by Emma Rowley
I do it as slowly as I can. Maybe I could pull through this, I’m calculating, I did last time. But I can see: there must be what, fifty pills in here? Far more than before. That would do it, no doubt about it. And I’ll be here, won’t I, quietly falling asleep in a dirty corner of an empty building, where no one will find me.
I hold the first pill in my mouth and swallow. I start choking, tears coming to my eyes. I cough once, harshly, then hiccup it up again, holding it in my mouth.
His eyes are wide, showing the whites. “I told you not to try anything. If you try to—”
I shake my head. Tears are starting to spill down Sophie’s cheeks, following the track of the blood.
“I’m not trying anything. I can’t swallow it down.”
“Do it. Try again.”
So I do. But the same thing happens, I can’t even get the pill down my throat; I hunch forward, cough it up again, my body racked. He’s agitated now, shifting on his feet.
“It’s OK. It’s OK.” Keep him calm. “I just need some water.”
“Water?”
“I’m serious.” I need some water. If he’s distracted, if he leaves the room . . .
But he looks from me to Sophie, uncertain. She looks back, her eyes big, and he decides. “So get some.” She doesn’t move for a second. “Get. A bottle. Of water. From the pile.”
“I can get it,” I say.
“Stay where you are.” He points the blade back at me. How strong is he? But I can’t risk anything, not while he’s so close to my daughter.
She steps back through the door slowly, and disappears from my view. From the other room, there’s a dull thud, like something was knocked over. She’ll be struggling, with her hands bound.
“Hurry up!” he says, his voice raised. But she’s already back now, something crooked in her arms. One of those big bottles of water, plastic. How long does he plan to have her here? It’s sliding through her arms, like she’s going to drop it again.
Impatiently, he wrests it off her and walks over to me. I tense, bracing myself against the wall, one foot against the cool bricks, and he stretches out an arm to hand me the bottle. “Take it.” He’s too close now; he wants to watch what I’m doing. “No tricks. No pills down your sleeve, or on the floor.” His eyes are intent, almost hungry.
This can’t happen. But it is, I can’t stop it.
I take the bottle off him, using two hands, finding it awkward with the pills to hold too. Everything seems to be unfolding in slow motion. It’s going to happen.
He’s so near I can smell his aftershave, woody, mixed with the smell of the dirt floor. I feel the weight of the water bottle in my hands. I see Sophie, behind him, her eyes intent on mine. I feel the chill in the damp air. The pressure behind the plastic, under my hand, and Sophie, her gaze not wavering. We’re doing what he wants. I see her gaze shift to the bottle in my hands, then back to meet my eyes.
And I do what he wants. I hold it against my body; position it just right; I turn the cap. The water bursts out, a white stream, spattering against his glasses; shaken after Sophie dropped it. He recoils, putting his hands up reflexively to wipe the lenses, only for a second, before he recovers.
But it’s enough, just enough, as I’ve already let the bottle fall and am throwing myself at the hand holding the knife, grappling for it, my whole weight on his arm, pulling him down with me, and now we’re both on the floor, his arm’s under me, my bodyweight on it. And suddenly I’ve got the knife, my nails digging into his skin, I’ve actually got it loose and in my hand, and I throw it, as far as I can, skittering across the floor away from us, but he’s strong, like I thought, of course he is, “You bitch, you stupid bitch,” he says, and he flips me back under him, his glasses hanging half off, his expression contorted with fury, and he has got me.
I throw one arm up, my elbow connecting with something with a crunch; but he gets it down again, he’s so much stronger than me, pinning both my arms under his knees, and now his hands are on my throat, he’s crouching over me, his heaviness crushing me, his eyes blind with rage. I feel his fingers, hard and strong, all his force behind them. And now I see Sophie behind him, too close, she needs to get away, she’s trying to help, but her hands are still tied, I can hear her muffled screams, her face red under the silver tape; she’s trying to pull him away, her hands on one shoulder, slipping; she can’t grip properly, and he stops for a second and backhands her; he sends her flying back, down to the dirt.
