Where the Missing Go(61)

Then something changed in him: ‘You whore. You lying whore.’ I scrabbled under him, half off the mattress. But he was too heavy, his breath hot in my face. I was choking now, still trying to get his hands away from me. My bare feet were kicking on the carpet. Both hands pulling his thick forearm. He’s stronger than I thought, much stronger. The blood thundered in my ears. The edges of my vision turned black, my sight shrinking.

I don’t know what stopped him. Maybe he woke up, maybe he came to his senses. But his grip lessened, just for an instant, and with a shove, he was off me. I scrabbled off the mattress, my back against the wall, wheezing for breath. I wrapped my hands around my burning throat, keeping my eyes on him.

For a moment, we both just stayed there, looking at each other.

‘Calm down,’ he said shakily. ‘Calm down. Don’t look at me like that.’

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t pretend that this was OK.

‘You called me Nancy again,’ I said eventually. My voice sounded strange, hoarse. ‘Who’s Nancy?’ I think a part of me, even then, was jealous. I know, I know. It was so messed up.

He didn’t answer. He just started moving around the place, slowly and methodically, setting right the upturned table by the mattress, getting kitchen towels to mop up the beakerful of water we’d knocked over. I breathed in, and out, slowly, trying not to freak out. I didn’t know what he’d do.

Afterwards, he’d made us both a cup of tea, and had sat me down on the sofa, pale but cold-eyed. He held my hand. I think I thought he might say sorry.

Nope.

This was my fault. I’d panicked, I’d pushed him. He’d needed to shut me up. I was hysterical. It was my fault. I could feel myself teetering, wanting him to convince me: it wasn’t a big deal.

But something steeled in me. I stayed silent, as he got up and left. He told me to get some sleep.

No, I thought. This isn’t fair. You’re wrong. You are really wrong, something is very very wrong with you.

And I’ve put our lives in your hands.





32


KATE


No, nothing’s gone, I tell the officers again, we’ve checked all over.

Yes, I’m absolutely sure … No, I didn’t actually see anyone, but I knew he was there. I felt him – yes, through the door – and I heard footsteps.

The look between them is less veiled this time. The second officer, the one with the pad, has already stopped taking notes.

It’s all going wrong.

I stayed in my room until the birds started to sing and the sky lightened. I couldn’t bring myself to unlock my door until I heard the engine and looked out of the window to see my sister’s neat red car pull up. As ever she was early, thank goodness. I rushed down to them, barefoot on the gravel and hugged her, surprising us both.

‘Your poor feet, Kate!’ said Charlotte, shutting the door of her car in the drive; Dad was getting out the other side, moving stiffly after the journey. ‘These stones … and they trash your car if you’re not careful.’

‘They’re fine. I’m fine. I’m so glad you’re here.’ They followed me in, talking about their drive – they’d made good time, coming early to avoid the rush hour. There isn’t really a rush hour out here, we all knew that, but I was touched that they’d come so quickly – and relieved.

I didn’t want to scare them, but once in the kitchen I turned round. ‘There was an intruder in the night; someone broke in. No, really don’t panic’ – as they started to ask questions – ‘I’m OK.’

Dad called the police immediately, 999, as Charlotte got me to tell her everything; then we started looking through the house together, the three of us moving in a tight little group. Sophie’s room was what I was most worried about, but it was untouched. The rest of the house seemed fine too.

‘I don’t think anything’s gone,’ I kept saying, braced for a nasty surprise – drawers wrenched open; wires spilling from a wall where a TV had been ripped away; clothes and belongings strewn across the floor. Then I realised – I was remembering my dream the other night, searching through my ransacked house. But there was nothing wrong now. Everything seemed to be in its place.

I started to feel more and more uneasy.

The two officers arrived, uniformed in a patrol car; the man I recognised from last time, when I saw someone in the garden: the younger guy, with a round open face. I made sure to take in their names, this time – stay in control. He’s PC Kaur; his colleague, PC Sweet, is compact and businesslike, her face carefully made up.

It’s far too late, of course, for them to do anything, that much was soon obvious. I think that it must have happened about 2.30 a.m., I told them, but I didn’t even think to check my alarm clock until later, when I took a break from my spot by the window to go over to the green digits and commit it to memory: 3:21.

It falls to Kaur to say it, as we’re all gathered in the kitchen.

‘Mrs Harlow, how could someone have got in? There’s no sign of forced entry. You said it yourself, there are two locks on the front door, and you unlocked them both as you went out.’

I’ve been thinking this myself. As they’ve been looking inside and outside, checking the doors and windows, I’ve quietly checked something too, while Dad and Charlotte were putting on the kettle.