The Warning

by Sophie Hannah

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  An Excerpt from Woman with a Secret

  About the Author

  Also by Sophie Hannah

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  “I DON’T BELIEVE this, Mum!” Freya wails at me. “Please say you’re joking!”

  I am not joking. She must be able to see that from my face.

  No, no, no.

  It can’t be true. I can’t have screwed up so disastrously.

  Except I have. I’ve forgotten the music for Freya’s audition. No, no, no, no, no. . .

  I didn’t exactly forget it. Not completely. I remembered to put it in the car. Then, stupidly—­so stupid that I can’t actually believe it—­I left it there. I left it in the fucking car. Now, when I urgently need it to be safely inside my bag, it’s in the Grand Arcade car park.

  I’m an idiot. Worse than an idiot. I am every bad thing.

  A vicious, skin-­piercing wind whips around my head. My hair hits my face like lashes from a cold whip. Cambridge is always either much warmer than everywhere else or much colder. Today, it’s imitating a Siberian winter.

  “What are we going to do?” Freya demands. Her eyes are wide with panic. I know what she’s hoping for: any answer that isn’t, “There’s nothing we can do. It’s too late.” She’s been practicing her audition song for weeks—­recording herself, then listening carefully to each recorded version, making notes on how to improve her vocal technique.

  Freya is nine. She’s known since the age of five that she wants to be a singer. This will be the first time she puts her voice to the test. I’m terrified of how crushed she’ll be if she fails. “I cannot mess this up, Mum,” she’s been saying every five minutes since she woke up this morning. “I have to get in. They have to say yes.”

  Now, thanks to me, she’s going to miss her chance to try. I’ve failed on her behalf. She can’t audition without her music, which her brainless mother has left in the bloody, fucking car. The only thing that mattered, the one crucial thing . . .

  My teeth are chattering from the cold. At the same time, my neck is too hot beneath my poncho. I wonder if I’m about to faint.

  “Mum!” Freya’s voice pulls me back. “What are we going to do?”

  Think, Chloe. Quickly. You have to solve this problem, and the seconds are ticking by. . .

  It’s like a math problem from one of Freya’s homework sheets. I look at my watch. We’re about ten minutes away from where the auditions are happening. It would take us ten minutes to walk back to the car park—­ten minutes in the opposite direction. Freya’s audition is in twelve minutes.

  “We’ll have to run back to the car and get the music!” she says, blinking hard, trying not to cry. “Come on! Don’t just stand there!”

  “There’s no time, Freya. Unless we suddenly both learn to fly, we won’t make it. We’ll miss your slot.” My heart thumps dizzying beats in my mouth. I tell myself that this isn’t a life-­or-­death emergency. It feels like one.

  I look at my watch again, desperately hoping time will have started to race backward. It hasn’t.

  “We can’t go back, okay?” I say, struggling to stay calm.

  “We have to!”

  “We can’t! We only have twelve minutes! It’s not long enough. You read the letter: anyone who misses their allotted time—­tough luck, they’re out.”

  ­People are staring at us as we stand on Bridge Street shouting at each other. “Freya, listen. I know this feels like a disaster, but—­”

  “It is a disaster! How can I sing without my music?”

  “You’ll have to manage. Look, we’ll pick another song—­one that whoever’s playing the piano will definitely know. It’s not ideal, but—”

  “Like what?” Freya demands. “What song?”

  “I don’t know! ‘Happy Birthday To You,’ or . . .”

  “No way.” My daughter’s face hardens. I feel like the worst kind of traitor. “Do you even know how embarrassing that would be, Mum? Happy Birthday? No! I can’t believe you left the music in the car! Why did I trust you? Give me your keys!” She holds out her hand. “Without you slowing me down, I can run back to the car and still get to the audition by half past.”

  “No way! You absolutely could not. And anyway—­”

  “Give me the car keys, Mum!”

  “Freya, there’s no way I’m letting you run through Cambridge on your own—­”

  “Give me the car keys,” a man’s voice says firmly, cutting through my frantic babbling. “I’ll go.”

  I turn to face him. He’s tall and thin, with floppy, straight, dark brown hair and brown eyes, but I don’t notice any of that at first. I’m too busy staring at his bike.

  If only I had a bike right now . . . But no, that still wouldn’t work. I couldn’t leave Freya alone in the center of Cambridge. If she were just a few years older . . . but she isn’t. She’s nine.

  “Obviously, I kind of overheard,” says the dark-­haired man. “As did all of Cambridge, and indeed most of Peterborough.” He smiles to let me know he’s teasing me in a friendly way. “Where have you parked, and where are you headed? I’ll get the music there in time or die trying.” He makes an exaggerated comic “death-­throes” face at Freya, who looks up at me hopefully.

  “Never trust a stranger,” the man tells her solemnly. “Apart from when you’ve got an important audition—­right, young lady?”

  “Right,” Freya agrees, and I’m startled by the passion in her voice.

  There is a cluster of about ten ­people standing nearby, outside Galleria, staring at us—­watching the drama unfold, wondering if I’ll say yes or no. Why do they care? It’s not a marriage proposal, for God’s sake.

