24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (3 page)

O
n the outskirts
of the town that I’ve learnt is called Paignton, in the middle of a nondescript high street full of beige people and pound shops, I stand by the only pay-phone that still works. I will not attempt to switch on my own phone, buried deep in my coat pocket. I have no way of charging it and I also have an idea that, the minute I do use it, someone will trace me; someone I don’t want to find me.

I have a handful of change from the till – but I realise that, other than my mother’s landline and Sid’s mobile, I don’t know a single number off by heart. I don’t even know if I can reverse the charges, or if there’s even an operator any more. There are no humans, just automated systems and—

I am starting to hyperventilate; I don’t feel well. I sit down on a bench outside New Look, from which I have just bought myself a stripy jumper and a pair of ill-fitting jeans. I have survived the smirks of the somewhat alarmed shop assistants with thick painted eyebrows as I changed out of my strange outfit in their fitting rooms. Now I need to save my money; it’s all I have and where will I get more?

I try to collect myself. My hand throbs. My throat hurts. The painkillers are starting to wear off.

Think. Think, Laurie, think.

I think of Mal.

I remember Sid’s hand round his neck.

A huge wave of nausea washes over me.

I ring my mother, even though I’m pretty sure she is still on her way back from France. I am struggling to remember if I knew her timings; when she was catching the Eurostar with Polly. My head feels full of cotton-wool.

There is no answer. I leave a message.

‘It’s me. Laurie. I am not dead. Don’t worry, Mum, if you read the papers, I’m not dead. But oh God, Mum, I need to speak to you. Is Polly okay? I’m in Devon. There was a fire and Emily’s …’ I hear the catch in my voice; it has taken all my breath to even speak the words. I cannot afford to break down now. ‘Emily’s gone. I haven’t got a number to give you. I’ll call you again. Do not let Polly out of your sight. Whatever you do. Promise me. And do not speak to Sid.’

I get off the phone and I have a sudden idea. Of course: how stupid. I find the nearest phone shop and I buy the cheapest pay-as-you-go phone, and a charger for my own mobile. It costs £22.50 altogether. I buy £10’s worth of credit. I only have £34.76 left.

I ring directory enquiries. It costs me 70p to ask for Pam Southern’s number in Lincolnshire – Emily’s mother. But when I get the number, I can’t bear to call it. What will I say? ‘So sorry, Pam, but actually it’s Emily who is dead’? And anyway, they must be on their way to the hospital. To see Emily. To see me …

How long will it take someone to realise it’s Emily lying there, and not me? To gaze on that beautiful destroyed face, so honest and open in life, that spark of mad energy doused forever. How long do I have to find out who actually killed her, before they find me and kill me too?

I sit again on a bench outside a hardware shop selling mops and brightly coloured plastic.

I can think of nothing but Emily.

She swept into my life one windy autumn day in ’93, assigned to show me around the sixth-form college I had just joined. Transferring late from the private school I’d attended briefly whilst my father was actually in funds, I was infinitely relieved to be leaving: I hated the girls, the snooty teachers and the stuffy timetable. But I was very nervous that first day in the new place; shy; out of my depth. And there were boys.

I wasn’t good with boys.

Achingly cool, all blue-tipped peroxide hair, glittery rings and bangles up her plump arms, chewing Juicy Fruit dramatically, Emily was quite obviously everything I was not. Quietly, I followed in her wake, too frightened to speak in case I said something stupid; in case my voice came out too loud. It always came out too loud in my head; I always said something stupid when it counted most.

Emily didn’t care if her voice was loud. She had a presence already. Everywhere we went in that building, everyone knew Emily: why would they not want to? Kids called out to her, particularly the boys, and she blew kisses back. I was impressed: far too naïve to find it affected. And anyway, it was just Emily. It came naturally to her.

Occasionally, she’d ignore someone, muttering beneath her breath, and I’d glance back at their crestfallen face. I wasn’t quite basking in her light yet – but I was realising it would be desirable.

‘Do you like The Charlatans?’ Fluffing her hair in the mirror, she threw the question over her shoulder as I filled in a form for my own locker.

I wished I knew the right answer.

‘Er, yeah,’ I ventured. ‘Love them.’

‘God,
really
?’ her disdain was impressively dramatic. She leant on the desk next to me, beads clicking on the wood; she smelt of sandalwood and cigarettes. ‘They’re so, like, over. It’s Nirvana now. The gorgeous-io Kurt Cobain.’

‘Oh,’ I stared at her, discomforted, first test failed. ‘Well, I love them too. More. Like, “Teen Spirit”.’

She stared back, hardly blinking.

‘And he’s well sexy.’ I sounded idiotic, but I ploughed on valiantly. ‘Kurt. I like his – his teeth. His hair.’

His teeth and hair? Oh God.

Her eyes were like a tiger’s as she gazed at me.

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Laurie.’

