The Hidden Girl (17 page)

It wasn’t what she’d expected to do this morning, but it took her mind off Will. It was good to be outside, too. The sea-air blew away the effects of a bad night’s sleep.

Dax threw the last tyre in, then banged the tailgate shut. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and she followed. To her surprise, he drove off without saying goodbye to the elderly man. Hannah watched the strange red-faced man in her wing mirror, as they took a different path off the beach, down the side of the shack. Maybe if you saw the same few people every day out here, there was no need for the kisses and bright hellos she was used to in the city, almost as if people were so pleased to find like-minded souls among eight million people that they celebrated every time they saw someone they knew.

‘You done that all right,’ Dax said, sounding surprised.

‘Thanks,’ Hannah said drily, wondering how Dax would cope with driving through a desolate stretch of desert, knowing gun-wielding militia were in the area.

Will’s words returned.
I can’t believe you gave up your job like that
.

A thought hit her. Her new neighbours in Tornley would never even know that side of her. It was over.

Dax raced up to a gate and stopped. Without being asked, Hannah jumped out and opened it, then shut it as he passed through and waited for her.

They continued on, speeding alongside the marshes, till they braked at a paved road. Hannah had absolutely no idea where they were.

Dax turned down the radio and motioned to the tyres. ‘Got to drop these down to a fella in Snape, then do a pickup at Marshleton.’

‘I’ll come,’ she said, playing him at his own game.

‘Ha! Will you now?’

She nodded, and he accelerated off to the right. A second later he skidded to a stop at a T-junction with a three-pronged signpost. Hannah leant forward to see if Tornley was on it, but the place names were all unfamiliar.

‘I suppose no one ever comes to Tornley, do they?’ she said. Dax turned right onto the road, then accelerated. ‘I mean, it’s a dead-end, isn’t it? You wouldn’t even know it was there, unless you knew someone there. Will and I only found it by accident while he was trying to show me the pub where he hung out as a teenager.’

Dax turned. The first weak sunshine in days shone through the windscreen, lighting the yellow around his irises. For the second time today Hannah thought of a wolf.

‘That’s how we like it, in’t it?’ he said. ‘Get up to what we want to get up to out here!’

Maybe it was the thought of the wolf, or the strange light, but for that second Dax’s eyes seemed to devour her. Flushing, Hannah leant forward to turn the radio back up and watched the fields and farms zoom by.

Will’s words from last night repeated in her head, the implications deepening.

She had no idea where Dax was taking her. She just knew that, right now, she wanted to be anywhere but Tornley Hall.

In London that morning Will sent Matt out for coffee, food and painkillers, while he cleaned up the bin, then left his nervous-looking assistant to load up the vocals, drums, bass, strings and guitar for mixing, as he took a shower to try in vain to clear his head. He didn’t care what Matt thought about the sight that had greeted him this morning – he’d seen a lot worse as an assistant. But he did care that Matt spoke to Hannah on the phone occasionally, and Matt was clearly wondering what Will was up to with Clare.

This had to be sorted.

When Will returned from the shower, he saw a light under her door. He thought about knocking, then hesitated. He’d speak to her when there was a better chance he wouldn’t throw up.

In the studio Matt pointed to a second coffee he’d made Will.

Will took it, too hungover to thank him. For a while he watched, bleary-eyed, over Matt’s shoulder, then lay back down on the sofa. ‘Wake me when you’re ready,’ he said, shutting his eyes.

Matt shook him an hour later. Will pulled himself over to the Mac and stared at the tracks in front of him, already knowing it was useless. He couldn’t mix a fucking cake today.

‘Listen, mate, my stomach’s not right. I’ve already done a couple of lates this week, so let’s call it a day. We’ll come at it fresh on Monday.’

He waited for his eager assistant to argue; offer to stay on and make himself useful. But Matt’s usual enthusiasm had vanished.

‘Sure?’ Matt said, avoiding Will’s eye.

‘Yup, sure.’ This was irritating. Matt needed to pull himself together. This was work.

Half an hour later, when Matt had left, Will checked his phone. Still no reply from Hannah.

He thought back over last night, shaking his head as more snatches of memory returned. He drank another coffee to steel himself, then knocked on Clare’s door.

No answer.

