The Scorched Earth

by Rachael Blok

  She smiles. ‘Good luck, Jack812.’

  14

  Thursday 14th June

  MAARTEN

  First, it’s a movement in her fingers. Did it happen?

  ‘Liv? Liv?’

  Then a shake of the head. More sure, he shouts, ‘Liv!’ and runs from the room to the corridor, looking for the nurse to tell. ‘She’s waking up! She’s waking up!’

  Then he’s back in the room and he holds her hand as her eyelids lift, and she coughs. She coughs harshly, and he grabs a glass of water and holds it to her lips.

  The relief a wave, washing him through completely.

  She stirs beneath his fingers, and he’s overcome. He wants to speak to her, and he can’t think of anything sensible to say. So he tells her their love story.

  ‘I saw you first, riding your bike in Rotterdam. You wore a huge green jumper and your hair was tied up. I looked back, couldn’t take my eyes off you… You headed into the café ahead of me. You met a friend and sat at a wooden table, with an old wine bottle as a candle holder, and the light flickered on your face. You drank beer. And I’d never have dared speak to you… but Klaus was there to meet me, and he’d heard your English voices chatting, and he’d asked you where you were from.’

  He leans closer, whispers so his words land lighter than breath in her ear. ‘My life began then, schatje. I didn’t really live until that moment.’

  She’s still groggy. Still shifting slightly, returning from the dark.

  ‘And so much later, I held your hand like this when you gave birth to Nic, and then Sanne. Liefje, my best day is when you’re home when I get home, or knowing you’ll crawl into bed with me if you’re out late. Knowing you’re there. Liefje, I rely on you. You, you are my home. Without you…’

  His eyes are wet and he leans in to kiss her. He is out of words. They pour from his eyes.

  ‘Maart.’ Her lips part and a wheeze rasps out; to him, a melody.

  He speaks quickly. ‘There was an accident. The girls are fine, your mum’s with them. You’re fine, but you’ve been sleeping since. You’re OK. The girls are OK.’

  Thank God. Thank God for Liv. ‘Liefje, liefje, liefje.’

  15

  Thursday 14th June

  ANA

  ‘Maisie!’ Ana flings her arms open, pulling in her sister, all angles and blonde hair spiked, still carrying a huge rucksack. She can feel tears on her cheeks and she’s not sure to whom they belong.

  St Pancras is bustling. Someone is playing the piano nearby and the jumble of notes force their way through the Eurostar crowds, the passing commuters, and fill the high ceilings. A pigeon swoops low; people embrace, leaving, arriving, finding each other.

  Bodies are dressed up, dressed down; all bearing the hallmarks of the heat. Suitcases wheeled, bags carried. Ana ducks from the sharp corner of a sign held up with someone’s name. Tongues gabble in French, Dutch, Italian… freedom, possibility.

  Europe lives here.

  ‘How long are you here? I had no idea you’d be able to come so quickly!’

  Maisie pulls back. ‘I’ve got two weeks!’ She waggles her hands in the air. Jazz hands. ‘I’m knee-deep in the thesis but I’ve done my research. As long as I can work somewhere each day it doesn’t matter where I do it. Mum told me.’ She smiles. ‘Mum told me that Fabian is coming back to the village. I was writing, but Amsterdam is full of tourists at the moment and I need the calm of home. Everyone from my course has fled, so I jumped on a train. Here I am. Your personal protection service.’

  ‘God, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Look, let’s go upstairs and have a drink at the Champagne Bar. I may be a skint PhD student but you’re loaded, and living with mum. Bet you’re not spending any on yourself. Except this make-up. This gets more and more sophisticated.’ Maisie leans forward and clicks her fingers by Ana’s cheekbone. ‘Très chic!’

  Picking up her bag, Maisie slings it over her shoulder, tanned and bearing a small tattoo. She wears a vest top and baggy pyjama-style trousers, printed with red stars on a black background. Ana smiles at the familiarity of her sister – thrifty, stylish, boho.

  Ana laughs and they head towards the glass lift. It’s busy in the station and they weave through the bar upstairs and find a booth. The ‘Press Here for Champagne’ button sits at the end of the booth and Maisie presses, asking, ‘So, have you seen him?’

