan, I didn’t leave my wife’s dead body in a bathtub, then run away to France with the hotel receptionist I’d been screwing for the past few days. Don’t talk to me about morals, alright?’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘So now you’re trying to take the moral high ground here? You think you’re completely blameless?’
She shakes her head. ‘Believe me, I’m far from blameless.’
There’s a good minute of silence before I speak again. ‘Tell me.’
She seems to be mulling this over in her mind. Just as I think she’s not going to say anything, she decides it’s in her best interests to open up.
‘I lived here for a while. In France. I was brought up in England but my family had a holiday home here. When I was fourteen, they let me come over on my own for the first time in the summer holidays. I did some work on Claude’s farm, helping him out. They lived about half a mile away, but he was still their closest neighbour.’ I want to ask her why the hell her parents let a fourteen-year-old girl travel to France on her own, but I don’t want to interrupt her. It’s taken long enough to get her to open up this much. ‘They came out to stay as well. They came to surprise me. It was nearly my birthday.’
There’s a couple of seconds of silence before she speaks again. ‘They got to their holiday home, and I wasn’t there. I was at Claude’s. They came to find me, to find out if I was there, but Claude said I was staying with a friend and would be back home the next morning. That night, their holiday home burned down with them inside it.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say, almost involuntarily. ‘That’s . . . I’m sorry. That’s horrible. I can’t imagine what that would feel like.’ She doesn’t respond, so I ask the obvious question. ‘Why did he tell your parents you weren’t there?’
Jess lets out a deep sigh. ‘Because earlier that evening I’d panicked when I heard they were coming to visit. Claude realised something wasn’t right and I couldn’t bottle it up any longer. I told him everything. About my parents and how they’d abused me.’
‘Abused you?’
She nods slowly. ‘My dad wasn’t my real dad. Mum never knew who my real dad was. This was my stepfather. Ever since I can remember, he used to . . . Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’ I can see the tears forming in her eyes. The first time I’ve seen any sense of emotion from her.
‘And your mum?’ I ask.
‘She knew it was going on.
I never told her, but she knew. You don’t have a mother–daughter relationship and not know everything that’s unspoken as well as everything that’s spoken. That night, Claude protected me. He promised me that everything was going to be alright. That we’d find a way to make sure they couldn’t hurt me again. I looked him in the eyes, and I knew I could trust him.’
‘And that night they . . .’
‘Yes. The place burned to the ground.’
I don’t want to say it, but it’s left hanging there in the air, completely unavoidable. ‘Claude?’
She swallows, wiping the tear from her eye. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
18
Fortunately, the car seemed to sound and drive a lot better for being allowed to cool down a bit. We spent twenty-five minutes sat in the car park of the service station just outside Dijon, and by the time we reached the Swiss border it was already quarter past twelve.
In my mind’s eye I could see everything that was going on back in Herne Bay. A middle-aged woman in a cleaner’s uniform unlocking the door to my room, worrying about her husband’s impending redundancy and her tearaway teenage son’s school record. Tutting as she sees the state of the bed and the fact that I’ve left my bath towels on the floor. She’d run a hoover round, wipe down the surfaces and maybe even make the bed. Then she’d open the bathroom door and there’d be a terrible blood-curdling scream as her life as she knew it ended, and her husband’s job and her son’s schooling became minor, secondary worries at best.
The oddest thing about the drive here was the silence. Jess never seemed to be particularly keen on conversation, even when I was asking her direct questions. Even about basic things, such as where we were going to stay. We couldn’t just check into a hotel, especially not once our faces were all over the news. The good thing is, they wouldn’t be looking for us in Switzerland specifically. When I asked Jess about what we were actually going to do, she just told me she had it all in hand.
I find it bizarre that I’m just driving someone else’s car through a foreign country, with a girl I barely know, acquiescing to her entirely. Putting my whole life, future and liberty in her hands. It’s something very difficult to put into words, but there’s a strange reassurance about her. This petite, demure, troubled girl with a dark side, who somehow seems to know exactly what to do. In the strangest and most mind-fucking twenty-four hours of my life, she’s been the only constant; the comforting presence and voice of reason.
Would I have done the same if she wasn’t working at that hotel? If she hadn’t been at reception when I went down? If I’d pushed her away and driven off on my own? I don’t know at which point the story would’ve changed. Would I have even packed my bag and left the room in the first place, or was that my guilt speaking because of my involvement with Jess? Would I have even got as far as the car? Would I have had a moment of clarity and phoned the police? And if so, what then? Jess is right. I’d have been arrested, or questioned at least, and my life would’ve changed forever. My life has already changed forever, but at least this way I’ve got a chance of steering it in my own direction. That’s the paradox: even though I’ve completely handed my life over to Jess, right now it’s the only thing keeping me in control of my own destiny.
We arrive in a small town called Kerzers. It’s big enough that we’ll be able to stock up on supplies as well as blend in and not stick out like sore thumbs, but it doesn’t strike me as the sort of place to be littered with CCTV. Right now, that’s our best bet. I’ve got a baseball cap in my bag, which I take out and hand to Jess. It was the same when we stopped for fuel – the cap is a far better disguise on her than it is on me. In fact, I’m starting to think a potato sack would look good on Jess. She thumbs through the wad of euros she got from Claude – something else she neglected to tell me until very recently – and a realisation hits me.
