Anything for Her (7 page)

Louise screams, startled, and raises the blade.

Two screams return hers.

When her eyes adjust, she sees panic on the faces
of the Andrews, who are standing in her kitchen. Ruth clasps her hands to her chest; Timothy’s jaw drops in horror.

‘What the
hell
are you doing in my house?’ Louise screams, breathless from fear, the blade in her shaking hand still pointed at them.

‘We came to ask about the house and the possibility of viewing it,’ Timothy mutters, excitedly. ‘And when we got here, the door was wide open. We came in to see if you were all right.’

‘It looks like you’re snooping around to me,’ she retorts. ‘Well, I hope you like the view because it’s the last time you’ll see inside this house. Get out!’

‘Oh, please,’ Ruth says, fear still rattling in her voice. ‘We wouldn’t have entered if the door hadn’t been open. We thought something bad had happened.’

‘So bad that you thought you had better whisper instead of calling out to check on me? You’re nuts. Come near me or this house again and I’ll call the police.’

Louise walks to the door and holds the cold handle with her quivering hand, the blade vibrating in the other.

‘Out!’

The couple exit with their heads down, like scorned dogs with their tails between their legs.

Ruth turns to say something, but before the words can escape her, Louise slams the door shut. She locks
the door, slides the bolt into place and attaches the chain, just as she had done the night before.

She stares at each lock, wondering how they could have allowed the door to open.

Nothing is broken. Nothing has been tampered with. Yet the door had been opened, and her bed had been littered with dead birds.

Was it one of the Andrews in the house yesterday? Was it Timothy I chased to the barn?

Remembering the birds, she races up the stairs and goes into the third bedroom where all of the storage boxes from the townhouse renovation remain stacked, filled with belongings they didn’t want in the refurbished house, but couldn’t bear to throw away. She empties the nearest clear plastic container of its bubble-wrapped vases, protected as if a single fingertip would cause them to smash.

She returns to the master suite with an empty box. The lifeless birds are still there on the bed. It hadn’t been a nightmare.

She begins to place each bird gently inside the box, trying to be as respectful as possible. When every bird has been collected and the bed is clear of death, she closes the lid on the box and sits on the end of the bed, looking out the window at the snowy hills.

Who is out there? What do they want? What the hell am I supposed to do next?

Chapter Sixteen

Brooke has been unable to sleep. The sight of the stranger continues to haunt her. She touches her cheek with tender fingertips. Her father’s hand has left her cheek red, swollen and hot to the touch.

She never would have thought her father capable of any violence, let alone towards her, his own daughter: he has always been a gentle giant with both of his children. But ever since that night, he has resented her and Louise for shutting him out, and for changing so much that he no longer knows either of them. It is as if the mere sight of her now disgusts him.

She cannot spend another minute inside the same house as him. She can’t stay for Dominic. She must leave for herself, just as her mother has done. She understands it now. Sitting at the end of her bed, she watches as the sun rises, bringing with it the third day that her mother has been away from the family. By her feet is her packed yellow suitcase. Her coat is buttoned up to the top and her scarf wrapped twice around her neck.

She will call her mother when she is on the train. She will tell her she has to come and stay with her, even for just a night or two.

Deciding it’s time to leave, she stands up, grasps the
handle of her suitcase and leaves her bedroom.

The hallway is silent. The sound of light snoring comes from her brother’s bedroom. She longs to go inside and hug him, but she knows he wouldn’t understand why she has to leave. The agonised look in his eyes would only make her stay.

Making her way downstairs, she treads lightly on each step to avoid waking anyone.

The morning sunlight pours through the windows, ridding the landings of their shadows as it creeps further and further along the carpet, devouring the night.

She reaches the ground floor and heads for the front door. Just as she begins to turn the handle, she hears her father’s voice.

‘Please don’t go.’

She hesitates, her hand frozen to the door handle. She turns to see her father standing in the kitchen doorway at the end of the hallway. He looks dishevelled – the image of a broken man.

