24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (4 page)

I
sit
in the lorry’s cabin. It’s very high up, and for a moment I almost feel safe, in my vantage point above the world. I can see over all the hedges into the sprawling bare fields beyond. Drizzle and churned brown earth belie England’s green and pleasant land.

The driver doesn’t talk, and I’m grateful for that. He is listening to Johnny Cash, his fingers tapping along on the steering wheel. My mind flickers like the speedometer on his dashboard. I try to assemble my thoughts.

I check the time. It is nearing eleven.

I assemble the facts. I know that my mother was taking Polly to Euro Disney. I try desperately to remember the time they were due back, but in my panic, it escapes me. My mind feels like a giant sieve, or worse, a soup of forgotten facts. I try to concentrate on the things I remember. Emily was taking me away; that’s definite. Ostensibly for my birthday, but really, to escape after the disaster at the Lehman Gallery. After Sid lost it. I remember clearly that Sid lost it. Again, and worse than he had for a long time – after I told him he couldn’t see Polly for a while. And this is what bothers me now. This is what makes me think he couldn’t forgive me.

We have to live life forwards, but can only understand it backwards
. Kierkegaard said that some centuries ago; my first mentor John swore by it. I’m still coming to terms with the truth of it now.

I had fallen for Sid’s old tricks; I had fallen into
my
old trap. He had sucked me in again, gullible fool that I was. I knew so, so,
so
much better, and still I faltered and ultimately failed in my resolution.

I had wanted to believe, desperately, against all the odds, that this time it would be different. That this time it would work, and it was the right thing, for Polly, to have her parents back together; for me, to be back with the man I’d loved like no one else. The man I could not erase from my DNA, try as I might; he was burnt into my synapses indelibly. The man that I had cared for, literally, since the day I staggered out of bed with him for the first time, already addicted; the man that I— I stumble over the word
mothered
; I hate to admit it even now. Even now it makes me feel nauseous and stupid and weak. But it was true.

The man I had mothered, as well as loved.

But the human heart is fallible. And human flesh is weak.

And Sid
is
beautiful and worse, irrefutably powerful and charming. He learnt charm from an early age, he could switch it on at will. It was his salvation against a lifetime of abuse. Throughout our marriage, whenever he had done wrong, he would wend his way slowly back into my psyche without me even noticing.

Oh, I would defy the strongest character to resist Sid if he decided he wanted you. But he would only ever want you for some deeply personal reason, and it would never be of benefit to anyone but Sid. Only you wouldn’t be aware of that – not until it was too late. Not until you were lost.

You couldn’t win against Sid. Not really. The decks were stacked; the odds were nil.

The lorry jerks over a pothole. I blink; check the clock again. Add up the hours on my fingers.

How long do I have left?

Maybe I am just panicking. I am in shock, there is no doubt. Then I remember the scene at the gallery – and what came next.

‘
I’ll kill you, Laurie.
’

‘You’ll damage yourself in a minute, love.’

I start.

‘If you keep doing that,’ the driver indicates my hands. I look down. I am jabbing my palm, the un-bandaged one, whilst I’ve been thinking. ‘Don’t, love.’

‘Bad habit.’ I try to smile. I put my hands into my pockets.

‘You’ve been in the wars,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I agree. It seems pointless not to.

He doesn’t ask any more, and I am grateful. I imagine he sees all sorts, out on the road. On the stereo, Johnny Cash is singing Trent Reznor’s ‘Hurt’. It is the saddest song I think I’ve ever heard. I itch to turn it off.

‘How far are you going?’ I ask.

‘Turning off at Exeter. I’m headed Exmouth way. Guessing that’s not much use to you?’

‘No, not really. I’m going to London.’

‘I’ll drop you at the next junction, before I turn.’

‘Thanks.’ My heart sinks. I have absolutely no idea where that junction is, but I need to get to London – and soon. ‘Thanks a lot.’

He nods. ‘Not far now.’

In the wing mirror I watch a red car tearing up the inside lane. I hold my breath.

The car passes us on the inside, cutting across lanes. The lorry driver shakes his head.

‘Idiot.’

