Authors: Adam Croft
But if I show the police, the first thing they’ll want to know is why I didn’t tell them earlier about Jen Hood’s emails. What possible reason have I got for not wanting to tell the police that a stranger offered me the chance to get my daughter back by killing my wife? Apart from the obvious, that is.
Besides which, it’d completely remove that option for me. The only avenue it would leave is putting my complete faith in the police to find whoever’s taken Ellie and save her before it’s too late. I quickly realise that’s a level of faith I just don’t have. I need to keep my options open, and opening up to the police about the Jen Hood thing would take those options away from me, not to mention leaving me open to a huge amount of suspicion.
I wonder if I could get away with showing them the video but not the emails. Problem is, they’d want to know where the video came from. They’d have their forensics people all over it and just deleting the other emails wouldn’t be enough to get past them. And how suspicious would that look?
I think about putting the video on a memory stick and claiming it was pushed through my door or sent in the post or something. Would they be able to tell? I don’t know enough about computers to know if they’d be able to see that the video originally came from an email. Can they track things like that? I could look online and research it to find out, but what if they discovered that too?
I’m quickly coming to realise that every tiny potential move I make could have huge ramifications. Even the quickest Google search could unravel the whole thing. Funny thing is, I’ve not even done anything illegal. I haven’t kidnapped Ellie. I haven’t threatened to murder a child. I’ve done nothing wrong. All I did was leave her in the car for a minute. Two, tops. Does that really warrant this level of paranoia? Yeah, at a push the attack on Tasha could be considered my fault, but hell, I didn’t actually do it myself.
What’s wrong with me? I’m now trying to justify organising a hit on my wife. The worst fucking hit of all time, too, it seems. What if Tasha saw her attacker? What if she identifies him later? What if the guy is caught and crumbles and the whole thing leads back to me? He’s obviously not the most calm and collected bloke in the world if he couldn’t finish the job properly.
All of these thoughts fly through my head at once. I can hear them screaming as they rattle around inside my skull, all vying for attention as I struggle to keep it together. That’s how most first-time killers are caught, they say. Their brain just can’t comprehend what’s happened and keep up with all of the different thoughts and emotions. The whole ‘carry on as normal’ thing just doesn’t happen.
I’ve seen countless parents of missing or murdered children on TV over the years, all talking about how their world stopped turning the day their child disappeared from their life. I don’t know if it stops turning, but it certainly becomes a different sort of world. A world of different colours, of different moods. It’s as if all of the colour has just fallen out of the world, drained away to somewhere else; a parallel world where everything carried on as normal, where nothing ever happened. But, weirdly, that parallel world is still there, still visible. It’s the one that everyone around me is still living in. They still see the colour. Their world is still turning.
For me, the world stopped turning that morning Ellie disappeared. And I’m the only one who can start it moving again.
The bottle of scotch is looking desperately empty, but I’m starting to feel a whole lot better. I’m starting to think clearly for the first time in days, and I’ve got the bottle to thank for that.
Again, I run over the ideas I’ve had as to how I can do it. It’s going to take some forethought and planning, but I also need to do it quickly. There was definite malice in that email and I really don’t trust whoever’s got Ellie not to harm her. I want — need — Ellie back and I need her back now.
I stand to go upstairs and get my laptop, but stop myself. I want to look up ways of doing it. I’m no longer worried about the police monitoring the laptop and seeing what I’m looking at. Ellie is what matters. The only reason I don’t want to go into the bedroom is because I know I’ll end up doing it there and then, and that won’t end well for anybody.
I just want to escape this madness. I’m starting to think that I really might not ever see Ellie again. If that’s the case, there’s no point carrying on. If I can’t bring myself to do what needs doing, I might as well just end it all now. The end result will be the same, but much quicker and far less painful.
Tasha’s been taking Tramadol to help with the pain since the attack. I wonder how many of those I’d need to finish myself off. Finish myself off. I could even finish her off. I could crush a few up and put them in her food to get that job done instead, but McKenna would spot that a mile off. No, I can’t do that. I’ve got to do myself in. It sounds weird, but I wouldn’t want to kill myself with Tasha’s painkillers. Not the ones she’s on because of me. No, my sleeping tablets would work far better. Far less guilt involved there. Could’ve just been accidental, right? I think about googling how many temazepam I’d need to sleep forever. It’s probably not a great idea. I imagine they’d have cars swooping down the road in seconds, dragging me away before I’d even got the packet open.
I can feel myself beginning to crash, but I need to stay awake. I’m not thinking straight, but at least I’m thinking.
I go back to my inbox and open the last email from Jen Hood again. I figure that if I desensitise myself to it, I’ll be able to think more clearly. I need to get past the reactionary stuff and start to look at the situation with a fresh mind. I swallow hard as I click the link for the video again.
Ellie’s voice catches my heart and I realise I’m going to have to watch this a fair few times if I’m even going to come close to being desensitised to it. I’m soon no longer aware of any sound, though, as my eyes are drawn to something over Ellie’s left shoulder, half hanging out of a cardboard box. I pause the video.
I can’t quite make out what it is, but it looks very familiar. I squint at the screen, my nose barely inches away from it. Then I realise.
It’s a jumper. One I’ve seen before. Many times. In fact, I’ve seen it on many people. But in that instant, I know exactly whose that jumper is.
The smoke fills the room with a steady haze as the music fills our ears. It’s a pure sensory experience: the sweet smell of the smoke, the softness of the bed under our legs, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Even the yellowy gold of the university logo seems to gleam brightly on the breast of the jumper that’s slung over the chair at the end of the bed. I’m starting to tune most of it out, though. I’ve got other things on my mind.
