ISABEL
No more Thelma and Louise road trip for me. I’m a bus and train traveller now, Leah. What do you think of me getting on a bus? Settling down in my seat, one row down from a collection of rowdy men known as a “stag do”, quietly reading my book—The Peregrine, by J.A. Baker, if you’d like to know. I might even lend you a copy. There was, of course, a worry that the beer-swilling, football-chanting group behind me might recognise me, but they’ve paid me little attention. One of the group attempted to make conversation, perhaps in an effort to work out if I’m “up for it”, but as soon as he realised I wasn’t, he went back to the group and commenced a new chant about someone called Harry Kane.
But don’t worry, Leah. The delights of the Peregrine kept me distracted from the buffoonery behind me. That is, until the sea caught my attention.
It was at that moment that I realised my little road trip with Chloe hadn’t made the most of the delights of this country. Yes, we drove into the countryside. We drove to isolated pastures. We ate as much junk food as we possibly could. We listened to the radio playing loudly, and Chloe laughed when I didn’t know any of the chart music. But we never came to the sea. Do you know how long it’s been since I saw the sea? A long time. And even longer if you count the British coast. My parents preferred to spend their money abroad, on a craggy Greek Island or the luxurious French Rivera. Most of our holidays were such a dull affair that I contemplated throwing myself from the steep cliffs of Corfu, or perhaps throwing someone else into the dark depths of the sea.
Luckily for you, I never did throw myself from a cliff.
The sight was enough to make me put my book away and gaze out to the distance. It made me want to write to you, to tell you what a stunning view the sea is. Leah, I wish you were here with me so we could experience it together. What a wonderful last sight it would be. Don’t you think?
I left the bus before the members of the stag do. No doubt they’re on their way to a livelier seaside resort. I don’t need that kind of energy. I’m happy with the quiet little place I’ve arrived at. Clifton-on-Sea. It sounds like the kind of place where Poirot would comb his moustache and totter around with his cane. It sounds like an excellent place to hide. Well done, Leah.
You put on a commendable show of attempting to escape me. I truly had no idea where you were, and you have been surrounded by protection at every turn. Even now, as I twiddle the gold ring on my finger, I am in awe of just how much the police have thrown into keeping you safe. The police stayed in Hutton for far longer than they were welcome. They checked up on your mother’s grave. They brought you here, changed your name, and gave you a new life.
But do you deserve that life? How complicit are you in the grand scheme of things? How responsible are you for the acts I’ve committed? I’m insane, Leah, or so the doctors have told me for many years. Does all the blame sit at my feet?
You, though you have your issues, are not insane. Your issues are the scratch of a troubled past. Not much to write home about. Nothing of any particular interest. And yet you’re the one given a new life? You’re the protected one?
There are plenty of small B&Bs to choose from in Clifton, but I would like somewhere a little more private. By the time I’m done walking to the caravan park, my stomach is rumbling, and after a strange little man wearing far too little for his age shows me to my van, I decide to raid the vending machines on the site. There are plenty of free maps of the area to choose from, too, and it doesn’t take me long to locate Ivy Lodge, the care home where you work. Did they let you become a nurse again? More fool them.
I don’t linger in the caravan for too long. It’s far too reminiscent of the room in Crowmont. I do, however, bleach my hair. I practise the accent down here, making my voice sound a bit posher, a lot less northern. And then I get the strange little man wearing shorts at the front desk to order me a taxi. I want to see you, Leah. I want to see your face. It’s been too long, and now I can barely picture it.
I can’t wait to see you again. Can you say the same for me?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I stand in the kitchen feeling stunned. The laptop is still open, and my face is still visible on the screen. It’s the terrible photo taken for my ID badge at Crowmont Hospital, where the flash drained all colour from my face and my pale skin clashed with the wall behind me. How could anyone do this to me? How could they?
