In Too Deep

by Samantha Hayes

  See you later!

  His voice echoes through every one of my days.

  ‘OK, bye,’ I called back, pulling on my rubber gloves. Different gloves to the pair I’m wearing now. Time passes. Things change. Rubber gloves get holes.

  The door slammed hard. I flinched, waited for the expected Sorry.

  But there was no sorry. And then there was no Rick.

  ‘Hello, Kath, it’s Gina Forrester calling. Sorry to bother you so late. Something’s happened. When you get a moment, perhaps you could call me back. Thanks. Bye.’

  I hang up. I’m on my own. Hannah has gone to her friend’s house a few streets away. I’d hoped we could spend the evening together, but she seemed so flat and miserable I didn’t say anything when she announced she was going out. And I didn’t mention the hotel again, either.

  Emma’s company will hopefully cheer her up, though I worry about seeds being sown while Hannah’s so vulnerable. Emma decided to go straight into work from school, rather than getting a degree. I don’t think it would take much to turn Hannah’s head, especially now that Emma has bought her own car and, according to her mum, she’s thinking about getting a flat. Heaven only knows how she’ll afford that on a trainee hairdresser’s salary. Probably by sharing with friends, I think, praying she doesn’t ask Hannah.

  Something is vibrating. It wakes me. What time is it? My hands slap the sofa cushions as I search, bleary-eyed, for my phone. ‘Hello?’ My heart is thumping, my mouth dry. The shakes come, as do the usual shots of adrenalin. I sit up, forcing myself to be alert, to make my mouth form words properly.

  ‘Hello, who is it?’

  ‘Gina, it’s Kath here. I got your message.’

  I stand up, forcing myself awake. I’d drifted off to a safe place where none of this exists. The television is chattering in the background, so I flick it off.

  ‘Thanks for calling back,’ I say breathily. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you on a Saturday night.’

  ‘So how are you doing?’

  I know Kath really cares. In the early days, we necessarily spent a lot of time together. But for the circumstances, she’s the type of woman who would be my friend – honest, hard-working, kind. She says it like it is. And she has a family, too, though her kids are younger than mine. My kid. And she knows the value of a family being together. Of all crew being present and correct. I said that to her once, that it feels as if we’ve lost our captain. Not that I think men should be in charge, but there was something about Rick, something safe, something dependable and beautiful about the way he cared for us.

  I always thought he would be there.

  ‘Not too bad, thanks,’ I lie.

  ‘What’s been going on?’ Kath asks, wanting to get down to business.

  I explain to her about the call, the booking. She listens without interruption, sipping on something as I talk. Perhaps wine if she’s not on duty, the thought of which makes me reach for my glass. It’s nearly empty, so in between sentences I drain it. There’s another bottle in the kitchen. I admit it’s been my friend these last few months.

  ‘Do you think it’s worth following up?’ I ask. Recounting the story again, it doesn’t sound that important any more. She’ll probably just log it in the file.

  ‘Possibly,’ Kath replies. ‘I’ll give the manager of the hotel a call, if you like. You never know, she may have some little detail that could help. But other than that, Gina, I’m afraid we’re still pretty much working blind.’

  I pause, eyeing my empty glass. But you’re not working any more, are you? I want to say. You haven’t been active on the case for weeks.

  ‘Husbands do this sometimes,’ Kath told me not long after it happened. She had a pitying but kind look on her face. An expression that told me she was glad it hadn’t happened to her.

  ‘People go missing all the time,’ she continued. ‘And often we never find out why. Of course, many of them come back,’ she added, when she saw how crushed I looked. But again she countered my optimism by saying that as long as there wasn’t a body, then we should keep the hope alive.

  A body.

  Now I’m wondering if she could ever truly be my friend. I don’t think we’re seeing eye to eye.

  ‘I understand,’ I say. I’ve already learned that pushing against the police simply makes me weaker, less in control. I need them on my side. ‘If you could contact the hotel, that would be great. You never know, do you?’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she replies kindly. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’ And after a brief exchange about Hannah being home from university, a few words about her twin boys, I hear background noise at her end growing louder, as if she’s walked back into a party. PC Lane ends the conversation, and I go to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine.

