Destroy Me Page 14

  I slump back in my chair, fighting back tears. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed by it all. By the constant fear and paranoia that have been stalking me for days.

  ‘Everything’s just completely fucked up.’ I give a shuddering sigh. And to my mortification I start crying.

  Theo shuffles around beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders. He has that helpless, confused look he always gets when people are upset. Emotions are not Theo’s thing. Give him a mathematical puzzle or a practical problem to solve and he’s your man. Upset ex-wives? Not so much. It’s strangely endearing.

  He rubs his thumb on my shoulder and then gently wipes away the tears from my cheeks. ‘It’s going to be okay, you know,’ he says.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say, looking up into his eyes. Then, next thing I know we’re kissing. Theo’s lips are soft and familiar. It feels sweet and safe being in his arms, and I feel the hard shard of ice inside me crack just a little.

  ‘I’ve missed that,’ he says softly, breaking off and cupping my cheek with his hand.

  There’s a part of me that still loves him, I realise, as I look into his warm brown eyes. If I’m honest, I have never stopped loving him. Why should I fight it? It feels right. But then I’m brought up short when I glance over his shoulder and notice the photo on the mantelpiece – Theo, Harper and Dylan at the zoo, sitting on the wall by the penguin enclosure – and I swipe his hand away, angrily. What the hell am I doing?

  ‘Stop! This is not happening,’ I blurt, shoving him roughly backwards.

  He tumbles off the sofa on to the floor and sits there rubbing his head, looking bemused and drunk.

  ‘You’re right. God, I’m sorry. Shit,’ he says, scrambling to his feet. ‘We must have drunk too much.’ He avoids my eyes. ‘We’d better go to sleep. I’ll make up the bed for you.’

  I wake next morning to the sound of a phone ringing. It’s raining, a steady tapping on the window, and I’m lying on the couch in Theo’s t-shirt. I can’t even remember him giving it to me last night. I feel exhausted, hung over and there’s a crick in my neck.

  Theo answers the phone and I can clearly hear his sleepy voice. I can tell straight away from his tone, which is soft and intimate, that he’s talking to Harper.

  ‘Yes, right. You’re right,’ he says. ‘Yes, me too, okay.’ Then, more softly, ‘I’m sorry.’

  They’re making up, I realise, with a sinking feeling in my gut. Their argument was just a lover’s tiff, after all. I roll over and clamber out of bed, feeling like I’ve been scraped off someone’s shoe. What was I thinking last night? Why did I let Theo kiss me? Have I got no self-respect? Thank God I didn’t end up sleeping with him. At least I can hold on to that and leave with some dignity. Wanting to get out before Theo comes in, I scramble into my clothes and collect my stuff together, but I’m really thirsty and my mouth feels like it’s been scraped out with sandpaper, so before I go, I head to the kitchen to get some water.

  While I’m filling my glass from the tap, I’m distracted by Dylan’s school bags on the kitchen chair. They look as if they were just dumped there on Friday and haven’t been touched since. Sure enough, when I open his lunch bag, I see that Theo hasn’t even bothered to empty it. Inside, there’s Dylan’s half-eaten sandwich and some apple slices going brown. I toss them into the bin and rinse out the bag, turning it inside out to dry. Then, as an afterthought, I check his book bag. I bet Theo hasn’t bothered to read with him, I think crossly, flicking through his reading record. I’m incensed to see not only that Theo hasn’t read with him, but that Harper has. That’s even worse than nobody reading with him at all. Super reading today! she’s written in her swirly, girly writing, and she’s drawn a large smiley face. I snap it shut and empty out the rest of the bag on to the counter.

  Along with the book, some scrunched-up paper and, strangely, an acorn, a blue envelope falls out. My breath catches in my throat. I turn it over in my hands afraid to open it, afraid of what might be inside. This time someone has written the words ‘For Catherine’ on the front in printed blue biro, just like the note that was sent to DI Littlewood.

  I scrabble in the cutlery drawer, trying to stay calm and taking out a sharp knife, then, with a single swift movement, I slit the envelope open and slide out the contents. Another printout. I unfold it and flatten it on the kitchen counter. Blinking as the picture comes into focus, I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. Is that . . .? I bend over double, trying to breathe and force myself to look at it again.

