by Jess Ryder
‘What?’ I instantly felt heat flash across my face. ‘No, that’s not true, that’s total rubbish. He wouldn’t say that, she’s fucking lying!’
Jen chewed her lip. ‘Look, I don’t want to know what’s going on in your marriage, but clearly something’s gone horribly—’
‘I’m not mad or violent,’ I cut in. ‘I’m not. I swear. This is a total lie. I’d never hurt Emily, or Nick. I’m not like that.’
She twisted her mouth as she gave me a long, hard look. ‘No, I don’t think you are. Look, Natasha, I know what it’s like to be hurt by Nicky. He’s all sweet and soft on the surface, but inside he’s as hard as nails. If he really wants something, he’ll do whatever it takes to get it.’
Our eyes locked. Was Jen for real, or was she playing games with me?
‘I’ll try my best to find out where he is,’ she added, rummaging through her bag. ‘I’ll tell him to get in touch and put your mind at rest over Emily.’ She handed me a business card. ‘Any problem, call me, okay?’
‘Thanks,’ I murmured, staring down at the printed words: Jennifer Warrington, Design Spaces. I’d had no idea that she was still using her married name.
16
Now
Anna
* * *
I’m so frightened, I can’t leave the flat. I’ve tried several times; even got as far as pulling back the bolts on the front door. But as soon I start to spring back the latch, my fingers seize up and I can’t move. I’m in lockdown.
I go back to the window. I’ve always hated net curtains, but now I’m glad they’re there, putting the house in purdah. I peer through the sliver of space between the nets and the frame, but it’s hard to see beyond the overgrown privet hedge. What if he followed me all the way home without my realising? He could be lurking out there, camouflaged by the leaves, hiding between the wheelie bins, crouched behind a parked car.
Well, I won’t come out. If he’s waiting for me to emerge, he’s going to need a lot of patience.
I reluctantly withdraw from my sentry post and go into the kitchen to make some lunch. Food doesn’t interest me. I no longer cook, just heat things up and push them around the plate, but I made a promise to Lindsay not to skip meals.
The fridge is almost empty. I open the door and stare at the hard, yellowing core of an iceberg lettuce, an open packet of leathery ham, half a pale tomato, a wrinkled yellow pepper and two microwave meals for one, bought on special offer. In the cupboard there’s a tin of cheap baked beans (gone are the days when I cared about low sugar and salt), some tuna chunks, a jar of peanut butter and a packet of economy muesli that tastes like hamster food. I’ve run out of milk and am having to drink my tea and coffee black. The only things in the tiny freezer compartment are a packet of peas and a loaf that I’m defrosting one slice at a time. If I don’t manage to go out soon, I’ll be down to the crusts.
This is day three off work with my so-called virus. I’ve only got four more before I have to go back or get a sick note from the doctor. I haven’t told anyone at work about my PTSD. I’m not ashamed; it’s an illness like any other – I accept that now – but the trauma element is complex. At first Lindsay thought I’d simply been involved in a serious car crash, but the more she digs, the more layers she uncovers. I haven’t even told her the whole truth about what happened, which is stupid, I know, because if I’m not honest with her, she’ll never be able to help me. But I’m not ready to face it. Not yet.
While the bread is revolving in the microwave, I nip to the front window to do a quick check outside. There’s nothing to report, so I finish making my sandwich and take it into the backyard. The rear of the house faces north, so although it’s a warm summer’s day, the tiny space is in full shade and feels a bit dank. Nothing grows here. I sniff the air, detecting a mild whiff of yeast from the breweries.
Perhaps I should look for a job elsewhere, I think as I force myself to swallow the dry, plastic-tasting food. I can’t hide indoors indefinitely. I don’t know for sure that I was followed the other night; it could easily all be in my imagination. If I moved to another town, there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t happen again, so I might as well fight my demons here as anywhere.
My phone rings and I step back into the house to answer it. It’s Chris from work.
‘Hi. Did I give you my number?’ I ask, knowing I didn’t.
