by Adam Croft
‘It’s not that at all, is it? You’ve met someone else.’ There’s pain and anguish in her voice. I knew I should have said all this earlier before she got too attached. And now I’m going to have to deal with a psychotic bunny boiler for the next few weeks.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, trying to defuse the situation.
‘No, it’s true, isn’t it? Who is it? Really, I won’t mind.’ Her voice has changed completely. Now she sounds calm again, confident almost.
I know for a fact she will mind, though. There’s no way on earth I can tell her. If she knew, it would kill her. ‘I haven’t met anyone,’ I tell her.
‘Is it Tash?’
I force a laugh and shake my head. ‘No, Emma. It’s not Tash. I promise.’
57
Nick
It was the jumper that did it. The old university jumper that so many people at the uni had. I remember the first day I spoke to Emma and noticed that the badge on hers was slightly different.
The university had a rather bizarre emblem that was emblazoned across everything: a pelican with a pen in its mouth. It was some obscure reference to a half-famous writer who once went to the university years ago. Only Emma had altered hers by undoing the stitching on the embroidered badge and replacing the pen with an embroidered spliff. It was a very bold but understated move from someone so quiet and reserved. Almost like a silent protest. Most people didn’t notice, and if they had she probably would’ve got into a lot of trouble, but it was one of the things that first attracted me to her.
I think back to that day in her dorm room, when I told her I was ending our relationship. Now it all makes sense. She’d reacted so calmly that day, it could only ever have meant one thing. They say it’s the calm ones you need to watch out for. The ones who bottle it all up, planning ahead, quietly working away in the background while everyone worries about the hotheads who are blowing their lids.
I’d been right back then when I suspected Emma would react badly. I could tell as we were speaking that she was devastated but didn’t want to say anything. I think I wanted to believe she was just holding it all in, trying to put a brave face on things. But now I see it for what it really was.
I can also see why Emma was right back on the scene, acting like the caring and concerned friend. She needed to know the inside scoop. Needed to make sure I didn’t mention the Jen Hood emails to anyone. Wanted to know what the police were doing and when. Like the criminal returning to the scene of the crime to witness the fallout. Realising this now makes me feel physically sick.
Did she know that I’d asked her to invite Tasha over because that’s when the attack was planned? No. She couldn’t have done. It’s impossible. But my heart lurches as I remember something else: Emma said that Cristina and Leanne had cancelled that night so it was just going to be the two of them. Just Emma and Tasha. Why was that? Was she going to take the opportunity to kill her herself? If so, why didn’t she just do that weeks, months, years ago? If she wanted Tasha dead, why not kill her? She probably knew she wouldn’t get away with it. Couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe recently she’d felt the net closing in and realised it might be the only way. It still doesn’t explain it properly, but right now my brain is a huge muddle.
It’s strange. Some things are becoming far more confusing, but a lot of things are a whole lot clearer. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. Perhaps I was blind to it. Perhaps I didn’t want to think about it. Emma played the long game, and she played it well. All these years she’s waited, watching me and Tasha getting together after I told her we weren’t an item, watching us get married and try and fail to have kids. What was going through her mind at that point? Was she delighting in watching us crack and fall apart? And what effect did it have on her when we finally conceived and Ellie was born?
I think back, trying to work out at what point I could have spotted things going wrong. Emma had seemed genuinely pleased when Tasha and I finally told her we were going out. The weirdest thing is, that didn’t strike me as odd back then. I guess I was too loved up and too involved in the whole situation to even see it. I suppose I just assumed she was actually over it. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The day Ellie was born, Emma was one of the first people to see her. I remember how she just stood staring at her, with what I thought was wonder and amazement in her eyes. Now I know what that look really meant. That was the day her life really changed and she knew there was no going back. She knew she was going to have to do something drastic.
But why now? Why wait until Ellie was five? What significance did that have? Probably none. Perhaps it was just the point at which everything had piled up and she finally snapped. Why that morning? Did she happen to just be passing or coming to see us for some reason and decided on a whim to take her chance? In a way I hope so, because the alternative is that she must have been watching, morning after morning, following us. But I take some comfort in the fact that if that’s true then I really can’t blame myself. She would’ve done it sooner or later, whenever the right moment came.
Either way, it’s all academic. Right now, my priority is getting Ellie back.
I’m shaking as I put my shoes on and leave the house. I decide to go by foot. I’m not quite sure why, whether I think it’ll be easier to lose anyone who’s following me – not that it matters, seeing as I’m about to sort this all out once and for all. Besides, I don’t fancy having a drink-driving charge added to my list right now. When I get to Jubilee Park, I break from a jog into a sprint.
Eventually, I reach Emma’s house. Before I walk up the path, I stop for a moment to compose myself and catch my breath. If Ellie’s here, she’s probably safe. As soon as Emma is surprised or caught unawares, that could all end. I’m acutely aware that Emma holds all the cards right now.
I ring the doorbell. A few moments later, I hear footsteps, and then Emma opens the door. I give her my best smile and say hello.
