Under the Ice

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Under the Ice Page 24

by Rachael Blok


  Will turns and walks away. The curtain is falling.

  The bells sound out one o’clock. ‘Ding-dong dell,’ she whispers. Her feet, already petrifying beneath her, refuse to allow her to follow him. She wills them, but they do not move. The pull behind her is intense and when she does manage to lift a foot, to wrench it up and to step after him to say, ‘YES’, it will not go forward, only backward. Her feet turn her away from the city and out towards the park. Her coat is still inside; it sits on the wooden pew where she sang carols and leant towards him less than an hour ago.

  There. The noise again. The drip of water from the trees, the rush of water coming from somewhere nearby. And the voice. There is clarity now.

  Aware of Will, walking home, crying in the snow, to Finn, the drip still pulls her like a metronome. Her feet move with each drop. Andantino.

  The darkness of the park a shroud. The whisper louder. The voice stronger. She needs to save Becky, when she couldn’t save Leigh.

  68

  Arriving en masse, Maarten shakes with relief: Sanne won’t let Liv go – in-laws trailing, hand-wringing, in their wake. Sanne is crying: she had been woken from a sleep in the car, wound round and embedded herself, buried deep under Liv’s chin. ‘Is it Christmas? Will Santa know where I am? How will he know?’ And Nic. They are all there. Whole.

  ‘Papa, have you found her? Have you found Becky?’ Nic sobs, falls against him. He would hand over anything to be able to say yes, but instead he holds her, and silently promises her that Becky will be found. Nothing will stand in his way.

  His whole team are out. St Albans is ablaze with them.

  ‘Oh, Maart. Where is that little girl?’ Liv holds each of their girls tight.

  And he puts his arms around them all, and for the first time, he has no words to offer up. He is dry.

  69

  The dark ahead, the blackness, is like ink. She dips her hand in, pushing forwards, watching it be swallowed, then watches it come out again. Her withdrawing arm emerges pale. The ink has an alluring wetness. She can finally give in to it. Its embrace is a long-held promise.

  The snow beneath her feet is soft. Her shoes offer no protection; they are wet too.

  Finn? Will is with him. She will not be long. This is not for ever. She will save this girl. She will be back before light.

  Drip. Splash. Drip. Drip.

  Jenny carries on, deeper into the dark park.

  70

  ‘He’s not there, sir. I’ve checked everywhere I can think.’ A PC stands before him, pale like snow.

  ‘CCTV, now,’ Maarten says, and Liv whimpers behind him.

  Adrika runs to Maarten as he rages in the office – ordering, shouting – trying to impose discipline in chaos.

  ‘There are loads of outbuildings here, farms, stables… Sir, I don’t know how to limit this. We can’t have long.’

  ‘Think.’ Maarten sits. ‘She’d been so certain, about the lake, the willow tree. And yet there had been no sign of them there this afternoon, when they’d checked. She said she had been walking to the same spot each time. But why?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Jenny Brennan. It’s not going to be ghosts – but what if it’s something else? Do a scan of news stories about incidents in the lake. Is there something else going on here? Do it now, Adrika. We know her mother died in Tonbridge, so I don’t see how it can be that – but search. Look for something.’

  ‘Maart – where is he? You need to find that man. Becky…’ Liv’s face, pale, like ivory – cut like stone.

  Maarten’s phone buzzes and it’s Sunny.

  ‘I’ve got DI Deacon and she’s off the scene. I’ve put someone outside the door – in case we need to interview her. Do you want me out, sir?’

  ‘CCTV, Sunny. Can you go over the local film we have available for tonight?’

  ‘Maart?’ Liv grabs his hand, cold, firm. ‘It’s OK – I’ll stay with the girls. Nothing will happen to them. You go and do what you need to do. I promise I won’t let anything happen to them. We’ll stay here.’

  ‘OK.’ He leans and kisses her. Hugs them both. Struggles to let go. Liv’s arms: they bend round him, firm, tight. He leans his head on her shoulder and he feels stronger, his limbs more stable, head steadier. He’s home: Rotterdam, Holland, Hertfordshire, England… home is here. Home is Liv and the girls. Beyond that, it means nothing. He doesn’t need to take the job. He needs to hold them close.