  Ben is her first thought, and Ana’s shaking her head before realising that Maisie means Fabian. ‘No. Jess, the new cleaner, told us yesterday he’s coming back next week sometime. The Irvines are holding their anniversary party at the pub. I’ve got a new deal, so I’ve been working late. Last night…’ She shakes her head. She lifts her glass and takes a sip instead. ‘Anyway, I can’t have more than a glass of this.’

  ‘He’ll stick his dirty head round the bar. It’s just a matter of time.’ Maisie drinks the pink champagne quickly, reaching for the olives that had arrived with it and the tiny crisps, thick like pitta bread, salted and rich.

  ‘I’m over him, Mais. Honestly, since Ben, the prison – I just don’t think about him. He was…’ She searches for the word but it doesn’t come.

  ‘He was a manipulating, mind-fucking arsehole, is what he was, Ana. A loser of the highest order, and because you left him, it will always be unfinished business to him. If he shows his face, you give him nothing. Any hint of anything and we’re down to the police.’

  ‘Did mum tell you about Ayot? The temple? The body…’ Ana shudders. She checks her watch, due to be in the station soon. She hopes they won’t mind wine on her breath.

  ‘Yeah. You think it’s Leo?’ Maisie settles back against the thick leather of the booth. A pigeon swoops past. Two businessmen walk to the booth ahead of them, and one of them glances at Maisie as she lifts the glass again, refilled. He looks for slightly too long, slows his step a fraction. Unaware, she leans forward, holds Ana’s hand. He moves on, ignored.

  ‘Have you phoned Harper?’ she asks.

  Ana shakes her head. ‘I wanted to. But…’

  ‘Do it now. Mum said you’re going to the local police this afternoon?’ Her hand is cool on Ana’s; the condensation from the drink trickles to a drop, slides down the glass and lands on Ana’s arm. Her skin has risen in goose bumps.

  ‘But aren’t I jumping the gun? Won’t she be busy? I don’t want to—”

  ‘Phone her, Ana. Phone her.’

  *

  The train rattles its way back. This time two faces reflect back. Same colouring, but Maisie’s hair is short. Her ear is pierced a couple of times and, in this heat, she manages to maintain the appearance of cool. She’s only a couple of years younger. Ana’s hair is pulled up and back, her clothes more fitted, her face pinker. She looks like the grown-up, not the sister. Too old, she thinks. Too drained.

  The nylon seats of the train are spiky under her legs. Half-drunk bottles of water roll around the floor, dumped by other passengers. Children lie on the seats, zombified with heat and iPads.

  ‘Sure I can’t drop you?’ Ana asks as Maisie queues for a taxi.

  ‘No, you’ll be late. Go and do your interview. They must think it’s Leo if they’re dragging you in. Go and help them. We all want Leo to have some justice.’

  *

  The station is a big square building, just down from the centre of town. In a city so tiny, with cobbled streets and such a stunning cathedral, Ana looks at the police station and wonders how they managed to build something so grey and boxy. She walks up the steps and gives her name. She texts her mum to let her know that Maisie is on her way. Then she checks her emails.

  It’s cool inside, and she is shown into a room with a window. Sinking into the plastic seat, she says, ‘Just water, please,’ as the officer asks, then exits. There is a large mirror on one side of the room and she thinks of the two-way mirrors she’s seen in focus groups. There’s another camera in the corner. The inside of the station is far more technically advanced than its exterior
would suggest.

  ‘Hello, we met earlier. I’m DI Verma, and this is DS Atkinson.’ The female officer from that morning enters the room, followed by a blond male with the first signs of sunburn peel under his eyes, and Ana rises, shaking both their hands.

  ‘Ana, please,’ Ana says as they begin with ‘Ms Seabrook’, and DI Verma continues.

  ‘We don’t want to raise your hopes. However, one of the possibilities we’re considering is that the body discovered yesterday is that of Leo Fenton. I know there has been some speculation in the press – it was such a big local story at the time. We just wanted to find out if you’ve heard anything.’

