‘He burnt the store down?’
‘Yes. With us inside.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says, looking like she’s going to faint.
‘But it’s OK,’ I say grinning. ‘We saved all the evidence and the police arrested him for trying to kill us and about a dozen other things besides.’
Paige continues to stare at us as all this sinks in.
‘And it gets better,’ I tell her happily while Jesse squeezes my hand. ‘They’re on their way right now to Parker’s house. They want to question him about his part in vandalising the store.’
Paige’s eyes grow wide and after a few seconds a smile forms on her lips. Then she throws her arms around us both and whispers, ‘Thank you.’
Before we can answer her or thank her back, she lets go and runs off, over to Sophie and Matt, no doubt to tell them everything.
Jesse and I stand and watch as the police car with Tyler in it drives off.
‘I think we can safely say that you got your revenge,’ I say.
Jesse doesn’t answer. He is staring at the smoking ruins of the shop.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, leaning against his shoulder.
He rests his head on mine. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You didn’t get hurt. That’s all that matters. And you’re right. I wonder how many years he’ll get for arson.’
‘And attempted murder?’ I add. ‘And sexual assault? Even if Hannah decides not to press charges I think it’s safe to say that Tyler Reed is going to prison for a very long time. I’m totally gutted about that,’ I add.
I notice that Jesse is staring now at his dad who is still chatting to the fireman. He looks over and waves at me and Jesse. He looks unnaturally happy. In fact, he looks almost ecstatic which, consider -ing his livelihood just burned to the ground, is somewhat surprising.
‘He insured the place for twice its value,’ Jesse says, obviously seeing the confusion on my face. ‘I told him to. I figured that Tyler might try something like this. I just never envisaged it being quite so grand a gesture,’ he concedes.
‘Talking of grand gestures,’ I say, ‘thank you for saving my life. I think I may need to find a way to repay you.’
‘I can think of a way,’ he answers, and my stomach does a loop-the-loop. Again I think of pushing him backwards and stripping him naked right here and now but the paramedic is behind him doing something with an oxygen tank. Goddamn it, I think, move the oxygen tank! Hurry up, man, before the reality of the situation once again dawns. I need to get a grip on the lust before it actually kills me. There is time to straddle Jesse Miller and thank him for saving my life. Plenty of time.
But there is not. Is there? Because dur. Mother of all durs. I am leaving tomorrow and I forgot this little fact how? Small matter of a fire. Tiny little inconvenience of almost being burnt to death by a psycho nut job.
‘What is it?’ Jesse asks, worry evaporating the desire in his eyes.
No, no, no. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I stammer. ‘I mean today.’ I look at my watch. I only have a half-dozen hours left before I need to head to the airport.
By the looks of things, Jesse had forgotten also and now it appears as if something inside of him is breaking apart, like a flower decaying in high speed time-lapse photography. I reach for his hand and he pulls me into his arms.
‘I’ll come back,’ I murmur, my lips pressed to his neck.
‘Or I’ll come find you,’ he whispers. His hand is against the bare skin of my lower back. I want him so much. And I have to leave. I hate life.
A cough behind me. I will the cougher to cough on by, keep walking, leave us in peace, I’m having a meltdown here, can’t you see? I need to stay in this boy’s arms until the sun comes up and until I’m prised off him by immigration officials and marched onto a plane. But the cougher is insistent. And now Jesse is breaking his hold and untangling his arms from around me, even though I stay clinging to him. I turn my head, keeping one cheek pressed to his heart.
A policeman is standing there, looking a little embarrassed. It’s the same one who took Jesse’s statement.
‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ he says to me now, ‘you’re a key witness to a crime. I’m afraid you’re going to need to give a statement and we may require you to stay in State until the judge grants you permission to travel.’
A whole flock of birds flies out of my chest. ‘You mean I have to stay? I actually, legally, have to stay?’ I ask, aware that Jesse’s hand is now squeezing mine extremely tightly.
‘Yes, Miss,’ the policeman says.
‘Can the judge call my mother and tell her that?’ I ask.
‘I’m sure, um, that something could be arranged,’ the policeman answers uncertainly.