‘Well, Laurie,’ she affected a Scottish accent, for what reason I wasn’t sure. ‘It’s “
Smells Like
Teen Spirit”. You’d be as well to learn that. Honestly, if you are the crème de la crème, my girl, I’d hate to see the skim of the milk.’

Later, I learnt she was channelling a character called Miss Jean Brodie; as likely to slip into another persona as to be herself. Ever the drama student, Emily relished showing how versatile she was.

But now, I just goggled at her, utterly thrown.

She gazed back, unwavering.

And then she began to laugh, heartily.

And slowly, I began to laugh too; slowly, as I realised she was laughing with me, not at me.

Somehow that day, against every odd, our friendship began to be forged. It was sealed a month or so later when her dad walked out for the last time, disappearing for good. Girls with similarly feckless fathers, we were bonded for life over her tears and milky coffee in the café on the corner. Secretly, I hated coffee, but Emily drank it, so I did too.

Where Emily led, I followed, until eventually one day I caught her up. I didn’t live in her shadow exactly, but I was comfortable being warmed by her light.

She had a lot of light, my lovely Emily.

A
toddler bumps
against my knee running from his mother, and I force myself back. Right now, more than anything, I need to get to London.

I don’t ring Pam, coward that I am – but I do ring my mother’s answer-phone again and leave my new number. Then I buy a cup of horrible tea and I ask the woman, whose toddler is now screaming as she hauls him into the buggy, where the nearest petrol station is.

It is drizzling. I walk down the road towards the motorway clutching my lukewarm tea, wrapped in the stolen voluminous coat, and I look out for lorries. I haven’t hitched since I was seventeen and trying to get to Edinburgh to see my first boyfriend who had gone up to the Festival with a ridiculous mime show. I got all the way there and then I found him in bed with a girl with no pubic hair. When I’d rung Emily, sobbing down a pub pay-phone, she’d said ‘I did tell you so. He’s a knob-end. Come on, Laurie. Pull yourself together. Next!’

I look desperately for someone who might give me a lift now.

As I walk, I see great flames that lick the walls; I smell the noxious black smoke that billowed out over the once-white building; I hear the chaos: the shouting and the pandemonium that ensued.

As I walk, I repeat over and over to myself,
It will be all right, it will be all right.

But I am not sure it will be. Something has gone catastrophically wrong.

A lorry passes, flicking me with spray. My feet are already soaked.

The lorry slows. I start to run.

How did it come to this?

T
hat first weekend
after our holiday, I had to let Polly go and stay with Sid. There was no good reason why she couldn’t; his behaviour towards her had always been entirely loving, and I knew it was the grown-up, responsible thing to do, shared parenting, even though all I wanted to do was hang on to her, kicking and screaming.

Reality was closing round me with a horrible snap. I found myself craving refuge again from it, but there were no other options. In Spain, there had been a chance to forget, but back home in London’s Dartmouth Park, it was down to earth with a bump. Back to work, back to a new regime – sharing my daughter.

On the Friday, Sid collected her from school so I didn’t have to see him, which was simultaneously a relief and another stab in the heart. Part of me wanted to know if Polly would be spending time with the ethereal Jolie, but I couldn’t bear the answer.

Instead of rushing home from the Centre to cook Polly’s tea, I went to the cinema with Emily. Unfortunately, the light-hearted comedy about lesbian mothers was sold out, so we sat through three interminable hours of Scandinavian gloom about the impending end of the world. By the time it finished I felt so depressed, I wished it really would end.

‘I’m sorry about that, babe,’ Emily said, dropping me home afterwards. ‘Maybe not the best choice of film ever.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But … interesting.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she looked at me, feather earrings swinging wildly. ‘Interestingly suicide-inducing.’ And we both laughed. But I didn’t really feel like laughing. I just felt infinitely sad.

‘Do you want me to come in?’ Emily said nobly, but I could feel her itching to go. She had checked her phone incessantly in the cinema. It irritated me almost as much as the film, but I understood there was a new man in the offing. Who was I to stand in the way of romance?

‘Go,’ I instructed, waving from the front steps as she lurched off down the road, reapplying her red lipstick as she drove. And watching the tail-lights disappear round the corner, I was only the tiniest bit jealous.

On the Saturday morning, I tried my utmost to stay asleep but of course I was awake at seven, watching the pale autumn light seep slowly through the curtain. My house had never felt so empty or sounded so quiet. First Sid had gone, and now Polly …

I attempted one of Emily’s Buddhist mantras to stop those thoughts, but I just felt ridiculous saying
Om
, and anyway I kept thinking of Polly waking up on the other side of town. And of Sid and Jolie, and how I was alone, and they were not. I didn’t want Sid, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t struggling with the idea of another woman.

I got up and drank tea at the kitchen table, staring at the garden that was turning golden-brown as autumn arrived properly. I walked the rooms. I watered the peace lilies. I fed the fish. I talked to them a bit. Could they hear? Did fish even have ears? I looked closer. One of the pretty blue ones was belly-up on the surface.

