The Other People

by C. J. Tudor

  “It’s complicated.”

  Her mother’s lips pursed. The crockery rattled as she stuck cups on saucers. “If you want money, I don’t have any.”

  No, Fran thought. You’ve probably spent it all on booze. She bit back the words. Instead she said: “I have something I need to do. I need someone to watch Alice, just for an hour or two.”

  “And you had no one else you could ask?”

  Fran didn’t reply. What was the point in lying?

  Her mother shook her head, moisture welling in her bloodshot eyes.

  “I know what you think of me. But don’t you think I deserved the chance to know my eldest granddaughter?”

  Fran wanted to reply that she had never made the effort to know her eldest daughter. And what about her other grandchildren? Occasionally, when Alice was in bed, Fran had looked up her sisters on social media. She knew that Katie had two children now and Lou had a little girl. Fran bet her mother never saw them either. But now was not the time to start an argument.

  She just said again, “I’m sorry.”

  Her mother turned and walked across the kitchen. She peered through the open door into the living room where Alice still sat, clutching the bag of pebbles on her lap. Fran held her breath. She knew it was a long shot. If they had to leave, she would have to sort something else out…

  Then her mother turned, smiling sadly.

  “I suppose we have to make the best of things, don’t we?”

  She shuffled into the living room and sat down beside Alice, who started a little.

  “Do you like jigsaw puzzles, Alice? I think I still have some somewhere.”

  Alice glanced quickly at Fran. Fran gave a small nod. Alice looked back at her grandmother and smiled. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  Fran felt her heart soften. She reached for her car keys.

  “I won’t be long.”

  * * *

  —

  THE SKY OUTSIDE was heavy with bloated black clouds, the breeze needle sharp. Fran turned the heater in the car up to full.

  There was a garage about two miles down the main road. She drove past it and pulled into a turning about fifty yards down. Then she walked back to the garage, where she purchased a petrol can and petrol, made suitably “I’m such a stupid woman” noises to the disinterested youth behind the counter and carried it back to the car. She hoped it would be enough. Next, she drove to the out-of-town Sainsbury’s. She picked up matches and some cheap T-shirts, which she planned to rip into rags. Then she headed off again. She glanced at her watch. Almost forty minutes so far. She felt her stomach tighten.

  The thought of Alice, out of sight, was grating on her. She needed to get this done. Quickly. It should take only about fifteen minutes to get to her destination. Hopefully, no more than ten minutes to do what she needed to do, and then back again. Hopefully.

  She indicated left and trundled along the narrow lane. After about ten minutes she spotted the farmhouse and then the small lay-by on the right. She pulled in, opened the trunk and took out what she needed. In the distance, she heard a car. She stepped back into the embrace of the woods. A blue Fiesta sped past. The driver obviously didn’t realize there were cameras further down the road. Serve him right. With a final glance around, she turned and trudged into the undergrowth.

  The overhanging branches were wet and dripped fat blobs of icy water on her head as she walked along. Occasionally, a drooping branch whipped her in the face. The petrol can felt heavier with each step.

  The woods were far more overgrown than she remembered. When she was a kid, she and her friends used to ride here on their bikes. Far more than her parents ever knew. Back then, before the new housing estate, you could reach the lake from the other side. They would cycle through the fields along an old bridle path. A rough, overgrown track just wide enough for horses, or a car, in a pinch.

  Mum and Dad had told her not to play here, obviously. Mum moaned that she would get all dirty. Dad told her that a child had drowned in the lake, years ago. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but the lake was certainly deep. Deep enough to submerge shopping carts…or something bigger.

  But not anymore.

  As she emerged into the small clearing she caught her breath. Jesus. The lake had shrunk to a puddle. You could plan and plan, but there were always things you couldn’t predict. Although, to be honest, dumping the car here had never been a plan. It had been an act of desperation.

  She’d like to say she hadn’t meant to kill him. But that wasn’t true. As soon as she had held the kitchen knife in her hand, she knew what she had to do. Survival. Once, she would never have thought herself capable of such violence. But she had done a lot of things over the last three years that she had never thought herself capable of. None of us know, until pushed, what our limits truly are. How far we would go for those we love. The greatest acts of cruelty are born of the greatest love. Wasn’t that some famous quote? Or maybe she was making it up. These days, she was no longer sure.

  She was sure of one thing. The man who had broken into their house that night had come to kill them, and he probably had his reasons, too. Good reasons. Reasons which he could use to justify his actions. But he had been careless, and Fran had been ready, waiting. The weird thing was, when she drove the knife into his flesh, it hadn’t felt wrong, or strange, or even that terrible. It had felt necessary. And then she had stabbed him again, and again. To be sure.

  Once he was dead, practicality took over. She had loaded him into the trunk of the old car, roused Alice from her bed (thank God she hadn’t woken in the middle of it all) and told her they had to leave. They had driven south, avoiding main roads where possible, and checked into a hotel nearby. She had been forced to leave Alice alone for a couple of hours while she took care of things. A huge, huge risk. One she couldn’t bring herself to repeat. But she saw the chance to kill two birds with one stone. Dispose of the body and the damn car. She knew the perfect spot. One where neither would ever be found. Or so she thought.