He notices my manic grin and takes a wide step backwards. ‘Seems like you kids could use some time . . .’ (cough cough) ‘. . . I’ll arrange to interview you in the morning. I’ll come by the Tripps’.’
I nod. I will be here tomorrow morning. And the next morning. And the next. My mum cannot argue with A JUDGE. Though, now I think about the conversation I will need to have with her to explain why I’m required by law to stay here in Nantucket, I’m not so sure she won’t try to argue with said judge.
I turn to face Jesse and find him grinning at me. He lifts me in his arms so my feet are off the ground and holds me there as he kisses me.
Oh holy mother of hotness. Good job he’s holding me or I would float away into the ash-filled sky.
Another cough. This time deeper. Seriously? We need to get a room . . . and then my imagination leaps ahead of itself to the bed in the room and to Jesse Miller naked in that bed. What has gotten into me? I am a total skanktron lust-filled slutbag. Brushes with death need to happen more often, I think, as Jesse’s hands reach behind my neck and start playing with my hair, before stroking down my spine (he too is ignoring the cougher). And did I mention how naked he is still? Other than jeans – and I can feel him through them and it’s enough to make me collapse in a dribbling, jibbering heap on the tarmac.
Cough cough.
For crying out loud! I turn around reluctantly, my eyes rolling. This time it is Mr Thorne.
Huh. He’s looking at me, with my hands plastered against Jesse’s naked torso, and he seems a little surprised. I guess because just the other day I was hooking up with his son. I do not move my hands. I hope he relays this exact image to Jeremy by telepathy or at the very least in graphically descriptive terms.
‘I just spoke to Carrie and told her what had happened,’ Mr Thorne says, his eyes still on my hands. ‘I figured maybe you were too preoccupied to call them . . .’ (a sideways, disapproving glance at Jesse) ‘. . . they were worried. I told them I’d give you a lift home. Sophie’s taken Matt.’
I turn back to Jesse. He smiles at me, strokes a finger down my cheek. ‘It’s cool. You go. I’ll be fine. I think they want me to sign some release papers,’ he says, nodding at the paramedic. ‘And I guess I should see what’s happening with my dad.’
I bite my lip. ‘I want to stay,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he answers. ‘I want you to stay too. But I’ll come by first thing in the morning. I promise.’ And he rests his forehead against mine. I breathe in deeply.
Jesse kisses me goodbye and walks with me over to Mr Thorne’s car. He opens the door for me and leans in to kiss me one last time through the window as Mr Thorne pulls out onto the road. I glance back once and see Jesse standing barefoot and bare-chested in the middle of the road, smoke still billowing all around him.
40
I wonder if this is how it always happens to murder victims – they’re fine one second, bumbling merrily along, and in the next second they have this flash of realisation, this moment that seems to sing with clarity, to light up the mind in a flash of brilliance before it splutters into darkness, dragging all hope with it.
The flash for me is triggered by a memory. Maybe it’s been buried in my subconscious and my subconscious is that stupid it has only figured it out now. A thought skitters
angrily through my mind – it couldn’t have had this momentous breakthrough about five minutes ago? When such a Eureka! moment might have saved my freaking life? Can you laugh at irony when you’re about to die? Turns out the answer to that is a large capitalised NO.
We are in the jeep. Matt’s jeep. Mr Thorne’s jeep, as it turns out. And it’s only now, as we disappear down the road, leaving Jesse for dust, that I remember I saw this very same jeep at the beach the night that girl got attacked, parked up by Sophie’s Mercedes. I assumed that Matt had driven it to the beach but of course he didn’t. He went with Sophie in her car. So what was his car doing there?
I turn my head slowly to look at Mr Thorne. He notices and looks at me and I see it then, a glimmer in his eye, a tightening of his hands on the wheel. His smile burns brighter for an instant before it fades away, like a light snapping off. He knows that I know. It only takes a second for everything to slide perfectly into place and another second for the adrenaline to kick in, pushing my heart rate up into the stratosphere. I try to keep a grip on some level of calm. Because it could be that I’m wrong, right? It could be that I’m just amped up from all the shock and the fire and almost having died and now I’m projecting crazy theories onto the innocent father of the shithead boy who tried to sleep with me to win a competition. But my blood is now running cold. I’m shivering. I know that my instinct is right.
