Close Your Eyes

by Rachel Abbott

  She’s going to post a picture!

  I’d thought that if the police decided to issue my photo, the one XO-Tech have, it would only be published in the local press or news, but this will go nationwide, possibly worldwide. There’s no knowing who might see it. We’re not safe. We need to go – and go now. But go where? Is anywhere safe?

  I’ve always tried to make sure my office look is severe, with scraped-back hair and heavy-rimmed glasses, but am I unrecognisable? Probably not. I thank God no one has a photo of Alfie; it would be much harder to disguise a child.

  I want to cry at the hopelessness of it all, but I force myself to take a breath, to think. I won’t relax until we’re out of here, out of Manchester, so I switch off my phone, stick it in my pocket and head for the bathroom.

  I never unpack when I’m on the move. Any clothes we’re not wearing are already packed, so all I need to get is the small toilet bag, which contains nothing but toothbrushes, toothpaste and deodorant. I grab it, look round the bathroom to make sure I haven’t left anything that can be used to trace me and rush back into the bedroom, shoving the toilet bag into my backpack.

  ‘Alfie, listen, sweetheart – I’ve got an idea. We’re going to move on to the next part of our holiday, and we’re going now. You can sleep as we go, and when you wake up, you’ll be all better, and we’ll be somewhere really special.’

  Alfie’s eyes open wide. He’s confused by all these changes and I think for a moment he might cry, so I crouch down. ‘I wasn’t planning to tell you this – it was supposed to be a surprise – but we’re going to the seaside!’

  His face instantly lights up. He has always wanted to play on a beach, see the sea, and I’ve never had the chance to take him, because Martha Porter can’t drive. She has no licence.

  But India Kalu does.

  Two minutes later we are stepping out of the lift into an area to one side of reception. The girl who checked me in is back behind the desk, and I don’t want her to see me. My bag isn’t big, but it’s the one I came in with, and she’ll notice we’re leaving.

  To the left is the hotel’s restaurant, open to the public, who can access it from the street, so I steer Alfie that way. There’s a sign asking me to wait to be seated, but as a waitress ambles towards me in no rush to serve her customers, I hurry Alfie towards the main doors and out onto the street. My heart thumps so loud I can’t believe Alfie doesn’t hear it.

  I can see a line of three black cabs and nobody queuing, so I open the door of the front taxi and bundle Alfie inside. He looks slightly stunned. He’s never been in a black cab before, and I’m hoping he doesn’t make too much of a deal out of it. We don’t want to draw attention.

  ‘Manchester Airport, please.’

  ‘Terminal?’ the bored-looking taxi driver asks. I expect he’s hot, sitting here waiting until someone needs him, so I don’t take offence at his tone.

  ‘Terminal Three, arrivals.’

  Alfie is still looking at me, and I can see the excitement in his eyes. He knows what an airport is, although he’s never been to one, but he’ll be disappointed when we get there.

  ‘No questions, Alfie. It’s a surprise,’ I say, giving him a squeeze.

  I would give anything for my son to have a normal life in a normal family and go to the airport to watch the planes – or even fly away in one for a holiday, perhaps with grandparents, something I always wanted as a child. But I’m all he’s got, and to take him out of the country we would both need a passport. That’s not going to happen. The guilt hits me again, stronger than ever.

  When we arrive, I pay the driver, we get out of the taxi and I grab Alfie’s hand to give it a squeeze. ‘We’re not going into the airport this time, sweetie. But we’re doing something we’ve never done before. You’ll see.’

  I’m glad his brief fever has subsided, but his disappointment at being denied a look at the planes drains him a little. I need to be quick and get us on our way.

  Outside the terminal we board the bus for the Car Hire Village. As usual, I press my hand against my stomach, checking my card is still in place. It is. I had to look hard for a hire firm that would rent a car on a debit card, rather than a credit card. But I took out the full insurance, so they’re covered should I fail to return it.

