by Sarah Hilary
Simone flinched.
‘Hush,’ Hope said. ‘Hush. Look at me.’
Simone did, seeing the woman through a flush of tears.
Hope said, ‘I’ve never told anyone this before.’ She looked angry, just for a second.
Simone cringed, wanting to free her hand, but knowing she could not. She’d done this. Brought this woman here. She had to listen to what Hope wanted to say. She had to stop Hope taking the hammer and bell back into the bathroom.
Hope stroked the kettlebell with their linked hands. ‘I’d put my face to it, when he was finished. You could hear it ringing, feel it humming against your lips, but it got cold too quickly. And heavy. I couldn’t move it, not even when I put all my strength into it. It was as if he’d glued it to the ground.’ She laughed.
It was the first time Simone had heard her laugh.
‘I wanted to be strong enough to move it,’ Hope said, ‘so I could hand it to him when he asked. It was always so heavy. Cold, like taps, except when he’d finished exercising. Then the handle was hot. Slippery.’ She bent her head and laid her cheek to the bell’s handle.
It was obscene. Simone did not know why, or how. Just that it was. Obscene.
‘I slept curled round it. Sometimes,’ she laughed, ‘I’d slip my fingers inside the handle and hold on, begging him to lift me too, when he was working out.’
Her eyes glittered against the black iron. ‘It was like flying, all the blood racing to my heels and toes, my head so light. Empty . . . I loved it. Sometimes he’d kiss me, before he swung me back down to the ground.’
Then she did something terrible. Worse than the pictures Simone had feared putting in her head, much worse, because it made so little sense.
She lay down on the ground and kissed her lips to the fat black bell.
Because she was holding Simone’s hand, Simone had to lie down too. Beside Hope. Curled around the belly of iron, fingers fastened through its handle.
‘Nothing else could move me,’ Hope whispered. ‘Only him. She didn’t have the strength, even when she wasn’t ill.’ Disgust in her voice; Simone recognised its bitter flavour. ‘Only he could lift me up. No one else.’
A sound slipped out of Simone, a sob she couldn’t keep inside any longer.
‘Hush,’ Hope warned. ‘Hush.’
She raised her head, her eyes as madly blue as a summer sky. ‘I’ve never told this before,’ she said. ‘Not to anyone. You’re the first.’
19
Outside Excalibur House, the moon was shining, fitfully. Marnie looked up at the curtained window of Kenneth Reece’s room. ‘He has no concept, does he? No concept of the monster he made Hope.’
‘She was his alibi.’ Ed rested his arms on the open door of the car. Fatigue frayed his voice. ‘The person telling him he was a good father, even a good husband.’
‘She can’t have believed it, can she?’
‘Hard to say. She needed to believe something, to make sense of what was going on in the house. In effect, he made her complicit, a part of the violence – and the silence. That’s a huge burden to put on any child. You were right about her mum’s death. It must’ve been a wake-up call about what he did when she was a kid. What she was doing to Leo. That must’ve been a tipping point.’
Marnie waited a moment longer, to see if the curtains would twitch at Kenneth Reece’s window, but Reece’s interest was elsewhere. At the bottom of a bottle. She unlocked the car and climbed in, waiting for Ed to join her.
‘He’s not what I expected,’ she admitted. ‘Kenneth.’
‘Bullies come in all shapes and sizes.’ Ed rubbed the heels of his hands at his eyes. ‘Christ, I’m tired. You’ll have to excuse the clichés.’
‘D’you think she chose Leo because he’s physically so unlike her dad? Someone without Kenneth’s slyness, his excuses . . .’
‘Maybe. From what you’ve told me, everything’s about control with Hope. She saw what happened when her dad lost control, and she never believed her mum had any. The manipulative behaviour’s one thing – a trick she learned early on – but control’s different. It’s needy. Addictive.’
Marnie said nothing straight away. He was right, of course; control could become an addiction. From an early age Hope had witnessed violence – the destruction of her family; it was a natural reaction to want to toughen up, take charge. Vow never to be a victim. That much Marnie could empathise with, but not the rest. ‘The abuse isn’t all one way,’ she reminded Ed. ‘Hope likes to be hurt too, which means punishment is in the mix. I really thought he’d react to that. But he doesn’t care about any of it.’
