by Jess Ryder
I was prepared to go through all that if it meant I could have Emily back, but I couldn’t ask it of Mum. She’d lived in this little council house for over twenty years, spent countless hours on her garden, got on well with her neighbours, had dozens of friends and a great social life. If she gave it up, she’d never get rehoused, not anywhere decent. And she couldn’t afford to lose her job, either. Early retirement wasn’t an option; she only had a state pension and a few thousand pounds of savings to rely on. After everything she’d done for me, after how badly I’d messed up and let her down, it would be too big a sacrifice. I’d got myself into this bind and I had to get myself out.
The future seemed overwhelmingly scary – even assuming Jen was on the level and I was able to get Emily back. I slumped onto the bed and put my head in my hands. Suddenly I wished I had killed Nick. I wished I’d crushed his skull and he’d sunk to the bottom of the lake. If only I’d hit him harder, if only I’d carried on striking him until he was properly dead. At least then we would all have been free of him. Even if I’d ended up serving thirty years in jail, it would have been worth it.
But such regrets weren’t helpful. I needed to make some plans.
* * *
I spent the next few days pacing around the house in a heightened, energised state. I researched the Grand Metropole and discovered that, unfortunately, the car park was only for guests. It was a bloody five-star hotel and none of my cards were working, so I couldn’t book a room. It meant that I was going to have to risk parking on a double yellow outside the car park and hope that Jen would be on time.
She hadn’t been in touch again, but I put it down to lack of opportunity. It also made me think it was less likely to be a trap, otherwise she would have checked to make sure I was going to turn up. Then again, it could be a double bluff, designed to lure me into a false sense of security. My mind couldn’t rest for making calculations and deductions, constructing possible narratives, trying to keep one step ahead of the game. But I was playing blind, with only my instincts to go on. My instincts told me that Jen was genuine and that soon I would be with Emily, but I think that was just because the alternative was too frightening to contemplate.
I woke up on the Tuesday morning feeling wretched with nerves. Mum brought me my usual cup of tea, popping her head round my bedroom door just after 7 a.m., even though she knew I didn’t usually get up for hours, if at all.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, putting the mug on my bedside table. ‘You’ve been in a strange mood these past few days. Are you sure you don’t want to see the doctor?’
‘No, I’m okay, honestly.’ I shuffled myself onto my elbows. ‘Thanks, Mum … Not just for the tea; I mean, for everything. Everything you’ve ever done for me.’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ she said, but she smiled all the same. ‘Right … I’ve got to get off. I’m on the early shift today but should be back by four. If you fancy picking up some chops for our tea, I’ve left the money on the kitchen table.’
‘I’ll try.’
She ruffled my hair. ‘Fresh air will do you good.’
‘Yes, Mum, I know. Love you.’ As she turned to leave the room, I added a silent goodbye, not knowing how long it would be before it was safe to see her again, or whether this was even the last time. But I shrugged the negative thoughts off, promising myself that by this evening, Emily and I would be together. I couldn’t wait. I hugged my pillow to my chest and imagined my baby was already lying in my arms.
* * *
After Mum left the house, I tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. The hours ticked slowly by. I got up, had a shower and got dressed, then packed the few items of clothing I’d bought from the supermarket into a large carrier bag. It was virtually autumn – soon I’d need jumpers and a warm coat, but I had no money to buy them.
I went into Mum’s room and dug out the oldest, most shapeless-looking sweater I could find. It was purple, with a roll neck, and a pink stripe around the bottom and the sleeve edges. She’d had it for years, and I couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn it. I also took her gardening coat. I knew she wouldn’t mind but I would apologise all the same, in the note I was planning to leave.
It was a short message and took several attempts before I was satisfied with it. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I made sure it wasn’t too sentimental. I didn’t know where to leave it – on her bed, on the dining table? I wanted to make sure she’d definitely see it, forgetting that she’d spot the missing car first.
