What Happened That Night: The page-turning holiday read by the No. 1 bestselling author

by O'Flanagan, Sheila

  As she realised what was happening, Bey undid the seat belt she’d automatically fastened earlier.

  ‘Hey!’ cried the man as she pushed at the passenger door. ‘No you don’t.’

  But he was still secured by his own belt, and although he grabbed her by the wrist, Bey managed to pull free and jump out before he could stop her. She raced along the snowy verge until she reached the turn to the road beside the railway tracks. The railway line itself was protected by a mesh wire fence and she knew she’d never be able to climb over it. But on the other side of the road, through the brambles and bushes, were some small cottages with long gardens. The problem as far as Bey was concerned was that one of those cottages might be his.

  She could hear him running unsteadily down the lane himself now, cursing as he slipped on an icy patch. She pushed herself deep into the centre of the bushes. Some were bare and stark, but others were evergreen – holly, she thought, as she felt the leaves scratch her face and hands. What were the chances of being saved by a holly bush on Christmas Day? The metallic taste of fear in her mouth told her that she didn’t rate them very highly. She was grateful for her creamy-white jacket, which both protected her and helped to camouflage her as she burrowed down, keeping her face hidden from the light of the moon and hoping that her flame-coloured hair might blend in with the colours of the bare branches.

  She remembered the games of hide-and-seek she’d played with her mother, crouching behind a sofa or curtains, thinking that because she couldn’t see her mum, her mum couldn’t see her. She couldn’t see the man and she’d no idea if he could see her or not, but she could hear him breathing heavily and she knew he wasn’t far away. Snow and frost crunched beneath his feet as he walked slowly past the bushes. She burrowed down even further.

  ‘Dammit,’ she heard him say.

  She held her breath even as the snow on the collar of her jacket started to melt and drip onto her neck. Her cheeks were wet too. She didn’t know if it was her own tears or more melting snow.

  ‘Little bitch.’

  His footsteps were loud on the frozen surface. Bey was sure her heartbeat was equally loud. She was terrified he could hear it. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening to her. She stifled a sob. Finding her frozen body in a hedgerow would certainly mess up everyone’s Christmas, she thought, as a tear rolled down her cheek and plopped onto the frosted leaf beside her. She wondered if the Warrens would feel bad that she’d been murdered.

  She knew it was only a matter of time before he saw her among the bushes and hauled her out. She was breathing so fast that her head was spinning, just like when she’d broken her mother’s favourite vase. She’d been terrified of Lola’s reaction, but after her initial annoyance, Lola had simply glued it back together. She’d told Bey that nothing was so terrible it couldn’t be fixed.

  Only perhaps this was.

  He was taking a long time to find her. Bey clamped down on her chattering teeth as she wondered what he was doing now. She couldn’t hear his footsteps any more. She thought perhaps he was just standing there, waiting. Knowing she’d have to leave the sanctuary of the holly bush sometime. Knowing there was no rush. He was right. There wasn’t.

  She tried not to shiver as she focused on the holly in front of her. The snow sat on the leaves and sparkled in the shaft of moonlight. She kept her eyes fixed on them, staring so intently that she felt she could see each individual snowflake. She’d heard that no two were exactly alike. She could see one now, a six-sided figure of spikes and triangles, delicate and intricate. And another, a star shape with circles on the edge of every point. She suddenly realised that she was looking at a cobweb, dusted with snow and ice. She saw it tremble slightly beneath the weight of snow and held her breath again. It was a barrier, she thought. He couldn’t pass it. Wouldn’t pass it. It was protecting her. Like magic. She kept telling herself this as though by repeating it over and over it might be true.

  And then she heard the car. The engine turning over, whirring, spluttering. Turning over again. And coughing into life. Revving loudly. Then the sound of tyres across the ground. Was it him? His car? It had to be. But was he leaving or had he another plan? Ram it into the bushes, perhaps? In which case he’d either kill her outright or frighten her into running again. Her already racing heart was now pumping so hard she was afraid it would burst. Her entire body was shaking with a mixture of cold and terror. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t think. Her brain was as frozen as the rest of her.

