by Simon Booker
‘Of course. I’ll sort out the bed.’
Morgan washes up while Stacey clatters around in the bathroom, lighting one of Lissa’s scented candles, then opening a second beer and closing the door.
Morgan is relieved to be left alone but the feeling of well-being is short-lived. Her mobile rings. Ben’s name flashes up. She hesitates before answering the call, doing her best to sound breezy.
‘Hi, Ben.’
‘Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’ve been busy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Did you see the news about Eric?’
‘Yes.’
A pause. She lets the silence stretch.
‘Are you pissed off with me?’ he says.
She thinks for a moment.
‘I’m in the middle of something.’
‘Otherwise known as avoiding the question.’
Morgan sighs. The man may not be Mr Right but he was Mr Right-Now, at least for a while. She doesn’t want to part on bad terms.
‘I’m glad to have known you, Ben. Good luck out there.’
She hears a sigh, then the line goes dead.
She stares at her phone for a moment then pockets it, wondering if she should feel more upset. Her reverie is broken by the sound of splashing water emanating from the bathroom, bringing her back to the task at hand.
She fetches linen from the airing cupboard. Entering her daughter’s room, she strips the sheets from the bed and wrestles with the duvet, replacing it with a fresh cover. Her foot makes contact with something under the bed – Stacey’s rucksack. She picks it up, placing it on the bedside chair next to the red and white scarf. As she does so, a plastic bag falls to the floor. A denim jacket falls out.
Morgan freezes, rooted to the spot.
Her memory flashes back to Joe’s account of the two people he saw with Kiki on the night she died.
A man and a woman. The man wore a hoodie. The woman had a denim jacket. Big red metal buttons.
Picking up the jacket, Morgan’s heart beats triple-quick as she turns it over.
The outsize buttons are red.
Arsenal red.
‘Everything all right?’
She turns to see Stacey standing in the doorway, dressed in Lissa’s bathrobe, holding her can of beer.
‘You were there.’ The words are out of Morgan’s mouth before she knows it. Her heart is pounding. ‘The night Kiki died. You were on the cliffs.’
Stacey opens her mouth to reply, but Morgan cuts her off.
‘Don’t lie. You were seen. In this jacket.’
Stacey’s stare is hard.
‘You don’t want to have this conversation. Trust me.’
Morgan ignores her. Blood thudding in her ears. Pulse racing.
‘Did you push Kiki?’
Stacey shakes her head, but Morgan is in full flow.
‘Tell me the truth. You were on the cliffs. You and a man.’
She reaches for her phone. A reflex action. Stacey sucks her teeth, shaking her head slowly.
‘You are so not calling the police.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
A sigh.
‘I’m warning you—’
‘No, I’m warning you. What happened to Kiki? Who was the man in the hoodie?’
Stacey chews on her lip, staring at Morgan for a long moment. She sighs, making a decision. Time to come clean.
‘It wasn’t a man.’
Morgan frowns.
‘Who was it?’
Stacey smiles, relishing her moment of power.
‘It was Lissa.’
The words open a sinkhole in Morgan’s world. So ludicrous are they – so divorced from reality – that she is tempted to laugh. Her mind turns somersaults, flashing back to Lissa’s tearful question.
What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?
‘You’re lying.’
A reflex response, but inside – deep down, where she knows fundamental truths about herself, her daughter, life – she knows Stacey is right. The thought is unbearable.
‘It’s a lie.’
But she knows it’s true.
Lissa’s panic attacks.
Sleepless nights.
Tears.
Her drunken binge.
Her insistence that Kiki was depressed, suicidal.
True, true, true.
Stacey perches on the bed. The smile has gone.
‘Call me what you like. Won’t change what happened.’
Morgan shakes her head, trying to blot out the flow of words, but Stacey continues, undaunted.
‘Kiki changed her mind about the deal with Jukes. It was one thing at the start – all theory, nothing real. But when Charlie was born, everything changed. She could not give him up. You understand, right? I do.’ She sniffs. ‘I went through with it, with Ryan. Kept my part of the deal. It nearly killed me. Sobbed my eyes out for weeks, and I still cry myself to sleep every night.’ She takes a breath. ‘Could you have done it?’
