by Katie Lowe
‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ I say, though of course, it’s too late.
A man has climbed out of the car behind, nervously trying to gauge what’s expected of him. In the shop window, I see the owner staring, phone raised to his ear.
‘I’m sorry. I … I thought you were someone else.’
I turn and walk into the store. I hand over a sheaf of cash, imagining myself disappearing from the scene without a trace. Just another crazy woman, another story these strangers will go home and tell their friends. Please don’t call the police, I will the cashier. Please just let me pay you and go.
When I step back outside, the woman has gone, but the man is still there, feeling no need to disguise his curiosity. He watches me as I walk to the car, the light of my phone’s screen flashing on the seat inside.
‘Dan,’ I say as I pick up. ‘Sorry. I was—’
His voice is tight, fearful. ‘Is Evie with you?’
I say nothing for a moment, the words dizzying. ‘What?’
A noise escapes him then, a low moan; I feel the shock of it rippling through my skin, a mourning sound. ‘She’s not here. I don’t know where she is. She’s not—’
‘Wait,’ I say, ‘wait. Stop. She can’t be—’
‘She’s gone, Hannah. I’m at the school, and they said she never showed up to first period. She’s not here. She’s been missing all day.’
EPISODE SIX
48
London, 2007
‘What happened? What did you do?’
I try to speak, but the words turn to ash on my tongue. ‘I … It was an accident.’
Graham steps towards me. I curl into myself, my feet tangled in the bedsheets. ‘What did you do?’
I close my eyes. I am back there, four hours earlier – maybe five. The dusty tube station platform, the warm air rushing by. Evie giggling in her buggy, which she’s too old for, really, though I indulge it.
He doesn’t like it when I take her out like this; doesn’t like it when I take her out at all. He’s only happy for me to leave the house for meetings I’m required to attend: with my solicitor, the clinic’s legal team, Lucie Wexworth’s grieving family.
Two years, and we’ve yet to make it to court. Because her parents won’t accept a settlement, and the clinic won’t publicly acknowledge my guilt.
It’s a kind of purgatory: an endless waiting. It’s the thing that keeps me here; makes it impossible to leave.
I dream of her, every night, in that hotel bathtub. I see the blood creeping out over the rim. I hear her sister screaming, pulling her from the water.
I wonder what her sister’s doing now. If that unfathomable trauma means her blood will one day be on my hands, too.
Lately, though – regardless of Graham – I’ve started going out. It’s not for my benefit, I tell myself, but for Evie’s. It’s not right for her to stay cooped up inside all day.
Of course, I can’t make it obvious. He can’t know what it is that we do. So I take a handful of change from the jar; I steal coins from his pockets, when I’m cleaning his clothes, and I take her on the tube, riding the lines back and forth, for hours at a time. Something about it soothes her, as it does me. I think it’s the sense of travelling. Of moving. Of leaving my life behind.
But today, it all went wrong. Today, I made a mistake.
It was an accident. I swear.
I’d tipped the buggy back and slipped through the doors. The carriages had split apart as the train rounded into the tunnel, and I’d looked through the gap as I folded the pushchair down.
That was when I saw him. Graham, his face only a metre from mine, if that; air rushing through the space between.
But he wasn’t looking at me.
He was transfixed, his gaze focused on the woman between us: a glossy blonde, hair thick in the humid air. I saw his hand pressed against the glass to the side of her head. The ring on his finger, whose engraving matched my own.
It was obvious, to anyone, that this wasn’t just a fling: not just sex, not just an affair. That’s how I’ve justified it when he’s slept elsewhere. As an itch he needs to scratch. A physical impulse: nothing more.
But the way he looked at her: he’d never looked at me like that. Not once. Not even when I thought we were happy.
I felt my skin turn hot, a sudden, sickly sweat. My pulse filled my ears, drowning out everything else. I needed to get away. I didn’t care where. I just needed to leave.
