Hold Your Breath (18 page)

Tara frowned. ‘Well, yeah,’ she said, ‘but you have, um, quite a lot, don’t you? They’re . . . noisy.’ She blushed furiously. She hadn’t meant to sound
rude.

Faith nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you’re right. Thank you, Tara. If we do call the police then this could be useful.’ She looked up again. Her face was like a mask, her expression
unreadable to Tara. Her eyes might as well have been holes for all the inkling they gave of what she was thinking. ‘But it’s very important you don’t mention this,’ she said
quietly. ‘Not to your parents, not anyone . . . Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I promise,’ said Tara in a small voice. A wave of nausea blasted her with heat.

‘I feel a bit . . .’ Her hand flew to her mouth. Her fingers were clammy and cold against her lips. ‘Can I use your —’ She was frightened to say more in case she
was sick right there on the floor.

Faith gestured to the hallway. ‘There’s one down there on the right. Feel free.’ She got up and went to the sink with the wine glass.

Tara hurried down the hallway and pushed open the first door on the right. It opened into a dark room. Tara fumbled for the light switch and her fingers found a rough cord hanging from the
ceiling. She gave it a yank and strip lights buzzed and hummed into life. Wrong room. This was a garage, not the toilet.

Tara was about to turn the light off again when her body reacted to something before her mind could catch up. Her knees weakened and her heart punched against her ribcage.

She was looking at the single vehicle that filled most of the space in the garage. A van. A strong chemical smell made Tara’s head swim sickeningly. A couple of spraypaint cans lay on the
floor. The van had been sandpapered so that the original paintwork was patched and pale. The bonnet had been sprayed a different colour to the rest of the vehicle. The original colour showed
through everywhere else in dull patches shaped like clouds.

It had originally been a white van.

A white van that someone was painting a new colour.

T
ara seemed to glide down the steps without consciously moving her feet. She vaguely registered a door slamming somewhere and raised voices but was
compelled to keep moving. Coming round to the front of the van, she ran her fingers over the crumpled dent there and pictured the solid, speeding mass of metal crunching into flesh and bone.

It could be a coincidence.

But she knew it wasn’t. This was the van that had hit Will.

Shaking hard now, she peered into the van. A plastic sunflower was attached to the steering wheel. On the passenger seat lay a copy of
Grazia
magazine and a scrunched up cigarette
packet.

This was
Faith’s
van . . .

Had Faith deliberately run over Will?

Tara didn’t know what it all meant, but she knew she needed to get out of there. She rushed back to the bottom of the stairs and then stopped abruptly. Icy horror flooded her veins. The
door was open and Ross was standing at the top, filling the doorframe with his wide shoulders.

‘What are you doing down there?’ he said sharply.

‘I was trying to find, to find, the loo, and I, I . . .’ Tara couldn’t seem to get her breath enough to force the words out. ‘Sorry.’

She had to get out of here. Right now . . .

Ross stayed where he was in the doorway. Tara forced herself to keep moving upwards, meeting his eyes the whole way, daring him to stop her. To her astonishment, he stood to the side and let her
back into the hall.

Relief filled every part of her body like pure oxygen as she hurried towards the front door, somehow managing not to run. Faith emerged from the kitchen and stared at Ross then Tara with a
puzzled expression.

Ross put his big hand on her thin shoulder. ‘Look, Fay, baby, it’s all right. You have to let —’

‘Shut
UP
!’ hissed Faith, viciously shoving his hand away. She pushed past him and stood in front of Tara. Despite her small stature she seemed to fill Tara’s vision
now, monstrously big with blond hair framing a face that was twisted with fury. Her eyes bulged and Tara wondered fleetingly how she could ever have found Faith pretty.

Ross said, ‘Baby, stop! This is not —’

And then everything happened very fast.

Faith’s arm curved upwards, a dark green wine bottle clutched in her hand.

Tara just had time to think,
There’s no way she would really hit me!
before blinding pain exploded in her head like a million fireworks.

Images swam and danced in her mind’s eye.

Here was Beck as a little boy, crying because he’d skinned his knee.

