PRAISE FOR JOHN MARRS

‘Gripping from the start and full of surprises, this kept us up long after lights
out’
—Isabelle Broom, Heat
‘A compelling dark read that gets you thinking’
—The Sun
‘Wonderful conceit, ridiculously entertaining . . . an absolute pleasure, the
malevolence and impishness of a young Roald Dahl’
—T. A. Cotterell, author of What Alice Knew
‘Fantastic . . . I can’t remember the last time I was simultaneously this
entertained and this disturbed’
—Hollie Overton, Sunday Times bestselling author of Baby Doll
‘This will have you gripped’
—Woman’s Own
‘A brilliantly inventive thriller’
—Good Housekeeping
‘Engaging concept, craftily executed’
—Adrian J. Walker, author of The End of the World Running Club
‘A compelling read . . . intriguing ideas’
—SFX
‘Gorgeously written, and pulsing with heart’
—Louise Beech, author of The Mountain in My Shoe
‘Crammed with twists and turns that’ll keep you guessing right until the very
end’
—OK! Magazine
A L S O BY J OH N MA R R S
The One
When You Disappeared
Welcome To Wherever You Are
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and
incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by John Marrs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of
the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542046633
ISBN-10: 1542046637
Cover design by Mark Swan
 CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
RYAN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
PART THREE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on
earth.’
—Muhammad Ali
‘While seeking revenge, dig two graves – one for yourself.’
—Douglas Horton
 PROLOGUE
‘Where are you?’ My voice was calm and my tone measured as I spoke softly
into the receiver.
‘My taxi has just pulled up in the car park and I’m trying to give away
my loose change.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because I don’t have any need for it.’
‘I understand.’ I rolled my eyes. It felt like a waste of time and it
concerned me that it might be a delaying tactic. But I couldn’t pressure him.
‘You do what you feel is for the best, and remember,’ I continued, ‘I’m with
you every step of the way.’
I heard him mumble something to the driver, then he exited the taxi,
closing the door behind him. I assumed it was raining lightly, because every
few seconds I heard the rubber wiper blades squeak as they arched across the
windscreen before the cab pulled away.
‘How are we doing?’ I asked, purposefully using ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ to
emphasise that we were in this together, if not side by side then certainly in
spirit. It was not my choice of location and I wondered if, once he saw its
magnitude, it might give him second thoughts. If that were the case, I’d have
to accept his decision. It had taken time for me to get in the right headspace,
but now that I was, I wanted him to see it through to the end. And I’d make
sure to remind him why he was there and how far we had come.
He read my mind. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve not had a change of
heart.’
I let out a sigh of relief.
‘Really,’ he continued, ‘I’m in a good place and I’m ready for this. Now
that I’m here, now that I can see what’s before me, I know one hundred and
ten per cent that it’s the right thing to do.’
I believed him. I don’t think he’d ever lied to me, because he’d never
had a reason to. He’d told me many times that he was more honest with me
than with anyone he had ever known, and I was proud to hear it.
‘Can you see her yet?’ I asked. ‘She’s driving a red Vauxhall Astra.
Registration number V987—’
 ‘. . . THG. Yes, she’s just flashed her lights at me. It feels like we’re in a
spy film and you’ve arranged for me to pass her secret documents.’ He gave a
nervous laugh and I pretended to laugh back.
‘OK, let me give her a call,’ I said. ‘Stay where you are for now. We
don’t want to scare her.’
My number was automatically withheld when I dialled her. She
answered after seven rings, too many for my liking.
‘Hi there,’ I began softly. ‘How are we doing?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. Her voice lacked the confidence of his. I’d
accompanied enough people in her situation to recognise a heightened state of
anxiety. I’d have to tread carefully.
‘It’s good to hear you,’ I said soothingly. ‘Did your journey go well? Did
you find the place okay?’
‘I got here an hour ago, so I had a cup of tea in a café up the road.’
This was another red flag. She’d had time on her own to think.
‘Is there anything you want to talk about before we start?’ I asked.
She hesitated. ‘I’m really sorry, but now I’m here I’m starting to think I
might not be doing the right thing anymore,’ she replied.
I gritted my teeth. I was not going to let it end like this. I needed to
reaffirm her sense of purpose.
‘It’s about the baby, isn’t it?’ I asked gently.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re worried that you’re making a selfish decision.’
‘Yes,’ she said again, this time in a barely audible voice.
I sank back into my chair. ‘That’s perfectly understandable, but you
need to realise this isn’t you talking, it’s your hormones. They’re giving you a
false sense of what might be possible; making you think that everything could
be all right in the end if you just give it time. Listen to someone who has
learned from experience. When that child is born, things are only going to get
so much worse for you. They’ll up your medication so that your life is even
more of a blur than it is now. You won’t be fit for purpose as a mother, and
the chemicals you’ve put into your body already are going to have a knock-on
effect on your baby. It will grow up exactly like you, with exactly the same
pain and problems you have; it’ll be history repeating itself. Do you really
want to be responsible for all that? Unlike you, I can see things clearly and I
know that is exactly what is going to happen. Your baby doesn’t stand a
chance in this world. And deep down you know that too, don’t you?’
‘You’re right,’ she spluttered, no longer trying to fight back her sobs.
I’d been bad cop, now I needed to be good cop again.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking about you all night and day,’ I continued.
‘I know how far you’ve come since you found me all those weeks ago. I’m so
proud of you for your courage and strength. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. She didn’t sound as convinced as I’d hoped. It was
time to step it up a gear.
‘I’ve been thinking about your family, too. They’re very lucky to have
someone in their lives like you, someone who is so selfless and so
courageous. These are rare traits and I know that at first, it’s going to be
difficult for everyone to understand, but in time they’re going to realise you
loved them so much that you put their needs above your own. You’ve told me
on so many occasions that you’re never going to be the wife your husband
needs. But that’s not your fault, it’s his for putting you on a pedestal. He has
done this to you. Just keep reminding yourself of why you came looking for
me in the first place. Together, we explored every avenue before you decided
this was the only route that made sense. You are moving on and allowing
everyone else you love to do the same. And I admire that so much.’
I’d spent so long repeating the same message, week after week,
conversation after conversation, slowly reinforcing the belief that there was
only one way forward. He, however, had required less work. There was no
middle ground with him. Things were either black or white and never grey.
He told me once I was like a rope that had pulled him from the quicksand and
then set him on the right path.
‘You’re right,’ she sniffed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Okay then. Well, blow your nose, take a deep breath and we’ll do this
together. Start by opening the door and walking towards him.’ I tried to
imagine I was there with them. ‘Now, can you carefully describe what you’re
seeing in front of you?’
‘I think that’s him waiting for me,’ she said. ‘He’s smiling. And behind
him the sun is trying to make its way through the clouds. It’s cold, but not
freezing.’
I heard the crunch of the gravel under her feet, the pitter-patter of
January rain bouncing off the shoulders of her overcoat, and the squawking
seagulls above. I could almost smell the salty sea air around them. I switched
telephone lines to his.
‘Hi,’ I began. ‘She’s coming towards you now, but she’s a little more
anxious than you are. You will look after her, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, more assured than I’d ever heard him.
As they came face to face for the first time, I imagined them smiling at
one another. I opened up both phone lines and heard a muffled, scratching
sound of fabric against fabric, as if they were embracing. I’d told her to wear
a coat big enough to hide her baby bump. The last thing I needed was for it to
spook him now that we were so close.
I felt my skin burning under my shirt and adrenaline coursing through
the sixty thousand miles of veins in my body, edging me towards a kind of
euphoria.
Bide your time. Keep a firm grip on yourself, because too much can still
go wrong.
I pictured them standing there, two perfect strangers who hadn’t needed
to speak to communicate. They were united in a common purpose and I had
brought them together. Their lives would be forever connected because of me.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Can you both hear me?’ I asked them.
‘Yes,’ they replied in unison.
‘If you’re still comfortable with it, I’d like to stay with you for as long
as possible. So, when you’re ready, each take a deep breath, then take hold of
each other’s hand and start to walk. No matter how tough it gets or how heavy
your legs might feel, hold on to each other for support. Don’t turn around and
don’t stop. We can do this together.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for understanding me. You’ve been
incredible.’
‘It’s been my pleasure,’ I replied. In the past when I’d reached this point,
I’d been so much stronger. But he’d been too big a part of my life for this not
to hurt. I balled my fists as our journey came to an end. Now it was their turn
to continue the story.
I closed my eyes tightly. I inhaled and exhaled in time with their breaths
as they made their way further and further from the car park. The gravel faded
into grass and the rain fell more heavily. She began to weep, but I was
convinced they were happy tears. I was sure he was clasping her hand in his
just that little bit tighter, offering her the strength I so admired in him.
And then –
Nothing.
Nothing but the sound of their last breaths and the coastal wind howling
through their phones as they fell five hundred and thirty feet into the water
below. And as their bodies sank and their souls soared, I bit my bottom lip
hard until I tasted blood. It was over.
I gave myself a few moments before reluctantly replacing the receiver in
the cradle. I took a tissue from my desk drawer, blew my nose, uncurled my
toes and thought about my anchor until calmness once again took control of
my body.
I lifted my head briefly and glanced around the room to reassure myself
that no one beyond the confines of my booth had heard me.
‘Are you all right?’ Mary’s honeyed voice came from the side, making
me jump. She shuffled from the kitchen to my desk, sensing something was
wrong. The years had not been kind to her face.
‘I’m fine,’ I replied.
‘Was it one of those calls?’
‘Yes.’
‘They didn’t do it while you were talking to them, did they?’
I nodded and she patted my arm with her hand. My skin prickled, as it
did when anyone touched me uninvited. Such gestures had never comforted
me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mary continued. ‘You hope that when they call us, all it’ll
take is a friendly voice and someone to listen and it’ll put them off ending
their lives for that little bit longer, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘And I know we’re not supposed to talk them out of it or even offer an
opinion, but it’s hard when you just want people to see that life is worth
living.’
‘It certainly is,’ I nodded. ‘I wish everyone could see the beauty of the
world through our eyes.’
 It was a busy afternoon and there weren’t enough volunteers to man the
helplines, so Mary made her way back to her corner of the office. When the
red light on my phone began flashing to indicate another call, I cleared my
throat and answered it, as required, within five rings.
‘Good afternoon,’ I began, ‘you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is
Laura speaking. May I ask your name?’
PART ONE
LAURA
 CHAPTER ONE
FOUR MONTHS AFTER DAVID
I heard their muffled chatter as I made my way up the staircase and towards
the door.
Inside End of the Line’s call room, I counted five heads, all sitting in
their individual booths. Some propped themselves up on their elbows as they
sat listening to callers through their headsets; others casually leaned back in
their chairs with receivers held to their ears. One doodled triangles in a
newspaper crossword grid.
I was early for my shift and waved cheerfully at Kevin and Zoe, who
were listening to their respective callers. I pointed to the cake tin under my
arm then towards the kitchen. Mary, the eldest of the volunteers at the charity,
sat in a corner booth at the front, her knitting needles moving almost silently
at full throttle as she spoke into a headset. Today’s colour of wool was as grey
as the hair on her head.
I made my way into the poor excuse for a kitchenette and placed my
lunchbox with the remains of last night’s pasta bake inside the fridge. I tossed
away the mounting number of out-of-date plastic milk bottles and removed
the lid from the cake tin so that everyone could help themselves to my freshly
iced cupcakes. There were more than enough for the afternoon shifts to enjoy;
any that remained could be shared by those on evenings and nights.
I opened the sash window to allow some fresh May air in and the stale
second-floor funk out. Then, back inside the call room, I plucked my
notebook from my bag and sought out my favoured booth at the back. Our
desks hadn’t been officially allocated to us, so we couldn’t stake a claim on
one over another. But there was an unspoken hierarchy that said those who’d
worked there for longer should be allowed the spot they felt the most
comfortable in. I opted for the most private spot, by the boarded-up Victorian
fireplace. There, behind the partition, my soft, calming telephone voice
couldn’t be heard anywhere else in the room. Not that we ever admitted to
listening in to each other’s calls, but it’s normal to be nosy once in a while.
For four and a half years I’d stared through the very same window
across the rooftops of Northampton town centre, and wondered who might be
the first person I’d lift my receiver to today. The later – evening – shift was
usually when things became more interesting. For the more vulnerable out
there, once the darkness falls, so do their barriers. Night-time is their enemy,
because with fewer visible distractions there’s more opportunity to dwell on
how hopeless their lives have become. It’s when they reach out for
somebody’s hand.
We are supposed to treat every caller the same way, with kindness,
respect and professionalism. Being listened to makes them feel valued, but it’s
unrealistic to think you can help – or even like – them all. Once they begin
recounting their woes, there are some you take an instant dislike to and others
you can see yourself in. Some you want to grab by the wrists, dig your
fingernails in deeply until you draw blood and shake some sense into. Others
you’ll offer a non-judgemental shoulder to cry upon.
But when it comes down to it, almost every volunteer in that room is
there for the same purpose – to be someone a caller can unload their problems
onto.
And then there’s me. I have my own agenda.
‘You brought cupcakes!’ said Kevin enthusiastically. He began to peel
away the paper case from the sweet treat as he approached my desk.
‘Remind me to get your shirt out of the car before I leave,’ I replied.
‘Careful now, or they’ll start talking about us,’ he said, and gave me a
wink.
I pretended to laugh along with him. ‘I’ve sewn the button back on the
cuff and starched the collar.’
‘Where would we be without you, Laura?’
‘And don’t forget it’s your wedding anniversary at the weekend, so pick
up a card and some flowers. And not those cheap, petrol station ones. Order a
bouquet online.’
‘Will do.’ He gave me a peck on the cheek and I rolled my eyes with
false modesty. ‘You’re like the office mum,’ he added.
I liked being thought of as the maternal type. To them, I was helpful,
inoffensive and indispensable, and that suited me down to the ground.
Because when you’re not considered to be a threat, you can get away with
much, much more.
 CHAPTER TWO
The first thirty minutes of my four-hour shift were relatively quiet, so I
flicked through a folder of photographs on my mobile . . . the ones my
husband Tony didn’t allow me to display in the house.
I removed the silver-plated fountain pen from my bag and opened my
notebook. I use it to jot down basic details of each caller, including their
name, a summary of their problems and a few questions to include if there is a
lull in the conversation. The caller is always in control of the chat, or at least
that’s what I lead mine to believe.
End of the Line’s mandate is clear and simple, and it is one of the many
things that encouraged me to offer it my time. It believes that everyone has
the right to live or die on his or her own terms. Provided it isn’t under duress
and doesn’t hurt anyone else, we believe it’s absolutely their decision to end
their lives and we won’t try to talk them out of it. In fact, during our training
we are given the emotional tools to be there right up until their last breath, if
that’s what the caller requests. We listen, we don’t act.
The red light on my landline flashed with urgency. Every time I answer
a call, I remember what my mentor Mary told me during my induction: ‘You
could be the last voice this person ever hears. Make them believe that you
care.’
‘Good afternoon, you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is Laura
speaking,’ I began in the same friendly manner I had countless times before.
‘May I ask your name?’
I was greeted with silence, but that wasn’t uncommon. Callers may go to
the effort of dialling our number, but most don’t plan what they’re going to
say once their call is answered. It’s my duty to put them at ease and coax their
worries out of them. Sometimes just hearing the calm in my voice is enough
to take the edge off their fears.
‘Take your time,’ I assured the caller. ‘I have as long as you need.’
‘Things are really bad at the moment,’ she eventually began. Her voice
was deep – decades of high-tar cigarettes deep.
‘Well, let’s talk it through, shall we?’ I offered. ‘What would you like
me to call you?’
She paused for long enough to think of a pseudonym. ‘Carole,’ she
replied. It was impossible to tell her age through her smoke-damaged vocal
cords.
‘Okay, Carole,’ I continued, writing her name down, ‘when you say
things are awful, what aspects of your life are causing you difficulty?’
‘Money and my marriage,’ she said. ‘I was made redundant in March
and I can’t find work. My Jobseeker’s Allowance barely covers the food bills,
I’m four months behind on the council rent and my husband has a chronic
lung condition that’s slowly killing him.’
I’d liked to have asked how much her forty-a-day habit was helping his
lungs but I stuck to the script. It’s not that I’m anti-smoking – one of the many
things my colleagues and family don’t know about me is my penchant for a
cigarette on the way home from a shift. But I’m always in control.
I made bullet-point notes on what she was telling me. What I really
wanted to learn was just how close to the edge her circumstances were
pushing her. Why was she calling us today and how far would she go to find a
resolution? However, I couldn’t bulldoze my way into her headspace; she
needed encouraging.
‘That does sound like a lot to be coping with at the moment, Carole,’ I
replied. ‘It’s times like this that test us the most, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but I’m pissed off with being tested. I need a way out.’
My interest flickered. ‘In what way?’
I heard a flint wheel turn and a flame flicker to life as she sparked up a
cigarette. ‘I feel like a right bitch for saying this out loud . . .’ She paused to
inhale the smoke.
‘I’m here to listen, not to judge you.’
‘I’ve just reached breaking point. I can’t carry on.’ Carole’s voice
cracked before she burst into a deep, chesty cough.
‘Start by telling me what you mean when you say you “need a way
out”.’
‘I’ve been seeing another fella and I want to leave my husband, but I
don’t know how to do it.’
I rolled my eyes, and it was all I could do to stop myself from hanging
up on her. We’re allowed to end abusive, sexual or aggressive calls. Sadly,
being as common as muck wasn’t a good enough excuse.
Carole wasn’t looking to end her life in the physical sense; she wanted
to start a brand-new one without the baggage of the first. For a moment, I’d
thought I might have struck gold, but answering a call at random from
someone who’s serious about wanting to die is like finding a pearl in an
oyster. I get four, maybe five in a year – if I’m lucky – but this year had been
exceptionally good so far. However, Carole was not that person.
I did what I was trained to do and let her cry and moan until there was
nothing left to get off her chest. Eventually she hung up – and without a word
of a thank you, I might add.
Then I waited patiently for the next call, because there is always a next
call. Someone, somewhere in the country, is always having a worse time than
you. The expectation, the thrill of picking up that telephone and never
knowing what direction the conversation might take: the next call is
everything.
I live for the next call.
 CHAPTER THREE
‘Hello?’ I shouted as I pushed open the front door and pulled the key from the
lock. ‘Can someone give me a hand with the shopping, please?’
There was no answer, but that wasn’t a guarantee the house was empty.
The mention of shopping bags wasn’t the best way to lure two children and a
husband out of hiding to help, unless the bags came from H&M or Zara, or a
sports shop.
I made three trips before they were all placed neatly across the wooden
kitchen worktops. Each bag was below the wall cupboard or above the drawer
where its contents were to be placed.
Bieber the cat, an ugly grey and white thing with a deep coat of soft fur
and a hiss like a coiled cobra, belonged to my younger daughter Alice. He lay
stretched by the bifold doors, basking in the sun’s warming rays streaming
through the glass. He turned his head to see who was disturbing his slumber
and made some guttural rasp when he recognised me. I rasped back. I was the
one who fed him and emptied his litter tray, but that wasn’t enough to earn his
respect and still he detested me.
When I was sure I was alone, I flicked the radio on. A DJ introduced an
unfamiliar song, so I switched to a channel playing only music from the
1980s – the era of my childhood. Several callers to End of the Line had told
me that my voice was like one of those late-night broadcasters on commercial
stations who only ever play ballads. Apparently it was ‘soothing’.
George Michael was admitting to kissing a fool before Madonna began
urging me to dance for inspiration. Most of the time I didn’t listen closely to
the songs; background noise in an empty house was enough to stop me from
visiting dark spaces in my head that it did me little good returning to.
With tins and packets placed inside the cupboards – the labels facing
forward, and arranged in accordance of light colours to dark – I took a bag of
frozen chicken breasts and stuffed them into a crammed fridge to defrost for
tomorrow night. I unboxed a Victoria sponge, stuck my knife into a jar of jam
and smeared some around the sides, then put a little more icing sugar on the
top left-hand side than the right to make it look less perfect. I held up and
examined a pair of jeans belonging to Zoe, one of my younger colleagues,
who’d asked me to replace a broken zip. ‘No problem,’ I’d told her. ‘Give me
a couple of days.’
 To the End of the Line team I was a superwoman, a devoted mum-of-
three who could turn her hand to any task, from repairing a jacket pocket to
reupholstering a chair. But I knew little about baking or sewing – that’s what
supermarkets and tailors were for. And no one I worked with needed to know
that I outsourced my pastries and repairs.
A yawn caught me by surprise – it was only approaching four o’clock
but it felt like much later in the day. The kids would have been let out of
school by now, and Tony finished work in a couple of hours. So I poured
myself a large glass of red wine while I had the opportunity, and sank into the
armchair next to the bifold doors overlooking the patio and garden. I gazed
out across the lawn, beyond the beds of brightly coloured lupins and peonies,
towards the wooden fence and the flat, grassy playing fields.
When the first of the children arrived two years into our marriage, Tony
often reminded me to make the most of my ‘me’ time where and when I could
get it. Now they were older, I had too much ‘me’ time to fill, especially in this
house, the one he’d made us move to. I’d been more than content in our last
home, but Tony was insistent that once we made it onto the property ladder,
we must keep climbing.
I inhaled the floral scent coming from a jasmine reed diffuser and
glanced around the open-plan room. We’d knocked the kitchen, living and
dining rooms into one large living space. I’d overseen the landscaping of the
garden, the internal remodelling, the replastering and redecorating, and I
knew every inch of the place like the back of my hand. Everything was just
how Tony had envisaged it. Yet it felt alien to me.
‘We’ll only need to stay here a couple of years,’ he’d explained. ‘Once
all the work is done and we can make a tidy profit, we can move on.’
But we hadn’t moved on. It had been three years and I was still sitting in
the same living area.
I finished my wine and gave a sly smile as I stepped on the cat’s tail,
causing him to spit and run. Upstairs, the bathroom door and the kids’
bedroom doors were shut, so I made sure they were ajar. They knew there
were no closed doors in my house.
I peered into Alice’s room first. Her walls were still adorned with pink,
sparkly paper and covered in posters of pop stars and TV personalities, like
most nine-year-olds’ rooms were. But she was growing up fast and I was
already feeling the apron strings tugging as she began to pull away. It
wouldn’t be long before her thoughts became polluted with boys, make-up,
and clothes that were tight in all the wrong places.
Effie’s bedroom showed the difference in their ages. Pictures of
YouTube and Instagram stars I didn’t know the names of were affixed around
a mirror and taped to her door in collages. She’d printed out photos of her
friends, too, all of them featuring small gangs of overly made-up girls sucking
their cheeks in so tightly they must’ve met in the centre of their mouths and
pouting. Tummies were also held in, to make them look even skinnier than
fourteen-year-old girls already are.
Effie’s confidence had grown and she was aware she was beginning to
catch the eyes of boys her own age, along with men who had no business
looking at young girls. Once upon a time, they used to look at me like that.
Now it was as if I didn’t exist. I couldn’t help but hate her a little for it. She
was like a vampire, sucking the beauty and vibrancy from me and keeping it
for herself.
She was also keeping secrets from me, so I had to learn about my
daughter’s private life by other means instead. I sat on her bed, switched on
my mobile phone and clicked on the Facebook app. She still hadn’t changed
her login password so I checked her inbox. Most of the messages were from
her friends. Occasionally boys’ names appeared but the subjects were
innocuous, with the exception of one.
She seemed keen on a boy called Thom, who was pictured behind the
wheel of a small blue car that he’d obviously spent time and money trying to
make look sporty. In another, he’d sent Effie his photo, lifting his T-shirt and
revealing his bare belly. I remembered when Tony’s stomach had been as flat
and smooth as that. I’d watched him in his swimming shorts from the shallow
end of the school pool, imagining how it might feel to run my fingertips
across him. Like velvet. When he caught me staring, he grinned and I swiftly
turned my head to hide my reddening face. But the way he looked at me . . .
the way he tilted his head, the way his eyes widened, the way the corners of
his lips unfurled when he smiled . . . I knew that if I remained patient, he’d
approach me and eventually he’d be mine. I always get what I set my sights
on.
Effie had matched Thom’s picture like for like, only with her bra poking
out from under her rolled-up T-shirt. I bristled.
The door to the third bedroom was the only one I left closed. One day I
might venture in there, but not yet. I wasn’t ready yet.
I changed from my skirt and blouse into a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I’d
only bought them recently and I was struggling to button them up. And when
I finally managed it, I looked down in dismay at my paunchy stomach
perched upon the waistband like a fat pigeon bowing the branch of a tree. My
thrice-weekly hot yoga classes and two swims weren’t doing to my figure
what the posters on the gym wall promised. I wondered if there was any part
of my body that Tony still found attractive. If there was, he’d never thought to
mention it.
I glanced in the mirror at the prematurely ageing woman looking back at
me. My dark roots were beginning to show through my honey-blonde
highlights, and my once-prominent cheekbones appeared to have slipped
down my face to create an avalanche of jowls. My light brown eyes with their
youthful shine didn’t belong to this face.
I’d hoped the stress of ovarian cancer and chemotherapy had only
damaged where people couldn’t see, but I’d been kidding myself. I was dead
on the inside and decaying on the outside. Even now, over a year later, the
impact was still revealing itself through my face. It wouldn’t be long before
I’d be forced to ask one of the plastic school-gate mums for the number of
their Botox and fillers clinic. The injections plus tooth veneers and the contact
lenses for my nearsightedness meant there’d be very little left of the original
me soon. Maybe Tony would prefer that.
I poured my third and fourth tablets of the day from the bottle of aspirin
I kept in the bathroom cabinet, and swallowed them without water. Tony had
no idea what the bottle actually contained – slimming tablets not approved for
sale in the UK by the Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency.
I’d ordered them from an online Eastern European pharmacy instead. They
bound my fat and helped me lose weight quickly, but the side effects were
crippling stomach cramps and oily diarrhoea. It was a small price to pay if it
meant Tony might look at me again like he’d done that day in the swimming
pool.
By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, the paperboy was
cramming the local newspaper through the letterbox. I hurried my way
through it, past the news and the property pull-outs until I found the pages I
was searching for.
The hairs on my arms prickled into life when I saw Chantelle’s face for
the first time. She was close to how I’d pictured her – plain, gaunt, angular,
with a scrunchie keeping her scraped-back hair in place. I tore out the page,
made a mental note of the date and placed it inside my bag. Then I waited
patiently with another glass of wine for the time to pass until the conversation
of three people I barely knew returned.
 CHAPTER FOUR
FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER DAVID
I removed the Kindle from my bag and placed it on the desk in my booth.
I flicked through the library to choose from one of a dozen eBooks I’d
downloaded but had yet to start reading. As a rule, novels bore me. The
concentration it takes to remember what you’ve read and who is who as you
swipe from one page to the next is arduous. I much prefer downloading a
television programme and watching it on my phone instead. But Janine, our
branch manager, frowned upon us doing that, one of many petty little dislikes
she’d made us aware of since she’d taken charge seven months earlier.
I’d barely made it past the prologue of a psychological thriller before the
first call of my evening arrived. I cleared my throat and slipped into character
like an actor preparing to take to the stage.
So much can be won or lost in the first words a caller hears. Appear
overenthusiastic and they’ll think you’re too upbeat to empathise with them.
Sound too matter-of-fact and you risk appearing like an authoritarian about to
berate them. I like to think I keep the right balance.
It was a teenage girl who spoke; she’d found herself pregnant and had
no idea how to tell her parents. I listened sympathetically, asked my open-
ended questions in all the correct places and quietly wondered how I’d react if
Effie ever found herself in that kind of trouble. I’d insist on a termination, but
she’d probably keep the baby just to be awkward. The girl on the phone cried
a little. I pretended to care and by the end of our chat she decided she would
test the family waters by telling an aunty she was close to of her predicament.
Next, it was my turn to get ‘the masturbator’. Once a week, usually on a
Thursday, he was compelled to call us and audibly pleasure himself. He
wasn’t bothered if it was a man or woman who answered, because by the time
we answered, he wouldn’t be far from climaxing. We were supposed to hang
up as soon as we were aware of what he was doing, but tonight I was feeling
generous, so I told him how horny it made me feel and let him complete the
task in hand before wishing him a good evening.
After two immediate hang-ups, I was approaching the end of my shift
and anticipating a gruelling hot yoga class. I contemplated ignoring the call at
first as I didn’t want to be late, but I picked up.
‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know where to
begin,’ a male voice began.
‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’
‘Steven,’ he replied. It came to him too quickly for it to be a pseudonym.
I made a note of it.
I placed him in his twenties; he was softly spoken and his accent was
local. He did little to disguise his nerves.
‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven. Can I ask what made you decide to call
us this evening?’
‘I’m not sure. I – I feel like I haven’t got . . . anyone. I don’t think I want
to be . . . here . . . anymore.’
He ticked box number one all by himself, which made my job a little
easier. ‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ I said. I’d allow my instinct the
usual five minutes to decide whether he was genuine or seeking attention.
‘Tell me about the people who love and care about you. Who do you have in
your life who falls into that category?’
He paused for a moment to think. ‘Nobody really,’ he replied and let out
a deep breath. Saying it aloud was clearly a pivotal moment for him. ‘I’ve got
no one at all.’
‘Do you have anyone you’d call a friend?’
‘No.’
That was box number two ticked.
‘I’m sure it’s difficult when you are completely alone in the world.’
‘It’s shit.’
‘Are you working at the moment? Are there any opportunities to build
up personal relationships in your career?’
‘Not really. Sometimes days can pass and I realise I haven’t had a proper
conversation in almost a week.’
Box number three ticked – the fewer people in his personal or working
life the better. I was glad I’d answered his call after all.
‘A week is a long time not to have a proper conversation with someone,’
I replied, empathising with his situation and keeping him on point. ‘Have you
seen your doctor and told them how you’re feeling?’
‘Yes, and she put me on antidepressants.’
 ‘And how have they worked for you?’
‘It’s been four months and I still don’t feel there’s anything to get up for
in the morning. Sometimes I think I’d be better off just saving them all up and
. . . you know . . .’
‘Sometimes or often?’
‘Often,’ he whispered, so quietly I could barely hear him. It was like he
was ashamed of his suicidal thoughts.
Box four usually took much longer than this to tick, which made my job
a little easier. I might have something to work with here, I thought.
I scanned the room. Zoe was playing a game on her mobile phone while
speaking into her headset; Sanjay’s legs were jiggling up and down as he
listened to a caller; and Mary was drinking something from a thermal flask
that smelled like toxic soup. Nobody was paying me the slightest bit of
attention in my corner.
Inside my bag, I fished for a second notebook, the one used solely for
callers I might be able to help in my own unique way. Inside it, I kept detailed
notes on everything they told me. Later, I’d bring them up again as
conversation points to reinforce that I’d been listening and I understood. I
wrote Steven’s name on a fresh page and underlined it.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven,’ I replied. ‘We’ve all
thought about ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to
do it before?’
‘No. But I did plan it out once.’
‘You planned it out once?’ I was careful to mirror his language, making
him aware I’d listened and of how seriously I took his admission. ‘Can I ask
what you had in mind?’
‘I printed out my bank details and bills and left them in envelopes on my
desk, along with the passwords for accounts and deeds to the flat for the
police to find. I’d plotted out the route to a bridge in the countryside over the
railway line, near the village of Wolverton. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘There’s a gap where the railings have rusted so you can squeeze
through to get to the tracks. I made it halfway down the bank and waited for
ages for a train. I was just going to jump in front of it and that’d be it. But it
took so long for one to arrive that I talked myself out of it.’
 ‘I see. While you were waiting for that train, did you wonder how death
might feel?’
‘It won’t feel like anything, because after death there is nothing.’
‘Will it bring you peace?’
‘My life hasn’t, so I can only hope.’
Everything I’d asked, he’d already asked himself. He hadn’t made his
decision rashly.
I’d become increasingly frustrated by ditherers of late. There were too
many callers who all-too-casually threw around suicidal threats, but when it
came down to it they were too gutless to do anything about it.
So I needed to push and pull Steven to reinforce how serious he was.
The ‘fear-then-relief technique’, that’s what psychologists call it. I lowered
my voice, held the phone closer to my mouth and launched into a well-
rehearsed but selectively used speech.
‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ I began.
‘Maybe it’s a cry for help? I get plenty of calls from people who tell me they
want to die, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, all they’re really doing is
just feeling sorry for themselves. Are you one of those people, Steven? Are
you just trapped in a cycle of self-pity? Are you so deep into it that you don’t
realise nothing is going to change unless you find the courage to do
something about it yourself ? Because if you don’t take charge, for the rest of
your life – maybe another forty, fifty years – the pain you’re feeling right
now, the pain that’s so bad that it led you to call me, is only going to get
worse. This – how you’re feeling right now – is going to be it for you. Can
you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’
I’ll only use those words if I come into contact with a potential
candidate, and often my directness catches them unawares. They’ll have
called expecting me to be sympathetic towards them and perhaps reassure
them everything’s going to be okay in the end. But I’m not that person. I
know from personal experience that everything isn’t always okay in the end.
Often, it’ll get much worse than it is right now. And sometimes it’s
completely unbearable. But I can make it stop. They just have to trust me.
‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ Steven stuttered, taken aback.
‘It’s something I’ve thought long and hard about and it’s what I want, but if I
can’t do it, that must make me a coward, right?’
‘No, Steven, you’re not a coward. You called me today and that makes
you courageous. Maybe you just chose the wrong day when you were waiting
for that train. It happens to plenty of people. Just remember, we’re here for
you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
‘You mean to listen to me?’
He was fishing. I’d let him sniff around the bait before I withdrew it. ‘If
that’s all you want from me, then yes.’
‘What if . . . what if I need . . . what if I decide . . .’ His voice went quiet
and then faded away.
What Steven needed was someone to tell him death was the right choice.
But first I needed to know for certain what he wanted from me. I’m not
supposed to finish a sentence, even if I know what they’re going to say, but I
make exceptions for potential candidates.
‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for
my support in doing it?’
‘I . . . I suppose I am.’
Once a candidate thinks they understand me, I’ll wrong-foot them by
going back to how I was when I first answered their call. I trust no one until I
know just how desperate they are.
‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental space,’ I began. ‘We
are here to listen to you. We won’t try to talk you out of anything you decide
to do, we just ask that you talk to us first and explore all your options before
you take such a huge step. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ Steven replied. A silence hung awkwardly between us. ‘But . . .’
‘But?’ I repeated.
‘But if I wanted to, you know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’
‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’
He became quiet again and I sensed his increasing anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, I
have to go,’ he said before the line went dead.
I tapped my fingers on the desk and examined my fingernails. There was
a slight chip in the burgundy varnish on my index finger. I’d need to make an
appointment to get them repainted.
I wasn’t worried about Steven calling back. Of course he would, and
when he did seek me out again, he’d have shown me he’d put in the effort.
You can’t just contact End of the Line’s number and reach me, as we have no
direct lines. There are ninety-four of us, all volunteering for different shifts,
and it’s pot luck who you’re put through to.
I remembered how David had kept calling back until he found me. Once
we’d built up a rapport, I gave him my shift timetable so we could speak more
regularly. We’d chat three or four times a week, and not just about our
arrangement; sometimes we’d discuss world events, our days, or the countries
we’d like to travel to.
And as he spoke, I’d close my eyes and imagine we were sitting on
opposite sides of a table in a café abroad somewhere; we’d have spent the day
sightseeing, and in the evening, we’d be making the most of the balmy
Mediterranean weather and eating at a bistro, enjoying a fish supper, drinking
Chianti and chatting like friends do. Then reality would reassert itself and I’d
realise none of that could ever happen.
All these months later and I still longed to hear his voice again. I
wondered if that feeling would ever completely pass. David had understood
me as much as I’d understood him – but my presence in his life wasn’t
enough to encourage him to stay. I wasn’t enough to make him choose life.
My stomach began to knot.
Remember your anchor, Laura. Remember your anchor.
I considered what Steven and I might accomplish. He’d made plans,
he’d got his affairs in order, and he’d chosen and been to a location. All he
needed was me. I had a good feeling about him.
I wanted to hear him die.
 CHAPTER FIVE
I double-checked the time printed in the advert I’d torn from the local
newspaper, and glanced at my watch. It was already ten minutes later than
advertised. I hated tardiness.
My restless eyes fixed upon a group of young women who were also
waiting for the doors to open. I patted the creases from my jacket to make
myself more presentable. I needn’t have bothered – by the look of them, I was
the only one to have made any effort. And because I wasn’t wearing running
shoes or a hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
I looked towards my Mini and spotted a familiar figure further down the
road. He was perched on a plastic bus-shelter seat with a bottle by his side.
‘Olly . . .’ I began as I approached him. The old backpack of Tony’s that
I’d given him was already so caked in filth that it was hard to spot the pale
blue colouring beneath. Tobacco, alcohol, urine, and the areas he chose to
sleep rough in had all brewed together to create an unwelcoming odour. But I
didn’t comment on it as I hugged him tightly. It felt like wrapping my arms
around a bag of bones.
‘Hi, Laura,’ he muttered, and offered a thin smile. ‘What are you doing
here?’
Normally it took a few minutes for him to register who I was through his
boozy haze, but this morning he was lucid and relatively sober. There was just
a year separating Olly and me, but every time I saw him, our age gap seemed
to widen. His lank, greasy hair brushed his collar and there were holes in the
front of his shoes that showed his socks. His inch-long beard was greying, and
his eyes had darkened from a warm brown to a coal black. There was very
little left in him that was alive.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Not so bad.’ He gave a hard, hacking cough.
‘You don’t sound it. Do you still have that chest infection?’
‘Yes.’
‘I offered before to drive you to the walk-in centre to see a doctor. We
can still go – this afternoon if you like?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he replied.
 ‘Do you need some money?’
‘Ha! I always need some money, Laura, but you’ve done enough for me
already.’
I reached into my bag and pulled out all I had, a £10 note. I was
embarrassed by such a poor offering. ‘Please take this. Buy yourself some
lunch.’
‘You know how I’ll spend it.’ His eyes watched mine as I clocked his
bottle of cider. His addiction was the only one I could overlook. His was
present for a reason. His was there because of how he’d saved me.
‘Just promise me you’ll at least get yourself a sandwich.’
‘Okay.’
‘Promise me,’ I repeated.
‘I promise.’
When he smiled, I noted he’d lost another tooth from the bottom row;
they were falling like pins in a bowling alley. Seeing Olly living and looking
like this broke my heart, but having rejected my efforts of help in the past,
there was little else I could do but watch him gradually disintegrate. I hoped it
gave him a little comfort that someone in the world still cared for him.
Behind us, a plume of white and grey smoke from the volume of
cigarettes being smoked ascended skywards. I made my way back towards the
crowd as the previous party left through the double doors.
I hung behind. I didn’t want to be so close to the front that I was asked
who I was, but I didn’t want to be so far towards the back that I missed what
was being said about her. Slap bang in the middle of the crematorium would
suffice.
By the time Chantelle Taylor’s unvarnished pine coffin was carried
inside by four suited undertakers and placed upon the plinth, the Adele song
blaring through the speakers was approaching its second chorus. The coffin
was adorned with flowers, most likely plastic, including one of those awful-
looking wreaths with the word ‘MUMMY’ written in yellow carnations
placed on top of the lid.
There were only thirty or so mourners in attendance and most were
around Chantelle’s age: single mothers in their early twenties wearing fake
gold jewellery and with tattoos on their hands. If proof were ever needed I’d
done the right thing in helping her to die, it was right there in the eyes of the
walking dead.
I glanced at the flimsy black-and-white photocopy of an order of service
with a photograph of Chantelle on the cover. She was holding a pint glass in a
pub beer garden and her belly was swollen with pregnancy. I shook my head;
even in utero her children hadn’t stood a chance.
Doubtless it was them sitting at the front with a tearful, older woman.
She turned her head and dabbed at the over-applied mascara oozing down her
face like an oil slick. They were too young to be here – both under four, I
remembered Chantelle telling me. By the look of their grandmother, I decided
they’d be better off under the care of the local authority. I made a mental note
to tip off social services that drugs were being dealt from her premises. I had
no idea if they were, but chances were a police search would find something
to use against her. I’d be doing those kids a favour. Being a ward of court
hadn’t been a walk in the park, but it hadn’t killed me either.
The minister read from his script and I recalled that when Chantelle first
started phoning End of the Line, we’d discussed how she was trying to kick
heroin for the sake of her unfortunate little ones. It was only with my help that
she gradually began to realise that, in sobriety, happily-ever-afters weren’t
made for families like hers. I had her back on the stuff within a few weeks.
‘How does it make you feel, knowing your children can’t give you the
high that drugs do?’ I once asked her, a couple of weeks into our regular
chats. I sensed by her tone that she was in a particularly dark place that day.
‘Like a shit mum,’ she said bleakly.
‘I’m sure your children don’t see you like that . . . They just love you for
who you are. They aren’t aware of the life you’ve given them. The mess
they’re in is all they know.’
‘What do you mean by “mess”?’
‘That their mum is dependent on drugs or drug substitutes; that she
doesn’t have enough money to give them food with proper nutrition; that
when they’re old enough to go to school they’ll see that all their classmates
have things you’ll never afford. And I know you’re the kind of person who’ll
feel dreadful for that, aren’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think they might grow up resenting you?’
‘Yes, all the time.’
 ‘Does it worry you that they might follow in your footsteps and end up
addicts like you and their father, too? It can be hereditary, can’t it?’
‘I won’t let them get into drugs.’
‘I bet your mum said the same thing about you, but it’s hard to tell
people what to do, isn’t it? It’s no wonder you feel like you’ve let them down
as a mum. What else do you worry about?’
‘That they’ll feel disappointed in me.’
‘It’s very easy to fall into bad habits when it comes to addiction,
especially when you don’t feel like there’s a reason to stay on the wagon.’
‘I thought I had a reason – for my kids . . . but I’m not strong enough.’
‘And as you’ve already told me, you know they’re probably already
disappointed in you for the life you’re giving them. And life away from
heroin is hard, isn’t it? Especially when you have nothing else. It must feel
like life is never going to get any better than it is now.’
‘What can I do to make it better for them?’ she wept.
It was the question I’d been waiting for her to ask. And I knew that once
I talked her back into her addiction, she’d reach the same decision I’d made
for her. Everyone would be better off without Chantelle.
When her day of reckoning arrived, she’d purchased enough heroin
from her violent, drug-dealing ex-boyfriend to do what was necessary. I
closed my eyes and listened intently to the sounds of her feet shuffling along
bare floorboards she couldn’t afford to carpet, her curtains being drawn, the
bedroom door quietly closing and her body stretching out upon her bed. I
heard the flame from a cigarette lighter and imagined it heating up the metal
spoon. I pictured the barrel of a syringe drawing up the dirty liquid and
Chantelle tapping at her arms and legs, trying to raise a vein that hadn’t
already collapsed under the weight of her weak will.
‘You’ll find my kids when they’re older and tell them I did this because
I loved them, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘Of course I will,’ I lied. ‘Just keep reminding yourself that you’ve
explored every other avenue, but this is the only route that makes sense. You
are moving on and allowing everyone else you love to do the same. And I
admire that so much.’
Within moments, the needle had penetrated her skin and I listened with
blissful satisfaction right until her final breath. That’s the one sound that
matters to me above all others . . . that one precious moment when someone
breathes their last then slips away. People in pain like Chantelle place
themselves in my hands because I understand them better than anyone else in
the world can. I know more about what they need than their brothers, sisters,
parents, spouses, best friends or children. I understand them because I know
what’s best for them. If they place their trust in me, I’ll reward them by going
to the ends of the earth to help them. I’ll alleviate their suffering. I’ll bring all
that is bad in their lives to an end. I will save them from themselves. That is
what I am: a saviour of lost souls.
Twenty-two days after I saved Chantelle, she and I were finally in the
same room together. A burgundy velvet curtain encircled her coffin before she
disappeared from view. And as her friends made their way back outside, I
took Chantelle’s order of service and placed it inside the black bag I carried
with me to all the funerals I attended.
It was where I kept all the other orders. Chantelle’s made fifteen in all. It
was becoming quite the collection.
 CHAPTER SIX
‘Oh, Laura, this is as light as air,’ began Kevin as he took a second mouthful
of my Victoria sponge cake. I hadn’t been able to resist leaving a slice on the
desk of a man with high cholesterol.
I tried to divert my stare from his scruffy beard as he approached me in
the office kitchenette. He was kidding himself if he thought it was distracting
anyone from his rapidly receding hairline. He spat a crumb onto my skirt. I’d
have to wash that tonight.
‘Thank you,’ I replied with false modesty. ‘It’s not as attractive as I’d
have liked it, and the homemade jam got a bit gloopy.’
‘I can’t believe you make your own jam, too. You are like the perfect
wife.’
‘I try my best.’ I silently thanked the supermarket and encouraged him
towards another slice. There are many sides to me, but all they ever saw was
one: the nurturer.
‘I know why all that food you make for the fundraisers sells, literally,
like hot cakes,’ Zoe added. ‘Seriously, though, you should think about
entering one of those baking competitions on the telly. You’d storm it.’
She had lipstick on her front teeth again. What was wrong with people?
Fundraisers are my speciality. End of the Line is a registered charity and
doesn’t receive local or national government handouts. With branches in
almost every county, they’re all expected to be self-sufficient and responsible
for paying their own running costs. Telephone lines, computer upgrades,
software, stationery, rent, utilities and council tax, et cetera, all total around
£80,000 a year. As treasurer, I’d been quite happy to lead the charge myself to
find the money, until head office promoted Janine Thomson to manager. She
didn’t just tread on my toes, she danced all over them with the grace of an
ostrich on hot coals.
I’d known at first sight when she started as a volunteer two years earlier
that we were unlikely to become friends. Everything about her appearance
offended me, like her squinty little eyes and her brows plucked into ridiculous
curves resembling the McDonald’s golden arches. Grey hairs crawled across
her scalp like unsightly slugs, and she tried to plump up her paper-thin lips by
colouring above and below them in a gaudy red. She was a clown in search of
a circus.
 Then, when she was given the manager’s position above me after all the
hard work I’d put in, my dislike turned to loathing. I hadn’t even wanted the
job, as it would have given me less time to man the phones, but it was the
principle that mattered. It should have been offered to me on a plate.
Janine immediately became one of those women who needed you to
know that she was in charge, even though we’d been running things
successfully long before her interference.
But what annoyed me the most was that she demonstrated an unhealthy
preoccupation with me. Sometimes as I sat in my booth listening to another
troubled soul spilling their secrets, I’d catch her in her glass-walled office, her
glasses perched on the tip of her nose, staring at me, straining to pick up on
something I was saying that wasn’t in the rule book. If only she knew just
how far away from that book I could stray when the mood took me. And
when Tony had accompanied me to a dinner to celebrate Mary’s sixtieth
birthday, Janine could barely take her eyes off him. I watched as she flirted
and he humoured her. But deep down she must have known that she could
never attract a man like my husband, or any man with a pulse and without
cataracts, for that matter.
‘Try some of Laura’s cake,’ Kevin suggested when Janine stepped into
the kitchen to rinse her coffee mug. An awful orange handbag with the
emblem of a Chinese dragon on the side – a self-portrait, I assumed – hung
from her sloping shoulder. It was the only bag she appeared to own and it
matched nothing in her limited wardrobe of drab, patterned rags. I believed
her when she said the bag was one of a kind, because nobody else would want
it.
‘I don’t know how you find the time to do so much,’ she began. The
others couldn’t hear it but I recognised something accusatory in her tone.
‘You volunteer here, you have a family and you still manage to give Mary
Berry a run for her money. Quite the domestic goddess, aren’t you?’
‘I like to set a good example for my children and I’m very good at
multitasking,’ I replied through a narrow smile. ‘If you need me to give you
some tips, you have only to ask. Would you like a slice?’
‘No thank you, I’m gluten intolerant.’
‘Is that really a thing? Do you just wake up one morning and realise that
after fifty-odd years you can’t eat cake?’
‘I’m forty-two.’ She glared at me and I made an imaginary chalk mark
on a board. Kevin and Zoe tried to hide their amusement.
 ‘I’m not very good with ages,’ I added.
Janine had soon learned that her job would be much more difficult
without the thousands of pounds’ worth of sponsorship and donations I alone
brought in each year. I had no hesitation in going cap in hand to local
companies or schmoozing at business leaders’ events to get what I wanted,
even if it meant being pawed at by overweight bald men who stank of whisky,
cigars and desperation, and who assumed I found them attractive.
My hard work brought me praise and freed up Janine’s time to spend on
the gambling websites she visited when she thought nobody else was looking.
She might have deleted them from the Internet browsing history, but I found
them in the cookies section of her computer with the speed of one of those
roulette balls she liked to bet on. I’d kept that knowledge, the screengrabs I’d
taken and her account password to myself. For the time being, anyway.
The afternoon shift was often quiet. Desperate housewives and mums
rang during the day when they were free of husbands and children. It was a
time also favoured by prisoners, making use of our freephone number. Early
mornings were mainly men on their way to work, commonly plagued by
money worries and scared what bills might be lying on the doormat on their
return home later. Most suicidal callers waited until the evening, when, alone,
they had time to think.
That was the time David had favoured. More than seven months had
passed since we had first come into contact, and almost five months since
we’d spoken last. Sometimes I missed him so much that it physically hurt me.
I’d known from his very first call that he and I shared a connection. My
intuition picks up on desperation in a voice, in the phrasing or the way a
person articulates certain words. Instinct will tell me from that conversation if
they’re a candidate. And there’s no feeling quite like when they come into my
life.
David was a gentle, softly spoken but emotionally paralysed man who’d
struggled to move forward after the violent death of his wife. She’d been
killed at home following a break-in by three men while he was working
nights. An oppressive cloud of guilt had since smothered the new life he
hadn’t chosen for himself. It became impossible for him to navigate it alone,
which is why, one desperate evening, he picked up the phone and reached me.
There was something about David’s sadness that mimicked mine and
bonded us. He wasn’t seeking sympathy or asking for someone to assure him
that her death wasn’t his fault, because he had plenty of people around him to
do that. All he wanted was for someone to listen and really hear him – and
there was no one better suited to understand loss than me.
We were kindred spirits, bound together by the atrocious actions of
others. I had chosen to soldier on. He, however, was done. And as our
conversations became more frequent and our emotional connection grew, I
found myself wanting to keep him alive for selfish reasons. I needed our
discourse, I needed to hear him speak and I needed him to need me. I veered
away from my well-trodden path and threw myself into trying to help him see
that if only he could fight that little bit harder and stretch his hand out that
little bit further, his might reach mine and I could save him. My objective
became to keep him with me, while his was to convince me that he was better
off dead. I already had my anchor and I was willing to be his. But I was being
selfish. I just didn’t want to let him go. And eventually, although it broke my
heart, I conceded defeat.
David’s biggest challenge was that he didn’t want to leave this life
alone. So my biggest challenge became trying to find someone willing to end
theirs with him.
Then suddenly she came along.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
I was grateful the house had more than one bathroom when the side-effects of
my slimming tablets began making themselves known.
I found myself glued to the en-suite toilet for the best part of half an
hour. Afterwards, with the smell of Febreze in the air but still with a cramping
tummy, I examined the side profile of my torso in the mirror. There were
definite signs it was becoming a little flatter, even in the last week. I ran my
fingers across it and imagined they belonged to Tony. I could burn at least two
hundred more calories that morning if I did the school run by foot rather than
by car. If I kept making this kind of progress, he might really see me again.
I loaded the dishwasher with my breakfast dishes and saw Tony had
used one of the good mugs for his coffee again, much to my irritation.
Outside, it was warmer than the tubby weatherwoman on breakfast television
had predicted, so I tied my hoodie around my waist and thought of how it
didn’t seem like five minutes ago when I’d taken Alice for her inaugural day
in reception class. Week in, week out we’d make the same journey as I had
with Effie, who’d eventually thought herself too cool to be with us so skipped
a few feet ahead. Alice would hold my hand, singing the chorus of a song
she’d heard on the radio over and over again, driving me mad with her love of
repetition. I’d squeeze her fingers just hard enough to make her squeal and
beg me to stop. Nowadays, neither wanted to hold Mummy’s hand and that
suited me. And by the time I arrived at the school gates, Alice was already in
the distance running around the playground with her friends.
For a moment, I considered trying to engage in conversation with a few
of the other mums as they took up their regular positions in the morning
gossip circle. ‘The Muffia’, Tony had nicknamed them. But it would have
been pointless, because there were never any vacancies in their superficial
little clique. I’d see them on the gym floor like a pack of hyenas, their
knowing glances tearing strips off any woman above a size ten. Then I’d
watch them from the back row of a spin class and imagine them sweating out
their skin fillers onto their white towels below. Afterwards, I’d be quietly
amused as they devoured sugary smoothies and pastries in the café. They
fascinated and repulsed me in equal measure.
My journey from school to my next destination took exactly twenty-two
minutes, a time I used to smoke a cigarette and empty my head of all
negatives. Because whenever I went to visit my anchor, I needed clarity. I
wanted my thoughts and my heart to be as pure as his.
 Before long, the Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home loomed ahead of
me. It was a large, rectangular building with wings sprouting from each side
like branches from a tree. Broad, established oak trees flanked the brick-
paved driveway that led up a slight incline towards the frosted-glass double
doors of the entrance. It was surrounded by rolling landscaped gardens and a
lake.
I smiled at the young receptionists and signed the visitors’ book. I
checked to see if Tony or the girls’ signatures had been added since my last
visit, but their names were absent. They were always absent. None of them
knew I went four times a week.
I was buzzed into the communal area where I found Henry with a small
group of his peers, all sitting separately and all preoccupied with different
objects.
He sat almost motionless in his wheelchair and didn’t acknowledge my
presence. I’d come to expect that and it didn’t matter. I could tell he knew I
was there. Call it a mother’s intuition.
My son’s head had drooped to the right but his eyes remained transfixed
on the television attached to the wall. I never really knew just how much he
was taking in, but he appeared to be concentrating intently on a Peppa Pig
cartoon. A thread of saliva, as faint as a spider’s web, had fallen from the
corner of his mouth, down his chin and onto the breast pocket of his T-shirt. I
took a tissue from my bag and dabbed at it, then used my fingernail to gently
prise small crumbs of breakfast from the other side of his mouth.
