The Hollow Places (13 page)

“Clare?” Sarah
asked. “Tall, white coat, red-blonde, smokes like a chimney, skin
like tracing paper.”

“I don't know
who you're with. Clare's here at the theatre. I'm looking at her. I
suggest you call the police now. Don't be brave. And don't be
stupid.”

“Geraldine,
I'm so (scared) sorry about this.”

“Me too. Don't
come again, will you?”

The line went
dead.

Sarah stood to
leave, but Clare was on her way back to the door so she sat down.
She had to act cool.

“Freezing out
there,” Clare said as she removed her coat and sat down. “Makes me
want to give up smoking.”

Sarah
smiled.

There was a
moment of silence between them; the first one that was unnatural.
It spun into something else, until it became agonising.

“All that
coffee,” Sarah said. “I’m desperate to pee.” She pushed her chair
back from the table.

“There’s no
toilet in here,” Clare said.

She was right.
Maybe that’s why she had chosen this place. One way in and one way
out.

Sarah reminded
herself to stay calm.

“You can come
back to my place,” Clare suggested. “It’s five or six minutes from
here. You can see it from that corner.” She pointed.

“I can hold
it,” Sarah said, feeling her nerve wilting. “Actually, I might get
back to the theatre. Geraldine called, wondering where I am. I told
her I was here and said I’d be back in a few minutes.”

Clare's face
was tranquil but her eyes were alert, assessing her. “Oh,” she
said.

“You haven't
done anything wrong,” Sarah said. “I just really have to get back.
It’s rude of me to bail on my friend. I’ve kind of fucked her day
up and I have to make it up to her.”

Clare nodded.
“Did you tell her you were with me?” She sipped her coffee.

“No,” Sarah
said too quickly and she dropped her eyes. Damn it. She was no good
at this. She pretended to take a sip of her drink to cover up the
mistake.

“Why didn't
you tell her I was here?” Clare asked.

“I don't
know,” Sarah said. Clare could have asked anything then and she
would have replied that she didn't know. She wanted to stop talking
entirely. She wanted to be out in the open again. “I didn’t think
to mention it,” she said. “It never came up. The conversation was
pretty short. She was pretty short with me.” Clare made a steeple
of her fingers. “Look, I’ve really got to go,” Sarah said. “Thanks
for everything. Here’s some money to cover the extra coffee.”

“Forget about
the coffee, Sarah.”

“Maybe if I’m
down here again, I can say hello. Could I have your number? I know
you hate phones, but I could text you; find out how the play
went.”

“Sit down,
Sarah.”

“Geraldine’s
waiting for me, so I'd better-”

“Sarah, I
won’t tell you again.”

Clare put her
index fingers to her lips, which Sarah took as a sign of
self-restraint. Her eyes were cold and sad and Sarah saw that the
woman she had been talking to for the last forty-five minutes
hadn’t existed at all. Looking into those eyes, she felt exhausted
and trapped.

The plastic
seat squeaked as Sarah sat back down; the legs groaned as they
scraped half an inch on the tiles.

When Clare
spoke next, the easiness of her speech was absent. “I’m going to
give you one piece of advice,” she said. “Don’t run.”

“Who are you?”
Sarah asked, but Clare didn't answer. Sarah couldn't help looking
away. She glanced at the counter, wondering if the owners of the
cafe were in on this.

“You can't
stop me leaving,” Sarah told Clare.

“You won't
think so, but I'm doing you a favour,” Clare said. “It's better
this way.”

Sarah demanded
to know who she was, but again received nothing in return but a
constant gaze, appraising her. She'd seen that look before; Simon,
every time he refused to answer her questions.

“What do you
want with me?” Sarah said. “I deserve an answer.”

Over Clare's
shoulder, Sarah saw the sick-looking man through the window. She
knew it was him immediately and her entire body tensed as though a
spider had scuttled over her. He was peering in through a pair of
sunglasses, moving in a hurry, and he was wearing a brimmed hat,
which he pulled low as he shoved open the door. His trainers
squeaked as he crossed the tiles. He stank.