I turn my head again, fractionally, towards the door. The lock is down. My heart skitters. I need to keep calm, I tell myself. I need to think clearly.
Maybe if I talk about his kids . . . but my mouth is so dry I’m not sure I can get the words out. My hand tries to slide towards the door, I glance over my shoulder into the back seat and then I see it. A coiled pile of fishing line. That’s what finally does it. The terror that rises up is blinding, instant, suffocating – like snakes writhing over me. I jerk in my seat, trying to punch at the seat belt release button while my right hand reaches for the lock, but I am suddenly slammed back into my seat, my head smacking against the head rest.
Mr Thorne’s arm pins me to my seat and my ribs feel like they’re splintering beneath the weight of him. A sob bursts out of my throat. ‘Please.’ I am begging and I hate that I am begging but I can’t stop. ‘Please,’ I say again, tears falling down my cheeks, ‘let me go.’
Mr Thorne keeps driving, his arm holding me in place, and he doesn’t say anything. He just drives with one hand on the wheel, huddled forward, scanning the street ahead, looking, I realise with a bone-numbing sense of dread, for somewhere to stop.
I stop struggling. I want him to let me go. I want him to think that I pose no threat to him, that I can play ball if he just gives me a chance. I look out of the window at the darkened street. I don’t even know where we are. A car passes on the other side of the road and I stare helplessly at the driver, wondering if he can see me, see that I’m crying, that I’m being pinned to my seat by a serial killer, but he passes by in a hurry and the road ahead is swallowed up once again by the darkness.
‘You’ve made things impossible, Ren,’ Mr Thorne says over the sound of my quiet crying. He says it almost sadly, looking at me and shaking his head, as though this is all my fault. That I’m bringing whatever happens next upon myself. The car begins to slow down. He is pulling over to the side of the road. I buck against his arm, against the seat belt, against my own suffocating panic.
‘Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone,’ I say and I notice that it’s harder to speak this time. I’m wheezing, my lungs gasping for air, just like that fish on the beach, the one that I made Jesse throw back. At the thought of Jesse I start crying harder. Why can’t he be here? Why can’t he storm in and rescue me like he did at the party? ‘I promise I won’t tell,’ I sob.
Mr Thorne shakes his head at me. ‘I can’t let you go, Ren. I’m sorry.’ He doesn’t sound apologetic. ‘Not now.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ I whimper, and even to my own ears the question sounds stupid. It’s the question that the murder victim always asks in films, right before the killer launches into a soliloquy about being misunderstood or about his mother not loving him or God ordering him to do it.
Mr Thorne seems surprised by my question though, and his arm relaxes slightly against my chest. ‘Because,’ he says, shaking his head slowly, a terrifying glint in his eye, ‘you girls are all such sluts. You deserve it. The others both got exactly what was coming to them. Now it’s your turn.’
Instantly I stop fighting. I can only stare at him, at the spittle on his lips and the bright fervour in his eyes. This is the point when I realise that Mr Thorne is actually crazy – as in psycho-killer Norman Bates crazy – and that there is no way I’m getting out of this.
He tilts his head at me, his eyes narrowing, a smile forming on his lips. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while, Ren,’ he says, ‘dating my son, and then seeing that Miller boy behind his back.’
I try to protest – what is he talking about? But Mr Thorne shakes his head at me. ‘I saw you at The Ship, Ren.’
The protest dies on my lips. I was being watched. I remember standing in the deserted parking lot trying to figure out how to get the car out of that tight parking space and feeling like someone was watching me . . . and they were. He was. My breathing is coming in short gasps. In fact, now I think about it, there was a jeep blocking me in. Probably this jeep. Thank God Jesse came along when he did. Though that seems a moot point now, given the situation I’m in. I glance up sharply, my breathing coming in gasps. Was it Mr Thorne who was kerb-crawling me that time too on the way back from the beach?
I stare at him for a long second, stunned as the smile spreads across his face.