  Hannah

  I told Mum I was going to Emma’s house, but I couldn’t face hearing about her wonderful new hairdressing job, how she reckons her boss fancies her, how he’s going to give her a pay rise, how she’s bought a car, is saving for a flat and dah-di-dah-di-bloody-dah.

  ‘It’s way better than school,’ she told me a thousand times when we spoke on the phone last autumn. She didn’t even bother finishing A levels.

  I doubted that, though didn’t say anything. I’d seen her pictures on Facebook and thought she looked about twenty-seven, not eighteen. I made a comment about her getting pregnant before she knew it, shacking up with some boy, living off benefits in a council house, which was meant to be a joke, of course. Now I wish I’d kept quiet.

  The park bench is cold and wet against my legs. I get up and walk through the darkness. Mum would have a fit if she knew I was wandering around here alone at night, but sitting at home with her, discussing Dad, picking over the bones of his life as if all we have left of him are a few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that no one actually wants to do, is driving me mad.

  How will I survive four more weeks of this?

  It’s making me wish I’d signed up for a study trip to fill the days, anything to keep me away from the gravitational pull of Mum’s misery. Home has become a hothouse, an existence surrounded by fragile glass, with one wrong word shattering everything. In my head, as I walk towards the pond, I imagine myself wielding a huge mallet. I’m bringing it down again and again, smashing the greenhouse to a million pieces.

  I’ve got my own grief to deal with.

  ‘You OK?’ someone says. He’s got a beard, looks scruffy. It’s hard to tell how old he is in the dark.

  I nod warily, shoving my hands in my coat pockets as I pass him. I keep my head down and walk briskly on. I don’t want any trouble.

  The White Horse is across the other side of the park, towards the western end of our neighbourhood, where things have gone all hipster – this pub included, although it used to be a dive in the eighties, according to Mum. Now they have real ales, separate menus for every allergy known to man, and huge leather settees that remind me of elephants lazing in the beery candlelight.

  ‘Vodka and Red Bull, please,’ I say to the barman, thinking it can’t do any harm, even though it will. Then I realise I don’t have my ID on me.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he says. ‘Can’t serve you without.’

  ‘Orange juice then,’ I say, paying and taking my drink to a small table in a dark corner. I’m certain people are staring, wondering what a young girl is doing out all alone, looking a bit of a state, jiggling her leg nervously and glancing at her watch every two minutes in the hope it’s nearly bedtime. The only respite I get is when I sleep.

  ‘Thought you might like this,’ a voice says. When I look up, I swear it’s the man from the park. He holds out a drink. A drink that looks suspiciously like vodka and Red Bull.

  ‘Did you follow me?’

  The man, wearing a checked shirt, jeans and an old army-style jacket, sits down at my table. In the light, I can see he’s in his late twenties.

  ‘If I plonk myself here, they won’t see you drinking it, will they?’

  Stupidly I shake
my head, as if in agreement. He smells funny. Like oil.

  He slides the glass and the can towards me. ‘It’s on me,’ he says. He has kind eyes. ‘You look like you need it.’ Then he chucks a bag of cheese and onion crisps on to the table. ‘Eat up,’ he says. ‘If I bought the drink and you’re eating, it’s technically legal.’

  ‘I’m eighteen,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I just forgot my ID.’

  ‘Course you did.’ He grins and draws down on his pint. A tide line of foam gets caught in his moustache and he seems to know this, allowing his tongue to feel about to clean it up.

  ‘I kind of wanted to be alone,’ I say. ‘But thanks for the drink.’

  ‘I reckoned you looked sad.’ He holds out his hand. It’s pale and ruddy, fitting with his sandy-red hair. ‘I’m James. Who are you?’

  I don’t want to tell him my name, but then I don’t want to upset him either. I’m hemmed into the corner and would have to ask others to move to get out.

  ‘Hannah,’ I say stupidly.