  It’s an empty stretch of road in the middle of nowhere: a grass verge and a gate, an oak tree with a twisted trunk. There’s nothing remarkable about it and yet . . .

  This is the spot, I think. This is where it happened.

  I grip the edge of the kitchen counter. It’s as if a huge explosion has gone off in my head, creating a massive shock wave. I feel as if I’ve been electrocuted. For a moment, I think I might be having a stroke.

  ‘That was Harper on the phone.’ Theo sidles sheepishly into the kitchen wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt, hair all mussed up. He rubs his eyes and blinks at me sleepily. ‘She’s on her way. She’s going to be here in a few minutes.’

  I can’t speak. I’m still staring at the picture. I can’t drag my eyes away.

  Theo misinterprets my silence. ‘I’m really sorry, Cat. I know this is an awkward situation. You can stay if you want, I just thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘What?’ I manage. My voice seems far away. ‘No, sure, I’ll go. I don’t want to see Harper. You don’t have any idea where this envelope came from, do you?’

  Theo glances at it and shrugs. ‘No. Cat, are you all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ I say vaguely, as I scoop up my jacket and shove the envelope in my handbag.

  ‘See you later, Theo,’ I say, as I head to the door.

  ‘Cat? Is there—?’

  Outside, I gulp in fresh air and retch into a plant pot. Then I get into my car and drive blindly, as if I can escape the demons chasing me. But I can’t escape. I will never escape. There’s no doubt now. They’ve caught up with me. The photos, Charlie’s death, the photofit. They’re all linked. Someone knows what happened and they want me to pay.

  Twenty-one

  2002

  Charlie and James.

  The shock of it was like something sharp stuck in my throat.

  Charlie and James sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. The rhyme drummed in my head, taunting me. Charlie and James sitting in a tree. Except they weren’t just kissing.

  At that moment, a flash of lightning lit up the sky and the whole scene was illuminated in stark, unforgiving detail. The look on Charlie’s face was pure deer-in-headlights. Caught in the act. It would have been almost comical in other circumstances.

  ‘Cat . . .’ she said. And James, finally realising something was wrong, opened his eyes and blinked in confusion.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed, as Charlie pulled away from him and I stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to look away.

  ‘Cat . . .’ Charlie said again, scrambling to get dressed.

  ‘What the fuck, Charlie?’ I blurted, having at last found my voice – and the use of my legs, as I turned and blundered away.

  ‘Wait, Cat!’ Charlie shouted, as I stumbled down the garden path. But I didn’t stop. I ran sobbing out of the garden gate, across the small footbridge towards the village. I ran and ran, not really thinking about where I was going. I just knew I had to get away from there – away from my best friend who’d betrayed me and the boy I’d liked ever since I was eleven. At that moment, it felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

  I would never speak to Charlie again, I told myself. She was a bitch who didn’t deserve my friendship. She knew how much I liked James and she’d deliberately stolen him from me. For what? Just because she could? To prove she was better than me?

 
After a while, I ran out of breath and tears and I stopped running. I found I was heading along the lonely country road out of the village back towards Cirencester. The street lamps had petered out and now the only light came from periodic flashes of lightning and a faint glimmer of grey morning on the horizon. I carried on walking briskly, slowly becoming aware of how far I had to walk and of how chilly the morning air was in my sleeveless summer dress. Not only was it cold, but thunder was rumbling ominously, and it looked increasingly likely that it was going to rain. My anger was subsiding and slowly bleeding into fear as it dawned on me that I was in the middle of nowhere, all alone in the early hours. It didn’t matter, I told myself defiantly. I could get raped and murdered for all I cared. Then they’d be sorry. But as I walked further, and the alcohol began to wear off, the silence seemed to stalk me and small noises in the hedgerow set my imagination reeling. When I heard a car on the road behind me, my body went into fight-or-flight mode.

