Night By Night

by Jack Jordan

  The car sat in the middle of the road, the engine grumbling. She stared from behind the wheel, up at its steel skeleton sparkling with dew, the fog drifting with the river and slicing through its structure.

  She couldn’t do this.

  The bridge was the only way in and out of Rearwood; she hadn’t left in all these years specifically to avoid this very trip.

  The phone box was on the other side.

  She looked down at her ankle. The skin was so bruised it was almost black, and had swollen beyond all recognition. She couldn’t walk another step.

  The past screamed in her ears. She revved the engine to block out the sounds, the screams. She had overcome so much. This was the last hurdle. The moment she did this she would be free; the night would finally end.

  Panic rose up to her mangled throat. She pressed down on the accelerator and crawled forwards. The fog helped, dimming her view of the river beneath, but she could still hear the chopping water, the loud rush of it as it bustled beneath. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Sweat ran down her ribs, stuck her T-shirt to her back. She didn’t know she was crying until she tasted the salt of the tears on her lips.

  Her body went ice cold, as though she was back in the water, holding on to Lily’s wrist, feeling it break beneath her grasp. The past was creeping in, taking over.

  Oh, fuck this, she thought, and pressed down on the accelerator. The car jerked forwards. She moved up to second gear, then third.

  The screams. The blood. The punch of the airbag against her nose.

  She saw the phone box and slammed on the brakes.

  She heard the whine of the bridge breaking open, felt her stomach lurch with the memory of the fall.

  She opened the car door and stumbled, scraping her palms and knees on the tarmac. The same surface Christian had beaten with his fists, the same road that had been littered with glass.

  She got to her feet.

  A flash of Violet drawing hearts on the glass.

  She limped towards the phone box, her mind swirling.

  Lily was beside her, clawing at her, screaming for her.

  She stumbled to the ground. The past bled into the present, turned the tarmac into mud on the riverbank, projected Violet’s body beneath her.

  She screamed up the agony, speckles of blood spraying the ground. She screamed for Violet, for Lily, for Christian. For herself.

  Then she crawled towards the phone booth as the car edged to the side of the bridge, its door still open and beeping at the dashboard, and stopped to the sound of a shattered headlight. She reached the shelter of the phone box and tugged at the door, stiff with rust, and fought her way inside. Rotten leaves had stuck to the floor; cigarette ends had browned with age. Graffiti had been written all over the glass. She snatched the phone and dialled 999, and waited with baited breath, the sound amplified in the closed space when she breathed out and then held her breath again.

  An operator answered and diverted her to the local police. She waited, her head going light, her whole body shaking, and sank to the bottom of the booth. When the operator answered, she burst into tears.

  ‘Can you hear me? I asked, what is your emergency?’

  She tried to speak, but her throat felt utterly broken, and the tears wouldn’t stop.

  ‘It’s okay,’ the kind voice said. ‘You’re okay. Tell me what’s happened, where you are.’

  She couldn’t speak a word. She sobbed into the receiver, croaking sounds instead of words.

  ‘All right, hang in there, officers are on the way – we’ll trace the number. I’ll stay on the line, all right?’

  Rose nodded, knowing the woman couldn’t see her, and sobbed, letting the phone hang from the metal cord. She closed her eyes and rocked.

  It’s over, she thought. It’s finally over.

  EPILOGUE

  Rose lay in bed and scanned the room that she had once seen as a prison, admiring the changes she’d made. The Artex swirls had been sanded away and covered with a new coat of plaster, the floral wallpaper had been stripped and replaced with eggshell-blue paint, a new bed put in a different position in the room, facing the windows with blinds that rose on a timer and shed light into the room. Each morning, she woke to the view of the river.

  Facing it first thing meant she could grieve, cry if she needed to, and then get on with her day. She would never forget, but she had to exist. If cheating death had taught her anything, it was that she couldn’t hide in the past, not any more.

  She sat up in bed and swung her legs over the edge.

  Her ankle wasn’t bad this morning. Sometimes she woke without pain, other times she woke in tears. The physiotherapy was working, but no one could promise her a pain-free future. It hadn’t been the injury that caused complications, but everything she did after the fall, worsening its condition until over time, her damaged muscles healed in scars; her ankle bone had broken away in chips.

