24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (5 page)

A
t the service
station I thank the driver and swing down from the cab, back into the damp grey day. It is freezing; I wrap the over-sized coat around me tighter.

Inside, glad of the warmth, I buy a cheese sandwich and sit in the cafeteria section. I stare at my new mobile phone, willing it to ring. I want to speak to my mother. At the age of thirty-six, I really want my mother. But I also want my mother to stay wherever she is, with Polly. To keep her safe.

My instinct is bothering me; my head is chattering. I would like to know where Sid is right now. One part of me says: ring him, check. Is he in the vicinity? I think of the last time I saw Sid, and I remember his fury: a blaze of pure emotion, scorching anyone in range.

Has he been called to the hospital? He won’t go, I am certain of that. He has a deep dread of the institution, born of his turbulent childhood. I am safe until—

Until someone sees Emily’s broken body and realises it’s not me …

Until the newspapers pick it up …

Until …

I bite my lip to stop the thoughts of Emily. I need to concentrate. There will be time to mourn – if I make it out of this mess alive.

I twist my ring round and round my finger. I should have tried to sell or pawn it when I had the chance, back in the town, but it hadn’t even occurred to me then. A ring worth thousands of pounds; one of the few beautiful things Sid bought for me, after he made his first million.

On Polly’s fourth birthday, he made us all breakfast in bed – which was a rarity in itself. We’d been fighting badly. He’d been away so much, suddenly so feted and revered, he just couldn’t acclimatise to life at home. And he found the media attention an immense pressure. He was wary, he didn’t really trust anyone; my wounded Sid.

That morning, propped up on my pillows in our enormous new bed, still half asleep, I bit down on my spoon of cornflakes and nearly took my tooth out. Polly thought it was hilarious as first I dribbled milk from my mouth – followed by a diamond ring. Turning it over in my hand, wiping the milk away, I couldn’t be cross about my sore teeth. It was the kind of gesture so rare from Sid that it mattered a lot. Not ostentatious; Sid was too classy for bling, but wildly expensive; princess-cut diamonds set in platinum.

Today, it’s the only jewellery I still wear. I took off my wedding ring – but I can’t bear to part with this; I’m still tied to it emotionally. It marks a little pocket of time when I was truly happy.

Maybe that’s what life is. Just precious little pockets of time we must cherish, to get us through the grey days.

Gazing out into the grey day, I see a police car parked outside. They must be in here somewhere. I realise I have been panicking; acting like a paranoid fool. I need to talk to someone, explain this mistaken identity. The police are not my greatest fans, apparently, but still …

I make a decision.

I am imagining it all, obviously. I, of all people, know about shock and its effects. Deluded, I’ve managed to convince myself that someone is after me – but surely that is rubbish. There was an accident. A very horrible accident and my beloved Emily is dead, but that is all it was.
An accident
. Tears start in my eyes. I blink them away and wait by the window for the police to return to their vehicle.

A big black motorbike enters the car park from the far end, driving slowly towards the building in which I am sitting.

I feel a strange tightening in my chest: a flash of memory.

A big bike roaring down the motorway on the inside of our car. Emily is driving. She is increasingly flustered. ‘Fuck off,’ she’s saying to the faceless biker, who can’t hear her. She flaps her hand at the window, gesturing for him to go away.

‘Emily,’ I am saying. The car is starting to swerve. ‘Concentrate.’

Now I see a stocky policeman striding out across the forecourt, eating a burger. I have a memory of talking to a different policeman in the last few days. Sitting next to Emily, in a small, provincial police station, drinking tea from polystyrene, talking to him about my fear and feeling indignant; sensing he was simply bored. But Emily wasn’t sure either. It was me who was truly worried.

I knew who it was on that bike, chasing our car.

I stand. The blood is starting to pump fast round my body. I feel light-headed.

The motorbike is pulling in, the driver’s booted foot on the tarmac now.

My sandwich falls to the floor as I move away from the window so the driver can’t see me. My heart bangs painfully in my chest. I
am
correct; something
is
very wrong. It all adds up.

And I need to reach Polly. Before he does.

I leave from the back entrance and into the car park for the heavy vehicles. I look for a driver. Any driver will do.

I need to get out of here – fast.

B
y Friday
, I was seriously regretting not having got Mal’s number. Our house had gone on the market and Sid still hadn’t given me any money for Polly, so I was anticipating problems as I prepared to talk to a solicitor. Worse than that, work had been horrible all week, compounded by two incredibly traumatised Sudanese girls at the Refugee Centre. They had been horribly raped back in Darfur, but were now being threatened with deportation. None of the phone calls I made on their behalf to the authorities were being answered, and I felt futile and hopeless about their situation.

As the weekend rolled round, I just wanted to hunker down in the warm with Polly and watch old musicals
.
I certainly didn’t want to meet Mal; God only knew what I’d been thinking, and I didn’t want Polly to have to play with his son, but short of not turning up, I had no way of contacting him to cancel.

