The Other People: A Novel(37)

She stared at the car, the boot sticking up out of the murky water. At first, she had been amazed that he could have found it. Now she was here, it made more sense. Someone was bound to find it eventually. Still, the chances of him just stumbling over it were still remote. Not many people visited this place, or even knew about it. Someone must have told him it was here. But who?

A worry for later. For now, she had to make sure no one else found the car or, more importantly, what was inside it. She swallowed. There probably wasn’t that much left. She remembered stripping off the man’s clothes and burning them. A sudden, sickening reality check. She had struggled to force his stiffening limbs from the grubby sweatshirt and jeans. His underwear was slightly stained and she had felt absurdly embarrassed, as if taking off his clothing were a greater desecration than taking his life. The sight of his flesh, pale and hairless, sticky with drying blood, had almost made her throw up. She had managed to hold her stomach and checked his pockets. No wallet or ID. Some car keys (despite no car parked near their house), which she had chucked into the lake. But she had been hasty and had panicked. Desperate to get away from the body, the dank lake, the consequence of her actions.

She hadn’t cleared out the car. She had just shoved stuff in the glovebox without checking if there was anything incriminating that could lead them to her and Alice.

That had to be rectified.

She ripped up the Tshirts. Then she quickly wriggled out of her jeans and trainers, grabbed the petrol and rags and waded into the stagnant water.

The cold made her gasp. Sticky mud squelched beneath her toes. She grimaced and gritted her teeth. She needed to do this fast. She reached the car. She pulled at the back door. The water pushed against her. She managed to yank it open and chucked some of the rags onto the backseat, which was virtually dry. It should catch. She doused the rags and seat in petrol. Was it enough? No. She needed to make sure that the contents of the trunk burned, too. She stepped away from the car and waded around to the back. She steeled herself and then cracked the trunk open.

That was when she heard the splash behind her. She turned, a moment too late, and something heavy crashed into her skull. Her head exploded and her knees buckled, the petrol can slipping from her hand. She sank, dazed, into the water, suddenly up to her chest. She gasped and floundered, arms splashing weakly.

A figure loomed over her. And then his hands were on her throat and he was pushing her head down, into the freezing water. She tried to fight it. She grabbed at his hands, but they were so strong. She twisted and writhed. She kicked out with her feet and felt her heel connect soundly with his crotch. The grip around her throat loosened. She dragged her head up, out of the water, seizing a precious breath.

He punched her in the face. She sank again, his grip even tighter. She scrabbled and scratched at his fingers, but her strength was fading. She needed air. Her lungs were about to explode. She felt her lips part slightly, her brain desperate and conflicted. Don’t open your mouth. But I need to breathe. Just hold on. She would not die in this stinking, filthy pool. She couldn’t. Alice was waiting and Fran had to get back because…

Something gave. A sharp pain in her neck. A sudden lightness in her head. Her lungs were no longer burning because she could no longer feel her body. Her limbs floated uselessly. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t stop this. Her mouth lolled open. And her last thought as the water rushed in was…Alice hates jigsaws…





Gabe had tried to talk Jenny out of it. He’d practically learned the Big Book of Girls’ Names by heart. But she had been adamant: “I want to call her Isabella.”

And they had had a deal. If it was a girl, she would choose. A boy, and the choice would be Gabe’s. Gabe had thought it was a little sexist, but he also knew not to argue with a pregnant woman.

The more he tried to persuade her, the more Jenny dug in her heels. He had always loved that about her. Her stubbornness. Her unwillingness to buckle just to please or pacify someone else. But on this issue, he wished she could be just a little more compliant.

“Most wives wouldn’t want to choose a name their husband didn’t like,” he had pointed out.

“Most wives don’t have such arseholes for a husband. What is your bloody problem with Isabella anyway?”

He couldn’t answer her. Couldn’t explain. He certainly couldn’t persuade Jenny to change her mind, so he tried to persuade himself that it was just a name. A pretty name. And this was their Isabella. Their baby. A completely new person.

It was true that when she was born he very quickly forgot everything except how beautiful she was, how noisy she was, how incredible and exhausting it was now that one tiny little person had completely taken over their lives.

But he still chose to call her Izzy instead.

And the nightmares came back.

He told himself it was just the stress of fatherhood. He told himself it was only natural; his head was all over the place. He would adjust. Things would settle down.

He tried not to listen to the insistent little voice that told him that calling their precious little girl Isabella was a portent of doom. A jinx.



* * *



—

HE STOOD, SO quickly the coffee cup wobbled and slopped cold dregs over his saucer. How could he have forgotten what day it was? Visiting day. How could he not have heard his phone ping with the reminder? Shit, shit, shit. He gathered his things and stuffed them back in his bag. He had to go, now.