My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (11 page)

Her secret was safe for now.

However, just six hours of holding herself upright, heaving herself in and out of the chair and moving about had annihilated her feeble stamina. She was already a day ahead on her painkillers and, unless she could sleep it off, Hawkins had to accept the possibility that she might have pushed herself too far.

At least she’d managed to keep the pain from
showing on her face as Mike loaded her into the chair, and had sent him straight off to get a takeaway, saying that Dad would open the door and help her up the step. Her efforts had been rewarded with this moment of solitude, away from two people intent on placing her in mental traction until her damaged body caught up with her frustrated mind.

At last she was able to sit up, and resumed her slow journey towards the house. Approaching the scene of the attack still gave her a twisted feeling in her gut, but she kept going, determined not to let anxiety win. Otherwise, she’d be running for ever.

She reached the door, turning the chair sideways so she could reach the bell, and pressed, hearing the chime, aligning the chair so her dad could help her up.

But no answer came.

‘Come on, Dad.’ She tried again.

After another moment she decided he hadn’t heard the bell and resorted to her phone, calling the home number. She sat back as it started to ring, watching for shadows in the light coming through the glass. Still nothing. Perhaps he was out.

Hawkins dug in her bag for the keys, edging her chair closer and fighting with the lock till it released. She pushed the door open.

‘Dad?’ she called into the empty hallway. ‘You there?’

The lights were on in the front room.

Silence.

Then the smoke alarm went off.

‘
Dad?
’ Hawkins shouted, looking around for passers-by, seeing no one. Next door worked long hours and wouldn’t be in, and she’d have to go the long way round on chair-friendly paths to reach the property after that, still with no guarantee they’d be there. She turned back to the house, straining her ears for any sign of a response. And still the alarm blared.

Suddenly she was fighting her way out of the chair, dropping to her knees inside the front door, looking back. There was no way she’d be able to pull the wheelchair up the step without standing.

She had to leave it.

Hawkins crawled forwards, ignoring tortured stomach muscles, picturing her dad lying on the floor with smoke curling around him. She reached the lounge, battling the urge to crumple and curl, checking the room for occupants.

‘
Dad?
’ she shouted again, over the incessant beeping, which she could now tell was coming from the kitchen.

Hawkins renewed her efforts and struck out for the next doorway, trying to speed up.
What the fuck had he done?
Had he been smoking again? He had promised everyone before Christmas he’d quit.

She tried to work out how long Mike had been gone, realizing it could only have been minutes at most. If her father was in physical distress, she was the worst assistant he could have hoped for. It was one thing being found, quite another if your supposed saviour then buckled, too.

She made it to the kitchen, quickly checking the floor, relieved to find it was clear. But that lasted only for the brief second before she realized that her father might be upstairs, still in need of resuscitation. And, in her current state, Hawkins had no chance of making it up there without help.

Then her eye was drawn to the black smoke rising from the top oven, forcing her to make a snap choice. Even if she went for the stairs, by the time she reached the landing the whole house could be alight.

She had to stop this first.

Hawkins set off towards the far side of her kitchen, knees crunching against the tiles, seeing flames starting to lick the underside of the grill. She realized with dread that reaching it would require her to stand.

She came to a halt by the lower oven, hunching for a moment to relieve the worst of the pain, trying to block out the alarm. Picturing the flames getting worse.

She grabbed the nearest handle, dragging her right leg forwards until her foot was flat on the floor. Without pausing, she pushed upwards, bearing violent protest from her stomach wall. At first she made progress, but then her head went light and she dropped back, breathing hard. She stared at the floor, recharging for another attempt. And then she saw it: a tiny patch of discoloured grout between two of the tiles. At any other time, in any other kitchen, it would have meant nothing, but its significance rocked her. This was the
spot where she’d been found just six weeks ago, near to death. Which meant the patch was probably blood.

Her
blood.

