by Jess Ryder
‘We’ll have to stop for petrol soon,’ says Isobel, her voice breaking out of the darkness.
I turn my head from the window. ‘Okay. I’m sure you could do with a break anyway.’
‘True. And we can get something to eat.’
We leave Bristol’s dotted outskirts behind and enter a dark, featureless landscape that reminds me of a computer game. I hate motorways at night: the cold winking lights, the cars speeding past with invisible drivers, the persistent idea that the world has lost its third dimension and actions have no consequences. Sometimes I get this terrifying urge, even from the passenger seat, to prove my theory. I want to grab the wheel and veer off into black nothingness.
‘I pity her,’ says Isobel. She signals to pass a lorry and the indicator tick-ticks, beating out the pause as I wait for her to elaborate. ‘Alice. I pity her, having to put up with Cara. It’s always been a bit of a threesome.’
‘When somebody’s murdered like that, it must be impossible to forget.’
‘I don’t want to forget,’ Isobel replies sharply. ‘That would be a betrayal of the woman I loved.’
‘But you love Alice too. And she’s the one who’s stayed with you all these years.’
‘I know… but sometimes I wish I’d never…’ She pulls back into the nearside lane and I briefly imagine the car continuing its trajectory, ploughing through the metal barrier and into the undergrowth. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Alice means the world to me, but she isn’t easy, you know? The number of friends I don’t see any more because she’s fallen out with them…’ She tut-tuts, more cross with herself than with Alice, perhaps. ‘She absolutely forbade me to take you to Cornwall. Well, for once I stood up to her.’
‘Oh… I did wonder.’
‘Bad of me, wasn’t it?’ She nibbles at her lip. ‘I’ve never done that before. She’ll go crazy when she gets home and realises we’ve gone.’
‘That makes me feel awful. I don’t want to be the cause of a bust-up.’
‘She caused it, not you. She was out of order last night, saying all those horrible things about Cara.’
Isobel drives on, eyes fixed manically on the road ahead as if averting her gaze would mean certain death. The rain is falling faster now and she puts the wipers on at double speed. I study her profile: a break in the line of her nose that’s not noticeable from the front, her eyes set slightly too far back in the hollow of her skull, the wrinkles around her mouth erased by the darkness. Hard to read somebody’s expression if you can only see the side of their face, but I sense she’s upset and trying to hide it. Whatever she says, she loves Alice and this is hurting. I face front and concentrate on the fuzzy red tail lights of the car ahead, which are wandering slightly within the lane, as if the driver is tired. Isobel lets out a deep, weary sigh. She’s about to tell me something, whether I want to hear it or not. The car has become a confessional box and I’m the priest. Forgive me, Meredith, for I have sinned.
‘She was such a little mouse when I met her,’ she begins, keeping her eyes on the road. ‘Cara, I mean. I can see her now on the first day of our course, sitting all prim and proper in the departmental corridor, beige raincoat buttoned up to the chin, hair scraped back into a neat ponytail, and those dowdy brown court shoes. She looked about forty-five, not eighteen – talk about a fish out of water.’ She laughs fondly. ‘She didn’t try to talk to anyone and nobody was bothering to talk to her – I don’t think they’d even noticed her. But I saw immediately that there was something special about her. I don’t know what it was exactly. An innocence.’
I’m not sure I want to hear any more about Cara. ‘Did you see the sign?’ I say. ‘Services in one mile.’
‘We became best friends, inseparable,’ Isobel continues, on a roll now. ‘I don’t think it was physical attraction on my part, not immediately anyway, but there was an instant connection. Cara became my project, far more important than anything I did on the course.’ She steals a glance at the expression on my face. ‘I know that sounds awful, but it wasn’t. She wanted me to help her. She knew she needed to loosen up, throw off all those suburban inhibitions and get away from those awful, repressive parents. She was desperate to find her true self. I persuaded her to move out of university halls and in with me. We were together the whole three years, never had a cross word. I transformed her and she blossomed. I blossomed with her. We were twin souls.’
