My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (25 page)

He found his phone, selected Antonia’s number, watching a load of tourists crowding into a river taxi out on the water. But he growled in frustration when the call connected …

And her answerphone kicked in.

Hawkins fell.

For a split second, there was silence as the cloudy night sky wheeled above her. But suddenly the descent was over. Pain erupted in her shoulder as she smashed into the rail, twisting in the air.

She hit the water.

At first only her face felt the shock, a rush of icy cold. But then the liquid breached her clothes, shock emptying her lungs like an anvil on her chest. Blackness swallowed her, the mute blare of submergence engulfing her senses. She fought panic, reaching out for some kind of anchor, just as her feet hit the riverbed.

She pushed upwards, painfully launching herself back to the surface, emerging to see the streaked lights of the promenade. She grabbed the handrail rising out of the freezing gloom, pulling her mouth above the water to drag in a painful breath.

The seething black mass snapped at her chin, its current dragging her clothes, trying to sweep her away. Hawkins glanced up, fighting for a grip on the wet rail,
gasping for air. Her shoulder screamed where she’d landed against the stairs, and her muscles contracted in the cold, further sapping her strength.

Above her, the steps stretched away, mere yards separating her from the sanctuary of the quay. But as her damaged body resisted attempts to drive upwards, Hawkins realized that, with every second she remained in the water, her chances of survival reduced.

She tried calling for help, but all that came out was a rasping wheeze. The shock of falling into arctic water had exhausted her. Yet somehow she managed to keep her head above the surface, renewing her grip on the rail, feet slipping on the submerged rungs.

She made another attempt at shouting Aaron’s name, this time managing to get the words out. But her voice wasn’t loud enough.

Still nobody came.

Perhaps that wasn’t a surprise. The girl who’d pushed her in had turned immediately to run, Sharpe was probably still dealing with Lucas Dean, unaware she’d disappeared over the edge, and any other observers obviously weren’t interested in risking their lives.

The blackness reared around her again and she took an involuntary mouthful of rancid water, almost choking in response. Her chest heaved and she lost her footing, gravity jerking her arms taut and dragging her face back into the water. Her lungs burned, and for a second she thought about letting go, but then her survival instinct kicked in. All feeling in her body had gone
as she strained every muscle, managing to pull her head above the waves one last time, coughing up liquid.

Her eyes streamed, blurring her vision, but she couldn’t risk letting go to wipe them clear. Vivid reds and blues danced before her, although she couldn’t tell if they were lights on the water or figments of imagination in her cold, disordered brain.

She felt herself starting to lose consciousness.

But then there was noise. A man’s voice, telling her to hold on.

Sharpe.

Hawkins tried to look up, call out to him. But no sound came, and all she could see was a shadow descending the stairs, a hazy limb extended in aid.

She tried to reach out.

As everything went black.

44

‘There she i-is,’ Kerry sang, pointing over the steering wheel as she turned the people carrier off the main street into Tremadoc Road. ‘I had her valeted yesterday, so she’d be sparkling for your reunion cruise.’

Amanda Cain turned slowly to look at her best friend, the glum response taking a moment to reach her lips. ‘What?’

‘Your car, dopey …’ Kerry pulled a face, still trying to humour Cain. ‘Your pride and bloody joy. Remember?’

‘Oh.’ She followed her friend’s gaze, seeing the corner of the Audi’s sleek silver bumper just visible behind a Transit van fifty yards up on the left. ‘Thanks.’

For the first time in almost a year, Cain remembered her car. The £46,000 A5 coupé she’d collected from the garage less than a year ago, brand new; the first desirable car she’d ever owned. Befitting transport for a successful – albeit single – doctor, she’d convinced herself at the time. For a short while the car had led a pampered existence, despite having to be parked on the road outside her London townhouse. But now, as they drove towards it, the thought of optional metallic paint and upgraded wheels served only to remind her how facetious life had been.

Before.

Kerry
dug a set of keys out of the side pocket and waved them. ‘I thought you’d want to take her straight out.’

