by Simon Booker
‘How is she?’ says Morgan.
‘OK.’ He corrects himself. ‘All things considered.’
‘She definitely lost the baby?’
A nod.
‘They’ve done an ultrasound. “No pregnancy remaining within the uterus”.’
Morgan closes her eyes for a moment. She’s been hoping for better news, a miracle. Now all hope is gone. Opening her eyes, she takes stock of cuts and grazes to Cameron’s face.
And you?’
‘I’m OK.’ He pockets his phone. ‘Lucky, I guess. I forgot to fasten my seatbelt. Thank God she’s smarter.’
He gets to his feet and leads Morgan through swing doors, along an empty corridor.
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘We were driving along a country road. Guy comes out of nowhere, zooms up behind us in a van. He rear-ends us, twice, then rams us off the road, into a ditch. Airbags explode. Car’s a write-off. Guy drives away.’
‘So it was no accident?’
‘No. He picked his moment. No cars, no witnesses. One piece of good news, though. Lissa was taking a selfie, just before he hit us the first time.’
Morgan feels her pulse quickening.
‘So there’s a photo of the driver?’
He shakes his head.
‘Just a partial registration.’
‘Was it a white camper van?’
‘She said you’d ask that. It was red. That’s all I saw, the rest was a blur. The police are checking the registration now.’
Morgan’s mind has been working overtime. That the crash was no accident comes as little surprise. The driver’s identity remains a mystery, but Morgan recalls the journey she and Lissa made to meet Cameron’s flight at Heathrow.
Ben at the wheel of his Range Rover. Glimpses of a Yamaha motorcycle in the mirror. An instinct that they were being followed.
She’d dismissed it as paranoia. Not any more. She can’t prove the motorcyclist was Jukes, acting on Karl’s instructions – that he’d tailed Cameron and Lissa, stolen a van and picked his moment – but Morgan knows this to be true, just as she knows what she will do if they come face to face.
Fighting to keep a lid on her rage, she follows Cameron around a corner, heading along another corridor.
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘There was extensive bleeding. The pregnancy sac was expelled shortly after the car went off the road. They also say a miscarriage is not uncommon during the first twelve weeks, but the physical and emotional trauma of the crash could have been the cause.’ He slows to a halt outside a ward. ‘I’m sorry it happened on my watch. She’ll be OK. She’s a tough cookie. Takes after you.’
They exchange a rueful look. Two semi-strangers bound together for life because of a one-night-stand in a university bedsit twenty years ago. Morgan remembers the selfie her daughter sent from the posh hotel, a pillow stuffed under her shirt, making her look heavily pregnant.
I’m having a BABY! SO excited!
Cameron clears his throat.
‘Ready?’
Morgan takes a breath, steadying herself. She needs to stay calm for Lissa’s sake. This is the second time her daughter has been hospitalised in recent weeks.
‘Ready.’
The ward is small. Four curtained-off cubicles, two empty. An elderly woman dozes in the bed by the window. Lissa, too, is asleep, or so it seems, but her eyes flicker open as Morgan draws near. She keeps her voice even.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’
Her daughter’s eyes glisten with tears. Morgan takes her hand.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.
Lissa manages a nod. Her voice is hoarse with emotion.
‘Is it because I made him think I’d had an abortion?’
Yes.
‘Maybe,’ says Morgan.
Lissa closes her eyes. Morgan allows the silence to stretch, taking her daughter’s hand and squeezing it gently. When Lissa looks at her again, the tears are gone. Her voice is full of anger and frustration.
‘How long do I have to stay in this dump?’
‘We’re trying to find out,’ says Cameron. He turns to Morgan. ‘The guy’s a maniac. I’ve told the police. He needs to be stopped.’
You think?
Morgan feels another surge of frustration. Before she can reply, her attention is taken by a flurry of movement outside the door. Two police officers are visible through the pane of glass, heading for the ward. Entering, they introduce themselves. PC Golding is a stocky man with a rugby player’s nose. PC Williams is a slight woman with a hint of a lisp. Both are in their early twenties. Neither inspires confidence.