His stomach rumbled. It was midday. He needed food. He threw on his jacket over the baggy clothes Clare had lent him, then walked to the King’s Head and ordered food.

‘And what can I get you to drink?’ the barman asked.

The beer pumps were lined up in front of him. Despite the nausea of two hours ago, Will realized he wanted a beer. He pointed.

‘Pint of that, mate.’

As the barman poured, a movement caught Will’s eye in the mirror.

His fingers were tapping on the bar. He realized he was still singing ‘Carrie’ in his head.

Then, just like that, he remembered.

He’d been standing here when he met Hannah.

Exactly at this spot. Eight years ago. Tapping his fingers.

The pub had been packed. The lads had been here, a couple of them fresh off the train from Salford that Friday afternoon. He’d been waiting to order a round, pleased to have real money in his pocket for a change, after a week assisting a producer at Smart Yak, and psyched that the guy had offered him another week’s work.

In this mirror Will had seen the reflection of a woman, watching his hand, whispering to someone hidden by the throng. He’d turned.

‘Oh! Sorry!’ the woman laughed. She had short grey hair, warm eyes with a black granite core, and small, tough lips, painted red.

‘That’s all right,’ he smiled.

She pointed at his fingers tapping on the bar.

‘We were trying to guess. What is it? The song?’ she asked flirtatiously.

He liked her cheek. ‘What do you think it is?’ His words came out slurred.

‘Right . . .’ she said, screwing up her eyes. ‘Er . . . “Wonderwall”?’

He shook his head. ‘Manchester accent, eh, and everyone thinks Oasis.’

She laughed wickedly and leant forward to grab a wine list, revealing the woman behind her. ‘Your turn, Hannah!’

This woman was younger, around his own age. He tried to focus. She had the weirdest hair colour he’d ever seen. Neither red nor blonde, but a very pale golden-pink, pulled back into a scruffy ponytail. Her skin was almost translucent, too, apart from three sore-looking strips of sunburn across her forehead, nose and chin, and oddly dark freckles that looked as if they’d been stamped on her nose. She had wide, flat cheekbones, small, slanting blue eyes, and a blunt upper lip that had a sexy quality about it that didn’t fit in with the rest of her. He dropped his eyes casually. She was skinny like a boy, wearing scruffy jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue scarf chucked around her neck, as if she couldn’t be bothered. Her face broke into an easy smile that pulled the upper lip firmly out of its pout, as if she and it were constantly at odds.

‘New Order. “Blue Monday”.’

Will stopped tapping. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’

The girl laughed, bunching the freckles.

‘Oh please, he’s just saying that cos he fancies you,’ said the grey-haired woman, handing the girl a wine menu and giving Will a good-humoured wink.

The girl looked startled. She mouthed ‘Sorry’ at Will, then dropped her eyes to the menu. Behind it, he saw that the rest of her skin had flushed the same tone as her sunburn. He found himself wanting to tell her it was OK.

‘You . . . you have a very interesting hair colour – where are you from?’ he shouted over the music, trying not to slur.

She looked up. ‘Nigeria.’

He hesitated. Was she winding him up?

‘You’re from Nigeria?’

She reached up to hear him repeat it. ‘No!’ she said, pointing to her suitcase. ‘Sorry, I thought you said where’ve I come from. No. I’ve just got back. From Nigeria.’ She turned to point out a bottle to her friend. The side-angle hardened her soft cheekbones unexpectedly.

‘Really?’ Will said, trying and failing to think of a more intelligent reply.

He couldn’t stop looking at her. Everything about her was unexpected. Nothing fitted together in a way that made sense.

She was small – maybe five foot two – but had a physical confidence about her, as if she could handle herself. And maybe it was his imagination, but she smelt a little of wee and day-old deodorant, and her hair looked greasy.

A word on her bag caught his eye:
TeachersSpeakOUT
.

Her friend left the bar holding glasses and a bottle, and gave him a cheerful wink. The girl waved, with an embarrassed smile, and followed the woman to a high table with stools near the bar. He watched in the mirror. As her friend poured the wine, the girl’s face turned more serious. She took a sheaf of pages out of her bag, and some photographs. He saw the words ‘Abuja’ and ‘Conference’ on the front. She and her friend knocked glasses, then bowed their heads over the material.

