She lay rigid, scarcely breathing, ears straining.
Nothing.
There hadn’t been a sound of the door closing and yet Carly sensed that he was gone.
She threw her weight onto her side. The mattress stank of urine but she rubbed her cheek against it until she found the corner. Again and again – a cat batting its head, desperate for affection – Carly chafed her face against the hard seam until her skin was sore. With painstaking slowness, her blindfold began to slip.
Eventually the scrap of material had fallen from her eyes, across her nose. Carly’s nostrils were now covered, her mouth still taped shut. She couldn’t breathe. She shook her head in desperation until the blindfold fell another half an inch.
She could see.
Her eyes scanned the concrete floor coated with dust and rubble, the walls sheathed with graffiti. Something creaked behind her. She yanked her head around so fast her neck cricked, half-expecting to see Norman Bates’ mum in her rocking chair, but it was a tree outside the barred window dipping against the wind. The room wasn’t empty but Carly scarcely noticed her surroundings. Piles of rubbish, a cardboard box. She didn’t check to see if there was anything there she could use to escape with.
She didn’t have to.
The door was wide open.
She shuffled her body much the way she had in the back of the van – a snake shedding its skin – until she reached the wall. Carly drew herself onto her knees, then onto the balls of her feet, until she was standing. Her legs felt like the lemon jelly the twins loved so much. It was the thought of her family gathered around the table, eating dessert, that gave her strength. She almost believed she could smell citrus rather than the stench of damp and neglect. Carly began to jump – a sack race without a sack. Steadily, determinedly, momentarily pausing after each movement to regain her balance. She fell into a rhythm.
Jump.
Thud.
Jump.
Thud.
Into a corridor with multiple rooms to her left and right, doors hanging woefully from rusted hinges. At the bottom, a staircase with a makeshift ramp propped against the stairs. A battered skateboard on its side, missing a wheel. Cool air hit the back of her neck. Carly turned. The front door was swinging open.
Open!
Frantically she made her way towards it, as fast as she could.
Perspiration slicked her skin. She thought she could perhaps wriggle her wrists free of her binds if she tried but not until she was outside.
Not far now.
Her muscles trembled with effort. She moved more slowly, not covering the same distance as she had moments before.
Come on, Carly.
The twins cheering her name during sports day. The finishing ribbon in sight.
Jump.
It was so hard to breathe. She longed to tear off the tape, open her mouth wide and draw in air. Soon. Soon she would be free. At home. Snuggled on the sofa with Bruno and Leah and Marie.
Jump.
Dried grasses crunched beneath her feet as she landed. She’d made it.
She was outside, dizzy with effort. Dizzy with relief.
She heard two voices. Her muzzy head couldn’t make out what direction they were coming from.
Her head spun to the left; another building, windows smashed, spray paint colouring the brick. On its flat roof, a traffic cone. To the right; a clutch of bushes.
Which way should she go?
She needed to move.
Now.
Chapter Six
Leah
Now
‘What do you mean tell the truth?’ Shock jolts through my body. ‘You mean about me?’ I can’t believe Marie would betray me. Her eyes, the same green as mine, look at everything but me.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’ The booming anger in Carly’s voice fills the room. ‘Telling everyone that Leah left the gate open won’t help anyone.’
‘I did leave it open, though.’ By some unspoken agreement afterwards we’d all claimed we couldn’t remember who closed the gate, that it must have blown open.
‘So? It doesn’t matter—’ Carly says.
‘But it does.’ It’s something I’ve never let go of. ‘If I hadn’t…’
‘If. If. If. We’ve all got a million ifs and not one of them makes any difference.’ Carly drops her head into her hands.
‘I didn’t mean tell the truth about the gate,’ Marie says but it doesn’t comfort me. The gate is the tip of the iceberg really in all the things I’ve done wrong. Got wrong. Under the surface lurk far darker secrets. As reluctant as I am to be on TV, it occurs to me that if we did share our side it might stop other journalists digging into the past, trying to create their own story. If anyone uncovers what I did a few years ago I could be prosecuted. Lose Archie. Panic is a heavy weight on my chest; I tap my fingers three times against my knee and try to breathe through it.
‘Leah?’ Carly slides across the sofa and drapes an arm across my shoulder. ‘You’re okay. You’re safe.’
‘I didn’t mean—’ Marie crouches before me and rests her hands on my knees.
‘What did you mean? The truth?’ I am desperate to know. If she didn’t mean me, then what?
‘We’re not doing it, Marie.’ Carly squeezes my shoulders. ‘I don’t want to and Leah… Well, just look at her,’ she says but not unkindly. Once more, I am the youngest, the one they need to protect. If only they knew what I was really capable of. Again, my breath catches in my throat. Sweat trickles off my top lip, coating my mouth with salt.
‘I’m sorry, Leah.’ Marie rests her head on my lap. I begin to stroke her hair, as I would Archie’s. The feeling calms me.
The silence settles around us, we are all lost in our individual thoughts. Twenty years is a huge milestone and the lead-up to the anniversary has been worse than usual. I’ve changed my mobile number countless times but journalists still call at all hours. Notes are pushed through the letterbox because I refuse to answer the door when I’m not expecting anyone. Business cards – Call me scrawled on the back – are left under my windscreen wipers. It’s awful, I know, and I’m ashamed to admit it, even to myself, but I long for something to happen that will deflect the attention away from us until next week slides by. A collapse of the government, a celebrity death. I know it’s horrible but still, it’s been a slow news month and the papers have pages to fill. How deep will they dig?
‘What did you mean, Marie?’ I ask again.
‘I don’t know really. Just a different angle.’ She pushes herself to standing and stamps her feet. ‘Pins and needles. Anyway, sorry I’ve upset you, Leah. Both of you. I just wanted—’
‘The cash?’ Carly says wryly.
‘It wasn’t only about money. I spoke to our publisher recently and book sales have picked up this year, interest is high again. Our royalty statements should be pretty healthy this time. I just wanted… closure, I suppose. Forgiveness.’
‘What do you need forgiving for?’
She shrugs. I study the emotions that pass over her face, she’s always been so hard to read.
‘Marie?’
She begins to cry. ‘It’s always been my fault.’ She furiously swipes her eyes with her sleeve.
‘It hasn’t!’ I stand to face her. ‘Look at me.’ I rest my fingertips on her cheeks. The dampness of her tears seeps through my cotton gloves. I had never heard her openly blame herself. I knew she carried it still – that was apparent from the whisky on her breath, the shiny red tinge to her skin – but I thought that was trauma. Shock. Not guilt.