by Katie Lowe
The red lights flash at the junction, and I stop. ‘I don’t—’
‘Don’t bother, Mum. I don’t want to hear it. It’s all bullshit, anyway. Everything you say. You go about with that fucking deer-in-headlights—’
‘Evie—’
‘—deer-in-headlights look on your face, pretending you’re totally innocent in all of this. Like you’ve got no idea why any of this is happening, when it’s obvious that you do. And I know what you’re going to say when you finally admit it.’ Her voice turns reedy, a shrill impression of my own. ‘I did it for you, Evie, it wasn’t my fault, it was all out of love—’
‘Don’t you dare,’ I hear myself say – hear myself scream. Her eyes widen as she recoils. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that. You have no idea how much I’ve been through to protect you. No idea. I didn’t raise you to be such a—’
A car blares its horn behind. The lights have turned green. I fumble with the gears and the car stalls, before shuddering back to life.
‘Such a what?’ Evie says at last. ‘Go on, Mum. Tell me what I am.’
I grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. ‘I’m not playing this game with you, Evie. This isn’t fair. You’re behaving like a child, when I know you know better.’
She laughs, coolly. I hear her father’s ghost in it. ‘You know, that’d mean more coming from someone who didn’t spend half their time staring into space, talking to their imaginary friends.’
‘Evie—’
She makes a face, a gormless, dead-eyed stare. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t have done it, I’m too fucked up to—’
I stop the car so abruptly, she wrenches forward with a jolt. She turns to me, a hand rubbing her neck, and glares. ‘I’m too fucked up to ever—’
‘Evie, stop. Stop.’
‘You know, I’ve started to remember some stuff about that night. I don’t know if it’s, like, triggered something in my memory, seeing all those crime-scene photos and everything – but I’m starting to remember what happened.’
The words turn me cold. ‘You can’t. You were a child.’
‘You were going to kill him. I remember it. I remember you holding the knife. I remember—’
A memory settles itself on my chest: a sharp recollection of hate. ‘Stop it, Evie. This isn’t fair.’
‘I remember you telling me to be quiet. I remember you—’
I feel myself tumbling into the memory. She’s right. About all of it. Everything she’s said is true.
‘Evie, please – stop. Please.’
But she doesn’t. She’s enjoying it. She’s baiting me.
‘I swear to God, Evie, if you don’t stop right now, I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’
She’s her father’s daughter now. She’s Graham, come back from the dead.
I feel a sickening, reckless anger weave its way through my veins as she smiles.
‘Go on. What are you going to do?’
46
London, 2007
She’s screaming, and it’s all my fault.
I didn’t mean to do it.
It was an accident. I swear.
I look at her blood on my hands.
I stare at it, uselessly.
And still, my little girl screams.
47
Derbyshire, 2018
‘Oh, God, Hannah—’ Darcy’s eyes are wide as I stand on the steps of the house, my clothes muddied and torn. ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’
‘I’m … I’m sorry. Can I come in?’
‘Of course – of course. Come on through.’
I know exactly how this looks. I’m not entirely sure I care.
Darcy, for her part, assumes a mask: after her brief show of surprise, she becomes the consummate professional. I think that’s what brought me here. ‘Did you come through the woods?’ she says, with cool curiosity. As though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I glance down at my filthy hands; the streaks of dirt across my calves and thighs my bloodied knees and palms. I don’t answer, and she doesn’t push for more. Only steers me, palms pressed to my shoulders, to a chair in the hall. She crouches in front of me, squeezing my cold fingers in hers. ‘I’m going to get you a towel, and some antiseptic. OK?’
I say nothing. I can’t speak. I’m numb.
‘Stay here. I’ll be back.’
I try to piece together the minutes between: how I got here. What happened after Evie climbed out of the car. But all I have is fragments: footsteps as I ran after her through the trees. Hers disappearing, replaced with his, behind. A hand at my shoulder. The sign at the quarry’s edge: Think! Would you swim in ammonia or bleach?
