Just between us, p.27
Just Between Us, page 27
‘Tell the police I murdered her and I will show them where the body is. That should tick the “essential travel” box.’
‘Did you?’ the lawyer asks. His voice quivers, and Daan dislikes him for it. He doesn’t bother to respond. Eventually the lawyer says, ‘Well they might put you on a plane in the next day or so if you say this is the case.’
‘I need to get to England today,’ Daan insists.
‘I’m not sure that can be done.’
Daan thinks of how much this man and his company are paid by the hour. ‘Get me on a fucking helicopter by noon or you are fired. Tell DC Clements we’ll meet her in Lyme Regis.’
Daan knows that when he gets to Lyme Regis, he will not be able to show the DC where Kai is buried. He realises he’s going to be in a lot of shit for this. There is a risk his theory is wrong and that Fiona is not a threat to Oli and Seb. If that is the case, he will be charged with wasting police time, and since he’ll be on UK soil, they will most likely make him see out the time before the trial in a British prison. If he is condemned there, he won’t be able to wiggle. Everyone knows playing a game on home territory is best; playing an away match puts you at a disadvantage.
Oddly, considering all of that, he thinks the best-case scenario is one where he is wrong and Fiona isn’t a threat and the boys are safe. The thing is, he believes the worst-case scenario to be more likely. Fiona is completely mad and threatening. The boys are in great danger. He might be able to help them. Someone has to. He is not leaving those boys alone.
45
Oli
‘You are going to let me tie you up, Oli, because you are very big and that’s dangerous; we both know you could overpower me,’ says Fiona.
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
She looks bored and disappointed that he is bothering to lie to her. ‘Yes, you would,’ she asserts with a deep sigh. ‘Remember, I have your brother.’
He holds out his hands in front of him. She shakes her head and roughly pulls them behind his back, binds them there. Honestly, he doesn’t know if it’s the right call to give in to her. Should he punch her in the face and make a run for it? Maybe. But she has Seb. Not here in the house. Somewhere else. He can’t leave his little brother with her. He can’t risk her never revealing where Seb is, as she has with Leigh.
‘Sit,’ she commands.
He obediently flops into the kitchen chair and she ties his feet to the legs. He wants to kick her in her stupid face, but he doesn’t. He can’t lose Seb.
She doesn’t behave like the baddies do in movies, not DC and Marvel ones at least. She does not reveal her entire sick plan. She leaves him guessing.
‘Where is Seb?’ he asks.
‘I don’t want you to worry about that right now.’ She sounds like an annoyingly bossy school teacher. He really hates her, like a thousand times more than he’s ever hated a teacher. More than he hated Leigh.
‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes. At the moment.’
The threat is loud and clear. ‘What are you going to do with us?’ She doesn’t respond to that one. She begins to move around the house, packing a rucksack. She takes some of Seb’s clothes from their day bag that Oli packed yesterday. He can’t believe it’s just yesterday; it seems such a long time ago. She looks delighted to find their passports. She takes Seb’s, leaves Oli’s on the kitchen table. He feels a sharp, illogical sting of rejection – he’s being left behind – but it’s almost immediately consumed by overwhelming horror. ‘Where are you taking Seb?’ he demands in panic. ‘What is your plan?’
‘You are asking too many questions,’ she says with an impatient tut.
He regrets giving in to her now. He opens his mouth to scream for help, but as though she’s anticipated this, she lunges in with a tea towel and his screams are swallowed as she roughly, and far too tightly, gags him. He resists, moves his head violently from left to right, but he’s too firmly bound to do much now. He’s an idiot, a total idiot to have let this happen; he’s let Seb down. He brought him here to protect him, but now he’s put him in greater danger.
Oli thinks he’s going to cry. The thought fills him with dread and shame. He doesn’t want to cry in front of her. He’s not scared, he doesn’t want her to think that. He’s frustrated and furious with himself, that’s what is pushing him to the brink of tears. He had the upper hand for a brief moment, and now he’s a bloody victim. She carefully closes all the blinds and draws the curtains, as he’s seen her do when they leave here at the end of a holiday. No one will be able to see into the house. Is she going to leave him here alone? Will he starve? Die? Where is she taking Seb?
