by Camilla Way
The café’s quiet when I arrive so early on a Saturday morning: a few exhausted-looking parents with newborn babies, a jogger or two. I take a seat where I have a good view of the door and, placing my phone on the table in front of me, I wait. Half an hour slides slowly past. The café begins to fill up. Where is she? Has she listened to my message? Is she on her way? A single, razor-sharp image from that awful, long-ago night returns to me, and I take deep breaths, trying to quell the dizzying panic I feel.
‘Are you OK?’ The waitress is looking at me with concern.
I make myself nod. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’ With a sympathetic smile, she moves away and I look at the clock above the till. An hour and twenty minutes since I first called Heather’s phone. The thought of returning to my flat, of continuing to live with her shadowy, threatening presence, never knowing when she’s going to reappear, leaves me in despair. I think about how Monica’s flat had been broken into, ransacked, destroyed. What does she want? What does she want from me now?
Another half an hour passes before I accept she’s not coming. I’d been stupid to think that she would. Suddenly I long to see Maya’s face. A fresh anxiety grips me. I had left her with Monica to keep her safe while I confront Heather alone. But what if she’s gone there? What if it’s Maya she wants to harm? Snatching up my phone I leave the café at a run, heading back into the park, the quickest route to my street. As I pass the bench I’d been sitting on I make frantic, desperate plans: once I’ve got Maya from Monica’s I’ll pack a bag. I’ll phone Uncle Geoff and ask if we can stay there for a week or two – just until I’ve made Heather meet me, just until I’ve made her stop. And what if you don’t make her stop? The thought hisses through my garbled thoughts as I quicken my pace. What if she keeps on and on? What if she attacks you? Harms Maya? Then I’ll have to make her stop, I tell myself desperately. I’ll just have to make her.
And suddenly I feel a hand gripping my shoulder.
Before
I lie awake and listen to the night, trying not to think about what had happened at the quarry. But every time I close my eyes I see Liam’s bloody, broken face, hear the sound of fist hitting bone, Liam’s howls of pain. For a brief and horrible moment I imagine it’s Edie lying there in Liam’s place and I sit bolt upright, gasping at the thought. I have to get Edie away from him. I have to get her away from Connor. Something awful is coming. I can feel it.
Eventually, in the early hours of the morning when the dark hangs close and thick, I turn on my bedside lamp and sit staring at the shadows that are thrown upon the walls, my thoughts chasing each other, always returning to the same one certainty: I must save her; I must save Edie. And when I think of Connor, the hatred I feel for him builds and expands inside me, an all-encompassing loathing that makes my heart clench like a fist, my veins fizzing with a kind of violence. The plan I had been formulating since the day I first went back to the flat returns with renewed strength. It’s the only possible solution, and as I sit there in the lamplight on my little single bed I’m filled with a jittery, heart-pounding excitement. Because it’s the only way; the only way to get Connor out of Edie’s life for good. Only I can save her. And now that I have made my decision, it’s impossible to imagine the future any differently.
The hours are long and silent while I make my plans, adding to them, fine-tuning them until they’re real and certain. When I eventually fall asleep it feels as though a few seconds have passed before I’m blinking awake to bright sunlight and the sound of my father calling me to breakfast. I get up, at first bleary-eyed and disorientated and then, in an instant, alert with adrenalin when I remember the decision I’d come to a couple of hours before.
In the kitchen Dad puts some cornflakes in front of me and disappears as usual behind his paper. Radio 4 burbles quietly in the background and for once I’m grateful for his lack of attention as I sink into my own thoughts. I grow hot and cold, feel myself trembling all over as the enormity of what I plan to do hits me. Do I dare, I ask myself, do I really dare to do it? And the answer comes back, Yes. I have no choice, after all. Edie needs me to take care of her, needs me to do this for her. Fear mixes with excitement. I’m deep in thought when Dad lowers his paper. ‘Aren’t you hungry, Heather?’ he asks.
I look down at my untouched breakfast. The thought of eating is impossible. I push my bowl away and shake my head, waiting for him to turn back to The Times. But instead he continues to watch me. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asks.
