by Camilla Way
Hannah leaned forward, her eyes wide with shock. “Oh my goodness, Clara, that’s terrible. You poor, poor thing, I’m so sorry. Were you hurt? Are you okay?”
Clara nodded. “I’m fine, and so is Mac, but yes, it was so awful.” She took a sip of her drink, an excuse to look away from Hannah’s intense gaze. This was the single most difficult thing she had ever had to do.
Hannah shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. How are my mum and dad? This must have really rattled them.”
“About as well as you’d expect,” Clara replied. She hesitated. “Oliver, especially, is in a bad way—he’s really taking this badly. I’m worried about him—I mean, he’s not a young man. . . .”
It was almost imperceptible, the flicker of pleasure in Hannah’s eyes then, but it was definitely there. “And the police?” she asked. “They have no new leads?”
“No, nothing. It’s incredibly frustrating.” Clara sighed. “Sometimes I think they’ll never catch this person, whoever it is.”
Hannah nodded sadly. “We mustn’t give up hope,” she said. “They’ll find Luke. I’m sure they will.”
After a pause Clara said, “It’s so good to talk to you. I feel like I’m losing my mind with worry. Having you to talk things over with . . . I don’t know—it makes it easier somehow.”
Hannah smiled her sympathy. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
They lapsed into silence, watching the bar slowly fill up. Clara made herself smile shyly. “It was so lovely hearing you talk about your childhood with Luke the other day,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I found it comforting, somehow, hearing about what he was like as a little boy.”
At this, Hannah smiled warmly and with such apparent sincerity that Clara could only stare at her in horrified fascination. “Oh, he was such a great kid!” she said. “So funny, you know? Such a big personality. We really did have such a good time together, all of us.” Her eyes grew wistful. “My parents were just the best. We kids always felt so loved and wanted. It was wonderful.”
As she listened, Clara felt icy fingers walk up and down her spine. It was almost as though Hannah had persuaded herself she really was Emily, adored child of Oliver and Rose. She remembered how Rose had said that Hannah would skip school to spy on them all, watching their every move, like a kid with its nose pressed up against a sweetshop window. A chilling thought struck her then: if Hannah’s vendetta was partly fueled by jealousy, or a sense of injustice that Emily was treated like a beloved daughter while she herself had been cast out, if it was Emily’s place in the family that she coveted, would it have been necessary for her to get rid of Luke’s sister entirely? Nobody had seen Emily for twenty years. As she listened to Hannah talk, unease moved inside her like cold water.
They discussed the police search next, Hannah asking question after question, for all the world as though she didn’t already know the answers. Just when Clara thought she would crumble under the strain of it all, Hannah finally glanced at her watch and, seeing that it was almost seven, sighed unhappily. “I must go,” she said, “but I’m so glad I’ve been able to talk to you.” Her eyes met Clara’s. “I hope you know that you’re not alone in this, that if I can ever help, in any small way, then I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” Clara said gravely, relief overwhelming her as they both got to their feet. On the street, Hannah took Clara’s hands in hers, exactly as she had the time before. It was all Clara could do not to snatch them away.
“Keep strong,” Hannah said, looking deep into her eyes. Now that they were standing so close to each other, Clara felt her fear return twofold as she forced herself to return Hannah’s gaze. Something must have shown in her face, because Hannah tilted her head, her eyes suddenly quizzical. “Are you okay?” she said.
“I—I—,” Clara stammered.
“What, Clara? What is it?”
As Hannah’s hands tightened on hers, she had an overwhelming sense of suffocation, an instinctive compulsion to run. Her mouth dried. “Nothing,” she whispered, “nothing at all.”
Hannah nodded. “This must all be so hard on you.” She smiled compassionately again and the moment stretched, before, all at once, she released Clara’s hands, pulled her hood up around her face, and with a final, brief look of sympathy turned and left, leaving Clara standing alone, her heart pounding, as she watched her walk off down the street.
For a moment, she allowed the relief to surge through her: her part was over, at least for now. But when she looked across the street and saw Zoe emerge from the pub opposite, then set off slowly after Hannah, her fear returned. What the hell was she doing letting Zoe get caught up in this? She wanted to run after her and drag her friend back, but, terrified that Hannah would turn and see her, she made herself set off back up the street the way she’d come. She’d barely reached the corner, however, when anxiety got the better of her and she stopped and turned, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Zoe before she disappeared from view. And then she gasped. Because there Hannah was. Not walking away from her as she’d expected, but standing stock-still not far from where they’d parted, her eyes fastened upon her.
Clara felt a jolt of shock. Before she could help herself, she glanced across the road, seeking out Zoe, and sure enough, she spotted her friend standing by a bus stop a few yards farther, pretending to look at her phone. Panicked, she looked back at Hannah. Had she seen her eyes dart across the road? Had she just given Zoe away? What on earth was Hannah doing, anyway? Uncertainly she raised her hand to wave, then shot her a questioning smile. Hannah’s face remained expressionless for a beat or two; then abruptly she nodded, then turned, continuing on her way.