She doesn’t even turn to look at him as she opens the kitchen door, walks out and then closes and locks it behind her.
Oli has never felt so alone.
46
Fiona
Seb is still unconscious, and that is for the best. Fiona swings up the garage door and is hit by a sense of things scuttling into the dark corners, spiders or mice. She never keeps her car in here. It’s full of the usual beach paraphernalia: punctured inflatables that she always plans to fix because she feels bad about adding to landfill but never gets around to (the road to hell is paved with good intentions!), deckchairs, windbreakers, parasols. There’s also an assortment of tools, the lawnmower, and several half-empty pots of paint. Her little aluminium boat takes centre stage. It’s mounted on the trailer, ready to go. As she sweeps away cobwebs that hang low and catch in her hair, her gaze is pulled to the five wetsuits hanging like headless bodies on the pegs on the wall. Hers and one for each of the Fletchers. The suits haunt her, reminding her that they were once like a big happy family, or so she thought.
She considers suiting up and decides it’s worth taking a couple of minutes for her to do so, but dismisses the idea of trying to wriggle an unconscious Seb into his suit; it would be an impossible task. The little family boat can be rowed or driven by outboard engine. Fiona is glad she decided to equip it with a combustion engine. It’s not like she could row to France. And France is her plan. Yes, it’s considerably further than she’s ever sailed before. Normally she pootles around the coastline, limiting herself to calm waters and short stretches of just a few hours tops. However, she’s a good sailor – she’s taken exams – and she has an iPhone and a compass; how hard can it be? People cross the Channel all the time; people who don’t have passports or any sailing skills. She has both.
Seb might stay unconscious throughout. That would probably be for the best, because Fiona hasn’t quite thought through how she might explain to the boy what they are doing. When he wakes up, if they are already in France, she can tell him they are on holiday. That will do, won’t it? In the short term, at least. He’ll believe what she tells him, won’t he? Her plan is vague and on the hoof, she knows it, but she can’t think about it right now. She has to get going. No time to lose.
She hitches the trailer to the car and pulls onto the road. Then she glances in her rear mirror and realises that an open garage door is as obvious as a missing front tooth. Infuriated, she stops the car, gets out and dashes back to close the door.
47
Kylie
I run harder, faster and further than I have ever run before. I develop a killer stitch and my lungs feel as though they are being stretched like over-inflated balloons and might burst. Sweat is pooling in my back, my feet are slick in my shoes, a blister is forming on my right heel. I don’t care. I run on.
My feet lead and I try not to think about the direction they are choosing. If I overthink it, I might lose my way. Better to let my subconscious remain in charge. The moment I turn the corner and set eyes on the small but well-kept 1990s bungalow, I instinctively know I am in the right place. Fiona’s second home. Not somewhere I consciously knew existed until a few minutes ago, but that I can now identify with one hundred per cent assurance. There is no time to marvel at how cunning and interesting brains are. I need to work out why I instinctually came here.
Because I do believe I should be here. I am needed, but it isn’t clear to me why. The papers all reported that Fiona is in London; one or two of the tabloids revealed the detail that she is living with Mark, Oli and Seb. They ostensibly praise her kindness for stepping in and caring for her friend’s grieving husband and sons, but I get the sense that they are hinting at a more scandalous situation. The implication is that Fiona is living with Mark as a partner. Is that possible? It seems so soon. Has she been in love with him for a long time? That would explain her crime; she may well have been motivated by jealousy. Or maybe she is just being opportunistic; maybe she’s moved in with Mark not because she loves him passionately but because she hates me viciously and wants to dance on my grave. That would explain why she was so insistent on knowing who I would pick if I had to choose one of my two husbands. If I’d said I wanted Daan, she might have moved in on him and framed Mark. I shake my head. It doesn’t matter anyhow; I’m not going to waste time trying to understand the brain of a would-be murderer. The important question is: what does all this mean for the boys? I am unsure, but I doubt it is anything good.