Then Melodie’s disembodied face loomed in before morphing into Faith’s. She was yelling, soundlessly.

Here was Sammie, licking her face.
Urgh
. . . His tongue was so wet. It smelt so bad. Exactly like sick.

Consciousness began to seep back. Tara groaned. Her head pounded angrily and there was a sour wetness against her cheek.
She
had been sick. She was aware dimly of voices but
couldn’t open her sticky and heavy eyelids.

From somewhere she could hear a strange tinny voice.

‘
They’re coming outta the walls! They’re coming outta the goddamn walls!
’

She knew that from somewhere . . .

Other voices began to penetrate the fog in her head.

‘I’ll call whoever it is back,’ said a voice.

Leo?
Leo was standing right outside that door!

‘So you’re still not going to call the police? I think you have to do something.’ His voice was a bit muffled but clear enough for her to hear what he was saying.

She wanted to cry out, to tell him she was here. Leo would make things better. And even though she couldn’t exactly remember why, she knew something was very, very wrong. But Leo would
help her.

‘Leo!’ she called out, her voice bright and strong. ‘Leo! I’m here!’

Nothing happened. No one came to the door. The voices faded in and out.

Why wasn’t he coming to help her? Then the sickening realisation hit her. She was only calling out in her head. She had to make her mouth work too. She tried again and a tiny croak emerged
through her parched lips.

‘L-e-o
. . .’

But no one could hear her.

No one.

Tara tried to move but the pain was huge – a thing with a shape that sucked away all the light. Her eyes swam into focus. She was looking at the rough curve of a black, dusty tyre. The
van. She was next to the van. The one that hit Will . . .

It all started to come back. Faith . . . the wine bottle . . .

Tara raised her limp arm and slapped the metal rim of the wheel but the sound wasn’t loud enough. She needed something else. Moving her head slightly despite the pain, she spotted a
spanner lying on the ground a few metres away and stretched for it. But it was too far. Voices were audible from the hall but she could only concentrate on one thing at a time so they were
indistinct, muted, like she was underwater. This thought gave her a weird burst of confidence. She was good in water. Tara the swimmer could do anything . . .

She slithered forwards a little on her belly like she was doing breaststroke on the hard, cold floor. Every movement punched at the pain in her head. Inch by agonising inch she moved until she
was too winded to go further. Her fingers almost brushed the end of the spanner but she was still too far away to grasp it. Defeated, she gave a dry sob. She wanted to rest. Sleep until she felt
better and it all went away. Beck’s face came into her mind again then; he was laughing, tickling her until she screamed. Her brilliant, annoying, beautiful, infuriating brother. Would she
ever see him again?

A flash of determination powered her to slither forwards another inch. Her fingers closed around the cold metal and she grasped the spanner, triumphant. Dragging herself back to the van, she
banged the spanner against it. The harsh clang reverberated inside her head. The spanner felt so heavy. Too heavy. It spun out of her fingers and slid across the floor.

‘What was that?’

‘
Leo? I’m here, Leo!
’ she gasped.

‘It’s that damn cat again,’ said Faith in a high, clear voice. ‘Keeps getting in the garage and knocking stuff down. Look, darling, there’s no point in you hanging
around here. I’m sure your father needs you home. I promise I’ll call if there’s any news, okay?’

The voices receded and Tara heard the sharp click of the front door.

Salty tears ran into her open mouth and then the world spun again.

T
he blackness began to dissolve. She tried to move her head but pain jack-hammered inside her skull and nausea gripped her stomach. Closing her
eyes, she willed the sensations to pass.

Minutes went by. Or was it longer? Time didn’t seem to run in a straight line any more but looped and rolled back on itself. When she opened her eyes again her bottom lip was smushed
against something damp and cold. Raising her head and blinking heavy, sticky eyes she saw that she was lying on a duvet with a faded pattern of daisies and that she had been drooling on it.
Coldness had seeped through the duvet from the hard floor beneath it. Groaning, she forced her body up onto her elbows. Her head hurt everywhere, but one part of her scalp throbbed with bright
urgency. She drew her tongue over dry lips, tasting blood; it felt swollen and oversized in her mouth.

