by Sarah Hilary
Each time he’d twisted free of the kettlebell, she’d replaced it. Each time, she’d hit the bell with the hammer until he thought his chest would explode.
Crash course in conditioning.
She’d taken the kettlebell away, for twenty minutes, maybe more. While she was eating her supper. By the time Noah was ready to trust the relief, she was back – and so was the kettlebell. The hammer.
He’d learned to lie still. To put up with the crushing weight of the bell on his chest. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing it.
He could tip the bell off him. He just about had the strength left to do that. But it would make a noise, falling. Hope would hear and come back, with the hammer. He couldn’t face the hammer again. Better to lie still and let the kettlebell crush his chest than to move and have her do it, harder.
He blinked up at the ceiling. Faces there too, unfriendly. A ghoul in a patch of damp above the bath. Tears crept from his eyes, into his ears. He couldn’t feel his hands any longer, tied over his head to the pipework that ran under the sink. He couldn’t feel his hands, or his fingers.
Focus.
What’d they taught him, on that trauma course, or at college? Coping mechanisms. He stifled a laugh in his throat, afraid to let it out. He’d like to see one of his college lecturers lying here next to him on the bathroom floor, with a kettlebell on his chest. Asking questions about his childhood, seeing what good it did either one of them, since Noah was about to be dead.
Dan, he thought. Shit, Dan, I’m sorry.
No good thinking like that. Only made it all worse, like the hammer. He apportioned a smile instead, to keep those muscles working. He needed the smile, for work. For when he was out of here and reliving it, with jokes, for the boys back at the station, Ron Carling and the rest: ‘Weights, on my ribs. Didn’t even have to pay a gym membership . . .’
The bones at the back of his head found out the hard places on the floor. A pulse of warmth suggested under-floor heating. Someone should tell his spine that the floor was heated. According to his spine, he was lying on a block of ice.
He should’ve fought when he had the chance, when she’d dragged him from the kitchen, but she’d made Simone stand over him with the hammer. Simone would have used it, too. The hammer. One look at her face was enough to tell him that. God knows what Hope had threatened to make her look like that.
Simone, he thought, I’m sorry.
He was in a stranger’s house, at the mercy of a madwoman who thought all men were apes and who’d tried to kill one, if only he’d paid attention, to give him the measure of her madness.
Dan. Dan, I love you.
God, it hurts.
Marnie Rome would work out where he was. She’d suspected Hope, that was why she’d asked him to crawl under the stairs at the Proctors’ house. She’d needed to know if a man could fit under there. They’d been so close, Noah and Marnie. So close to solving it. If it hadn’t been for Felix Gill’s phone call stopping them heading to the Bissells . . .
Marnie would work it out, even so. She was good, all smooth, cool surface, like a sheet. But underneath, she was red hot. If you listened hard, you could hear her ticking.
Marnie Rome would get an ARV – shields, firearms – and ride to his rescue. She had to. To believe in any other outcome was to give up all hope.
25
‘What do we know about this woman, Hope Proctor?’
Toby Graves had an unfortunate name for a hostage negotiator, but Marnie liked his manner: quiet, attentive to the detail of what she and Ed Belloc had to say. She’d called Ed into the station when she got back from taking Lowell Paton to a cell. There hadn’t been time, yet, to tell Ed the news of Paton’s arrest. Graves was the on-call hostage negotiator, here at Tim Welland’s request as a matter of urgency.
It was the early hours of the morning, but no one was going to sleep. Not until they’d found Noah Jake.
The station was on red alert, Ron Carling and Abby Pike on standby for news of the GPS trace on Noah’s phone. Toby Graves, in a dark jumper and jeans, was drinking coffee with Marnie and Ed.
‘Hope stabbed her husband in front of a hand-picked audience of abused women, knowing they’d say it was self-defence.’ Marnie put the medical report on the table, along with Leo’s statement. ‘This is what she did to him prior to the stabbing, and what she persuaded him to do to her.’
Toby Graves read the pages in silence. ‘She’s not been seen since she came out of Kentish Town tube station yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Is that correct?’