I remember everything
, Cash sings.

I breathe again. I don’t want to get out of the lorry.

But how will I get where I need to be quickly enough without calling the police? The police who didn’t believe me last time, or the time before …

P
olly came
home on Sunday evening and I was insanely pleased to see her, although by bed-time we were already arguing about Daddy letting her stay up ‘much later’. Daddy only had her for a few days every few weeks, I pointed out, which meant he might like to see more of her at night, for a treat, but of course that meant nothing in Polly’s world. I didn’t add that Sid didn’t own a watch, despised time and schedules, and had no inkling or concern about sensible bed-times for small children. That staying up late was far more about him not being bothered to put her to bed than anything less selfish.

Like most parents, I had spent hours of Polly’s babyhood yearning for a bit of ‘me-time’, especially with a husband who often painted right through the night and went to bed at dawn. But as soon as Polly wasn’t there, it felt like someone had just chopped my arm off. I’d managed to keep busy: I’d tidied cupboards I never even opened, caught up with my case-loads and my paperwork, tramped round the park wondering if the rather desperate way I wished Polly was with me now meant I was co-dependent with my own child. Sometimes being a counsellor wasn’t healthy for one’s own psyche. I collected a pocketful of the prickliest horse chestnuts in the vague hope the barbs would make me forget my own pain; I put my headphones on and listened to Maria Callas very loud in the hope she’d drown out the incessant chatter of my mind. It didn’t really work.

But slowly, life after Sid resumed normally again. Or rather – a different normal. I avoided my husband as best I could. I missed him too, desperately sometimes, but seeing him was horribly painful, so I tried my hardest not to. I kept our contact to the bare minimum and occasionally on a bad day, when I couldn’t face it at all, I would ask my mother or Emily to do the hand-over.

One Sunday I spotted a photograph in the papers of Sid and the beautiful Jolie out on the town. I was incredulous to see their matching outfits, her all eyes and silvery extensions, him beautiful but glowering. Sid hated the press passionately. I gazed at their Hilfiger hoodies and their long leather coats, no doubt designer-wear; it seemed only marginally less stupid than the picture of him on an old Enfield bike the week before, lip curling scornfully before his latest canvas. No doubt a ploy of the pernicious Randolph as award season approached: perhaps Randolph thought it evoked shades of a young Brando. Or was Sid simply trying to recapture his lost youth?

Whatever the truth, I laughed until I caught my reflection in the mirror and realised I looked like a mad woman. I pulled out the photo and threw it on the fire.

Back at the Centre, I was inundated with new clients referred through the NHS; the current recession and bleak days creating a boom time for divorce, anxiety and depression. I’d returned the Spanish house key to Robert along with a picture Polly had drawn him. ‘It’s the most beautiful place,’ I said. ‘I really appreciated the mates’ rates, Rob, it was so kind.’ I pulled a face. ‘Bit skint now since Sid and I … since, you know.’

Separated
. The word still stuck in my throat.

‘You and me both, love.’ Glum, Robert searched the cupboard for a teabag. ‘That house is a bloody luxury these days. Putting an ad in the Centre newsletter’s been a godsend, at least. Got a few bookings through it already from various branches.’

‘Is that a good idea?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you really want clients out there?’ Robert was an acupuncturist who specialised in addictions. ‘You could do a special offer I suppose: recovery sessions plus sun and sangria.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ He looked faintly annoyed. ‘Boundaries and all that.’

‘It was a joke.’ I passed him a mug. ‘Not a very good one, admittedly. None of my business, of course.’

‘Well, it’s a fair comment, I suppose.’ He dug out a box of camomile tea. ‘But we need the income to keep it going. Liz hates the idea, but she’s looking at redundancy and I need to drum up some business or it’s back on the market – and then we’d both be gutted.’

‘Yes, well, I can see why. All that light and air. Good for the soul.’

‘And God knows our souls need feeding, eh?’ he winked at me. ‘As long as we’ve got it, you’re always welcome to rent it cheap, lovie. No problem.’

I
found
myself going to Robin’s Café most days, but I didn’t see the man again. After a few weeks, I gave up the idea I’d see him again.