Morgan says nothing. Her body is trembling, her head swimming as Stacey continues.
‘Kiki couldn’t go through with it. Refused to do the Istanbul trips. Wouldn’t give up her baby. So Jukes told the bloke who was pulling the strings – Karl – and he went ballistic. He sent a message, through Jukes, told Kiki there were two ways out: six feet under or find a substitute mule. What choice did she have? She told Jukes she knew just the person.’
Morgan’s voice is a whisper.
‘Lissa?’
A nod.
‘Kiki said she was taking her to a party. You were out cold, on your pills. Lissa snuck out to meet me and Kiki. I’d nicked a car and we stuck Charlie and Ryan in the back, drove to St Mary’s Bay. Went up to the cliffs, the three of us, drinking, smoking weed. Started mucking about near the edge, daring each other to go near the edge. Closer and closer.’ She breaks off, swigging her beer before continuing. ‘Then the mucking about stopped. Me and Kiki, we dragged Lissa to the edge of the cliff, me holding one arm, Kiki the other. We told her what she had to do. She was crying and screaming, but there was no one to hear. We kept on and on till she said yes, to make it stop. Then we let her go.’
Morgan’s heart is hammering. She can’t bear to hear the rest, yet she must. ‘Lissa lashed out,’ says Stacey. ‘She kicked Kiki in the stomach. Kiki doubled up. I thought she was going to collapse, fall on the grass.’ Stacey leans forward, her eyes boring into Morgan’s. ‘But then Lissa did it again. Your daughter kicked her. Hard. Kiki toppled back and fell.’
Morgan’s voice is a croak.
‘You’re lying . . . That day outside the inn . . . after Kiki died . . . I was there when you met Lissa for the first time . . .’
Stacey shakes her head. ‘We were putting on a show.’
‘I don’t believe you. You pushed Kiki.’
Stacey shakes her head. Her voice is filled with bitterness.
‘I knew people would say that. Who’d believe me over a girl like Lissa? A jailbird who stabbed her boyfriend? Nobody.’ She pauses for breath. ‘I might be going back to prison, Morgan, but not for a murder I didn’t commit. No fucking way. Me and Lissa – we knew we could screw each other over unless we stuck together.’ She takes a breath, calming herself down. ‘That’s why we made the pact.’
‘What pact?’
Stacey gives a thin smile.
‘Lissa wouldn’t tell lies about me. And I wouldn’t tell the truth about her.’
The words hang in the air. They have the ring of truth.
And yet . . . And yet . . .
Morgan tries again.
‘If it happened the way you say . . . I’m not saying I believe it . . . but if it did then it was an accident . . .’
Stacey interrupts again.
‘The first kick, maybe. You could call it self-defence. But not the second. I was there. I saw it. It was murder.’ Her eyes narrow. ‘The way the system is, if you try to pin this on me you might pull it off. But send me down for something I didn�
��t do? Is that what you want, Morgan Vine? Is that who you are?’
Morgan’s eyes fill with tears. She refuses to let them fall. Shakes her head. A rushing sound in her ears.
Disbelief, denial, despair.
Something inside Stacey seems to snap. She springs to her feet and snatches the phone from Morgan’s hand. Scrolling to Lissa’s name, she holds out the mobile. Her eyes blaze.
‘Ask her.’
Morgan hesitates, then takes the phone. Feeling Stacey’s eyes on her, she leaves the room and walks to the front door.
*
Outside, the air is bitterly cold but she barely notices. There is no moon, no stars, the night sky is wreathed in thick cloud. Apart from the sound of waves on shingle, there is silence. Hands shaking, heart beating at twice its normal rate, Morgan scrolls to Lissa’s name, tracing her thumb over the photo of her daughter’s face.
She waits.
Six thousand miles away, the call connects.
‘Hey, Mum. What’s up?’
Morgan clears her throat.