Oh God. Everyone left me.

I was getting maudlin. Where was Buddha when you needed him?

Polly would be back tomorrow night, I reminded myself. But her bed looked so very empty. I straightened her duvet and plumped up Toy Bear on the pillow. Perhaps I could take Toy Bear round if she missed him– I stopped that train of thought promptly.

I flushed the fish down the loo and rang Robert to ask him what to do with the key to the house in Vejer as he hadn’t been at work this week, but really it was just because I wanted to hear another human voice. He didn’t answer the phone. It was too early to ring Emily. She never rose before eleven at the weekend, and God only knew where she was anyway.

I tried my hardest not to, but finally I gave into a few pathetic tears. Then, resolutely, I wiped my eyes and dressed, pulling on my warmest jumper, hat and scarf, and walked across the square to Robin’s Café. Other people; warmth and light.

It was very busy in the fugged-up little café but I managed to bag the last tiny table in the corner. I grabbed the last bit of the newspaper in the stand, realising too late it was the sports section. I read it anyway. It was amazing what I didn’t know about golf – didn’t know and could have happily lived a good while longer without learning.

I was halfway through my scrambled eggs and an article about the Australian Grand Prix when a voice asked if it could join me.

‘Sorry, it’s just there’s nowhere else to sit. Except the garden, and it’s a bit cold out.’

‘Sure!’ I leant over to retrieve the hat and scarf that I’d thrown over the other chair. The scarf trailed through the tomato ketchup on my plate and down my white jumper.

‘Oh God,’ I was starting to feel a bit flustered now. ‘Stupid.’

‘I’ll get you a napkin,’ the voice said.

‘Thanks.’

I looked up at him now as he passed me the paper serviettes. He had a nice open face, slightly ruddy from the cold; tawny hair. He looked … I couldn’t think of the right word for a moment. Sort of
solid
, in a comforting kind of way.

‘That’s so annoying, isn’t it?’ he indicated the mark.

I looked back down at my jumper, at the ketchup stain, almost flushing. ‘Very typical of me,’ I grimaced. ‘Rarely get my food near my mouth.’

He laughed and my stomach shifted very slightly. I concentrated hard on dabbing the mark. He was sitting down now; I could feel the cold coming off him. He smelt of fresh air. Chucking the serviette away, I buried my head in my cappuccino and kept trying to read about someone called Räikkönen.

Our knees touched under the tiny table. I almost jumped.

This was ridiculous. Bravely, I looked at him and we both grinned.

‘Bit small, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry.’ I finished my coffee. ‘I’ve got to get going anyway.’

‘Oh please, don’t go on my account.’ He looked worried.

‘No, well, honestly, I think I’ve read all I can read about the Grand Prix anyway.’

‘Fan of it?’

‘Definitely not.’ I shook my head vehemently. ‘I’ve never watched one in my life, and I’m happy to keep it that way.’

‘It is a bit of a specialist sport, I think. Not for the masses really.’

‘Too noisy for me.’ I looked round for Robin to ask for my bill. ‘And is it really a sport? Girls with long legs and hair, and lots of men whizzing round Monaco in expensive cars, dirtying up the air?’

‘It’s open for debate, I guess, but I’m not a great fan either.’ He paused. ‘So, do you live locally?’

‘Just on the other side of the square.’

‘Right. I’m new to the area.’

‘It’s nice. The area. Kind of … friendly, given that it’s such a big city.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. His light eyes were warm in a sun-tanned face, and he reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think whom. I gave up on Robin and stood now, in my stained white jumper. I nearly pulled on my hat and then decided I might wait until I got outside. I wasn’t entirely sure it showed me to my best advantage.

‘Well, enjoy! Maybe see you again.’

‘I hope so,’ he said and for some reason I felt ludicrously pleased.

I paid at the till and left, giving the man a quick smile as I passed, which he returned. He was reading the article about the Grand Prix now himself.

Outside it was bitterly cold but I felt more jolly than I had in weeks. Walking to the shops through the park, though, my happiness quickly deflated. The man had been so nice. Very … attentive. It seemed like a long time since anyone had paid me any attention. But I needed to concentrate on Polly, and Polly alone.

In the greengrocers’ mirror, I noticed I had dried cappuccino froth on my nose. Scrubbing it off, I realised the man just felt sorry for me, poor bumbling idiot that I was. And anyway, he was probably married. Most of the good ones were. Leaving the shop, I sidestepped a woman hidden in her furry hood, hissing into her phone. She was stiff with anger, turning away from me for privacy.

I walked home, alone and dejected. I wanted to speak to Polly. Was it all right to call her at Sid’s? Would that upset her? What
was
separated parent protocol? God only knew.

I waited for an old lady and her spaniel to cross my path.

Forget the men. Maybe it was time to get a dog.