by C. L. Taylor
He looks so confused, it’s killing me. All I’ve done since we met is put him through shit and now I’m doing it again. I should have started an argument with him last night and sent him away but I wanted to spend one last night with him. I wanted to feel cared for. I wanted to feel normal.
‘Ben, I’m not going to talk to them about the Facebook messages.’
‘What?’
‘It’s something else. Something I need to confess to.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know.’ I reach out a hand to touch his arm but it falls away before I make contact. ‘And I’m sorry. I made a mistake and I did something terrible. I can’t explain it now but I will, one day. I promise.’
I move to open the passenger door. My eyes are swimming with tears and my throat is so tight I can hardly breathe.
‘No, Lou. Don’t—’ Ben’s hand brushes the thin material of my coat as I push at the passenger door. I just want to get away from him and get this over and done with.
He shouts my name again as I swing my legs out of the car and stand up. There’s terror in his voice, not desperation, as I slam the door shut and step into the road.
I don’t see the car – a flash of red in my peripheral vision – until it’s too late. Brakes squeal, there’s a loud thud and then my legs are whipped away from me and I’m launched into the air.
Chapter 33
Chloe
Saturday 5th May 2007
Chloe stands at her bedroom door and listens. The door is open a fraction of an inch and her parents’ voices carry up the stairs from the living room. They’re arguing. She’s not sure what about but she can hear her dad calling her mum a useless pile of shit and her mum’s crying and telling him to go away and leave her alone. They talked about Mike for ages on the flight home. Chloe had her earphones on but the sound was turned down on her iPod so she could eavesdrop. Mike had gone missing. Joy, his receptionist, tried to ring him when he didn’t turn up for work and there was no reply. By the second day, when he still hadn’t shown, she rang round asking if anyone had seen him. By the third day she was worried enough to call the police. Her dad and mum speculated about what might have happened. Her mum thought Mike had met someone and gone on an impromptu dirty weekend (whatever that was). Her dad said there was no way Mike would have left Joy in the lurch without telling her where he was going. He thought maybe he’d had a heart attack at the wheel and was lying in a ditch somewhere. Chloe gasped so loudly both of her parents peered across the aisle to see what was wrong with her.
‘Audiobook,’ she said, touching her headphones. ‘Something scary happened.’
The moment they looked away again she got up and headed for the toilets. The door had barely closed behind her before she burst into tears. Mike hadn’t abandoned her. He still loved her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. But with the relief came fear. What if her dad was right? What if Mike was lying in a ditch somewhere, unconscious or badly injured? Or worse, dead? Her heart ached at the thought of a life without him. What had happened with Sam had taught her how precious her relationship was with Mike. Their love was unique. He was unique. How could she ever have doubted him when he said he’d never loved anyone the way he loved her?
‘Please,’ she said, staring out of the small round window at the clouds outside the airplane. ‘Please let him be alive.’
‘I’m going out!’ her dad shouts now. ‘You can rot in hell.’
Startled, Chloe pulls her bedroom door closed but not before she hears the front door slam. She presses her face against the cold gloss paint and closes her eyes. Mike has to be alive. Otherwise she may as well open her bedroom window and jump straight out.
She opens her door, steps out onto the landing and listens. She can hear the bleep-bleep-bleep of a computer game from Jamie’s room and the soft sound of her mother crying downstairs. She glances at the front door. If her dad doesn’t storm back in in thirty seconds, then she’s safe. She starts counting …
It doesn’t take Chloe long to find her confiscated phone. It’s shoved in her dad’s sock drawer – the same place he hides everything he takes away from his kids. Jamie’s Nintendo 3DS is in there too (swiped on the plane journey when he refused to turn it off for take-off). She snatches her phone up, creeps back out onto the landing and darts into her room. Her heart thuds in her chest as she stands at her bedroom door, listening out in case her dad comes back, then plugs her phone into her charger and turns it on. The Samsung logo swirls on the screen. A second later her apps appear. She holds her breath as she stares at the top left-hand corner of the screen, waiting for the phone to connect to the network and the notifications to appear.