‘Maybe later.’ Cain pinched the bridge of her nose.

‘Oka-ay.’ Kerry drew out the word, stuffed the keys in her coat pocket. ‘I just thought you’d be excited, seeing as you only got her right before … well, you know.’

Cain stared at the dashboard. ‘I guess I’m just not in the mood.’

‘No problem.’ Her friend swung into a gap, letting a car pass in the opposite direction, reaching out to paw her passenger’s arm while they waited. ‘Ple-e-ease cheer up. You’re home, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah. I suppose.’

‘Blimey.’ Kerry pulled back into the single clear lane and drove on. ‘Anyone would think I was taking you
back
to prison.’

Cain looked across at her, pausing for a second before she answered. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘You’re welcome. You know that.’

Cain forced a half-smile. Kerry had insisted on collecting her from Holloway, despite her attempts to use the travel warrant provided by the prison service. She watched her friend bring the car to a halt level with the house, waiting for her to make eye contact.

Kerry pulled on the handbrake. ‘Jump out and get your bag. I’ll park up and come in. We’ll crack open some celebratory vino.’

‘Oh,
Kez, I really don’t –’

‘Coffee, then, or tea, if you’re fragile.’

‘It isn’t that. I know it sounds stupid, but I just want to be alone; run a hot bath. You don’t mind, do you?’

Kerry blinked a few times in quick succession, the way she did when she was disappointed but didn’t want you to know. ‘All right, but we’re still on for tomorrow, aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, already reaching for the door handle. ‘Thanks again for the lift.’

‘Holy
shit
! Amanda.’

Cain looked at her startled friend. ‘What?’

Kerry’s mouth was open, hands cradling her face as she stared past Cain’s shoulder towards the house. Slowly, Cain turned.

And saw her car.

Punctured tyres, smashed windows and scruffy red letters sprayed along the damaged bodywork, thin strands of overspray running down.

MURDERER
.

‘Holy shit, Mand,’ Kerry breathed. ‘It was fine yesterday, I promise. It must have been kids or something, it’s been a fucking nightmare round here recently.’

Cain sighed. ‘We both know it wasn’t kids.’

The family of John Travis, her unintended victim, had publicly declared shortly after the incident that they held her
utterly
to blame. The exhaustion of regular eighty-hour weeks and double shifts might have garnered sympathy with campaign groups at the time,
leading to failed calls for her sentence to be reduced, but
they
would not forgive. Cain had returned home several times before the trial to find her front door covered in human faeces, and more pushed through the letterbox. Clearly, none of the perpetrators was in medicine, or they’d have known that anyone who works in a hospital is more than comfortable with bodily discharge. But the sentiment itself scared the hell out of her. She had dared to hope the intensity of their rage might diminish with time. But now, looking at her ruined Audi, Amanda Cain realized that certainly wasn’t the case.

‘There must be CCTV,’ Kerry offered, peering through the windscreen for cameras. ‘That’s criminal damage, right? The police will follow it up.’

Cain shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But … you love that car.’

‘It’s going back to the garage.’ Cain opened the door and began to step out. ‘It’s just an easy target now.’

Kerry grabbed her arm. ‘I don’t think you should stay here. What if they come back?’

‘Please leave it, Kez.’ Gently, Cain unpicked her friend’s hand. ‘No offence, but your menagerie is hardly peaceful. Really, the house is secure. I just need a quiet bath and my bed.’

It took another five minutes of reassurances that she’d be fine and a promise to call straight away if she wasn’t, to convince her friend to leave, then Amanda
Cain stood on the pavement, waving slowly as Kerry drove away.

She watched the blue Citroën all the way to the junction at the end of the road, wondering what she’d have done over the years without Kerry to slap some sense into her from time to time. Part of her wished she’d accepted the offer of a bolt-hole, even for a couple of nights.

The people carrier turned on to the main road and disappeared, and her empty gaze fell on the damaged silver coupé in her parking space. The car had been fine until yesterday, Kerry had said that, which meant the Travis family had known the exact date she was being released and had waited nine months to do this the night before she returned home, so nobody would have the chance to clear it up. Which meant it was a message they wanted her to see.

