Killing You Softly (23 page)

‘Carry on,’ I urged when Jayden stopped to stare suspiciously at a customer who stood up ready to leave. ‘I don’t see the connection with Jack.’

‘There wasn’t one at first. Cops come to JD’s to take details, Alex’s dad feels sick about losing a customer’s car so he cooperates. Cops don’t seem hopeful
about solving the crime; they leave. Then Alex finds a note stuck on the notice board.’

‘A lime-green Post-it note?’ I was remembering the note on my locker door and inside Galina’s tie.

‘No, for once you’re wrong.’ Jayden said. ‘This was written on the back of a JD invoice form. So Alex comes to me with the note because he doesn’t know what else to
do. It’s covered in scrawly writing, starting with “FAO Jack Cavendish”. Alex asks me, what do we do? Do we hand it over to Jack? He tells me he’s had it up to here with the
cops lately so he doesn’t want to be the one making decisions.’

‘Jayden,’ I interrupted, ‘for God’s sake, tell me what the note said!’

He unzipped the top pocket of his leather biker jacket and pulled out a note. ‘Here, read it for yourself.’

FAO Jack Cavendish,
in handwriting so untidy I could hardly read it.
Hey,
Jack. It’s me.
Alyssa’s just not getting it, is she?

Oh God! Oh God! I’m in my tiny boat on a big ocean and a wave swells on the horizon. It rises and rolls towards me.

‘What else could we do, me and Alex?’ Jayden asked. ‘A psycho wrote that note so we definitely had to show it to Jack. I said I’d do it.’

My boat rocked and rolled as the giant black wave rose and broke. I pushed the note back across the table with a trembling hand. ‘What happened after Jack read it? Why didn’t he call
or text me? Where the hell has he gone?’

‘Jack’s first reaction?’ Jayden recalled. ‘He swore and got on his bike. Rode off, changed his mind and cycled back towards me, says “Don’t tell
Alyssa.” ’

‘Then what?’

‘He said he’d tell you himself, but obviously he didn’t.’

‘How many hours ago is this? Three and a half – four? Let’s figure this out – he sets off to tell me about the message, but he never makes it. Plus, suddenly his
phone’s out of action. Jayden, I’m scared!’

He nodded as he watched me stand up then collapse weakly back on to the chair. ‘You want me to help you look for him?’

‘Yes – no! It’ll be quicker for me to go on my bike.’

‘How do you know which way to head?’

The wave roars in my ears; it towers over my head; I feel icy spray on my face and hands. Within seconds the wave will hit me and my boat will splinter into matchstick fragments.

‘Back to town,’ I told Jayden. ‘Whatever happened to Jack, I think it was soon after he split from you in Ainslee.’

It started to rain heavily. Cold drops fell on my bare head, soaked through my school skirt and spattered loudly against my high viz jacket. The road into town was soon shiny
under the orange street lamps and the rain gathered in oily puddles in the gutters.

I gathered every ounce of strength and pedalled like a crazy person, ignoring lights and mounting pavements, weaving in and out of the rush-hour traffic.

OK, in amongst all this panic I had to think: My psycho stalker always leaves clues – I just have to pick up the latest in the series to track Jack down. He breaks into JD’s and
steals a car, writes a note obliquely threatening Jack with God knows what kind of car crash. Psycho guy is always telling me to look right under my nose, to follow the most obvious thought. The
next unarguable thing I know is that he uses the car to cut me up on my way into town. The location is significant – it has to be. I have to head back to the betting shop, get off my bike and
investigate.

I arrived outside Betmate and threw down my bike. A guy in scuffed and stained construction-worker boots came out, head down, heavy jacket zipped up to his chin. There was a loose flagstone on
the pavement, which tilted when he stepped on it. Muddy rainwater gushed up from under it and splashed my legs.

I looked up at the neon-lit Betmate sign. To the right of the betting shop was a fast-food place, to the left a dark side road with temporary orange traffic cones across it. I peered past the
cones and saw no sign of road repairs. My heart lurched. Hold steady, keep going, I told myself as the tsunami roared in my ears.