  ‘Hannah who?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I add, not so stupidly.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘But I’m not your average creep in the park, promise.’

  I can’t help the laugh. I tuck my wayward hair behind my ears.

  ‘What makes you different to other creeps, then?’ I ask, grinning coyly.

  ‘I have better-quality puppies and kittens for you to look at. And nicer sweets back at my place.’

  ‘That must mean you have a car,’ I say, teasing. I crack the ring pull on the Red Bull. ‘All the best creeps lure you into a car.’

  ‘I do have a car,’ he tells me. ‘Want to go for a spin?’

  ‘Yeah, right again.’ I roll my eyes, pouring the Red Bull into the vodka glass. I take a long sip, studying James over the rim. He has a caring expression, and I suddenly feel an overwhelming desire to tell him everything. Blurt it all out.

  ‘You going to spill the beans then, or what?’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. ‘You’ve got problems written all over you.’

  He rips open the bag of crisps, splitting it down one side and laying it out between us. I take a few, shoving them in my mouth, buying myself a few seconds.

  ‘I don’t normally do this,’ I say. ‘You know, accept drinks from strangers.’

  ‘And crisps,’ he adds. Unusually white teeth flash through his beard. He’s actually quite good-looking, though too old for me. Besides, guys are the last thing on my mind.

  ‘I can tell you’re really sad,’ he says. ‘It’s like you’re giving off this vibe.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Boy troubles?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Dump you for another girl? If so, he’s an idiot.’

  I laugh, dropping my head forward so my hair falls from behind my ears. I shake my head.

  James leans back, folds his arms. ‘So you were the dumper, then.’ He drinks more beer.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  And, oh God, it is.

  ‘You’ll get over it. Meet someone else. One day when you’ve got a career, a mortgage, a husband and a couple of kids, you’ll look back and remember old James in the pub and think, He was right, you know. I did get over it.’

  ‘What are you, some kind of sodding guru that stalks girls in the park and then spouts shit?’ It comes out a bit harsh, especially as he’s bought me a drink.

  ‘Almost,’ he says, reaching for his pint and standing up.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘That was mean.’

  He drops back down into his chair. ‘That’s better, Hannah,’ he says, making me think he’s creepy all over again. ‘Finish that up and I’ll get you another. Then you can tell me all about it.’

  And so he does. And then I do.

  When he asks for my phone number I tell him that my mum would have a fit because he’s really old.

  ‘It’s probably illegal for her to have a fit about that. If you’re over eighteen, like you claim,’ James says as we turn down my street. Actually, it’s not my street, though he thinks it is. I’m not completely retarded, even after three double vodkas.

  ‘I’ll be OK from here,’ I say, stopping under a street light. ‘Thanks for the company.’ I feel a bit sick.

  ‘Phone number, Hannah. You were going to give it to me, remember?’

  ‘I don’t think I was.’

  James’s face goes blank. I wonder if he’s a fast runner. Good job I’ve got my Converse on. I glance down at my feet to double-check. My thoughts are a few steps behind my eyes. Or is it the other way around?

  ‘But I’d like to make sure you’re OK.’ He takes hold of my wrist.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, feeling my heart kick up.

  ‘But you’ve told me stuff, Hannah,’ he says. His eyes go dark and narrow.

  All your dirty little secrets . . .

  ‘None of it was true,’ I say unconvincingly. I squirm, just wanting to go home.

  ‘Secrets like that are too big to keep to yourself, Miss Forrester.’

  Shit.

  I pull my arm, but he’s reluctant to let me go.

  ‘Your coat. When you went to the loo,’ he says apologetically.

  ‘What about my coat?’ What the fuck about my coat!

  My heart thumps, and my mouth goes dry. I shove my free hand in my pocket, wondering if my ID was in there after all. Then I remember. Even through the vodka mess in my head, I remember how Mum insisted on sewing name tapes into everything that went within a five-mile radius of school. Apparently I lost everything if it wasn’t either attached to me or emblazoned with my name. Including this coat. An old duffel I wore the last couple of winters in the sixth form.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not called that now, am I?’ It’s obvious I’m lying. I sound like a little kid, and I run about as fast as one after I give a shoulder-ripping yank, breaking free from his grip.