A phone rings, buzzing softly, somewhere in a distant room.
Focus, I tell myself. Focus on what’s right here, right now. Focus on what’s real.
I count the black-and-white tiles, the missing ones replaced. I look up at the windows, newly fitted, still covered in acetate, blue. I don’t hear Darcy return.
‘The water’s back off again, I’m afraid – the idiots I’m employing are doing the bathrooms as we speak – so these will have to do.’ She hands me a packet of wipes, running clothes slung over her arm. ‘But you can clean yourself off, and change into these. You’ll feel better once you’re not covered in all that mess.’
‘Oh, Darcy, I can’t—’
‘Don’t be silly. We’re about the same size, aren’t we?’ We’re not. These are her baggiest, stretchiest clothes. ‘And anyway, they’re hardly my finest. I’ll go make some tea while you pop them on and clean up.’ I try to interrupt, but she’s determined. ‘Nope. This one time, Hannah, I’m in charge. Get changed. I’ll be back with the tea in a sec.’
I glance around the empty hall, imagining builders walking through while I’m half-naked, changing into another woman’s clothes.
But it’s quiet. Aside from the faint tap-tap-tap that I’m used to hearing here, and the distant buzz of the ringing phone, I’m alone.
I peel the clothes from my cold, damp skin, and change quickly into hers – plain black leggings and a T-shirt. The kind of clothes I’d been wearing, the first time I saw her, when I’d turned and run away. It seems a lifetime ago. I never could’ve imagined I’d come to rely on her – to need her – like this.
She re-emerges, a mug of tea in each hand. ‘Here we go.’ She drags a heavy-looking box along the floor, and sits. It groans under her weight. She shuffles, and smiles. ‘So … What happened?’
I stare into the steam.
‘Hannah.’ She puts her hand on my knee. There’s a tenderness in it. It takes me aback. ‘You seem like you’re having … a crisis. I’m worried about you. Let’s put aside friendship and business for a minute, and …’ She leans back. ‘Therapy rules are now in operation. Talk to me. Whatever it is stays in this house.’
I look up. ‘I don’t think I can.’
‘There’s nobody else here, I promise.’
I say nothing. I don’t know where to begin, even if I wanted to talk.
‘I’m saying this because … Well, look. I don’t want to assume anything here, but I’m sure you must be dealing with something like PTSD, given everything that’s happened. You probably already were before, but with these awful people dragging it up—’
‘I—’
‘Wait – let me finish. Just let me say it. And then if you disagree, you can tell me why. But think about it.’ She begins counting on her fingers, with awful clarity. ‘I’m guessing you’re not sleeping much, if at all. You’re not in control of your emotional response to … whatever happened this morning. I’m going out on a limb here and assuming you’re having flashbacks, if not full dissociative episodes – yes?’
My cheeks flush hot.
No, Graham says.
‘How … What makes you think that?’
‘I just … You look like you go somewhere, sometimes. That’s all. I noticed it from the first time you came here. But I didn’t want to … I didn�
��t know how to bring it up. But I’m right. Aren’t I?’
I swallow. The hard lump in my throat remains.
‘Hannah,’ she says, again. ‘This isn’t your fault. You’re being put through an unbelievably traumatic experience. Or rather, you went through an unbelievably traumatic experience before, and now you’re being retraumatized all over again. Frankly, I’m amazed you’re still on your feet.’
I think of the symptoms, learned rote. Distorted perception of relationships. Avoidance and emotional numbing. Outbursts of anger. Re-experiencing and dissociation.
I don’t know what happened. Evie ran, and I followed, and I was so, so unspeakably angry. There was someone there with me, I know it: his footsteps, and mine, and hers, seeming to come from two places at once, and I screamed at her to come back, and at him to leave – and then, there was silence.
As though the air had been sucked out of everything.
I felt her hurting, my baby’s bones aching in mine.