The question startles me. It strikes me that I can’t remember my father ever directly asking me how I felt before, about anything. He usually prefers to keep our conversations to the godly or the academic. He sighs and folds his newspaper, putting it down on the table in front of him. I stare back at the brown bushy eyebrows peppered with grey, the beaklike nose, the hazel eyes. My eyes, I realize suddenly. I had never noticed before that, for all our differences, our eyes at least are the same. I think of the bright, intense blue of my mother’s, the same as Lydia’s.
‘Heather?’ he says again. When I don’t reply he says quietly, ‘I saw your light on, in the night.’
I nod, sliding my gaze away from his. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I expect it’s been difficult for you,’ he says, his voice strange and thick, ‘what with … your mother …’
I’m hit by a rush of emotion, tears stinging my eyes.
‘Well, anyway,’ he hurries on, ‘I might not be as … what I mean is, I’d like to think you felt able to confide in me, if you … erm, felt it …’ he pauses, ‘necessary.’
I have no idea what to say. I think about when Lydia died, the chasm that had opened between my parents and me. How many years I’d wanted either of them to see someone other than the person responsible for her death. And now it’s too late, it’s all too late. At last I clear my throat. ‘I’m fine, Dad,’ I say. I get to my feet, and to my surprise my voice comes out clear and strong. ‘I better be going. Don’t want to be late for school.’ As I pass him I pause, and on impulse reach out and briefly pat his arm; our eyes meet and something passes between us, almost as though we both know that this will be the last time we ever touch.
I go straight to Edie’s street. Her house is dark and silent with every curtain drawn when I arrive. I look at my watch: 8.30 a.m. The morning has that cool, waiting, dew-soaked stillness summer mornings have before the heat falls. As I hesitate, a woman’s voice shouts out down the road, ‘Come back here, Ahmed, you little shit,’ while a man standing on his step dressed in boxer shorts smokes a cigarette and eyes me sullenly.
When I put my hand to the knocker it sounds like gunshots in the morning quiet. A long moment passes and then another before Edie’s mother finally opens up, her face pale and drawn. ‘She’s not here,’ she says immediately. ‘She didn’t come home last night and you can tell her from me that she’s still only seventeen and I’m going to call the police if she doesn’t—’
‘Listen,’ I interrupt and she stops talking in surprise. ‘Listen to me, please. I need to see her. It’s very important. Tell her she needs to meet me. I’ll wait for her. Six o’clock tonight at the old dairy. Tell her I’ll be there.’
‘No, you listen. I don’t know—’
‘It’s very important that you tell her. The old dairy. If she’s not there tonight I’ll wait for her, every night until she comes. Tell her.’ And then I turn away.
After
The man gripping my shoulder is stocky and well built. I stare at him in astonishment. When I try to pull free his hold tightens. ‘All right, Edie?’ he says.
My shock deepens. Who is this? How does he know my name?
He grabs hold of my arm and starts walking, half dragging me along with him.
‘Who … what do you want?’ I stumble over my feet, and in my panic try to search for possibilities. Had Heather sent him? I pull away. ‘Get off me!’ Wildly I look around me, but this part of the park is empty. I think about screaming and as if reading my mind he stops and
yanking me closer, roughly puts a hand over my mouth. Terrified, I stare back at him. Shaven-headed, in his forties, a wide flat face with small dark eyes. I look down as he reaches inside his jacket and my heart stops when I see the knife concealed there. The world falls away from me. Maya, I think. Don’t hurt me, don’t take me away from Maya. I give a small cry of horror.
He puts one hand around my throat. ‘Listen …’ he says, in his thick South London accent. ‘You do as you’re told and nothing’s going to happen. I just want to see her. All right? I just want to talk to her.’
Who? What? My mind spins in confusion. ‘Leave me alone,’ I say, desperately trying to twist out of his grasp as he begins to pull me again in the direction of the main gate. But his grip’s so strong that the pain in my elbow is now excruciating, as though the bones might shatter beneath his fingers.
