How I Lost You (25 page)

‘Shouldn’t I just ask Mark who she is?’ I know he still cares about me, and there was a moment back at his house where I thought I might still be in love with him. If he isn’t involved in this he deserves to know that Dylan is alive. Do I want to turn to him now?

Nick looks sceptical. ‘He kicked you out of his home the first time you went there; I don’t think he’s going to welcome you back with open arms and answer all your questions about an ex-girlfriend from uni, do you?’

‘But he should know . . .’

‘Well when we find out what happened, you can tell him everything. Going to him now would just put him on the defensive.’

OK. ‘So what do you suggest, Mr Journalist? Any handy hints and tips on stalking the general public?’

Nick grins. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

He stands up, goes to retrieve a laptop and pops it on the table in front of him. He types in a few words and after a few minutes he turns the screen around. The Durham University alumni page is open, plus another tab that links to Facebook.

‘For an IT guy, Mark’s a bit of a social network phobe,’ he remarks. ‘I’ve found his LinkedIn profile and there are a couple of alumni on there but no one who looks remotely like the girl you described. He doesn’t have a Facebook profile.’

That doesn’t surprise me. Mark always hated Facebook and used to rant on and on about how many lives it destroyed. It made me feel safe and secure that my husband didn’t need to use social media; he had no interest in chasing the past, or in ‘friending’ or ‘poking’ random women. I presumed it was just an age thing; Mark said Facebook and Twitter were for teenagers to be able to moan about school and gatecrash each other’s parties. Now I’m wondering if it’s odd that a man who went to one of the best universities in the country wouldn’t want to keep in touch with the people he shared the experience with.

‘So where do we go from here?’ I wonder out loud. Nick smiles as though he’s happy I’ve asked.

‘This is the number of the Durham alumni division,’ he explains, showing me the web page he’s navigated to. ‘If we’re going to find someone who went to the university, these are the people to help us.’

‘That’s assuming she went to Durham.’

‘We better hope she did, then.’

Nick pulls out his mobile and dials the number.

‘Hi, my name’s Nick Whitely and I work for the
Star
in Bradford,
’
he tells the person on the other end. I’m a little surprised he’s using his real name, but I guess we’re not doing anything wrong, and the best lies are usually 90 per cent truth anyway. I listen to him as he explains how he’s writing a story on social media and tracing long-lost friends and he’d like to compare the new technology to the old. He wants to know how he could find someone using only a photograph. He pauses to let the person on the end of the line speak, a woman I guess by the flirtatious tone his voice has taken on.

‘Erm, just a second.’ He covers the mouthpiece and asks me, ‘When did Mark graduate?’

Five years before me . . . ‘Nineteen ninety-three,’ I reply.

Nick repeats the information and waits for an answer.

‘Thank you, that’s incredibly helpful. And where would one find that information? Great, Meredith, was it? I’ll be sure to thank you in my story. And you.’

He puts his mobile down on the table and I make a face. ‘
Meredith
sounded helpful,’ I remark.

‘Now, now.’ Nick grins. ‘She was, as a matter of fact. Bill Bryson Library has yearbooks dating back to 1990 with matriculation photos from each college. And they open on a Sunday.’

‘How long will it take us to get there?’ I ask.

‘A couple of hours.’ Nick hits the keys on his laptop and a picture of the Durham University library fills the screen. ‘We could be there by midday if you put some clothes on.’

It’s hardly the occasion to pack a picnic, so we stop at a shop at the corner of the road appropriately named ‘The Shop on the Corner’ and pick up a couple of chocolate bars and a bottle of Coke. The silence in the car is charged with anticipation, but it’s not uncomfortable.

‘Did you go to university?’ Nick asks after ten minutes. The distraction from the route my thoughts are going down is welcome.

‘Yes, Nottingham,’ I reply. ‘I met Mark through friends when we’d both finished our degrees.’

‘Did you keep in touch with any of your uni mates?’

I shake my head. ‘Not really. I used to get the odd email telling me how they were getting on, but it became clear pretty quickly that they were all about careers in the City and my replies were all about wedding planning and house renovations. After the wedding, we pretty much lost touch completely.’

