There’s a gruff succession of swearing from somewhere behind and a series of cracking, crunching twigs. I’ve got enough of a lead that Max will hear me before he sees me, so I slide behind the trunk of a thick tree and hold my breath.
The bark is rough and there are no low hanging branches. I couldn’t climb it even if I thought it was a good idea.
Silence.
There was so much rustling on the walk here but the creatures that live in the woods must have pulled up the deckchairs to watch the show.
‘Lily…’
The name stings. It’s not mine any longer and Max knows it.
‘Come out, come out wherever you are…’
The light of the torch sweeps from one side of the tree to the other, not slowing or stopping. The beam is wide and dim, so he’s not that close.
‘C’mon, Olivia. We can talk about this. You’re my daughter.’
I remember Call Me Jimmy in his office, pants round his ankles, and it strikes me that this murderer’s blood is a part of me. Some people talk about nature and nurture and I had it from both sides. One father says that bad people have to be put down like dogs – and another snaps the neck of little girls.
What chance did I have?
It’s an excuse, I know. Easy to blame the parents. I killed that private investigator because I wanted to and I’m not sorry.
A twig cracks and the white flashes past again. It’s brighter this time, the light stretching further into the distance. Max is closer.
I risk a quick breath, following the sweep of the torch. He is at least giving me an idea of what’s ahead. There’s another bush off to the right, a series of trees ahead and a clearing with newer, spindlier trees to the left.
‘I’m your father, Olivia. Or Lily. Whatever you want to be called. I’m asking you to come out.’
I can’t believe he thinks that will work.
There’s a crack of a twig and a rustle of bushes. It feels as if someone’s close but there’s no way I’m risking a peek around the tree to check. Instead, I hunch low, ready to spring away if need be.
The light swishes past again. It’s closer still and I can hear his footsteps sliding across the dry dirt.
I try to crouch lower but realise there’s something under my shoe. I carefully lever myself up and remove the stone. It’s not too large, perhaps the size of an egg. Not enough to go on the attack with – in a knife versus egg-sized stone fight, there’s only one winner – but it could still be useful.
When the light sweeps past from the left to right, I wait for it to pass and then fling the stone hard to the left. Nothing happens for a second or two and then there’s a solid thwick as it cannons into a tree.
The torchlight flashes across the land towards the noise and I wait, holding my breath.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
And go!
As Max heads in one direction after the stone, I bolt in the other, darting what I believe to be towards the clearing and Olivia’s body.
It takes him a couple of seconds to realise what’s happening and there’s a roar of anger as he turns and shouts after me.
I’ve got a much bigger lead this time. There’s no point in worrying about the pitfalls underneath my feet, so I don’t. There are a couple of times where I stumble but I keep my footing each time and race on, past the clearing and the spade, barrelling into the next copse of trees and ploughing on.
When I reach the path, it’s such a surprise that I almost trip over the ridge connecting the woods to the trail. I know I’m in the right place because of the dog waste bin and I skid on an errant stone as I twist to avoid crashing into the bench.
There’s a howl of triumph as Max bursts from the trees but he’s not got me yet.
I race along the trail and the light of Max’s torch bobs up and down as it follows me. When I get to the car park, I’m going to have to run to the road and hope for the best. Hopefully there’ll be someone passing; if not I’ll have to find a place to hide.
Any tipsiness from earlier is long gone – but what I can’t avoid is that I’m not used to this. I don’t exercise and I’m anything but an athlete. Max might not be a runner either but he’s bound to have more stamina than me.
I can hear his footsteps and his breaths. He’s going to catch me. He—
Wham!
Something slams into my back and then I’m hurtling to the floor. I manage to use my hands to stop myself landing face first but that’s about the only thing I achieve. My right knee hammers into the hard path and the earth scrapes deep into my palms. I skid and roll, hoping I’ll somehow land free and be able to spring up.
That doesn’t happen.
Even if I was clear, my legs aren’t working properly. Pain shoots upwards from my knee and I can’t do anything other than collapse down onto the path. Max is clinging onto my other leg. He yanks me backwards, spitting and snarling, and all I can think of is poor Iain in his wheelchair. He assumed it was Ashley but I suspect it was Max. After all, in Max’s own words, Ashley is all talk.
That doesn’t help me now though. I won’t be waking up in a hospital. If I can’t get free, I won’t be waking up at all.
I kick and thrash, connecting with something solid, though it makes little difference. Max rams an elbow into the knee I landed on and then, before I know what’s happening, he’s straddled across my waist, knife in hand.
Thirty-Seven
BANG!
There’s a fleshy thump and Max slumps to the side. It takes me a moment to realise that he’s no longer on top of me. I kick his legs away and roll onto my side, oohing and aahing the entire time.
The moon has crested over the top of the trees, lighting the length of path, and there, standing in the bluey glow, is Dad.
It’s not a ghost or an illusion, no figment of my imagination, it’s Olivia’s father.
My father.
The moonlight reflects from his shaven head and he turns to me, blinking and disorientated.
