‘You’re going to walk there, are you?’
‘Bill wasn’t the only one with a car in a lock-up. I’ve taken care of everything. Passports, money, somewhere to live. Everything. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to fetch what I came for.’
Blood pounded in my head, and I stepped towards her.
‘Sheila, don’t do this. It’s not too late. I won’t tell the police you were here if you leave now. You can still go to France. In fact, you can live the rest of your days eating Camembert and drinking fucking Beaujolais, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. As long as you piss off now and leave my family alone!’
She was silent for a moment and I wondered if I’d got through to her, but then she threw her head back and laughed. A wicked laugh that sent shivers down my spine. I knew in that moment that Bill’s death had pushed her over the edge into insanity. I tensed my body, ready to leap towards her the moment she turned towards the house.
But before she made a move, a huge form sprang from the darkness to our right, charged at her and, with a roar, rugby-tackled her to the floor.
‘Stuart!’ I cried.
Sheila screamed, clawing at him like a crazed cat, but he grabbed her arms and held them behind her back as easily as if he was holding a child.
I scrabbled on the ground for my phone.
‘The panic button,’ he panted. ‘It’ll be quicker.’
‘Will you be OK?’
‘I’ll be fine. Just go.’
I sprinted to the back door and stumbled over the sandbags into the kitchen. Groping for the panic button, I pressed it several times, then called 999 to be sure. Only when the dispatcher assured me patrols were on their way did I pull open a drawer and grab a roll of raffia I’d brought home from work. Using it to tie Sheila’s wrists and ankles while we waited for the police to arrive seemed like poetic justice.
I ran back into the garden, shocked to see that the water had risen by another couple of feet in the short time I’d been inside. Clasping the raffia in one hand and my phone in the other, I followed its beam around the back of the house to the kitchen garden.
When I reached the first of the raised beds, my breath caught in my throat. Because Stuart was bent double before me, cradling his wrist, a stream of expletives pouring from his mouth.
And Sheila was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Fifty-Five
‘Where is she?’ I shouted into the wind.
‘The bitch bit me,’ he said, his face contorted with anger.
‘Which way did she go?’
He shook his head. ‘One minute she was here, then she wasn’t.’
I shuddered. Just like Immy.
I pressed the back-door key into his hand. ‘Make sure the children are safe. I’ll see if I can find her.’
‘Be careful, Cleo. The woman’s unhinged. And violent.’ He waved his arm in my face. Blood oozed from a ring of red bite marks on the inside of his wrist.
‘The police are on their way,’ I said, ignoring him. ‘Just look after Nate and Immy.’
Nodding, he turned and loped towards the house. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I turned off the light on my phone and stood and listened while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. But it was impossible to hear anything above the roar of the river.
I took a step forwards, then another. The third step sent a spray of water up my jeans. I felt the swirl of surging water around my feet. That we could be minutes away from being flooded was of little consequence to me. I had to find Sheila.
Using the faint glow from the street lamps to guide me, I began systematically searching the garden. As I passed the kids’ half-submerged den, I saw our torch bobbing about in the water. I picked it up, gave it a shake, and turned it on. After a second the beam flickered on and I swept it from side to side in an arc as the water surged around my feet.
Afterwards, I couldn’t remember which I heard first: the faint wail of sirens or Sheila’s screams. Funny how memory plays tricks on you like that, when every other detail of the night was etched on my mind.
Not that it mattered. Because when the beam of the torch found Sheila, she was already in the water under the pergola, her arms flailing, and her face pinched with terror.
‘Try to grab one of the posts,’ I shouted. ‘I’m coming for you.’
I waded deeper, trying not to think about the force of the water around my boots. Six inches was enough to knock you off your feet. I remembered seeing a documentary about it once. And the river was already near the top of my boots. Reaching the pergola, I grabbed the nearest post. The oak felt rough to the touch, but reassuringly solid. Sheila was already a couple of feet beyond the furthest post. I splashed through the water, my arm outstretched, grabbed the next post and held it tight. I repeated this until I reached the last post. Water sloshed over the top of my boots.
‘Sheila!’ I cried. I shone the torch at her face. She no longer looked terrified. She looked… contemptuous. Transfixed, I watched as her cheeks worked and her lips pursed. She tipped her head back and spat. She was too far away for it to land anywhere near me, but the meaning was clear. She despised me, and saving her life wouldn’t change that.
I faltered. Instinct urged me to extend a hand to a fellow human being, but reason urged caution. If Sheila lived, the fear that she would one day come back for Immy would always be there.
But I couldn’t let her drown. It was inhuman. Sheila was immoral, but I wasn’t.
‘Sheila!’ I yelled. ‘Take my hand.’
She struggled to her feet, her arms
