I stammer out a reply. ‘I thought I’d pay you half now, half once the job’s done.’
‘This is the real world, love, not TV. All upfront, no refunds, no “change of heart”.’
My brain races, trying to think of a way I can get the extra with such short notice. ‘I’ve got the amount we originally agreed on, but that extra five hundred might take a while.’
‘Give me what you’ve got now,’ he demands, ‘and I’ll text instructions on where to leave the rest.’
‘I’ll need proof once it’s done,’ I say. ‘A photo, her phone, and whatever ID she has on her at the time. And the body needs to disappear without a trace. It can never be found. That’s the most important part.’
‘You’ll get proof it’s done,’ he agrees. ‘But you never contact me again. Understand?’
‘Yes.’ I pause. ‘How will you do it?’
‘Better you don’t know.’
I realise he’s right. I don’t want to know. I fumble in my bag, with numb fingers, for the envelope stuffed with cash. It’s ironic that the proceeds are all courtesy of Bella. That she’s funded her own demise with her credit card and her designer gear. I question if I can trust him to keep his word. To do the job. I suddenly wonder if he and Dodgy Steve might be in cahoots. Maybe they’ll split the cash between them without carrying out the hit.
Even though it’s a lot of money to me, it seems such a paltry amount for someone’s life. Like she isn’t worth more than a second-hand car or a holiday in Torremolinos.
I pass the envelope to him, and he takes it without turning around.
I find myself blurting, ‘How do I know you’ll actually do it?’
He looks at me in the rear-view, his gaze cold, but not cruel. ‘You don’t,’ he says. ‘But my line of work runs on reputation.’
I can’t decide if that’s supposed to be reassuring.
‘Get out. And don’t look back.’
I don’t need to be told twice. I fumble with the door handle and step back into the cold. The car peels off, gravel popping under the tyres, and is gone before I can even cross to the Clio, the engine noise fading into the distance.
I stand in the darkness for a while, registering the way my breath ghosts in the air. Gravel crunches under my trainers as I shift my weight, but I can’t bring myself to move. My mind spins slow cartwheels around the question:Did I really just hire someone to kill my sister?And I wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life, or if this is what the road to freedom is supposed to feel like.
An owl screeches somewhere above, and I flinch, shocked out of my trance. I realise it’s starting to rain. I stagger the few paces back to the Clio. My hands are shaking so badly I can’t even grip the door handle at first; I have to tuck them under my armpits, count to ten, and try again.
When I finally manage to turn on the ignition, I catch my reflection in the smeared glass of the driver’s-side window. My face is flushed, eyes over-bright, and I realise I’m looking at the same face as my twin. Again, I wonder if I should have got to know Bella instead. But I squash the thought as soon as I have it. It’s too late now.
I turn the key, and the Clio sputters to life. I put it in gear and drive, feeling the adrenaline start to ebb, replaced by something cold and sharp in my chest. I keep thinking about whether or not I should have asked him more questions, whether I just hired a professional or paid a con artist. My mind runs through every possible outcome, none of them comforting.
The drive home is a blur. I keep expecting blue lights to flash in the rear-view, or the Corolla to reappear and run me off the road. But the lanes are empty, and the only thing keeping me company is the splatter of rain against the windscreen and the thump of the wipers. I rehearse what I’ll say if I’m pulled over: ‘Just comingback from a late shift’... ‘Got lost’... ‘I’m picking up a friend who drank too much’. Every lie feels as weightless and useless as tissue paper.
When I finally make it home, the flat is silent and dark. Mum’s asleep, oblivious as usual. I peel off my coat and collapse on to the sofa, mind racing, nerves absolutely shot. I don’t know if I’m the victim, the perpetrator, or the hero of my own story. It’s all a jumbled mess right now.
I shut my eyes and wait for the sun to rise, dreading the photo that will show me it’s done.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jade
It’s that strange week between Christmas and the new year, when no one knows what day or time it is, and the whole atmosphere feels somewhere between a holiday and sick leave. There’s a half-eaten advent calendar propped up on the kitchen counter, empty Quality Street wrappers strewn about like confetti, and the whole flat smells like a weird combination of leftover gravy and brandy custard.
I’m curled into the corner of the settee, scrolling through social media, not really seeing anything, just killing time until I can bring myself to say what needs saying.
Mum’s bustling around the kitchenette. It’s barely big enough for one person, and she keeps banging her hip on the corner of the fridge and swearing under her breath. She yanks a cottage pie out of the oven and thuds it on the hob, then glances at me with an expression that’s hard to decipher, somewhere between irritation and confusion. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, and there’s an angry spot on her left cheek. I clear my throat.
‘So... I was thinking I might do a bit of travelling.’ I try to sound casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world for meto announce. My heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure she can hear it over the whirr of the extractor fan.
She stares at me. ‘Travelling?’ she echoes, as if I’ve announced my intention to become a Buddhist monk. ‘You’re goingtravelling?’ Her mouth opens, then closes. She pulls off her oven gloves like she’s peeling off a layer of skin and drops into a chair, her whole body deflating like a paddling pool with a slow leak.
