Never Close Your Eyes (50 page)

She watched while he emptied the pockets of his navy-blue raincoat and put the jumper and jacket on. Then he rolled up the mac and shoved it in the brown holdall. He looked at her properly for the first time since they'd met in front of the statue. ‘The police are after us. We mustn't let them find us. If they do we'll never see each other again . . .'

‘Oh.' Freya was shivering. She was in big trouble. Mum would be mad at her. She thought of Gemma and Chantelle. If they found out she'd gone off with someone's dad . . . the thought made her want to throw up.

‘We'll talk on the train,' he said. He sounded nicer now, kinder. He squeezed her hand: ‘You're beautiful.' Her cheeks glowed. Maybe it was going to be OK.

He pulled her down the platform and on to the train. ‘In here.' She kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She was clinging on to his hand, which felt sweaty and strange. She hoped that he wouldn't try to kiss her. She didn't think that she'd like him to kiss her. Maybe there'd be a funfair in Birmingham. They could go shopping and stay in a posh hotel. Gemma and Chantelle would be dead jealous if she told them that. At least that was one good thing, anyway.

Evie looked up. There were strange faces around her, people in green and yellow uniforms. There was something over her nose and mouth, a mask. She wanted to rip it off but her arms wouldn't move. She started to struggle.

One of the people in uniform, a middle-aged man with grey hair and a moustache, smiled. ‘You'll be all right, love. You had a bit of a funny turn. We're just going to check you out . . .'

She tried to speak but couldn't. Her whole body was tense. She needed to get up, to find Freya.

‘Don't worry, they'll bring your daughter back,' the man said.

A woman paramedic on the other side of the stretcher stroked Evie's hair off her forehead. She flinched. It was a strangely intimate gesture. ‘They've alerted all the airports, railway stations, ferries. It's on the radio and TV. There's no chance he'll get away . . .'

Evie felt her shoulders relax a little but her mind was soon racing ahead. Airports . . . railway stations. They might slip through the net. They could go anywhere, change names, their appearance. She might never see Freya again. She heard a moaning sound and realised that it was coming from her. He might have pills, or a knife. He might kill her, kill them both.

She was inside the ambulance now. It was dark and claustrophobic. She wanted to scream. They were putting something on her arm and her chest.

‘We're going to take your blood pressure,' the man said. ‘Looks like you've had a bit of a bump on the head . . .'

She registered for the first time that her head was throbbing. She thought it hurt somewhere at the back but she didn't care. She tried to pull free, to get up, kick her legs, thrash out. The man put a restraining arm across her middle. It felt heavy.

‘What's your name?' the woman asked. She had a low, sympathetic voice and a slight Northern accent. She lifted the oxygen mask up for a moment.

‘Evie.'

‘Listen, Evie,' the woman went on, replacing the mask, ‘I know you must be really frightened but try to keep calm. Struggling won't help.' She took Evie's hand and patted it.

Evie wriggled but the man's arm was weighing her down. She didn't want to listen to the woman, she just wanted to break free.

‘The police are doing all they can to find your daughter,' the woman continued, still holding her hand. ‘There's a national alert. He won't get away. I reckon you'll have her back in your arms by tonight.'

In her arms. It was what she wanted more than anything. Evie started to cry. The hot tears pricked her cheeks, making her face itch.

‘We just need to check you're all right, then we'll take you back to the police and they can explain exactly what they're doing, OK?'

Back to the police, that would be something. It made sense. Evie nodded and stopped struggling.

‘That's better,' the woman said, adjusting what felt like a sticky pad on her chest. The man took his arm away. Evie took a deep breath.

‘There've been several sightings of them heading towards Euston Station.' It was a new voice, a man's – official-sounding. Evie couldn't see him, he was behind her at the back of the ambulance. There were sounds of a radio chattering. Sirens. Evie's stomach fluttered and turned over. She tried to get up.

‘Wait a minute, love.' The male paramedic looked over his shoulder to speak to the man behind. ‘She seems OK. We need to clean the wound on the back of her head. I don't think she'll need an X-ray.'

‘What's up at St Pancras?' the woman paramedic asked. ‘Do they know yet? Was it a bomb?'

‘False alarm. Some mug left a bag in the women's toilet.'

The woman clucked. ‘What a prat.' She squeezed Evie's hand. ‘Be brave,' she said. ‘The police are doing all they can.'

Freya was sitting by the window watching the scenery hurtling past. It was spitting with rain and everything was dull and grey. She pulled the pink scarf up over her nose. She hated pink normally, never wore it, but she liked feeling her warm, moist breath inside the wool.

Al was beside her. His left leg was touching her right one and their knees were rubbing. It made her feel slightly sick. He was pretending to be relaxed but she could tell that he was nervous really. He kept looking round and his small hands, clasped together on the table in front of them, were trembling.

He searched for her hand on her lap under the table and squeezed it, leaning over to whisper in her ear: ‘It's going to be OK, gorgeous.'

He'd called her ‘gorgeous' and ‘beautiful' hundreds of times in emails, but it was weird hearing him actually
say
it. She realised that she hadn't thought about his voice. She'd tried to picture his face as it really might be often enough, but in her head he spoke like one of the boys at school. But his real voice was well posh. Like a headteacher's or something. She didn't squeeze his hand back. She'd be too embarrassed. Her face felt hot; it was probably red. She hoped he wouldn't see, he'd think she was well babyish.

‘What are we going to do when we get there?' she asked, lowering her scarf and turning to him. She spoke very quietly so that no one would hear. The seats opposite were empty but the rest of the carriage was fairly full.