  My head fills with a muddled jumble of words: only chance . . . bike . . . fast . . . yes, that’ll work . . . he seems nice . . . could be anyone, though . . . might steal car.

  Instead of giving him my keys, I could ask to borrow his bike. I’d have to ask him to wait with Freya, though, which is unthinkable. I’d sooner risk my Volvo than my child.

  As if he can read my mind, the man says, “I’ll be quicker than you. I’m the Lance Armstrong of Cambridge. Actually, these days I’m probably faster. Since he gave up drugs, poor old Lance can barely wheel his bike alongside him as far as the post office. I’ve heard there’s wheezing involved.”

  I can’t help smiling at his absurd joke. Offhand, I can’t remember a time when anyone—­friend, relative, or stranger—­has tried so hard to make me laugh and, at the same time, solve a problem for me.

  He holds out his hand for my car keys.

  I give them to him. A voice in my head whispers, “Most ­people wouldn’t do this,” but the whisper isn’t loud enough to stop me.

  Sod it. He’s our only hope of getting Freya’s sheet music to the audition on time. Whatever happens—­even if this stranger steals my battered old Volvo and I never see him or it again—­Freya will know that I did everything I could. That I took a risk to help her.

  “Nice one, Mum,” she breathes. Her approving smile tells me I’ve made the right choice. Not necessarily the most sensible choice, but the right one.


  “Grand Arcade car park, level two,” I say too fast. My words trip over themselves. Even with a bike on our side, we can’t afford to waste a second. “Silver Volvo S60, MM02 OXY. On the backseat there’s some sheet music for a song, ‘The Ash Grove.’ ”

  “And I’m bringing it to . . . ?”

  “Brooking Hall, next to—­”

  “I know it.” He mounts his bike, winks at Freya and cycles away at speed. Dangerously fast. Maybe he wasn’t kidding when he said he’d die trying. I watch him disappear, his black overcoat flying out behind him like a cape—­the kind a superhero might wear.

  “Come on, Mum!” Freya grabs my arm and starts to drag me along the street. Before too long, frustrated by my slowness, she drops my sleeve and marches on ahead.

  I hurry to catch up with her, stunned by what I’ve just done. I’ve given my car keys to a man I don’t know at all. What kind of crazy fool am I? I didn’t even ask his name, didn’t get his mobile phone number . . . What will Lorna say when I tell her?

  I know exactly what she’ll say. She might be my oldest and most loyal friend, but she also enjoys insulting me when she thinks I deserve it. “This is typical of you, Chloe.” She’ll sigh. “You’re so naïve! Why would a total stranger put himself out to help you? You deserve to have your car nicked.”

  “Darling, don’t get your hopes up, okay?” I pant at Freya, out of breath from walking too fast. “He might not get there in time. He might not turn up at all.”

  “Yes, he will,” she insists. “Stop being so negative!”

  We arrive at the hall with one minute to spare. A woman with greasy skin and a hole in her tights snaps in my face, “I’m sorry, we’re running late!” She’s carrying a beige clipboard under her arm. There are chunks missing out of its side, as if it’s been nibbled by an animal.

  Running late. I let the words sink in. Of course: we’re not allowed to be late, but they, the ­people with all the power, can keep us hanging around as long as they like.

  No need for all my panic. No need to hand over my car keys to a total stranger.

  “Sit over there,” Clipboard Woman barks at me, pointing to a row of chairs that other ­people are already sitting in. She doesn’t even look at Freya. “We’ll call your name when we’re ready for you. I’m SORRY, we’re running late . . .” she snarls at the mother and son who have just walked in behind us. They both flinch. Is there any need for her to bellow at ­people?

  Still. Thank God for this delay. The man with the bike is not here yet.

  Of course he isn’t, fool. He’ll be halfway to London by now—­cruising along the M11 in your Volvo, laughing his head off at your stupidity.

  “This is ridiculous,” a tired-­looking bald man says to the girl sitting next to him. I assume she’s his daughter. She has serious braces on her teeth. They look painful. “You were supposed to be in a half hour ago. I’m not spending the whole day sitting here.”

  I look at my watch. Eleven thirty-­two. Freya’s audition was meant to start two minutes ago. I also don’t want to wait forever. On the other hand, I would sincerely like to get my car keys back.

  If he was planning to bring them back, he’d be here by now. . .

  I hear singing in the distance. Then louder, closer. Not a child’s voice, though—­a man’s, coming from behind me. I know the song painfully well: “The Ash Grove.” Freya’s audition song, the one she’s been practicing for so long.

  “Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander,

  When twilight is fading, I pensively rove . . .”

  I spin round. It’s him. Thank you, Lord. He’s singing at me, with a pleased-­as-­Punch grin on his face. It’s a bit embarrassing in front of all these ­people.

  I want to text Lorna to report that a handsome stranger is singing to me in public. I know what she’d text back: “Pictures or it didn’t happen.” She always demands proof of everything.

  Freya gets straight down to business. “Did you get my music?” she asks.