I squeezed between the cones and walked down the side street. There were blank brick walls to either side. A broken down-pipe sent rainwater gushing on to the narrow pavement.

A bike lay beside a row of overflowing wheelie bins, its buckled back wheel jutting out on to the road, its front wheel jammed between two of the bins. I stepped over it then heard a sound from
beyond the bins – something between a sigh and a moan.

There was Jack, propped up against the filthy wall next to the broken down-pipe, his head hanging, chest heaving, as he struggled to breathe. I fell on to my knees, scared to move him, praying,
praying, praying, that I’d found him in time.

Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead. His eyes didn’t seem to focus.

‘Jack,’ I whispered. ‘It’s me – Alyssa.’

He opened his mouth and groaned.

‘Listen to me – don’t move! I’ll call an ambulance. You’re going to be OK. Stay where you are.’

I had to keep on begging him not to try to get up because, even if he wasn’t seeing me clearly, he was hearing my voice and leaning forward from the wall, putting his hands flat on the
pavement and bracing himself to try to stand.

‘Don’t!’ I pleaded. I put my hands over his and trapped them.

Water from the down-pipe gushed and splashed on to Jack’s smashed mobile phone.

‘I need an ambulance!’ I pulled out my phone, dialled 999 and gasped out the words in response to the calm voice at the other end. I gave a location, pleaded with the woman to be
quick while she asked me was Jack breathing? Was he conscious? Then she continued to talk me methodically through the situation as if it weren’t the worst thing that had ever happened in my
life – finding Jack injured on the pavement, blood running down his face, struggling to breathe.

‘Try to keep him awake. The ambulance is on its way. It should be with you in five minutes. How is he doing? Is he still conscious? Good. I’m staying on the line – I
won’t leave you. Stick with it. You’re doing a great job.’

These people are saints, I swear.

Five minutes felt like five hours. Then I heard the sirens and saw blue lights flashing, heard the cones blocking the street being dragged clear before the ambulance got through to Jack and
me.

Two paramedics jumped out. The guy eased my fingers away from Jack’s hand, giving space for the woman to work. She bent over him. I heard him groan.

‘OK,’ she told her partner. ‘His airway is clear and he’s conscious, but he’s not responding to questions. Let’s get him out of here.’

And they did – they lifted Jack on to a stretcher and carried him into the ambulance. I followed. They let me drive with them to the hospital, siren blaring, lights flashing. Jack lay
surrounded by monitors, his face pale and bloody, unable to grasp my hand as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

‘What’s this?’ the female paramedic wondered as she carefully removed Jack’s helmet and a piece of paper fluttered out.

The message was in the same scrawly handwriting – almost illegible because the paper was soaked by rain and blood.

The nurses worked hard to persuade me to leave Jack with them in the high-dependency unit at the Queen Elizabeth.

‘You did your bit, now there’s nothing more you can do. Go home and rest,’ the sister in charge advised.

These nurses were firmer and calmer and harder to argue with than you would ever believe – I guess it’s part of the professional persona. I was desperate to stay overnight, but they
clearly wanted me to leave so they could get on with their jobs.

‘What did the chest X-rays show?’ I whispered.

Machines beeped. Jack had a dressing on the head wound. His eyes were closed.

‘Two broken ribs. And the doctors say the left lung is punctured. This tube is to drain fluid from the lung.’

‘What about his head? What did the CT scan show?’

‘Too early to say.’ The sister was more defensive as she made an entry on the chart at the bottom of Jack’s bed. ‘And, to be honest, we can’t tell you any more
until after we’ve spoken to the parents.’

‘Come on, it’s time to go.’ Molly stepped in to prise me away from the bedside. She’d driven over from St Jude’s as soon as the hospital had informed Dr Webb about
the accident. His job was to speak to Mr and Mrs Cavendish while Molly came to collect me.

‘I have to go now,’ I whispered in Jack’s ear.

His eyelids flickered open and he tried to smile – a shadow of his usual brilliant one.

‘I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

His eyes closed.