‘Did you have many friends before you went to Oakdale?’ He’s trying to find out why I have no one in my life, why it’s just me and Cassie. I presumed the answer was obvious, but maybe not.

‘Most of our friends were mutual,’ I tell him honestly. ‘After what happened, it was easier to let them go than to try and drag things out and make it difficult for them.’ I have no idea if Mark still sees our friends any more. I imagine him going to dinner parties at Fran and Chris’s without me, a conspicuous empty seat where I used to be. Or worse still, a seat filled with my replacement.

‘So Mark got the house, the car, the friends; what did you get?’

‘I got Cassie,’ I smile, only half joking. ‘A couple of my girlfriends tried to keep in touch at first, but I did the same to them as I did to Dad. I had to approve all visits, but I just flushed away the orders. Cassie tried to sign one on my behalf but I tore that up too. At the time I told myself I was doing it for them, so they wouldn’t be tied to a murderer, but looking back I guess I was just being selfish. I couldn’t bear to hear how their lives were still carrying on when mine had been ripped apart. After Mark stopped coming, I convinced myself I didn’t care about any of them.’

‘Has anyone contacted you in the past month? Since you left Oakdale?’

I shake my head. ‘It had been too long. I couldn’t bear the thought of them pitying me, the uncomfortable “how have you beens” and the apologies every time they mentioned babies or a murder came on the news. I decided the best way forward was to meet new people, ones who don’t know what’s gone on in my life and aren’t watching every word they say around me, or waiting for me to crack up again.’

‘And how’s that going for you?’ he jokes. I let out a laugh.

‘So far not so good. There are the people at the shelter, but I’ve kept my distance even from them. It’s hard keeping a secret this big, you know?’

Nick’s eyes are fixed firmly on the road when he replies a little too emphatically, ‘Yeah, I know.’

I’m about to ask him what he means by that when a black saloon swings out of the junction ahead on to our side of the road and ploughs straight towards us.

I scream, Nick slams his foot on the brake, but it’s no good, the car is still on the wrong side of the road and it isn’t slowing down. Just as it’s about to hit us, Nick jerks the wheel sideways and sends us screeching on to the pavement. We slam to a stop a metre short of a bus stop. I look up to see the black saloon straighten up on to its own side of the road and speed away.

42

Nick looks across at me. Shock has drained the colour from his face but he looks otherwise unharmed. There are six or seven people stood round the front of the car peering in through the front windscreen. One of them, an elderly woman, raps on the window.

‘Are you alright in there, Missy? Should someone get an ambulance?’

I look at Nick who shakes his head. ‘No, no, thank you, we’re fine. We’ll be fine.’

She nods her head and steps back slightly but none of them turn to leave.

‘
Are
you OK?’ I ask Nick and he slams his fist against the steering wheel in anger.

‘He tried to kill us,’ I state eventually, unable to think of anything else useful to say.

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Actually dead.’

‘Yes, Susan, actually really dead.’

When I look at him again, he’s shaking, and automatically I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder. He pulls me into his arms and we sit for a minute, stunned and scared, holding on to each other for dear life.

‘Do
you
need to go to hospital?’ Nick asks eventually, holding me at arm’s length to check my face. ‘Is your neck OK? Can you move it?’

I check for signs of whiplash, rolling my head forward and to the side.

‘No, I think I’m fine.’

Nick reaches into the back of the car and pulls out the bottle of Coke. ‘Here, have some of this, the sugar will help with the shock.’

‘And the chocolate,’ I reply. ‘Chocolate helps with shock.’

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nick laughs. ‘Where did you hear that?’

I think for a moment and smile when I realise the answer. Dropping my eyes to the floor I mumble, ‘
Harry Potter
.’

Nick laughs as though this is the funniest thing he’s heard in months, and I find myself joining in, the initial shock of what has happened beginning to dissipate.

‘Are you ready to carry on before these people make our choice for us and someone calls the police?’

