‘Hey,’ said Alexander. ‘Come on, it’s dark down there, creepy; it’s easy to think you’ve seen something that isn’t there.’
He stepped forward and kissed my cheek.
‘You will be here when we come back, won’t you?’ he asked me.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Where else would I be?’
As soon as the Land Rover had pulled out of the drive, I unlocked the cellar door, propped it open with a box of ready-to-recycle crockery and then, to be doubly sure, taped over the latch so it could not possibly close by itself. I switched on the light, picked up the torch, just in case I should need it, and went down the concrete steps for the second time.
The cellar wasn’t nearly so oppressive in daytime. A naked bulb at the foot of the staircase illuminated the area brightly. As well as that, light from the door filtered down, and daylight also shone around the edges of a hatch that I hadn’t noticed in the dark. It obviously opened to allow wood, coal or other bulky essentials to be delivered directly to the cellar. The floor was damp, though, and slippery in places. Shiny slug and snail trails criss-crossed the walls like graffiti.
I looked around to orientate myself. There was the fuse box on the far wall and beneath it was the cardboard box where I’d rested the torch the previous evening. I followed the line of the wall over to the wood pile and realized at once that something was different. The stack was the wrong shape. The logs I’d moved then tried to replace had tumbled down in the night so there was a V-shaped gap in the stack. The alcove and the well cover were entirely visible. I looked over the logs down on to the well lid. Metal plates had been bolted on to either side of it, and these were set into the floor. The bolts were huge. They were solid. The metal plates were held together at the centre of the cover with a large, closed padlock.
Alexander must have put the bolts and the padlock there in the night, I decided. But how could he have done that without my noticing? I was certain he had been with me the whole time. I’d slept so fitfully, and every time I’d woken he’d been there, and it would have taken ages to move all the wood to get the access he would have needed. The storm had been raging and it was possible he could have drilled into the wood, and the floor, without me hearing but … How could he have?
Was I just looking at it from a different angle? Had the dark been playing tricks on my eyes when the lights went out the previous evening? Maybe the bolts had worked themselves loose or something. Maybe they’d rusted and rotted away and that was how I’d managed to lift the cover. Crouching, and taking care not to knock my head, I tugged at the rope handle.
The cover wouldn’t budge.
My heart began to race. Had I imagined the whole scenario?
Alexander had told me I was obsessed with Genevieve, and maybe he was right. Perhaps my subconscious had given me what I wanted, showing me a place where the laptop, which I’d been looking for for weeks, could have been hidden?
Or maybe my mind wasn’t quite right. I knew that sometimes what was in my head wasn’t quite how things were outside it.
After the baby was stillborn, I had remembered some events wrongly, muddling sequences and recalling thoughts as facts and imagined conversations as having taken place. The doctors told me that my confusion wasn’t unusual. It was one of the symptoms people experience when they’ve had a bad shock. It didn’t mean I was losing my mind; quite the opposite, it showed that my mind was trying to find a way to manage. I’d been so tied up in my feelings, and my sense of loss, it had been so consuming that I’d misinterpreted some of what real life was all about. Was that happening to me now?
Only, I was so certain of what I’d seen.
The lump on the back of my head was real. I reached up to touch it. My face had been smashed by the fall. That was real too. I stared down at the well cover.
It was obvious that the only way to open the well would be to take off the padlock that held the plates together.
I went back up the cellar steps, switched off the light, put the torch in its place and locked the door behind me. Then I called May. I desperately wanted to talk to her, but there was no answer on her landline or her mobile phone. Neil’s mobile went straight to answerphone too. I left messages asking them to call me, made myself a coffee and sat at the kitchen table, jiggling my legs and waiting to hear their voices. I wanted to hear familiar, normal people talking to me as if the world was a happy, straightforward place.
I wanted to feel like myself again, because I was so out of sorts now, so confused.
The phone didn’t ring.
They were probably out shopping. May always left her Christmas shopping until the last week; she said it put her in the festive spirit. They’d call when they returned.
I remembered the Christmas-tree stand. I’d promised I’d find it.
I knew it wasn’t in the house, and if it had been in the cellar I would have noticed it. I gazed out towards the dilapidated outbuildings. If I were looking for a place to store a largish item that I wouldn’t need for eleven and a half months, that’s where I would put it – out of the way.
I put on my boots and went outside. The winter sky was reflected in the puddles on the drive. Twigs and branches had been torn from trees during the night and littered the garden and the orchard and the drive. I walked around them, followed by a tiny robin. All the ramshackle barns and stables were open to the elements except the largest and oldest, at the bottom of the drive. I checked inside the trailer, peered through the overgrown ivy and brambles into the hay store, but I knew the Christmas-tree stand wasn’t there. If I had been Genevieve, I’d have put it in the big barn, where it would be protected from the weather. I paused beside its big old wooden door, the green paint peeling from its surface in wide curls revealing older, white-grey paint beneath.
I had never been inside the barn. I’d had no need to go there. I hesitated. Then I took a deep breath, pulled back the heavy iron bolt and the door swung open of its own accord.
