Never Close Your Eyes (48 page)

She took the crocheted shawl from the back of the chair and wrapped it round her shoulders. She fiddled with the coloured tassels round the edge, twisting them between forefinger and thumb. She wasn't looking forward to this, but curiosity always got the better of her. She was a nosy old cow. Just like Carol snooping round that kitchen.

She shuffled into her bedroom and took a book from the little shelf on the left-hand wall. She found the photo under the front cover and looked at it; it was the black-and-white, passport-sized one that Carol had given her all them years ago. It was a sweet-looking baby, she had to admit, wrapped in a blanket. Almost bald, with just a few bits of fair hair on the top of its head. She stroked its face for a moment. Its tiny hands were curled up in front in tight little fists and its eyes were only half open.

She swallowed. ‘Derek's baby.' She took the photo with her back into the living room and plonked down in the chair, resting it on her lap. She stared down at the picture for a few moments before closing her eyes, her hands folded in front of her, and started rocking backwards and forwards rhythmically.

Something cold brushed against her cheek and the hair on the back of her neck prickled. A whisper of warm wind rustled against her ear.

She started to moan. ‘Course I should of told her,' she muttered. ‘But what she done to me wasn't nice either.' Her head rolled from side to side and her tongue sagged in her mouth. Her upper body felt rigid, like hardboard. ‘You're not allowed to give 'em the really bad news,' she was saying, ‘it's against the rules.'

They were pushing down on her chest, compressing her lungs. Where was her inhaler?

‘Serves Carol right. Teach her a lesson. I know it's not Evie's fault but . . .' Her legs started shaking, flopping and jerking like a pair of fish on the end of a line. ‘She probably couldn't of stopped it, even if I'd told her, told 'em both.'

She was twitching that much, she needed to lie down flat. But they wouldn't let her. They wanted their bit of fun. ‘I'm sorry,' she gasped. ‘I know I'm bad, I know I done wrong.'

They were pulling on her limbs, stretching the muscles until she thought they'd snap. ‘I did tell Evie to be careful,' she cried. ‘I did sort of warn her.'

They wouldn't listen, they weren't impressed.

‘But it should have been my baby,' she cried. ‘She had no right to take my baby, my fella.'

They didn't understand, they had no mercy.

She tried to stand but her arms and hands were trembling too much to push her up. She gave one final, violent shudder before slumping back in her chair and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

There were so many people, coming in and out of glass-fronted shops, checking watches, sipping coffees, wasting precious time. Every second contained so many milliseconds, each one loaded with significance, each one crucial.

Evie elbowed her way through the crowds towards the base of the statue. She could see clear space around it, a void waiting to be filled. She saw a man leave the crowd and walk into the space. He seemed to occupy the entire blankness. He stopped and looked around. He was waiting for someone. He was short, slight, wearing a dark raincoat, carrying two bags: a black computer case and a brown leather holdall. Evie blinked. It took a moment to register; he looked completely different somehow, a stranger, but it was definitely him: Alan.

She made to plunge towards him. She was going to rip him to pieces.

‘Stop!'

She couldn't move; arms were restraining her. She struggled, kicked and squirmed but the arms held tight. She was a chained animal, a mad creature. ‘Let me go! My daughter . . .'

She ceased struggling. She could only stare, mesmerised. Freya had appeared in the space; she looked tiny. Alan, though, seemed to be getting bigger, growing before Evie's eyes. There was a clamp around Evie's chest, squeezing her heart, crushing it beneath her ribs. It was like watching a film. She was powerless to change the sequence of events.

Freya had a rucksack on her back. Her overnight bag. She took several faltering steps towards Alan, who held out his arms.

‘Get off!' Evie's scream bounced off the ceiling and ricocheted round the walls. She was spitting now, writhing. People were staring but she took no notice.

‘It's all right, Mrs Freestone,' a voice was saying. ‘We're here. Police. It's under control.'

She glanced to her right. One of the men restraining her was speaking to her but he was staring straight ahead, totally focused on what was unfolding before them.

There was a shout. Three men and a woman – all plain-clothed, in jackets and trousers – had appeared from nowhere, swarming towards the statue. The crowd seemed to have frozen; no one spoke. Evie tried to spot Freya but she couldn't see anything now; there were too many people, too many obstructions.

‘My daughter! What's happening?' She was blind with terror.

‘Keep calm,' her captor said. ‘They've got—'

‘This is a customer alert.' It was a man's voice on the tannoy. ‘A suspect package has been located in the vicinity of St Pancras Station. The station is being temporarily closed while investigations are carried out . . .'

‘Shit.' The police officer on Evie's left loosened his grip slightly.

‘Passengers are requested to remain calm,' the announcement continued, ‘and leave the station via the nearest exit. There is no need to panic; I repeat, no need to panic. All arrivals and departures are cancelled until further notice . . .'

The crowds started to move, slowly at first then faster. People were grumbling, pushing towards the exits. There was a shout: ‘Bomb . . . hurry . . .' The pace quickened; the tension was palpable.

Evie swung around. The police officer on her left was speaking into his radio. Then he was shouting over her head to the officer on her right. ‘He's made a run for it . . . He's got the girl . . .'

Evie's world was spinning, her legs were buckling beneath her. The police officer was talking into the radio again but she couldn't hear what he was saying, just fragments of words with splintered meanings.

A voice cut through the fractured sounds. She strained to understand. ‘We've lost them – they could be anywhere . . .'

She could scarcely breathe. She needed air. She wanted to throw up. She wanted Freya.

‘My baby!' she cried, before everything went black.