I take one big heaving breath in while his hand’s off my throat, filling my roaring lungs, but I still can’t move, my legs kicking uselessly, trying to find purchase in the loose dirt surface. Then he’s back on me, both hands pressing, harder than before, his intent clear; and Sophie’s up again, further away now. But I can see, there’s nothing between her and the door, the path is clear, and yet she’s turned back, she’s scared, her eyes fixed on mine. I can’t form words, I try to tell her with my eyes, just go, but she’s not, she’s coming a step closer, the wrong way, she’s got to get out of here, before he realizes what’s happening and I’m so afraid for her, go go go.
And then she decides, I can see it in her face, she’s nodding, her face a grimace under the tape, and she’s unsteady from the blow, but she’s moving now, backing away from us. His fingers are still tighter now, around my throat, he’s silent and calm above me: he’s going to do this, just like he did it to Nancy, and my vision is narrowing, going dark round the edges. And I’m so scared but I’m singing inside too, because she’s gone, I can’t see her now, as the blood drums louder in my ears. If it gets her away, she can go, she’ll be free.
But I’ve got to keep him here, as long as I can, or he’ll be after her, it will all be for nothing—the thought courses through me, as he hunches over me, he’s so close to me now, his breath hot in my face, and yes—I jerk my head up, hard against his nose, I feel something breaking. There is something hot and wet spilling out over my face, and I twist underneath him, getting one arm free, just for a second, and I throw it out, grasping, my fingers reaching blindly for a rock, something, anything, but there’s nothing, just the cold, bare floor. He’s silent, his eyes staring, his fingers back round my throat, even tighter....
And suddenly it’s there, the knife, I don’t know where it comes from, I threw it away with no thought of using it. But it’s here now, and I can’t believe this is happening, it’s almost like I’m removed, watching it from outside myself, but I see it slide in, between his ribs, before he knows it.
He groans. And now the liquid heat is spreading between our bodies, shockingly warm. He’s so heavy, and his fingers are still at my throat, but easing now, the pressure weakening. And then suddenly I can roll him, I can push him off me entirely; I can scrabble up from under him.
His eyes are glazed with shock, as he looks up, still not understanding what’s happened, until he slowly puts his hand where the knife went in, close to his heart.
The blood is dark on the floor, already soaking into the earth.
CHAPTER 46
We’re outside. From far away I hear the wail of a siren. It’s dark now, the rain a drizzle, washing me clean. I’ve never felt more free. I feel fine, more than fine, untethered from the world, probably better than I should, still riding a wave of adrenaline and energy. She’s here, she’s here, my whole body is thrilling with the knowledge, but she’s in a bad way, I can see. My daughter is twisting her hands beside me, the tape bunching into rope but holding strong, and I know what I must do. I go back inside, and I pick up the knife, I wipe it on my jeans, then I cut the tape open, so carefully, making sure not to touch her skin. “Shh, it’s OK. It’s OK.” Gently as I can, I pull the tape off her mouth, her hands fluttering over mine. The skin is raw underneath, her lips dry.
“Mum.” Her voice is thin with fear. I hug her. The siren’s closer now, the pitch getting higher.
“Sophie. It’s OK, Sophie. It’s going to be OK. Let’s go.” I start walking, propping her up, still h
ugging her—and holding her. I can feel her weight, solid in my arms, I can smell her hair, but she’s shaking and then she pulls back, her eyes wild, her mouth an open scream.
She manages to get it out: “Mum. He’s got Teddy. He’s got Teddy.”
For a moment I can’t understand. He’s got Teddy, she’s saying, over and over. And I just can’t get it, I’m imagining her stuffed toy. “Teddy? But that’s all right, Sophie, we’ll get you another one. . . .” She’s in shock, I think she must be, after what’s happened. She’s like a child again, wanting her teddy.
But she stops me, grabs me, surprisingly strong.
“No, Mum, no. He took him, Teddy. He took my baby. My baby.” Her voice is rising, desperate and thin. “What’s he done with him? What’s he done with Teddy?”
