Can't Let Go

by Jane Hill

  I checked my watch. It was time to go. I had several train tickets in my pocket, for different journeys. I looked around me, trying to make sure that I wasn't being followed, and walked quickly down the sloping path to the railway station underneath the plaza. I had bought my tickets a little earlier, working out my travel plans with great care. I had lurked around the station for a while looking for somewhere to hide, but had felt very exposed there. But now it was time to put my plan into action. I asked a guard to show me where the London-bound GNER train was. I showed him my ticket. I made a great pantomime of pointing in the direction he had shown me. I walked across to the dark-blue-liveried train. I walked up and down the train's length, seeming to take my time choosing a carriage. I got on and appeared to settle myself in a seat near a door. I took my distinctive green jacket off and I stuffed it into my bag. And then, just as the train was about to leave, I jumped off and lost myself in the crowds milling around the station. I found one of the small commuter trains to Glasgow, got on board and held my breath until it pulled out of the station. I didn't notice anyone following me.

  The train arrived fifty minutes later at an ugly 1960sstyle station in Glasgow. I got off, and scanned the information boards for trains to London. I couldn't see any. I started to feel panicky. I found a guard and asked him, and I thought I was about to cry. He put a kind hand on my shoulder, steered me outside and beckoned a taxi over. He said something to the driver and the next thing I knew we were driving through the busy city-centre streets. I wasn't sure where we were going. I didn't know if I could trust the driver. But just a few minutes later he delivered me to a covered road that led to a huge Victorian train station, full of dark wood and arching iron cathedral-like ceilings. Twenty minutes later I was on a train bound for London, and as far as I could tell I had not been followed.

  As the train rattled southwards I fell asleep. It was a disturbed sleep, punctuated by station stops and announcements about buffet cars and refreshments. I dreamed about being chased along grey stone streets, about cobbles and steps and castle battlements. I dreamed about fire-eaters and jugglers and a man dressed as Henry the Eighth. I dreamed that I was bleeding from a huge gaping wound in my stomach, and however hard I tried I could not stop the bleeding or sew up the wound.

  I woke finally when the train stopped in Manchester. The sky outside the carriage windows was so grey it was like night-time. Rain was falling from the sky, and as it landed on the streets and the roofs of cars it bounced up again, several inches into the sodden air. I shook my head to free it from the dreams and watched the people getting on and off the train. Later, as we continued southwards, I bought coffee and a sandwich from the refreshment cart and tried to eat. Now was the time to decide what to do.

  I couldn't go back to my flat. That was the first place he'd look for me. I couldn't go to my parents' house, either. I didn't want to drag them into this. Sarah, maybe – but no, it was too late. If I'd wanted to go to her house in Sheffield then I should have changed trains at Manchester. Jem? No. Not my family. Not anyone in my family. I knew that could be disastrous. I couldn't ask my family for help. It would just make everything worse. I didn't want to bring them into this whole thing. I'd already seen what he was prepared to do to people I loved.

  Danny, then. Danny was already involved. He already knew the dangers. He had told me to ring him again if I needed him. He was probably expecting me to ring him. I couldn't go to his flat, I knew that. That was obvious. It was too close to mine. But he would know what I should do. He'd be able to think of somewhere for me to hide. He'd know someone or somewhere. He'd protect me when I got back to London. I knew he would.

  'Hey, you.' Danny's voice was gentle and concerned. 'How are you holding up?'

  'Okay, I think.'

  'Where are you?'

  'I'm on a train. I'm on my way back to London.'

  'Oh.' He sounded surprised. 'What did the police say?'

  'They've got someone. They've arrested someone already.'

  'That's good.'

  'No, it's not. They've got the wrong person. They found some homeless guy with Zoey's purse. They think he did it, but he didn't. They think it's just a robbery gone wrong.'

  'You told them everything?'

  I didn't lie to him, but I didn't tell him the whole truth either. 'Danny, they weren't interested. They just didn't want to know. And now I'm coming back to London and he's still out there somewhere, and I still don't know who it is.'

