The Sound (33 page)

‘But it’s OK,’ I say grinning. ‘We saved all the evidence and the police arrested him for trying to kill us and about a dozen other things besides.’

Paige continues to stare at us as all this sinks in.

‘And it gets better,’ I tell her happily while Jesse squeezes my hand. ‘They’re on their way right now to Parker’s house. They want to question him about his part
in vandalising the store.’

Paige’s eyes grow wide and after a few seconds a smile forms on her lips. Then she throws her arms around us both and whispers, ‘Thank you.’

Before we can answer her or thank her back, she lets go and runs off, over to Sophie and Matt, no doubt to tell them everything.

Jesse and I stand and watch as the police car with Tyler in it drives off.

‘I think we can safely say that you got your revenge,’ I say.

Jesse doesn’t answer. He is staring at the smoking ruins of the shop.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, leaning against his shoulder.

He rests his head on mine. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You didn’t get hurt. That’s all that matters. And you’re right. I wonder how many years he’ll get
for arson.’

‘And attempted murder?’ I add. ‘And sexual assault? Even if Hannah decides not to press charges I think it’s safe to say that Tyler Reed is going to prison for a very
long time. I’m totally gutted about that,’ I add.

I notice that Jesse is staring now at his dad who is still chatting to the fireman. He looks over and waves at me and Jesse. He looks unnaturally happy. In fact, he looks almost ecstatic which,
consider -ing his livelihood just burned to the ground, is somewhat surprising.

‘He insured the place for twice its value,’ Jesse says, obviously seeing the confusion on my face. ‘I told him to. I figured that Tyler might try something like this. I just
never envisaged it being quite so grand a gesture,’ he concedes.

‘Talking of grand gestures,’ I say, ‘thank you for saving my life. I think I may need to find a way to repay you.’

‘I can think of a way,’ he answers, and my stomach does a loop-the-loop. Again I think of pushing him backwards and stripping him naked right here and now but the paramedic is behind
him doing something with an oxygen tank.
Goddamn it
, I think,
move the oxygen tank! Hurry up, man
, before the reality of the situation once again dawns. I need to get a grip on
the lust before it actually kills me. There is time to straddle Jesse Miller and thank him for saving my life. Plenty of time.

But there is not. Is there? Because
dur
. Mother of all
durs
. I am leaving tomorrow and I forgot this little fact how? Small matter of a fire. Tiny little inconvenience of
almost being burnt to death by a psycho nut job.

‘What is it?’ Jesse asks, worry evaporating the desire in his eyes.

No, no, no
. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I stammer. ‘I mean today.’ I look at my watch. I only have a half-dozen hours left before I need to head to the
airport.

By the looks of things, Jesse had forgotten also and now it appears as if something inside of him is breaking apart, like a flower decaying in high speed time-lapse photography. I reach for his
hand and he pulls me into his arms.

‘I’ll come back,’ I murmur, my lips pressed to his neck.

‘Or I’ll come find you,’ he whispers. His hand is against the bare skin of my lower back. I want him so much. And I have to leave. I hate life.

A cough behind me. I will the cougher to cough on by, keep walking, leave us in peace, I’m having a meltdown here, can’t you see? I need to stay in this boy’s arms until the
sun comes up and until I’m prised off him by immigration officials and marched onto a plane. But the cougher is insistent. And now Jesse is breaking his hold and untangling his arms from
around me, even though I stay clinging to him. I turn my head, keeping one cheek pressed to his heart.

A policeman is standing there, looking a little embarrassed. It’s the same one who took Jesse’s statement.

‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ he says to me now, ‘you’re a key witness to a crime. I’m afraid you’re going to need to give a statement and we may require you to
stay in State until the judge grants you permission to travel.’

A whole flock of birds flies out of my chest. ‘You mean I have to stay? I actually, legally,
have
to stay?’ I ask, aware that Jesse’s hand is now squeezing mine
extremely tightly.

‘Yes, Miss,’ the policeman says.

‘Can the judge call my mother and tell her that?’ I ask.

‘I’m sure, um, that something could be arranged,’ the policeman answers uncertainly.

He notices my manic grin and takes a wide step backwards. ‘Seems like you kids could use some time . . .’ (
cough cough
) ‘. . . I’ll arrange to interview you in
the morning. I’ll come by the Tripps’.’

