Final Demand (28 page)

Natalie's bag sat on the floor. He turned it upside down and shook the contents on to the carpet.

‘Or else the batteries would be flat,' he said. ‘I'd hear her voice breaking up, fainter and fainter, and then she'd be gone.'

He spotted the mobile. It was right there on the bedside table, in front of his eyes. He was too flustered to think straight.

‘Stupid me,' he said. You had to keep talking to coma victims. In fact, it came naturally. It kept him calm, too. ‘Now, I'm going to dial 999. You'll be fine . . . they'll look after you, might need a stomach pump or whatever but don't worry, nobody'll know what's happened, you needn't come back to Leeds, I promise . . .' His hand was trembling; he could hardly hold the phone. Squinting at the buttons – he was getting shortsighted – he said: ‘Now how do I work this thing, eh? Chloe's is different.' He pressed the red button. Nothing happened. ‘Shit.' He peered closer. Yes, that was the
On
button. He pressed it again. The tiny screen stayed dark.

‘Oh help me, please,' he said. The battery must be flat. But even if it was flat, surely the light would come on?

Frantically he pressed the buttons but the phone was dead.

He climbed to his feet. ‘I'm going to get help. Wait here.' This was a daft thing to say – was she going anywhere? ‘Bloody phones, never work when you need them.' He touched her foot, in its thick stripy sock. ‘Please don't die, Natalie, it wasn't that bad, what you did. I didn't mean it – it was all my fault, you were right, I just needed someone to blame.' He gazed at her closed eyes, the fringed lashes against her skin. ‘It only makes it worse. Don't you see?' He urged her, with all his heart, to wake up. ‘Don't you see? It makes my daughter a murderer too.'

He looked at her one last time. Then he hurried out of the flat, leaving the door ajar, and thundered down the stairs. He left the front door on the latch, stepped backwards into the street and looked up. The other windows of her building were still dark.

Up the road, in the distance, he saw a call-box. He ran there, fumbling in his pocket for change. Did you need coins for 999?

It makes my daughter a murderer.
What did he mean? Surely what he meant was
It makes me a murderer.

The booth had been vandalized. Somebody had wrenched out the phone; loose wires dangled down.

David stared at it. Not again, he thought. Please God, don't let it happen a second time.

Wherever you are, whatever the time . . . just phone.

The tube station. There must be a phone there. He turned right and ran up the street. It had started to rain. It seemed to take an age before he reached the main road. A taxi approached, its sign illuminated.

‘Taxi!' Waving his arms, David stepped into the street. ‘Hey, stop!'

The taxi drove on. Just another drunk, the driver was thinking.

Finsbury Park station was closed but there were two phone booths beside the entrance. David went into one, lifted the phone and dialled 999.

A voice answered. What service did he require?

‘Ambulance,' he gasped, and gave the address.

And then he was pounding back down the street, past rows of rubbish bags left out for the morning, back to Natalie's flat.

He pushed open the door and rushed upstairs, to the first floor. Natalie's door was still ajar.

‘It's all right, I'm back,' he called, like a husband returning from a day's work. ‘They're coming.'

He went into the bedroom.

The bed was empty. She had gone.

‘
DON
'
T MESS WITH
me, baby . . .
'

Damon's voice blasted out. Natalie drove fast, through the empty streets. The windscreen wipers sluiced to and fro.

The boldness of what she had done – look, she had got away with it, yet again, she was a cat with nine lives! – the sheer boldness set her heart hammering.

It wasn't that bad, what you did
, he had said.

The poor bloke. She was sorry for him, truly she was. The way he'd talked to her, pouring out his heart, it touched her. And his distress, when she lay on the bed . . . she'd had a strong desire to sit up and
say, Just kidding.

It must be terrible to have a daughter die. Raped and strangled, too. She remembered shivering when she'd heard it on the news. It must be the worst thing that could happen. Poor David. But she couldn't help him; nobody could. Nobody could bring his daughter back; the pain was something he had to work through, by himself.