58
Nick
‘Nick, come in,’ she says. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘I went for a walk. Trying to clear my mind, you know. I was passing so thought I’d pop by and say hi.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I was just off to bed in a bit. Long day tomorrow. Do you want a drink or something?’
‘Just a glass of water would be great,’ I say, my throat parched from the run.
‘Nothing stronger? You’ve had a couple already. I can smell it. I thought you’d cut down.’
I smile and let out a small chuckle.
‘Rumbled. Go on, then,’ I say.
We walk through into her living room. It’s paining me to have to go through this charade, knowing that Ellie is probably sitting up in the attic wondering what’s happened. Every fibre of my being wants to just take Emma clean out, right here and now, and rush upstairs to grab my daughter. But something inside me stops me.
It’s the rational logic that Emma’s had years to plan this. She’s unlikely to have missed much. It’s not as if I’m just going to be able to shimmy up the loft ladder, grab Ellie and go. What if she’s booby-trapped it somehow?
There’s a good chance the stress, lack of sleep and alcohol are making me think crazy thoughts, but this is hardly a normal situation.
Whichever way I look at it, though, I need to get to the point.
I make sure I’ve positioned myself closer to the doorway. Closer to the kitchen, too, should a weapon be needed.
‘So how are you bearing up?’ she asks. She’s a good actress. She always was.
‘I’ve had better times,’ I reply. ‘I was thinking today, actually, about the uni days. How we didn’t have any of the stresses of adulthood.’
A nostalgic smile spreads across Emma’s face. ‘I think about those days a lot,’ she says.
‘Tash doesn’t. I think she just saw it as a means to an end. Most people have their graduation photos on the wall. Tash has just thrown hers in the loft somewhere, along with her jumper and eve
rything.’
‘Her jumper?’
‘Yeah. Her university one. The one with the logo on.’
Emma’s smile has faded slightly. Not much, but it’s noticeable. ‘Why a jumper of all things?’
‘Why not?’ I reply. ‘Where did you put yours?’
She swallows. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.’
‘It’s probably in your loft,’ I say, readying myself. ‘What else is up there?’
Emma is silent for a few moments.
‘Nick, what’s this all about?’
I keep my face neutral.
‘I’ve worked it all out. I’ve been reading the whole situation wrongly for years. You never got over us, did you? You never came to terms with me getting together with Tasha, and when Ellie was born it crushed you. Didn’t it?’
Emma’s voice is calm and quiet. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’ She seems almost emotionless now, and that’s what scares me the most. Angry, I can deal with. Upset, fine. But this cold, impassive voice and vacant look in her eyes is starting to worry me.
‘No, I know exactly what I’m saying,’ I tell her. ‘And I know exactly where Ellie is.’
‘You don’t know a thing,’ she replies, this time firmer. She seems to have a steely resolve.
All I can do is nod and look at her, my eyes searing into her as I try to calm myself and ensure that I make the right moves to keep Ellie safe. The last thing I want is for Emma to flip and harm her. She could harm me, too. For all I know she could have a knife concealed up her sleeve. She’s a lot closer to the side cabinet than I am, too. She could pull anything from one of those drawers before I’d even manage to get close. ‘Why Jen Hood?’ I ask her.
Emma’s head snaps towards me. This has clearly shocked her. But that look only lasts for a brief second before the calm descends again and she smiles. ‘It’s an anagram, Nick. I would’ve thought a clever man like you could work out something as basic as that. John Doe. The anonymous man. It didn’t matter who Jen Hood was. She could’ve been any old John Doe.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re insane.’
‘That’s what you think,’ she replies, like a petulant schoolgirl. I feel slightly relieved that my insult didn’t rile her. I regretted it as soon as I said it, but now I realise I can get away with pushing a little harder.
‘Tell me why, Emma. Tell me why you wanted me to kill Tasha.’ I try to say this in a way that’s calming, understanding. Deep down, that’s what all people want, isn’t it?
‘Because I loved you, Nick. I still do love you. Do you have any idea what that means?’
‘I know what it means to most people,’ I say. ‘But I’m not quite sure what it means to psychopaths.’
She raises her voice for the first time. ‘I am not a psychopath!’ She blinks and reverts to her calm quietness. ‘Ellie is safe. She’s far safer with me than she is with her, anyway.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ I say, meaning every word. ‘But she needs to be back with her parents.’ Emma says nothing, so I ask her another question that’s been burning away at me since I realised it was her. ‘Why try to get me to kill Tasha? If you wanted us to be together, why would you risk me getting arrested and thrown in jail? Then you wouldn’t have had me anyway. Why not just hire a hitman?’
‘Because I wanted you to prove it, Nick. I wanted you to prove your love for me. I should have been her mother,’ Emma replies, choked. It’s the first sign of any emotion I’ve seen from her in years.
‘How would that prove anything?’ I ask. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It does,’ she replies, as if I’m the mad one. ‘She should have been ours.’
I shake my head. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that she isn’t. She’s mine. Mine and Tasha’s.’
‘It would have kept us together, Nick. It would have changed everything. She was the only thing keeping you and Tasha together, too. But you don’t have her any more. I do. You need to come back to me.’
I laugh involuntarily. ‘I can’t do that. She’s not our child. She’s mine and Tasha’s.’
