Destroy Me Read online

  There was a silence – a silence that stretched out like a scream.

  Charlie was the first to recover. ‘What the hell just happened?’ she said. Her eyes were rolling in their sockets like a startled horse.

  I couldn’t speak. My hands were glued to the steering wheel. The breath had left my body. It felt as if all my organs had fallen out and I was nothing but a hollow shell.

  ‘We have to see if she’s okay,’ I muttered finally. I was trying to get my limbs to move without much success. When they eventually got the message from my brain it felt like an out-of-body experience, as if I was watching someone else clamber out of the car and walk over to where the girl was lying in a small, limp heap.

  Strangely, one shoe had come off her foot and had rolled a few feet away and the animal that had sped across the road – a black schnauzer, as it turned out – had come back and was sniffing around her, licking her face.

  She was so young, I thought. Her arms were flung carelessly out by her sides, her little hands still padded with baby fat. Her face was strangely peaceful, her eyes shut, as if she were sleeping. But beside her head a large pool of dark blood was soaking into the tarmac and there was no movement in her chest. No sign at all that she was still breathing.

  Please God, let this not be happening, I prayed, sinking to the ground beside her and touching her neck lightly with trembling fingers. Her skin was warm, but I couldn’t feel any pulse.

  ‘I think she’s dead,’ I said. And my voice seemed to come from a long way away, drowned out by the rain that suddenly began falling, like some cosmic judgement. Rain pattered down on us, soaking the girl’s blonde hair, rolling off her soft, unblemished cheeks like tears.

  ‘Shit, shit. Is she dead?’ Charlie appeared beside me. She looked like the Joker, mascara-blackened tears rolling down her cheeks. She tugged at her hair, as if she wanted to pull it out at the roots.

  ‘Yes. I think so.’ I tried to gather my wits. ‘I suppose we need to call an ambulance,’ I said. ‘Have you got a phone?’

  Charlie stared at me, her features frozen in horror. ‘I left it at Nessa’s.’

  ‘It’s okay. Mine’s in my handbag.’ I stood up and walked to the car in a dream and fumbled for my phone.

  ‘Shit,’ I called out to Charlie.

  ‘Did you get hold of them?’ she asked as I got closer. She was shivering, whether from shock or cold, I couldn’t tell.

  ‘No,’ I said through the rain. ‘I couldn’t. My phone’s run out of battery.’

  ‘Oh my God, what do we do? This is bad.’ Charlie fell to her knees beside the little girl and pressed her head to her chest. ‘She’s dead, Cat,’ she wailed. ‘We’ve killed her.’

  My head felt like it was about to explode. ‘Shut up, shut up. Let me think. What are we going to do?’

  I looked around. There was a house across the field. All the lights were glowing yellow in the windows and very faintly I could hear music playing. It sounded as though they were having a party.

  ‘Maybe we should go to that house?’ I said. ‘Knock on a door. Ask if we can use their phone.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Charlie. She had stood up and was dusting herself off, brushing away her tears. ‘Slow down. Let’s think about this a minute.’ Her face was pale and grimly resolved. ‘She’s dead already. There’s nothing we can do. There’s nothing anyone can do for her.’

  ‘Right,’ I nodded, my mind working frantically.

  ‘Think about it, Cat. You’ve been drinking. Drink driving. Manslaughter. If people know about this, you’ll go to prison for a long time. It will ruin your life.’

  I sank down on the damp grass verge, blinking away the rain. I could see it all with a terrible crushing certainty. My future ruined. The anger and disappointment of my parents. The disgust and condemnation of my friends and acquaintances. Charlie was right. We couldn’t help the little girl. She was dead. Nothing would change that. And my life was as good as destroyed if people knew about this.

  ‘Come on,’ Charlie said, suddenly urgent. ‘We should go before another car comes and sees us here.’

  I nodded blindly, stood up and climbed back in the car. I didn’t look at the girl lying in the road again. With a heavy heart, I turned on the ignition and drove away. I felt so tired. All I wanted was to get home and forget this had ever happened.

  In the end, it was surprisingly easy to do – to just drive away and pretend the whole thing was just a bad dream. There was a slight dent in the car that I explained away to my mother by saying Charlie had attempted to drive and had hit a post. She didn’t question my explanation. No police came to my house. A few weeks later, we both went our separate ways: Charlie to Cambridge and me to Manchester University. There was no fuss. We never spoke of it again. The road to hell isn’t always paved with good intentions. Sometimes the road to hell is the easiest route – the path of least resistance.

  Twenty-four

  Outside there’s a crack of thunder and it starts raining hard. Wind and rain batter the bathroom window.