  The car was driving unnaturally slowly. Every now and then it would stop and then start up again with a loud roar of the engine. It was weird and creepy. But I resisted the urge to escape by diving into the woods and instead carried on walking, my back rigid, heart pounding. Probably just a drunk driver, I told myself. It will just drive on past. But it didn’t. It swerved around me and stopped dead just ahead, lurching into the bushes, as if the driver had suddenly lost control. Then the car door flew open and I froze in terror. I wished I’d drunk more to dull the horror of whatever was going to happen next. This is it, I thought. This is how I die.

  Twenty-two

  Eileen Robinson is in her front garden watering the flowers in her hanging baskets when I arrive home.

  ‘Don’t know why I’m bothering. It looks like it’s going to rain,’ she comments, glancing up at the darkening sky.

  ‘Mm-hm,’ I mumble neutrally.

  She leans on the wall as I’m opening my door, looking me up and down, taking in my messed-up hair and crumpled clothes.

  ‘There were a lot of reporters outside yesterday,’ she says with a spiteful gleam in her eyes.

  ‘Were there?’ I feign surprise, fumbling with the lock. Go to hell, you old bitch is what I want to say.

  ‘I thought they were here to see you,’ she begins. ‘Wasn’t it something about that murder in—’

  ‘Sorry, can’t talk now. I’m not feeling all that well,’ I interrupt and dive into the house, slamming the door behind me.

  Inside I take some painkillers and down a couple of glasses of water in quick succession. My throat is so dry after all that red wine last night. My head is pounding and I want to just lie down in a darkened room. But that photo­graph is preying on my mind. I have to know. I have to be certain.

  I make myself a coffee, sit at the kitchen table and switch on my laptop.

  After a quick search, I find the Wilts and Gloucester Standard archives on my phone and quickly, before I have the chance to chicken out, I type in ‘hit and run 2002’ in the ‘search key words’ bar.

  And there it is. The page appears straight away. I inhale sharply as I read the headline, 5 July 2002: Five-year-old girl killed in hit and run.

  Underneath the headline there’s a photo of an empty stretch of road. And when I hold up the printout from my handbag with a trembling hand, I confirm what I knew already: they are practically identical. There’s the same oak tree with the twisted trunk, the same grass verge and wooden gate. But what really takes my breath away is the picture next to it. A head shot of a little blonde girl giving a shy, gap-toothed smile to the camera. Underneath it says Daisy Foster, five years old.

  Bile rises in my gullet and my stomach roils, but I swallow the bitterness and force myself to read.

  In the early hours of last Sunday morning, Daisy Foster was hit and killed by a car on the road between South Baunton and Cirencester. Five-year-old Daisy had wandered away from her home. It is believed she was looking for her dog.

  I close the page. I can’t read any more. I can’t look at that picture – those innocent eyes boring into me, piercing my soul. She was five years old – the same age as Dylan. I close the window, my stomach heaving, a wave of dizziness and nausea washing over me, and I rush to the toilet and throw up.

  I stand up shakily. A bit of vomit has got caught in a strand of my hair.

  Daisy Foster. I never knew her name before. I never wanted to know. Knowing her name would have made her real and I didn’t want her to be real. I wanted to pretend that she had never existed. For all these years, I’ve been quite successful at kidding myself. When friends talked about small prangs, I found it easy to say that I’d never had an accident or so much as a speeding ticket. And I almost believed my own lies. I’ve buried this secret, like nuclear waste sealed in concrete deep underground. But now all the poison is leaking out. Someone else knows what I did, and they haven’t forgotten or forgiven. I can’t really blame them. Daisy Foster was only five. She hadn’t even started her life. I think about how I would feel if someone killed Dylan. I wouldn’t forgive them. I would want to kill them.

  Twenty-three

  2002

  The car ground to a halt and the door flew open. I was rooted to the spot, bracing myself for what was to come. Pure fear surged through me, sharp, cold air caught in my lungs, making me suddenly terrifyingly sober. I’m too young to die, I thought. Please. Please don’t let me die.

  I don’t know why I didn’t recognise the car. It was dark, I was drunk and panic was scrambling my brain. So, when a young woman climbed out and tottered unsteadily towards me, it took me a few terrified seconds to realise that it was Charlie and not some mad, axe-wielding lunatic.