  The dark-­haired man matches her solemn expression with one of his own as he hands over the sheets of paper. “Mission successfully accomplished, Your Highness. I pensively roved, I got your music. I even locked the car, so no need to worry about local vagrants hosting a party in it. That happened to my friend Keiran a ­couple of weeks ago. He came back to find empty cider bottles and burger wrappers all over the backseat of his hundred-­grand BMW convertible. He was not amused. So . . . what are you auditioning for?” our rescuer asks Freya. “I hope it’s going to propel you to superstardom, whatever it is.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, finding my voice at last. I must stop staring at him like someone who has seen a strange vision. I still can’t quite believe he did this huge favor for us, with no ulterior motive. He honestly wanted to help. Is anybody really so kind and selfless?

  “She’s auditioning for the chorus of Joseph and his Dreamcoat,” I say. “Only thanks to your help. If it weren’t for you, we’d be trudging home in tears right now, so . . . thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  I’m in danger of crying. How silly. Anyone would think no one had ever been kind to me before. I blink frantically.

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  Ma’am?

  Right. That’s the worst fake American accent I’ve ever heard. And . . . oh, my God, now he’s saluting me.

  “Joseph and His Dreamcoat?” he says, frowning. “Last I heard, it was called Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Have they dropped the ‘Amazing Technicolor’ part?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I just couldn’t be bothered to say it.”

  “How very maverick of you. While you’re at it, there are probably some words in the musical itself that could do with a trim. I saw it when I was a teenager—­at the Palace Theater in Manchester, my hometown—­and still vividly remember the lyrics of the song about Pharaoh: ‘No one had rights or a vote but the king / In fact you might say he was fairly right wing.’ Awful, just awful!” He sounds very jolly about it, as if awfulness is one of his favorite things.

  “The tunes are brilliant,” says Freya. “It’s a musical. The music’s more important than the words.”

  “I’m not sure I’d agree, Your Highness. When the words are that bad . . . Still, only one thing really matters, and that’s launching your career as one of the great divas of our time. Am I right?”

  “Um . . .” Freya looks at me, unsure what to say.

  “And what’s all this chorus nonsense?” our new friend goes on. “You should be going for the main part.”

  “The main part’s Joseph,” says Freya, with a trace of impatience in her voice. “I’m a girl.”

  “Well, girl or not, I think you’d make a great Joseph. Or a great Technicolor Dreamcoat—­one or the other. And don’t dare to tell me you’re not a coat! Enough of this humility!”

  Freya laughs and blushes. I laugh too. I can’t help it.

  “Okay, ladies, well . . . I’d better be on my way. Knock ’em dead. Here are your car keys. Oh, hold on . . .” Instead of my keys, he pulls an iPhone out of his pocket. It’s ringing. His ringtone is “The Real Slim Shady” by Eminem, which surprises me. He’s wearing a smart gray suit, with red bicycle clips around the bottoms of his trousers. Not a man who looks as if he’d be into rap music.

  He glances at his phone, then puts it to his ear. “Tom Rigby,” he says.

  Tom Rigby. Tom Rigby. I’m glad I know his name, though I’m not sure why. He’s a stranger. In a minute he’s going to walk out of here and I’ll never see him again.

  The conversation he’s having is obviously something to do with his work, and makes no sense to me. Something about chips and a database, and payment compliance, whatever that is. I don’t think he means the kind of chips you put salt and vinegar on. He keeps mentioning a name: Camiga, or Camigo. Perhaps it’s
a company name. It sounds like the kind of thing a serious scientific company might call itself. Very different from my own tiny business, Danglies—­but then I work alone, make earrings and earn hardly any money.

  When he’s finished talking, Tom Rigby stuffs his phone back into his pocket and pulls out my car keys. His hand touches mine as he passes them to me. “There you go,” he says. “Right, I’ve got to scoot. Best of luck, Freya.”

  He must have overheard me saying her name when we were shouting on Bridge Street. His tone has changed from teasing to straightforward. Obviously he has finished joking around and wants to get on with the rest of his day.

  Which is absolutely fair enough.

  “Thank you again!” I call after him as he rides away.

  Chapter 2

  “CHLOE, FOR GOD’S sake! Freya’s a talented singer—­of course she got in! What, do you think this Tom Rigby bloke’s got magic powers? He hasn’t. He’s just a charming, handsome man with red bicycle clips. This is Freya’s achievement, not his.”

  It is a week after the Joseph auditions. I’m in the Eagle pub on Benet Street, having a drink with my best friend and harshest critic, Lorna Tams. Lorna is 42, ten years older than me. Two years ago, she left her husband, Josh. She has since divorced him, and invented a tagline to describe him: “A nice enough bloke, but not the husband I deserve.”

  When I first met Lorna, she worked in a brewery. Now’s she’s given that up and is training to be a Methodist minister. When I asked her about the change of direction, she said, “Beer got boring.”

  I know next to nothing about the Methodist church. I hope they like their ministers to dress provocatively and simmer with disdain, or else Lorna won’t fit in at all.

  “Tom Rigby didn’t cast a spell that made the judges say yes to Freya,” she says now. “He did you a favor for sure, but he isn’t some kind of . . . good luck charm on legs.”