Never Close Your Eyes (49 page)

She shook herself. It was definitely time to go. She picked up her bag and stepped out on to the landing. The children's bedroom doors were closed and the air was dusty and silent. She realised that she felt like an intruder in her own home. Perhaps she'd always felt like an intruder here. Well, the house would soon be left in peace.

She descended a few steps and stopped. Her ears pricked. There was the distinctive sound of wheels on gravel. Fuck. Someone was coming up the drive.

Her heart started hammering. If only she'd left sooner; she was a fool. She thought quickly. She had the car keys in her bag. Whoever it was would surely ring the bell first and wait for a few moments, buying her some precious time. If she was speedy enough she could dart out of the back door and escape via the side entrance to the house. She'd be away down the road before they'd realised what had happened.

The fire was still burning downstairs. She'd been silly to light it. She'd have to leave it now. For all she knew, Tom had called the police. The whole story might be out. She wasn't going to be there when her face was splashed across the newspapers, when the whole world knew what she'd done. She wouldn't give Gary the satisfaction.

She had no idea where she was going. Tuscany, now there was an idea. She could drive down to Nice and flit across the border and after Tuscany – who knew? She thought she could hear scrunching – footsteps approaching the front door. She paused and listened. It sounded like just one set of footsteps. Tom hadn't set the entire local constabulary on her, then. But she couldn't be sure.

A thought crossed her mind: Gary didn't know about the house. At least, she didn't think so. And even if she'd mentioned it, there was no way that he'd know where it was, the exact location. He could never find her, it was far too remote.

He'd managed to get hold of her mobile number, though, and her Richmond address. She shuddered. She felt as if the massive stone walls of the house were closing in on her, the roof collapsing, threatening to crush her. She had to escape into the fresh air.

She slipped into the kitchen and reached for the back-door key on the shelf by the cookery books. It made a grating noise as she turned it, which made her wince. There was a loud knock. Her hand was wet and slippery as she tried to twist the brass knob. She dried her hand with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and tried again. This time, the knob slid round and she opened the door a little.

She glanced down just before squeezing through. There, in the corner, was the old axe that Tom used to chop wood. She bent down and reached for the end. It felt cool and hard in the palm of her left hand. She picked it up.

Luckily the path leading to the car was concrete rather than gravel. She tiptoed for a few yards then sprinted towards the black Mercedes parked beneath the trees. The axe felt heavy. She gripped tightly so that it wouldn't fall.

There was a shout: ‘Stop!' She fumbled for the key in her bag with her right hand; why hadn't she got it out before? Her fingers settled on the round metal key ring and she pulled, zapping the button as soon as it was pointing in the right direction. The locks clunked open.

She threw her bag on the passenger seat. She could hear the blood whooshing in her ears and her temples were pounding. She wasn't even blinking, she was so focused. She transferred the axe to her right hand and started to lift her left foot into the car. She gasped. Fingers were already seizing her shoulders, grasping, restraining her. She struggled to shake them off but she couldn't.

She screamed: ‘No!' Birds fluttered out of the trees and flapped wildly above her.

She paused a second. The axe hung limply. She opened her fingers. She could feel it sliding from her grasp. It was only a couple of feet from the ground but it seemed to take for ever. Finally, it hit the concrete with a thud.

It was done.

She looked up and her eyes met another pair of eyes; they were big and dark, framed by thick, close-knit brows. The man was panting hard and she could feel his hot breath on her face.

She lost her footing and plunged towards him, knocking him off balance. He staggered back a few steps but quickly rallied. Before she had time to react, his arms were round her, circling her completely, gripping so tightly that they hurt.

She closed her eyes. She was finished. She had no strength left. Her head was squashed against the man's chest. She could feel his heart heaving, could hear the booming and swishing of blood coursing through vein and ventricle. Their two hearts were pumping in unison, in perfect, mocking synchronicity.

She parted her lips: ‘Tom!'

It was scarcely audible; she was choked with tears.

‘I didn't do it,' she moaned. ‘I dropped it this time. It's on the floor. I didn't do it.'

Chapter Forty-Four

Carol stared out of the kitchen window. She was deeply troubled about her phone call with Zelda. It seemed highly unlikely that Evie had just happened on Zelda's number and Zelda had offered no other explanation. More importantly, she hadn't explained why she'd failed to tell Carol about the conversations they'd been having. It was all most disturbing.

Zelda had said Evie was all right, but she sounded weird, as if she were concealing something. Of course, the likelihood was that she had no idea what was going on or why Evie was in such a rush. But then there were those occasions when Zelda had claimed the spirits had revealed something to her and she'd actually been right. Coincidence, probably, but it made Carol very nervous all the same.

She didn't like it at all. Her stomach was in knots.

She paced around the room a few times. She found she couldn't stay still for long. It was still raining outside but anything would be better than just hanging around like this, worrying. Victoria and Albert were sensibly curled up on the plastic kitchen chairs. It was always warm in here, especially when the heating was on.

Albert looked up at Carol for a moment and miaowed. ‘You stay there,' she commanded. ‘I won't be long.'

She hurried into the hall and started putting on her waterproofs, which were still slightly damp from earlier on. Then she opened the door and wheeled her bike down the garden path.