‘Yes. We thought she might’ve taken a cab, but so far no reports of sightings.’
‘Why Kentish Town?’
‘We thought she might be thinking of putting on a show for Simone, a demonstration of her control.’
Graves put his thumb on the printout of Hope and Simone in Kentish Town. ‘Maybe this is the show. Maybe the show’s for you, not Simone.’
Marnie studied the image of the two women, wishing her brain would move faster. She was missing something, she knew it, just couldn’t figure out what. ‘You think she wanted us to believe she was headed to Lowell’s place?’
‘Maybe.’ Graves turned to Ed. ‘You know more about this than me, but these women know how to stay off-radar, yes? I’m talking about women like Simone Bissell.’
Ed nodded. ‘Not just Simone. Hope, too.’
‘You’d put her in the same category?’
‘For the purposes of the question you asked, yes, I would. I don’t think any of us would argue that she wasn’t the victim of abuse, growing up.’
Graves took this on board, nodding. ‘Tell me about the suitcase.’
‘According to Leo, it’s where she kept her dad’s kettlebell, and a hammer. Her “kit”, Leo called it.’ The thought of it made Marnie sick with worry for Noah.
‘So she’s armed. The kettlebell’s her weapon of choice . . .’ Graves touched his thumb to the photo again. ‘She’s running. Why slow herself down with luggage, with Simone?’
Ed said, ‘She wants a witness.’
‘That’s what the refuge was about,’ Marnie agreed. ‘An audience. Witnesses. People to approve of what she’s doing. To vindicate her.’
‘Okay.’ Graves nodded. ‘I can see why you think she might’ve gone after Lowell Paton. To show Simone how it’s done, how you deal with abusive men. Let’s assume she went to Kentish Town because she knew the police were looking for her. She lets the CCTV catch her a couple of times, looking like she’s Simone’s hostage rather than the other way around. Then what? She vanishes. With Simone.’ He took a moment, in respect for the situation. Then he asked, ‘Where does Noah Jake fit in?’
‘He saved Leo’s life, at the refuge. Leo thinks she wants revenge for that.’
‘Leo also thinks,’ Graves referred to the statement, ‘that Hope loves him. Even when she’s smashing his ribs with house bricks.’
‘Noah’s missing. I don’t see where else he could be right now, unless he went to help, thinking Hope was the one in danger, from Simone.’
‘How’d he know where to go?’
‘Hope must’ve called him. Maybe she tried the station first.’
‘Must’ve, maybe . . .’ Graves didn’t like it. ‘What do we know? Her dad lives in sheltered housing. She didn’t go there. Who else does she have, who might help her hide out?’
‘No one. We don’t know of anyone.’
Hope had no other family or friends. Perhaps Marnie should pity her for that. She didn’t. She pitied Simone Bissell, and Noah Jake. Noah had plenty of people, loved ones who’d suffer – grieve – if Marnie couldn’t find him in time. His parents. A kid brother. Daniel Noys.
Graves heard the frustration – and the fatigue – in her voice. He looked from Marnie to Ed. ‘If she isn’t after her dad, is it all about revenge on Noah? For saving Leo’s life?’
‘It can’t be,’ Ed said. ‘She took Simone.
Simone was her friend, at the refuge. She’d have done anything for Hope, from what the others say. Hope took her, when she left the hospital. That has to mean something.’
‘Maybe Simone took charge, for a while anyway.’ Graves folded his arms, frowning as he thought it through. ‘Hope let her do that, keeping up the pretence that she was the weak one, letting Simone take the risks. Making it look like Simone was the one who suggested they run. That’s an alibi, if Hope needs one. She’d have to be very sure she could handle Simone if things got nasty. Say when the police started putting out statements about Hope, who she is, what she’s done.’
‘She convinced Leo that she was a victim,’ Ed said, ‘even with everything she was putting him through. Classic abuser’s technique, sharing the blame about, to secure silence. Making the other party complicit. It’s what Hope’s father did with her.’
‘This is about families,’ Marnie was thinking out loud, ‘the shapes they make . . . Triangles . . . Hope’s family and Simone’s.’