She takes the next exit, slamming on the brakes as we approach the little roundabout at the end of the slip road and parking in a disabled bay outside the service station entrance. There are very few other cars around and the over-illuminated building looks cold and empty. She turns off the engine and rests her forehead briefly on the steering wheel. The windscreen instantly fills up with large, bulbous water drops, and now that we’ve stopped, I can hear the rain pounding the sunroof.
‘I knew Cara didn’t love me in the way I loved her,’ she carries on, ‘but I was prepared to be patient. That was the main reason I started Purple Blaze, so we could carry on living and working together. I did it all for her. I thought, in time, she’d understand. Then Jay came along. He hated me right from the start, just because I had money and spoke in a posh accent. He tried to turn Cara against me, and like an idiot I fell for it. I completely overreacted. If I’d just kept my cool, it would have fizzled out. But I loved her so much, I couldn’t help being jealous. It felt like an attack. A betrayal. After all I’d done for her…’
The rain’s slashing at our sides, drumming above us. We could be in a submarine, deep underwater; we could have sunk into another time, another space.
‘I should have fought for her, you know,’ Isobel continues, ‘but I was such a coward – I just ran away. I fled to London and left them to it. In my house! The inevitable happened – Cara quickly grew sick of Jay and told him it was over. He wouldn’t have it, started threatening her, beating her up. That’s when she knew she was in trouble. She sent me this wonderful letter saying she’d realised she was in love with me after all. I was so happy, yet utterly confused. I was really enjoying living in London, and I’d met Alice – we’d only been together a couple of months, but it was incredibly intense. I was sure I’d completely got over Cara, but when I received that letter…’ She laughs quietly. ‘I couldn’t work out what or who I wanted; I thought I was going to go mad. In the end, I decided to go back to Birmingham and talk to Cara face to face. But Alice said that if I went, it would be over between us. So I stayed in London. I should have gone, I could have saved her.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I mumble.
‘I do. I let her down. Cara was my best friend and when she really needed me I wasn’t there. I betrayed her.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t have seen it that way.’
‘No?’ She lets out a small gasp. ‘Oh, darling, I can’t tell you how much it means to hear you say that. Because you know, don’t you? You know what Cara felt.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. I’m just saying—’
She leans across and hugs me so tightly I feel my ribs compressing. ‘Everything’s going to be all right now,’ she whispers, her lips grazing my neck. ‘Jay is dead and you’ve come back to me. My darling, darling Cara…’
A cold wave of dread rushes through me, as I realise this trip is a terrible mistake.
A big dose of normality is what’s needed here. I gently steer Isobel into the service station and order two large coffees and two portions of beer-battered cod, chunky chips and mushy peas from the hot food counter. The place is very quiet and there are plenty of empty tables, but she seems to have trouble deciding where to sit. She hovers at my side, following my every movement with adoring eyes. The food and drink seem to revive her a little, but she keeps smiling at me between mouthfuls, the sort of conspiratorial smile that lovers exchange in public places, except I’m not smiling back. I shovel the food into my mouth, even though I’m feeling sick, and try to engage her in chit-chat. How’s the production going? I ask. Fine, she says, adding
that she’s worried she might have cast the wrong actor for Mr Rochester. I tell her I can’t remember if I’ve ever read Jane Eyre; maybe when I was a teenager. I ask her to remind me of the plot, and she obliges, all the time gazing at me as if I’m the most precious, most desirable being in the whole world. But at least she doesn’t call me Cara again.
She says she needs a cigarette before we drive on, and wanders out, standing under the entrance canopy to avoid the rain. I stay at the table, trying to think of a way to get out of this mess. I can’t just do a bunk. I don’t know where I am, other than in the middle of nowhere. Even if I could find my way to the nearest railway station, there won’t be any trains to London at this time of night. Isobel’s not going to let me go without a struggle and I don’t want a nasty scene while she’s driving – being thrown onto the roadside in the dead of night, miles from anywhere, would be horrible, and potentially dangerous. So I’m stuck with her for now. I’ll stay at the cottage with her tonight and then leave in the morning. As long as she doesn’t try to seduce me… The thought makes me squirm. It could be so embarrassing, utterly humiliating for her. Perhaps I’ll have to lock the door to stop her coming into my room.