The announcer named the upcoming station, and I reached for Evie’s hand. The doors opened, but she wouldn’t move. Not without the buggy – and not without her Maggie Bear, folded into its seat. I grabbed the buggy and pulled. The bear fell out, rolling across the carriage floor, and Evie, stumbling on tiny legs, ran after it.
I took Evie’s hand, with more force than I should have – the buggy half under my shoulder like a crutch, Evie staggering, about to erupt into a sob. I saw myself in the eyes of the other passengers: a terrible mother, horribly cruel to her child.
But still, I didn’t stop. I dragged her on to the platform, Maggie abandoned on the carriage floor, the doors whooshing closed behind.
I heard the slam, the terrible silence.
The door whooshed open again, and my daughter began to scream. The tips of her tiny fingers had turned a purplish red, one bloodied at the nail. ‘Mummy!’ she screamed, her eyes all confusion and betrayal.
I’d hurt her. She was in pain, and it was all my fault.
I looked to Graham, who looked outside, blankly, with no sign of recognition, at all. It made sense: there was no reason, in his mind, I’d be here. I’d promised him I’d stay at home. He turned back to his mistress, and smiled, and the train pulled away.
But now, he’s here. And now, he knows what I did.
‘Hannah.’ His tone is utterly chilling. There’s nothing in it but hate. ‘What the fuck did you do to our child?’
‘She just … She caught them in a door.’
I can’t breathe. I’m waiting for him to put the pieces together. The inevitable drop of the penny: the moment he realizes the madwoman on the platform was me.
He steps towards me. Slowly.
He sits on the bed. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘Yeah.’ I feel a sob coming, giving me away. ‘I feel awful. I really didn’t mean to …’
He raises an arm, and beckons for me to come to him. It’s impossible he doesn’t know; hasn’t figured it out. But his face is all sympathy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Really.’
I can’t move. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. I don’t know if this is a trap.
‘Come on, Hannah. Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to make this right.’
I shuffle forward. I feel nauseous, every inch of my skin prickling, telling me not to go.
But I do. I go to him. It doesn’t feel like a choice.
He wraps one arm around my shoulder; with the other, he takes my hand. He smells like another woman’s sweat and perfume. I close my eyes and hold my breath, as though that might make it go away. ‘It was an accident,’ he murmurs into my hair.
He squeezes my hand, and my stomach falls. ‘Wasn’t it?’ He squeezes tighter. I feel the sharp pinch of skin, the press of the bones.
I open my eyes. ‘You’re hurting—’
‘It was an accident,’ he says, but he doesn’t let go. He squeezes tighter still, and I feel something pop: the hot sliver of pain sends a bolt through my arm. ‘Wasn’t it, Hannah? An accident?’
I realize what he’s saying. I nod.
He squeezes tighter. I see the veins in his arms bulge with the effort.
I gasp out a yes. I beg him to stop.
He holds on, a few seconds longer. And then, he lets go. He looks at my crumpled hand with something resembling disgust. ‘What was that?’
I swallow my tears, and meet his eye. I feel a kind of death: a letting go.
‘It was an accident,’ I say, and mean it. ‘I’m so sorry.’
&
nbsp; 49
Derbyshire, 2018
When Will arrives, he’s ashen. There’s another officer with him. Neither meets my eye.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, slapping Dan on the back. ‘I don’t know what to say. Other than that I promise we’ll do everything we can.’
Dan nods. ‘Thanks, mate.’ The affectation catches me by surprise. I’ve never heard him call anyone ‘mate’ before. It seems wrong, somehow, like an actor slipping out of type.
I keep learning things I don’t know about him; keep wondering if I ever really knew him at all.
We’ve barely said a word to each other since I got back. He was on the phone when I came in, and when he hung up, I couldn’t break the silence. It was too heavy. Too much.
I offer Will a drink. A misstep, it turns out: the three of them look at me, blankly. As though the very suggestion is absurd.