  He calls after me, but I don’t turn back. I keep on running, charging down the street, praying I don’t fall over. I hardly dare to look back, veering off towards the main road and the row of closed shops. My arms flap and my head bangs as I cross the roundabout, finally reaching the end of my street.

  I stop for a moment, bending forward, leaning on my knees. My lungs burn and I don’t even care if his hand comes down on my arm, dragging me off somewhere.

  I don’t even care.

  That’s when I realise I’m crying. Sobbing. Hot tears rolling down my face as I walk the last bit home.

  Taking a deep breath, I go up our garden path, pausing at the front door. I look around, watching to see if he’s followed me. But then my eyes are drawn closer to home, to the front garden of our house, the only home I’ve ever known.

  Mum says I’ve been carried in her belly up this front path, been pushed in a pram up it, walked as a toddler holding her hand, ridden my scooter on it, brought my friends home from school proudly up it, and shyly kissed my first boyfriend, aged fourteen, on it.

  Mum doesn’t know what else I’ve done.

  ‘Oh Christ in heaven, thank God,’ comes a voice from behind.

  I spin round. Mum is in the doorway in her pyjamas with the hall light shining brightly behind her. Heat, warmth and familiar smells spill out of my home. It’s starting to rain.

  ‘I’ve been phoning you, but it went to your message service, so I rang Emma and she said you didn’t go to her house. Where have you been, Hannah? I was worried to death.’

  Mum looks pale and slightly older than I remember, but she’s still beautiful. I feel wretched and sick. I fight it back down.

  Then I fall into her arms, sobbing, and she takes me inside, shutting the door against all things bad.

  Hannah

  It’s true that everything seems better in the morning. Mum used to say that to Jacob and me when we were little and had crazy big worries that chased us into bed at night. Stuff like not having learned our times tables, or losing one of our plimsolls. I smile at the memory, but then I’m thinking of Jacob
and not smiling any more. I’m thinking how much I miss him.

  ‘Hannah,’ Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Are you awake?’

  My head hurts from last night. ‘No,’ I say back, though with a little laugh inserted so she thinks I’m in a better mood. I’ve got to keep her off my back until I decide what to do.

  I turn over in bed, pulling the duvet up over my head. But my current worries – the worries that are infinity squared bigger than anything I’ve had before – still find a way in. They wrap around me, crushing me as if someone’s sitting on my chest. I have no idea what to do.

  ‘I’ve made breakfast,’ she calls again. ‘Eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms. Your favourite.’

  Actually, that’s not my favourite. It was Jacob’s. Mine used to be a bacon butty grabbed in the whirl of racing for the bus stop, eating it with the sun shining on my face while chatting with friends. I used to remember all the good things, but now just the bad stuff sticks in my mind. Favourites are long gone.

  I swipe my arm up and over, dragging the duvet off. I swing my legs out of bed.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  I pull on my robe and stand in front of the mirror, covering my face when I see remnants of last night – grey circles under my eyes and cheeks so pale I look as if I’ve never seen the sun.

  What was I thinking? I ask myself, going downstairs. Being alone in the park at night, the pub, the vodka, spouting off to that guy, whoever he was.

  Truth is, I just wanted to see what it would feel like to tell someone. Someone anonymous. Someone who doesn’t know my name – my full name, at least. And even that went wrong. Thank God he doesn’t know where I live.

  ‘Hey,’ Mum says, giving me a little hug. She slides the plate on to the table.

  ‘I was thinking,’ I say, taking a mouthful, hoping the food will stop the elastic bands snapping in my head. ‘I reckon you’re right about that hotel.’

  She swings round, her face alight with hope.

  ‘We should go. Dad would want us to.’

  My mind is made up. About halfway down the stairs, I decided that getting away is a good idea, to give me a chance to think, make a plan. And as things close in, it will also be a place to hide.