I slid my hand under the straps holding him firmly in his wheelchair to
check they weren’t too tight around his waist or shoulders. I’d yelled at a
nurse once when I found the belts had left deep impressions in his skin. I
hated that he might be in pain and unable to express it.
I stared into Henry’s eyes; once upon a time they could light up a room,
but now they seemed to be losing their shine. It hadn’t been an immediate
transformation but I was scared I was beginning to lose him. I had no one to
share my observations with, because I was the only one who ever came to see
him.
I ran my hand through his fine, mousy brown hair. It had been combed
forward even though they knew I didn’t think that style suited him. So I
splashed some water from a plastic cup over my fingers and rearranged his
fringe into a side parting. That seemed to be the favoured style with the boys
his age at Alice’s school.
 Henry’s sinewy arms and legs jutted out from beneath the clothes they’d
dressed him in. He’d not put the weight back on that he’d lost when he
developed pneumonia. I’d spent the best part of two weeks here sleeping by
his side in an armchair, then again later, in hospital, when his lungs needed
draining. It was just my son and me together and it was the longest period of
time I’d been able to spend with him since before the ambulance arrived at
our house to take him away from me.
I was the first to admit those early days with Henry hadn’t been easy,
from his weak immune system that rendered him susceptible to all manner of
infections, to the screaming fits that lasted the best part of a day. Of course he
was a lifelong commitment, but then what child isn’t? But try as I might, I
couldn’t get Tony to accept him. Towards the end, he could barely even look
at his son.
I knew I’d never walk Henry to school, watch him play with his friends,
or be the mother of the groom at his wedding. We wouldn’t share memories
and I’d never really get to know what he was thinking. All the dreams and
plans I’d made for him when I was pregnant had long since evaporated.
So I developed new hopes instead: I wanted to help him become the best
version of himself that he could be. Even the smallest of achievements, like
identifying shapes and colours, became massive and all-consuming.
Gradually I learned to accept the now and not hang on to what might have
been.
His mind would never grow older than one year old or become jaded.
He’d never expect anything more from me than I had to give. To me, Henry
was a perfect seven-year-old, just in his own individual way.
I’d desperately wanted to remain Henry’s caregiver because he was part
of me. And we were muddling along just fine until my cancer diagnosis
ruined everything. The treatment required was urgent and rigorous and left me
hospitalised. By the time I returned home weeks later, Henry had vanished. At
first Tony claimed he was in respite care and would return when I was well
enough to look after him. But when my strength came back, he gave me an
ultimatum – our marriage and the girls, or Henry and me, on our own.
Everyone from Henry’s doctors to his caseworkers assured me that it
wouldn’t resonate with him that he wasn’t returning home again, but I knew
my son. He thought that I’d given up and dumped him in the hands of people
who’d never love him the way I did. And it killed me that he didn’t know that
it wasn’t my fault – that it was my disease, not my lack of willingness, that
had rendered me useless. The guilt almost swallowed me.
I took a little comfort that, here, Henry would be looked after properly.
He had people to feed him, people to bathe him, people to dress him and
people to take him outside in the garden or by the lake to breathe in the fresh
air. He wanted for nothing and he didn’t need me, but still I came. All I could
do was brush the crumbs from his mouth and slick his hair into a parting. At
least it was something.
I took hold of Henry’s hand and placed my fingers on his wrist just to
feel the rhythm of his pulse.
‘I can feel his heartbeat inside me,’ I’d said to Tony once, when I was
pregnant.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s your own heart you can feel.’
He didn’t understand that Henry’s heart and mine were one and the
same. And as long as I could feel his pulse, he would always be my anchor.
 CHAPTER EIGHT
FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS AFTER DAVID
I scowled at the partially empty polystyrene coffee cup that had been left on
my desk.
I hated it when other volunteers used my booth in my absence,
especially when they didn’t have the courtesy to clean up after themselves. As
it was, the office was shabby, to say the least, what with its threadbare 1970s
patterned carpet, faded white woodchip wallpaper, and nicotine-stained
ceiling that no one had seen fit to repaint a decade after the indoor workplace
smoking ban.
Like a graffiti artist’s wall tag, I recognised the litterbug by the lipstick
smeared around the cup’s rim – Janine. I flicked it into a plastic bin, then
squirted the desk with an antibacterial hand-sanitiser and wiped away all
traces of her before answering my first call.
Based only on his nervous ‘Hello’, I knew immediately who was on the
other End of the Line before he’d introduced himself. Some people never
forget a face, but I never forget a voice, even when all that person has spoken
is a solitary word. My eyes lit up.
‘My name is Steven. You probably don’t remember me, but I think you
might be the lady I spoke to recently?’ He was trying, but failing, to hide his
fear.
‘Yes, hello there, Steven, it was me you spoke to and, yes, I do
remember you. How are things with you today?’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘That sounds more positive than the last time. Has something in your
circumstances changed?’
‘Nothing much really, I guess.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ I wasn’t, of course. But I’d already
concluded that if there had been significant improvements, he wouldn’t be
calling me a second time. ‘But regardless, you’re having a good day today at
least?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, sometimes after a good night’s sleep, we just wake up in the
morning feeling better about things.’
‘It doesn’t mean the bad stuff goes away though, does it?’
Arriving at that conclusion himself was one less seed I’d need to plant in
his head.
‘How do you think you can make this good day extend by another
twenty-four hours?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Something in the pause between my questions and his answers made me
think this wasn’t the conversation he wanted or expected. But it was exactly
what I wanted, and I could almost hear his eyebrows knot as I appeared only
to seek positive responses from him. He’d been hoping for a continuation of
what we’d spoken about last time, when he’d wanted my support in ending
his life but didn’t have the backbone to ask.
If a potential candidate finds me a second time, I’ll know they’re
serious. But I’ll always gloss over aspects of our first conversation. I’ll act
like the part where I suggested they weren’t serious about killing themselves
didn’t happen. I’ll consult my notes and throw in the odd fact or phrase they
mentioned last time, to reiterate that I’d listened. But that’ll be it. It’s the
callers who find me intriguing enough to track me down for a third time
who’ll receive my undivided attention.
For the next ten minutes, our conversation was by the book. On the
surface, I aimed to reinforce the positives in his life. But because he was in
such a negative headspace, hearing his own pessimistic responses only served
to highlight his isolation.
‘Steven, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but earlier you said you were
okay, but you don’t sound like you are.’
‘I think I’ve just got in the habit of saying I am so that people don’t
worry about me.’
It was time to give him another hall pass to what he really wanted to
discuss. ‘This is a neutral place. You don’t have to pretend to be feeling
anything you’re not with me. Is there anything you’d like to talk about in
particular?’
‘Um . . . the last time we spoke . . .’
‘I remember . . .’
‘I told you something.’
 ‘You told me a lot of things.’
‘About me thinking about killing myself . . .’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘You asked me if I was prepared to do it.’
‘I don’t recall those being the exact words I used, Steven. I think you
may have misinterpreted what I was saying.’
‘Oh.’
I was confusing him. ‘What conclusions have you made regarding
ending your life since last time?’
‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. In fact, it’s been the only thing on my
mind and I can’t make it stop. You’re right – no matter what I do, nothing is
going to change. All I’m going to feel like is this.’
He was quoting me, almost verbatim. This was another positive sign.
‘And how do you think you can rid yourself of these feelings?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do though, don’t you? If you’re being really honest with
yourself.’
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I’m ready. I mean, I want to . . . I want to die . . .’
‘Steven, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to
go now, as my shift is coming to an end. Unfortunately, I can’t transfer you to
one of my colleagues, but if you call back, I’m sure someone else would be
happy to pick up where we’ve left off.’
It wasn’t the end of my shift, I still had another hour left and I’d never
end a call that abruptly with someone who wasn’t a candidate.
‘What? But—’
‘Take care, David,’ I continued, then hung up without giving him the
chance to say goodbye. He’d call back another day. I was certain of it.
Wait, did I just call him David? I think I did. Bugger!
David had been on my mind a lot recently, and hearing Steven talk about
his feelings of hopelessness reminded me of what David had confessed.
I’d offered to be there on the other end of the telephone for David when
his time came. But he’d needed more than that.
 ‘I don’t want to go on my own,’ he admitted. ‘I need someone to be
there with me. Someone who, like me, is afraid of doing it alone.’
I’d never had anyone make that request before. Flashbacks of miserable
places I’d been to in my childhood began swirling through my head, and if
circumstances had been different I might have given brief consideration to
joining him. But I had a family, and Henry needed me. My anchor held me
firm.
I had to think. Where on earth might I find someone willing to
participate? It’s not like I could advertise on Match.com – Male, 39, good-
looking, great sense of humour, seeks woman to join him in suicide pact. So I
returned to Internet message boards and forums I’d frequented in the early
days, searching for potential candidates. But it’s hard to trust and recruit
someone when they’re hiding behind an avatar.
Then as luck – or fate – would have it, she came into our lives. She was
a young woman who was pregnant and with a severe case of prenatal
depression. It gave her dark thoughts, and the longer the pregnancy continued,
the more convinced she became that she would make a terrible mother. She
thought her husband was having an affair, as he’d been making covert phone
calls and sums of money had been vanishing from their joint account. He was
spending longer at work than normal, and because she’d been feeling fat and
deeply unattractive, she thought he was finding affection elsewhere. I didn’t
care if he was or wasn’t a cheating bastard. It just suited my needs that she
believed he was, as it made her more depressed.
Under different circumstances, I might’ve suggested she held out until
after the birth before acting on her suicidal thoughts. But I needed someone
malleable and open to suggestion and she fitted the bill perfectly.
I was also very aware that I needed her more than she needed me. So I
treated her with kid gloves and used every trick in the book to fast-track the
process. I upped my shifts to every other day and encouraged her to keep
calling until it was me who answered; I suggested she stopped taking the low
dose of antidepressants her doctor had prescribed, in case it gave her a
chemical optimism; I advised keeping a distance from her friends and
philandering husband, and I directed her towards particular Internet suicide
message boards I knew well, to see that she wasn’t alone. After three weeks
of intense conversations, research and manipulation, she was keen to meet
David. And in the seven days before they were to meet, we’d only
communicate through pay-as-you-go, untraceable mobile phones.
 The one and only time they came face to face was the day they stepped
off Birling Gap’s cliff top in East Sussex together. They’d never spoken by
phone, text or email. They had no idea what the other looked or sounded like
or their reasons for dying, only that they shared a mutual destiny. They had
trust in me and in each other – we were three friends all making the same leap
of faith.
Listening to them on the phone as they took their final steps across the
verge and towards the cliff edge, I’d never felt such pride, joy, happiness,
anticipation and excitement all at once. But deep down, I was envious of her
for sharing that precious moment. It clawed away inside me when I saw it on
the local TV news. I wasn’t able to bring myself to watch it and see her as a
real person, so I turned the channel over. I had been instrumental in ending
David’s pain, but she took the glory.
I took a moment to close my eyes and imagine how it might’ve felt to
hold David’s hand and feel his warmth travel through me as we took that one
last step together. I sensed the softness of his skin, the smell of cologne on his
neck, his pulse beating in rhythm with mine – and all with such clarity, as if I
were there.
‘Laura!’ Janine’s irritated voice came from behind and startled me. My
angry eyes opened wide. ‘Your phone is ringing. Could you answer it,
please?’
She pointed to the flashing red light.
‘Of course,’ I replied, and wondered how it might feel to take that phone
and smash her across the face with it.
 CHAPTER NINE
I scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it towards Sanjay’s desk. Even from
this angle, I could see his shirt buttons straining and clumps of dark hair
poking out through the gaps.
The ever-incompetent Janine had messed up the rota and booked too
many of us in, so the room contained more people than I was comfortable
with.
Why are the police in Janine’s office? I’d written.
‘No idea,’ Sanjay mouthed. He’d doused himself in a musky oud-based
cologne, but it was doing little to mask his body odour. I glanced towards
Mary, who was also on a call, and raised my eyebrows, but she shook her
head.
I was supposed to be listening to a widowed pensioner complaining
about her crippling loneliness. But I was far too preoccupied by the uniformed
officers talking to Janine.
Their proximity made me feel uneasy – was this something to do with
me? Had Steven reported me to the police? Had my instinct failed me and had
I gone too far, too soon with him? I guessed the odds were that it might
happen some time. And it would only take one person’s accusation to ruin my
reputation.
R U OK? Sanjay wrote back. I hated text talk when it wasn’t written on
a phone. And even then I wasn’t comfortable with it.
Yes, just being nosy! I scribbled, and added a smiley face.
Quietly, I wanted to grab my bag and dash out of there. But I needed to
know for definite if what was going on in Janine’s office involved me.
My caller started droning on about her two estranged children while my
eyes were fixed upon the two young officers drinking from mugs and tucking
into more of my pastries. I leaned forward and craned my neck to try to pick
up on their muffled conversation, but only a lip-reader could have translated
it.
I felt a knot expand in my stomach to the size of a watermelon as I
replayed my two conversations with Steven in my head. I was quite certain
I’d never told him in actual words that I would support him in ending his life.
I was too careful for that. So any accusations would be his word against mine.
 British law had decriminalised suicide back in 1961, so it was no longer
illegal to try to take your own life. However, encouraging or assisting
someone else’s suicide was a different matter and the police had a duty to
investigate accusations. The maximum penalty, if found guilty, was fourteen
years’ imprisonment. Henry would never survive that long without me.
The more I glared at the officers, the more my initial panic made way
for anger. What was I doing that was so wrong? I was only helping people,
just as End of the Line was supposed to. Granted, I had an agenda, but I had
my own boundaries, too: no children, teenagers or anyone with learning
difficulties – everyone else of sound mind could make their own decisions,
with my assistance of course. If society’s moral compass weren’t so screwed
up, I’d have been rewarded for the lengths I’d gone to in order to help those in
need. People are their own worst enemies when they try to plod along even if
it means leading miserable, hopeless lives. It’s up to me to save them from
themselves.
But there’d be no point in trying to explain that to Janine or to the
police; they’d only spin it into something negative to use against me. Social
workers, counsellors, doctors . . . they’d all judged me in the past and they’d
all been wrong. I wouldn’t sit back and allow history to repeat itself.
As they left, I watched Sanjay wander into her office, and willed my
caller to shut up before I followed him inside.
‘They’ve found our number in another phone of someone who died,’
Sanjay began.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘A young mum who overdosed on heroin.’
Ah, Chantelle.
I’d spoken to her God knows how many times leading up to her death,
but her calls could never be traced back to me. Callers trust us because we
protect their anonymity and we can’t trace their numbers. There are no direct
lines to us and we don’t have extension numbers. Based on the dialling code
of a landline or the GPS of a mobile, calls to End of the Line’s national
number are diverted to the caller’s nearest branch. And whichever of us is free
to answer will do so. If a branch’s lines are all engaged, the call goes to one of
four neighbouring counties. The police must have assumed that because
Chantelle was local, we’d get her calls.
‘How many deaths have been linked to us now?’ Sanjay asked Janine.
 ‘According to the records,’ Janine began, leafing through a printed-out
spreadsheet, ‘this new case makes twenty-four in Northamptonshire in the last
five years.’
I couldn’t take credit for all of them, as much as I’d liked to have.
‘Hmm, slightly higher than average, then,’ said Sanjay.
Janine was being distracted by her computer’s refusal to accept her
password. ‘Bloody thing,’ she snapped.
‘It’s your initial and then surname and your chosen four-digit number,’
Sanjay reminded her. I memorised the numbers she added to a list of notes
entitled ‘Passwords’ on her iPad before she slipped it back into her ugly
orange handbag.
‘I don’t understand what the police want,’ I said. ‘They know our job
isn’t to talk people out of dying or break their confidence. We’re just here to
listen.’
‘Thank you, Laura. I am very aware of what we do,’ replied Janine
piously. ‘They’re investigating whether they can build a case against a drug
dealer she was in a relationship with, and wanted to find out if she’d spoken
to one of us about him. I reiterated, anything that’s said in conversation is in
the strictest confidence.’
Chantelle had spoken to me about him on many occasions. Had he not
constantly eroded her self-confidence and plied her with heroin, our paths
might never have crossed. I owed him my silence.
‘How many times did she call?’ asked Sanjay.
‘Nineteen times in the weeks before she died,’ Janine replied, and
removed a packet of biscuits from her drawer, emblazoned with the words
‘gluten- and dairy-free’. ‘If she came through to this branch, someone must
remember her. And they must know that we don’t encourage callers to be
reliant on talking to just one of us. A second volunteer might offer a different
mindset that helps them more than another can.’
‘Perhaps you might want to send a memo out reminding people of that?’
I suggested.
Janine gave me another one of her withering glances, so I made my way
back to my booth, willing a terminal illness upon her. Not a short one that
developed quickly and snuffed her out within a couple of months, but a long,
nasty one that ate the bitch alive.
 It felt like it had been a close call. As a precautionary measure, I needed
to protect myself, so I promised myself I’d take a step back from lining up
any future candidates. But only after Steven and I finished our work together.
There are five rules I expect each candidate to follow if our relationship
is to prove effective, and Steven would be no exception if he was to make that
third, all-important call.
The first rule is that I am the one in control. Ultimately it will always be
a candidate’s decision whether they live or die, and there’s nothing I can do
about that. But I need to make them understand that without my help, their
attempt to leave this world with minimal fuss will likely fail.
I’ll throw statistics at them to prove my point, like how three-quarters of
people who try to take their life end up botching it because they’re ill-
prepared. Mentally they might be ready, but if they think they can slice into
any vein or hang from a tree and ta-da, that’s it, game over, then they’re
wrong. Pain-free, romanticised suicides only ever happen in television
dramas. When it’s done incorrectly, an attempt can leave a person with
crippling, life-changing injuries.
My second rule is that a candidate must trust me because I know best. I
am a walking encyclopaedia when it comes to ways and means. I have done
my research. I have read up on all feasible methods online, in public libraries
and in medical reports. I have attended inquests of suicides and I have
learned from the successes and failures of the dead.
I know how to jump from even a relatively low bridge or building and
have the best possible chance of a fatal outcome – even a seven-storey plunge
has a decent survival rate if you don’t get it right. I know the most effective
painkillers and benzodiazepines to combine, and which countries export them
with no questions asked. I know which DIY shops sell the strongest, best-
quality ropes and I know the angle they need to be knotted. I know how to
fatally land in water from a great height, and what length of a barrel to hack
from what make of shotgun to stretch from mouth to trigger finger. I even
know the best saw blades to use to cut it. I know how to properly secure a
pipe to a car exhaust. I know how to suffocate and self-strangulate and the
local bodies of water where riptides and sea tides will sweep you away no
matter how strong your anchor. I know all of this because I am an expert.
The third rule is that a candidate must agree to do it within five weeks of
our arrangement. If they can’t get their affairs in order by then, I’ll know
they’re wavering and I’ll cut them off. There will be no second chances. I
don’t like wasting my time.
Number four is that they must leave most of the nitty-gritty work to me.
I will plan for every eventuality once we agree on a preferred method. I’ll set
to work tailoring a package, with attention to detail that is second to none.
Time, location, cost of materials, where to purchase them from . . . there’s
nothing I won’t have thought of. All they have to do is make sure they leave
no mention of me or our relationship anywhere. Under no circumstances must
they ever write down my name or that of End of the Line, not on a piece of
paper or even in the notes section of their phone.
My fifth and final rule is that I demand just one thing in return for my
efforts – transparency. I expect candidates to tell me everything there is to
know about themselves before we part ways. I want to hear their most
cherished memories, their darkest thoughts, their unreached goals, their
biggest regrets, their dirtiest secrets, who they are leaving behind, who won’t
care and who they’ll hurt the most. I want to know about their everyday lives
and the lives they don’t want their best friends to know about.
I liken it to putting livestock in the lushest pasture, feeding them the best
grains and allowing them plenty of access to light and sun – do that and you
will always have a better-tasting meat. For me, by really knowing what makes
a candidate tick, their last breath will sound sweeter to me than any other
sound in the world.
 CHAPTER TEN
FIVE MONTHS AFTER DAVID
On my return from visiting Henry’s residential care home, and before I started
at End of the Line, I made a diversion to a coffee shop in town.
‘Here or to go?’ a disinterested young man behind the counter mumbled.
His face was familiar but I couldn’t place him.
I glanced at my watch – I was still too early to start my next shift. ‘It’s
for here,’ I replied. He filled a mug with a latte, then rolled his eyes when I
asked for a spoon.
I chose a table in the middle of the busy room and sat with my eyelids
tightly shut, listening carefully to the conversations of strangers gathered
around their circular tables. If I concentrated hard enough, I could block out
the rest of the noise in the café, like the cappuccino machine, dishwasher and
even the radio, so that all I heard was the communication between customers.
It was the buzz I got from listening to snapshots of others’ lives that had
first drawn me to offer my time to End of the Line. I recalled how Alice, then
four, was in the living room scribbling pictures of farmyard animals on sheets
of paper spread across the coffee table. Effie was nine and doing her maths
homework. I was on the sofa, supposed to be watching over them, but
admittedly more interested in checking my messages on Internet suicide
message boards. It used to be exciting knowing how much I was helping
people by encouraging them to end their pain. And over time, I gained a
reputation in certain dark corners of the web as the go-to girl for no-nonsense,
detailed advice on the best and worst ways to do it, based on research I’d
collated. I even gained a nickname, the ‘Helpline Heroine’. It made me feel
necessary.
But online posters were transient and anonymous. They were scattered
far and wide and when they ceased leaving messages, I’d never know if it was
because they’d carried out their threats to kill themselves or if they’d just
changed their minds and stopped posting. Rarely would I learn of their
outcome, and eventually it wasn’t enough for me.
What message boards lacked was a human connection. Reading typed
words was not the same as hearing pain in a person’s voice. I needed to suck
up their angst, their uneasiness, their desperation and their confusion. So
when I read in the local paper that End of the Line had a shortage of
volunteers, I wondered if I could take my skills and knowledge in an
important new direction.
Curiosity made me call their number to learn first-hand how their advice
differed from the frank and honest encouragement I gave online. I made up a
story about feeling desperately lonely and that I was seriously contemplating
taking my own life. Except there was no advice. Instead, the woman on the
other End of the Line offered calm, caring words and the time and space to
talk and break down my problems. Mary still has no idea that I was the one
she’d answered the phone to.
There was something habit-forming about making that first call and
hearing her awful, non-judgemental, anodyne response. So, over the next two
weeks, I called again and again and got the same perspective from multiple
Stepford volunteers. I tested these poor misguided souls under various guises,
citing debt, rape, a cheating husband, childhood sex abuse and the horrors of
war as reasons for my woes. I was curious as to how long they could maintain
their saccharine-sweet words before their masks slipped and they told me
what they really thought. But they never did. Not once.
And that was precisely why End of the Line needed me – someone who
could offer their callers an alternative viewpoint, a truthful take on their
predicaments. I would be willing to go that extra mile for the right candidates
and, where necessary, offer them a gentle nudge over the finishing line.
A clock on the wall in the café chimed and I opened my eyes. I put my
empty mug back on the counter and received a weak smile from the boy. I
looked at his name badge. Thom, it read, and suddenly the penny dropped –
I’d found his pictures on Effie’s phone. He’d been encouraging her to send
him photos of her semi-naked body.
My mood darkened as I walked through Northampton town centre and
towards the office. With my head bowed and my phone in my hand, I logged
in to my daughter’s Facebook account. This time her inbox contained a naked
and aroused photograph of Thom he’d sent her – and by the look of the decor
around him, it had been taken in the back of the coffee shop. I was furious at
him, and just as angry at her for not deleting it. He was a seventeen-year-old
man sending a fourteen-year-old child pornographic images.
If I reported him to the police, in all likelihood he’d receive a slap on the
wrist. So I took matters into my own hands.
Nothing was confidential anymore when it came to young people and
social media. So if Thom was so eager to share and be validated by the world,
let’s see what he thought when they started judging him by his less-than-
impressive genitals. He’d been foolish enough to keep his face in the shot, so
I screen-grabbed the picture and tweeted it using my anonymous account to
the international chain of coffee outlets that employed him, stating his name
and the branch where he worked and had taken the picture.
Then I logged on to the fake Facebook account I’d created to investigate
candidates’ profiles if they gave away enough of themselves. I posted Thom’s
picture to his own timeline for all to see, then to the timelines of anyone in his
friends list who shared his surname. I posted it on the school’s own Facebook
page, plus all those set up by parents for each individual year group. Then I
logged back into Effie’s profile and posted it on her page. Finally, I changed
her password so that she couldn’t take the picture down.
By the time I reached the office, I was satisfied that it was going to be
the End of the Line for Effie and that boy.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
The corridors leading away from the high-dependency unit at Northampton
General Hospital were eerily quiet for mid-afternoon.
I’d just missed visiting hours, but that hadn’t stopped me from turning
up unannounced to check if there’d been any improvement in Olly’s
condition.
We’d been in this building many times over the years, for various
conditions common to the homeless. Hepatitis B, bronchitis, infected foot
calluses, gum abscesses and, more often than not, his early-stage cirrhosis of
the liver stemming from frequent alcohol abuse. Now tuberculosis had
poleaxed him, a direct result of the damage to his immune system caused by
his HIV. Each disease was speeding up the progress of the other, leaving his
body in constant turmoil.
His NHS records listed me as his emergency contact. Tony didn’t
understand my need to stand by Olly no matter what the predicament or self-
inflicted ailment that was knocking nine bells out of him. My husband had
urged me many times to ‘do myself a favour’ and wash my hands of him. But
I could never do that.
The doors to his ward were locked to prevent the spread of infection, so
I peered through the windows that stretched across three sections of the room,
but still I couldn’t locate him. Last time, he’d struggled to breathe, so – while
he was heavily sedated – a noisy machine did the hard work for him. A plastic
mask had been taped to his mouth and a pipe inserted into his throat, making
his chest rise and fall. It had been heartbreaking to watch.
Living rough, he’d wear layer after layer of clothing. He’d told me it
was easier to carry them on his back than risk leaving them somewhere and
having them stolen. I remembered how emaciated and angular he’d looked in
just a blue, paper-thin hospital gown, barely making a dent in the bedsheets.
I’d remained by the side of his bed for the best part of a week, like I had when
Henry battled pneumonia, and I wondered how much of my life I’d spent
willing someone I loved to fight for their life.
I scanned the room again; perhaps I hadn’t recognised Olly because the
nurses had cleaned him up. He’d likely have been scrubbed and bathed, his
beard trimmed and his hair cut short. He’d hate that. He hated any
resemblance to the boy I’d shared a foster home with.
Our foster mother, Sylvia Hughes, was the greatest manipulator I’d ever met.
The only positive experience from my time spent living under her roof was
learning how to convince the world you are one thing when, inside, you are
someone altogether different.
She’d convinced everyone of importance that she was providing a safe
haven for the dozens of foster children she’d welcomed over the years. But to
those of us in her care, we were there to serve a purpose.
Even now I can remember the taste of fear that lodged in my throat and
how my pace slowed when I turned the corner on the approach to her
apartment block. When the weekend loomed, I’d dread returning to the tired,
ten-storey, grey concrete building. Being at another new school with no
friends was still more appealing than being in Sylvia’s company for a whole
weekend.
I can remember every minute of that last weekend with Olly, right from
the moment I walked up the staircase on a Friday afternoon, holding my
breath as I turned the door handle. I crossed my fingers and hoped Olly would
already be home, but the flat was silent.
Social services had us listed as living in the apartment next door. It was
a pleasantly decorated place with two spare bedrooms packed with toys, and a
kitchen with a fridge full of food. However, we were only rarely allowed
inside, when social workers made appointments to check on our well-being.
‘Hell-being’, Olly had renamed it. The flat where we actually lived was very
different.
I kicked a clear path through the old newspapers and bags of rubbish
clogging up the corridor, and with a rumbling belly I opened the fridge door.
But, as was often the case, all it contained was a broken light and an
avalanche of freezer frost. Inside was a solitary frozen cheese and tomato
pizza that I placed under the grill.
I cut it into symmetrical slices as the front door opened and Sylvia and
Olly entered. My heart sank. By the dazed look on his face, I knew where she
had taken him. Through half-closed eyes, he tried to pretend everything was
okay by offering me an absent-minded smile that we both knew was
disguising something else. At fourteen, Olly was on the cusp of manhood, but
his height and slender frame gave him the appearance of a boy much younger.
At thirteen, I too was small for my age. He stumbled into his bedroom and
closed the door behind him.
‘How was school?’ asked Sylvia, and grabbed a slice from my hand,
vacuuming it up like a snake swallowing a mouse. As her T-shirt rose up and
exposed her belly, I noted it had fresh puncture wounds. She must have given
up trying to locate a vein in her arms or legs that hadn’t already collapsed.
She relied on long-sleeved tops to mask the fact that she was a functioning
heroin addict.
‘It was okay, thanks,’ I replied.
‘Good girl,’ Sylvia replied, then sparked up a joint and made her way to
the living room. ‘I’m going next door to chill.’
I waited to hear the sound of the television before tiptoeing to Olly’s
bedroom and quietly pushing the closed door ajar. I hated closed doors. He
awoke with a start, throwing himself back against the wall like a cornered
animal.
‘It’s okay, it’s me,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve brought you pizza.’
‘Thank you,’ he croaked, his throat sore, and he calmed down.
We remained in silence, sharing the food from the plate as I tried hard
not to acknowledge the bruises on his wrists and neck, or the dried crusts of
blood inside his nostrils. I noticed the red spotting in the underwear he’d left
lying on a heap on the floor, still inside his trousers. But I knew better than to
ask what’d happened or who’d been responsible.
He slowly drifted into the safety of sleep to the sounds of the radio being
played loudly next door, permeating the walls. I squirmed my way in front of
him, protecting his skinny frame with my back. I moulded my body into his
and pulled his arm over my chest.
‘I love you, Olly,’ I whispered, knowing that we were safer together than
when we were apart.

‘Hello, Mrs Morris, isn’t it?’

The past evaporated at Dr Kotnis’s voice. I hadn’t heard him approach,
and I recoiled when he tapped me on the shoulder. ‘What brings you to High
Dependency?’
‘My friend Olly,’ I said.
‘Oh, right,’ he replied, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I wasn’t aware
he’d been admitted.’
‘You said last time he was here that he needs to make some serious
changes to his circumstances or you were worried about his future. Well, I
don’t know what else I can do. I’ve begged him to start getting his CD4 cell
count monitored, to stop drinking, and I’ve even offered him a room in my
house to get clean. But he refuses.’
My lips began to tremble and I curled my toes and fingers to stop myself
from crying. Dr Kotnis nodded sympathetically, as if he understood my
predicament and had seen it many times before.
‘Unfortunately, that’s about all you can do,’ he replied with a kind smile.
‘I can try to talk to him again if you’d like?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Okay, leave it with me.’ He smiled again before leaving me alone
outside Olly’s ward.
I left without seeing Olly, but hoped he could feel my presence.
 CHAPTER TWELVE
FIVE MONTHS, ONE WEEK AFTER DAVID
There were thirty or so members of the Northants Women’s Circle inside the
function room of Great Houghton’s village hall.
They queued at a table, on which was a tray of biscuits and an urn of hot
water. They dropped teabags and spoonfuls of instant coffee and sugar into
mismatched mugs. Most of them looked as if they were knocking on heaven’s
door, and they’d come to hear Mary and me discuss our voluntary work at
End of the Line.
Janine had only sent me there with Mary out of spite. She was well
aware that my comfort zone extended only as far as charming local
businesses, applying for National Lottery grants and organising bake and
jumble sales. It most definitely did not include this decrepit audience.
Mary had more in common with them than I did. Most old people made
me feel uncomfortable, as if their years of wisdom and experience gave them
the capacity to see right through me. Mary, however, was an exception. I
could have been a serial killer working my way around the room and
euthanising every last one of them, and she’d still find some good to see in
me.
We sat side by side on two plastic chairs at the front of the hall. I fixed
my gaze on her as she used brightly coloured cue cards to remind her of the
subjects she wanted to address. Her voice was confident, like she was
comfortable among her own kind, whereas I just wanted to be back in the
office waiting for the next call.
It was more than five months since I’d helped David and I was craving a
new challenge. Steven was supposed to have fitted the bill, but his all-
important third call still hadn’t come.
In an ideal world, I’ll only ever take on one candidate at a time. But
sometimes, like buses, two can come along at once and juggling them is
exhausting. Like Michael and Helena, two of my early candidates. He was a
middle-aged man with late-stage prostate cancer. It was a Monday evening
when he suffocated himself with a plastic bag and a gas canister. The next
morning, Helena took an overdose of painkillers. She was a twenty-something
having an affair with a married dad-of-two who had reneged on his promise to
leave his wife for her. After I helped her see that her death would teach him a
lesson, I made sure to hammer the point home by placing an obituary in the
local paper on his behalf, using his full name and making sure to describe her
as his ‘beautiful girlfriend’.
As luck would have it, their funerals fell on the same day in
neighbouring churches. I had walked from one to the other, and still got to the
office in time for my afternoon shift.
‘Do you need a lot of training or can you start answering calls straight
away?’ asked a woman in the front row. Her ankles were as thick as her
calves. I wanted to tell her that there were many pointless bureaucratic hoops
to jump through first, which taught you to go against your instinct and to
listen rather than advise. But I didn’t.
‘Yes, there is a lot of training to be done to prepare you for what you
might hear,’ I replied. ‘Some calls we get are quite hard, so we need to be
ready for anything.’
After my first interview at End of the Line, I did my homework and read
up on the answers expected in their psychometric and personality tests. I was
asked my opinions on everything from abortions to what I’d tell a terminally
ill friend who didn’t want to continue treatment. All were designed to see how
open-minded, liberal and non-judgemental I was. The truth is that I am
judgemental, but I went against my real self because giving advice isn’t
listening. Only once did I slip up and say the words ‘commit suicide’.
‘Commit’ is a word we never use, as it makes suicide sound like it’s a crime,
which it isn’t.
I passed, and then came the training – one day a week for the best part
of two months. I was quick to get the measure of my mentor Mary. Her adult
son had long flown the nest and the country, leaving her with a husband
who’d rather spend time on the golf course than with her. I sensed she was
aimless and empty and in another life, I’d have fast-tracked her as a
candidate.
She filled her days between now and death by offering a friendly ear to
others. Her body was slimmer than mine but she hid it away under frumpy
clothing and abided by the World War II slogan ‘make do and mend’. I’d see
her quietly green-eyeing the fashions I wore, and I’d make a point of telling
her where I’d bought them and how much they cost.
Mary wore little make-up, ageing her further, and all the fillers in the
world couldn’t have ironed out the wrinkles in her face. She didn’t even
colour her short, silver hair, as if she didn’t see the point of making an effort
anymore. When she was considering a question or was lost in thought, she’d
move her jaw from left to right like she was easing her loose dentures back
into place. I’d rather be dead than become Mary.
Together, we embarked on an exploration of hypothetical depths of
despair to see how much I knew about the types of problems callers were
experiencing. It wasn’t in my nature to try to cheer someone up or tell them I
knew how they felt, so that wasn’t a habit I needed to break.
Despite her maturity, Mary was easily hoodwinked; that’s the problem
with those who only ever see the good in people. I found it easy to appear
saddened as she recounted some of the horrors callers had told her. Secretly, I
couldn’t wait until she let go of my reins and I could experience their
suffering first-hand.
When the time arrived, I had to stifle my excitement. Not every call
came from someone with suicidal thoughts, but when my first one arrived, I
had to clench my fists to stop myself from clapping like a sea lion. For the
first of my eight probationary shifts, Mary wore an earpiece to listen in on my
conversations. Occasionally she’d pass me a suggested line of questioning on
a Post-it note, and once the call was over she’d debrief me and offer
constructive feedback. Well, she found it constructive. I found it time-
consuming nonsense. Finally, with the wool well and truly pulled over her
eyes, she unscrewed my stabilisers and I was off on my own.
There were many guidelines to follow, and even now I obey them, by
and large. I don’t agree with them all but there’s no point in trying to break
the rules just for the sake of it. Remain below the radar and no one will ever
see you for what you are. And just to be on the safe side, I took three, maybe
even four months before I began playing by my own rules.
I didn’t abandon the Internet message boards completely. I’d visit
weekly and answer some questions, or continue talking to people I’d already
started conversations with. But End of the Line gave me what the boards
couldn’t.
‘What do you think about when you go home at night?’ asked a woman
at the back of the Northants Women’s Circle meeting. ‘Do you ever worry
how the people you’ve spoken to are getting on?’
I never forget a voice and I recognised hers. She’d called me before, up
to her eyes in credit card debt. She certainly hadn’t spent all her money on her
appearance.
‘Some of them stay with you longer than others,’ I replied, and thought
of David. His and that of the woman I’d matched him with were the only
funerals I hadn’t been to. I hadn’t even seen a photograph of them. Yet he still
burned deeper inside me than anyone else.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I hated this house.
I glanced around the open-plan space that was full of barely used
objects. A top-of-the-range fifty-two-inch television that was hardly ever
turned on, an eight-seater dining room table and chairs that had yet to be eaten
off, and two L-shaped sofas were rarely sat upon. Our £20,000 kitchen was
adorned with branded, built-in appliances, Corian surfaces and Italian marble-
tiled flooring. It was all less than a couple of years old, so beautiful, so box-
fresh, but so hollow. The house had everything a family could need with the
exception of love. In fact, try as I might, I couldn’t remember the last time
that all five of us had been under the same roof, together at the same time.
The more hours I whiled away there, the darker the walls became and the
more I resented the house for changing everything.
The sound of a sneeze broke the silence. That cat had been asleep and
curled into a tight ball on the windowsill before waking himself up. I’d
assumed it was only dogs that gave their owners enthusiastic welcomes when
they returned home. But Bieber always dashed through the house at the sound
of Tony’s car crawling up the drive. As soon as the front door opened, he’d
purr and rub his needy little head on Tony’s ankles, and would be rewarded
with more attention than my husband gave me. Tonight, Bieber would have to
join me in waiting. I took my place at the breakfast bar, staring at the oven. I
had to think for a moment to remember what I was even cooking.
I sent all three of them a group WhatsApp message to find out where
they were, but no one replied. They must have gone somewhere without a
phone or Wi-Fi signal. I’d left the mail neatly arranged on the kitchen counter
and I assumed Tony had sifted through it, as it was no longer how I’d left it,
in size order.
I turned on the radio to find my favoured 1980s music station. Whitney
Houston was asking ‘How Will I Know’, the Eurythmics wanted to discover
‘Who’s That Girl?’ and Carly Simon inquired ‘Why’. They asked a lot of
questions back then. All I wanted to know was where was my family?
When the six o’clock news began, I assumed Tony had already left the
office and gone to the gym to knock the hell out of a punch bag. He was
probably training for another of his white-collar boxing tournaments, where
he and other like-minded office workers take each other on in the ring in
organised, regulated matches. When things became strained between us, he’d
spend more and more time there training. And while he’d told me in no
uncertain terms not to attend his fights, I couldn’t help myself, and stood in
the shadows at the back of the Freemasons’ Hall function room, increasingly
aroused by each punch he threw and the damage inflicted on his opponent.
Alice was probably still at an after-school club and would be dropped
off later by a friend’s mum, while Effie might be crying on her friends’
shoulders over Thom, who was likely blaming his public humiliation on her,
for sending all and sundry his naked selfie. Or maybe Tony had taken the girls
out for pizza without me. I wouldn’t put it past him.
I’d grown accustomed to watching my family interact while I lurked on
the sidelines like a bit-part character in my own local theatre production. I
didn’t blame the girls completely – Tony had taken it upon himself to organise
birthday parties and trips out, and he spoiled them by making too much time
to listen to every minute detail of their lives. That put immense pressure on
me to keep up appearances and pretend to be interested in their stories, or else
I’d look like an uninvolved mother. Only I wasn’t as convincing as my
husband.
The distance between Tony and me had expanded from a crack to the
size of a chasm shortly before my cancer diagnosis. I wasn’t even worthy of a
peck on the cheek when he brushed past me on the stairs. I’d remind him how
good he looked as he changed into his gym gear, then pretend not to be hurt
when he didn’t reciprocate with a compliment of his own. I’d even feign
liking the sleeve of tattoos gradually expanding up his left arm from wrist to
shoulder, when quietly I hated them.
For a man approaching his late thirties, Tony was in enviable shape.
When his friends had visited our former house for summer barbecues and he
wore a sleeveless top and cargo shorts, I’d watched their wives ogling him.
Their husbands had ‘dad bods’ and beer bellies, and it was all the women
could do to keep themselves from panting when they saw Tony. Once upon a
time, I’d felt sorry for them, but now I was envious because at least their out-
of-shape partners were present. Tony wasn’t. He was far, far away.
I poured myself another glass from the bottle of Merlot from the online
wine club he’d joined and never got around to cancelling, and asked myself if
I’d been more in tune with Tony’s feelings, might I have been able to pinpoint
the exact moment he’d looked at me and decided I was no longer the woman
he’d married?
The last time I’d instigated intimacy between us, the girls were playing
with Henry in the garden and I’d followed Tony upstairs. He’d moved into the
spare room weeks before, but I’d told myself it was only because the stress of
setting up his own insurance brokerage was giving him sleepless nights. Then,
somewhere along the line, he had decided to make the temporary measure
permanent, and without discussion.
I crept up on him as he changed out of his work suit and, before he
could protest, I slipped my hand down the front of his trousers and wrapped
my other arm around his waist.
‘What are you doing?’ he’d asked. He sounded irritated.
‘I think you know what I’m doing,’ I replied, and moved my hand inside
his briefs and played with his balls.
‘It was a rhetorical question,’ he replied. I could feel him stirring but he
tried to resist. He squirmed until I removed my hand. But I wasn’t ready to
give up, so I began unbuttoning my blouse. He used to find it sexy when I’d
get naked while he was fully clothed. It would turn him on like nothing else.
‘Laura, stop it. I told you, I don’t have the time.’
‘You never have time,’ I sighed. ‘Not for me, anyway.’ Part of me hated
myself for still desiring a physical relationship with someone who didn’t want
one with me. But I longed to connect with him.
‘Maybe you should occupy more of your time with your children, and
leave me the hell alone.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Do you think I’m spending too long at End of the Line? I can cut down
my hours, if that’s what you want.’
‘I don’t care what you do.’
‘You used to. We can’t sort out whatever is happening between us if you
don’t try.’
‘Some things are beyond sorting out.’
I felt sick. ‘I don’t understand why you’re being like this. We’ve been
married for almost sixteen years. Every couple has bumps in the road . . .’
‘A bump? Is that what you’ve convinced yourself this is?’ He lowered
his voice to make sure the children couldn’t hear him through the open
window. Then he looked at me with a contempt I’d never seen in his eyes
before.
‘I know about you, Laura,’ he growled. ‘I know what you are and what
you’ve done. I know everything.’
My eyes locked on to his and my legs felt as if they were about to give
way. He couldn’t have been referring to what I thought he was.
‘What . . . what are you talking about?’ I stammered.
‘You tried to hide your old social services file from me, but I found it
and read the whole fucking thing,’ he snapped. ‘You have lied to me right
from the very beginning of our relationship, and then every step of the way
since. About what happened when you went into care in that house with Olly
. . . the lot. I have no idea who I’m married to.’
I took a step back and felt the bile rising from my stomach, up my throat
and into my mouth. I tried to pretend his words hadn’t just slashed me like
broken glass.
‘You don’t have anything to say, do you?’ he continued.
He was right, I didn’t. I cursed myself; I knew it had been a huge
mistake digging up the past. But once I had it written in black and white, I
couldn’t dispose of it, no matter how hurtful and inaccurate it was. Instead,
I’d hidden the file, so I could reread it and torture myself over and over again.
Only Tony had clearly stumbled across it, too. It explained why he’d become
so distant with me, why sometimes when I looked at him with love, he looked
at me with loathing.
Suddenly I was brought back to the present by the sound of a car engine
outside. I craned my neck, hoping to see Tony’s car. But it was the obese
couple that lived next door. Tony was probably waiting until later, and for me
to go to bed before he brought the girls home.
The oven timer chimed, so I slipped on my oven gloves and removed a
large cooking pot. I pushed the lid to one side to remind myself it was a
chicken casserole I’d made. I poured some into a bowl for me, and the rest I’d
leave for the others to heat up if they were hungry. They’d probably ignore it
though. The freezer was packed full of Tupperware meals I’d made for four,
but that’d only been eaten by one.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FIVE MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER DAVID
‘If you can’t see yourself getting any better, what’s the best outcome you
could hope for?’ I asked Steven.
Like all my questions, it was delivered in a caring, measured manner.
But it was a loaded one. I focused on the second hand of the clock on the
wall, measuring the time of his response. Twenty-four seconds elapsed before
he spoke again.
‘That one morning I just don’t wake up.’
‘You don’t want to wake up,’ I reiterated. ‘I understand.’ And I did. The
same thought had crossed my own mind over the years, more times than I
cared to admit. Only, I possessed the strength to soldier on.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I have to live for?’ he said.
‘Would you like me to? Would you listen to me if I came up with some
reasons?’
‘No, probably not.’
‘Then I won’t patronise you. When you’ve thought long and hard about
bringing your life to an end like you have, I don’t have the right to tell you
you’re wrong, and that’s not what End of the Line is here for. I’m not going to
try to pull you out of a hole; I’m in that hole with you. Have you considered
how you might do it? In our first conversation, you mentioned ending your
life by standing in front of a train.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘What are your thoughts now?’
‘Hanging.’
My eyes lit up. Almost sixty per cent of suicidal men end their lives by
strangulation, but I’d yet to come across one. The prospect immediately
excited me. My tally to date was eight overdoses on illegal or prescription
drugs, three jumpers and four who’d bled to death.
I took a moment to compose myself. ‘Where would you do it?’
‘In my bedroom. I live in a cottage with a vaulted ceiling and wooden
beams. I’ve tested them by doing pull-ups so I know they can take my weight.
Honestly, it’s the perfect place.’ His voice was animated, like a child trying to
impress a parent.
I was pleased to hear from Steven now he’d finally found me again,
although he took a little longer than I’d expected. He seemed more serious
than ever about wanting to die, as if he’d taken the time between calls to
really consider how he might go about it.
The door to the office opened and Zoe entered. She gave me one of her
lipstick-on-her-teeth smiles and a thumbs-up, then took a seat a couple of
desks away from mine and unpacked her bag. It was a satchel I hadn’t seen
before. If there was any doubt she was a lesbian, she’d just answered it. I
moved the receiver closer to my mouth and chose my words carefully so she
didn’t overhear me.
‘Why would you choose . . . those means . . . over any other process?’
‘Because I reckon it’s quick and it’s easy and not much can go wrong.’
I shook my head. This was precisely why people like Steven needed
people like me. He was naive. Only if his method was meticulous and well
researched would it be ‘quick and easy’. There was so much he hadn’t taken
into account. If he chose a drop hanging, he’d instantly fall unconscious and
death would soon follow. Now that would be ‘quick and easy’.
But chances were the beams in an old cottage weren’t high enough for
that, so Steven’s drop would likely be just a few feet. If he got it wrong, he
could suffer a long and drawn-out death. I had so much to teach him.
‘I’ve bought some rope and I’ve been practising my knots by watching
YouTube clips,’ he offered.
‘I don’t think it will be as easy as that.’
‘Why not?’
I glanced over towards Zoe. She was engrossed in a Snapchat
conversation, sending silly pictures of herself with rabbit ears and a dog’s
snout to some equally juvenile-minded fool.
‘Because there are a lot of complications involved in your method, if
that’s what you choose,’ I whispered. ‘But we can work through that another
time if it’s the direction you decide to take.’
‘So you’ll help me?’
‘As I’ve explained to you before, it’s not my job to try to talk you out of
anything or into my way of thinking. I’m just here to listen.’
 ‘What if . . . ?’ His voice trailed off.
I waited for him to finish his sentence, but he didn’t. ‘David?’ I asked.
‘Are you still there?’
‘David?’
‘Sorry, I meant Steven.’ I pinched my arm hard. ‘You were saying,
“what if ”?’
‘What if you were with me when I did it?’
My stomach somersaulted like it did each and every time someone
asked me that question.
‘If you need someone to be with you, then I’m happy to listen and keep
you company.’
‘I don’t mean on the phone.’
His question caught me off-guard and I wasn’t sure if I understood him
correctly. He was hesitant before he spoke again.
‘What if I asked you to be with me, Laura, here in my house, when I
hanged myself ? Would you come?’
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I slept through my alarm and no one had thought to wake me up, so the house
was silent and empty by the time I left my bed.
I passed the spare room that Tony had taken as his own, and wondered if
I’d ever feel his breath against my neck again as he slept. My arm brushed
against the staircase wall and left a black mark on my white dressing gown. I
cursed the wall and threw the gown into the washing machine. And as I
waited for the thirty-minute cycle to finish, I sat at the breakfast bar in my
pyjamas, tucking into two strawberry yoghurts that Effie loved but were soon
to go out of date. The machine’s drum tossed my dressing gown around in all
directions. It resembled how the inside of my head had felt since Steven’s last
phone call.
His request for me to be there for him in person as he died was all I
could think about. For the last thirty-six hours, every time I tried to process
one thought, another would come crashing down upon it, and they generally
involved him.
Often, people don’t like to die alone. Many I’d assisted had shown their
gratitude by asking to share their final moments with me on the other end of
the telephone. A minority had been too self-centred to think about my needs,
and I’d only learned of their deaths through notices in the local newspaper.
But no one, not even David, had asked me to be there in person when they
died. Until Steven.
What if I asked you to be with me, Laura, here in my house, when I
hanged myself ? Would you come? His question still echoed inside me.
At the time, I’d blinked hard and shaken my head, taken aback by his
offer. I’d attempted to retain my calm, professional veneer.
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ I replied.
‘Sorry, I’m just . . . scared that I might get it wrong.’ He sounded
disappointed in me.
‘I understand that, and I’d probably feel the same way if it were me. But
I can be with you by phone for as long as you want.’
‘I need you here, to tell me if I’m messing something up and reassure
me it’s all going to be all right. And to be there for me . . . you know . . . at the
end.’
 ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘No, no, I’m not. But it’s just that you, like, get me. You aren’t like those
therapists and counsellors who try to tell me how much I have to live for, or
dose me up on a cocktail of drugs so I can’t think straight anymore. You
properly care.’
‘I do.’ I was flattered he saw that in me.
‘Would you at least think about it?’
‘I can’t, Steven. I’m sorry, but you’re asking me to do something that’s
illegal and completely unethical. I could get into so much trouble.’
An awkward silence surrounded us, neither knowing what to say next.
‘You’re right and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ he replied. ‘I won’t
do it again.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I should go now,’ he said and hung up.
I’d remained rigid with the receiver clamped to my ear as the end-of-call
tone sounded. The rational side of me bristled at his invitation. I was annoyed
with him for putting me in such a difficult position. But I felt excited, too –
and that made me anxious.
‘Is everything all right, Laura?’ asked Sanjay. ‘You’re away with the
fairies.’
Bugger off and leave me alone, was what I wanted to say. I needed space
to process Steven’s request.
‘Yes, I’ve just had a difficult conversation,’ I replied. ‘Rape, you know.’
‘Do you need a time-out in the appointment room to talk about it?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. But thank you.’
I gave him a half-hearted smile and hurried from my booth to the
bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, then patted it with a paper towel.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I reapplied my lipstick and
foundation.
Of course you can’t do it! Why would he think you might? You’re a
mother, for God’s sake. He has nothing to lose, whereas your children and
husband need you. You have no idea who he really is when he’s away from the
phone. He could be a lunatic. You’d never be so stupid as to say yes.
 Suddenly the washing machine beeped to inform me the spin cycle had
finished. I put my damp dressing gown in the tumble dryer and shoved a
cinnamon bagel in the toaster.
I’d made the right decision to refuse. Being present for Steven’s death
was a ridiculous, dangerous idea.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘I’m afraid I can’t find any record of him being here,’ the nurse began,
scanning through Olly’s case notes on his computer. ‘Are you absolutely sure
you’ve got the right hospital?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure! Do I look like I’m stupid? I was here two
weeks ago when he was in the high-dependency unit. Look again.’
He checked once more, but when his response came in the form of an
apologetic shrug, I wanted to launch myself across the desk at him.
I’d arrived at the ward where Olly was being treated to find he was no
longer there. Naturally I feared the worst and hurried towards the reception
desk. My relief that my friend wasn’t dead was replaced with frustration that
he’d clearly discharged himself.
My nose ran, and angry, burning tears poured down my cheeks as I
dashed back to my car. I sat in the driver’s seat, slipping from present to past
as memories of that final weekend under the care of our foster mother came to
mind.
I recalled that whatever liquid anaesthetic Sylvia had given Olly to drink
with his breakfast turned out to be much more powerful than the usual dose.
‘It’ll make you relax for longer,’ she’d advised as she passed him a
brown glass bottle and told him to drink its contents in one gulp. Olly obliged
and screwed up his face at the bitter taste. The one occasion he’d spat out
something similar without her noticing, he’d ended up in more physical pain
than he’d ever imagined. Sylvia was looking out for his best interests, he told
me, as if to put me at ease. Neither of us believed it. Within moments, the
liquid had the desired effect and his limbs drooped loosely from their sockets
as if he had no strength left in them. Olly barely acknowledged Saturday
morning’s visitor when he arrived to take him away soon after.
Hours later, he’d been returned and was moving restlessly in his sleep. I
remained with him in his bedroom because I wanted the first face he saw
when he awoke to belong to someone who loved him.
As I patiently waited, I played with his toy cars and built dream homes
with large windows and gardens out of his Lego – presents that Wednesday
night’s visitor brought before Olly disappeared with him for hours at a time. I
loathed dolls and plastic ponies and the sorts of toys girls were supposed to
prefer. I also despised the clothes Sylvia put me in. That weekend I didn’t
understand why she’d insisted I wore a pretty skirt with white daisies around
the hem and a too-tight T-shirt that cut into my underarms and
overemphasised the slight curves of my chest.