What a weird night it had been . . . one of the weirdest of her life. Who would have guessed the long chain of events that had resulted from one little cheque. There had been two others, she remembered them now – it was the day the computers were down. She hadn't thought of that; what had happened to the other people?

It was over now, over and done with. Soon it would be a new day. She must pick herself up, dust herself down and start again. A girl had to survive. Did he really think she would give herself up to the police? Was she mad?

She was driving through Hackney. BLACKWALL TUNNEL. The sign loomed up through the rain. She had a plan, of sorts. Her Aunt Judy lived in Folkestone. Judy had a
history of mental problems and wouldn't be overly curious about Natalie's appearance on her doorstep. They had kept vaguely in touch over the years – the odd Christmas card – but she hadn't turned up at Natalie's wedding and she would know nothing about her arrest. Natalie would lie low in Judy's bungalow for a few days while she decided what to do next. France was a possibility; her friend Melinda worked in a sports shop in Rouen. Natalie had plenty of ready cash – eight thousand pounds at the last count – and it was high time she disappeared from T.B. Computer Services. She was surprised they hadn't yet twigged that something was going on.

‘
Got that lovin' feeling, all over again
,' sang Damon. It was O-Zone's latest single; Natalie sang along, loudly. It was reassuring to hear her own voice, keeping herself company.

In one respect she had spoken the truth. These past months had been miserable, she could admit it now. She had never been so lonely in all her life. She had even missed Colin, that was how desperate she had been.

Never mind. ‘
Hold me tight, baby!
' she sang as she drove under a flyover.

BLACKWALL TUNNEL. M20 FOLKESTONE said the sign. Too late.

‘Shit!' She had missed the slip road that led up to the motorway. In a moment she emerged from the underpass, the rain battering again at her windscreen.

That was OK; she would just have to find her way back. Slewing the car to a halt, Natalie reversed on to the pavement and turned round. All she had to do was return the way she had come, drive under the flyover, do a U-turn and get on to the slip-road.

Except that she seemed to be swept up into a one-way system. It swung her round to the left and suddenly she found herself in an industrial wasteland. Large buildings loomed up on either side. An illuminated sign blazed: ACORN STORAGE.

Damon's voice seemed to be getting fainter. She turned up the
volume, but it didn't seem to make a difference. She looked at the dashboard. Was it her imagination, or were the lights dimmer?

‘
Gimme love, gimme love!
' she sang, urging Damon to stay with her, but he was fading. She could hardly hear him now.

It was then that she realized the car was slowing down. She pressed her foot on the pedal but there was no answering surge. She slammed it on the floor but nothing happened.

Natalie peered through the windscreen. The headlights were getting fainter. She kept singing but soon she realized that she was singing alone. Damon had gone. She stopped; silence filled the car.

And then the lights on the dashboard went out completely. The engine cut out and the car drifted to a standstill.

The electrics must have packed up. She was alone, in the middle of nowhere. The rain drummed down. She was sitting in a dual carriageway, with low buildings either side. She could hardly see out, now, with the windscreen wipers stopped, but she dimly glimpsed headlights approaching from the other direction.

A car slowed down, as it passed her, and then accelerated. She turned, and watched its tail lights.

Its brake lights came on, dazzling red in the darkness. The car veered to the left and drove across the central reservation. It was doing a U-turn. The headlights swung round, in her direction.

Wasn't it strange? She knew it would do that. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out her mobile phone. Holding it up to her face, in the darkness, she punched the
On
button.

Nothing happened. She stared at it, in her hand.

‘Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.' She remembered. Back in the flat she had pulled out its SIM card, so David couldn't use it. She had left the card under her pillow.

Natalie flung the phone on to the seat. She grabbed her bag and leapt out of the car. Down the road, the headlights approached.

Natalie ran away, fast. She ran for her life.

NATALIE
'
S BOOTS POUNDED
along the pavement. She was a fast runner, but a car was faster. She could hear it approaching behind her. She ran past a closed gate, and then a fence. There was nowhere to hide. GUARD DOGS PATROLLING said a sign. Ahead of her was a side street. She reached it, swerved right and ran down it. Clutching her bag to her chest, she put on speed. As she ran, she searched for a gap, but walls rose up on either side.

