Relieved that he had left town, she sank onto the sofa, the enormity of what had happened hitting her afresh. She saw again Mac lying unconscious on the floor. Could Tom possibly have been responsible? But why on earth would he want to harm Mac? Tiredness rolled over her in heavy waves, yet she felt too wired, too on edge, to sleep. Turning down the TV’s volume, she listened hard, but heard nothing.
Finally she went to the kitchen and found a bottle of wine, pouring herself a large glass, and then another and another. When she felt sufficiently drunk enough, she went to bed, her tired mind full of thoughts of Tom. Had he been involved in Luke’s disappearance? Was that why Luke had got into the blue van, because his own brother had been driving it? And what part had he played in Emily’s disappearance? Had he caused the horrific scars she’d seen on her back? But why would Tom want to hurt his brother or sister—or Mac? On and on, her thoughts raced until finally, exhaustion and drunkenness getting the better of her at last, she fell into a deep sleep.
—
She dreamed that she was being chased, her lungs screaming for air as she ran down darkened streets, her faceless pursuer close on her heels. She was aware as she ran of the overpowering smell of burning, and mingled with the frightening confusion of her nightmare was the horrifying sensation of the skin on her back blistering and melting. She woke suddenly, gasping for breath, confusion and fear gripping her when she realized that the pain in her lungs and throat persisted. Half raising herself up, she saw that smoke billowed through her room, the passageway beyond her bedroom door glowing and flickering with red light, the crackle of fire filling her ears.
She couldn’t move. Smoke filled her eyes and lungs; a scream of terror caught in her throat. She saw a figure standing in her doorway and her heart lurched with fright. It was only when the figure reached her bed that she recognized the slender form and long, lank brown hair. It was the woman who lived upstairs. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was Alison looming over her.
TWENTY
CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1997
Doug, Toby, and I stared at one another in astonishment after the front door closed behind Hannah. “Where’s she going?” whispered Toby. “Why’s she dressed up like that?”
“Could she . . . do you think she’s found herself a job?” Doug hazarded.
It seemed unlikely. “A boyfriend?” I said, conjuring up an improbable picture of a nice, clean-cut lad for whom Hannah, blinded by love, had transformed herself. Whatever had triggered this extraordinary change, it must have been momentous. And I should have been over the moon: instead of wearing her usual slovenly attire, she looked like an ordinary, if very pretty, teenager on her way out to meet her similarly wholesome friends. She was up and out of the house by eight a.m., when normally I could barely get her to surface before noon, bad-tempered and stinking of last night’s cigarettes and beer. But the way she’d looked at me, a certain glint in her eye, had made me uneasy. I knew my daughter. I knew when she was up to something.
My eyes met Doug’s and we gazed at each other uncertainly. “Mum?” Toby’s voice was worried. “What’s going on?”
I turned to him and made myself smile. “Who knows? But come on now, love, it’s time for school. I’ll get us all a takeaway for our tea later, shall I?”
He smiled back, clearly relieved. “Okay, Mum.”
But the feeling of disquiet stayed with me. After Toby and Doug had left, I went upstairs to Hannah’s bedroom and nervously opened her door. I was usually too afraid to look in there, fearful of what I might find—a glimpse inside her head was not something I normally relished. It was always a disgusting mess anyway and today was no exception: clothes were strewn everywhere; dirty plates and mugs littered every surface. In fact, everything looked exactly as it always did. I backed out and went to work myself.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She’d looked so completely different. Could it possibly be that Hannah had somehow grown up, turned over a new leaf, and decided to become an ordinary, functioning member of society at last? I allowed myself to indulge in that fantasy all day.
When I got back home from work, however, it was to find that she was dressed again in her usual grubby attire. The nose ring and eyebrow piercing were back in place, as were the thick black eyeliner and the bad attitude. The fresh-faced and presentable young woman of earlier had completely disappeared, and my daughter was as hostile and unreachable as ever.
—
But from then on, once a week, the same thing would happen. Hannah would appear early for breakfast dressed in pretty, fashionable clothes, her hair neatly brushed and with subtle makeup in place. Sometimes she’d return within an hour, her face like thunder as she stormed upstairs to lock herself in her room, but usually she’d stay out all day, with a pleased, self-satisfied expression as she strolled back through the front door. After a while I gave up asking where she’d been: I could sense she enjoyed my confusion far too much to ever tell me.
A few weeks later the phone calls began. She always seemed to be expecting them, always ready and waiting by the upstairs extension, snatching up the receiver the moment it began to ring. She’d mumble a “hello,” then pull the lead into her room, shutting the door and talking in hushed whispers.
In the end I couldn’t stand it any longer: I decided to follow her. It was a warm day in September. She came down as usual all dressed up, and
