‘One day, you won’t have to pretend to want me, you just will,’ he says, ‘and when I know I can trust you, once you admit you’re in love with me, we’ll move away. We’ll get new passports, new identities. Move to Australia, New Zealand, somewhere far away with beaches and the ocean and a deck where we can sit and drink wine. You can write under a different name – you’ll get another agent, I know you will. And we’ll have kids. Or not, you know? Maybe I won’t ever want to share you. Maybe we won’t ever want to share each other.’
A tear slides down my cheek. I’ve mourned my freedom, mourned never seeing my family and friends again, but until now, I haven’t mourned Jack. He was a constant in my life for twenty-three years. He believed in me when no one else did, not even my family, and he made me think maybe blood isn’t always thicker than water. That maybe blood was just slippery and stained everything it touches, but everyone needed water; water is life.
Jack turns the key. Nothing happens. He tries again and still nothing happens. ‘What the hell?’ he mutters, examining the dashboard. ‘Shit.’
‘What is it?’
‘Battery’s dead.’
My heart skips. ‘Call the AA?’
Jack raises an eyebrow. ‘And what? Stuff you in the boot while they examine the problem? Or maybe you’d prefer I drag you back into the woods, tie you to a tree and hope you don’t get hypothermia.’
‘What, then?’
Agitation builds. He thrusts his fingers back through his hair. ‘Don’t know. Let me think.’
I wonder if he was joking about the boot and the woods.
‘Don’t move,’ he commands.
‘Jeez, and here I was planning a trip to Guernsey,’ I snap, pulling on the restraints.
Jack mutters under his breath and slams the door shut.
He pops the bonnet and while I’m out of his line of sight, I try to slide my hands free, but the plastic is pulled tight and slices into my skin. I twist around; the rifle and the rucksack with the hunting knife is on the backseat. If I could get to it …
A car approaches, I see it out the back window. For a moment, I think it will drive right by, but the driver puts on the indicators and parks up behind us. Anticipation builds in my chest. Jack, hearing the car, peers around the bonnet before moving swiftly to the driver’s side door. He pulls it open and leans in. I can’t hide my excitement, the smug spread of my lips.
‘Listen to me,’ he says in an urgent whisper, reaching for the rucksack. ‘Try anything and I will kill whoever is in that car.’ He whips the hunting knife from the bag and slides it into his inner coat pocket. Then he pulls the folded blanket forward and winds it around my shoulders so it drapes over my restrained hands. ‘I’ll kill them, and it’ll be your fault, got it?’
The quiet venom and sincerity in his voice makes my breath hitch in my throat. I think of Noah and I believe him. Jack ducks out of the car, closing the door behind him, and I watch in the rear-view mirror as Jack smiles and greets the man. He’s in his sixties, with greying hair and a paunch, which speaks of Sunday morning cream cakes and mid-afternoon biscuits. He has a kind face and he’s wearing a cornflower blue shirt which makes me think of my dad. Even if Jack didn’t have a knife, this man isn’t a match for him.
‘I can give you a jumpstart,’ says the man.
Jack hesitates, darting a look back at the Land Rover. He’s worried I’ll scream for help. He doesn’t want to accept this stranger’s aid but what choice does he have? ‘Yes, thanks, that’d be great.’
My stomach lurches. Maybe I could shout to the man to call the police and get back into his car. Then he’d be safe. But I wouldn’t have time to explain why he needed to call the police or who I am or that Jack has a knife. I’d shout and he’d hesitate, confused by the shrieking woman inside the car, and Jack would attack him. But maybe—
‘Grandad,’ sing-songs a buttery little voice. I twist around and see a little girl leaning out of the window, waving an iPad in the air. She is no older than seven or eight, her dark hair pulled up high in a swishy ponytail. ‘Password please!’
‘Just one moment, Sarah,’ calls the man.
I think of Jack thrusting the blade into the man’s neck as his granddaughter watches on in mute horror. Then I imagine Jack storming towards the car, as focused on the little girl as he was on the deer, ripping open the door and dragging her out, stabbing the knife into her small body too. My mouth fills with salty water and for a moment, I think I might vomit. I can’t put that child in danger, I can’t put the kind-faced man in danger either.
The man gets back into his car and pulls up in front of us. I close my eyes and listen to them chat as they set to work charging the battery; the man tells Jack his name is Harry and he’s taking his granddaughter out for pizza. As always, Jack is charming, but there’s a spikiness to him. If you didn’t know him you wouldn’t be able to tell, and if Harry picks up on it, he doesn’t say.
I jump at the sound of someone tapping on the window. It’s the little girl – Sarah – she’s wearing a pink puffer jacket and earmuffs. ‘Hello,’ she says.
‘Hello,’ I say, taken aback.
‘Come away from there, Sarah,’ calls Harry.
‘I was just saying hello to the lady,’ she parries.
He appears beside the car, already taking his granddaughter’s hand and leading her away. Then he stops. ‘You alright, miss?’
I tense. My gaze flickers to the rear-view mirror where I can see Jack silently approaching them from behind.
‘Yes,’ I say, pleased when my voice doesn’t waver.
‘She’s pregnant,’ offers Jack. ‘Don’t want her out in the cold.’
‘You’re having a baby?’ asks the girl.
I nod because words are jammed tight in my throat. I’m glad the glasses are covering most of my face because I know my desperation is written all over it.
‘My mummy’s having a baby too,’ she tells me excitedly.
Harry chuckles. ‘Come on, kiddo.’
They turn and walk past Jack, who swivels on his heel, keeping them in view. The little girl spins and, still walking beside her grandad, waves at me. I can’t wave back, but I give her my most brilliant smile.
There’s a lump of cement in my gut as they climb into their car. I could still shout for help. I still could. But I don’t. I watch them drive away, honking their horn goodbye as they go.
Grinning, Jack gets into the car. It starts without protest. ‘You passed with flying colours, Fray,’ he tells me, excitement lacing his voice. We pull away. ‘Flying colours.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
159 Days Missing
Elodie Fray