I was on the road by the time she rang my mobile. There was no Bluetooth in the old Fiesta, so I couldn’t answer. She left a message, but I had no chance to listen to it, could only imagine her indignation at being kept in the dark, her concern that I was driving the car on my own without a proper licence. I would ring her back when it was over, I decided, when I had Emily and we’d found a safe place to stay. She’d be so happy for me, she’d forget all about being cross.
The Fiesta didn’t have satnav either, but it wasn’t a difficult route. All I had to do was get on to the M25 and follow the signs to Heathrow. The hotel was less than two miles away from the terminal. I’d allowed plenty of time to find it and check out where to park.
I drove on, trying to remember Sam’s instructions about using my mirrors, and keeping enough distance between myself and the car in front. Even though I’d driven all the way back from the Lake District in the gigantic Range Rover, I was still inexperienced, terrified of making a mistake and being stopped by the police. Mum’s car felt flimsy and too near to the ground, and the sight lines weren’t as good as in the 4x4. I kept my eye on the speedometer, slowing down as soon as I got anywhere near the limit. The gears squealed in protest when I hit fifth, so I was sticking to fourth and keeping to the inside lane as much as possible.
I remember being stuck behind a slow lorry. It looked very long, and I was worried about overtaking in case I couldn’t keep my speed up. I was making good time, so decided to tuck in behind it and hope it would turn off at the next junction.
I remember the traffic ahead slowing down suddenly and the vehicles in the neighbouring lanes driving fast and close to each other. Too close, I thought, trying to recall the stopping distances from my practice theory tests. I couldn’t see past the truck so didn’t know what was causing the build-up. Maybe it was roadworks, or just the rush hour starting. I remember hoping it would clear soon, because even though I was early, I didn’t want to get stuck in a jam.
I remember looking to my right at the traffic driving down the middle lane. I remember a silver Mazda hovering at my side.
And I remember the person in the passenger seat turning to look at me.
Our gaze met. Only for a split second, but it was enough for him to recognise my face.
Nick’s eyes widened in surprise, then his head whipped round to the driver.
The car passed so quickly, I didn’t actually see Jen.
Nor did I see Emily sitting in the back, although I instantly felt her presence – she was so close to me, only separated by metal and dust and air. I instinctively wanted to chase after her, but the cars were nose-to-tail and there was no space.
I started to shake. I had to grip the wheel really hard to keep driving straight. I poked the car out beyond the lorry, my eyes searching for the silver Mazda. But several cars were now between us and it was hard to keep track of it.
Then I caught it again. A shiny silver bolt swerving from side to side. It must have clipped the edge of another vehicle, because it started to spin. Round and round, out of control. Everyone was braking, and cars were shunting into each other. A lorry tried to get out of the way, but it jackknifed across the lanes, forming a barrier and blocking my view. Its canvas sides billowed like sails as cars thundered into it. It looked oddly beautiful.
I should have reacted to the truck in front of me as it screeched to a halt; should have pushed both feet into the floor and done an emergency stop, like Sam had taught m
e. But I was picturing Emily, a princess in her silver carriage, spinning round and round like she was on a fairground ride.
39
Anna
Anna
* * *
‘You look amazing, duck,’ says Margaret as I walk into the office on Monday morning. ‘You’re giving off a glow of happiness.’
‘Oh, per-lease,’ I laugh, setting my bag down on my desk and taking out a plastic box of sandwiches. Leftover roast chicken tossed in mayonnaise, with cucumber slices to add moistness. Chris made them this morning. He has an identical round in an identical box in his briefcase.
Margaret pulls her crocheted top over her round tummy. ‘Honestly, you’re like a different person. I’m so happy for you, Anna.’
‘Don’t get too excited. It’s very early days.’ I switch on my computer, leaving it to crank up while I take the lunch box to the kitchen area and put it in the fridge. Margaret imprints on me like a duckling, following me back and forth as I fill the kettle, then go back to my desk to key in the password.