I nod. I will be here tomorrow morning. And the next morning. And the next. My mum cannot argue with A JUDGE. Though, now I think about the conversation I will need to have with her to explain
why I’m required by law to stay here in Nantucket, I’m not so sure she won’t try to argue with said judge.

I turn to face Jesse and find him grinning at me. He lifts me in his arms so my feet are off the ground and holds me there as he kisses me.

Oh holy mother of hotness. Good job he’s holding me or I would float away into the ash-filled sky.

Another cough. This time deeper.
Seriously?
We need to get a room . . . and then my imagination leaps ahead of itself to the bed in the room and to Jesse Miller naked in that bed. What
has gotten into me? I am a total skanktron lust-filled slutbag. Brushes with death need to happen more often, I think, as Jesse’s hands reach behind my neck and start playing with my hair,
before stroking down my spine (he too is ignoring the cougher). And did I mention how naked he is still? Other than jeans – and I can feel him through them and it’s enough to make me
collapse in a dribbling, jibbering heap on the tarmac.

Cough cough.

For crying out loud!
I turn around reluctantly, my eyes rolling. This time it is Mr Thorne.

Huh. He’s looking at me, with my hands plastered against Jesse’s naked torso, and he seems a little surprised. I guess because just the other day I was hooking up with his son. I do
not move my hands. I hope he relays this exact image to Jeremy by telepathy or at the very least in graphically descriptive terms.

‘I just spoke to Carrie and told her what had happened,’ Mr Thorne says, his eyes still on my hands. ‘I figured maybe you were too preoccupied to call them . . .’ (a
sideways, disapproving glance at Jesse) ‘. . . they were worried. I told them I’d give you a lift home. Sophie’s taken Matt.’

I turn back to Jesse. He smiles at me, strokes a finger down my cheek. ‘It’s cool. You go. I’ll be fine. I think they want me to sign some release papers,’ he says,
nodding at the paramedic. ‘And I guess I should see what’s happening with my dad.’

I bite my lip. ‘I want to stay,’ I say.

‘I know,’ he answers. ‘I want you to stay too. But I’ll come by first thing in the morning. I promise.’ And he rests his forehead against mine. I breathe in
deeply.

Jesse kisses me goodbye and walks with me over to Mr Thorne’s car. He opens the door for me and leans in to kiss me one last time through the window as Mr Thorne pulls out onto the road. I
glance back once and see Jesse standing barefoot and bare-chested in the middle of the road, smoke still billowing all around him.

I wonder if this is how it always happens to murder victims – they’re fine one second, bumbling merrily along, and in the next second they have this flash of
realisation, this moment that seems to sing with clarity, to light up the mind in a flash of brilliance before it splutters into darkness, dragging all hope with it.

The flash for me is triggered by a memory. Maybe it’s been buried in my subconscious and my subconscious is that stupid it has only figured it out now. A thought skitters angrily through
my mind – it couldn’t have had this momentous breakthrough about five minutes ago? When such a
Eureka!
moment might have saved my freaking life? Can you laugh at irony when
you’re about to die? Turns out the answer to that is a large capitalised NO.

We are in the jeep. Matt’s jeep. Mr Thorne’s jeep, as it turns out. And it’s only now, as we disappear down the road, leaving Jesse for dust, that I remember I saw this very
same jeep at the beach the night that girl got attacked, parked up by Sophie’s Mercedes. I assumed that Matt had driven it to the beach but of course he didn’t. He went with Sophie in
her car. So what was his car doing there?

I turn my head slowly to look at Mr Thorne. He notices and looks at me and I see it then, a glimmer in his eye, a tightening of his hands on the wheel. His smile burns brighter for an instant
before it fades away, like a light snapping off. He knows that I know. It only takes a second for everything to slide perfectly into place and another second for the adrenaline to kick in, pushing
my heart rate up into the stratosphere. I try to keep a grip on some level of calm. Because it could be that I’m wrong, right? It could be that I’m just amped up from all the shock and
the fire and almost having died and now I’m projecting crazy theories onto the innocent father of the shithead boy who tried to sleep with me to win a competition. But my blood is now running
cold. I’m shivering. I know that my instinct is right.

I turn my head again, fractionally, towards the door. The lock is down. My heart skitters. I need to keep calm, I tell myself. I need to think clearly.

