It’s achingly brief – but then that’s Richard when it comes to text messages and technology in general. I would bet I’ve got dozens of similar replies from him when we’ve messaged back and forth about far more normal things.
Me: Can you come home now?
The reply isn’t instant – but it doesn’t take long.
Not yet.
Me: They’ve arrested Atal
I stand in the hall, waiting for a reply. Hoping for a reply. This could be the reason why Richard is hiding wherever he’s hiding. He knows that Atal did something – but he’s been waiting for the police to take action.
The grandfather clock ticks around for almost five minutes until I surmise that there’s nothing coming back any time soon. It’s nearly eleven o’clock – and it’s been yet another long day in a series of long days.
I take myself upstairs, to check in on a sleepy Kylie. She’s already in bed but asks how Theresa and Atal are doing. I say there won’t be much news until morning – and she’s seemingly too tired to want more.
When I get into bed, I place the phone on Richard’s pillow. It’s comforting to have it close and I have a sense that there’s more to come. I figure the buzz of the evening will keep me awake – but the length of the day has a greater toll. I remember pulling the covers up high under my chin and then…
I’m drifting and dreaming and yet the world is quaking. I think there’s water, or maybe it’s grass. Everything is rumbling and jumping and…
I’m in bed and there’s something vibrating close to my head. Light bounces around the ceiling and it takes me a moment to realise the phone is pulsing. My eyes strain through the dark, fighting the tiredness. The red digits on the clock beam through the gloom, telling me that it’s four minutes past four.
There’s a text message waiting for me.
Go to Fuel’s Gold for 9am. Wait behind the old fuel tank and don’t be seen.
*
THIRTEEN YEARS OLD
We’re at the kitchen table as Auntie Kath puts the plate of toast down in front of me.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything on it?’ she asks.
I mumble a ‘no’ and pick up the first half-slice of bread. Of course I want something on it. I’d love jam, or marmalade – except that I keep finding myself saying ‘no’ to things when I wish I’d said ‘yes’. I think my aunt knows this because she always comes back to check, except that I do the same thing again.
‘How was school?’ she asks. I glare at her, which she seems to take as an answer. ‘I need to talk about tomorrow,’ she adds.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I know you don’t – but I’m going to say this anyway.’
I bite the toast and then make a point of chewing and chewing, trying to keep my mouth full enough so that I don’t have to say anything.
‘Court is not a good place for you,’ Auntie Kath says. ‘Definitely not tomorrow, in any case. I know you want to be there for the verdict but it can’t happen.’
‘He’s my dad.’
‘I know he is, love.’
I hate the way she stares at me sometimes, when her eyes are kind and full of pity. At times, it feels like there’s nothing worse. I want her to be angry, like I am. I want us to go to court together and let everyone know that this isn’t right before it’s too late.
‘He didn’t do anything wrong. Why can’t I tell them that?’
‘We’ve been through this. Your dad’s lawyers and the lawyers from the other side agreed to accept everything you told the police. They believed every word you said. Because of that, you didn’t need to say it all again. They already gave that evidence to the jury. It’s called accepted evidence – because they accepted it as true.’
I have another bite of toast, chewing and chewing once more as I try to think of a reason that I have to be in court.
‘I want to see Dad,’ I say.
‘I know, love. You will – but not in court. Your dad’s lawyer doesn’t think it would look good if you’re in the public gallery when you’re supposed to be at school.’
‘But I want to tell them that he didn’t do anything.’
Auntie Kath smiles that stupid smile she does when she can’t think of anything to say.
I put down the slice of toast I’m holding and push away the plate. ‘I’m not hungry.’
She doesn’t touch the plate. I don’t know why I’m saying I’m not hungry. I am – and my aunt knows it. Nobody is fooled and the only person who’ll lose out is me by not eating.
I still don’t reach for the plate, though.
Auntie Kath is still watching when the phone on the wall rings. She glances up to the clock to see that it’s almost half-past four, and then she checks her watch as if making sure.
‘Is that—?’
My aunt cuts me off with: ‘They said it would be tomorrow…’ before hurrying to the phone and plucking the receiver from the cradle.
I watch her, hoping for a big smile to appear on her face that will let me know Dad’s on his way back. I’m sure I’ll be able to see the result before hearing it.
‘Okay.’ She’s nodding and there’s no smile yet. ‘I understand. Is that—? … Oh, no, right, I get it…’
Still no smile – though she turns her back slightly towards me.
‘Is that everything? … No more tonight then? … All right, I’ll tell her.’
I wait… but I already know.
Auntie Kath turns and I can see the answer in her face. She steps across the kitchen and crouches, then presses a hand to my shoulder. Which is when I burst into tears.
Twenty-Six
THURSDAY
Kylie and I have already run out of things to talk about with one another. Before she left for university, we wouldn’t actually see each other that much, largely because she’d either be in her room, or she’d stay on at college to be with her friends. After the reunion between us, it’s like those old walls are back. I don’t know what to say to her – and that problem seems to be mutual.