  It takes a little longer than I’d hoped in the office because I didn’t have a chance to pre-book. I bite the inside of my cheek as the agent checks my card and driving licence. Will they have traced me? Do they know that Martha Porter and India Kalu are the same person? Has Elise posted my photo yet? Will she recognise me?

  She scans my licence, and I wonder if some warning will pop up on her screen, but after a long moment she asks me to put my card in the machine. There’s a pause as she looks at the screen again. What is she seeing there? Then she looks up, smiles, and tells me where I can find the car.

  ‘Have a pleasant trip, Ms Kalu,’ she says as she hands me the keys.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Where are we going, Mummy?’

  I smile at the agent and whisper to her, ‘He’s dying to know, but it’s a surprise.’

  I hurry Alfie out of the door, wondering if what I am about to do is another mistake, to add to the many I’ve made in my life.

  30

  LAKESIDE

  It was perhaps six weeks after he first arrived that Aram told us, while we were eating breakfast one morning, that he would like to talk to me and Dad. It sounded serious, and I didn’t know what to think. I glanced nervously at Dad, who reached out his hand to grab mine and squeezed it.

  ‘I’ll be there too,’ he said.

  With Mum’s help, Aram had turned one room into a ‘meditation space’. For weeks workmen had been coming and going, and I’d heard the sound of machinery; then there was a smell – something like furniture polish but much stronger.

  ‘They’re sorting out the floor,’ Mum told me. ‘We need it to be clean, don’t we?’

  Did we? I was still young enough to accept that she was right. It wasn’t until our first session with Aram that I saw the transformation.

  ‘Did you know it had changed so much?’ I whispered to Dad.

  ‘Mum showed me, yes. It looks great, doesn’t it?’

  I wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince – me or himself.

  The wide bay window now had two floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to a patch of the garden that had been newly planted with flowers in shades of purple, pink and blue. Huge cushions were scattered all over the gleaming wooden floor, and fat cream-coloured candles sat on tall glass tables.

  Aram was sitting on the floor, his back to the window, the morning light cascading around him. He held a small glass sphere in his hands, which he was rotating slowly between his palms. His face was in shadow, and I shivered with apprehension, unsure whether to be excited to be there, or fearful that I had done something to displease him. I was increasingly uncertain how he felt about me, as he switched from apparent delight in my presence to disgust with my mistakes.

  ‘Sit, please,’ he said. It was strange being given permission by this man to sit in our own house, but I pulled a cushion close to Dad and we did as he said.

  ‘Have you ever tried meditation?’ he asked.

  I had no idea what it was, so shook my head.

  ‘I don’t think it’s for me,’ Dad said. ‘But I’m pleased if it’s working for Nicola.’

  ‘Why don’t you think it’s for you?’ The voice and tone were mild, and yet there was a sense that Aram was disappointed by the answer.

  Dad shuffled a bit on his cushion and mumbled, ‘I’ve never been much of a one for introspection. It seems a bit self-indulgent.’

  Aram’s head tilted to one side. ‘Interesting. Does it occur to you that your lack of willingness to reflect on your own shortcomings could be the cause of Nicola’s distress?’

  I felt Dad stiffen beside me. Before he had a chance to speak, Aram’s head turned towards me. All I could see of his shadowed face was
his eyes.

  ‘And you, India. Do you think you bear any responsibility for Nicola’s unhappiness?’

  It was strange to have someone refer to Mum as Nicola when talking to me, but I was soon to learn that, according to Aram, no one should be defined by a title. We are all individuals, and false titles give us more power than we deserve. All of that was still to come. For now, I was just horrified that maybe I was the cause of her earlier misery.

  ‘I’m sorry, Aram,’ Dad said, ‘but please don’t suggest that India had anything to do with it. She’s a good kid.’

  Aram nodded but said nothing for a minute. I didn’t know if he was expecting something from me, but once again I felt like crying. Was it my fault?

