24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (11 page)

T
he car Saul
has ‘borrowed’ is an old blue Volvo; well-worn interior, with just a hint of dog. Empty crisp packets and scrunched Coke cans rattle round the foot well, the ashtrays are overflowing.

Saul jacks the heating up and, after one false start down a lane that quickly turns into a bumpy farm-track, it doesn’t take him long to find the main road. At first I find myself sitting almost on the edge of the seat, clutching the leather until my hands sweat, watching in the wing mirror for someone to follow us; for blue lights, the bleat of a siren. But soon I’m nodding off in the comfy leather seat, exhausted, the hiss of tyres on tarmac soporific as we pick up speed.

When I wake, we have stopped; apparently in some kind of lay-by. Saul is out of the car, smoking, I realise, from the tip that glows and dances in the dark – and he’s talking to someone.

I sit bolt upright, my mouth dry. Who else is out there?

I open the window a little; the strong tang of manure assails me. Saul is on a phone, I see now. It sounds like he’s pleading with someone.

‘Please,’ I hear him say. ‘I promise, this time—’

He runs his hand frenetically over his shorn hair, backward and forwards it goes, I can tell, watching the trail of the orange cigarette tip.

‘Yeah I know,’ he’s trying to speak, but whoever is on the other end is talking over him, I guess, because he stops and starts, his body language jerky and tense. ‘Yes, but—’ pause, ‘yes, I know, Dean. I know she’s out of control.’ A longer pause. ‘Yeah, okay, I get it. Yeah. Right. See you there.’

He chucks the cigarette and heads back to the car. Something tells me I shouldn’t have been listening, so I feign sleep. As he gets in and slams the door, I pretend to wake.

‘Hi,’ I am genuinely bleary. ‘Where are we?’

‘About fifty miles from London, I reckon,’ he says, but he sounds uneasy. Something is not right, I sense, as he pulls tobacco from his pocket and makes another roll-up.

‘Not long then,’ I say, and I almost sound jovial, but my stomach knots with tension.

He lights the cigarette; edges the car out of the lay-by, biting his thumbnail now.

‘Saul,’ I say quietly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he attempts a crooked smile.

‘Please tell me.’

‘It’s just …’ he trails off.

I know this silence. It is the silence of a tortured soul, the moment before they choose whether to unburden themselves or not.

‘You can trust me,’ I say.

‘Is it?!’ he laughs, but there is no mirth there. ‘I’m not that daft.’

‘You can,’ I repeat.

‘Laurie,’ he glances at me. ‘Not now. Go back to sleep.’

I don’t mean to; I want to stay awake, to keep an eye on him, to talk him down from whatever it is that’s scaring him, but I am so tired, and the car is so warm, and soon I am drifting again.

‘
W
e need petrol
,’ a voice says, cutting through my dream of slicing ham sandwiches for Polly’s lunch. I can’t think whose the voice is.

‘I’m going to have to stop,’ the voice says again.

I blink. My sore eye is stuck together with something. I rub it.

‘Laurie.’ More urgent. ‘Do you have any money for petrol?’

‘Sorry.’ I scrabble to stir myself. I focus on Saul; feeling a little sick, utterly disconnected. Hunger and the effects of the painkillers are getting to me. I pat my pockets, bring out my money. ‘This is everything I have.’

Saul casts a disparaging eye over what I hold in my hands, the crumpled note, the few coins.

‘Not enough. This car drinks bloody petrol,’ he says shortly. He looks ahead again, his hands clenched on the wheel.

The fuel light blinks on the dashboard.

It isn’t the painkillers, or hunger. It is fear. My life is spiralling into some madness I do not understand and cannot control.

Ahead, a service station looms out of the darkness. Saul’s jaw is set tight; he indicates left. I have a knot of foreboding in my stomach although I am excited to see we are somewhere on the M25 now.

We pull off the motorway and follow the fuel signs. Saul pulls up at the pump furthest from the kiosk; we are masked by a van. He jumps out, and starts to fill the tank. My instinct says this cannot be good. But what does my instinct know? I have lost all faith in it. My heart is starting to hammer. The long-haired driver in the van is re-setting his sat nav. He looks down at me, and winks. I look away. I cannot shake the feeling I am on the run; I shouldn’t be seen.

Saul starts to walk towards the building and I feel a massive wave of relief. He’s going to pay. I open the window to call for coffee. Suddenly he doubles back on himself, patting his pockets in a show of ‘forgetting his wallet’.