‘I know who did this,’ says Morgan. Her appetite for small talk is limited at the best of times. These are not the best of times.
PC Williams takes out her notebook.
‘Your daughter gave us a name.’ She flicks through the pages and raises an eyebrow. ‘Karl Savage?’
Morgan feels overwhelmed by a wave of hopelessness and fatigue.
‘I know what you’re going to tell me,’ she says. ‘But you’re wrong, he’s alive.’ The police officers exchange a look. Morgan can feel her jaw tightening.
‘Have you checked the van’s registration?’
Golding nods.
‘Reported stolen just after seven this morning,’ he says. ‘From Folkestone. A Ford Transit.’
‘It’ll be in a crusher by now,’ says Morgan. ‘Or at the bottom of a lake.’
Williams clears her throat and checks her notepad.
‘Pity the selfie didn’t catch the driver’s face.’
Morgan feels her face redden. ‘Is that the best you can do? Criticise my daughter for not being a better witness?’
In the silence that follows, she’s dimly aware of Cameron placing a hand on her arm. Placatory. Patronising. She shrugs him off and turns to her daughter.
‘Back in a moment.’
Lissa frowns.
‘Don’t keep stuff from me, Mum.’
Morgan gives a reassuring smile.
‘You’ve been through a lot. You need rest. Back in two minutes.’
Lissa nods, then closes her eyes. Morgan heads out into the corridor, gesturing for Cameron and the police officers to follow.
‘I’m sorry,’ she tells them. ‘I’m upset.’
PC Williams nods.
‘We’ve taken statements. We’re doing all we can. Finding the van is a priority, but without witnesses we’ve not a lot to go on.’
‘Understood,’ says Morgan. Her smile is unconvincing but it’s the best she can do. ‘Thanks for your help.’
She watches the police officers retrace their steps along the corridor, crossing with an exhausted-looking doctor who introduces himself as Dr Patel. He accompanies Morgan and Cameron back onto the ward. Gathered around the bedside, it’s established that the patient is to be discharged. Lissa can expect vaginal bleeding for the next five to seven days and should ring the gynaecology ward if it becomes heavy or clotted.
‘Best to use contraception for three months before trying for another baby,’ finishes Patel.
Lissa’s eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Are you kidding? I’m never having sex again.’
Gallows humour. Morgan feels a lump in her throat. Once again, her daughter is being brave. She thanks Dr Patel for his help. As he leaves and Cameron waits outside she helps her daughter get dressed while listening to her account of the crash.
All the while, her mind is whirring.
I will find you, Karl Savage.
You will rue the day you met my daughter.
You will regret knowing my name.
*
An hour later, they’re at a window table in an empty seafront café, gazing at the glow of Calais’s lights across the Channel. Coffees for Morgan and Cameron; hot chocolate for Lissa. And Marmite toast. Comfort food. Morgan suggested going straight to Ben’s, so Lissa could rest, but her daughter insisted on doing something normal.
Right now, Morgan is re
sisting the urge to reach out and brush Lissa’s hair – long, slow strokes, the way she loved as a little girl – but her hair is too short.
Another casualty of Karl’s Savage’s vicious streak.
Clink-rasp.
Cameron is glued to his mobile (or cellphone, as he calls it these days). The tap tap tap as he sends emails grates on Morgan’s nerves, but she’s trying to stay on an even keel.
Conversation has faltered. They’ve exchanged commiserations over the miscarriage, dissected every aspect of the crash and agreed that the police will make little effort to find the red Transit – and none to find Karl Savage.
Lissa’s face is etched with misery, her voice morose.
‘It’s like we’re in a zombie movie. He’s the living dead.’
Tap tap tap.
Morgan rolls her eyes.
‘Can’t that wait?’