By early evening, Olly had awoken and we’d made the most of the
empty living room. I absent-mindedly pulled out specks of foam stuffing from
the arms of the sofa as we tried to guess what was being shown on the side of
the television screen that had been smashed. We loved to watch travel
programmes and imagine we were anywhere in the world but in that flat.
However, when Sylvia eventually appeared at the door, she wasn’t alone. The
atmosphere instantly darkened.
‘Say hello to my friends, don’t be rude,’ Sylvia began in an everything-
is-fine tone. Sensing our trepidation but needing us to be on best behaviour,
she shot us a glare, but neither Olly nor I responded. The three men behind
her transfixed us.
The strangers stared at us and smiled with their mouths, but not their
eyes. Nobody in my immediate world, with the exception of Olly, ever smiled
with their eyes. And as time marched on, I’d noticed the light behind his eyes
was gradually dimming. It made me sad. I had made him my anchor, but other
forces were dragging him along the seabed, further and further away. I felt
him pulling at me.
I glared at the unwelcome guests; two were dark-skinned, with salt and
pepper beards and baggy clothing. The other was white, slim, clean-cut, with
dark, swept-back hair and a flawless complexion. I remember I’d never seen
such shiny shoes.
‘Olly, my friends want to know if you’d like to go for a drive with them
in their car?’ Sylvia continued. ‘You like your cars, don’t you? You’re always
playing with them.’
Olly eyed them suspiciously, knowing what their plans for him really
meant.
‘And Laura, my other friend wants to take you shopping,’ she added. ‘I
told you she was a pretty little thing,’ she said to the smart man. ‘Stand up and
show him your skirt.’
‘But the shops are all shut now,’ I replied meekly and remained seated. I
looked to Olly, who clambered stiffly to his feet, clearly still in pain from
earlier.
‘No, leave her alone, just take me,’ he said.
 Sylvia scowled. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I’ll go, but leave Laura alone.’
‘Who are you to tell me what’s best for her?’ Sylvia yelled. ‘I feed and
clothe you and put a roof over your heads and now she’s old enough to start
paying her way.’
‘No!’ shouted Olly.
I hadn’t witnessed my friend this angry before. My eyes brimmed; I
didn’t want to go with the stranger. I wanted to stay there with Olly. He would
protect me like he’d promised until we were old enough to run away together.
Suddenly Sylvia surged across the room faster than I’d ever seen her
move, and reached out to grab my arm. Olly pushed himself into her path. It
fuelled her fury and she clipped him hard around the side of the head with the
back of her hand, shoving him backwards onto the sofa.
The three men stood in silence, watching, as again Olly rose to his feet
to come between Sylvia and me. She craned her neck in the direction of the
men. ‘If you want him, then help me,’ she barked. But before they could
assist, Olly drew his arm back and gave the hardest punch his young arms
would allow. His fist collided with Sylvia’s temple and she lost her balance,
toppling sideways and hitting her head on the fireplace mantelpiece. She
landed on the floor, but before she could move again, Olly lifted a ceramic
ashtray above his head and brought it down upon her forehead.
The men hurried out of the flat and back into the dusk. Olly and I
remained motionless, staring at Sylvia; ash and cigarette butts littered her
cheeks and neck. Her last breath was swift and sudden, not laboured. And I
felt no pity or remorse for having played a part in it.
When it was clear to us she wouldn’t be moving again, we hurried to our
rooms, threw our only clean clothes into bin bags along with our
toothbrushes, a bar of soap and a towel. Then we ran. Even huddling together
that first night in the cold, dark woodland of Delapré Abbey, we felt safer
than we ever had with Sylvia. But it was only to last another day before we
were approached by two policewomen.
When questioned at the police station, we told the truth about how we’d
hurt our foster mother and how she had treated us, but they didn’t believe us. I
was dismissed as an impressionable child caught under the spell of an older
boy, and no matter how vigorously I tried to convince them Olly was trying to
protect me, he faced the full force of the law.
 On the advice of a solicitor who didn’t care about his young, damaged
charge, Olly pleaded guilty to Sylvia’s manslaughter and was sent away to a
young offender institution. Then, as he came of age, he was transferred to an
adult prison, and by the time he was released back into society in his mid-
twenties, the deterioration in him was already in full swing. Meanwhile I’d
moved on to other foster homes, eventually finding a new anchor in Tony.
Olly found his in alcohol.
I left the hospital car park and drove to the places where I’d found Olly
in the past: bus stops, the food recycling bins behind supermarkets, a day
centre, park benches, and a row of derelict houses ready for demolition. All I
needed was a glimpse of him to reassure myself that he was okay. But he was
keeping himself well hidden.
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mary wrapped both of her wrinkled hands around a mug of chamomile tea
and closed her watery eyes.
Her incessant sniffs as she tried to choke back another sob were getting
on my nerves. I wanted to slap her around the face and tell her to get a grip.
Instead, I gritted my teeth and placed my hand on hers and hoped that liver
spots weren’t contagious.
We were sitting together on the sofa in the appointment room at End of
the Line. It was a rarely used ground-floor space designated for visitors who
preferred to talk to a volunteer face to face rather than anonymously by
phone. Our surroundings were every bit as miserable as the lives of the
visitors who came here to spread their doom and gloom. Faded reproduction
watercolours hung on the walls above a white plastic rack containing dog-
eared advice leaflets. A padlocked door linked our building to the derelict
offices next door.
A barely visible green light attached to the security camera above us
remained static, indicating our conversation wasn’t being recorded. Had Mary
been a client and not the least threatening sap you could ever meet, one of our
colleagues upstairs would be monitoring and recording our chat.
‘He was determined to end his life,’ Mary whimpered. ‘I asked every
open-ended question I could think of to find something or someone to make it
worth living, but he was adamant.’
‘You know it’s not your job to make them feel better about themselves
or to change their outlook on life,’ I replied. ‘The last thing they want to hear
is your disapproval. They’re often frightened to die by themselves and want
their last moments to feel as normal as possible, though.’
‘I could hear him preparing himself in his bedroom and he sounded just
so . . . normal . . . but then hearing someone taking an overdose and slowly
dying . . . I’ll never get used to that.’
‘We’ve all been there, so we do feel for you,’ I said. It was a lie. I didn’t
feel sympathy and, if anything, I was angry she’d got to that call before me.
Death had fallen into the lap of an ungrateful old woman who hadn’t deserved
it.
The extent of distress a volunteer feels after a particularly harrowing call
is graded from one to five. And when Janine spotted the emotional state Mary
had wound herself up into, she called a level four. The rules strongly
suggested that Mary didn’t complete her shift and instead debriefed with one
of her peers. As I was the only one not on a call, the job fell to lucky old me.
‘Towards the end, I’m sorry to say this, but I thought about hanging up
on him,’ Mary admitted. I wanted to slap her again, this time hard enough to
send her dentures flying across the room. To not hear his final breath
would’ve been like waiting for hours at a concert and leaving just as the
singer came on stage. ‘He started making this horrible, guttural rasping sound
and I think he might have vomited. I wouldn’t be surprised if he choked to
death. What a horrible way to leave the world.’
That would have been a new one, even for a veteran like me. Now,
quietly, I was grateful Janine had asked me to debrief Mary. It meant I’d made
her relive the pain of that call all over again.

‘I’m so sorry, I really am.’

I had no doubt that when Steven called back later that week and offered
me his apology, it was heartfelt.
‘It’s fine,’ I replied.
‘No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have put you in that position and I don’t know
what I was thinking. I’ve felt shitty about it for the last few days and I really
need you to know I understand I was wrong.’
‘Honestly, Steven, I’m not here to judge you, I’m here to listen to
everything you have to say to me.’
‘Who listens to you when you need to talk?’
I paused. Once upon a time it was Olly, then Tony, and most recently
David. Now the only ear I had was Henry’s. ‘I have friends and colleagues,’ I
replied.
‘Do you have a family?’
We were discouraged from answering personal questions in case our
answers made us sound self-satisfied. But we weren’t supposed to lie about it
either, just downplay it. ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied.
‘I’m trying to imagine what you’re like in the real world.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I was just building up a mental picture of you. I imagine you looking a
bit like an older Jennifer Lawrence. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ I chuckled and felt my cheeks blush. ‘Even the “older”
part is flattering. But alas, I’m not in her league.’
‘Do you have kids?’
‘Yes. Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Is being a father something you have ever considered?’
‘I didn’t have a dad, so I wouldn’t know how to be one. I’d just fuck it
up.’
‘Nature and instinct have ways of leading us into parenthood.’ I read
that once in a magazine lying on a table in a therapist’s waiting room. I didn’t
believe it, but I copied it into the back of my notebook in case it came in
useful.
‘There was someone once, I guess, who I considered having a family
with,’ Steven said.
‘Would you like to tell me about her?’
‘She was sweet and kind and I thought that she really loved me, but
suddenly she disappeared from my life.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
I was happy to hear it, actually. Because the more open and vulnerable
Steven made himself to me, the more I believed he was genuine. I’d tried
catching him out by asking him to repeat stories he’d told me before and
listening carefully for contradictions. But each time, they remained almost
word for word identical.
It didn’t mean he wasn’t being dishonest, though. If somebody like me
can portray an image of a person I’m not, there’s nothing to prevent anyone
else doing the same thing. And frustratingly, I didn’t know enough about him
to check up on him. Could I trust him like I’d trusted David?
With every conversation, Steven reminded me more and more of the
friend I’d lost. However, this time I wasn’t going to allow myself to become
so emotionally involved. The mistake I’d made with David was that I’d
allowed him to get to me. I’d hoped that when he stepped over the cliff top
and the tide swept his body away, that would be the end of our relationship
and I could move on. But even now I heard his voice in the wind as it swayed
the branches of the trees; it was inside the music I played to cover the silence
and now it came through the telephone line in Steven’s voice. Perhaps Steven
had been destined to find me and make me his offer. Maybe by being present
as he hanged himself, I could actually free myself of David.
I glanced at Mary, across the room. Her eyes were still puffy as she
slipped on her well-worn coat and picked up her bag, ready to return to an
empty nest with a husband who hadn’t seen her properly in years. For the
briefest of moments, I could see myself becoming like her, surrounded by
people but so desperately alone, too set in her ways to take a risk. It scared me
to death.
She couldn’t cope with hearing a person die, but I could. I also knew I
could deal with watching it happen, too. So I made a decision and hoped I
wouldn’t live to regret it.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘I’m sorry?’ replied Steven.
I whispered into the receiver, ‘If you are serious about wanting to end
your life, then I will be with you in person when you do it.’
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SIX MONTHS AFTER DAVID
‘Why don’t you tell me what brought you to where you are today?’ I asked
Steven over the phone.
I gingerly took a sip from my steaming mug of peppermint tea and sank
my hips down into the chair, making notes in the book I kept hidden in my
bag. I listened quietly as Steven filled in the blanks of his story.
He hadn’t been a victim of physical or sexual abuse, he was addiction-
free and he wasn’t in debt – the most common reasons for suicidal thoughts.
Instead he was, like a quarter of the British population at some time, suffering
from depression. It had begun in his teenage years with occasional depressive
chapters. Gradually those episodes became a series until they took control of
his life, affecting his studies, ruining his exam results and leading to a career
of unfulfilling jobs. When he found me, he’d been struggling for two years
with psychotic depression that had led to hallucinations and paranoia.
To give Steven credit, he hadn’t just given in and accepted his fate; he’d
battled against his own brain with therapies and an alphabet’s worth of drugs.
Some had brought him temporary relief but made his world a blurred, false
reality. And none of the professionals he consulted could help him see how
the next twenty-eight years of his life would be any better than the first. He
was taking up space in this world and offering nothing in return.
‘What do you get out of our arrangement?’ asked Steven suddenly.
‘You’re going to all this trouble to help me, and in return all you’re asking is
for me to tell you about myself. Is there nothing else I can do for you?’
I was touched by his thoughtfulness. Nobody, not even David, had asked
me that.
‘No, there’s nothing,’ I replied. ‘Your faith is all I need.’
‘Can I ask if you’ve done this for anyone else?’ I asked.
‘Yes, there have been others.’
‘Can you tell me more about them?’
‘Would you like the next person I choose to know about you?’
‘No, not really.’
 ‘Then you have to respect their privacy.’ I hesitated before continuing. ‘I
help different people in different ways. This life is difficult to negotiate alone.
Some people fall by the wayside and need help in finding their way back onto
the right road. Others want to stay off the road completely, and that’s where I
come in.’
‘You called me David before. Was he someone like me?’
My skin prickled as if it had been brushed by stinging nettles. ‘Yes, I did
help David. You remind me of him a little, which is why I might have said his
name in error.’
I took a cursory glance around the room at the rest of the team. Two of
them were gossiping by a boiling kettle in the kitchen, one was on a call, and
Janine was in her office staring hard at her computer. The glass in a picture
frame behind her reflected the image of a moving roulette wheel on her
screen. Her expression told me it wasn’t moving in her favour.
‘Now, let’s get back to what we were talking about earlier,’ I continued,
and detailed where the noose should sit on his neck. ‘If you don’t do it
correctly, your instinct isn’t going to be to just remain there until you pass out,
you’re going to claw at that rope and try to stop yourself from being
strangled. You’ll be in a huge amount of pain and it’ll take five minutes to
lose consciousness and a further twenty to die.’
Hearing him scribbling notes satisfied me. I was quietly making a to-do
list of my own, reminding myself to search his house after his death to ensure
he’d left no evidence linking us. No stray notes screwed up and tossed into a
bin, and my name not written on a pad anywhere. I’d also need to take the
contract-free pay-as-you-go mobile I’d asked him to buy to call me once I’d
agreed to help him. And I didn’t need the police sniffing around his actual
phone and finding End of the Line’s number on there again like they had with
Chantelle.
‘Can I ask you for something before . . . it happens?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I feel almost embarrassed saying this, but could you . . . hug . . . me?
We don’t need to talk or anything and it’s not some kind of sexual thing, it’s
just that I can’t remember the last time I felt anyone’s arms around me.’
My mouth opened and then wavered ever so slightly. ‘Yes,’ I replied,
trying to gain control of any sign of emotion. But I knew exactly how he felt.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
SEVEN MONTHS AFTER DAVID
I woke from a dream with a sudden jolt, confused but aware I’d just yelled the
word ‘no!’
I sat bolt upright in my darkened bedroom and turned to Tony for
reassurance, momentarily forgetting he no longer slept in our bed. I used
some breathing techniques cribbed from my yoga classes and thought about
Henry’s beautiful smile until I felt calm again.
Since I’d agreed to be present for Steven’s death, it was nigh-on
impossible for me to enjoy more than a couple of hours of sleep at a time
without waking up and thinking of him. I attempted to tire myself out in the
early evenings by signing up for Zumba and body-pump gym classes, but all
they did were make my endorphins skyrocket, leaving me wide awake into
the early hours.
I began to think about the five rules I gave my candidates and what
amendments I’d created specifically for Steven. After all, this was the first
time I’d ever been invited to the scene to supervise a person taking their own
life. While I trusted him as much as I could trust anyone in his position, I’d
need to protect my safety and ensure I knew where I was going and in good
time. I told him that at no point must anyone join us. Also, everything in his
house would need to be exactly where he said it was. If I had the slightest
inkling something was out of sorts, I would leave.
The alarm clock read 4.27 a.m. I couldn’t shift my anxiety and needed
comfort from my husband. So I padded quietly along the landing, passing the
girls’ ajar bedroom doors where it was too dark for me to see inside. The
curtains in Tony’s room remained open, however, and an orange streetlight
cast a tangerine glow against the wallpaper. It was as I moved to slip silently
between his sheets that I realised his bed was how I’d left it that morning,
unused and with four decorative cushions propped upright by pillows. He had
not returned home.
I moved both hands in front of my mouth, as if in prayer. Where was
Tony? And more importantly, who was he with?
Entering the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water from the dispenser
in the fridge, and tried to repress my unease. I unplugged my phone from the
charger and checked to see if he’d texted me or left a voicemail after I’d gone
to bed. But there was nothing.
I looked at the suicide message boards on my tablet, because reading
people’s misery and answering questions often helped to relax me. But not
this morning.
Eventually I gave up, defeated, and headed upstairs to change my
clothing before leaving the house.

The wind hit my face like a sharp slap before circling my head and blowing
my ponytail in all manner of directions. I’d learned from last time how cold it
could get up here even in August, so I’d brought a pair of patterned gloves
and a matching scarf with me. I stood firm behind the safety railings, two
hundred feet above the car park below.
The Hartley Hotel had been a blot on Northampton town centre’s
landscape for as long as I could remember; a grotesque twenty-five-storey
building that was only impossible to ignore if you walked with your eyes
closed. I made my way unnoticed through the mahogany-clad lobby towards
the clunky lifts and up to the top floor. There was a musty stairwell to climb,
illuminated by a green emergency exit sign, before I reached the door to the
roof.
It was my fifth candidate, Eleanor, who’d told me about it. She’d lifted
her feet from the asphalt where I was standing now, clambered over the
railings and dropped to the ground below. Now I’d occasionally use the
location to check if I was still needed in this world. I’d lean forward against
the rusty railings, and if the metal bars were to bend and snap, it’d be fate
deciding my time was up, not me. If I remained where I was, it meant God
still had a plan for me to rid the world of the terminally unhappy.
There were some occasions, especially after Henry was taken away from
me, when it wouldn’t have taken much for me to have leaned a little too far
until gravity won out. Eleanor had allowed me to hear her final gasp of breath
before she died on impact. The only thing to prevent me from doing the same
was my anchor, and the knowledge there’d be nobody to hear my final
exhalation. What a waste that would be.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve thought the most beautiful sound in the
world is a person’s last breath. It’s a singularly unique noise that marks the
transition from this life into the next. To have spent time working with a
candidate, encouraging and reinforcing their decision to die and then to be
rewarded with their final breath is intoxicating. It’s something that can never
be replicated. The first time I heard it, it came from my mother’s lips.
The inherited cancer gene that came close to killing me years later took
her life when she was just thirty-two and I was eleven. For days, it had been
just her and my dad alone in their bedroom, with twice-daily visits from
Macmillan nurses.
Dad wanted to keep the inevitable away from me and my younger
sisters, Sara and Karen, for as long as possible. So we’d been uprooted and
landed on the Mabbutt family’s welcome mat further up the road. But every
so often I’d sneak back home to visit Mum, even though she was asleep much
of the time. On her final day, I hid in the living room of the bungalow and
waited until Dad was in the bathroom before I crawled under their bed. That
way I could be close to Mum without having to look at her skeletal frame and
sunken face.
Her body barely made a dip in the mattress above me, but I traced where
her outline might be with my fingers. Her breath was becoming heavy and
laboured, then suddenly she gave out a thick gasp like she was being
suffocated before there was silence. I heard Dad flush the toilet just as Mum
exhaled one last time. It was a long, drawn-out and delicate breath that I
imagined being as soft as cotton wool. I felt it inside me, like something
lighting up my spine and making each of my nerve endings tingle. I thought
that if I could push my lips out as far as I could and breathed in, I might
capture that last breath and hold it inside me forever.
But our shared moment was all too brief, because when my father
returned and discovered she was dead, he fell to his knees and sobbed with
guilt for allowing her to die alone. I didn’t admit I was there and remained
motionless until he left to call for help.
Without his soulmate by his side, Dad didn’t know how to function as a
father or a human being. Even his body seemed to shrink under the pressure
of grief. It wasn’t enough for him to see her image live on in his three
daughters. And over the following year, as his depression escalated, I took on
Mum’s role around the house, washing dishes and clothes, cleaning
bathrooms and reading the girls their bedtime stories.
By day, Dad rarely washed, changed his clothes or left the house. At
night, I’d lie in my bed listening to him aimlessly pace or watch the television
way into the early hours until he finally fell asleep.
Sometimes, when the bungalow was quiet and I was alone, I’d close my
eyes and remember the sound of Mum’s last breath, and it brought us closer
than two people could ever be. How I longed to hear something like it again.
Gradually, a divide opened up between my younger sisters and me,
because while I attended school during the day, they got to spend time at
home with their remaining parent. And then for a while, it was as if they were
accomplishing what I couldn’t by lifting him out of his dark place with their
imaginary tea parties and garden picnics.
‘What are you doing, Daddy?’ I asked him one Saturday afternoon. He
was in the kitchen, crushing something on a breadboard with the back of a
spoon.
‘Would you like to help me?’ He smiled warmly and passed me a rolling
pin. I’ll never forget that smile, because it radiated from his eyes, too. It was
the first time I’d seen it since Mum died. ‘I need you to turn these tablets into
a powder, put them in that jug and then stir it really well.’
He gave me a handful of pills. I was too buoyed up by his need for me to
ask the purpose of what we were doing. When I finished, he popped more
tablets from another blister pack, like the one he kept by the side of his bed to
help him sleep, and we turned them into powder, too.
Quietly, we worked together, me with the rolling pin and him with a
spoon, neither of us saying a word but me sensing everything in our world
was about to change for the better. I was being rewarded for my patience; my
dad was coming back to me. When we ran out of tablets, we brushed the
small powdery mound into a jug. He added a pint and a half of semi-skimmed
milk, heaped in tablespoons of sugar and squirted some strawberry-flavoured
milkshake syrup inside.
‘Girls, come and get your milk,’ he shouted, and Karen and Sara skipped
in from the garden to join us, squishing their bottoms on the same wooden
seat at the kitchen table. He poured out three glasses and I pushed my empty
glass towards him.
‘You’re a big girl now,’ he told me. ‘Why don’t you get some cola
instead?’
‘This tastes funny,’ complained Sara, but Dad ignored her and grinned at
me. I liked being in on the joke even if I didn’t understand the punchline.
‘Can we go and play in the garden now?’ Karen asked, draining her
glass.
‘Why don’t we all go and lie down for a nap?’ he replied.
 ‘But I’m not sleepy,’ Sara replied.
‘Well, let’s play a game. We’ll all keep our eyes closed for half an hour
and if we don’t fall asleep then we can go to the park for ice creams instead.’
My two excited siblings skipped towards Dad’s room and jumped on the
mattress as he and I followed. But as I was about to enter, he stretched his arm
across the door.
‘It’s just us today, sweetheart.’ He leaned forward and kissed me on the
forehead. ‘You’re stronger than us. Once you find your anchor, never let go of
it. No matter what.’
Before I could ask what he meant, he gently closed the door and turned
the lock. I didn’t know what was going to happen in that room, but I had a
strong sense that I needed to hear it. So I remained with my ear pressed to the
door, straining to decipher their muffled chat. Eventually I slumped to the
floor with my back to it, waiting for the thirty-minute deadline to pass. I hated
closed doors, because closed doors meant secrets and I didn’t like being kept
out of secrets.
Gradually their conversation petered out into silence as they drifted into
sleep. I guessed that we wouldn’t be going to the park and crossed my arms in
an exaggerated sulk. I was ready to walk away when I felt my body tingle. A
few moments later and it happened again. Then a longer time passed before I
felt it once more. It was the same warm feeling I’d had on hearing Mum’s last
breath.
Only then did I understand what a wonderful gift my father had given
me. He’d loved me with such intensity that he wanted our family to live on
inside me, the strongest member of our unit. No matter where I was or what I
did with the rest of my life, his act had allowed me to hold them all inside me
where they would never have to suffer loss or pain.
I padded around the house for days, waiting patiently in case I was
wrong and they reappeared from Dad’s bedroom. Sometimes I made the most
of having the television to myself, and sat watching dramas and Children’s
BBC. But it all came to an abrupt end when my English teacher appeared at
the front door to ask why I’d been absent from school for the best part of a
week.
Later, when the police cars and ambulances arrived, I was kept behind a
closed living room door as a policewoman in uniform held my hand and told
me everything would be all right. She was lying. She couldn’t have known
that.
 I glanced out of the window at the neighbours huddling together on their
driveways, puzzled as to what terrible thing had happened in their street that
required so many flashing blue lights. Some held each other tightly when
black plastic bags containing my family were stretchered out.
‘That poor little lass!’ I heard one exclaim as I was led out, too. The only
person not to feel sorry for me was me.
In the following weeks and months, people in authority kept asking me
how I was feeling, if I understood what had happened, whether I wanted to
talk about it or if I needed anything. I didn’t tell anyone about capturing my
family’s last breaths because they wouldn’t understand, nor would they
comprehend that thanks to my dad it would become my purpose to help and
carry other lost souls inside me when and wherever I came across them.
Six years of foster homes then group homes – some good and some not
so good – didn’t do any lasting damage to me in the end. Sylvia taught me
how to hide in plain sight, and Olly showed me the value of finding an anchor
that keeps you in place despite the storms engulfing you.
The sharpness of the wind around the hotel roof made my eyes water,
but I was feeling empowered and leaned further over the railings, balancing
on my tiptoes. It might only take a rogue gust to tip me over the edge. But fate
hadn’t intervened and it wasn’t my time. I still had work to do. Steven needed
me, as would others.
Early this evening he would call me for the last time and we’d run
through my plan. There might not be anyone to hear me when I breathed my
last, but I’d ensure there was somebody who cared enough to be there for his.
 CHAPTER TWENTY
SEVEN MONTHS, ONE WEEK AFTER DAVID
The interior of my Mini was almost silent but for the hum of the engine and
the vehicles I passed. I maintained a speed a little below the legal limit of 30
mph so that a road camera wouldn’t catch me.
Occasionally the clipped accent voicing my satnav broke the quiet, but I
was anxious that nothing else would remove me from the calm, collected
headspace I needed to maintain on the approach to Steven’s house.
Before I left home, I’d texted the girls to tell them I was going to be at
the office a little later than planned, but they must have run out of phone
credit as I hadn’t heard back from them. I picked a coat to wear with deep
pockets on the inside and outside. These I stuffed with gloves, a battery-
operated torch, a packet of wet wipes and a steak knife, just to be on the safe
side. And as each half-mile counted down to my arrival, my heart pounded
faster and faster.
I’d called Steven’s recently purchased disposable phone from the office
at six o’clock, as agreed, to get his address, and immediately I’d typed the
postcode into an app that offered me an aerial view of the road and another
taken from street level. It was as he described. Then I’d visited a property
website to view photos posted online the last time the house was up for sale.
It was a potentially attractive cottage but quite shabby. However, Steven had
warned me that since purchasing it, his worsening depression meant his
interest in keeping it maintained had waned. I looked at the floor plan and his
bedroom was where he’d told me.
I’d spent the week preparing myself for the moment I was to come face
to face with him for the first and last time. It would be nerve-wracking and
thrilling to watch as he slipped a rope around his neck using the method I’d
suggested, then stepped off the chair and let gravity and nature take its course.
His death would be better than anything I had ever imagined I’d get out of
joining End of the Line.
I’d prepared myself for what to expect during and after Steven’s death
by surfing Internet images of the lifeless, contorted bodies of people who’d
chosen the same route. Each one differed from the next. I looked closely at
grooves made by ligatures around throats; bloody, crimson-frothed nostrils
and mouths; elongated necks; prominent eyes with dilated pupils; swollen
tongues and clenched hands. I watched videos that foreign terrorists had
uploaded of public hangings, slow suffocations and strangulations. But no
pictures, footage or descriptive text could prepare me for the final expression
on Steven’s face. And, of course, his last breath.
It felt like an age, but I’d only been behind the wheel for twenty minutes
when I arrived on the outskirts of a village. HARPOLE – PLEASE DRIVE
CAREFULLY, a sign read. I followed the satnav’s directions along the high street
and towards clumps of cottages set back from the road.
‘You have reached your destination,’ the satnav voice said, so I pulled
over, turned off the engine and remained for a moment, staring at house
number 11 just a little further ahead and to the right of me. My fingers
involuntarily wrapped around the arc of the steering wheel to prevent me
from sinking so deeply into my seat that I could never climb out.
I looked closely at Steven’s house. Some of the slate roof tiles were
askew or needed replacing and the white paint on the window frames was
flaking. The garden was overgrown and a wooden gate had fallen from its
hinges and was propped up against an unkempt hedge. A porch on the right-
hand side had a pitched roof and a front door you couldn’t see from the road.
I glanced at my watch: it was 7.50 p.m. and I was due inside in ten
minutes. Now that I was here and the place was in view, my fear rose, causing
my legs to tremble like they were trying to keep up with the ever-increasing
beat of my heart. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep them still. Dusk was
enveloping the village and it gave my mission a more sinister feel.
‘Calm yourself, Laura,’ I spoke out loud. ‘Remain in control and think
of your anchor.’
But not even Henry could help me now.
I remained where I was for the time being until I was sure I hadn’t been
seen. I wasn’t naive to the risks of what I was doing. A tiny, rational portion
of my brain held on to my initial suspicions about Steven’s motives in having
me there. And that part urged me to sit outside his house a little bit longer to
confirm this wasn’t some kind of sick joke. If it was, Steven’s storytelling put
mine to shame.
I craved a cigarette and began to nibble the skin around my fingernails
as I questioned what I was doing there. Nobody was twisting my arm to go
inside; if I just turned over the ignition and drove away, I’d be safe at home
within minutes. That’s what a sensible, cautious person would do. That’s what
Mary would have done. But she was weak, and I was not like her and would
never be. And the lure of what was going to happen under that roof was all
too powerful for me to ignore. I had to go inside.
I slipped on my brown leather gloves so as not to leave fingerprints on
anything I touched, and walked cautiously up a gravel path, passing windows
with drawn curtains. I looked up at the only illuminated window, on the first
floor, where Steven had said he’d be waiting.
The door was ajar and I pushed it open, then took a deep breath and
stepped over the threshold. I fished out my torch and directed the beam
towards various closed doors. The only pieces of furniture in the porch and
hallway were a small table with some dried flowers in a vase and a wooden
chair. Propping the front door open with the chair, in case I needed to beat a
hasty retreat, I slid my hand into my pocket and gripped the handle of the
knife.
As agreed, Steven would meet me in his bedroom. I climbed the stairs,
one at a time, each of them creaking as if to announce my arrival. On the
landing, I paused to take another breath, then made my way towards the only
door with a faint light shining under it.
‘Steven?’ I whispered from beneath the architrave. I scoured the dimly
lit room but he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the room was empty – there
was no bed, no wardrobe, no chest of drawers. Just a wallpapered, almost bare
room with a lamp on the floor. I looked up and the vaulted ceiling had beams
like Steven had described, and I saw the rope attached. It moved ever so
slightly from the draught of the open door. Alarm bells sounded in my head.
This is all wrong. Where is he? This wasn’t what we agreed. Get out of
here!
Fear crawled from the small of my back, up my spine and towards my
shoulders, wrapping itself around my neck like a snake and squeezing my
throat. I wanted to run away so badly but I was too frightened to move.
Suddenly something caught my eye. I paused to squint at it until it came into
focus, and my stomach fell.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ I whispered, and clasped the knife even more tightly.
Instead of finding a man I’d promised to help in the last moments of his life, I
was confronted by something shocking in the patterns of the wallpaper. I
realised I wasn’t looking at wallpaper at all. It was hundreds of photographs
of me.
Me walking up the steps and into the office. Me in my street. Me
driving. Me on a spin bike at the gym. Me pushing a trolley around the
supermarket. Me through the kitchen window. Me sitting in the coffee shop in
town. Me entering the Hartley Hotel car park. From what I could see, every
picture appeared to be different; Steven must have been following me for
weeks.
It got worse, because I wasn’t the only focus of the lens. Tony had been
caught boxing at the gym and going to his office. There were also my children
on their way to school. Me watching Alice in the playground with her friends.
Effie in the passenger seat of a boy’s car. Henry in the residential home’s
community lounge as I combed his hair. To take some of the photographs,
Steven must have been standing just a couple of feet behind me and I hadn’t
known.
Instinct and fear made me grab at them, yanking them down by the
fistful, cramming them into my pockets or throwing them to the floor as if
doing that would be enough to wake me from the nightmare. But there were
too many to dispose of. And if Steven had gone to all this trouble to scare me,
what else might he be capable of ?
‘Don’t you like your picture being taken?’
I spun around quickly in the direction of Steven’s voice, which seemed
to come out of nowhere. A figure was standing in the doorway, the darkness
of the hall masking his face. He stepped forward two paces so I could see him
more clearly, and I moved backwards. His hands were by his side and I now
could make out the intensity of his stare.
‘I’ve gone to a lot of effort,’ he continued, his speech firm and
confident, much more so than I’d ever heard him by phone. ‘I spent weeks
following you and your family around. The least you can do is appreciate
them.’
I took another step back into the bedroom, but realised that in doing so,
he was cornering me. I struggled to breathe. It was like someone was choking
me.
‘What . . . what do you want from me?’ I eventually stammered.
‘I want you to tell me why you manipulate vulnerable people and what
you get out of it,’ he responded. ‘And none of that wanting to “help people
who’ve fallen by the road” bullshit.’
He moved towards me, so I tugged the knife from my pocket and held it
in front of me. The dim light in the room kept catching the silver blade as my
hand shook. I could see Steven’s face more clearly now. It wasn’t as
menacing as he sounded, but his body language terrified me.
He laughed mockingly as he looked at the knife. ‘You are many things,
Laura Morris, but you don’t have the guts to actually kill anyone with your
own bare hands. You do it from behind a telephone or a keyboard. Me,
however . . . well, I’m an unknown quantity, aren’t I? You don’t know what
I’m capable of.’
‘Don’t come any closer,’ I said. My groin suddenly felt warm and I
realised I was wetting myself, but I couldn’t stop. ‘Let me go. Please.’
‘You think saying please is going to help you out of this? You aren’t
going anywhere, Laura. You see that rope? It’s not me who’s going to be
hanging from the beams tonight. It’s you.’
I stretched my arm out further, waving the knife at him. Only he edged
closer to me, so he was just a couple of feet away. I stepped backwards again
until I reached the wall.
‘Go on then, Laura, do your best. I’ve got nothing to lose because you
have taken everything I had away from me already.’
It felt like someone had pressed pause on the moment; neither of us
showing our hand or making the next move. Then suddenly Steven went to
grab my wrist, his fingers digging in until they felt like they were going to
break the bone. I yelled as he pulled me around and twisted my other arm
behind my back and pushed me towards the rope. I struggled to break free,
but he held me tighter and my fingers began to lose their grip on the knife
until it fell to the floor.
‘Don’t worry, Laura. It’s not going to take long. The noose has been tied
in exactly the way you told me to do it, at exactly the right height for a swift
death.’
‘Please, Steven,’ I begged. ‘Whatever I’ve done to you, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘I have children . . . I’m a mother . . .’
‘And they’d be better off without you.’
He grabbed the rope with his other hand and started to put it over my
head. So I seized the opportunity to elbow him in the groin and kick his shin
hard. The shock made him loosen his grip on my arm, just enough for me to
shake completely free. I bent down, grabbed the knife, turned in his direction
and thrust it blindly in front of me. It only stopped when I felt his hand grasp
my wrist again and the knife went no further. But as I went to hit him with my
free hand, he suddenly dropped to his knees. He looked up at me and then
down at his stomach. My knife was embedded in him.
I froze – I had just stabbed the man I’d come to watch die. And while
none of it had played out like it was supposed to, I had no desire to remain
there any longer or even hear his last breath. Because what if he wasn’t alone?
What if there were others waiting in the house? I needed to protect myself.
While Steven remained kneeling on the floor, groaning and clearly in
pain, I bent over and, before he could prevent me, yanked the knife from his
stomach. He screamed and fell to his side, shouting something but I couldn’t
make out the words.
Then with all the strength I could muster, I ran from the room and along
the landing. But without the torch lighting my way, in my panic I misjudged
the first step on the staircase and hit the ridge of the second. I fell forward,
head and body first, and my cheekbone smacked the base of the banister.
Then I tumbled in a sideways motion, catching my forehead against the
handrail as my body crumpled in a U-shape and came to a halt close to the
bottom. Lying still, dazed and confused as to what had just happened, I only
pulled myself together when I heard groaning and Steven dragging himself
across the floorboards upstairs.
With all my remaining strength, I pulled myself to my feet with both
hands gripping the handrail, and moved as quickly as I could towards the
front door. Stumbling back into my car, I locked the doors and forced my key
into the ignition. The wheels spun as I pulled away as fast as the Mini would
allow.
RYAN
 CHAPTER ONE
Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat of a
song playing on the radio and singing at the top of my voice, I was pretty
pleased I could still remember all the words to Justin Timberlake’s
‘SexyBack’ more than a decade after it played the night I met Charlotte at the
student union bar.
She’d been dancing to it with a group of her friends when I saw her,
then sparked up a drunken conversation. Lately, when she was going through
one of her funks, I could still make her smile by dancing around the bedroom
naked, miming along to the song, the irony being that bringing sexy back was
pretty much the exact opposite of what I was doing.
I remembered her admitting on one of our first dates that she had a crush
on Justin from his *NSYNC days. And after a few Jägerbombs, she confessed
how, when she was a girl, she’d scribble out the face of his then-girlfriend
Britney Spears in her mum’s gossip mags and pretend that she was dating
him. I hoped her teenage self wouldn’t be too disappointed she was now
Mrs Ryan Smith and not Mrs Timberlake.
I stopped the car at a red light and my eyes wandered uphill to
Northampton’s skyline of new-build offices and high-rise flats. I’d been born
and raised here and remembered how once, when it had felt so small and
claustrophobic, I couldn’t wait to break out on my own. It only took a couple
of terms at the University of Sunderland before I understood that once you
strip away a town’s facade, they’re all the same underneath.
Charlotte’s willingness to laugh at the less cool aspects of herself was
rare among the type of girls I’d hung out with back then. So was the way she
looked. With her delicate features, chestnut curls, sky-blue stare and the
androgynous clothes she wore, I knew early on that she was something
special. Eleven years later and I was still right.
It was in our final year at uni when we decided to try to make it in
London after graduation. We were fresh-faced, bursting with enthusiasm, and
nothing could stop us from conquering the capital. Once we got there, the
reality was that we were two anonymous little fish in a ginormous polluted
pond. We shared a ridiculously overpriced flat above a Chinese takeaway,
lived an hour’s commute from all the cool places we wanted to hang out at
and barely had any spare cash to live the city life we’d imagined. But it
served its purpose, and after a year of training it got me on the career ladder
and we sucked it up without complaint.
Once we were married and had decided the time was right to start a
family, I was adamant I didn’t want to do it in London. I landed a job back
home before Charlotte did – she wasn’t so convinced it was the right place for
us to be. However, she gave it a chance and started work as a graphic designer
at an agency not far from the flat we bought together.
The traffic lights turned to green, and as January’s night began to fall I
drove past Becket’s Park, just about making out the colourful moored canal
boats in the marina. I couldn’t stop myself from grinning when I passed the
Barratt maternity unit building, because in a little over two months, Charlotte
and I would be waiting for a bed there. It hadn’t been easy: a combination of
her polycystic ovaries and my low sperm count meant we’d had to rely on
NHS-funded IVF to conceive. But on our second cycle, bingo! We were
expectant parents.
I couldn’t wait to be in that hospital to meet my kid for the first time.
And to be honest, I was even a little bit envious of Charlotte and what her
body was able to achieve, while mine couldn’t even finish its part without my
helping hand and a fertility expert’s syringe.
I soon changed my mind. Some women take to pregnancy like a duck to
water, but after the first month, Charlotte really struggled. Morning, afternoon
and evening sickness sapped all her energy levels and she was constantly
feeling crappy. It became so bad that she was forced to take a leave of
absence from the job she enjoyed. She spent much of her day mooching
around the flat, and never too far away from a toilet bowl. But as we
approached the final part of our third trimester, she turned a corner.
I glanced at the time as I continued on my way home – I reckoned I’d
have half an hour to shower and spruce myself up before we headed to her
favourite Thai restaurant to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary. And it
was there that I planned to give her the surprise of her life. I patted my jacket
pocket just to reassure myself that the gift-wrapped box was still inside. I
couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she opened it.
Charlotte’s car wasn’t in its space in front of the flat when I drove in
through the gates and pulled up onto the driveway, so I called her mobile to
see where she was. It went straight to voicemail. I’d spoken to her at
lunchtime while she was running errands, and hearing her voice sounding so
chirpy had given me butterflies. ‘I love you, Ry,’ she’d said before she hung
up, the first time I’d heard her say that in weeks. It felt like the tightest and
warmest of hugs.
I climbed two flights of stairs and opened our front door to the
overpowering scent of cinnamon and spices. She’d always been fond of air-
freshener plug-ins, but now that she was pregnant our home smelled like
Christmas all year round. She’d also had a thorough tidy-up. There were no
dishes draining by the sink; tea towels were neatly folded on the worktop; the
bathroom reeked of bleach; dried toothpaste had been rinsed from the electric
toothbrushes and magazines were neatly arranged on the coffee table. She’s
nesting, I thought, and smiled.
I phoned her again when I climbed out of the shower, but when she
didn’t answer I began to feel a little uneasy. If she’d gone into an early labour,
I was sure I’d have been told by now. I checked my phone again after drying
my hair and trimming my stubble and then, just to be on the safe side, I called
the maternity unit. I also called her friends, but when they hadn’t heard from
her either, something inside me tightened and turned, like the wringing of a
wet dishcloth.
Suddenly the front door buzzed.
Thank Christ for that, I thought, and hurried to it.
‘Have you forgotten your keys?’ I began as I opened it, only to be
confronted by a stony-faced man and woman.
‘Mr Smith?’ he began.
‘Yes. And you are . . . ?’
‘My name is DS Mortimer and this is my colleague, PC Coghill. May
we come in, please?’
 CHAPTER TWO
ONE DAY AFTER CHARLOTTE
My distraught parents sat either side of me, asking the questions I couldn’t
bring myself to.
They’d rushed to the flat with my brother Johnny within half an hour of
the police turning up at my door. It was uncharted territory for everyone in the
room. Mum and Dad had no idea what to say to me to soften the blow. The
best the police could do was offer me their condolences and reassurances that
an investigation had already begun to find out what had happened to my wife.
All they could tell me was that Charlotte’s body had been found at the
foot of some cliffs in East Sussex. A witness had spotted her in the company
of someone else and they’d fallen together. They’d yet to identify the other
body, as it had been swept away by the sea. Charlotte had landed on rocks.
‘Why would someone want to murder my wife?’ I eventually asked.
The officers glanced at each other, and DS Mortimer wanted to say
something, then thought better of it.
‘I really don’t know. I’m sorry, Mr Smith.’
Before leaving us to grieve alone, they explained that their colleagues
investigating the case would visit the following day.
The case. Charlotte had gone from being my wife and the mother of my
unborn child to the case in under an hour.
The trauma of losing Charlotte overpowered everything. It was too
much for me to take in all at once. For the rest of the night and the early hours
of the next morning, the four of us concentrated on trying to comprehend that
we’d never see her again, while aching at the loss of my baby.
Two fresh police officers appeared the next day to learn more about
Charlotte. DS O’Connor was a chubby man, forty-something, with broken red
capillaries across his nose and cheeks, and awkward body language that
suggested he’d rather be anywhere than in my company. I shared his
sentiment. DS Carmichael was considerably younger, with a sympathetic
smile and red hair scraped up into a tight bun. I imagined that in an
interrogation scenario, she’d be the good cop.
They suggested it would not be in my best interests to identify
Charlotte’s body, based on the height from which she’d fallen and the position
in which she’d landed. I took that to mean head first. She’d been airlifted by
helicopter back up to the clifftops, but it was clear she was long dead. I felt
selfish for being relieved that I didn’t have to see her in that state.
‘Do you know why my wife died yet?’ I asked.
‘We don’t know the exact circumstances of what happened yesterday,’
said DS Carmichael. ‘So we’re working from eyewitness accounts.’
‘Who was the person who abducted her?’
DS O’Connor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Again, we can’t
answer that yet until his body is washed up or retrieved from the sea. We’re
hoping it’ll turn up soon.’
‘So it was a man?’
‘We believe so.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ I continued. ‘Why would he kidnap
Charlotte and drive all the way down there to kill her? Surely it must be
someone we know, or she’d never have got in her car with him. And why isn’t
this flat being treated as a crime scene? Shouldn’t you be looking for
evidence?’
Mum clasped my arm tightly. Johnny, two years younger than my thirty-
one years but always the more pragmatic of us, looked like he wanted me to
guess what he was thinking. DS O’Connor glanced at all of them and then at
me, but nobody said a word.
‘What am I missing here?’ I asked.
‘This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear, Ryan, but from our initial
investigation, it appears Charlotte was a willing participant in what happened
yesterday.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I replied. ‘Of course she wasn’t. She was taken
against her will, or that man coerced her into going there for some reason—’
DS Carmichael interrupted. ‘Ryan, two separate eyewitnesses saw them
walking towards the edge of the cliff together. Neither Charlotte nor the man
appeared distressed. They were both holding mobile phones to their ears
when they climbed over a fence and then stepped off the edge. Unfortunately,
the car park CCTV cameras weren’t in operation, so we can’t back their
statements up yet.’
‘Then the witnesses are wrong,’ I replied adamantly. ‘Charlotte had been
a little down lately, I admit that, but she was getting better and she wouldn’t
just kill herself. We tried so hard for a baby and we only had a couple of
months left to go. She wouldn’t end her life, or our child’s. She had no reason
to.’
‘They were walking hand in hand,’ said DS Carmichael softly.
‘What?’
‘The witnesses say Charlotte and the man were holding hands when they
died.’
My world suddenly ground to a very sharp halt. I opened my mouth to
argue with her, but by the look of everyone else in the room, they believed
her. I couldn’t lift my hand up to my eyes quickly enough to quell my tears.
Dad pulled me into his shoulder and I sensed he was trying to stop himself
from crying, too.
‘What do you think the relationship was between this man and
Charlotte?’ Johnny asked.
‘It’s another question we can’t yet answer,’ DS O’Connor replied. ‘Our
investigation is still in its early days.’
‘So you do think they were in some kind of relationship?’
‘Only because something brought them to that place at the same time,
for what we believe was the same purpose.’
‘To die,’ I said. It wasn’t a question. They nodded their heads while I
shook mine.
‘No, I’m not buying it. Charlotte wouldn’t do this to herself or to us. It
makes no sense to me, but you believe it because you don’t know her. Mum,
do you think she was having an affair or suicidal?’
‘I don’t know what to think anymore.’ She looked down at the table.
‘The evidence so far seems to point to the fact her death was voluntary,
Ryan,’ my dad added. ‘But let’s not worry about that for the moment.’
‘Then what should I be worrying about?’ I asked with a raised voice. No
one could answer.
I couldn’t listen to the police or my family any longer. I stormed out of
the living room and into our bedroom, slamming the door behind me so hard
that I heard the wedding photos hanging in the hallway juddering.
I wanted so badly to call Charlotte and have her answer, telling me it’d
been some huge fuck-up and that she was fine. How could I even start to get
my head around not hearing her voice again?
 CHAPTER THREE
THREE DAYS AFTER CHARLOTTE
So much of what you believe – or what you have convinced yourself to be
true – can be flipped on its head quicker than you can ever imagine.
I was desperate to believe that what had happened to Charlotte had been
the result of foul play, that she’d been murdered by this unidentified stranger
– not that she’d willingly gone with him and jumped to her death.
After another restless night, I turned on my iPad and went online to look
up the location where she’d died. Birling Gap, in East Sussex, was part of the
Seven Sisters coastline, with panoramic views of the English Channel.
Charlotte had been found at the base of a five-hundred-foot cliff drop that was
notorious for its erosion.
That makes much more sense! She and this man didn’t take their own
lives; the ground simply gave way beneath their feet.
Surely if they’d travelled that far to die, they’d have driven a few miles
further down the coast to Beachy Head. That was a suicide spot, not Birling
Gap.
‘Dad, I think I know what happened to Charlotte . . .’ I began hurriedly
as I marched towards the kitchen. My parents, Johnny and DS Carmichael
were sitting around the table with an open laptop in front of them. I was
surprised to see the police there on a Sunday morning.
‘Sit down, Ry,’ urged Johnny, and I obliged.
‘The cliffs, they’ve been known to collapse,’ I continued. ‘What
happened to Charlotte was an accident.’
‘I have something to show you and it won’t be easy to watch,’ DS
Carmichael began gingerly.
‘Please, Ryan, sit down, just for a minute,’ Mum urged.
DS Carmichael pressed play. Footage had been retrieved from a
dashboard camera a driver had failed to turn off when he’d parked for a
clifftop dog walk. He’d returned to find his bumper scratched. It was only
when he reviewed the recording that he noticed what else it had taped.
I held my breath as I watched Charlotte leave her car. Compared to a lot
of expectant mums, her baby belly was relatively small, and she was
disguising it that day with an overcoat. Her phone was clasped to her ear as
she walked across the car park. A male figure came into view. He had his
hand to his ear, too, like he was also on the phone. I recoiled as they
embraced. I wanted to shut my eyes, but I couldn’t tear them away from the
screen. Then they held hands and walked slowly but deliberately across the
car park and towards the safety railings that prevented visitors from going too
close to the edge.
He was the first to climb over them, before holding his hand out to help
her until they were side by side. Then, with their phones still clutched to their
ears, they began their walk towards the horizon. My stomach sank when they
suddenly fell over the edge and out of view. Mum’s hand covered her mouth
and Dad looked away from the screen.
It was absolute proof that Charlotte hadn’t been abducted, she hadn’t
slipped in an awful accident and the ground beneath her feet hadn’t crumbled.
No longer could I tell myself the eyewitness statements were mistaken.
We all remained in silence for I don’t know how long. I could feel
everyone’s eyes drilling through me, waiting for a reaction, for me to say
something, anything. But I didn’t have a reaction to give.
Instead, I tried to imagine what had been going through Charlotte’s head
in her final moments. Was she scared? Did she die straight away or was she in
pain? Was she thinking about me, or had she put me out of her mind? Why
did she do it? Had she learned there was something medically wrong with the
baby and felt she had no choice but to end both their lives? Had this man, this
unidentified stranger, been a part of her life for a long time, skulking about in
the shadows, hiding behind my back? Had he made her pregnant? Who was
on the other end of the phone as they walked to their deaths? Just how shit
must our life together have been for her to take herself away from it in such a
brutal, catastrophic way?
Among all the confusion there was only one thing I was certain of: I
didn’t know my wife as well as I thought. I grabbed my jacket and keys and
left the flat without saying a word.
I made my way by foot towards Abington Park, where I’d spent many a
school holiday and weekend as a kid playing football and cricket with my
mates. More recently, it had become a place where Charlotte and I took long
Saturday-afternoon strolls, throwing bread to the ducks and geese in the lakes
and buying Gallone’s ice cream from the van near the children’s play park.
I used to think one day it would be me there, catching my kid at the
bottom of the slide, or hovering under the metal rungs of the climbing frame
in case they got scared. Not now though.
I sat on a bench, staring at a Sunday-league football match being played
on one of the pitches, but I wasn’t taking in much around me. I absent-
mindedly turned my wedding ring around my finger in a clockwise motion
until I became aware of a lump in my jacket pocket. I remembered what it
was and removed the small box that I’d gift-wrapped with a bow. I’d been
going to give it to Charlotte the night of our anniversary. Inside was the key to
a house she had no idea I’d bought.
That morning before work I’d exchanged contracts and picked up the
keys from the estate agent to a cottage she’d fallen in love with. It was in
Harpole, a village on the outskirts of town, and the house had been empty for
years. She’d seen it many times when we’d borrowed Oscar, my parents’ dog,
and taken him for walks around villages as we considered where we’d like to
move to when we outgrew the flat.
I vaguely remembered visiting the house a few times as a kid. Mum was
an old schoolfriend of Catherine’s, the woman who’d lived there, and I’d go
and play with her son Robbie while they chatted. Catherine moved out after
her missing husband reappeared on her doorstep. Twenty-five years earlier,
he’d vanished one day and left her with three kids to raise alone. Everyone
assumed he’d died in an accident or something, so they got the shock of their
lives when he suddenly came back. One of their sons had found fame in a
band, so the story of his dad’s return before dying – this time for real – in the
village cemetery made headline news worldwide. Catherine moved away
almost immediately, but it was a long time before she put the place up for
sale. And although it was now a bit rundown, Charlotte had seen its potential
and fallen in love with it.
Keeping its purchase a secret from my wife had been as hard as hell, and
I’d had to sneak around behind her back to deal with conveyancers, my estate
agent, the mortgage broker and bank. I’d even had legal letters sent to my
parents’ house. God knows how people having an affair manage to keep
secrets.
I held the key so tightly in my palm that it made a deep impression in
my skin. And I wondered if I’d told Charlotte a day earlier we were set to
complete on our forever home, might it have saved her? I’d never know.
 CHAPTER FOUR
SIX DAYS AFTER CHARLOTTE
My love for Charlotte was fast being swallowed by hate.
Days ago, I’d wanted to lock myself in our bedroom and never leave.
Everything about the room was her, from the Laura Ashley floral wallpaper to
the scent of her perfumes that lingered on the matching curtains and pillows. I
knew those smells would eventually fade, so I’d immersed myself in them
while I could. But now they only made me feel sick.
I needed an explanation as to why she’d do this to me, so I ransacked the
flat, searching everywhere to see if she’d left a suicide note. The police had
taken her electronic devices, so I searched notebooks, bins, coat pockets, and
inside books, cupboards and drawers, but I drew a blank.
I needed to be in a safe place, far away from the woman who, with one
selfish act, had destroyed me. So I went back to the house where I was raised.
Being at Mum and Dad’s brought it home how much I’d taken for granted as
a kid. My only worries then were fitting in homework around playing FIFA
’99 on the Nintendo 64, and how long Johnny and I could stay out before
Mum called us in for our tea. I longed for those days again. I no longer liked
being an adult. This adult, anyway.
Mum and Dad were handling me with kid gloves. They never accused
me of neglecting my wife or asked how I could have let her slip through my
fingers. They left that to my own conscience and to Charlotte’s parents,
Barbara and Patrick. They’d taken early retirement and moved to a large
white villa on the slopes of Alicante’s hillsides, but were away on a
Mediterranean cruise when the police tracked them down. They’d flown
home from Tenerife on the next available flight.
Instantly – and understandably, I guess – once we came face to face in
my parents’ living room, they needed someone to direct their frustration at. I
became their whipping boy.