‘Stacey just told me something.’
A pause.
‘About what?’
‘Something she says happened on the cliffs.’
Another pause. Lissa’s voice is barely audible.
‘What do you mean?’
Morgan closes her eyes.
‘She said she and Kiki tried to force you to take Kiki’s part in Savage’s plan. She said they threatened you.’ She takes a breath. ‘Stacey said . . .’ She falters then tries again. ‘She said you kicked Kiki off the cliff.’
No response. Morgan lets the silence stretch.
Then she hears it. The sound of weeping.
‘Lissa?’
A sob. But no words. Morgan tries again.
‘I will always love you, Lissa, no matter what. But I need to know the truth. Did you do it?’
Another sob, louder this time.
Then the whisper that changes the world.
‘Yes.’
Forty-Five
Baggage in hall.
The terminal teems with travellers wheeling suitcases, greeting friends and families. Morgan watches the smiles and hugs, the knot in her stomach tightening with every second.
Catching sight of Lissa – gaunt and hollow-eyed – her heart leaps briefly before sinking like a boulder. She manages a smile, stretching out her arms in greeting. Her daughter doesn’t return the smile, her bleary, red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears.
They hug. Holding on for dear life. The intensity of the embrace triggers Lissa’s loss of composure. Her body is racked with sobs.
‘I’m . . . sorry,’ she says, gulping for air. ‘I’m . . . so . . . sorry.’
Morgan ignores the stares of passers-by. She can’t give in to her emotions. Not here. Not now. Her voice is hoarse, the lump in her throat making it hard to speak.
‘We’ll get through this.’
Lissa shakes her head. She whispers in her mother’s ear.
‘I did a terrible thing. I didn’t mean to, but it happened. They’ll make me pay for it.’
Morgan closes her eyes. A ‘terrible thing’, yes. But was Kiki blameless? Was Stacey? Surely people would understand how things had been, on the cliffs?
Fear. Survival instinct kicking in.
Literally.
Surely no jury would convict Lissa of murder? Morgan opens her eyes, trying to sound more confident than she feels.
‘I’m hiring a lawyer. The best.’
‘We can’t afford the best.’
‘Yes, we can. The money from the book.’
A lie. The advance is long gone. Thank God for overdrafts.
Lissa sniffs.
‘Dad would help.’
Morgan stiffens.
‘Did you tell him?’
Her daughter shakes her head.
‘No.’
A flicker of relief. They have agreed to tell no one. Not even Cameron. Not until Lissa makes the biggest decision of her life. It’s just the two of them. Mother and daughter against the world.
Over Lissa’s shoulder, Morgan can see a brace of police officers patrolling the arrivals hall. Armed. Unsmiling. Eyes roving the crowds. She shudders.
‘Let’s go home.’
Wheeling the suitcase towards the exit, Morgan updates her daughter on Stacey’s move to a bail hostel.
‘How much did you know? The day we followed her to the airport?’
Stepping onto the moving walkway, Lissa tugs a tissue from her sleeve and blows her nose. She keeps her voice low.
‘I knew she was smuggling money. I guessed drugs were involved. I didn’t know about the baby trafficking, I swear.’
‘I believe you.’
Lissa seems relieved.
‘Is Stacey going to shop me?’
‘She says not,’ says Morgan. ‘She feels guilty that she and Kiki drove you to it.’
A glimmer of hope on Lissa’s face.
‘And you believe her?’
Morgan can only shrug.
‘She’s in enough trouble as it is. I think there’s a chance she’ll let sleeping dogs lie.’
Lissa blinks.
‘Only a chance?’
Morgan has no idea if Stacey will keep her promise. The woman is unreliable and unpredictable. If she can sell her own child for £5,000 . . .
She tries to strike a reassuring note.
‘A good chance.’
Her mind flashes back to the scene by the lighthouse.
Dawn breaking over the deserted beach. Stacey swigging beer while watching Morgan set fire to the denim jacket, the only piece of physical evidence that ties anyone to Kiki’s death.