Nothing happens.
She clicks on the text messages app. The last message from Mike was over a week ago. Her sent messages folder reveals the texts she sent him when she was desperately waiting for him to join her in the park but, if he ever received them, he didn’t reply. There are no missed calls either, just the one he answered when, in desperation, she rang his work phone. She checks the time. That was at 6.36 p.m. The first text she sent him was at 6.52 p.m. How could he go missing in sixteen minutes? Oh god. Was he in the van when he took her call? Her dad had joked about him ending up in a ditch but she’s seen the terrifying video of a woman who crashed her car when she was texting instead of keeping her eyes on the road. If her phone call resulted in Mike’s death, she’d never forgive herself. Never.
Chloe opens her bedroom door and peers down the stairs. She needs to tell her mum what she’s discovered. It might be a vital clue. But … she steps back into her room again … how would she explain what has happened? What possible reason could she give her mum to explain why she was arranging to meet Mike or why she had his number in the first place? Even if she could come up with a plausible explanation – something to do with the garden centre maybe – her mum would tell her they needed to contact the police and there was no way they would buy her story. She can still remember the way DS Hope’s eyes bored into her when she’d asked about ‘inappropriate touching’.
No, she can’t go to the police yet. For one thing Mike might not actually be in a ditch. And two, there’s no way he’d forgive her if she accidentally exposed their relationship. She needs to find him. If she sends him a text, he might tell her where he is. Even if he is injured he might still be able to use his phone. Her thumbs fly over the screen as she taps out two messages – one to Mike’s private phone and another to his work phone. She waits with bated breath, her heart thudding in her chest, but nothing happens.
‘Chlo!’ Her mum shouts from downstairs, making her jump. ‘I’m going out for a bit. Look after Jamie.’
Her mum never goes out, not without her dad.
‘Where are you going?’ she shouts as she yanks the phone from the charger, springs back across the landing and hastily shoves the phone back into her dad’s sock drawer.
‘Out. Look after your brother,’ her mum shouts back.
A couple of seconds later she hears the front door slam.
‘Chlo?’ Jamie pokes his head round his bedroom door, clutching a Minecraft manual. ‘What are you doing in Mum and Dad’s room? Has Mum gone out?’
‘Yeah. Dad too, which means I’m in charge.’ She glances at the book in her little brother’s hands as she steps back onto the landing. With everything that’s been going on she’d completely forgotten about the one thing she does have that might hold a clue to Mike’s disappearance.
‘I’m hungry,’ Jamie whines. ‘I want a sandwich.’
‘Get it yourself, I’m busy.’
‘But—’
‘I’m busy,’ she repeats, then steps into her bedroom and shuts the door.
Chloe sits cross-legged on her bed with her duvet wrapped around her shoulders. Resting in the hollow of her legs is the white plastic bag the weird skinny woman shoved at her when she was waiting outside school. Chloe plunges a hand into the bag and pulls out the book inside. It’s pale pink and decorated
with multicoloured butterflies. The corners are grubby, the pages are rippled with damp and it smells musty, but she opens the cover. Someone’s written on the unlined inner page
This book is STRICTLY PRIVATE. And it belongs to … actually I’m not telling you who it belongs to, but if you’re reading it I WILL KNOW. SO DON’T.
Chloe smirks and turns the page. The first entry is dated 2 January 1989.
Dear Diary, it begins, today I saw M again. I tried to act cool when he smiled at me as I walked into the dojo but my heart was beating so fast I felt sick. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I thought I was in love with X but that was just kids’ stuff. Infatuation. This is the real deal. M isn’t like the boys in my class, he’s different. He’s an adult. And he treats me like I’m one. He listens. He understands me. And I understand him. There’s a connection between us, even when we’re not speaking. I know what you’re thinking, Diary, that this is a stupid crush but it’s not. IT’S REALLY NOT. I have never been so serious about anyone in my life. Anyway, like I said, I tried to act cool when M smiled, and I didn’t smile back. Instead I did a few stretching exercises. But I could feel him watching me. We didn’t speak the whole hour, other than him shouting commands at us, but when he touched my leg and corrected my stance I felt like my whole body was on fire. I couldn’t even look at him. I was so pissed off when Dad turned up on time to pick me up. I really wanted to talk to M. I probably wouldn’t have though. I’d have ignored him. Because that’s the kind of dickhead I am. Ha, ha. God, it’s a WHOLE WEEK until I see him again. How am I going to cope?