  ‘Do you think you’re a good kid, India? Do you ever doubt it? Before we go any further, I want you to think back – try to remember something you might have done or said, knowing that your words or actions were upsetting Nicola.’

  Now the tears were welling in my eyes and they started to spill down my cheeks. Sometimes I was difficult. I didn’t always do as I was told, and I knew that on the way here all those months ago I’d been sulky. Had I made Mum like this?

  ‘Stop, Aram. You’re upsetting India.’ Dad reached out an arm and pulled me close. ‘Come on, poppet. We’re going. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t want you to feel like this.’ He started to get to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, Joel,’ Aram said quietly. ‘Your actions have told me so much about your relationships – not only with Nicola and India, but your relationship with yourself.’

  Dad stopped and turned towards him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re scared of looking deep inside yourself, of discovering who you really are. You’re carrying the burden of your birth, your childhood, your heritage and the damage done by prejudice. Even the prejudice of Nicola’s parents, who I understand rejected their daughter because of her love for you. Through you, she lost everything in her life that was real, solid, reliable. Now I’m offering you a chance to look into your own soul, to let go of everything that’s holding you tightly in its grip. For Nicola, and ultimately for India. Meditation will help.’

  I saw Dad swallow. He didn’t know what to do, and I could sense his indecision. Aram had struck a chord.

  I squeezed Dad’s hand. ‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘If it will help Mum, I’m okay to stay.’

  I should have refused. I should have run out of the door screaming. Then Dad would have come after me. Instead, he stayed and listened as the first droplets of poison were dripped into his mind.

  And neither of us recognised it for what it was.

  31

  Sara Osborne’s eyes were puffy, and Becky hated having to intrude on her grief.

  ‘I’m sure you’d rather not be bothered with questions at this time, Mrs Osborne, but the sooner we can understand more about your sister, the greater the chance of finding who killed her.’

  The woman sniffed and pulled a tissue out of the pocket of her jeans, opening the door wide and indicating that Becky should come in. ‘It’s okay. But I thought you knew who it was.’

  Becky stopped dead in her tracks. ‘I’m sorry? What gives you that impression?’

  ‘It’s all over social media – first Facebook, now Instagram. I don’t know about Twitter – I don’t use it. Too many people thinking their opinions matter.’

  Sara Osborne had a point, but what the hell…?

  ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Oh God, I thought it was all going to be over. Come into the kitchen. I’ll show you. Excuse the mess. I haven’t managed to clean up; it was all I could do to feed the kids.’

  Becky followed Sara, not at all put out by the dirty pots. She glanced sideways through an archway into what looked like a family room, where the backs of three small heads were silhouetted against a TV screen.

  A laptop was sitting open on the kitchen table. ‘Help yourself,’ Sara said, pointing at it.

  Becky stared at the profile image at the top of the page. Was that Elise Chapman? She looked vaguely like the woman Becky had met, but this was an over-the-top glamorous version. Then her eyes were drawn to the post below, which featured a picture of a mixed-race woman with long hair pulled back tightly from a slim face. Heavy black glasses almost hid her eyes, but there was no disguising the lovely shape of her pale mouth with its perfect cupid’s bow and a full lower lip. A bright red arrow pointed at the face, with the words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? in a flashy font underneath.

  Becky leaned forward to read the post.

  This is her – the one I’ve been telling you about. No one knows where she is – so doesn’t that say it all? For Niall and Genevieve’s sake, we have to find her – so be on the lookout!

  Bloody woman! What did she think she was doing?

  Becky scrolled back to the previous post and a picture of a woman with her hand to her mouth. It was definitely Elise; she remembered her from that morning. She read the post and lifted her eyes to look at Sara.

  ‘I need to call my boss, Sara. I’m sorry about this. It shouldn’t be happening. Please don’t believe any of this. Excuse me for a moment.’

  Becky walked out into the hall and called Tom.

  ‘I’m with Sara Osborne, Tom. She’s seen some content that Elise Chapman – an XO-Tech employee – has been plastering all over social media. She’s saying the killer is Martha Porter, and she’s posted her photograph.’