Maybe if I talk about his kids . . . but my mouth is so dry I’m not sure I can get the words out. My hand tries to slide towards the door, I glance over my shoulder into the back seat and
then I see it. A coiled pile of fishing line. That’s what finally does it. The terror that rises up is blinding, instant, suffocating – like snakes writhing over me. I jerk in my seat,
trying to punch at the seat belt release button while my right hand reaches for the lock, but I am suddenly slammed back into my seat, my head smacking against the head rest.

Mr Thorne’s arm pins me to my seat and my ribs feel like they’re splintering beneath the weight of him. A sob bursts out of my throat. ‘Please.’ I am begging and I hate
that I am begging but I can’t stop. ‘Please,’ I say again, tears falling down my cheeks, ‘let me go.’

Mr Thorne keeps driving, his arm holding me in place, and he doesn’t say anything. He just drives with one hand on the wheel, huddled forward, scanning the street ahead, looking, I realise
with a bone-numbing sense of dread, for somewhere to stop.

I stop struggling. I want him to let me go. I want him to think that I pose no threat to him, that I can play ball if he just gives me a chance. I look out of the window at the darkened street.
I don’t even know where we are. A car passes on the other side of the road and I stare helplessly at the driver, wondering if he can see me, see that I’m crying, that I’m being
pinned to my seat by a serial killer, but he passes by in a hurry and the road ahead is swallowed up once again by the darkness.

‘You’ve made things impossible, Ren,’ Mr Thorne says over the sound of my quiet crying. He says it almost sadly, looking at me and shaking his head, as though this is all my
fault. That I’m bringing whatever happens next upon myself. The car begins to slow down. He is pulling over to the side of the road. I buck against his arm, against the seat belt, against my
own suffocating panic.

‘Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone,’ I say and I notice that it’s harder to speak this time. I’m wheezing, my lungs gasping for air, just like that fish on the
beach, the one that I made Jesse throw back. At the thought of Jesse I start crying harder. Why can’t he be here? Why can’t he storm in and rescue me like he did at the party? ‘I
promise I won’t tell,’ I sob.

Mr Thorne shakes his head at me. ‘I can’t let you go, Ren. I’m sorry.’ He doesn’t sound apologetic. ‘Not now.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ I whimper, and even to my own ears the question sounds stupid. It’s the question that the murder victim always asks in films, right before the killer
launches into a soliloquy about being misunderstood or about his mother not loving him or God ordering him to do it.

Mr Thorne seems surprised by my question though, and his arm relaxes slightly against my chest. ‘Because,’ he says, shaking his head slowly, a terrifying glint in his eye, ‘you
girls are all such sluts. You deserve it. The others both got exactly what was coming to them. Now it’s your turn.’

Instantly I stop fighting. I can only stare at him, at the spittle on his lips and the bright fervour in his eyes. This is the point when I realise that Mr Thorne is actually crazy – as in
psycho-killer Norman Bates crazy – and that there is no way I’m getting out of this.

He tilts his head at me, his eyes narrowing, a smile forming on his lips. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while, Ren,’ he says, ‘dating my son, and then seeing
that Miller boy behind his back.’

I try to protest – what is he talking about? But Mr Thorne shakes his head at me. ‘I saw you at The Ship, Ren.’

The protest dies on my lips. I
was
being watched. I remember standing in the deserted parking lot trying to figure out how to get the car out of that tight parking space and feeling
like someone was watching me . . . and they were.
He
was. My breathing is coming in short gasps. In fact, now I think about it, there was a jeep blocking me in. Probably
this
jeep. Thank God Jesse came along when he did. Though that seems a moot point now, given the situation I’m in. I glance up sharply, my breathing coming in gasps. Was it Mr Thorne who was
kerb-crawling me that time too on the way back from the beach?

I stare at him for a long second, stunned as the smile spreads across his face.

‘Carrie’s expecting me,’ I eventually stammer, as though this will be enough to make him change his mind.

He shakes his head at me. ‘No she isn’t. I never called her.’

Oh. I blink at him. Shit. But then I remember Jesse. He saw me leave with Mr Thorne, as did several dozen firefighters and cops. ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ I say, anger
making my voice shake. ‘Jesse saw me getting into the car with you.’