‘How is he?’ she says.
‘Furious,’ Rachel says. ‘He thinks I’m being paranoid, controlling him. He’s forgotten what he told us about Marie last night – that’s one benefit of whisky, I suppose.’ She sounds very clinical as she says this. Lucy tries to keep her expression neutral, but she doesn’t quite manage it. ‘I know it sounds harsh,’ Rachel says. ‘Unfeeling. I’m just trying to keep it together, salvage what we can. He’ll stop being so aggressive, soon. It’s in his best interests.’
Lucy’s ashamed of herself. Rachel’s dealing with a horrific situation far more calmly than she could ever hope to herself. ‘At least he can’t get out,’ she says.
‘Let’s hope not,’ Rachel says.
They’re talking about him normally, Lucy realises, as if Edgar and his wife have had a row about something run of the mill. Not about murder, revenge. Killing. She takes a deep breath. ‘You’re not scared he might . . .’
Rachel holds her hand out in front of her. It’s steady, almost, but there’s a faint tremor running through it. She lets it hover there for a moment before drawing it back. ‘Scared?’ she says. ‘I’m fucking terrified. It’s not just Edgar. It’s Marie – she killed Gabriela when she was six months pregnant. I mean, imagine it. What would she do to me? To Rowan?’
There’s nothing Lucy can say.
They sit in silence for a while before Rachel makes another pot of tea, chucking a couple of packs of biscuits on to the table: chocolate-chip cookies and rich tea biscuits. Lucy looks at them for a while before reaching out for the rich teas. Chocolate is too decadent for an occasion like this. Rachel evidently feels the same, taking one from the pack of plain biscuits as she sits down, though she doesn’t eat it, just snaps it in half, then quarters, piling the pieces up haphazardly by the side of her mug.
Anna should have called by now– that’s the only thought going through Lucy’s head. It’s late. Surely she’s had time to get to the place where Marie is living, found out what the hell is going on, be on her way back by now? She should have called.
Even though Lucy has only known Anna for such a short period of time, she really wants her to be all right. She feels so sorry for her, the wariness in her eyes and the watchfulness with which she takes every step. It must be unbelievably hard for her, the terrible shock of Kelly’s death and everything that’s happened since.
Not to mention the revelations that Anna made to her after the crash. Lucy knows she was reacting to the shock, the words pouring out of her, beyond her control, but she hopes that Anna isn’t regretting telling her. She wants to help. Or at the very least, be a friend to her.
Rachel pours some red wine, makes some food – pasta and a tomato sauce. Lucy pushes it round her plate, her appetite gone even though she’s barely eaten all day. Rachel doesn’t eat much, either. She puts a plate of food together for Edgar.
Once they’ve finished eating, Rachel washes up.
‘Let me help.’
‘I’m fine,’ Rachel says. ‘You should get some sleep. Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll wake you the minute there’s any news.’
At the mention of the word ‘sleep’, Lucy is already yawning. ‘If you’re sure I can’t do anything?’
‘I’m sure. Go on, get to bed.’
Lucy’s so tired she’s practically asleep before her head hits the pillow.
56
A hundred and fifty miles to go. Anna has driven as far as she can, but tiredness is beating her. She’s not used to driving, overwhelmed by traffic and nerves. The thought of the terrible car crash that injured Toby is never far from her mind, though she fights hard to stop it from taking over. She pulls into a service station north of Manchester and grabs a burger, locating a charger for the mini phone at the same time. She sits in the car with the engine on, listening to the radio while it charges.
As soon as there’s enough battery, she calls Lucy’s number. It rings, but there’s no answer, so she leaves a message. Then she calls Rachel’s number – her phone is switched off. Anna can’t make them pick up, she can’t get there any faster than she is already going, and she needs to rest. She lowers the seat and sleeps.
She’s back in prison, in a long corridor lined with identical doors. It’s endless, stretching out further than the eye can see. She’s kneeling, a toothbrush in her hand, and her task is to scrub the corridor floor inch by inch, every part of it, before she’ll be allowed to speak to her sister again.
Someone keeps ringing a bell to force her to keep moving. It rings every time she stops for breath, puts down the toothbrush that’s becoming so heavy. If only they’d stop ringing that fucking bell . . .
She wakes with a jolt. The little phone is ringing, over and over again. Her first instinct is to ignore it, but then she remembers. She takes the call.
‘Oh my God, Jesus fucking Christ.’
The words are so jumbled up Anna can barely understand them. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Me. Lucy. Anna, quick, you’ve got to come quick.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Who?’ shouts Anna.
