He showered and shaved off his beard, dressed in fresh clothes. She had prepared a beef casserole with baked potatoes for their evening meal. Outside, the sun was setting, the quickening twilight chasing burgundy clouds across Longspur Peak. Candlelight flickered on the scoured wooden table where past tenants had carved their names. They, too, had left their mark on the wood, carving their initials inside a heart after a night of rapturous passion. This small cabin was laden with memories, blissful and horrendous.
The following morning, she drove him to a plastic surgery clinic, private and discreet, that was used by members of the Finchley Creek cast. She stayed with him until he was wheeled away for surgery and was waiting when he emerged from the operating theatre.
Two days later, she returned to Phoenix to attend rehearsals. He remained alone in the cabin, his scars gradually healing. The desert closed around him. The high saguaros with their stumpy arms and cruciform shapes, the dried-up gorges and sandstone bluffs, the grey scrubby bushes, so very different to the green landscape he had left behind.
When he was ready to move on she returned and drove him to the airport. He flew to New York to see his family. Sasha, so skinny, awkward and beautiful. Nicole, so brittle when he embraced her then let her go. And Justin… his wounded heart finally able to make peace with himself. His wounded eyes finally able to envisage a future without Constance. Selina had talked about moving to New York. New beginnings were possible. Karl had sensed it in the yielding promise of her body when she kissed him goodbye at the airport. Was it possible to go forward without looking back, he wondered. But the backwards pull was too strong. Skin-deep wounds could be healed by a surgeon’s hands but the invisible ones – the septic, festering and invisible wounds – could only be cured through the balm of revenge.
Part IV
Chapter Forty-Five
Day One
It begins with a phone call.
‘Don’t answer,’ Eric whispers in her ear. ‘The world can wait its turn for your attention.’ Face-to-face on his bed, they cling to the remains of spent pleasure. He lifts her hands above her head and kisses her throat, kisses her breasts until she, unable any longer to ignore the persistent ring, wriggles free. She reaches across him towards the bedside locker but the phone is lost in the clutter or, perhaps, hidden in the folds of the duvet they pushed to the floor when they tumbled on to the rumpled sheets. The caller gives up before Amanda can locate the phone but the sleepy afterglow is fading. She is aware of time stealing towards her as she turns her back to him and continues to search for her phone.
‘If it’s that important, they’ll ring back.’ Eric traces his finger along the curve of her spine. ‘In the meantime, we’ve more important things to do.’ He’s insatiable, it seems, at times like this, and Amanda forgets the phone, forgets everything that has meaning outside these four walls.
It’s hot in his apartment. This small bedroom, crammed with his possessions, has become her oasis. For this reason, she tolerates his untidiness. He makes an effort to clear up when he’s expecting her, or so he claims, but she’s constantly tripping over his books, battery chargers, his laptop and Xbox, his shoes, mountain boots and unwashed shirts.
She strokes the hard length of him and he is inside her again, moving more urgently now, and he groans aloud when the phone rings once more. She pulls away from him and slides to the floor, searching around the bed, impatient now, and filled with a sudden anxiety when the ringing stops. She locates the phone under the duvet and stands, twists free when Eric reaches for her. Rebecca’s name is visible on the screen. Both calls are from her and she has left a breathless message on the answering machine.
‘Ring me at once,’ the message says. ‘It’s about Marcus.’
‘What is it?’ Eric rises and stands beside her. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘It’s Rebecca. I asked her to pick Marcus up from school.’ Even as she speaks, her phone rings and the walls of his small, stuffy bedroom seem to expand outwards and reverberate with alarm.
‘Marcus is missing.’ Rebecca is sobbing, whooping, loud sobs that sound too unreal to be taken seriously.
‘Missing?’ Amanda believes she has misheard her sister. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I picked him up from school as you asked.’ Rebecca coughs to clear her throat, her voice thick with mucus. ‘He ran ahead with Josh and then disappeared. I can’t find him anywhere.’
‘What do you mean? He can’t disappear. Is this some kind of joke? Where are you?’
‘At the school. Everyone’s searching for him. The principal has called the police and—’
‘The police?’ Amanda shrieks and Eric jerks away from the piercing sound. ‘Is this a joke, Rebecca? If it is—’
‘Stop shouting and listen to me, Amanda. He was with Josh and then he wasn’t. He simply disappeared into thin air. Come quickly. You need to be here.’
‘I’m on my way.’ Amanda ends the call and sinks to her knees, presses her hands to her mouth.
‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ Eric demands.
He sounds far away, his question irrelevant. She chokes back a scream. What Rebecca said doesn’t make sense. Marcus was running with Josh, running in front of her eyes. How could he disappear in full view of parents and children, all of them streaming down Rockfield Road in that manic fifteen minutes when school was over?
She dresses quickly. Her leather skirt is too short, too tight. She wore it deliberately to tease Eric and it belongs only to this bedroom. The zip jams when she tries to pull it up. He persuades her to sit down on the bed and explain to him what is going on. He shakes his head and insists that small boys can’t just disappear in a crowd. That sounds reassuringly sane. Marcus has simply been swept up in the crush, forced forward even as he tried to turn back to find Josh. Rebecca is overreacting. Marcus will be waiting for her when she arrives at his school. Eric frees the zip at the back of her skirt and assures her that she doesn’t look like a prostitute. No one will guess she’s wearing a black lace thong and a bra that plunges to her nipples. He holds her for an instant, but then she’s free and heading towards the elevator.
Outside, the wind gusts in from the sea and stings the tears on her cheeks. If only she was a bird and could fly directly over the waves to Rockfield. A direct route, instead of the long drive ahead. Should she take the M50 and veer off at Junction 16? Should she take the short-cut to the city through the M1 port tunnel? The latter is probably a better option but, either way, it’s going to take at least an hour to reach Rockfield, no matter how fast she drives.