Deathwatch (21 page)

“Just because I what?” The woman’s voice now was sharp.

“I don’t know. You haven’t told me. Are you going to tell me?” She wasn’t sure that she wanted to hear, but keeping the woman talking was all she could do. If she could discover what she planned, maybe she could find a way to change her mind. If her mum was here, she’d know what to say. But she wasn’t here, and nor was her dad. She was on her own. Cold, and very, very frightened. The panic threatened to choke her again. She swallowed, looked at the woman, challenging her with her eyes.

The woman spoke. “She would have looked like you, I know she would. She’d have had your hair. I’d have made her be just like you, strong and everything. I’d have given her dreams too, better dreams than mine, and I’d have followed them with her.”

“Who?”

After the slightest hesitation, the woman answered, “My daughter.” Cat said nothing. Waited. She knew what was coming. She could see it in the woman’s eyes. Something crying out. “She died.”

CAT
barely breathed. “How old was she?”

Now the voice was muslin soft and flat. “No age at all. She never lived. Stillborn, they call it. Unborn, I’d say. I never saw her. Sometimes they let you see them. I didn’t. I couldn’t. But she would have been like you, I know she would. I’ve watched you. I know. I just know.”

“But why me? There are lots of girls like me.”

“But not with your father.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father and my husband – ex-husband, pardon me – were in the Gulf, the First Gulf War. My husband was destroyed by it. Our marriage was destroyed by it. Your father destroyed him. Us. Me.”

“That’s…” Cat wanted to say it was ridiculous.

“After my husband came back, I had to listen to his nightmares almost every night. I watched him, drunk, ranting about what he’d seen. Once he hurled a bottle of whisky against a wall when I told him to stop drinking. The glass cut my cheek and he wouldn’t take me to hospital. Well, he couldn’t, could he? He was drunk. But he wouldn’t let me phone. I was pregnant.” The woman stroked the scar on her face.

“But my father…”

“Was the man he spoke about. Over and over. Your father was the man who did not help while my husband held his dying friend’s shattered head. Your father was the man my husband blamed. And then
your father
had a daughter. When I lost my baby. The day I lost my baby,
your father
was supposed to be my doctor. But it was another doctor who looked after me while the ambulance came. Because your father was at the hospital, watching
you
being born.” The woman gathered herself together. She lit another cigarette.

“And I did OK, you know. I really did. Friends helped. But my marriage broke down and that was hard too. But I really did deal with it. Until this summer.” She paused. “Danny was pretty upset.”

Danny! What was this?

“Danny?”

“My nephew. Ex, I suppose.”

And then Cat understood. This was Uncle Walter’s ex-wife.

“Walter – my ex – told me that Danny was going out with the daughter of Bill McPherson. Wasn’t that amazing, he said? Walter’s writing his memoirs – my idea, for him to try to deal with his ghosts – and in his research he came across an article written by … guess who? Diana McPherson. Any relation, we wondered? Of course it’s a relation! It’s your mother. Your mother who thinks she can pontificate about Gulf War syndrome when she knows nothing. Sod bloody all. And then I saw you. I’d been watching your house. I wanted to see you, only see you, to see what you were like. And there you were. All glowing and healthy and off to some competition or something, and your parents both getting in the car with you, and all of you just looking so damned … happy.”

The woman sucked on her cigarette, her hands still now, the fingers clenched.

“But how is this going to help? Kidnapping me and hurting my mum? I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened to you but … I mean, what do you want? What do you want me to do? My parents will do anything. Is it money?”

The woman laughed. Pulled the cork out of a bottle of red wine and slopped a large amount into a glass. Drank from it, three large mouthfuls.

“Can I stand up?” asked Cat.

“No. Stay where you are.” The viciousness had come back into her voice.

“But I’ve got pins and needles,” lied Cat. “It’s really bad. Please. I won’t do anything, I promise.” She lied again. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she wanted to be ready for whatever it was. Like getting into position for a race.

“You can go and lie on the bed.”