‘I have to.’

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘But you did.’

His eyes brim with tears and his voice begins to shake.

‘I don’t know why I… I’d never want to… I’m so sorry.’

‘I can’t stay here.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘To be with Mum.’

‘Is she at the country house?’

Brooke doesn’t reply. His expression changes from hopeful to ashamed. She turns and opens the front door.

‘I love you,’ he says.

She considers replying, but instead steps out of the house and closes the door behind her. Michael stands alone in the hallway, with tears rolling down his cheeks, as he watches another woman disappear from his life.

Chapter Seventeen

On the train from Paddington to Gloucestershire, Brooke sits in a seat by the window and watches the scenery hurtle past. Her eyes struggle to stay open as the gentle rocking of the carriage makes her drowsy; her exhaustion is overwhelming, forcing her eyes to close without consent. The coffee she bought at the station clearly hasn’t worked, so she decides to venture through the train to the refreshments carriage, in order to buy another.

She leaves her seat and heads through to the next carriage, wheeling her suitcase behind her and wandering past the rows of occupied seats as though she is sleepwalking. The train rocks from side to side, causing her to sway and grab at headrests to keep her balance, while her suitcase bangs against passing seats and protruding legs.

She makes it to the carriage with the buffet car and joins the queue, glancing out of the window at the passing fields. In her exhausted state, her mind wanders. She begins to worry that her mother might turn her away.

She won’t. She can’t. If she doesn’t let me stay, I’ll go elsewhere. I’m not going back home
.

Finally, she orders a latte and a flapjack. She pays
and turns to make her way back to her seat. Startled by a familiar face, she freezes.

The man is in his forties. His face is weathered from many hot summers and harsh winters, with stress burrowed deep within the frown lines engraved into his forehead. His hair is thinning and has receded into a horseshoe shape around his head. He is dressed in a white shirt and pale grey trousers, with a matching blazer resting on the neighbouring seat by his briefcase. He looks up and their eyes lock.

She watches the man trying to find a memory to fit her face.

He remembers.

She had remembered instantly.

They stare at each other with mutual surprise.

The last time they saw each other was that night, at the scene of the heinous, bloody crime. Brooke and Louise had left him there, promising to get help. Now, his eyes reveal his hunger for answers.

Terrified, she walks quickly past him towards the end of the carriage. Her case knocks violently against passing seats. She presses the button to allow access to the next carriage. When she turns to check on the man, she sees him grab his blazer and briefcase and begin following her.

Her heart begins to race. She rushes down the next carriage, not daring to look back. She slips between two men standing in the aisle talking to one another
and accidentally spills some coffee on one of the men’s shoes.

‘Jesus, watch where you’re bloody going!’ he exclaims, kicking his foot from side to side. Brooke presses the button for the doors to whoosh open, ignoring the man. He grabs her bag strap.

‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’

‘Fuck off, you perv! Don’t touch me!’

The man instantly lets go; he raises his hands with open palms and looks at his friend with wide, bewildered eyes.

‘I touched her bag, not her arse,’ he retorts, just loud enough for Brooke to hear as she races down the next carriage.

Her suitcase continues to topple from side to side with her pace and eventually overturns. She drags it along on its back, while it hisses against the carpet and fights her attempts to flip it back onto its wheels. The suitcase hits a woman on the shin as she passes.

Brooke slips through into the next carriage; her fast pace and anxious countenance attracts stares from other passengers.

Each time she reaches the end of a carriage, there is a second’s delay while the doors open into the next one. The man following her reaches the doors in time to stop them shutting, gaining an extra second on her with each carriage. Whenever she turns to look at him, he is nearer than before.

Brooke panics, and increases her pace, dropping the flapjack to the floor. Her feet slam down on the floor of the carriage and her shoulders jostle against the passengers getting up to exit at the next stop.