We sit at the kitchen table eating breakfast together – toast with jam for me, porridge for her – but she barely looks up from her phone. I don’t risk showing her the phone that came through the letter box, although that’s largely what’s on my mind. She hasn’t mentioned Richard – but she has asked if there was any news from Theresa.
I haven’t heard anything so far and, if I’m honest, since getting the message overnight about an illicit meeting this morning, I’d almost forgotten what happened with Atal. It’s like I can only focus on one monumental event at a time.
‘Have you still got coursework to do today?’ I ask.
Kylie looks up momentarily from her phone. ‘If I can concentrate – and if your internet connection doesn’t keep dropping out. What are you up to?’
‘I’m probably going to check in with Theresa soon to see what’s going on. Do you need anything? Food? That sort of thing?’
A shake of the head. ‘I’m good.’
I finish eating and then put on my winter gear again. This ritual is one of the worst parts of the season. Nothing can ever simply happen; it has to be accompanied by ten minutes of hunting down layers – coats, scarves, gloves, hats, extra socks – and everything else.
Kylie passes me on her way up the stairs and asks if I’ll message her with any news. I say I will – and then I step out into the cold. I will be checking in with Theresa – but not yet.
I don’t want to be seen on the road, so pass through the gate onto Daisy Field and trail the hedge line up the slope. It’s the first time I’ve stepped onto here since Atal and I were here and we saw the red-jacketed shape on the riverbank. I still wish I’d ignored him and gone to check on the girl myself.
There’s little sign any of that ever happened now. The area the police were investigating has been cleared and the only indication something odd might have taken place is the tyre tracks that skirt across the hard ground towards the stream. Even those are barely mo
re than a dimple at this time of the season.
There’s no bridge across the stream – but there are a series of places where people have dropped large stones to create an easier way across. The water is at a gentle trickle for now but, when the big thaw comes, it will gush down from upstream and cover these stones. Crossing will be a dicey game then – but it’s easy enough now as I pass onto the other side of the water and continue along the line of the hedge. I soon emerge back onto the road, a couple of hundred metres down from Fuel’s Gold.
The large price board is at the front, with the pumps beyond and then the static building past that. In the age of everything being owned by the usual big companies, this is a throwback to something of years past. Like so much of Leavensfield, I suppose.
I carry on walking and the irony isn’t lost on me that this is likely the final part of the route Alice took four days ago when she was here. I pass the price board but ignore the main forecourt as I continue on to the big metal clothes recycling bin on the edge of the property. Beyond this are the woods that stretch up to the top of the hill and most of the way down the other side. It doesn’t look like much on a map but there is a few square miles of dense woodland and bracken all compacted into an area where few people explore beyond the edges.
At the back of the main building, along the side from the recycling bin, is the rusting, large cylindrical frame of an old fuel tank. I would assume it goes back decades to when putting petrol in a car wasn’t as straightforward as it is now. The only thing I know for sure is that it’s large, that the far side is shielded from view – and that this is where Richard wants to meet.
I make sure I remain out of sight from whoever might be in the shop and then I pass around the recycling bank before slotting in behind the tank. There is crumbling tarmac underfoot, with stunted weeds sprouting through the gaps. The only other things of note on the ground are a grey plastic step and what looks like a makeshift fishing rod made out of an old mop handle.
It’s ten minutes to nine – and only now that I realise how much I really do miss Richard. It doesn’t mean we have a perfect relationship and everything I said to Kylie about making a mistake was probably true… but that’s only part of it. He offered me a stability I’d never had before. I don’t know if there have been any other students apart from me but, even if there have, it would only be anyone after me about which I should be concerned.
I’ll have questions for him but that doesn’t mean everything we’ve had together these past few years should be discarded.
I just want to see him again.
And so I wait.
It’s five to nine – and then it’s nine o’clock. I recheck the message from the early hours of this morning and it definitely says nine. I figure that being a little late is fine – but then it’s five-past. Both phones say the same time – and then it’s ten-past.
I’m about to text to ask what’s happening when there’s the sound of a car engine. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the growl clings to the breeze; growing louder and louder until a car crunches across the gravel next to the recycling bin. I didn’t think Richard would be coming in a vehicle – and especially not the type of black 4x4 urban tank that just pulled in.
Harriet drives one, because of course she does.
People justify those vehicles around here because of the remoteness and the occasional bad weather – though the truth is that getting around in a regular car is simple enough. As with anything else, it’s a status thing. One person gets a big car, so somebody needs a bigger one. If one person’s sitting at a normal height in their vehicle, someone else needs to be higher.
I’m hidden from view, tucked in behind the fuel tank as the driver’s door opens… except it isn’t Richard who steps down. It isn’t even a man.
It’s Harriet.