So on Saturday we ate a hasty plate of beans on toast and then, with Polly on her scooter, made our way to the south gate of the park to meet the Coopers. I decided I’d tell Mal that we had a sudden new appointment, that Polly had to be somewhere that afternoon that we couldn’t get out of, so we would only have time to spend an hour or so together.

But when we arrived, Mal was already waiting – apparently alone.

‘No Leonard?’ I said as cheerily as I could, watching Polly scoot round and round the naked flowerbed.

‘His mother’s being difficult,’ he said, hands in pockets. He seemed awkward and ill-at-ease now we were outside the café, and I noticed what a sprawling, large bear of a man he was as we stood together, stamping our feet against the sudden cold. ‘She gets quite possessive.’

‘Well, no worries,’ my sense of relief was huge and I tried not to show it. ‘We can do it another time.’

His face brightened. ‘Can we? Fantastic.’

I wondered if I could get away with leaving immediately.

‘Shall we grab a quick coffee?’ he said, rather forlorn.

I looked at Polly who, having presented me proudly with some bedraggled feathers ‘for your collection, Mummy’, was now desperately trying to entice a curious squirrel nearer with half a stale Hula Hoop and some fluff from her coat pocket. I looked back at Mal. He smiled, and I remembered what a nice face he had.

‘Sure,’ we were near the park’s Tea Pavilion. ‘Shall we just pop in here?’

After a row with a rather squawky Polly about whether she was allowed fizzy or plain orange juice, during which I tried my utmost to keep my cool and not be the kind of mother who raised her voice or acquiesced immediately just for a quiet life, the three of us settled in a corner.

‘It’s such a nice park,’ Mal gazed out over the bandstand, warming his hands on his mug of tea. ‘Kind of cosy.’

‘It is, isn’t it,’ I agreed.

‘Much smaller than the huge park we had back home.’ He looked almost guilty for a second. ‘I mean, back near our old place.’

‘I’m bored,’ Polly announced loudly. She fixed me with her blue stare.

‘Drink your juice,’ I returned the stare.

‘You blinked first,’ Polly guffawed, and turned her attention to her biscuit.

‘Sorry, Mal. So, where was home?’ Adding a sugar-lump to my coffee, I contemplated a second. Such decadence.

‘St Albans.’

‘Can I go outside, Mummy?’ Polly finished removing the filling from the biscuit and laid the remnants down with disdain, her mouth ringed in chocolate. ‘I want to see how many times I can scoot round the café in five minutes. Can you time me?’

‘If you promise to stay where I can see you. And wipe your mouth.’

‘Promise.’ She was already off; banging out of the wooden doors.

‘Sorry.’

‘God, don’t apologise. I know exactly what it’s like.’

‘Lovely, but exhausting!’ We smiled at each other. ‘So, that’s a bit of a change. From St Albans to North London.’

‘Susie – my ex – she forced the issue. It was all a bit sudden – over the holidays.’

‘How come?’

‘She works for a bank. She transferred branches, and I followed her, basically. To be near Leonard. But I didn’t mind leaving, to be honest. It was her family who were near us there, not mine. Her sister, anyway.’

‘I know St Albans quite well actually. Nice town.’ I resisted the sugar-lump and offered Mal a Bourbon instead.

‘No, thanks.’ He refused it. ‘How do you know it?’

‘I did my first placement over there. The Centre was affiliated to the University of Middlesex. This one is too.’

‘Training?’

‘Yeah, I’m a psychotherapist. A counsellor.’

‘Oh really? We did a bit of that once. Susie and I.’ He pulled a face. ‘When things first started to go wrong.’

‘A bit of …?’

‘You know. Talking to someone. Counselling. At the Vale Centre, I think it was called. About five years ago.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Susie had very bad post-natal depression after we had Leonard. Very bad.’

‘That’s the place I mean. Where I finished my training,’ I was enthusiastic. ‘The Vale Centre. It’s our sister centre.’

‘She hated it actually, my ex. She blamed it for our split. The counselling. But I thought it was helpful.’ He met my eye. ‘In terms of trying to communicate better.’

‘Yes, well, it’s not for everyone. Sometimes people just aren’t ready to look at their stuff.’ I did my empathetic face. ‘But how funny that you went there. It really is a small world, isn’t it?’

My own words echoed peculiarly in my ears. We gazed at each other for a moment.

‘Oh my God.’ I felt a horrible burning sensation. ‘Oh bloody hell. We’ve met before, haven’t we? I
thought
you looked familiar.’

I had a memory of a big light room at the Centre, of sitting behind my mentor John Sheppard; of a couple, a woman, crying. ‘Your wife,’ I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly hot. ‘Is she … does she have long, red hair?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. He looked thoroughly rattled. Shaky even. ‘Yes, she does. Bloody hell indeed. How… odd.’

