Kirsty can’t answer. Amber has coloured up; spits the words out like they’ve been building for years.
‘Your husband – what’s he called, Jim? Ever shared it in your pillow talk? When you’re strolling hand-in-hand on the beach at Saundersfoot? When he takes you out to dinner on your anniversary? How about then? Over the candles and the bruschetta? The oh-go-on-let’s-have-a-glass-of-champagne? Well? Have you?’
‘Don’t, Bel. Please.’
‘“By the way, darling, did I ever tell you about the time I killed a little kid?”’
‘Shut up!’
‘You think… you think ’cause you’ve made something of yourself that it’ll all go away? You think ’cause you’ve got a husband and kids and you go to Christmas services and drink mulled wine and no one knows about you, that that means it never happened? You can’t wipe out history, Jade!’
‘No!’ she protests. ‘No, I never… but, Bel! I’m not her! I’m not that girl any more! I’m not, and nor are you!’
‘Bollocks,’ says Amber. ‘You’ll be her for the rest of your life. That filthy little shit who killed a kid is right inside you. Better get used to it.’
Kirsty stands in the doorway and takes a deep, shaky breath. She’s so angry, she thinks. I’m not sure I know how to cope with this. I find it hard to remember the child I was. What we did – it’s like a dream to me. A horrible, ugly, remembered nightmare.
Amber lies down and throws an arm over her eyes. Kirsty checks her watch. Gone four o’clock. They’ll need to get moving soon, storm or no storm. They can’t rely on the weather to keep the cleaners away. She walks over, sits down and lays a hand on Amber’s arm, a futile gesture of womanly comfort.
‘I think about it every single day,’ says Amber. ‘You know? All of it. How it happened. All the stupid… oh, God. I remember her face every single day. That stupid fucking anorak, the way she looked. The mud in her eyes. Jesus.’
Kirsty has a flashback: Chloe’s face vanishing beneath a double-handful of earth and leaves hoisted from the edge of the hole. She remembers an earthworm, surprised by sudden exposure to the evening light, squirming away, digging itself a speedy haven down beside where the child’s ear was hidden. She’s not forgotten. Has never forgotten. Sometimes, she has fantasies of violating the terms of her licence, of seeking out the Francis family, of trying to make amends. But how do you make amends? What possible payback could there be?
‘We were kids,’ she says.
‘It’s not an excuse,’ says Amber. ‘Adulthood is just more layers on top. Don’t you wish that there was some sort of time machine? Some way to turn the clock back? Just… if we’d left her, at the bench. That’s all. If we’d gone, “No, she’s not our responsibility, let’s just leave her.” D’you remember?’
‘Yeah,’ says Kirsty, and smiles ironically. ‘I said we couldn’t leave her, ’cause someone might come along and kill her.’
On the edge of her field of vision, Kirsty thinks she sees a statue move. She sits upright and gasps; peers into the gloom, expecting the comfort of hallucination. She’s exhausted; she’s starting to see things. It’s fine.
But no, it moves again. A slight, male figure steps out from among the murderous autocrats. At first she thinks he’s a ghost; still clings to the hope that he’s simply stepping out of her imagination. But when he comes into the light and she recognises the weird little man from the nightclub, she knows that he is real. And that he has heard every word they’ve said.
Chapter Forty-four
He’s not hanging around. He makes a dash for the door. Catches his sleeve on Josef Stalin as he goes, bringing him crashing to the floor. Amber opens her eyes and sits up.
‘Shit!’ shouts Kirsty. ‘Shit, no! No!’
She doesn’t think. Leaps to her feet and runs after him. Lunges at the back of his anorak and feels it slip, nylon-smooth, through her fingers as he throws himself out into the howling night. Amber still sits on the bench, stunned, uncomprehending.
‘Shit!’ Kirsty screams again, as the door bangs to.
‘Who was that?’ Amber sounds like she’s emerging from a dream. She’s not taken in the gravity of the situation. She’s sleepwalking.
‘It doesn’t matter!’ The door resists her attempts to reopen it, the wood is swollen and it sticks; and he’s closed it with the force of flight. She struggles, heaves against it. ‘I don’t know! I don’t know who he is! Bel, he heard us!’
The door gives and she bursts out into the rain. She doesn’t wait for Amber to take her words on board; just hurls herself after him. My kids, she thinks. Oh God, my kids. I don’t care about me any more. I don’t. But oh, God, they’re so young. They won’t know what to do, their whole world crashing down around them. I’d do anything, God. Anything. I’d fucking die for them, God. I’d fucking kill…
She sees the hem of his coat fly past the corner of the gift shop and takes off in pursuit. Horizontal rain and salt spray: it’s going to be hell out there on the walkway, beyond the shelter of the buildings. But she goes anyway, her trainers sliding on oil-slick rainwater.
She rounds the corner and sees him twenty feet away, hunched against the rain as he runs. Eight paces away, just eight paces. But he pulls ahead as she approaches, and her feet won’t give her traction on the boardwalk. ‘Wait!’ she screams. ‘Stop! Please!’
He glances over his shoulder and Kirsty sees him fizz with fear and triumph. He hates me. I don’t know who he is, but he’s hated me since long before tonight, I can see it in his eyes. I remember him, in that shitty club. He’s the man I thought was chasing me. I’d forgotten him, because what happened with Vic Cantrell had changed my mind, but I remember now. And he hated me then, he told me so. How long has he been following me? How long?
Over the sound of the wind, she hears the door bang open behind her. Amber must be following. Into the storm.
She steps up her pace and tries to catch up.
As she emerges, Amber skids on the greasy boards and feels her damaged ankle go out from under her. Lands on her back, slides across the square and fetches up against a bench, the wind taken from her. She squints against the driving rain, wipes the salt spray from her eyes with her sleeve and looks around. There’s no one in sight. She is confused, panicked; it took her several seconds to register what Kirsty had seen immediately, and now she doesn’t know what to do. After her fugitive night, her instinct is to run away, as far and as fast as she can. But there’s only one way off this structure, and it’s the way she knows Kirsty and the man have gone. She has no option but to follow. He’s going to be running; he’s not going to stop and chat, not with what he’s found out. Not now he knows they know. Maybe they can get to Kirsty’s car before he raises the alarm. She has to try. Has to keep hoping.
She pushes herself upright and looks down the walkway beside the chip shop. She can see nothing. Everything more than thirty feet away is a blur of wind and water.
She gets to her feet, brushes the wet off her legs. Tries, experimentally, putting her weight on her ankle, hisses with pain. She’s never going to keep up. But she must follow. Limp after them.
And what then? she thinks. Even if we do get away, it’s all over. Even if this man doesn’t know who Kirsty Lindsay is, he knows we’ve seen each other and my licence is breached, and so is hers. I could deny and deny, I suppose, but where’s the use? Maybe we can catch him up, persuade him he’s mistaken. Maybe. Or maybe we can appeal to his good nature; convince him that Kirsty’s kids’ lives are worth more than his finder’s fee from the Mail on Sunday. It’s a slim chance, but it’s the only chance we’ve got.