It’s incredibly disappointing that the bungalow seems to be deserted. There is no sign of a car; the blinds and curtains are drawn. I was so sure my subconscious had brought me here for a reason. Now I don’t know what to do next. Should I head to Lyme Regis and turn myself in at the police station? Or should I go to the nearest house and knock on the door, explain who I am and ask if I can call the police from there? Frankly, that doesn’t appeal. Whoever’s door I knock at will most likely have a view on both me and my case because of the extensive, lurid media coverage. It’s unlikely to be a favourable view. I realise I will have to face the police, press and public very soon, but I think it would be better to control the narrative of my return to life rather than have some stranger privy to it. A stranger who might very well sell the story to a tabloid. So I guess it makes sense to set off towards Lyme Regis and place myself in police custody.
But something stops me. It is a strange twang, a fluttering of anxiety.
Oli, Seb.
I’ve had this feeling before, many times. Whenever I waved them off to school knowing they had to sit tests or exams that they were nervous about. When Oli had his tonsils out and was under the anaesthetic, and every time either boy was worried about playing in a sports fixture or performing in a school production. I carried their anxiety. Mark used to laugh and say I was a witch. ‘A good one,’ he’d add. I’m not a witch. I don’t believe in superstitions, ghosts or anything paranormal. But I do believe in a mother’s instinct, and I am a mother. I decide to take a closer snoop around the bungalow. I don’t know what I expect to find, if anything, but I know the importance of being thorough. Fiona tried to murder me and this is Fiona’s home, reason enough for a poke around before I set off to the police station.
There are no gaps in the sitting-room curtains at the front, and the only way to peer through the kitchen or bedroom windows is to climb over the five-foot fence and into the back garden. I’m so weary, but I drag the bin to the fence and clamber onto it, hoisting myself up and over. I land heavily on the other side.
The blinds are closed at the kitchen window; nothing can be seen. I check the bedrooms, but the curtains are drawn tight there too. Then I recall the tiny bathroom window at the side of the bungalow, which doesn’t have a curtain or a blind. I’ve always thought that was a bit exposing and the only room that really needed either, but now I’m grateful. I peer through. It’s a piece of luck that the door from the bathroom to the hallway is open. It is just possible to see past the tiny hallway, no bigger than a coffee table, and into the kitchen. At first I don’t spot anything of interest. The kitchen is tidy to the point of sterile; it doesn’t look as though anyone has been in there for a while.
Then a miracle happens. Oli shuffles into view. My boy. My son. He is lying on the floor, his arms and legs tied to an overturned chair; he’s moving like a caterpillar towards the kitchen unit. He is gagged and red in the face, obviously panicked, scared. I bang on the small window and yell, ‘Oli. Oli darling, it’s me.’
He lifts his head. Our eyes meet.
48
Fiona
As Fiona drives along the narrow country lanes, overhanging branches whip the car, her tyres kick up loose stones and she racks her brains trying to come up with a convincing explanation for Seb as to why just the two of them might stay in France long-term. She’ll have to think of something believable and compelling, as the boy is twelve, not two. It might be possible to string him along for a while. Initially she can tell him his dad and Oli will be joining them, that they’re all going to spend the summer abroad. She can easily justify a holiday by pointing out that they’ve all been under so much stress. She can argue that they need to get away from the press and recuperate somewhere out of the spotlight. A little later down the line, she can then say that the COVID restrictions mean Mark and Oli can’t get out of the UK to join them. She’ll say that they’ll have to manage just the two of them for a while.
