Under the Ice

by Rachael Blok

  She can’t give up. She needs to fight. She needs to be clever. He had played her, talked her into self-doubt. To doubting Will. He had set her up. She can outwit this man. He might be stronger, but she has more to live for. And Becky has everything to come.

  Klaber pulls her up, heaves her over his shoulder, but she is heavy, waterlogged, and she slips to the side.

  Swearing under his breath, he grabs her waist and she tries to wrench free. Her fingers fumble at his, and he is wearing gloves which slip off. Diving forward, she manages half a step. A plunge, the start of her run, is blocked as he scoops her round her waist and hauls her back into the water, calf deep.

  ‘Come on.’ He yanks her backwards, jerking her from her middle, and she starts to cry, pain and frustration.

  It is Finn she can see. It’s all she can see. She can’t leave Finn.

  ‘Come on!’ His voice is louder this time. ‘I wish I knew how you found the phone. I hid it near the willow tree. That wasn’t for anyone to find.’

  She is almost thigh deep as he drags her backwards, and she tries again. She throws her weight forward, leaning hard on his arm, spinning her head round and trying to bite his shoulder. She kicks her foot back, and it lands on his shin but it’s difficult to swing it in the water, and she knows she hasn’t hurt him. Even the bite… it’s his sweatshirt she can taste.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Do you ever stop!’

  ‘Please don’t kill me,’ she says. Her tears flow. How can she win here? To plead, to cajole? ‘I don’t know why you killed Leigh, but I won’t tell anyone, I can’t say anything…’

  ‘Not here. I’m not doing it here. We’re going.’

  ‘Where?’ Jerking in shock, she panics. The only hope they have of being saved is being out in the open.

  The water soaks almost to the top of Jenny’s legs, and he swings her round, facing him. His hand locks round her throat. He leans in.

  ‘We’re going into the water.’ He smells like death. ‘Under the ice.’

  76

  Maarten sits to speak to Will Brennan. There is barely any time left. Seb will move quickly – he has no choice.

  A buzz has begun in his ears and his eyes flinch as he catches the beam from the ceiling light.

  ‘I should never have left her! I was so angry – this bloody stupid ghost crap; I just want my wife back. Maarten – can I call you Maarten? Can you help me?’

  His face crumples, and his head shakes; shoulders sagging. Will Brennan is as lost as he is.

  ‘We think we might have a word on where Becky is. Maybe when we find her, we find Jenny.’

  ‘Oh God… I’ve phoned her friend but she’s not there. It’s my fault. Since we had Finn, she’s up all the time at night, she’s tired when I come back from work. And I want to talk to her about all the things we used to talk about, but it’s like I can’t any more. Restaurants, client trips – she just looks at me… blankly. And I’ve hidden from it. I’ve stayed at work, where I know what I’m doing. Where I’m the one in control… So it’s my fault?’

  Will looks at Maarten, and there’s nothing to say. Maarten remembers the first six months after Nic. It’s a rite of passage.

  ‘Let’s focus on finding her. Both of them.’

  77

  Her heels scuff the dirt and he drags her. She has to half run to keep up with him, her arm wrenching in its socket. But she keeps falling, and the pull when she does is immense; she digs down with her feet to heave herself back up, to prevent her arm breaking. She has lost a shoe. The cold, the overwhelming cold, presses so hard she’s afraid she will black out.

  ‘Here.’ His voice is short, a bark, and he ducks under the willow tree.

  So close to passing out, Jenny wonders if she is dreaming as she hears the voice again, ‘Save her.’ But she realises that it’s her own voice she can hear, and she’s not saying, ‘Save her,’ but his name, over and over again: Klaber, Klaber, Klaber.

  The first night; the fug of sleep, the image creeping round the corner of consciousness. Sleepwalking. There had been the voice, and the figure of a girl behind the willow tree. And it had been him. She hadn’t done more than glance that way, as the lake had been pulling her. But as Leigh Hoarde had gasped, ‘Klaber,’ Jenny had been locked in. She hadn’t even known what she’d seen – it had been a dream to her. It was here she had found the phone. And here, each time she returned, the haze of memory had sounded an echo of a cry, the sound of distress – a last fight.