‘You told me she was getting better!’ Barbara snapped, making no effort
to disguise her bitterness towards me. ‘You lived with her, couldn’t you see
she was getting worse?’
‘She said she was feeling better.’
‘Why didn’t you talk to her doctor and explain she needed a higher dose
of antidepressants?’
‘She was limited to what she could take because she was pregnant.’
Barbara shook her head, refusing to accept my answers. The whites of
Patrick’s eyes were bloodshot and the sockets dark. ‘I don’t understand any of
this,’ he muttered. ‘All I know is that you promised me you’d look after my
little girl, and you failed.’
‘I know and I am so sorry . . .’ My voice trailed off.
I recalled months earlier, when Charlotte and I should have been at our
happiest, and how a sort of darkness had descended within weeks of her
becoming pregnant. I put it down to the morning sickness at first. It wasn’t
just at breakfast when she was ill, it was often after lunch and dinner, too.
Sometimes she couldn’t even keep a slice of dry toast down. But when that
eventually passed, I thought things would start getting better and that she’d
share my enthusiasm as a parent-to-be. Instead, she remained in her funk.
The NHS website explained prenatal depression was pretty common.
Her symptoms matched those listed – she felt down a lot of the time, she was
generally apathetic, she was tearful, she couldn’t sleep and she was often
agitated.
I suggested mentioning it to her midwife at her next appointment, but
Charlotte insisted on managing her mood swings herself and shunned
medication. I tried to lift her spirits by changing our diets, cutting out all
processed food and replacing them with more mother-and-baby-friendly foods
packed with antioxidants. It didn’t work; in fact, it just got worse.
The slightest little thing seemed to upset her, even watching the news.
Each terrorist attack, war or natural disaster had her hooked to the screen, like
she couldn’t get enough of the rolling headlines and fretting about what it
might mean to our baby.
‘What kind of world am I bringing my child into?’ she once asked. ‘One
where people are burned alive in cages or thrown from buildings because of
their religion or sexuality?’
‘Well, firstly, it’s our baby, so the responsibility isn’t just on your
shoulders,’ I replied. ‘It’s our job to keep him or her safe and to look after
each other.’
‘What if I can’t even carry it properly? Look at me, I’m barely even
showing.’
 ‘The scans say everything is perfectly all right.’
‘Every morning I wake up with this horrible feeling and I can’t stop
crying. That glowing pregnancy period all mums talk about? Mine just makes
me ache.’
I brushed away a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘Think for a moment
about the millions and millions of people to whom nothing horrible has ever
happened . . . those who’ve never been blown up on a bus or washed away by
a tsunami. Who’s to say we’re not going to be one of those families?’
It wasn’t the first time we’d had that conversation and it wouldn’t be the
last. And each time it cropped up, Charlotte nodded in agreement as if she
believed my reassurances. Looking back, I should have known she was just
trying to shut me up. She didn’t think I understood her and I guess she was
right. I could have done more. I should have done more.
Charlotte’s parents continued firing questions at me that I couldn’t
answer. As each one came, I felt more and more like a failure as a husband.
However, it pissed me off that they were pretending Charlotte’s depression
came as news to them. They’d seen how bad it had become on their last visit
home, yet they didn’t think it was serious enough to leave the balmy Spanish
climes. They accepted no responsibility; apparently it was all my doing.
I remembered that later, when Charlotte’s bad days were still
outweighing the good, I went from feeling concerned to scared for her. After
much persuasion, she began cognitive behavioural therapy. Three sessions
later she dismissed her therapist as ‘a dick’ and never returned. Finally, when
she’d hit rock bottom, she gave in and agreed to her doctor’s suggestion of a
low dosage of antidepressants.
That’s when the Charlotte of old gradually began to emerge like a
butterfly waking from hibernation. She started leaving the flat again, she
smiled without being prompted and she’d disappear to our bedroom to chat
for ages on the phone. Shortly before Christmas, she replanted the window
box with spring bulbs and chose colours and fabrics for the nursery while I
decorated it. She also spent time on online message boards where she said she
was talking to other women who understood what she’d been going through.
She was engaging in the world she’d shied away from.
She suggested we book our first holiday abroad as a three instead of a
two; we mulled over which of our friends would make suitable godparents
and wondered if we’d ever find a house like the one she loved in Harpole.
Only now could I see that none of this mattered to her; it was all a brilliant
disguise. She’d no longer wanted any of it. She no longer wanted us.
The morning she died, she’d told me she loved me. How could she say
that to me and then throw it all away hours later?
 CHAPTER FIVE
EIGHT DAYS AFTER CHARLOTTE
With the exception of two grandparents whom we’d lost to cancer when I was
a kid, I’d been lucky to have reached my early thirties and remained relatively
unscarred by death. Now I wondered if the Grim Reaper had simply been
biding his time until he could make the maximum fucking impact on my life.
I was learning what many other people my age already knew, that grief
is the worst place in the world to be trapped in. In fact, it’s a kind of sub-
world that you believe only you inhabit. You aren’t alone, of course, because
those you’re close to share your pain. But it’s not really their pain, is it? It’s
yours. And it’s a million times worse for you than it is for anyone else.
Sometimes I thought that if I stretched out my arm, I could physically touch
it.
While grief had me caught like a rabbit in headlights, I was also floating
in a kind of limbo waiting for the police to release Charlotte’s body into my
custody. Without it there couldn’t be a funeral. I didn’t understand what the
delay was, because the mystery wasn’t how she died, it was why. But an
autopsy needed to be carried out regardless.
Until that was completed, I had no choice but to fill my days by going
for aimless walks around the park with my parents’ dog, or staring at the
television watching endless quizzes, soaps and reality shows until, before I
knew it, a whole evening had passed and I hadn’t registered a single thing I’d
watched.
One morning I awoke before six and found myself driving to
Northampton railway station. I bought a ticket from a machine and caught a
rush-hour train to London Euston, and then took the Hammersmith and City
line twelve stops to Shepherd’s Bush Market in the west of the city. By 9 a.m.,
I was sitting at a plastic table in a bustling McDonald’s staring through the
window at a second-floor flat above a row of shops along a noisy high street.
Inside the filthy pea-shingled exterior was an equally shabby home, the
first one Charlotte and I had rented in the capital as twenty-one-year-old
university graduates. I recalled black and blue patches of mould crawling up
and fanning out across the bathroom walls, and how we’d take it in turns to
scrub them with a fungicidal liquid. The glass in the windows was so thin that
the frames rattled when a bus or lorry drove past. And the boiler was so
unpredictable that in winter, we’d sometimes turn on the oven and keep the
door open just to stay warm. But the rent was cheap and the landlord had only
asked for two weeks’ deposit.
The material things didn’t matter back then. In fact, nothing had
mattered to Charlotte as long as we were happy. And we were happy. Weren’t
we? Or had I read her wrongly? Because now I was doubting everything.
Every grin in a photograph, each text message with a kiss at the end . . . was it
all just pretend?
Maybe even back then depression had been lying dormant under
Charlotte’s skin. Perhaps she’d always had it inside her, but she’d been better
able to mask it. Then when pregnancy and her hormones shook everything up,
the illness broke through the surface and leaked like a foul-smelling gas.
Whatever its cause, whatever its reason, it didn’t really matter. It had
killed her and now it felt like it was threatening to spread through me. If I
wasn’t crying, I was numb. If I wasn’t numb, I was suffocating. If I wasn’t
suffocating, I was crying. And so on and so on. A never-ending circle of
shittery.
I took a sip from a cup of milky tea and pushed my McMuffin and hash
browns around my plate with a plastic fork. I couldn’t finish more than a
couple of bites from either.
My reflection in the window caught me by surprise. My short, dirty-
blond hair was flat and without product, and my cheeks were gaunt. I was
pale and my eyes vacant. At five-foot-ten I was neither tall nor short, but I felt
myself shrinking by the day. Despite our two-year age difference and his
glasses and beard, Johnny and I had been the spitting image of each other.
Now, if you put us next to each other, you wouldn’t know we were brothers.
A staff member brushed my shoulder with his arm as he passed, and I
recoiled so sharply that he glared at me for my overreaction. ‘Chill, blud,’ he
muttered.
So many people had tried to console me with hugs that I could no longer
stand physical contact. Being touched by anyone, no matter how emotionally
close we were, felt like acid burning holes into my skin.
I dumped the half-eaten food on my tray in a bin and loitered by a bus
stop, unsure where to go next.
‘Borough Market,’ I suddenly blurted out, and ran my finger up and
down a bus timetable fixed to a lamp post.
 With little money to spend on activities, and surviving on cheap,
microwaveable meals, Charlotte and I had made sure to hold enough money
back each week in the house kitty to treat ourselves to fresh produce at the
market every Saturday morning. Then we’d stretch it out to make an organic
lunch and dinner, our only healthy meals of the week. We were broke, but we
were content. Well, at least I had been.
I hopped on the red Routemaster bus and made for the back row of seats
on the top deck. That’s where Charlotte and I would sit. I imagined she was
by my side and, for a moment, I felt loved again.
I looked at my phone to check the time. I’d kept it on silent and saw I’d
missed seven calls – three from my mum’s mobile and four from Dad’s. In
addition, there were a handful of text messages from familiar names.
Once the news of Charlotte’s death broke within our friendship groups,
they all wanted to know what had happened, and it was horrible explaining to
them that I wasn’t really sure but it appeared Charlotte had ended her life. I
might as well have said, ‘It was so fucking awful being married to me that
she’d rather die.’ They’d try to analyse what she’d done, searching for
reasons, but they were never going to get their answers. If I had a pound for
everyone who said ‘I just don’t understand it’ or ‘She had everything to live
for . . .’, I’d have had enough money to pay for her funeral in cash.
Her friends fell into two camps, each connected to the other by a
common loss. On one side were the people racked with guilt for not
recognising or reacting to how much pain Charlotte was in. Without fail, they
wanted me to know how responsible they felt for letting her slip between the
cracks. They pitied me and my loss, and in return I hated them for it.
Then to the others, I was an object of suspicion: a convenient get-out
clause for their own failings. Blaming me was much easier than blaming
themselves or Charlotte.
The bus reached Southwark Street and I got off and stood on the
opposite side of London Bridge, staring at the glass roof and art-deco-style
green metal arched beams of Borough Market Hall. I pictured myself crossing
the road with Charlotte’s arm linked through mine, two hessian grocery bags
in our hands and inhaling delicious food aromas wafting from all the stalls.
Then we’d wander from trader to trader, choosing vegetables and meats and
bickering over whose turn it was to cook. This used to be Charlotte’s and my
playground, but those days were gone and there was no point in me going any
further inside. There was no point to anything anymore.
 CHAPTER SIX
TWELVE DAYS AFTER CHARLOTTE
He was a boy. He was a boy. The baby Charlotte and I were expecting was
going to be a boy.
Throughout her pregnancy, we were adamant we didn’t want to know its
sex. We’d just felt so lucky that while some couples struggled for years to
conceive, IVF had succeeded for us on our second attempt. So we didn’t care
if it was a boy or a girl. But after her death, and while I tortured myself trying
to imagine how our family might have looked, there was a gap in my mental
picture. I needed to know if I’d have been standing on the sidelines cheering
him on in a rugby match, or being the proud dad watching her playing netball.
The desire to know became an obsession that dominated everything. A
day after I called DS Carmichael, she phoned back.
‘According to the coroner’s preliminary findings, Charlotte was
expecting a boy,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ I muttered, and hung up before she could try to console
me.
Now I was picturing him in my head. His name would have been
Daniel, like we’d decided. He had my dark blond colouring and Charlotte’s
clear blue eyes. He had dimples in his cheeks like mine, but a smile that could
melt a polar icecap like his mother. He had my athletic build and her speed. I
imagined teaching him how to sail, like my dad had with my brother and me
at Pitsford Reservoir. Or maybe he’d be more creative and I’d teach him how
to play the piano. I shook my head, and he disappeared into a thousand tiny
fragments just as quickly as he’d arrived.
I was alone in my parents’ house for the first time since I’d temporarily
moved back in. Mum had returned to work at the shoe shop in town, and Dad
had gone back to the printworks. Johnny was at the bank playing God with
who could have mortgages, while I remained in quicksand, clutching a flimsy
branch for dear life and waiting for it to snap. All around me, other people’s
lives were beginning to restart and edge forward. Not quite back to how they
were before Charlotte, but they were in gear and moving in the right direction,
at least.
I walked to the local corner shop to buy some cheap lager. People are
right when they say alcohol takes the edge off things; too much of it, though,
can distort your reality. I wanted just enough to get me through a particularly
tough day. Mrs Verma served me from behind the counter with a sympathetic
smile, but I was grateful she stopped short of asking me how I was. I was sick
of that question.
It must have been the end of the school day because I kept passing
mums and dads holding their kids’ hands on the way home from the nearby
primary school. I wanted to yell at them, ‘You don’t know how lucky you
are!’ because if I had Daniel’s hand to hold on to, I’d never let go of it.
My thoughts gravitated again towards Charlotte. I couldn’t fathom why,
when she knew how much I wanted to be a dad, she would rip the opportunity
away from me so cruelly? She had murdered my longed-for boy. If she really,
truly hadn’t wanted to live anymore and was convinced dying was the only
option, maybe I could have understood if she’d done it after Daniel was born.
I’d still have been gutted but he’d have given me the strength to carry on.
Now she’d murdered my son, I had no reason to carry on.
I carried my six-pack home in a plastic bag and chose to drink it in the
back garden. Conifers, large green and red bushes, and six feet of wooden
fencing ensured privacy from the neighbours, not that I’d have cared if they’d
seen me boozing away the afternoon. I didn’t bother to pull the canvas cover
from the patio furniture and flopped onto a chair, sinking two cans and
watching dragonflies skim the pond. My parents’ dog kept me company, but
the buzz of the third drink on an empty stomach was starting to cloud my
brain. Instead of mellowing me out, my thoughts were becoming more
sombre.
I started thinking about my son again, questioning if he’d picked up on
the chemical imbalance in Charlotte while he was still in the womb. I
speculated how much pain he’d felt when she’d jumped. Months ago, I’d read
that at just twenty weeks an unborn baby can feel pain more intensely than an
adult. Did he notice the difference in gravity in those few seconds as she fell
through the air? I’d been told Charlotte’s traumatic head injuries had probably
killed her instantly. Had Daniel died immediately, too? Or was he trapped
inside her, in pain and slowly being starved of oxygen? It was almost too
unbearable to think about, yet I couldn’t stop. I began to cry for him.
The compressed gas in the fourth can hissed then effervesced when I
pulled back the ring pull. I took a long swig but vomited it up almost
immediately across the lap of my jeans and the lawn. I brushed Oscar’s head
away when he came to investigate the smell, and I remained there on all
fours, heaving until every last drop was out of my pathetic body and
dissolving into the grass.
‘I hate you, Charlotte,’ I mumbled. ‘I fucking hate you for what you did
to us.’
 CHAPTER SEVEN
THREE WEEKS AFTER CHARLOTTE
‘Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.’
My eyes skimmed the website Johnny had emailed me a link to. He was
trying to be helpful and make me realise everything I was feeling was typical,
but instead it pissed me off. I didn’t need anyone to tell me how to feel.
According to the experts the site quoted, those were the five stages of grief.
But I was struggling to make it past anger. It advised that the angrier you get,
the more ownership you take of that emotion and the faster it’ll disappear.
Then you’ll be ready to move on to the next stage.
Bullshit to that. I don’t want to move on. I know where I am, I’m angry
because I’m grieving the loss of my son, and I loathe his mother who killed
him. If I forgave her and accepted what happened, then where the hell would I
be? I’m better off where I am now because this has become the familiar. And
the unfamiliar scares me.
My bitterness was that sharp I was struggling to even speak Charlotte’s
name. And I’d not even started trying to come to terms with the affair she’d
been having with another man that led to their suicide pact. I was festering,
and with no one but a ghost to blame I directed my anger towards my parents,
her parents, our friends, the police investigating her case and a God I’d
stopped believing in.
‘We can’t find any proof that Charlotte and that man were friends or in
any kind of relationship before their deaths,’ DS O’Connor informed me. ‘So
that might come as a relief.’
‘Oh yes, it’s a huge relief.’ I made no attempt to disguise my sarcasm.
He took a sip from his mug of tea and glanced at my parents as if he
expected us to be grateful for that small mercy. I hoped I was making him feel
uncomfortable, because he could only retain eye contact with me for the
briefest of moments. I remained poker-faced. It made no difference to me now
whether Charlotte had been screwing that one man she died with or half of
Northamptonshire.
We were sitting around the table in my parents’ dining room as DS
O’Connor updated us. I thought I could smell booze on him; Dutch courage
before facing the angry widower, I suppose.
 Widower. Shit, that’s me. I’m a widower. From husband to widower in a
heartbeat.
‘So how did they know each other?’ my father asked.
‘We’re still looking into it,’ he replied.
‘You don’t know?’ I said. ‘It’s your job to find this out and you are still
“looking into it”? You’ve had almost three weeks. How much longer do you
need?’
‘Let him continue, son.’ Dad gave the detective an apologetic look.
‘As you know, we’ve gone through Charlotte’s mobile phone and
landline records and there’s not a single call registered to any numbers that
aren’t explainable. We’ve also checked her email addresses and Skype calls,
and again there’s nothing. She doesn’t seem to have FaceTimed,
communicated on Internet message boards or via any other social media with
anyone matching his description. We have spoken to her friends and nobody
recalls her ever talking about another man. For all intents and purposes, they
were complete strangers until the afternoon they met. The only thing of
interest that shows up in her phone records is a number for End of the Line.’
‘What’s that?’ Dad asked.
‘It’s a helpline for people with emotional problems, similar to the
Samaritans. Charlotte had made multiple calls over the last few weeks to a
central number which diverts to the nearest branch.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘How many are multiple calls?’
‘Almost a hundred.’
‘Jesus,’ I replied, and puffed out a breath. I really didn’t know my wife
at all.
‘Then a week before her death, they suddenly stop.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ my mum said, and looked at me as if to ask
how I could have not known about this when I’d lived with the woman.
‘The afternoon she died,’ I said, ‘she was walking towards the clifftops
because she’d made up her mind to die with that man. Her hand looked like it
was held to her ear. If she died with that phone, then how come it was found
after she died in her car? And who was she calling?’
 DS O’Connor gave a limp shrug. ‘She must have had two mobiles. The
other man also looked like he was on a call.’
‘To End of the Line?’
‘Unless we can identify him or find his phone, we have no way of
knowing.’
‘So let’s find out who they were speaking to at the helpline in the run-up
to her death,’ Dad suggested. Johnny leaned against the sideboard and nodded
his agreement.
‘It’s not as easy as that, I’m afraid.’ DS O’Connor pinched the top of his
nose and closed his eyes. Maybe the buzz from the alcohol was wearing off.
‘End of the Line guarantees complete anonymity to its callers. They cannot
see or trace anyone. They’re under no legal obligation to report a person
who’s suicidal. Even if someone’s about to do what Charlotte did while
speaking to them, they don’t have to call 999. Plus, she could’ve spoken to
any of their volunteers across five counties. That’s several hundred people
and we don’t have the resources to work on that. I’m sorry to say, if
circumstances were different and Charlotte had been . . . unlawfully killed . . .
then things would be different.’
‘But because it’s a suicide, it’s not taken as seriously,’ I suggested.
‘Honestly, Ryan, we are taking this very seriously. But the difference is
there’s no reason for us to think a crime has been committed here. And unless
whoever spoke to Charlotte and the other man comes forward, we’ll probably
never know their reasons or learn the nature of their relationship.’
‘What about a moral obligation?’ asked Johnny. ‘Surely if they know
why you want to talk to them, they’ll be willing to help us understand what
happened?’
‘Then it’s up to them to volunteer that information.’
As the conversation continued and more roadblocks were thrown in our
way, I became increasingly frustrated. It was like being behind the wheel of
my own car but having someone drive it remotely.
‘There is something else,’ DS O’Connor added. ‘We’ve been
approached by a news agency. We have a verbal agreement that they don’t
normally report on suicides, but this is different as it was seemingly a pact
between two strangers. They’ve had a tip-off and they believe it’s in the
public interest to report on it.’
 ‘Tell them we don’t want to talk,’ I snapped. ‘It’s bad enough that our
friends know, let alone the rest of the world.’
‘It might work in our favour though. It could help put names forward as
to who the stranger might be.’
‘No,’ I replied adamantly, and slammed my hand down on the table.
‘Okay.’ DS O’Connor sighed and took a quick gulp of his tea. ‘I will
pass your message on.’ He stood up to leave. ‘But we have no control over
what they can and cannot write about. So you should prepare yourself, as
there might be some interest in this story.’
He wasn’t wrong. Two days later and it had made the front of our
weekly newspaper, page leads in four tabloids and a column in two
broadsheets. Journalists raided Facebook for photographs of Charlotte and
spoke to former workmates and acquaintances she had barely known. Stories
were illustrated by tasteless graphics of the clifftop and the trajectory of their
fall.
When journalists left me voicemail messages and texts urging me to talk
to them, I turned off my phone. I could barely speak to the people around me,
let alone strangers.
 CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO MONTHS AFTER CHARLOTTE
I didn’t care about attending Charlotte’s funeral.
I didn’t need to say goodbye to her. I didn’t want to remember her
fondly and I didn’t want to pay her my last respects. She deserved nothing
from me. The only reason I agreed to attend the church ceremony and short
journey to the crematorium was because I’d been guilt-tripped into it by my
parents. If Charlotte didn’t want to celebrate her life, then why should I?
I was so muggy from swallowing two of Mum’s sleeping tablets and
hungover from another beer binge the night before that I couldn’t focus on
who was standing at the lectern, scrambling to find positive things to say
about a woman who murdered her baby.
My eyes wandered around the church, which was decorated with vases
of daffodils and posters advertising forthcoming Easter celebrations. But once
they snapped towards the coffin as four pallbearers carried Charlotte in, they
never left it. I ignored the order of service and didn’t join in with the hymns. I
didn’t even bow my head in prayer.
Dad and Johnny flanked me and kept me steady for the moments when I
was required to stand; and later they apologised to anyone who tried to
converse with me as they guided me back towards the funeral car. I cared so
little that I didn’t even try to avoid the reporters at the church gates, trying to
engage anyone who made eye contact with them.
Once Charlotte’s body was released to me, I’d left it to my in-laws to
organise her farewell. Choosing a funeral director, picking which clothes she
would wear to go into the flames, what objects to throw into her coffin, what
music should play as she was brought into the church, how many cars were
required . . . She was their daughter so she was their problem. I told them
through a third party that they could also keep her wedding ring. I had no use
for my own, let alone hers. Everything it signified was a lie. Charlotte had
thought so little of me, and now the feeling was mutual. I just wanted it all to
be over.
I did, however, want to go to the coroner’s court later that same week for
Charlotte’s inquest. I allowed Johnny and my mum to accompany me. We sat
two rows behind Charlotte’s parents, but neither family looked at each other,
not even the briefest glance.
 I didn’t know why I’d wanted to attend. Perhaps I didn’t think I’d
suffered enough and needed to know how much more pain I could endure
before I completely cracked.
I listened carefully as witness and character statements were read aloud,
and I watched as the dashboard footage taken at the clifftop was shown.
Eventually, the senior coroner, a plump, middle-aged woman with a soft face
and sympathetic eyes, ruled the medical cause of her death as ‘multiple
injuries’.
‘No shit,’ I mumbled to myself. I think Johnny might have heard me.
‘Before I record a verdict of suicide, I have to be positive of two things
beyond a reasonable doubt,’ she continued. ‘That Mrs Smith caused the act
which led to her death and that she did so with the intention of killing
herself. I have to be sure on both accounts this is what happened – and I am.
Mrs Smith went to the top of Birling Gap with an as-yet-unidentified man,
then tragically died when she impacted with the rocks below. Therefore, in
these circumstances, I record a conclusion of suicide.’
So there it was: in the space of three days, my wife had been cremated
and it was on public record for all the world to see that she had killed herself.
Perhaps now I could move on.
After eight weeks of living at my parents’ house, I felt a prevailing urge
to be back inside my flat again. I needed to surround myself with familiar
objects to help me feel like something close to my old self. I couldn’t allow
Charlotte’s ghost to bully me out of my own home.
As I unlocked the front door, I hovered nervously in the doorway. There
were faint traces of the air fresheners she preferred. Her raincoat hung
shapelessly on a coat hook. We grinned under an arch made of roses in a
wedding photograph gathering dust in its frame.
I’d spent almost a third of my life as an ‘us’ and suddenly I had to accept
being an ‘I’ again. It hit me that the former life I’d loved so much was
irrecoverable and I’d never be able to copy it with anyone else. Once the tears
began, I couldn’t shut them off.
I wasn’t ready to return to our bedroom, so I chose to sleep in the box
room. It was the only part of the flat that we hadn’t got around to decorating
in our time there. We’d just about managed to wedge a single mattress and the
tiniest of Ikea bedside cabinets inside. But it suited me fine for now. Next
door was the nursery. I wasn’t ready to face that yet. While it remained as it
was, in neutral shades of yellow and with soft toys scattered about, I could
pretend Daniel was sleeping there. I didn’t want to let him go.
Days later, I printed out Charlotte’s mobile phone records. I’d believed
DS O’Connor when he’d told us how frequently she’d called End of the Line,
but I still wanted to see it with my own eyes. I scanned each column and most
of the calls had been made in the morning or early afternoons when I was at
work. Occasionally, she’d called evenings and weekends when we were both
at home. I remembered her wandering into other rooms claiming to be
catching up with friends, but now I knew that just metres away from me, she
was actually telling a stranger that she wanted to die.
Some calls lasted seconds, others continued for more than an hour. For a
moment, I let my anger dilute into pity.
Why couldn’t you tell me how much pain you were in?
I thought about Charlotte’s car and how, at some point, I’d have to sell
it. In fact, there were a lot of things I needed to organise as my new normality
began. But packing away her clothes, sifting through her documents,
changing the name on the utility bills, closing her bank account, et cetera,
would all have to wait.
And so would my job for now. The thought of walking into that
perpetually cold lobby as if everything in my life was exactly the same as the
last time I’d been there filled me with dread. My sympathetic doctor signed
me off for another month, but he wouldn’t let me leave the surgery until he’d
given me a handful of leaflets about coping with loss and the telephone
numbers of grief counselling organisations. I scanned the advice given in one
when I reached my car. ‘Try going away somewhere for a weekend that’s
brand new to you, or take a long walk. Perhaps you might think about getting
a pet.’ I laughed out loud.
Yes, doctor, I’m going to replace my dead wife with a hamster.
Marvellous idea.
Johnny and the lads I played Sunday-league football with took turns to
visit the flat and keep me occupied, but despite their best efforts, they rarely
got much conversation from me. Johnny also insisted on dragging me out to
our local pub, The Abington, and did his best to re-engage me with a world
outside my cloudy little bubble. But I didn’t care for it. There was little I
cared for anymore.
‘Mum and Dad are worried about you,’ Johnny began earnestly one
evening. The bar was quiet and he was perched on the edge of a threadbare
sofa, glancing at the floor and absent-mindedly fiddling with the drawstrings
on his hoodie. ‘They’re scared you might . . . you know . . . do the same as
Charlotte.’
‘What, kill myself for no reason? Hurl myself off a cliff and smash my
head on rocks so my face is completely unrecognisable?’
I knew my reply was uncalled for. I’d be lying if I said the thought
hadn’t crossed my mind. But it had only been fleeting. ‘What about you?’ I
asked. ‘What do you think?’
‘I told them you’re not that selfish, that you know it’d destroy them if
you did something like that.’ I nodded slowly. ‘It’d destroy me too,’ he added,
and looked up at me with a deep concern in his eyes.
Johnny and I were close, but we’d rarely speak about matters of the
heart. However, since Charlotte had died, he’d been my rock. He’d seen me at
my very worst and at my most desperate. He’d sat with me as I cried my eyes
out, he’d wiped drunken vomit from my face, and he’d used up all his holiday
to spend time with me and offer me his strength.
‘If you hurt yourself, I’d never forgive myself, Ry,’ he continued.
‘Watching you go through hell has really affected me too. I need you to
promise me that you won’t do anything daft.’
‘I promise.’
‘Good. And tell me you’ll think about what Dad suggested, like grief
counselling or getting some medication from the doctor.’
‘Okay, I will.’ I had no intention of doing either. I only agreed to get him
off my back. ‘I need a piss. You get another round in,’ I said, and patted him
on the shoulder as I left the table.
As I made my way through the lounge area, I spotted a noticeboard
covered with business cards for taxi firms and flyers for pub quizzes and a
beer festival. Among them was a leaflet for End of the Line. I removed the
pin and slipped the card into my pocket. Later, after Johnny dropped me off at
the flat, I stared at the card in my hand. We are here to listen, not judge, it said
in blue writing.
The only way I could understand what the helpline had offered Charlotte
that I couldn’t was to call them. Tentatively, I reached for my phone and
dialled. Within five rings it was answered.
‘Good evening, you’ve reached the End of the Line helpline, this is
Kevin speaking. May I ask your name?’
 I had no idea what to say to him.
‘Take all the time you need,’ Kevin continued after a short silence.
‘Ryan,’ I said. ‘My name is Ryan.’
‘Hi there, Ryan, and how are you feeling this evening?’
I don’t know if it was actually Kevin’s voice or the four pints of real ale
floating through my bloodstream, but he sounded so warm and
compassionate. I wondered why he’d chosen to stay up until late in the night
to talk to people he didn’t know. Maybe, like me, there was a huge gap in his
life.
‘I’m okay,’ I replied.
‘That’s good to hear. Is there a reason that brought you to call us
tonight?’
‘My wife . . .’ I began, but I struggled to complete the sentence.
‘Your wife,’ he repeated. ‘Did something happen to your wife?’
‘She . . . died. A couple of months ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ryan. Would you like to tell me about her?’
I racked my brains to think up any reason other than suicide as to how
she might’ve died, as I didn’t want him to judge me. But the alcohol slowed
me down and I couldn’t think of one that quickly. So I told him the truth and
how I swung from missing Charlotte with every fibre of my being to never
wanting to think about her again.
‘That’s completely natural to go through a wide range of emotions,’
Kevin explained. ‘Do you want to talk me through some of what you’ve been
feeling?’
I sat on the floor of my living room telling a stranger things even my
family didn’t know about how I felt. And while he didn’t offer any miracle
solutions, at least he didn’t suggest I took a long walk or bought a pet.
Instead, our conversation gave me more of an insight into why Charlotte
might have found End of the Line’s volunteers easy to talk to.
But it had yet to explain why she’d needed to call them more than a
hundred times.
 CHAPTER NINE
FOUR MONTHS AFTER CHARLOTTE
The police eventually returned Charlotte’s mobile phone, iPad and laptop
after the inquest. They were contained in clear, sealed plastic bags with
evidence and case numbers written on stickers with a black marker pen.
That’s all she was to people who didn’t know her: a case identified by two
letters and seven digits.
Her electronics had been thoroughly examined by a digital forensic
team, but nothing of note or concern had been discovered. And, frustratingly,
there was still no link to the man she’d died with. Despite the media attention
their story had generated, he’d yet to be identified by the public and his body
still hadn’t washed ashore.
I’d never had any reason to check up on Charlotte, but she’d left me
with so many unanswered questions, she owed me explanations. It was eight
o’clock in the evening when I began with her phone and relived our text
conversations. I didn’t like that the police had probably read through our
private moments, even the mundane crap about whose turn it was to get the
car serviced. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed seeing her name appear
on my phone.
As Charlotte’s pregnancy progressed, the number of calls she’d made to
friends fell steeply but her emails and texts rose. I guess it was easier to hide
her sadness behind the written word than to disguise the emptiness in her
voice.
I scrolled through her Facebook timeline, and in her last few months she
hadn’t posted a single thing. Most mums-to-be can’t wait to talk about what
stage of pregnancy they’re at or their cravings or to complain about how fat
they’re feeling. But I’d been the only one of us to give our friends status
updates or share photographs. Charlotte had gone from an active poster to a
lurker.
I leafed through the saved documents on her laptop, but they all dated
back to her pre-pregnancy design work. Her music library was full of the
cheesy pop she loved so much and there was nothing suspicious about either
her browser history or her favourites bar. Most of her emails had been deleted,
and then deleted from the deleted folder. Her cookies were also cleared. Just
as I feared, there was nothing new to learn about my wife.
 I was surprised – and disappointed – that there were no photographs of
us at all on her phone or her iPad. I’d teased her about how trigger-happy she
was when it came to her camera phone; it didn’t matter where we were – in
the kitchen, on holiday by a pool, or in the aisle of a supermarket, the girl
loved a picture. I flicked though several folders on her devices, but she’d
erased every image she’d ever taken of us. It was like our relationship was so
hideous to her that she needed to wipe away any trace of it. Even four months
after her death, she was still finding new ways to hurt me.
As midnight approached, I knew from experience that if I continued
down this road any further tonight, I’d wind myself up further and further and
wouldn’t be able to sleep. But as I was about to put the iPad away, I lost grip
of it. My fingers slid across the onscreen keyboard as I scrambled to stop it
falling to the floor.
As I picked it up, I suddenly became aware of two calculator apps – the
standard operating-system version and another. Who needed two calculators?
I clicked on the unfamiliar one and four numbers had already been inputted –
1301. I recognised them immediately: it was the date Charlotte died; a date
she had been working towards.
I pressed the equals key but nothing happened. I followed it with the
plus, the minus and divide keys, but it wasn’t until I pressed the percentage
symbol that an entirely new screen popped up. It was a home screen that burst
into a hive of activity as various folders of photographs, documents and notes
sprang to life and covered the screen. She’d downloaded an app that allowed
her to hide what I was never meant to find.
I took the tablet to my bedroom and propped myself up on the bed. The
first documents folder contained dozens of screengrabs she’d taken from a
variety of websites, and pages of links to other sites. All of them related to
suicide.
Images included illustrations of where best to sever an arm to effectively
bleed to death, and documents featured the best combination of tablets needed
for a successful overdose. There were hyperlinks as to where they could be
purchased online and from which country.
Charlotte had also favourited a link to a message board called The Final
Push, which suggested ‘suicide hotspots’ around the country. There were
multistorey car parks without safety railings or netting, accessible bridges,
railway lines with broken fencing, and stretches of water with powerful
undertows that would drag you under in seconds. There were photos, street
maps, written instructions of how to find them, postcodes for satnavs, and
Ordnance Survey map coordinates. Everything had been thought about in
minute detail, and Charlotte hadn’t only read them, she’d bookmarked them,
too.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen, saddened by the
desperation of people who were at their wits’ end and sickened at the
enthusiasm of others encouraging them to die. As far as I could see, nobody
had inserted a link or a telephone number to End of the Line or the
Samaritans. Nobody had suggested maybe death wasn’t the right way to go
about things or urged them to talk to someone.
There were threads from teens who’d had enough of living their too-few
years and victims of terminal illnesses and mental health problems. Some
came from elderly people so scared of a long, drawn-out death that they
wanted to go on their own terms. Loneliness, abuse, depression, war,
bullying, sexuality, eating disorders . . . the list of reasons to die was endless.
I scoured the pages for names that might indicate Charlotte was a
member of these boards but I couldn’t find any proof she’d posted. Maybe
she’d just lurked there like she had on Facebook.
A thread on another message board caught my eye, made just days ago.
The subject heading was ‘Need someone 2 Talk 2 As I Die’. The poster had
almost three hundred messages numbered under her avatar. She’d chosen a
photo of a young Angelina Jolie and the screen-name GrlInterrupted.
So guys, I’ve decided where and when to do it (pills arrived on
Wednesday from Trinidad and I’ve booked into a hotel in Birmingham). Also
decided that even though I came in alone, I don’t want to go alone. Anyone
here want to be on the other end of the phone as it happens? I need company.
Among the many congratulatory replies, nobody in her online support
network had the guts to blur the lines between fantasy and reality and take her
up on her request. But they were quick to recommend other screen-names
who might help.
Whereabouts are you hon? asked someone by the name of R.I.P.
Leicester, UK, she replied.
U know Chloe4 who used to post here? She was a Brit. She used to talk
about a woman over there who’d helped friends of hers once and who was
now helping her. It must’ve worked as we never heard from Chloe4 again, and
we were pretty tight.’
 What do you mean by ‘help’?
She tells people what to do, what not to do, she knows the risks, suggests
what to say in notes, etc. Chloe4 called the woman the ‘Helpline Heroine’.
Does the Helpline Heroine post here?
No, she’s pro. She keeps it on the downlow cos she works for a suicide
helpline called End of the Line or something like that. Lol. Someone
recommended her to Chloe4.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, prised my eyes
away from the screen and glanced outside. The darkness was making way for
a rising sun. An occasional car headlight illuminated the road as commuters
began their new day.
I’d spent months searching for something – anything – to explain why
Charlotte had ended her life and why it was with a complete stranger. Now
something told me that if the ‘Helpline Heroine’ actually existed, she would
have an answer for me.
 CHAPTER TEN
FOUR MONTHS, ONE WEEK AFTER
CHARLOTTE
It was like banging my head against a brick wall.
It had taken effort, skill and organisation and where was I? Nowhere.
Try as I might, I was no closer to finding out whether the Helpline Heroine
was a real person or the figment of a morally bankrupt website’s imagination.
However, the one thing searching for her had given me was purpose.
The day after first reading the post about her, I did a keyword search on
the same message board and four others. Her nickname was buried within
hundreds of other posts but she’d definitely been mentioned a couple of dozen
times, although not as often in recent years. Like every decent urban myth,
nobody could actually verify her existence. I guessed if she was that good at
what she did, the proof of her successes were lying six feet under, not
boasting about her online.
I still struggled to comprehend that someone who worked for a helpline
might have an ulterior motive. I don’t know why though – until a day earlier, I
hadn’t realised message forums existed to encourage suicidal people to die. If
she was real, I’d hunt her down and lure her out from beneath the rock where
she was hiding.
I set up camp on the dining room table and created a profile for my own
message board account. When R.I.P. ignored my direct message, I turned to
GrlInterrupted instead.
Hi, sorry to bother you, I typed, I just wondered if you had any luck
trying to find the woman from End of the Line that R.I.P told you about? The
Helpline Heroine?
I paced the flat as I waited for an alert to say she’d replied. Within the
hour, she had.
No, sorry, bro. R.I.P didn’t know anything more about her. Even called
the branches myself but kept getting different folk. Like finding a needle in a
haystack, eh? Not sure what I’d have said anyway – ‘hi, which one of you
bitches wants to listen to me die?’ Lolz.
I replied with a ‘lolz’ of my own but nothing about this amused me.
 I needed air and caffeine so I swapped the flat for a nearby parade of
shops. I used to be a regular at the café most Sunday mornings, and I’d return
home with a bag of muffins, cinnamon swirls and hot drinks for Charlotte and
me. It was the first time I’d gone back since she’d died and it felt peculiar
ordering for one.
I asked for a double cappuccino and, as the coffee machine spluttered to
life, a wave of guilt washed over me in a sliding door moment. I wondered
how different my life might be if only I’d been a better, more attentive
husband. A man who wasn’t so insistent that his way was the right way. That
Ryan would have realised earlier just how serious Charlotte’s depression was,
and listened to her instead of trying to cure her. Now Charlotte would be
standing with him in the queue, one hand clutching her purse and the other
clasping the handle of Daniel’s pram. I shook my head and the alternate
universe melted away like a snowflake.
I took my drink back to the flat, trying to guesstimate how long it might
take to prove or disprove the Helpline Heroine’s existence. The only way
would be to call, and to keep calling the helpline until I tracked her down. The
odds were against me. Northamptonshire had ninety-four part-time
volunteers, Leicestershire eighty-six, Warwickshire fifty-eight and
Bedfordshire sixty. Give or take a few who might have come and gone since
the last tally was published in its annual report, I had about a one-in-three-
hundred chance of finding her.
I couldn’t think of a way to cut corners and speed up the process. And
that was assuming the person I was looking for really was a her. The heroine
could very easily have been male. Either way, they’d need to be convinced I
was for real.
I devised a backstory for myself. I’d claim depression was ruining my
life and that I didn’t see any purpose in continuing. I’d tell them not only had
I contemplated suicide but I’d almost gone ahead with it; however, something
had held me back. I needed someone to help me take those extra few steps
forward because I couldn’t do it alone.
To make it work, I needed to be organised. I opened up a blank Excel
spreadsheet on Charlotte’s laptop to make a note of the name of each End of
the Line volunteer who answered. I’d add the time of the call and a brief
outline of their responses to what I told them. Some likely shared the same
Christian name, so I’d type adjectives like ‘old’, ‘young’, ‘nasal’, ‘regional’
or ‘foreign accent’ to separate them.
 I’d give them my middle name, Steven, and I’d adjust my sleep pattern
to cover all their shifts. The task ahead of me was Herculean. But the quicker
I cracked on, the quicker I’d know for sure if I was hunting for a real person
or a ghost in the machine. I even got hold of a Dictaphone, and with a little bit
of gadgetry bought online, I could plug it into my phone and record all my
calls in case it was her.
Each day, I spoke to as many different volunteers as I could. My
conversations continued for as long as necessary until I could either include
them on my spreadsheet as a ‘yes’, a ‘maybe’ or a probable ‘no’. Patterns
began to emerge of who worked when, how frequently, and which days of the
week I could find them.
A little over a fortnight later and my spreadsheet went on for pages,
packed full of names, dates, times and descriptions. But there had been no
obvious ‘yeses’.
I felt shitty for abusing End of the Line’s resources by calling so often
and for pulling the wool over their eyes, especially as they seemed like good
people. They didn’t try to talk Steven out of wanting to end his life; instead,
they listened, helped him explore what he was feeling and let him find his
own way forward. Without exception, every voice was coming from a place
of goodness. I had to keep reminding myself that so was I.
There were times when I found their kindness so warm and heartfelt that
my guard slipped and Ryan came out. Then it was me admitting to feelings of
hopelessness and me who was struggling.
I began painting mental pictures of what the Helpline Heroine might
look like. She was in her late fifties, a spinster with pale skin that was
beginning to loosen and hang from her cheeks and neck. There’d be deep
lines etched across her forehead and her shoulders would be hunched from the
weight of the guilt she carried but refused to acknowledge. On the surface, her
eyes would seem charitable but if you stared into them deeply enough, you’d
catch a glimmer of the woman inside – a dark, cold soul who thrived on the
pain of others. She was like Judi Dench in that film Notes on a Scandal. Only
even more devious.
Whoever she was, the Helpline Heroine came to dominate my days, my
nights, my waking thoughts and my unconscious dreams. While she had given
me a function, I’d also made her an obsession that was delaying my healing.
But I knew that if I threw in the towel now without completing what I’d set
out to do, I’d forever wonder if she actually existed.
 Of course I didn’t tell my family or friends what I was up to because
they’d think I was mad. But judging by the number of frustrated voicemails
and texts they left, complaining that my phone was permanently engaged,
they had an idea something was up. So I started joining them just often
enough for drinks at the pub, a family dinner at home or a get-together at a
restaurant to convince them that over four and a half months after Charlotte’s
suicide, I was on the road to recovery.
In part, it was true. I was on a road. And, eventually, it led to the woman
I was looking for.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER
CHARLOTTE
Eighty-two people. That’s how many I’d lied to and misled before I found the
person nicknamed the Helpline Heroine.
‘Good evening, you’ve reached the End of the Line, this is Laura
speaking. May I ask your name?’ she began.
I pressed record on my Dictaphone like I did with each call, and with the
earpiece in place I slipped quickly and easily into my alter ego Steven like a
comfortable pair of slippers. I trotted out the same reply I’d given the last
eighty-one times. ‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know
where to begin.’
‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’
Like most of the other volunteers, there was something reassuring about
her voice. She was well-spoken, her tone friendly and soothing. I could
imagine her reading a bedtime story on children’s television.
‘Steven,’ I replied.
‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven,’ she continued. ‘Can I ask what made
you decide to call us this evening?’
‘I’m not sure. I – I feel like I haven’t got . . . anyone. I don’t think I want
to be . . . here . . . anymore.’ I’d read the script so many times recently that I
knew it off by heart. I knew where to sound choked and where to pause for
dramatic effect. If an Oscar were ever awarded for Best Dramatic Role via the
Telephone, I’d be a dead cert to win.
‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the people
who love and care about you. Who do you have in your life who falls into that
category?’
I pretended to think for a moment. ‘Nobody really.’ I exaggerated a deep
sigh. ‘I’ve got no one at all.’
She asked if I had friends I could turn to and sympathised when I said I
had none. Her responses were textbook. My fingers slid quietly across the
laptop keyboard, adding her to my spreadsheet. Laura wasn’t an unusual
name but she was the first volunteer that I’d come across with it. Already I
could tell she was a glass-half-full kind of woman.
Unlikely, I typed.
‘Have you seen your doctor and told them how you’re feeling?’
‘Yes, and she put me on antidepressants.’
‘And how have they worked for you?’
‘It’s been four months and I still don’t feel there’s anything to get up for
in the morning. Sometimes I think I’d be better off just saving them all up and
. . . you know . . .’
‘Sometimes or often?’
Again, I hesitated. ‘Often,’ I whispered.
Our conversation wasn’t going any further than the last eighty-one times
with her predecessors. I heard a faint rustling and guessed she was new and
consulting a manual. If nothing else, I’d be good practice for her. I stifled a
yawn and started to look at the football results on the BBC Sport website.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed, Steven. We’ve all thought about
ending our lives at some time or another. Have you ever tried to do it before?’
Hold up, did she just say ‘we’ve all’?
None of the other eighty-one helpline staff admitted that. Maybe she just
wanted me to believe that she really did understand me.
‘No,’ I replied, as if I were ashamed. ‘But I did plan it out once.’
‘You planned it out once?’
I followed the advice I’d read online and told her about making it easier
for those I’d leave behind by getting my affairs in order before I died. I
looked at a page of notes I’d made and brought up the railway track near
Wolverton that could be reached through a broken fence. She listened quietly
as my imagination did the talking.
‘Perhaps, deep down, you aren’t serious about ending your life,’ she
said. It was less of a question and more of a statement. And then something in
her voice switched from warm and comfortable to accusatory.
‘Maybe it’s a cry for help?’ she continued. ‘I get plenty of calls from
people who tell me they want to die, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty,
all they’re really doing is just feeling sorry for themselves. Are you one of
those people, Steven? Are you just trapped in a cycle of self-pity? Are you so
deep into it that you don’t realise nothing is going to change unless you find
the courage to do something about it yourself ? Because if you don’t take
charge, for the rest of your life – maybe another forty, fifty years – the pain
you’re feeling right now, the pain that’s so bad that it led you to call me, is
only going to get worse. This – how you are feeling right now – is going to be
it for you. Can you live like that, Steven? I know I couldn’t.’
I knew in that moment I’d found her.
None of the others had even come close to talking to me like this. I
should have been excited, but in all my preparations I’d stupidly not
considered where to go if I ever reached this stage. I’d assumed I could wing
it but I was wrong. Instead, I became tongue-tied.
‘I – I – I’m not a timewaster, honestly,’ I stuttered. ‘It’s something I’ve
thought long and hard about and it’s what I want, but if I can’t do it, that must
make me a coward, right?’
‘No, Steven, you’re not a coward,’ she continued. ‘You called me today
and that makes you courageous. Maybe you just chose the wrong day when
you were waiting for that train. It happens to plenty of people.’ Now her tone
had returned to calming.
Am I just imagining all this?
I could almost picture her smile as she spoke, like butter wouldn’t melt
in her mouth. ‘Just remember, we’re here for you in whatever capacity you
want us to be.’
‘You mean to listen to me?’
I held my breath as I waited for her reply. She’d basically just agreed
with me that I had nothing to live for and now she was telling me I had
courage. I wasn’t sure who was the cat, who was the mouse and who was
toying with whom.
‘If that’s all you want from me, then yes.’
‘What if . . . what if I need . . . what if I decide . . .’ My voice trailed off.
How on earth could I put it into words without scaring her off ?
‘Are you calling to tell me you want to end your life and are looking for
my support in doing it?’
She’d done it for me. Butterflies rose en masse in my stomach and took
flight. Oh fuck! This is it! What the hell do I say next?
‘I . . . I suppose I am.’ I grimaced as the words fell clumsily from my
mouth. And again her tone switched, as if she were lecturing me.
‘End of the Line is an impartial, non-judgemental place,’ she continued.
‘We are here to listen to you. We won’t try to talk you out of anything you
decide to do, we just ask that you talk to us first and explore all your options
before you take such a huge step. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I racked my brain for how to respond. The best I could
manage was a meek ‘But . . .’
‘But?’ she repeated.
She had me on the back foot and she relished it. ‘But if I wanted to, you
know, go ahead with it, would you . . . ?’
‘Would I what, Steven? What would you like me to do?’
My mouth went dry and I fell silent again.
What is wrong with you, Ryan? Come on! You have her! Just say
something!
But I was stumped. I needed time to think. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ I
said, before hanging up.
‘Fuck!’ I yelled at the top of my voice, then grabbed a mug from the
table and hurled it at the wall. It smashed into pieces and sent a framed print
crashing to the floor.
I remained with my head in my hands, taking sharp breaths. Laura
wasn’t like any of the other volunteers I’d spoken to. She was the one. She
was the Helpline Heroine and her ability to switch personalities in a heartbeat
scared the hell out of me. She hadn’t just come out and said, ‘I will help you
kill yourself,’ but she’d pretty much told me that I was going to remain living
in this hell unless I did something drastic.
I rewound the Dictaphone and listened to the whole conversation again.
She’d taken complete control of the call and I was angry at myself for losing
grip of my own plan. Instead of playing it cool I’d panicked, then hung up on
her. My instinct was to call her again straight away, but I held back. If I did it
immediately, I might look indecisive or an attention-seeker. She had to think I
was almost sure I wanted to die – ‘almost’ being the operative word – because
turning that into a certainty would give her a challenge and I bet that’s what
she enjoyed. I’d pretend to spend the next few days mulling it over before I
called End of the Line to try and find her again.
What to do until then? I had to put my time to good use. There was a
chance Laura had given me a false name, but it was all I had to go on. I
googled ‘Laura’ and ‘End of the Line’, but all that came up was the author of
a book about historic steam trains. I refined my search with the words
‘charity’ and ‘suicide’ and it took me to the website of a local newspaper, the
Chronicle & Echo.
The headline £300 RAISED IN CHARITY BAKE SALE ran above a photo of
three women and a girl standing behind a table full of baked goods. The story
was dated around a year ago. Almost £300 has been raised for helpline End of
the Line by staff baking cakes, it said. The helpline, which has been running
for eight years in its town centre premises, made the money with a stall at the
Racecourse Town Show. A spokesman said: ‘We are self-funded and this cash
will really help with our escalating running costs.’ Pictured above (from left
to right): Zoe Parker, Mary Barnett, Effie Morris and Laura Morris.
Laura Morris. I boosted the size of the picture on my screen and stared
at the woman on the right. She was actually quite normal-looking, not at all
like the dowdy frump I’d pictured her as. She was attractive, even. She wore a
smart blouse and pleated skirt, her hair was slicked back and tied into a
ponytail and her smile revealed perfectly positioned teeth. There was
something familiar about her daughter Effie’s face and name. I looked her up
on Facebook and it clicked when I saw a clearer image of her face.
I typed Laura Morris into the search engine along with End of the Line
and one more story appeared. CHARITY FUNDRAISER WINS TOP AWARD. The
photo featured the same woman. A man in a wheelchair was presenting a
silver shield to her for single-handedly raising £50,000 for the charity in a
year, the largest sum of any of their branches.
I’ve worked here for a few years now so I know first-hand the good work
the charity does, Laura was quoted as saying. It’s taken a lot of hard work to
raise the money, from jumble and bake sales to sponsorship, and I’d like to
thank my husband Tony and Insurance World for their help with sponsorship,
too.
So she was married. I wondered how calculating a person had to be to
pull the wool over her husband’s eyes. Or maybe he was like-minded. Perhaps
he knew what she did and turned a blind eye to it.
There was always a chance this was a gargantuan fuck-up and my hunch
was wrong. I was about to close the lid of the laptop when the last line of the
story caught my eye.
When asked what advice Laura would give to anyone thinking of calling
End of the Line, she replied, ‘We’re here for you in whatever capacity you
want us to be.’
It was exactly the same line she’d used on me when I’d told her I
wanted to die. I googled the phrase and it wasn’t something she’d taken from
End of the Line’s website or anywhere else and just repeated. It was her own.
This had to be the same woman I’d spoken to.
I smiled to myself, as I knew exactly how I was going to get to Laura.
 CHAPTER TWELVE
I sat in the driver’s seat of my car a few metres away from End of the Line’s
offices in Northampton town centre.
I was parked on double yellow lines, and every forty minutes or so I’d
spot the same sour-faced traffic warden in my rear-view mirror patrolling the
avenue. Each time she made her way in my direction, checking car
registrations with the electronic device in her hand, I’d start the engine and
drive around the block. Then I’d park in the exact same spot once she’d gone.
I’d learned Laura Morris was volunteering that day when she’d
answered on my third call to the helpline. I wondered what the odds were on
that happening so soon. But I didn’t want to talk to her today. I’d immediately
hung up, grabbed my coat, keys and phone, and hurried to their office to wait
for her to emerge.
I’d been there for much of the morning when a handful of people
entered within minutes of each other. I assumed a new shift must be about to
start. Soon after, Laura left. Her head tilted up towards the cloudless sky to
gauge the May bank holiday weather, then she walked down the handful of
concrete steps and passed my car. I compared her face to the online
newspaper story I’d printed out, and I was as sure as I could be that it was the
same woman. Seeing her in the flesh after the weeks of effort I’d put in to
track her down and unmask her made me giddy. I clenched my fists and took
a deep breath.
She wore white running shoes and a waterproof jacket and carried a
handbag-sized folded umbrella, so I assumed she wasn’t driving. I grabbed
some loose change from the ashtray in case I needed to follow her onto a bus,
opened the car door and, no longer caring about traffic wardens, began my
pursuit. I held back for a moment when she looked behind her, then she
opened her bag, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
I’d watched enough telly cop dramas to know to keep a safe distance.