Sid came to collect Polly one Saturday morning. He was driving a Porsche. An old one, but a Porsche nonetheless.

‘Given up your
Communist Review
subscription then?’ I eyed the car over his shoulder. Sid was unshaven, his old jeans covered in smears of oil paint, brilliant greens and blues, which meant he was in an ‘up’ period. The down periods saw browns, greys and black; the colours of sludge. I looked closer at him. Handsome as ever, maybe, but his green eyes were slitty and bloodshot and he smelt of cigarettes and stale alcohol. Less up, more wired.

‘Daddy!’ Polly was there, in her scarlet coat, excitedly hanging off the door handle. ‘Can I watch
Kung Fu Panda
again tonight?’

I was surprised Sid would stoop to a cartoon. He was nothing if not esoteric, my husband.

‘I should think so.’ Sid picked her up and kissed her rosy face. They looked so alike, it sometimes wrenched at my heart.

Soon-to-be-ex-husband.

‘Daddy lets me watch telly in bed.’ Polly was proud, patting her father’s cheek. ‘Till I fall asleep, actually.’

I wondered what he was doing whilst she was watching cartoons.

‘Yes, well, perhaps she could actually go to sleep
before
midnight.’ It was out before I could stop it. Petty bourgeois, Sid would throw at me any second. Quickly, I kissed Polly’s mop. ‘See you tomorrow, baby.’

Basics Rule One: don’t argue in front of the kids.

Sid raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Laurie, darling,’ he drawled, ‘when did you get so fucking pedestrian?’

‘Don’t swear.’ Resisting the temptation to shove him down the stairs, I shot back into the house before Polly saw my face. ‘Have fun, Pol. Oh, and, Sid,’ I couldn’t help it. ‘
Please
make her wear her seat-belt.’

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again.

It was Sid. ‘I meant to say,’ he was lounging against the porch wall, Polly behind him in the car, absorbed in some game on his mobile phone.

‘Yes?’ For a long time, I thought he still gave me butterflies, but recently I’d realised it was simply cortisol. Not love, just stress hormone.

‘I’ve sorted out an estate agent. He’ll be round on Monday to value and photograph the house.’

I stared at the man I’d shared everything with for eight years. He held my gaze and for a second I thought I read guilt, but instead of an apology, he just smiled nastily.

‘He’ll call you first. If you can ever find your phone.’

I shut the door hard in his face and leant against it, waiting for my heart to slow, waiting until the noisy old Porsche had pulled off. I looked balefully at my phone on the hall table, the phone I could apparently never find. No calls, no texts, no messages: no one.

Resolutely I grabbed my coat and bag, resisting the temptation to switch a computer on and surf Facebook. I would not sit tearfully in the empty house – apparently not mine for much longer – and mourn my bloody marriage.

I stomped over the square to the café, to life and people.

‘Haven’t seen you for a bit,’ Robin was ever cheerful. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, thanks. And a huge piece of chocolate cake please. A really big one. With extra cream.’

‘Oh dear,’ Robin was sympathetic. ‘That kind of day.’

‘Yes,’ I pulled a face. ‘Exactly that kind of day.’

I had lost myself in the cake and a chapter about Freud’s professional and sexual jealousy of Carl Jung when a voice spoke above me.

‘Hello again.’

I dropped my chocolatey fork on the floor.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ The man with the light eyes. ‘You’re very jumpy, aren’t you?’

‘I am a bit,’ I agreed. Nervous wreck, he no doubt thought. He scooped up the fork and went through to Robin, returning with a new one that he handed me.

‘Thanks. Please, have some cake,’ I said, without thinking. ‘I can’t eat it all anyway.’

‘Really?’

I nodded slowly, already regretting my haste. ‘Yes, please – if you’d like.’

‘I would like,’ he sat down. ‘Thanks.’

At least this time the table was bigger so our knees weren’t jammed so intimately against each other. As soon as he sat, my mind went blank.

‘Do you come here often?’ I said, and then felt daft.

He grinned. ‘Not really – but I’m planning to.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I was being … silly.’

‘I like silly,’ he said. ‘Silly’s good, in my book.’