Hawkins’ head swam, a mixture of injury, confusion and drugs battering her senses.

She heard a sound and glanced up through bleary eyes at a facsimile of the moment that had changed her life – at the figure entering the kitchen through the back door.

It all came flooding back: the killer’s expression, the attack, the pain. The night she almost died. Her arms clamped around her head and she screamed.

A second later the illusion shattered as a familiar voice reached her. ‘Blimey, what’s going on in here?’

Dad.

Hawkins looked again, her vision clearing. Her father leaned across, pulling the tray from the oven and dumping it in the sink. He turned the taps on full, dousing the flames, spinning to flap at the alarm with his hands before resorting to a towel. At last the din stopped, and Alan Hawkins crouched beside his daughter. ‘Bloody hell, love, are you okay?’

A few minutes later, once he’d retrieved the wheelchair from outside the front door and helped her into it, Hawkins sat awkwardly in the lounge, incredulous. ‘I’ve told you on at least two occasions about that bloody grill pan.’

‘Sorry, love.’ He stared at his feet.

‘What were you doing, anyway?’

‘Sausage and mash. I’m bored with all that takeaway rubbish, so I thought I’d make myself useful now you’re back at work.’ He risked a look up. ‘Your mum normally cooks.’

‘No, I mean … where
were
you?’

‘Oh. Sorting the recycling in your garage. There are so many bloody bins, I didn’t know what to put where.’

She rolled her eyes, hiding the fact that she felt sorry for him. ‘Well, in future, no recycling while you’re cooking, and don’t put the sodding grill pan on the top runners, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Holy crap.’ Mike walked in, holding a carrier bag. ‘What’s with the smoke?’

‘I’m glad you’ve got curry,’ Hawkins told him. ‘Dad nearly cooked.’

22

Matt slumped in the chair.

He looked up, catching sight of himself coming in and out of focus in the dressing-table mirror across the room. The whiskey was kicking in now.

He took another swig and slid the chair sideways till it hit the bed, trying to avoid his own stare. But there wasn’t enough space and, when he checked, there he was again. Matthew Hayes.

Murderer.

Without thinking, he launched the bottle across the room. It caught the edge of the mirror, cracking the corner, shaking the whole table. When everything settled, the mirror had moved, but his reflection was still there, staring back at him. The bottle lay on the carpet, leaking. And above it the clock ticked onwards, nearer and nearer to 11.40 p.m. The instant, just over a year ago, when his life had turned to shit.

He let his head drop back against the chair, willing himself to sleep or pass out.

Anything that would let him skip the fatal moment.

But he couldn’t let go.

Amanda laughed, leaning in.

Matt relished the feel of her long, painted nails as they ran gently down his arm, watching her calves tense as she steadied herself on the bar stool. She had fucking great legs.

His joke wasn’t even that good.

Next to them, Harry, their boss, paid for a round. And, across the bar, their colleagues Ian and Julian were setting up another frame of pool.

‘Here you go, champ.’ Harry handed Matt and Amanda a glass of champagne each. ‘Bloody well earned.’ He clapped Matt on the shoulder before heading towards the pool table with three more glasses.

‘Here’s to you, Mr Wonderful.’ Amanda raised her glass, and they clinked before sipping their drinks.

The whole team had toasted him on the first round, of course, but Matt was still savouring his Lanson, thinking about the two huge property deals he’d pulled off right at the end of the month. The wonky barn conversion had been a pig to shift, but the country house right under the revised Heathrow flight path was the
pièce de résistance
. They’d all tried. Even Harry’s experience and Amanda’s charm had failed. But Matt had offloaded both.

Amanda slid off the stool and whispered in his ear that she’d be back soon. She floated away, glancing back. Sensual poetry; just for him.

But he knew her game.

