She squints at the screen, seeing the number pulsating away in time with the rings. It looks like the number that was already in the call log, the one entry that had no name, but she can’t be sure. Putting the phone on the bench beside her, she digs through her bag and takes out a pen and an old paperback, scrawling the digits down as the phone continues shrieking at her.
Written down, checked. All details correct. It stops ringing and she takes her chance to check whether the number calling is the same as the one in the call log, but before she can read it fully, the phone rings for the third time. They’re not going to give up.
The phone isn’t secret anymore. Someone knows now it’s still out there, still in use. They’ll start looking for her, she can feel it. She picks up the phone and presses the power button until the ringing is muted. Looking over at the river, she thinks about throwing it in, but something in her balks at the idea. It’s the only clue Kelly has left her. She tucks it firmly down into her bag.
Enough delay. Her sister’s face comes into her mind one more time, contorted, weeping,my son. . . the sunlight through the trees loses its heat suddenly, a cloud passing over the sky, chilling the air. She shivers, picks up her bag. She can’t put it off anymore.
20
It doesn’t take long for Anna to walk over Magdalen Bridge, take the turn off into Divinity Road. She wishes it did.
Her steps slow to a halt. The adrenaline has gone, slipped away, any residual courage drained. She could go. She doesn’t have to see this through. No one knows she’s here, not even Tom – there’s nothing to stop her getting on a coach to London and disappearing.
Her sister might hate her. Her sister might even wish her dead. But Anna knows, right to her core, that her sister would never actively do anything to harm her. Her brother-in-law, Marc, though – that’s a different story. He’s made his feelings entirely clear over the years. If she knocks on the door and he answers, she’s not entirely sure she’ll survive the encounter.
Headlights in her mind again, the force of the impact as it knocked her off her feet outside the prison. She’s still sore from it. Could that have been Marc driving?
Fuck’s sake. He’s an accountant. How dangerous could he be? Easy for him to send threats, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t risk running into Anna at any point while she was inside. A different matter to see those threats through in person, abusing her face to face. He wouldn’t have the guts.
She’s nearly sure of it.
The emotions are pulling her this way and that, a few steps closer to the house she used to know so well. A couple of passers-by stare at her, or at least she thinks they’re staring, and she scowls furiously until they back away, scurrying round the corner.
She’s pacing now, forwards and back, sloughing off the bits of Anna that have emerged since her release and putting them back inside, hardening up again to her old prisoner number, the number by which she was designated inside for so long. She’s not a name. A number can’t be scared. A number has no feelings at all.
She walks back to the house, pushing her way through the gate and ringing the doorbell. She moves fast, not hesitating for a moment, because she knows if she stops, she’ll turn and run, never looking back.
No reply. She rings the doorbell again, stepping back a little so she can peer through the frosted glass panels to see if there’s any movement inside. Nothing. She bangs on the wood this time, knocking so hard her knuckles ache.
Now she’s got time to look around her, get her bearings. It’s a nice house. Or rather, it was. She remembers how it used to look. There were roses growing up the front and a hydrangea in a large pot in the middle of the small front garden.
They’re all dead now, the petals brown and withered, a pile of debris blown against the house. The front garden doesn’t look like it’s been tended in years. Same with the house, the paint peeling now, the windows filthy. She glances round the side to see a mass of greenery where once there was a side passage to the back garden, everything overgrown and wild.
Maybe they’ve moved away. Her heart sinks. If they’ve gone, she has no idea how she’ll find them.
One more bang at the door, then she’ll give up. Then, at last, she hears footsteps approaching.
Time stands still. This is what she’s here for, this is why she’s come. It’s too late to back down now, to run and hide. She’s going to have to see this through. The door opens and, as it does, she raises her chin, tightens her lips, feet in a boxer’s stance.
‘I’m on my way!’ a man’s voice bellows as the door opens fully – and it’s him, Marc. He’s already hostile, aggression bristling. He looks at her, and for a moment his face is blank, before a glint of recognition hardens his features further, veins corded in his neck.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he says, and everything in her retreats at the fury in his voice. She’s about to take a step backwards but forces herself to stand her ground.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ With that, he reaches out and seizes her arm before she has time to protect herself, pulling her hard across the threshold and slamming the door shut behind her.
Part 2
21
Nervous, jittery. Ants crawling under Lucy’s skin, a prickling in her gut. The last moments before the last part of the promise she made to herself comes true. She’s played it through so many times in her head.
When she sees the professor in person for the first time, it’ll be like she’s known him for years. He’ll know her, too. It’ll be the way he looks at her, nods his head to welcome her in.Ah yes, you, I’ve been expecting you.
She’s been expecting him. Always.
Some rules are made to be broken, that’s what she’ll tell him later, in his office. Or maybe he’ll say it to her – it doesn’t matter. She’ll pull her shirt up over her head, unhook her bra, hooking him in. He’ll be hers, caught tight.
She checks her thoughts, nodding at the porter as she passes through the gate into the front quad of her college. That’s the dream. She’ll be grateful for anything, any crumbs from his table. It’ll be enough to be in the same room after all those years online. That’s what she’s trying to tell herself, anyway.
