24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (10 page)

M
y breath leaves
my body as I hit the ground hard. A voice behind us, shouting, angry at the way we have passed, unbidden and unwelcome, through his safe, enclosed world – and worse, endangering his job, no doubt.

‘Stupid. You could have been killed.’ The furious voice fading as we move, fast, across the tracks, away from the stationary train.

Out in the open; the strong tang of the countryside, animal, alive. I am disoriented again, my face scratched as we stumble up the embankment, though the hedge into the field on the other side.

In the distance, lights. Some kind of built-up area – a village or town, hopefully. We turn towards it. I stumble in the furrows of damp earth; Saul takes my hand and pulls me up.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I feel a laugh bubble inside me. Verging on hysteria. ‘I feel like a fugitive.’

‘I am a fugitive,’ he says, echoing my earlier thought, and I laugh again, and he stares down at me until I realise he isn’t joking. He drops my hand.

‘Are you?’

‘If you like.’ Once again he shrugs eloquent shoulders.

‘Fugitive from what?’

He looks ahead. ‘This and that.’

‘Oh,’ I say, uselessly. I wonder, am I scared of him? It takes me only seconds to acknowledge that I am not. And that this is not the time to press for detail.

‘So. Where are we going?’

‘I thought we’d get a car.’

‘I haven’t got enough money,’ I say. ‘Have you?’

‘No,’ he has started walking now. ‘But we don’t need money.’

‘Don’t we?’ Like a child, I follow his long stride. His jeans are very low against his narrow hips.

‘No.’

It takes me a moment to absorb his meaning.

‘Oh God, Saul. I don’t know about that.’

He keeps walking. ‘Well, I do.’

‘I don’t want to get in any more trouble than I need to.’

He walks on.

I run to catch him up.

‘It’s up to you what
you
do.’ He has closed to me. I know I’ve angered him; he thinks I’m judging him. ‘You make your own choices.’

What choices do I have, out here in the dark, desperate to get home?

‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

‘Do you?’ he has turned against me quickly; hardened. I recognise self-preservation. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Don’t, please. It’s just …’ I stutter, trying to think.

‘It’s just what?’ he stops for a moment. ‘Do you want to find your little girl, or what?’

‘More than anything in the world,’ I say truthfully.

‘Well, then. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ He walks on. ‘And it’s only an object, and it’s only borrowing. They’ll get it back. The car.’

The moon has appeared from somewhere, slid out from behind fast scudding clouds into the velvet black night. The boy grins down at me, suddenly illuminated, both devilish and sanguine. ‘And I’m a very good driver. Honest.’

I think of the waitress, of the interminable drive earlier, of how she got me there in the end.

‘Okay,’ I say.

It is time to trust in others. I have never found it easy, but I have no options now. It is a steep learning curve, but a necessary one.

Saul is walking fast. We are two-thirds of the way across the field now. I can see houses, some kind of farm buildings, a cul-de-sac perhaps.

‘Saul,’ I say, ‘a fugitive from what?’

‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘Just know you’re not the only one who needs to get somewhere fast.’

‘Somewhere?’

‘To help someone.’ In the darkness, his face is blank, but he clenches and unclenches his fist as we hurry. I want to know who he is thinking of, but there’s no time now to ask more.

‘Right. And, how do you …’ I gulp air, breathless, my poor damaged lungs working hard, my throat still sore. ‘How do you, you know, intend to do it? To get a car?’

If we get caught, I am thinking. What then? I remember the hard-faced policeman outside the diner. ‘
Wanted for arson.
’ True or not, if we get caught, that’ll be it.

The boy must sense my fear. We are nearing the fence now, a row of tall conifers beyond it. Buildings over to the left; barns maybe. On the road, beneath streetlamps already on, incongruous out here in the countryside, a toy-town in the dark, cars are parked.

Somewhere a dog barks. In the far distance, the hum of a busy road. The rusty caw of a late bird.

‘You go down to the end of that track,’ he points at a stile. ‘I’ll meet you there. Just be ready to bloody run fast. To get in fast. I don’t know how long it’ll take me.’

I take a deep breath.

‘Roughly?’

‘Five minutes?’