  The cobweb fluttered as she exhaled sharply. But it didn’t break.

  She heard the distinctive whine of a car reversing down the laneway. And then turning. And driving along the road again. At speed. Driving away from her. It could be a trick, she thought. He might be trying to flush her out. She stayed where she was, immobile except for her shivering.

  An age after the sound of the car had disappeared, she risked looking up. Through the leaves and branches she could make out the moon and stars. She couldn’t see the car. She couldn’t see anyone standing waiting for her. The night was utterly silent. No sound. No animals. No trains. No cars. Nothing. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the cobweb. She could see thousands of individual flakes adhering to it. Miniature works of art. Intricate and perfect. Beautiful to look at.

  She started to count them, but her brain wasn’t working properly and she stopped at a hundred.

  She waited a little longer.

  He didn’t return.

  She moved slightly.

  The cobweb broke and the snowflakes fluttered to the ground.

  But he wasn’t there.

  She crawled out of the hedge.

  She was on her own.

  Chapter 17

  Quartz: an abundant crystal mineral

  She couldn’t stay there. He might come back, or she might freeze to death. She hauled herself to her feet and began to walk cautiously towards the main road, listening out for the sound of the car or of footsteps, thinking that he could have parked around the corner and be waiting for her to appear. As she reached the turn, she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled close to the verge. She peered around the corner. There was no car, but she could hear the sound of an engine approaching so she hid in the icy ditch. But this car went past without slowing down and Bey knew that it hadn’t been him. Nevertheless, she waited until everything was quiet before beginning to walk again.

  Eventually she came to a proper pavement. A hundred metres or so in the distance was a big white house. Christmas lights twinkled around the windows although the house itself was in darkness. Like her father’s home, it was walled and gated, with an intercom set into the pillar. She looked at the intercom and then the wall. She didn’t want to stand outside while she waited to see if someone would answer, in case the man drove past. She thought it was unlikely now, but she couldn’t be certain. Even though the wall was high, it would be easy to climb because there was a tree nearby with branches that hung over it. Which meant it wasn’t very secure really. Any thief worth his salt could get over. And she was a thief, wasn’t she? Her father had said so. So had her grandmother.

  She used her icy hands to haul herself up the tree, then dropped over the other side and ran unsteadily across the frosty lawn to the front door. There was a bell on the porch pillar too, which she rang frantically before starting to bang loudly on the door itself. Tears had started to stream down her face but she didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  What if this is his house? she thought suddenly. What if I’ve made another mistake? She stopped banging and stood on the doorstep, unsure of what to do next. And then an internal light came on and she heard footsteps in the hallway. She thought about running, but she couldn’t move. The door opened. She was looking at another middle-aged man. Only this one was wearing bright yellow pyjamas and was staring at her in absolute astonishment.

  ‘It’s a girl!’ he called up the stairs. ‘A young girl.’

 
; ‘What!’ A woman hurried down, tying the belt of a dressing gown as she descended. ‘Oh my God,’ she said as she saw Bey, dishevelled and sobbing, on the step. ‘What on earth . . . Come in, come in . . .’

  And then she was in the warmth of a strange house and two people she’d never set eyes on before were ushering her into their kitchen, where the woman began heating up milk in the microwave.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ she said as she stirred hot chocolate into the mug. ‘Drink this and then you can tell me what happened. My name is Sandra and this is my husband Nick.’

  Even if Bey had wanted to talk, she couldn’t. Her voice seemed to have frozen along with the rest of her. She shivered and trembled and her teeth chattered on the rim of the mug. As soon as she’d taken a couple of mouthfuls of the hot chocolate, Sandra told her to come upstairs with her and take off her wet things.

  ‘We need to get you into something warmer,’ she said as she handed her a T-shirt and a tracksuit that were way too big for her but were fleecy and comforting. ‘We don’t want you dying of hypothermia.’

