In a Dark, Dark Wood(84)

And somewhere, Nina is in her B&B at breaking point, and she and Tom are facing questions they cannot answer, suspicions they cannot shake.

Please let me wake from this.

I curl up on the sofa on my side, and draw my knees into my chest, the throw tucked around myself. I have to think, I have to decide what to do, but in this confused, exhausted state I find myself going round in circles.

I have a choice: wait here for the police, try to explain my presence, explain about the blank and Flo’s jacket and hope they believe me.

Or I can leave at the crack of dawn, and hope they don’t realise I was here.

But where do I go? To London? To Nina? How will I get away?

The police will find me of course, but it will look better than finding me here.

Almost against my will, I can feel my eyes closing, and my limbs, quivery with tiredness, slowly relaxing, the muscles twitching with exhaustion every few minutes as they loosen into sleep. I cannot think. I will try to work it out tomorrow.

A great yawn comes up from somewhere deep inside, and I realise I have stopped shivering. I let the flip-flops fall off my feet, and realise a thin line of tears is tracing down my cheek from the yawn, but I am too tired to wipe them away.

Oh God, I need to sleep.

I will think about this … tomorrow …

It’s night. It’s the night of the shooting. And I’m crouched in the blazing hallway, bathed in the golden, streaming light and in James’s blood.

The blood is in my nostrils, on my hands, beneath my nails.

He’s looking up at me, his eyes wide and dark, and shining wet.

‘The text …’ he says. His voice is hoarse. ‘Leo …’

I reach out to touch his face – and then suddenly he’s gone, the blood is gone, and the light is gone.

I wake, it’s dark, and my heart is racing in my chest.

For a minute I just lie there, feeling my heart thumping like a drum, trying to work out what has woken me. I can’t hear anything.

But then I turn my head and I notice two things.

The first is that outside the huge plate-glass window to the front of the house, is a dark shape that wasn’t there before. And I’m pretty certain it’s a car.

The second, is that I can hear a sound from the kitchen. It is a slow, juddering, scraping noise.

It’s the sound of a chair being pushed across the slate tiles as someone opens the door.





31


THERE IS SOMEONE in the house.

I sit bolt upright, the throw falling from my shoulders, my heart thumping so high in my throat I feel sick.

For a minute I think about calling out, challenging the intruder. Then I realise I’m insane.

Whoever is here, for whatever reason they’ve come, it’s not a good one. It’s not the police. They wouldn’t come like this in the dead of night, creeping in through the back door. No, there’s only two possibilities: some random burglar has got lucky and discovered the open back door. Or the murderer is here.

I would love for it to be a burglar. Which says something about how f*cked-up my life has become – that a random stranger breaking in here in the middle of the night would be the best possible explanation. But I know in my heart of hearts it’s not. The murderer is here. For me.

Very, very carefully, I get up, holding the throw around myself like a shield, as if the soft red wool can protect me.

My one comfort is that the intruder won’t want to put the lights on any more than I do. Maybe in the dark I can evade them, hide, escape.

Fuck. Where do I go?

The windows in here open onto the garden, but I’m sure they’re locked – I tried them from the outside, and I remember Flo locking them that last night. She had a key. I have no idea where it is.

I can hear them in the kitchen. They are walking softly across the tiles.

Two very strong impulses fight within me. The first is to run – run out the door, up the stairs, lock myself in the bathroom – do whatever I can to get away.

The second is to stand and fight.

I am a runner. This is what I do – I run. But sometimes you can’t run any more.

I stand, my fists clenched by my side, my blood a roaring in my ears, my breath a tearing in my throat. Flight or fight. Flight or fight. Flight or—

Shoes crunch on the glass in the hallway. And then they stop.

I know the murderer is there, listening – listening for me. I hold my breath.

And then the living-room door swings wide.

Someone is standing in the frame, and I cannot see who it is. In the dimness all I can see is a shape, black against the reflecting steel of the front door.

It could be anyone – they’re huddled in a coat, and their face is hidden by the shadows. But then the figure moves, and I see the glint of blonde hair.

‘Hello Flo,’ I say, my throat so tight I can barely speak.

And then she laughs.

She laughs and laughs, and for a long moment I have no idea why.

She moves, still smiling, into a strip of moonlight, her feet crunching on glass.

And I understand.

Because it’s not Flo.

It’s Clare.

She’s holding herself up against the wall, and I realise that she’s as frail as me. Maybe she wasn’t as ill as she pretended when I saw her in the hospital, but she’s ill all right. She holds herself like someone twice her age, like she’s been beaten bloody and has only half healed.