  'Shhh,' he said. 'Shhh. Don't worry. We'll sort this out. I'll meet you at the station and we'll go somewhere. We'll find you a hotel or something, just till we get this all sorted out. It'll be okay. Trust me.'

  I'd forgotten how hot London had been that summer. As I got off the train at Euston it was as if the city had saved up all the heat that I had missed while in Edinburgh, and it hit me with it in one hot blast. The air was thick and stale. It stank of burgers and coffee and body odour. It was the tail end of the rush hour, and I carved my way through the crowds on the platform heading for the station concourse. I was looking for Danny. I was looking for his tall figure, his cropped head and his reassuring dark eyes. He'd be in his suit. Or he'd be in his shirtsleeves with his tie loosened, his jacket slung over his shoulder or one arm. He'd be there, waiting at the right platform, waiting for me to emerge from the crowd. He'd be standing right there, solid and safe, and he'd hug me and tell me everything would be all right.

  But he wasn't there. I scanned the crowds. The train was ten minutes late. He'd had plenty of time to get there. There was no reason for him not to be there. Every man in the crowd who was tall and dark-haired was Danny for a moment, and then they weren't. He wasn't there. I walked further out onto the concourse, looking around me, checking I wasn't being followed, desperately hunting for Danny. I dug in my bag for my phone and pressed redial. 'Where are you?' I asked, my voice frantic.

  'Where are you?'

  'I'm here. I'm standing right by the information booth. You can't miss me.'

  'I'm standing right by the information booth.'

  I heard crackly sounds behind him, then the distinctive sound of a station announcement in the background of the phone call. There was no station announcement at Euston at that moment.

  'Danny, you're at King's Cross, aren't you?'

  'Of course I am.'

  'I'm at Euston. I told you. I told you I was coming in to Euston. I caught the train at Glasgow. Danny, you're at the wrong station.' I was close to tears.

  'Shit. Sorry. No worries. I'm not far away. I'll be with you in five seconds, okay? Don't move. Stay exactly where you are.'

  I did, for a while. I stood there in the middle of the crowded station and I tried to stay calm. I imagined Danny running at full pelt along Euston Road. It wouldn't take him long. He'd be here in minutes. But people kept pushing past me. All sorts of people. People and people and people. Faces in the crowd. People staring at me. A businessman with grey hair, combed over a bald spot. A smart black woman, all crisp and professional in her suit and high heels. A woman with an Arab headscarf, a guy in an old army jacket and with a dark beard, a young mum with a pushchair – they didn't stop. They came straight at me. I felt myself being pushed one way and another. I felt as if everyone in the crowd had decided between them to push me around. Everyone seemed to be heading straight towards me, hitting me with sharp-edged briefcases and umbrellas, rolling pushchairs over my feet. Everyone was the killer.

  I fought the rising panic. Danny would be here soon, I kept telling myself. I felt in my courier bag for my keys, knowing I'd feel safer with a weapon. As I pulled them out of my bag and made a fist with them I realised there were extra keys on the ring. They were Zoey's keys, the keys to Zoey's flat, to that haven of calm and security in Clapham. She had given them to me the night before she'd left for Edinburgh. She'd known something or guessed something; she must have done. She knew I'd need somewhere to hide. Without leaving any time for thought I darted through the crowd, onto the escalator and
made my way down into the dark, fetid embrace of the Underground.

  Forty-three

  Zoey had never seemed to care much about her own personal safety. She was bold and brave and she said what she thought, and she took risks. Of all the women I knew who lived alone in London she was the only one without a whole series of bolts and locks on her front door. Just a Yale lock. Just a solid wooden front door with a Yale lock. I let myself in and pushed away the pile of letters behind her front door. I slammed the door behind me, and despite everything I felt comparatively safe for the first time since it had happened. I felt like I had come home.