I’m stunned for a moment, before the understanding comes in a rush. And then it’s like the knowledge is already there.
“Sophie, I know. I know where Teddy will be.”
We take his car, the keys still in the ignition.
“He hasn’t taken him anywhere,” I say. “If he’s—safe, I know where he’ll be.”
The journey there takes just minutes, but it feels like longer. I start to pray, holding Sophie’s hand as I drive. We don’t talk: there are no words now. Dear God, please please . . . I can’t shape the thoughts, until we pull up outside the cottage. I run in.
“Lily,” I call, pushing the door open. “Lily!” There’s no answer.
Maybe I got this wrong. I rush through to the back, to her living room. Sophie’s behind me already, breathing too fast, half-sobbing. Maybe I—
And there’s Lily, bending over, in the corner, by the window. She straightens up and smiles, a big, beaming smile.
“Oh, Kate,” she says. “Just in time for tea.”
She drops a hand, a gentle pat on the head of the small figure clutching at her skirt. “Now careful of those sticky hands, darling. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Kate, meet my lovely little boy.”
CHAPTER 47
Sophie
So now you know. When he told me about the house, that he knew somewhere I could go, so they wouldn’t split us up, it felt like it was meant to be. And the situation had just got so . . . big, so terrifying, so quickly.
He’d come to give a talk at school, about careers in medicine, at the beginning of the school year. I only went because Holly was interested. But I stayed behind afterward, just to say hello. And then he suggested I come see him at the surgery one time, on my own. Reception didn’t think anything of it when I said I wanted to book in with him myself. I didn’t tell anyone. He was my doctor, after all.
But I liked him. And very soon he went from Dr. Heath, to just Nick. He wasn’t like my parents or any of their friends, or like any of the teachers. He didn’t talk to me in the same way at all. He talked to me like a grown-up. It was exciting.
And then . . . I suppose in the end, that is what happened. That was the problem. I grew up.
CHAPTER 48
Kate
They found Nancy.
It was Nicholls who decided to dig in the building we’d been in—I heard Kirstie mentioning it to another officer. She’s back, helping us again. It was a hunch, but a correct one: to check what was under that compacted earth floor, why Heath had thought to pick that place to take Sophie, after he emptied the attic. And it was the way Heath operated, repeating himself, retracing his steps—trying to make the present fix his past.
I feel so sorry for Nancy’s sister, Olivia. It’s one thing to suspect that someone you love is never coming back, but to know, for sure . . .
She wasn’t buried deep. They couldn’t be sure how he’d done it, but from what we know of him—he’d strangled her. They think she just went to meet him there in the park, after everyone was asleep. They’d probably met there before. Teenagers looking for somewhere to go.
But this time, only he came back.
He could have taken either his step-dad’s keys or his mum’s—Lily’s—to get into Nancy’s house. They’d both have had a set, working there all the time. No one knew about him and Nancy: it seems it would have been awkward, to say the least, if her parents had found out she was seeing the son of the help. I wonder, perhaps, if she liked it a little bit—the excitement of a secret.
Afterward, he just kept on as he always had, fading into the background, unnoticed. Maybe he helped the rumors about Jay along, we can’t really know. I think, given what he did to me, that he did.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. So much has happened since then. Since Sophie came back.
My house was very full. There were lights in the drive as more cars pulled up, people swarming around, asking so many questions. Someone had put a blanket over me. I found I was shivering as the summer night drew in, my hands shaking visibly.
I had, finally, silenced Charlotte. She couldn’t get a full sentence out. “Kate, I was so worried. . . .” She crouched down in front of me to pass me another cup of tea. Her face was pale. “You weren’t here, but your car was here. I thought . . .”
“I know. I’m OK. We’re OK.” But I almost couldn’t believe it either.
And there, in the middle of it all, the sun that we were all revolving around, was Sophie, right next to me on the sofa in our living room. Even the police felt it—I could hear it in their voices: something like awe. Teddy was in her lap, the little boy wide-eyed at all these people. She’d given him the remote control to play with—he loves pushing buttons—while I did the talking, Sophie quiet by my side. At one point, amid all the bustle, she fell asleep. She must have been exhausted.
