by Alison Keane
“My brother-in-law,” John said.
He felt Tony’s gaze switch to him, but the other man said nothing.
She was already standing back and pulling the door open. “Of course. Come on.”
They stepped through the door and John was aware of Tony tensing. He understood why. The place wasn’t what you expected. From the outside it looked like it must be lavish, but inside it was the same as any big institution.
“What is this place?” Tony muttered. “It looks like a hospital. Smells like one too.”
The woman raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. “Go on up,” she said, pointing to the staircase before disappearing through a door near the entrance.
They started up the stairs.
“What the hell—”
“Not now,” John muttered. He couldn’t. No matter how many times he came here, he could never get past the sense of doom that came over him when he was inside these walls. He’d never get used to it. Never.
They got to the top and walked along the corridor. The lino hushed their footsteps. John stopped at the fifth door along. It was closed, just like the others. Always closed. The place was always silent. He didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing. Perhaps some people found it relaxing. John didn’t. The silence seemed to haunt him.
“John, I—”
He held up a hand to silence the man. He’d always been afraid of Tony, but something had shifted during the car journey. Did he really have anything to fear anymore? His life was in tatters anyway, what more could Tony possibly do?
“Close the door,” he said when they’d entered.
He swallowed and huffed out a breath.
“What the hell is this, John? Who’s he?”
John made himself walk to the side of the bed and look down at the young man who’d once had such a promising future.
“He’s in a vegetative state,” he said, almost to himself. “The doctors say there’s little chance of him ever regaining consciousness now.”
“Okay, right,” Tony said impatiently. “Lots of people are. It’s sad. But…” He didn’t seem fazed by it at all, but then he didn’t know the truth.
Yet.
It was time.
“This is Mikey Grant, Tony.”
Tony curled his lip and leaned closer. “Is this some kind of threat, John? Because you know that’s not a good idea. Who is this kid? And why do you think I care?”
“He’s Ellie’s ex.”
All of the hairs on John’s body stood on end and tears came to his eyes. Saying those words out loud made it different somehow. He’d been stuck in this nightmare for almost a year, but it was easier when it was left unsaid.
“What’s your point? You think showing me this lad is going to put me off seeing her? She’s my daughter. You took her away and changed her name and—”
“I did that for her,” he snapped. “I uprooted her whole life to bring her here so she wouldn’t have to live with the stigma of what her mother was.” He huffed out a breath. They hadn’t come here to talk about that.
Tony glared at him. He seemed about to launch into another attack.
Enough, John thought. He had to get this over with. “It was Ellie. She attacked him.”
“Bullshit.”
John sighed. “I wish with all my heart that it was. But she did.”
“She can’t have.”
John felt a pang of sympathy. He remembered his own reaction and all the confusion that had fogged his mind until he accepted the truth. Of course she was messed up in ways he couldn’t understand. Look at the start she’d had in life.
“I’m sorry, Tony. Truly I am. We’ve had our differences in the past.” He stopped, deflated.
“No.” Tony scratched his jaw with such force that John wondered if he’d draw blood. He’d never seen the man this agitated. “No, she can’t have done this.”
“You don’t even know her, Tony.” He regretted saying that as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
But Tony didn’t take the bait. He looked crestfallen.
“There’d been a bit of trouble between them before,” John said, even though Tony hadn’t asked him to. He was talking to fill the void and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. He’d carried this load alone for the past year and now here was someone who might understand why he’d have done whatever it took to protect her. “They’d broken up and she hadn’t taken it well. She hit him over the head with an old shoe last that was being used as a door stop. He was thrown down the stairs by the impact and she must have lost her footing and stumbled after him. Their friends rushed in as she was falling but they didn’t get there in time to stop her landing on him. The doctors reckon it was only the fact that her blood alcohol level was so high that saved her from more serious injury.”
“But why would the police let her go if she did it?” Tony’s expression grew dark and John remembered himself going through a similar process of denial.
“It’s true.”
“It can’t be.”
“Look around you. Why would I pay for this place if she wasn’t responsible?”
Tony jerked his head up. “She has no idea about me, does she? You haven’t told her.”
John looked away. “It never…” he sighed. “As she got older, we became more distant from what happened. It never seemed to be the right time. And then all this happened…”
Tony’s face fell. “You talk about it like it’s normal. It’s not. She had a decent upbringing. Do you reckon I… that it’s in her blood?”
That same thought had gone through John’s mind countless times in the past year, but something inside him had changed. Tony didn’t even know the girl but he cared about her enough to track them down. That wouldn’t have been easy. “You did what you did because of what he’d done to Joy.”
“He was our dealer, man. It could just as easily have been me who gave her that shit.”
“You were upset. It…” John shook his head. It was complicated, so complicated. He understood Tony’s grief because he’d felt it himself, but he couldn’t console him. There would always be a part of John that hated Tony for getting Joy onto that muck and treating her so appallingly.