My family, she thought.
She knew what it was like to grow up an only child. Three in a family was a triangle, all angles and pointy corners. She’d sometimes wished for siblings, to soften the shape to a circle. When she left, her parents fostered Stephen Keele to restore that spiky, familiar shape.
‘Hope was Kenneth Reece’s alibi.’ She repeated Ed’s words from earlier. ‘She told him he was a good father, which meant he could lie to himself about the sort of man he was. She was the only witness to their marriage. Her dad’s violence, her mum’s suffering. The war that went on behind closed doors . . .’ Marnie hadn’t been aware of any unhappiness at home, between her parents, but she’d understood from an early age that she was the shock-absorber. They’d had to replace her when she went.
Hope was an only child.
Nasiche Auma had brothers and sisters, but Simone Bissell was an only child, the prize Charles and Pauline brought home from Uganda, the ultimate tourist souvenir. Dressing her in pink, pretending her past never happened.
‘This is about families,’ Graves repeated, prompting her with a look.
‘We were going to the Bissells,’ Marnie said. ‘Before we got the phone message from Felix Gill. That’s where Noah will have gone, to pick up where we left off.’
She was on her feet. She couldn’t believe it’d taken her so long to get here. If she wasn’t so intent on keeping her mind away from her past, her family . . .
‘Noah’s gone to the Bissells, to ask them about Simone. It was his run route, that’s what he said. And it’s where we’d have gone if Gill hadn’t sidetracked us. I bet it’s where Hope’s taken Simone. To show her how it’s done, how you manage a family that’s trying to destroy you.’
‘These are Simone’s parents?’ Graves asked.
‘Her foster-parents,’ Ed said. ‘Charles and Pauline Bissell.’
A noise at the door made them all turn their heads.
‘Boss?’ It was Ron Carling, bright-eyed with news. ‘GPS came through.’
‘You’ve got a fix on Noah’s phone.’ Marnie looked at Ed. ‘Can you remember the Bissells’ address?’
‘Putney Hill?’ Ed hazarded. ‘SW15, I think.’
‘Is that what you’ve got?’ Marnie asked Carling.
‘No. I mean, yes, that’s the location. But it’s better than that.’ Carling held up a handset. ‘He sent us a text. Noah. There’s a text.’
‘He texted the station’s mobile?’ Marnie demanded. Why hadn’t he texted her? She took the phone, holding it where Graves and Ed could see the text message.
Noah – or someone – had typed Nasicheauma.
Graves frowned, peering at the screen. ‘Nonsense, isn’t it?’
‘It’s Simone’s real name.’ Ed’s eyes met Marnie’s. ‘Nasiche Auma.’
26
It was pitch dark in the bathroom. Hope had switched off the lights. At first, Noah was grateful; the dark swallowed some of the pain, made it easier to think. He listened for noises in the house, some clue to what Hope was doing, but could only hear the echo of his own pulse throbbing back at him from the blackness.
Where was she? Where was Simone?
He knew Simone was scared. He’d seen it in her face, when she swung at him with the hammer. She was back in that place where Paton had put her, trying to survive. Noah didn’t blame her for the hammer, or anything else.
Perhaps he shouldn’t blame Hope, either. Chances were there’d been a Lowell Paton in Hope’s life. Someone who’d made her afraid to live any way but this. Hurting those around her, enforcing her will . . .
Marnie Rome had told him about Hope’s medical exam, the evidence of abuse. Hope was a victim, damaged. Noah should hold on to that. It might make a difference.
The bathroom door crept open.
He held his breath, blinking his eyes wide open in the dark. No light spilled from the other side of the door. The house was in darkness, and dead quiet. A breath of air skimmed his feet, moving up his body to his face. He set his teeth as a precaution against begging. He couldn’t be sure that begging hadn’t made it worse, last time.
Ticking, like a clock, but at head height.
Beads, tapping together?
‘Simone?’ He whispered the name. His voice was in bits at the back of his throat, crushed by the weight on his ribs.
The door eased shut. Silence. She was in here with him; he could feel the shape she made in the darkness.