‘They use Swiss francs here, don’t they? Not euros.’
She lets out an endearing yet slightly patronising laugh. ‘They’ll take anything. Especially euros.’
‘Won’t we stand out, though?’ I say. ‘I mean, young woman in a baseball cap paying in a foreign currency?’
‘We’re in Switzerland, Dan, a few miles over the border from France. It’s not Cambodia. Most of the stuff is priced in euros. It’s certainly going to be a better option than going to a bank and having to provide ID to change it all into Swiss francs, anyway.’
‘Fair point. I’ll just wait here, then, shall I?’ I say, feeling utterly useless. She doesn’t even reply – just opens the car door and goes marching off in the direction of the shop. And here I am, sitting in a stranger’s car in Switzerland, waiting for a virtual stranger to spend another virtual stranger’s money on supplies that we’re going to be living off of, God knows where.
I watch the people walking past on the pavement, going about their daily lives. Some are probably on their lunch break, or out to grab a coffee. I yearn for that normality. But I know that my life will never be normal again. This is normal now – being on the run, trying not to be seen, flying under the radar. And why? I did absolutely nothing wrong. The sheer injustice is what makes me mad and confuses my feelings.
The underlying anger isn’t helping me to think straight. Why couldn’t I just have stayed and pleaded my case? The simple truth is that I know it would’ve been futile. I know deep down that whoever killed Lisa, whoever set me up like this, is far cleverer than I am. This had been thought about, pre-planned and executed with precision. That’s not something I can match my wits against. Not without the space – both physically and mentally – to come to terms with what’s happened.
A few minutes later, Jess leaves the shop. I panic for a moment as she turns out and heads to her right, rather than back in the direction of the car. Then I see her enter the phone box. My body fills with adrenaline. What’s she doing? Who’s she calling? What if this is all one massive set-up and she’s phoning the police, telling them she’s caught a murderer? No, that’s stupid. Why wouldn’t she have phoned from inside the shop? If that was the case, she wouldn’t be out here doing it in full sight of me. That’s madness. Before I can even process my thoughts properly, she’s left the phone box and is heading back towards the car. I watch as she opens the door, plonks the carrier bag in the footwell and sits down.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask.
‘Hmm?’
‘The phone box,’ I say, as if she’s already forgotten.
‘Oh, that. I didn’t want to make a traceable call on my mobile and I needed to wait until I had local currency. The shop would only give change in francs, so I thought I’d do it then. Handy, really.’
‘What? Who were you calling?’ I ask, now starting to get a little irate.
‘Claude,’ she replies. ‘He asked me to call him when we were well away.’
‘Are you serious?’ I say. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Nothing. Honestly, don’t fret. I trust him.’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘You might, but I don’t even know him. Did you tell him where we were?’
She places a hand on my upper thigh. ‘Dan, relax. The only way we’re going to get through this is with a level head, alright? Now, we need to head out past Zurich. We’re looking for a place called Uster. There’s a campsite near there that we’re looking for.’
‘Campsite?’ I ask.
‘Not just camping. They have caravans and lodges as well. And they take cash without a passport.’
‘How the hell do you know this?’
‘Claude,’ she says, as if that explains everything.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I reply, feeling myself getting deeper and deeper into this confusing spiral of the unknown. ‘How far is it?’
‘A little under two hours away,’ she says. ‘Less if you actually start the car up and get going.’
19
We’re not long past Bern, and the open road behind us is starting to enable me to think a little more clearly. I’m still nowhere
near as lucid as I want to be, the shock having warped my mind, but I’m starting to get there.
The main problem with my mind clearing is that the paranoia is starting to set in. I’ve not even realised it, but ever since we left the hotel in Herne Bay I’ve been looking in the rear-view mirror at every car that approaches, expecting to see a police car that’ll pull us over and arrest us. I know it’s daft, because they’d have no reason to. Now, though, I’m fairly sure Lisa’s body will have been discovered and the hunt will be on.
How long will it take them to know we’ve left the country? Presumably they’ll find my mobile in the hotel room, see my bag is gone, find out that Jess disappeared around the same time and put two and two together. They’re not stupid, after all. What’s it going to look like? Unhappy husband murders his wife and runs off with his new girlfriend. Open-and-shut case, as far as they’ll be concerned. Beers are on you, Detective Inspector.
Next they’ll probably check CCTV, see us driving off in the same car and check CCTV and number plate recognition cameras on the major motorway networks. They’ll see us getting on at Folkestone and coming off at Calais, after a short bit of diplomacy with the French border police to get hold of their footage. Or do the British control the French entrance side of the tunnel? I think I remember reading that somewhere. Makes sense, I suppose. And how long would that all take them? In the digital age, probably not long. An hour or two at the most? Maybe longer if they’ve got facial recognition or something like that. That means there’s a very good chance they already know we’ve been to France. From there, they’ll have worked out the furthest we could have driven: likely only to Germany or Switzerland, and the police in those countries will be on red alert. The French police within a few hours’ drive of Calais will have their eyes peeled, too. They’ll all want a piece of being the ones who manage to nab the fleeing murderers.
