I suppress a shudder as I crouch down in front of the offending object. It looks new, its silky shell and plump downy filling scarcely damaged by the winter elements. It hasn’t been here that long, maybe a few nights, maybe as long as I’ve been here? Perhaps I should run back and alert the police officer.
But I hold off, still thinking it through. After everything that’s happened in the last few days, there’s a good chance I might be reading too much into this. The bag might just have blown here from a campsite nearby; it wouldn’t be unheard of in the strong coastal winds. Or maybe someone was innocently sleeping out here.
I sweep the clearing for other signs of activity, the innocent detritus that campers leave—food scraps, wrappers, ashes, or half-burnt twigs. There’s nothing, just the bag.
Huh.
I move to the other side of the clearing and look back in the direction of the lodge—I see patio doors, upstairs windows, all clearly visible from here through the gaps in the branches. This is the perfect vantage point for the back of the house. My bedroom window is in plain sight. I imagine it lit up in the darkness of night and fear fizzes through me afresh. Whoever was here wasn’t a camper.
They were watching me.
Perhaps they still are—instinctively my eyes flash around me, deep into the dense forest, my breath coming in short gasps. But I see no one, no threat in sight. Whoever was here is gone.
It can’t have been Lichfield, my attacker; he’ll still be in custody. And he wouldn’t have known where I was staying until the news broke yesterday. The only people who knewMarni Beaufortwas staying here were my family, Peter Chorley, and Chris.
Unless? Unless my father was here? Has he come back? I sink down into a squat, my breath sucked from me. Could he have been here? I don’t stop to think, I rise, head straight to the sleeping bag, and grab it. I pull it to my face, my nose, and I inhale. I don’t know why I do it but I do, I try to smell him. I strain for his almost forgotten scent of cologne and cedar and bonfires. But the bag just smells of factory chemicals and damp. Frustrated, I tug it from its tangle of thorns and vigorously shake it out, hoping for what to tumble out I do not know. A message, a note, something. Nothing. Only dead leaves fall from inside.
I stand alone and terrified in the clearing, panting, my breath fogging in the air.
The truth of what happened yesterday hits me once again. I very nearly died. I nearly died yesterday, a man tried to kill me. The bullet that grazed Matthew was meant for me. And it wasn’t because of anything I did or didn’t do. It was because of what my father did. I almost died yesterday because of him. For the second time in my life.
He is the cause of everything bad that ever happened in my life. He hurt me. He hurt my family. He is the reason we changed our names, he is the reason we left our home, the reason we all tried so hard to start a new life. And I’m still here pining for him. Waiting to find him, to hear it’s all not true, desperate to hear that he’s alive and well and that he’s so, so sorry for what he did.
I toss the sleeping bag away. Whether he was here or whether someone else was here hoping to hurt me, it doesn’t matter, the fault is his. I could be at risk for the rest of my life because of him. I feel my anger metastasizing inside me. Only one person is responsible for making me a target. I ball up my hands tight, feeling the wounds ache. Fourteen years of my guilt and wondering what I could have done differently. WhatIcould have done differently! Rage flows molten through me, rage at what he did, at what he tried to do to me and Mum and Joe, rage at the media for twisting everything until we were all no longer victims but figures of hate, like him. But most of all, rage because I know with absolute certainty that whether he’s alive or not, what my father did won’t ever leave me alone, the legacy he’s left has touched every part of my life, a legacy I never deserved, and one I can’t ever escape from. Or can I? The sound of my own breathing seems to fade out as an idea begins to form.
When I return to Cuckoo Lodge, I head straight around to the front. Sergeant Greene spots me and exits his vehicle.
I explain that I will not be leaving for London today and I will not be requiring the protected-persons unit. I will be finishing my assignment. Sergeant Greene is keen to point out that if I do stay it will be directly against the advice of Norfolk Constabulary—and I tell him that’s fine.
“I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign but I’m not leaving today.”
I watch his car pull out of the long driveway, lock the front door behind me, and head straight to the shower. I peel off my sweat-soaked things and stand for a moment shivering in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror, thick warm steam filling the tiled room around me. I look at myself. I’m older; I’m not sure when that happened to me. Older every year and yet I don’t seem to get anywhere. Not like Joe. Not like everyone else.
Something needs to change.
I need to move on. Or I’ll blink and my life will be over. I need to close the circle. There doesn’t seem to be any other way to end this. Matthew told me to go back and he’s right. I need to go back. To see what’s there, to see if my father is still alive, to face the truth and move on. I need to go back.
My mobile vibrates noisily on the windowsill. I look at the number—it’s Peter. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be getting a lot of calls now that I’ve turned down police advice, but that’s something I’m more than happy to deal with. I flick my phone onto silent and the problem disappears.
And as if to reward myself for my decision, I let myself slip gently underneath the hot flow of the rainfall shower.There are no ghosts if you just turn on the lights, and I don’t want to be haunted anymore.
39
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 13—TURNING ON THE LIGHTS
I’m a mile outside Holt when the knot in my stomach clenches in anticipation; I try to ignore it, concentrating on the road ahead.
I don’t have police protection now, not that police protection can insulate you from things that happened years ago. But what if I do need protection from something real, from a threat in the here and now, what if he’s there?
I try to shake off the thoughts as small villages roll past the window. Chocolate-box hamlets. Tudor brick, babbling brooks, humpback bridges, and smoking chimney stacks, all that feudal England has to offer. Beautiful and ancient.
The nausea peaks half a mile from Holt. I pull over, swing open my door, and retch onto the side of the road, bile chugging out from deep within me. I try not to think of the gas that he filled our house with, of the sharp bitter smell of it. The smell I’d noticed that night but assumed was the smell of spent fireworks.
I wipe my mouth with a tissue from my bag and swing back into the car. I give myself a moment and slide back into gear.
Holt finally comes into view as I make my way around a hedgerowed bend. I see the local church spire rising in the distance. Nothing remarkable; it’s beautiful, yes, but everything in this part of the world is. Holt’s just another picturesque village among many.
