The Lies We Told(79)
‘To her flat, I think. At least I assume it’s where she lives. Acton, to be exact, north-west London. I followed her to Liverpool Street Tube, then got on the Central Line. I was about to give up, because by the time we got there the carriage was practically empty. But I don’t think she had a clue I was following her. She didn’t look at me once. She got off at Acton and the streets there were fairly busy. Luckily she lives not too far from the station and there was a noisy gang of drunk lads who walked between us almost the whole way, so I think I was safe.’
Tom cleared his throat and, raising his voice, asked, ‘What does her place look like?’
‘Total dump. Massive old Victorian building, about five floors, a flat on each one, I’d guess. She let herself in then a light went on in a ground-floor window, so I’m pretty sure that’s hers. I went around the back of the building and there’s this sort of parking area, and a back door, too, which again I think must be hers. I’ve got the address for you, I’ll text it.’
When Clara hung up they all stared at each other wide-eyed. ‘Fuck,’ said Tom.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Mac, nervously.
‘We wait,’ said Oliver. ‘We wait until the middle of the night, when she’s least expecting us, and then we go round there.’
‘But then what?’ said Tom. ‘She’s not just going to answer the door and welcome us in, is she?’
‘No,’ said Clara quietly. ‘No, she’s not.’
31
London, 2017
It was 2 a.m. when they set off for Acton, the five of them in Tom’s car. Clara looked out at the dark, mostly empty suburban streets. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering, despite the fact that Tom had turned the heating up full. In the trapped tension of the car they listened to the satnav’s incongruously dulcet tones guiding them ever nearer to whatever it was that was waiting for them at their journey’s end.
She put her cold hands in her jacket pockets and, feeling something sharp, withdrew her fingers with a start. Before they left, Mac had pulled Tom and her aside. ‘I think you should take these,’ he’d said, and when she looked down she’d seen two small kitchen knives in his hand.
She’d backed away. ‘No! Are you crazy? I don’t—’
But Mac had pleaded with her. ‘We don’t know what she’s going to do when we get there. She’s crazy, dangerous. Hide it in your pocket. Please, Clara, just in case, OK?’
She’d glanced at Tom and when he’d shrugged and taken one, she’d reluctantly done the same.
‘You have reached your destination,’ the satnav informed them primly when they eventually turned into a wide street lined with enormous detached houses. Clara looked out at the silent buildings as their car crept slowly along, scanning each door for its number.
‘Number 82 must be up there, on the corner,’ Tom said, steering the car into a space and cutting the engine. Nobody moved.
It must have been quite a wealthy area once, Clara thought. Each of the grim, hulking Victorian buildings housing but a single family and their servants. Now, however, it had a decidedly uncared-for air, every house divided into many flats or bedsits, the paintwork peeling, the front gardens overgrown, a sense of transience and decay. Somewhere further down the street a loud party was in full swing; drunken shouts mingling with music pounding from some unseen window. Here though, all was quiet and still.
‘Well then,’ Clara said, glancing at the others uncertainly.
Number 82 was even shabbier than the rest, situated on the corner of the street, its front garden strewn with litter, six bells on the door. From somewhere further down the road a door slammed, making Clara jump, footsteps pounding on tarmac accompanied by low laughter that quickly disappeared into the silence once more. A lone car swept past. ‘Let’s check around the back first,’ Tom murmured.
Just as Zoe had said, they rounded the corner to find a small car park, empty but for a beaten-up Renault and a moped missing its front wheel. Clara nodded towards the house’s back door, a pile of over-spilling bin liners outside it. ‘That must be the door Zoe was talking about,’ she whispered. ‘Do you think it really does lead to Hannah’s flat?’ She shivered at the thought that they were so close.
They all glanced at each other. ‘Listen,’ Mac said. ‘I think I should stay out here, just in case. I can stop her if she tries to run out this way, and call the police if I need to …’
Tom nodded and looked at Rose. ‘You stay here, too,’ he said.
‘Absolutely not,’ she replied. ‘I’ve come this far. I want to see her, speak to her. I need to do this, Tom.’
For a moment he looked as though he would argue but eventually he shrugged and nodded. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said. The four of them went back to the front of the building, leaving Mac behind. As they left, Clara turned and gave him a final wave.
It was 2.40 a.m. At the front door they paused on the bottom step. Every window was in darkness, the ones on the ground floor shielded by heavy curtains. They glanced at each other nervously, then stared at the line of bells, most of them with indecipherable labels beneath peeling Sellotape, ‘Flat A’ written in smudged black ink on the first.
In a sudden decisive movement, Tom climbed the steps and pressed his finger on the top floor flat’s bell. They held their breath. When there was no response, his hand moved to hover over the next one but before he could press it, the intercom clicked and crackled. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ a deep male voice growled.