She was surprised when she arrived, panting, outside Evie's house to see a light on in the front room. Was she home now? Carol hesitated for a moment before leaning her bike against Evie's wall and padlocking it. She had a perfectly legitimate reason for calling: she'd happened to be passing and noticed that Evie's door was wide open and no one was there. She was just popping by to check everything was all right.

Her hands were trembling slightly as she rang the bell. It would be the first time that she'd admitted knowing where Evie lived. But they were friends, from the writing group. They lived near each other and Carol's story was perfectly plausible. There was no reason why things couldn't return to how they were, once she'd put her mind at rest and established that the family were safe.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Carol was surprised. Evie had a lighter tread. The door opened and a tall, handsome, middle-aged man with a weathered face and silver hair was standing in the entrance. Carol recognised him as Evie's next-door neighbour, who was often fixing things in his garden.

‘Oh,' she said, trying to peer round his shoulder, ‘where's Evie?'

He frowned. ‘She's not here.'

There was something in his voice that made Carol even more anxious.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, straightening up, ‘I must sound terribly rude. I'm an old friend of Evie's – from her writing group. I happened to be passing earlier on and noticed that she'd left the door open. I wanted to check that everything was in order, that nothing had been stolen.'

The man's face softened. ‘I see,' he said. ‘An old friend.' He was still standing in the doorway, blocking the entrance.

Michael appeared from the right, which Carol thought was the sitting room, and stood beside the man, who put an arm around him. Carol was taken aback – she hadn't realised they knew each other so well – but Michael seemed relaxed. He sort of sank comfortably into the older man's side. His face looked pinched, though, not like his usual self at all.

She thought rapidly. ‘Michael!' she beamed. ‘I've heard so much about you. I was worried about your mother.'

She dropped her bag on the step and several items spilled out: her keys, a pen, a packet of tissues. She stooped down to pick them up. ‘How careless! I'm such a butterfingers today. May I come in for a moment while I sort myself out?'

Michael raised his eyebrows but the man moved aside and Carol scurried in before he could change his mind. She pretended to rearrange her bag.

‘I must admit,' she said, now that she was safely inside, ‘that there are a few things about Evie that have given me cause for concern recently. I was hoping that you might be able to shed some light on matters.' She looked the man in the eye. He had a lean, intelligent face, she thought; sensitive and kind.

He sighed, turning from her to close the door. ‘I'm afraid your instincts are correct.' He started to guide Carol and Michael towards the kitchen at the back of the house. ‘I'm Bill, Evie's neighbour,' he explained. ‘Something terrible has happened. You'd better take your coat off and I'll put you in the picture.'

Al's hand was clamped around her right arm, squeezing tight. ‘This way.' He was pushing through the crowds, bumping into people. ‘Hurry.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘Don't talk, I'll tell you later.'

Freya's heart was thumping so loudly that she could hear it. She didn't understand. He was Nic's husband. Why hadn't he told her? She didn't know what it meant or what to think. She'd seen two or three men and a woman approaching; she'd heard them say, ‘Police.' Then the announcement, everybody starting to shove. She was afraid that she was going to fall over and they'd trample on her.

‘I'm scared . . .'

‘It'll be all right.'

‘Where are we going?'

They were out in the open now, half walking, half running along the main road through a sea of people. ‘Oi, be careful . . . stop pushing . . .' Al took no notice. His grip on Freya's arm was so tight that she couldn't get away if she wanted to.

‘I want to go home . . .' She had a lump in her throat. He didn't hear, or if he did, he took no notice.

Someone trod on her foot. It hurt. She started to cry. She wanted Mum. People were talking about a bomb. That was why they were running away from the station. Maybe they were all going to get killed.

Everyone was hurrying, jostling her. Police cars with wailing sirens were trying to get past. Cars and buses were moving aside. She was tired. They seemed to have walked miles. There was a railway sign ahead saying Euston Station. He pulled her up the grey, concrete steps to the main entrance.

‘Where are we going?' she repeated. They stopped in front of a ticket machine.

‘Birmingham.'

‘But I thought . . .'

He was fumbling in his coat pocket for something. His wallet? ‘Wait while I get the tickets.'

‘I thought we were going to Paris.'

‘The train's been cancelled. You'll like Birmingham . . .' He shoved his credit card in the slot. ‘We can go to Paris later. You've got your passport?' He sounded sharp.

‘Yes.'

She noticed his hands. They had blue, sticky-up veins on the back. His neck, poking out of the top of his collar, was thin and slightly wrinkly. She'd known he was old; she shouldn't be shocked. She'd probably fancy him once they got to know each other properly.

‘I love you,' she whispered tentatively. It sounded odd, as if someone else was speaking. But it was true, wasn't it – that she loved him? She'd written it often enough. Maybe if she kept saying it then she'd forget that he was forty-eight and skinny. She looked over her shoulder. The woman standing behind was giving her a funny look.

‘Quick,' he said, glancing up at the departures board. ‘We have to buy some things.'

He pulled her into Accessorize and grabbed a pink woolly cap and scarf. ‘Keep the change,' he told the shop girl. He turned to Freya.

She started to protest: ‘But I don't like—'

‘Put these on.'

She did as she was told, pulling the cap down over her ears and wrapping the scarf around her neck, right up to her nose.

In another shop he grabbed a brown jacket for himself and a plum-coloured jumper. They were pretty gross. He kept tapping his hand on the counter while he waited for the credit card to go through. ‘We'll miss our train . . .'