The Death of Mrs. Westaway(93)

But beneath the worries was something else, something that tugged at her heart when she thought of Abel and Harding and Ezra, and the feeling of their arms around her. It was homesickness almost, a visceral longing so sharp it was like a pain inside her. But it was not for any home she had ever had. It was, perhaps, a longing for what might have been. For that alternate existence where she had family to fall back on, a safety net. She had never realized how alone she was, until she had glimpsed the alternative.

But she shook herself. She could not think like this. What she had lost had never been hers, and she had to be positive. She had turned her back on a fraud, had got herself out of a nightmarish situation. And—remembering the trailing thread on the stairs, and the paranoia of that restless, horrible night—she was safe. At least for the moment.

Had it been real? She still didn’t know. But the more she thought about it, the more she could not believe it was one of the brothers. An image kept coming back to her: Mrs. Warren, silently standing outside her door, her stick nowhere in sight. She could move swiftly and quietly, Hal was certain of it. She could walk without her stick. It was not impossible. Perhaps she had escaped more than just prosecution.

The sky seemed to darken with her mood, and as they pulled up outside Penzance station, the snow was no longer melting straight onto the windscreen. Instead, as Ezra turned off the lashing wipers, it began to stick, speckling the glass, and sliding down to form little drifts at the bottom.

“Well . . .” Hal said, rather awkwardly. “Thank you, Ezra. For the lift. I guess . . . I mean, I suppose this is good-bye. . . .”

“I’m not coming back, if that’s what you mean,” Ezra said. He looked out of the window at the falling snow. “I’ve done my bit by Harding. My life is elsewhere now, and I need to get on with it, not keep looking back here.”

“I can understand that,” Hal said. There was a heaviness around her heart, but also, as she thought of the leap her mother had made, and Ezra too after his twin had disappeared, a kind of hope. If they could leave everything, start anew in another place, another country even in Ezra’s case, perhaps she could too?

“Well . . . good-bye,” she said again, and fumbled with the door handle. As she dragged her case across the slushy tarmac, she did not look back.

Inside the station, everything was strangely quiet. There were few staff, and even fewer passengers, barring a couple of students sleeping on rucksacks, covered with coats. A train was standing at one of the platforms, but the lights were switched off.

Hal frowned, puzzled, but it was only when she turned to look at the departure board that her stomach turned over.

Canceled. Canceled. Canceled.

Train after train. London. Exeter. Plymouth. Nothing was running.

“Excuse me—” She ran panting across the slippery forecourt, and touched one of the station attendants on the arm. “What’s going on? Why are all the trains canceled?”

“Ent you heard?” the man said, rather astonished. “Heavy snow up the coast. There’s been a blockage on the line near Plymouth. Can’t no trains get through until it’s cleared, which won’t be today.”

“But—” Hal felt her face grow even paler. “But—but you don’t understand. I don’t have anywhere to go. I have to get back.”

“Ent no trains leaving today,” the man repeated firmly, shaking his head. “And probably not tomorrow neither.”

“Shit.”

Before she had realized what she was going to do, Hal had picked up her heavy case and was slipping and sliding back across the wet tiles to the entrance of the station, where Ezra had dropped her off.

“Ezra!” she cried. The snow was barely slush, but it was enough to bind in the wheels of her case, slowing her down.

“Ezra, wait!”

But his car was no longer there.

For a minute she just stood, staring into the falling snow, fighting off the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her. What could she do? Phone Harding? But he and Abel would have already left, more than likely, going the opposite way.

There was little point in getting out her purse—she knew what it contained, which was a few pound coins and an expired bus pass.

She was alone, without any money, in a strange town, and the temperature was dropping. What could she do?

Without quite knowing why, Hal found herself crouching down, balancing on the tips of her toes as she wrapped her arms around herself and pressed her face to her knees, making herself as small as possible, as if trying to keep every particle of warmth she still had left in her shivering body, as if to physically contain the fear that was suddenly growing and growing inside her.

She was still crouched there in the snow, gripping the handle of her case as though it was the only thing that could keep her safe, when a car horn beeped loudly, making her jump to her feet and almost lose her balance in the snow.

It had grown very dark—too dark to perceive anything more than a dazzle of headlights and the growl of an engine.

And so it was with a flood of relief almost overwhelming in its warmth and physicality that she heard the sound of an electric window and Ezra’s laconic voice saying, “What the hell are you doing crouched in the snow like the little match girl?”

“Ezra!” Hal stumbled through the slush, her feet slipping, towards the car. “Oh, Ezra, I’m so glad to see you—what are you doing here?”