  She stared at the car, the boot sticking up out of the murky water. At first, she had been amazed that he could have found it. Now she was here, it made more sense. Someone was bound to find it eventually. Still, the chances of him just stumbling over it were still remote. Not many people visited this place, or even knew about it. Someone must have told him it was here. But who?

  A worry for later. For now, she had to make sure no one else found the car or, more importantly, what was inside it. She swallowed. There probably wasn’t that much left. She remembered stripping off the man’s clothes and burning them. A sudden, sickening reality check. She had struggled to force his stiffening limbs from the grubby sweatshirt and jeans. His underwear was slightly stained and she had felt absurdly embarrassed, as if taking off his clothing were a greater desecration than taking his life. The sight of his flesh, pale and hairless, sticky with drying blood, had almost made her throw up. She had managed to hold her stomach and checked his pockets. No wallet or ID. Some car keys (despite no car parked near their house), which she had chucked into the lake. But she had been hasty and had panicked. Desperate to get away from the body, the dank lake, the consequence of her actions.

  She hadn’t cleared out the car. She had just shoved stuff in the glovebox without checking if there was anything incriminating that could lead them to her and Alice.

  That had to be rectified.

  She ripped up the T-shirts. Then she quickly wriggled out of her jeans and trainers, grabbed the petrol and rags and waded into the stagnant water.

  The cold made her gasp. Sticky mud squelched beneath her toes. She grimaced and gritted her teeth. She needed to do this fast. She reached the car. She pulled at the back door. The water pushed against her. She managed to yank it open and chucked some of the rags onto the backseat, which was virtually dry. It should catch. She doused the rags and seat in petrol. Was
it enough? No. She needed to make sure that the contents of the trunk burned, too. She stepped away from the car and waded around to the back. She steeled herself and then cracked the trunk open.

  That was when she heard the splash behind her. She turned, a moment too late, and something heavy crashed into her skull. Her head exploded and her knees buckled, the petrol can slipping from her hand. She sank, dazed, into the water, suddenly up to her chest. She gasped and floundered, arms splashing weakly.

  A figure loomed over her. And then his hands were on her throat and he was pushing her head down, into the freezing water. She tried to fight it. She grabbed at his hands, but they were so strong. She twisted and writhed. She kicked out with her feet and felt her heel connect soundly with his crotch. The grip around her throat loosened. She dragged her head up, out of the water, seizing a precious breath.

  He punched her in the face. She sank again, his grip even tighter. She scrabbled and scratched at his fingers, but her strength was fading. She needed air. Her lungs were about to explode. She felt her lips part slightly, her brain desperate and conflicted. Don’t open your mouth. But I need to breathe. Just hold on. She would not die in this stinking, filthy pool. She couldn’t. Alice was waiting and Fran had to get back because…

  Something gave. A sharp pain in her neck. A sudden lightness in her head. Her lungs were no longer burning because she could no longer feel her body. Her limbs floated uselessly. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t stop this. Her mouth lolled open. And her last thought as the water rushed in was…Alice hates jigsaws…

  Gabe had tried to talk Jenny out of it. He’d practically learned the Big Book of Girls’ Names by heart. But she had been adamant: “I want to call her Isabella.”

  And they had had a deal. If it was a girl, she would choose. A boy, and the choice would be Gabe’s. Gabe had thought it was a little sexist, but he also knew not to argue with a pregnant woman.

  The more he tried to persuade her, the more Jenny dug in her heels. He had always loved that about her. Her stubbornness. Her unwillingness to buckle just to please or pacify someone else. But on this issue, he wished she could be just a little more compliant.

  “Most wives wouldn’t want to choose a name their husband didn’t like,” he had pointed out.

  “Most wives don’t have such arseholes for a husband. What is your bloody problem with Isabella anyway?”

  He couldn’t answer her. Couldn’t explain. He certainly couldn’t persuade Jenny to change her mind, so he tried to persuade himself that it was just a name. A pretty name. And this was their Isabella. Their baby. A completely new person.

  It was true that when she was born he very quickly forgot everything except how beautiful she was, how noisy she was, how incredible and exhausting it was now that one tiny little person had completely taken over their lives.

  But he still chose to call her Izzy instead.

  And the nightmares came back.

  He told himself it was just the stress of fatherhood. He told himself it was only natural; his head was all over the place. He would adjust. Things would settle down.

  He tried not to listen to the insistent little voice that told him that calling their precious little girl Isabella was a portent of doom. A jinx.

  * * *

  —

  HE STOOD, SO quickly the coffee cup wobbled and slopped cold dregs over his saucer. How could he have forgotten what day it was? Visiting day. How could he not have heard his phone ping with the reminder? Shit, shit, shit. He gathered his things and stuffed them back in his bag. He had to go, now.

  He hurried across to the camper van and pulled out his keys. He frowned. The side door was open, just a fraction. Had he forgotten to lock it, or had someone broken in? He pulled the door open and climbed inside.

  There was a man in the van. Sitting calmly on the small bunk seat. Even more oddly, Gabe recognized him. It was the young police officer he’d seen in the coffee shop. The traffic cop flying solo.

