One of Us (38 page)

“I know that now.”

“Not Yoremouth. Oskar wouldn't expect you to come back to his safe house. That was quite a clever choice.”

“Now I'm clever?” I pause. “But he does know; Col saw me in the house.”

“OK. Not really clever. Slightly less dumb.”

I feel better now that Greg's stopped being nice.

W
E
'
RE LYING ON
the cushion. Greg puts his arm around me so that my head is on his chest. My cheek is next to the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I've never seen you without long hair,” says Greg. His fingers brush through my fringe.

I run my fingers down the side of his face, so familiar and so new, from his close-trimmed hair to his earlobe. It feels like silk. I rest my hand in the little hollow where his collarbone starts. I'm warm now. Sleep is taking me down.

“Greg?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you think . . . do you think we're going to make it?”

Greg kisses the top of my head. “We are.” He pauses. “I bolted the door on the inside.”

We lie there for a few minutes.

“Verity?” Greg finds my hand and laces his fingers
through mine. His palm is warm against mine. “I like this,” he says.

“Like this,” I murmur.

“Whatever happens,” Greg whispers. “We have this.”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” I say.

“I can feel yours.”

I think of all the lonely nights under my duvet, pretending to be asleep so that nobody would speak to me, trying not to think of Greg. And now here he is.

“You're here,” I say.

I feel his lips touch my head. “I'm here.”

I want to stay awake. I want to feel his arms around me, and listen to his heart beating, and feel his breath on my head. But sleep is pulling me down to an absent place where I won't remember that I'm lying in Greg's arms. I try to fight it off, in case this is our only night together, in case something comes between us again. I try to hold on to wakefulness, the way I'm holding on to Greg's hand and his shoulder, but I can't.

CHAPTER 48

I
T ONLY FEELS
like a second later when I wake up.

“Verity? Verity!”

Greg's voice hums through his shirt. It's true. He's here. My head is on his chest.

He gives my shoulder a little tug. “Verity? We've got to go. While it's still dark.”

He's right. He's in enough danger just being with me.

But when I stand up, the pain in my ankle almost makes me pass out. I collapse onto the bench and pull up my trouser leg before unlacing my boot.

Greg crouches in front of me. “Shall I try and take it off?” He shines his flashlight on my ankle. Above my boot the skin is puffed and shiny.

I shake my head. “I'll just hobble.”

I get down the stairs on my bottom, but I know I will be too slow if I try to walk to the car. And too conspicuous.

We reach the doorway at last. The pane next to the door handle is broken. I look at Greg.

“Someone might be outside.” He's whispering now. “I had to get in quickly.” He nudges the glass into the corner of the door frame with one foot.

“Wow.” I smile at him, whispering too. Then I realize something. “I don't think I'll be able to share the driving.”

“And that's a bad thing?” Greg eases back the bolts at the top and bottom of the door, and looks around at me with his familiar raised eyebrow. “I don't want my car to end up in the sea.”

“Best place for it.” I smile. “Except it would cause an oil slick.”

“I'll go and get it.” Greg opens the door a little and peers out. “It'll only take me five minutes, if I run. Here.” He pulls a pair of gloves out of his pocket and gives them to me. “Your hands are always so cold.”

“OK.” I reach up and touch his face, and he turns back to kiss me, with his hand on the door. I hold it open a little so that I can watch him run across the road and into the castle gardens.

Now that he's gone panic gnaws at me. We should have stayed together. But it's OK; it's just that anxiety
has become my default setting. Greg's safer on his own. Oskar won't recognize him without me.

Maybe I should get myself down the steps so that we can leave as soon as Greg comes. I pull on the gloves and steady myself on the door frame, because as soon as I open the door the wind tears around the corner of the building. I can't put weight on my foot, so I bump down to the bottom step, waiting with my eyes fixed on where the road from the promenade emerges into the square.

He should be here by now.

I shouldn't have let him go alone.

I strain my ears into the air, trying to hear past the wind and the sea's roar. Maybe the car won't start.

But now I hear the sound I've been listening for: the whine of an engine revving to get up a hill. I feel myself smile. I stand up, to be ready. It's going to be OK.

There's a gust of slashing rain, but through it I see the car's lights. Rain washes down the windshield because he hasn't got the wipers on. That's not like Greg.

There he is, hunched over the wheel.

He should be slowing down.

There's someone else in the car. Behind Greg, leaning forward. It's Oskar. Oskar is in the car with Greg.

I take a step forward.

Greg winds down his window. “Run, Verity!” he shouts.

Then he speeds up, and the car shoots past me, out of the square.

“No, no, no!” But in the second it takes for me to shout, I see in my mind the one-way system that takes the road past the steps that lead up from the square.
Adrenaline surges through me, and I run across the square and up the steps, ignoring my ankle. I haul myself up with the handrail.
Come on, come on!

I hear Greg's car growling up the hill, and that gives me hope for one last burst. And now I'm on the road and I can see the lights blinking through the rain.

I stand in the middle of the road, legs apart, arms out. There's no way past me.