Chloe fingers the corner of the page. There’s a part of her that wants to stop reading, that senses that she should, but her curiosity is stronger than her self-preservation and she turns the page.
Chapter 34
Lou
Other than ordering some food and beer Mike hasn’t said a word since we sat down. He’s barely made eye contact either. It’s like he’s some kind of policeman doing a surveillance job, the way he’s scanning the room. A couple of minutes ago he almost jumped out of his seat when a waiter dropped some cutlery. Not that I saw anything. We’re sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the restaurant and, as I promised, I’m facing the wall. The good thing about Mike not talking is that I’ve heard everything: the bell tinkling above the door as someone comes in, low voices chatting in French, the shouts and clashes from the kitchen and an Englishwoman – two tables away – bitching loudly to her husband about how rare her steak is. I only caught the quickest glimpse of them as Mike ushered me to our table but what I saw made my heart leap. The man was wearing long shorts with socks and sandals and the woman was wearing a sequinned top and jeans tucked into really ugly high-heeled boots. As soon as I saw what they were wearing, I knew they had to be British. Too scared to scream, I flashed a desperate look at the woman as we passed them, but she was too busy buttering her roll to even glance my way. She might if she hears us talking though. If our disappearance is on the French news it’s got to be all over the newspapers back home.
‘Mike!’ I say in a deliberately loud, cheery voice. ‘Could I have another Diet Coke please?’
‘Sssh,’ he hisses at me from between clenched teeth.
I lower my voice. ‘What?’
‘Coming here was a bad idea.’ He pushes his chair back from the table. ‘We need to go.’
‘But … but … we’ve just ordered, and I’m hungry.’
‘We’ll find a supermarket.’
‘They’ll be shut.’
Mike reaches across the table and grabs me by the wrist. ‘Then we’ll go to bed hungry. We’re going.’
‘Okay, okay.’ I twist my hand out of his. ‘But I need the loo first.’
‘Wait until we get back to the hotel.’
‘I can’t. I’m desperate.’
‘Fine.’ Mike stands up and reaches for my hand. ‘I’ll come with you.’
My heart sinks as we weave our way through the tables and take the stairs down to the toilets. He’s not going to let me out of his sight. Not even to take a wee.
‘Here,’ he pushes at the door with a silhouette of a woman. As he does, an elderly, but very chic, Frenchwoman comes up.
‘Les Femmes,’ she says, tapping the silhouette and looking pointedly at Mike. ‘Les toilettes des hommes sont là-bas.’
When he tries to object, she shoos him away, speaking quick-fire French that neither of us understand and he’s got no choice but to let me enter alone. Once inside I search desperately for some kind of escape route, but I’m in the basement, there are no windows. There are two sinks, a hand dryer and a bin and two cubicles, and that’s it. I go into one of the cubicles, lock the door behind me and rummage around in my pockets. I haven’t got a pen but I’ve got a lipstick. As I uncap the lid, I hear the main door creak open and freeze.
‘Lou?’ Mike says. ‘Are you in there?’
‘I won’t be long.’
I scrawl desperately on the wall:
My name is Louise Wandsworth. I have been abducted. We are staying at La Madeleine. Please get help.
‘Lou?’ Mike says again. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just pulling up my pants. One second.’
I shove the lipstick back in my pocket, then flush the toilet. Mike stands by the open door as I wash and dry my hands. But he’s not watching me. He’s looking at the cubicle I just stepped out of. Shit. Shit.