‘That’s his protection. If he starts caring, he’ll go to pieces.’
‘If he’s capable of caring. D’you think he is? I don’t.’
‘It depends when he started drinking,’ Ed said, ‘and why. That degree of jaundice . . . I’d be surprised if his liver lasts much longer.’
‘Is that how he got a place here? I’m assuming they don’t make a habit of housing wife-beaters.’
‘Without a conviction . . . with no record of what he did to Gayle, and Hope . . .’
‘We’re screwed.’ Marnie joined the queue of traffic back into the centre of town. ‘We still don’t know where she is, or where she might’ve gone.’ She checked her watch. ‘Do you know what they teach us about missing persons? “If in doubt, think murder.” I was hoping for something from Kenneth Reece to give me a good reason not to think his daughter might resort to murdering Simone Bissell. Now? I don’t know.’
Ed was silent, his head propped to the passenger window. Eventually he said, ‘We’re assuming Hope ran from the hospital because she knew Leo was awake, or likely to be awake, in which case he might’ve told the truth about her abuse, and her self-defence alibi would be out the window. That doesn’t explain why she took Simone. Surely she’d be better off on her own. From what we’ve heard, she doesn’t need backup, or sympathy. I can understand Simone’s value as a witness, back at the refuge, someone who’d swear blind that Hope was a victim, but Simone as a travelling companion doesn’t make any sense.’
He was right. This was more complicated than hostage-taking, or revenge. There was a connection between Hope and Simone.
‘Maybe she wanted a different kind of witness,’ Marnie said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t know, exactly. I’m still trying to figure it out.’
Traffic lights brought them to a halt again.
A hen party crossed the street, holding one another upright. Pink bunny ears and tails, a pink veil for the bride-to-be. Not one of the women was sober.
‘She must know now.’ Marnie took her hands from the wheel, flexing her fingers. ‘Simone. She must know the truth about Hope by now. How Hope used her, what she wanted.’
Ed was silent, watching the women staggering up the street. ‘What did Tim Welland have to say? You said you spoke with him, when I was at the refuge.’
‘He lectured me about hostage negotiation,’ Marnie said drily. ‘Quoted Aristotle.’
‘Ethos, pathos, logos.’ Ed made a sound of sympathy. ‘Did he mention Polybius?’
‘No, but I might’ve blanked that bit out. Who was Polybius?’
‘Son of a Greek governor, held hostage in Rome for years and years. Went on to kill most of his captors in the sacking of Carthage. I got the same lecture once, from someone who wanted to prove that Stockholm syndrome doesn’t affect every hostage.’
‘It didn’t affect Simone Bissell.’
‘Not in the obvious way,’ Ed agreed, ‘but Paton kept her prisoner for a year. That must have left a mark, emotionally.’
‘She’s a survivor.’ Marnie realised she was repeating the phrase, like a mantra. They both were.
‘She might need to be more than that,’ Ed said. ‘There are a lot of dangerous ways to survive. Look at Hope. She survived her childhood, managed to avoid her mother’s fate, if we can believe that. It left more than a mark – twi
sted her entire personality.’
‘All right. So Simone’s more than a survivor. She’s a fighter.’
The hen party had vanished from sight, but the noise of their heels snagged back, flinting from flagstones.
Marnie drove in the direction of Ed’s flat. It took fifteen minutes, bringing them close to midnight by the time Ed was climbing from the car.
‘Doesn’t Leo have any idea where Hope might’ve gone?’ he asked.
‘He says not, but maybe I need to ask better questions. I’d take you along for that, but . . .’
‘I don’t have anything else to do.’ Ed kept his hand on the open door of the car. ‘As long as I’m being helpful.’
‘You are, but I need to do this bit alone. Leo’s not happy around men right now.’
‘Makes sense.’ He nodded. ‘Well, you know where I am if you need me.’