I nod. I can’t speak; no air left.

We separate. The boy vaults the gate with the easy grace of an athlete.

Panic surges. What if Saul leaves me here? What if I am left in this dark that smells so pungent, in this freezing night? What if Polly is about to pull into St Pancras any minute and I am in the middle of God knows where, unable to move nearer? What if
he
gets there before me? Fear crawls over me; a sob chokes up through my chest.

I hear a voice. Somewhere to the left of me, a deep male voice, shouting – at me, I assume.

‘Are you lost? This is private property.’

A light sweeps the ground; a torch beam.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, into the night. I speed up.

I hear an engine turn over to the right of me, on the other side of the trees; a car door slam. I clutch my old phone in my coat pocket; remnant of my old life.

The mud flies up behind me as I start to run.

I
slipped
. Perhaps I didn’t actually fall, but I certainly stumbled that night with Mal.

But the best of us have bad days, don’t we?

Sid and I arrived on my front doorstep at almost exactly the same moment. It was hardly surprising that it was not a happy reunion. I had tried to call him from the taxi, attempting to calm myself after the unexpected events of the evening, furious that he’d been grilling Polly about my whereabouts. An innocent six-year-old: not her fight. But of course, Sid hadn’t answered. He hadn’t answered, it became apparent now, because he’d been on his way here.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he snarled, bounding up the front stairs, and I very nearly quailed in the face of his anger, but then I remembered the truth. ‘Why did you leave Polly?’

‘I don’t know why you are here,’ I tried to keep my voice level, ‘and actually, it’s none of your business where I’ve been.’ I turned away, sliding the key into the lock, adrenaline making my hand jump. ‘Polly was with Emily, and I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Of course, I
had
done something wrong, of that I was painfully aware, but not to do with Sid; not his business. I’d half kissed a man I hardly knew, a previous client, drunk, in a pub car park. His wife, ex or not – a point which remained moot – had possibly seen us, as had one of the mothers from school, friend or not. Stupid, stupid Laurie. So why should I get off scot-free?

And it was a red rag to a bull, turning my back to Sid now. I knew that but I had chosen to forget: Sid hated nothing more than not receiving the respect he thought he was due; it made him incandescent with rage. But he didn’t deserve respect, so I wouldn’t feign it.

‘Go away, Sid,’ I said softly, as the key turned.

Sid made a grab for me just as Emily, hearing me, opened the door. She stood in the hall, back-lit, reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites Sid so despised, long hair tumbling round her face, and she hissed ‘Don’t you dare,’ at my husband, who stopped in his tracks. ‘Not this time.’

‘It’s fine, Em,’ I said. I had sidestepped him neatly. After all, I had had enough practice. ‘Go back inside.’

Emily hesitated, standing there wrapped in a blanket; dishevelled, eyes narrowed.

‘Just give us a minute,’ I murmured, pushing her very gently inside.

Eventually she walked back into the house, leaving the door slightly ajar. Sid was itching to barge his way in, I could sense it, but I stood between him and the door now.

‘You know, I’m not frightened of you any more,’ I said.

‘You were never frightened of me,’ he was withering.

But we both knew the truth.

‘Sid. It’s over.’ Steadily, I held his gaze. ‘You left. So what’s the problem?’

‘I wanted to make sure my daughter was all right.’

‘She’s fine. And anyway – really? You’re concerned about that, about Polly’s welfare, when you’re off with Jolie, are you? When you’re in Paris having a good time with her, or riding a stupid motorbike,’ I felt breathless, but I pushed on, ‘or at the – the latest premiere wearing stupid matching coats?’

He looked abashed; just enough for me to know it had hit home. And I was on a roll. ‘When you’re in your new studio, wherever that may be, or ordering paint or stretching canvas—’

‘I’m not working,’ he interjected.

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t.’ I could hardly hear him as he looked away, his face sullen now.

‘What do you mean?’ I didn’t understand.

‘I can’t paint.’

Sid
always
painted. He painted like a demon, like a man possessed; sometimes straight through the night. He didn’t always like his work; often he hated it, but it was his life-blood. He hid in it; he was nothing if not driven. The only time I had known him to stop was after his brother had called about seeing their mother. Then he had struggled to pick up a brush until sometime after the Paris trip, when he began to create the most distressing, dark work of his life; work I could hardly bear to look at.

