They go their separate ways and Charlotte knows she’ll never see Katie again. Not like this. She throws up around the corner, vodka and bile spilling out on to the dirt and leaving her empty. Hollow.
She looks back at the house, a wreck, unloved and unlovable. She doesn’t want to leave Daniel there alone with only Peter Rabbit for company. He’ll be afraid. He won’t understand. He’s dead you stupid shite cunt, he will never understand anything again because of you and your pills and your stupid voice in your head and your stupid hands and your stupid anger and he never hurt you, not really, Daniel never took you to the chippie or beat you or did the thing Tony did last night. Why is everything so clear now? Why is she always one step behind?
She knows what she has to do. The only thing she can do. No going back. She runs, faster than she ever has before, all the way to the train station. There’s a pay phone there. Her breath is raw in her chest. Her head is still spinning with the booze, the pills and the numbing shock, but her trembling fingers punch in the 999. I’m sorry, Katie, she thinks, when the call is done. I’m so sorry, Katie.
Daniel. I’m so sorry, Daniel.
She wishes she could cry. She wishes she could die. Instead, she goes home on numb legs with a numb heart and waits until she hears the sirens. It’s not long before Ma is wailing too, pushing Tony away.
When they take her to the police car, she doesn’t look back.
There’ll never be any going back.
73
NOW
MARILYN
I park up on the secluded road, away from the house, a black shape in the darkness up ahead, and get the torch from the boot of the car. I keep it turned off for now, walking carefully on the uneven track. My feet are invisible, no street lights to cut through the heavy darkness of the night. It’s not raining but the air is damp and heavy with pressure, the clouds hanging low under their own weight. As I turn into the drive I can’t see any other cars, certainly nothing resembling a police car, and for once I praise all the recent government cuts. No lights on. No sign of life. If they’re here, Katie’s dumped whatever car she’s been using out of sight. Without hesitating, without giving myself time to chicken out and turn around, I climb the steps. No police tape, no boards nailed across the door. No sign the police have taken this lead seriously at all.
When I push the door open, I understand why. The house is empty. In its soul it’s empty. I turn the torch on, a pool of yellow in blackness. There’s not much to see; wooden floors and pale walls and then a wide modern staircase that turns on a landing, before heading up to the next floor. I can hear nothing but the hum of my own body in my ears.
There’s no furniture to speak of, most rooms empty, but as I methodically search from top to bottom, there are some items that have been left behind. A mirror with no reflection in one room gives me a start. Illusionist, I remember. Was this part of a trick or was it put here to frighten guests? Some books still in the built-in bookshelves in one of the sitting rooms. Some crockery in the cupboards in the kitchen. If this was going to be a museum, where was everything else? In a lock-up somewhere? And surely it was all too bland and modern to attract any visitors? It could be a banker’s house, or a businessman’s. Not a magician’s.
I make my way back to the hallway and let the torch methodically search. A rug on the floor. An old projector of some sort high on the wall above the door, boxed in wood painted white to match the walls, an illusion to hide it. Sneaky. Like grandfather, like granddaughter. So far, though, no clues.
I find the door to the basement past what might have once been a utility room, and I open it carefully, listening out for any sign of life. Nothing. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. I shiver involuntarily. I’m a grown woman. It’s only a cellar. I’m about to head down into its depths when the phone in my pocket starts buzzing. Shit. Simon.
‘Where the hell are you?’ he asks. ‘I thought you were going to bed. You took my car?’
For a moment it could be Richard, demanding and annoyed, and my first instinct is to apologise, but I don’t.
‘I’m in Skegness.’ I’m speaking quietly but the sound is almost too loud in this mausoleum of a house. ‘At the house.’
‘You’re where? Jesus, Marilyn, if the police—’
‘The police aren’t here. No sign of them. But I can’t sit around and do nothing. And this house is part of it, I’m sure. A clue. It has to be. But if I can’t find anything, then I’ll drive straight back. No one will know I was even here.’
‘I don’t like you being down there on your own. I wish you’d told me. I’d have come with you.’
Not like Richard at all, I realise. This isn’t irritation, it’s concern. Same coin, different sides. Richard used to hide his paranoia as concern. Don’t wear that dress today, you know what men are like.
‘But listen,’ he says. ‘We’ve got something. I’m about to call the police with it. Amelia Cousins …’
‘You can track her back to Katie?’ My breath catches in my throat with the sudden speed of my heartbeat.
‘No, not quite, but her history doesn’t add up. Not if you go back a few years. It’s paper-thin – and trust me, there’s a lot of paper. But it’s not that.’
‘What then?’
He pauses. ‘I think Katie was pretending to be two other people.’
74
AVA
Jodie. The fucking bitch. A small sob escapes my gag. Jodie. I trusted her. She was my friend. She was my best friend. My head hurts and I’m horribly drunk and it’s making it hard to think. No, she was never my friend. She was Mum’s best friend. Katie. Girl B. Whatever.
I’m going to die here, I know it. Me and Mum together. Jodie’s going to kill us, because Jodie isn’t Jodie and she’s batshit crazy and I’m so ashamed and I feel sick and I’m so sorry Mum is going to die here with me and I keep thinking about the baby inside me and that’s going to die too and this is not its fault. Maybe it’s dead already. Fresh tears threaten and I fight them back. I can’t breathe when I cry. I’m scared to cry. I’m scared to die. I’m so scared and I just want my mum to make it all okay, but I don’t think she can. I’m not even ashamed any more. The stupid Facebook messages feel like a lifetime ago. I was different then. I was stupid then.
My face is sore from snot and tears and my jaw aches from this gag and I hate myself for being so helpless. I should have fought back. I should have known something was wrong when I saw her at the car, but it was so fast, and I was so confused. Before I knew it there was the cloth on my face and the darkness and then I woke up here, bruised and sore.
I don’t hate Mum. I love her. I want to tell her. She’s going to die thinking I hate her. I can’t let her die thinking I hate her. She thinks everyone hates her. I want to be sick. I can’t be sick. I’ll choke. The blanket is heavy on my face and I try to shake it away but I can’t. I want to see my mum. She’s being so tough. Not like my mum at all. She came here to die for me. She loves me that much. I’ve had long days of hearing about her life as Charlotte. My mum before she was anyone’s mum. She wanted it all to be better for me and whatever she’d done, the awful thing she’d done, I was selfish and thoughtless and awful and now I feel five years old again. Pathetic. I’m pathetic.