Two years, three months and eleven days, she’d played that waiting game, seizing her chances, finding chinks in his armor. The message on the call to me. The email address in the diary. The drawings on the postcards. And then her last rebellion before the end came, so simple it looked like stupidity. It was stupid, so clumsy, so risky, it still scares me to think of it—her dropping the bottle of sparkling water, hoping that it would be ready to explode, shaking his concentration just for a second.
Her eyes telling me to do it—to take our last chance.
They had an officer with Lily, I’d checked.
It had fitted together like pieces of a jigsaw. “My little boy.” She hadn’t been imagining things; she was muddled, yes, but it was more than that: those drugs, keeping her more confused than she should be, dulling her natural sharpness.
And then there were my dreams, where I’d heard that childish laughter that sounded just like Sophie. Of course it did. It was Sophie’s baby. “He took him out, sometimes,” she told us. “At night.”
But Heath hadn’t always been outside. He’d taken Teddy to Lily’s, too. It let him control Sophie, allowing him to do things without a little boy around. And it got Teddy used to being looked after by someone else. So that’s where Heath had decided to leave him, in the end. Before he . . .
To break my thoughts, I leant forward and gave Charlotte a squeeze. “Really, I’m OK. Have you got hold of Dad yet, to let him know?” I wanted to distract her from her fretting.
Because she came through for me, in the end. She’d come round that afternoon, as she’d told me she would, only to see my car in the drive, and me not answering the door. She let herself in, and found the place empty. She probably missed us by just a few minutes.
Next she tried to get through to my phone, ringing unanswered in the footwell of his car. Charlotte had panicked: at what I might have done. “Something stupid,” is all she’ll say. So she’d called 999, and they’d sent round two officers in a patrol car. But that wasn’t enough for her; she’d gone into the kitchen and seen Nicholls’s card, tucked by the phone. She called him too.
So they were already looking for us, a patrol car parked in my drive, when we drove up in Heath’s car and ran into Lily’s cottage. It was PC Kaur, the officer who’d been round to check after the intruder in my house, who found us there. His mouth dropped open when he saw me, cov
ered in blood; it got wider still when he took in Sophie behind me, her ghostly pallor, and the little boy in her arms, his blond curls too long.
“There is a body in the park,” I told Kaur, “in the outhouse nearest the car park. It’s Dr. Heath.”
And I just kept repeating it, throughout, as more people arrived, gathering in the drive. “Dr. Heath,” I keep saying, “he did it. He took Sophie.”
Then I saw Nicholls, coming out of my house, his suit crumpled.
“And he killed Nancy,” I said, over their heads. He stopped right there. He looked young for a second, just like his school picture. He really didn’t know, I realized.
“I’m sorry,” I said more softly. “She’s dead. And he did it. Nick Heath.”
CHAPTER 49
I’m not going to go to court. Nicholls told me the other morning, sitting at my kitchen table in his suit, after driving round on his own. He’d heard through people he’d worked with at the Crown Prosecution Service: no one wants to prosecute a mother acting in clear self-defense. There’s a lot of attention on them, of course. Everyone from the broadsheets to breakfast shows wants to talk to me.
I have already talked until I am hoarse. The police have been polite but thorough, running through my story again and again. But they believed me from the start—I could see it in their eyes. Sophie and Teddy have been treated with kid gloves, of course, assigned social workers and “given time to heal,” as they put it. In time, if she wants, she can tell their story to the world.
That morning, I thought Nicholls would go after passing on the news and asking after them both. They were playing in the garden and we’d watched them for a moment through the window, while we drank our coffees. But he didn’t seem in a rush to leave, so I just brought it up. A lot had become clear to me by then, from the police officers who interviewed me and what was written in the papers, but I wanted to hear it from him. It was the first chance I’d had to speak to him properly—he’d had to step away from the case, once it became clear that what happened to Nancy and Sophie fell under one investigation.