He opens his mouth to say something but then Max groans from the floor and tries to roll over. I instinctively roll away from him but Dad launches himself onto Max, straddling across his middle and swinging his fist down hard. There’s a pulpy, mushy thunk and I realise he’s not simply punching with his fist, he’s holding the type of stone I was looking for. Fist-sized and unforgiving.
I lose count of the number of times Dad hits him and there’s a terrible moment where I know I could stop it. One word and he’d drop the stone.
Except I don’t.
It’s like I can only choose one father and he’s the one I want.
For Dan, for Dad, it’s the years of frustration after Max stole his wife. The wasted opportunities, the thirteen years. He doesn’t even know the other man took his daughter, too.
Blow after blow thunders into Max’s skull until it’s not a skull any longer.
For as long as I live, I will never forget the spongy sound of stone on flesh.
Perhaps Dad knows I’m not Olivia. Perhaps, perhaps.
I should stop it but I don’t because I’m my father’s daughter. My real father’s daughter – and this is what Max would’ve done.
When he’s finished, Dad falls backwards and drops the stone. He rolls onto his knees and covers his face with his drenched hands and sobs. He’s out of breath, drowning in another man’s blood and it’s awful. There’s nothing I can say because he knows what he’s done and he knows it’s not something from which he can walk away.
I take his hand and pull him further along the path, away from the horror, until we’re next to a bench and another bin. There’s a plaque that says it’s in memory of someone named Alice who walked her dogs here every day. It’s normal in a world where there is no more normal.
Dad is panting when he sits. His face is smeared with blood, but so is everything else. His clothes are spattered as if he’s opened an exploding ketchup bottle.
I wasn’t sure if I believed my thir
d dad when he said that some people needed to be put down like dogs. If I wasn’t certain before, then I am now. Max would have killed me and probably found a way to get to Harry as well.
It was this or nothing.
Dad is out of breath, wide-eyed and in shock.
‘I told you,’ he says. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I told you, didn’t I? I said I wouldn’t let you down again. I said that.’
I stroke his hand but only really succeed in smearing the sticky slickness into this already tainted skin.
‘You saved me, Dad.’
He stares into the woods and he’s breathing so quickly that he’s spitting through his teeth.
I squeeze his hand. ‘Dad.’
‘I told you. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Can you breathe with me, Dad? Slower.’
I try to count for him but it makes little difference. When I reach around to his wrist and press for a pulse, I can feel it racing.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask.
‘I told you I’d be watching. Told you I wouldn’t let you down. Told you.’
I don’t think I’m going to get a better answer than that, not yet anyway. There was a moment in which I thought there was someone behind me in that alley along the rear of the Black Horse – but then I turned and someone was in front of me. Perhaps it was Dad skulking around the bins, keeping an eye on me from a distance? Maybe he’s been watching all day?
‘Why here?’
His two words are breathed rather than spoken.
It’s not like I can tell the truth – that the bones of a poor six-year-old girl are buried deep in the woods – because I am that six-year-old. The only person who can say otherwise is an unmoving mess around the corner.
‘He wanted to kill me,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘He thought I was here to get his money.’
Dad turns to me and there’s such sadness in his face that it leaves me shattered. ‘Why are you here?’
I take a breath and then say the most honest thing I’ve said all week: ‘I want someone to love me.’
Thirty-Eight
Tuesday
Nattie is waiting for me on the steps of the police station. Her hair is down and she’s wearing sunglasses. When she takes them off, she’s bleary-eyed, still hung-over from the night before.
‘I thought I had a bad night,’ she says with a weary smile.
I don’t have it in me to laugh but she wraps her arms around me and whispers that the police are at Mum’s house. It’s not a good time to go there, so we head to hers and I take a long, hot shower before borrowing a dress. Sometimes, there’s nothing quite like putting on clean clothes, even if they belong to someone else.
It’s a lovely day but my mood is dark and everything feels far too bright and sunny after the events of the previous night.
We don’t say a lot as we walk through the village, following the stream out towards Olivia’s memorial. The calligraphy letters of her name look so beautiful in the knot of the tree and I’m glad I didn’t burn the wreath when Nattie suggested it.
It’s not mine to burn.
We sit and rest our backs against the tree, my head on Nattie’s shoulder. There are a couple of parents with kids in the play park. It feels like they’re watching us but pretending they’re not – but then I’ve been thinking that for days. Nobody dares to come over.
‘You’re all anyone’s talking about,’ Nattie says.
‘What’s new?’
She sniggers but there’s no humour there.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
And I do. I really do, because it’s too much to keep to myself. I tell Nattie about being in the alley at the back of the pub and then waking up in a car boot lined with plastic. I talk about the country park and Max with the knife. Of how we walked into the woods and that he wanted to kill me – and then Dad turned up to save the day.
I don’t mention Olivia or her grave. Those are my secrets.
