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The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers

Page 29

by Rachel Abbott


  I don’t think I can endure the threat of the first sting for another moment. My throat has closed. I can’t breathe. Every inch of my body is dripping with sweat. I can feel it running down the backs of my legs, down my arms, and I wonder if wasps are attracted to the smell, the taste, of the salty liquid. Some have settled on my face now – I can’t tell how many. Their touch is soft, almost a caress. I don’t know if I’m allergic to their sting, but neither do I know how much fear I can stand.

  Will Dominic leave me here – walk away and never return? Will anyone find me? If I die here, what will become of my children? I think of Holly’s silky hair, Bailey’s sticky little hands, and as these images paint themselves onto the backs of my closed eyelids, I know I mustn’t die. I have to dredge up the very last of my willpower and resist the temptation to move. That’s what I’ve always been told. The wasps won’t bother me if I don’t bother them. They are angry because their nest has been poked, though, and I feel the first sting on my chin, as if a red-hot needle has burst the flesh. I squeal under the tape and shake my head, but for that I get another sting so I hold myself rigid. I don’t open my eyes and I don’t move. The stings are painful, but I’m not dead. My throat, swollen with fear, hasn’t got any worse, and I force myself to breathe slowly and evenly.

  I try to focus on my other senses – but I can’t see through closed eyes, can’t taste through my taped-up mouth, and the only sound I hear is the angry buzzing of the wasps. Their touch is the worst thing – so gossamer light but so threatening. I can smell nothing other than the damp ground beneath me.

  Another sting on the back of my hand makes me yelp, but that’s only three. Maybe they’ll calm down now. I force myself to remember that only the females sting, so probably only half of them can hurt me. I try to push out of my mind the fact that each wasp can sting multiple times. I must be still. I mustn’t move.

  I know he’s watching through the window, and I summon up every last ounce of courage. I will not let him see me crumble.

  Becky watched as Tom approached the front door. It was open – just a crack – but enough for them to realise that someone must have gone inside since the officers had called earlier. She was right behind Tom as he pushed the door. It swung open. They listened, but neither of them could hear a thing. He turned to Becky and gave her a questioning look. She knew what he was asking. Should they shout out to warn that the police had arrived, or should they go quietly to avoid alerting whoever was inside?

  She was about to suggest that they called out when they heard a faint noise. A door closing towards the back of the house.

  Tom stepped into the hall, Becky on his heels.

  Moving silently, they followed the sound and then heard what sounded like a bolt being shot into place.

  The short hairs on Becky’s arms bristled.

  As they rounded the bend in the hall they saw bright light spilling out from a partially open door. Tom pushed it gently with his toe. Stretched across the floor, preventing the door from opening fully, was the body of a man. As Tom quietly stepped over him, Becky crouched down to feel for a pulse. She looked up and raised one thumb in a silent signal. He was alive. They would phone for an ambulance, but first they had to see who else’s life might be in danger.

  There was no sound for a few minutes, then they heard footsteps. Someone was coming from the room beyond this one. Seconds later, a tall man filled the doorway.

  Becky knew who this was. ‘Dominic Franklyn.’

  That was all the confirmation Tom needed. ‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas—’

  Before Tom had the chance to say more, Dominic spun on his heel and dashed back into the room he had just come from, slamming the door in Tom’s face. Tom barged it open with his shoulder. Franklyn had reached the back door and was tugging frantically on the bolts, but Tom was too quick for him and was on him before he could open it, Becky right behind. Pushing him hard against the door, Tom grabbed his arms and Becky stepped forward to flick handcuffs onto his wrists.

  ‘He’s secure, Tom. Dominic Franklyn, I’m arresting you—’

  But Tom had turned away and was no longer listening to Becky. He was standing in front of another door. Set into the door was a filthy pane of glass with a small clean square in the middle. His shout interrupted Becky reading Dominic his rights. ‘Jesus!’ His head swivelled towards the other man. ‘You barbaric bastard.’

  Becky didn’t know what Tom could see, but his eyes turned briefly to hers before he began to cast them furiously around the kitchen.

  ‘Wasps,’ he said as he swivelled round, clearly looking for something. ‘Hundreds of them. And Anna Franklyn is in there, gagged and tied to a chair. They’re stinging her – I just saw her wince.’

  Dominic was looking at the floor, refusing to meet Becky’s eyes.

  ‘Move him away from the back door and open it, give them an escape route,’ Tom said. ‘Then get yourself and this tosser out of here, the other side of a closed door.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Get her out. There’s no option.’

  ‘Shit. Protect your eyes as best you can, Tom.’

  ‘There’s nothing here I can use. I’ll just have to risk it. Go, Becky!’

  With one last anxious look at Tom, she turned and pushed Dominic Franklyn from the room.

  The stings are throbbing now, the individual nerve centres joining to create a harmony of pain throughout my body. I don’t know how many times I have been stung, but I’m surviving. I can live through this. I have to for my children.

  I hear the door open behind me, but I don’t turn towards it. I don’t move. I daren’t. I don’t know why he’s come into the room. Maybe he doesn’t think they’re active enough and he’s going to stir them up some more. A sob comes out as a muffled moan.