Cameron doesn’t look up.
‘Only if I want to get fired from this movie.’
‘I thought it fell through.’
‘That was last week. Welcome to my world.’
Lissa’s eyes blaze with anger.
‘Hasn’t the world had enough shitty romcoms?’
‘No, thank God.’
He sips his coffee, then puts his phone on the table, face down, and launches into an explanation.
‘It’s 11 a.m. in Hollywood: peak bullshit hour. The producers read the latest draft of my script overnight. Now they’re bombarding me with demands. They all want different changes. The director’s in rehab in Arizona, something two of the four producers are keeping from the other two, in case they pull their funding, which would bring the whole project crashing down. For the bazillionth time.’ He sighs. ‘It’s not called development hell for nothing.’
Morgan can only guess how much Oscar-nominated Cameron is paid per screenplay. Half a million? More? The Malibu house, the cars, the twenty-something baby-hungry Ukrainian girlfriend – none of his lifestyle comes cheap.
‘When are you going back to LA?’
‘Tomorrow.’
His phone vibrates. She can tell he’s desperate to check the message.
‘You need to take her with you.’
Lissa looks up from her hot chocolate.
‘Who’s her?’
‘Who do you think?’
Morgan can see Cameron thinking, weighing up the suggestion.
‘OK,’ he says.
The speed of his decision takes Morgan by surprise, but it reminds her, briefly, of what she once saw in him.
Lissa folds her arms.
‘No way.’
‘This isn’t up for discussion,’ says Morgan. ‘It’s happening.’
‘Only if you come too.’
‘I can’t go anywhere.’
‘Then I can’t either.’
Cameron frowns.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not leaving Mum on her own.’
‘I’m not on my own. Ben’s very supportive.’
Only half true, but if it makes her daughter feel better about getting out of harm’s way . . .
‘Are you and he a thing?’ says Lissa.
‘Irrelevant.’
A shrug.
‘Either way, I’m not going.’
Cameron’s phone vibrates again. He doesn’t move. He’s staring at Morgan.
‘Why are you so obsessed with this Karl guy?’ he says. ‘I know about Anjelica Fry and all the rest of it, but why are you so determined to take him on?’
Morgan sips her coffee, choosing her words with care. Her answer will determine Lissa’s decision.
‘I’m scared of him. But I refuse to live that way. No matter what happens, I refuse to be frightened any more. I don’t want Lissa to be scared either. So I need to do what needs to be done. But first, I need to know she’s safe.’
Moved, Lissa’s eyes glaze with tears. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper.
‘OK, I’ll go with Dad.’
‘Thank you.’
‘On one condition. You let Ben help. And don’t do anything stupid.’
‘That’s two conditions.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Mum.’
‘OK, it’s a deal.’
Cameron signals for the bill. Morgan finishes her coffee, gripped by a sense of foreboding. She smiles for her daughter’s benefit, trying to sound more cheerful than she feels.
‘Will you just look at us?’ she says brightly. ‘One big happy family.’
Lissa rolls her eyes. Cameron coughs, then picks up his phone.
‘I’m booking you a flight,’ he tells Lissa.
Tap tap tap . . .
Morgan studies her daughter.
‘Am I allowed to ask how you’re feeling?’
A shrug.
‘I’m OK.’
Her daughter’s eyes fill with tears. Not for the first time, Morgan has the feeling she’s keeping something back.
‘Is there something you need to say, Lissa?’
A shake of the head.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Morgan manages a smile.
But she doesn’t believe a word.
Thirty-Six
KARL
Hope is not a plan.
That’s what Daddy used to say.
Karl’s been thinking about the plan for months.
Years.
Hoping things will change. But they never will. Apart from ‘no peeking’, she hasn’t said a word, not since the funeral.
This is all your fault.
He’s eleven today. Getting bigger every week. Stronger. He needs strength if he’s to carry out the plan.
