Cross Her Heart: A Novel

by Sarah Pinborough

  I have nothing with me, not even my toothbrush, just a bare minimum of makeup in my handbag and a tube of hand cream. I couldn’t risk sneaking anything out of the house during my getaway, but I can buy a spare set of cheap clothes and the hotel will have toiletries. I keep looking in my rearview mirror, but there’s no sign of Richard following me. Still, I don’t begin to relax until I’ve checked in, and when I get up to the room—a junior suite, God love him, not some claustrophobic single—he’s waiting there for me. Simon Manning.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asks. There’s no edge or growl as there is whenever Richard asks the same question. Instead, he’s concerned and curious why a woman he barely knows would need him to let her stay anonymously in one of his hotels. “Marriage problems,” I say, my eyes filling again. I’m so tired and sore. His face tightens, and I don’t blame him for feeling a shift. No good ever comes from getting in between warring couples. “He wanted me to sell my story. To the Mail. I said no, obviously.”

  “Oh.”

  The wheels are whirring in his head. Must have been some fight. I drop my handbag on the bed. How much is this room anyway? Why should he let me use it? How long before he picks up the phone to Penny and pulls his business from her because we’re all barking mad in one way or another and this was not what he signed up for. I need to explain and I don’t have the words for it, so I simply lift my blouse and sweater to show my midriff. I don’t worry about the fat there. He’s not going to notice it against the blooming colors. I see his eyes widen.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should call the police. Get to a doctor.”

  I shake my head. “It’s bad, but it’s not that bad. I’ve been here before. And I really don’t want any more of the police.”

  There’s a long pause and I carefully tuck my shirt in again.

  “Do you need anything?” he says. “A change of clothes maybe? A toothbrush? That kind of stuff?”

  “I’ve got some money,” I say. I don’t want to leave the hotel. It feels safe here.

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll send someone out. And if you’re hungry order room service.”

  I’m so grateful my tears spill again, and my nose is thick with snot. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” The enormity of that realization is driving my self-pity more than anything else in this god-awful situation. It’s made me realize how much Lisa and I depended on each other. All my other friends are joint ones with Richard. Penny is awkward around me and I can hardly see myself pouring my heart out to Stacey or Julia. Without Lisa, I am entirely alone.

  “Please don’t tell Penny,” I ask. “I know it’s crazy, me calling you like this. But I thought maybe I could have the room and then pay you back at some point, and I’ll get something else sorted . . .” I’m babbling, repeating myself. I said all this on the phone already.

  “I won’t tell anyone. Don’t worry about it.” He checks his watch. “But I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll get someone to send some clothes and pajamas up. And some painkillers. What size clothes do you take?”

  “Twelve. Thank you.”

  It’s only when he’s almost through the door that I tell him Ava’s missing. He pauses for a moment saying nothing, before curtly commenting, “I hope she turns up.”

  His back stiffens and I feel a waft of coolness as he closes the door quietly behind him. I stare at the wood. I’ve been stupid to mention anything to do with Lisa. I’m a charity case—God, I hate that—and he doesn’t need reminding of her any more than I do.

  36

  Lisa

  Even though the sheets have been washed and changed, the whole flat stinks of urine, the mattress still sodden.

  Once a bed wetter, always a bed wetter.

  A change of name can’t cure that. Not really. I should have put a plastic sheet on it. They’d have given Charlotte a plastic sheet. But, as it is, no one cares about the smell or the fact I pissed myself like a child. It’s nothing in the hive of activity the flat has become. Noise. So much noise I have to strain to hear the television.

  Ava is gone. The thought alone is a knife in my heart and I bite my cheek to stay focused. It’s been twenty-four hours, although for me it’s been one wet mattress and a lifetime. I’m submerged in my loss. They’re worried I’ve drowned completely. I was close, that is for sure, but now I can see a tiny splinter of hope, a branch to cling to. I’ve been staring at the TV screen for so long my eyes are burning. They want to turn it off so they can speak to me, but I won’t let them. I may miss something the next time the news report runs. I need to hear it over and over again to make sense of it. To add it to the pieces of the puzzle. It’s making me feverish.