‘Mate?’ the barman said. ‘Do you want a drink or not?’

‘Yeah. Sorry,’ Will said.

TeachersSpeakOUT
. Where had he seen that name before? Outside an office somewhere – up by the Tube?

As the barman poured his round, Will checked on the lads in the mirror. It had been a while since they’d all spent a weekend together getting wasted. He realized he was the only one still doing music. The rest had long ago drifted into IT, and a college course, teaching and a building site. Two were back home in Salford, one with a kid. If he wasn’t careful, he knew he’d be next.

Will carried his tray from the bar. He saw that the three girls he and the lads had been chatting to earlier in the evening had moved their drinks over to their table. The one he’d thought was quite pretty glanced at him through thick eyelashes, hopeful. Unlike the freckled girl at the bar, this girl’s skin was flawless, as if it had been airbrushed a deep tan. He suspected the effect had taken hours to achieve.

As he pushed unsteadily through the throng, Will felt a shift inside him that was so powerful he couldn’t identify it.

Maybe it was knowing that he’d blown it too many times, and that this chance to assist a producer he respected might be his last, or maybe it was because he’d just turned twenty-seven.

But suddenly, Will knew that it was time to stop fucking around.

The girl with the painted-on tan smiled at him with bleached teeth, and shifted to make room on the bench.

Stop fucking around, in more ways than one.

As he dodged the crowds, balancing his tray, he passed the girl with the sunburnt face. She was scratching her head, looking as if she needed a wash. He wanted her to see him, so that he could speak to her again, or even offer to buy her and her friend a drink, but her gaze was fixed intently on her documents. She was locked in a conversation that appeared to matter to her, the way his week at Smart Yak had mattered to him.

Maybe it was the four pints and two shots he’d had since six o’clock, but right then Will had a crazy thought. He didn’t want to buy the girl with the greasy hair a drink.

He wanted her to be his girlfriend.

‘Here you go, pal.’

Will paid for his pint.

In the mirror this lunchtime he saw a different man from the one he’d gone on to become with Hannah.

He saw his old man. Unshaven and hungover, in dirty clothes. Drinking in the daytime, and messing around with other women. A knob who walked out on his wife when she got clinical depression, and left his kid to do his job for him.

Will looked at the beer. What the fuck was he doing?

He banged the glass down and walked out.

At Paddington station every part of the forecourt was crowded with people like him, desperate to get home. He squatted against a wall, waiting for an announcement. When the trains to Suffolk finally started, half of London seemed to be trying to get there, and the service was painfully slow. There were no seats, so he leant against the luggage rack for three-and-a-half hours, budging every time someone went into the toilet.

Back at Woodbridge station the snow was melting. His car growled as he woke it from four days’ hibernation. At the supermarket he stocked up, then headed off on the A12. It was only then that he saw the real effect of the weather out here. Abandoned cars littered the side of the road.

Hannah had been out here without food or transport. She’d tried to ring him.

He hadn’t replied.

Will turned off the A12, speeding up. The B-roads were even worse. The snow was compacted, pushed to the sides like dirty ocean surf. It was 5.45 p.m. and the sun was starting to set. Will forced himself to concentrate on the new route he’d learnt, to Snadesdon via Thurrup, then on past the village green. For the first time he didn’t get lost. Three turns and he was back at the crooked iron gate with the red rope.

As he accelerated towards Tornley, he knew why he recognized that gate now.

They’d come here a few times, he and Laurie and a convoy of her young-farmer mates, after a night in the Fox’s pub garden. He remembered now. There was a meadow hidden up the track beyond the gate, in a hollow of trees. They’d parked their old pickups and Minis in a circle; turned up the music loud, drunk cider, put on their hazard lights and danced in the middle. One night, he recalled, he’d lain on the damp earth among the trees with a giggling posh girl called Phoebe, who lived in a vicarage and had smooth thighs. When she went home, he’d ended up in the back of a pickup with Laurie’s best friend, Bex, a tough farm girl, all peroxide hair and chewing-gum kisses.

Oh yeah, he’d thought he was the man that night.

Will banged the gear stick up into fourth as he hit the final straight. Last Saturday he’d hated being back on these roads. Maybe he just hated the dick he’d been then.