He continues talking as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Know you’re tight with her. The two of you. Very cosy. Always round each other’s flats. Seen the texts you sent her when I took her phone. Watched you together. Thick as thieves, yeah?’ He nods, his small eyes dark little holes. ‘All you got to do is get her to open the door so I can talk to her. Then that’s you done. Just need to have a word with her. Need her to listen to me,’ he nods to himself, satisfied with his plan.
And then the penny finally drops. ‘Phil,’ I whisper. ‘You’re Phil.’
He doesn’t reply. He’s dragging me along again, and though it’s broad daylight, and the street’s fairly busy, he’s clearly and terrifyingly unconcerned. Violence radiates from him, buzzing and fizzing behind his eyes like trapped electricity. Passers-by glance up in surprise when they see us, but quickly look away and hurry on, their expressions suddenly masked, unseeing: don’t get involved.
I think fast. ‘Phil, listen,’ I say, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I can tell you’re angry, I know that—’
‘You wanna get that door of yours fixed,’ he interrupts. ‘Get anyone coming in, lock like that.’
The break-in at my flat, it was him. Reason escapes me, fear returns. ‘Let me go. Please, please, Phil.’ I think about the scar on Monica’s back, and my blood turns to ice. ‘Listen—’
‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up?’
Only one couple, emerging from their house, tries to intervene. ‘Um, excuse me,’ the man calls out nervously as Phil drags me along. ‘Are you all right?’
‘No,’ I call desperately, twisting towards him, but Phil yanks my arm so violently I cry out in pain.
When we reach my building he pushes me up the steps, causing me to stumble. ‘Open the door,’ he says.
‘Look, don’t do this,’ I plead. ‘She’s not in: Monica’s not in anyway.’ At this he grabs hold of my head and smashes it against the wood. Pain shoots through me. He pushes his face into mine and the expression in his small, dark eyes silences me.
‘You got a little one, yeah?’ he says to me. ‘Seen you with her. You get me into Monica’s flat – hear what I’m saying? Get me in there and I won’t come back for you.’ He pulls his knife out and holds it to my neck.
As I scrabble about in my pocket for my keys I try desperately to think of what to do. I only have a matter of seconds. I have to keep him away from Maya and Monica, and this is my last chance to stop him. In my fear I try to focus. He loosens his grip on my arm a fraction as I put my key in the lock and turn it. When I push the door open a crack and he begins to follow me I kick backwards with all my might, trying with my foot to push him back down the steps so I can get through the door alone. But it’s like kicking at a brick wall. He doesn’t even falter. Before I can do anything else he launches himself after me, pushing me into the hallway and slamming the door behind us.
I hear Maya crying from somewhere inside Monica’s flat and I cling on to it, focus on it, trying to think clearly. If I do one good thing in my life it will be to protect my daughter. After all the damage I’ve done, the mistakes I’ve made, it’s only Maya that matters now. Suddenly Phil puts his hand over my mouth and twists my arm behind my back. The pain is horrible. His hand shifts to my windpipe and he presses with such force that I think he’ll break my neck. As I choke and struggle for breath he hisses into my ear. ‘This is what you’re going to do, you fucking little bitch. You’re going to knock on that door and get her to open it. If you say anything about me, I’ll kill all three of you, OK?’
I nod and feel the point of the knife dig into my neck. He pushes me towards Monica’s door and with a shaking hand I knock. From inside, Maya’s cry grows louder. A few moments later I hear Monica’s voice. ‘That you, Edie?’ she calls out and then, ‘Shush, Maya, Mummy’s here.’ She pauses, and I hear the uncertainty in her voice. ‘That is you, isn’t it, Edie?’