  She thinks of the photo she was sent, and she feels light-headed at the thought they know. Could they know?

  Their words are surely only a fraction of the truth – more of a lie, Ana thinks. They must have more than location. There must have been something about the buried body that suggested Leo, but it’s not her job to question them. She wants to mention the photo. This is the time to say it, but it sticks in her throat, and her mouth is dry.

  ‘Well, I haven’t—’ Her phone beeps with a message coming in. ‘Sorry,’ she says, picking it up to turn the sound off. She glances at the screen, expecting to see one in from her mum. But instead, the screen is lit with LEO.

  A message from Leo?

  Holding the phone, she is aware that she is sitting silently, staring at the screen. The two officers wait patiently. DI Verma smiles, but her eyes slide towards Ana’s screen and she turns it quickly face down. She practically slams it on the table, and it’s a testament to their training that neither of the officers react. She feels her face heat up. The cool of the room is suddenly clammy and hot, and sweat trickles down her back.

  ‘I—’ she begins. But her mouth, if dry before, is like chalk.

  ‘Here, please, have a drink.’ The DS pours her a glass of water from the jug that has been wheeled in.

  She holds the glass like a lifeline. She swallows slowly, giving herself a moment. She mustn’t lose her cool in here. A swallow and then she’s ready. She forces herself to smile. Her heartbeat has speeded up. It’s racing so loudly she is sure they must be able to hear it.

  ‘Sorry, it’s my mum. My sister has just come home for a visit. I’ve forgotten to order the shopping.’ It’s a paltry excuse at best. She’s babbling and her hands are clammy. ‘You were asking if there’s been anything?’

  The DI nods, smiling. ‘Yes, if someone has buried the body and it does turn out to be Leo, we’d be interested to know if you’ve noticed anything unusual recently. If there is anyone you’ve seen around who might appear to be suspicious? Any calls from anyone you haven’t heard from for a while?’

  The DI’s face remains unchanged as she asks the last question. Did she see the screen? Do they know about the photo? Ana is desperate to find out. Should she say anything? The sensible thing to do would be to hand the phone over immediately. If she doesn’t do it now, then it will seem much worse later.

  But she knows she can’t show them. She needs to read it first. Her mind flashes to the feeling of being followed. The man at the graveyard. The figure in the car park. Both wearing a cap. So familiar. Her job has taught her when to hold back and when to reveal. She remains still, but her mind is racing.

  Could Leo really still be alive?

  Aware that she’s been sitting, staring, for a minute, she tries apologising. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day at work, and I’ve only just picked up my sister from the station. I’m not really with it. I haven’t seen anyone acting suspiciously recently.’ She feels the lie lodge in her throat. It’s bulging with things unsaid. She wills them to accept the statement, not to probe her further.

  The light becomes sharper through the window; the sun must have swung further round, and it glares in her face. She squints, and she sees the two officers exchange a look.

  ‘We understand that this must all be somewhat of a shock for you,’ the DI says, rising. ‘Thank you so much for coming in. Maybe we could speak to you again soon, and if you hear of anything, anything at all…’ – Ana sees the DS glance at her phone again – ‘…then please give us a call. You have my card.’

  As she shakes their hands, Ana wonders if they feel hers tremble. The posters on the wall blur in and out of vision; the colours in the room lift and vibrate. Her fingernails bite into her palms.

  *

  On the drive out to Ayot, the heat from the road looks like water up ahead on the horizon and the trees offer out wilting yellow leaves, exhausted from the sun. The country lanes are quiet. She passes a park: children play football, buggies scatter on the grass, basted in the heat.

  Cars are parked on the verge and road in the village – it’s hard to get through. There’s a cricket match, so she parks at the edge of the village and walks from one end through the centre to their pub. She’s still shivering, even in this heat. She passes the other pub in the village, the one with the aviary; it’s bursting with cars. They spill out, stacked in the Friday sun.

  Walking past it, she catches sight of a figure in a cap, and she thinks of the car park. The same sense of recognition.

  Can it really be him?

  She thinks of the photo, of the text message.