Cat began to stand up, careful not to make any sudden movements. The woman stood too, watching her closely.

And then Cat’s phone rang.

It sounded shockingly loud. Grabbing the knife, the woman glanced at the phone. The familiar name glowed on the screen.

“Danny!” she exclaimed, leaving the phone where it was. “Leave it!”

The woman had drunk the first glass of wine and now poured her second. She leaned on the edge of the table, still standing. Her breathing was fast and she chewed her lip whenever there was no cigarette there. Cat’s eyes were stinging in the smoke. When the woman started playing with the knife, Cat had to speak, to fill the silence and try to calm the woman down. Cat was still standing too, as though about to sit on the bed. The woman seemed not to have noticed.

“What … what do you do now? To earn a living, I mean?” It was hard to keep her voice steady.

“Computers. I design websites. Computers are easy to understand. They are predictable. I could hack into any computer network you wanted me to. Got my own wireless connection.” She pointed over to a corner, where Cat now saw a laptop.

“Phiz!” she exclaimed.

“Oh yes. Phiz. You shouldn’t give so much of yourself away on your public space, you know. Most people use their pet’s name as a password, combined with some simple system. You’re no different from anyone else. Polly is your dog – it says so on Phiz – and Polly is part of every password you create. Right? I knew about your hobbies from Danny, but even if I hadn’t, it’s all there on the site.”

Cat didn’t bother to nod. It was shockingly obvious. Not David, after all. Walter had been right.

She was just about to ask something else, when the boat lurched and the wine glass slid towards her. There was the slow roar of a boat going past and then disappearing.

Cat did not plan what happened next. Survival instinct took over. She grabbed the curtain behind her and the metal pole came down. She grasped it and held it out, like a sword. It was only about fifty centimetres long and there wasn’t room to move properly, but she had the advantage – the pole was longer than the knife. Not by much, but enough.

Driven by fear, she lunged at the woman, who leapt back with a furious shout. Then the woman hurled herself forward, slashing wildly with the knife. Cat forgot everything she’d been taught by Mr Boyd and let instinct take over. She parried and lunged, turning slightly all the time until her back was at the door. The woman’s eyes were blurred with tears, her mouth open in desperation. Cat didn’t care, couldn’t care about this woman’s tears.

She needed to open the door. She had no idea if it was on a latch or if the woman had locked it. She just couldn’t remember. If she pushed it and it didn’t open, she was trapped. And even if it opened, the woman would come through only a second later.

For many moments, Cat delayed, parrying repeatedly, never taking her eyes from the ugly knife. And then, taking a deep breath, she lunged forward, hurling the pole like a spear at the woman, hitting her in the chest, and then darted to the door, grabbing the handle and slamming it downwards. For a moment it held, and then she was through, almost falling onto the motorbike leaning on the tiny deck. She slammed the door behind her, giving herself an extra two or three seconds.

Cat could see the far bank and the towpath some metres away. She took a deep breadth. No time to think. No choice. She jumped into the foul water.

As she jumped, a terrible cry rang out behind her. Not anger but raw desperation.

“No! Don’t go! Don’t go! I only wanted to…”

THE
water was thick. And shallow. Her feet sank straight into the mud on the canal bottom, until she was up to her knees in it, unable to move forward. Her shoulders were just above the water. She needed to get her feet out of the mud and swim properly. Desperately, she ripped her coat off and left it floating behind her. Then tugged one foot out of the silt, threw herself horizontally onto the water and struggled frantically to pull the other leg out. Afraid of the foul pollution, she kept her mouth tightly closed. Each time she opened her mouth to gasp air, the brown liquid trickled inside her lips. She spat.

Only the strength in her swimmer’s arms allowed her to pull her legs free. Anyone else might have wanted to keep their feet on the bottom, but she would never have been able to move. Only swimming would save her.

All too aware of the sound of the engine starting up, the vibrating of the water, the woman shouting for her to come back, she threw every ounce of strength into fighting her way to the bank.

The woman was shouting something. But Cat could not think about that. Her own terror came first, her own need to be safe, to get home.