Lissa is saying something.
‘So . . . bottom line. The decision’s up to me?’
No sense in trying to varnish the truth: the stakes are too high.
‘I wish there were another way,’ says Morgan. ‘But yes, it’s up to you.’
Lissa falls silent for a moment. Entering the walkway that leads to the car park, she turns to face her mother.
‘Do you hate me?’
The words strike at Morgan’s heart.
My bones, my blood.
She takes her daughter’s hand. Holding tight.
‘I love you, Lissa. I’m here for you, no matter what happens.’
‘Always?’
‘Always.’
Morgan manages a small smile, but her eyes glaze with tears. People talk about broken hearts. They know nothing.
Forty-Six
The rain is back. Pounding the roof of the converted railway carriage.
‘I’m so sorry,’ whispers Lissa. ‘I took a life. I killed a mum.’
It’s moments before Morgan can bring herself to speak. In spite of everything, her daughter needs comfort. She clears her throat.
‘We’re all better than the worst thing we’ve done.’
She strokes Lissa’s hair, gently tracing a finger over her tear-stained cheek. They’re lying on the sofa. The room is lit by a single candle.
‘If I give myself up, I’ll go to prison.’
Morgan nods, struck dumb.
‘But if I don’t, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest my life. Either way, I’ll have to live with the guilt for ever.’
‘Yes,’ says Morgan, her voice little more than a croak.
Her daughter closes her eyes, trying to stem another fit of crying.
‘I’m living with the guilt anyway. What’s the point of wasting years behind bars? It won’t bring her back. How does it make anything better?’
Morgan has no answer. She could talk about justice and atonement, but what good would it do? Sometimes, words are just words.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ says Lissa.
Morgan knew the question would come. There are times when the truth is unbearable. She strokes her daughter’s hair.
‘Turning yourself in won’t bring Kiki back. It won’t make anything better. But unless you do the rig
ht thing you will never be at peace. I think that might be worse than prison.’
Lissa looks stricken. Her voice is barely audible.
‘Oh my God . . .’
Groping in vain for words of wisdom, Morgan freezes as she hears footsteps on shingle. Someone is outside. Getting to her feet, she crosses to the window and peers into the night. A shadowy figure is circling the house, hoodie raised against the rain.
Morgan walks to the door and tugs it open, letting in a blast of cold air.
‘Who’s there?’
The figure emerges from the shadows. A familiar face.
‘Anjelica?’
The woman is clutching her baby in one arm, a holdall in the other.
‘I didn’t want to go to the hostel, not on my first night out.’ Rain drips from the rim of her hoodie. ‘Cundy told me where you lived.’
Morgan suppresses a flicker of annoyance. The shrink could at least have given her some warning. Tonight of all nights.
‘Come in.’
‘You sure?’
Morgan looks at the woman who has been through so much. The baby squirms. Mother and son are on the verge of tears.
‘Of course.’
Anjelica steps inside, stamping her trainers on the mat. Morgan gestures towards Lissa, prone on the sofa.
‘This is my daughter.’
‘Hiya,’ says Anjelica. ‘Heard a lot about you.’
‘Likewise,’ says Lissa.
She glares at her mother.
Tell me they’re not staying.
Morgan gives a small shrug, equally eloquent.
What am I supposed to do?
Sensing a chill in the atmosphere, the newcomer looks from Lissa’s face to Morgan’s.
‘Hope this isn’t a bad time.’
‘Well, actually . . .’ begins Morgan, but her daughter cuts her short, getting to her feet.
‘It’s fine. I was just going to have a bath.’
She walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
Anjelica places her baby on the sofa, dabbing moisture from his cheeks with her sleeve. She seems to have made herself at home.
‘I was thinking maybe I could cook you that meal?’
‘Not tonight,’ says Morgan. ‘Nothing in the fridge.’
Regretting the sharpness of her tone, Morgan searches for a way to get rid of her visitors (a hostel? a B & B?) but how can she turf Anjelica out, into the rainy night?
On the other hand, there’s Lissa.