‘No, I got it off Margaret.’
‘Oh. I see.’ My tone is disapproving.
‘I just wanted to ask how you were. I was worried. It’s not a tummy bug, is it? I couldn’t remember if you had any food at the church. You have to be so careful with reheating, I keep telling them, but—’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. Please don’t worry.’
‘Oh, phew, I mean good,’ he says. ‘For us as well as you. The last thing we want is food poisoning among the homeless.’
‘No, quite. I’m fine, it’s just … like a migraine. I’m pulling round now.’
‘Great, that’s fantastic news. So …’ There’s a long pause. ‘I was wondering if you were up to a visit.’
‘A visit?’ I look about, aghast. The place is a tip. I haven’t hoovered or dusted for ages.
‘Or we could go out for a drink? Maybe even a bite to eat. There are some nice places by the river.’
‘Well … I don’t know …’ My words fade to silence. Going out will involve just that, and I’m not sure I’ll manage it. On the other hand, if I am being watched, it would be good for a man to come to the door. It would send out a message that I’m not alone. ‘Okay,’ I hear myself saying, with false eagerness. ‘That would be lovely. When?’
‘Tonight? Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at around seven.’
‘Pick me up? You mean in a car?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, I don’t drink and drive.’
His words send a memory cascading through my head. ‘Um, I’m not very good in cars.’
‘What is it, do you get travel sick?’
‘Sort of.’ It’s not a complete lie, although it’s the thought of getting into a car that makes me feel sick, rather than driving down twisty lanes.
‘No problem,’ says Chris. ‘We’ll find somewhere nearby, I’m sure.’
I seem to have just agreed to a date.
* * *
Chris picks me up dead on the dot of seven. He’s wearing a short-sleeved red checked shirt and navy chinos with matching canvas shoes. With his close-cropped hair, even features and slim figure he looks like he’s just stepped out of a catalogue of leisure wear for the mature man. My former self would have dismissed him in an instant, he’s so not her type. But the new me is ready and waiting for him, palms sweaty, stomach fluttering. Less in anticipation of seeing him, as pleasant as he is, than of leaving the flat for the first time in three days.
Citrus aftershave wafts towards me as he leads me through the front gate and onto the street. My eyes can’t help but dart around, looking to see if anyone is watching this display of defiance. Of course, there’s nobody here. There never was. Even so, I still feel shaky as we walk down the road towards the river.
‘I thought we’d go to the Swan,’ he says. ‘You must know it.’ I remind him that I’ve only lived in Morton a few months and barely know my way to work. ‘It’s about a twenty-minute walk. I’ve booked a table for seven thirty, so there’s no rush.’
We reach the stone bridge and walk down some steps to join the path that runs along the riverbank. It’s uneven and narrow in parts, forcing us to walk in single file. I let Chris do most of the talking – about the weather (rumours of a heatwave), work (rumours of redundancies), and the area’s declining number of decent pubs.
‘So, you know the Swan well?’ I say, shouting above the roar of the river. The water is surprisingly rough and foamy as it tumbles over some large rocks.
‘Yes. Used to go there with Sandy all the time. That’s my ex-wife,’ he adds, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t bu
mp into her. She and her toy boy have moved to Leicester. I was very cut up about it at the time, but I’m okay now. How about you?’
‘How about me what?’ I reply cautiously.
‘Margaret told me you lived on your own. Divorced?’ I nod quickly, all my nerve endings pricked. I’m going to have to navigate carefully here. If Chris tries to enrol me in the club of ill-treated spouses, he could get more than he bargained for. ‘How was it?’ he says. ‘Mutual or messy?’
Messier than you could ever imagine, I think, but I don’t reply, pretending not to hear him over the rushing water.
But he doesn’t take the hint. ‘Mine was messy, but at least no kids were involved. You got kids?’
I stop dead and turn to face him. ‘Do you mind if we talk about something else?’
He blushes slightly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
‘I’m trying to move on. Make a fresh start.’