‘Simone . . .’ Words hurt, but he might not get another chance to talk with her. ‘Are you okay?’
For a long moment, she didn’t move. He was beginning to think he was hallucinating, wanting her to be here when she wasn’t.
The air stirred above him. Beads ticking, her braids swaying. He searched the dark for her face, the whites of her eyes.
‘Simone?’
She knelt at his side. The smell of fried fish was in her clothes, and the damp scent of fear. He could see her now. Not with his eyes. With his nerve endings, the way wounded soldiers learnt to see again.
She reached out and touched the handle of the kettlebell. The tremor in her hand passed like a shock of electricity through the cast iron, into his chest. His teeth tore the air left in his lungs.
Where was Hope? Had she sent Simone in here, to hurt him? No, Hope would want the lights on for that. She’d want to watch.
‘Simone . . .’
She leaned forward. He felt the tap of her braids against his cheek and he flinched because, God help him, he no longer believed in a rescue.
Both of Simone’s hands were on the weight. The shock turned to a dull ringing, like the tongue of a bell rolling inside his ribcage. She straightened, her skirt brushing his side, the air lifting back into his lungs as she stood, gripping the kettlebell, taking it away from his chest, away from the broken rib that stabbed at his heart, away from the hot spread of bruises that hurt more than he’d have believed possible.
He sobbed; a hard, fractured sound.
Simone knelt and put the damp palm of her hand on his cheek. He realised she could see perfectly in the darkness. He felt exposed, but it no longer mattered because the weight – the fucking weight – was gone. He didn’t care about anything else. Not the rope tying him to the pipework. Not the cold fact of Hope, somewhere in the house, with a hammer, knives . . .
‘Thank you . . . God . . . Thank you.’
‘She wants me to cut her.’
Too many endorphins dancing in his head. Dancing and doing tequila shots . . . What did she say?
‘She wants . . . what?’
Simone lay down next to him on the floor. Reached over his head to his bound hands. Found his fingers and brushed their ends across her skin. The bump of a bone in her wrist. Her pulse, jumping. Above it, her forearm. The glassy feel of scar tissue in spots and swirls, like Braille.
Noah couldn’t read Braille. He didn’t need to. Her story was there, in the deep damage she’d done to her skin.
‘She wants me to
cut her,’ Simone breathed. ‘Like this. And – and worse.’
‘Where . . . where is she?’
‘Sleeping.’ Simone’s whisper was bewildered. ‘On the floor. She sleeps on the floor.’
Noah got a flash of the show house, the Proctors’ bed with its pillows starched and its mattress stiff, not slept on. ‘Simone. You need . . . to untie me.’ He had to pause between words, to gather his breath. ‘We need . . . to help her. Hope. She needs . . . help.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Me too.’ He gripped her hand. ‘Me too.’ He waited for the shaking in his chest to subside. ‘Where’re your mum and dad?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Away, they went away.’
He could sense her attention slipping, stress and exhaustion taking its toll. ‘Who else is in the house?’
‘No one. Only her.’ She sighed against his cheek, her breath sour.
‘Get a knife from the kitchen and cut me free.’
She didn’t respond.
‘Simone? Get a knife. Quickly. Before she wakes up.’
Nothing.
He had to try something else. ‘Nasiche.’
Her whole body stiffened, reflexively.
‘Nasiche. Get a knife. Now.’
27
Daniel Noys was waiting at the front desk when Marnie left the station with Toby Graves and Ed Belloc.
‘I got a text from Noah.’ Stress bleached the skin under his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What did the text say?’ Marnie pulled on her jacket, nodding at Ed and Graves to go ahead, to the car park where a police carrier was waiting.
‘Nothing.’ Dan held up a phone. ‘This.’
A smiley face. No greeting, no signature.
She winced when she saw it. ‘What time was it sent?’
‘Forty minutes ago. I tried to call him, but there was no answer. I tried to call you, but they wouldn’t put me through, so I came down here.’ Dan clenched the phone so hard she heard his knuckles crack. ‘I need . . . to know what’s going on.’