‘When I need you. Thanks, Ed. Get some sleep, if you can.’
20
The moon pitted its hard light on the kitchen floor, where Simone Bissell sat shivering.
In over half an hour, there had been no sound from the bathroom. She didn’t dare look in that direction, afraid of drawing Hope’s attention. With Lowell, she’d kept her head down and done as he said, the way she did with the Bissells to begin with. Her whole life had been about keeping her head down, except in ballet class, where she had to hold it high, higher, the back of her neck burning with worry that the teacher would single her out for disciplining. It became its own discipline, the fear of failing to do as they said; a voice in her head berating her before anyone else could.
Keep off the grass, stick to the path. Pick up your feet. Don’t dawdle. No lights in the house after ten o’clock. Keep yourself to yourself. Quiet. Be quiet. None of your business. Say nothing.
Not now. Keep out. Go away. Your father’s sleeping. Mother needs her rest. Stand up straight.
Don’t give me that face.
Knock before entering, wait to be asked, this is not your room. Stay away.
Not now! Get out!
Don’t touch. That is not a toy. Don’t give me that face.
Clean up this mess. Those hands are filthy. Look at your clothes! Wash dark colours separately. Use a nailbrush. Leave things the way you found them. Go to your room.
Good girl.
Hope called her a good girl.
Simone didn’t know what Hope wanted. If she knew, she could do it. But she didn’t; she didn’t know anything about the other woman.
The silence she’d mistaken for strength between them was only silence. She had dropped a pebble of trust into that well – and she would never, never hear it land.
Hope had made her strip. She’d made her show the scars from her mother’s knives. Simone had trembled, waiting for her touch, expecting – what?
Benediction – that was the word the women used at the church in Apac. Simone did not think that Hope wanted benediction. Not after she had seen the way Hope held the kettlebell, the way she kissed the kettlebell.
Hope wanted her pain. Somehow . . . it fed her.
When they had sat together in the dark, at the refuge, it wasn’t Simone’s hands that Hope was holding. It was her scars. Her past. All the things that had ever hurt her. All the ways she had ever mended.
Hope had taken it, crept under her skin and stolen it. Now she was strong, and Simone was nothing.
Hope hadn’t hurt her, not yet, but she’d hurt him; Simone knew that smell. She scratched at her forearms, fretfully.
Kicking, from the bathroom.
He was trying to get out again. Simone froze, holding her breath, keeping still. If she could, she would have stopped her heart beating.
Hope didn’t shout, or sigh. She got to her feet and turned in the direction of the bathroom. The clothes Simone had given her were too big, grey sleeves hiding her hands as she stooped to pick up the kettlebell, and the lump hammer.
That is not a toy. A hammer is not a toy . . .
Hope reached the door to the downstairs bathroom, pausing there to look back across her shoulder at Simone. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she smiled. As if she was going to wash her face, or brush her hair.
Simone wanted to pray, but she couldn’t think of the words to any prayers except those taught to her by the Bissells, and even those she couldn’t remember past the opening lines: All you big things, bless the Lord. All you little things, bless the Lord.
But what were the little things? Ants and . . . fleas. What else?
Tadpoles and mosquito larvae. Pollen dust and tsetse flies.
Locusts and water drops.
Nasiche. She was Nasiche Auma. Born in the locust season.
Hope pushed at the bathroom door with the head of the lump hammer.
Went inside.
The kicking stopped.
Iron ringing. Iron on iron.
Screaming.
Simone put her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth. ‘All you little things,’ she recited, to drown out the sounds from the bathroom, ‘all you little, little things . . .’
21
Leo Proctor wasn’t sleeping, despite the late hour. ‘He’s awake,’ the on-duty doctor told Marnie. ‘Otherwise I’d be sending you away, badge or no badge.’
‘I’ll leave,’ Marnie promised, ‘as soon as he’s tired.’
Leo looked relieved to see her, once he was sure she was alone.
‘I saw Kenneth Reece,’ she told him. ‘He wasn’t very helpful.’
