Then She Vanishes(9)

What were you thinking, sweetheart? she wonders, for the umpteenth time, her daughter’s hand still in hers. Why did you kill those two people?





4


I can hear voices. Are they real or imagined? I can’t make them out. Every time I think I’ve understood a word or phrase, they disappear so that I can’t catch them, like bubbles bursting in front of me. I can remember the weight of the gun, the sound of it going off. The drugs are too strong. They’re dragging me back under, stopping me remembering, preventing me from hurting. And I don’t want to remember. Because I think I’ve killed someone.





5




Jess


It’s late and already dark by the time I leave work.

After returning from Margot’s earlier, I’d parked my Nissan in the underground car park beneath my flat and walked back to the newsroom, Jack chewing my ear all the way about how we should be staking out the Powells’ farm and that Ted was bound to be disappointed in us. Loitering is something I would have done in the past. It just doesn’t feel right under these circumstances. Now that I know it is my Heather who is the killer, I wonder if I’m too close to do this story justice. I instantly bat that idea away. It could also work to my advantage. I can’t let the opportunity pass. After everything that happened at the Tribune, I need this story.

It’s still raining as I cut across the city centre and head towards the river, the wind tugging at my umbrella. Streetlights reflect in puddles. A few regulars are heading into the Llandoger Trow pub as I pass, but as I take a right along the river it becomes quieter and darker, people falling away, not wanting to risk the journey to pubs or restaurants in the area on a Monday night in this weather. Before long I’m alone.

It’s bleaker along here at this time of year. The trees are still bare, beaten by the wind and rain, and the one boat that serves as a café in the late spring and summer is now depressingly empty. But walking alone in the dark never bothers me. And it’s built up along the Welsh Back, the riverside soon hidden behind the buildings on either side of me, although there is a lack of streetlight here and the cobbles are slick with rain.

And then I hear it.

Someone calling my name.

Jess-i-ca.

I turn around but nobody’s there. I must be imagining it. It’s the wind buffeting between the buildings, that’s all.

I quicken my pace, my grip tightening around the handle of my umbrella. I’m not far from my apartment. The other buildings along here – mostly offices, with the odd residential block thrown in – seem deserted. There aren’t even any cars driving down here. It’s only 7 p.m. Not even late.

Jess-i-ca.

I stop when I hear it again, spinning around, fury mixed with fear, but there’s no sign of anyone. I refuse to run, to show I’m unnerved. I’m tired: it’s been a long day. That’s all this is. I take the umbrella down anyway, not caring that the rain soaks my hair. I can use it as a weapon if need be. I continue walking as fast as I can without actually running.

And then there are footsteps behind me. Loud and thudding. I almost trip on the cobbled road as I break into a run, no longer caring about showing any fear. I don’t stop until I reach my apartment block. My hand is shaking as I delve into my bag for the keys and I let the umbrella fall from my hand in my eagerness to get inside. Is it him? I imagine his bulldog-type face, his sneer, his anger, the last words he said to me ringing in my ears: I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch.

I grab the umbrella from the ground and hold it out in front of me, like a truncheon, as I push my shoulder into the door. And then I fall into the lobby, my heart hammering. As I close the door I take the opportunity to glance out into the street, but it’s empty.

I take the stairs two at a time to the first floor. The smell of cooking hits me as I walk through the door of our flat: beef and onions. I feel foolish now. I completely overreacted. I can’t let that thug scare me. I’ve been living here for nearly a year now and there’s been no sign of him. It was just an empty threat he made, I remind myself. I can’t live in fear.

I kick off my boots and hang up my coat before wandering into the open-plan kitchen-living room. The football is on the too-large widescreen TV. It’s not even Rory’s team but that doesn’t bother him: he’ll watch any match going. He has his back to me as he stands at the hob, stirring mince in a frying pan, watching the football out of the corner of his eye. He’s wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt, with a naked man’s torso on the front in frilly pink underwear that one of his brothers bought him for Christmas.

Without speaking, I go to the doors that lead to the balcony and throw them open, even though it’s raining. The extractor fan is so ineffectual that we need another way of letting out the steam and cooking smells. I step onto the balcony and take a few deep breaths, the fresh air hitting my lungs and causing them to hurt a little. I really should give up smoking. Rory will be able to smell it on me. But after my fright earlier I’m desperate for a fag. I lean over the railings a little, enjoying the wind against my face. If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m on a boat. The flat can feel a bit claustrophobic at times. It’s on the first floor so has no garden. If it wasn’t for the views of the waterside I wouldn’t want to live here. I glance down along the river, which looks dark and unwelcoming in this light. I’m half expecting to see a figure lurking, but there’s nobody. I can see Victoria Bridge from here, all lit up, the lights refracting in the water.