‘So I’m not misremembering anything,’ she says, scowling. ‘You tried to murder me and Drew.’
‘No, Anna,’ I say adamantly. ‘I promise you it wasn’t like that. Do you remember when we first saw each other?’
‘You crouched to pick up a tin of lighter fuel from the bedroom floor.’
‘I had no idea either you or Drew was in the flat before that moment. How could I?’
She doesn’t respond, so I continue.
‘I wasn’t that much older than Drew and I was just as frightened as him. I wanted to stay alive. And that’s what I wanted for you two as well. I got back to my feet with the intention of tellingWarren we should abandon the plan and leave, but as I reached the door, he already had a blazing firelighter in his hand. And before I could protest, he tossed it to the floor, igniting the room. Then he pulled me downstairs and out into the street.’
Anna hesitates as if she wants to say one thing, but changes her mind before she counters, ‘You could have gone back in. You could have tried to help us, but you didn’t.’
‘You were there,’ I say. ‘You know I’d never have got back upstairs; you barely escaped yourselves. Drew was in a terrible state when the police pulled him out.’
Her brow furrows. ‘How do you know that?’ she asks.
‘I ran back to the shop after I called 999.’
‘You did that?’
‘From the phone box opposite. Then I watched as they tried to resuscitate him, praying he’d survive. And I waited until the ambulance arrived and blue-lighted both of you to hospital. Only then did I leave.’
Anna sits back in her chair as I lean towards her.
‘To this day,’ I add, ‘I am convinced that if I’d told Warren I’d found you and your brother hiding under the bed, he’d have shot you as well. And maybe me. By that point, he wasn’t in his right mind. I swear to God that I didn’t want to leave you there, but at least you stood a chance of surviving the fire. You wouldn’t have survived Warren.’
Chapter 74
Anna
Margot wants me to believe her. She wants me to accept that she didn’t try to kill me and Drew, and that she actually tried to save us.
She wants me to believe Warren was the only one responsible for the deaths of my parents, and the rest were unwilling participants. However, while they might not have pulled the trigger, they were still there. I doubt Warren would have burgled us alone. They are guilty by association and I feel no remorse for killing them. But I know it’s going to take time to unpack what I’ve learned this morning.
Then there’s my brother, the fifth member of this crew, whose participation I knew nothing about until Margot told me on what she thought was her deathbed. The brother who lied to me for most of my life and who is as much to blame as the others. And he knows that I know.
It was in the early hours of the day after Bonfire Night when we came face to face. I was sitting in a darkened kitchen waiting for him to return home when the rear garden security camera was triggered, sending my phone a push notification. The live clip captured a grey figure climbing the fence that separates our garden from the field behind. Then he quietly closed the kitchen door behind himand entered the utility room. When he emerged, the street light outside captured a glint of the metallic shaft of a hammer in his hands. The same hammer he had killed the detective with. I wanted to run.
As Drew headed for the hallway, I rose from my chair and walked barefoot, keeping a safe distance behind him. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and I shrank back into the shadows. He made for the fridge, grabbed a bottle of beer, unscrewed the cap and gulped its contents.
His distraction was my opportunity. Using all my force, I swung a pipe wrench I’d taken earlier from the garage and caught the back of his left knee with a splintering thwack. Drew fell to the floor, screaming, his bottle shattering against the floor tiles. I reached for his hammer before he could grab it and threw it across the room, where it clattered against the radiator. Then I turned on the kitchen cabinet LEDs, which offered just enough low lighting for us to see one another, but without being spotted from outside by early-rising neighbours.
‘What the fuck?’ he yelled. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Why were you carrying a hammer upstairs?’ I replied.
He had no answer. Our focus remained pinned on each other as he sat upright and gripped his knee with both hands, his face contorted by pain. I felt both guilty and empowered.
‘You’ve broken my kneecap,’ he moaned.
‘You’ve broken my heart.’
‘What the hell are you on about?’
I waited for him to play catch-up.
‘This is about her, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Margot. I don’t know what she’s told you, but she’s messing with your head. You should’ve let her die.’