  Then I hear a deep voice, speaking quietly. ‘It’s okay, Anna. My name’s Tom, and I’m going to get you out of here. But no sudden movements.’

  It’s not him. It’s not Dominic. Thank God. He’s right about no sudden movements because I can still feel the wasps crawling all over my skin. I know that just flicking a wasp away is enough to cause it to sting, and I have no idea whether they are able to communicate – to tell each other they have an enemy and should strike as one. I hear the sympathetic voice of the man called Tom again. I can tell that he understands my fear.

  ‘Anna, I’m going to reach out and touch your left arm. Don’t open your eyes – I can see for both of us. I’m going to bend down to cut the tie, then I’ll slowly guide you out of the room. Try your very best to stay calm. I know it’s difficult.’

  There’s a sharp intake of breath. He’s been stung but he’s playing it down. I hear myself whimper and hate myself for the weakness.

  When his hand touches my arm it is warm and somehow reassuring. His grip is firm, and he talks to me quietly, calmly, telling me to stand up, which way to turn, which foot to move. Slowly but surely. I feel another sting and then hear Tom suck in his breath again. We are both being stung, but it’s not killing us.

  It seems to take forever, but then I sense that the air around us has changed and I hear a door slam.

  ‘You can open your eyes now, Anna. You’re safe.’

  Saturday

  70

  It’s over. My children are safe. I’m safe. I should feel relief, but the horrors of the last twenty-four hours and the stress of the previous days are going to take time to ease.

  Dominic has been arrested and charged with two murders and a string of lesser charges. Bradley Roberts is in hospital, recovering.

  I can’t believe that Dominic is the architect of everything that has happened this week. I feel sick at the thought that I have lain in bed next to him as he plotted cold-blooded murder.

  For now the children only know that Daddy won’t be coming home for a while. I will have to work out what to tell them and how to explain. Maybe they will have to change schools. Maybe we all will. But the wor
st of the nightmare is over. At least, I hope so.

  I was interviewed by the police for four hours after a kind paramedic gave me something for the painful stings. I told them everything I knew about Cameron and Jagger and what I believed had driven Dominic to kill two men. I have no doubt Cameron will be arrested for his sins too, and I’m sure it will be a relief to many of his victims. I couldn’t explain it without admitting to the things Scott and I did when we were at university, but they said it’s unlikely that charges will be brought, under the circumstances. The case of our baby, though, is different. They want me to provide evidence that the adoption was legal – that we didn’t traffic our own baby. I feel sick that they would think I might have done that.

  I can’t remember the name of the adoption agency. All that burns bright in my memory is the sight of my son; the rest is a blur. But I do know where the details are. Hidden in my mum’s loft.

  She knows I’m safe, but I haven’t told her what happened yet. I have to before she sees it on the news, and I want to speak to her before the children are awake, so I pick up the phone and take a deep breath.

  ‘Anna! Oh my darling. Are you okay? I know you said not to worry, but I’ve been frantic.’

  I want to be calm, but this is my mum and I don’t need to pretend. I burst into tears and sob down the phone to the one person who won’t judge me.

  When I finally calm down, I stutter through an explanation of what happened yesterday, leaving out any mention of me being hurt, but I can feel the waves of shock and horror coming down the phone line when I tell her what Dominic has done. The why will have to wait, because it’s a much longer story. I need to see her face to face for that.

  ‘Mum, there’s something I need you to do for me. Do you remember when I left university in Manchester I boxed up everything and put it in the loft?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was after you came back from America. You were in such a state.’

  ‘I know, but there’s something I need from the box. I’ll explain it all to you, I promise, but there’s an envelope in there—’

  ‘I can stop you right there, love. I don’t have the box. I gave it to Dominic.’

  The breath is knocked out of me.

  Now I understand. The box had everything, including my old laptop with every email ever sent to Scott, love letters, sponsorship forms, basic spreadsheets calculating what each of us owed Cameron, photos I had taken of Scott’s injuries. Even his wallet was in there.

  And the adoption papers.

  I want to scream at my mum, ask her why the hell she did that, but I already know. It would never have occurred to her that Dominic didn’t know about every aspect of my life. Why would it? I don’t believe she and my father ever had secrets from each other.

  ‘When, Mum?’ I ask as soon as I can speak.

  ‘It was after your dad died. I decided I was going to have a clear-out so that if anything happened to me, there’d be less for you to do. Dominic brought the children up to stay during one of their holidays. I think you had to work. I asked him to help, and when he saw the box he said he’d take it back with him. It’s not a problem, is it?’

  Mum wasn’t to know it had been full of secrets. She probably thought it was just books, lecture notes and maybe some photos of friends. I had taped it up, knowing she would never look inside it. But Dominic had. But if he’s known for that long, why now?

  ‘No, no. But he didn’t tell me, and I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘That’s perhaps because I told him how devastated you were by Scott’s death and you might not be ready yet to look inside. He seemed to understand, Anna. He said he would hide it until he thought you were ready. Have I done something wrong?’

  My mum’s voice is beginning to wobble and I know she’s about to cry.