Chances were Laura wouldn’t know she was being followed, but I couldn’t
take the risk. If I could see her, then she could see me. I slipped my
headphones over my ears so that if she turned around, I’d just be a man
listening to music.
She kept a steady pace and while she wasn’t a power-walker, she moved
with purpose. I followed her for about thirty minutes before we entered a
housing estate. It was a moderately affluent area with long front gardens,
neatly trimmed hedges and lawns, and rows of flowers.
One house stood out from the rest like a silver penny among coppers.
And Laura was making her way up its driveway. The walls had been rendered
and painted a creamy white and the window frames weren’t like the
neighbours’ houses – brown, plastic and diamond-leaded. They were modern,
dark grey frames and the glass was slightly tinted. Instead of a grassy lawn
there was block paving and enough room for two more cars to park next to the
yellow Mini Cooper already there. Under a window were some carefully
arranged terracotta plant pots. Although stylishly tied together, the house and
garden didn’t fit in with the surroundings.
Laura unlocked a double front door and, as she crossed the threshold, I
briefly registered the walls and their unusual colour, patchy with dark grey
and black streaks. I waited for her to close the door behind her before
returning to my car, satisfied.
I headed back the next morning at seven, desperately needing to know
more about a typical day in her life. With lukewarm coffee in a flask, I parked
on the opposite side of the road and waited.
I must have missed her husband, as the only car parked on the drive was
the Mini, which by its garish colour I doubted was his. When Laura finally
left an hour and a half later, a pink rucksack was strapped to her back and she
set off on foot.
She strolled briskly and I stuck to the other side of the road, dodging
behind trees and cars, taking pictures of her en route with my camera phone.
She paused outside Westfield Junior School’s gates and concentrated on a
group of girls and boys running around and laughing together. She waved to
one, but her smile faded when the girl didn’t see her. Laura briefly became
distracted by some of the other mums standing by the gate, and she looked as
if she might want to join them in conversation. Instead, she turned and walked
away as if she were afraid to take the risk.
Her journey continued and more photos followed, until finally she
approached the driveway to a large white building split into several wings that
I was familiar with. What is she doing here? I wondered.
It was Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home, where my Granddad Pete
had been moved after a stroke left him paralysed down the right-hand side of
his body. He was barely able to move or talk. Mum and Dad visited him twice
a week; Johnny and I less so, especially after Charlotte’s death. I’d been too
busy thinking of myself to remember him.
 The receptionist appeared to be familiar with Laura Morris, because she
buzzed her in through the doors without asking to see any ID. Then Laura
wandered along a corridor before veering out of sight.
I remained outside, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure of how to play it.
Would I be pushing my luck if I followed her inside? Maybe, but I had to
chance it.
‘Hi, I’ve come to see Pete Spencer,’ I told the young woman behind the
desk, and gave her my brightest smile.
‘What relation to Mr Spencer are you?’ she asked, stony-faced.
‘I’m his grandson. I haven’t been for a while.’ She looked at me as if to
say, I know. Shame on you.
At her request, I passed her my driver’s licence as identification and she
handed me a visitor’s lanyard to wear around my neck. Granddad’s room was
located in a separate wing, to the right of the corridor, along with other
physically impaired patients. But Laura had turned to the left. I glanced
around to make sure nobody was watching me before I walked down the same
corridor she’d taken. It wasn’t long before I found her.
She was sitting in a lounge area, holding the hand of a boy strapped into
a wheelchair who was laughing along to a book she was reading him. Her
eyes only flitted between the book and his smile, like if she looked elsewhere,
he might vanish into thin air. Only a mum could look at her own child with so
much love. She stroked his hand and laughed with him.
I was taken aback, trying to reconcile the woman before me with the one
who, just days earlier, had suggested I should kill myself. I watched them for
a couple more minutes, but felt intrusive. I had to remind myself that having a
child with special needs didn’t change who she was or what she did to
vulnerable people.
I left as silently as I’d arrived, and decided to visit Granddad while I was
there. I knocked on the door to his room and entered. While his eyes were
closed, I took in his appearance. He was nothing like the bulky, soundly
framed builder I recalled as a kid. I remembered being nine and playing in our
garden with Johnny, both of us watching Granddad Pete make his way up and
down a ladder with a hod resting on his shoulder, retiling the roof. He gave us
each a piggyback up to the very top, where we straddled the ridge and waved
to the passing cars and buses on the road below. Then Mum came back from
work and screamed blue murder until he carried us down again.
 Two decades had passed, and an adult lifetime of smoking two packs of
high-tar cigarettes a day had likely brought on his series of strokes and turned
him into the shadow of a man before me.
Photos of my late Granny Elsie and Mum and Dad were arranged on
floating shelves surrounding his bed; Johnny and me as kids were on his wall,
and in a large silver frame was a photo of Charlotte and me from our wedding
day. It caught me off guard.
‘Hi, Granddad, it’s Ryan,’ I said quietly, and took hold of his hand. His
skin felt paper-thin and his purple veins stood out like speedbumps on a road.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t come for a while.’
His eyelids slowly unfurled and I watched as his milky grey eyes
focused on where and who the voice was coming from. Sections of his brain
controlling his speech and movement had been irrevocably damaged by the
final, massive stroke, but he still recognised his eldest grandson. The left side
of his mouth rose ever so slightly as he tried to smile. His index finger
brushed against mine.
‘Lot,’ he muttered. I frowned.
‘What’s that?’ I asked gently.
‘Lot,’ he repeated and looked ahead of him. ‘Lot. Cha. Cha.’ He was
looking at my wedding photo.
‘Lot cha,’ I repeated. ‘You mean Charlotte?’ His finger touched mine
again. ‘Mum told you?’ I’d never actually asked if she had. He indicated yes.
‘Things have been a bit shit lately,’ I admitted. And before I could stop
myself, I was talking at a million miles an hour, telling him about Charlotte’s
death, how I thought she’d been coerced into killing herself and how I’d
found the woman responsible. I just needed to get it off my chest.
‘I’m scared, Granddad,’ I continued. ‘I’m scared of how far I might take
it with that woman. I wish you could tell me what to do.’
He stared at me with such intensity, like he was willing his brain to
allow his mouth a complete sentence. His cheeks and forehead turned crimson
as he opened his lips and a rasp came out.
‘It’s okay,’ I replied. I’d been selfish to dump all this on him.
‘Eye,’ he muttered. ‘Eye, fa.’ He was imploring me to understand him.
‘Eye, eye, fa,’ I repeated, before understanding what he meant. ‘An eye
for an eye,’ I said, and his finger pressed against mine.
His head nodded ever-so-slightly.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, and clasped his hand tightly in both of mine.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS AFTER
CHARLOTTE
I held out for a few more days before I called End of the Line again.
I’d returned from a lunchtime pint at The Abington with Johnny and
Dad, still maintaining the appearance of a man on the slow road to recovery.
They seemed relieved when I told them I was returning to my job soon. I’d
only been there for nine months before Charlotte died and I’d been off for
almost five months, so I gave my boss Bruce Atkinson a date when I wanted
to return and he said he’d set the wheels in motion. It would be a gradual
return rather than anything immediate.
But today my priority was Laura. A torrential summer downpour had
soaked me to the skin, so as soon as I arrived back at the flat I stripped off my
wet clothes, hung them over the shower rail to dry and couldn’t wait to get
started. Fortune was on my side, and I tracked her down within a couple of
hours.
‘My name is Steven. You probably don’t remember me but I think you
might be the lady I spoke to recently?’
‘Yes, hello there, Steven, it was me you spoke to and, yes, I do
remember you. How are things with you today?’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘That sounds more positive than last time. Has something in your
circumstances changed?’
‘Nothing much really, I guess.’ The biggest change was now I knew a lot
more about who was on the other end of the phone.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But regardless, you’re having a good day
today at least?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, sometimes after a good night’s sleep, we just wake up in the
morning feeling better about things.’
‘It doesn’t mean the bad stuff goes away though, does it?’
It was like our first conversation had never happened. She was laying on
the positivity thickly and I wondered if there was any way she could be on to
me. Maybe this is what she did – she played with people to find out how
serious they were about wanting to die. They say the best way to drive a dog
mad is to stroke it then smack it so it never knows where it stands. Was I her
dog?
We danced around each other like a scorpion circling a rattlesnake,
neither of us striking. Finally, when I refused to offer any positive answers to
the questions she asked, she took the bait.
‘Steven, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but earlier you said you were
okay, but you don’t sound like you are.’
‘I think I’ve just got in the habit of saying I am so that people don’t
worry about me.’
‘This is a neutral place. You don’t have to pretend to be anything you’re
not with me. Is there anything you’d like to talk about in particular?’
‘Um . . . the last time we spoke . . .’
‘I remember . . .’
‘I told you something.’
‘You told me a lot of things.’
‘About me thinking about killing myself . . .’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘You asked me if I was prepared to do it.’
‘I don’t recall those being the exact words I used, Steven. I think you
may have misinterpreted what I was saying.’
That threw me. ‘Oh.’
‘What conclusions have you made regarding ending your life since last
time?’
I flicked through my notebook but couldn’t find the page where I’d
written what she’d said before. I had to bluff it.
‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. In fact, it’s been the only thing on my
mind and I can’t make it stop. You’re right – no matter what I do, nothing is
going to change. All I’m going to feel like is this.’
‘And how do you think you can you rid yourself of these feelings?’
 I couldn’t go in with all guns blazing. She had to think she was in
control. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do though, don’t you? If you’re being really honest with
yourself.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’m ready. I mean, I want to . . . I want to die . . .’
‘Steven, I’m very sorry to interrupt but I’m afraid I’m going to have to
go now, as my shift is coming to an end. Unfortunately, I can’t transfer you to
one of my colleagues, but if you call back, I’m sure someone else would be
happy to pick up where we’ve left off.’
‘What? But—’
‘Take care, David,’ she continued.
The phone went dead and I sat rigid in the armchair listening to the rain
lashing against the balcony window. I ran my hands through my hair trying to
suss out whether Laura, our conversations, what I thought she’d encouraged
Charlotte to do – everything, in fact – was actually all in my head. Had a
combination of grief, booze and a lack of sleep meant that, first time around,
I’d only been hearing what I wanted to hear? Or had she seen straight through
Steven and found Ryan?
No, she couldn’t have. It was far more likely that she was testing me to
see how genuine I was and how far she could push me.
And who the hell was David?
For the rest of the week, I continued to park close to Laura Morris’s
home at various times of the day to watch or follow her. Nothing about
surveillance was fun. A heatwave decided to kick in that very week, so to
avoid heatstroke I’d either wind down the windows or give myself frequent
blasts from the air conditioner. The nearest public toilets had long since
closed, so I was forced to empty my bladder in an alleyway instead. My eyes
were sore from constantly straining to look at the wing and rear-view mirrors.
When Laura was in view, I’d snap as many pictures as I could of every
mundane task. She went nowhere without me following close behind and
learning the minute details of her everyday life.
Sometimes, when she was at home, my eyes followed her darkened
figure through the tinted windows as she moved from room to room. I could
just about make her out through the gaps in her open blinds and in the
kitchen, where she’d sit, mostly alone. Once, as evening fell and before she
closed the blinds, I stood close to her kitchen window and watched as she
spoke to someone out of view. I wondered who else was there that I didn’t
know about.
I checked the electoral register, and she shared the space with her
husband Tony and three unnamed children under the age of sixteen. I already
knew the boy wasn’t there anymore, and another I assumed was the Effie
pictured in the newspaper and who I’d found on Facebook. That left one
more.
Tony wasn’t hard to find, as Laura had mentioned him in her newspaper
interview. He owned an insurance brokerage and was easy to recognise
because the name of his business – and his photograph – was plastered across
the side of an Audi saloon.
I’d only just pulled up outside his place of work in an industrial estate
when I spotted him leaving his office. I trailed him just like I followed his
wife, only by car this time, taking photos as we were held at red lights and
then from the other side of the street as he made his way into a gym. Then,
once he changed into his vest and shorts, I sat in reception pretending to surf
the Internet on my phone when I was actually taking pictures through the
glass wall of him knocking the hell out of a punch bag.
Next it was Effie’s turn to be the focus of my attention, and by the end
of the week I knew exactly how I was going to take away everything that
Laura had stolen from me.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FIVE MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER
CHARLOTTE
Laura appeared to recognise my voice instantly.
She sounded relieved I’d called a third time, almost grateful, as if I’d
proven something to her.
I hit the record button on my Dictaphone, and once again she began our
conversation playing by the book. She hadn’t got away with what she’d been
doing by being sloppy. And this time, I’d already rehearsed in my head
everything I thought she might ask, so there’d be no more surprises and I
wouldn’t need to hang up like I had the first time. I’d even written down some
fake background history about Steven to throw into the conversation. She had
to believe he was desperate, naive and vulnerable enough to manipulate.
‘If you can’t see yourself getting any better, what’s the best outcome you
could hope for?’ she asked some time into our exchange.
I paused as long as I dared for dramatic effect. ‘That one morning I just
don’t wake up.’
‘You don’t want to wake up. I understand.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I have to live for?’
‘Would you like me to? Would you listen to me if I came up with some
reasons?’
‘No, probably not.’
‘In our first conversation, you mentioned ending your life by standing in
front of a train,’ she reminded me.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘What are your thoughts now?’
‘Hanging.’
I’d done a little Internet research and learned it was the most popular
way men choose to kill themselves. She wanted to see just how much thought
I’d given to it, why I’d chosen it, where it might happen and how I’d do it. I
sensed my answers were irritating her.
 ‘There are a lot of complications involved in . . . your method, if that’s
what you choose,’ she snapped, and then quickly gathered herself. ‘But we
can work through that another time if it’s the direction you decide to take.’
With that one sentence, I knew I had her. If there’d been even the
slightest inkling of doubt in my mind, she’d just erased it.
The balance of power between us had shifted. She’d lapped up
everything I’d told her and had stopped trying to help me find the positives in
my life. Whatever test she’d spent weeks putting me through, I’d just passed.
‘So you’ll help me?’ I asked.
‘As I’ve explained to you before, it’s not my job to try to talk you out of
anything or into my way of thinking. I’m just here to listen.’
‘What if . . .’ My voice trailed off. This wasn’t part of my plan, not yet.
My heart was pounding quickly and I debated whether to take the risk and ask
her point-blank. My mouth opened, but I hesitated.
‘David?’ she asked. ‘Are you still there?’
‘David?’ I replied.
‘Sorry, I meant Steven. You were saying, “what if ”?’
Fuck it. Just say it. ‘What if you were with me when I did it?’
‘If you need someone to be with you, then I’m happy to listen and keep
you company.’
‘I don’t mean on the phone.’
I’d caught her completely off guard. She knew exactly what I meant, yet
she wanted me to spell it out for her.
‘What if I asked you to be with me, Laura, here in my house, when I
hanged myself ? Would you come?’
There was complete silence before she answered. All either of us heard
was the sound of each other’s nervous breaths.
‘I – I . . . don’t think that would be appropriate,’ she stuttered.
I had to think on my feet and justify my offer.
‘I need you here to tell me if I’m messing something up and reassure me
it’s all going to be all right. And to be there for me . . . you know . . . at the
end.’
 ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘No, of course not. But it’s like, you get me.’ I continued to appeal to her
ego by insisting she had been more helpful to me in three conversations than
months of counselling. ‘Would you at least think about it?’ I finished.
‘I can’t, Steven. I’m sorry but you’re asking me to do something that’s
illegal and completely unethical. I could get into so much trouble.’
‘You’re right and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ I replied. ‘I won’t
do it again.’
I was grinning from ear to ear as I ended the call on my terms. My plans
for Laura all hinged on her saying yes. Now all I had to do was wait.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Laura was anxious, I could sense it. From the moment she answered the
phone and I identified myself, something in her voice told me she was trying
hard to keep her emotions under control. But she wasn’t that good an actress.
I sensed she didn’t want me to know how pleased she was to hear from
me again, and I wondered if Charlotte had been fooled by the same veiled
enthusiasm.
The flat had been feeling claustrophobic and, when the walls threatened
to close in on me, I grabbed my phone and my notebook and headed to
Abington Park instead. I was watching ducks fight over a crust of bread in the
smallest of the park’s three lakes when I reached Laura again. I’d allowed a
few days to pass after asking if she’d be with me in person when I died. I’d
wanted my request to sink in and for her to mull it over – then, fingers
crossed, agree.
I began with a fake apology for putting her in a difficult position.
‘Honestly, Steven, I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to listen to
everything you have to say to me.’
Her breath was more uneven than normal and her tone forcibly
controlled. It was as if she wanted to tell me something but was battling with
herself over whether she should. We chatted some more and I began asking
her questions about herself. I deliberately flattered her by saying I imagined
she looked like that actress from The Hunger Games films. Of course I knew
exactly what Laura looked like, because I’d been so close to her so often. But
when she asked if I’d thought of having children, she caught me by surprise.
‘There was someone once, I guess, who I considered having a family
with,’ I replied. ‘She was sweet and kind and I thought that she really loved
me, but suddenly she disappeared from my life.’
I hoped that the more vulnerable I made myself, the more she’d
recognise weakness and want to take me up on my offer. Another quarter of
an hour of small talk passed before she couldn’t hold herself back any longer.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said suddenly. ‘If you’re serious about wanting to end
your life, then I’ll be with you in person when you do it.’ She was whispering,
probably scared of being overheard.
I tried to sound appreciative, when really I was both ecstatic and
disgusted by her enthusiasm. She went on to explain that she only worked
with people whom she felt she knew inside and out. So she expected me to be
open with her about every aspect of my life. She would provide me with her
work rota and I was to call and check in with her at set times and at least three
times a week. Only then would we set a date for my death.
‘I will be on your side from the beginning to the end of this process, but
this is a business relationship,’ she added. ‘We both have our parts to play,
Steven. Yours is to tell me who you are and mine is to ensure your transition
is a smooth one.’
The first test had been about persistence and convincing her I was ready
to die. The second was to make her believe one hundred per cent that Steven
was real. And if there was even the tiniest crumb of doubt, I knew she would
spot it.
I had to be on the top of my game to knock Laura from the top of hers.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SIX MONTHS AFTER CHARLOTTE
‘The knot needs to go high and behind your neck so it pulls tighter as more
pressure’s applied,’ Laura explained. Her tone was quiet and sometimes I had
to strain to hear her. ‘When you practise it, make sure that when the rope’s
tied to the beam, it doesn’t slip. It’s so important to remember that.’
She had given me five weeks until the day of my self-execution. By
week two, she’d begun detailing the practicalities of how I should hang
myself. I lay on the bed with the phone clamped to my ear, my knees pointed
upwards like two pyramids and my notebook resting on my thighs.
Sometimes I’d draw stickmen doodles. Today, I was hanging them from
stickmen gallows. As long as she heard the sound of rustling or my voice
repeating her words, she seemed happy.
Next, she advised me to test the rope’s strength and to use padding so it
didn’t dig into my neck and make it bleed. She explained where exactly I
should put the knot and what type to use. She seemed to want to make sure
my death was clean and, if possible, pain-free. I couldn’t work out why
someone so eager to watch me die cared whether I was hurting as I swung
from the beams. Surely it made no difference to her?
I closed my eyes as she spoke and tried to imagine her hunched over the
desk in her office, whispering to me down the receiver, getting a kick out of
giving me instructions on how to end it all, while surrounded by a room full
of people who didn’t have a clue what she was up to.
There’d been times when we’d spoken about more mundane things. In
fact, death and how I was going to achieve it made up less than a quarter of
our conversations. She wanted to know details about my life, from my
relationships with my parents and Johnny, to my favourite meals, films, the
songs I wanted played at my funeral, ex-girlfriends . . . you name it, she asked
it. I believed she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. It was as if she
wanted to harvest everything she could in our time together so she’d have the
perfect picture of who would be dying in front of her.
At times, I even wondered if I’d got it wrong about her, and perhaps
Laura was just a bored housewife with a fantasy, seeing how far she could
take it before she or I gave up and admitted it was all make-believe. However,
as the weeks went on and the day of my ‘suicide’ approached, she gave no
indication she was ready to quit.
Creating the persona of a man preparing to take his own life was a lot
tougher than I imagined. It became all-consuming and I had to make a note of
every lie I told her. My notebook was a biography of a man who didn’t exist.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I began during another conversation.
‘Yes, of course,’ Laura replied.
‘Can you tell me something about you? It doesn’t have to be too
personal or anything.’
She paused before answering. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to know more about the person who cares enough about
people like me to help them.’
‘What would you like to know?’
I knew where she lived, the place where she worked. I’d seen her family.
I’d followed her around her favourite shops. I’d watched her read a book to
her disabled son. She seemed like a perfectly normal woman. But I didn’t
have the first clue about why she did what she did.
‘Can I ask if you’ve done this for anyone else? Have there been more
people like me?’
‘Yes, there have been.’
‘Can you tell me more about them?’
‘Would you like the next person I choose to know about you?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Then you have to respect their privacy.’
We were on our twelfth conversation so I was familiar enough with the
slight nuances of her tone to know when she was leaving her comfort zone.
But with not long left to go, I gambled that she was too invested in me to be
put off by my familiarity. Instead, she explained how everyone was different,
so with each person she took a different approach. It was as if she tailor-made
suicide packages for them. Not that I ever heard her use the word ‘suicide’.
She seemed to deliberately shy away from saying it out loud.
‘This life is difficult to negotiate alone,’ she continued. ‘Some people
fall by the wayside and need help in finding their way back onto the right
road. Others want to stay off the road completely and that’s where I come in.’
 I thought of Charlotte and how if only Laura had encouraged her to stay
on the road for a little longer, I’d be watching my four-month-old baby son
playing with soft toys on the floor right now. I wouldn’t be planning to take
down the woman who destroyed his mother and his own life.
‘Have you ever thought afterwards that you might have got it wrong
with someone? Have you helped them and thought later that maybe they
should have just held on for that bit longer?’
‘No,’ she replied without a pause. ‘Everyone who comes to me is a
volunteer, like you are. I don’t seek people out, they seek me. I have never –
and will never – regret anything I do.’
I had a feeling Laura would soon be changing her mind.
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SEVEN MONTHS, ONE WEEK AFTER
CHARLOTTE
Steven’s day of reckoning had arrived.
It was early afternoon when I trampled across the overgrown lawn to
face the cottage I’d bought as a surprise for my wife.
An estate agent’s white and blue ‘Sold’ board was still hammered into
the ground, so I yanked it out and threw it behind some bushes. Paint was
flaking from the original window frames. Patches of cement between the
brickwork were cracked and needed repointing. Some of the grey slate tiles
were off-kilter and would need replacing or straightening before the roof
leaked. The seven months of neglect I’d shown, on top of the four and a half
years it had already been empty, meant two-feet-high thistles and stinging
nettles in the borders met with the dandelions hiding the gravel path.
My parents had given me a £30,000 loan to put down as a deposit, and a
mortgage took care of the rest. Charlotte and I had some savings to pay for
the urgent repairs and the rest I’d thought we’d do in due course. It was a
win/win situation – my dad loved his DIY, and with nothing left to alter in his
own house, he was itching for a new project to sink his teeth into. He was set
to save us a fortune in workmen’s bills.
But the cottage that had promised so much was never given the chance
to deliver, because Charlotte killed herself the day I got the keys. Since then, I
hadn’t been able to face even driving past it, let alone going inside.
‘Are you thinking of buying it?’ asked a woman with a headscarf and a
tiny rat-like dog on a pink lead as she walked past.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she continued before shuffling off. ‘It’d make a lovely
family home again.’ Her casual observation choked me. I’m sure it would,
one day. But not tonight. Tonight I needed it to deal with Laura Morris.
Back at the car, I removed a rope, a lightbulb, three cardboard folders
stuffed with photographs of her and her family, and two rolls of tape, and
carried them to the front door. Hesitantly I unlocked it and pushed it open. I’d
already paid to have the electricity turned back on, so I flicked the light
switch and the hallway slowly illuminated. A few pieces of old furniture and
ornaments thick with dust had been left behind by the previous occupant, but
the place was largely bare.
I set to work covering every available inch of the bedroom wall with
pictures until there was no space left. I screwed in a low-watt lightbulb so she
wouldn’t spot them immediately and, step by step, memorised which stairs
creaked and how to avoid them. Then I spent twenty minutes tying and
retying the noose until it was exactly how she expected it to be, before
hanging it from the wooden beams. What I had planned for Laura she
deserved, I had no doubt about that. But I wasn’t going to kill her. I wanted
her to admit what she’d done to Charlotte and then terrify her by making her
think she wouldn’t be leaving that room alive. I would let her go – but I
wanted her to know that her actions had consequences. Maybe then she would
stop.
I sat on the floor of the bedroom and at our prearranged time she called
the pay-as-you-go mobile phone I’d bought, to find out where I lived.
‘There’s definitely not going to be anyone who might just turn up
unexpectedly?’ she asked. For the first time since I’d unmasked the Helpline
Heroine, I sensed real fear.
‘No – nobody,’ I replied in my usual pensive tone.
‘And you’ll remember to keep the front door open and the lights on?’
‘Yes. Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I do. But you are a human being and, by design, human
beings let you down. I need to be as sure as I possibly can that you have
listened to everything I’ve told you, so that there are no surprises or
complications. Now, run me through the procedure again.’
‘You’ll get here for eight p.m. sharp. If you see anything suspicious or
you’re not comfortable, you’ll drive away. I will be on my own, in my
bedroom, which is the second on the left at the top of the landing. The rope
will be affixed to the beams and the knot will be padded and tied correctly as
you’ve told me. You’ll then watch as I climb on a chair and take one step off
it. When you’re sure I’m dead, you’ll leave.’
‘Good. And Steven, I know I haven’t said this to you before, but thank
you for asking me to be there with you. I have enjoyed talking to you these
last couple of months. If you have any doubts, just keep reminding yourself
why you came looking for me in the first place. Together, we explored every
avenue before you decided this is the only route that makes sense. You are
moving on and allowing everyone else you love to do the same. And I admire
that so much.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied. Her speech sounded rehearsed and I wondered if
Charlotte had heard these exact same words.
It was just before eight o’clock and getting dark when I saw her from
where I was standing behind the overgrown conifers in the front garden. She
couldn’t see me. I held my breath and watched as her car pulled over to the
kerb. My eyes were drawn to her fingers as they gripped the steering wheel.
She waited, unsure whether to follow her heart and enter the house ahead, or
listen to her head and get out of there. She turned around a handful of times in
as many seconds to examine the cottage from every angle her position would
allow.
She’s here. She’s actually here. Laura Morris is here because she wants
to watch me die.
I clenched my fists as I willed her to go inside. After looking around one
last time, she opened the door I’d left ajar, then returned seconds later to prop
it open with a chair. My stomach was in knots, as if I desperately needed the
toilet.
I gave her time to make her way up the stairs to our meeting place
before I followed, careful to avoid the noisy steps. I watched from the
darkness of the corridor as she frantically pulled at the photographs on the
wall. I moved silently into the room and when I spoke, she spun around, her
eyes wide at the sound of my voice. I stepped forward and she retreated.
‘What . . . what do you want from me?’ she asked, in a tone I’d never
heard her speak in before. She didn’t even try to disguise her fear.
I moved towards her again to intimidate her further, telling her I wanted
to know why she did what she did to vulnerable people. She responded by
pulling out what looked like a kitchen knife from her coat pocket, waving it
weakly in front of her. She didn’t have the balls to use it, and I told her so.
Suddenly came the unmistakeable smell of urine and I realised she had
pissed herself in her panic. Guilt briefly hit me, before I remembered what she
had driven Charlotte to do and why she was here – to watch me die. I edged
closer to her.
‘You see that rope?’ I asked. Of course she had. ‘It’s not me who’s going
to be hanging from the beams tonight. It’s you.’
For a moment, her shaking hand and that knife were the only things in
the room to move until I broke the deadlock. I reached over to grab her wrist,
then spun her around and got her in an armlock. As she howled in pain, the
knife fell to the floor and I frogmarched her across the room towards the rope.
I planned to tie it around her neck, then once she begged for her life and
was at the most pitiful and apologetic a person could ever be, I’d let her go.
Tomorrow, I’d hand over the recordings of our phone conversations to her
manager at End of the Line and let them and the police deal with her.
Only I hadn’t thought about how I would get the rope over her neck. As
I released my grip on her arm, she took advantage of my hesitancy and
elbowed me in the balls and kicked me hard in the shinbone. It was an
automatic reaction for me to ease my grip on her, but that gave her the
opportunity to free herself, pick up the knife from the floor and plunge it into
my stomach.
It was a lucky shot – for her, anyway. I felt the pressure of the blade at
first but not the pain; that only came after I put my hand on the wound and
felt blood dripping down the waistband of my jeans. I felt a small whoosh of
air when Laura bent down and pulled the knife out of me, and as I fell to my
side I heard her footsteps disappear through the house, then a loud crash of
something heavy on the staircase like she’d fallen. I paused to listen, hoping
to God she hadn’t broken her neck, and then panicked over what I’d do with
her dead body. Suddenly she began moving again, and I heard her leave the
house and a car pull away.
I lay in the room, alone, surrounded by pictures of her on the wall and
those she’d torn down and left strewn across the floor.
We had underestimated each other, and she had beaten me. For now,
anyway.
PART TWO
 CHAPTER ONE
LAURA
I inhaled deeply to get the scent of sandalwood emerging from the bubble
bath, and inched my body a little further down until the warm soapy water
covered my breasts, stopping just short of my chin.
Seven vanilla-scented candles were arranged around the bath top, and
every now and again the silence of the room was interrupted by a sharp
crackle of the burning wick and wax.
I began my mindfulness exercises and focused on how the water felt
against my skin, how my toes felt as I raised my feet and they came into
contact with the bubbles on the surface, and the pressure of the tub against my
back. I focused on my breathing and allowed it to become slower and deeper,
letting my tummy rise and fall instead of my back and shoulders. Then, as I
was at my most relaxed, I pushed my bum forward, opened my mouth,
slipped my head underwater and took the biggest gulp of water I could until it
flooded my lungs.
My brain’s immediate reaction was to force myself to the surface and
cough the water out, but I fought hard against it and remained underneath,
thrashing about like a fish caught in a net. I felt the muscles around my larynx
contract and let the countdown begin on the remaining oxygen in my blood.
My eyes stung but remained open, and I could make out the blurred blue of
the towels on the radiator. It took all my strength but I held myself down a
little longer until I couldn’t take the burning anymore. Light-headed, I pulled
myself up and leaned over the side of the bath, violently vomiting water and
bile onto the tiled bathroom floor. I was sure I’d remained underwater a little
longer than last time.
I pulled myself together and made my way to the bathroom mirror,
wiping the steam from it with a flannel. I stared at my reflection. Six weeks
after the night of my confrontation with Steven and my fall down his stairs,
my black eyes, split lip, grazed ear, and bruised cheeks, neck and arms were
healing too quickly for my liking. I applied my make-up sparingly, so any
scabs were still noticeable, and I pinched hard at my bruises so they retained
their colour.
I was ready to return to work a hero.
Inventing my assault soon after I escaped from Steven’s cottage might have
been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment decision, but it was a bloody good one.
It had given me an alibi and brought me closer to my husband.
At first, I didn’t even try to process that I’d just stabbed a man. I was in
shock and needed to get back home where it was safe and familiar. My arms
and head were already starting to feel the pain of falling down the stairs, but I
tried to put it out of my mind as I sped along the road. Then cold shivers ran
across my shoulders, and down through my arms and legs until there was no
part of my body that didn’t feel like ice. How had I been so stupid as not to
have considered that I was being set up? Steven had known so much about
me, and God knows how long he’d been following me.
I didn’t notice the red traffic lights until another car blew its horn long
and hard. I slammed on my brakes and skidded across the junction as the
driver swerved to avoid me and mounted the pavement. I didn’t wait to see
their reaction or apologise; instead, I drove even faster.
I took a sharp left onto a side road and came to a halt in front of a row of
tired-looking terraced houses, desperately trying to regulate my panting
breath and tell myself that everything was going to be okay.
But it’s not, is it? warned my inner voice. You’ve just stabbed a man.
What if he’s dead? That makes you a killer.
It wasn’t that I might have been responsible for a man’s death that
concerned me. It was that if I’d killed him, there would be evidence in the
cottage that could link the two of us. I’d begun tearing down photographs of
myself from the walls until his sudden appearance had stopped me in my
tracks. Many had remained.
Suddenly it struck me – the only way out of this was to become the
victim, not the perpetrator.
Night had fallen by the time I left my car outside End of the Line, then I
hurried along the streets, thinking clearly for just long enough to make sure
there were no CCTV cameras above me. I made my way towards the
Racecourse, a 120-acre rectangular park with only the occasional streetlight.
Once in a darkened, secluded spot, I stared at the time on my phone and
remained motionless, waiting for five minutes to pass. A sharp, searing pain
burned my face like acid and my ear was ringing. I wanted to collapse to the
ground in tears from the pain.
‘Don’t give in to it,’ I muttered under my breath, and gritted my teeth.
Then, when five minutes had passed, I took a deep breath and ran back into
the open on paths by busy roads, past shops and lamp posts with mounted
cameras.
‘I’ve been attacked!’ I sobbed to the duty officer at Campbell Square
Police Station. I didn’t need to encourage my body to tremble, and he could
see by my bleeding face and hand that I’d been through the mill. He called for
a colleague, and a young woman in uniform ushered me towards a chair.
‘Are you in need of any urgent treatment?’ she asked gently.
I shook my head. ‘No, he didn’t . . . rape . . . me. I escaped before he did
that.’
She led me into an interview room at the back of the station and the next
two hours of my life went by in a blur. It was as if I had allowed someone else
to control my body, my brain and my conversation. I became a spectator
listening to myself conjure up lie after lie.
I explained how I’d been walking home from End of the Line through
the park when I was pushed to the ground from behind. It was too dark to see
his face when he rolled me over and kept hitting me in the face and then
grabbed me hard by the shoulders and arms. I saw a knife in his hand, but
somehow I’d managed to knee him in the groin, disable him and flee.
While officers were dispatched to the scene, the crime was recorded and
my statement and photographs of my injuries were taken. I was hesitant when
they asked me to remove my clothes for processing, especially as I’d be
forced to wear an unflattering forensic suit.
I was now the victim of a crime. And should I ever be linked to what
happened in the cottage, I’d have an alibi as to where I was. If that failed, I’d
tell them Steven was a caller I’d grown fond of and who’d lured me to his
home with desperate threats to kill himself. While it was unprofessional of
me, I was concerned for his well-being. Then I’d tell them he attacked me and
his death was self-defence. I had all my bases covered.
But the hours spent inside the station also had another purpose, as it
brought Tony to me. In the early hours and following a call from the duty
officer, my worried husband appeared. The moment his eyes fell upon his
injured, vulnerable wife, over a year’s worth of animosity melted away.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, and placed his arm around my shoulders,
instinctively kissing my crown. His lips were as soft as raspberries but I
recoiled, as any physical contact hurt following my fall down the stairs.
‘What happened?’
 I mustered up the right amount of effort to burst into tears again, and
placed my nose against his neck, breathing him in deeply. There was a faint
scent of the previous day’s aftershave and moisturiser left on his skin. The
police officer explained to Tony what had happened to me.
‘Can you take me home, please?’ I begged.
We left with a crime number and orders to see my GP the following day
if my injuries worsened. Within a quarter of an hour, Tony’s car was pulling
into our drive.
‘Do the girls know what happened?’ I asked.
‘No, I didn’t want to wake them and worry them. I left Effie a note in
case she woke up and said I’d explain it to her in the morning. Where’s your
car? It’s not on the drive.’
‘I left it at the office,’ I said.
‘Why were you walking home when you’re doing night shifts?’ he asked
as if he was frustrated with me, but fell short of telling me off.
‘Are you saying this is my fault?’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. Let’s get you inside.’
Tony helped me from the car and put his arm around my waist, gently
assisting me up the driveway until we crossed the threshold. His touch felt
magical. Tony’s eyes were diverted to the walls and he stared at each of them
before looking at me. I knew what he was thinking.
‘I just want to sleep,’ I said quietly, and turned away.
He helped me upstairs where I changed into my pyjamas and crawled
into bed.
‘Will you stay with me tonight?’ I asked.
Tony looked at me awkwardly. ‘Laura . . .’ he began.
‘Just for tonight,’ I said. ‘I’m scared and I need you to make me feel
safe.’
He nodded, and I pulled the duvet from his side of the bed to invite him
in. He turned on the bedside lamp but sank into an armchair in the corner of
the room instead. It was progress; at least we’d be sleeping in the same room.
Despite my physical pain, knowing he was in touching distance helped me to
drift off into a satisfactory sleep.
 By the time I awoke late in the morning, Tony had left me to face the
day on my own. He texted to say he’d walked to End of the Line to pick up
my car and it was parked on the driveway and that he’d return at teatime. That
left me alone for seven hours. Only I wasn’t alone, because Steven was ever-
present in my thoughts. Was he still alive and in that cottage, slowly bleeding
to death, or had he died moments after I’d plunged my knife into his stomach?
I had to know the truth.
I took the car, drove to his village and slowly approached the cottage.
Locking the car doors, I tried to steady my shaking hands. There was no
police presence or tape sealing off the area. The front door that I’d propped
open with a chair had been closed and the light in the front bedroom had been
switched off, so something had happened after I’d left. Suddenly the door
opened and a man appeared. He was much older than Steven. I watched as he
picked up a pair of garden shears and began hacking away at a hedge. If
Steven’s body had been in that house, he’d have been discovered by now.
There was no doubt in my mind that Steven was still alive.
But that in itself brought more problems. Where was he?
I was constantly on edge in the weeks that followed. Every couple of
hours, I’d cautiously peek through the bedroom window blinds, first scanning
each parked car, then each bush and neighbour’s window, looking for a
person or a shadow. I kept the curtains closed and, every morning and night,
I’d check every window lock.
The radio remained unplugged, the slightest creak of a floorboard or the
sound of the cat stirring would startle me. When Tony wasn’t with me,
sometimes I’d lock myself away from the world, turn on the burglar alarm
and hide in the bedroom. I only left the house for doctors’ appointments, and
it was Tony who drove me to them.
The mornings melted into afternoons and the days into weeks. All the
time, I tortured myself by allowing Steven to dominate everything, waiting
for him to make another appearance. He was in the food I ate, the wine I
drank to get me to sleep, the face of every stranger who passed the house.
That’s what scared me the most: that he knew so much about me, yet all I
knew about him was his appearance.
The freedom I took for granted had been taken away from me. My
actions had also placed Henry in harm’s way, as Steve knew where he lived. I
was scared to visit him again and risk putting him in danger. I called the care
home every day, and they’d hold the phone to his ear so he could hear
Mummy’s voice, but it wasn’t even close to being the same.
Without my anchor, I was adrift and lacked purpose. One morning as I
bathed, I wondered how it might have felt if I – instead of Charlotte – had
been with David the day he’d stepped off the cliff. What had it been like for
him to drown in the sea?
I held my head under the water and tried to imagine what it must have
felt like to have had no control over anything: over the temperature of the
water, the current dragging him deeper and further away from shore and the
pain his body felt from the impact. I inhaled water through my nose and
mouth and it hurt so badly and so quickly that I pulled myself out. But it felt
like the only control I’d had over my life since before that night in the
cottage. And unless I took charge of myself again, that was how it would
remain.
This is not who you are. You’re a survivor. You need to pull yourself
together.
I began thinking about all the people who were suffering without me to
guide them. I thought about how Tony, the girls and Henry were coping as I
hid from the world, and how Steven was winning.
I couldn’t let that happen any longer. I climbed out of the bath, took
some deep breaths and felt the warmth of the sun on my face through the
window. It was time for Laura’s return.

On the morning of my first day back at End of the Line, I took one last,
lingering look at myself in the hallway mirror, adjusting my blouse and
tweaking tendrils of hair to ensure they framed my face correctly. I’d chosen
my wardrobe carefully: a smart pantsuit that said ‘survivor’ not ‘victim’.
Despite it being only thirty minutes to the office by foot, I took the car,
emphasising to everyone – but without saying as such – my lingering fear of
walking alone. I gathered myself when I arrived and opened the office door to
Janine.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ she began, and offered me a lukewarm
handshake.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, as those colleagues not on the phone made their
way towards me. As twitchy as each hug and peck on the cheek made me feel,
I accepted them. I reassured them I was doing better and better by the day,
and handling what had happened as best I could.
 I hadn’t been allowed to go back to the charity immediately. Our job
takes so much emotional strength that we all need to be at the top of our game
to do our callers justice. But I’d persuaded the powers that be that what hadn’t
killed me that night had made me stronger. And eventually, like when I’d
returned from my cancer treatment, I’d been allowed to sit with Mary and
listen in on her calls to help re-acclimatise myself to End of the Line’s
environment.
Within a month I was back up to speed, and I began with three shifts a
week. My confidence had returned – if Steven wanted me, I was ready for
him. I’d brought myself out of hiding and hoped I could lure him out into the
open. He had put so much effort into unmasking me, it was my turn to do the
same to him.
I was living for his next call.
 CHAPTER TWO
RYAN
It felt peculiar not speaking to Laura any more.
The time on the car stereo read 7.40 a.m., and at this time a few months
ago I’d be putting together some notes ready for our conversation later in the
day. Three times a week, ‘Steven’ had called her and I’d talk about his life in
detail like she’d asked me to. There were some elements I’d made up and
scribbled inside a notebook or typed into my phone as and when I thought of
them. But when I spoke of his feelings of despair and hopelessness, they were
more my words than his. I’d spent more time opening up to Laura than I had
to my family and friends. It was like Stockholm syndrome, only I’d
developed a psychological alliance with someone who wasn’t even holding
me captive.
I was her project and she was mine; she wanted me dead and I wanted to
stop her from ruining other people’s lives. And while I’d never let myself
forget she had an evil streak in her a mile wide, I came close to understanding
what my wife had seen in her. Laura was easy to talk to and we’d given each
other a purpose of sorts. We’d developed a fucked-up, codependent
relationship based on my lies and her sickness. Marriages have been built and
survived on less.
But now there was nothing between us but silence. It was as if someone
else in my life I’d relied on had died.
I parked in my allocated spot at work, grabbed my bag and an armful of
folders from the back of the car, and made my way into the building. One
folder slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. I felt a twinge in my
stomach as I went to pick it up. Having spent so long away from my job, and
mostly in the company of my family or a handful of friends, I had to get used
to being surrounded by a lot of people. But as the months passed, it gradually
became easier.
My parents and Johnny were relieved that I’d turned a corner. I’d begun
meeting friends for nights out, I was planning on rejoining my Sunday-league
football team and I’d started going to the gym again. To them, I was returning
to my old self. But they had no idea I’d buried the man they knew alongside
Charlotte.
I walked the corridors with a fixed grin and nodded hello to familiar
faces as I headed for my pigeonhole. Inside was a note from Bruce Atkinson
requesting a catch-up before my working day began.
‘Sit, sit,’ he ushered, and pointed to the empty chair in front of the desk
in his office.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
‘No, no, not at all, Ryan,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to check how things
have been since your return. You’re in, what, your third month now?’
‘Fourth, but yes, it’s going well, I think. It’s nice to be back . . . It takes
my mind off things.’
‘Yes, um, I’m sure after, um, what . . . happened with . . . your, um . . .
wife . . . well, yes, I’m sure it has.’ Ebony in Human Resources must have
told him to check up on me, because this conversation was way too awkward
for him to have instigated off his own bat. But a little part of me was amused
watching him squirm.
‘And how is everyone treating you?’ Bruce continued.
‘Again, good, good.’
He nodded his head, relieved that I wasn’t carrying with me any
problems for him to deal with. He blew his nose into a cloth handkerchief.
‘Just so long as you know that if, you know . . . um . . . if you need more time
to . . . um . . . or if there’s anything I can do to help, then you only have to
ask.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, and quietly shook my head as he led me out of
his office. He’d be the last person I’d ask for help.
I made my way along the corridor knowing he wasn’t alone in not
having the first clue what to say to me. If it was cancer or a heart condition
that had killed Charlotte, people might have related to me better, because
many people have lost someone to one of those illnesses. But when it’s an
invisible problem like mental health or suicide, people aren’t sure how to talk
about it. They’d rather say nothing than end up saying something insensitive,
stupid or becoming tongue-tied. It made for a lonelier life for me, though.
I again felt a pinch in my stomach where the skin was still healing from
the knife wound. It wasn’t enough to make me wince, but I was aware of it all
the same. I’d delayed my return to school by two weeks by telling them I
needed a hernia operation, not the fact I’d been stabbed and left for dead by a
pupil’s sociopathic mother. It would explain the scar the blade left if anyone
ever noticed it.
I recalled how when Laura had fled the cottage that night, I’d remained
bent double on the floor feeling like my whole body was on fire from the
burning pain of the open wound.
Soon after I heard her drive away, I knew I needed to seek help. I
couldn’t phone for an ambulance and I contemplated calling my parents, but
I’d have too much explaining to do. I had no choice but to deal with it myself.
Each step I took, down the stairs, along the path and towards my car,
was agonising, and once inside I held a handkerchief to the wound to stem the
bleeding. The journey to Northampton General Hospital’s accident and
emergency department took fifteen minutes but felt hours longer. And after
dumping the car in a disabled space and dragging myself through the entrance
and to the reception desk, a nurse saw me clutching my belly and a circle of
blood on my shirt and whisked me straight into a cubicle.
The rest of the night was a blur. I was probed by doctors assessing and
stabilising me. They checked my circulation, gave me an oxygen mask, an IV
and an X-ray, and cleaned me up. While I’d lost blood, it wasn’t enough to
require a transfusion, and thankfully the blade hadn’t penetrated any vital
organs or the stomach itself, so only stitches were required. When they asked
for next of kin, I claimed to be estranged from them.
The following morning, a woman in a white medical jacket and smart
suit introduced herself as a psychiatric nurse and quietly questioned me on
how I came to be injured. I told her it was the result of a botched attempt at
ripping up some rotting floorboards but she didn’t seem convinced.
‘It’s our policy to report wounds that we judge to be suspicious to the
police,’ she replied.
‘No, don’t do that,’ I replied, feeling the panic rising inside me. ‘It was
an honest mistake. I’m clumsy and wanted to save some money instead of
calling professionals in. Seriously, send someone around to my house to see
the mess I’ve made of it if you don’t believe me.’
I hoped she wouldn’t call my bluff. She went on to ask me all kinds of
questions, to see if I had mental health issues and the wound was self-
inflicted. Eventually she left and another nurse said I could be discharged
later that day, as long as I had antibiotics and someone to escort me home.
When I saw Johnny speaking to the psychiatric nurse shortly before
collecting me, she knew I’d been lying about my ‘estranged’ family. Now I’d
have to start lying to him, too.
‘So you stabbed yourself doing some DIY to the cottage,’ he began
sternly as he drove my car. ‘Since when have you done home improvements?’
‘I thought I’d give it a go. Maybe not the best idea, eh?’ I gave a forced
laugh.
‘At eight o’clock in the evening, you tried to repair some floorboards
with a knife. On your own.’ He was trying to pick holes in my story.
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing and I know I should’ve left it for
Dad to do. You haven’t told him about this, have you?’
‘If I had, he’d be here right now with me. I don’t like keeping secrets
from him or Mum.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.’
‘Yeah, you are.’ He hesitated before he spoke again, like he was
choosing his words carefully. ‘Tell me you didn’t do this on purpose. And that
despite all the crap that’s happened to you, you’re strong enough to keep
fighting. Don’t let what happened to Charlotte define you or swallow you up.
You’re better than that.’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ I replied. When he failed to reply, I knew he didn’t
believe me.
We spent the rest of the journey in an awkward silence, my hand pressed
on the padding over my sutures.
At this point, I knew I should have called it quits. I’d got what I wanted,
in that I’d scared the hell out of Laura Morris. And she’d been lucky to escape
before I’d finished what I’d planned, even leaving me for dead. So, it would
have been the time to approach her boss at End of the Line, tell them my story
and play them my recordings. Then I could vanish from Laura’s life, knowing
she wouldn’t be harming anyone else who called in need of a sympathetic ear.
But a week or so recuperating at home gave me time to dwell on what
had happened. Yes, I’d quite obviously terrified her, but now it wasn’t enough
just to take her job away from her. People like Laura are slaves to their
compulsions. They do what they want to and they don’t give a damn about
who gets hurt. I’d bet my life’s savings the Helpline Heroine would be back
trawling Internet message boards searching for more potential victims within
days of being sacked.
Taking her down had brought out something unexpected in me, some
joyous, vindictive feeling. I needed to find another way to get at her.
I opened the Facebook app on my phone. Laura had taken away the
person I loved the most, and she needed to know how that felt. I vowed to get
to her in another way.
And now I was back at work and in a routine again, I had the means at
my disposal to begin.
 CHAPTER THREE
LAURA
I examined my reflection in all three mirrors in the unattended changing
rooms.
Standing there in my bra and knickers, I turned to my left and was
pleased to see how flat my stomach had become. I rubbed my fingers up and
down it, and tried to pinch excess weight from my sides but there was very
little left. The stress diet had been much more effective than the
amphetamines in my slimming tablets.
One after the other, I slipped on each of the five dresses I’d picked from
the shop’s rails, and was over the moon that I could now comfortably fit into a
size eight. I removed the pliers from my pocket, snapped the security label
from the one I favoured and wrapped the dress in a bag, then placed it in my
handbag. I handed the unwanted ones to the clueless shop assistant who’d
now appeared, thanked her and left.
I walked along the second floor of the shopping centre, down an
escalator, across the ground floor and then back up the stairs, before returning
down the escalator again. All the time, I kept checking the reflection in the
shop windows and glass doors to ensure no one was following me. Reassured
I was alone, I began to relax and made my way back to the car. I’d waited
twenty minutes in Abington Street for a place to park, because being in an
open space was wiser than a multistorey car park where it’s easy to hide
between vehicles. I would never allow Steven to corner me in an enclosed
space again.
Whenever I visited the town centre, I kept an eye out for Olly.
Sometimes he’d hung around outside the office in the hope he’d catch me;
other times I’d go and find him in his regular haunts near the bus station. But
since he’d discharged himself from hospital, I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of
him, and I began to fear the worst.
I forced myself to think about something happier, and smiled for a
moment as I drove, pleased with my new outfit. The dress was going to say
everything I needed it to. It was sensible but not too mumsy, and revealed just
enough of my legs and toned arms to convince me that Tony would notice the
effort I’d made for a meeting with Effie’s head of year.
Since my ‘attack’, Tony had shown more interest in my well-being than
for as long as I could remember. He’d been seeing me as I wanted him to see
me – a vulnerable woman who still needed the security he’d given me when
we first met as teenagers. If only I’d thought about falsifying an attack a
couple of years earlier, maybe I’d have no gap to bridge at all. Still, what was
done was done, and although he hadn’t returned to our bedroom yet, it would
only be a matter of time.
For the first couple of weeks, he’d arranged for the girls to stay with his
parents so they weren’t scared by my injuries. Then he’d spent time alone
with them to give me space to heal, mentally and physically.
However, I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned us going together to the
school. The email reminder they’d sent had arrived in my account – the first
time they’d contacted me. But Tony had said nothing about it. Maybe he
didn’t want to put any undue pressure on me after what I’d been through.
Alice was an easy child to look after, obedient and eager to please.
However, Effie was, by all accounts, proving to be a handful at school. Again,
I only found out through emailed summaries of meetings Tony had attended
with her teachers, none of which I’d been invited to.
Tony had insisted she be transferred to St Giles Upper School for
reasons never fully explained to me. At the time, I’d been preoccupied with
my cancer treatment, so I left it to his best judgement. However, her grades
had slipped dramatically over the last few months. She’d dropped from solid
As to Cs and Ds, and apparently her attitude had deteriorated, too. She’d
grown more argumentative and moodier with teachers. She was no longer
participating in after-school activities like hockey or drama, and she’d
become distant from the friends she’d made.
That surprised me the most, as she’d always been such a popular girl in
her last school. Ever since she was little, I was forever telling her ‘no’ when
she asked to invite her friends around for tea. Then I did the same with Alice.
Children brought with them sticky fingers on walls, head lice, snot, scabs on
legs, repetition, neediness, smells, noise, relentless never-ending questions,
chaos, stomach bugs, clutter, broken ornaments and unflushed toilets. So, I
encouraged the girls to spend time at their friends’ houses instead.
Either my attack had affected Effie more than I thought, or something
else was wrong and neither Tony nor her teachers could get to the bottom of
the problem. I was being kept on the sidelines of my own daughter’s life. It
was frustrating, to say the least. I knew Tony was doing what he thought best
by shielding me, but she needed her mother right now. My presence at that
meeting would show Tony I was strong enough to co-parent again. Maybe
then he might fall back in love with me.
On my arrival at home, I went through my usual routine of spending the
first ten minutes waiting outside in the car, my eyes flitting from window to
window, looking for any warning signs like sudden changes of light or
shadows between the blinds. Steven knew where I lived, and the thought of
him being inside my home, waiting for me, made me nauseous.
I could just about see the figure of a tightly balled-up cat asleep on the
windowsill. Bieber had grown useful of late, if for no other reason than his
impeccable hearing and loud meow that warned me of any sudden noises or
movements outside.
Once inside, I turned off the burglar alarm, locked the door and took the
bread knife from the drawer in the hall table, then silently padded from room
to room. I looked behind doors, drawn curtains, wardrobes and under beds.
Only when I was sure I was alone could I relax.

Tony’s face was a picture when he spotted me across the school reception
area. It creased with surprise before he regained his composure. The effort I’d
made to look my best hadn’t gone unnoticed.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, approaching me. He sounded
irritated, which confused me.
‘What do you think?’ I replied. ‘Do you like my dress? I got it especially
for tonight.’ I pulled my stomach in and gave him a twirl.
‘I don’t care about your dress,’ he barked. ‘We had an agreement. You
don’t come to anything like this, I do.’