  Bey put them on wordlessly.

  ‘Who do we phone?’ asked Sandra.

  Bey still couldn’t speak. She wanted to but she simply couldn’t form the words.

  ‘Your mum? Your dad? Anyone?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you write down the number?’ suggested Sandra. ‘Oh, and write down your name too. Can you do that for me?’

  Bey nodded again and Sandra gave her a piece of paper and a pen. Her hands were still shaking, but not from the cold. Sandra and Nick had obviously left the heating on, and the house was comfortably warm. But Bey still couldn’t stop trembling and she was finding it hard to hold the pen. Eventually, though, she managed to print her name and her mother’s phone number.

  ‘I guess your mum will be worried about you, Bey,’ said Sandra as she read it. ‘Is it OK to phone her now? Or would you rather I called the gardai?’

  Bey’s eyes widened in horror. The police were the last people she wanted to see. They would find out about the ring. They might arrest her. And maybe the Warrens would make the accusations about her mum again too. She wasn’t dragging Lola into something that involved the police. She shook her head and pushed the number towards Sandra. The older woman asked if she was sure; then, when Bey nodded vigorously, she picked up the phone and began to dial.

  When Lola answered, Sandra spoke calmly and clearly, explaining who she was (a receptionist at a local doctor’s surgery and the wife of a professor at University College; a statement clearly made with the intention of putting Lola’s mind at ease) and telling her that Bey was at her house in Killiney. She gave Lola the address.

  ‘But . . . but . . . what on earth is she doing there?’ asked Lola. ‘She’s meant to be with her father. What’s happened? What has she done? Is she all right? Can I talk to her?’

  ‘She’s fine, Mrs Fitzpatrick. She’s just cold and a bit scared and she’s not really able to talk right now.’

  ‘Oh my God! I’ll be right there. Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Take your time,’ said Sandra. ‘The roads are dangerous and Bey’s perfectly safe with us. We’re taking good care of her. Please don’t worry.’

  But Bey knew her mother would be worrying. Lola was usually a calm sort of person, but it would take someone without any emotions at all not to be panicked by getting a phone call in the middle of the night from a perfect stranger to say that their daughter had taken refuge in their house.

  Lola would never stop worrying about her now.

  And that made Bey feel even worse.

  She was sitting in a big armchair, arms wrapped around her body, when the doorbell rang a mere twenty minutes later. Sandra answered it immediately and Lola pushed past her into the living room. She was wearing jeans and a jumper and a mismatched pair of boots. She’d bought both a black and a brown pair in Marks & Spencer earlier in the winter because they were so comfortable. She clearly hadn’t bothered to check before she’d rushed out of the house.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ she demanded after she’d hugged her daughter close to her. ‘I phoned your father at eleven. He said you were in bed asleep.’

  Bey still couldn’t speak. She gave her mother an anguished look.

  ‘Bey doesn’t feel able to talk about it just yet,’ said Sandra. ‘I know I’m only the receptionist at the surgery, but I’ve done a number of first-aid courses and I’m quite experienced. I’ve checked her over and as far as I can tell, apart from those scrapes and a couple of bruises, she’s physically fine.’

  ‘How did you get them?’ Lola kept her arms around Bey as she spoke. ‘Did someone . . . hurt you?’

  Bey shook her head.

  ‘You’d tell me?’ Lola’s voice was urgent. ‘Bey, if something happened, anything at all, it’s OK to tell me.’

  Bey shook her head again.

  ‘We can go to the police right now,’ said Lola. ‘If there’s anything they should know, we’d be better off not losing time.’

  This time Bey struggled from her arms and shook her head vigorously.

  ‘Perhaps when you get home and she’s had a night’s sleep she’ll be able to talk to you a little more about it,’ Sandra said. ‘Dr Carroll’s surgery reopens the day after tomorrow – well, given the time, I guess it actually opens tomorrow – and if you think she needs to see him, just ring me and I’ll schedule her in.’