Matt waited until she’d disappeared and drained his glass before heading towards the three other men at the pool table. He shook hands all round, overplaying the modesty as they cheered him all the way to the door. The car park was pretty much empty, and the road outside clear, unsurprising given the pitch winter blackness, and the Baltic temperatures to match. But none of that bothered Matt as he strode towards the C Class, confident that he wouldn’t be over the limit, not after two glasses of champagne.

He hit the start button and pulled smoothly on to the high road, feeling the surge of the V6
,
savouring the way Harman Kardon speakers reproduced the first movement of
Piano Concerto 21
as if Mozart were playing live in the back seat. He drove until he saw the sign for Oak Drive, a sweeping diversion that dived gracefully between crossroads. He took the turn. This route home was longer, but it allowed him to dream.

He ghosted down the hill, watching the houses retreat further from the road, heavier gates and taller foliage filling the gaps as the street grew darker beneath ever more elegant lights. He passed the dip and began to climb, slowing up, craning his neck for a glimpse of Treetops, a modern architectural masterpiece he’d sold not long after Harry took him on. He knew the current owner was looking to move. Another few months like this, and Matt might be doing a lot more than dreaming about the place …

The bang shook Matt from his fantasy. Something crunched against the front-left corner of the bonnet and ground along the wing.

‘Fuck!’ He gripped the wheel as it jerked in his hands, jamming the brakes on as he felt the rear of the car jump over something in the road.

The Mercedes pulled up sharply as Matt stared in his mirror, heart thumping, cursing his lack of awareness. Had he drifted into the kerb and glanced off one of the huge cornerstones some of these properties used to mark their driveways? Or maybe some dickhead had left their recycling bin out on the wrong day.

He couldn’t see a thing in the inky blackness. Better check, though; the car might be damaged. He’d only had the thing a bloody week.

Matt flung open the door and climbed out, looking back down the road, failing to see what he’d hit. He strode round to the front, anticipating a dent in the bumper, a broken headlamp, at least. But when he got there the xenon light was fine, its sleek housing completely intact. Matt bent and stroked a hand along the Mercedes’ flank. There was damage, but nowhere near as bad as he’d expected.

He straightened, now even more curious to see what he’d hit, moving along the car’s flank, his vision still impaired by the glow from inside the cabin.

Matt reached the back of the car, squinting into the darkness as he moved past its glaring red LEDs. There was definitely something in the road. Then he saw the bike.

And the young boy lying in the road next to it. Dark clothing; no lights.

Oh fuck!

Matt’s gut twisted as the chilling scene established itself as reality. Seconds passed. He saw himself running towards the boy, shouting for anyone who could hear to call an ambulance.

But he hadn’t moved.

Something held him fast, just staring at the kid. And then he realized what it was.

He’d been drinking.

Suddenly the future was playing itself out in his mind; nightmare flashes of what would begin as soon as he dialled 999
.
His whole life ripping apart.

Then everything became a blur.

Headlights appeared, a quarter of a mile away on the crest of the hill. Another car had turned on to the road. Matt found himself walking back to his Merc, sliding into the seat, checking as the door closed and the interior lights faded that the street around him was still deserted.

Then he was driving away.

He watched the other car’s lights in his rear-view mirror as it slowly descended the hill. Nearer and nearer the kid. Telling himself the other driver couldn’t miss the crumpled form in the road. They’d find him, call an ambulance. He’d be okay.

And so would Matt.

There was no need to risk his life to save the kid’s. He’d been drinking; a dozen witnesses would confirm that. But even if he
was
over the limit, it would have been by a gnat’s whisker. It hadn’t impaired his ability to drive. If he was guilty of anything, it was admiring a fucking nice house. The kid had been riding along a dark street with no lights.

And whose fault was
that
?

Certainly not Matt Hayes’.

Minutes later he was home, straight on to his drive, so the damaged wing was tight against the wall. He killed the engine and dug in the glove box for tissues. Then he got out and strategically wiped the dented panel, checking in the light from his phone that there was no blood on the tissue.