Leo searched her face. ‘You still haven’t found her.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She drew up a chair next to his bed. ‘We’re worried about Simone. And Hope.’
‘Simone is the woman she made friends with, at the refuge?’ Leo heaved himself upright, wincing.
‘Yes.’ She helped him with the blanket. ‘Take it easy.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Good, but take it easy anyway.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t want to get kicked out of here for harassing the patient.’ He returned the smile, then blinked and looked away. It was a long time, she guessed, since he’d used the smile.
‘Hope doesn’t drive, is that right?’
He nodded.
‘How about a mobile phone – does she use one?’
‘No. She’s never used one.’
‘All right . . .’ The next question was the tricky one. ‘You said she sometimes picked up men, in bars. Is there any chance she might’ve gone to one of them?’
He recoiled from the question.
‘I’m sorry,’ Marnie said, ‘but we need to rule it out.’
‘I don’t know any names. I don’t think she knew their names.’ He looked at his hands, turning them over slowly. ‘I can’t imagine them taking her in. They weren’t interested in her safety, that’s for sure.’ He raised his eyes. For the first time, Marnie saw anger – defiance – in his stare. A glimpse of the man he was going to be now this was over. Out in the open. ‘Your DS . . . I can’t remember his name.’
‘DS Noah Jake.’
‘You said he saved my life. At the refuge.’
‘He did. With the help of one of the women.’
‘Was it Simone?’ Leo demanded.
‘No, another woman.’ Marnie paused. ‘She’s missing from the refuge too.’
Leo’s eyes scanned the hospital room, as if he was searching for something to make sense of the mess they were in. ‘If Hope wanted me dead and he saved my life . . . he’d be the one she’d go for. For getting in her way. She’d hate that.’
A shock of pain gripped Marnie’s right side. ‘You think she’s bearing a grudge against DS Jake?’
‘Against anyone who was in her way. She has to have control, because of what she saw happening to her mum, what happened when she lost control.’
Leo looked at her. ‘You should warn him. Your DS. If he doesn’t already know what she’s like . . . You should warn him.’
It was chilly outside the hospital, clouds lying like camouflage acro
ss the night sky. Marnie called Noah, but the call went straight to voicemail, so she rang the station.
‘Abby? Is Noah there?’
‘Not yet, boss. I left a message. He’ll be on his way.’
‘Is DS Carling there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put him on, will you?’ She waited, aware of the hospital buzzing with light at her back. ‘You were with Noah,’ she said, when Carling came on the phone. ‘This afternoon. That’s right, isn’t it? Any reason you didn’t come back together?’
‘I took the tube, boss. He said he’d walk. Is something up?’
‘Let’s hope not.’ She rang off, trying Noah’s number again.
‘I hope you’re home,’ she said into his voicemail. ‘I’m coming over.’
22
It was one o’clock when she reached Westbourne Grove.
‘Hello?’ Dan Noys answered the buzzer, sounding wide awake.
‘It’s Marnie Rome. Sorry it’s so late. Can I come up?’
She’d counted to three before he buzzed her into the building.
The flat was up a flight of stairs. Dan Noys was waiting at the top, in jeans and a red T-shirt, propping the door open with his bare feet. As soon as she saw his face, Marnie knew Noah wasn’t home. Her stomach clenched, coldly.
‘What’s happened?’ Dan’s voice was harsh, blank terror in his eyes. ‘Is he all right?’
She needed to be honest. ‘I can’t get hold of him. Can you?’
‘No.’
‘Can I come in?’
Dan stood back to let her into the flat. Worry had aged him by ten years, robbing his face of its boyishness. He was as good-looking as Noah, in a blond-blue-eyed mould. The sort of looks that let you coast through life, assuming you had charm as an accessory. Marnie hadn’t seen much of Dan’s charm, yet. Fear was making black ice of his eyes. She stayed standing, deliberately not looking at the room, keeping her eyes on Dan. ‘When was the last time you heard from him?’
‘This afternoon.’ Dan put his hands into his pockets, bringing up his shoulders. Then he took them out again, moved his fingers to circle his right wrist, holding it in a hard grip.