Chapter Forty-Three

Becca's fingers were so cold that she could scarcely get the match out of the box and grip tightly enough to light it. It took several attempts and when at last she succeeded, she held the flame to the piece of newspaper and watched it burn for a moment before putting it in the stone fireplace.

Luckily the wood was completely dry and caught straightaway. It had been sitting there in the basket for Christ knew how long. It must be months since they'd last visited the house. She was always too busy to enjoy it, really. The whole place felt dirty and unloved, despite the fact that Mme Mercier was paid to come once a week to clean.

Well, it was obvious that she wasn't doing that. Normally, of course, Becca telephoned several days before to warn of their arrival. There'd be milk, orange juice, chicken and croissants waiting for them, along with fresh flowers in every vase. The beds would be newly made and smelling of fabric conditioner, the shutters would be flung open and Mme Mercier would have turned the heating on well in advance to warm the place up. She'd get a shock when she realised that she'd been caught out. Served her right.

Becca sat back on her haunches and warmed her hands in front of the flames. She had no idea what time it was – it didn't really matter. She was glad that she'd decided not to have a landline installed. She was completely uncontactable, possibly for the first time in her working life. It felt good to be alone, just her and her thoughts.

A grey mouse with a very long tail scuttled in front of her and scarpered down a tiny hole in the skirting board. Well, just her and her thoughts and the mice. She didn't mind mice, actually. There'd been an infestation on the estate all those years ago. Everyone made a huge fuss, including Mam. There was even a petition to the Council. There was a family of them nesting somewhere in Becca's room.

Jude screamed whenever she saw one. The memory made Becca smile. She'd pretended to be frightened, too, but secretly she had names for them: Fluffy, Henrietta – she'd read that name somewhere in a book. It sounded mouselike to her, sort of scratchy. She'd tried to encourage them to appear on Jude's side of the room by scattering crumbs of bread and putting tiny morsels of cheese in the corners. Jude never did find out.

Her stomach made a noise; she realised that she was hungry. She'd stopped in a village on the way from Calais to buy a few things: baguette, milk, a bit of ham. Not
her
village: she didn't want anyone to see her. She'd deliberately parked the car at the back of the house, behind the trees. But word travelled fast round here, you couldn't keep anything secret for long.

She bit the corner of her thumbnail; there wasn't much left to chew on. She'd been here a whole day and night now. The solitude had felt quite dreamy, muffled; it was almost like being underwater. She was grateful that she'd been allowed that space, but she was quite surprised that they hadn't tracked her down. She'd have to make up her mind quickly about what to do.

The fire crackled. The last time they'd had one here the children had toasted marshmallows that they'd brought from London. She imagined that she could see Alice and James's faces in the flames. Poor them. Poor Tom, too. Her heart hurt. Maybe it didn't have to be like this? Maybe there was some other way?

She remembered Gary's tongue, slithering eel-like into her mouth, and his impassive, staring eyes when she'd pleaded with him. She wished that she'd never got into the grammar school, never played hockey. She wished Jude had gone to her friend's that day instead of coming home. She wished Jude hadn't hummed so loudly and annoyingly in their bedroom, distracting her from her essay, that Mam had finished work earlier, that Mam hadn't drunk so much, been around more to talk about things.

Excuses, excuses. Becca had brought this on herself; she was a wicked person. Her time had come. The children and Tom were better off without her.

She got up slowly and crossed the stone floor to the kitchen. There was still half a baguette in the bread bin beside the kettle where she'd left it; she tore a chunk off, dropping crumbs over the floor, and ate mechanically. It was hard and stale but she didn't care. She needed to quieten her stomach. It was just fuel.

She wiped her mouth with her hand and walked slowly up the curved wooden staircase to the bedroom at the back of the house. The shutters were still closed. She ought to keep them like that but it was oppressive, so she opened them and stared out.

There was nothing ahead but flat fields, trees and the odd barn dotted across the landscape; there weren't even any cows. There was no hint of sunshine and everything looked grey, even the grass. She used to love that view but now she wondered why on earth they hadn't bought a house in Provence, or Tuscany. Tom would have preferred it but she'd argued that Normandy was easier to get to with the children.

Tom had wanted a ski chalet somewhere in the Alps as well; it would be a good investment, he'd said, and the kids would love it. But something in her had baulked at the idea. She'd pretended it was just the money but the real reason was that Tom was a good skier, he'd been often as a child. And the children were coming along nicely. She, on the other hand, was hopeless. It scared the living daylights out of her; she'd never master it. She didn't want to be the odd one out. She'd had enough of that.

The odd one out. It never really left you. Perhaps Tom would buy that ski chalet now.

She moved away from the window quickly and started packing the few things that she'd got out back in her bag. Her work clothes, she decided, she'd leave behind. She wouldn't be needing them now.

She picked up the black wool Vivienne Westwood jacket that she'd left on the chair and laid it carefully on the end of the bed. Then she did the same with the pencil skirt and her black tights. Her black, high-heeled, patent-leather court shoes she put on the floor, facing outwards. She stood back for a moment and admired them all. She loved the jacket in particular; she never could quite believe that it belonged to her. The clothes were remarkably uncrumpled; they seemed to be waiting for someone else to step into them.

Next, she took off her Cartier watch and her diamond stud earrings and put them on the bedside table. She'd feel silly and overdressed in them now. Girls from Benwell, Newcastle, didn't wear things like that. She straightened the rug and took one last look around. It was a lovely room, with low oak beams and thick uneven walls. The bed was antique, Louis XV-style French, with a softly curved headboard and footboard. Funnily enough, they'd bought it in London and she'd had it upholstered in a shocking pink silky material. She and Tom had enjoyed that bed.