He gets into the car slowly and sits, looking around him, and then, just as I am about to hand him my money, he flips the ignition on and, slamming the door, pulls out. My head whips back; the tyres actually screech.

No one in the petrol station seems to react; maybe because we are moving so fast. Despite my racing heart, everything stays the same.

I swallow my protestation. I
am
on the run.

‘Saul,’ I say as we hit the exit route. ‘Lights.’

‘I know,’ he frowns.

But as we meet the motorway he flicks them on.

I am not sure how much of this I can take.

We drive fast for a few minutes, both of us constantly checking the mirrors. The motorway is quite empty. After a while, I say, ‘I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Saul.’

‘So?’ he is tense, irritated. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I mutter.

‘Laurie,’ he glances at me. ‘I can let you out. You don’t have to come with me. It’s your choice.’

Let me out? In the middle of nowhere? I look out into the night. The entire countryside is shrouded by darkness.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

But my heart won’t calm again. It clatters away, and I feel nauseous with fear. I am terrified that they will stop us, and then I won’t be able to find Polly. But right now, Saul seems my only chance of getting to her. I wish I could think straighter but lack of sleep blurs the lines; makes me delirious. I see things on the side of the road, faces like smudges in the darkness; a plastic bag flapping in a hedge like a white goose. I need coffee. I need sleep.

I need my daughter.

I have a thought, and I rummage through the glove-box. CDs, some old peanuts, an Ordnance Survey map. And a coiled white lead – a phone charger! My heart soars.

I plug it into the cigarette lighter and pull my iPhone out, my old phone that’s been dead since the last flicker at the station.

It doesn’t fit. Of course it doesn’t, that would be too good to be true. It’s the wrong charger; it’s for a Nokia I see now.

‘Wrong phone?’ Saul asks.

‘Have you got one?’ I ask him, without much hope. ‘For an iPhone 6?’

‘Course,’ he grins. ‘Where would we be without Apple, eh? Side pocket of my rucksack.’

I lean over onto the back seat, pull open the zip. Various phones and chargers are tucked inside. I glance at him.

‘Don’t ask,’ he says.

‘Okay.’ I find the one I need. ‘I won’t.’

‘It might be a bit temperamental,’ he warns as I plug it in, and I see the split in the flex, already taped-up by some unseen hand. I pray it works. As I fiddle, Saul puts the radio on. An Elbow song finishes; then I recognise Jolie’s lilting voice, singing about pure love. I almost laugh, but if I start, I won’t stop. I reach out and change stations; something classical, soothing, quiet.

‘Not a fan of that Jolie bird?’ Saul is trying to make friends again. The tension stretches between us. I read the tattoos on his hand. ‘
Carpe diem
’ one says, only they’ve left the ‘e’ off
Carpe
. My heart softens. He is only a boy. I have a weakness for dysfunctional males; the proverbial lost boys of JM Barrie’s Never Neverland.

I switch my old phone on now it has a little charge; the voicemail symbol pings up. Seven messages. My stomach contracts, thinking it will be Sid again, but, listening, I realise the first is my mother, and my heart soars.

They are safe, for now at least.

‘
The trip’s been wonderful. We’re a little bit late though because of the strike this end. Control people or something. Very French, lots of shouting and hand waving at the Gare du Nord.
’
I smile
as
she pronounces the hard ‘d’.
‘
Anyway, love, I’ll ring you when we’re through the tunnel. Polly’s dying to see you. She’s been so good
.
I’m really going to miss her, Laurie. She’s given me a new lease of life
.’

The phone dies. For a second, I feel cheered; but I know she hasn’t got my messages on her landline and she doesn’t realise the danger. I fiddle around again; the charger isn’t working anymore apparently. I find myself biting my own thumbnail now. I haven’t done that since I was a child.

‘Why have you got two phones?’ Saul’s voice breaks my reverie.

‘What?’

‘Two phones. You’ve got two. I just wondered why.’

‘You’ve got about five,’ I counter. ‘Apparently.’

‘Yeah. But I’m a good for nothing. You’re not.’

‘Oh I’m sure you’re not.’ But now is not the time for moral discussion or rebuttal, I sense. ‘I’ve got them because …’ but I don’t know how to continue.

‘Because?’

‘Because, there’s someone I don’t want to speak to. On this one,’ I hold the old one up.

‘Who?’

I wrinkle my face. ‘My husband. Ex-husband.’

‘Why?’