She had been
certain that Simon would save her. Even now, she thought that he
would appear.

When the man
stopped at their table, she was as surprised as she was afraid. His
skin was covered in scars and his features had the appearance of
having been wrapped in cling film. Sarah's skin crawled.

“Sarah,” he
said. His voice was a cobweb. “I'm Firdy.” Sarah shrugged. Clare
put her hands flat on the table as if to push herself up, but Firdy
gave her a look that pinned her to her seat. “Sorry I took so
long,” he said. “I see you're getting acquainted.” He looked from
one woman to the other. “Or not. Finish your drink, Sarah, and
we'll go.”

He extended
his hand and Sarah stared at the black leather glove.

The kindly
couple were behind the counter, watching. They didn't seem to be
aware of what was happening. If she screamed, Sarah thought, they'd
get the message.

“Now,” said
Firdy. “Or I’ll make you.”

Sarah watched
herself in the reflection of his sunglasses. She appeared small and
frightened, so she sat up straight and got a glimpse of his misty
eye over the top of his sunglasses. She recoiled.

“I can hurt
you,” he said. “And I don't give a fuck that we're in public. I'll
choke the fucking life out of you. Don't give me an excuse.”

“Remember,”
Clare warned her. “You don't have a choice.”

“And how about
you?” Sarah said. “Did you have a choice?” For the first time, she
got a reaction. Clare's lips parted and closed again. That was all;
easily missed, but not by Sarah. Compared to her composure a few
minutes before, she looked as if she'd been slapped.

“Stand up,
Sarah,” Firdy said.

One last look
over her shoulder as she stood. The couple were watching her leave,
doing nothing. She reached out to them with her eyes, but that was
all, afraid of what Firdy would do.

“I had a
feeling you’d be smart,” Firdy said. “You had to be either very
smart or very stupid, but you just made the right choice.” He
nodded towards the door and Sarah went, her muscles watery and her
steps uncertain.

“Wait,” Firdy
said when she was at the door.

Clare had
known that it wouldn’t be over so quickly.

“I told you to
call me the moment you saw her,” Firdy said. He laid a hand on her
shoulder. She didn't flinch. “You did well,” he said, “but next
time I ask you to do something, you do it. You could have saved me
- and someone else - a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.” It was
Clare's turn to be disconcerted by her reflection in his dark
glasses. She watched herself nod. “And stop smoking.”

He limped
towards the door. “Go,” he said, waving Sarah on.

As she stepped
out into the street, Sarah was frightened and angry and confused.
She looked through the cafe window and saw Clare staring into her
coffee cup. Firdy shoved her to keep her moving.

As she walked,
with Firdy behind her, she thought about running again, getting
lost in the crowd. The man had a limp. How difficult could it be to
get away?

Doing as she
was told had got her caught. She was going to have to save herself,
her own way.

She took a
deep breath, not believing that she was about to do this, but -

“Here,” Firdy
said.

The transit
van dwarfed the car in front and behind. Mud had splattered the
lower half of the vehicle and the wheels were caked.

If you get in
there, she assured herself, you’ll die.

She could
still run. There were people walking nearby; some of them looked
half-crazy, but they were better than Firdy. She saw cars stuck at
the lights. She could scream and a dozen people would look their
way.

“I have your
brother,” Firdy said, unlocking the doors with his key fob. “If you
want to see him alive, you’ll get in the van and come with me.”

Her knees
buckled. She wondered if Simon was in the back of the van, tied and
gagged. Instinctively, she drifted towards it.

Firdy opened
the passenger door for her, his twisted face betraying the strain
of remaining patient. She could see in the curl of his thin lips
that he had had enough of chasing her and that he wouldn’t do it
again, not as long as there were knives and guns and clubs and
leather gloves and Simon. He had Simon, so she really didn't have a
choice.

She climbed
into the van.

“Thank you,”
Firdy said.

He sighed and
slammed her door shut.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Clare ordered a lemon cheesecake and another coffee.
She didn’t want to appear a glutton and had considered moving to
another cafe, but her legs weren’t working properly so she suffered
the shame. It was nothing compared to the shame of what she had
done, handing Sarah to Firdy.