‘I can’t work. I’ve tried a little. But it’s gone.’

‘What?’

‘Just … it.’ He shrugged. ‘The inclination.’

‘Why?’

‘Because everything I do now is shit.’

Emily opened the door again. ‘Are you staying out there all night?’ she demanded. ‘It’s bloody freezing and all the heat’s escaping.’

‘Well, shut the door then,’ Sid snapped.

‘Er, let me just think about that one,’ she glared at him. ‘How about – no. Not till Laurie’s inside.’

I walked away from Sid. It got a little easier every time.

‘I’ll call you,’ I said.

‘Don’t bother,’ muttered Emily.

‘About Polly.’

I shut the door behind me. But not before I saw the look in his eyes. The look that made me want to scream; that lost boy look. No one else could understand. For all my bravura about Sid, he gave me something too that no one else did. That no other man ever would. A thrill I despised myself for.

And who would take care of Sid now I couldn’t anymore?

H
ow can
we always get everything right? It’s impossible.

I lay in bed that night, hot and restless, trying not to beat myself up for my own actions. I imagined what Bev, or my peers would say:
Don’t be so hard on yourself
. Had Carl Jung, father of the psychoanalysts, inventor of the ‘talking cure’, always behaved correctly? When he was fucking his mistress whilst his wife popped out babies, he knew damn well that, in theory, he
should
remain faithful. Should – but didn’t. ‘
Don’t say “should”
,’ instructed the humanists, the psychosynthesists, ‘
don’t beat yourself up. Say “could
”.’

I should have, I should have, I should have.

Because reality is
not
theory. Reality is tough, in-your-face stuff; making vital decisions every day when you can barely choose what cereal to eat.

‘Why is life so bloody hard?’ I heard it all the time from my clients, railing against their gods. I don’t know exactly what Jung would have replied, but like most of us, he simply couldn’t resist something that salved the wound of living. In his case, the lure of a woman who gave him something he did not find at home.

Theory versus reality. Isn’t that what life came down to?

I knew I
shouldn’t
have let Mal kiss me, but I’d wanted to, and so I did. Sure, I also wanted to be alone; I wanted, more than anything, to recover from my broken marriage; to heal my horrible scars – but I was still human. Frankly, I wanted some attention. I was bloody lonely. I had been for years.

In the morning Emily made us all blueberry pancakes and then, slopping coffee into our cups, she said, ‘I thought maybe I could take Polly up to Mum’s?’

Her mother had moved up to a smallholding in Lincolnshire a few years ago with her new partner. Polly loved it there; all the dogs, sheep, ponies, the fresh air, the tractor rides and the muddy fields. ‘She’s got a new Shetland. And I’m sure Pol wants to ride.’ Emily batted her eyelash extensions at me. ‘You can have a break, and not worry about that—’

I shot her a look before she swore in front of Polly. Emily pulled a face, but supplicated.

‘Her father. I’ll bring her back tomorrow night. Please, Laurie. You have a break.’ She put the lid on the maple syrup. ‘Or you could come too?’

‘No, you go.’ For once, I made a snap decision. It’d be good for Polly to get out of the city, and I could get my head together. ‘Maybe I’ll join you later.’

But I knew I wouldn’t. I just wanted to lock the doors against the world and retire to bed.

W
hen Sid had moved out
, I’d begun to go to bed when Polly fell asleep; not because I was tired, but simply so the day would be over. I had always been a night owl, but these days I practically threw myself into bed, desperate for oblivion. And since I had largely eschewed the booze again since leaving Spain, there was no option but to sleep.

Only, falling asleep at ten usually meant I woke at four, to lie restlessly alert and pray for oblivion again with a futile desperation, listening to the planes track relentlessly overhead, to the birds begin their day too cheerfully at dawn.

Oblivion was a game I’d been playing since Sid; hard sought; a battle I never fully won.

And throughout that day and night, whilst Polly was away, Sid kept ringing, until at last, I switched the phones off and put a pillow over my head.