  “Lisa, we need to—”

  “Shhh,” I hiss. Angry. Sharp. “After this.”

  The snippet of a report is back on. The mother of the boy Ava saved claims her son, Ben, says he was pushed into the water.

  Pushed. Pushed.

  “We know you didn’t do that, Lisa.” Alison sounds frayed. They think I’m crumbling, the madness dormant within me eating its way outward. “We know you were with Marilyn Hussey and her husband when Ben went into the river.”

  Marilyn. Oh, for Marilyn.

  “I need the radio on,” I say. There is too much electricity in my head. I’m trying to make the links too quickly. Drive away, baby. The boy says he was pushed. Peter Rabbit.

  “We need to talk to you.” A sharper voice. Nasal. The donkey woman. Bray of the clumpy body. Not that I can talk about anyone’s appearance. Greasy hair and flabby thighs, pasty in the flashes showing from under my dressing gown.

  “It’s about Ava.”

  Her words cut into my overheated brain, although I think that whatever they have to say, I’m way ahead of them. “She isn’t with any of her friends,” the policewoman continues, “and they all claim they haven’t heard from her.”

  A crash and a curse come from another room. I don’t like the thought of their rough hands on my baby’s things. They need to remember that this is a victim’s house, not a suspect’s. I guess it’s easy to get confused where I’m concerned. No one ever sees me as a victim.

  “We’ve been through her phone and iPad.” My eyes keep glancing over to the silent radio. I want it playing along with the TV. Leave with me, baby, let’s go tonight.

  “Lisa, are you listening?” The policewoman is speaking slowly and loudly as if she thinks I’m stupid. Trying to bash the words through my thick skull.

  “She’s been chatting with a man. There are Facebook messages. Lots of them. They’d arranged to meet on the night she went missing.” Her words, words I should be clinging to, drift over me. I’m somewhere else entirely. My body is here, but my mind is scouring the past. We made a pact.

  Cross my heart and hope to die.

  Breaking those kind of promises wreaks vengeance. I should have known. I did know. I’ve always known. It’s the cause of the fear that’s eaten at me for so long.

  Alison leans forward, obviously seeing how irritated the donkey is getting with me. “It’s Jon,” she says. “He’s the man Ava has been talking to on the Internet. But the things he’s been saying. Well—they’re not the sort of things a father would say to his daughter. Look.” She nods at Bray, who holds out a sheaf of printed paper. I frown as I take them, and look at Alison. “What are you talking about?” Finally, I engage.

  “Jon found Ava on Facebook. He’s been messaging her for several months. But he hasn’t told her he’s her father. The messages have been of a more . . .” She hesitates. “Sexual nature. He’s groomed her to run away with him.” She takes my hand as if we’re friends and it’s awkward for both of us. My palm is suddenly sweating, damp springing from my skin like the tears I can never cry. “Have you heard from him at all?” she asks. “He’s not at his house. He told neighbors he was going traveling almost a year ago. The police are doing everything they can to find him—to find both of them—but they need your help. Is th
ere anywhere he may have taken her? A place that was significant to both of you maybe? Or just to him? Somewhere you went on holiday? We can go through the files, but not everything will be in there.”

  Drive away, baby. The rabbit. The photo smashed at the bottom of the stairs. It’s all making a terrible sense.

  I want the radio on. I may miss something vital. I zone out their words, Alison and the Braying woman still trying to speak to me. I cling to the printed messages though. I’ll study them later. I need to try and make some order out of all this if I’m going to save my daughter.

  “She’s not listening,” Bray says. “We need someone who can get through to her. And she needs to ease off the meds for now.” She stands up and leans over me. “Lisa.” I ignore her. “Charlotte!” She barks the name, and I can’t help but look up. “Is there any way he could know where you were living?” she asks. “Anything at all?”

  “No,” I say, although even as I do, I know it’s a lie. “No. No way.”

  Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. I was young and stupid and it’s the only piece that could fit.

  Clever. So very clever.

  I wish I could cry.

  37

  2006

  After

  Her heart thumps as she licks the bitter glue of the envelope. She shouldn’t send the letter. She knows she shouldn’t, but although the world might think she’s evil, if she can’t forgive him for the thing he did, then how can she ever expect to be forgiven herself? She can’t stay filled with hate. It’s too exhausting. And he’s sorry. He’s done the best he can to prove that.

  They can keep giving her new names—Lisa, she’s now Lisa—but they can’t so easily wipe out all the versions of her who went before. They are ghosts who live under the skin and one ghost loved him for a while. Even with how he was toward the end, and after what he did when they left, she still misses how she felt in the early days. And he gave her Ava—Crystal has a new name too this time—so how can she not forgive him now that he’s done his best to make up for it all?

  She physically flinches when she remembers the headlines—how he made their story, their life together sound so awful. How he blamed his drinking on her. How he said she’d ruined his life. All the tiny details of their relationship that she’d once treasured, he publicly trampled them and made them dirty.

  At least they hadn’t been able to print her picture. But still, there had been the relocation and another identity to be created, more taxpayers’ money spent on someone most of the public would rather had been hanged for what she’d done. She was sure the team around her muttered at the ridiculous cost of it all and blamed her for being a lovesick fool who’d brought this on herself with her big mouth.

  But over a year has passed and life has settled and now Jon’s done this good thing that will allow her and Ava to have a better life. Alison—there’s no more Joanne; a new town means a new probation officer—says that under no circumstances can she have any contact with him. They will pass on her thanks or any note or message she wants to send him. She’s told them to do that, but she’s also so very tired of everyone knowing everything and her life being under a microscope again. If she gives them the letter for him they’ll read every word and some words, even I forgive you and I wish you all the happiness, should be private.

  She stares at the envelope, the carefully printed address in stark black against the white. His mother’s house, that’s what the papers had said. He was moving there because his mother was sick and looking after her would help with his rehab. The papers said he wanted to start a fresh life away from his memories of her. Maybe he’s not living there anymore. But if his mother—Patricia, that was her name, Patricia of the oversweet perfume—is still alive, perhaps she’ll pass the letter on. She wouldn’t, of course—she’d probably read it and burn it and curse the day her boy met Charlotte Nevill—but at least she will have tried.

  She hasn’t put any sender’s address on the letter, and she’s read it over and over to make sure there’s nothing in it to give any clues as to where she is now. Not that she is worried about him. Not anymore. She’s doing the right thing. She owes the ghost of their love, and the very much alive spirit of their little girl, this much. This private moment. She needs to say thank you, and it needs to come on paper, not sullied by others’ eyes or touch.

  Her decision made, she shoves the envelope in her pocket and smiles as she pushes Ava’s buggy down to the little post office at the local shops. Stamp attached, she enjoys the whisper of paper as it falls into the box. It’s done. Sent. It feels good, and she’s smiling as she heads over to the small park with the swings and roundabouts Ava loves so much. She’s closed a door on the past.

  She doesn’t for a second think about the postmark that will be stamped onto her carefully addressed envelope. It doesn’t cross her mind at all.

  38

  Marilyn

  Now

  Why did I say yes? Why? I’m only doing this for Ava, to get her back to safety. I’m full of anxiety for her, and exhaustion for me. I really don’t need this shit. I breathe more condensation onto the window glass. It’s one of those gray muggy days when rain has fallen but not enough, and damp hangs listless in the air soaking everything it touches. Even inside the car, my skin itches with invisible bugs.

  Trees blur outside. At least the police hadn’t gone to my house, but called my mobile after going to the office. From the look on Detective Bray’s face when we’d met at the hotel, Penny must have told her something of what was going on with Richard. I’ve never thought of Penny as a gossip, but then there’s something about the police turning up that makes most people blurt out everything they know or don’t know. Not only had she told them about my personal situation, it’s clear she’d also mentioned the missing money. “She thinks Charlotte took it,” Bray says, as we head to our undisclosed location to meet. “Do you?” she asks.