There aren’t many carriages left. Soon he will have me trapped at the end of the train and he will be able to ask questions. He will be able to call the police
. Brooke looks behind her. He is running too.

A recorded voice announces that the train is about to stop at Reading Station.

Do I stay on the train? Do I get off? Can I hide under some seats without the man finding me? Lock myself in the toilet until my stop? Should I get off and hope he doesn’t follow?

She stops near a crowd of passengers waiting for the carriage doors to open. She watches the man enter the carriage. His eyes are set on hers.

‘Oi, Miss, don’t run on trains,’ a middle-aged ticket master barks as he approaches. ‘This ain’t a playground.’

She ignores him and tries to follow the crowd of people out of the doors and onto the platform.

‘Let me see your ticket,’ he demands.

‘What? No, I’m getting off here.’

The man is only a few feet away. The passengers slowly begin to pour out of the doors.

‘You trying to run off without paying? That it? Let me see your ticket or I’ll give you a fine for bunking.’

‘
Leave me alone!
’ Brooke yells frantically, as the man approaches her with his hand out to grab her wrist and pull her aside.

She throws her coffee down the ticket master’s shirt and pushes him into the opposite set of doors. His hat falls off his head and the jolt makes his gut jiggle. The force of the shove against a man twice her size throws Brooke into the backs of exiting passengers, thrusting everyone out of the doorway, causing them to groan and huff in protest, just as the train conductor blows his whistle from the front of the train. Brooke falls to the platform with a hard thud. The doors begin to shut, but stop. Her suitcase is lodged between the doors. She tries to pull it free, yanking at the extended handle. She pulls with all her might and it finally dislodges, landing on her lap.

She looks up to see her pursuer staring at her through the semi-closed doors, his finger frantically pressing the ‘open’ button, but the doors are locked until the next stop. She cannot help but notice the ticket master behind him, his face flushed with rage.

The man continues to stand in front of the glass panel in the door and stares at her with harrowing intensity.

As the train pulls away, their eyes are still locked; Brooke realises that the man knows she is guilty of the crime.

He knows she has blood on her hands.

He knows she killed them.

They continue to stare at each other until he is carried out of sight. The train makes its way westwards, leaving Brooke alone and shaking on the platform. She finally breathes.

She was nearly discovered.

She was nearly caught.

Chapter Eighteen

Louise stares at the box of dead birds resting on the coffee table.

She is overwhelmed with questions – none of which she can answer – and fears that she cannot dilute.

Someone knows what I did. What
we
did
.

She bites her nails and the skin around the cuticles until her fingers are bleeding. When her phone begins to ring, she flinches and tears a strip of flesh from her thumb. Blood begins to trickle down her hand. She gasps and shoves her thumb into her mouth, massaging it with her tongue, and darts into the kitchen in search of a plaster. Placing her phone on the work surface, she sees Brooke’s face on the screen. She answers the call and puts it on speakerphone as she opens a plaster.

‘Hi Brooke.’

‘Hi.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I saw the man.’

‘What man?’

‘The man from that night. On the train.’

‘On the train to where?’

‘I’m coming to the country house.’

Louise feels as if her solace is about to be invaded.
She needs this time to herself. She wants to tell Brooke to stay away, to leave her alone, but she can’t. She cannot banish her daughter from her life until it is less catastrophic, or she might never see her again.

‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘Well if it wasn’t, some random man just chased me down the train for no good reason.’

Brooke sounds nervous.

‘Where are you?’

‘Reading station. I got off.’

‘Did he get off too?’

‘No. He tried, but the doors closed before he could get through them.’

‘Are you absolutely sure it was him?’

‘Yes, Mum. I’m not blind.’

‘I’m not trying to patronise you, Brooke. I’m just worried.’

A few seconds of silence elapse.

‘When will you be here?’ Louise asks, returning to the sofa with her plastered thumb, her eyes instantly returning to the box of birds.