I lean my head against the cool glass for a moment. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Isn’t it always?’ Saul grins. ‘Love, eh? I’m rubbish with women.’

Women!
He is so young.

‘I can’t believe that,’ I say. He is a little grimy, perhaps, but he is … very male. Slender, maybe, but with a strength I cannot quite describe; as if a fine layer of steel mesh lies beneath his skin. The kind of boy I imagine girls his age would swoon over; those piercing eyes that see right through you. Aloof; alluring.

‘I am,’ he shrugs, scrabbling in the well for his tobacco. ‘I fall too hard.’

I’m surprised. ‘Really?’ I look at him.

‘Yep.’

‘Why, do you think?’

‘Dunno. Always have done.’

‘Is there someone now?’ I think of the phone call I overheard; the ‘she’ he referred to.

‘Nope.’ He grins again. ‘Are you going to analyse me?’

My turn to shrug. ‘Maybe.’

‘I’ll analyse you first.’

‘Go on then.’

‘I’d say he’s a bastard.’

‘Who?’ I look out at the night.

‘You know who. Your ex.’

I’m about to demur, but what’s the point?

‘Maybe,’ I say again, quieter this time.

‘Nasty, was he?’

I turn the phone over in my hands. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘You’re hiding from him. It’s not difficult.’

‘I’m not hiding from him because he was nasty.’ But that’s not true. Not exactly. ‘I’m not hiding from him, really. I’m just … I’m confused.’

‘About what?’

‘I think …’ I remember the hotel. I can see Emily and I splashing around in the huge marble pool, laughing in the deep end, her blue mascara adrift beneath her eyes. Was it really only yesterday? ‘Well. My friend – my best friend, she just – she died.’ The word almost chokes me. ‘But I think … I don’t think it was her who was meant to die.’

‘I’m sure she wasn’t. Though, what is it they say?’ he glances at me. ‘The good die young?’

‘No, what I mean is …’ I take a deep breath. ‘I think someone was after
me
.’

‘After you?’

‘Trying to …’ I swallow. ‘Trying to kill me.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Fucking hell,’ the car swerves as he tries to roll his tobacco at eighty mph. ‘Why?’

‘I’ll do that, shall I?’ I say tartly, taking the Rizla and the Golden Virginia from him. ‘You concentrate on the road.’ Quickly I make a neat roll-up.

‘Impressive,’ he takes it, raising a pierced eyebrow.

‘I have many hidden talents.’

‘So. Someone tried to kill you?’ Saul lights the cigarette. ‘That’s heavy. Are you sure?’

I pause. I think. ‘Pretty sure.’

Am I though? I feel exhausted suddenly, lean back, shutting my eyes. Last night floods in again.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, slowly, opening my eyes. ‘But the door was locked. I remember that. We were in our hotel room, Emily and I, I was in bed and then …’ and then what happened? I find my fingers at my temples as if I am trying to force the memory back into my head.

‘And then?’ Saul prompts.

‘And then, it’s hard. I’d fallen asleep.’ I remember grabbing Emily’s hoodie from the back of the door, shoving feet into my trainers, going down the corridor. ‘Emily had a migraine. She woke me to ask me to get her painkillers from the car. When I came back from outside, the fire alarm went off.’

‘And she didn’t come out of the room?’

I can’t speak for a moment.

‘Laurie? You okay?’

‘It was all so … hectic,’ I say quietly. People running. Screaming. Thick, acrid smoke. No air.

‘And?’

Slowly I try to piece the bits together.

‘I ran back to the room but,’ I find I am rubbing my sore hand, ‘I couldn’t … I couldn’t get the bloody door open. I had my key-card thing – but it just wouldn’t work. It was like, I don’t know, Saul. Like the door was jammed by something – something heavy. And she …’ I grind to a halt.

He glances at me. ‘What?’

‘She was inside.’

‘Did you tell the police?’

I shrug. ‘Yeah, sure, I tried, but it was all so crazy. I think they just thought I was hysterical. Most people were a bit. And anyway,’ I think of Sid, and of the threat of injunctions; of the biker on the motorway; of the incredulous policeman earlier. ‘Let’s just say, my card was marked already. The police are not my number one fans.’

‘Sounds familiar.’ In the gloom, Saul half-smiles. ‘But why do you think he was trying to kill
you
?’

The tobacco smoke is sweet as it fills the car. I don’t answer.

‘Your ex?’ he prompts. ‘Why would he be trying to kill you?’