  ‘You’ve been more than kind,’ said Lola. ‘I really don’t know . . .’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Sandra. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Come on then.’ Lola put her arm around Bey again. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  ‘Here are her clothes.’ Sandra picked up the plastic bag she’d put them in earlier.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lola. ‘I’ll get your things washed and returned to you as soon as possible. And I’ll be in touch again when I know . . . when Bey . . .’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Sandra. ‘Safe home, Mrs Fitzpatrick. Happy Christmas.’

  Neither of them spoke on the drive home, but Bey sighed in relief when her mother parked outside their house. As soon as they were inside, Lola called Philip. She had to wait a long time for the phone to be picked up, and when it was, it was Donna who answered. When Lola told her that Bey was with her, Bey herself could hear Donna’s cry of surprise. She listened as her mother gave Donna the sketchiest outline of what had happened, saying that she really didn’t know yet how Bey had managed to leave Cleevaun House and end up on a complete stranger’s doorstep.

  Philip took over the call, peppering Lola with questions, which she answered with a terse ‘I don’t know yet’ or ‘She hasn’t said’, finishing up with an angry ‘You were supposed to be in charge of her, for God’s sake. I’m picking up the pieces. As soon as I know, I’ll call you.’ After which she put the phone down and stared at her daughter.

  ‘That saint of a woman Sandra is right; you need to get to bed,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk in the morning, OK?’

  Bey nodded. The two of them looked at each other in silence for a moment and then Lola put her arms around her again and held her more tightly than she ever had before. Over the last few months Bey had struggled free from Lola’s hugs, thinking she was too old for that sort of thing, but right now she felt safe and comforted and didn’t want her mother to let go.

  Lola brought Bey upstairs to bed and stayed holding her hand until her daughter finally fell asleep. When her breathing was slow and even, Lola tucked her old teddy bear in beside her and went downstairs to make herself a coffee. It was still dark outside, but she knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep. She kept asking herself why Bey had slipped out of Cleevaun House. And she was terrified of what might have happened to her to make her end up asking a complete stranger for help. Lola understood why Sandra hadn’t called the police, but if her daughter had been assaulted, despite her denials that anyone had hurt her, potential evidence would have been lost given that S
andra had undressed her. Lola rubbed her forehead. She was consumed with guilt. Bey hadn’t wanted to spend Christmas with the Warrens but she’d insisted. If she’d listened to her daughter, this would never have happened.

  Whatever had driven Bey to leave the warmth of Cleevaun House in the middle of the night must have been pretty awful. Lola sighed and rested her head on the table. For all her superiority, for all that she liked to think she knew best, she’d failed as a mother. But that shouldn’t have surprised her, she thought. The more she tried to do what was right, the more dreadful her mistakes seemed to be.

  It was nine o’clock the following morning when she heard the car pull up outside the door. She was on her third cup of coffee, and was back in Bey’s room, watching over her. Her daughter was still sleeping, her face slightly flushed, her hair fanned out across the pillow. Lola looked out of the window and saw Philip getting out of his BMW. She hurried downstairs before he could ring the bell.

  ‘Hello,’ she said shakily as she opened the door.

  ‘What the hell is all this about?’ He walked past her into the kitchen.

  ‘I should ask you that,’ said Lola. ‘You were the one she was supposed to be with.’

  ‘I might have guessed you’d start the blame game straight away,’ said Philip.

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Lola cried. ‘We’re not here to talk about us. We’re here because of Bey. Because of what might have happened to her.’

  ‘What might have . . . What exactly did happen to her?’ asked Philip.

  As Lola told him what little she knew, he looked at her in complete bewilderment.

  ‘Normally we set the alarm at night, but because Mum and Dad and Peter and Cushla were staying over, we didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t tell me your parents would be there.’ Lola was taken aback. ‘Your brother, too? I’m guessing Cushla is his . . . wife, girlfriend?’

  ‘Fiancée,’ said Philip. ‘Since yesterday. At least Pete didn’t suffer the ignominy of being turned down.’