And I think about how much I love Monica, the first real friend I’ve had since Heather. Tears fill my eyes. I don’t reply. Again I feel the blade of Phil’s knife against my skin. ‘Yes,’ I say, but too quietly and I feel the tip of the blade pierce my skin, blood trickling down my neck. ‘Yes,’ I say more loudly. ‘It’s me.’ Phil clamps his hand over my mouth, and I hear her on the other side beginning to pull the bolt back. I feel him tense with anticipation. My heart pounds in my ears, a second passes and then another and I hear the first lock begin to turn. In his eagerness his fingers loosen a tiny fraction. As Monica turns the second lock I jerk my head away and have just enough time to scream, ‘Don’t open it!’ I hear Phil’s cry of rage before pain rips through me, and then … blackness.
Before
She doesn’t come the first night. I wait and I wait while the sky turns purple and gold, the twilight seeping into the dairy’s derelict corners, the broken brick walls growing blurry and indistinct, the trees beyond it darkening, thickening. The grasshoppers’ shrill chirping builds to a crescendo and somewhere behind me comes the faint sound of children calling to each other from the streets of Tyner’s Cross. The scent of the evening deepens, musky and sweet. Seven o’clock comes, then eight, the long grass whispers in a sudden breeze and I think about Edie and I think about Connor and the blood roars in my ears and still she doesn’t come.
I wait the next night, and the one after that, and then, on the fourth, as I make my way through the field, I see her: a small figure sitting on the furthest wall. Five to six, the sky still a bright clear blue, the heat still punishing. I see there’s something very wrong long before I reach her. My heart races and I quicken my pace, tramping through the grass, kicking it away from me. When I reach her she’s half-slumped, her head bowed to her chest, her eyes closed. I kneel before her and take hold of her arms. ‘Edie,’ I say, ‘Edie, are you OK?’ When she doesn’t respond I shake her, my panic rising. ‘Edie,’ I say, ‘what have you done? What have you taken? Please, Edie, wake up.’
She raises her head and slowly her eyes focus on me. ‘Heather,’ she says, and starts to laugh, a hysterical, high-pitched giggle. ‘Hiya, Heifer,’ she says and falls against me. I grip her shoulders and hold her upright, and when I look down I see a scattering of tiny needle marks along the insides of her thin arms. ‘Edie,’ I say, my eyes filling with tears, but at that moment she reels away from me, and vomits long and hard into the grass.
I stroke her back until she’s finished and when she’s finally stopped I gently lift her up and help her over to a place in the shade, and she sits obedient as a child on the grass, her back against the wall, her head on my shoulder.
‘Edie,’ I whisper. ‘You have to get away from him. You have to.’
I brace myself for her anger and denial but to my surprise she only says, very quietly, ‘I can’t.’
‘But look at you, look what he’s done to you.’
She begins to cry. We sit in silence for a while and I feel something of the old closeness between us. I savour it, closing my eyes to hold it tight. ‘Edie,’ I say after a long moment. ‘Has he … has he ever hurt you?’ I hold my breath but she remains silent. I begin to wonder if she heard me, and then I feel her head move against my shoulde
r as she nods. I put my arm around her and hold her to me, while white-hot rage flashes through me. I picture Connor’s face and want only to annihilate it, claw at it with my fingernails until it’s a bloody mess. I could kill him. I know that with absolute certainty. If I saw him now, I could kill him.
After a few minutes she wipes her eyes and sits up a little. ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ she says. ‘He can’t help it. Sometimes I do things, say things that make him … you don’t understand, Heather. You don’t know him. How lovely he can be. He loves me. He really loves me.’
I bite my tongue and will her to keep talking.
‘If you knew the things I know … about his childhood and stuff, the things he’s told me …’
I think about what Liam had said about Connor’s mum but then I think of Liam’s battered, broken face and I start to feel sick again. ‘I don’t care,’ I say hotly. ‘I don’t care about him. I only care about you! Look!’ I say snatching up her thin wrist, holding it up to show her the needle marks. ‘You know this is wrong. You know it is! You’ve got to stop seeing him, you’ve got to get away from him!’
‘How can I stop? How can I?’ Her voice rises. ‘He’s here, everywhere I look there he is.’ Tears pour down her cheeks as she gestures at the towers. ‘I can’t, I can’t get away from him. He’s in my head, always. There’s no way out. It goes on and on and on.’