Faintly, she could hear the sound of the car. It had turned down the side street too; the noise of its engine echoed against the walls. It was getting closer.

Behind her, the car's headlights lit a sign: UNITS 12-22. Ahead was a T-junction. Natalie darted left and ran down the road. Behind her, the noise of the car engine grew louder.

It wasn't David. She knew that; how could he possibly have followed her? It was someone else.
There has been an alarming rise in the number of unsolved crimes against women. The police have warned that women at night should be vigilant at all times.

And then she saw a gap between the buildings – just a slit, bathed in the light from a streetlamp. She ran down it and found herself in an alleyway. It was heaped with rubbish; she swerved around the bags, skidding on the wet ground. On one side loomed up a blank wall; on the other side lay a car park filled with bulldozers. Natalie stumbled over a mattress.

Her lungs were bursting. She leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.
Raped and strangled.
Which happened first? Which gave him the most pleasure?

Why didn't David's daughter use her mobile phone – did it all happen too fast? The car juddering to a halt beside her,
hands grabbing her coat and pulling her in. A hand pressed against her mouth.

Sodden in the rain, Natalie stood propped against the wall. She gulped the air, trying to force it into her lungs.

Excuse me, could you tell me the way to Piccadilly Station?
Maybe he had said that, leaning out, the door already ajar.

You shouldn't be out alone, haven't you read the newspapers?

The other girl paused – just for a split second. One second too long.

Pop in.

Natalie felt sick. She pushed herself away from the wall and ran on, the breath bursting her lungs. The alley ended in a parking lot. TEXAS HOMECARE. She jumped over a barrier and ran across the expanse of tarmac. Ahead, sheltering under the eaves of the store, stood a row of phone booths.

Maybe the girl's mobile didn't work. Heart hammering, she pressed the button but the battery was dead. It had packed up like Natalie's, a dead thing in her hand.

Hey, want a lift?
The door swinging open, wide. The man's face in the street light.

Natalie's heart hurt. Her legs were leaden as she stumbled across the car park. It seemed to take for ever. There was no sound of a car, nothing.

Maybe I'm imagining it.
Maybe the girl thought that.
The sound of a car, it's all in my head. Fear does that to you.

At the far end of the car park, headlights appeared. The car slowed to a halt and waited for her.

Natalie squeezed her eyes shut and opened them. The tarmac was empty. Somewhere, far off, a dog barked.

She was standing in a booth now. Its light was blinding; she felt exposed on all sides, naked. She punched in 999.

‘What service do you require?' said a woman's voice.

‘Police,' Natalie gasped.

‘Name?'

Natalie paused. What name should she give?

Chloe Milner
, she thought. Just tonight, they were together.

She tried to gather her wits. She wasn't thinking straight – had she imagined the car? Maybe nobody had been following her at all. She had become another girl.
That
girl. Any girl.

‘Are you there?'

Her head swam. Lorraine, she thought. Tracey Batsford.

‘Are you there?' asked the voice. ‘Can you give your name?'

She took a breath, and finally spoke the truth. ‘Natalie Taylor,' she said.

LEEDS CROWN COURT
is a modern, heavy, redbrick building. Inside it is airless and windowless. In Court Number 4 the judge sits in front of pleated beige curtains; this gives him a theatrical look, as if he is just the prologue and soon the curtains will open and the real show begin.

The public sits behind panels of tinted glass; when they turn to look at the person in the dock, they see their own faces reflected. Beyond, the other people – the accused, the jury – are only dimly visible, as if seen in a dream.

One person will never stand in the dock, for he has never been found. Maybe, at this moment, he is helping his daughter with her homework. He leans over her, his arm resting on her shoulder. As he gazes at the exercise book the sums dance in front of his eyes. They make no sense, for his mind is elsewhere. He smells the scent of his daughter, the breathing life of her. Maybe she leaves the top off the ketchup bottle and this annoys him, but only in the way that all fathers are annoyed. He wants the best for her; he fears for her, as all fathers must, in this brutal world. Absent-mindedly, he strokes her slender neck.