He turned up the fan heater as they drove down the narrow cobbled street toward the main road. “We are going to a safe house for tonight where you can rest and get something to eat, and some clothes. Don’t worry about anything. You are safe now.”
Scarlett’s heart was beating so fast she thought it was going to explode. She had to put a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream of excitement and terror, drumming her stilettoed feet on the worn mats in the footwell.
“Hey,” he laughed, “it is okay. You are okay.”
It felt like forever until they got to the motorway heading out of the city.
“What’s going to happen?” Scarlett asked. “Have you managed to get me a passport?”
“Don’t worry,” he repeated, “everything is fine.”
“You haven’t told my parents?”
“No, you said I should not do that.”
“Thank God. I can’t believe this, I can’t! Thank you,” she said, “thank you so much.”
“Try to relax, okay? We have a little way to go yet. Here.”
He reached behind the seat and brought out a carrier bag, which he handed to Scarlett. Inside was a bottle of whisky.
“To celebrate,” he said, smiling.
She unscrewed the cap and took a gulp of it, choked a little, feeling the burn traveling down her throat.
“Cheers,” he said, with a laugh.
Scarlett took another gulp. It felt good. She offered the bottle to him.
“No, no,” he said. “I have some later when I do not need to drive anymore.”
“Okay,” she said, and screwed the lid back on.
“You had enough already?”
“What’s going to happen next?” she asked again. “When do I go back to England?”
“Please,” he said. “It is important that you stay calm, if you can. You need some time to recover.”
And he turned on the radio, turned it up loud to drown out her excitement and her chatter. Scarlett didn’t mind. She looked out of the window at the lights of the city rushing past, the bottle of whisky cold between her knees. This time of night there were not many cars, a few lorries, as the Audi moved between them. To Scarlett, the speed of the car felt exhilarating and terrifying, like being on a fairground ride.
“Is it far?” she shouted.
But Stefan pretended not to hear, his eyes on the road.
LOU
Saturday 2 November 2013, 18:30
Heading back to her car, Lou answered her mobile without checking who it was. Immediately she wished she hadn’t.
“Hi, Louisa!” said a bright, chirpy female voice. “Hope you don’t mind me ringing.”
“Course not, Tracy. I’m really sorry I haven’t had a chance to do my RSVP yet . . .”
“Oh, no, don’t worry! I know you must be really busy! It’s just that the hotel keeps pestering me for final numbers for the evening, you know what they’re like . . .”
Lou didn’t know what they were like, and didn’t particularly care either. There was something unremittingly grim about being forced to think happy thoughts about a wedding when your boyfriend had gone off in a strop. For a moment she thought of crying off altogether, pleading some likely clash with work, but it would get back to her mother in a matter of moments and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t take another conversation with her mother right now.
“Well—I guess—you know there’s always a chance I won’t be able to make it at the last minute . . .”
“Aw, I understand,” Tracy said. Her tone was nauseatingly sympathetic. “But I really want to include you, even if you have to let us down. Please say you’ll come. And your mum said that you were going to bring”—a moment’s pause—“someone called Jason?”
“Hopefully,” Lou said, thinking how sad it was that Tracy’s whole existence at the moment was revolving around one day in a white dress. “Thanks, Tracy. We’ll be there.”
“That’s great to hear. I’ll put you both on the table plan.”
“Sure,” Lou said. “How’s all the planning going?”
“Oh, it’s nearly there. I’ve got the final dress-fitting tomorrow, I hope I still fit in it although I’ve been doing really well on the diet . . .”
Lou had stopped listening. She had had a sudden awful realization that, as much as she felt sorry for Tracy, who seemed so happy to commit the rest of her life to someone at the age of twenty-one, Tracy at the same time sounded as if she was sorry for Lou—who was apparently struggling to find a bloke to come with her to a wedding, at the grand old age of thirty-three.
When Tracy finally finished talking and rang off, the mobile buzzed again. She had a premonition that it was going to be her mother, but the caller display told her it was Sam.
“Sorry to ruin your evening,” Sam said. “It’s Scarlett. She’s taken off.”
LOU
Saturday 2 November 2013, 22:45
Lou stopped on the way home and got a takeaway curry from her second-favorite curry place, because her favorite was down the street from Jason’s house, and she didn’t want to go anywhere near it.
Lou was keeping an eye on her mobile phone, which was on the arm of the chair, waiting for Sam to call with news. They’d been about to drive Scarlett to Charlmere to put her in a hostel when they’d realized she wasn’t in the front room after all. There wasn’t a lot they could do. Scarlett wasn’t wanted for anything, she wasn’t necessarily at risk—unless she ran into the McDonnells, and even then nobody could really do anything about it until something happened. Frustrating, though. And, much as Lou wouldn’t tell Sam not to spend her evening looking for her, she knew that was exactly what her friend would be doing anyway.
Lou had just finished eating, and was more than three-quarters of the way down a bottle of Rioja that was actually far too nice to be wasted on one person determined to get fuck-off drunk—or hammered, as the Canadians so quaintly put it—when her mobile phone bleeped with a text message.