She’s still standing in the entrance, head tilted back as she blows smoke into the canopy roof. She plays emotionally vulnerable but inside she has nerves of steel. Was this her plan all along? I wonder. Inviting Alice, knowing full well she’d refuse to come, then skipping off without her? Poor Alice, no wonder she’s jealous – I’d be the same. Maybe I’m not the first Cara; maybe there have been others: young women with similar looks and shy, impressionable personalities, actresses desperate for work who can’t believe their luck when they’re chosen by the great Isobel Dalliday. And now she thinks she’s got the real deal. Cara reincarnated, finally reunited with her beloved Isobel. And I thought I was the one going mad…
The rain raps impatiently at the windows and Isobel pops back into the foyer, waving at me. I rise and zip up my jacket. No time for psychological analysis; let’s just get to the cottage in one piece. There’s nothing I can do about it tonight, but tomorrow I’ll talk to her properly.
‘Not far to go now,’ she says brightly, unlocking the car door. ‘I’ll light a fire when we get in; the place will soon warm up.’
‘Great,’ I say. She pats my thigh and I try not to flinch.
We left the motorway some time ago, and now Isobel is confidently negotiating the bends as if she drives these lanes every day of the week. There are hardly any other cars on the road, so she keeps the lights on full beam. The rain has finally stopped but the hedgerows are still wet, glistening magically as we snake past. My stomach is sinking with anxiety. I feel trapped in the car, but I don’t want to get out.
‘This is it,’ says Isobel ten minutes later, taking an unsignposted left turn down a muddy track. She drives on for several hundred yards as the uneven path narrows and twists. The hedgerows are high and gangly, their branches scraping the car on both sides. Wild grass is growing down the middle of the track like a tatty pale ribbon and I think of it brushing the undercarriage as we drive over it.
‘I know you said it was remote, but…’
‘Incredible, isn’t it? Like Sleeping Beauty’s castle – we ought to trim it back a bit, but we love the privacy. Nobody bothers us, not even the postman. I collect our mail from the post office in the village. There isn’t even a landline. I can’t tell you how relaxing it is, being able to leave the outside world behind.’ She laughs, pleased with herself. I’ve never felt less relaxed in my life.
The track finally opens out into a courtyard, and the cottage – white-painted stone with dark window frames – is suddenly caught in the headlights, frozen like a startled deer. I get the bags out of the boot, and as I slam the door the sound echoes like a gunshot. Isobel turns the engine off and we’re plunged into silence and darkness. We both pause for a few seconds, absorbing it.
She takes out a jangling set of keys, her fingers feeling for the right one, then unlocks the door, switching on the hallway light. Nothing happens. ‘Bugger,’ she says, ‘the fuse has tripped again.’ She gropes around for a torch that she claims they keep on the hall table, but it doesn’t appear to be there. ‘That’ll be Alice,’ she complains. ‘She keeps forgetting to put it back.’
I peer into the gloom. ‘Where’s the fuse box?’
‘In the utility room. The kitchen’s ahead and it’s just off there, above the washing machine… I’ll light some candles,’ Isobel calls after me. ‘We’ll have it cosy in no time.’
I walk blindly down the narrow corridor, arms outstretched in front, wishing I had my torch app and cursing the police for having confiscated my phone. It’s completely dark, not a chink of light coming from anywhere. I try not to think about mice. As I enter the kitchen a cold draught hits me. I continue to the utility room and feel for the cold, hard shape of the washing machine, put my hands on the top and heave myself onto it, knocking a plastic bottle of something over as I scramble up. The fuse box is above the shelf, its main switch in the ‘off’ position. I push it back up and the tiny space is suddenly flooded with light.
‘It’s okay! I’ve done it!’ I call out, although it’s obvious. Isobel doesn’t reply. She’s flitting about lighting fragrant candles, no doubt. I walk back through the kitchen and into the hallway, turning on the lights as I go. ‘Isobel?’ The door to what must be the sitting room is open, but it’s still dark inside. ‘Where are you?’ I glance up the stairs. Maybe she’s gone to the loo. I shrug to myself and make for the sitting room, feeling for the light switch by the door. I turn it on and walk in.