They say your university days are the best days of your life. They’ve certainly not been bad to me. I’m not convinced it’s going to make any difference to my future job prospects, but it would be fair to say I’ve had a ball.
She rests her head on my shoulder, her long hair flowing down my chest. I know I’ve got to tell her sometime — I’ve been meaning to for a while — but she’s not the sort of girl who can be let down gently. I don’t know that for sure as I’ve never dared to try, but a few things have made me wonder whether she might not react in the best way to what I have to tell her.
I decide I need to cut to the chase.
‘What are you thinking?’ she says, as if she can read my mind.
‘Not much,’ I say, immediately chiding myself for chickening out. ‘Just stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’ she asks.
‘Life. Just stuff in general.’
‘Us?’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ I reply, pausing as I think of what to say. ‘I just wonder whether this is something that can carry on.’
I feel her stiffen slightly before she speaks, but she doesn’t lift her head from my shoulder.
’How do you mean?’
‘Well, I mean, we’ll all be finished here in a few weeks. Back off home, probably, or away on new adventures, finding jobs.’
She speaks without emotion. ‘But we’re from the same town, Nick. If we both go back home, we can still be together. And if we stay here there’s no problem. We could even find jobs together.’
This is what I was worried about. ‘I dunno. I just wonder if it’d be the same after uni. Life’s different once you get out into the real world. I wouldn’t want that to spoil what we’ve got. I know so many people who’ve said that.’
‘Like who?’
‘Just friends,’ I say.
There’s a deathly silence for a good minute or so, neither of us speaking.
Eventually, she speaks.
‘It’s not that at all, is it? You’ve met someone else.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say.
‘No, it’s true, isn’t it? Who is it? Really, I won’t mind.’
I know for a fact she will. ‘I haven’t met anyone,’ I tell her.
‘Is it Tash?’
I force a laugh and shake my head. ‘No, Emma. It’s not Tash. I promise.’
Now it all makes sense. She’d reacted so calmly that day, it could only ever have meant one thing. They say it’s the calm ones you need to watch out for. The ones who bottle it all up, planning ahead, quietly working away in the background while everyone worries about the hotheads who are blowing their lids.
Emma had seemed genuinely pleased when Tasha and I finally told her we were going out. The weirdest thing is, that didn’t strike me as odd back then. I guess I was too loved up and too involved in the whole situation to even see it. I suppose I just assumed she was actually over it. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The day Ellie was born, Emma was one of the first people to see her. I remember how she just stood staring at her, with what I thought was wonder and amazement in her eyes. Now I see it for what it really was. That was the day her life really changed and she knew there was no going back.
But why now? Why wait until Ellie was five? What significance did that have? Probably none. Perhaps it was just the point at which everything had piled up and she finally snapped. Either way, it’s all academic. Right now, my priority is on getting Ellie back.
I’m shaking as I put my shoes on and leave the house. I decide to go by foot. I’m not quite sure why, whether I think it’ll be easier to lose anyone who’s following me — not that it matters, seeing as I’m about to sort this all out once and for all. Besides, I don’t fancy having a drink-driving charge added to my list right now. When I get to Jubilee Park, my jog breaks into a sprint.
Eventually, I reach Emma’s house. Before I walk up the path, I stop for a moment to compose myself and catch my breath. If Ellie’s here, she’s probably safe. As soon as Emma is surprised or caught unawares, that could all end. I’m acutely aware that Emma holds all the cards right now.
I ring the doorbell. A few moments later, I hear footsteps, and then Emma opens the door. I give her my best smile and say hello.
‘Nick, come in,’ she says. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘I went for a walk. Try to clear my mind, you know. I was passing so thought I’d pop by and say hi.’
‘Oh right. Well, I was just off to bed in a bit. Long day tomorrow. Do you want a drink or something?’
‘Just a glass of water would be great,’ I say, my throat parched from the run.
‘Nothing stronger? You’ve had a couple already. I can smell it. I thought you’d cut down.’
I smile and let out a small chuckle.
‘Rumbled. Go on then,’ I say.
We walk through into her living room. It’s paining me to have to go through this charade, knowing that Ellie is probably sitting up in the attic wondering what’s happened. Every fibre of my being wants to just take Emma clean out, right here and now, and rush upstairs to grab my daughter. But something inside me stops me.
It’s the rational logic that Emma’s had years to plan this. She’s unlikely to have missed much. It’s not as if I’m just going to be able to shimmy up the loft ladder, grab Ellie and go. What if she’s boobytrapped it somehow?
There’s a good chance the stress, lack of sleep and alcohol are making me think crazy thoughts, but this is hardly a normal situation.
Whichever way I look at it, though, I need to get to the point.
I make sure I’ve positioned myself closer to the doorway. Closer to the kitchen, too, should a weapon be needed.
‘So how are you bearing up?’ she asks. She’s a good actress. She always was.
‘I’ve had better times,’ I reply. ‘I was thinking today, actually, about the uni days. How we didn’t have any of the stresses of adulthood.’
A nostalgic smile spreads across Emma’s face. ‘I think about those days a lot,’ she says.
‘Tash doesn’t. I think she just saw it as a means to an end. Most people have their graduation photos on the wall. Tash has just thrown hers in the loft somewhere, along with her jumper and everything.’
‘Her jumper?’
‘Yeah. Her university one. The one with the logo on.’
Emma’s smile has faded slightly. Not much, but it’s noticeable. ‘Why a jumper of all things?’
‘Why not?’ I reply. ‘Where did you put yours?’