Cross Her Heart(86)

There’s no furniture to speak of, most rooms empty, but as I methodically search from top to bottom, there are some items that have been left behind. A mirror with no reflection in one room gives me a start. Illusionist, I remember. Was this part of a trick or was it put here to frighten guests? Some books still in the built-in bookshelves in one of the sitting rooms. Some crockery in the cupboards in the kitchen. If this was going to be a museum, where was everything else? In a lock-up somewhere? And surely it was all too bland and modern to attract any visitors? It could be a banker’s house, or a businessman’s. Not a magician’s.

I make my way back to the hallway and let the torch methodically search. A rug on the floor. An old projector of some sort high on the wall above the door, boxed in wood painted white to match the walls, an illusion to hide it. Sneaky. Like grandfather, like granddaughter. So far, though, no clues.

I find the door to the basement past what might have once been a utility room, and I open it carefully, listening out for any sign of life. Nothing. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. I shiver involuntarily. I’m a grown woman. It’s only a cellar. I’m about to head down into its depths when the phone in my pocket starts buzzing. Shit. Simon.

‘Where the hell are you?’ he asks. ‘I thought you were going to bed. You took my car?’

For a moment it could be Richard, demanding and annoyed, and my first instinct is to apologise, but I don’t.

‘I’m in Skegness.’ I’m speaking quietly but the sound is almost too loud in this mausoleum of a house. ‘At the house.’

‘You’re where? Jesus, Marilyn, if the police—’

‘The police aren’t here. No sign of them. But I can’t sit around and do nothing. And this house is part of it, I’m sure. A clue. It has to be. But if I can’t find anything, then I’ll drive straight back. No one will know I was even here.’

‘I don’t like you being down there on your own. I wish you’d told me. I’d have come with you.’

Not like Richard at all, I realise. This isn’t irritation, it’s concern. Same coin, different sides. Richard used to hide his paranoia as concern. Don’t wear that dress today, you know what men are like.

‘But listen,’ he says. ‘We’ve got something. I’m about to call the police with it. Amelia Cousins …’

‘You can track her back to Katie?’ My breath catches in my throat with the sudden speed of my heartbeat.

‘No, not quite, but her history doesn’t add up. Not if you go back a few years. It’s paper-thin – and trust me, there’s a lot of paper. But it’s not that.’

‘What then?’

He pauses. ‘I think Katie was pretending to be two other people.’





74


AVA

Jodie. The fucking bitch. A small sob escapes my gag. Jodie. I trusted her. She was my friend. She was my best friend. My head hurts and I’m horribly drunk and it’s making it hard to think. No, she was never my friend. She was Mum’s best friend. Katie. Girl B. Whatever.

I’m going to die here, I know it. Me and Mum together. Jodie’s going to kill us, because Jodie isn’t Jodie and she’s batshit crazy and I’m so ashamed and I feel sick and I’m so sorry Mum is going to die here with me and I keep thinking about the baby inside me and that’s going to die too and this is not its fault. Maybe it’s dead already. Fresh tears threaten and I fight them back. I can’t breathe when I cry. I’m scared to cry. I’m scared to die. I’m so scared and I just want my mum to make it all okay, but I don’t think she can. I’m not even ashamed any more. The stupid Facebook messages feel like a lifetime ago. I was different then. I was stupid then.

My face is sore from snot and tears and my jaw aches from this gag and I hate myself for being so helpless. I should have fought back. I should have known something was wrong when I saw her at the car, but it was so fast, and I was so confused. Before I knew it there was the cloth on my face and the darkness and then I woke up here, bruised and sore.

I don’t hate Mum. I love her. I want to tell her. She’s going to die thinking I hate her. I can’t let her die thinking I hate her. She thinks everyone hates her. I want to be sick. I can’t be sick. I’ll choke. The blanket is heavy on my face and I try to shake it away but I can’t. I want to see my mum. She’s being so tough. Not like my mum at all. She came here to die for me. She loves me that much. I’ve had long days of hearing about her life as Charlotte. My mum before she was anyone’s mum. She wanted it all to be better for me and whatever she’d done, the awful thing she’d done, I was selfish and thoughtless and awful and now I feel five years old again. Pathetic. I’m pathetic.

I can hear Crazy Katie talking to her. She’s talking about the day Daniel died. She doesn’t care about me now Mum’s here. It was all about Mum. I’m nothing to her. Worse than nothing. I was a pawn and now she’s going to knock me off the board. All that time at swim club, MyBitches, the Fabulous Four, all the shit she gave me about weird mums club, how I looked up to her, how we all kind of looked up to her – none of it was real. A bubble of anger bursts through my self-pity. How fucking dare she do that to us?

She doesn’t care about me now Mum’s here. The thought repeats itself in my hazy brain. She can’t even see me. I’m under a blanket. When did she last re-tie my hands? A day ago? More? Less? Time has lost all meaning. It wasn’t recently anyway. I wriggle my fingers to see if there’s any give. It’s hot under here and I’m sweating. Sweat is good. Sweat is a lubricant.