We haven’t forgotten.

And neither will you.

Amanda Cain closed the front door, distantly noting the absence of shit on her mat, and leaned against the wall. The knot in her stomach was familiar, but more vicious than usual. Of course, returning home for the first time since leaving Holloway was always going to be tough, but she genuinely hadn’t expected past events to force themselves down her throat before she’d even made it through the door. After seeing the
car, she felt more strongly than ever the sickening hatred of people left behind to suffer the consequences of her mistake.

Suddenly, her pulse was rapid and climbing, her breathing erratic, her skin damp. She closed her eyes. Inexplicably, the anxiety attacks she’d experienced in the weeks following her horrific error had stopped overnight when she’d arrived in jail.

Obviously, it had been too much to hope they’d stay away once she was out.

She swallowed, forcing herself to concentrate.

You’re home.

Free.

Slowly, her eyes opened. Her heart still thumped, but the panic itself had reduced.

For a moment she stared into space, half wishing she hadn’t made Kerry leave, half still glad that she had. Part of her craved company, but getting through the next few days would be hard enough without having to deal with the smothering concern of her closest friend. Kerry had been so supportive, visiting almost every week during her sentence, sometimes more than once, always chipping away at her friend’s relentless insecurities.
You’re a good person, Mand.

It could have happened to anyone.

Cain always found herself nodding, telling Kerry she knew, carefully grading her responses to build in a few extra microns of positivity each time.
You’re right, Kez, I know. I’m doing okay.

Lying consistently to her friend about the horrors she faced on the far side of the visiting-room door still made her feel sick. It was hard work; unnatural somehow, but required.

That’s why she needed space; time alone to think. To straighten things out.

But nothing was going to happen unless she
made
it happen.

She glanced around at the entrance hall, noticing detail for the first time since entering the house. Everything was just as she remembered: the high ceilings and narrow, elegant stairs. The ornate bannisters painted classic white to match the delicate picture rails, and the long hallway leading into the galley kitchen down the steps.

More pride and joy.

She pushed away from the wall and stood, trying to appreciate the stillness of the house. Thick walls meant she never heard the neighbours, and living alone ensured peace and quiet were never beyond reach once the front door closed. She shuddered, attempting not to think about months of atmosphere so vile that no one ever relaxed. For someone like Cain, so used to being in control, both of those around her and of her own time and space, Holloway had been true hell.

And yet, as she tuned into the silence, it became almost eerie. The floorboards had been resealed by the previous owner, so there were no creaks when she shifted her weight, and she’d had to rehouse Zhivago
the cat before her sentence began. A tiny, far-flung family, parents dead, no siblings, husband or kids. Aside from the small group of friends she made an effort to see, Amanda Cain was alone, splitting the majority of her time between her three refuges. The car. The house. The job.

Patently, the lack of constant commotion and slamming iron gates was a relief, but the absence of noise also freed her dissident thoughts. At that moment, she might have given anything for someone to appear on the void of the landing, slam a drawer or sneeze. But the silence remained, the far end of the hall stretching away, pulling the walls in as it went.

She shook off the feeling and drifted into the front room, past the wide leather settee facing the hearth. Everything was dustless, despite months of disuse. The only sign of recent activity was the small dent in the armchair cushion where Joan, the cleaner, sat every Wednesday to have a cup of tea.

Joan loved this place almost as much as Cain did, so much so that she’d refused to return her key even after letting all her other contracts go. She had cleaned the place for three different owners, and continued to service it for the very reasonable standing order she begrudgingly allowed her employer to increase every year.

Cain walked slowly to the antique bureau at the back of the room. It had been an impulse purchase shortly after she’d moved in, the dark wood and studded leather finish of the accompanying chair fitting the place so
well she hadn’t challenged its four-figure price. Plus, of course, there was no family board to mollify. For authenticity’s sake, she had even stocked the classical writing desk with paper and pens, although it was rarely used.