‘But it’s time I started. She’s my daughter, Tony. There’s something
going on with Effie that you’ve been hiding from me and, as her mother, I
deserve to know.’
‘Really?’ he replied. ‘You honestly think that? You think either of the
girls actually need you?’
I took a step back, willing myself not to get upset. ‘Why are you being
so horrible? I thought that since what happened to me, we’d become closer.
We were feeling more like a family again and now you’re treating me like I’m
not welcome.’
‘Laura, we have been through this a dozen times.’ Tony sounded
exasperated. ‘You and I . . . we are never going to happen. Our family isn’t
what you’ve convinced yourself it is.’
My heart felt like it wanted to pound its way out of my chest and I
clenched my fists. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I don’t accept that.’
‘This isn’t the time or the place to be discussing this. Please go home.
We’ll talk about it properly later.’
He turned his back on me and began to walk away. The gulf between us
widened with every footstep. But no matter what Tony hurled at me or how
much he tried to hurt me, I still loved him. And when it came to our daughter,
I was determined to prove him wrong.
Ahead, a door with the name of the school’s head teacher opened and a
man with more hair sprouting from his ears than his head looked at us.
‘Mr Morris and, oh . . .’
‘I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Effie’s mother, Laura,’ I said,
finishing his sentence for him.
The head looked at Tony, puzzled. Tony closed his eyes and nodded,
begrudgingly.
‘Come in,’ the head continued, and we followed him into his office,
where two large windows overlooked a cricket pitch and a match in progress.
Another teacher stood with his back to us watching the game.
I started talking before we’d even been offered seats. ‘I’ve been reading
Effie’s reports and I’m not happy,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to know why my
daughter’s grades have fallen so badly. You’re responsible for her education,
so as far as I can see, this is down to you.’
‘Let me introduce you to Effie’s head of year,’ he replied. ‘Mrs Morris,
this is Ryan Smith.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he began as he turned around. I recognised
Steven’s voice immediately, then his face. The bottom instantly fell from my
world.
‘Please believe me when I say that, as her teacher, I want only the best
for your daughter, too.’
 CHAPTER FOUR
RYAN
My pulse raced like the throbbing engine of a sports car the moment I heard
Laura’s muffled voice in the corridor from where I was standing in Bruce
Atkinson’s office.
She was talking to her husband, and whatever they were discussing
sounded as if it was riling him.
As Effie’s form tutor and English teacher, I’d met Mr Morris on a couple
of occasions to discuss Effie’s poor marks, weak midterm exam results and
distracting behaviour. He’d been listed in school records as the first and only
point of contact in all email and telephone communications. There’d been a
note attached, strictly forbidding us from contacting her mother except in
extreme circumstances. However, none of the other teachers I had asked knew
why. I removed the note and reinstated Laura’s email address.
A couple of times I’d slipped Effie’s mum into the conversation just to
test the waters, but Mr Morris didn’t acknowledge her. I assumed she played a
limited role in her daughter’s academic life. However, since I’d begun blind-
copying Laura into those emails, I’d made sure she was up to speed, and I had
a feeling it wouldn’t be long before she crawled out of the woodwork.
I watched her in the reflection on Bruce’s window as she strolled in
confidently. She was a very different woman from the one I’d confronted in
the cottage. Then, she’d been dumbstruck, before lurching from wall to wall,
tearing down images of herself and her family, thinking I was going to kill
her. Now she was at ease, hair curled and make-up perfectly applied. In our
telephone conversations, her voice had been reassuring and calm. At the
cottage, it had been shaky and tearful, but today it was forceful and
accusatory.
It took just one introductory sentence and the split-second sight of me to
pull the rug from under her feet. After a long separation, Steven and Laura
had been reunited.
It had taken a lot of time and effort to engineer our meeting, and I’d
needed an unwitting Effie’s help to do it. The moment I saw her photograph
in the local newspaper with her mum I’d thought I recognised her, but I cross-
checked it with her Facebook profile just to be sure. She was a student at my
school. And as I prepared to return to work for the new term, the pregnancy of
English teacher Mrs Simmons was a stroke of luck for me. It meant I
wouldn’t just be Effie’s teacher, but her head of year and form tutor, too.
I started work again during the school holidays, getting to grips with the
syllabus and helping out at some of the extracurricular sports tournaments. I’d
insisted on light activity at first, blaming my inability to do anything too
strenuous on my fake hernia operation. When school began again in
September, I was ready to return full-time.
My colleagues gave me the low-down on which pupils made up Year
10’s hierarchy, and Effie’s name came up time and time again. She was, by all
accounts, a very intelligent young woman, but she had a bossy streak. From
the first week she transferred to our school, she’d built a clique around her.
Social media was her favourite tool, and if she didn’t like someone, she’d
rally the troops to make her victims’ online presence hell. When it all became
too much for one of her classmates, he’d taken to cutting his arms and legs
with a craft knife. He’d since moved schools. However, Effie had been smart
enough to avoid being caught. The apple really hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
I was mindful of the fact she was only fourteen years old and there was
a chance she could grow into a better person. But for now, she was exactly
what I needed her to be. Bullies like her are always more insecure than the
people they attack, so it’d only take a light touch to push her from her
pedestal. In my nine years of teaching, I’d learned popularity and intelligence
were the only things that mattered to girls like her. Take those away and she’d
have nothing.
I started by grading her English essays and tests a little lower than
Mrs Simmons had. At first it was an A– instead of an A. Next time, it had
slipped to a B+, until by the end of my first month with her, she was
averaging Cs. Each time I handed the class their marked papers, I took a
moment to her watch her scowl as she hid the disappointing bright-red grade
on the top left-hand corner of her page from those around her. After the
second month, she snapped.
‘Why do you keep giving me bad marks, sir?’ she demanded after
waiting until the rest of the class had moved on to their next lesson.
‘I don’t think you’re understanding what I want in your answers,’ I
replied.
‘Mrs Simmons never graded me like this.’
‘I’m not Mrs Simmons.’
 ‘She said English was one of my top subjects.’
‘Your grades tell me otherwise.’
Her face dropped, and the first of several crocodile tears pooled in the
corner of her eyes. I remained stony-faced. She had to learn that reaction
wouldn’t work on me, otherwise I wouldn’t gain her respect. Instead, I
pointed out that some of her reasoning was valid but next time she needed to
back up her theories with evidence in the text. Only, when each ‘next time’
arrived, her grades remained the same, or lower. She could only look on,
bewildered, as her classmates maintained their marks. I was slowly chipping
away at her confidence.
Her essays became longer and longer as she attempted to read between
the lines and cover every single point she thought I might be looking for. I
marked her down for rambling. One report on Of Mice and Men was so
obviously cut and pasted from the Internet that I called her out on it in front of
the rest of the class. I swallowed my smile as her face turned scarlet. She’d
been expected to take her GCSE in English literature a year early. But when I
gave her my predicted grade, she decided against it.
I’d hoped Effie would eventually start questioning her abilities in other
subjects, too, but it happened faster than I’d expected. Underneath her
bravado, she was much more sensitive than I’d given her credit for. Her
standard of work across the board was sinking. Her history, geography, and
philosophy and ethics teachers told me her essays were vague and her
coursework lacked cohesion. It was as if she were second-guessing everything
she wrote, even in subjects like maths, for which there could often only be
one definitive answer.
And without her intelligence to lord over her classmates, she did what
all bullies do and found another way to seek attention, by playing up and
distracting everyone else. One evening after the final school bell rang, I asked
her to stay behind and she joined me in my office.
‘I’m not going to lie, I’m concerned about you, Effie,’ I began, and
handed her a mug of coffee. She tried to hide her surprise that I was treating
her like an adult. ‘Is there something you want to talk to me about?’
‘To you?’ she scoffed. Her default setting of arrogance remained. I had
more work to do.
‘Is everything okay at home?’
‘Yes.’
 ‘Is all good with your parents?’
She paused before she nodded.
‘What about here at school? I know the other girls haven’t been kind to
you lately. Is that what’s bothering you? Are you being picked on?’
She shot me a glance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Are they teasing you about your grades and your – how do I put this
properly – your appearance?’
‘My appearance? What are you on about, sir?’
‘Oh, sorry, I’m speaking out of turn. It’s none of my business. I just
wanted to make sure none of it was getting to you. You’re a normal size for a
girl your age, so please don’t listen to what people who claim they’re your
friends say about you behind your back.’
Anger spread across her face. ‘Who’s been talking about my weight?’
I feigned irritation at myself. ‘Oh, Christ, look, I’m not good at this kind
of thing. The other teachers said I shouldn’t say anything to you and should
let the girls get it out of their system.’
‘The other teachers? You’re all talking about me? And what girls?’
‘It’s not for me to name names, but I reprimanded some of them when I
heard them being nasty about you in the corridor. I don’t like people who
laugh about others behind their backs. You’re not overweight and you’re not
stupid.’
She perched on the edge of her seat and sucked in her cheeks. ‘How
many? Who?’
‘It doesn’t really matter.’
‘Bitches . . .’ she huffed, folding her arms and sinking back into her
chair. ‘I bet it was Britney and Morgan.’
‘Ignore those two,’ I replied. ‘You don’t need people like them in your
life. Or Melissa or Ruby.’
‘Them as well? Will you tell me if you hear anything else?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Please, Mr Smith.’
‘Okay, but I won’t be naming any more names.’
 She muttered a thank you under her breath and left. And later, when
she’d been excluded for a week for starting a fight with Britney and giving
Morgan a nosebleed, I couldn’t help but feel smug. I watched from the
sidelines as Effie’s clique shrank and she became more and more isolated
from her classmates. I’d send her father regular progress reports, but began
secretly including Laura in the emails, too.
I’d set a date with her father when I’d met him in November to see him
again four weeks later to discuss how Effie was doing. I could only hope the
emails Laura had been receiving would spur her into action. But I’d also need
to up the ante with her daughter.
I organised regular one-to-one private meetings with Effie each Monday
and Friday after school in my office, listening to her as she complained about
the teachers and girls who ‘had it in’ for her. Sometimes I’d add fuel to the
fire by lying to her about what I’d heard other teachers saying about her in the
staffroom.
Less than three months into our time together, and she was thinking of
me as a confidant. And as the weeks progressed, I sensed she felt it was
becoming something more.
It began with the opening of an extra button on her shirt for our
meetings, then a little more lip gloss to make her pout shine. When I stood
with my back to her, pouring hot water into our mugs, I saw her checking out
my arse in the reflection of the window. When I turned, she averted her gaze.
I saw our closeness as an opportunity to learn more about her home
situation.
‘Why don’t you ever talk about your mum?’ I asked. ‘You mention your
sister and your dad, but never her.’
‘I’m not allowed to.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s . . . she’s not like other mums.’
‘In what way?’
‘I heard about what happened to your wife.’ The sudden change in
direction took me aback.
‘What did you hear?’ I asked.
‘That she . . . you know . . . killed herself.’
 ‘Uh-huh,’ I nodded.
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you got a new girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Are you looking for one?’
‘Not at the moment, no. But eventually, maybe, yes.’
‘Why did she do it?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever really know. People are complicated and we don’t
always understand why they do what they do, even when we think we know
them.’
‘My mum’s like that. “An unpredictable, destructive force,” my dad
says.’
‘Are you close to her?’
She laughed.
‘Did I say something funny?’
‘No.’
‘Then why did you laugh?’
‘Why did you ask?’ She ran her fingers through her hair and entwined
several strands around one of them. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Ryan.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Sorry, I mean Mr Smith.’
‘It’s my job to ask questions. To help you.’
‘I bet you don’t spend this much time with the other students asking
them questions.’
‘They don’t worry me as much as you do.’
‘So you worry about me?’ She tilted her head, and the sun coming in
through the window illuminated her strawberry blonde hair and her grey eyes.
Suddenly, beyond all her bluster, I saw her as the child she was. My heart
sank at what Laura had reduced me to doing.
‘All my students worry me,’ I replied.
 ‘Okay.’ She nodded, then picked up her schoolbag and made her way
towards the door. But she didn’t leave without turning around to smile at me.
By the time my second meeting with her dad came around, I had Effie
exactly where I wanted her. And when I heard Laura outside the office, it was
all I could do to stop myself from dropping an imaginary mic and yelling
‘Boom!’
On realising who I was, Laura tried her best not to react. Her face froze,
as if she’d become trapped in ice, but it was her eyes that gave her away. As
adrenaline made her heart race to get oxygen to her muscles, her brain was
working in overdrive. I couldn’t see any of this, but her pupils gave her away.
They’d dilated to allow the maximum amount of light in at the back of her
eyes to make her aware of everything that was going on around her.
It was a classic fight-or-flight reaction. Although with her husband next
to her, she could do neither.
 CHAPTER FIVE
LAURA
It took every ounce of my inner strength to prevent my body from reacting in
any way to Ryan as he took a seat next to my husband.
I begged my face not to redden or my hands to start shaking. I didn’t
want to show any signs of weakness. Inside, I couldn’t stop my pulse from
breaking new speed records. I knew my eyes were open wide but I couldn’t
take them off him, not even for a second.
Maybe I was wrong; maybe I was imagining this. Perhaps my brain was
playing tricks on me again, like all those so-called experts told me it did.
Perhaps I was only seeing and hearing what I wanted to hear. I stared at him
so intently my eyes hurt.
‘How are Effie’s grades?’ Tony began. ‘Have they seen any
improvement?’
‘I’m afraid there’s not been much difference on that front,’ Ryan replied.
‘She’s maintaining steady Cs in English and art, but in history, sociology and
geography, her marks are quite erratic.’
Yes, it was Steven. I was one hundred per cent sure of that. Steven,
Ryan, Steven . . . it didn’t matter what he called himself. It was still him.
Four months after I should have witnessed his body swinging from the
rafters of his bedroom, there he was, smiling at Tony as if he didn’t have a
care in the world. This was not a coincidence, I was certain of that. He’d been
lying low, biding his time and waiting for the right moment. Now I
understood why I’d suddenly started receiving school emails about Effie.
Ryan had wanted me here and I’d handed myself to him on a plate. It was the
second time I’d let down my guard and he’d taken advantage.
He’d convinced Tony he had a genuine interest in Effie’s well-being.
But both he and I knew he was playing a game. What was it? And why
involve my daughter?
Now I could see him in daylight and not the gloom of his bedroom, he
was an unassuming, boy-next-door type. His eyes were a deep brown but the
whites that surrounded them were pinkish, like he wasn’t getting enough
sleep. His dark blond temples were flecked with grey and his skin was pale. It
was as if he’d remained boyish well into his twenties but now circumstances
had forced him into adulthood and his body was only just starting to catch up.
Half of me wanted to claw at Ryan’s face with my nails like an animal,
while the other half wanted to run a mile and pretend none of this was
happening. Instead, I remained glued to my chair, unable to move an inch.
‘It’s like she no longer cares how she does,’ Ryan continued. ‘How have
you found her behaviour at home, Mr Morris?’ The concern in his voice
sounded staged and it didn’t match his expression. It was as if he were trying
his best not to laugh.
Tony used words like ‘quiet’ and ‘insular’ to describe Effie, but to my
ears it was like he was talking about another girl. It wasn’t the daughter I
knew, the girl I had loved as best I could. Had I allowed too much distance to
come between us?
Suddenly Ryan turned to me. Chills ran through me. ‘Have you
considered there might be other issues that Effie might be facing,
Mrs Morris?’
I opened my mouth but little came out, so I cleared my dry throat. ‘Such
as?’
‘I don’t know, I’m not a therapist, but there can be many psychological
issues that influence the way a teenage girl behaves these days. She’s
mentioned to me the other girls in her class have bullied her because of her
weight.’
‘Her weight?’ Tony replied defensively. ‘She’s not fat!’
‘No, I’m not saying for one minute that she is. But if she thinks she
might be, and if she hears it enough from other girls, then it might influence
her thinking. Eating disorders and self-confidence problems are so common,
and more than one in three teenage girls suffer from anxiety and mental health
issues.’ I watched as Ryan’s fists clenched ever-so-slightly and he shifted his
eyes towards mine. ‘There’s a reason they call depression a silent killer.’
I didn’t know what he was insinuating, but whatever it was between us,
it was definitely personal.
‘My daughter isn’t an anorexic nor is she depressed,’ Tony replied.
‘Hormones and chemical changes in their brains can give them feelings
of inadequacy, loss of interest in their surroundings, their work and their
friends,’ Ryan continued like he was reading from a book. ‘They become
trapped in cycles of self-pity. It’s my job as her teacher to make you aware of
this and to be there for her in whatever capacity she wants me to be.’
‘Cycles of self-pity’? ‘Whatever capacity she wants me . . .’? He’s using
my own words from our conversations against me!
‘Look, I might be wrong,’ he added. ‘All I’m saying is that when it
comes to people, no matter how much you think you know them, you can
never predict what goes on in their heads, even your own kids. They can be
influenced to do things they shouldn’t by the unlikeliest of people. People
who kids think they can trust can talk them into actions that have a
catastrophic effect on their future. Do you know what I mean, Mrs Morris?’
I didn’t, but I knew he was directing his words at me. He’d said
something to Effie, but what?
‘And you think that she’s susceptible to this kind of manipulation?’ Tony
asked.
‘You might be surprised at what Effie is capable of.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
Ryan was talking in riddles and waiting for me to figure out what he
meant.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘All I can tell you is that when I left her at
lunchtime, she wasn’t herself. She seemed quite distressed, but she wouldn’t
tell me what it was about. I made her promise to talk to you, Mrs Morris,
when she got home.’
The meeting drew to a close and Mr Atkinson saw us out of his office
and back to the reception area. Suddenly Tony’s phone began to ring and he
glanced at the number. ‘Sorry, could you excuse me for a moment?’ he asked,
leaving Ryan and me alone for the first time. My stomach churned and I
wanted to be sick.
‘What do you want from me?’ I asked quietly. ‘What have you said to
my daughter?’
Ryan’s grin disappeared and he leaned in to whisper in my ear.
‘If I were you, I’d go home and check on Effie as soon as you can.
Because I’d hate to think what she might have done after I finished with her
this afternoon.’
 CHAPTER SIX
RYAN
Even when I wasn’t looking at Laura, I could feel her staring at me. Effie had
shared the same deep, penetrating gaze.
Effie’s eyes had been fixed on me while I monitored a lunchtime
detention before I was to meet with her parents. Her gym teacher had given it
to Effie for threatening another girl. Six other students from Years 10 and 11
joined her for various other offences. I wondered if Effie had deliberately
caused trouble because she knew it was my turn to take detention.
They kept their heads down, using the opportunity to begin their
homework. Effie, however, didn’t even try to pretend to read the textbook she
held. She was focused on me at my desk. Her number of friends had dwindled
over the past few months. I’d devoted more attention to her, always treating
her like an adult and listening to her complaints. I knew exactly where she
thought our relationship was going. I could have nipped it in the bud at any
point, but that wasn’t part of the plan.
Finally, their hour of punishment complete, the others hurried from the
classroom. But Effie deliberately took her time packing her bag and putting
on her coat. Then she waited until we were alone before she made her way to
the window. She fiddled absent-mindedly with a bauble on the class
Christmas tree.
‘It’s raining outside,’ she began.
‘I can see.’
‘I’ve got free study periods all afternoon and was going to go home but I
don’t have an umbrella.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m going to get soaked if I can’t get a lift home.’
‘A bit of rain isn’t going to kill you.’
‘But if I catch a cold, I could have an asthma attack and that could kill
me.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
‘Could you give me a lift, sir? You haven’t got a lesson for another hour
and a half, have you?’
‘Are you memorising my timetable, Effie?’
‘No, sir, I was just showing an interest like you do in me. So you have
plenty of time to take me home and come back for it.’
‘Offering a student a ride is against the school rules.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Honestly, I won’t. I promise.’
‘Effie, there are boundaries that we need to maintain. You’re my student
and I’m your teacher.’
‘Is that all I am to you, sir?’
I paused for a moment; I needed to think. I’d put a lot of time and effort
into getting to this place, but now I’d arrived, I was second-guessing myself.
What would Laura do? I asked myself. Laura would do whatever was
necessary to get what she wanted. And that meant I had to do the same.
‘Meet me on the corner of Simpson Avenue and Talbot Road in ten
minutes,’ I replied apprehensively. ‘There’s a bus shelter there. I’ll pick you
up.’
Effie brushed my arm with her hand as she passed me, trying hard to
hide her grin. I had to remind myself that this was a girl who’d bullied her
classmates and got away with it. She was a manipulative little bitch, someone
who was used to getting what she wanted, only she was too naive to realise
she wasn’t in control of this situation.
She was exactly where I told her to be when my car pulled over to the
side of the road. I checked all around me to make sure that no one had spotted
us. As she climbed inside, I noted she’d put eyeliner on to frame her eyes and
she’d made her lips more inviting with pink gloss. Her hair glistened from the
drizzle outside and she ran her fingers through it.
‘Hurry up and put your seatbelt on,’ I urged. ‘We need to go.’
‘It’s stuck,’ she replied, and struggled to fit it into the latch. I grabbed it
and she held on to my finger while I slotted it inside.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked, pointing to a screensaver picture on my phone.
It was recharging in the centre console.
 ‘It’s my brother Johnny,’ I replied.
‘He’s fit. You look alike.’
I watched from the corner of my eye as she tapped her foot to the music
coming from the radio. She looked puzzled when we eventually pulled up a
few doors away from her home.
‘I thought we could go to yours for while?’ she asked, her head tilted
slightly to one side.
‘You know I have to get back.’
‘Then, another time?’ She placed her hand just above my knee.
‘Effie . . .’ I began.
‘Shhh,’ she replied, and her hand made its way further up my thigh and
stopped centimetres from my groin.
‘Effie, I’m your teacher.’
‘Not here, you’re not.’
‘I am. Here, at school, everywhere.’
‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’
She twisted her body and moved her face towards mine. I felt her warm
breath on my neck and ear. I could smell her sweet perfume. She paused as
our eyes locked.
‘There’s something I need you to know first,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’
‘I need you to know I would never go near you in a million years. If you
really believe that I’m interested in you, Effie, you’re more stupid than your
grades would suggest.’
She paused, then scowled, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard.
Her head moved backwards and her hand left my leg.
‘What?’
‘You heard me correctly. I’m not attracted to you, Effie. You’re an
attention-seeking, immature little girl who picks on others and makes their
lives hell. Now you know how they felt to be belittled and rejected. If you
think I could be attracted to someone like you, then you’re an idiot. Now get
out of my car.’
 Her face crumpled, and for a moment I hated myself for what I’d just
told a kid. I’d never hurt anyone like I’d just hurt Effie. But it had been a
horrible necessity. She threw open the car door and ran out into the rain, along
the street and out of sight.
Four hours later and it was her mother’s turn to know how it felt to be
played. She had manipulated my wife for her own gain, and I had done the
same to her daughter. As my Granddad Pete had advised, an eye for an eye.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
LAURA
‘Where’s Effie?’ I asked Tony. ‘Right now, where is she?’
I’d left Ryan and found my husband at the double doors of the entrance,
returning his phone to his jacket pocket.
The panic created by Ryan’s warning was rising from deep inside my
gut, up my chest and into my throat, almost strangling my words. The last
time I’d felt like this, I was standing in his cottage with a knife in my hand,
facing a man who was about to kill me. Now the same man had found a way
to make me feel like that all over again, only this time he was threatening my
daughter’s safety to frighten me.
‘Effie’s at home,’ Tony replied.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘No, she’s babysitting Alice.’ He sounded hesitant.
‘I want to see her.’
Tony shook his head. ‘We talked about this, Laura, I don’t think it’s a
good idea.’
‘She’s my daughter,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘They are both my
daughters. I need to see them tonight.’
‘We agreed that you wouldn’t visit the girls until they were old enough
to make their own decisions.’ I glared at him as fragments of an argument
from long ago flashed through my head. ‘Do you remember?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course I do,’ I replied, but in truth, a fog was descending from
nowhere and everything was becoming muddled. ‘But I need to go home and
make sure they’re okay. Please, Tony, just take me home.’
Acknowledging my angst, he took my hand in his and spoke softly.
‘Laura, none of us have lived at home with you for almost two years now,
have we? We live elsewhere, you know that. You remember why we moved
out, don’t you?’
I yanked my hand away and vaguely recalled my husband driving me
home from hospital after the operation to remove my cancer, and the house
feeling stark and silent. I could see myself drifting along the corridor from
bedroom to bedroom searching for the children, and Tony informing me they
wouldn’t be coming home for a while. But I couldn’t remember why. In fact,
the only thing I knew for sure was that most nights since I’d cooked us all a
meal, when no one turned up to eat it I’d put it into a freezer drawer until
there was no room left. Then I’d toss them away and start from scratch again.
My temples began to flutter in rhythm with my erratic heartbeat. But in
all the confusion I had to remain focused. I had to see my daughter. I had to
know that Effie was okay.
‘How much longer must I wait before I can see them?’ My voice was
growing louder. ‘Five minutes face to face with them, that’s all I’m asking for.
Just to put my mind at ease.’
Tony frowned, and scanned the area as a bell sounded to mark the end of
the day and pupils hurried towards the doors to leave. ‘Laura, you need to
calm down before you start drawing attention to yourself.’
‘Let them look, I don’t care.’
He marched me towards an empty room off the corridor. Pupils’
drawings and paintings were pinned to the walls. It reminded me of how
much I enjoyed painting with Alice; she had a natural aptitude for it. Or was it
Effie? I couldn’t be sure. Everything was becoming too confusing.
‘Call it instinct or mother’s intuition, but I know when my baby’s in
trouble,’ I continued, ‘and look what’s been happening since you kept me
away from her. Are you trying to tell me that it’s a coincidence her education
is falling to pieces?’
‘And are you not going to take any responsibility for this? Do you need
me to spell it out why they’re not with you anymore?’
I did, because I couldn’t make the pieces fit together. An image of
myself lying in a hospital bed, then one of Henry in the residential care home
came to mind. But I didn’t know if I was imagining it or if it had actually
happened, and something told me it would do me no favours to ask. One
memory was crystal clear, though.
‘If you don’t let me see the girls this afternoon, then first thing
tomorrow morning I’ll take the documents I have to the police that prove
what we did to get the business up and running.’ His face paled. ‘I have every
account number, statement and transaction stored at home. Don’t make me do
that, Tony.’
Deep breaths, Laura, deep breaths. Think of your anchor; he will calm
you down.
‘Something I can’t explain is telling me that we need to leave here and
find Effie,’ I continued. ‘You heard her teacher. What if Effie’s problems are a
lot worse than you think? How would you live with yourself if she’s done
something silly?’
‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly. ‘We’ll take my car.’
I don’t know if it was the threat I’d made or that he finally recognised
my fear, but I got my way.
As we hurried across the car park I wondered who Tony was texting and
why he was trying to hide it from me. I reasoned it must have been Effie and
he didn’t want me to see her number.
‘Can you call her?’ I asked. And when he dialled from inside his car I
made a mental note of the digits as they flashed across the stereo screen.
There was no answer. He tried the landline, but that wasn’t picked up either.
‘Why isn’t she answering?’ I said anxiously. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘You need to get a hold of yourself,’ Tony replied firmly. ‘You already
know what the last memory the children have of you is. They don’t need to
see you on their doorstep screaming like a mad woman.’
Again, I didn’t understand what he was referring to, but now wasn’t the
time for questions. I was too busy trying not to yell at him to hurry up when
he slowed for every amber light. He had no sense of urgency as he stuck to
the suburban speed limits while we drove through the streets on the other side
of town from the home where we’d all once lived together.
Eventually we pulled into the cul-de-sac of a new-build housing estate.
He parked on the driveway of a contemporary home I’d never seen before
with a landscaped front garden, large windows and closed curtains. Two lights
were on upstairs. I steeled myself as he unlocked the door.
‘Effie?’ he shouted and I followed him upstairs. ‘Effie!’ he yelled again.
He opened a bedroom, and the curtains were closed even though it was only
late afternoon. In the dim light, we both stopped in our tracks and stared at
our daughter – her eyes firmly shut, body motionless and her arm dangling
limply over the side of the bed with her fingers pointing to the floor.
I rushed towards her, throwing her duvet back, grabbing her by the
shoulders and shaking her. Her eyes shot open and she screamed before she
recognised me.
‘Mum! What the fuck?’ she began as she ripped a pair of headphones
from her ears and sat bolt upright. I kept my hand over my mouth while Tony
remained where he was. ‘What are you doing here?’ Effie asked, confused by
my unexpected appearance.
‘We were so worried about you,’ I replied. Her eyes were red, much
more so than if she’d just been asleep.
‘What’s going on?’ a young voice came from behind us. I turned to look
at Alice, still in her school uniform and with her bag draped over her
shoulder. A broad grin spread across her face.
New memories were starting to come and go, this time of me walking a
much younger Alice to school hand in hand; then more recently, me doing the
school run alone. I could see myself standing at the gates, waiting to catch a
glimpse of her from afar as she played with her friends, hoping she might spot
me. Hoping that she hadn’t started to forget what I looked like or how I
sounded. I couldn’t remember my mother’s face or her voice anymore.
‘Mummy?’ she squealed. ‘Are you back?’ She ran towards me and
wrapped herself tightly around my legs and waist. I began to cry happy tears
as I held her tightly. ‘Come and see my bedroom,’ Alice said and reached for
my hand. I looked at Tony before I took it. He nodded hesitantly and I
followed her out of the room and onto the landing. Her hand felt soft and
small and I didn’t realise how unappreciative of it I’d been when I’d rejected
it so frequently in the past.
As we walked a short distance, another open door caught my attention.
The coat I’d bought Tony the last birthday we’d spent together lay across his
bed next to a gaudy, orange cushion. But as I got closer, I realised it wasn’t a
cushion, it was a handbag.
An orange handbag.
Janine’s orange handbag.
Janine’s orange handbag with its Chinese dragon design was on my
husband’s bed.
 CHAPTER EIGHT
RYAN
I clenched my fists. A soft glow of light came from a crack under the front
door to my flat.
When I’d pulled up in the car park moments earlier, I was still on a high
from coming face to face with Laura again. But I had a feeling that whatever
lay beyond the threshold was about to bring me back down to earth with a
bang. I hesitated, then slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked. I’d not had a
fight since my schooldays and I couldn’t imagine a punch from me would do
much damage to whoever was inside.
I moved silently into the hallway and grabbed the heavy glass orb that
was on the table. Then I inched my way towards the living room, where I
could hear a rustling sound and drawers being opened and closed. I edged
closer until I could get a better view of what I was up against.
‘Jesus!’ I yelled.
Johnny spun around, every bit as surprised as me.
‘You scared the shit out of me,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here? How
did you get in?’
‘I still have my key.’ His voice was deadpan.
It was only then that I noticed the doors to the sideboard were open,
along with the bureau where I kept my bills and paperwork. Scattered across
the top were photographs of Laura’s family that I’d taped to the walls of the
cottage and the rope I’d fashioned into a noose.
Days after my first confrontation with Laura in the cottage and with my
stab wound still aching, I’d been back to rid the place of any traces of that
night, including wiping the floorboards clean of my blood. I’d dumped
everything in a black recycling bin. Only now, four months later, did I
remember that I hadn’t put the bin out to be collected; I’d left it in the back
garden where it had remained ever since.
‘Are you going through my stuff ?’ I asked. He ignored my question.
‘Whose house were you parked outside for hours on Wednesday night?’
‘What, are you following me now?’
 ‘That’s neither here nor there. It’s what you were doing outside that
house that matters to me.’
My first reaction was to feel shame at being caught. Every so often, I’d
drive slowly past Laura’s home, occasionally parking by the side of the road,
wondering what she was doing inside. Sometimes I’d stay for five minutes;
other times, hours passed before I’d noticed. But it wasn’t as if I had
anywhere else to be.
My second reaction was to fly off the handle.
‘You’re snooping around my home?’ I asked in a raised voice.
‘Damn right I am. Who’s this woman and why are there literally
hundreds of photographs of her? And what about the rope? That night you
stabbed yourself, you were planning to kill yourself, weren’t you? What was
the noose for? A back-up plan in case the knife failed?’
My rage threatened to boil over. ‘Get out, Johnny, or you and I are going
to really fall out.’
‘Not until you tell me the truth.’
‘Johnny, I said get out!’
‘And I said no. I’m not leaving until you tell me what this is all about.’
His stubbornness left me incensed. I went to grab his arm, but he moved
it away quickly and shoved me hard in the chest. His swiftness took me by
surprise and I lost my balance and sprawled across the armchair, making my
healing wound ache. I rose to my feet and launched myself at him a second
time, only he was more solid than I remembered. He grabbed my collar and
pushed me backwards until I was pinned to the wall and his face was inches
from mine, his forearm under my chin.
‘Get this though your thick fucking head!’ he shouted. ‘I am your
brother, but I am not leaving this flat until you tell me what you’ve done.’
I breathed hard and fast, trying to conjure up alternative reasons to
explain my behaviour, but I couldn’t think of anything fast enough. Then as
quick as a heartbeat, everything came to a head – losing Charlotte,
discovering what Laura had done, tracking her down, the stabbing, what I’d
done to Effie and our face-to-face confrontation earlier in the day. Every
emotion under the sun came to a head and there was nothing I could do to
stop them from gushing out of me. My body grew heavy and Johnny’s arms
weren’t strong enough to stop me from collapsing to my knees. He joined me
there and didn’t say a word as I cried like a baby.
Later that night, we sat at opposite ends of the dining-room table, four
empty bottles of beer between us. I was unable to look him in the eye while
he digested everything I told him, from the moments I was proud of to those I
felt a secret shame for. I was honest with him about everything. Johnny didn’t
interrupt me; his face didn’t move. Only when he was sure I’d finished did he
reply.
‘What’s your endgame, Ry?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s the point to all of this? Where’s it going to lead? What do you
want to get out of it?’
‘I want to make Laura understand what she’s done – that she can’t play
God with people’s lives.’
‘And you think scaring her and screwing with her daughter’s head is
going to achieve that?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I’m not sure. I don’t know. But what else am I supposed
to do? Do nothing and let the same thing happen to the next Charlotte?’
‘Do you understand what you did to that teenage girl – your pupil – is
just as bad as what her mother did to Charlotte?’
‘It’s not the same thing because I’ve not tried to talk anyone into killing
themselves.’
‘How do you know that when Laura and her husband got home they
didn’t find their daughter had hurt herself ?’
‘Because I know the kind of girl Effie is. A few hurt feelings, a bruised
ego, that’s all. She’ll get over it.’
‘Listen to yourself, bro. If you’re being really honest with yourself, you
have no idea of the lasting damage you’ve done to her. You chose to bring her
into this. She’s just a pawn in the game you’re playing with her mum. And the
worst thing is, you don’t care.’
I shook my head. ‘You haven’t met Effie. You don’t know what she was
like before I started this.’
‘And you know what? I don’t care. Because she is a teenage girl. This is
what teenage girls are like. What you did to her is so, so wrong, and on so
many levels. You should feel ashamed of yourself.’
 I felt my face turn red. I rubbed my scratchy eyes with the palms of my
hands. When I stared at Johnny, for a moment I recognised the man I could
have been had I never found Charlotte’s hidden files and read about the
Helpline Heroine. Once, my younger brother and I had looked so much alike.
Now when I looked at him, a much older, darker version of me was reflected
in his eyes. I knew that everything he was saying to me was true, but I didn’t
want to admit it.
‘So if you have all the answers, you tell me what I should’ve done,
then,’ I said.
‘I’d have gone to the police with the recordings of your phone
conversations and told them what I think Laura did.’
‘What I think? You mean what I know. But I don’t have enough
evidence, Johnny. She’d walk free.’
‘She told you she’d encouraged others to die.’
‘But she didn’t give me any names, did she? She didn’t mention
Charlotte. She could just claim she was playing along with some fantasy we
had going. And what proof do I have that she was ever at the cottage or
stabbed me?’
‘Then I’d have made an appointment with whoever is in charge of End
of the Line and alerted them to her. Even if they can’t do anything about it, at
least Laura will be on their radar. But I wouldn’t tell them everything, like the
Effie stuff, or they’ll think you’re a danger.’
‘And what about you? Do you think I’m a danger?’
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I think you’ve reacted to
Charlotte’s death in a way that’s putting yourself at risk. What you did to that
girl . . . how you led her on . . . it’s the first time I have ever been ashamed of
you. Now it’s time to stop blaming Laura for your actions and start taking
some of the responsibility. Neither she nor Charlotte have put you where you
are right now. You have. Charlotte chose to die and you chose to respond to it
in a way a rational person wouldn’t have.’
He prised the tops from two more bottles of beer and slid one towards
me.
‘Obsessing about this woman has become your whole life, hasn’t it?’ he
continued. I nodded. ‘When did you last read a book or watch a series on
Netflix? Have you got your washing machine repaired yet? When did you last
go to the cottage? That hammer’s been on the sideboard for months waiting
for you to put that picture back up on the wall. You need to start getting on
with real life. You’re never going to move on if you don’t.’
‘How do I even start moving on?’
‘Begin by drawing a line under things tonight. And then we’ll take it
from there, you and me.’
For the first time since the police had turned up at the flat to tell me of
Charlotte’s death, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen a little. Not much, but
enough to help me breathe.
 CHAPTER NINE
LAURA
It was all too much for me to take in at once. I didn’t know how to even begin
processing the day’s events.
Ryan and Janine. Both hidden enemies conspiring to tear me to pieces,
and both completely independent of one another. I sat cloaked in the darkness
of the house that I now understood to be empty of my family. It had been like
that for almost two years, according to Tony. Subconsciously my brain had
refused to accept that he and the girls had left, and I’d convinced myself we
might be living separate lives but at least we were all under the same roof.
Now I knew the truth of the situation and I felt desperately lonely. I kept
forcing myself to think about Henry but he still couldn’t anchor me. The more
tired I became, the more confused I was about what was real and what I’d
imagined.
There were two things I could be sure of, however. Ryan wasn’t just
toying with me anymore; he was also toying with my daughter. And I
couldn’t let that continue.
Janine was doing exactly the same thing, but in her own twisted little
way. She’d been playing a behind-the-scenes role in my life that I hadn’t been
aware of. Her affair with my husband explained the constant disdain she
showed me, why she watched me from her office and took every opportunity
to belittle me in front of the other volunteers. Now, like a cuckoo, she’d made
a home in my nest, but instead of ousting my eggs to make room for her own,
she was ensuring there was no room left for me when I returned. She was the
reason why Tony and the girls weren’t upstairs in their bedrooms right now,
not me.
What has Tony told her about me? What does she know that she has no
right to? What can’t I remember that made everyone leave me?
I stepped into the back garden for another cigarette. I’d given up
monitoring how many I’d smoked since I’d returned from Tony’s. I replayed
certain moments in my head, like when we were hurrying through the school
car park and he was discreetly trying to text someone. He must have been
asking Janine to leave the house because I was coming. I bet she left her bag
there on purpose for me to see. Or perhaps she was hiding somewhere in a
different room, laughing at me. While I was worrying about our daughter’s
safety, Tony had known all along that Janine had been there with Effie.
I couldn’t tell him why I feared for my girl and he couldn’t tell me why I
had no reason to. He was too afraid to admit the truth about what had been
going on behind my back.
How could you, Tony? How could you do this to us?
For much of my life I’d been a survivor, but it was only now I realised
that somewhere along the line, the role of victim had taken precedence. I
desperately needed the strong, confident Laura I used to know, to take charge.
I inhaled one last long drag from my cigarette and then stamped on it. Ryan
and Janine, Janine and Ryan. They didn’t have the first clue who they’d taken
on.
But who should I target first? My heart told me Janine, my head told me
Ryan. Yes, it had to be Ryan because I knew the least about him and he was
the biggest threat to my stability. He’d met with my husband, targeted my
daughter, knew where I lived and visited my son. Now it was my turn to
discover who the enemy was and to make him suffer like he had me. And I
knew who to ask first.

I gazed across the playground, searching for Alice before the school bell
sounded the start of her new day.
In these daily snapshots of her life each weekday morning, I’d see just
how tall she was becoming, that her hair was getting longer and her body
more agile. She was growing up, five minutes every morning at a time. I
couldn’t recall what her last memory of me was, but from what Tony had
suggested, it hadn’t been a good one. Once my enemies were out of the way,
the rest of the pieces would all fit into place and I’d be walking her to school
every day again.
Suddenly, Alice spotted me and her face lit up. I let out a sigh of relief.
She still loved me. She began to run towards me just as the school bell
sounded. ‘It’s okay,’ I mouthed, and pointed towards the door, telling her to
go inside. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ She waved and skipped into the building and
out of sight.
I saw Beth Griffiths before she turned her head and noticed me, not that
she had the faintest clue who I was. She’d either gone to bed wearing a full
face of make-up or she’d set her alarm for the crack of dawn, because no
parent looked like that on the school run without a lot of preparation.
 I’d see her most days at the school gates with her son but hadn’t realised
until she passed Tony and me as we left Effie’s school that she also had a
child there. I noted that she wore a sticker with her name handwritten across it
and the words ‘Parent–Teacher Association’ underneath.
‘Hello,’ I began as she opened the door to her SUV. She turned sharply
and gave me a cursory glance up and down. ‘I’m Laura. My daughter’s in the
same class as your son.’ I lied about the last part.
‘Oh, of course,’ she replied, but her fake smile couldn’t disguise her lack
of interest.
‘I saw you at St Giles Upper School last night. I didn’t realise you had a
child there too.’
‘That’s nice,’ she replied, but offered nothing by way of conversation. I
was a dark cloud in her blue sky and she couldn’t wait for the wind to blow
me away. By the unnatural smoothness of her skin, I guessed she’d had more
fillers injected into her than cream in a choux pastry.
‘How’s your daughter getting on in Year Ten?’
‘Very well, thank you. She’s going to be taking some of her GCSEs
early. How about your . . .’ She couldn’t finish her sentence so I did it for her.
‘My Effie? She’s getting along well. She transferred there coming up for
two years ago now.’
‘It’s a good school with amazing OFSTED reports,’ Beth replied. ‘I’m
sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve really got to dash . . .’
She tried to climb into her car but I ignored how desperate she was to
nip our communication in the bud.
‘We’ve been lucky that Effie’s teacher Mr Smith has taken such a shine
to her,’ I said. ‘I met him recently for the first time. Is he new to the school? I
don’t recall seeing him before.’
‘He’s been there about a year and a half now, if memory serves, and he
recently became acting head of Year Ten. But before that, he took some
personal time off after that whole sorry business with his wife.’
‘His wife?’
This is why I’d chosen to speak to Beth. I’d recognised her type
immediately. I’d seen it so many times before in mothers who became overly
involved in their children’s school lives. They have their fingers in many pies
to make up for the fact they have little else going on in their own world. And
the one thing they love more than listening to gossip is being the first to
spread it to others.
‘Did you not read about it?’ Beth continued. ‘It was quite horrible.
Suicide. She jumped off a cliff. Can you believe it? What an awful way to
go.’
I dug my fingernails into my palms.
No, it can’t be her. Not Charlotte. Not David’s Charlotte.
‘How sad,’ I replied.
‘That’s not the worst of it. She was two months away from having a
baby, and she killed herself with a man she was having an affair with. From
what everyone’s been saying, it was some kind of Romeo and Juliet suicide
pact.’
I shook my head sympathetically and stopped myself from setting the
record straight. There was no affair with David. Charlotte was simply
someone I’d shaped to help David finish what he’d started. I’d barely given
Charlotte a second thought since it happened – maybe I was even a little
envious of her, playing such an intimate role in David’s final moments. I
hadn’t even bothered attending her funeral. Clearly, I’d underestimated the
impact of her death.
So that’s what Ryan had meant when he told me in the cottage I’d taken
everything away from him already. Now that I knew what was motivating
him, I could use it to my advantage.
‘Well, I won’t hold you up,’ I added, smiling. I began to walk away.
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Beth called out, but I knew that if she saw me
tomorrow, she wouldn’t have the first clue who I was.
 CHAPTER TEN
RYAN
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,’ I began. I slipped off my blazer
and folded it across the arm of the sofa.
‘Can I get you a tea, coffee or a glass of water?’ she asked as she opened
a window to let the stuffiness out. I assumed the room wasn’t used very often.
‘Water would be great, thanks.’
It was the first appointment before the new year I could get with End of
the Line’s manager Janine Thomson. When she left the room on the ground
floor of their building, I glanced around at the sparsely decorated walls and
noted two security cameras attached to ceiling corners. Tiny green lights
flashed intermittently and I assumed we were being watched. The woodchip
wallpaper could do with a fresh lick of white paint, and the two past-their-
prime sofas opposite each other needed replacing. A box of tissues had been
left on a coffee table. I wondered what was behind the padlocked door.
Janine returned and placed my drink on the coffee table.
‘You mentioned in our telephone conversation you wanted to talk about
one of our volunteers, Laura?’ she asked. She took out a notebook and pen
from a bright orange handbag. Her voice didn’t have the same soothing
quality as Laura’s. It was more efficient.
‘She’s definitely not volunteering today?’ I asked.
‘No, she’s not due in until Friday.’
‘Okay, I think – well, I know – that Laura is encouraging some of your
callers to end their lives.’
The look Janine gave me was precisely why I hadn’t been to see her
earlier and had taken matters into my own hands instead. My throat felt dry,
so I reached for my glass and took a big gulp, then perched on the edge of the
sofa and began to recount everything that had happened, from Charlotte’s
suicide right up to the moment when Laura turned up at the cottage. It had
been much easier spilling my guts to my brother than a stranger. Plus now I
was forced to self-edit, or risk incriminating myself. I admitted to following
Laura, but not her family, and I kept quiet about her stabbing me and how I’d
used Effie for my own means. Janine took notes up until I finished talking.
 ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That’s quite an accusation, Mr Smith.’
‘I know how it must sound – how I must sound – but Laura needs to be
stopped.’
‘Do you mind me asking – after your wife passed away, did you undergo
any grief counselling?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It’s just that sometimes grief can manifest itself in many different ways,
and especially when someone we love has chosen to end their life. We start
blaming ourselves or start misdirecting our anger towards others—’
‘I’m going to stop you right there,’ I said firmly. ‘I know exactly what
grief has done. It’s torn me apart, but I haven’t lost my sanity. I spent weeks
talking with this woman and I heard how persuasive she was when she
thought I was at my lowest ebb. So I know for a fact that she’s a danger to
vulnerable people calling you.’
‘Do you have any evidence of what you’ve told me?’
I removed my Dictaphone and was about to press play when she stopped
me.
I followed her eyes as she looked at me then at one of the security
cameras. She removed a pair of in-ear headphones from her bag, plugged
them into the recorder and played excerpts from some of our many phone
conversations.
I watched her face as she listened, stony-faced but absorbing every one
of Laura’s manipulative words. After five minutes, she pressed stop and
removed her headphones.
‘You need to know that Laura’s a very popular member of the team and
a big fundraiser for us,’ Janine said. ‘If it wasn’t for her, we’d be struggling to
stay open.’
I felt deflated. She didn’t care. I shook my head, grabbed the recording
device and stood up to leave. ‘So you’re willing to overlook what she’s done
because she brings in money? I knew this would be a waste of time.’
‘Ryan, wait,’ Janine replied and rose to her feet. She looked up towards
the security cameras again, lowered her voice and then spoke quietly into my
ear.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
LAURA
I picked up a photograph of him on his wedding day. It was positioned so that
he could see it from whatever angle he lay at.
He was a much better-looking groom than his wife was a bride. Judging
by the age of the wedding car parked behind them and the style of dress she
and her bridesmaids wore, the black-and-white picture in the rose gold frame
was probably close to six decades old. It had faded a little, but the love
between them as they held each other’s gaze for an eternity was still crystal
clear. Now as Ryan’s grandfather lay asleep in the bed behind me, he bore
little resemblance to the stocky, grinning man that the camera had captured so
long ago.
A day earlier, I’d sifted through dozens of photographs of faculty
members on Effie’s school website until I found a picture of Ryan. He’d taken
photos of my son and me in the lounge area of Henry’s home without me even
noticing, but how had he gained entrance? I showed Ryan’s image on my
phone to two of the brainless receptionists, and one immediately recognised
him.
‘That’s Peter Spencer’s grandson, isn’t it?’ she began. ‘I think he’s
called Robert or Ryan or Richard or something.’
Neither enquired as to why I wanted to know, and after thanking them, I
headed towards Henry’s wing, then took a diversion towards the geriatric care
unit, walking along sticky, lino-clad flooring and through bleach-scented air
until I reached another reception desk. I claimed to a nurse with a foreign
accent that Mr Spencer was my uncle. She didn’t ask me for identification and
pointed me towards Room 23. I made a mental note to complain to the
management about the lackadaisical security later.
Moments later, I loomed over a vulnerable old man, too poorly and
weak to protect himself. All it might take was a firmly held pillow over his
face to free him of the prison his body held him in. He might not be suicidal
but I’d be giving him just as much mercy as I did my candidates.
I glanced around his sparsely decorated room and flicked through the
clothes hanging in his wardrobe, stopping at his one solitary suit. I assumed it
would only be worn again when they lowered him into the ground. Photos on
the shelves were of what I guessed were his children and grandkids. Then I
spotted one of Ryan on his wedding day, and Charlotte by his side in an off-
the-shoulder, white lace dress. It was already a dated look. I picked it up to
get my first proper look at her. She was more attractive than her voice had
suggested; she was slimmer and taller than me. Even if she hadn’t stepped
from a clifftop, their marriage wouldn’t have survived. She was too far out of
his league to have stayed for long.
If Ryan had been allowed a peek into his future, I wondered if he’d still
have married her, knowing what she’d do to him. I know I’d have still
married Tony, despite everything that followed.
Our wedding had been a small affair, at a church in the village of
Weedon, near to where he’d grown up. We were young, both only in our early
twenties at the time, but I’d never been more sure of anything in my life.
The purpose of a wedding isn’t just to commit to each other, it’s also to
bring two families together. Only I wasn’t able to deliver my side of the
bargain. Tony’s ushers had to direct guests towards both sides of the aisle, so
it wouldn’t look weighted in favour of the groom. His mother tried to fill my
mum’s shoes by helping me to get ready in the morning. And when I held his
father’s arm as he walked me up the aisle, it brought home to me just how
alone I was.
All day, when I should have been grinning from ear to ear, I just wanted
it to end. It was a constant reminder I had nobody but my new husband. At
the reception, when distant members of his family asked where my mother
and father were, I’d have to keep telling them my parents were dead. I’d been
forced to explain the same thing to everyone, from the wedding-dress shop
owner to the florist, the driver of my car, and the restaurant manager
arranging the top-table seating plan.
I had no relative to run my plans past, and my bridesmaids were girls I
worked with who I barely knew but who were too embarrassed to decline
when I asked them. Everything about my wedding was a compromise.
The best I could do to feel my parents’ presence was to wear my mum’s
engagement ring and offer Tony my dad’s watch. I was close to tears when he
accepted. I didn’t tell him I’d actually bought them at an antiques shop in the
nearby village of Olney. I wanted a sense of nostalgia, even if it was someone
else’s nostalgia, not mine.
A silver watch lay unclasped and stretched out across Ryan’s
grandfather’s bedside table. The inscription on the back read: To our son on
his wedding day.
 How sweet, I thought. Back then I’m sure it had cost his parents a small
fortune. I slipped it into my pocket, along with the batteries from his TV
remote control.
I left the room, then paused. I turned around and went back inside,
closing the door quietly behind me.
I listened carefully to the old man’s lungs as they struggled to take in air.
His breath was wheezy and crackly, too weak for asthma and more likely to
be emphysema. The poor bastard really was going to be better off dead.

The call came out of the blue, but it couldn’t have been more welcome. I
stubbed out my cigarette on the footpath when a number I recognised flashed
across my phone.
‘Oh, my darling!’ I began, and closed my eyes, thrilled and relieved to
hear from Effie. It had been a week since I’d surprised her at their new house.
I’d since texted the number I’d memorised from the display on Tony’s
dashboard and given her mine, hoping she’d want to open the lines of
communication between us, which might, in turn, encourage Tony to do the
same.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Are you sure about that? You don’t sound it.’
‘Could we . . . would you . . . like to meet up?’
‘Oh, of course, I would love to. When?’
An hour and a half later we sat side by side on a leather sofa inside a
coffee shop. She’d chosen a Starbucks in a retail park on the outskirts of town
because she didn’t want us to be seen by her dad or his friends, she explained.
We sipped hot chocolates topped with whipped cream and sprinkles as I
listened intently to my daughter filling me in on the time I’d missed from her
life. She explained how some of her friends had turned against her when her
Facebook account was hacked and her ex-boyfriend Thom was humiliated.
Then her grades had slipped and she’d found herself alone and without any
confidence in her own intelligence. It was Ryan Smith I really wanted to
know about, but I couldn’t just shoehorn him into the conversation.
‘Are there any subjects you like?’ I asked. ‘What was it you used to be
good at? Chemistry, wasn’t it?’
 ‘English and biology. And now I get shit marks in English and I hate
biology because we’re expected to dissect animals. Baby pigs . . . it’s gross.’
She screwed up her face.
To begin with, Effie struggled to maintain eye contact with me and I
understood that, while I was her mother, I was also a stranger. I still struggled
to remember what had torn us apart, and as frustrating as it was, it didn’t seem
appropriate to ask her and risk opening old wounds. Today was about moving
forward and getting her back on side, to show my husband what he was
missing without me. When her eyes finally reached mine and remained there,
I could see so much of myself in them.
It gradually dawned on me, as Effie spoke, that I’d never really heard
what she had to say before. I’d listened, but all too often I’d dismissed her
words and feelings as those of a child. Now, with her fifteenth birthday
approaching, she was a young woman, and it was time I treated her like one.
Several times she opened her mouth as if to ask me something, before
having a change of heart and closing it again.
‘I don’t want to pry, but is there something else you want to talk to me
about?’ I coaxed.
She shook her head and looked across the car park at the shoppers
loading their vehicles with bulging bags or strapping toddlers into buggies.
She pursed her lips and looked so sad.
‘I’ve messed everything up, Mum,’ she said, before her face crumpled
and she began to cry.
