‘Why was it in your pocket?’
Drew folds his arms. ‘You took too long,’ he says. ‘You’ve gone soft, Joanna. You forgot why you’re here. Instead of making her life hell, you’ve made her your friend.’
‘That’s untrue,’ I say. ‘You know the things I’ve done.’
He slowly shakes his head. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s no longer enough.’
‘Then what would you have me do?’
‘There’s no need for you to do anything because I’ve taken care of it.’
I’m filled with fear by the coldness of his smile.
‘What have you done?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Have you hurt her?’
‘Why do you care? Because your conscience didn’t seem to bother you when you killed Ioana. Or Zain, for that matter. How about Jenny? Or Warren?’
It was the aftermath of Ioana’s death when I confessed to Drew what I’d done to her and the others. I’d been struggling to think straight for weeks. Day after day, night after night, she’d be shouting in my ear, never allowing me a moment’s peace. She wanted her pound of flesh for killing her. And that involved me cutting mine. The more often I cut and the deeper the blade went, the quieter she became. And one morning, she pushed me too far.
I was desperate when I called my brother for help, and he found me in the bedroom of my London flat, barely conscious after nicking an artery. I sobbed uncontrollably as I waited to be patched up in the Accident & Emergency department he’d driven me to. And later, concealed behind the blue curtain of a bay, I broke down and admitted what I’d done to the others who killed our parents, plus the extent of my obsession with Margot. I remember his face draining of colour as, gradually, he became aware of what his baby sister was capable of.
But to my surprise, he began to accept it. And for the first time in our lives, he took me seriously.
‘Have you hurt Margot?’ I ask again now.
‘No.’ He smiles smugly. ‘At least not for another forty-five minutes.’
Then he turns to leave. I lurch towards him, grabbing his shoulder, spinning him around. But his forceful shove is so hard that it sends me staggering from the kitchen back into the utility room. I lose my footing on his damp overalls and I slip, hitting my forehead on the corner of the washing machine. I land awkwardly on my back. I try and clamber to my feet but my spinning head hampers me and it’s too late to stop him from locking the door.
I bang on it with my fists, begging to be let out. But when the lights switch off, leaving me in darkness, and I hear the back door slamming shut, I know I’m on my own.
Chapter 64
Liv
Five weeks after my accident, I’m still a little wobbly on my feet. So I make my way slowly up the cul-de-sac and into the high street with my hand gripped tightly around my walking stick. It was an ugly wooden thing before the kids gave it a glow-up with stickers, sparkly paints and glitter. Now I love it. Well, for the time being, at least. Because the sooner I can walk unaided, the better. I’m probably imagining it, but sometimes I think I can feel the metal pin pushing against the bone inside my leg when I move. They cut the plaster cast off my arm last week and I’m slowly regaining strength in it. My spare arm is looped through Brandon’s as he walks with the twins.
‘What is Bomfire Night?’ asks Rupert.
‘Bonfire Night,’ I correct. ‘Hundreds of years ago a naughty man called Guy Fawkes tried to kill the King by blowing up the Houses of Parliament. It didn’t work, so once a year, we celebrate by lighting bonfires and having fireworks.’
A hundred more questions follow, but Brandon answers as I’m busy keeping an eye out for Margot while we walk along the road and up the hill. She hasn’t been answering her phone, and for somereason Anna was being vague about her plans when I invited her to join us. Aside from their hospital visit, I can’t remember when the three of us were last in one room together.
I took my first solo walk outside yesterday. Brandon insisted he come with me but I put my foot down – the good one – and told him I’d take my phone and call him if I got into any difficulties. Alone, I had only one destination in my sights: the place where I was knocked over and left for dead. A yellow metal board left by police on the verge was the only reminder of the sorry affair.
Witness appeal. Can you help us? Hit-and-run occurred here on September 30 at approx. 6pm. Please contact the police with any information on (01604) 60016.
I was there for a reason – to find something the police didn’t realise existed. And that I’d only recalled the day before. And eventually, I spotted it, submerged in the stream running at the bottom of the ditch and partially hidden behind autumn leaf fall. It’s been drying out in my airing cupboard. It’s another of my secrets Brandon is unaware of.
I need to put it out of my mind for tonight. Likewise the studio. I’m out of action and one of the other two instructors has left to take on a job as a resident yogi on a Caribbean cruise liner. So that leaves only one other staff member. Brandon has been forced to pass on some of his personal-training clients to instructor friends as he helps to look after me. He keeps telling me not to worry and that everything will sort itself out. But what we’re earning falls woefully short of what we need to break even. And I’ve exhausted my options of where to go for help. Harrison is out of the question. Even with the proof I have he’s a paedophile, he’s made it clear that if I try and blackmail him again, I’ll be putting my family at risk. I just wish my leg would heal quicker.
Finally, the four of us reach the community centre, and I take a seat under a portable heater. Up ahead, I spot Anna’s husband Drew leaning against the wall, a bottle in his hand. He’s wearing a baseball cap that shields much of his face but he’s still recognisable by his oversized parka coat and trainers. He must be waiting for her. I’m about to wave when Brandon returns from the café with steaming paper cups of hot chocolate. By the time I look back, Drew has gone.
The kids persuade their dad to buy them brightly coloured neon glow sticks and head off in search of a vendor. Meanwhile, ahead of me, final preparations are being made to light the bonfire. Fire marshals in hi-vis yellow jackets make their way towards it, and one, using a blowtorch, lights a towel doused in something flammable on the end of a long stick. The bonfire itself is made up mainly of packing crates and pallets that an unknown Good Samaritan donated and assembled in the early hours of this morning, according to a conversation I overheard behind me.