The interior was not pitch dark. There were holes in the roof and walls which the birds and bats used for access, and patches of light fell in random places. An old tractor filled most of the space, and around and behind it were various pieces of ancient agricultural equipment and sacks of animal feed splitting at the seams, spilling their contents on to the floor.
There was a smell of damp, of bird-shit and of rodents. Dirty cobwebs billowed from the rafters.
I took a step forward. To the side of the tractor was an old fridge, and behind that was a dusty old wardrobe, the mirrors still on its door. There were piles of newspapers, their edges chewed to shreds for mice bedding. Behind, I could see more modern junk. I took a deep breath of clean, outside air and squeezed through the gap between the tractor and the furniture.
The barn went back a long way. Behind the tractor were all manner of abandoned items: bits of carpets, a roll of chicken wire, fence posts, plastic buckets. Sticking out from amongst the clutter was the shiny, ornate, red metal leg of what could only be the Christmas-tree stand.
I felt a rush of relief. I leaned down and pulled at the leg. The stand was stuck beneath a pile of things that had been thrown on top of it. I put my back against the wardrobe door and my feet against the huge rear tyre of the tractor, braced myself and tugged again. It took several goes, but gradually the stand became looser and freed itself. The release was so unexpected that I was pressed back against the wardrobe and I felt the lock snap as the door caved in behind my back. I lifted the stand over the tractor’s enormous hubcap and, as I squeezed myself back towards the open barn door, the wardrobe door silently opened.
I turned to push it shut but something caught my eye.
Inside was a bag. A pretty, pale-blue and brown, Animal-brand travelling bag.
I knew what it was – there was only one thing it could be and only one person to whom it could have belonged.
It was Genevieve’s.
I didn’t stop to think what I was doing.
I tugged it out of the wardr
obe, hauled it over the tractor’s bonnet and into the daylight. I kicked the Christmas-tree stand aside, knelt down and pulled open the zip on the bag.
The clothes inside had been neatly packed, not in haste, but with thought. In one of the side pockets, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner and various cosmetic creams had been wrapped in a towel that still smelled of washing powder. There was a pouch of jewellery.
In the front pocket was a purse full of euros and a folded piece of paper that, when I opened it, had the details of a flight scrawled on it. The flight booked was to Sicily. It was a 9 p.m. flight from Heathrow and the date was 24 July. The day Genevieve had disappeared.
The only other item in the pocket was a passport. I picked it up and opened it.
It was hers.
‘Oh sweet Jesus Christ,’ I whispered. ‘Oh God!’ There was no doubt then.
Genevieve had not gone away. She had never left. And that being the case, she must still be here, somewhere.
A car drove past on the lane beyond and I jumped. Alexander would be back soon, he’d be back any minute. If he came up the drive and saw me there, with Genevieve’s bag …
I picked up the bag and its contents, threw them back into the barn and pushed the door shut. It wouldn’t latch. I tried to lift it high enough for me to push the bolt back into its collar, but it was too heavy. Sobbing, I searched for a stone to hold it in place, found one, kicked it to make it stay, and then I ran back to the house. I didn’t have a plan, I just wanted to find my phone so I could get out of Avalon and, when I was somewhere else, I’d call for help. I didn’t know who I’d call but …
No, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave without Jamie.
Either way, I needed the phone. I searched frantically, pulling open drawers, tipping piles of paper on to the floor and going through the pockets on the coats hung in the hall, but it was nowhere. Maybe I’d dropped it in the barn. Breathless with fear and frustration, I called May again from the landline. I tried both numbers and, both times, it went through to answerphone. The only other number I could remember off the top of my head was Claudia’s. I dialled and was so relieved when Petra answered that I could hardly speak.
‘Petra, it’s me, Sarah. Listen, I need to speak to your mummy now, it’s urgent. I …’
‘She can’t talk,’ Petra said, and despite my own distress I could hear the anxiety in her voice.
I held my breath to try to stop the panicked breathing and asked as calmly as I could: ‘What’s the matter, honey?’
‘Mummy has to go to Grandma’s house and …’
I heard Allegra’s voice in the background and Petra must have put her hand over the receiver because everything went muffled for a while and then I heard a wail from one of the girls.
‘Hello?’ I called. ‘Petra, are you all right? Petra?’
She dropped the receiver and I heard frantic voices and, at the very point when I was about to cut off the call and dial 999, Bill picked up the phone and said: ‘Hi, Sarah.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I cried. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Where are you?’ Bill asked.
‘At Avalon.’
‘What about Alexander and Jamie?’
‘They’ve gone to get a Christmas tree.’
I heard another muffled conversation, Claudia’s voice, strained and more highly pitched than normal, and then a bustle of activity, then the slam of a door. Bill came back on the phone.
‘Sarah, I’m going to come and pick you up. Wait outside for me.’
‘Why? What’s happened? Has there been an accident?’
Bill sighed. I could imagine him taking off his spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
‘The police searched the old quarry this morning,’ he said, and he sounded as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘And …?’ I asked in a voice so quiet it was barely even a whisper.
‘They found a body.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I DIDN’T STOP to pack a case. I picked up my coat and ran out of the door. I heard the garden gate bang shut behind me as I ran down the puddled drive.