I couldn’t have asked for anything better. I moved my chair closer to
hers and draped my arm around her shoulders for comfort.
‘I got this new teacher, and at first I thought he hated me because he
kept giving me rubbish grades,’ she continued.
‘Is this Mr Smith?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘He seemed like he really cared and gave me lots of
attention after school. And then we started getting . . . closer.’
‘How close?’ I asked. Our reunion was turning out to be even more
rewarding than I could have anticipated. While I hoped Ryan Smith hadn’t
hurt or abused Effie, would it be the worst thing in the world for my case if
he’d stepped over the line a little?
‘I didn’t have many friends left and he was really lovely to me and I
started to get feelings for him and I thought he had them for me too. But when
I told him, he was so horrible.’
So that’s what he’d done to her. He’d led the silly girl on. Now I had
something to work with.
‘Darling, did something physical happen between you?’
‘No. And I know it was wrong, but I wanted it to. He turned me down
and called me nasty and stupid. I feel like such an idiot. I can’t even look at
him anymore without wanting to be sick. I hate him.’
‘He seemed so nice. I bet he’s having a laugh about you in the staffroom
over this.’
Fear spread across my daughter’s face. ‘You think he’s told the other
teachers?’
‘Men of his age love attention from pretty girls like you. They boast
about it to their friends. And you know how rumours spread in schools –
maybe that’s how he gets his kicks, leading girls on so he can humiliate them
and boast about it. I just hope none of the students know.’
Effie held her head in her hands and began to cry again. I rubbed her
shoulders but didn’t encourage her to stop. I was torn between wanting to be
the mother that Effie needed and demanding my revenge on Ryan. Effie
potentially had all the ammunition I required, but I had to talk her around to
my way of thinking first.
‘Does anyone else know about your feelings towards Mr Smith?’ I
continued.
‘No, I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Were you seen together?’
‘I guess so. I had meetings with him twice a week.’
‘But it’s not like you were spending time with him when there was no
one else around?’
‘We were always alone in the room behind his classroom.’
I wanted everything in the world to stop moving so that nothing could
distract me from savouring her every word. This was how I was going to
destroy Ryan: mother and daughter together, working towards a common
goal.
‘You were alone every time?’ I repeated. ‘You’re sure of this?’
 ‘Yes.’
‘And did he give this kind of attention to any of the other girls?’
‘No. He’d wait until everyone had left.’
‘And how close were you, physically, when you were alone together?’
‘A couple of metres apart.’
‘Okay.’ I must have looked disappointed because she added hastily, ‘But
sometimes he’d get a lot closer.’ I’d always been able to tell when she was
exaggerating.
‘Did he ever ask you about your family?’
‘A little – he asked about you and Dad.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Nothing, really.’
‘Did he say why he wanted to know about us?’
‘He said he was trying to understand if I had problems at home that
might explain my falling grades. But it was him who started it all by marking
me down all the time. He told me he didn’t want to worry you both, so it was
best I didn’t mention he’d been asking about you.’
‘So he encouraged you to keep secrets from us?’ I shook my head,
folded my arms and let out an exaggerated puff of air. ‘That’s a fairly typical
approach.’
‘To what?’
‘To grooming a child.’
‘What, like a paedophile?’
I nodded. ‘Part of my role at End of the Line involves talking to young
people who’ve been through this, only by the time they reach me it’s often
gone much, much further. These poor children. Oh, Effie, the stories I could
tell you.’
‘But wouldn’t he have done something when I made a move on him in
his car?’
‘You’ve been in his car?’
‘Yes, he gave me a lift home and I thought it was leading to something
else. Then he started telling me how disgusting I was.’
 ‘Maybe he got cold feet; maybe he was playing mind games with you.
It’s hard to know how these people think.’
‘I should tell Dad, shouldn’t I? He’ll know what to do.’
‘No, I don’t think we should do that just yet. You know how
overprotective he is over you and he might do something rash. Leave this to
me – I’ll sort it out. But I need to know how far you want me to take this.’
She paused for a moment, then looked at me with a steely determination
I’d not seen in her before. ‘I want him to feel as shit as he made me feel.’
‘Okay. But I’m going to need your help to make sure he never grooms
or humiliates any girl ever again.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she replied, and I held her close to my chest and stroked
her hair. It felt surprisingly good to have my elder daughter back.
I glanced around the coffee shop and lowered my voice. ‘You know an
accusation like this could ruin a teacher’s career, don’t you?’
She nodded, and gave me a smile that told me she was on board with
anything I might suggest.
‘Good girl,’ I replied. ‘Good girl.’
 CHAPTER TWELVE
RYAN
‘Someone’s been in Granddad’s room,’ Johnny began on the phone. He
sounded perplexed and anxious.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to freak you out, but you know that wedding photo of you
and Charlotte on the shelf ? Charlotte’s face has been scribbled out with a
pen. I only noticed it as I was leaving.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am. I took it with me when he fell asleep so he wouldn’t see
it. Who would do something like that?’
‘Laura,’ I exhaled. ‘Fuck.’
‘What? You think it was her?’
‘It could only be her.’
I fell silent. She must have somehow discovered Granddad was staying
at the same facility as her son. And during their many conversations,
Charlotte had clearly told Laura she’d scribbled out Britney Spears’s face
from pictures with Charlotte’s crush Justin Timberlake. Laura was giving me
a clear warning that, like me, she could do her homework.
I didn’t want to believe she was responsible, because that meant she was
stepping out from the shadows and telling me she wasn’t afraid anymore,
while I’d promised Johnny I’d let her go.
‘Jesus Christ, Ryan! If it is her then you’ve got to do something about
this, Ry, before it goes any further,’ Johnny replied sternly. ‘If she’s as fucked
up as you say she is, she could have done anything to Granddad when she was
alone with him.’
‘I know, I know,’ I replied. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He hung up, and I held the phone to my chest and regretted taking
pictures of her disabled son in the care home where my granddad also lived.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I said aloud, and dropped the phone onto the sofa. I was
at a loss as to how to respond. Maybe now I’d made Laura’s boss aware of
what she was capable of, I’d just need to remain patient and wait for Laura to
mess up. However, until that happened, if Laura was gunning for me, I’d need
to be prepared.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LAURA
‘Hello, my dear, are you back in the land of the living?’
Mary gave me one of her all-encompassing hugs, the kind where she
thrust her body into yours and which made you want to change your clothes
immediately.
‘Yes, it was a particularly nasty tummy bug. The girls had it too,’ I lied.
Following my confrontation at Effie’s school with Ryan, and the
discovery that Janine was screwing my husband, I’d bought some time away
from the office by faking the norovirus. I hadn’t yet mustered up the strength
to confront Janine without wanting to pour a kettle of boiling water over her
head.
‘Taking a few days off gave me time to whip up a batch of these.’
I eased the lid from a cake tin crammed with the contents of three boxes
of clotted cream shortbread I’d bought a day earlier. ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t
contagious when I made them,’ I joked as Mary’s wrinkled hand dipped
inside. I took a moment to glance around the rest of the office. Full of
enthusiasm and always with other people’s best interests above their own, my
colleagues were genuine, good people. But they were also incredibly blind.
None of them could see what was right under their noses. None of them knew
who I really was.
‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ Kevin warned as I made my way to my
desk. ‘Janine’s put you down for a one-to-one drop-in, in about half an hour.’
I rolled my eyes. Janine knew I wasn’t comfortable with face-to-face
callers, yet the spiteful cow had still appointed me one. Now I’d have to go
and see her, and make up an excuse as to why I couldn’t do it.
‘She’s not in,’ continued Kevin, pre-empting my response. ‘She’s taken
a couple of days off. She said she’s going away with her new fella.’
I stopped in my tracks.
‘New fella?’ I repeated, almost spitting out the words.
‘Yes, she’s been seeing some bloke for a while now. It sounds pretty
serious from what she’s been telling Zoe.’
 ‘Well, it just goes to prove there’s someone for everyone. Even someone
with Janine’s unique appearance.’
I stepped into her office to fume alone. I wanted to put Tony and Janine
and their grubby little liaison to the back of my mind, but it was easier said
than done. Instead I was picturing them, arms entwined, walking along a
beachfront. I could see them enjoying a picnic in the countryside, kissing
under the sun. I could imagine him holding his jacket over their heads to keep
them dry in a sudden downpour. Everything he should have been doing with
me, he was doing with her.
I flicked through the appointments book and questioned how – of all the
people my handsome husband could have replaced me with – he’d chosen
that thing. That frumpy, weasel-faced shit of a woman, cuddling up to my
Tony and playing mother to my children. It beggared belief.
I’d thought that he and I had grown closer after my attack, and now I
was even starting to build a relationship with Effie and Alice again. We
should have been on the same page, with the aim of us all living together
under one roof. And in time, maybe Tony might have even accepted Henry
back into our lives. All five of us, like it was supposed to be. Not them with
her; not them with Janine.
It had been my plan to deal with Ryan first and then Janine, but as my
rage rose like lava bubbling at the rim of a volcano, they now shared equal
billing.
I took a deep, calming breath, but the smell of Janine’s cheap
supermarket perfume lingered in the air and caught the back of my throat,
making me cough. I found the name of my drop-in caller in the appointments
book and paused when I spotted Janine’s diary peeking out from an open desk
drawer. I made sure I wasn’t being watched as I flicked from page to page.
Today she’d scheduled the start of a long weekend. She’d written ‘Iceland’
with three exclamation marks; the ‘i’ was lower case and a heart used instead
of a dot. Tony was aware I’d always wanted to see the Northern Lights but
he’d refused to go with me because he hated the cold. Now he’d taken Janine
there. I hoped the lights were so bright they blinded her.
Tony and I had taken many long-weekend city breaks. His parents
looked after the kids and we’d spend Friday to Sunday in cities like Bruges
and Barcelona. I hated that he was replicating our life with Janine.
I skipped back a few pages and noted she’d scribbled something out.
She’d pressed pretty heavily on the page because it left an impression on the
next. What was she trying to hide? Curious, I held the paper up to the strip
light and the name became clear.
4.15 p.m., Ryan Smith, it read.
I glared at the name for a time, allowing my brain to absorb it and what
it meant. I blinked hard and looked again and his name was still there. The
only two people on my hit list were working together.
A knock on the door made me jump out of my skin, and I covered the
diary with a ring binder.
‘Laura, your appointment is here.’ Zoe smiled. ‘I’ll start monitoring the
cameras.’
Downstairs, a man with a pinched face and the stench of stale tobacco
began grumbling about how dreadful his life had been since his wife walked
out on him. Knowing we were being watched, I nodded at the appropriate
times and gave enough sympathetic smiles where suitable. Even when he told
me he thought he’d be better off dead than alone, I didn’t bite. I didn’t need a
candidate right now. All I could think about was Janine and Ryan meeting
under this roof and in this room. Not knowing what they had discussed was
killing me.
Later, when the client left, seemingly satisfied that someone in the world
now understood his woes, I went back upstairs and thanked Zoe for keeping
an eye on me from the camera room. I waited for her to return to her desk,
then went into the room and closed the door. She hadn’t logged out from the
computer, so I accessed a file containing saved footage of past drop-in callers.
Each clip was labelled with their name, date, the interviewer and the camera
monitor. However, none of the MPEGs had Ryan’s name attached. I folded
my arms, frustrated. Then I clicked the mouse on the trash can symbol.
Among the deleted Word documents was a file titled ‘R.S.’
‘Ryan Smith,’ I said out loud.
With no other names attached to it, I assumed Janine had recorded it
herself then deleted it, but forgotten to empty the virtual rubbish bin.
I slipped on the headphones and pressed play. Eventually, Ryan entered
the room followed by Janine. He drummed his fingers against his leg and
tapped his foot on the floor nervously while he waited for her to return with a
glass. This was a very different Ryan from the smug one taunting me at
Effie’s school.
I listened intently as he told Janine about his wife Charlotte’s death and
how he’d read online about the Helpline Heroine, and he recalled the effort
he’d put into discovering if I were real. Then he recounted in detail our many
conversations – how I’d encouraged him to die and how I’d accepted his
invitation to watch as it happened. My heart raced. I kept staring at Janine’s
face, but it remained emotionless despite the accusations.
Listening to Ryan talk in-depth about the loss he’d felt after his wife’s
death humanised him a little. Until that moment, he’d been an unpredictable
force bent on tormenting me. But watching this video, he became a real
person, a man who’d suffered; who was fractured and lonely. He was nothing
like the formidable opponent I’d spent months hiding from in my house.
It made me want to break him even more.
Suddenly he handed her what looked like a Dictaphone. She glanced at
the camera, then pulled out headphones from her bag and spent the next five
minutes listening without saying a word. I hunched forward, literally on the
edge of my seat, wondering what the hell was on that recording. Finally, she
spoke.
‘You need to know that Laura is a popular member of the team and a big
fundraiser for us,’ she said. ‘If it wasn’t for her, we’d be struggling to stay
open.’
Janine’s appreciation of my hard work wasn’t the response I’d expected,
as she’d never shown me anything close to gratitude before. And I began to
feel a little relieved when a frustrated Ryan stood up to leave. It was his word
against mine – a stranger wracked with grief and desperate to find someone
other than himself to blame for his wife’s death, versus me, a people person, a
woman whose middle name was charity. Janine might not have liked me, but
at least I had her support.
I began to slip the headphones from my ears, but continued to watch the
screen as Ryan made his way towards the door. Suddenly, Janine stood up and
stopped him. She looked straight into the video camera and whispered into his
ear. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, so I replayed it. Again, it was
too muffled. Only when I turned up the volume to maximum could I
understand a few words.
‘I believe . . . saying,’ she told him. ‘. . . suspicions . . . number of
suicidal calls . . . higher . . . other branches . . . I promise . . . me a little time
. . . kicked out of here . . . police investigation. This place . . . I’ll take it away
from her . . .’
I slumped in my seat, watching both figures leave the room until
eventually the computer screen turned black.
Oh, Janine, why did you have to say that?
Everyone was too busy on calls to spot me rifling through her drawers,
filing cabinet and the cupboard behind her desk, frantically searching for that
damning Dictaphone. But it was nowhere to be found.
I gave up for now and deleted the video file – permanently this time –
and it felt like a light switch in my head had just been flicked on. Now I could
see everything much more clearly: the present and the future. I didn’t need to
compartmentalise Ryan and Janine. I could use them to cancel each other out.
Two birds, and me holding the stone.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RYAN
My mum and dad sat on the opposite side of the kitchen table to me, their
expressions serious, like when I was a kid and they were about to tell me off.
When they began talking, I knew they had rehearsed beforehand by the
way they took it in turns – a sentence each, like a couple of breakfast TV
presenters reading from a teleprompter. They’d even printed off their bank
statements and highlighted their outgoings to prove their point.
‘We just can’t afford it any longer,’ Mum continued, and took a sip from
a glass of Prosecco. ‘If we keep going like this, we’ll have to cash in our
pensions to keep paying for it.’
I nodded. ‘You’re right and I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it. You should
have said something sooner.’
They’d asked me to their home to discuss the two mortgages I had in my
name. While I was paying for the flat, they’d been stepping in to pay for the
empty cottage. A teacher’s income wasn’t a bottomless pit of money, and
neither were their savings.
‘I appreciate why you’re reluctant to let either of them go,’ Dad said,
‘but you’re going to need to make a decision soon. You can’t keep both.’
I briefly weighed up the pros and cons of each home. I no longer had
any love for the flat since Charlotte died. So making my home in a place she
hadn’t set foot in would be the sensible choice.
‘I’ll sell the flat.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked. ‘Do you want more time to think about it?’
‘No, I need to start moving forward and in new directions.’
These were the buzzwords I’d picked up from the self-help websites
Johnny kept emailing me links to. Over the Christmas period, curiosity got
the better of me and I’d opened them, but it was only recently that their words
were starting to resonate. Then I’d made it my New Year’s resolution to start
afresh.
When Johnny had confronted me at the flat and asked me what my
endgame with Laura was, I didn’t really have an answer. For months I’d
thought of very little else except how I could make her life as miserable as
mine. Since my brother had pointed out my actions were on a par with hers, I
realised the attention I’d focused on Laura was a delaying tactic to stop
myself from getting on with the rest of my life.
I’d told End of the Line’s manager about Laura and she’d believed me.
Now it was up to Janine to bring Laura down with the evidence I’d given her.
I wondered when she might get in touch to update me.
Laura and I were over. I hoped that her defacing Charlotte’s photo in
Granddad Pete’s bedroom was just a parting shot.
‘One of Johnny’s old school mates is an estate agent at Corner Stones,’ I
said. ‘I’ll ask him to give me a valuation and then I’ll put it on the market.’
Mum placed her hand on mine.
‘I know it’s not easy, but you’re doing the right thing.’
She was right, of course, as parents often are. But there was one more
‘right thing’ I needed to do before I could put all this behind me.

Effie had kept a low profile in school since I’d given her a lift home and
turned down her advances. There’d been no detentions and no class
disruptions. But come the first term of the new year, she still couldn’t bring
herself to look me in the eye. She chose to shrink behind her desk, as if she
hoped the ground might swallow her up.
I gradually began increasing her grades until they were around the mark
they had been before I’d interfered. But each time I looked at Effie, I saw a
girl that I’d broken, and I felt as guilty as hell about it.
‘Effie, have you got a minute?’
She looked startled when I asked her to stay behind as the bell rang for
lunch.
Her hand fumbled in her pocket and she looked all around me but not at
me. What I’d done to her was unforgivable.
‘About what happened that afternoon,’ I began. ‘It was completely
inappropriate and I want to apologise.’
Her eyes lifted from the floor.
‘I shouldn’t have given you a lift. I shouldn’t have said the things I did
and I – well, we both took things too far. I’m your teacher and I should have
known better. I blame myself for giving you the wrong signals. I won’t put
either of us in that position again, I promise.’
She nodded.
‘Have you told anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘So we can keep it between ourselves?’
She nodded.
‘Have you noticed your grades have improved?’
‘Is that your way of shutting me up, Mr Smith? Giving me better marks
so I’ll keep quiet about what you did?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Thought so. Can I go now?’
‘Yes.’
As Effie hurried from the room, I thought I could now start putting
everything behind me and think about the future, just like the self-help
websites told me to. It was time to start my life again, only without Charlotte
or Laura.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LAURA
The estate agent was already parked outside the block of flats in a car
emblazoned with his firm’s colourful logo when I arrived dead on time.
With his brown chinos, white jacket and red hair he resembled a
raspberry ice cream. He greeted me with a smile.
‘How are things, darlin’? Nice to meet you. I’m Andy Webber.’
He was overfamiliar, behaviour that never sat comfortably with me. I
didn’t like his silly topknot or beard either.
‘I’m wonderful, thank you,’ I replied, and threw my bag over my
shoulder. It weighed a ton.
‘So it’s number 7 you want to take a shufti around, right?’ I didn’t know
what a ‘shufti’ was but I nodded anyway. ‘Cool, well, let me lead the way.’
Not so long ago, the flats before me had been council offices. A dreadful
gas explosion had razed them to the ground and taken a dozen staff with it.
Eventually, the building was rebuilt as apartments. Andy glossed over its
history and blathered on about the flat’s potential and how many viewings
he’d had since it’d been put on the market a few days earlier. We took the lift
up three floors, but I wasn’t really listening to him. I just had a burning desire
to spend a few moments in the place that Ryan called home.
My opponent wasn’t the only one who could do his research. I’d got the
ball rolling with a written request to read the public coroner’s report, which
listed Charlotte’s address. Curious to see where she’d called me from, I’d
discovered on a property app that the flat was for sale. I made an appointment
to view it, and after a brief meeting and handover with Effie before school, I
was on my way. I’d already established with the estate agent that the vendor
would not be in.
‘As you can see, it’s been recently redecorated,’ Andy explained. ‘The
living and dining area is spacious and the kitchen has been refitted. It’s a
perfect place for a single Pringle if this is the kind of gaff you’re looking for.’
It was hard to see any of that. All I saw was a cage with windows
looking out onto a world Charlotte hadn’t wanted to be a part of anymore. No
wonder she’d felt depressed and that it would only get worse once she had the
baby.
 I wandered around from room to room, mentally redecorating the place.
Currently, it had come straight from the pages of an Ikea catalogue.
Everything – from the cheap fireplace framing an electric coal-effect fire to
the furniture – said first-time buyer, no idea.
‘Can I take a look at the bedrooms?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ the estate agent replied, and began to lead the way.
‘It’s quite a pokey flat. I’m sure I can find them on my own.’
He shrugged, and remained in the kitchen while I opened the door to a
tiny little box room, with just enough space for a mattress and a bedside
cabinet. The duvet was pulled back and the pillows had head-shaped
impressions in them – I guessed Ryan was now using it as his room. The next
bedroom was a nursery. It smelled stale, like the door hadn’t been opened for
some time. A mobile with drawings of zoo animals hung from the ceiling over
a wooden cot. Everything in the room was either white or yellow: hedging
their bets over the sex, I assumed. Knowing how weak its mother was and
how devious its father could be made me even more confident I’d given the
child a lucky escape.
The master bedroom was dimly lit, so I opened the curtains and began to
poke around. Against one wall was the flat’s only piece of non-flatpack
furniture, an antique dressing table with three rectangular mirrors. I wondered
how many times Charlotte had looked at herself through their differing
perspectives and failed to see what her husband had seen in her.
There were photos of her and Ryan inside mismatched frames on the
dressing table, together with a few bottles of perfume. Taped to one mirror
was the printout of a baby scan. Beneath it was a jewellery box containing
rings and bracelets, all costume, of course.
I opened the wardrobe door and skimmed, hanger by hanger, her high-
street-label clothes, her maternity wear outnumbering her pre-pregnancy
clothing. Hidden at the back was a wedding dress – the simple, inexpensive
lace gown I’d seen her wearing in the photo in Ryan’s grandfather’s room. It
was covered in a clear plastic garment bag to prevent it from decaying like its
owner.
‘Perfect,’ I muttered, pulling out a pair of yellow rubber gloves from my
jacket pocket and slipping them over my hands. Then I reached into my bag
to remove what was making it so heavy.
‘Everything all right in there?’ Andy’s voice came from behind the door.
I quietly closed the wardrobe so he couldn’t see what I’d done, put the gloves
back in my pocket and made my way back into the living room, nudging the
dial of a thermostat on the wall up to full.
‘I think it’s a little too pedestrian for my needs,’ I said, and a look
crossed his face that said I’d just wasted his time.
I was following him towards the front door when something on the top
of a bureau caught my eye. Without him noticing, I grabbed it and slipped it
inside my bag, smiling to myself.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RYAN
It was impossible not to notice the heat or the smell as soon as I opened the
door to the flat.
I’d spent Friday evening at Johnny’s house with a Thai takeout and a
pay-per-view boxing match. And after a few beers, I’d slept over. It felt good
to get away from the flat for a night. Much of the following day was spent
with my dad at the cottage, making lists and prioritising the work that needed
to be done, room by room. For the first time in a long while, I’d begun to
allow a little optimism into my life and not allowed Laura Morris to dominate
my thoughts.
But on my return home, it was boiling hot and reeked of something foul.
I checked the fridge to see what had gone out of date so quickly, but the smell
wasn’t coming from there. I figured someone viewing the flat must have
caught their arm against the thermostat and accidentally turned it up, as I’d
done it myself many a time. But that didn’t explain the odour.
It smelled the strongest in Charlotte’s and my bedroom. I looked under
the bed, the dressing table and behind the curtain for the corpse of a dead
mouse or rat. Charlotte had warned me that rats can climb up through the
toilet bowl, even in a third-floor flat, though I hadn’t believed her until now.
But as I edged closer to the wardrobe, I realised something inside it was
causing the stench. I put my hand over my mouth as I opened the door.
‘Jesus!’ I yelled, and stumbled backwards. Charlotte’s wedding dress
had been moved to the front, stripped from its polythene cover and the
stomach area covered in blood.
At the foot of the dress was the small, pinky-white foetus of a dead
piglet, also with blood on it. I kept approaching it, then stepping away, unsure
of what to do and trying to process what the hell had happened during the
thirty-six hours I’d been absent. Then, suddenly it hit me: Laura had been
there. It was the only explanation. She’d been inside my bedroom, and not
only was she mocking my dead wife but she was mocking my dead child, too.
Furious, I held my breath and grabbed the stinking piglet using a tea towel,
picked up my car keys, dropped the body into a recycling bin outside and
made for my car.
Andy, the estate agent, was sitting in his office at his desk and facing the
door when I stormed in, disturbing his quiet Saturday afternoon.
‘All right, mate,’ he began, ‘how—’
But I wasn’t interested in polite conversation.
‘Who have you shown around the flat in the last two days?’
‘Is something wrong?’
I raised my voice. ‘Who, Andy?’
His two female colleagues turned to stare at me. He nervously scrolled
through his phone, checking his diary.
‘A young couple with a baby, two gay lads and then some bird. Is
everything all right?’
I really didn’t want the woman to be Laura. Life would be so much
easier if it wasn’t her.
‘What was her name?’ I asked.
‘Charlotte Smith. Same surname as you.’
Andy opened his mouth and began to say something else, but I was
already out of the front door before I could hear a word.
My car’s alloy wheels scraped against the kerb as I pulled up sharply
outside Laura’s house fifteen minutes later.
I threw open the car door, and a vehicle I hadn’t spotted behind me
jammed on its brakes and stopped just short of knocking me down. I didn’t
even turn to apologise as they blasted their horn at me. Instead, I ran across
the road and up Laura’s driveway. The window blinds were partially closed as
always, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t in. I banged with both fists on the door
and peered through the glass, but everything appeared dark inside despite it
being daylight.
‘Open this fucking door!’ I yelled, then crouched to repeat my demand
through the letterbox. ‘I know what you did, you sick bitch!’ There was no
response. In all my life, I had never been angrier than I was in that moment.
My eyes scanned the front of the house to find a way through to the
back, and I pulled on a gate but it was locked and too steep to climb.
Suddenly, I had an idea. Laura’s house backed on to playing fields. I’d played
many a Sunday-league game there in the past. I ran along the street and into a
cul-de-sac until I found an alleyway that took me to the grassy fields and then
the rear of Laura’s property.
 The renovation work made it stand out from the others and easy to spot.
It was larger from behind. A modern, double extension turned it into an L-
shape and there were dormer windows where the roof sloped, suggesting
they’d renovated the attic to create a third floor.
Behind low bushes and a waist-high wooden fence, I could see a
trampoline with a torn, patchy net hanging from the side, on a knee-high
lawn. Everything in her garden was overgrown and unkempt. It looked like it
belonged to a different house. A gap in the hedgerow allowed me to clamber
over the fence and into her garden.
I made my way towards the kitchen window first. No lights were on
inside so I got up close to the tinted glass and peered in. The work surfaces
and sink were clean and clutter-free. The cupboards were dark grey, and the
walls close to black. I put my hand above my eyes to minimise the reflection
and squinted, before realising the walls hadn’t been painted like that; they
looked like they’d been damaged by smoke. I stared into another window
inside what looked like a pantry, and it was exactly the same. What had
happened in there?
Puzzled, I headed for a set of bifold doors and looked inside. The dining
room ceiling was also smoke-damaged, and in the living room, the television
and furniture still appeared to have bubble wrap and price labels affixed to
them . . .
‘Shit!’ I shouted.
My heart almost beat out of my chest when I saw Laura. She was
perched on the edge of a sofa, watching me as she held a mobile phone at eye
level. Then she gave me a wide smile before her face began to contort. It was
scrunched up, and she placed her finger on the tip of her nose and pushed it
upwards. I tried to make sense of what she was doing, but the woman was
clearly insane.
She remained on the sofa and I could just about make out a noise
coming from her. I edged closer to the glass until I was millimetres away from
it. Finally, I realised what she was doing.
She was making the face and sound of a pig grunting.
Insane or sane, I no longer cared. All that mattered was finding an object
heavy enough in her garden to smash my way through the doors. I was going
to kill her.
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LAURA
I’d expected Ryan to appear at my house once he discovered who the last
person was to view his flat.
Judging by his fiery expression and the way he was trying to break my
windows, he hadn’t appreciated the porcine present I’d left him inside his
wardrobe.
First thing in the morning, Effie had removed the pig foetus from her
science lab’s freezer and passed it to me in my car outside the school. She
didn’t question why I wanted it or ask what was on the memory stick I
pressed into the palm of her hand. I gave her strict instructions as to exactly
what she must do with it.
Later, and alone in Ryan’s bedroom, I’d swiftly removed the now semi-
defrosted piglet and beaker of ‘blood’ I’d whipped up from water, sugar, red
food-colouring and cocoa powder. I poured the contents onto Charlotte’s
wedding dress and the piglet, then quickly shut the door.
Of the many approaches I could have taken to antagonise Ryan, I knew
this would cut straight to the core. I had to make him understand that
whatever he was plotting next, from here on in, I would always be one step
ahead of him. I didn’t care how far I needed to go, how dirty I had to play or
who I used to get there, he would never beat me.
I’d watched from behind the blinds as my scruffy nemesis, dressed in
his running shoes, jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt, darted up the drive, searching
for a way to gain entrance to my house. I predicted he’d try the rear next, and
as I positioned myself in the living room, I poured myself a glass of Chianti,
took out my phone and made myself comfortable on the sofa. I checked my
text messages and was pleased Effie had confirmed a time and place to meet
me tomorrow. Once again, I suggested she keep it from her father.
A few minutes later, when Ryan came into view across the playing
fields, I switched the phone to video camera mode and turned the mic off. The
bifold doors were locked tight and the slight tint would make it harder for him
to see inside without getting up close.
When eventually he spotted me, I must have scared him because he
jolted backwards, almost falling to the ground.
 While anger had brought him to my home, it was pure rage that I
needed. One more little push was all it would take. And while I know
grunting like a pig was a little childish, it had the desired effect. The phone’s
mic was turned back on when he began making more threats.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he yelled. ‘Open this door now!’
‘Please, leave me alone!’ I shouted back. I was sure to make my voice
tremble and my camerawork shaky.
‘Let me in!’
‘Oh God, please just go away! I’m begging you!’ I replied, and blew
him a silent kiss. ‘Whatever you think I’ve done, it wasn’t me.’
‘You’re a liar!’
Again he banged his fists on the doors with all his strength, making the
double layers of glass shudder in their frames. Then he turned to scan the
garden as if trying to find something to break the glass with. Eventually he
found the brick I used to wedge the garden gate open, drew it back over his
shoulder and hurled it. The glass cracked. I backed away nervously as he
repeated the action.
The doorbell sounded and I hurried out of the living room towards it.
‘Thank God!’ I sobbed and yanked it open. ‘Please help me!’
Suddenly, the window in the other room shattered and I heard Ryan’s
footsteps pounding across the wooden floors. But as he turned the corner to
find me, he was tackled to the ground by two burly police officers.
I’d dialled 999 the moment the cat jumped from the windowsill, alerting
me that someone was approaching the drive. Bieber thought it was Tony but I
knew it would be Ryan.
Ryan yelled more expletives as he was restrained. His arms were twisted
behind his back and handcuffs clamped around his wrists.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I repeated over and over again to the officers. ‘I
thought he was going to kill me.’
‘You should be arresting her!’ Ryan spat, squirming and clearly in pain.
‘She killed my wife and now she’s trying to ruin me!’ But the police weren’t
listening. One read him his rights, while the other called for back-up on a
radio.
‘Sir, I need you to calm down,’ the officer continued, his knee on the
base of Ryan’s spine, pinning him to the floor.
I shed my crocodile tears as Ryan was pulled to his feet and bundled out
of my house, into a police car and driven away.
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RYAN
I was handed a transparent plastic bag containing my car keys, mobile phone,
belt, some coins and my shoelaces, and asked to sign for them by the duty
desk sergeant.
Johnny remained by my side until the paperwork was complete. I’d
called him twice in the last two days – once to tell him I’d been arrested and
needed a solicitor, and a second time to inform him I was being released on
police bail. I begged him not to worry our mum and dad by telling them what
I’d done. Judging by his heavy brow and refusal to make eye contact with me,
he was furious. He wasn’t alone. My enforced timeout made me as angry at
myself as he was at me.
We left the grounds of the police station and I skulked several paces
behind him as we made our way towards the pay-and-display car park across
the road. It wasn’t until we entered the car that I spoke.
‘I’m ready. Let me have it, both barrels. Tell me what an idiot I am.’
Johnny said nothing. He removed his glasses and wiped them with the
sleeve of his hoodie.
‘Tell me I’ve fucked up,’ I said. ‘Tell me I’ve put my job at risk. Tell me
I could get a criminal record. But just so long as you know, I’m aware of this
already.’
‘You smell,’ he replied.
‘So would you if you’d been wearing the same clothes for two days.’
‘You told them what she did to you though, didn’t you? Charlotte, the
baby, stabbing you, the dead pig?’
He flew off the handle when I didn’t reply.
‘What? Ryan! You have to be kidding me. That was your chance to
explain everything, you fucking dick! Otherwise you just look like some
nutter who was terrorising her and broke into her house!’
‘If I’d have dropped her in it, I’d have dropped myself in it too, about
what I did to Effie and stalking her family. And I’m in enough trouble
already.’
 ‘Why didn’t you give them tape recordings of her telling you how to kill
yourself ?’
‘They’re still with Janine, Laura’s boss.’
‘Well, why hasn’t she done anything with them yet?’
‘I don’t know.’ I was wondering the same thing myself, as I’d given
them to her weeks earlier. Unless she had, of course, and that had sent Laura
over the edge and into my flat. I had this awful feeling that she was really
gunning for me now. ‘I need you to do me a favour,’ I asked.
‘Another one?’
‘I need you to pick up my car.’
‘Why can’t you do it yourself ?’
‘Because it’s parked outside Laura’s house and my police bail conditions
won’t allow me anywhere near her.’
‘Why, of course – where else would it be other than outside the home of
the woman who killed your wife and baby and who tried to murder you.’
‘Please don’t start, Johnny.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t. I’m far from starting. I’m done, actually. I’m
finished. I’ll drive you back to the flat. I’ll bring your car back, but then I
don’t want to see your stupid little face for a while.’
‘Come on, that’s not fair. I thought I’d drawn a line under this, too. I
made amends with Effie and put her grades back up after you made me see
what I’d done to her. As far as I was concerned, it was all over.’
‘Until you turned up at Laura’s house threatening to kill her.’
‘I was angry and upset! What would you have done?’
‘Called the police and let them handle her.’
‘I told you, that’s not an option.’
‘Because you don’t have the balls to man up and admit your part, you’ve
made things a shitload worse for yourself.’
Johnny shook his head as we pulled up outside the flat.
‘This has to be the end of it,’ he added. ‘No matter what she says or
what she does from here on, you have to accept the consequences. As much
as you hate it, Laura has won. The end. All you can do is hope she sees it that
way too.’
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
LAURA
Effie and I sat outside her head teacher Mr Atkinson’s office, waiting to be
called in.
The school secretary was photocopying papers in a room opposite us,
and cursed under her breath when the machine jammed. Effie looked anxious
and nibbled at the skin around her fingernails. She got that habit from me. I
brushed her hand away from her mouth.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
She nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. She needed a final pep talk.
‘You know how proud of you I am, don’t you?’ She gave a slight smile.
‘I’m so glad you’ve been able to trust me to help you. It’s meant the world to
me. We are doing the right thing, so please don’t be worried. I’m right here by
your side.’
The door to Mr Atkinson’s office opened and he ushered us inside. I sat
up straight and cleared my throat.
‘I’ll get straight to the point. One of your teachers has been making
sexual advances towards my daughter.’ I squeezed Effie’s hand and she
nodded. ‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ I continued, making myself sound like
I was on the verge of tears. ‘Effie’s form tutor, Mr Smith, has been behaving
inappropriately towards her and has launched a campaign of terror against
me.’
‘Mr Smith? Ryan Smith?’ The poor fool looked utterly bemused.
‘I assume the police have informed you he was arrested three days ago
for breaking into our house?’
His eyebrows knotted and he shook his head. ‘No, they haven’t. As far
as I was aware, he’s been poorly with the flu.’
‘I’m a volunteer for the charity End of the Line, and somehow Mr Smith
has become convinced that our organisation played a role in the tragic death
of his wife. It’s quite ludicrous, of course, but it appears that for some reason
he has singled me out for blame. And on Saturday he broke into our house
and began hurling threats at me. I hate to think what would’ve happened had
the police not arrived.’
 ‘Well, Mrs Morris, um . . . I can’t comment on this until I know the full
facts—’
‘These are the facts, Mr Atkinson,’ I interrupted, and passed him my
mobile phone so he could see the footage of a raging Ryan for himself. ‘I
thought he was going to kill me.’ I blinked hard and dabbed at the corners of
my eyes, as if tears were forming. ‘When my daughter arrived home, she was
so scared by what had happened that she told me Mr Smith had been
behaving inappropriately towards her. She’d been too frightened to say
anything before now.’
Mr Atkinson turned to Effie.
‘I appreciate this must be difficult, but can you tell me a little about what
happened?’ He took a pen from a pot and began writing on a pad.
‘He’s been keeping me behind in class a lot,’ Effie said, slowly and
quietly.
‘Speak up, darling,’ I said. ‘You’re safe now.’
‘He takes me into that office at the back of his class where nobody else
can see us, and he talks to me like we’re friends. It was nice at first. He really
seemed to care about me.’
‘Right,’ said Mr Atkinson. ‘He probably shouldn’t have been alone with
a pupil—’
‘Then recently, when he gave me a lift home in his car, he told me he
wanted to have sex with me and started rubbing his hand up and down my leg
and touching himself. As he started to pull the zip down on his trousers, I
managed to open the door and escape.’
I swelled with pride, a little surprised that she’d embellished the story so
convincingly. She looked to me for approval and I nodded.
‘And this happened in his car, you say?’
Effie nodded. ‘I was terrified.’ Now she was crying. They looked like
real tears, too.
Mr Atkinson scratched his chin, as if trying to recall what to do to set in
motion an investigation. He knew he had a duty of care to all his students,
even one branded a troublemaker.
‘This explains why Effie has been acting out in class,’ I added. ‘Her
marks only started going downhill when Mr Smith returned to school. Look at
her records and you’ll see how the dates line up. It appears to me that
Mr Smith has been – oh, I hate this word – “grooming” my daughter.’
‘This is quite an accusation, Mrs Morris, which of course I will be
taking seriously. Effie, do you have anything you can give me to back this up?
Any eyewitnesses or any evidence at all?’
She nodded. Now it was her turn to remove her mobile phone from her
pocket. She opened an app on the screen, and pressed play. A minute later the
colour had drained from Mr Atkinson’s face.
‘Would it be possible get a copy of the recording . . . ?’ he said.
I passed him a memory stick. ‘I’ve put the sound file on here for you. So
what do you intend to do about this? I wanted to come to you first rather than
go to the police or local education authority.’
‘No, no,’ he replied quickly. ‘You did the right thing.’

Half an hour later, Effie and I were driving towards her father’s house.
‘Did I do okay, Mum?’ she asked.
‘You did brilliantly.’
‘How much trouble will Mr Smith be in?’
‘I won’t lie to you. He’ll probably lose his job.’
She paused for a moment to process the magnitude of her accusations.
‘But he didn’t actually touch me, like I told Mr Atkinson . . .’
‘Darling, what Mr Smith did to you was just as bad as what he didn’t do.
He led you on, he brainwashed you and he left you humiliated, didn’t he? He
let you believe he was interested in you physically. He might not have said it,
but the implication was certainly there. What if he’d gone further with the
next girl he picked? What if he’d raped her? How would you feel knowing
you could have prevented it if only you’d spoken up? We have bent the rules
a little but sometimes that’s what needs to be done for the sake of others. I
don’t expect you to understand just how serious Mr Smith’s behaviour is, but
when you get older, you’ll look back and realise that we have done the right
thing.’
‘What you told Mr Atkinson about Mr Smith’s wife and End of the Line
. . . was that true? Did you ever speak to her?’
‘I speak to a lot of people, so possibly, yes. But quite why he singled me
out, I don’t know. He’s also been harassing my manager for weeks now. I
don’t think you’ve ever met Janine, have you?’
Effie’s eyes fixed on the road ahead. She didn’t know whether to tell me
Janine was her father’s girlfriend or remain silent. For now, I let her off the
hook.
‘Well, Mr Smith has been bothering her too. She even met with him face
to face in the office to explain his wife’s death was not our fault.’
I parked close to Effie’s new house, but not so close as to be seen. I
noted Janine’s green Astra parked a little further down the road.
‘Okay, well, why don’t I talk to your dad in the next few days to see if I
can take you and Alice out to Nando’s one weekend?’
She nodded. ‘Mum,’ she asked hesitantly, ‘are you, you know, okay
now?’
‘In what way?’
‘After Henry.’ She looked away, unsure whether to have brought up the
subject.
‘Yes, I’m fine. And Henry’s doing very well. I know he’d love to see
you again.’
‘Dad said we aren’t allowed.’
‘You are your mother’s daughter, Effie. When has not being allowed to
do something ever stopped you?’
She grinned and gave me a peck on the cheek before leaving the car.
When she turned around to wave, I felt my heart skip a beat. I had one child
back. Now there were just two more and a husband to go.
 CHAPTER TWENTY
RYAN
I locked my car and hitched up my trousers.
I hadn’t put the weight back on that I’d lost after Charlotte’s death, so
my belt was cinched to the tightest hole. The stress of the past few days had
nulled my appetite further. I caught my reflection in the car window and I
looked drawn. I patted down a stray clump of hair sticking out from my
crown that resembled an antenna.
Fake flu or no fake flu, Bruce Atkinson had left me several voicemail
messages urging me to return to school for an important meeting as soon as
possible. He must have been told about my arrest for threatening a pupil’s
parent. Whatever he was about to say wasn’t going to be good.
I’d left messages for Janine. She had a smoking gun in her hands with
my Dictaphone, and I still didn’t know for sure if she’d put it to good use yet.
If not, what was she waiting for?
I made my way into the school foyer and glanced at my watch. I was a
little early but he was already waiting for me in the staffroom. The other
teachers watched as he led me into his office, where Bruce’s deputy Sadie
Marks and Dave Proudlock from Human Resources sat. Both looked as
uncomfortable as each other.
‘I’ve asked Sadie and Dave to join us as witnesses,’ Bruce began. ‘I’ll
get straight to the point, Ryan. An accusation has been made by a parent and
student about inappropriate behaviour.’
‘Who?’ I asked, but I already knew the answer. Laura had got to him,
too.
‘Effie Morris and her mother.’
‘What have they told you?’
‘They accuse you of behaving in an unprofessional manner towards
Effie. Mrs Morris used the word “grooming”.’
The bitch. So that was her game now – she was trying to brand me a
paedophile. She wasn’t going to tar me with that brush and get away with it.
‘It’s rubbish,’ I replied. ‘I’ve gone to great effort to try to help Effie and
improve her grades, even using my own time to counsel her.’
 ‘Behind closed doors in your office.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But you know school rules discourage being alone with any pupil for
precisely this reason.’
I nodded. ‘But I can categorically say that I never behaved
inappropriately with Effie, let alone “groomed” her.’
‘Were you ever alone with her in your car?’
‘My car? No, of course not.’ I hoped my flushed cheeks wouldn’t
expose my lie.
A moment passed while Bruce looked me dead in the eye. He leaned
over his desk and pressed a button on his keyboard. Suddenly I heard a
recording of my own voice.
‘About what happened that afternoon. It was completely inappropriate
and I want to apologise,’ I heard myself saying.
Shit. Effie had recorded our last conversation.
‘I shouldn’t have given you a lift, I shouldn’t have said the things I did
and I – well, we both took things too far. I’m your teacher and I should have
known better. I blame myself for giving you the wrong signals. I won’t put
either of us in that position again, I promise.’
Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
‘Have you told anyone else?’ my recorded self asked.
‘No.’
‘So we can keep it between ourselves?’
There was an awkward gap before I spoke again. ‘Have you noticed
your grades have improved?’ I asked.
‘Is that your way of shutting me up, Mr Smith?’ Effie replied. ‘Giving
me better marks so I’ll keep quiet about what you did?’
My silence only added to my guilt.
‘Thought so. Can I go now?’
My stomach felt as if it had dropped forty floors.
‘No, no, no, this has all been taken out of context,’ I said. ‘This isn’t
what happened at all!’ I looked at Sadie and Dave in the hope of gaining their
support, but doubt was written across their faces.
‘What were you apologising to her for?’ Bruce asked.
‘Effie thought I was attracted to her and she tried it on with me, but I
turned her down.’
‘Where was this?’
‘In my car.’
‘The car that you told me a few moments ago that she hadn’t been
inside?’
‘Yes,’ I muttered.
‘I’m sorry to do this, Ryan, but I’m going to have to suspend you and
ask you to leave the building with immediate effect.’
‘But it’s Effie’s mum. She has a vendetta against me . . .’
‘I note that you failed to tell me you were arrested for breaking into her
house and threatening her life on Saturday.’
‘If you can just let me explain what happened—’
‘I’m sorry, but no. You can explain it to your union representative when
I launch an investigation.’
Bruce escorted me through the building and into the car park. I felt
many eyes watching me as the children entered the school at the first bell of
the morning, wondering what was happening.
‘You are forbidden to set foot in the school grounds or school buildings
until this matter has been resolved,’ Bruce advised quietly. ‘I ask that you
don’t contact me, or any of your colleagues, pupils or their parents. And I
suggest you get in touch with your union at the earliest opportunity.’
I remained rooted to the ground, unsure of which way to turn. I opened
my mouth to try to defend myself one last time, but I wasn’t an entirely
innocent party. I had led Effie on, and while I didn’t groom her sexually, I had
groomed her nonetheless.
‘Could you please leave now, Ryan?’ Bruce added. ‘Let’s not make this
any worse than it is.’
I climbed into my car, slipped the keys into the ignition and drove away,
utterly humiliated. Laura was destroying me and I had no idea how to stop
her.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LAURA
I followed Janine’s green Astra from End of the Line’s offices into a familiar
industrial-estate car park.
She remained seated and held a phone to her ear. Tony eventually
appeared from his building and joined her. My stomach did somersaults when,
once inside the car, they gave each other lingering kisses. I wanted to run over
to them, open the door and drag Janine out by her cheap hair extensions, my
fists pummelling that stupid, ugly face of hers. But now wasn’t the time to act
on impulse. I had a plan I was working towards, and beating her half to death
in front of my husband wasn’t part of it.
I trailed them as they picked up Effie and Alice from Tony’s house, then
they drove half an hour to a multiplex cinema in Milton Keynes. There were
two similar cinemas in Northampton to choose from, but I assumed they
didn’t want to be seen by anyone they knew. They were quite content playing
happy families, just as long as it was covertly.
I watched from outside as Janine bought the tickets, a family-sized
bucket of popcorn, family-sized fizzy drinks and family-sized nachos and
cheese. I followed them inside, and from the shadows of a seat fifteen rows
behind them, I spent a couple of hours watching them behaving like every
other family. They threw their heads back and laughed along to the comedy,
and shared their drinks and snacks. But my anger soon made way for resolve.
I hoped Janine was making the most of this moment, because it wasn’t going
to last. Once Tony remembered the woman he’d fallen in love with all those
years ago, he’d be on his knees begging me to take him back. I was the girl he
loved, not the one he’d read about in my records.
It had been my own fault. I’d removed the lid from Pandora’s box. It had
all come to a head one day when Tony accused me of not loving the girls. He
claimed I devoted all my time to Henry, while his sisters’ emotional needs
were neglected. Some of what he said was correct, but that was his fault. I’d
close my eyes and listen to the close relationship he’d formed with the girls,
and there was no room for me. He was doing the same thing to me that my
father had done with my sisters – and they’d both left me out in the cold. That
made me want to push Effie and Alice further away, or risk being hurt by
them like I’d been hurt by my family as a girl.
 Our row had been brewing for days; I could smell it in the air like the
coming of a storm. Ever since we’d moved into that house and work had
commenced renovating it, it had taken over our lives. Everything was always
covered in dust or smelling like fresh plaster, and there were workmen
constantly traipsing around, speaking in foreign languages. I could see no end
to it and I began to hate that place. If we’d stayed in our last home, everything
would have been all right.
‘Are you even capable of love?’ Tony spat out the words as if they were
contaminated.
‘Of course I am!’ I replied. ‘I love every one of you equally.’
‘Sometimes I look at you when you’re with the girls and I don’t see
anything in your eyes. It’s like they aren’t even in the same room as you. I
think what happened to you as a kid has broken you.’
‘Why are you being so cruel?’
‘I’m just trying to work out in my head what the hell is going on in
yours. I don’t even know if you know how your mind operates.’
During my first year in foster care, social workers didn’t know what to
do with me. I’d been appointed therapists who’d tried to break through my
shell, but none succeeded. My brain had been prodded and poked at, but
nobody had thought to inform me if there was anything wrong with me or
offered me treatment. Then, much later, after Olly killed Sylvia while trying
to protect me, there’d been no effort to find me another foster carer or family.
I’d been downgraded from damaged goods to unsellable. Group children’s
homes were the best it would get.
Tony’s accusations tapped into a long-standing fear that there was
something very wrong inside me, something deep-rooted that prevented me
from loving my daughters as a mother was supposed to. So I made the
decision to apply to view my records.
As I’d been in social services care, now, as an adult and through a
subject access request, I could obtain a copy of my personal data and they
couldn’t lawfully deny me access to it. Eight weeks passed before it arrived
by post. I waited nervously until after I’d taken the girls to school before I
braced myself and tore open the envelope.
To my dismay, I discovered everything written about me was lies. The
accusations were horrific in part, and words like ‘cold’, ‘unresponsive’, ‘lack
of empathy’ and ‘impulsive nature’ jumped from the pages. One social worker
even suggested I might have been a suicide risk, as my lack of involvement
with anyone could mean I didn’t value my life. The truth was far from it.
But it was one statement, written shortly before my fourteenth birthday,
that left me speechless.
Repeated evaluations have failed to determine just one
personality disorder in Laura. She has shown traits of
Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Self-Deception,
amongst others. She has a desire to get her own way and is
overtly charming but can be covertly hostile towards others.
One foster carer noted that she liked to dominate and
humiliate an older boy in the same house by making fun of his
lack of intellect. Another carer witnessed her stamping on and
breaking the leg of the family dog, but Laura refused to accept
responsibility. She often appears to believe her own lies and
rewrites events in her head so that she becomes a victim. She
has repeatedly displayed sociopathic tendencies and we
strongly suggest she is not homed with other foster sisters and
brothers.
I let the pages rest on my lap and closed my eyes. How could anyone
have written something so awful about a little girl? Why had a child who had
been through an emotional trauma like mine been branded a ‘sociopath’?
What chance had I stood at being adopted when I’d been affixed such labels?
How many potential families had rejected me because of those words?
Of course every child makes mistakes, but as I became older, I’d learned
to mask certain urges – I learned to fit in, I learned to be like everybody else. I
rebuilt myself by watching other people’s behaviour. Those descriptions
weren’t an accurate representation of who I was or who I had become.
I knew I could never allow Tony to read my file, so I hid it away in the
utility room behind the tumble dryer, next to my cigarettes. But in the weeks
that followed, I’d return to it and reread it, torturing myself over and over
again until I knew every word off by heart.
Now I was torturing myself again by watching the silhouettes of Janine,
Tony and the girls in the cinema. I quietly slipped out of the darkened
auditorium and back into the car park. I made for Janine’s green Astra,
removed my car keys from my bag, and once I was sure there were no CCTV
cameras pointed at me, I carved the word ‘cunt’ into the driver’s door.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RYAN
‘I swear to God I am being framed,’ I began. ‘Please believe me. This woman
wants to destroy me.’
‘Why don’t you just take a moment to compose yourself ?’ she replied.
She slid a box of tissues towards me from her side of the desk.
I wiped my eyes. I’d done nothing but cry since being suspended from
my job. Johnny had washed his hands of me and wasn’t returning my calls,
and Effie’s accusations weren’t something I could talk to my parents about. I
felt completely alone. My solicitor Tracy Fenton was on my side, but only
because I was paying her to be. She was a masculine-looking woman with
greying cropped hair, no make-up, and glasses that hung from a silver chain
around her neck. She didn’t give me any indication of whether she believed
me or not. But she had a job to do and that job was to help me, regardless of
my innocence or guilt.
After speaking to my teaching union rep, I’d made an appointment to
see her the day after my suspension and explained to her my side of the story
from start to finish, omitting nothing. She’d also just received a police update.
‘Images of a sexual nature have been found on the hard drive of your
school computer, Ryan,’ she began. She opened a binder containing
photocopied papers.
‘What do you mean by “sexual nature”?’ I asked, my voice close to
breaking again.
‘One folder has been found containing one hundred and fifteen images
of young females, all wearing school uniforms and in various states of
undress.’
I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘How “young” are they?’
‘They haven’t told us that yet.’
‘They’re going to look about Effie’s age, I just know it. I’m ruined.’
I broke into a sudden sweat. I thought I was going to pass out, so I
loosened my tie, undid two buttons on my shirt and moved towards the open
window. I hoped the breeze might cool me down.
Tracy flicked through a handful of pages. ‘Mrs Morris has made a
statement to the police about the break-in but, as far as I’m aware, the police
have yet to interview Effie about her allegations. If you are denying all
knowledge of these images, then it’s likely they were downloaded elsewhere
and transferred onto your computer, via something like a disk or a memory
stick. The officer I spoke to off the record said they weren’t hidden well, in
among a folder containing some Word documents, which would suggest
they’d been moved there in a hurry. Once I can get a time and date stamp
from the files to show when they were created, you and I will need to work
out where you were, so that you can provide an alibi. Do other staff members
use that computer?’
‘Yes, a few.’
‘Then although it’s in your office, the police need to convince the
Crown Prosecution Service that it could only be you who downloaded them,
before the CPS makes a decision on whether you’re charged and what with.’
‘And if I don’t have an alibi?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.’
‘And when will that be? I want this sorted out as soon as possible.’
‘It could be weeks or even months, Ryan. That’s how long these things
take.’
‘So I’ll have this hanging over my head until then?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I’ll never be able to go back to that school, will I?’
