The Girl Before(82)

“This is stupid. I can’t talk to you in there.”

“Simon, I want you to go. Or I’ll call the police.”

“How? I’ve got a gadget that blocks cellphone signals. Wi-Fi too.”

I don’t reply. I’m slowly realizing this is even worse than I thought. He’s planned this.

“All I wanted was to be with you,” he adds. “But you still prefer Monkford to me, don’t you?”

“What’s Monkford got to do with it?”

“He doesn’t deserve you. Just like he didn’t deserve her. But nice guys don’t get nice girls, do they? They lose them to pricks like him.”

“Simon, I have a signal. I’m calling the police.” I raise my phone and say urgently, “Police please. The address is One Folgate Street, Hendon. There’s a man in my house who’s threatening me.”

“Not strictly true, babe. I haven’t threatened anyone.”

“Yes, five minutes is fine. But please hurry.”

“Very convincing. You’re a good liar, Jane. Just like every other woman I’ve ever f*cking met.” I flinch as he unleashes a sudden barrage of kicks on the door. The mops and brooms bend but don’t give way. I’m dizzy with terror.



“Doesn’t bother me, Jane,” he says, panting. “I’ve got all day.” I hear him go back downstairs. Long minutes pass. I catch the smell of frying bacon. Absurdly, it makes my mouth water.

I look around the cupboard, wondering if there’s anything here I can use. My eyes light on the cables lining the wall, the veins and arteries of One Folgate Street. I start pulling them out at random. It must have some effect, because soon I hear him coming back up the stairs.

“Very clever, Jane. But a bit annoying too, actually. Come on out now. I’ve made you some food.”

“Go away, Simon. Don’t you see? You’ve got to go. I mean it.”

“You sound just like Emma when you’re angry.” There’s the sound of a knife scraping across a plate. I picture him sitting cross-legged on the other side of the cupboard door, eating what he’s cooked. “I should have said no to her more often. I should have been more forceful. That was always my problem. Too reasonable. Too nice.” I hear a cork being pulled from a bottle. “I thought maybe you were nice as well, so it would be different this time. But it wasn’t.”

“DAVID THIEL,” I shout. “EDWARD. HELP.”

I shout until my throat is sore and my voice hoarse.

“They can’t hear you,” he says at last.

“They can,” I insist. “They’re watching.”

“Is that what you thought? ’Fraid not. That was me. You remind me so much of her, you see. I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

“It isn’t love,” I say, horrified. “Love can’t be totally one-sided.”

“Love is always one-sided, Jane,” he says sadly.

I try to stay calm. “If you did love me, you’d want me to be happy. Not scared and trapped in here.”

“I do want you to be happy. With me. But if I can’t have you, I certainly won’t let that prick have you instead.”

“I told you. I broke up with him.”

“That’s what she said.” He sounds weary. “So I gave her a test. A simple test. And she wanted him back. Not me. Him. I didn’t want it to be like this, Jane. I wanted you to fall in love with me. But this is the next best thing.”

I hear the sound of a zipper as he opens his bag. Then a sloshing sound. A dark stain creeps under the cupboard door. It smells like lighter fluid.

“Simon!” I scream. “For f*ck’s sake!”

“I can’t, Em.” His voice sounds snotty and thick, like he’s on the verge of crying. “Can’t let it go.”



“Please, Simon. Think of the baby. Even if you hate me, think of the baby.”

“Oh, I do. The bastard’s little bastard. His cock in your cunt. His child. No f*cking way.” Another slosh. “I’m going to burn this place. He won’t like that much, will he? And I’ll be forced to burn you and the baby with it, if you don’t come out. Don’t make me do that, Jane.”

All these cleaning products will be flammable. One by one I throw them up into the roof space. Then I clamber up after them and check for a dial tone again. Still nothing.

“Jane,” Simon calls through the door. “Last chance. Come out and be nice to me. Pretend you love me, just for a little while. Just pretend, that’s all I’m asking.”

I inch along the crawl space, using my phone as a torch. There are wooden crossbeams and trusses everywhere. Once a fire gets hold up here, there’ll be no stopping it. In any case, I seem to remember that in house fires, it’s the smoke that kills you.

I step on something soft. The old sleeping bag. Something else clicks in my mind. It wasn’t Emma who was sleeping up here. It was Simon. He had some of Emma’s stuff and her therapist’s card. Maybe he even thought about getting some help. If only he had.

“Jane?” he calls again. “Jane?”

And then I see my suitcase, the one I put up here out of the way. Crouching down, I take out Isabel’s memory box. With trembling hands I touch her things: the cloth she was swaddled in, the plaster casts of her tiny hands and feet.