Isobel is standing there, wild-eyed and trembling, a knife held to her throat. And behind her, his free arm clasped tightly around her waist, is Christopher Jay.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Me
‘Get down! Lie flat on the floor, hands behind your back, and don’t fucking move! If you run, I’ll slit her throat.’ His eyes bore into my skull. ‘You know I mean it.’ I fall to my knees and lie face down. ‘Hands behind your back, I said.’
‘Please don’t hurt us,’ I plead into the rug.
‘No talking!’
Jay drags Isobel to a chair and picks up a length of rope. Pushing her down, he yanks her arms behind her and ties them at the wrists, then does the same with her ankles. She cries out in pain as he pulls the rope tight.
He looks down at me. ‘Stay still, or she’ll get it.’
I peer out of the corner of my eye, watching him as he goes back to the sofa and picks up more rope, luggage straps, strips of ripped-up towel. He’s well prepared. Isobel and I stare at each other across the room. Her eyes are bulging with fear, the whites large like a cartoon character.
‘Where’s Alice in fucking Wonderland, then? On her way?’ Isobel frantically shakes her head. ‘Didn’t realise I knew the location of your little love-nest, did you? Those property websites are so useful. I must say, it makes a great hideaway. So remote.’ He ties my wrists and ankles behind my back, then grabs me under the armpits and yanks me up, pushing me over to another chair. ‘I knew you’d come here sooner or later. All I had to do was wait.’ He forces me into the seat and uses the luggage straps to tie me to the frame.
‘She’s got nothing to do with this. Please let her go!’ cries Isobel.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
He picks up our bags, shaking them out onto the coffee table. He empties our purses, putting the cash and Isobel’s car keys in his pocket.
‘No phone?’ I shake my head. He removes the SIM from Isobel’s mobile and leaves the room. A few seconds later, I hear the downstairs loo flush. Isobel starts to mewl, like a small trapped animal.
So how come the bastard’s alive? That’s what I want to know. He’s supposed to be lying on a slab in the pathologist’s lab, having his chest ripped open, the contents of his stomach analysed, his evil brain weighed. He’s supposed to be dead. It was on the news, for God’s sake. How can the police have got
it so wrong? Putting us all off guard. I hate them, almost more than this monster who’s biologically my father.
Jay comes back into the room with a black bin liner. He stops and studies me for a few moments. Whatever it was he was going to say, he’s decided against it. Fine. I don’t want him to talk to me anyway, I can do without the self-justifying explanations. I feel strong, even though I’m tied up and at his mercy. It’s Isobel he wants, not me. I’m just an unlucky bystander. He won’t kill you, I tell myself. He won’t kill you.
He shakes the bin liner, letting it billow out, and Isobel shudders, as if she thinks Jay’s going to chop her into pieces and put her inside. He starts flinging ornaments, candlesticks, pictures, seashells, bits of driftwood, books, board games, cushions – all Isobel and Alice’s personal stuff – into the bag. Stripping the room of its character. Why? What’s he doing?
I stare hard at him, waiting for our genes to signal to each other, for something deep inside to stop him in his tracks. If I’m really his daughter, there must be some kind of connection there. I once read about an adopted girl who saw a stranger on the beach and instantly knew she was her mother. But when Jay and I met, we felt no connection at all. I still don’t feel it, and yet science insists this deeply angry, murderous and possibly insane man made me. We come from the same tribe; we are natural allies, not enemies. I drill into his face, searching for a feature that we might share. The shape of our eyes or nostrils or ear lobes, the turn of our chin, our hairline, our skin tone, the thickness of our eyebrows… But there’s nothing I recognise. I am all my mother’s child.
The bin liner is becoming heavy and bulky; the corner of a metal photo frame is poking through the plastic and it clips Isobel’s leg as he walks past. She flinches dramatically and Jay lets out a sarcastic laugh.
