Nine days had passed since Jess’s death; six since Chloe had run away from the book signing. Looking on the OnT forums now, it was as if the murders had never happened. Everyone had moved on. And because it was too painful to think about, Chloe had – she admitted to herself with a prick of shame – tried to put it from her mind. It was the only way to cope. She needed to stop thinking about the connection between Rose and Jess (and Jade, and her) because she couldn’t bear the shame and fear. She convinced herself that there couldn’t possibly be a connection between what had happened last year and the murders. It was a crazy idea; a coincidence.
Now, in the plane, squashed together with six other terrified people plus six cool-as-cucumber instructors, Chloe was so focused on her fear of jumping that everything else felt unreal. But there was no going back now . . .
Or was there? Surely she could still say she’d changed her mind? Then Chloe thought, Jess would have done this without wimping out.
Chloe clearly wasn’t the only one suffering from nerves. The boy next to her, who looked about nineteen, was so white he was almost yellow. She’d noticed him earlier when they were all sitting on the ground going through the landing procedure, when he’d still been looking cocky. He had a wiggly line shaved into his head, snaking all around the back and up over his other ear. You couldn’t see it now because, like the rest of them, he was wearing a stupid-looking, tight-fitting helmet that looked more like a skullcap. He was kind of cute, actually – weirdly, cuter now that he looked as though he was about to either puke or pass out with fear.
She would never normally be brave enough to initiate a conversation with an older boy, but his terror suddenly reduced and compacted her own.
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ she yelled towards him, and he made a face at her.
‘To be honest, I’m shittin’ meself!’ he yelled back.
She moved closer to the boy’s ear so she didn’t have to yell so much. He smelt of sweaty fear and shower gel. ‘You doing a charity jump too?’
He nodded. ‘It’s for the Tommy D Project. It’s a foundation set up for teenagers who’ve lost a parent.’ For a moment, the boy looked about five years old.
Chloe blushed with pity and embarrassment.
‘What about you?’ asked the boy, and she felt relief combined with guilt that she didn’t actually have to enquire as to the details of his loss.
‘I’m jumping for the Anthony Nolan Trust. I got a bone marrow transplant through them that saved my life.’ Chloe thought she still couldn’t say those words without sounding somehow smug.
‘Cool,’ said the boy, vaguely, as though he hadn’t really heard.
‘I had leukaemia.’ She wasn’t sure why she was pressing the point. Perhaps because she wanted him to know that she wouldn’t jump out of a plane for any sort of trivial reason.
‘Wow. That must have been . . . pretty shit.’
She nodded. ‘It was. Apart from when Shawn Barrett came to visit me in hospital.’
‘Who?’
Surely he couldn’t be serious. ‘Shawn from OnTarget?’
‘Oh right – them. You don’t like them, do you? They’re for little kids.’
She blushed again. ‘Well.’ She could hardly believe the words she was about to say, especially as she realised that she meant them. ‘I used to be really into them. Not so much now, though.’
Jess’s face came into her head, her fervent passion for and utter loyalty to the band, and Chloe felt as though she had betrayed her. The tears that had never been far from the surface since the terrible news of Jess’s death threatened again, but luckily – if you could call it luck, thought Chloe – her instructor tapped her on the shoulder and indicated that they should start the process of being clipped together. Her companion’s instructor did the same.
‘Oh gawd, it must be nearly time,’ the boy shouted. He rattled at one of the big buckles on the straps that now held him to his jump partner. ‘This will hold, man, won’t it?’ he called over his shoulder. The man behind him nodded reassuringly. As if he’d say ‘no’, thought Chloe. She and the boy were now facing one another. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Josh,’ he said, grinning suddenly at her. He was even cuter when he smiled.
Impulsively, Chloe grabbed one of his hands. ‘Good luck, Josh. See you back on the ground.’
‘You too – er?’
‘Chloe.’
‘Yeah, you too, Chloe.’
At that moment, Chloe’s phone vibrated against her hipbone. The phone was in the front pocket of her jeans, inside the massive blue romper suit they were all wearing. She knew she was supposed to have left it in the locker on the airfield with her other possessions, but she never went anywhere without her phone, so it was coming with her. It’s probably Mum, wishing me luck, she thought as she managed to un-Velcro the lower part of the jumpsuit, fish out the iPhone and peer at the screen. She frowned in confusion as she glanced at the abbreviated message that appeared on her home screen:
Hey Chloe babe, it’s Shawn here, how—
Before she could click on it to read the rest of it, her instructor tapped her shoulder again. ‘We’re up first – let’s go!’
She hastily slid the phone back into her pocket and did up the jumpsuit with shaking hands, unable to process the words she’d seen. Her instructor guided her over to the wild blowing of the open door and she fixed the goggles firmly onto her face. Her breath was coming in great ragged gasps. No backing out now. Why did she have to be first?
The next few moments were a blur of wind and sound and adrenalin as they edged closer to the lip of the plane.
‘Aaaand – GO!’ yelled her instructor, and they were out before she could scream that she’d changed her mind, she wanted to be at home watching TOWIE in her bedroom; then they were whirling and falling into the great tumble dryer of sky and wisps of cloud and cold, cold air, up and down and round or maybe just down – she couldn’t tell until she opened her eyes, then shut them again fast as they plummeted, her scream ripped out of her.
Thirty seconds later she felt a colossal jerking sensation, like being snatched upwards by a giant hand, and a huge whoosh as the parachute – thank God, thank God – opened and ballooned above them. I’m alive, she thought, spreading her arms wide and screaming with relief and exhilaration. I survived!
It was only then, in the stillness and utter calm of the descent, patchwork fields spread out beneath her, that she had another thought: OMG, did I really just get a text from Shawn Barrett?
Chapter 38
Day 12 – Patrick
Gill looked askance at Pat as he laced up his ancient grey Vans, the ones he usually only ever wore to do DIY or gardening in. The left one had a large dark stain on the top, where Bonnie had vomited Ribena on it some months ago.
‘You’re even more stubbly than usual – aren’t you going to work today?’
‘Of course. But I don’t want anyone to know I’m at work,’ he replied, raising his voice to be heard over Bonnie singing ‘Let It Go’, off-key, along with the DVD.
‘They’ll never recognise you with those shoes on,’ Gill commented sarcastically.
‘I’m not going to the incident room yet – I’m going back to the Rotunda first. I just can’t believe that those clowns haven’t managed to uncover anything at all. They’ve been door to door round the flats above the car park. They’ve been all over the Rotunda for two days now – nothing. It’s ridiculous – someone must have seen something!’