  I want to drink myself into a stupor, take sleeping pills – do anything to erase the image of that little girl. Daisy Foster – the little girl who never got to grow up or have a life. She’s never going to have a job, get married or have children of her own. All because of me. I want to forget her, but it’s impossible. Her face is tattooed on to my mind and nothing I can do will ever change that. I rummage in the bathroom cabinet and find the packet of Xanax which I persuaded the doctor to prescribe me after Theo left. I swallow a couple, washed down with water from the tap. Then I splash cold water on my face and rinse out the vomit from my hair, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It’s strange how the turmoil inside me doesn’t show on my face. I’m a little pale and there are dark shadows under my eyes. But that’s all. I look normal, which is good because I’ve arranged to meet Luke at midday.

  I check the time on my phone. It’s nearly eleven already. Shit. Meeting Luke is the last thing I feel like doing right now, but I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. Who knows if or when he’d agree to talk to me again? So I shower quickly and change into clean jeans and a shapeless green t-shirt. Then I scrape some eyeliner around my eyes, smear some cover-up over the dark shadows and pull my hair back into a ponytail. When I’ve finished, I smile at myself in the mirror with grim satisfaction. I look battle ready, resolute. There’s no way I’m going to let Luke get away with his lies. But I’m not taking any chances. After all, Luke is at least seven inches taller than me and I know that if things get physical, I don’t stand a chance.

  Downstairs, I google homemade pepper spray on my phone and follow the instructions, making a simple mix of crushed-up chilli, black pepper and water, heating it in the microwave and then pouring it into an empty perfume bottle. I screw on the lid, put it in my pocket and practise drawing it out quickly and squirting it like a gunslinger in the Wild West. A real gun would be more useful, I think, but how on earth do you get a gun in this country? If I lived in America I could probably just go to the local Walmart and buy one off the shelf. But here, in the UK, I don’t know. Farmers and hunters must have guns. There must be a way. I’m halfway through typing how to get a gun into Google, when I’m brought up short. How can I be so stupid? Everything you do on the Internet can be tracked and it won’t exactly help me prove my innocence if the police find out that I’ve been looking into buying a firearm. Taking a deep breath, I delete the search. I can’t believe it’s come to this. Only a few weeks ago, everything was normal. I was getting used to the idea of life without Theo. Okay, I wasn’t exactly happy, but I was managing – everything was under control. Now my world seems to have imploded. I’m a suspect in a murder case and I’ve become so paranoid that here I am making pepper spray and considering buying a gun.

  I don’t need a weapon, I tell myself as I’m leaving the house. Luke isn’t dangerous. He’s just an arsehole who cheats o
n his wife and thinks he can get away with it. Even so, I pop the bottle of pepper spray in my handbag just in case.

  There’s no one at reception or in the waiting room at Cotswolds Dental surgery. I stand in reception and look around the room at the pictures on the walls of people’s open mouths and rows of teeth in various stages of decay. It’s Sunday, of course, so it’s natural that there’s no one here. But still feeling slightly unnerved, I ring the bell on the desk, and after a few seconds, Luke appears from a back room. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s shaking off his hands as if he’s just washed them.

  ‘Cat, hi,’ he says, leading me into a small back kitchen with a table and a fridge.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ he says neutrally, as if I’m a patient. He perches on a stool opposite me and meets my eyes directly. There is no shame in them, but there’s something else I can’t quite read. I force myself to look at him dispassionately – the perfect dimpled chin, the beautiful, murky green eyes. I try to block the memory of the weight of him on top of me and the thrust of his hips. I feel a thrill of fear. We’re all alone, I think. I know how strong he is. This man could easily overpower me. I should have agreed to let Theo come with me. I finger the phone in my pocket, wondering whether to call him now. But then I think about last night, about Harper. I can’t call Theo. It’s too humiliating.

  He watches me carefully and I fidget uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

  ‘Why an architect?’ I ask, staring out of the window at the rain sluicing against the pane. It’s hard to look at him directly. The atmosphere is tense. The air is crackling with it. Anger? Fear? From me or from him? Maybe both.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you were . . . at my house, you told me you were an architect.’

  He shrugs. ‘If I’d told you I was a dentist, you might have been able to find where I worked. Architect was the first thing that came into my head.’

  And of course, he’s arrogant enough to believe I would have sought him out and what? Created a scene when I found out he was married. Perhaps it’s happened before with other women.

  ‘Is it something you do a lot, pick up women? Cheat on your wife?’ I’m trying to sound tough, aggressive, but my voice comes out whiny, hurt even.

  ‘No, you were the only one.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I say angrily. ‘Why should I believe anything you say? You’ve done nothing but lie.’

  ‘Fair point,’ he shrugs.

  I blush to think how easy it was for him to seduce me. He barely needed to say anything. If I’m honest, if I’d stopped to think about it, I could have guessed that he was married. But did I ask? No. I was too busy feeling flattered that someone so handsome and charming could be interested in me. Basically, I’ve done to Georgia what Harper did to me. Of all people, I should know what it’s like to have a faithless husband and I feel an uncomfortable twinge of guilt at the thought.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ I blurt. I mean Georgia’s beautiful and such a nice person. You’re so lucky. Don’t you love her?’

