She very clearly remembers the last time she drove this road, gripped by a similar fear and on that occasion unable to stop, not until she had put more than a hundred miles between them. Now she estimates there’s less than a mile until she returns, and she wonders what’s waiting for her out there in the dark. Would she even know before it was too late? She used to trust her instinct, would have seen the truth the moment their eyes met, but she’s started to question that judgement of late.
She turns on the light above her and finds herself checking her hair and make-up, as if adjustments to the surface might settle the mess that’s underneath; as if looking like the person she was might somehow make the transformation complete. Her tired eyes reflect back, and she considers turning the light off, tipping back the chair and catching up on a few hours’ rest. Surely it would be better, perhaps even safer, to find him in the daylight? She looks over her shoulder, as if she can somehow see back to London, several hundred miles away in the dark. It reminds her there’s no time to waste. The threat of what might be happening in the city matches with her desperate desire to do something about it, and her whole body stiffens, her foot catching the accelerator and making the engine in her dad’s old car roar.
She turns, facing the front, and tries to take hold of the steering wheel but stops to stare at one finger: she is taken instantly back to the moment, more than a year ago, to that other case, when they had discovered the body of Steven Fish, whose wedding-ring finger had been torn free of the others, tendons snapped along with the bone. It was only a small detail of a bigger, more harrowing crime scene, but it has always stayed with Katie as a representation of what that case did: it broke her off from her most trusted partner, led to her losing her grip.
Six
Nathan wakes with a dull thud echoing at the back of his mind. He stares at the ceiling, wishing he’d taken another pill, but he only has two left, one for each of the next two nights: his last two nights. He doesn’t know what time it is; he hasn’t known the exact time for almost a year, but through the gap in the shutters he can see that it’s dark and his body clock is telling him it’s somewhere near midnight. The unmistakable crunch of gravel makes him sit bolt upright in his bed. He tries to listen harder, but now the only thing he can hear is his heart.
The questions present themselves, urgent and loud. Who? How? Why? Are they lost? Could anyone ever be this lost? And what the fuck are they doing here now, with just three days to go until the year is up, with just three days to go until it’s over?
He knows he needs to stay calm. He needs to stay still. If he remains where he is and says and does nothing, maybe they’ll go away on their own. He starts to picture the outside of the house, rising as if he were a buzzard spiralling above it on the thermals, looking down on the circular path he’s created from running. He’d planned to get rid of the tracks on the final day, to kick them over and cover them up, but it’s too late now; someone is out there looking at them, trying to figure out who or what might have been responsible: the restless footsteps of a wild animal driven mad from being kept inside a tiny enclosure. Perhaps that’s exactly what he is. Perhaps they’ll feel uneasy and leave him alone. Perhaps they’ll call the police.
The thought creeps up on him, as is often the case. He could easily kill this intruder. He could take a tin lid, the only sharp object there is in the house, and slice it across their neck. He could feel the hot blood pour out onto his hands and watch their eyes slowly cloud over. In one simple stroke he could change everything, bring about a beginning, not an end. He tells himself that he doesn’t want to hurt this innocent stranger, but, as always, he knows what he wants might have nothing to do with it.
He looks at the gap in the shutter again and more rationally starts to wonder what sort of person would come to a house in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. Are they running from trouble? Are they looking for trouble?
Two knocks on the door. He can feel the sheets sticking to his skin. He’ll wash them again when this is over, when they’ve realised he’s not going to answer – never going to answer – when he’s saved their life by doing nothing. Then he’ll bury the sheets; he’ll bury everything deep in the ground, just as he’d always intended.
Another knock, and the sound of a high-pitched shout. He drags the sheets from the bed and wraps them around him as he slumps down into the corner of the room. He feels the urge to shout out, to plead with them to leave him alone, but his hand shoots up to his mouth to stifle any words. He cannot afford for them to hear him.
The blood is thumping so loudly in his ears he almost misses the sharp clink of something striking the wall outside. The second one is louder, closer, and he realises they’re throwing stones up at the window. He cowers again, as if the next one might strike him, as if it might bring the whole house down. At the same time his mind is whirling, working far faster than it has done in such a long time, calculating probabilities, possibilities and impossibilities. Another stone, a direct hit on the wooden shutter. He moves to stick his fingers in his ears, but he doesn’t get there in time.
He hasn’t heard the name in so long it takes a moment for him to realise that’s what he can hear, and it’s unmistakably her voice. The whole of the outside world is pressing in on him, suffocating him in the corner of the room, but, like the true evil that it is, never finishes the job.
The desire is rising like he knew that it would: his only surprise is that it’s taken this long. Perhaps it’s the sleeping pill, or the shock of the unexpected, or maybe it’s down to the swirling lines on the stairway, a visual reminder that he needs to hold on. The problem is, he’s not seeing that wall anymore. He’s seeing images of the woman outside, terrible, twisted, blood-soaked images in which she’s crying, images in which she’s screaming, images in which she can no longer do anything at all. And they’re coming faster and faster, like he’s running through a reel – click, click, click – desperately seeking the perfect snapshot to feast his eyes on, to act upon. He looks down at his hand and finds his fingers fully extended, and a name on his lips: Steven Fish. He should have known it would come to this, should have known that his worst nightmare, the discovery that had led him here, would return to guide his actions.
Suddenly he’s up on his feet, the sweat-soaked sheets falling away. He’s naked, as always, but his body doesn’t feel like his own and he’s no longer in control; he’s moving forward, towards the door, down the stairs, into the tiny kitchen. He’s picking up the lid of the tin from the side and passing through the room with the children’s books that can’t help him now. When his arm reaches out to open the locks he tries to order his other arm to make it stop, but a decision has been made without him. Before the final bolt is pulled back he feels for the edge of the tin lid, feels its sharpness and its potential.
This is it, he thinks, unstoppable, irresistible; but, as the door swings open and he steps out into the moonlight, he starts to feel something else, something so strong that it loosens his grip. On the lid. On the doorframe. On everything.
Katie.
Seven
‘Nathan?’ Katie almost trips on the ridge of gravel she’d stepped over to get to the door as she takes two paces back. ‘Nathan, what’s wrong?’
She already knows the answer, and she knows she won’t be hearing it from him. The evidence is there in his eyes – eyes that had once sparkled brilliantly but now hold the same flat stare as the bodies that have brought her here. She thinks of those victims again; she’s been thinking of them for most of the six hours it’s taken her to get up here, talking to them, making promises she knows she can’t keep. Not without Nathan.
He’s completely naked, standing with his hand held high above his head, his knees bent as if he is carrying a great weight that’s pushing him down, even though his fingers appear to be empty. She ought to feel threatened, but the sight just makes her sad.