‘Absolutely. Me too.’
He gestures for me to go on ahead and we walk the next few hundred yards in silence. I can feel the tension in his step, the distance between us growing as he holds back. My mind buzzes with unhelpful thoughts. This is a mistake; I should never have agreed to go out with him. I’m not fit for social interaction. I should go home now and save us both a wasted evening.
‘Ah, here we are,’ Chris says as we round a bend and a large white gabled building comes into view. The path widens, and he draws level with me, leading me up some rusty iron steps to a decked terrace. The waiter shows us to our table and we sit down. It’s a warm evening, but there’s a fine cooling spray coming off the river.
Chris studies the menu while I pretend to make up my mind. I haven’t eaten properly for days, but nothing appeals to me. Despite his recommendation of the steak pie cooked in local ale, I order a prawn salad and a glass of white wine. We make increasingly smaller talk while we wait for our food to arrive – admiring the view, the flower baskets and even the pub’s resident cat. The waiter lights the candle on our table and gives us a knowing smile, like we’re on a romantic date. I button up my jacket against the dipping evening temperature, wishing I’d chosen a hot meal after all.
‘How long have you been volunteering at St Saviour’s?’ I ask, once our food has been served.
‘About six months.’ He smothers his chips with salt. ‘When Sandy left me, I was in a very bad way. A neighbour suggested I go to church – she thought it would bring me comfort. I was sceptical at first, but actually, it saved my life. Then the vicar told me about St Saviour’s and I decided to give it a try. I get so much out of it, Anna. I thank God every day.’
‘That’s great. I’m really pleased for you.’
‘I’m no different to any of those homeless people. My life took a bad turn and I wanted to run away. Know what I mean?’ He gives me a searching look.
‘Of course,’ I say, loading my fork with prawns and trying not to make eye contact.
‘I don’t blame anyone for doing that,’ Chris carries on. ‘Moving to a new area, getting a new job, becoming a different person …’
‘We all deserve a fresh start,’ I say carefully.
‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Chris takes a sip of his pint. ‘Funny thing, I hope you don’t mind my bringing it up. But there’s this lad who uses the centre from time to time – he was there last week, same night as you.’
The fork wobbles as it enters my mouth. ‘Mm?’
‘He was telling me how he got into trouble as a youngster, did eighteen months for drug dealing, but when he came out, he decided enough was enough, he was going to make a new life for himself down south. So he went to London and got a job as a driver for this posh guy and his wife …’
My throat tightens and I start to choke on a piece of rocket. Chris’s gaze is drilling into me – I don’t have to look into his eyes, I can feel it. The table between us is a black hole, and he’s waiting for me to topple into it.
‘Anyway, it all went badly wrong,’ he says, ‘and now he’s back home, except he’s got no home to go to. No job, nothing. Surprise, surprise, he’s using again. Breaks my heart, you know?’
There’s a long, aching pause.
‘The really funny thing is,’ Chris continues, ‘he said he thought he recognised you.’ Another pause. ‘Did you used to live in London?’
‘London’s a very big place.’
He laughs. ‘That’s exactly what I said. Anyway, you’ve got a different name to the woman he knew, so he must be mistaken.’ He leans across the table and touches my arm. ‘He seemed very sure, though. His name’s Sam. Sam Armitage. Mean anything to you?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘You must have a doppelgänger, Anna. We’ve all got one, or so they say.’
I push back my chair and stand up. ‘Excuse me. Need the ladies’.’ I walk as steadily as I can across the terrace and dive into the back of the pub. The place is full of drinkers and diners and I need to weave a path through the crowds to get to the front entrance. I burst through the swing doors and out onto the pavement.
The light is fading and everything has turned to shadow. All I can hear is the rush of the river behind me. I’ve never been down this road and don’t know exactly where I am. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Have I been set up, brought out here deliberately? What if Sam’s hiding on the river path, waiting to pounce on me on the way home?