“I want to be a part of her life,” Tony said suddenly.
John groaned. He couldn’t deal with this. Not now. How the hell would Ellie react if he told her that her mother had been an addict and he wasn’t her real father, but her uncle? She’d never forgive him. No, it would make a volatile situation even worse and he couldn’t do that to her.
“No.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“I said no, Tony. And I meant it.”
35
Ellie
Sunday
The washing machine beeps to indicate that it’s finished and I reluctantly pull away from Nathan. Even though I feel far better than I did a few minutes ago, I’m grateful to have something to do.
I pull open the door of the washing machine so roughly that there’s a loud crack.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” Nathan says. “I’ll hang those out.”
“No, it’s okay. I need something to do.”
“I’ll put the kettle on then. There’s a dehumidifier in the wardrobe in the spare room.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking care to shut the washing machine door more gently than I opened it.
I shuffle to the spare room with the wet clothes bundled up in my arms. It doesn’t take long for my uneasiness to return. The police will want to question me as soon as they see those messages. It’s good that I got my muddy jeans into the wash early, but there are still so many ways I could mess this up.
I bite my lip and dump everything on the wire clothes horse.
What if I did this? That’s all I can think about. Because who else would have? Steph didn’t mention any enemies. Nathan said it’s usually the boyfriend or husband, but that would mean Dad.
I think about calling him, but I dism
iss that idea immediately. What good would it do? It’s not like he’ll admit it even if he is the killer.
Which he can’t be. He just can’t.
I take a deep breath and sink to the ground. It was either Dad or me. Neither makes sense. The only other possibility is that I was right about Mikey being back. Would he have killed Steph to spite me?
I shake my head.
I just can’t make sense of this.
“Tea’s ready,” Nathan calls.
I jump to my feet. I have got to relax. I’m going to get through this. “Coming.”
I quickly hang out the clothes and remember what Nathan said about the dehumidifier. I groan when I see that it’s buried under a pile of old blankets and bed linen—I can just make out the water container but when I pull on the power cable, it doesn’t give easily because there’s too much sitting on top of it. I don’t want to force it and break anything. For a moment I forget my current problems and think about how nice it will be to be back in my own space again. If we ever decide to live together in the future, we’re going to have to figure out a way to deal with each others’ messes.
I start pulling things out and look around. I realise for the first time that there’s no bed in here, just a camp bed in the corner that hasn’t been assembled. I hesitate before chucking the blankets on the floor—it looks like it hasn’t been vacuumed in a long time. Instead I shove them up on top of the wardrobe. Did he just pile all this stuff in here on the night I came? I can’t really judge: my flat is pretty messy.
My arms ache as the pile on top of the wardrobe builds up with ragged towels and old backpacks. Is Nathan some kind of hoarder? I’m starting to seriously believe it. I lift out the dehumidifier and plug it into the wall.
I have bigger problems right now than Nathan’s hoarding. He’s standing by me—I can handle a bit of mess in return.
I try to tidy up the pile on top of the wardrobe: there are bag handles and bits of bed linen sticking out all over the place. Just when I’ve nudged it into something half resembling tidiness, something slips off the other side and falls to the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter, hurrying over to pick it up. I expect Nathan to come in and see why I’m muttering to myself, but the dehumidifier unit is so loud he probably hasn’t even heard. Good—I don’t want him to have second thoughts about me.
It’s a crumpled up photo that must have come from one of the backpacks I pulled out. My first reaction is relief: at least I haven’t broken something. Before I can stop myself, I smooth out the scrunched up heavy paper, curious as to why he’s done that: why destroy a photo?
It takes a few seconds to realise what I’m looking at. When I do, my heart accelerates to the point where my vision goes spotty.
Nausea rises in my throat.
It’s me.
It’s a picture of me.
One that I’ve never seen before, but I’d recognise the bar in the background anywhere.
It’s the Builder’s Arms.
I haven’t set foot in that place for almost a year—so why on earth does Nathan have a photo of me from months before we ever met?
“Ellie?” Nathan shouts. “Your tea is getting cold.”
I stare at the door, desperately trying to figure out what to do.
36
Ellie
My pulse blares in my ears as I try to make sense of how a guy I only met a couple of weeks ago would have a picture of me that’s at least a year old hidden in his flat.
And why is it all scrunched up like he’d thrown it away? I pull all the stuff down off the wardrobe to try and see if I can find its source, but I can’t. I shove it all back in the wardrobe and think about plugging out the dehumidifier and putting it where I found it.
Because what’s he going to do if he realises I’ve found the photo?
I stare at it.
It was taken in the Builder’s Arms. I’m leaning against the bar laughing. There’s someone standing close beside me. I’m blocking them, but I don’t need to see his face to know who it is. I can see his hair. His shoulders.