It’s not like her car, it is her car. That’s almost the only reason I recognise her. She has a baseball cap pulled down over her face and is wearing loose, grey, jogging bottoms with a matching, zipped-up top. It’s only the car and the way she moves that lets me know it’s her. There’s no way she would have dropped off her kids at school looking like this.
At first I wonder why she delivered the phone – and has been texting me, except she makes no effort to come anywhere near the fuel tank. Instead, she opens the rear door of her vehicle, reaches in and pulls out a pair of stuffed black bin bags. She scurries towards the recycling bank, pulls down the hatch at the front, and then stuffs in the first of the two bags. When that drops, she does the same thing with the second. After that, she quickly glances over her shoulder – without seeing me – and then dashes back to her car before doing a U-turn and heading back towards the village.
Everything must have happened in less than a minute.
I check the phone but there’s no new message. It’s only when rereading it that I realise there was never a meeting promised. I’d assumed that – but all it offered was a time and a place for me to be.
As if Richard wanted me to see this…
I move out from behind the fuel tank and cross to the recycling bank. The hatch on the side has been built with a stopper attached, so that the deposited clothes cannot be pulled back out and stolen.
Which is when I realise why there’s a step and improvised rod that’s been left behind the fuel tank. When there’s a clothes recycling bin in a place like Leavensfield, valuable goods are likely to get donated because people can’t be bothered with the likes of eBay, or even taking them to charity shops. Someone will have cottoned on to this at some point – and I’d bet whoever it is has been stealing from here for years.
I take the step and the rod, feeling exposed in the daylight. If anyone drives past, I’ll definitely be spotted – but I don’t want to wait for it to be dark again.
Standing on the step gives me the angle to lean into the hatch, while the rod has been built with a hinge in the middle that lets it arch around the security divider.
None of that means it’s easy. I feel like I’m on one of those arcade machines when the claw comes down to grab the prize, only to snaffle air.
It’s a good five minutes before I finally grab one of the black bags Harriet deposited. I decide to leave the second bag, for now at least – and so take the rod, step and first bag back behind the fuel tank.
The bag is full of something soft and, when I open it, there are children’s clothes on the top. The first item is a yellow sweatshirt with a daffodil on the front. It’s small and shapeless, probably for a young girl. I return it to the bag and start to reach for something else before I change my mind. The sweatshirt might well be for a girl – but it’s not the type of thing Harriet would allow her daughter to be seen wearing. It’s too garish and the material too cheap.
I check it over again, spotting where the hem along the bottom has started to fray. There’s also a small hole under the right armpit. It feels completely unrelated to something Harriet might have – which is when I see the name tag that’s been sewn into the collar.
ALICE PRITCHARD
*
THIRTEEN YEARS OLD
The visiting room of the prison is like the cafeteria at school – but it’s a lot cleaner and quieter. Instead of kids making their chairs screech and the echoing cacophony of people sitting, standing and talking loudly, there’s silence.
‘Is it always this quiet?’ I ask.
Dad shakes his head. ‘This isn’t the usual visiting hours, Mads. They set this up especially for you. This room would usually be full with people. It’s so loud, you can barely hear each other talking.’
He reaches out and I let him take my hand.
‘Is this where Auntie Kath visits you?’ I ask.
‘Yup.’
‘Is it noisy then?’
‘It sure is.’
Dad’s thinner than when I last saw him, even in his face. There’s much more grey in his stubble and on his head, too. I think about saying this to him, although I’m not sure if it’s the type of thing
he’d want to hear. He probably already knows.
‘I wrote down the cricket scores for you,’ I say as I stand.
The pair of guards over near the door both watch me as I dig into my pocket and remove the folded-up sheet of paper. When I came in, they made me show them the page and someone took it away to read.
I flatten the page on the table and then slide it across to Dad.
‘They asked me if it was code,’ I say.
‘Who did?’
‘The man who let me into the prison. He looked it all over and asked if it was a code but I told him it was just cricket scores.’
Dad smiles but it doesn’t feel as if he’s particularly happy. He reads through the page and then turns it over to check the back.
‘This is very good of you,’ he says.
‘I copied it out of the paper. Then Auntie Kath said I could have just brought you the paper – but it was too late by then.’
He smiles again and then folds the page back up again. ‘I think I prefer your writing.’
I wait, wanting him to say something more, although all he does is stare aimlessly towards the wall behind me. I turn to see whether there’s something there – but it’s only a long stretch of grey brickwork. When I look back, Dad’s watching the table instead.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Course I am, Mads. How are things with you?’
I only notice his hands are shaking because the table begins to rattle. He quickly puts both hands onto his lap and the sound stops. He won’t look at me and instead keeps staring at the table. There’s a scrape along his neck that stretches downwards from his ear. It’s red and is like the time I skidded across the playground and took the skin off my knee.
‘Auntie Kath says we can go wherever I want this weekend,’ I say. ‘It’s supposed to be dry.’
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 19