I’m shaking as I sit back down in the chair and begin to scroll through every tweet related to #justiceforalison. It takes less than a minute to find the one that means the most. Her name is Lizzie James, and she works at a care home in Clifton-on-Sea. A fucking care home! #justiceforalison.
My mouth fills with bile as nausea rises from my belly. What have they done? They’ve killed me, that’s what they’ve done.
I grab my mobile phone and dial the emergency number I was given by Adam to use whenever anything like this happens, but I don’t tap the call button. Instead, I come out of the screen and call Tom instead. He needs to know first. He needs to get out before even Adam can set anything up. At least him being away from me makes him slightly safer.
But he’s still dodging my calls. I have to leave a voicemail.
“Tom, it’s Leah. I know you don’t want to hear from me, but this is important. My name and photograph have been leaked on social media. They know the name Lizzie, and they know where I work. It isn’t safe for you here. I’m going to call Adam so he can place us somewhere else. I think you should get out now. Keep in touch, Tom. This is serious. You know it is. Okay? I love you.”
Then I call Adam. Three rings, no answer, and my stomach roils with concern. I can’t stop thinking about the magpie on my front step and the rock flying through the air towards the camera.
Five rings. Still no answer. What’s the point in an emergency number if there’s no response?
Voicemail again.
“My name is out. People know who I am and where I work. I need to get out. I’m going to find a hotel to stay. Can you call me back? Please? Soon as you get this.”
*
ISABEL
Ivy Lodge is disappointingly sweet for a care home, the name clearly inspired by the ivy that creeps up the front of the house and clusters around the door. I only stand in the carpark for a moment to see if I can see you, with no intention of going in. I could try sneaking past the security, of which I’m sure there isn’t much. Perhaps I can steal a nurse’s uniform, or find out the name of a patient and claim to be their granddaughter. But I don’t plan on doing any of that, because nothing can risk the future I have planned for us both.
But something fortuitous happens. A visitor’s pass slips from the jacket pocket of a guest as they’re leaving. No one sees it. No one bends down to pick it up. I walk towards the building as though I’m about to enter, bend down, retrieve it, and hang it around my neck as though nothing has happened. Then I walk into the home, smile at the woman on reception, and ask for your name.
“Oh, I’m covering reception for her,” says the short woman with spiky hair. “If you need her, she’ll be in room six with George Hawker.”
“George Hawker?”
“He’s a patient here. Lizzie has been helping him find out what happened to his sister in the forties. She disappeared during a house fire all those years ago. It was very sad. Poor old George wants to know what happened to her before he passes on. It’s very kind of her.”
My lips form a smile. “She’s such a lovely person, isn’t she?”
“We all love her around here. Are you a friend of hers?” she asks.
“An old friend,” I reply. “We go way back. We went to university together.”
“Really? I didn’t know Lizzie went to uni.”
“She did,” I say. “We’re both nurses.”
“A nurse?” the woman frowns. “She never mentioned she was a nurse.”
“Well, I’d better be getting on. Thank you for the help.” I walk away from the desk, smiling to myself. They didn’t
let you come back as a nurse after all. Instead, you had to get a job as a receptionist. Was that demeaning for you, Leah? Did you cry yourself to sleep?
Room six is deep within one of the corridors, with the door slightly open. I know I can’t linger too long, but I’m curious about this new you. I see you’re still poking your nose into other people’s business. Remember when you thought I was innocent? Wasn’t that a hoot? When will you stop letting people manipulate you into helping them?
I press myself close to the door and listen. The room is quiet, apart from the beeping from a machine. I wonder if I have the right room at all, but then I angle myself better in order to see through the slight gap.
And there you are.
It’s only the back of your head, but it’s wonderful to see you. A moment later, your hand stretches up and adjusts the blanket laid over the old man on the bed. As attentive as always, I note. I’m not sure how the idiots here haven’t figured out you’re a nurse. The signs are all there.
I long to reach out and touch you; my fingers stretch closer, but I know it’s too soon. I only wanted to see you from a distance, and I have perhaps been too bold with my desires. This is too risky and could ruin my future plans if I don’t act with caution.