She can spot flaws in her own plan even as she is forming it. For a start, how will she explain the fact that they arrived illegally on the boat? Even if she can fob him off with some ‘special circumstances because of COVID’ guff, he’ll want to FaceTime his father and brother. How will she negotiate around that? Plus, she can’t have their true identities revealed to anyone; how will she convince him to adopt a pseudonym and give a different story to any acquaintances they make? She can’t realistically expect to isolate the boy from everyone. Perhaps she can tell him that they are using fake names to leave behind the gossip about his bigamist stepmum. Lies, lies, lies. So many of them and so hard to keep track of. Fiona’s head is reeling; she can’t discern what might be possible and convincing because she’s desperate and panicking. The explanations she’s coming up with sound viable one second, ludicrous the next. She opens her mouth and screams with frustration. Her plan is a mess.
This annoys her. She spent months working out the details of Kylie’s abduction. She thought of every scenario, every risk, every potential consequence. She is angry with herself for ending up somewhere so chaotic and faulty. It was an imbecilic act of hubris to remove the pictures of Kylie from the bungalow. Unnecessarily dramatic. The sad truth is, Oli was right, Fiona just wanted to rid herself of every reminder of her former friend, but look where that one impetuous act has led. She thought she’d considered everything, but she never thought that Oli and Seb would run to Dorset and start snooping, or that Oli might be so observant and actually notice the photos had gone. As neither of them has any money, she didn’t think they would be able to independently strike out in this way. Damn Daan Janssen and his deep pockets to hell.
She is on this path now and there is nothing she can do about it but rush on, she thinks as she puts her foot down a little too heavily. The roads are narrow and twisty; normally she takes them at a snail’s pace, but now all she can do is push through. This part of her life is out of control; she has to get past it, find a more even keel. Things have to get better. Part of her is already regretting that she acted so hastily. It would perhaps have been more sensible to let Oli tell her what he’d found before she drugged Seb. Then she could have told him he was mistaken, that the photos were removed long ago, months before Kylie went missing. Maybe she could have said that Kylie herself took them down, that she didn’t think they were flattering or something. She should have just insisted that he was reading something into nothing. After all, when they were taken away isn’t something anyone can categorically prove. It would have been his word against hers, and besides, what did it prove anyway? Even if he’d gone to the police with his suspicions, she could have argued she was grief-stricken about Kylie’s disappearance and didn’t want sad reminders of her friend around the house. The removal of the photos doesn’t prove she’s a killer. The ‘evidence’ is circumstantial at best.
She should have held her nerve.
She curls her hand into a fist and hammers the steering wheel in exasperation. She does so with such vigour that she hurts her wrist, but it doesn’t ease her frustration, so she knocks hard on her own skull, trying to bang a solution into being. ‘Think!’ she yells at herself.
The problem of course is bloody Daan Janssen lurking in the background, persistently, vehemently insisting that he is innocent; now going as far as infiltrating the Fletcher household. Really that is what has caused her to panic. She’s intimidated by Daan. Intimidated by his confidence, his wealth, his indifference towards her. When they were together, she always knew he had the upper hand. Briefly, when he was arrested, she thought she was beating him. Defeating him. But is that possible? Men like him rule the world. She thumps her head with her fist again. ‘Stupid, stupid,’ she tells herself. She should have sat tight. She could have reported Daan to the police; he has tampered with witnesses, broken the conditions of his bail, unduly influenced and harangued children. She would have been wiser to turn it all against him.
Yes, she should have paused to reflect a little more, because sailing across the ocean with a drugged child, hoping to disappear in Europe, seems like a risky, flaky, flawed plan.
Should have. Could have. Would have. Stupid, helpless, hopeless words.
Thoughts bounce in and out of Fiona’s head like fireworks in the sky now. Bright and vivid one moment, lost to a smoky blackness the next. It’s hard to stay focused, to remain calm. She doesn’t know what jurisdiction the English police have in France. Might she be extradited? Will she have to go deeper into Europe? Disappear altogether? How will she get to her bank accounts? How easy is it to travel across borders at the moment? She has so many questions and no answers. She is not a criminal mastermind, someone with access to fake passports and such. How will she manage?