Cursing my thin skin, I tried not to blush.

‘Mal Cooper,’ he offered his hand.

‘Laurie Smith,’ I took it, looked at him properly. He looked … healthy, somehow. Totally different to Sid, who was pale, interesting and constantly dishevelled. This man was scrubbed and fresh, slightly tanned – and strangely familiar somehow.

‘So, you live nearby?’

‘Yes, with my daughter.’ I felt odd saying that. ‘But not with her dad.’ Oh God. ‘I mean, we used to. Live together.’
Shut up now, Laurie
. I spent my days counselling people in situations like mine, yet when it came to my own life, I could barely speak. ‘Have you got kids?’ I blundered on. I looked at his finger. No wedding ring. But … was there a slight indent on his left hand? A narrow stripe of paler skin where it should have been?

He was still talking.

I shook myself. ‘Sorry.’

‘I was saying, yes. One boy.’

‘How old?’

‘Just seven.’

‘Nice age. Polly’s six.’

‘What school does she go to?’

‘St Bede’s.’

‘Oh, we’re hoping to get Leonard in there. We’ve left it a bit late though. We’re having to schlep right across town at the moment.’

We
. I popped the most extravagantly-iced piece of cake in my mouth and began to gather my things.

‘Well, I must get going actually.’ I was falsely bright. ‘Please, finish the cake.’

‘When I say we, I mean my ex and I.’

Did I relax visibly? I sat back for a moment. There was no rush, I supposed. ‘I see. So what brought you here?’

‘Work, really. That and the need for a change.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m in IT.’

‘Oh right.’ Dull. But safe. ‘I’m not very …’ I searched for a polite way of saying it, ‘good with computers—’

‘Interested in them, you mean.’ He smiled. ‘Why would you be? Pretty boring things really.’

‘You said it.’ I smiled back. ‘Not me.’

‘Doesn’t mean we’re all boring though. The IT crowd.’

‘Oh, very good.’

‘I try my best. And I do love that show.’

‘Yeah, it’s good. So where do you work?’

‘In the city. I’d rather work in the countryside, I think. I must be getting old. The city’s so … I don’t know. Full on, sometimes.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. So, whereabouts? No, let me guess. Canary Wharf?’

‘Bank actually. Near the actual Bank of England.’

‘That sounds very posh.’

‘It’s not.’ His hand hovered over the last piece of cake. ‘Not posh at all. Just lots of suits.’

‘And money. Have it,’ I pushed the plate towards him.

‘Fake money. If you insist,’ he grinned, and polished it off before I could. His phone beeped. ‘Sorry,’ he checked it quickly. ‘Got to collect Leonard. My day.’

‘No worries.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘Something I’m getting used to, this single parent-dom.’

‘It’s hard, isn’t it? Takes some getting used to indeed.’ He stood now, buttoning his jacket. ‘It was very nice to meet you properly, er …’ he looked abashed. ‘Oh God, sorry.’

‘It’s okay. It’s Laurie.’

‘Of course,’ he clapped a dramatic hand to his head. ‘I’m rubbish with names.’

‘It’s fine, really.’

As he turned to go, I spoke in a splurge. ‘Er, Mal, I was just thinking, it just crossed my mind, if you wanted, if you ever wanted to do something with the kids – well …’

‘I’d love that,’ his ruddy face lit up. ‘Why don’t we arrange something now?’

‘Oh, right.’ His alacrity took me aback a little. ‘Yes, we could, I guess …’

‘Next weekend? Do you have your daughter?’

‘Yeah, I do.’ I didn’t want to come here though. Too small, too intimate, too many people I knew. ‘We could go to the Toy Museum. On the south side of the park?’

‘Fantastic. I’ve been meaning to since we moved. It looks fun.’

‘Great.’ Did my voice sound wobbly? ‘Saturday or Sunday?’

‘Saturday’s better for me’.

‘Fine. Meet you there at – what,’ why did I feel so flustered? ‘Er, just after lunch?’

‘Cool. Two suit you?’

‘Two it is. See you there.’

As he left, a flurry of rain slung itself against the window. I was glad I was safely inside.