The cheesecake
arrived, a pristine wedge, glistening. A little fork. A napkin. She
stuck the fork into the cake and split it in two. Today was
officially the worst day of her life.

She didn’t
know how she would live with what she had done, but she knew that
she would. The prospect was awful but true.

She imagined
that the cheesecake was a cliff and that the shiny, white plate was
oblivion. She imagined herself stepping off the edge, not jumping,
but hitting the rocks on the way down, dead before she hit the
bottom. She knew she wasn't going to kill herself though; she had
given up Sarah to protect herself and her own family. If she was
going to kill herself, she would have done it this morning. It was
too late to do any good now.

So she’d live.
She’d go home and cry and start cutting. In the morning, she’d
disinfect her incisions, eat Golden Grahams and watch Jeremy
Kyle.

Then maybe
more cutting.

Just another
day.

The tension in the hall thickened the air, which
smelled of dust, pine and birch, varnish, paint and coffee. Two
actresses were gabbling in hushed tones in front of a wooden
backdrop on which the entrance to a forest had been painted; a path
disappearing into blackness.

Immediately in
front of the stage, was an orchestra pit, where a violinist was
attempting to argue a man in scruffy combat trousers, but he was
preoccupied with his headset.

Simon gathered
from the palpable anxiety that this was 'opening night' rather than
a dress rehearsal. Most of the work had been done and now it was
too late to make any dramatic changes. All they could do was follow
the script and hope for the best. Except, something had happened.
There was an air of panic. This was almost chaos.

It wouldn't be
difficult for him to fit in. He picked up a plastic cup of coffee,
which was sitting on a table against the wall, and took a sip from
it as he strode across the hall, looking busy and purposeful, but
feeling anything but confident and in control.

Sarah wasn't
answering her phone, so he had to find Geraldine fast. He looked
for a man on his own so he could pose as a friend of Geraldine's
and ask where we she was. Nothing would destroy his deception more
quickly than telling Geraldine that he was a friend looking for
her.

He approached
a couple of men who were positioning a table by the door, but they
hadn't seen her. He tried an old man who stopped laying out chairs
to scan the entire hall, but was no use at all.

He felt
success drawing away from him. It was agony to be so near and yet
so far from finding Sarah.

Though he was
familiar with life and death situations, the 'death' was normally a
consequence of his actions. Perhaps, he thought, this is how it
feels to be on the other side; this fear - surreal and
unshakeable.

He grabbed
handfuls of his hair, biting back a scream of frustration, and then
he saw a woman run down the steps to the right of the stage. She
appeared to be hurrying so that nobody would see that she was
crying. A sob escaped from her as she threw herself through the
exit.

Simon jogged
through the hall and found her leaning against the wall outside,
her head in her hands.

“Geraldine?”
he said and she stared at him through her tears. He suspected that
Firdy had got here before him and that her distress was the
aftermath of his visit. “I'm looking for Sarah,” he said.

She laughed.
“Isn't everyone?”

So he had been
right; Firdy had been here or at least their paths had
overlapped.

“I'm looking
for the man too,” Simon added. She stopped smiling. “You've seen
him, haven't you?”

“No,” she
said. “Not exactly.”

“Will you help
me?”

Clare was finally about to leave the cafe when her
phone vibrated.

It wasn’t
Firdy for once.

It was
Ellen.

She was
surprised to find that she wasn't exactly relieved by this. She
couldn’t bring herself to answer the call. The shame of what she
had become was too great. She caught her reflection in the window
and was disgusted. Drawn lips. Pinched cheeks. A hollow gaze.

The phone
continued to vibrate long after she had dropped it into her coat
pocket and she felt unable to move until it's buzzing released her.
She often ignored Ellen's calls without feeling paralysed by
regret, but today was different. Today, she imagined Ellen sitting
on her antique chair at the bottom of the stairs, gazing at the
speaker in the handset as though she could will it to life,
knuckles turning white.