And that’s it. No question of giving up on our journey or giving up altogether, like I know so many other people would have done. This is my fight and he doesn’t have to accept the attack on his life so readily, but he has. Eventually he turns the key in the ignition and I let out a sigh of relief as the car starts up immediately. He pips his horn to move the crowd of people still gawking at us, and when they still don’t move he rolls it towards them and they scatter.

‘Should
we
call the police?’

Nick shakes his head. ‘No. I mean we should, it’s attempted murder, but the guy who did it will be long gone by now. And think of all the awkward questions we’d have to answer.’

‘Nick, someone just tried to kill us. How often does that happen to you? And you think we should just let them get away with it to try again tomorrow? Or the next day?’

‘It never happens to me, Susan. I’m a journalist, not a member of the CIA, or have you forgotten? I just thought you wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on here, not spend the rest of the day in a police station waiting room. And if it makes the papers, what of your new life then?’

‘You’re right.’ God, I hadn’t even thought of the newspapers. Lucky I’m travelling with a journalist. ‘It just seems so surreal. Someone tries to kill us and we carry on as though it never happened.’

‘You wanted proof you weren’t going crazy – there it is. If whoever is following us realised it’s Durham we’re headed for they took a big risk to try and stop us. Maybe that means we’re on the right track.’

Obviously I’m scared, I don’t take attempted murder lightly, but I know now that we’re going to find out what happened to my son, and I can’t help but be excited by that. Either we find him, or I’ll die trying. And although that’s now a very real possibility, I don’t care. I’m willing to die for my son. And if it’s me or them, I’m willing to kill for him too.

Bill Bryson Library is a work of art. Glass-fronted, all sleek lines and curves, it sprawls itself out unapologetically. When I walk in, I feel like I’m stepping ten years into the future. It beats the old demountable hut we had in our school hands down.

The surly-looking young woman at the desk glances up at us as we approach, sees Nick and breaks into a wide smile. Apparently the face works on women everywhere, no matter how grumpy. This woman has a shock of murky blonde hair that fuzzes around her head like an ‘after’ shot in an electrical safety advert. She’s thin, and her clothes hang off her frame like they’re wearing her rather than the other way around. I instinctively want to give her a good meal. Her eyes are dark, making the paleness of her skin stand out even more. After an age, she turns to look at me.

There’s a sudden pain in my head, so intense that I stop walking and close my eyes.

‘Are you OK?’ Nick places a hand on my arm.

‘Migraine. I got them a lot . . . before.’ I can’t explain why, but my heart is racing. Panic overtakes me. I can’t breathe, I should be able to breathe. I just want to run.

‘Are you sure? You’re . . .’

‘Panic . . . attack,’ I manage.

‘What should I do? Can I get you anything? Is this because of the accident?’

I shake my head, lean it on his shoulder and he puts his arms around me. The panic begins to subside. I take deep breaths and my heart slows down. After a few minutes he holds me at arm’s length.

‘I’m fine now.’ Only a small lie: my breathing is back to normal and I don’t feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Looking around me, I remember we’re in the library and people can see me. ‘Sorry to scare you.’

‘It’s fine, really. Do you want to go?’

I force my voice not to tremble. ‘No, we’re here now. It’s happened before, it’s not a big deal.’ Another lie. ‘Can we get on with this?’

Nick frowns and studies my face for a few uncomfortable seconds, but eventually he nods and turns to the library assistant. She looks about my age, maybe older, but dark circles line her eyes. I’m glad I’m not the only one looking like I haven’t slept in a week. After spending time with glamorous women like Kristy Riley and Rachael Travis, I’m happy to be the one who comes off better looks-wise.

Nick explains that we’d like to look at the university yearbooks but carefully doesn’t give away any more information. The woman promptly issues us with guest passes and shows us where the yearbooks are kept, scores of them, each labelled with different college names. I know Mark studied at St Chad’s and we decide to start there. The woman informs us that the yearbooks are produced according to start date, not graduation.

‘I came here myself once upon a time, so if I can help at all, you know where to find me. I hope you’re OK now.’ She gives us a parting smile and leaves us alone. The library is relatively quiet and this part is completely deserted.

‘What was that all about?’ Nick asks when we’re alone.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply truthfully. ‘It’s been a rough couple of days.’