  The sun is too hot now for black panic; it’s daytime and the fear she feels is not the same as the night terrors. But it’s still real.

  Her phone is in her hand, like a hot stone. Her hand is ice cold.

  ‘Leo…’

  She steps towards the figure for a better look, but he heads out before her, turning off quickly. She doesn’t see his face.

  It’s as she approaches The Frog that she catches sight of him again. He’s sitting on one of the wooden benches near the field where the cricketers play.

  The face is hidden. The cap is tilted forward. But it’s the same cap she saw five minutes ago. And there’s something about him.

  Is Fabian back early? That jacket… She takes a step closer, and as she does so, the memories return, and she stands stock still, thinking of Fabian Irvine. Of the terror.

  She’d caught him sitting outside her home before. He would sit on a wall, kicking his heels, reading a paper, drinking a coffee. He would sit in the bar near where she’d worked – would have arranged to meet friends there. And she’d end up leaving. Often, he’d come over and say hello. Often, he’d just catch her eye. If he was drunk, then he’d grab her hand and declare his love. Say that he was still waiting for her. Or say that she wasn’t looking so great, that she’d put on weight.

  She doesn’t look at him. Speeds up her walk home. Pausing once through the main pub door. Allows the cool of the inside a second to let her catch her breath. Her palms clammy; her heart has started racing.

  Leo.

  Fabian.

  Ghosts roaring back to life, swooping in; and she has nowhere to hide.

  *

  It is clear, once she enters the bar, that Maisie had entered to a hero’s welcome: slotting quickly behind the bar, chatting to regulars, letting her mum have a seat. For once, Ana is back early and sits on a high stool; gin and tonic, a bowl of nuts. She gives herself permission to drink tonight. She’s not in charge and there’s nowhere to go.

  The gin and tonic slips away quickly and Maisie passes her another, asking quietly, ‘Is it him? Do they think it’s him?’

  ‘They don’t know, not yet,’ Ana says. She drains the drink. It sloshes in the empty pit of her stomach and her blood quickly warms. She thinks of showing Maisie her phone.

  The photo. The text message.

  She had read it once she was out of the station. She had meant to wait until she was out of view of the police windows, but she couldn’t help herself. She had leaned back against the walls of the station for support and opened her messages.

  Have you missed me?

  It can’t be Leo. There’s no way he would send that, even if he were alive. And he’s not alive. Is he?

  But the photo she had received at
work must have come from his phone. She remembers it being taken.

  New York. She’d been in New York. The W bar, out for drinks after a work conference. She’d made an excuse and left the main group. They’d all gone on to the TAO restaurant and she’d said she was going back to the hotel.

  Looking up, she sees Maisie laughing. The heat and the gins soften the edges of the moment. Maisie is in the middle of an anecdote involving a bike, a beer and the canal bridge. Ana blinks and holds it, a moment when everything feels normal. Like it was two years ago. Before.

  Her limbs sink into the bar stool, and she loses the bright spots of stress behind her eyes that dot her vision like Warhol pixels. Jam brushes against her feet, comforting. Familiar.

  ‘Ana, how were the police?’ her mum asks, when it’s clear Maisie can run things easily tonight. She sits by her, holds her hand.

  ‘Fine,’ Ana says. ‘All fine.’

  But something is very wrong, and she knows it.

  16

  Friday 15th June

  ANA

  It must be well past midnight. She checks her clock: 2.04.

  The sheet is off, lying in a tangle on the floor. Her vest is damp. Her shorts are twisted round her legs. The dreams make her writhe in her sleep.

  But it isn’t a dream that has woken her.

  She’s tense. The beating of her heart is fast, her limbs tight. She forces herself to take a deep breath and to listen.

  There. A noise.

  Mum?

  She runs to the landing, but her mother’s door is resting closed, and she pushes it gently, peering. Fay Seabrook is fast asleep. There are gentle snores.

  Maisie’s door is closed.

  The noise – this time it crashes. Something crashes downstairs.

  Thinking of the footsteps in the car park, of the photo, the text, anger at her own silence grips her. Who is she to expose her family to danger because of shame?