‘No, I’m good. Let’s crack on. I need to get some information from you two, if that’s OK? When you saw her last, your movements today – the usual stuff. As many photos as you can send me, too, would be great.’
I follow them into the kitchen, where they sit, all three of them in the same hunched posture, elbows on the table. In the black glass behind, my reflection is a picture of guilt.
‘Hannah?’
I slip back into the conversation. ‘Sorry, I – Can you say that again?’
Dan reaches for my hand, and squeezes it in his. He pulls me to sit beside him. It’s an apology, I think. An attempt at closeness. It hurts. ‘He asked how she was when you dropped her off.’
‘I … I didn’t.’ I pull my hand away. I never did get it looked at; now, it throbs, a distraction. ‘We had an argument. I mean, we continued the same argument, really, but … She got out. When I stopped, she … She just jumped out and ran off.’
There’s a silence. I can’t look at him, though I feel his stare cutting through me. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’
Will intervenes. I’m grateful for it. ‘That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, if she ran away, then … Well, she’s probably just run away. The odds are very good for her getting cold feet and coming home.’
He leans back in his chair, and his eyes track the space that settles between Dan and me. ‘Given the circumstances, though – with this, for instance –’ He gestures to the words scrawled on the windows, MURDERER still gleaming red behind. ‘I think it probably makes sense for us to go on throwing everything at this, for now. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but …’
‘Thanks, Will.’ Dan’s voice is clenched, stiff. ‘So what do you need from us?’
‘Just your whereabouts today. And then, if you don’t mind, we’ll take a look around the house – her room, in particular, but more generally, too. With your permission, obviously.’
‘Whatever you need to do.’ I hear a falseness in my tone. I’m desperate to please. ‘I went looking for her, after I – after she got out. And then I went to visit my friend Darcy … And after that, I went to get petrol. That’s where I was when Dan called.’
There are lies in there – omissions, elisions, things skipped over like cracks in the pavement (Just one lie after another, I hear Anna Byers say, in my mind) – but it doesn’t matter. I need him to get to the point. To leave us behind, and bring my daughter home.
‘Darcy …?’
‘Burke. With an “e”.’
‘Great. Do you have a number I can contact her on, if I need to?’
A lick of frustration curls in my chest. ‘I’ll write it down for you.’
‘Perfect. And you got petrol from the Texaco down the way?’
It’s amazing what people can convince themselves of, a tweet said – or maybe an email. I don’t know. Either way, the words ring in my skull. I actually almost believe it’s possible she doesn’t think she did it. She’s just been living a lie so long, she’s lost all relation to the truth.
I see myself in the kitchen of our London home, again. Everything Evie said was right. I took the kitchen knife from the sideboard, and waited for my husband to come home.
It was an accident, Graham says. I feel his cold hand on mine.
‘Hannah?’ Will breaks in.
‘Sorry – I …’ I sigh. I hope that it reads as exhaustion; as fear. ‘The services. Near the motorway.’
There’s the briefest of pauses: almost imperceptible, though I feel it, unmistakably, there.
Why go all the way out there? Will’s thinking.
I see Dan wonder the same thing.
But for now, they gloss over it; choose to move on. ‘OK, great.’ Will snaps the notebook shut and looks to Dan. ‘You’re happy for us to have a look around?’
‘Of course. I’ll show you what’s what.’
‘She has a boyfriend,’ I say. I don’t quite know why it spills out. An intuition, maybe. A desperate hope. ‘His name’s Callum. We haven’t met him. I don’t know if she has, either. She might be with …’
Dan turns to Will, who nods. ‘We’ll look into it,’ he says.
He said that last time, too – when I mentioned Mike’s release, the threatening messages, the strangers sharing my address. It’s what he says to dismiss a suggestion.
When his working theory is enough.
50
I pace the cottage, glass in hand. It doesn’t help.