I reached the barn and saw, to my horror, that its door had swung open again. Genevieve’s clothes had come out of the bag where I had thrown it and were weirdly stuck to the front of the tractor; it looked as if there had been a road accident. As I heaved my shoulder against the door, I heard the sound of tyres on the drive.
Thank God, I thought, pushing the door with both hands; it was so heavy, it resisted and the car came into view, and it was not the Volvo or Bill’s big off-roader but the Land Rover, spattered in mud up to its windows with the back of a Christmas tree jutting out from its tailgate.
Alexander tooted the horn and, from the passenger seat, Jamie waved frantically through the window. I tried to put a smile on my face but I honestly couldn’t remember how to do it. Time slowed until there were several seconds between every heartbeat. The muscles in my face were retracting cautiously; I closed my eyes for a moment and felt the top lashes spring as they met the lower ones.
‘Hi,’ Alexander said, leaning out of the window. ‘What are you doing?’
He was smiling but there was concern in his eyes. I kept one hand on the door, holding it shut, blocking the inside of the barn from his view.
‘I found the Christmas-tree stand,’ I said, and my voice was like a record played at the wrong speed, like a sound effect in a horror film. I pointed at the object with the toe of my boot.
‘We got a great big tree, Sarah!’ Jamie called. ‘And I helped put it in the tube to get wrapped.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Alexander asked. He turned off the engine of the Land Rover.
‘Nothing.’
The car door opened and Alexander stepped down. His face was pale.
‘Are you all right? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
The barn door was heavy behind my back. He took a step towards me. I pressed back against the door. Dry old paint crackled and crumbled to dust behind my fingers.
‘Come on, Dad, I want to put the tree inside!’ Jamie called. He was struggling to unfasten his seatbelt. Stay in the car, Jamie, I thought. Please, please, please stay in the car.
‘Sarah?’
Alexander stood in front of me.
Now the smile that wouldn’t come before twanged on to my mouth like the smile of a puppet.
‘Why don’t you go in and put the kettle on?’ I said in a voice that had speeded up so far as to sound like it belonged to a cartoon character. I felt myself sway on my feet. I mustn’t faint, I couldn’t afford to faint now.
‘Let me see,’ he said in a quiet voice.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
He put one hand on the barn door, above my head.
I didn’t have a plan but, as he did this, I ducked under his arm, ran round him and jumped into the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. Alexander, confused, turned from the door, but I was too quick. I started the engine and, sliding forward in the seat to reach the pedals, put the vehicle into reverse.
‘What are you doing, Sarah?’ Jamie asked. He was still strapped into the passenger seat. He did not look at all worried, just a little confused. The gear grated.
‘We’re going …’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
I put the gear stick back into neutral and tried again.
‘But Sarah, we have to put the Christmas tree up!’
Jamie tried to open his door.
‘No, Jamie, don’t!’ I leaned over to grab his hand.
‘What are you doing?’
Alexander had let the barn door swing open but had not looked inside. He was walking down the drive towards us as I fought the pedals, trying to coordinate the gear and the clutch and the accelerator. His hands were at his sides, the palms turned up like the hands of Jesus in those pictures where he is beseeching God. Behind him was the tractor, strewn with Genevieve’s clothes an
d her upturned bag. He put one hand on the Land Rover’s bonnet.
‘Sarah …?’
And suddenly the gear took hold and I felt the wheels move backwards.
‘Sarah!’
Alexander thumped the bonnet with the flat of his hand and he had an awful expression on his face, but I wouldn’t look, I wouldn’t feel sorry for him. I turned my head to look over my shoulder to navigate the bend in the drive and immediately realized what was going to happen. I slammed on the brakes, but not quickly enough to avoid the awful crunch as the back of the Land Rover collided with the front of the police car that was coming the other way.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
IF I’D ONLY had myself to think about, I would have gone straight home, back to Manchester, but I could not leave Jamie behind and I could not take him with me. Genevieve’s family would not have contemplated that option for a single moment and the police family-liaison officer said it would be best for him to be in familiar surroundings, with people he knew, during what she called ‘this difficult time’. Jamie and I could not stay in the familiar surroundings of Avalon, because the police had closed the house off – literally taped over the entrance and stationed a guard by the gate – so they could conduct a fingertip search. We went to stay with Claudia’s family at the Barn. All I had with me was my coat, purse and the phone, which I’d found on the Land Rover’s dashboard. I don’t know how it got there. Poor Jamie had nothing but the clothes he had worn to the farm to cut down the tree.
The atmosphere in the Barn was awful, a mixture of grief and anger. Cutting through it were pure streaks of innocence that were the twins and Jamie. They knew somebody had fallen into the quarry but they didn’t know that the person was dead, or that it was almost certainly Genevieve. They didn’t know that everybody thought Alexander had killed her. They didn’t seem to realize the horror of the situation. They were excited about Christmas. I supposed they were used to the irrationalities of adults, their seemingly pointless changes of mood, and could not differentiate between the various levels of despair.
The Secrets Between Us Page 30