  He winces. ‘Yes, of course I love her. What can I say? It was a mistake. Probably one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made.’

  ‘You couldn’t help yourself, you mean,’ I say sarcastically.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘You caught me at a weak moment,’ he says, at last.

  ‘Oh, give me a break.’ I feel a welcome surge of anger. ‘You realise that I’m in deep trouble because of your lies. The police think that I’m involved in a murder.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he chews the end of his thumbnail and observes me thoughtfully. ‘Why do they think that?’

  It seems he’s the only person in this town who hasn’t seen the photofit.

  ‘There was a news report,’ I say carefully. ‘A witness saw a woman who looked a lot like me at the scene of the crime on the night that Charlie was murdered. But it wasn’t me, obviously,’ I add hastily.

  He’s leaning forward, listening intently.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue firmly, ‘it doesn’t matter because I have an alibi and that’s you. You were with me that night. You’re my alibi.’

  He frowns and tips his chair back, staring at me through narrowed lids. ‘If there’s no other evidence against you, then you don’t need an alibi. They can’t use a witness statement in a court of law.’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ I say angrily. ‘They may not be able to arrest me, but I have to live with their suspicion and everyone else’s. Do you know my son’s teacher asked me not to pick him up from school because the other parents don’t like me being around the school? And I’ve had reporters hassling me day and night.’ Not quite true, but it feels true in this moment. My voice cracks a little and I feel tears welling up. Not here. Not now, I think. Don’t start crying now. Not in front of him.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says more gently. ‘But you have to understand my point of view. I can’t risk Georgia finding out about the other night. I’d lose everything. You know Harry is not actually my son. I have no rights over him. She’d take him away from me.’

  ‘There’s no reason the police would need to tell Georgia.’

  He shakes his head. ‘How can I know that for sure?’

  I ball my hands up in my lap, digging my nails in. The next thing I say I say quietly but firmly.

  ‘You don’t. But if you don’t tell the police you were with me that night you can be sure that she will find out . . . because I’ll tell her myself.’

  It takes a moment for my words to sink in. Then he looks suddenly ugly – his handsome features twisted with anger.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he says.

  ‘Try me. I don’t want to hurt Georgia, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.’

  He stands up and takes a step towards me around the desk. He stands over me, glaring down at me, breathing quickly through his nose. He’s trying to intimidate me, I think. Well, it won’t work.

  ‘You have to tell the police the truth,’ I say, reaching for the pepper spray inside my bag.

  His hands are clenched by his sides. For a moment, I think he’s going to hit me. I can see it crossing his mind and I brace myself for the impact, clutching the perfume bottle, ready to retaliate. Then he gives a deep sigh and walks back round the table and slumps in his chair.

  ‘All right,’ he says, at last. ‘But you have to promise me that you will never ever mention any of this to my wife. If you do, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’

  ‘I promise,’ I say, breathing deeply and loosening my grip on the pepper spray. I will agree to almost anything if only he will tell the police the truth.

  ‘On your son’s life,’ he says.

  There’s no way I’m going to swear anything on Dylan’s life. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m good at keeping secrets.’

  Twenty-five

  It’s true that I’m good at keeping secrets. If keeping secrets was a sport, I’d be an Olympic champion – a gold medallist. But clearly Charlie wasn’t. She must have told someone about the accident. I don’t see how else they could have found out. But who did she tell? I mull this over as I dash through the rain to my car. I suppose the most likely person is her husband, Adam. I’m guessing that he was the person she was closest to. If she confided in anyone, it probably would have been him.

  I sit in the car, listening to the rain drum on the metal roof and thinking about Adam, his smooth, boyish face and his seemingly genuine grief. I need to talk to him again and find out what he knows. But that will have to wait. There’s something else I need to do first – something I should have done a long time ago. I start the engine and head through town towards the ring road. I drive slowly, blinded by the driving rain, past the petrol station and the garden centre until I reach South Baunton. Then I stop on the small stone bridge and look at Nessa’s house through my
windscreen, the wipers swishing backwards and forwards. The house hasn’t changed much. There’s a slide and a playhouse in the front garden that weren’t there when Nessa lived here, but that’s about it. I shrink down in my seat as the garage doors swing open. A car rolls out and a woman drives past over the bridge. Then everything is quiet again and I picture myself as a teenager running round the side of the house down that gravel driveway, tears streaming down my face. I wish I could go back to that moment and warn my younger self. I would tell her to turn around and go back into the house. I would explain that what happened between Charlie and James wasn’t important – that it would mean nothing to me years later and that I was running towards a cataclysm that would scar my life and the lives of so many others for ever.

  It’s too late. The past can’t be changed. There’s nothing to be done. Taking a deep breath, I turn the car around and drive back over the bridge. This time I follow the route I took seventeen years ago when I ran away from the party. As I drive, the rain eases and I bump over ruts and divots in the road, the low-hanging branches of trees brushing against my windscreen. I grip the wheel tightly as I get closer, fighting off a wave of panic.