I tried to laugh; I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed, although I felt ridiculous myself. I had felt I’d seen him before … I just wish I’d remembered where rather sooner.

‘It really is a small world,’ I repeated pathetically, draining my coffee and standing decisively.

Outside, Polly whizzed round and round without a care in the world, curls and scarf flying behind her.

‘Laurie, please. Do you have to go?’ he wasn’t smiling now, he was just looking at me intently. I looked away first.

‘Duty calls,’ I pointed at Polly, who chose that moment to go flying head over heels, face-first onto the path. ‘Oh God—’

I banged through the doors to pick her up. Her knee was bleeding quite badly, one cheek was grazed – and of course, she was howling.

Mal followed and stood behind us. As I hugged Polly, quietly he handed me a hanky.

I mopped her up as best as I could and then, standing again, slightly panicked, I held out my hand to him, clutching Polly’s scooter in the other. He leant forward and kissed my cheek before I could step back. He still smelt of fresh air, just like he had the last time.

‘Laurie. Would you …’ he stopped. ‘It’s just, I’d really like to get to know some people in the area. Maybe we could try again—’

‘Sorry.’ I gathered Polly nearer, propelling her towards the gate. ‘I just think, you know, given the circumstances, it’s a bit … I mean, normally, I’d love to, but you know …’

He looked sad, but I saw, with relief, he wasn’t going to argue.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ I said formally. ‘We’ll see you – say bye, Polly.’

‘Bye,’ she snuffled.

‘Bye, love,’ he said, trying to smile convincingly. He failed.

My face was hot as we made our way to the gate, and I felt his eyes on me, though when I finally dared glance behind, he had gone. I kicked myself for my stupidity, although the truth was I hadn’t even really counselled them as a couple; I’d only been sitting in on a preliminary session. I hadn’t even been qualified at the time. What were the chances of running into him now? It was true; the world was ever-shrinking.

Still, I hoped I hadn’t made him feel embarrassed, running away like an idiot.

Along the road by the gate, someone got into a red car and revved the engine loudly, making me jump. I really needed to get control of my nerves. I couldn’t wait to get us home.

I
jerk
awake in the cabin of the lorry, disoriented.

‘Sorry,’ I say, to no one in particular, looking for Polly. She is not there.

‘Don’t apologise, love.’ This driver is not as nice as the last. He has a huge gut that almost rests on his thighs, pock-marked cheeks and a look in his eye that makes me nervous. Photos of naked, big-breasted girls are taped to his dashboard and ceiling; the ones on the ceiling are not wearing pants. I try not to look up.

‘Great view when you’re having a quick kip,’ he winks at the ceiling, his Welsh accent thick. He smells like he’s been on the road for a long time. ‘We all need to lie down sometimes, know what I mean?’

‘Where are we?’ Looking out at the grey horizon, I realise we are not on the motorway anymore; we are on a dual carriageway in an unknown landscape. Panic rises in my chest. ‘I need to get to London.’

‘Don’t worry. You will. I just need to make a quick detour.’

‘Why?’

‘None of your business, girlie,’ he winks again, but his look is less friendly now. He doesn’t like being questioned. ‘Man about a dog.’

‘I need to get to London really soon.’

‘Well you should have got the train then, shouldn’t you?’

I think of all the refugee girls I have worked with; of how vulnerable they are when they are on the run. Of the predators, mostly male, who hound them constantly.

‘Can you set me down somewhere?’ I ask. My voice is coming back slowly, but my hand really hurts; my shoulder throbs where I slammed into the hotel door again and again. I realise that my bedraggled appearance is making me appear vulnerable; that to this man, I probably seem like easy prey.

‘No, I can’t stop,’ the driver leers at me. ‘You don’t want to go anywhere, girlie. Stick with me.’

I visualise my daughter. I have never ever wanted something so badly. I imagine her small, warm solidity; the smell of her hair, the way she sticks her tongue out when she is concentrating, the way she guffaws when you tickle her. I concentrate on her image. It is why I need to keep going.

‘Please,’ I am almost shouting. ‘I need to get to London. Just drop me anywhere. If you don’t …’ I fumble for the mobile in my pocket, ‘I will call the police.’

But I think about the policemen in that little station on our way to the hotel. I think about the lugubrious duo at the hospital with their list. I think about the police officer in London who didn’t believe I had an intruder; the same one who thought I’d invented it when Polly went missing. I have lost my faith in them, I realise.

The driver’s mouth clamps shut like a letterbox. The lorry slows. I prepare to jump down.

In the wing mirror, I see a red car behind us.

‘Actually,’ I hold the mobile so tight my hand hurts. ‘Take me a bit further please.’

‘Make your fucking mind up,’ he snarls.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, slithering down in the seat, watching the red car, not daring to so much as blink. ‘I’ll get out at the next town.’

‘Yeah you will, and it’ll be good fucking riddance.’

I haven’t seen the motorbike again – but the car is still behind us.