Across the road Zoe met Clara’s frightened gaze and shrugged. Clara scrabbled for her phone. “Zoe,” she said when her friend picked up. “She’s onto us. I’m sure of it. Let’s give up—it’s too dangerous. Don’t follow her. I’m sure she knows what’s going on.”
But even as she replied, Zoe turned and continued following Hannah down the street. “No way, I’m not giving up now. Fuck knows what all that was about, but I’m certain she didn’t look at me once. I’m going to keep following her. I’ll speak to you soon.” And with that, she hung up.
Swearing loudly, Clara watched as they both disappeared from sight, before searching for Mac’s number.
He picked up on the first ring. “Clara? Thank God. Are you okay? Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.”
Quickly she told them what had happened. “I don’t know what to do! Zoe thinks Hannah didn’t see her, but what the fuck was she doing? Why the hell was she staring after me like that? The expression on her face was just— Oh God, I’m really worried. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. I think you should call Zoe, Mac, and tell her to back off. I—”
But Rose’s voice cut through her garbled words. “No! Don’t call it off! Please, Clara. Please let Zoe find out where she lives.”
She closed her eyes. The desperation in Rose’s voice was tangible. She heard Tom speak next. “Mum’s right,” he said. “It’s our only chance.”
She released a long, pent-up breath. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Okay. I’m on my way back now. I’ll see you soon.”
* * *
—
When she returned to Mac’s flat, the air was thick with tension as she took a seat among them in the kitchen, four pairs of eyes fastened upon her face, and quickly described to them what had happened, recounting every single word and gesture, careful not to leave anything out, beginning from the moment Hannah had appeared in front of her and ending with the strange shock of turning to find her standing motionless in the street, staring back at her.
When she’d finished, an anxious silence hung in the air, and they sat staring at Clara’s phone, which she’d placed on the center of the table, waiting for Zoe’s call. “Christ, when will she ring?” Clara asked shakily.
“Surely she should have phoned by now?” Rose asked.
“Not necessarily,” said Mac. He looked at Clara and tried to give her a reassuring smile, adding, “I’m sure it’ll be soon.”
It was half past eight—an hour and a half since Clara had left Zoe to follow after Hannah—when the phone finally rang. Clara leaped on it, putting it on speaker. “Zo?” she said. “Oh, thank God, are you okay?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she said, her voice breathless and exhilarated above the noise of traffic in the background. “I’m fine. I’m on my way back now.”
Clara closed her eyes, relief washing over her. “What happened? Where did you follow her to?”
“To her flat, I think. At least I assume it’s where she lives. Acton, to be exact, northwest London. I followed her to Liverpool Street tube, then got on the Central line, and I was about to give up because by the time we got there, the carriage had really thinned out. But I don’t think she had a clue I was following her. She didn’t look at me once. She got off at Acton and the streets there were fairly busy. Luckily she lives not too far from the station and there was a noisy gang of drunk lads who walked between us almost the whole way, so I think I was safe.”
Tom cleared his throat and, raising his voice, asked, “What does her place look like?”
“Total dump. Massive old Victorian building, about five floors, a flat on each one, I’d guess. She let herself in; then a light went on in a ground-floor window, so I’m pretty sure that’s hers. I went around the back of the building and there’s this sort of car-parking area, and a back door, too, which again I think must be hers. I’ve got the address for you. I’ll text it.”
When Clara hung up, they all stared at one another wide-eyed. “Fuck,” said Tom.
“So what do we do now?” asked Mac nervously.
“We wait,” said Oliver. “We wait until the middle of the night, when she’s least expecting us, and then we go round there.”
“But then what?” said Tom. “She’s not just going to answer the door and welcome us in, is she?”
“No,” said Clara quietly. “No, she’s not.”
THIRTY-ONE
LONDON, 2017
It was two a.m. when they set off for Acton, the five of them in Tom’s car. Clara looked out at the dark, mostly empty suburban streets. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering, despite the fact that Tom had turned the heating up full. In the trapped tension of the car, they listened to the satnav’s incongruously dulcet tones, guiding them ever nearer to whatever it was that was waiting for them at their journey’s end.
She put her cold hands in her jacket pockets and, feeling something sharp, withdrew her fingers with a start. Before they’d left, Mac had pulled Tom and her aside. “I think you should take these,” he’d said, and when she looked down, she’d seen two small kitchen knives in his hand.
She’d backed away. “No! Are you crazy? I don’t—”
But Mac had pleaded with her. “We don’t know what she’s going to do when we get there. She’s crazy, dangerous. Just hide it in your pocket. Please, Clara, just in case, okay?”
She’d glanced at Tom and when he’d shrugged and taken one, she’d reluctantly done the same.
“You have reached your destination,” the satnav informed them primly when they eventually turned in to a wide street lined with enormous detached houses. Clara looked out at the silent buildings as their car crept slowly along, scanning each door for its number.
“Eighty-two must be just up there, on the corner,” Tom finally said, steering the car into a space and cutting the engine. Nobody moved.
It must have been quite a wealthy area once, Clara thought. Each of the grim, hulking Victorian buildings housing but a single family and their servants. Now, however, it had a decidedly uncared-for air, every house divided into many flats or bedsits, the paintwork peeling, the front gardens overgrown, a sense of transience and decay. Somewhere farther down the street a loud party was in full swing: drunken shouts mingling with music pounding from some unseen window. Here, though, all was quiet and still.