‘Carrie’s expecting me,’ I eventually stammer, as though this will be enough to make him change his mind.
He shakes his head at me. ‘No she isn’t. I never called her.’
Oh. I blink at him. Shit. But then I remember Jesse. He saw me leave with Mr Thorne, as did several dozen firefighters and cops. ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ I say, anger making my voice shake. ‘Jesse saw me getting into the car with you.’
Something cold and hard crosses his face, his eyes turn to stone. And I realise it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s no way back for him or me. He meant it when he said he can’t let me go. I react almost without thinking. I yank my arm free and smash the heel of my hand into his face, drawing my fingernails across his cheek. He jerks with an angry yell and I fumble for the door lock. But before I can reach the handle his hand slams up around my jaw, gripping me tight. I press my head back into the seat, angle my chin downwards and I bite down hard into the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
Mr Thorne yells as my teeth rip through the skin. He lets go again and I punch him as hard as I can in the face. I hear him bellow and at the same time my fingers hit the release button on the seat belt. He lunges for my top, grabbing a fistful of the material and trying to shove me back into my seat, but anger has an even bigger grip of me now, is trading places with terror, and I am screaming and hitting and kicking with every ounce of fight left in me, my lungs screaming and sucking in great gulps of air. ‘Get off me!’ I yell.
With one hand I feel behind me for the door handle and the pop as the door opens is like a victory roar. I feel cold air behind me and then I’m falling backwards. My feet land on the road but Mr Thorne grabs hold of my wrist as I turn, ready to flee. A searing pain shoots up my arm. He is leaning all the way across the passenger seat, trying to drag me back into the car, his face red and straining, and I realise that he’s still buckled in. With his wounded hand he’s reaching to undo the belt and I know I have just one chance. I fumble, twisting my free arm behind me, reaching for the can of Mace that Carrie gave me. I pull it out of my pocket and hold it up and it’s only then I realise that I’m holding my inhaler. I drop it to the ground, smashing the heel of my other hand against Mr Thorne’s arm as he tries to snatch at me and pull me back into the car. I manage to twist aro
und for long enough to find the Mace and I drag it free and whirl around, spraying it straight into his face. He screams and lets me go. I fly backwards, smacking my head against the car door, and for a second I’m so dizzy I think I might fall. My wrist burns, my arm is shooting pain up into my shoulder but I barely notice.
I’m running, running blind. Into the dark. Into the woods. Ricocheting off branches, tripping over tangled tree roots, gripping my arm as I stumble on, sobbing. Are those his footsteps coming after me or is it the wind? A bird? An animal?
I come to a flying halt and crouch down in the dirt, trying to listen. Is he following me? But my breathing is so loud and laboured it’s all I can hear. That and the wild drumming of blood in my ears. My heart is no longer a caged bird but a dozen bats trying to burst free. I close my eyes and try to sink down into the dark.
My fingers burrow through sandy soil, damp leaves. I want to claw my way deep into the earth, roll beneath the leaves and bury myself. I want to sob and scream and melt and turn to smoke and vanish. When I open my eyes the world spins, recedes then rushes back in.
‘Ren!’
His voice yells my name. Over and over. Filling my head with the sound of it and tearing apart the night.
I need to stand up. I need to run. But I’m frozen. My back is slammed against a tree. My lungs are beginning to close down. I try to suck in a breath but it gets stuck and all of a sudden the sky looms darker and larger overhead, the stars fuzzing out of focus and dissolving into the blanket sky.
A crunch.
I shrink back as far as I can, feeling the bark of the tree scratch a bloody trail across my shoulder. I bite my lip, choking off the scream that is fighting to burst out.
He is out there, holding his breath as I hold mine. Ears pricked, eyes scouring the darkness. I can sense him there waiting, just a few feet away, his head tilted as he listens, and I can no longer balance my weight on the balls of my feet. My knees are going to give, my arms are shaking.
Tears are slipping noiselessly down my cheeks as my eyes dart left and right strafing the darkness. I can’t see anything. It’s pitch black out here. In the distance the roar of the ocean seems to be calling to me, whispering my name, urging me to make a run towards it.
The Sound Page 26