‘Come on, Alyssa. Let’s go,’ Molly insisted. She led me by the elbow out of the unit. The door swung closed. Through the small glass panel I caught a glimpse of Jack lying
immobile in the bed closest to the nurses’ station.

My mind leaps back to a previous visit to the Q.E.

Paige is lying in intensive care when Jack and I arrive.

Medics wear soft shoes, which squeak as they walk.

‘Three broken ribs, one punctured lung, broken collarbone . . . X rays and brain scan . . . possible aneurysm . . . skull fractures, small splinters of bone lodged in the frontal cortex
. . .’ The words slip out between doors leading to the ICU.

Jack grips my hand.

‘I should’ve pulled her clear of the horse,’ I moan. ‘But I was scared so all I did was yell for her to get out of the way. She didn’t listen.’

‘She’ll be OK,’ he insists. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

But Paige wasn’t OK. She didn’t pull through.

And now it was Jack’s turn and the feelings were even worse – a mixture of strength-sapping guilt and fear as sharp as a blade twisting in my gut.

Molly was silent as we walked down the corridor to the lift, still silent as she paid the parking fee and we went out into the foul rain and wind. It was only when we were driving home that she
spoke again.

‘How are you doing?’ she asked. ‘OK, no need to answer that. I can see you’re struggling.’

‘It’s my fault,’ I said.

I was drowning, dragged down by the current, tossed about like a rag doll.

She braked at a set of lights. ‘That’s nonsense.’

‘No, it’s true. All this is happening because I’m not getting it.’

‘No. It’s happening because there’s a psycho on the loose and it’s the job of the police to find him, not you.’ The wipers swished, the lights changed to green.

‘It’s still my fault,’ I said again.

‘Alyssa, what are you doing!’ It wasn’t a question from Connie at seven thirty next morning – it was pure disbelief.

I was sitting in Marco’s car, waiting for him to run and fetch his credit card to buy petrol when Connie jogged out of the woods towards me at the end of her pre-breakfast run.

‘I’m getting a lift to the hospital.’ My fear hadn’t receded overnight. In fact, I’d spent the whole time, second after tortuous second, drowning in my tsunami of
panic and guilt

‘With Marco?’

‘He offered. I said yes.’

‘Marco offered? But Jack wouldn’t be happy. In fact, he’d hate it that you’re getting a ride with Marco of all people.’

‘Jesus,’ I sighed. ‘What’s it matter who takes me to the hospital, as long as I get there?’

‘I can drive you. Or Hooper.’

I spotted Marco emerging from the archway leading to the dorms. ‘Too late –he’s here now.’

Connie stood back. ‘OK, Alyssa – tell Jack hi,’ she muttered as Marco slid into the driving seat. Then she stood a long time watching him reverse out of his parking space and,
with a crunch of gravel, swing the car round.

‘You OK?’ he asked above the purr of the engine and the swish of the tyres through the puddles on the drive. It had stopped raining at last and clouds were clearing from the dawn
sky.

‘You’re the tenth person to ask me that this morning.’

‘OK, stupid question,’ he agreed.

If I’d imagined he would leave me in peace to worry about Jack for the rest of the journey into town, I’d have been dead wrong.

‘So how long have you and Jack been together?’ he asked as soon as we left the school grounds.

I forced myself to respond to his small talk. ‘I guess that depends on what you mean by “together”. He invited me to a party at the beginning of last term, but it didn’t
really take off until much later.’

There you are – this was all it took for me to drift off on another eidetic episode, back to the time when the police had dragged the lake.

I’m standing on the shore of the lake where Lily drowned.

‘Don’t stand too close to the edge,’ I hear Jack warn.

I don’t look round. I know his voice, feel his presence.

‘Alyssa, step back,’ he says as he takes my hand.

I pull away.

He waits for me to be ready to talk. ‘I saw you walk down this way.’

I stare at the water, dark and deep.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘What for?’

‘Being a loser. Not knowing how to act.’

‘When?’

‘All of the times I’m around you. I’ve been a total tosser.’