  The hallway, with its deep blue-green paint, was dark even in the daylight. I flicked the light switch and all the fairy lights lit up, reflecting in the distorted antique mirrors that hung along the wall. Her dark red studio room was snug and inviting. I threw down my bag and kicked off my shoes, and slumped onto the bed. I looked around me at the shelves filled with books and CDs and DVDs, the pictures and ornaments everywhere. Even without her – even now she had gone – this room was still full of Zoey. You would never have been able to say the same thing about my flat. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, all alphabetised and themed. There was a book lying on the small table next to her bed, a book of David Sedaris essays, and it suddenly seemed important to me to put it back on the shelves in its rightful place. But I couldn't find the gap. She had a particular order to her books, everything in the right place, and I couldn't find out where the book was supposed to go. I told myself it didn't matter, but it did. I found myself crying tears of frustration.

  On one of the shelves there was an old black and white photo from her parents' wedding. What on earth could it possibly be like to lose a daughter? Parents weren't supposed to have to deal with the death of their children. I wondered whether they'd been told yet; whether the police had notified them and whether they were flying over to sort things out. I wondered if I should get in touch and introduce myself, or whether I should just slink away into the background: the woman who had caused their daughter's death.

  I ran myself a bath. I wasn't sure if I should. It seemed weird, taking a bath in Zoey's flat, but I was dirty and smelly and I wanted to wash away everything that had happened, and I felt safe and at home there. I poured scented bubbles into the tub, and ran it as hot and deep as I could stand it, and I lay in that bath for twenty minutes or more. I thought I could hear my phone ringing, over and over again. The sound seemed to be coming from miles away, from another city, another life. I tuned the sound out. I tried to empty my mind. I wanted to fall asleep and slip under the hot water and leave everything behind. I even thought about slitting my wrists. I got as far as picking up Zoey's razor, which was in a pot at the end of the bath. It was one of those weird disposable ones with the razor part encased in a white block of shaving gel. I gave a grim laugh. No good at all for my purposes.

  I pulled on Zoey's thick, luxurious bathrobe and I gathered up my dirty clothes from the bathroom floor. I noticed a couple of T-shirts pushed into the corner by the laundry hamper. I picked them up and looked at them.

  They'd been worn. They needed washing. Zoey must have dropped them last time she emptied the hamper. I gathered them together. I'll put them in the machine with my clothes, I thought. And then I realised. What was the point? She was dead. She didn't need those T-shirts. She wouldn't wear them again. What are you supposed to do with a dead person's dirty clothes? I buried my face in them as another wave of grief shuddered through me. And then I did the only constructive thing I could think of doing. I went into the tiny kitchen area, found some Persil capsules, and stuffed the whole lot – my clothes and hers – into the washing machine. It was the least I could do for her.

  I looked in her wardrobe to find some clean clothes to put on. Again, weird, I know. It felt odd, but she had given me her key for a reason. She had told me to make myself at home, and I was desperate. I just wanted to feel clean and halfway normal again. I pulled out a faded black vest top, an old pair of jeans and a red V-neck sweater with holes in the elbows. Despite the heat of the day I felt cold. I put them on. They fitted well. They felt soft and comfortable and familiar. Zoey and I: we were so alike and yet so different. I could have been her. I could have been like her if my life had been normal. And now she was like me. Now she was dead instead of me. Now she was dead and it was my fault.

  It was when I went across to the mirror on the wall of the bed-sitting room to comb my wet hair that I saw it. There was a large envelope on top of the bookshelf immediately below the mirror. The envelope was A 4 , manila, the same size and colour as my Rivers Carillo file. There was a note scrawled across the front of the envelope, in the loopy foreign-looking writing that I recognised as Zoey's. 'Dear Beth,' it said. 'If you're here, then it probably means something bad has happened. Please make sure the police get the contents of this envelope.'