  ‘Shit! She must have heard something. The phone used to call Genevieve last night was Martha’s – Johansson found it in her desk drawer – but there’s no evidence she’s ever used it. There are no texts stored on it, and the telephony team have checked with the network provider. It’s never been used to make a call. Not once. It doesn’t make sense to me, but the last thing we want is some vigilante grabbing Martha in the street. It’s not helped by the fact that Johansson is casting doubt on who Martha really is.’

  ‘What? We don’t know yet if she’s a victim herself, and if someone on Facebook spots her, they’ll tell Elise. She could have us running in circles following up fake leads.’

  ‘Leave it with me, and thanks for alerting me. I’m still at XO-Tech, so I’ll speak to the bloody woman. And apologise to Sara Osborne on our behalf.’

  ‘Already done,’ Becky said. She could hear the weariness in her own voice, and needed some strong coffee to keep her going.

  ‘Becky, as soon as you’ve finished there, go home. Otherwise you’ll be no good to anyone tomorrow, and there are others who can take over. We’ve got the search team here at XO-Tech; I’ll talk to the staff – including sodding Elise – and then I’ll send Rob packing and go home myself. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Tom was right. She’d been on the go for about seventeen hours after no more than two hours’ sleep. But she wasn’t going anywhere until she’d spoken to Sara Osborne.

  She hung up and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘You look even more done in than I feel,’ Sara said, giving Becky a weak smile. ‘Come on – let’s have a coffee, or tea if you prefer. Ask me your questions and I’ll do what I can to help.’

  As she switched on the kettle, there was a shout from the family room and a plaintive call of ‘Mum, it’s not fair!’

  She sighed. ‘It never is, is it? Excuse me. I’d better sort it before war breaks out. My husband’s away on a course, but when I told him what’s happened he cut his trip short and he’s on his way back, but his train doesn’t get in for another hour. I’ll shut this lot up and then send them to bed. Help yourself to a biscuit.’

  As Sara left the room, Becky sagged into a chair and stared into space. She should probably have been following things up or calling Keith for an update, but she needed a breather for a moment. She couldn’t get Elise Chapman’s Facebook post out of her mind. Why would she do that?

  Becky knew the type – someone who wanted to be the centre of attention, and who got there either by behaving outrageously or being the person who knew everyt
hing and everyone. But the fact that she had posted a photo declaring Martha Porter to be a killer was monstrous.

  She forced herself to stop thinking for a few moments to give her mind a break from the relentless questions. She focused instead on a vase of roses on the window ledge, on their apricot petals and the delicate perfume that she could just catch from where she was sitting, and gradually she felt her breathing relax a little.

  The moment was short-lived as Sara returned from having a quiet word with her children, all of whom appeared to have gone upstairs to get ready for bed.

  ‘They’re probably fighting up there too, but at least we won’t hear them, and I’m fairly confident they won’t kill each other.’ She smiled for a split second, and then a look of horror spread across her face. ‘Oh crap. What a terrible thing to say!’ She collapsed into a chair and burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to keep it all under control in front of the kids. Jesus! Genevieve might sometimes have acted as if she was a cut above the rest of us, but she was my sister, and I loved her.’

  Becky stood up and moved across to the kettle to finish the job that Sara had started. The coffee was already in the mugs, so she gave the woman a moment and then placed the hot drink on the table in front of her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I have to ask you some more questions, Sara. I know DS Cumba talked to you this morning, but we thought you were perhaps in deep shock then, and even though I’m sure you can’t feel much better now, I wondered if you’d had time to think, and if so, has anything occurred to you?’

  Sara wiped her eyes with a tissue and lifted her head. ‘I don’t know. There’s nothing in particular. I suppose it’s normal to feel guilty when someone dies – to wonder if you could have done more, or if you should have been kinder, more understanding. She only wanted to be special, you know. It’s not a sin, and I feel terrible.’