The Lies We Told(42)
When I went to investigate I looked through the crack of her door to see her standing in front of her mirror, talking to herself. ‘Goodbye now, Carol, so nice of you to call round,’ she said. It was exactly what I’d said to the neighbour a few hours before. She practised it over and over until she had the intonation, the inflexion, just right. ‘Goodbye now, Carol, so nice of you to call round!’ She copied the exact way I’d smiled, the little wave I’d given. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Did I know what she was back then? Could I have stopped her? Years later, of course, at Hannah’s trial, they had no hesitation in using the term I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Sociopath. That’s what their expert witness called her, that beautiful summer’s day, the afternoon light pooling through the small, rather dingy windows while she stood in the dock awaiting sentencing. But when she was still a young child, I prayed that I was wrong about her; that she’d grow out of her problems, that it would somehow all go away. And for those five years she behaved herself. She kept out of trouble. I suppose I allowed myself to hope that it would all somehow be OK.
16
London, 2017
Turning the corner into Great Eastern Street, Clara saw the Octopus Bar ahead of her and slowed her pace, suddenly gripped with nerves. Perhaps Mac had been right: perhaps she was crazy to do this alone. ‘What if it’s the nutcase who’s been stalking Luke?’ he’d pleaded. ‘It’s too risky. Let me go, please, Clara – let me go instead, just to make sure.’
But she’d brushed away his concerns, her gut telling her that Emily was who she said she was, that meeting her today would be the first step to reuniting Rose and Oliver with their daughter, a thought too exciting to risk by going back on the promise she’d made. ‘I said I’d go alone,’ she’d told Mac stubbornly, ‘so that’s what I’m going to do.’ Besides, the person who’d sent the messages had known about the song Luke and Emily had sung at bedtime, they knew about the T.S. Eliot book. It had to be her. So she’d left Mac waiting at his flat, beside himself with worry, promising she’d call him as soon as she could.
Clara paused a few metres from the bar now and pretended to check her phone before glancing up and down the street. It was ten to six, the pavements fairly busy with office and shop workers beginning their journeys home. She felt a stab of fear now that she was so close and for a moment contemplated turning back. Just then, a burst of evening sunlight penetrated the clouds and the passers-by lifted pleased, surprised faces to the sky. Surely nothing bad could happen here, in such a public place?
Encouraged, she walked on and when she entered the bar was relieved to see that at least half the tables were already taken. There was a low buzz of music and conversation in the air and the barman smiled cheerfully at her as she approached. Her body tensed with anticipation and nerves, she scanned the room. There were no lone drinkers, male or female, and she relaxed a little, glad that out of the two of them it was she who had arrived first.
When she’d bought her drink she chose a seat that gave her a good view of the street – close enough to the large plate-glass window to be able to see people as they approached. The minutes passed slowly. Six o’clock became six fifteen, then twenty past. Restlessly she glanced around. It was a nice place, simply decked out without any of the self-consciously hip touches so many bars in the area were afflicted by: no ironic taxidermy on the wall, no neon flamingos, or jam jars used as cocktail glasses. Just an ordinary bar with an unpretentious, after-work crowd. She settled back into her seat and continued to wait, her eyes fixed on the door.
It was quarter to seven before she admitted to herself she’d been stood up. The disappointment crushed her. She realized at that moment the biting anxiety she’d felt since Luke disappeared had been temporarily lifted by the prospect of finally meeting Emily, and it was only now as she slowly and despondently began to gather her coat and bag, that she realized how desperately she’d wanted it to be true. The despair she’d been feeling since the day Luke had gone missing returned now with renewed strength: everything seemed entirely hopeless once more.
The sound of smashing glass turned her attention to the bar, where she saw the guy who’d served her earlier looking down at a dropped tray. He grinned ruefully at her when their eyes met, and she smiled her sympathy back. When she turned again to her table, it was to find a woman standing in front of her and she jumped in surprise.
‘Clara?’ the woman said, and with a quick, tentative smile, added, ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
The stranger was so unmistakably Luke’s sister that at first Clara could only stare at her in stunned silence. She was slim and slightly younger looking than her thirty-seven years, strikingly attractive and dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Her hair, thick and dark like her brother’s, framed a finely featured face that had large brown eyes the replica of Luke’s. Even their mouths, with their wide, full lips, were identical. ‘Oh,’ said Clara, jumping to her feet. ‘Oh my goodness, it’s you, isn’t it, it’s really you!’ She wanted to hug Emily but she seemed so nervous, as though she might bolt at any moment, that she just stood with her arms by her side, drinking her in.
When they’d sat down Clara gave a shaky laugh. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’