Dan has been gone for hours, searching for Evie. I imagine him with Will and the other officers, their torches splitting the trees. If I listen closely, I can hear them calling her name.
My phone buzzes, and I grab it. It’s Darcy. Any news?
Nothing, I reply. My fingers hover above the screen. I go on. I’m so scared, D. I don’t know what to do. The message clicks instantly to read. I wait for the three dots, the sign that she’s typing a reply.
The sudden vibration shakes me. @ConvictionPod tweeted: A statement. Listen now.
I drop the phone on the table as though burned. The replies tick, one after another, impossibly fast.
call yourself a mother
they should’ve taken that child away a long time ago
RIP Evie Catton
A wave of sickness overtakes me. I retch, and swallow.
I open the statement, and press play. ‘For subscribers – don’t panic. Our next episode – The Affair – will air as scheduled.’ There’s a long-drawn-out pause. I wonder if this is a kindness: revealing that whatever’s left of the series, it’s not a revelation I’m unaware of. It can’t get more sordid than what’s already been written in the tabloids, my husband’s mistress now a fixture in their pages.
‘Until then, however, we’d like to make all of our listeners aware that the daughter of a key person of interest in this investigation has, in the last twenty-four hours, gone missing from her home.’
I feel my breath catch in my throat.
Wrong again.
She’s enjoying this.
Don’t you dare say her name, I think. Don’t you dare. I’ll kill you if you so much as think it.
‘In an effort to assist with the investigation into the disappearance, we’ve added a page onto our website with all the information on the police inquiry as it stands to date, and will continue to do so as more comes to light. As ever, we’re firm believers in the power of crowdsourcing information, and helping justice to be served. And so, we’d like to ask our listeners to visit our website, or check out our updates on all our social media pages, and help us to bring Evie Catton somewhere she can be – finally – safe.’
The glass hits the wall, and breaks, before I realize the woman I hear screaming is me.
Hours later, I wake from a dreamless sleep on the sofa. The front door creaks open.
Dan is home. He’s alone.
I drag myself up to sitting. He looks over at me, and shakes his head.
Before I can say a word, he climbs the stairs. I hear him fall, heavily, into bed above.
I curl up on the sofa again.
I lie there, awake, until d
awn.
The light glows pinkish through a crack in the blinds. I hear his footsteps on the stairs.
I pour coffee into a mug and put it in his place. I need him to sit with me. Just for a few minutes. I need to tell him the truth.
He walks into the kitchen, and stops. His shoulders slump. Already, he’s defeated.
‘Dan …’
‘I need to get back out there. I have to look for her.’
‘Please. Please give me five minutes. I just … I really need to talk to you.’
He shakes his head. And then, he sits.
I feel sick. I don’t think I can say it.
‘I think …’ I take a halting breath. ‘I’ve been trying to remember what happened. With Graham. And … I know you’ve been trying to find out what really—’ He tries to interrupt, but I don’t let him. ‘Dan, really. It’s fine. I get it.
‘But … I’ve been going over and over it, and … He wasn’t like they say. He wasn’t a good person. He was … I was scared of him. He made me scared of him. And I think it’s possible that I …’
He puts his head in his hands. He looks like he’s going to cry, and I don’t think I’ll survive it, if he does. ‘Hannah, I …’ He stands, his chair groaning on the tile. ‘I’m sorry, but … I can’t do this.’
‘What?’
‘I think … I think if you’re going to tell me what I think you’re going to tell me …’ He trails off. I realize what he’s saying. He needs to believe I’m still the woman he thought I was, before. Because otherwise, I’m the person he’s spent the last six weeks convincing himself I’m not.
A murderer. And the last person to see Evie – his daughter, blood or not – alive.
The grief will kill him, if I tell him, now.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
He reaches for his coat. ‘I’m going back out to help with the search. Call me if there’s any news.’
I hear the reporters shouting, clamouring, as he opens the door. Camera flashes strobe the room for a moment, and then he’s gone.