The Lies We Told(45)
She stood staring after them in confusion. Surely it couldn’t have been Mac? That made no sense at all. At last she turned away and, finding her phone, clicked through her contacts until she found his number. But when she rang it went straight to voicemail. She listened to the answerphone message in surprise. He’d said he’d be waiting for her to call, desperate to hear how it went. So why wasn’t he picking up? Eventually she put her phone back in her bag and began walking towards the Tube. It can’t have been Mac, she decided. It was pretty dark and the street had been crowded; she must have been mistaken. She’d go straight to his place now and then she’d know it hadn’t been him.
Now that she was away from Emily, her anxiety at keeping something so momentous from Rose and Oliver returned. Could she really do it? What had Emily meant when she said that it would be dangerous for her to go back to them? It made no sense. Guilt nagged at her. But perhaps Emily was right that everyone’s focus needed to be on Luke now, and it was true it wasn’t Clara’s place to break the news to Rose and Oliver if she wanted to do it herself. Plus Emily had promised she’d go to her parents as soon as Luke was found. It was so hard to know what to do for the best, but finally she came to a decision. She would give Emily a week. Whatever happened in that week – and she hoped to God they would find Luke – she would tell Rose and Oliver herself if it looked like Emily wouldn’t. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to give Rose and Oliver false hope, tell them she had found their long-lost daughter only for her to disappear off the face of the earth again – that surely would be too heartbreaking for them. No, she would keep quiet for now. Hopefully she’d see Emily again soon and be able to unravel more of the mystery then.
When she reached Old Street she paused, gazing off towards the station in the distance. A group of laughing teenage girls clattered past her in high heels, followed by a drunken man weaving along in the gutter behind them, clutching a can of cider. A cool breeze picked up. Across the road was the narrow side street that led to Hoxton Square. She hadn’t been back to her flat for days and she suddenly longed to go home: to the quiet and privacy of her own space, to be surrounded by her own things, to take a shower and make a cup of tea and take stock of everything that had happened without feeling she was encroaching on anyone else, hospitable as Mac was. And what if Luke had come back while she’d been away? What if he had phoned or written or left a message? Before she knew it, she found herself crossing the road at a run.
It was gone eight now, the square’s bars and restaurants busy, straggles of people standing around outside them smoking and chatting in the cool spring air. When she reached her building she glanced up at its three rows of windows and paused. Only the first floor showed signs of life; electric light shining through the gaps in the curtains, the shadow of a figure crossing the room. The Japanese couple who lived on the floor below her, she thought. Her own floor, and that of the flat above – Alison? Had that been her name? – was in darkness. Perhaps she would just go up to collect some more clothes, she told herself. Have a quick check round to make sure all was well. It would only take a few minutes, after all.
As she climbed the stairs and passed the first-floor flat, she heard the noise of a TV, of the scraping of cutlery and a toilet flushing from within; comforting, ordinary sounds that eased her nervousness. When she reached the second set of stairs she hit the light switch on the wall, but the hall and stairwell remained in darkness and she swore under her breath. Holding her key in her hand she ran up the next flight and felt around for that floor’s switch, but it, too, gave no response when she pushed it. She shivered, mentally cursing her landlord, and glanced quickly up the stairs to Alison’s flat, but all was quiet. Perhaps she was still away, she thought. When Clara reached her own door she pulled out her mobile and used its light to guide her to the keyhole.
Once inside her flat she hurried around hitting every switch until the rooms were bathed in light, then stood looking about herself. It was still in disarray since the breakin, and the place had a sad, abandoned air. Something that had been niggling her ever since she’d received the first message from Emily returned to her now. She got up and went to the living room, taking down a small wooden box tucked away out of sight on one of the bookshelves. Opening it she breathed a sigh of relief. Inside, untouched still, was the T.S. Eliot book Luke had shown her all those years before. Ever since they’d moved into this flat he’d kept it with a few other precious bits and pieces in the same place. It had not been touched, she was sure of it – the box was still covered in a thin layer of dust from where it’d sat untampered with for half a year. She put the box back on the shelf.
Wandering into the bedroom her hip knocked against the chest of drawers and something fluttered to the floor. Picking it up she saw that it was the valentine’s card Luke had given her a few months before, a line drawing of one of Picasso’s doves on the front. Inside was written, simply, Love you, Clara, always will.
She went to the wardrobe and pulled out his favourite T-shirt, a faded Stone Roses one he used to wear in bed. Holding it to her face she breathed in his scent. A rush of memories hit her; his face, his kiss, the way he said her name, the smell of his body first thing in the morning. An image of the van’s bloodstained seat flashed before her and she sank on to the bed, tears choking her. At this moment, more than ever before, she felt sure that he was dead, that she would never see him again.