  I shrug, staring out at the countryside. “What would I know? I thought her name was Lisa. I thought she couldn’t harm a fly.”

  She doesn’t speak again until we finally turn down a narrow country lane and the car bumps over the uneven surface, my teeth clenching as each pothole makes my damaged ribs scream. “She’s here already,” she says. “I must remind you that should you tell anyone at all about this meeting you could be hindering a police investigation and charged as such.”

  I snort out a half laugh. Like I’d tell anyone. Who would I tell? I don’t have anyone to tell. My self-pity is bitter as bile. I loathe self-pity. I don’t see the fucking point in it. “I’m here for Ava,” I say. “That’s all.” Bray nods, satisfied. We’re all here for Ava.

  “Try to keep Charlotte on topic,” she says. “She’s . . . well. You’ll see. Keep her talking about Jon.” She twists around in her seat as the car slows to a halt, and I see a fierce intelligence in her eyes. Not a donkey at all. “There must be something she knows that can help us. Somewhere he might have taken Ava. Somewhere they’d been before. A place important to him somehow. We’re going through the house again to see if there’s anything there to help, but it may come down to what we can get out of her. What you can get out of her.”

  “Why won’t she talk to you?” I ask, carefully unfolding my damaged body from the unmarked car. We’re outside a country cottage that should be pretty but instead looks bleak. The small front garden behind the low wall has been tarmacked and even from a distance I can see that the paint is chipped on the cracked-sash windowsills, big strips of rotting wood now bare of color. Even on a sunny day it would be depressing—under the thick gray sky it’s virtually suicidal.

  “Oh, she talks,” Bray says. “But she doesn’t make any sense. Chat with her. Try to relax her. We’ll sift through what she says for anything useful. We haven’t told her Ava may be pregnant, she’s fragile enough as it is, so don’t mention it. And don’t try to talk about her past.”

  Suddenly I feel sick. I’m going to see Lisa again, but it won’t be Lisa at all.
She’ll be Charlotte Nevill wearing Lisa’s skin. “I have no interest in her past,” I mutter, as we trudge across the gravel to the gate. Talk about her past? How would I do that? Hey, Lisa, I’ve had a shitty day at work. Fancy the pub? You can take my mind off it by telling me how murdering your little brother felt. For the lols. Jesus, what a headfuck.

  It’s gloomier inside and has the kind of chill that settles in old houses when they’ve been left empty too long. A hollow cold, as if the bricks have given up waiting for anyone to come and give them purpose. A woman, about my age, in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, has let us in, and Bray quietly introduces her as Alison, Lisa’s probation officer.

  “Any problems?” Bray asks and Alison shakes her head.

  “Once we agreed she could bring a portable radio, she was fine. She’s still uncommunicative, but she’s docile. Taken her meds.”

  There’s no time to process anything before I’m following the two women along a corridor. The uneven floorboards creak under the thin carpet, and in the kitchen to my left, two men are drinking mugs of tea. They see us and one immediately refills the kettle, the screeching tap setting my teeth on edge. My heart is pounding but I keep moving and then I’m in the doorway of the sitting room, Bray nodding me forward.

  There’s an old gas fire, all its panels churning out a headache heat, and she’s sitting beside it, her back stiff, staring out of the window as the radio plays some old eighties hit. She’s picking at the edges of her thumbs as she turns to face me. She does that at work when she’s stressed. Picks and bites at the skin until it bleeds and scabs. It’s bleeding now but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Hi,” I say. Bray and Alison disappear back into the corridor, giving the illusion Lisa and I are alone. My throat is suddenly sandpaper. There are dark hollows under her eyes and she’s lost weight. Her hair, cut and colored differently, surprises me. It suits her, I think, or it would if she was dressed to impress. She still looks like Lisa, but I can see Charlotte Nevill in her too. The picture from then, when she was just a child, has been in the papers everywhere for days and days, and she’s still there. Under the older skin. In the bones of her.