  What did she know? What had she guessed about me? I fumbled with the flap of the envelope. I reached in and pulled out some sheets of paper, maybe twenty in all. It was white A4 paper, laser-print quality, nothing special or particularly distinctive about it. Each sheet seemed to have been folded in three at some point, to fit in an envelope. I turned them over and as I read the top sheet I started to shake. I recognised the handwriting immediately.

  To the murdering bitch. Does your new friend know what you did?

  And the next one: I'm outside right now, watching you.

  And again: Don't think you can escape me, you murdering bitch. I know where you're going.

  And: One day I'm going to get back at you, but not yet.

  I was sitting on Zoey's bed with the letters on my lap. I was counting them. It seemed really important to count them. My first count was eighteen, and then next time I made it twenty; and then I counted them again and this time I couldn't remember which order the numbers came in. I couldn't work out what these letters meant. I knew what the words said, but I didn't know what they meant. My brain felt a little bit like it did at the start of a migraine. My brain could not process the information in front of me. How come Zoey had these letters? Did she write them? Had she been sending me the letters all along? Were these the ones she hadn't got around to sending? But they were folded, as if they'd already been sent. Had she intercepted them somehow? Had she been trying to keep away from me? Had she been watching out for me, trying to keep me safe? Had she known all about it from the start? I couldn't make it make sense. I couldn't fit the pieces together.

  From where I was sitting I could see out into the hallway. There was one of Zoey's antique mirrors directly across from me. I looked up, looked at the mirror and it showed me my reflection, distorted. My face was all out of shape and looked horrific, like a gargoyle. I couldn't work out whether it was really me or not. It made almost as little sense to me as the letters did. And as I sat there, staring at the mirror, trying to work out what was going on, I saw some movement in the corner of the mirror. Someone was there. Someone was outside in the hallway.

  I clutched the letters to me, and picked up one of Zoey's ornaments, a big red 1970s glass vase. Slowly a face appeared around the door frame. It was a man's face. I screamed and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  He jumped too. He put his hand on his chest as if to slow down his fast-beating heart. 'My goodness,' he said, in a posh voice. 'I thought for one moment that you were Judith.'

  I recognised him, I thought, but my befuddled brain was not working as fast as it should have done. 'Judith?' That was all I could think of to say.

  'You would have known her as Zoey.' He came towards me with his hand outstretched. He was fortyish, with fair hair that fell into a floppy fringe over his forehead. He was wearing smart lightweight trousers and an open-necked blue shirt. I stood up, put the vase down and shook his hand.

  'I know you,' I said. All of a sudden I had realised where I'd seen him before. It was the polite Englishman that I'd seen on the Royal Mile, the one who came to Zoey's show, the one I ran away from. I
felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle. 'What are you doing here?'

  'Sorry,' he said. 'I startled you.'

  I ignored that. 'What are you doing here? How did you get in?'

  'I had a key. I let myself in. I never did introduce myself properly, did I? I'm Edward Moore.'

  'I'm Beth,' I said, no wiser. 'I'm – I was – a friend of hers.'

  'I know,' he said. 'I know who you are.'

  Edward Moore said those words very precisely, with a lot of weight. I know who you are. What did he mean? Who was he? Why was he here? What did he know?

  'I'm glad I've found you here, anyway,' he said, pleasantly. 'I wanted to say sorry to you.'

  'What do you mean?' I was starting to back away from him. Something indefinable about him was giving me the creeps.

  'It must have been dreadful for you, finding her like that.'

  He looked concerned and sympathetic. There was nothing threatening about his face or his body language, but all at once I was aware of how tall he was, how he was looming over me. 'What do you mean?' The same question I had already asked.

  'Finding her body. It must have been awful for you.' And then he looked closely at me, at what I had in my arms – the pile of letters. 'But maybe it wasn't entirely unexpected?'

  'Who are you?'

  'You know perfectly well who I am.' And with that he did become threatening. His sympathetic smile, his pleasant face, had been replaced by a blank mask.

  'No, I don't.' My memory was whirling around, trying to place his face, his name, somewhere in my past, trying to place him in San Francisco all those years ago.