It’s Mikey.
Why would Nathan have this?
I shake my head. All I can think is that he’s the one who broke into my flat, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this photo in my life. The ones I’ve printed off over the years tend to be posey ones. I don’t look particularly good in this one—I have my head thrown back, laughing.
I shiver. Why does he have this? Where did he get it?
Looking closer, I see that I’m wearing the pink floral top I used to love. I can’t remember the last time I saw it.
I close my eyes. The headache isn’t helping things: I can’t think straight. There are a few people in the background, but there’s no-one I wouldn’t have expected to see. It could have been any Saturday night in the Builder’s Arms.
But it was at least a year and a few months ago.
“Ellie?”
I shake my head, willing myself to snap out of this stupor and figure out what’s going on. I’ve got to get back to Nathan even though I don’t want to face him right now. He’s going to get suspicious if I stay in here much longer.
“Coming. I’m just popping to the bathroom.”
I think back to last night. We drank so much. Nathan egged me on. But I egged him on too. He didn’t force me to get drunk.
I close my eyes. There was Monday evening. He was so adamant that we had to meet at three—even when I said I couldn’t get off work.
Then there was Friday morning. He made me coffee and I fell into a deep sleep after drinking half of it. I never do that. Plus I woke with a pounding headache. Did he slip something in my drink?
It seems crazy to think like this, but Steph is dead. I have the same headache this morning and can’t remember what happened last night.
How many times have I asked him how we can be from the same town and have never met? He had loads of chances to tell me he knew me. But I didn’t know him…
Was he stalking me? Why else would he have a picture of a random stranger in his flat? My blood runs cold. Is Mikey behind this?
I fold the photo carefully and shove it in my pocket before I walk out of the room. I have to force one leg in front of the other—I can’t face him.
I stop in the hallway. Nathan’s jeans are where I left them, drying in the spare room.
What if he’s setting me up?
No. It’s too messed up.
Isn’t it?
I take a deep breath. Can I afford to take any chances?
I hurry back and grab the clothes. How can I know for sure that there isn’t DNA on them?
What has he done? What have I done?
I sink to the floor and try to get my breathing under control.
Get it together, I tell myself. There might not be much time.
I leave the clothes in the narrow hallway while I go and fetch my handbag. Nathan’s watching TV. I quickly check that my purse and keys are in my bag.
“There you are.” He frowns. “Your tea will be ruined.”
“I’m just popping out to get some paracetamol,” I say, making my voice as hoarse and hungover as possible. “I’ll make some more tea when I get back.”
“Oh.” He turns and looks at me, frowning. “I think I have some paracetamol.”
Panic rises in me. What if he tries to stop me from leaving? He’s not as big as Mikey, but he’s still far stronger than me. And he’s been lying to me. I don’t know what he’s capable of.
“Oh, thanks. Well, I fancy some crisps so I might pop out and get some. Unless you have a stash?”
He shakes his head. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just a bit shaken about Steph. Do you want anything?”
“No thanks.”
I hurry out, closing the door behind me and grabbing the clothes. I wonder if I should wrap them in a bin bag or something, but no. I need to get out of here quickly and stop wasting tim
e before I find myself in serious trouble.
I hurry out the door. At first I go to Nathan’s bin, but I hesitate. It’s better if I use one down the street. I’ll have to choose carefully because the last thing I need is a nosy neighbour getting suspicious and calling the police.
I shake my head. Am I going crazy? Maybe there’s a far simpler explanation. Maybe I didn’t even get as far as the corner shop last night. Maybe I fell over and told Steph I was outside just to piss her off.
It doesn’t add up, though. Steph is dead. Someone was there. If not me, who? She didn’t answer my last messages. Did the killer come just after she’d seen them?
I shudder. Was I there at the same time as him? What if I saw something?
But wouldn’t I remember if I’d seen something important? Surely that would jolt me out of my drunken state?
I’m so deep in thought that I don’t register the police car at first. It’s only when it’s turned onto the street and about five houses away that my heart starts to beat faster.
I keep walking. I’m amazed I’m able to. I’ve got to act normal. If I start running now, they’ll know something is wrong.
The car skids to a halt alongside me and the air fills with the stench of burning rubber.
Act normal.
Fuck.
The clothes. They’re still in my hand and I can’t drop them now.
I glance at the car but I don’t stop walking. Normal. Like an innocent bystander would.
I am innocent.
This is a headfuck. I can’t deal with it.
“Miss Cartwright.”
Two car doors slam.
I try not to react. I turn, slowly, telling myself to breathe.
“Yes?”
I start to second guess myself. I’ve already tried to call Steph. Shouldn’t I be more concerned? Should I acknowledge that they’re probably here about Steph so I shouldn’t be all that surprised to see them?
“Constable Roberts and Constable Jameson. Would you mind coming down to the station with us?”