  The disparity, the sheer strangeness, threw him for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, but wha—?”

  The man rose and struck him in the face. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Gabe didn’t even have a chance to raise an arm to defend himself. His head rocked back against the side of the van. His legs wavered. Before he could straighten, the man punched him again, in the throat. Gabe gasped, choking, trying to draw breath, his throat burning like someone had rammed hot coals down it.

  The man picked up Gabe’s messenger bag.

  No! he tried to yell, but it came out: “Nnurrrggghhh!”

  Gabe grabbed for the bag. Managed to snag the strap. The man threw another punch. Gabe ducked his head to one side. He held tight as the man pulled at the bag. They tugged back and forth, Gabe somehow finding strength in desperation.

  The man drew back his arm and punched him sharply in the side. Hot, burning pain. Gabe grabbed instinctively at his stomach, letting go of the bag. The man snatched it, shoved the door open and jumped outside. Gabe lurched after him, but the pain reeled him back. He fell to the floor. Through the open door, he could see the man sauntering casually away.

  He tried to reach for the door to pull himself up, missed and fell out of the van, onto the rough tarmac. He screamed, clutching at his side, which seemed to be leaking something hot and wet. The man was just a silhouette now. He couldn’t let him go. The bag held everything. His laptop, the Bible, the notebook, the hair bobble. It was all he had.

  He tried to drag himself along the ground, but his energy was seeping out of him. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. It was too thick with petrol and fumes. The sky was too bright. He closed his eyes. Faintly, he could hear shouting. Then, closer, a voice:

  “Oh my God. Christ—what’s happened?”

  He couldn’t answer. The darkness was soothing. Like a balm. There would be no more pain there.

  But the voice was insistent.

  “Open your eyes. Look at me. I’m calling an ambulance, but you have to wake up.”

  He opened his eyes. A face loomed over him. Familiar. Nice, but tired. The kind waitress.

  “I…” He drew his hand away from his side and stared, bemused, at the red dripping from his fingers. “I think I’ve been stabbed.”

  Alice waited. She tried not to look as if she was waiting. Or worried. Or afraid. But actually, she was all of them and more.

  Fran should have been back by now. She had said it wouldn’t take more than an hour. One and a half tops. That was over two hours ago. They had exhausted the old woman’s old (and frankly pretty rubbish) jigsaw puzzles and had struggled through some stilted conversation. Fran had told her what to say, but it was still difficult, remembering stuff, trying not to say the wrong thing, just like sometimes she forgot to call Fran Mum. She got pretty annoyed about that.

  Something about the old lady scared Alice a bit, too. She smiled too much. Alice didn’t like that, not just because her teeth were all yellow. And she was so jittery. Her hands shook when she was trying to put the jigsaw pieces down. There was this odd, sour smell about her, too.

  Her twitchiness was making Alice more on edge. She kept asking if Alice wanted another drink or something else to eat, even though Alice’s glass was still half full and she had already forced down three of the stale biscuits. Eventually, just to keep her quiet, Alice said yes, some more squash would be nice. This seemed to make the old lady happy, so Alice took her opportunity:

  “Can I use the toilet, please?”

  “Oh, of course. It’s just upstairs, first on the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alice grabbed her bag, walked up the stairs and onto a narrow landing. The bathroom door was open, but she didn’t really need the toilet; she just needed to get away from the old lady for a bit. It looked old-fashioned anyway, a hideous shade of green, shaggy mats on the floor all flattened and
filthy.

  There were three more doors. The nearest one was ajar. Alice peered inside. It was obviously the old lady’s room. There was a lot of dark furniture, a double bed covered in a quilted bed cover. On the bedside table were two pictures in fancy silver frames. Alice hesitated. She wasn’t normally a child who sneaked around. But being here, in this house, had made her curious.

  She padded across the carpet and picked up the first photo. Four people stood on a clifftop in the sunshine. She recognized the old lady, younger and happier, and Fran, looking very young. Not that much older than Alice. There were two little girls in the photo, too. Fran’s sisters. Alice had never thought of her as having a family. It had always been just the two of them. The second photo was of the old lady and a man. He had thinning hair, a wide smile and crinkly blue eyes. He looked nice, she thought. Kind.

  She put the photo back down. From the kitchen she could hear the sound of glasses clinking. The bedside table had two small drawers. She yanked one of them open. Neatly folded hankies, a pot of Vicks and, just poking out from underneath the hankies, what looked like newspaper cuttings. Alice took them out. She was a good reader, but the small print of newspapers was a little difficult. Still, she could make out the headlines.

  HOME-OWNER KILLED IN BUNGLED BURGLARY

  HORROR IN SUBURBIA

  She recognized the house in the pictures. And the man who was in the photo on the bedside table. Nice, she thought. But dead.

  She stared at the pages. Then she stuffed them back in the drawer and shut it. She crept from the room and started to make her way downstairs. Halfway, she paused. She could hear the old lady talking in the kitchen. Momentarily, her heart lifted. Fran. She had come back. She peered over the banister. But the old lady was alone, clutching a glass of something red in one hand and a phone in the other.