The Lies We Told(80)

‘Sorry, mate,’ Tom said, ‘I think I—’

‘Fuck off or I’ll call the police.’ There was a click then the intercom was silent once more.

‘Let me try.’ Clara pressed the next bell and they all waited. No answer. Then the one below. A crackle, then a sleepy, female voice with a Jamaican accent, ‘Yeah, hello?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Clara said, ‘But I’m afraid I’ve locked myself out, I live on the ground floor and I forgot my key. I’m really sorry, could you—’

The woman kissed her teeth. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ The door buzzed. They were in.

In the communal hallway they looked at each other with wide eyes. It was horrible; the carpet threadbare and stained, piles of takeaway delivery leaflets and unclaimed post littering the floor, the walls dirty and scrawled with graffiti, mould creeping over the dirty paintwork, a musty, sour smell in the air. And at the far end a filthy, battered-looking door. ‘That must be it,’ Tom whispered.

Clara turned to the others. She swallowed hard. ‘So we do this like we planned?’ she said. ‘You all need to stand back out of sight.’ Wordlessly they nodded, flattening themselves against the wall.

Fear dragged its fingernails down Clara’s spine as she approached the door and knocked. Seconds dripped by in absolute silence. She brought her fist up and knocked again, harder this time. She strained her ears to listen and thought she heard the faintest sound from within. ‘Hannah,’ she said, her voice emerging from her lips as a croak. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak louder. ‘Hannah, it’s Clara.’

There was silence, but Clara felt her there, listening. Her voice shook as she said, ‘I’m alone. But I have my phone ready to call the police. I just want to talk to you.’

And then Hannah’s voice loud through the door: ‘Leave now, or I’ll kill him. Get the fuck away from here.’

Clara shrank back, her heart pounding. When they had discussed this in Mac’s kitchen, gone over and over how they could get Hannah to open her door, the plan they’d come up with had seemed feasible. But here, now, with Hannah only inches away, it felt absurd, impossible, like using a penknife to fell a tree. And if it didn’t work, what then? What would happen to Luke? They must have been crazy to take such a risk. She took a deep breath. ‘Hannah,’ she said. ‘I know everything. I know what happened to your mother. I know how she really died.’

Again there was silence. Clara could feel the hard thump of her heart in her throat. And then Hannah spoke. ‘You’re lying,’ but there it was, Clara was sure: the faintest ghost of uncertainty.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not. Let me in. Let me in to see Luke and I’ll tell you what happened to Nadia. Rose told me the truth, Hannah. She told me how your mother really died that night.’ The only sound now was her own frightened, panting breath. ‘Hannah,’ she said again, ‘open the door.’

Nothing, only a thick, impossible silence. ‘Your mother talked about you, before she died,’ Clara told her. ‘She said something to Rose that I think you’ll want to hear. Let me in, Hannah. I’m here alone. I just want to see Luke.’ And then, suddenly, there it was: the sound of a lock being turned. Clara briefly closed her eyes, and when she opened them again there Hannah stood. They stared at each other for barely a moment before Tom pushed past Clara with such violence it sent her stumbling and he shoved Hannah hard back into the flat as she let out a cry of surprise and rage.

‘You fucking cunts,’ Hannah spat before Tom gripped her by the throat and slammed her head against the wall.

‘Where’s my brother?’ he shouted. ‘Where’s Luke?’ He propelled her now into the flat, the others on his heels. Clara felt around for a light switch, and the five of them flinched at the sudden harsh cold brightness, blinking dazedly as they looked around themselves. The flat was small and dismal, in a similar state to the entrance hall with an added stench of decades’ worth of stale cigarette smoke. Off the narrow hallway was a living room, a tiny kitchen and three more rooms, each with their doors closed. ‘Luke?’ Tom shouted. ‘Luke, are you here?’

A loud thump came from the furthest room and Clara darted towards it. ‘In here!’ she cried, but when she tried the handle she found that it was locked. The thumping continued. She turned to Hannah. ‘Open it! Where are the keys?’

When Hannah didn’t move, Oliver went to the door and tried the handle, putting his weight against it, but it wouldn’t budge. He turned back to Hannah. ‘Give us the key,’ he said.

Her face stretched into a sneer. ‘Fuck you.’

‘Enough, Hannah!’ Oliver shouted. ‘Enough! It’s over. Open the door.’

‘No, it’s not over,’ she said. ‘It will never be over.’

With a cry of frustration Clara went to one of the other doors and, finding it unlocked, switched on the light to find a bedroom with a mattress on the floor, a small wooden cabinet by its side, on top of which was a key. She snatched it up and went back to the locked door. Inserting the key with shaking hands she turned it and pushed the door open. The room was in darkness but when she found the switch she cried out in horror. There was Luke, lying on the bed, gagged and bound with thick electrical tape, his eyes bulging at her as he let out a desperate, muffled cry.