  Adrika shouts across the room. ‘Mr Brennan called too: his wife’s missing. They had a row and he thought she’d follow him home, but that was ages ago. He called to ask for help.’

  ‘Now? Tonight?’ Does that mean she knows something? They have no manpower. But Becky is waiting to be found. Can he afford to ignore it? Her truth has illuminated the case. If he could ask anyone for help right now, it would be Jenny Brennan.

  71

  Too tired for walking. Just a little sleep before going home. Just here… just lie down. The snow will be soft, a cushion. Bullied by the cold.

  So sleepy. Only five minutes.

  72

  The lights of the cars outside are bright, flashing against the snow, lighting up the outside of the station like midday. It’s not yet two a.m.

  Adrika’s voice shouts as he leaves the building. ‘Will Brennan’s coming in, sir. I told him he could. He’s desperate. I will get someone to take a statement from him.’

  ‘Fine, whatever.’ Maarten goes to speak to Kemmie Dorrington, who has just arrived. And he thinks of Jenny, of how she’d directed them. Urged them to look again. And he shouts over his shoulder, ‘Take him seriously, Adrika. Update me when I’m back.’

  73

  Jenny opens her eyes a second too quickly for her mind to catch up. A fuzziness of view. Something has thrown her awake. It must be the pain that she feels stab through her right thigh. God, it hurts. Her head aches and she longs to close her eyes again and sleep.

  Through squinting eyes, the light black and green, she sees daytime hasn’t quite begun. The air is thick and translucent. If it weren’t for the burning in her leg, real and throbbing, she would assume she is still asleep.

  It must be almost morning. Reaching out for the clock that lies on her bedside table, it isn’t here. Instead, she grabs a handful of cold, wet leaves. Her fingers curl tightly around them and fasten. Soft, slimy, thick with morning dew and frost, turning black: withering.

  The damp seeps upwards, moving quickly, and within moments she shivers from head to toe. The only warmth is the fire in her thigh, a hot hole into flesh. She’s lying on something sharp, something metal. Like a drain grid. She sits up. That rush of water. She can hear it.

  There’s no bed. There’s no Will or Finn. Her thigh is red. The blue cotton of her jeans shows blood: a small pinhead soaking through to a palm-size stain.

  The shivering is intense now. Her teeth are chatting and her fingers are numb, moving in the air as though playing rapid, uneven scales on an unseen piano.

  That she finds herself outside is no longer a shock, but it is still terrifying. Embarrassment sets in – what will she do if someone spots her here? She can’t explain it away. She glances around, left, right, left again.

  This time, however, is worse than before. This is the first time that it is near morning – it must be. She had left the cathedral just after one o’clock – she had, what, walked into the park? She couldn’t have been asleep long as she would have frozen to death. It must still be only about two or three a.m. Christ. She’s got to get back. She’s got to get back before Will wakes to find her gone.

  And she’s got to get back to Finn. His first Christmas.

  Her memory kicks in and Jenny thinks of the fight. She had run through the park: no phone, no purse, no coat.

  The lake is frozen and swathes of moonlight cascade from the cloudless night sky. There are a few remaining patches where leaves circle round in pools of water. Stranded. Standing slowly, her leg hurts, but not enough to stop her getting bac
k home. So, despite the shivering, ice cold, she takes a step forward and moves behind a bare tree. Once back on the path, it won’t take more than five minutes to run up the hill. Finn will be awake and need feeding, but Will is there. There is no reason to panic. She just needs to stay calm.

  The scratching branch of the tree pokes her as she squeezes past. The branch holds her fast. Pulling free her T-shirt, snagged on twigs, she catches sight of something else caught higher up in the branches. A soggy jumper, half frozen.

  Jenny opens it out, to see if she can wear it home, to cover up a little more, but it is too small. It is pink with flowers decorating the front panel. It isn’t an adult’s jumper at all.

