Authors: Michael Robotham
Her shoulder brushes mine. I can still see the smudge of ash on her right cheek. Drury had tried to wipe it away. It was a gesture of intimacy, accompanied by something vague and bright in his eyes, a painful rapture.
I should have seen it earlier. The clues. Drury had looked like a married man in the midst of an affair. Victoria acted like a woman trying to escape from one. I understand now why she wouldn’t go to the DCI’s house. She didn’t want to see his wife and children. That’s why she reacted so angrily towards him at the police station and again at the hospital. She expected more from the DCI because she had given so much of herself.
I am not surprised. I don’t disapprove. Who am I to judge? Had I asked for honesty? No. The truth is an overrated quality. Lies make a dull world more interesting. They take things in unexpected directions. They add complications and layers of texture.
Victoria tugs the collar of her coat more tightly around her.
“How did you and Drury meet?” I ask.
She is silent for a long time. “I did a psychiatric report for a defendant and gave evidence at the trial. It was Stephen’s case. He won. He took me for a drink afterwards. One thing led to another.”
Another silence, longer this time.
“Are you in love with him?”
“No.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“He says he is.”
“And now you feel trapped.”
She looks up at me and back at the river. “Pretty much.”
The wind is buffeting her, pushing her coat against her body and shaking her hair. We’ve reached a turn in the path. There is a pub ahead with closed shutters and Christmas lights blinking around the door. I push against her and kiss her clumsily, my hand slipping inside her coat to find her breast.
Her mouth tastes of smoke and something yeasty and exciting. It’s the sort of kiss I would have taken for granted a few years ago—deep and unhurried—but now it feels like a rare gift. Pushing me away gently, Victoria looks past my shoulder and I have a sensation that she can see someone behind me, watching us from the shadows. It’s that same impression that I often get with her; that she’s dreamily preoccupied or looking for something other than me.
“We had sex,” she says. “It wasn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“There was always a conflict of interest. You are evaluating one of my patients. It could be misconstrued…”
“The sex?”
“Yes.”
“I know it wasn’t earth-moving. Nobody is going to write poetry about it or paint a mural, but I’d be happy to do it again.”
She laughs. “You’re a wonderful man, Joe. Far better than you give yourself credit for.”
“And?”
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
I feel like saying, I’m the one with the disease.
We each exhale, our breath condensing and combining in a single cloud.
Behind her, I notice a deserted bus stop and I remember Natasha and Piper. They were supposed to meet Emily that Sunday morning, but disappeared somewhere between Natasha’s house and Radley Station, a distance of half a mile, mostly along the edge of fields and on footpaths.
I try to picture the scene again, but I can’t get a fix on the girls. I have been to their houses, I have learned about their personalities, but I cannot picture them making that journey.
Almost in the same breath, I taste something different in my mouth.
“They were never there,” I say out loud.
“What?”
“The girls were never there.”
“Are you all right?”
“No. There’s someone I need to see.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.”
We walk quickly back to the car. Reversing and doing a U-turn, I head towards Abingdon, following the white lines, floating over humps. The hedgerows turn to tarnished silver in the headlights and the countryside rushes to meet us. Twenty minutes later we pull up outside the familiar pebble-creted house. There are three police cars parked on the street. The doors are open. Lights flashing. Two detectives escort Hayden McBain from the house. He is handcuffed and smiling, his teeth bleached white by the spotlights.
Alice McBain is yelling at them. “Get your hands off my boy! He’s done nothing wrong!” Her eyes are smeared and splintery with tears.
Drury steps in front of her. “Bag his clothes. Search the house.”
Elsewhere in the street, porch lights have blinked on and curtains are twitching.
DS Casey is standing at the open car door. He pushes at the top of Hayden’s head. The door closes. Locks.
Crossing the lawn, emerging through a gap in the hedge, I feel as though I’m stepping onto a brightly lit stage. Mrs. McBain doesn’t recognize me at first. She tries to step around me.
“Did you see the girls that morning?” I ask her. It sounds like an accusation.
Alice flashes me a look and goes back to worrying about Hayden, who is being driven away.
I try again. “You said you talked to Piper and Natasha on that Sunday morning. You knocked on Natasha’s door and told them to get out of bed.”
“So what?”
“Did you see them?”
“Of course I did,” she says, less sure this time.
“Did you open the bedroom door?”
Alice frowns, trying to remember.
“How do you know they were in the bedroom?”
“I knocked. They answered.”
“Who answered?”
“I don’t remember,” she says, annoyed with herself.
I can almost see her mind working, the nerves fizzing and popping under her skin.
“What did you hear?” I ask.
“They were playing music.”
“Did Natasha have a radio alarm?”
“Yes.”
“What time did she set the alarm for?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“You knocked on the door at seven-forty, but you didn’t open it. What if you heard the radio and not the girls?”
Alice squints at me, unsure if I’m trying to trap her. She wants to argue. She tries to think. She comes back empty.
Drury is next to her. “What’s this about?”
“It changes everything,” I say. “What if the girls weren’t at the house on Sunday morning? Alice didn’t see them. She heard the radio alarm.”