As much as it kills me, I turn away and walk out of the home, dropping my visitor’s pass at the reception desk on the way out.
But I’ve seen you, Leah. I’ve seen you. How wonderful it was to see you. Now, I need to figure out a way for us to meet. We need a proper catch-up, you and I, don’t you agree?
*
LEAH
I stop by the fish and chip shop, but there’s no sign of Tom; however, a surly man with a moustache tells me he isn’t at work today. I even slip up and ask for Tom, then appear extremely strange by correcting myself to Scott.
Nowhere is safe for me now. My instinct tells me to get as far away from Clifton as I can, but I can’t leave without Tom, and he hasn’t told me his new address yet. I don’t know where he is.
What if she has him?
No, don’t think that. Don’t think that at all.
First, I need to find a safe place to stay. There are plenty of quaint little B&Bs in the area, but I also know of a caravan park a mile or so back from the coast. It’s cheaper, more isolated, but would the vans be safe? It would certainly be easier to break into a caravan than a B&B, but would she even think to look there? I just don’t know.
I walk up and down the promenade, my head whipping from side to side. She could be anywhere. Watching me. The tendrils of her creep up to me and tickle the back of my neck. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in the loft at Hutton, sharpening her knives, a slow smile spreading across her face.
Fuck.
What do I do?
*
ISABEL
Clifton is lovely, Leah. I can see why you decided to stay here. There’s a charming little chip shop on the promenade, and the ice cream is just splendid. There’s also one of those pawn shop type places where you can buy old laptops and PlayStations. I decide to purchase a cheap tablet and pay for the wifi at the caravan park. I need to keep an eye on the #justiceforalison hashtag. The tweet hasn’t quite gone viral yet, and I would be surprised if you knew your name and photograph is out there for everyone to see. No, I believe the photograph is being sent via personal messages to the trusted few lobbying for your punishment.
You have no idea I’m here. There you were, tucking in an old man, sitting dutifully at his bedside. Do you remember when you would sit dutifully outside my room? My guardian angel. My ticket out into the world.
But then I found myself out in the world, and I missed you. I’ve realised that the world doesn’t want me, Leah, and I’m not sure I want to be in this world, either. Oh, I can have a bit of fun every now and then. The fun I had with Chloe was amusing enough. But there’s nothing here that will sustain me for the long term. I knew that as soon as I abandoned your silly little car and ran away onto the moors.
I don’t belong to this world.
What was I supposed to do at that point? I had no idea. All I wanted to do was go back and talk to you, to figure out what I was supposed to do. But deep down, I knew you didn’t want me either.
And, well, Daddy and Owen… Yes, they understand. We’re all the same, after all. But they were users. They wanted to exploit my talents. Daddy and I had quite the row, which was why I insisted that Owen spend some time in prison. Daddy frightened me at one time. I knew who he was. I see the newspapers now as they find his bodies all over the place. Skinny young girls like Chloe. No doubt their rotting skin is covered in needle marks. I suppose I’m turning into him a little bit, abusing the people who are never missed.
No, that’s not true. Daddy never created art. All he cared about was the power, and that was easy for him, because he was the only one who needed to appreciate how powerful he was. But not me. I need someone to appreciate my art, and I’m not finding an appreciative audience.
At least I wasn’t until recently.
There’s another reason why the ridiculous #justiceforalison hashtag intrigues me. You see, the world is very presumptuous. They find a woman with her back all cut up, and they just assume that it was me. But, Leah, it wasn’t. The only person I’ve killed since James Gorden was Chloe, and that was half out of necessity. I don’t like my art to be rushed. I like to take my time, and afterwards I savour it for as long as I can. Little Maisie lasted until I became restless, for instance. I’m not an animal. I don’t long to kill every mouse I find. I take my time, because I want to feel it from the inside out. It took a little while for me to want to kill Chloe, and I wouldn’t do it unless I wanted to.