‘You’re already living together, so it must be serious,’ she continues. On our return journey, she finds our mugs on the draining board and pops a tea bag into each. ‘I expect once Chris’s divorce comes through …’ I can see the thought bubble popping above her head. I’m wearing a white meringue dress and Chris is in top hat and tails.
‘Never again, I’m afraid,’ I say, forgetting myself for a moment. I pour on the boiling water and the tea bags bounce to the surface, then sink again.
‘Oh. So you were married before, then?’ Margaret looks very satisfied with her wheedling skills. ‘I thought something like that must have happened. When you first arrived in Morton, you seemed very … well, I don’t know how to put it … lonely.’
‘Luckily I made some good friends,’ I reply, slopping in milk. She looks at me curiously as I remove my bag with a spoon and take the mug back to my desk. No, Margaret, I think, I’m not going to say any more; you already know too much.
I sit down, swivelling the chair to face the monitor and clicking on my inbox. None of the email titles are interesting enough to draw me away from my thoughts. Living together. I wanted to contradict Margaret just then, but the evidence is against me. Chris and I are living together. We share a bed at night (his, usually), we cook for each other and eat in front of the television. We go for long walks along the river and enjoy meals at the local pub. We are a couple. A duo. A pair bond. An item.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, and the first few days – especially after he discovered Emily’s photo – were a little bumpy, but now we seem to be rubbing along fine. I told him I wasn’t ready to talk about my past yet, that I might never be ready. If he was going to keep asking questions, then we might as well stop before either of us got too emotionally involved. He says he only cares about the here and now, but it’s impossible to tell what’s really going on inside another person’s head. Everybody lives in a secret world of one. I’ve learnt that from my experiences, if nothing else.
I’m going to visit my old flat this evening after work, while Chris does his weekly shift at St Saviour’s. I’m not giving in my notice on the tenancy just yet – if something goes wrong between us, I don’t want to be homeless. I haven’t stepped inside the place in weeks and it’ll need a dust. I also want to pick up a few more things: some clothes, some sheets and a couple of items for the kitchen, including a wok I bought when I first moved to Morton but have never used.
At lunchtime, I eat my sandwiches with Margaret – Chris usually joins us, but he’s had to go to Stafford for a meeting. It isn’t warm enough to sit out, but neither of us can bear to eat at our desks, so we put on our coats and find a bench in the pedestrianised part of the shopping centre. As I tear apart a large slice of chicken with my teeth, I realise that I feel ever so slightly … what is the word? Contented. And yet this new life really isn’t me. Not in any sense of the life I used to live, or the future I’d once imagined for myself. I’m in an ordinary town with a dead-end admin job. I seem to be in a relationship with a sweet, unambitious divorcee who loves God. As a disguise, it’s perfect. As real life, it’s absurd.
‘What’s so funny?’ Margaret waves her paper napkin at the pavement and a flurry of sparrows gathers at her feet to feast on the crumbs.
I was so lost in thought, I hadn’t realised I’d laughed out loud. ‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ I say. ‘Just the way life turns out.’
The afternoon passes as it always does – dominated by emails and punctuated with cups of tea and inconsequential office chatter. I work steadily through, responding to enquiries or forwarding messages on to other departments, and by five, my inbox is virtually empty.
‘Doing anything special tonight?’ asks Margaret as we wait outside the lifts.
‘Not really. I’m popping back to my old flat to pick up some more stuff and flick a duster about. Then I’ll probably watch that ITV drama while I’m waiting for Chris to pick me up.’
‘Oh yes, it’s good that – we’ve been glued. I think it’s the final episode tonight.’ Margaret lifts her shoulders and gives me a toothy grin. ‘Can’t wait!’