Surely Chris wouldn’t do such a horrible thing. He’s a nice guy, a Christian. No, it’s out of the question.
But he could tell I was lying about not knowing Sam. He knows Anna is not my real name.
Maybe he was trying to warn me that I’m not safe?
There’s a bus stop just opposite, and I cross the road to look at the timetable. It’s hard to read the tiny print in the gloom, but it looks like a bus might be due. I check the time on my phone. Dare I wait, or should I make a run for it? I don’t want Chris to come looking for me. Just as I’m debating whether or not to set off, a single-decker bus appears like a guardian angel, its headlights glowing in the darkness.
I stick out my hand and flag it down. ‘Thanks so much,’ I say, climbing aboard and punching change into the machine. I slip into a double seat on the right-hand side, and as the bus pulls away, I stare out of the window towards the pub entrance.
Poor Chris. I feel a bit guilty for leaving him stranded. He probably wasn’t put up to this, but I can’t afford to take the risk, not when so much could be at stake. Sam has already seen me twice. I’m not going to make it third time lucky.
17
Then
Natasha
* * *
I left Jen’s flat and walked home, my head reeling. Had Nick really told Hayley that he was frightened of me? He knew that I wasn’t violent or unstable, that I would never harm Emily; it was all lies. Evil, hurtful lies. But who was doing the lying? Jen, Hayley, Nick, Sam? All of them, perhaps. I had a sudden vision of the four of them together, plotting against me. But why did they want to take Emily away from me? What had I done to deserve it?
As soon as I got indoors, I rang Mum. She was about to go on her evening shift and wasn’t keen to chat, but when I told her the news, she shrieked down the phone, ‘Call the police, tell them Emily’s been abducted. Don’t stay talking to me, dial 999.’ I did as I was told.
It didn’t take long for a detective sergeant to call round, accompanied by a female uniformed officer. He suggested we go and sit down while the officer went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea – they were trying to be kind, but it felt like it was their house and I was the visitor. I looked through the window and saw the police car on the driveway where the Range Rover had been only a few hours earlier. It felt surreal, like we were acting out a scene from a crime drama.
‘When did you first realise your daughter was missing?’ asked the sergeant, stabbing the end of his pen on his knee and starting to write.
I explained that Nick had offered to drop Emily off at nursery on the way to the airpo
rt, and how she wasn’t there when I arrived to pick her up. ‘He’s switched his phone off and I can’t get through to his driver either.’
‘His driver?’ The sergeant looked impressed. ‘Who’s that?’
‘His name’s Sam,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know his surname. Nick is banned from driving, so he has Sam to take him places. He drove Nick and Emily to nursery – that’s what I thought, anyway.’
‘I see. What time was your husband’s plane? Do you know what time he landed?’
‘He didn’t catch the plane – that was a lie. He’s taken Emily somewhere.’
The sergeant crinkled his brow. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I don’t, but it’s pretty obvious.’ I went on to tell him about my visit to Jen’s and her call to Hayley, although I missed out the stuff about Nick saying I was mentally unstable.
The female officer entered with a tray of steaming mugs. ‘Milk, no sugar, that’s right, isn’t it?’ she asked, handing me my Bestest Mummy Ever mug.
‘Um, sorry, but I’m getting confused here,’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re married, yes?’ I nodded. ‘Not separated or divorced? And your husband’s name is on your daughter’s birth certificate?’
‘Yes, of course. Why, what difference does it make?’
‘Well, that means he has parental responsibility for Emily and as such cannot abduct her.’ He picked up his mug and took a satisfied slurp.
‘But he can’t take her away without my permission, surely?’
‘Yes, he can. As can you.’
‘But that’s not fair.’ As soon as I spoke, I realised the irony of the situation. I’d been planning the very same thing. Sam must have told Nick, and now he was getting his own back, to teach me a lesson. What a vile person Sam was turning out to be – making up Jen and Nick’s affair, telling Nick I was going to leave him. Why? Because I’d rejected him?