I never even met this Alison Finlay. I have no idea who she was at all. Which means someone else killed her. Someone who knows the way in which I kill.
I can think of very few people, Leah.
Do you know who it was?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Leah.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard my name spoken outside the bungalow or on the telephone. The shock of it causes me to go rigid all over. I grip the cold metal of the railing on the promenade and turn around.
“You wanted to speak to me.”
Relief floods through me. I rush forward and grab him by the shoulders, pulling him to me. “I was worried. Did you get my message? My name and photograph are all over Twitter. Mark saw it and freaked out. Isabel knows. The bird on the doorstep—”
“We’ll sort it out,” Tom replies. His expression is impassive, but he runs a hand through his hair. The sun makes his birthmark even brighter against his skin. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, with one hand pushed down into the pocket.
“We should leave. I can’t get hold of Adam at all, so we’ll have to go on our own and hope they can send us some money or something. I have a month’s—”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Are you insane? We have to get out of here. You know how dangerous Isabel is.” Right on cue, my scars begin to itch. I reach back under my t-shirt and try to scratch them, but I can’t reach.
“I’m not leaving. Let her come.” He shrugs.
I don’t understand his reaction. He was adamant that I hadn’t done enough to keep us safe, that I had been too passive, too accepting of our position, that I should have killed her when I had the chance.
“What?”
“I’m sick of running from her. I’m sick of being afraid. She’s a short, skinny woman, and I’ve been going to the gym. I’m taller, heavier, fitter. I can take her.”
“You’re not seriously suggesting you fight a serial killer?” I lean in to him, my voice lowering in case any of the random walkers might overhear.
“Why not? She doesn’t have members of her family helping her move bodies and capture people. When she kidnapped me, it wasn’t her who knocked me out. It was her father, and I killed him.”
The nonchalance of his words frightens me. “But not out of choice. You
did it because you had to. Why would you want any of that to happen again?”
“I don’t,” Tom says. “But I also like it here, and I’m not running away. Look, I promise you I’m not being stupid. We can hide away somewhere. Get a hotel. Call Murphy and get the police down here. But I’m not running away, Leah.”
There’s a determination in his eyes that I haven’t seen for a while, and for once, that unemotional haze seems to have lifted. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps it’s time to stop running.
“All right. I’ll make a call. We’ll stay here. We don’t go back to the bungalow, but we stay in Clifton.”
*
The next step is to find somewhere to hide, but once we’ve examined the contents of both my and Tom’s bank accounts, it’s clear that our options are limited. My direct debits have already cleared, leaving me with the small amount of spending money I have per month, and most of Tom’s money goes straight to the pub and the gym, something that I’m only just learning.
Most of the B&Bs around Clifton are boutique and expensive, tailored for young professionals or retired couples. The one budget hotel nearby is fully booked. Given all of that, we decide to head to the caravan park after all, despite the fact that it might not be quite as safe and secure as a hotel. It’s better than the bungalow.
What I’m most worried about is her following me. We probably lingered too long on the promenade, where we were out in the open for anyone to see. One of the problems is that I don’t know how Isabel is travelling around the town. Does she have a car? She certainly doesn’t have a licence, but that hasn’t stopped her before. Is she using buses? Or taxies? When we get on the bus to make our way to the caravan park, I make sure that we sit right at the back in order to examine every single person who gets on and off.
I’m a quivering mess of anxiety as I examine faces and body types. Could she be the skinny person in the hoodie? No, they get off at the next stop and are clearly a teenage boy. What about the girl reading her Kindle? Her head is bent low. Her hair is a different colour, but she could have changed it. Does Isabel have narrow or wide shoulders? How tall is she? I can’t remember any of these things. Why can’t I remember? I should have taken a photograph of her and kept it to remind myself. The mugshot used by the news is no good, because it’s just her face, and I remember her face just fine.
Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2) Page 16