  Looking out at the lake, at the other side, near the swings and the small café that serves toasties and hot chocolate, she sees a body on the lake, not far from the edge. And also a figure.

  It is the adult that holds her attention first. Dressed in dark clothes and running away, looking both exactly right and horribly wrong. Like many runners out on an early frosty morning: a hat, gloves, jogging suit bottoms, sweatshirt. But it’s not day – it’s the middle of the night. There can be no doubt they have placed the body on the ice. The run is fast, the woollen hat pulled tightly on the head, obscures the face.

  Jenny chokes on her breath, falling against the tree. The sharp twigs push her back out again, refusing to let her rest.

  The body lies flat on the ice. The position is awkward, one leg bent back and outwards in a way that legs shouldn’t bend. One foot dangles into a watery hole, and it won’t be long, maybe even now, that the cracks will appear, and the body – it must be Becky – will disappear for ever into the waters. They might pull the shell of her out, but the girl will have vanished.

  She runs. She needs to get round the lake. The figure is moving away and the body lies helpless. It isn’t far enough away to mistake for anything else. She can see arms outstretched on the ice, immobile and sprawled; a head, long hair, spread out in a chaotic tumble, and Jenny runs faster.

  Looking once more at the runner, terrified to see it, but more terrified that if it changes course, and returns to the girl, it might throw her off her stride; she is relieved to catch sight only of a diminishing form. A small black spot now running into the trees that leads to the road. There is only her now. It is up to her.

  The bluey hue of the darkness ignites a flash of a memory of earlier Christmas mornings and packed stockings at dawn. The childish delight of Christmas. There is so much to save.

  Running faster still, she skids over a mirrored puddle and falls, heading down towards the lake, almost at the point where Becky hangs on the ice. Jenny skids, falling onto the edge of the lake, and she hears the cracks of pressure as she lands hard.

  Her arm plunges into the freezing water and she withdraws it quickly. She is so cold now, she isn’t sure she will make it out to the girl in time.

  Slowly, so as not to crack the ice further, she begins to pull herself flat, gently reaching and sliding, inch by inch.

  She can feel splashes of tears on her face and she thinks of Finn, of how he won’t know her if she moves too quickly and falls in; all the mass of love she has felt, and been swallowed up by, might vanish into the water and be lost. He will think of only Will as he grows.

  Reaching the long brown hair first, knotted and damp, it frames a white, ghostly face.

  ‘Please be alive,’ Jenny whispers. ‘Please.’

  As though carrying a newborn, she places her shaking, shivering hand under the head of the girl, to protect it, and then with the other hand she grasps her shoulder, before beginning to pull her backwards: slowly, very slowly. She is heavier than Jenny had thought, and in pulling, she hears the small splinters of ice giving way all around. It is taking an age: seconds, minutes, hours. There is only each tug of the girl and each movement towards shore.

  Becky stirs beneath her fingers: ‘Help me.’ The voice is faint.

  Jenny can see the edge of the shore coming closer out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Come on!’ she shouts, to no one, but as she does so, she feels a surge of warmth in her feet. She pauses, and pulls her legs underneath her, kneeling, and then squatting. Her legs ache as she raises one leg, and she stamps, hard. She will be waist deep now; they will not sink.

  The ice cracks with the sound of shattering glass and she pulls the body into her arms and wades backwards, in the frozen waters. Each step demands more, and she grunts loudly with the effort; her voice releases the strain of each thrust into the shallow shoreline. She breathes rhythmically, puffing out the exhaustion.

  She bursts out of the lake with the body carried aloft; head first they reach the shore and she feels the earth beneath her bare and freezing feet. She gasps for air and screams, piercing and loud.

  The warmth in her legs holds her upright for only a moment, and she falls over the body of the girl, and shivers, too cold for thought. Becky’s eyes open briefly, and Jenny whispers, ‘I’ve got you.’

  Before Becky passes out, she can feel her hand grip her thumb, before fading.

  A voice whispers at her ear. ‘Got you, you bitch.’

  74

  ‘Here, sir! There’s something here.’

