Instinctively I root around in my pocket for my phone, even though I know it’s not there. I’m lost without it but I had to get rid of it. Though it survived the blast – it was tucked inside my padded waist pouch, along with my bank cards and passport – I knew that if I was to successfully carry out my plan I would have to be untraceable, so I left it in Aleppo, the SIM card crushed under my boot.
Passport control at the ferry terminal in Calais was brisk and thankfully nobody looked too closely at my name. The headlines described me as ‘Kate’ while my passport reads ‘Catherine’. Besides, customs officials are primed to look for potential terrorists, not journalists who have faked their own deaths. I’d bought new clothes in the hypermarket and tucked my hair into a thick woollen hat, though the chances of anybody recognizing me on the way back here were slim. Unlike Rachel Hadley, I’ve never been one for splashing my face across my reports and now I am glad of that.
There’s only one option left – I have to go to their house. Please let Paul be there, I think to myself as I make my way out of the car park, keeping my head down. Having to explain all this to a drunken Sally is the last thing I need. The more I can keep her out of this, the better.
Paul’s car is not in the drive when I get to the house and my heart sinks. I stand on the doorstep and ring the bell, willing Sally to be sober. I’ll have to persuade her to let me use her phone to call Paul. But there’s no reply. I go to ring the bell again then think better of it and make my way round to the side of the house.
But there’s no sign of Sally as I peer through the conservatory window. The room looks tidier than it was the last time I was here and there are no tell-tale bottles of wine lying about. Maybe they’ve gone away, I think, and then I panic. They’ll have seen the news. They think I’m dead. What if it’s sent Sally over the edge and she’s done something stupid? My heart races as I pull the door handle. It’s open.
‘Sally,’ I call, stepping inside. ‘Sally, are you there?’
But the house is silent as I walk into the hallway. I pop my head round the kitchen door. There are two mugs on the table.
‘Sally,’ I call again, going upstairs. ‘Are you up there?’
I have a knot in my stomach and my mouth is as dry as parchment as I reach the top of the stairs.
Something is wrong.
I cross the landing and make my way to her bedroom. The door is open and I step inside. The curtains are closed and the room smells of sweat and stale alcohol. So she is still drinking. But then where is she?
I go to the window and pull the curtains open, releasing a cascade of dust particles that whirl through the fetid air. I shiver as I look at the room. It’s in a terrible state with clothes flung on the floor and a plate of congealing toast on top of the chest of drawers. The quilt is all tangled and looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks.
I go back down to the kitchen to call Paul. But as I lift up the receiver I can’t remember his number. Shit. Perhaps it’s written down somewhere. I go to open the kitchen drawer where Sally always used to keep things like that.
And then I see something on the side. A black object.
A Dictaphone. It’s all battered and damaged. It can’t be . . . I pick it up, my hand shaking.
There’s a note lying next to it. It’s from Harry. It’s Mum’s Dictaphone. I’d tried to find it after the explosion but it had gone. I’d assumed it had been destroyed.
I look at the Dictaphone and the cups on the table. Sally will have listened to it. Paul too. And he, more than anyone, would understand the ramifications. Now it all makes sense: the silence, the deserted house. I know exactly where they are.
43
Number 44 is in darkness when I arrive and there’s no sign of Paul and Sally’s car.
Maybe they walked, I think to myself as I pull my hood over my head and make my way up the driveway. The front door is open and as I stand on the step my stomach lurches.
‘Fida,’ I say.
She is almost unrecognizable. Her face is bloodied and swollen. She’s been beaten to a pulp.
‘Fida.’ I shake her and her eyes open. ‘What happened? Did your husband do this?’
She looks up at me and her eyes widen.
‘No,’ she gasps. ‘No. It can’t be . . . I thought you were . . .’
‘It’s okay,’ I say in a low voice, crouching next to her so she can hear. ‘I’ll explain it all later. We need to get you out of here.’
She’s trying to say something. I lean closer to hear her.
‘Didn’t . . . want . . . to hurt . . . him,’ she says, almost choking on the words.
‘Who?’ I say quietly. ‘Who didn’t you want to hurt?’
She tries to lift her head but it rolls backwards.
‘Don’t try to sit up,’ I say. ‘Just take deep breaths.’ I notice there’s a coat draped over her. I tuck it in round her more tightly.
‘It’s okay, Fida. I’m going to call an ambulance.’
‘You must believe me,’ she whispers. ‘He made me . . .’
Her voice falters and I wonder if she’s delirious.
‘He made me do it.’