  ‘Of course not, Mum. I’m just wondering where he’s put it. Don’t worry – I’ll find it.’

  71

  I have searched the house – turned it upside down. I’ve even been up into the loft, but there is no sign of my box.

  The children are up now, confused and wondering when Daddy will be back. I need to spend time with them, prepare them in some way for what I have to tell them. But how do I tell my daughter that her father has killed people? Bailey is less likely to understand the enormity of his father’s crimes, but I need to be ready for everything. I can’t make excuses for Dominic and must explain that he did a bad thing, and when someone does something they shouldn’t, there are consequences.

  It’s every bit as painful as I expect it to be. The children cry, and I cry with them. I avoid telling them one thing – that if their father is convicted they will almost definitely be adults by the time he is released. Finally, they lie cuddled together on the sofa under a blanket and watch a cartoon on TV. They will be asleep within minutes, worn out by all the emotion. I can’t bear the pain they’re going through.

  I wander aimlessly into the kitchen and gaze out of the window. After yesterday’s storms the weather is overcast, but at least it’s not raining. I go over to the back door and pull it open, wanting to smell the wet earth, to be reassured of the beauty and continuity of life by looking at my garden, knowing that the plants dying back now will again spring to life in a few short months.

  Then I see it. The shed!

  It’s the one place I haven’t looked. An ideal spot, because I never go in there.

  I grab the key to the new lock and, leaving the back door open so I can hear if the children shout, walk down to the shed and open the door. My gaze immediately goes to the spot where the photo of a young Scott was propped up. Of course it’s not there now. It’s upstairs, hidden in a drawer under the lavender-scented paper that my mother had carefully lined all our bedroom drawers with when we first moved in.

  I scan the shed with no idea where he might have hidden my box. It wasn’t large, but it was too big to fit in a drawer. The children’s bikes are at the far end, propped against the wall, but I can’t see a box behind them. I randomly open cupboard doors but see nothing.

  Suddenly I realise where he will have put it.

  In the far corner is an old chest freezer we don’t use. We keep it locked for fear that a child will somehow get inside and suffocate. I reach up to the shelf above, lift a rusty paint can, and the key is there.

  I stare at the freezer for a long moment. The box in which I so carefully stored all my memories was never meant to be opened again, and the fact that Dominic has been through it makes it feel dirty, defiled. Some memories are precious, some I want to forget.

  Before I can think about it any more, I push the key into the lock and turn it, then with a deep breath, I lift the lid.

  The box is there, the flaps pulled back and open. Inside, on top of the rest of the contents, is a pile of envelopes, a few of them quite large with hard backs, as if to protect the contents from being bent. I don’t recognise these. I don’t think I have ever seen them before, and to my surprise I notice that all of them are addressed to me. I pick one at random, feel inside and pull out a photograph. It’s of the same boy – Scott, I’m sure – but a couple of years younger than he was in the picture left in the shed for me.

  Why would someone post me an old photo of Scott?

  I open another envelope, and this one has a cardboard mount inside it, but the picture is missing. A small corner of the photograph paper is still attached, and I remember that the photo I found in here a few days ago was torn slightly. Who sent me these photos?

  I realise there is something else in the envelope and I upend it. Several sheets of paper covered with handwriting fall out onto the bench. I pick them up and start to read.

  Hello

  I’m sorry but I still don’t know what to call you, so I thought maybe Hello would be okay for now?

  I know that after you got my first few letters you wrote to say you didn’t think it was a good idea for us to be in touch, but I guess I want to try again, in case you changed your mind. I’ll probably keep trying because it
matters to me.

  Mom and Dad know that I’m writing to you, and they’re okay with it if it’s what I want. And it is. So I thought that each year I would mail you a letter to tell you about me and my life, just in case you’re a little bit interested.

  It’s strange for me to have a mother I’ve never met, and I’d really like to know about you too, if you can spare the time.

  I feel every nerve in my body tingle, and a massive surge of emotion threatens to drown me. I turn to the last page before I read on in case I’m wrong. But I know I’m not.

  It’s signed:

  Your son Stephen, (if it’s okay for me to call myself that?)

  I drag out a stool from underneath Dominic’s workbench and collapse onto it. Stephen. My son is called Stephen.

  I quickly pull all the letters out, one by one. There are four of them, three with photos, and one with the empty picture mount. I know now that the photos aren’t of Scott; they’re of Stephen. My boy.

  The postmarks are Florida, so the family must have moved there, and with trembling fingers I sort the letters into order and start with the first, written when he was twelve, two years ago. He tells me how much he would like to get to know me and how happy he has been with his Mom and Dad. He says he plays soccer because it’s English and he knows he is a bit of a Brit. He sounds funny and sweet, and the words keep blurring in front of me as the tears spill from my eyes.

  And then I read the fourth one again. He writes about the letter I sent saying I didn’t want to be in touch with him, and my heart breaks for my child. I fold my arms on the bench and lay my head there, not even trying to control the sobs that are tearing me apart. That poor, poor boy. How rejected he must have felt, and what resilience he must have to keep on trying.

  Now another emotion rises, almost dwarfing the sadness I feel at how my son must be hurting.

 

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