  ‘Not bad after two driving lessons,’ she said hiccupping. Her words were slurred. She was obviously even more drunk than I was. ‘I think you’ll agree.’

  I gaped at her in amazement, at her wildly dishevelled hair and the t-shirt, which in her rush to dress, she’d put on back to front and inside out. My heart rate was slowly returning to normal, my breathing becoming more regular. On the one hand, I was incredibly relieved to see her; on the other, now that I was no longer in mortal danger, I remembered why I was out here in the first place – how she’d betrayed me. She was my best friend and she’d betrayed me.

  ‘The keys were in here,’ she held out my handbag. ‘You left it in the kitchen.’

  Realising I was being ridiculous, I snatched the handbag without a word and carried on walking past her, head held high, nose in the air.

  She came lumbering after me, half laughing and half crying. ‘Jesus, Cat what are you doing? You can’t walk all the way home. It must be about ten miles.’

  ‘Fuck off, Charlie. I don’t want to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I’m such a fuck-up. Please forgive me.’

  I stopped and turned on her.

  ‘Why did you do it? You know how much I like him.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know. It just happened.’ She staggered a little and steadied herself by grabbing my shoulder. I got a whiff of her perfume, musky and sexy. The scent enraged me, and I shook her hand away angrily.

  ‘You don’t even care. You broke the code.’

  ‘It’s not as if he was your boyfriend.’

  I think I was more hurt by how easy it had been for Charlie to betray our friendship than by the fact it had been with James. James was just a fantasy. Charlie was real. ‘I’ve loved him ever since I was eleven,’ I said bitterly. ‘You were never interested in him until I told you I liked him. Oh, I can’t even be bothered to talk to you. I’m never ever going to talk to you again.’

  Charlie grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Cat. Look, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you, Cat. I can’t lose your friendship. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’ She was crying now, drunken tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Let’s just get in the car and go home.
It won’t seem so bad in the morning.’

  I hesitated. It was a long way home. I was tired and I already had a blister on my heel. Not to mention the fact that it was scary as hell walking along this lonely country road by myself.

  ‘All right, but I’m driving. I’m not sure how you even made it this far,’ I said. ‘And this doesn’t mean I forgive you, by the way.’

  She threw me the keys. ‘It’s all yours.’

  I was still drunk. I knew that driving home was a bad idea, and for a second, I thought about phoning for a taxi and leaving the car where it was. But the thought of explaining to a taxi driver where we were, and the thought of explaining to my mother why we’d abandoned her car in the middle of nowhere didn’t bear thinking about. It wasn’t far to Cirencester and the roads were empty at this time in the morning.

  ‘Give me a hug,’ said Charlie as I got into the car.

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘We should never let boys come between us again,’ she said as we drove off.

  I pressed my foot on the accelerator – I was still seething with rage. She wasn’t even taking the whole thing seriously. I couldn’t bear being in the car with her. The sooner I dropped her at her house the better.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Charlie announced as we were driving. And she wound down the window and stuck her head out, letting the wind rush in.

  ‘Get in, Charlie. You’re going to kill yourself!’ I shouted.

  But she just laughed and leant further out. ‘Live a little, Cat. You know what they say . . .’ she yelled.

  I never did find out what they say because at that moment something so terrible happened, it blew Charlie and James into insignificance.

  Out of nowhere, an animal flashed in front of the car. Then, a split second later, a small child appeared, running up behind it.

  I didn’t have time to react. No time to think. Just before impact, the girl turned, and her eyes met mine. Her expression didn’t register any shock or alarm. It all happened too quickly for that. It must have been merely a matter of seconds, but her image was frozen in time, her face white, illuminated in the headlights. It was the sharpest, most permanent thing I’d ever seen. Still, even now, I remember every detail. From the grubby-looking white dress she was wearing, to the two missing front teeth and the wispy blonde hair, lit up like a halo around her head. She held out her hand as if to ward us off, as if she could stop fifteen hundred kilos of metal with one tiny little hand. And I stamped desperately on the brake. But it was too late. There was a sickening thud and then she was flying, vaulting through the air, her legs skyward. My car screeched to a halt and I watched, horrified, as she slammed into the hard, tarmac road.