It was from Jason. She looked at the message and then at her watch—quarter to eleven. Bit late for a social call, wasn’t it?
How you doing?
She thought about ignoring it, which would have been the sensible thing to do. In the cold light of day she would have left it, but she was now close to finishing a very nice bottle of wine and she hadn’t communicated with anyone since Omar at the Star of India had wished her a pleasant evening to go with her complimentary poppadom.
And wine always made her garrulous.
Oh, but what to say? So many things . . . and in the end she settled on:
Fine thanks. Nothing a bottle of good wine won’t cure. How are you?
Regretted it immediately, of course. Too flippant. And it made it sound as though she was in some way consoling herself with alcohol.
Good, just checking u are ok.
Lou reached for the bottle and her glass; the last of it filled only a quarter of the way to the brim. And even that only lasted a few sips. While she waited for his reply, she contemplated what to do. Open another bottle? The trouble with the Rioja was that it was too good; anything she picked out of her sadly depleted wine cellar—a metal rack that sat under the work surface and didn’t hold nearly enough bottles when full—would taste like vinegar in comparison.
She went over to the kitchen a little unsteadily and reviewed the selection. A merlot, plus a pinot grigio and a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the fridge. None of them was ideal.
She went back to the phone. No reply as yet. Before she had a chance to regret it, think about it or be sensible, she sent him a text.
If you bring another bottle of Rioja, I might actually open the door.
There was no reply to that one. Calling his bluff was the best thing she could have done—though in the cold light of day she would probably realize that, of course, it wasn’t. She opened the merlot and took it back to the living room. She had been thinking about what Sam had said this morning, knowing in her heart that she had a point. The age gap
didn’t matter, not really. It wasn’t as if she saw her parents often; what did it matter if they thought she had a toyboy? Once they met Jason, they would love him just as she did. She wished she’d said it back when she had had the chance. If she told him now, it would look desperate.
She tried to watch a film but couldn’t concentrate. Maybe it would be best to talk it through, to tell him the truth.
This is how I feel, Jason. I do love you. I really do. I’m just rubbish at expressing it . . .
Lou tried out several different versions in her head and gave up. If she could see him face-to-face, it would be easier. She reached for the phone and dialed his number.
He answered straight away. “Hey,” he said.
“It’s me.”
“Yep, I know.”
The best way to approach this was probably to get straight to the point. “You want to come over?”
“It’s kind of late.”
Lou peered at the clock. “Well, you sent me a text. I thought you were probably still up.”
“You just sitting there getting drunk on your own?”
“Don’t say it like that—makes me sound like a right case. You were so wasted last night I had to leave you next to a bucket, don’t forget. I’ve just had a glass of wine to chill out, that’s all.”
“Sure.”
“Are you still cross because I didn’t come to hockey?”
“Nope. I’m pissed because of what you said to your mom.”
At first Lou thought she hadn’t heard him properly. “What?”
“So, last night? I tell you how I feel. The truth—and yes, I do love you—and this morning I hear you talking to your mom and you make it sound to her like I’m some guy you just picked up off the street to take with you to this wedding.”
“I didn’t, at all!”
“Yeah. You said ‘it’s nothing serious’ and—what was the other thing? Oh, yeah. You ‘managed to find someone to bring’ to the wedding. And that your mom would get to meet me soon ‘unless something comes up’ in which case you won’t bother to go. I think those are exactly the words you used, since I’ve had them going around and around in my brain pretty much the whole day.”
Lou had felt her mouth drop open somewhere in the middle of his speech.
“This is all wrong,” she said. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t want to rush things with you because I don’t want to mess things up. I want this to work. I don’t want to show you off to my family, only for you to get scared off by them and run a mile.”
“You seriously think I’d do that?”
You might, Lou thought. This was daft, having an argument on the phone. “Look, why don’t you come over so we can talk about it properly? Please?”
There was a pause as if he was thinking about it, and although it didn’t sound like much of an offer she was hoping he would give in, because it just felt wrong to not be together when they had the chance.
“I don’t think so. I just don’t want to play this game anymore. It feels like you can’t switch off from work properly unless you’ve had a bottle of wine first. And I want a relationship that’s based on more than getting drunk on the few occasions we get to spend time with each other.”
Ouch.
“Louisa,” he said, his voice softening, “I’m sorry, that came out badly. But it’s how I feel. The whole thing just feels like you’re not ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“A relationship. A serious relationship.”
“What you mean is, I’m not ready for a nine-to-five and coming home to a nice tofu stir-fry, with my kind boyfriend able to track where I am from one moment to the next.”
Now she was just trying to hurt him back—not a good idea. Not very mature.
“What?”
“You seem to have this really fixed idea about what this relationship should look like. Actually I quite liked it how it was. It was fun. And you never gave me any indication that you weren’t happy.”
“Every time I tried to talk to you about it, you had a call or a meeting or something urgent to do, or you were too tired. And you have this weird thing with your family, like you’re embarrassed about going out with me, or something. Like you’re not committed enough to introduce me to them.”
She bit her lip. Were they really doing this? “I asked you to the wedding!”