  She did the stretching exercises the physio had taught her and left the room. Lily’s door stood ajar, just like it had been all those years before, the morning her whole world imploded. Rose crept down the hallway and pushed the door lightly on its hinges.

  They had decorated her room together, made it something that was just hers. Lily was barely visible huddled beneath the duvet, only the mess of red hair creeping onto the pillow. Rose smirked and closed the door.

  Some things never change.

  She made her way downstairs, holding the banister with an intense grip to ease the pressure on her ankle, and headed into the kitchen to fix some tea. The house wasn’t a prison any more. She would never be able to remove the history from its walls, but she had found a way to make room for it. This was still the room where Violet ate her last meal, but her memory didn’t poison the air the way it used to; it simply lingered.

  Rose took her mug of tea and stepped out onto the porch.

  Tony was already up, perched on his stool before the easel, paintbrush in hand. Out of all of them, he had changed the most. He seemed younger, with his back held straighter, his eyes brighter. From where he sat at the easel, she could just see the corner of his contented smile.

  ‘Morning,’ she said.

  He turned, smile widening.

  ‘Morning, Rosie. How did you sleep?’

  ‘Six hours.’

  ‘In human terms that’s twelve,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You must feel amazing.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, and meant it.

  She sat in her rocking chair and swayed lightly, cradling the mug in her hands. They fell into a comfortable silence. Tony painted, the breeze blowing wisps of his hair. Rose sat listening to the river and watching the sun shimmer on its surface.

  ‘What time is Christian coming to pick Lily up?’ he asked.

  ‘Midday, I think.’ She thought of the week ahead, seven days of just her and her father. Her chest ached.

  ‘I should be used to it by now.’

  ‘Missing her for the week?’ he asked.

  She nodded and took a sip.

  ‘Gives me a chance to beat you at Scrabble. She’s too good, puts us both to shame. How did therapy go on Friday?’

  ‘Better. She hugged me. I felt like I’d won the lottery ten times over.’

  ‘That’s good. And what about you? How’s it going for you?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You still take the sleeping pills?’

  ‘Not every night.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Thanks, doc,’ she said, and smirked, raising the mug to her lips.

  He laughed. ‘Sorry. Seeing Rob today?’

  Whenever she heard Rob’s name, she immediately felt guilty for suspecting him, even for a minute. There had been so many people to suspect, people like Dr Hunter who had seemed so corrupt, and Rob who was so new in her life. But not all of her suspicions had had foundation; Dr Hunter was right, in a way – paranoia had worked its way in.

  When Rob learned of what the police had done to the victims, and
to her during her investigation, he was adamant that he had had no idea, and swiftly denounced them. If any officers came to the range, he turned them away, and he spent many months trying to prove that he was good enough for her. It took more strength to let him in than it had to push him away, but now that she had him and the intimacy she had craved for so long, she felt close to becoming whole again.

  ‘I think so.’

  He chuckled and turned back to the painting. Her eyes drifted to the bridge. A year ago to the day, she had driven across it after lodging a bullet in a man’s brain and uncovering a truth that caused a ripple through the town. Three hundred and sixty-five days, and she could still feel the dirt closing in around her as she escaped the coffin, hear the grind of the gears as she sped across the bridge for the phone box.

  ‘It’s a year today,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ Tony said, and turned on his stool. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Angry.’

  ‘They’ll charge them, Rose. They have to.’

  ‘The justice system protects their own. Seb Clark, Leech, Watts, they’ll all walk free – just watch.’

  ‘You did everything you could.’

  ‘And still, it wasn’t enough. I just. . . I want them to pay, truly, truly pay. I want them to know what it feels like to have your whole world ripped away from you, to understand the true pain of injustice. The police will drag the investigation out for years, and that’s before they even get to court.’

  ‘But they’re looking into it, Rose. They ignored so much evidence, put so many lives in danger. That Anna, the detective, she’ll give evidence. So will Shane. There are lots of people to back this up. They can’t weasel out of it this time. One of their own was responsible for the murders, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Watch them, Dad.’

  Tony sighed into his lap, looked out at the view again.

