Friend Request(87)

We stare at each other, eyes locked. She ought to be triumphant – this was what she wanted, after all. But all I can see is despair and terrible, endless pain.

‘But why now?’ I whisper.

‘I didn’t want to get in trouble with the police. Stalking, kidnapping, the police don’t look too kindly on that. But it doesn’t matter to me any more, not since the last time I saw the doctor. She looked so kind and concerned, was so terribly sorry to tell me, couldn’t say for sure how long I had. But all I could think was: yes; now I can make Louise Williams and Sophie Hannigan pay for what they have done.’

Bridget is dying. My brain tries to process this, make sense of it, but the mention of Sophie’s name has made the temperature in the room drop a few degrees. I take a step back, grasp the doorframe.

‘You were so careless, Louise. Did no one ever tell you to be careful about what you put online? Photos of your little boy in his school uniform? Casual mentions of your local high street? Pictures of your house? You even moan on Facebook about having to put him in after-school club, so I knew you wouldn’t be there at three o’clock today with all the proper mothers.’ The knife twists, biting a little further into me.

‘As for that internet dating site – God, you were easy to fool. All I did was paste in a photo from a catalogue. I didn’t even take much trouble over the message. You must have been really desperate. And you waited so long! Half an hour! I had to order a second drink in that restaurant opposite the bar.’ She laughs unpleasantly. ‘I knew exactly where Henry would be and when. You should have taken better care of him. He didn’t even have any idea that he shouldn’t go off with someone he doesn’t know. He was perfectly willing to accept that I was his grandma, chatting to me about his day, accepting sweets from me, telling me what he wanted on his toast.’

His toast. The kitchen. He must be in the kitchen. I tear myself away from the force field of pain and rage that surrounds Bridget, and run down the corridor. The door sticks for a second and then opens with a squeak.

‘Oh thank God, thank God.’ Henry is sitting on a high stool at the breakfast bar, a glass of apple juice in front of him, eating a slice of toast and jam.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ he says casually.

I run to him and pick him up, squeezing him to me, burying my face in his hair, his neck. Underneath the odour that school has added, of pencils and dusty floors and other children’s sticky fingers, he still has his essential smell, the one I’ve been inhaling like a glue-sniffer since the day he was born.

‘Hey,’ he says crossly, wriggling out of my embrace. ‘My toast.’

‘Time to go,’ I say breathlessly, trying to keep my voice light and casual. ‘You can bring your toast.’

‘I want to play with the trains again. My grandma said I could.’

‘There’s no time. Daddy’s waiting in the car.’ I tug on his hand. ‘Come on, Henry.’

There’s a noise in the hallway, the creak of the front door, footsteps on the laminate. Sam, I think with a rush of warmth, pulling Henry into the hallway.

‘Mum?’ calls a voice.

Oh God, it’s Tim. Thoughts tumble through my brain. Is this how it ends? Is this the last thing Sophie saw? Tim bearing down on her, avenging the death of his beloved sister? I can’t imagine that Bridget has the strength to have killed Sophie, so it must have been Tim. I want to tell Henry to go, to dodge Tim and run as fast as he can, but I know he won’t understand what I’m asking him to do. It’s clear he has not been frightened and has no understanding at all that we are in danger.

‘Louise. What are you doing here?’ There is panic in his voice. He stands in the corridor, filling the width of the hall, blocking our only escape route. I grasp Henry’s hand a little tighter, my own slippery with sweat.

‘I invited her,’ says Bridget, stepping forward into the doorway of the bedroom. Tim doesn’t move from the hall. I am caught between the two of them, like the king in a game of chess that is nearing checkmate, enemy pieces closing in from every side.

Tim takes a step closer. ‘What has she told you, Louise?’

I pull Henry closer to me, feel his warm body pressing into my legs. He looks up at me, eyes round and trusting.

‘Mum, what have you done?’ says Tim, his voice urgent. ‘What’s Louise doing here?’

I try to will my legs to move, to run, to at least try and escape, but they won’t obey my brain’s command. It’s like one of those nightmares where you’re stuck in thick mud, being chased by a monster you have no hope of escaping.

‘I told you,’ Bridget says. ‘I invited her.’

‘I’ve just come from the police station. They told me about the Facebook page. It was you, wasn’t it?’ he says to Bridget. I look from one to the other in confusion. If Tim killed Sophie, how can he not have known about the Facebook page?

Bridget shrugs defiantly.

‘They’ll find out,’ he says. ‘They can trace these things. They’ll know within hours that it was you.’

‘Do you think I care about that?’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘I’m dying. Somebody had to bring them to account, those girls who drove Maria over that cliff.’

Tim’s face crumbles and he moves a step closer.

‘We don’t know what happened, Mum. You have to let it go.’