“Yes, you did, but I’m guessing if it hadn’t been for this event coming up it would have been years before I got to meet them, if ever. Am I right?”
“But that’s because they’re so bloody obsessed with my aging ovaries, not because I’m embarrassed about you, for crying out loud.”
Silence. Then she heard him laugh. “Sorry. I have a mental picture of a couple of wrinkly ovaries right now. Like walnuts.”
“Fuck off,” she said. And laughed in spite of herself.
“If you still want me to,” he said, “I’ll come with you to the wedding and they can say whatever the hell they want to me and I won’t mind. Okay?”
Lou sighed. What the hell—it solved a load of problems. “Whatever. Thanks. If you don’t fancy it nearer the time I can say something came up. It’s what they’re expecting me to do anyway.”
“Whatever you think, I would like to meet them. I’m kind of hoping we can get past this.”
“Me too,” Lou said, and she meant it.
“It’s late,” he said. “I need to get some sleep. I’ll see you at work, okay?”
“Sure.”
There was still two-thirds of the merlot left but it didn’t look quite so appealing anymore. Lou pushed the cork back in and left it in the kitchen. Then she collected all the takeaway containers and stuffed them into the kitchen bin, which was full. The whole house seemed to smell of curry and no doubt it would be worse in the morning, so she took the bin bag outside. The cold air was refreshing, and although it was late she was feeling clearheaded, alert. She ran a bath upstairs and by the time she came out it felt as if she was relaxed and tired enough to sleep. Much as it had hurt to hear it put quite so baldly, Jason had a point. Unless she was on call, or driving somewhere, she couldn’t remember the last evening she’d had without at least one glass of wine.
Before getting into bed Lou checked her phone, as she always did. There was one message, from Jason.
Always love you Louisa, sleep well x
SCARLETT
Amsterdam outskirts
Wednesday 24 October 2012, 04:09
The car stopped. Scarlett had been dozing a little, lulled by the motion of the car and by the whisky she’d drunk on an empty stomach.
“Where are we?” she said.
“We are here,” he said. “You can get out.”
She clicked her seatbelt free and opened the door, stepping out into the cold. They were in some kind of industrial estate, behind a warehouse. There was no car park as such, just an expanse of concrete through which weeds sprouted in tufts, litter pressed against a chain-link fence by an icy wind, lit from overhead by streetlights that gave everything a sickly greenish glow. Another car was parked next to them, a grubby Opel, half-rusted, and a Transit van that looked newer. From behind the corrugated iron wall of the unit, a crane rose high above her head. She looked up. The top of it was half-hidden in low, misty cloud. The chill in the air and the metallic, salty smell made her wonder if they were near the docks.
“Is this the safe house?” she asked. “It doesn’t look like much of a house.”
“Come,” Stefan said, taking her by the arm. “It’s okay.”
She was shivering against the cold as he pulled her along toward the building. A door opened inwards, through what must once have been an office of some kind. Abandoned, by the look of it, although the fluorescent lights overhead were on, showing a bare room with a desk, a filing cabinet, waste paper on the floor. A bad smell was coming from somewhere and Scarlett recognized it—raw meat, gone off. Blood. Something soiled. F
ear.
That was when she panicked.
At the same moment that she pulled back, away from him, he gripped her tight enough to bruise and called out something in Dutch. Immediately two men appeared from inside the warehouse, big guys with shaven heads, and Scarlett screamed.
SAM
Sunday 3 November 2013, 00:13
Scarlett wasn’t answering her phone—or, more specifically, Sam’s spare phone—which was annoying. It would have been so easy for her to have just answered it, said, “Yeah, thanks, I’m staying with friends,” and then Sam could have gone home, put her feet up and relaxed. Instead, of course, she was out driving around hunting for Scarlett—just in case she’d got herself into trouble, just in case she had nowhere else to go.
Past midnight, there weren’t many public places offering shelter from the rain, and Sam had almost given up when she finally struck lucky.
Scarlett was in the bus station, the gray hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her head, buried inside her brown coat. She was sitting on a bench with her knees drawn up, while around her the drunks waited for sleep on their own benches, and the clubbers waited for buses that at this time of night were sporadic at best.
Sam sat down on the bench. Scarlett looked in her direction, alarmed, ready to run.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You know, when you ring someone six times and they don’t answer, it usually means they don’t want to talk to you.”
“I’m not so good at taking hints, sorry.”
Scarlett chewed at her cuff. “You can’t make me go to bloody Charlmere,” she said. “Fucking hostel with homeless alkies and smackheads. No, thanks.”
“I know. Just wanted to check you were okay, that’s all.”
“I’m fine. And you can piss off now, too.”
But Sam stayed where she was, not moving. She half-expected Scarlett to get up and walk off, and, if she had, Sam would have had to let her go, but for the time being they sat like bookends at either end of the bench and waited. Sam wondered if Scarlett realized that detective sergeants didn’t routinely go looking for missing persons—not that she fitted into that particular category. She was an adult, and, after what she’d probably been through in the last few years, a streetwise adult at that. So Sam had, realistically, nothing to offer her.
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