* * *
I take the familiar route through the municipal gardens, crossing the river via the pretty iron bridge, then following the tarmac path that skirts the vast playing fields belonging to the rugby club. Autumn is on its way and some of the trees on the opposite side of the Rec are already starting to turn. There’s a flat breeze blowing across the trimmed grass, and the sky is large and grey. Apart from a couple of dog walkers, I’m the only person around.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of the tatty terraced house I used to call home. I haven’t been here for a while, and the tiny front garden is full of litter. The gate squeaks as I pass through, and weeds are sprouting through the cracks in the concrete path. I turn the key, giving the ill-fitting door the usual shove with my knee.
To my surprise, there are no letters for previous tenants or junk mail on the doormat. Maybe the landlord has been over, I think. Or maybe somebody has moved in upstairs. I insert the deadlock key and try to turn it, but the door to my flat is already unlocked. Cursing the landlord for not locking up properly after him, I put the Yale key in instead, pushing the door open. I flick on the light switch and am walking down the narrow hallway towards the kitchen, thinking about tenants’ rights and whether the electricity meter will need topping up, when I hear a low voice behind me.
‘How you doing, Jen?’
That voice.
That voice, saying my name.
My body freezes. I don’t turn. A sick, empty feeling attacks my stomach. My eyes dart to the back of the flat. Dare I make a run for it? If the door to the yard is unlocked, if I can climb over the fence … But I can’t move. Not even a centimetre. My feet feel like they’re part of the floor.
‘Sorry if I scared you.’ He walks up to me and rests a hand on my shoulder. An icy shiver rushes through me. ‘We need to talk.’
He turns me round slowly to face him, and our eyes meet. ‘How the fuck did you get in here?’ I say.
Sam gestures towards the doorway of the front room. ‘Shall we sit comfy?’ He takes my hand and leads me across the threshold. Several empty beer bottles and pizza boxes are strewn across the glass coffee table, and there’s a grubby sleeping bag screwed up on the sofa. ‘Not a bad place to kip down,’ he says. ‘Lounge, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, does what it says on the tin. Luxury compared to the streets. But not the kind of luxury you’re used to.’
‘Have you been squatting here?’
‘Squatting’s an ugly word. I prefer sofa-surfing.’
‘How did you know I was going to be here today? Did Chris tip you off?’
‘Chris?’ He looks at me in mock astonishment.
‘You know full well who Chris is.’
‘Do you mean the guy at the homeless shelter?’
‘Don’t try to protect him. Did he tell you this place was emp
ty? Did you get him to steal my keys, did you make a copy?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I saw you going away a few weeks ago, so I broke in through the back door. I’ve been waiting all this time. Sit down, eh? We can’t talk properly standing up.’
I drop onto the sofa. My knees are knocking; I pull them together tightly and fasten them with my hands. ‘What is it you want?’
He sits in the armchair opposite, silhouetted by the evening sun that’s streaming through the windows. ‘I couldn’t believe it was you down the industrial estate. Thought I was seeing things at first. Put it down to the spice. But then you turned up again at St Saviour’s and I knew for sure it was you. I followed you home that night. Kept watch. Asked after you at the shelter, and the guy – must be this Chris you mentioned – said your name was Anna.’
‘My name is Anna. I changed it by deed poll.’
‘Yeah … Something drastic must have happened to make you do that.’
‘Please can we stop playing games. I’m sure you know all about it.’
He shakes his head. ‘But I don’t, Jen, honestly, I don’t know anything. You’re in hiding, I’ve worked that much out. Nobody would come to this dump of a town otherwise. Not a woman like you. But who are you hiding from? Your ex-husband?’
I make sure I’m looking him straight in the eye, so I can assess his reaction. If he’s faking, I’ll be able to tell. ‘Nick’s in a coma,’ I say.
‘A coma?’ He puffs a breath out, like somebody’s just hit him in the stomach. ‘A coma?! Fuck!’ Either he’s an incredible actor or this is genuinely news to him. I’m almost sure it’s the latter, but I’ve still got to be careful what I say. Now is not the time to give anything away.