  It can’t end here, not for her, not for Becky.

  They are moving under the far side of the willow tree, up towards the clump of trees. Close to where Jenny woke up. Klaber drops her on the frozen ground. Becky is lying over his shoulder, and he tips her nearby. Jenny reaches out, holds her hand, whispering, reassuring: ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry.’

  There’s a flicker from Becky. Her eyes open briefly, and look into Jenny’s. The deep green flickers, sparks, and then the lids close again. But she’s alive. Jenny grips her hand, warming her, reassuring her. She will not let go.

  Klaber leans heavily on a long metal bar, and the grating noise is loud.

  ‘Fuck,’ he mutters, and whatever he is lifting falls, and he begins again. He leans out and picks up a brick, and balances the edge of the grille on it, leaving half of it raised. Wide enough to lift in a child. An adult.

  ‘Please, no,’ Jenny says. ‘No, don’t… I won’t tell, I won’t say.’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ he says, and he reaches out and lifts Becky to the edge, lowering her in, feet first.

  Jenny feels Becky’s fingers slip from hers. She’s not finished.

  Jenny wants to run, but there is nothing left. And how can she leave this girl? The first time she didn’t even know what she’d seen. But still, if she’d woken, could she have saved Leigh?

  ‘I only killed Leigh because she made me do it. I gave everything to that girl. She was so broken when she came to me and I built her back up. The love and attention I gave her! I had nothing like that when I was a teenager, no one to look out for me. No one gave to me what I gave to her – I grew up alone. But she wouldn’t do what I told her. We were in a relationship, for Christ’s sake! When she turned on me, rejected me – well, I didn’t have a choice.’

  He grabs Jenny and pulls her towards him.

  ‘When Bhatti gave me that file… I knew it was my chance to make a difference. But after weeks of saying she loved me, she turned out to be just another prick-tease. Right here, under the willow, was supposed to be our first time together. But she said no, said it wasn’t what she wanted. So I put her in the storm drain to think it over. When I came back, she said she was ready. But she was a lying bitch. When I touched her, she fought me. She hit me! When I hit her back, she just went down. What could I do?’

  He swivels Jenny, preparing to lower her in after Becky. ‘It was the job that gave her to me. It’s pathetic that there are all these rules about relationships with clients. But this way I was safe. To pretend to be Bhatti, to get to know her without prying eyes. I was safe – even when she was dead, I was safe. And Becky didn’t even need to get involved! I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted to help her. She was beginning to trust me. It was only because you gave them Leigh’s phone that I had to take Becky too. She was the only other person I’d given that phone number; I haven’t seen more than a couple of children since. So when Becky dies, it will be your fault. But how did you know? I tracked the case from home… from…’ He shakes his head, like he can’t say her name. ‘You told me details about the case even the police didn’t know. How?’

  His face is now pressing up close to hers. His nose almost touches her nose. He tilts her up from the throat, and pinpricks of light pop up all around.

  ‘You said “she” led you to Leigh’s phone. Who is this “she”? Who were you talking about?’ He growls, and she can smell his breath. His arm is raised, and it’s coming. It’s coming soon. There’s almost no time left.

  ‘Who, Jenny? Who
?’

  And from behind him, she sees a lift and fall of the willow branch. And she thinks of the dark hair, of the whisper, of the shout.

  And now she knows there’s no ghost, that it’s the lack of oxygen, lack of sleep, her darkest nightmares rising up in this state of semi-wakefulness. But he doesn’t know. And she understands now how the fear of the dead can cut to the quick.

  She opens her mouth, and rasping, with rationed breath, she says, ‘Leigh. It was Leigh.’

  78

  ‘Sir, we’ve found some clothes! There are a few bags here. Look like he was prepared for her – all seems like charity shop stuff but she’s been looked after. Blankets too, food and water. There’s a stable. No horses, just a stable in a field off the estate just outside St Albans. No Becky, but I’m getting Forensics down here now, going over the evidence of someone having been held here.’

