What Lies Between Us(36)
‘Dylan,’ she says suddenly. ‘Dylan.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My baby. That’s what I’m calling her.’
‘It’s an unusual name for a girl.’
‘It’s after the singer Bob Dylan. He’s Jon’s favourite.’
‘Then that’ll be her name.’
She tries to move her legs to get out of bed. ‘I need to tell Jon what’s happened,’ she says, but I encourage her to stay where she is. ‘But he’ll be worried about me.’
I doubt that. I want to keep them apart for as long as I can. ‘There will be plenty of time to explain everything to him,’ I say, and she is too weak to argue.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ I whisper, then return to the basement to do what needs to be done.
CHAPTER 29
MAGGIE
TWENTY-THREE YEARS EARLIER, TWO DAYS LATER
It’s an unfamiliar area of town to me, even though it’s only ten minutes’ driving distance from where we live.
An A-to-Z map stored in the glove compartment guides me to the address written on the scrap of paper I found in Nina’s coat pocket. Also inside are a pair of Alistair’s leather driving gloves, which I slip on. I park close, but not too close, to the street and then wait. It’s early afternoon, so I have missed much of the lunchtime traffic and the teatime rush hour has yet to begin. I know time is of the essence, but if I hurry and make a mistake then I risk being seen. I allow a few minutes to go by and when nobody passes me on foot or by bike, I gather myself and exit the car. I leave it unlocked so I can hurry back inside when I am finished.
The row of four-storey houses faces the Racecourse, an historic parkland a stone’s throw from Northampton town centre. The homes here date back to Victorian times but many of them have been split into flats. The address on the paper reads 14a Winston Parade, so I assume the occupants live in a converted building. My palms grow clammy as the house numbers decrease until finally, I’m here. A set of stone steps leads up to the ground floor. Another set leads down to the basement flat, where I need to be.
Outside the entrance to 14a, I take one last look around me to assure myself I haven’t been spotted, then I press the intercom buzzer. It makes no noise and I wait just in case I can’t hear it but the occupants can. There is no answer.
I peer through the window but venetian blinds block the inside from the world outside. I turn to knock this time, and as soon as my hand makes contact with the front door, it gently falls open. I’ve seen this happen in enough films to know that no good comes from a door that opens with such little effort. But leaving is not an option. I love Nina too much to do that, so I press on.
‘Hello,’ I half-whisper, half-speak. I desperately want someone to reply, but they don’t. My fingers are trembling so I ball my fists to make them stop. Now, my whole hands shake. I slip them inside my coat pockets. ‘Hello?’ I repeat and again, there is nothing.
The interior is neat and tidy. The walls of the corridor leading to what I assume is the lounge ahead have been papered with woodchip and painted a fresh magnolia. To the right, the galley-style kitchen is clean and jars of spaghetti and pasta are lined up next to a breadbin. There’s a tea towel with a printed dog pattern hanging from an oven door and a handful of dishes on a draining board.
I continue to walk with caution, passing a bedroom. Inside is a double bed that’s been made and covered with a brightly coloured duvet. I pause to take a closer look. I don’t know quite what I expected but it wasn’t something as well kept as this. I notice make-up and perfumes scattered about the surface of a chest of drawers. They are the inexpensive Yardley and Avon brands. Perched on a radiator cover there’s a framed photograph of Jon Hunter, a pair of dark sunglasses on the crown of his head. He’s kissing the cheek of his pregnant girlfriend Sally Ann Mitchell, who is smiling for the camera.
I poke my head around the door of the second bedroom. All it contains is a large cardboard box with a photograph of a baby’s cot on the side and four framed drawings of Disney characters that have yet to be nailed to the wall. She is nesting, I think, and for a moment, I’m heartbroken for all that Nina is missing out on.
It’s only when I reach the lounge that I realise I’m holding my breath. I let it go, then sharply inhale when I spot him. Hunter is sprawled across the sofa wearing only his underwear; his legs are spread wide, his head is drooping forward and his breathing is shallow. He is either unconscious or fast asleep; I can’t be sure. The curtains are partially closed, making it difficult for me to see him properly, so I move closer.
The sound is turned off but the television remains on, the picture flickering and casting infrequent bursts of light across the room. I spot an overturned blackened spoon lying on the glass coffee table; next to it is a cigarette lighter. Wrapped around his sinewy arm is a piece of rubber tubing and a needle is still lodged inside a vein. The sight of such depravity jars against his home’s domesticity. Hunter’s chest rises and falls and I decide he must have passed out while high. How in God’s name did my daughter fall for this mess of a man?
I’m startled by a noise behind me. My head turns and I spot another door. It’s slightly ajar and appears to be a bathroom. I’m no fighter but I’m prepared to protect myself if needs be. However, the noise isn’t coming any closer. The sound is like that of a deflating car tyre, only more sporadic. I make my way towards it, using my foot to push the door open, then quickly I take a step backward in case someone bursts out of it.