“You’re saying they didn’t go home.”
“They went missing the night before.”
H
e pulls me close to him,
his unshaven cheek brushing against my forehead.
“You’re like an ice block. Let’s warm you up.”
One hand takes hold of my hair like it’s a piece of rope and his other hand slides down to the bottom of my spine.
“Mmmm,” he says. “You’re a lovely one for hugging.”
He wraps a blanket around me and points me towards the open door. My bare feet make little slapping sounds on the floor as I walk. I know he’s a step behind me. I still haven’t looked at his face, his eyes.
A bath has been drawn. Water steaming. Clothes set out.
I taste copper in my mouth and wonder if I’ve bitten my tongue.
“I’m hungry.”
“This time you eat afterwards.”
He’s humming to himself, fussing over the towels. I undress and slip beneath the water, leaning my head against the bath. I can feel his gaze drifting over me, dismantling my body as though dissecting it with a knife. Cutting me into little pieces.
I am going to be nice to him. I am going to moan and tell him how good he makes me feel. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let me see Tash. We’ll be together again and I’ll look after her. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let his guard slip and I’ll find a way of getting out of here.
He calls me his “poor defective monkey” as he washes me. I don’t feel his hands.
After the bath I let him rape me. Is it even rape if I let him do it?
He breaks my hymen. I bleed. I look at his face when he ejaculates and he doesn’t look human. It twists and grimaces and looks like a rubber mask.
Afterwards, he lets me eat. Satay sticks of chicken and beef. This time I eat more slowly, sore between my legs. My cup of tea is on the table with a swollen brown bag submerged in it, growing cold.
How calm he seems. How little difference it makes. He sits there, staring at me, sipping his tea as though nothing has happened.
“Can I see Tash now?”
“No.”
“You told me I could see her.”
“Not yet.”
I feel like crying. “You lied to me.”
“She needs a few more days.”
“I did what you asked.”
He laughs sarcastically and I stare at him with narrowed eyes. This is a mistake. I am aware of his temper, how easily he could injure me. The sensation creeps along my spine like a spider crawling on bare skin.
Afterwards, he falls asleep next to me, chained to my ankle. I look at his white cheesy body asleep on its back and listen to the wet gurgling in his throat. His right arm hangs down over the side of the mattress and his left hand is touching my thigh.
I do not sleep. I want to be awake. I want to put my hand over his mouth and nose until he stops breathing. I want to drive a knife into his heart. For the moment, I lie still next to him, listening to him gurgle, thinking how fear is different when it’s real. I used to love those fairground rides that take you higher and drop you faster, but that was a fear that came wrapped in pleasure. This sort of fear has no upside or happy ending.
He’s awake now. Stretching. I force myself to snuggle up against him. His breath smells like sour milk.
He strokes my cheek. “You missed me?”
“You were away so long… I got frightened.”
This pleases him.
“Can’t I come with you? I won’t try to run away.”
“That’s not possible, my little monkey.”
I ask about Tash. Is she close? When can I see her?
His mood suddenly changes. It’s like flicking a switch. He slaps my face, knocking my head against the wall. He raises his hand again, showing me his palm, challenging me, daring me.
“Forget about her.”
“I’m lonely.”
“I’ll find you another friend.”
“What?”
“Someone to keep you company, eh?”
My mind suddenly stops. Is he suggesting what I think?
“No… who?”
“I can find someone.”
“No! No! Please don’t!”
He takes a photograph from his wallet. “How about if I bring her?”
My throat closes. It’s a picture of Emily. I have seen it before. We were mucking around in a photo booth at Oxford Station, pulling funny faces.
“She’s your friend?”
“No!”
“You wrote a letter to her.”
“I don’t want a friend.”
Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know a part of me isn’t convinced. I want someone to talk to. I don’t want to be alone. I push the thoughts away. Horrified. Hating myself.
“I just want to see Tash. Nobody else,” I say.
“That’s not possible. She’s still being punished.”
He takes me back to the trapdoor and kisses me. Then he lowers me down until my feet touch the ladder.
“If you want a friend, I promise I will get you one.”
“No. Please let Tash come back.”
The trapdoor is closing.
“That I can’t promise.”
I
t’s been sixteen hours since the fire. I slept through most of them, waking to more snow, which has bleached the pavements and parks, dipping the world in white. The newspapers are full of headlines about mob justice and public lynching.
Ironically, for perhaps the first time in his life, Augie Shaw has become a sympathetic figure, a victim not a villain. The police are to blame according to the
Guardian.
They took too long to react. The
Daily Mail
says Augie Shaw should never have been granted bail; the judge was clearly out of touch or deranged.
Putting aside the newspapers, I arrange a dozen photographs around the hotel room, propping them on chairs and the TV cabinet. I take a seat in the middle of the room, directly in front of an image of Natasha and Piper sitting side by side in a class photograph, light and dark, blonde and brunette, salt and pepper.
Radiating an odd mixture of vulnerability and sensuality, Natasha has a classical beauty. Piper, by comparison, looks almost boyish and angular.