Emma moves towards me far more quickly than I can even anticipate. I go to defend myself, but something stops me. It catches me unawares because her movement is not threatening, not violent; it’s smooth and fluid.
She’s pressed up against me, trying to kiss me, forcing her tongue into my mouth and her hand down the front of my jeans. I keep my teeth clamped shut and struggle against her, trying to push her away from me.
‘Let’s do it, Nick,’ she says. ‘Let’s have one of our own. Let’s secure our love.’
I wriggle free and push her as hard as I can. It’s all I have. It all seems to happen in slow motion. She stumbles backwards and groans like a wounded animal as her head bounces off the corner of the coffee table.
I take my chance and head for the stairs.
59
Nick
I take the stairs two at a time, my feet pounding down on them as I yell Ellie’s name. When I get to the top of the stairs, I realise I’ve never been up here before. I’m disorientated. In all the years Emma’s lived here, we’ve never been invited upstairs. Not that we should have been, but it strikes me as odd.
There was never any reason. We’ve only been here probably a handful of times, and that was always for drinks or a bite to eat. With a downstairs toilet, what point was there in going upstairs?
I look around for a loft hatch. There isn’t one. There are three doors off the hallway, all of them closed. I listen behind each one. I can’t even picture the video now. Was it definitely a loft? Could it have been a storage room or spare room? No, it was definitely a loft. I swear I remember seeing rafters and a skylight. Then I notice another set of stairs above the ones I’ve just climbed. I can only imagine they lead to the loft.
I run up those stairs, too, and get to the top. There’s just a brown wooden door, standing stern and solid. Nothing else. It looms in front of me, the last barrier stopping me from finally being able to get my daughter back. I yell Ellie’s name and hear her call ‘Daddy’. In that instant, my heart explodes and shatters. The adrenaline is coursing through my veins, making it hard to breathe. Everything has closed down to complete tunnel vision. All I can see is the door in front of me, and I visualise Ellie standing behind it, terrified. I tug at the handle and shoulder-barge the door, but it’s not moving.
‘Stand right away from the door, sweetheart,’ I shout. ‘I’m coming in.’ I try to make my voice sound strong and confident, but it feels like electricity is flowing through me and I realise I sound like an adolescent schoolboy.
I’m mere seconds away from getting my daughter back. From ending this whole situation. My legs feel like jelly, but I know I need to summon up the strength and power to get through this door first. It’s the last thing I have to do.
As I step backwards ready to throw myself at the door, Emma wraps her arm around my neck. For a moment, I feel my windpipe crunch slightly, and my instinct is to react. It all happens within a split second. Without even thinking, I grab her arm and pull it downwards, the adrenaline surging through me as I wrench her arm around and hear the shoulder pop like a cork gun at a funfair.
She yowls in pain as I let go and instinctively bend my leg at the hip and kick backwards, feeling my boot connect with her stomach before there’s nothing – just air and silence, until the sickening thud as her head hits the wall on the landing at the bottom of the attic stairs. It feels like minutes, but it can only have been a second or two at most.
There’s silence.
Instantly I know she won’t be coming round from hitting her head this time. I don’t need to look to know that – not having heard the sound – but I do. Her eyes stare forward, empty and glassy, as the blood trickles from her nostrils. There’s pain on her face. Not physical pain, but pure sorrow and anguish. Her soul looks empty.
I don’t even stop to think about how I’m going to explain this or what it
means for me. It doesn’t matter. There’s only one thing on my mind right now. Only one thing that matters, that means more than anything else in the world. I throw everything I’ve got at the door. Once, twice. My shoulder is screaming, the pain shooting up and down my arm and across my back. I ignore it. No pain right now can be greater than the thought of coming so close and not being able to get Ellie back. Finally, on the third barge, the door gives.
It takes a second for everything to adjust. For the sound of the door splintering open to stop echoing around the loft space. For the dust to clear. For my eyes to get used to the light in here.
The room’s dark, save for a glowing yellow lightbulb that hangs from one of the rafters. In the corner, I see a pair of scared, tired eyes looking out from behind a cardboard box. She looks so confused. Petrified, puzzled and weary all at the same time. My heart melts.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I say, trying to sound as calm and reassuring as I can. I’m anything but calm inside, but I know I need to stop Ellie from worrying or panicking. She’s probably been through so much of that already this week. The thought breaks my heart. ‘It’s me. It’s Daddy.’ My voice cracks as I speak. I swallow, trying to fight back the tears from my eyes.
As I move over to the boxes, Ellie crawls out and slowly stands up before walking over and wrapping her arms around my legs. We stand like that for a good minute or so, not wanting to let go, before I bend down and pick her up.
I look into her eyes and see that the scared, tired look is starting to fade. It’s gradually being replaced with a look of happiness and the sort of childhood contentedness that adults no longer feel. She looks so tired. But she knows it’s me. And she knows she’s safe.
The overwhelming feeling is one of serene familiarity. The dead weight of my tired daughter, the warmth of her soft skin, her unique scent. They’re all things I’ve missed, all things I’ve dreamed of. All things I never thought I’d experience again.