Her jeans were heavy and weighed her down, though she had lost her shoes in the mud. Ignoring the cold, the stink, the sounds behind her, she took a huge breath and flung her arms into a laboured crawl. She would not breathe or open her eyes – it was only about thirty metres at the most. Never had she had to work so hard to power through the water, but within less than a minute she was wading through silt and reeds, clambering up the side onto the bank. Dripping, shivering, spitting, she let out a sob as she gasped for breath. With the back of her hand she wiped the mud from her face and gagged. Gritty water caught on her teeth and she spat repeatedly until she could spit no more.

The towpath was narrow here, backed by a high wall. No escape. She looked behind her. The barge was nearly at this bank. She could just make out the figure of the woman at the helm. Hear her voice but not her words. She didn’t want to hear her words.

She ran, pummelling the air, cold wind in her throat, rain running down her face, pain in her lungs. Straining to hear any sounds behind her. No sound of the boat, not any more. It must be at the bank. The woman would be leaping off. She would be only seconds behind.

Cat was fast and fit, but she was wet and horribly cold. The path was pitted and slippery with puddles of rainwater. But she ran, because it was all she could do, pounding the ground, ignoring any pain, trying to use every muscle as she’d been taught, squeezing each iota of power, arms grasping the air, head down, body forward, streamlined, forcing the ground away with each footstep.

The darkness was mustard-tinged and watery. No lights on the towpath, just straggling reflections from distant houses on the far side, their long back gardens sloping towards the canal. If anyone happened to be looking out at the right moment, they might see her running. But then what would they do? They’d think she was a jogger. Or if they were worried, she’d be gone before they could phone the police. But maybe, just maybe someone would. She should scream – but she couldn’t, needed all her breath for running.

She didn’t look behind her.

No one was ahead of her, no friendly late-night dog-walker – the weather was keeping everyone indoors.

And then, faintly at first, Cat heard it. She couldn’t tell at first whether it came from behind her or in front. But there was no mistaking what it was.

A motorbike.

NOW
Cat screamed as she ran. Gasping, her eyes wide, summoning every bit of strength. If she could reach the next bridge in time, she could hide. But only if she got there before the woman saw her.

She was beginning to tire. Her legs were growing heavy. It seemed like hours since she’d eaten anything. It was frightening how fast she was running out of fuel. Body diesel, as her coach called it.

The bridge was visible now. A few more seconds. The motorbike still distant enough, but definitely behind her. Approaching fast.

The noises of the city had disappeared into the sounds of the storm: the rain, the wind rattling the branches, roaring in her ears. It was impossible to imagine people sitting in front of televisions, or going about their bedtime routines, drinking hot milk, having petty arguments.

Still Cat ran, though more slowly now. She’d once imagined she could run for ever if she wanted to. Now she knew better. Only in her dreams could she run for ever.

The bridge. She darted underneath and immediately swerved to the right, into the sheltered corner on the other side. Gasping and heaving, she squeezed herself tight against the wall. The biting wind whipped through her hair, through her thin wet jumper, through her skin.

And she waited. The motorbike was coming quickly nearer.

There was no need for her to quieten her breathing. The woman would never hear her over the sound of everything else. She would go past. Then Cat would have to run up into the open park beside the canal. Would the woman guess what had happened, when she did not quickly find Cat on the towpath? After all, the woman would know the canal better than anyone. Cat knew there’d be very little time before the woman realized what had happened and came after her.

She held her breath as the roar of the motorbike swelled. She could scream now and no one would hear at all, so loud was the noise. And then, in a black flash, it was past. Cat could make out the figure of the woman hunched over the handlebars. Her hair flew out behind her: she was wearing no helmet.

And she was gone. As Cat waited for a few more moments, anger grew in her, more than fear. “Some Olympic medallist I’ve never heard of,” the woman had said of her grandfather. And how contemptuous she’d been of Cat’s ambitions. What did she know, loser that she was, sad weirdo woman in a boat? Anger gave her strength.