‘Mike,’ I say as he steps into the ladies’ toilets. ‘You can’t come in—’
‘Excusez-moi monsieur!’ the Englishwoman says, raising her eyebrows as she appears behind him.
Mike turns to the side to allow her in and gestures at me to leave, NOW.
I try to twist back, to see which cubicle the woman’s going into, but Mike grabs my hand and yanks me out of the toilet before I can see.
Our waiter stops us as we weave our way through the restaurant. Our food is on the table, he says in English. Are we leaving? Mike remonstrates with him in a low voice, saying the service was too slow and he’s not going to pay for something we didn’t eat. As the waiter calls for the maître d’, I spot the Englishwoman coming back up the stairs. Mike sees me looking, wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his body, blocking my view. As he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet I hear the click-clack of the woman’s heels on the tiled floor. She’s getting closer. She must have gone into the same cubicle as me and seen my message. She’s going to—
‘Did they bring my steak back yet?’
Her husband mutters something I don’t catch, a chair scrapes on the tiles and Mike thrusts a handful of euros at the waiter.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ he hisses in my ear.
‘Please,’ I beg Ben. ‘Find the doctor and tell her I want to go home.’
He shakes his head. ‘Absolutely no way. You’re staying overnight. You heard what the doctor said about your blood pressure.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my blood pressure.’
‘Really? So why did the machine start bleeping like a metal detector? And … er …’ he gestures at the drip in my arm and the saline bag on a metal stand beside the bed, ‘why’s this here?’
‘I’m fine now. I just felt a bit dizzy. I’m sure if they check it again it’ll be back to normal.’
‘Lou,’ he covers my fingers with his, ‘just rest. You were run over less than nine hours ago for God’s sake.’
Apparently I was out cold for over ten minutes. Ben said the old man who clipped me with his car was distraught, wringing his hands and mumbling that he’d killed me as I lay in the road with my eyes closed and my left arm twisted away from my body at an unnatural angle. I came round before the ambulance arrived and screamed in pain. My whole left arm felt icy cold and like it was burning, all at the same time. I was sick, several times, as Ben gently stroked my hair and told me I was going to be okay. I begged for pain relief as the paramedics shifted me onto a stretcher and lifted me into the ambulance
and only stopped when they injected me with something. Once in the hospital I was examined, X-rayed and ferried to the fracture unit. Once my arm was set in plaster I assumed they’d let me go, but no, they were worried about concussion because I was unconscious for so long and insisted I stay the night. Now I’m on a ward along with several snoring old ladies, a woman who talks FAR TOO LOUDLY, a teenager who’s watching YouTube videos on her phone without headphones, and a woman who groans intermittently.
‘I need to get out.’ I try to sit up but black spots appear before my eyes as I raise my head and I slump back against the pillow. It’s nearly seven o’clock at night and Mike hasn’t had any water except a few mouthfuls on Friday morning. If the doctors aren’t going to let me out until tomorrow he’ll have gone forty-eight hours without anything to drink. I’m going to have to tell Ben. Someone has to go back to the barn.
‘Ben,’ I twist my fingers in his so I’m holding his hands. ‘Ben, I need to—’
I’m interrupted by the sound of a mobile phone ringing.
‘Shit.’ He blanches and reaches into his back pocket. ‘That’s me. Sorry.’ He takes one look at the screen and says, ‘I’m going to have to take this. Mum?’ he says as he hurries out of the ward. ‘Mum, what’s happened?’
When Ben walks back in fifteen minutes later he’s a different man. The light has gone out of his eyes and his skin looks tight and drawn. I touch the chair beside the bed, urging him to sit down but he shakes his head.
‘I can’t … I can’t stay. I’m sorry.’
‘What’s happened?’ I’ve never seen him look this serious before.
He swallows and looks at a spot on the wall just above my head. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.
‘Ben, what is it?’
‘You know …’ his gaze drifts down to meet mine. ‘You know I’m always joking that my dad’s a hypochondriac? How he’ll become convinced a mosquito bite is skin cancer and a cold is bubonic plague?’