  Adrika is leaning over a list she’s printed off. ‘The bank statements! There’s something here, a direct debit that leaves his bank account to a local farm. Sir, they will have outbuildings there. What if that’s where she is? Where he’s kept her?’

  ‘Get a team there now.’

  75

  The shock of his voice is like a fist, even before he hits her.

  Jenny isn’t sure her heart is still beating as her chest tightens so quickly. Too quickly, and she pants out air, her muscles flooding with the roar of adrenalin. She is rising upwards, to push away from him, when the punch lands.

  Her cheek crunches beneath his knuckles. The sound – rice crispies exploding in her mouth; a dog biting down on a bone – worse than the pain, numb at first.

  Rolling, falling, she lands on the edge of the ice, which splinters and, sharp like shards of glass, cuts her cheek, her face, her lip. Her eyes close as her head dives into the inch of water beneath, and she flings her arms out, palms down; instinctively, saving her head from the full force of the fall.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’

  And then he kicks her, and the only direction in which to curl is further into the water. And she bends, foetal-like, turning on her side. Water soaks along her back, her shivering increases. Or is it the shock? Shock makes you shiver too, she thinks. She is amazed she can think, her mind has slowed it all down. Or has he stopped?

  Jenny opens her eyes, and he stands over her. Klaber. His tall frame, once so graceful. His hands, once so warm, so calming. It all now looms. Looming, imperious. Vengeful. Vengeance.

  ‘Why? If you had gone home. Just gone the fuck home. Why is that so hard?’ And he kicks her again.

  This time she manages to roll, and the blow misses her body, just glancing her shoulder. He seems to neither see, nor care.

  ‘What is it with you? Why will you not just stay away? She was in there, I was finished – and now I have to do it all again, and you too. Do you think I like this? Enjoy this? The things I’m driven to do, by you fucking bitches! You give me no alternative. Force my hand. For fuck’s sake!’

  He looks around him, and she sees his fear, his jumpiness. He is tightly wound, like an electrified coil. He zings; he stings.

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ she whispers. Her teeth chatter, and worried he didn’t hear, she tries again, as loud as she can manage. ‘You could just leave. I won’t tell them I saw you.’

  Teeth baring, his lips curling up, she realises he is laughing, and he leans close.

  ‘You’re lying to me, Jenny Brennan. All you’ve done since the start is talk. Talk, talk, talk. And how you know the shit you know, I have no idea. But I sat across from you, and you’ve spilled stuff that means I’ll never let you go.

  ‘I tried to sto
p you. I put your number in that phone for them to find. After the sob story about you walking in the park – I knew you’d go back there. And you gave them the first phone! Fuck – it threw me, then I thought, let’s play you at your own game.’

  He gestures around, and again jumps. Shadows on the lake making him uneasy.

  ‘And you played right into my hands. Leading the police to that backpack. Finding Becky’s clothes by the watermill. You told me you’d be at the café that afternoon – why the fuck you jumped in I don’t know! But it did what I wanted it to. It slowed them, redirected them. Gave me a chance to get Becky settled in the stable whilst the police searched the river. So if I can make it look like you did this… maybe…’

  He pulls her up.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you… They had no idea before you!’

  The shout is fierce, intense, rather than loud, and Jenny flinches back, expecting another blow, and his arm rises; but dropping it, he shakes his head.

  ‘Doesn’t matter anyway now. I’ve got no choice. I’m running, once I’m done with the two of you.’

  Glancing at the girl still sprawled on the dirt at the side of the lake, Jenny sees she’s unconscious. If he manages to kill her, Becky has no chance.

  Finn… can she run away, back to Finn? What will Finn do without her? She can’t leave Finn, like her mother left her.

  Klaber grips her wrist and his fingers cut deep, the blood spilling away beneath them. Pins and needles shoot up her arm.

  Strangely calm, her mind thinks clearly, steadily; in contrast to her body which is shaking, almost convulsing, her mind runs thoughts out in full. There’s no getting away from this. But surely somebody will come. He’s jumpy because he knows they’re looking. She thinks of Maarten Jansen, of his promise to search outwards from the lake. If she is to be saved, it will be Jansen.

 

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