  Sunny’s voice is buzzing down the line. They have evidence, but they don’t have Becky. Where the hell is Becky?

  ‘I’ve just got off the phone with Jenny’s father!’ The excitement in Adrika’s voice is contagious.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, one of the articles that had come up was about a mother and a daughter who fell in years ago, and the mother later died. I’ve spoken to Jenny’s father: he told me that Jenny fell in, then watched her mother struggle in the lake. She died later.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘She fell in by the waterwheel, but her mother was swept downstream to the lake – by the weeping willow. That’s why it was the same spot – it must be!’

  That’s it. ‘Adrika, you are a star. If she was out there the night Leigh went missing, then she probably has no idea what she knows, or how she knows it, but I bet she has seen something. Do we know where she is now, any update?’

  Adrika shakes her head. ‘No, and her husband is frantic. He’s still here – I told him to wait.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try the lake. If she’s been going back there, chances are she has returned. She talked about rushing water near the willow, but we couldn’t hear any. But maybe it was nearby – somewhere you can see from the willow, and still hear the bells. You stay to focus on the search for Becky. I’ll get Will Brennan. We’ll head back to where it all started.’

  79

  Klaber’s eyes widen. He shakes his head. ‘What do you mean?’

  The water soaks. The cold. The pain of it. Jenny feels so much pain. Her cheek burns. Lights pop all around, and she is fading.

  Sound becomes faint to her, remote, like a distant line, a bad connection. The cold, so cold.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Is that fear in his eyes?

  ‘I…’ But she can’t speak.

  The world darkens; again Jenny tries to reach out, to fight. Becky and Finn. Becky and Finn. She manages to grasp at the arm holding her throat, but her hand slips. She tries to grab the other, but loses her footing. She feels herself lowering into the depths. The river lies above them, the frozen ground.

  ‘Jenny, Jenny!’ The memory of her mother, calling out, and with it comes a burst, a final clutch at life.

  She grabs his arm, hard and fast. She is already lowering into the storm drain, already almost at the final point. Her fingers dig and hold. She hangs from his arm, her feet kicking against the slimy concrete. Levering hard, she pulls with all that she has.

  There comes a scream: from within but, Jenny could swear, not just from her. Buried deep, carried for weeks. It flies from all around. Klaber too is screaming, the peal of the cry is so loud it has movement, it has colour; and the ice on the willow flashes for Jenny. The light is luminous.

  With the scream, she feels his arm begin to give under her grip. Her shoulder pulls. The strain of his and her bodyweight hangs from her socket, but she is equal to this. It’s her last stand.

  And they both fall. Down, and down. The drain isn’t more than six feet deep, but the fall lasts, and it’s Klaber’s face which is crumpled in shock. His feet follow, and he tips down on top of her, she hears the bang of metal, as the grate lands. The brick falls down after them. Heavy.

  ‘No!’ The scream belongs to them both. Voices lie atop of the other.

  For a second, everything stills.

  Braced for more, she feels him pin her, and with one gasp, his movement stops.

  Klaber is heavy, and Jenny tries to push him off. She tries to haul him to the side so that she can reach Becky, make sure that she’s not lying face down in water, which rushes through the drains.

  But he is so heavy. The brick lies nearby, seeping its redness into the water: bloodied and guilty.

  Stretching as far as she can, she finds Becky’s fingers and she calls out, ‘Can you hear me, Becky? He can’t hurt us now. We just need to hold on. Can you hear me, Becky? I’m here. I’m not leaving you.’

  Jenny’s world dims. Drops of icy water hang from her, above her, all around – dripping like crystals onto the three of them, buried beneath. The morning light catches them, and they flash like lit beacons. There is fire in this ice. She knows she is going to pass out, the world swims around her, and she prays that the fire will light the way for someone to come.

  They lie buried beneath the ground, with the vicious chill.

  Klaber must not claim them.