She rolled onto her back and discovered her wrists and her ankles were bound with strong plastic ties. A single lightbulb hung in the middle of a ceiling above her, its glow sickly in the gloom.
Familiar . . . but why?

A wooden chair, heaped with blankets, was opposite her. Then the blankets moved.

‘
Are you awake?
’

The hissing voice kicked her heartbeat faster. She could see now that there was a figure there, sitting upright, hands folded between their knees.

‘Well, are you?’

She hoped she was asleep. Then she would wake up in her own bedroom with sunlight soaking through her curtains.

But hot tears slid down her face because she knew this nightmare was really happening.

A waft of cigarette smoke pinched her nostrils, making nausea swell up again. A deep sigh came from across the room. The memories hurtled back into her mind.

Of course.

It was Faith who was there, watching her as she stubbed out a cigarette.

‘Let me help you sit up,’ she said now, in an irritable tone, as though Tara’s prone form was inconveniencing her. When she crouched down and stretched out her arms, Tara
cowered from pure instinct, like a cornered animal.

Faith made a disgusted sound. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ she said. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’

She helped Tara into a sitting position against the wall. Tara watched her warily. Faith’s breath smelt sour and her eyes had a blurriness to them. Tara realised she was drunk, but not so
drunk that she wasn’t in control.

Faith sat down on the chair again, drawing her thin, little girl legs under her, and adjusted the skirt of her dress demurely.

‘What am I going to do with you, eh?’ she said, drawing a pack of cigarettes from a pocket. She lit another one. Her eyes never left Tara’s face.

‘Why couldn’t you just have minded your own business?’ she said, in an oddly distant way. ‘None of it has anything to do with you.’ She contemplated Tara, top to
toe. ‘You’re quite pretty but nothing special. I’m sure Leo could do better than
that
.’

This stung harder than it should have done. Tara quickly contemplated whether she could attempt to lunge at her, despite the bound hands and ankles. She, Tara, was so much bigger. But when she
tried to move her legs, she found she was still kitten-weak.

She swallowed. Her lips felt dry and rough. ‘Where’s Melodie? What have you done to her?’

‘I haven’t
done
anything to her, you silly girl,’ said Faith, one eye narrowed against a thin plume of smoke that curled up past her cheek. ‘And as to where she
is . . . she’s over
there,
isn’t she?’

She gestured vaguely to the right with her cigarette. Tara followed her gaze and then gasped.

Across from where she sat, in a space underneath a staircase, a daybed was tucked away. Tara could see the top of Melodie’s head poking from under a duvet. Her distinctive hair, dull and
greasy-looking now, lay scattered across a pillow. One arm flopped downwards to the floor, the fingers gently curled inwards. Drink cans and magazines littered the ground around her.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Tara’s words came out as a gasp. ‘What have you done?’

‘I told you!’ said Faith irritably. ‘I haven’t bloody done anything! She’s a bit stressed that’s all.’ Faith blinked several times in quick succession,
as though trying to clear unwanted mental pictures. ‘I’ve given her some of my benzos so she can rest.’ She caught Tara’s puzzled look and actually laughed. ‘You are
an innocent little thing, aren’t you? Benzo-diaz-e-pines,’ she said as though she was talking to a child. ‘To calm her down a bit.’

Tara’s head throbbed. She closed her eyes for a second and then opened them again. Faith’s outline blurred and then wobbled back into focus.

‘I didn’t want this to happen, you know, any of it.
Bloody
Adam!’ Faith slapped her leg. ‘None of it was supposed to get out of hand like this.’

Tara felt as though understanding was tantalisingly close, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.

Faith swore repeatedly and then went silent. Then she spoke again. ‘He can afford it! He’s loaded! And he’s barely ever given us a penny. He’s been no kind of father to
Mel. It’s time he paid his dues.’

Oh.

Tara got it, suddenly and absolutely.

‘You
pretended
she’d been abducted?’ Tara wished she could run as far and as fast as she could but, bound as she was, even standing up seemed impossible. Her limbs
were as useless as if they were made of cotton wool. ‘Does Leo know?’
Please, please say no
.