‘We'll find a hotel,' he replied. ‘Or we might catch a flight somewhere.'

She was surprised. ‘Where? Paris?'

He licked his lips and smiled. ‘We'll see.' She noticed that his teeth were small and slightly pointy and he had a little cut on his chin – from shaving, she supposed. Dad used to do that sometimes, cut himself.

‘I have to be back soon,' she said quickly. ‘My parents will miss me.'

‘Sure.' He put his hand on her knee now and squeezed that. She wiggled a bit and he took it away.

She pictured Mum and Dad. They'd be so worried. But Dad had the new baby to think of. He didn't really care about her. Maybe Mum would have a new baby, too, with her boyfriend. She wasn't too old, probably. Yuck. Freya pulled her feet up on to the seat, wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin on them, curling herself into a little ball.

Steve would have to come and live with them if Mum had a baby. Freya didn't like him. He was creepy. He just pretended to be nice to her and Michael. He'd prefer it if they were out of the way. Well, he'd got his wish now. Maybe Michael would run off too, then he'd be
really
happy.

Michael. She'd miss him – and he'd be well sad without her. She wanted to cry. She tried to swallow back the tears, wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Am I going to school on Monday?'

Al put an arm round her shoulder and touched her hair with his lips. It made her scalp prickle. ‘You don't have to go ever again if you don't want. I'll look after you.'

Never go back to that stinking hole or see Gemma, Abigail and Chantelle? She straightened her legs out, uncurled. ‘But I will see my mum again, won't I?'

‘Of course – if you want to.'

Maybe Mum wouldn't want to see
her
now, she'd be too furious. Freya felt tired. Her eyes were so heavy. She wanted to go to sleep. She wished that she was at home, under her purple duvet, that none of this had ever happened. Too late now.

‘Are you hungry?'

Freya shook her head. Her mouth felt dry. There was no saliva in it. ‘I'm thirsty, though.'

‘I'll get you a drink from the buffet.'

It was only next door. Freya could see there was a queue.

‘What would you like?'

She thought for a moment. ‘Coke. And maybe a Twix or something, please.'

She watched his back as he started to walk down the carriage. He'd taken his jacket off and was just wearing the plum jumper. She could see that his legs were quite skinny in his dark trousers, much skinnier than Dad's. His shoulders sloped and there was a little bald patch on the back of his head. He turned and mouthed: ‘Stay there.'

There was an announcement: ‘This train will shortly be arriving at Watford Junction. Please have your luggage ready and make sure that you take all your bags with you before leaving the carriage.'

Quite a lot of people stood up and started taking things down from the shelves above. Her heart pitter-pattered. She felt under the table for her backpack, she didn't know why, and pulled it on to her lap, clutching it to her chest.

‘The train is now arriving at Watford Junction. This station is Watford Junction. Next stop . . .'

She arose, putting her hand on the back of the seat to steady herself. The train pulled slowly to a halt and she could hear carriage doors opening. There was a swishing sound in her ears, the blood pulsing through her brain. She turned towards the exit. Lots of people were in the aisle, blocking the way.

Her mind emptied. There was no time to think. She had no idea where she'd go. She just knew she had to get out. ‘Excuse me, please . . .'

A woman in front of her turned around. ‘You'll have to wait your turn . . .'

They didn't understand, she must leave.

‘Please, I have to . . .' She tried to elbow her way past, but the woman was having none of it. ‘There's a queue – in case you haven't noticed.'

‘Wait!' It was Al's voice, Al's heavy hand on her shoulder. Her stomach flopped this way and that. ‘Sit down.'

He sounded angry. She felt tiny, three years old. She shrank back into the seat. ‘I need the toilet.'

She glanced up and saw him smile at the woman in the queue. She didn't like the way his lips pulled back, revealing his pointy teeth. ‘I'm sorry, my daughter should have waited.'

She bit her lip, trying to stop her eyes welling up. But this was Al, her Al, whom she was supposed to adore. It had all gone wrong, everything was wrong. Nothing in her life ever went right.

‘I'm not your daughter . . .' she muttered under her breath. She was hugging her backpack. It smelled of her room, of Mum.

He sat down beside her, put his hand on her knee and brushed his lips against her cheek. They felt dry and cracked. ‘My beautiful girl,' he murmured. His hand was a dead weight, pushing her down.

She clenched her fists, realising that she was shaking.

‘You're my beautiful girl. My Freya. We're going to have such fun together, you and me. Just you wait and see.'

Chapter Forty-Five

Tom walked slowly back to their farmhouse and Becca followed. She noticed the ivy growing all around the back door and windows. Had there always been that much? The whole place was covered in it. It must have been there years, possibly hundreds of years. It would be a big job to pull it all down.

Her body was shuddering but she'd stopped crying. He sat down on the dark-red sofa in front of the fire and she took her place beside him.

‘I thought you might have done something stupid,' he was muttering. ‘I was so worried. The children were frantic.'

She stared straight ahead at the fire, which was beginning to die because no one was tending it.

‘You don't know what I've done,' Becca whispered. ‘You won't want me when you know what I've done.'

Tom put a hand in his trouser pocket, pulled something out and held it in front of her. It was a rather crumpled, passport-sized photo of two young girls. They looked about ten or eleven. They were smiling into the camera, their heads touching. Both had shoulder-length, straight, light hair. You couldn't tell the exact colour because the photo was black and white. One of the girls appeared older than the other, though there wasn't much between them. She had a more knowing expression. The other girl had a longer, thinner face and a sweet, slightly upturned nose.