  ‘Well, whatever happens, know that you did more than anyone to end this. You risked your own life for those men, and gave their families the closure they needed. You did this. Not the police, not the town, you.’

  She looked out at the river, at the trees swaying on the bank at the other side. ‘Do you want to know the worst part?’ she said. ‘Montgomery blackmailed his victims into staying quiet. He used their secrets, their sexuality, against them. If society didn’t keep people from being themselves, they could have come forward – they would still be alive. We’re all responsible for that.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  We would still have Jay, she thought.

  Rose sat and listened to the bustle of the river, the sway of the trees, thinking of those left behind. She longed for Shane to be happy, to finally put his demons to rest. The families of the victims who finally had answers, and the new reality of acceptance to grapple with. It was easier to go through life angry and hunting for justice, but when it was served, the real struggle began. Like her, they would have to accept what had happened if they stood any chance of moving on.

  The papers had been reporting the case every day, updates plastered on the front cover, mentioning the victims by name, printing their photos again and again, milking her connection to Jay for everything they could, and bringing up Violet’s death when the slightest opportunity arose. But the other victims, the ones left alive, were forgotten. Montgomery hadn’t just taken the lives of Jay, Finn, Johnny, Jamie, Phillip, Zach and Adam, but of their families, of Shane, of the men in the park. Even if the case was ruled in their favour and Seb Clark and his colleagues were sent down, injustice would continue to thrive. She had accepted a lot of things in the last year, but she wasn’t ready to accept that.

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

  Just a text to say I love you.

  She read Rob’s message and smiled. Happiness had breached her life again, even when she had tried to keep it at bay and continue to punish herself for what she had done. Allowing herself to move on was the hardest part. She hadn’t suffered for long enough. How dare she, when Violet was dead in the ground? But she had watched her own mother kill herself slowly, punishing herself day after day, until she finally closed her eyes and didn’t wake up again. She left a daughter behind who loved her, needed her. Rose couldn’t do the same to Lily. And although progress was slight, and Lily’s anger seemed indestructible, Rose could almost feel Lily learning to love her again. She would work as hard as she could to earn every bit of love her daughter was able to give.

  She eyed the bridge, lit up with the sun, the water bustling beneath, the stroke of her father’s brush as he detailed the leaves on the trees, and thought of her.

  Good morning, Violet.

  The wind swept in, the breeze like a warm, tender touch to her cheek.

  I love you too.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, many thanks to my agent, Sarah Hornsley of the Bent Agency, for your unwavering support and dedication, and to my editors, Sara O’Keeffe and Poppy Mostyn-Owen at Atlantic, for believing in this story so ardently.

  Many thanks to Mary Chamberlain for your sharp eye and attention to detail while copy-editing this novel – you’re fantastic.

  To my friends and family, who haven’t seen much of me while I’ve been writing this book (or the one before that, and most likely the one after). I promise I’m working to achieve that work–life balance people speak of. Special thanks to my main support system: Sandra Jarrad, Carl Jarrad and Pamela Jordan – this career wouldn’t be possible without you. Thank you also to my number one fans Josie Sinead Kendall and Vicki Kettle.

  A thousand thanks to the team at Waterstones Colchester, who backed Before Her Eyes with the sort of passion that authors can only dream of: Helen Wood, Karl Hollinshead, Mark Vickery, Joe Oliver Eason, Liv Quinn, Jon Clark, Chloe Denton and Clive Parsons. Your support has been so genuinely moving. I will never forget it.

  A huge thank you to everyone who has read and loved my books and helped to spread the word: every copy sold, every social media message, photo, review and word-of-mouth comment means the world. Special thanks to the Book Club on Facebook and to all the wonderful bloggers I’m lucky to know, as well as to Charlotte at what.i.read who has always been so supportive.

  Another heartfelt thank you to the team at my local Costa Coffee for knowing my coffee order off by heart, allowing me to overstay my welcome to write, and for not asking me to pay towards the rent, despite me being there so often.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jack Jordan wrote his first novel at seventeen and self-published two e-book bestsellers, Anything for Her and My Girl, by the age of twenty-four. Jack’s much-anticipated third novel Before Her Eyes published in Summer 2018. He lives in East Anglia.