‘Ashley’s in custody,’ I say. ‘I don’t think he’ll be in for long because he didn’t actually do anything.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
There’s a lot Nattie can’t believe – but that’s hardly surprising. I’m not sure I can.
‘I think the police are going to want to talk to you and Rhys to match up the times we left the pub and here,’ I say.
Nattie’s head lolls against mine and I suspect she’d still be asleep in more or less any other circumstances. It feels very appealing.
‘I don’t remember much after leaving the pub,’ she says.
‘That’s all you’ll have to say.’
‘What else is going on?’
‘Max’s car was still at the country park when I left, plastic in the boot and all,’ I add. ‘They’ve got the knife, too.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to him.’
It’s hard to think about, let alone talk. I didn’t know he owned a vehicle but there was a rusty Vauxhall in the car park close to Max’s taxi. There were few moments of coherence until the police arrived and all I could get from him was that he was looking out for me. At some point, I’m sure he’ll explain… I hope he will. I scuffed my shoes whenever I could – and if he’d followed Max’s car out to the country park, there’s every chance he’d have been able to follow.
Nattie and I sit quietly for a while, watching the kids playing in the park. I count eight children who are all five or six years old and it’s hard not to think about little Olivia happily having fun in her own back garden. She’d have been full of innocence, immune to the idea that someone like Max could do something so awful. Much like Iain’s story, one moment she was playing by herself, the next… nothing.
The laughs of the children ripple around the park and I close my eyes, listening and thinking of the girl whose life I’ve stolen. It’s then that Nattie asks the same question that everyone’s going to have. The one Detective Inspector McMichael was so keen to ask.
‘Why?’
But that’s the thing: I can never give people the real ‘why’. I told the inspector that Max kept shouting about money, saying I wasn’t getting any of his and he was going to make sure of it. It’s the same thing that Ashley said at Mum’s house in front of everyone.
In many ways, it’s the perfect, clean story. Everyone in the village will know it’s the truth. They’ll believe it, because half the village have their own views on the Pitman brothers anyway. Rhys said it was all about family feuds and soap operas round here. Villagers will remember Ashley spreading rumours from his taxi and him storming into the Black Horse, only to be told by Pete that he’s barred.
It all makes sense.
But it isn’t the truth.
There are bones in the woods. Olivia is no longer here but neither is Lily. My mother was forced to give me away and then had a second daughter stolen from her. She’s known loss before and is now a widow. She’s suffered too much to lose this all over again. She doesn’t even know it and yet a man was so infatuated with her, he was willing to kill twice. If she’d dumped him and left it at that, would any of this have happened? Or would he have latched on to somebody else and ruined their life, too?
And me?
I couldn’t risk returning to Stoneridge as Lily to find out I was the unwanted child who was still not wanted. I had to be the one who was kept. The one who was cherished.
‘Money,’ I say. This is my story forever. ‘Max thought I wanted his money.’
Nattie gulps and she believes the lie in the same way everyone will.
We sit in the sun for a while longer, listening to the joy of the children until Nattie’s phone starts to ring. She answers and only says a few words before hanging up.
‘They’re done at your mum’s house.’
We walk to the post office and then I drive out to Mum’s. I’ve barely finished parking on her driveway when she’s racing out of the house in a flood of tears. She
squeezes the breath from me, clasping on so tight that it’s as if her own life is on the line.
When she pulls away, her eyes are ringed red. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.
‘It wasn’t you.’
She shakes her head and glances towards Nattie, who is out of the passenger seat and leaning on the bonnet. She talks to both of us, her voice croaky and rough. ‘Deep down, I knew Max had that side to him.’
‘You couldn’t have known he’d do this.’
Mum gulps back another sob. She’s clinging onto my hand and I’m not sure who’s comforting whom. ‘I only wanted to be loved,’ she says. ‘When you disappeared, after everything with your father… I wanted to be loved and Max was there.’
I squeeze her fingers and we share the most perfect of instants in the worst of circumstances. It’s a momentary locking of eyes, a glimpse of her very soul, and it’s in this moment that I realise more than anything that I am my mother’s daughter.
Thirty-Nine
Wednesday
The trail through Riversway Country Park looks completely different in daylight. At night, it was like the woods were far closer, the trees and foliage denser and darker. Everything felt as if it was on top of me, nature rising up to show its ominous, overpowering glory.
During the day, the path is perfect for a pleasant stroll. It’s wider than I remember; firmer, too. All the stones and low branches I saw as hazards are barely noticeable, certainly nothing to be worried about.
I take my time following the trail and there are constant flashes of recognition. The shape of a tree that seems familiar; a patch of grass on the side that I remember wondering if I could use it as a space to swing the spade towards Max.
There is police tape sealing off a patch of the path, with signs telling walkers the trail is closed. A day on from everything and there’s nobody to enforce it, so I head a few metres into the woods and walk around the track. It’s hard not to look back towards the trail and the pool of red that’s stained the ground. It will take a good period of rain to get rid of that and then Max’s final resting place will be unmarked – as it deserves to be.
The Girl Who Came Back Page 26