I wave my arms. “Greg! Stop!” I yell. But the wind sucks my voice away.

I don't think he's seen me.

But the car screeches to a stop and stalls. I get in before Greg has time to start the engine again.

I'm swamped by sensations as I fall onto the passenger seat.

Gladness, to be with Greg again.

Relief to be sitting down.

The searing pain that rips back, sending waves of nausea over me.

The smell of leather and aftershave.

I turn back, and there is Oskar's face, smiling at me.

“Good girl, K,” he says softly.

“Let Greg go,” I say. “He's got nothing to do with you.”

“Not yet, maybe.” Oskar's voice is cold. He jerks something into Greg's neck. It's a gun.

My breath stills.

CHAPTER 49

O
SKAR LEANS FORWARD
into the gap between the two front seats and jabs the gun into Greg's neck again. “Drive.”

But Greg is staring angrily at me, shaking his head.

Oskar twists the gun away from Greg and rams it below my ear. His voice hardens. “Start the engine.”

A vein in my neck pulses under the metal.

Greg turns the key in the ignition and the engine splutters into life.

My eyes meet Oskar's in the sun visor mirror. His light up in malicious joy.

I feel my breath seep away.

“My little Hoody.” Oskar's eyes smile at me.

Eyes that made me feel safe.

Greg's voice, beside me: “Don't call her that!”

“Greg,” I whisper.

“Shut up.” Oskar's voice is ice. How could I have missed the hatred before?

My eyes are held by Oskar's. His gloved hand is clenched in a fist on the back of my seat. There are two Oskars. The one with the gun at my neck, who tried to blow me up. And the other one, the one in Fred's Cafe, who laughed and listened. Who saved my life. Why?

“Oskar.” I try to speak to the cafe Oskar, even though I can't find him in the mirror. Maybe I can distract him with talk. “Oskar. Why did you do this to me? When you didn't even know me?”

Oskar barks a brief laugh. “You gave me the idea,” he says. “You made it so clear that nobody would miss you. And when I got Ril to look up your lovely family, I couldn't believe what a gift you were.”

I try to hold his gaze in the mirror, but his eyes slide away.

He punches the seat, close to my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Greg start.

“But then I had to identify Mona as you.” Now Oskar does meet my eyes.

“Who is Mona?” I speak softly.

“Mona Talbot.
K Child.
You should be the one who drowned, not her.”

This time I have to look away.

He continues. “But it's not too late.” He laughs. “I can still put one thing right.” He jerks the gun into Greg's neck.

As we follow the road downhill, spray spatters over the roofs of the fishing cottages by the quay. I'm frozen, frozen with the weight of Oskar's gun between Greg and me. The wind buffets the car. Clouds scud over the low morning moon, and the road rises white against the hillside. Pastels, on black paper: that would be the best way to capture it. We'll be out of Yoremouth soon.

“Turn right,” Oskar says to Greg as we reach the end of the bridge over the river Yore.

Greg brakes and the car stalls. Oskar slams the gun into the side of Greg's head. My breath sobs in my throat.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!” Sweat beads glisten on Oskar's forehead. In the mirror, his other hand is clenched in a fist.

I swallow the sobs.
Don't freeze, K. Don't freeze.
But there's nothing else to do right now, with the gun lined up beneath Greg's ear. I look sideways, without moving my head. I remember the silk feel of Greg's earlobe, which is now pressed flat by cold metal. Greg shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have led him into this trap.

Greg starts the car and turns the wheel. For a moment I think he's going to turn all the way around, back toward Yoremouth. But Oskar flings the gun back against the side of my chin, forcing my jaw almost out of line, and Greg swerves into the narrow lane. On the left a cliff face rises above us. On the right a low wall separates us from the sea, which churns in the harbor, darker than the road. The white foam dashes against the windshield.

We've reached the end of the road, even though Greg is driving so slowly. All that's before us now is raging black sea. I see his fingers trembling on the steering wheel and anger surges through my body. Everything sharpens.

“Stop the car,” Oskar commands.

Greg brakes. The car stalls.

“Don't move.” Oskar's voice is deadly cold.

I hear a sigh as Greg breathes out. A word slips from his mouth. “Verity.”

Then there's a flurry from behind. I can't see the gun. Oskar's two gloved hands grasp Greg's hair and his collar. Greg's head flies forward. His forehead cracks against the steering wheel.

I scream.

“Shut up,” says Oskar's quiet voice. “Don't move.” He waves the gun through the gap between the seats, swinging it from me to Greg, from Greg to me. Oskar's hand is shaking so badly that he has to grip his wrist with his other hand to steady it. He's watching Greg to see if he will sit up.

But Greg is still.

Greg might not be dead. I don't know for sure. Hold
on to that. I manage at last to take a gasping breath.

Maybe it isn't too late. A wave smacks over the wall and splatters against the windshield. It's been cold for weeks. Nobody could survive long in there.

Oskar opens his door and climbs out. Everything stops working in a submerged car: doors, windows. I slip off the gloves, undo our seat belts. I'm not getting out. Not without Greg.