The Whistler has become a permanent fixture, staying every weekend. The ‘special game’ happens on Saturday nights, while Pearl is asleep.
Or pretending to be.
Karl tried saying no.
Once was more than enough.
He had to take ten days off school, until the bruises faded. Ten days, alone in the cellar.
He’s been thinking about taking the tin to the police, perhaps one day after school, but has decided against it. They’d only put her away, give her three meals a day, put a roof over her head. Which is more than she deserves. Much more.
So her secret is safe. If nobody knew she’d had the baby, it stands to reason nobody will report him missing. Ever.
No one knows what The Whistler did.
Except Pearl.
And Karl.
He’s got the letter to prove it. A snivelling apology, clearly written when drunk. Karl found it in the kitchen bin, torn in two, but taped it back together. Written in red ink, the handwriting is distinctive.
Karl is keeping the letter safe, tucked inside his trouser pocket.
You never know when something like that might be useful.
He’s not sure if The Whistler is aware of what’s inside the tin. Maybe that’s her secret. He wouldn’t put it past her. She’s not normal. Not like the mums who pick up their kids from school. Help with homework. Cheer on sports day. If she were a normal mum she wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what The Whistler does.
And she would never have helped him cover up what happened.
Even so, what happened to Guy was The Whistler’s fault.
Guy.
Karl decided on the name when he looked inside the tin and saw the baby was a boy. He remembers the man’s hot, beery breath.
Fucking baby wouldn’t stop crying. I kept telling him to shut up, but he wouldn’t. So I snapped.
If Karl does it – when he does it – it’ll be as much for Guy as for himself.
Today’s the day. A birthday present to himself. The only one he’ll get.
He’d have done it ages ago but didn’t have everything he needed.
Now he does.
He knows every single thing that’s down here, every piece of piping, every brick, every crack in the concrete floor. There’s nothing he can use as a weapon. Which is why h
e brought the poker from upstairs and hid it under the mattress.
The Whistler sometimes makes log fires, like Daddy used to. But he never roasts chestnuts in winter. Or marshmallows. Never leaves a stocking on Christmas Eve.
Hiding under the duvet, Karl hears the key in the padlock. Waiting for the familiar jaunty whistle, his fingers tighten around the heavy iron poker. He doesn’t move, biding his time until the man moves closer.
No whistling. Not yet. But it will come. The Whistler knows the cellar is in darkness. He never turns on the torch. Not till after the special game.
Heart pounding, Karl feels a hand groping towards his leg.
NOW!
He throws back the duvet. Jumps up. Raises his arm. Brings the poker crashing down. A single blow to the head. His aim is perfect. The figure crumples and lies still.
Panting, Karl backs away from the body on the floor. He grabs his torch. Poised to land a second blow if necessary. But there’s no need. Hands shaking, he switches on the torch and lets the beam play over the concrete floor
He gasps.
The motionless figure bleeding from the head is not The Whistler.
It’s Pearl.
Thirty-Seven
The morning after Cameron and Lissa fly to LA, Morgan wakes to feel Ben planting soft kisses along the length of her back. She lies motionless, savouring the sensation of his lips on her skin and listening to the rain outside until a wave of intrusive thoughts (Lissa’s miscarriage . . . clink-rasp . . . red van) make it impossible to lie still.
She sits up in bed. ‘Mind if we save this for later?’
A grin.
‘Now that’s what I call foreplay.’
He kisses her shoulder.
‘Coffee coming up,’ he says, slipping out of bed. Lying back against the pillow, stretching luxuriantly, she watches as he heads into the bathroom. Broad back. Long legs. Perfect bum. She calls after him.
‘What’s the catch, Gaminara?’
But her voice is drowned out by the sound of water running in the shower.
Twenty minutes later, over coffee and scrambled eggs, he tells her about the day ahead. A backlog of paperwork, if he gets the chance, but it’s more than likely he’ll be called to the scene of at least one suspected arson attack – probably more.