When the tears come, now, it’s overwhelming. I’m not sure they’ll ever stop. Darcy doesn’t move, though she squeezes my thigh a little more tightly.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ I say at last.
‘I know,’ she says, in response. ‘I believe you.’
She thinks I’m talking about Graham – about his murder – and I can’t bring myself to correct her.
I go over the pieces in my mind.
Evie climbed out of the car.
I pulled over and followed.
I know the woods so well; I’ve run them so many times. But this time, something was different. Someone was there.
‘Where’s your car?’ Darcy says, cutting off the thought. ‘Do you want me to go and get it? Or I could give you a ride?’
‘It’s fine. I …’ I steady myself. ‘I pulled over near the … near the quarry.’
Her brow wrinkles. ‘Why?’
‘We – me and Evie – we had a fight.’
‘What about?’
‘She …’ I feel a sob gathering again. I can’t say it. ‘God, I should’ve backed down – I’m the adult. I’m the one that should’ve de-escalated things, but instead, I just … I lost it. She jumped out of the car and ran off, and I …’ I trail off. I don’t know what happened next. I feel like a stuck record, a needle caught in a groove.
She resettles on the box, not meeting my eye. I wonder if she’s hiding her relief. ‘She’ll come back.’
‘She won’t.’
‘She will. You need to stop thinking the worst. She’s a kid. She probably hid behind a tree, and you ran right past her.’
‘I just … I know those woods, Darcy. I used to run the trail there every day. But there was someone in there, with me. Someone that wasn’t her.’
I feel the hand touch the back of my neck. It’s warm. Someone living. Someone there. ‘I heard a man breathing, Darcy. At one point, he was right behind me. I turned around, and I saw him go.’
‘Oh, Hannah, don’t be—’
‘I swear, Darcy, I’m not imagining this. I’m not. It could be any one of those people online who’ve said they want to do God-knows-what to me. Or it could be Mike – what if he’s lying when he says he’s “moved on”? Would you, after ten years in—’
‘Hey – hey – stop.’ She’s turned a deathly white. ‘Stop. You’re spiralling. Calm down for a minute. Take a deep breath. In and out, now, come on.’
‘I’m losing it,’ I hear myself say. ‘I am going completely mad.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not, Hannah.’ She takes my hand in hers. ‘But I do think you’re teetering close to something like a breakdown. And I think it’s entirely understandable, given the circumstances. But given the circumstances, I think it’s my responsibility as your friend to tell you: you cannot keep this up.’
‘I don’t know what to—’
She stands. ‘Come on. Let me walk you back to your car. Then, you’re going to drive home and get some rest. She’ll come home soon, if she’s not already there. Which she almost certainly is. Kids are nasty little things. She’s probably done all this to get a day off school.’
She isn’t like that, I want to say. Evie’s not a nasty kid. That’s what makes what she said today so much worse – because today, she was just like him.
I remember the cruel, hard look in her eyes, and the hole in the pit of me closes up. A steely coldness settles over me. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Darcy opens her mouth to speak. I interrupt before she can say it.
‘Really, Darcy. I’ll be fine. I should probably call Dan, anyway, so …’
‘All right. But promise me you’ll go home. And …’ She reaches into her pocket. ‘Take one of these. I know we’re not meant to … You know. But a good night’s sleep would probably do you the world of good.’ She hands me a packet of pills: diazepam etched on the label in black. I feel a memory bubble up and disappear: no more than a vague sense of recognition.
‘No, thank you.’ My tone is a little too clipped. I hear myself on the Conviction tapes, remorseless and cruel.
She presses them into my palm. ‘Look, just hang on to them. You don’t have to take them, but it’s better to have them around and not need them than to wish you had them at three a.m.’
She could lose her licence for this; so, probably, could I. But the thought of a night’s oblivion is soothing: a warmth that brushes everything else away. So I accept. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem. Now, come on. I’ll walk you out.’