  80

  Roads twist and tyres slide. Will grips, white-knuckled, to the car door and Maarten drives as he knows he shouldn’t, keeping it only just under control… it could fly from his grasp at any second on a patch of ice. Fly out of his grasp as it had done in London, hitting that boy… It hadn’t been his fault, but it is his burden – the boy had run into the road during a chase, not dead, but holding that body while they had waited for the ambulance. Fragile breath.

  The car now could tip and then what would Becky do? How would he face Nic? What use would he be? He presses the brake, angry with himself, the roads, the dark.

  Skidding to a halt at the roadside parking near the Watermill Café, where the river runs to meet the lake; the tyres slip as Maarten flings open his door and runs, leaving the hinge to bounce and strain. Will’s footsteps sound behind him. The snow makes running hard, but most of the path is beaten down: it’s slippery but not too deep.

  ‘Jenny!’ Will is shouting behind him, over and over. ‘Jenny! Jen!’

  The moon is full. It’s easy to see the lake. Running, he scans left, right.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Will powers past him, swerving right.

  Following, Maarten looks ahead, in the direction of Will’s stride. There is clearly something lying at the side of the lake, where the edge curves round close to the path and children persist in feeding ducks bread, despite all the signs telling them not to. Lit by the moon, he sees Will run.

  ‘Jenny!’ Will is screaming now.

  Maarten, lengthening his stride, is faster. He reaches the mound before Will. And yet there is nothing, except scuffed, muddied snow, and a shoe.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Will crumples next to him, picking up the shoe. ‘This is hers. This belongs to her.’ His eyes lift and he scans the lake, looking for any sign.

  The eerie stillness, like a painting, is laid out in faded moonlight. There is no one here. No sound at all. Backup is on the way. There is no point them diving in.

  ‘But it’s not just here, not just the lake,’ Maarten says, gathering himself. ‘Come on.’

  Running, he moves to the willow, lying on the other side of the path round the lake. It looks like a beast in the dark, and he plunges in, where the ground is drier, into the heart.

  ‘Becky? Jenny?’ he shouts. She had said there had been the sound of rushing water. If she was holding a glimpse of something in her brain, then he cannot discount any of it. He needs to follow the clues. Klaber must have had somewhere to hide, to hide these girls quickly, even as a temporary measure. He must have had somewhere to run close by. It can’t have been long since they were near the lake – the shoe is wet.

  He moves forward, through to the other side of the willow. Behind it
lies a fence from where a farm opens up: fields, grass.

  Pausing, he listens. His heart beats heavily, he feels dizzy with exhaustion.

  But beneath it all, he can hear it. Rushing water. It’s silent in the park now. It had been night when she had first been here. That’s why they can hear it.

  Where is it? What is he looking for? He crouches low, sweeping his hands over the ground, and finds a long metal bar, and, flat on the floor, a large grate; it lies just before the fence, beyond the willow, by the clump of trees.

  ‘Will, help me!’ Pushing at the ground he finds the edge of the grate and tries to lift. But it’s both slippery and heavy. Grabbing his torch, he switches it on to see a storm drain. It spans about three feet in diameter, and is based near the bottom of the field, which rises upwards from behind the fence. An inlet from the river runs through the field, feeding the lake.

  ‘Here!’

  Will follows his shout, and between them, they heave it across, using the bar. Their fingers slipping on the cold, the wet. The blackness of the night split by the torch beam.

  Where is the backup? Maarten thinks about chasing but time is pressing. Instead, with a heave, they manage to slide it across.

  Below, the dark is absolute after the glare of the torch, and he leans down, balancing his body along the earth, holding his torch low, swinging it left and right.

  And there they are.

  Jenny Brennan, from what he can see beneath a body lying across her, she’s a sliver of her former self, lying flat in the water. Her head almost touching the back of the concrete wall. Drenched, pale. Her eyes are closed; her body so still it makes his heart race.

  In her hand lies the hand of a child. He can hardly see in the dark, but it has to be Becky Dorrington. He can’t tell from here whether either is alive.

  ‘Jenny,’ he says. ‘Jenny, can you hear me?’