It sounds weird saying that, but England no longer feels like home. It’s been tainted for me many times over the years, but now my brain has just associated the whole place with what happened earlier, with Lisa. It’s not like I’m going to want to go back to the house we shared together, the house she chose, and carry on living a perfectly normal life. Even in this time of utter despair, I have the level of consciousness to know that things have now changed forever.
I start the engine and pull the car onto the lane, trundling slowly up towards the barn as my headlights light the way.
For some reason, we decide to stay in the barn that night. Claude mentioned making up a spare bed for us in the farmhouse, but it didn’t seem right somehow. Jessica said we’d burdened him enough and this way we could just get up and go, and he needn’t get involved. It seemed strangely right, although I wouldn’t have minded a hot shower and a proper bed. I’ve got a feeling it’ll be a while before I have either of those again.
I sit on a bale of hay and try to clear my mind before going to sleep. I’m in that horrible situation where I’m as tired as hell, but I know my brain won’t switch off if I try to bed down now. Jess comes back into the barn, having gone to the farmhouse with Claude to fetch some blankets.
‘Here you are,’ she says, tossing something in my direction. I catch it. It’s an iPhone.
‘What? Why?’ I ask.
‘In case we get separated at any time. I’ve got one, too. They’ve got each other’s numbers programmed in. Don’t worry, it’s got an unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM – with about five hundred euros on it, so fill your boots.’
It’s an older model than the one I had, and certainly older than the one Lisa had – she always had to have the latest model – but the operating system is the same. It’s good to have some means of communication, but I can tell I’m going to get about as much use out of this as I have out of any of the mobile phones I’ve had before: next to none.
‘Thanks,’ I say, trying to sound appreciative.
Claude covers my car over with a tarpaulin before he leaves, and I wonder why the Citro?n wasn’t covered with one when we arrived. It clearly never had been, either, judging by the layer of dust over the top of it. I just hope the Citro?n’s going to run alright and not break down three miles along the road. Once my car is covered, it’s out of sight and out of mind.
I look at the floor. The calmness of it seems to soothe my mind for a moment. Jess sits down and presses herself against me, pulling me into her, my head nuzzled in her bosom as she hugs me, kissing me on the top of the head.
‘We’re going to be alright,’ she says, the first time I’ve ever seen her truly caring. ‘We’ll sort this.’
We lie down on the hay, embracing, and very quickly fall asleep.
16
It’s the first time I’ve ever been woken up by a crowing cockerel, and as I open my eyes I feel the laser-thin shaft of sunlight searing my face as it sneaks through the gap between the two large doors at the entrance to the barn. It takes me a few moments to realise where I am, even though I’ve been awake in fits and spurts for most of the night. The events of yesterday weren’t exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep.
I look beside me and can’t see Jessica. There’s a surge of adrenaline as I worry about where she’s gone. Has she run off? Has she gone to the police? A moment or two later, she appears from the other side of the Citro?n, clambering to her feet from her hands and knees.
‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ she says. ‘I thought I might as well get this dust and crap off the car. If we’re trying to lie low, we’re probably better off not drawing attention to ourselves.’
‘Time is it?’ I ask, my throat red raw, presumably from snoring.
‘Just gone six. Five back in England,’ she says, as if realising that my first instinct was going to be to work out how much time we had left. To be fair to her, she’s right. Again. ‘I reckon we’ve probably got until midday our time before your room gets cleaned. It’ll be longer before the police work out what they think happened and who they’re looking for, and longer than that before they check the CCTV footage at the ports and alert Interpol, but we can probably use midday as a decent benchmark.’ She speaks so matter-of-factly, it scares me. ‘I’ve had a look at the map. We’ve got six hours. We’ve also got options. We could head south and probably just about reach the Swiss border by midday. East, the roads are better and we can be halfway across Germany.’
It’s a bizarre choice to have to make. This whole situation is just bizarre. I want to be back home, mourning Lisa, helping the police find out who did this. The cold light of day makes me realise what I’ve done – what we’ve done. This isn’t me, running away from something I didn’t do. It was a moment of sheer panic, my inbuilt fight-or-flight response kicking in. And with Jess staying calm, taking control, it was just so easy.
‘I need a moment,’ I say. Jess just looks at me, as if I’ve suggested kicking a puppy.
‘You’re not getting cold feet, are you?’
I rub my eyes. ‘I dunno. I just don’t think I’m doing myself any favours going on the run. I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t do this.’
Jess lets out a snort of derision. ‘And you think they’re going to believe you? I’m not being funny, but your wife lying dead in your hotel bathtub is one thing. Running off to France with the receptionist doesn’t exactly back your story up brilliantly, does it? But hey, go back if you want. Go back to your new life on the inside of a jail cell. Is that what you’d prefer? And what if you do manage to convince them you’re innocent? It’s a big if, but what if? Let’s face it. Your wife will still be dead and everyone will still know you’re the guy who ran off to France with the receptionist a few minutes later. The police get things wrong. The courts get things wrong. Do you think they’re going to believe you didn’t do anything? The papers will have you for breakfast.’
She’s right. I know she’s right. And the problem is that even she doesn’t know how right she is.
‘Jesus Christ, this is all just so . . .’
I break down before I can finish the sentence. It’s all got too much. The thought that I left Lisa lying there, in that bath. Even though she was dead, it was still Lisa. It was still my wife. And I left her. I should’ve stayed, should’ve fought. So what if I’d been arrested, or even convicted? It wouldn’t have come to that, surely. There’d be DNA evidence, for a start. Like what, though? My DNA in the bathroom? My DNA on her? Well, yeah, she’s my wife. What else would they have to go on? The text message? The fact that she was murdered in my room?
All of that aside, there’s one enormous elephant in the room: the fact that the idea of running away, starting afresh and using this awful situation to do just that, is hugely appealing. It’s something I couldn’t deny if I wanted to. I was happy enough with Lisa, but I’ve never been the kind of guy to get emotionally attached to people. I learnt the hard way that most people aren’t to be trusted. And who can honestly say they’ve never wanted to just up sticks and leave, start again?
‘Where’s the nearest airport?’ I say, once I’ve managed to recover myself.
‘Dan, we can’t just—’