I follow, my smile fixed: a rictus. Darcy does the same as we reach the door. But poised as she is, I see it, as I turn to leave. It’s unmistakable. The flicker of undisguised worry, of fear, in the way she looks down at the floor, the swiftness with which she glances away from my smile.
She’s afraid of what I might do, I realize as the door closes, heavily, behind. What I might’ve already done.
And so am I.
I walk back through the woods, attempting to follow the path I’d taken from the quarry to Hawkwood House. There’s a silence there. An absence. It dizzies me. ‘Evie?’ My voice sounds unfamiliar, echoless, like it’s trapped inside my skull. I say her name again, just to be sure.
What happened? Graham whispers in my ear. What did you do?
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember.’
I see an indentation in the mud, the cross-hatch of my trainers burrowed in. I fell there. I was running, and I fell. I know I’m on the right path. I go on, towards the water’s edge, scanning the ground for signs of her, some breadcrumb proof of her existence.
My phone buzzes: a jolt. I reach for it, the light blinding under the cover of the trees.
No Caller ID.
It could be her, I think. It could be somebody who knows where she is.
I pick up. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Hannah Catton?’
I feel my throat constrict, tight. It’s a man. And that isn’t my name any more. But I don’t argue. ‘Speaking,’ I say, with stiff politeness.
‘You’re a fucking bitch,’ the voice spits. ‘You’re a murderer. You’re going to get what’s coming to you.’
He hangs up. My heart pounds. I lean against a tree, the bark nipping at my palm.
It’s a troll. It’s no one. It means nothing, I tell myself.
I hear a rustling behind, some movement between the trees. A twig-snap, a footstep.
‘Evie?’
There’s no answer. Only a stillness. I picture them – whoever they are – watching me. Waiting for me to turn away.
And so, I run. I run until the breath leaves me, and the trees part.
And still, I’m not sure I’m alone.
I unlock the car with shaking hands; drop the keys into the footwell, and fumble around, my heart filling my throat.
I need to go home. I can’t go home. I need to go home.
The petrol meter breaks the silence with a wearied tick. ‘Shit,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ The thought of going to the local station chills me, all watching eyes and questions – so I take a right, towards the service station a couple of miles away.
As I drive, I realize it’s the first time I’ve left the village in weeks. My world has shrunk to fit this tiny, closed-off place. I think of the story I read, in high school, of a woman in a locked room going mad.
I wonder if I ought to leave. To just go. To run again. But this time, I know it’s hopeless.
Graham’s fingers press into my palm, ice-cold. No matter where I go, he’ll be with me. I can’t outrun him any more.
And this thought is, in its own way, a relief. After all the running – the constant sound of my own, ragged breath – it might be better to just stop. To accept it. To be the woman the world tells me I am. To tell the truth, at last.
I’m relieved to find the forecourt empty. I climb out of the car, my limbs aching, and plug the pump into the petrol tank. I’m so exhausted, I lean against the car, and rest my forehead on the roof, the petrol pulsing in time with the pounding in my skull.
The ring of the shop door opening rattles through me. Instinctively, I turn towards the sound. A woman in sunglasses mutters into her phone, one hand tugging a tie from her long blonde hair.
I recognize her immediately.
The woman who fucked my husband and sold the story to the world, I think, shoving the nozzle back into the pump as another car pulls up behind. That bitch. She laughs as she unlocks her car, and I feel something come loose, undone, in my chest.
‘Hey,’ I hear myself say. ‘Hey. You.’
A tweet appears in my mind, out of nowhere. She has that weird, cold look of a woman who peels off her face before bed. She’ll snap any day now. I can’t wait to see it.
‘Wait – stop. I want to talk to you.’ She looks up, the phone tipped away from her ear. ‘I need to talk to you. You whore.’ She opens her mouth to speak, but I go on, my voice reaching a scream. ‘How do you live with yourself? How do you—’
I realize my mistake before she takes off her glasses. Before she says: ‘I’m sorry – who are you? Don’t come any closer,’ she adds, her eyes brimming with righteous tears. With shock at being so unfairly attacked.