“Well then,” Clara said, glancing at the others uncertainly.
Number eighty-two was even shabbier than the rest, situated on the corner of the street, its front garden strewn with litter, six bells on the door. From somewhere farther down the road, a door slammed, making Clara jump, footsteps pounding on tarmac accompanied by low laughter, which quickly disappeared into the silence once more. A lone car swept past. “Let’s check around the back first,” Tom murmured.
Just as Zoe had said, they rounded the corner to find a small parking lot, empty but for a beaten-up Renault and a moped missing its front wheel. Clara nodded toward the house’s back door, a pile of overspilling bin liners outside it. “That must be the door Zoe was talking about,” she whispered. “Do you think it really does lead to Hannah’s flat?” She shivered at the thought that they were so close.
They all glanced at one another. “Listen,” Mac said. “I think I should stay out here, just in case. I can stop her if she tries to run out this way, and call the police if I need to. . . .”
Tom nodded and looked at Rose. “You stay here too,” he said.
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “I’ve come this far. I want to see her, speak to her. I need to do this, Tom.”
For a moment he looked as though he would argue, but eventually he shrugged and nodded. “Let’s go, then,” he said. The four of them went back to the front of the building, leaving Mac behind. As they left, Clara turned and gave him a final wave.
It was two forty a.m. At the front door they paused on the bottom step. Every window was in darkness, the ones on the ground floor shielded by heavy curtains. They glanced at one another nervously, then stared at the line of bells, most of them with indecipherable labels beneath peeling Sellotape, Flat A written in smudged black ink on the first.
In a sudden decisive movement Tom climbed the steps and pressed his finger on the top floor’s bell. They each held their breath. When there was no response, his hand hovered over the next one for a moment before the intercom clicked and crackled. “Who the fuck is this?” a deep male voice growled.
“Sorry, mate,” Tom said, “I think I—”
“Fuck off or I’ll call the police.” There was a click, and the intercom was silent once more.
“Let me try.” Clara pressed the next bell and they all waited. No answer. Then the one below. Finally a crackle, then a sleepy, female voice with a Jamaican accent: “Yeah, hello?”
“I’m sorry,” Clara said, “but I’m afraid I’ve locked myself out. I live on the ground floor and I forgot my key. I’m really sorry, could you just—”
The woman kissed her teeth. “Fuck’s sake.” The door buzzed. They were in.
In the communal hallway they looked at one another with wide eyes. It was horrible: the carpet threadbare and stained, piles of takeaway-delivery leaflets and unclaimed post littering the floor, the walls dirty and scrawled with graffiti, mold creeping over the dirty paintwork, a musty, sour smell in the air. And at the far end a filthy, battered-looking door. “That must be it,” Tom whispered.
Clara turned to the others. She swallowed hard. “So we do this like we planned?” she said. “You all need to stand back out of sight.” Wordlessly they nodded, flattening themselves against the wall.
Fear dragged its fingernails down Clara’s spine as she approached the door and knocked. Seconds dripped by in absolute silence. She brought her fist up and knocked again, harder this time, and thought she heard the faintest sound from within. “Hannah,” she said, her voice emerging from her lips as a croak. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak louder. “Hannah, it’s Clara.”
There was silence, but Clara felt her there, listening. Her voice shook as she said, “I’m alone. But I have my phone ready to call the police. I only want to talk to you.”
>
Suddenly Hannah’s voice was loud and very near, just inches away: “Leave now, or I’ll kill him. Get the fuck away from here.”
Clara shrank back, her heart pounding. When they had discussed this in Mac’s kitchen, gone over and over how they could get Hannah to open her door, the plan they’d come up with had seemed feasible. But here, now, with Hannah only inches away, it felt absurd, impossible, like using a penknife to fell a tree. And if it didn’t work, what then? What would happen to Luke? They must have been crazy to take such a risk. She took a deep breath. “Hannah,” she said. “I know everything. I know what really happened to your mother. I know how she really died.”
Again there was silence. Clara could feel the hard thump of her heart in her throat. And then Hannah spoke. “You’re lying.” But there it was, Clara was sure: the faintest ghost of uncertainty.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not. Let me in. Let me in to see Luke and I’ll tell you what happened to Nadia. Rose told me the truth, Hannah. She told me how your mother died that night.” The only sound now was her own frightened, panting breath. “Hannah,” she said again, “open the door.”
Nothing, just a thick, impossible silence. “Your mother talked about you before she died,” Clara told her. “She said something to Rose that I think you’ll want to hear. Let me in, Hannah. I’m here alone. I just want to see Luke.” And then it came: the sound of a lock being turned. Clara briefly closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, there Hannah stood. They stared at each other for barely a moment before Tom pushed past Clara with such violence it sent her stumbling, and he shoved Hannah hard back into the flat as she let out a cry of surprise and rage.
“You fucking cunts,” Hannah spat before Tom gripped her by the throat and slammed her head against the wall.