Tracy removed her glasses, allowing them to dangle. ‘Probably not, no.
Should the school and local education authority believe Effie, you will be
barred from the National College of Teaching. If Effie makes a statement to
the police and it ends up in court and you are found guilty, you’ll be put on a
sex offenders register. But this is all the worst-case scenario.’
I returned to my chair and held my head in my hands. I shut my eyes
tightly. How had I got myself into such a mess? I thought of Charlotte and our
baby, and how Daniel would most likely be taking his first steps by now and
trying to speak his first few words. The three of us would have been our own
little unit, making a life for ourselves in our cottage. I longed so much for
something that had been denied the chance to happen.
‘What can I do to help prove my innocence?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing. Just wait until you hear from me again.’
 ‘I can’t just sit around and hope things sort themselves out.’
‘That’s exactly what you have to do,’ Tracy replied firmly. ‘I implore
you, Ryan. Leave this for me to deal with.’
Only I knew I couldn’t.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LAURA
I once read that if you tell yourself the same thing over and over again,
eventually you’ll forget where the truth ends and the fantasy begins.
Sometimes when I thought about Olly, I’d close my eyes and picture an
alternative world in which he’d returned to his home town of Birmingham.
There, in his familiar surroundings, I imagined him starting his life afresh.
He’d voluntarily enter into an alcohol detox clinic, like the ones I’d begged
him to go to, and then find himself a halfway house to get back on his feet.
I’d help him find some volunteer work in a non-pressured environment.
And perhaps eventually he’d find a part-time paid job. He might also meet
someone to fall in love with and have an anchor of his very own.
That’s what I wanted to believe – not that he was lying in the room next
to me, his dead body being prepared for me to view.
According to the police, none of his fellow homeless friends had seen
him around in a long, long time. My determination to finish off Ryan meant
I’d left very little time for anyone else in my life. I’d neglected Olly, and the
guilt of that weighed heavy on my shoulders.
Only now did I realise that Olly had appointed me as his anchor. It’s
why he’d returned to Northampton from prison, because I’d been here.
Through everything he’d suffered as a teenager to his time behind bars and
beyond, I had prevented him from being washed away by the tide. Ironically,
he’d died in the water, and it was my fault for casting him adrift these last few
months.
It turned out Olly’s body had not been very far away from me; he’d been
tangled up in reeds in the River Nene, waiting for a canal boat’s hull to knock
against him just hard enough to dislodge him and float him to the algae-
covered surface.
He was only identifiable through his DNA, which had been matched to
his criminal record. I was his listed emergency contact.
‘I still want to see his body,’ I told the police officer assigned to his case.
‘Like I said on the phone, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs Morris,
because of the time he has spent in the water. He has been what is known as
“partially skeletonised” . . .’
 ‘I don’t care if it haunts me for the rest of my life. I owe him this.’
Eventually she agreed, and I was led into a small side room to gather
myself until the mortuary manager had finished preparing Olly in the body-
storage area. I was led into a viewing room and it struck me that it was
nothing like the hi-tech, super-modern places you see on television
programmes. There were no corpses stored in filing-cabinet-like fridges or
neon-lit metal drawers. It was just a plain, inoffensive room with no
personality, no special features and no religious artefacts. At its centre, Olly
lay under a dark blue sheet on a wooden trolley. A solitary chair was placed
next to it, in case it all became too much for me and I needed to sit, I
assumed.
The police officer and mortuary manager remained with me and, at my
insistence, the sheet was slowly folded backwards until it reached Olly’s
shoulders. There were wisps of hair but no eyes, no lips and barely any facial
features left. I’d assumed he’d been picked apart by fish, water rats and
bacteria. All that remained were patches of thin flesh and bone.
‘How long had he been in the water?’ I asked the officer.
‘We won’t know until the post-mortem results are released, but our best
guess is around a year.’
‘No, that’s not possible,’ I replied, and shook my head. ‘I was with him
five, maybe six months ago, so it definitely hasn’t been as long as that.’
‘Not according to the coroner’s preliminary findings.’
‘Could his body have been preserved, perhaps, depending on where in
the Nene it was found?’
‘The Nene? Who told you he was found there?’
‘You did when you called me to say his body had floated to the river’s
surface.’
The police officer looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘I think there
might be some confusion here, Mrs Morris. Your friend’s body was found
washed up in a cove by the beach in East Sussex.’
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RYAN
The air inside the leisure centre was humid and smelled of beer and sweat,
despite several sets of double doors being propped open.
The packed crowd was made up almost entirely of men cheering,
groaning or hurling foul language towards two boxers standing in the centre
of the ring, waiting for a man in a short-sleeved white shirt and black bow tie
to make his decision.
The white-collar fights had consisted of three two-minute rounds, and
were every bit as brutal as professional ones I’d watched on television. It was
beyond me how the fighter in the red shorts, vest and headguard had managed
to remain on his feet during the continued onslaught from his blue opponent.
Finally, the referee held up the arm of the man in blue shorts as the
winner. Tattoos ran the length of the champion’s arm, but despite his bloody
nose and the perspiration dripping down his face, Tony Morris was still
instantly recognisable. A cheer went up when it was announced he’d won his
bout. He embraced his opponent, and a pal in the audience helped remove his
gloves before he made his way to the changing rooms.
I hovered in the background until he re-emerged wearing casual
tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. He gravitated towards the bar and sank
several vodka and Red Bulls in quick succession before I approached him. I
took a deep breath and hoped to God my instinct was right, and that he didn’t
have any idea what his estranged wife and daughter were up to behind his
back. I reasoned that if he had been told, he’d have accompanied them when
they’d turned up at Bruce Atkinson’s office to accuse me of being a child
molester.
‘Mr Morris.’
‘Yes?’ He gave me a polite smile for a second as he tried to place me.
He wasn’t quite drunk yet, but he wasn’t far from it either. ‘Mr Smith?’ When
he smiled, I knew he was in the dark as to the accusations against me.
‘Please, call me Ryan. I didn’t know you were a boxer.’
‘I didn’t know you were a fan.’
I hadn’t been until that afternoon, when I’d called him at work to be told
by his secretary he’d left early as he had a fight that evening. I was glad. I’d
rather come face to face with him in public, where there was less of a chance
he’d try to kill me if he knew what his wife and daughter had said I’d done.
‘I’m pretty new to the sport,’ I replied.
‘Think you might fancy having a go at it yourself ? We get people from
all walks of life here: bankers, solicitors, council workers, even teachers.’
‘I think I’d be flat on my back after the first punch. Can I get you a
drink?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, and I ordered us two vodkas. We made conversation
for a little longer about why he’d taken up the sport and his insurance
business, and I quietly hoped he’d bring up Effie and lead me into why I was
really there. When he didn’t, I knew I’d have to steer the conversation.
‘This is a bit awkward, Tony, but I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Is everything all right with Effie?’
‘Actually, it’s about your wife, Laura.’
‘My wife?’ I’d caught him off guard and he took a step back. ‘What has
she done?’
His question surprised me. He didn’t ask ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘what’s
happened?’ but ‘what has she done?’, suggesting this wasn’t the first time
Laura had given him cause for concern. I took a breath and tried to explain it
without sounding as if I was the mad one, rather than her.
‘While volunteering at End of the Line, I believe Laura talked my wife
into committing suicide.’
Tony did not seem surprised. He downed the rest of his drink and picked
up his gym bag.
‘I don’t want any part of this,’ he replied, and made his way to the exit,
clearly flustered but not outraged. He didn’t try to convince me I was being
ridiculous and he didn’t stare at me as if I were an idiot. He knew that what
I’d said was entirely plausible – he just didn’t want to face it.
I followed him outside into the car park. ‘I just need a few minutes of
your time,’ I said. ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but something isn’t right with
your wife and I need your help to understand what her motives are.’
He stopped and turned. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what goes on in
Laura’s head any more than you do. We’ve been separated coming up for two
years and we don’t live together. My daughters live with me. And it’s
important I make sure their lives are stress-free. That includes keeping them
away from Laura and anything she might have done.’
How had I not worked this out from the time I’d spent parked outside
Laura’s home? It explained why Tony’s car was rarely on the driveway, and
the animosity between them as they sat together in Bruce’s office.
‘Please, Tony,’ I begged, ‘you’re the only one who can help me.’
Tony paused and narrowed his eyes as he mulled over my request, then
something in him relented. He gave a deep sigh. ‘What do you want to
know?’
I told him how I’d discovered what Laura had encouraged Charlotte to
do. But, as with Janine, I omitted to mention anything about how I’d
manipulated his daughter or my cottage confrontation with his wife. Even in
the pale beam from the overhead light, I saw the colour draining from his
face.
‘Why would Laura want a caller to die?’ I asked.
Tony looked at me. ‘She is a very complicated woman,’ he said, ‘with
many demons. She has a fixation with death. I can only assume it has
extended to trying to assist people to reach that goal. She told me she wanted
to volunteer at End of the Line to help others. I had no reason to disbelieve
her.’
‘And now, after what I’ve told you?’
He shook his head. He didn’t need to vocalise what he was thinking.
‘There’s more to this,’ I continued hesitantly. ‘Laura had me arrested
recently and is making horrible, career-ending allegations against me. So I
need to know exactly who I’m up against.’
‘What happened?’
‘I stood up for myself, fought back against her.’
Tony shook his head and rubbed the cool night air into his face. He
looked as if he was debating whether to tell me what he knew or remain
silent. When his eyes returned to mine, he spoke. ‘If you knew what she’d
done in her past,’ he said, ‘then you’d be afraid of her too.’
‘What could be any worse than talking people into killing themselves?’
Tony looked at me as if he wanted me to work it out for myself.
‘Unless,’ I continued, ‘she’s killed someone herself.’
 ‘No, Laura never gets her hands dirty. She manipulates others into doing
what she wants them to do.’ The alcohol had begun to loosen Tony’s lips, and
he steadied himself with his hand against the roof of a car. ‘I assumed it
stemmed from losing her parents when she was a kid and having to stick up
for herself when she was put in care.’
He continued by explaining that Laura’s father had used her to help him
kill himself and her sisters. It went a long way to explaining her obsession
with death.
‘Three years ago, while we were redeveloping our house, our marriage
was going through a rough patch,’ he said. ‘One afternoon, the tumble dryer
stopped working, and wedged behind it I found an envelope Laura had
hidden. Inside was a long, detailed psychiatric report about her time in the
care of social services. She’d been found a foster home with a woman called
Sylvia and her son. Apparently dozens of kids had been in her care over the
years and she’d even won a CBE or some such honour for it. Sylvia’s boy was
a couple of years older than Laura but had some learning difficulties. He was
fascinated by her and followed her around like a puppy, doing everything she
told him to do, like shoplifting and fighting other kids at school. Sylvia kept
Laura there for as long as she could, but she had to put her lad’s well-being
first and Laura was by all accounts a terrible influence. But when social
services arrived to take Laura away, she’d wound Sylvia’s son up so much
that he attacked his mum. He punched her and pushed her so hard that she
fell, hit her head. Died instantly. He was sent to a young offenders institute
and then an adult prison. Laura got away with it.’
‘Did you tell her what you knew?’
Tony nodded. ‘She denied it all. She claimed the report was falsified to
hide the local authority’s own failings and I really think that’s what she
believes. You need to know that my wife doesn’t recognise her own lies. The
psychologists wrote that she rewrites episodes from her history and her recent
past if they don’t suit her. She will always be the victim, never the guilty one.
And she rearranges timelines and locations. Events that happened weeks ago
she’ll think happened yesterday, and somewhere completely different.’
‘So when you learned all this about her, that’s when you left with your
children?’
‘No, and that’s the biggest regret of my life.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Henry might still be the normal little boy he was when he was
born.’
I looked at him and waited for more, but he shook his head and brought
our conversation to a close.
‘This will be the last time that you and I talk, Mr Smith,’ he said, and
walked towards a red Audi.
‘Can I ask you one last thing?’ I said. ‘When I first started phoning her
at End of the Line, she called me David. Do you know why?’
‘That was Sylvia’s son,’ Tony replied as he clambered into his car,
choosing to drink and drive over facing any more questions from me. ‘When
he came out of prison, he lived rough in Northampton. Laura brought him to
the house a few times to clean him up – maybe she’d developed a conscience
about what she’d done to him, or perhaps she’d changed their history to
something that suited her better. David Oliver, but she called him by his
nickname, Olly.’
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LAURA
Janine eyed me sceptically when I removed two raspberry and white
chocolate muffins from a Tupperware box and left them on a plate on her
desk.
‘They’re gluten-free.’ I smiled. ‘I made them last night.’ The first part I
was lying about, the second part I wasn’t. For once I had baked them myself.
‘It seems a shame everyone gets to enjoy my baking but you. Sorry, but I ran
out of paper cases.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and I turned to leave her office, but not before
‘accidentally’ kicking her vulgar orange handbag.
‘Oops,’ I said, and smiled as I bent down to straighten it up. She was too
engrossed in her muffin to notice me removing her iPad.
Back at my desk, I checked my mobile phone to see if the police had
been in touch regarding Ryan’s break-in. It’d been six days now and still they
hadn’t updated me. Likewise there’d been no contact from Effie’s head
teacher. What the hell was going on with these people? I didn’t want the
accusation of Ryan trying to molest Effie to go as far as a court case, because
she was not as strong as me – she’d crumble under questioning. I just wanted
that accusation and the pornography found on his work computer to be
enough to make it impossible for him to return to his post.
They’d eventually learn the images had been placed there by a third
party. I’d spent hours trawling the Internet searching for pictures of teenage
girls in various states of undress involving school uniforms to show Ryan had
a fetish for them. It was impossible to tell if they were underage and it didn’t
matter – it would add to the mounting pressure I was piling upon him. I’d
moved the images to a memory stick and given it to Effie. She’d spent so
much time in Ryan’s office that she’d seen him input his password into his
computer. It didn’t take much effort for her to log on, transfer my folder of
pictures into his files and leave.
I’d already got what I wanted when Ryan was suspended, but the longer
the school and the police took to investigate, the more time they were giving
him to plan his next move. I wanted to push him as quickly as possible into
whatever he’d do next without thinking it out properly. Then he’d make even
bigger mistakes and I could crush him once and for all. And, of course, there
would be a next move, because that’s what I would do. He and I were a lot
more alike than he would care to admit – constantly striving to stay one step
ahead of each other.
I took my landline off the hook so I wouldn’t be disturbed, put my
mobile phone on my lap where nobody could see and went into my media
files. It was time to see how far I could go before Ryan cracked. When I had
finished, I swapped the phone for Janine’s iPad and set to work using it
against her.
I watched from my booth as she flicked through the office diary and saw
a drop-in caller booked fifteen minutes after my shift finished. I’d asked Mary
if she wouldn’t mind adding it, as the caller had asked for Janine by name.
‘Ryan Smith,’ I told her.
‘Okily dokily,’ Mary had replied chirpily. ‘I’ll be Big Brother and make
sure the cameras are on.’
‘Oh, you needn’t bother,’ I replied. ‘I think they’re old friends.’
Janine’s greed was satisfyingly predictable, and I smiled to myself when
she couldn’t resist tucking into the second muffin.
Once I’d begun answering calls again, I slipped into autopilot with my
responses and questions, all the time keeping an eye on the clock and willing
my shift to end. Then I waved goodbye to the other volunteers, grabbed my
coat and bag, and made my way downstairs.
When the door to the drop-in office opened a few minutes later, Janine
was surprised to find me sitting there, waiting for her.
‘Take a seat,’ I began. ‘I think you and I need to have a long-overdue
conversation.’
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RYAN
I had nowhere to go, no friends or family to talk to about the mess I was in,
and no way to resolve any of it. From the moment Charlotte threw herself
from that clifftop, my life was no longer mine to control.
Alcohol gave me the strength I needed to open the door to the nursery in
the flat for the first time since Charlotte and Daniel’s deaths. There was a
gossamer-thin layer of dust on everything from the changing table to the
veneer flooring. I looked up to the ceiling and noticed the missing battery
cover from the animal mobile. I’d left it open to remind me to buy batteries
the next time I passed a supermarket. By the time I remembered, my family
was dead and the mobile never moved. The animal theme continued across a
row of cushions scattered on a sofa-bed, emblazoned with textured cartoon
giraffes and elephants that would never feel my son’s ten tiny fingertips.
I closed the door and took myself to my bedroom. I’d been drinking on
an empty stomach, so it hadn’t taken much to get me drunk. But now I was
tired, so I crawled, fully clothed, under the duvet. I couldn’t stop thinking
about what Tony had told me about Laura. From the beginning, I hadn’t stood
a chance against her. She was a survivor who had years more experience of
manipulating others and getting away with it than I had. Even her own
husband was convinced she had a psychological disorder. She was impossible
to predict or outwit.
My biggest mistake had been using Effie to get to her. If I’d just
remained in the shadows and called it quits after she’d fled the cottage, I’d
have been okay. Instead, I’d unleashed a whole new vitriolic side to her.
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t have slept for long, as it was still light
outside when a banging on my front door woke me up, and what sounded like
my dad’s muffled voice.
I heard the key turn and he entered the hall. I climbed out of bed too fast
and my head spun. He was with Mum; she was crying, and immediately I
knew they’d learned of my arrest. My heart sank.
‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’ Dad demanded. I
looked at it – the display was black; the battery must have died.
Mum thrust her iPad into my chest.
 ‘Open it,’ she ordered. ‘Look at my Facebook page.’
‘How long have you had a—’
‘Just open it!’
I scanned her timeline and immediately wanted to crawl under a rock
and die. Message after message referring to her son as a paedophile and
demanding that I should be fired from school or castrated. I felt dizzy and
steadied myself against the wall. Dad grabbed the device and swiped through
pages from school-related Facebook groups, created by parents to discuss
issues that affected their children in different Years.
‘Years Seven, Eight, Nine . . . right up to Year Thirteen,’ Dad continued,
‘all talking about how you’ve been suspended for molesting a girl and
terrorising her mother.’
At the top of each page, and in a post made from an account with no
picture but using the name Charlotte Smith, was a photograph of me, an audio
file of the recording Effie had made and video footage of me trying to break
into Laura’s house. I wanted to be sick.
‘Mum, this is not what it looks like . . .’ I began, but she gave me a look
that told me that whatever I had to say wouldn’t exonerate me from what
she’d read, heard and watched.
‘Where’s Johnny? He can back me up and tell you this isn’t true. Well,
not all of it, not in the way they’re saying it is. I’m not a child molester. I
promise you.’
‘Is that your voice on the recording?’ Dad asked.
‘Yes, but—’
‘And who’s the girl?’
‘Effie Morris, one of my students.’
‘And who is that woman whose house you broke into?’
‘It’s the girl’s mother, but she has it in for me. She killed Charlotte.’
‘What are you talking about? Charlotte killed herself.’
‘Look, I know I’m not making any sense, but it’s a long story . . .’
‘She’s a fourteen-year-old girl, what the hell were you thinking?’ Dad
asked.
‘I didn’t touch her!’ I yelled in frustration.
 ‘Then what was she doing alone in a car with you? You say you gave
her lifts home! I’m not a teacher and even I know that’s wrong. And why the
hell were you trying to break into someone’s house?’
‘You’re not fucking listening to me!’ The speed at which I flew off the
handle took even me by surprise. ‘You’re as bad as everyone on Facebook,
believing those lies! You’re not letting me give my side of the story.’
‘You’ve had some kind of breakdown,’ Mum continued, tears streaming
down her face. ‘The stress of what happened with Charlotte, you’re not
dealing with it properly. You’ve been confused. And those things aren’t
helping.’ She pointed towards a fresh six-pack of lager. ‘We can get you help.’
‘No, no, no,’ I said. The room began swimming faster and faster and the
walls and ceiling were closing in on me. I had to get out of there and away
from their noise.
I grabbed my car keys from the bedside cabinet and pushed past Mum.
However, my shoulder caught hers and knocked her off balance, sending her
spinning into the wall and then the floor.
‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ I said and went to help her up. Dad retaliated by
shoving me out of her reach and raising his fist towards me. We remained in
stalemate for a moment, before he thought better of it. Instead, he bent down
to help Mum up.
There was nothing else I could say or do to pacify them, so I left the flat
and staggered towards the car.
I no longer had any choice in what to do next. I knew I had to go and see
the only person who could bring an end to all of this, and beg the woman who
killed my wife and baby to show me mercy.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LAURA
‘I assume you weren’t expecting to find me here?’ I said.
Janine hovered by the door, debating whether to leave, or stay and face
the music. She hesitated, before curiosity got the better of her.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ she replied.
‘Take a seat.’
She didn’t move. ‘I don’t answer to you, Laura.’
‘But you want to know why I’ve gone to the trouble of getting you here
though, don’t you?’
‘If it was you who put Ryan Smith’s name in my diary, then I’m quite
sure I can guess why. You’ve learned that he and I have met, and now you
want to convince me that he’s some kind of fantasist who has an obsession
with you. Does that about cover it?’
‘And what would you say if I said yes?’
‘I’d tell you that when he first called asking to see me and gave a brief
outline of why, I did think that he was just a troubled soul. Then I’d tell you
that I did a little background research and discovered he was a teacher.’
‘Did he mention that he’s also taught my daughter Effie?’
‘No.’
‘Or that he spent months grooming her before making sexual advances
towards her? She’s fourteen years old. He’s currently suspended, pending
investigation.’
‘No, he didn’t. But then I only have your word for that, don’t I? And
you are hardly the epitome of honesty, are you?’
Janine sank her shapeless frame into the sofa opposite mine, crossed her
legs and folded her arms.
‘Your body language is quite hostile,’ I continued.
‘Let’s just say that you don’t bring out the best in me.’
I leaned forward. ‘And why is that?’
 ‘I’m not like the others upstairs who think the sun shines out of your
backside. They only like to see the good in people, but I can see what they
can’t. I’m not blind to how you operate; I’ve watched you manipulate people
with your Mary Poppins act. You can float into the office on an umbrella with
your store-bought cakes and the clothes you pretend you’ve repaired. And
you can impersonate a wonderful, devoted-to-her-family mum as much as you
like, but I can see through you.’
‘I’ve never claimed to be perfect.’
‘You’ve never tried to dispel the myth either.’
‘You made a judgement about me without knowing me. From the day
you started, you disliked me.’
‘And I was right to, wasn’t I? I’m a good judge of character and I’ve
met plenty of people like you over the years. You convince everyone that
you’re on their side but it’s all for show, it’s all to hide who you really are.’
‘Who am I then? Enlighten me.’
‘You’re someone who gets her kicks from encouraging vulnerable
people to die.’ When no expression crossed my face, she continued. ‘Ryan
was right about what you did to his wife, wasn’t he? And she wasn’t the first.
That’s why this branch’s suicide statistics are higher than any others, because
you are actively encouraging it.’
My eyes flicked towards the security cameras. Their green lights didn’t
flash, indicating they weren’t recording.
Finally, I gave her a condescending smile. ‘There is one thing that I like
about you, Janine – and believe me, it’s only one thing – your self-belief. You
really think everything that comes out of your own mouth is the gospel truth.’
‘When it comes to you, yes, I do.’
‘And just so it’s clear, your perception of me has nothing to do with the
fact that you’re screwing my husband?’
Janine’s calm composure faltered ever so slightly before she quickly
regained it. ‘So it was you, then . . . The word scratched into my car door. I
told Tony that it was your doing, but he was adamant you didn’t know about
us.’
I was happy to hear my husband still saw the good in me.
‘You try to put me down and make these horrible accusations, when all
you really want to do is push me out of End of the Line so you don’t have to
see my face every day and feel guilty for what you’ve done to my marriage.
You’re a homewrecker.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong, so I don’t feel guilty about anything. Tony
and me got together long after he walked out on your madness.’
‘But you set your sights on him before that, didn’t you? I saw your
hopeless attempts to flirt with him at Mary’s sixtieth birthday dinner.’
‘Only they weren’t hopeless, were they?’ She gave me a sly smile.
‘And I suppose you think you know me after everything my husband has
told you about me?’
‘He’s said very little, actually.’
‘Do you expect me to believe that?’
‘I don’t care what you believe. But for some reason, probably only
because you’re the mother of his children, he still feels a sense of loyalty
towards you.’
I was pleased to hear Tony kept secrets from Janine, and I knew just
why he hadn’t told her about my personal business. Four years earlier, he’d
coerced me into ‘borrowing’ £25,000 of End of the Line’s charitable
donations to help him when he set up his insurance business. I still had the
bank account numbers of where the payments had really gone. They were so
cleverly squirrelled away that even the charity’s auditors had no clue that
money meant for them had been directed elsewhere.
Even if it meant dropping myself in it, I’d have gone to the police with
them had Tony not allowed me to see Effie the day we met with the head
teacher. And, as you don’t keep secrets from the one you love, clearly Tony
didn’t love Janine.
‘Did he tell you we spent the night together recently?’ I said. ‘Several
nights, actually.’
‘When?’
‘After I was attacked.’
‘That’s right, your “attack”.’ She used her fingers to mime speech
marks. ‘Did they ever catch the person responsible?’
I didn’t reply.
‘I thought not,’ she said. ‘Funny, that. And Tony was at great pains to
point out that he spent the first night on the armchair in your room and the
next couple in the spare bedroom.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘It’s what I saw. I came to your house when you were asleep to drop a
change of clothes off to him the night of your “attack”. I love how you’ve
kept the smoke-damaged walls. It’s very shabby-chic.’ She let out a yawn that
seemed to take her by surprise.
She had violated my space. She had been in my house.
I swallowed hard to keep my anger at arm’s length.
‘No one here likes you,’ I said, ‘so when I tell them what you’ve
accused me of, they’ll all be on my side. And then I’ll go to head office and
tell them their biggest fundraiser and treasurer is being bullied out of her job
by her husband-stealing manager.’
‘Go ahead, Laura, be my guest,’ she replied, and reached into her ugly
orange handbag to remove Ryan’s Dictaphone. ‘I’d love to know what they’ll
say when I play this to them.’
 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RYAN
There was no reply when I knocked on Laura’s front door.
The last time I’d been here, I’d not been in control of myself. Her
leaving a dead piglet by Charlotte’s wedding dress had pushed me over the
edge, which is exactly what she’d wanted. Even after all Tony had told me
about her, my only hope was that somewhere inside Laura was a scrap of
decency I could appeal to.
I knew that by turning up at her home I was breaking my restraining
order and risked being arrested again, but that’s how desperate I was. She’d
left me with no other choice.
I crouched to talk through the letterbox.
‘Laura, please answer the door,’ I begged. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble.
I just need to speak to you.’ But there was no response. I surveyed each
window, but no shadows moved behind them. ‘I’ll do anything,’ I continued.
‘Just please withdraw those allegations against me. You’ve won. I don’t have
any fight left in me.’
I sank to my knees, then curled up in a ball on the doormat and wept.
Eventually, I clambered back inside the car, found the business card
Janine had given me as I’d left our meeting and dialled her direct line again. I
was sick of waiting for her to act; I needed her to do something now. I
reached her answerphone.
‘I’m coming to see you,’ I began. I heard my words slur, but couldn’t
stop them. ‘I gave you what you needed and you did nothing. You fucking
owe me.’
As I drove in the direction of End of the Line, I still didn’t know how to
react to my parents’ response to the accusations being hurled at me. I wanted
to scream, yell, cry, defend myself and hurt them as much as they were
hurting me, all at the same time.
Knowing they didn’t have faith in their own son wounded me badly.
Johnny had already washed his hands of me and now they were doing the
same. It was all so unfair.
As I pulled up at a red traffic light, I took a swig from the bottle of
vodka I’d left in the glovebox. I didn’t care if I was pulled over and
breathalysed by the police. Let them arrest me. I was no stranger to it and it’d
be the least of my worries. Maybe I should be behind bars anyway? Perhaps I
was a danger to myself because I couldn’t make rational decisions. If I could,
I wouldn’t have been caught up in this shitstorm. I’d lost everyone I’d ever
loved or relied on, and I had no one to turn to.
I drove through the housing estate where Granddad Pete had once lived,
and passed the park where, as a boy, I’d cycled for hours at a time with my
mates. I passed the supermarket where we’d hang out, trying to blag
cigarettes from the older lads. I saw the bus stop where I’d shared my first
kiss with Lucy Jones. My heart ached for the innocent days I’d never get
back.
As my past caught up with my present, I realised I had no future. Even if
by some miracle this was all cleared up, I’d be forever ruined by the
accusations. Laura and Effie’s lies were spreading across social media with
the speed of a contagious disease and, by now, everyone I worked with and
beyond would be aware of what had been written about me. The story would
only grow bigger and bigger as each student and parent shared it. My life as
I’d known it was over. Mud sticks and I was covered in it.
For the first time since she took her life, I understood how Charlotte had
felt when she reached the depths of her despair.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LAURA
I’d never seen Janine look so self-congratulatory as when she brandished
Ryan’s Dictaphone in her hand. Her face was so contorted by smugness, it
threatened to fold in on itself.
‘Do you know what this is?’ she asked. ‘It’s a recording Ryan made of
every conversation you and him had. Hour after hour of you going against
everything End of the Line believes in, by encouraging him to end his life.’
I let her talk.
‘You were supposed to be offering an impartial ear to those people,’ she
continued. ‘No matter what they told you about their intentions, it was your
job to listen, not to talk them into dying. You need to be stopped.’
‘And I suppose you’re the one to do it?’
Janine smiled and then blinked hard.
‘Why haven’t you done anything with it yet?’ I asked. ‘I thought you’d
have been straight to head office with this little bit of gossip.’
‘Let’s not underplay this, Laura. It’s hardly a “little bit of gossip”, is it?
It’s proof that one of my volunteers has been encouraging and assisting
suicide, which, as we both know, is against the law. But after much umming
and ahhing, I’ve decided to give you a choice. I can either pass this to
management and report you to the police, or I can give it back to you and you
can destroy the evidence.’
‘In return for what?’
‘That you leave my branch, right now, and never set foot in it again.’
‘Is that it? That’s all you want from me?’
‘Not quite. You’ve also got to agree not to see your family again. You
stay away from Effie, Alice, Henry and Tony.’
‘What?’ My blood ran cold.
‘Tony will be applying to the family court to file for divorce for your
unreasonable behaviour. Our bargain is that you don’t defend yourself and
that you give Tony full custody rights. Once you get your decree nisi, then
you can have this Dictaphone and your children can start their new life
without you.’
Janine had finally revealed her true colours and they were almost as self-
serving as mine.
‘You are no better than me,’ I said. ‘If I’m such a bad person then why
are you using those recordings for your own gain?’
‘When did I ever claim to be any better than you?’ she laughed. ‘We all
have our own agendas, Laura. Yours is to encourage people to die. Mine is to
make a life with your soon-to-be ex-husband.’
‘You’re fooling yourself if you think that’s going to happen. Tony and I
are meant to be together, along with our children. Effie is already back in my
life.’
‘But for how much longer? I’m going to hazard a guess not very. Tony
called me just before I came down here. He knows Effie is being molested by
her teacher. It’s all over the school’s Facebook page. Apparently she’s
inconsolable. I looked at the profile name that made the first post – Charlotte
Smith. Ryan’s wife, if I remember rightly? Neither Effie nor Ryan would’ve
benefitted from doing this themselves, so unless Charlotte has risen from the
ashes, that only leaves you. I don’t think Tony or your daughter will be
welcoming you back with open arms any time soon.’
Janine blinked hard again, as if something were distracting her.
‘Press play,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘On the Dictaphone. Press play. You can’t expect me to agree to your
demands without hearing what I’m being accused of.’
‘Really?’ she replied. I nodded and she shrugged as she pressed a button.
She sat back on the sofa as the machine made a hissing sound. A few seconds
of silence passed before she looked at the display screen. She pressed a button
to fast-forward. She hit play again but still there was silence. Her face went
from muddled to anxious and then confused in a moment. She pressed more
buttons, played with the volume and checked the batteries. The Dictaphone
was blank.
‘Well, Janine, it’s nice to have met you properly after all this time,’ I
said, and smiled as I stood up. ‘I think I’m going to take my chances and let
fate, not you, decide what happens to me.’
‘What did you do?’ she bellowed, and slowly rose to her feet. However,
her legs suddenly gave way and she fell back onto the sofa. She steadied
herself before attempting, and failing, to rise up again. I walked towards her
as she tried to comprehend what was happening to her body.
‘The powdered sedatives I baked into your muffins appear to have
kicked in,’ I began. She glared at me, bewildered at first, before uneasiness
slowly spread across her wrinkled face. ‘They’re not all “store-bought”. Let
me take this first,’ I continued. I snatched the Dictaphone from her weak grip
and dropped it into my pocket.
‘Let’s set the record straight about a few things, shall we?’ I reached into
my bag to remove the leather driving gloves Tony had left in the garage at
home. ‘You and my husband will never get your happy-ever-after. You will
never be allowed to expose me and what I have done to anyone. You will
never understand why I do it or what it’s like to hear a person’s last breath,
because you don’t have the capacity to feel in the way I do. You don’t respect
the fragility of human life like me. You’ll never know how the beauty of
death equals the beauty of birth, or how those first and last gasps of air are
exactly the same. You don’t know any of this because you don’t help people. I
help people. I save them from themselves.’
I pulled the gloves slowly over my fingers and palms, and felt inside my
bag again until I found what I was looking for.
‘When a person is breathing their last, everything they have done in
their life, every success or failure they have ever enjoyed or suffered, no
longer matters because we are all equal. Good or bad, saint or sinner, you or
me, one day we will all be on a level playing field. I have been fortunate to
have been asked many times to be the only person who will ever hear that
sound. And while you haven’t asked me directly, I can only assume you won’t
object when I take it upon myself to be here for yours.’
Janine’s face was awash with fear. The sedatives made her limbs heavy
and her vision blurred. But she could still feel scared. Before she could
formulate another word or raise her arm to defend herself, I swung a hammer
clean into her windpipe.
The first blow left a dent the size of a ten-pence coin, but the collision of
metal and skin and cartilage was more like a soft thud than the crunch I’d
expected to hear. Her eyes were open saucer-wide as her nervous system sent
pain signals to her brain. The sedatives were affecting her coordination, so
when she instinctively tried to move her hands to protect her throat, they
hovered hopelessly by her sides instead. She gasped for air through her
broken windpipe, slowly suffocating.
I held the hammer above my head again and waited for her eyes to meet
mine. I needed her to understand the first blow wasn’t a one-off before I
directed the second strike to just above her eye socket. This time I heard the
crack I’d wanted and the skin split open like a sausage. There was little
movement at first, and then her head began to judder involuntarily like she
was having a seizure. Her dilated pupils remained focused on mine, and after
ten seconds or so, the fit came to an end.
Janine was still conscious when the third blow hit her slap bang on the
top of her head, like I was hitting a nail into a floorboard. Her eyes rolled
back in their sockets, and I knew that with one more strike it would be over.
But I didn’t want her dead just yet.
I lowered myself next to her on the sofa and leaned across her, blood
from the wound on the top of her head trickling down her face and onto my
cheek and neck. There wasn’t as much of it as I’d imagined, though.
I rested my ear as close as I could to her lips so that, between the loud
palpitations of my heartbeat, I could just about hear her in the last moments of
life. It was as if all my senses were being stimulated in unison: everything I
saw, heard and felt was magnified, from the scent of metal in her blood to the
sound of her fingertips delicately tapping the fabric of the sofa. Janine’s
breathing, already barely audible, became lighter and lighter until I could no
longer feel it against my ear. And then, with one last tiny expiration, her body
shut down completely.
At first, I couldn’t move. My mind was completely blank and I went
into a kind of refractory period. I allowed myself a few moments for my high
levels of adrenaline to lower and for my pulse to slow before I continued with
the next stage of my plan. There’d be plenty of time for reflection in the
future.
I clambered to my feet and indulged myself with one lingering look
towards Janine’s motionless body. Everything that evil bitch had put me
through almost felt worth it in order to steal her last breath.
I needed to act fast. I used the hammer to break the padlock that
separated the appointments room from the derelict building next door. I wiped
her blood from my face, ear, neck, hair and chin with a packet of wet wipes,
then from behind the sofa I removed a bag with an identical set of clothing to
that I was wearing and changed. I dropped the soiled clothes, my notebook
and Tony’s gloves into a bin liner, slipped on a pair of latex gloves and left
Janine’s body to begin livor mortis and her brain cells to die. I left the door
ever so slightly ajar.
Inside the neighbouring building, I affixed a new padlock to the door to
delay the inevitable police search. The torch on my phone guided me through
the darkened corridors until I reached the rear entrance. With two firm
whacks, I broke the lock to the rear door, then dropped the murder weapon on
the floor. And, after double-checking I’d missed nothing, I left the building. I
removed the pair of man’s-size running shoes I’d been wearing to leave
impressions on the dusty floor, and slipped my own back on. I screwed up a
photograph and tossed it into an overgrown grass verge. Then I slid open a
one-way bolt on the gate, put the latex gloves in my bag, clutched the bin
liner, checked the alleyway was clear and walked home.
Once there, I threw both sets of clothes I’d worn that day on a hot wash
– the first of three cycles I’d put them through – while I showered. Tony’s
gloves and running shoes had been buried in a shoebox in the field behind the
house.
Then I sat at the breakfast bar in my cosy dressing gown and slippers,
and poured myself a glass of Rioja. There was still so much to be done, so I
started typing a list on my phone. As a company director for Tony’s insurance
brokers, I earned a regular monthly wage for doing nothing but remaining
quiet about where we’d found the money to fund the business in the early
days. So, first I would hire a decorator to repaint and paper the walls scarred
by the fire, then I’d have to find a gardener to bring the overgrown rear
garden into some semblance of order.
I’d need a glazier to replace the boarded-up bifold doors that Ryan had
smashed, then make an insurance claim. I’d probably earn some
compensation from him when it went to court. Then once the house was back
to how it used to be, it’d be ready for Tony and the girls to move back in.
I put my phone on charge, ready for the influx of calls I was soon to
receive about Janine’s death. ‘Oh my God, no,’ I said out loud in many
different ways until I found a tone that sounded believable.
I glanced at the clock on the oven; Janine must have been discovered by
now. The police were likely already there, and waiting for a forensics team to
suit up and search our building along with the premises next door. That’s
where they’d find the hammer I’d stolen from Ryan’s flat when the estate
agent wasn’t looking. I’d spotted it on a sideboard and was careful to slide it
into my bag using only the sleeve of my jacket. Tests would reveal it to be
covered in Janine’s blood, hair and skin, and Ryan’s fingerprints.
In an autopsy, the contents of her stomach would reveal she’d been
drugged, but she ate so much and so frequently it’d be hard to tell how they’d
got into her system. And as everyone knew, she refused to eat my glutinous
pastries. So I’d be safe.
Outside in the yard, they’d find a screwed-up photograph of me that I’d
torn from the walls the night I went to ‘Steven’s’ cottage. In a panic, I’d
stuffed some into my pockets before he confronted me. I hoped it might be
covered in Ryan’s fingerprints and an invisible tracking code linked to the
serial number of his printer – or, even better, his prints on the adhesive tape. It
wouldn’t contain mine, though. I’d worn gloves.
Ryan’s vendettas against me, End of the Line and Effie were already on
record with the police and the school. Judging by the number of Facebook
likes and shares my posts had received, hundreds of people across the
community had watched the video of him breaking into my house and
witnessed how violent he was. And there was proof in the diary that he’d
made an appointment to see Janine this afternoon.
Ryan and Janine. Two birds killed with the same stone. Well, the same
hammer.
I became excited when my phone began to vibrate, but it was Effie’s
name that appeared on the screen.
‘Hi, darling, I’m expecting an important call. Can I give you a ring
later?’
‘How could you, Mum?’ she sobbed. ‘Everyone at school knows I made
that recording. They all hate me and say I had sex with Mr Smith. They’re
calling me a slag and saying I led him on.’
‘Ignore them, darling. In situations like this, it’s always the woman who
gets the blame.’
‘But I am to blame, aren’t I?’
‘It’s not as simple as that, Effie. There are things you’re too young to
understand, things that he’s done that we can’t let him get away with.’
‘I don’t care!’ she cried. ‘You’ve ruined my life. I don’t ever want to see
you again.’
‘Effie, please don’t be like that. Why don’t I meet you for a coffee
tomorrow and—’
 ‘No! I’m going to tell Dad what you made me do.’
‘Before you do that, remember one thing,’ I replied calmly. ‘You started
all of this. Your silly schoolgirl crush began this chain of events. Your
precious father is already embarrassed by the trouble you’ve caused him, so I
can only imagine what this will do to him. And when the police and the
school find out how you lied, you’ll have to move schools again and probably
face criminal charges for your false accusations. There’s not much your dad
can do to protect you from that. But you’re old enough now to be put into a
young offenders institute, aren’t you? God knows how you’ll survive that. So
ahead of telling your father about my involvement, I’d think long and hard
about the repercussions first.’
She fell silent. ‘You have to remember, Effie – you and I are cut from
the same cloth. You are your mother’s daughter. There is so much you can
learn from me.’
I was so angry with her that I didn’t give her the opportunity to reply.
Instead, I hung up and knocked back my glass of wine. All this I had done for
her, for all of us, but she was too self-centred to appreciate it. The more I
thought about it, the more my blood boiled.
Whether Effie liked it or not, nothing was going to stop me from getting
my whole family back under one roof again. Nothing.
 CHAPTER THIRTY
RYAN
The wind howled through the slats in the car’s grille and under the dented
bonnet, making it vibrate. It also blew up and under the wheel arches and
along the undercarriage. At times, the car felt as if it was about to be picked
up and tossed into the air.
From the early evening onwards, I’d remained in the driver’s seat,
draining every last drop from the vodka bottle. Now daylight was breaking
through the thick veil of night and I was sobering up. But nothing was going
to change for me with the dawn of a new day. No amount of alcohol could
ever blot out what had become of my life.
I tried to imagine how it could have been, had I not tried to gain a
greater understanding of Charlotte’s depression; if I’d just accepted that I’d
lost my wife to it, then learned to move on.
Every now and again another car appeared in the car park and I’d watch
as their drivers exited in running gear or with dogs on leads, all making the
most of the early-morning quiet. The wind aside, it was as tranquil a location
as I’d imagined it to be.
I’d driven for almost two hours in near silence to reach Birling Gap in
East Sussex, the place where Charlotte had killed herself. Several times since
her death, I’d mulled over whether I should go and see why she’d chosen that
location, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to until now.
And for so long, I’d asked myself what could be so awful about a
person’s life that they’d feel driven to end it. Now I understood that whether
it’s a chemical imbalance in your head, a past that haunts you or other people
making your world unmanageable, everyone can reach a point where it all
becomes too much. It had for me.
Everything I’d once held so close to my heart, I’d lost. There was no
coming back from the things I had done, the things I was being accused of
doing and the things I was innocent of. I had no wife, no son, no job, no
parents, no brother . . . absolutely nothing to live for.
I’d parked in the exact same place Charlotte had, according to the
dashboard-cam footage. I opened the car door, grabbed an old coat from the
back and slipped it on. I’d looked online at photographs and footage of the
area so many times that it felt familiar – comforting, even – despite me never
having been there in person.
I took my phone off airplane mode, and message after message flashed
across the screen. Missed texts, missed emails, missed calls. Suddenly it
started vibrating, and Johnny’s picture flashed up on the screen. I hesitated
before answering, but I didn’t speak.
‘Ry?’ he asked. ‘Ryan? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where the hell are you? The police are looking for you.’
‘I thought they might.’
‘They’ve been to the flat and then Mum and Dad’s. What the hell has
happened?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Ry? What the fuck? They’re saying you might have killed some
woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘She volunteered at the End of the Line.’
‘Laura?’
‘No, Janine Thomson. Was she the one you left the Dictaphone with?’
‘Yes.’
‘You left her a threatening voicemail saying you were coming to see her
and then she was found dead.’
I looked up at the sky, closed my eyes and laughed. She’d beaten me
again. Time and time again I had underestimated Laura, and time and time
again she had proved me wrong. Whatever she had done now, she had well
and truly got me. My name meant nothing, so there was no point in trying to
clear it.
‘In a moment, I’m going to email you something,’ I replied. ‘Look after
Mum and Dad for me and tell them I’m sorry. I love you, bro.’
‘Ry, what are you—’
I hung up, sent Johnny the email I’d spent much of the night composing,
turned off my phone and slipped it back inside my jacket.
I’d begun my search for Laura because I’d wanted answers as to why
my wife had killed herself. But in my three confrontations with Laura, I’d
been too busy trying to get revenge to actually ask her. I made my peace with
the fact that I was never going to know.
I walked slowly in the direction of a fence that cordoned off the cliff’s
edge. I imagined holding Charlotte’s hand in one hand and our son Daniel’s in
the other, and talking with her one last time.
‘Did you have second thoughts when you got this far?’ I asked.
No. I was sure it was what I wanted.
‘Did you think about me?’
Yes, of course I did. I love you.
‘Did you talk to the baby?’
Yes, I told him I was sorry and that we would be all right.
‘What was the last thing you thought about?’
Our wedding day and when we all went out into the gardens to light the
Chinese lanterns. Do you remember? We threw them up into the air and
watched as they floated across the fields and into the distance. If I could go
back and remain in any one moment forever, it would be right then.
‘Why did you leave me?’
It wasn’t your fault. It was what I had to do.
Only now, by following in Charlotte’s footsteps, could I understand that
she wasn’t being selfish in taking her own life. No suicidal person is. Like I
was now, she truly believed in her heart of hearts that sometimes it is all there
is left to do.
And as I climbed over the fence and walked my last few steps towards
the cliff’s edge, I stared into the horizon and let the wind blow through my
hair. I closed my eyes, so that all I could see were the oranges and reds of the
sun on my eyelids, and all I could feel were the soft, warm hands of my wife
and son.
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you or convince
you to stay. I hope before you died that you found a way to forgive me for
letting you down, as I forgive you. I love you.’
I love you too, Ryan.
I smiled as we all fell together.
PART THREE
 CHAPTER ONE
LAURA – TWO MONTHS AFTER RYAN
The Mayor of Northampton smiled as she pulled the rope cord that opened a
small pair of red curtains. The photographer’s flash lit up the heavy gold
chain of office hanging from her neck as she, myself and the area manager of
End of the Line posed for pictures either side of the copper-plated plaque.
Janine Thomson House, it read. In memory of our friend and colleague.
A small gathering of staff from our office, and some faces I didn’t
recognise, representing neighbouring county branches, joined us to mourn our
loss as I perched on the steps outside the building. I wasn’t sure if I was
feeling jittery because I’d been asked to speak in front of a crowd or because
Tony was standing just a few metres away from me. It was only the second
time I’d seen him since poor Janine’s sudden demise.
I’d attempted to make contact by text and I’d left several messages on
his phone, but he’d yet to call me back. Seeing him brought my skin out in
goosebumps, and just thinking about our future made me want to burst into a
broad grin. But I stopped myself; it wasn’t the time or the place for that.
I wondered why Effie and Alice weren’t with him. I’d watched them a
month earlier from my seat way back inside the church at Janine’s funeral.
The order of service looked nice among the others in my black bag. My girls
were sitting in the second row with their father, close to the heart of Janine’s
family. It was a little excessive – it wasn’t as if there had been anything
serious between her and Tony. He’d just been using her to get at me: to teach
me a lesson . . . showing me that I needed to be a good wife, a better wife.
Once Janine’s bulk was reduced to a pile of ashes, I’d texted Effie to
offer her an olive branch, but she was still wallowing in self-pity. She didn’t
seem to understand that putting the recording of her and Ryan’s conversation
online had been a necessary sacrifice. But patching up our relationship wasn’t
my priority right now – it was Tony. Once we were together, the rest of the
fragmented pieces of my family would fall into place.
I guessed he needed to keep up the facade of the grieving boyfriend for
now. I wore the copper-coloured earrings and matching necklace he’d bought
me for our ninth wedding anniversary, and the black dress I’d worn on our
last night out together at his work Christmas party. Back then he couldn’t wait
to get me out of it as he pushed me up against the filing cabinets in his office
and eased his way inside me. His face had been contorted with lust, miles
away from how he looked today. Only he and I knew this was an act.
Next it was my turn to speak at Janine’s ceremony. I unfolded a piece of
paper from my pocket, cleared my throat and began to read aloud.
‘Good morning, everyone, and on behalf of End of the Line, thank you
for coming.’
I glanced in an appropriately solemn manner at the people around me.
Tony was the only one whose stare was cold and intense.
‘The horrific death of our dear friend Janine shocked her close friends,
co-workers, and the rest of the country, too,’ I continued. ‘She had dedicated
her career to helping others with her generous spirit, kind nature and charity
work. And she was repaid for that devotion with a brutal attack that ended her
life so very, very prematurely. Unfortunately, we at End of the Line were
unable to help the troubled man responsible for her death and, as you will no
doubt be aware, he took his own life rather than face the consequences of his
actions. But the events of that awful day prove just how necessary a safe
haven like our charity is for people who are desperate for someone to listen.
That is why we have named this building after Janine Thomson as a reminder
to others that we are always here to hear you.’
I dabbed the crocodile tears pooling in the corner of my eye with a
tissue, when a polite ripple of applause began. As we made our way inside, a
morbid fascination made everyone’s heads turn towards the closed door of the
room where Janine had breathed her last.
When the police had eventually allowed us access to it, I’d been the one
to organise everything from its professional clean-up to the fitting of new
locks. I was also the only person to have an extra key, and sometimes, on my
way out following a shift, I’d take time to sit in the exact same spot on the
sofa where Janine died. I’d close my eyes and relive our confrontation. The
thud of the hammer against her head and her last, desperate gasp for air –
sometimes I remembered it as clearly as if she were still next to me.
In the conference room at the back of the building, I’d provided the food
for the buffet using a little of the money donated in the wake of Janine’s
death. The story of how the kind-hearted charity worker had been beaten to
death with a hammer at her place of work had made national newspaper
headlines, and more than £100,000 in donations came flooding in from well-
wishers. It irked me at first that she was being held up as a heroine and that I
could never take credit for that money, but eventually I made my peace with
it. In the end, I’d won.
Also making the news was the man accused of murdering her. Ryan
Smith’s DNA had been found on the murder weapon and a screwed-up photo
of me was discovered in the neighbouring yard. It was assumed I’d been his
intended victim until a voicemail from Ryan was discovered on Janine’s
phone threatening that she ‘owed’ him.
Ryan’s car was later located abandoned in the same place as his wife’s,
and with the assumption he’d followed in her footsteps over the cliff’s edge. I
only wish I’d caught his last, desperate breath, as I had his wife’s.
Kevin and Zoe approached me to tell me how much Janine would have
appreciated my speech, but they knew as well as I did that she’d have hated
the fact that I had given it. I looked around the room to see if Mary had
changed her mind and joined us, but after finding Janine’s body she couldn’t
bring herself to set foot in our building again.
Suddenly I became aware that Tony wasn’t there either. I hurried outside
and caught him further up the road, his car keys in his hand.
‘Tony!’ I shouted. ‘Please wait.’
He paused and held his back to me before turning. He seemed angry and
I couldn’t think why.
‘You didn’t stay for the drinks.’
‘That was a nice speech,’ he replied.
‘Thank you. I thought it best to keep it brief.’
‘It’s a shame you didn’t mean a word of it.’ His directness caught me
unawares.
‘Can you blame me?’ I asked. ‘I’d heard the two of you had been dating
behind my back. But while Janine and I may not have seen eye to eye, that
doesn’t matter now. Death is a great leveller and nobody deserves what
happened to her.’
‘Spare me, Laura. I know how you think. You could barely keep a
straight face as you read that script out.’
I didn’t want to argue with him, despite his best efforts to pick a fight.
‘How are the girls?’ I continued. ‘It feels like an eternity since I last saw
them. I’ve left them voicemails but they haven’t called me back yet.’
‘And what does that tell you?’
 ‘I was thinking of popping by the house—’
He moved closer to me. ‘You are not coming anywhere near them, do
you hear me?’ he growled. ‘You have done enough to fuck them up already.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Is this still about Effie and her teacher?’
‘What else would it be about? She told me everything. How he tried to
groom her and how you warned her not to tell me. I’m her bloody father! I
had a right to know!’
I bet she hasn’t told you everything, I thought. If she was anything like
her mum, she’d have remained tight-lipped over being a willing party in
setting Ryan up, knowing full well he wasn’t a paedophile.
‘I dealt with it,’ I replied. ‘I was trying to show you I’m ready to be a
good parent again.’
‘A good parent would’ve told me. A good parent would not have
publicly humiliated their daughter by posting the recording on Facebook for
the world to hear.’
‘The school was taking too long to handle it.’
‘Did you know she’s now being home-schooled because the bullying
became so bad?’
‘No. But if you’d answered my messages, perhaps I could’ve helped
her.’
He raised his voice. ‘How could you have helped when this is all your
fault in the first place? I know what he was accusing you of saying to those
callers. So what that bastard did to my daughter and Janine is because of what
you started.’
Something about his expression told me he had his regrets, too, but quite
what they were I couldn’t be sure.
‘Everything I have ever done is because I love you and our family. All I
want is for us to be back together again. Is that too much to ask?’
‘No, Laura, everything you do is for your own good and it always has
been. Everyone else is just collateral damage in the fight to get what you
want.’
‘I may have made a few mistakes along the way,’ I conceded, ‘but this
all began because you broke our family up.’
‘And it was the best thing I ever did, because the girls and Henry are in
a safer environment without you. You are a bad force in all of our lives.
Janine was a kind woman and worth a hundred of you. The only good thing to
come about from her death is that people will remember her for the wonderful
person she was.’
Not for much longer, I thought. In taking her iPad from her handbag the
afternoon she died, I had access to the typed list of passwords she’d saved
because she was too stupid to remember them. And that included both her
bank details and those of End of the Line. Shortly before she met her maker,
I’d transferred £40,000 from the charity’s account to her own. A further
£5,000 had been deposited into her online gambling accounts. It would be a
few more weeks before the accountants began their annual audits, and it
wouldn’t take long to trace the missing money.
I clenched my fists and took a deep breath. ‘Tony, this isn’t the time or
place to have this discussion,’ I continued. ‘Why don’t you come around to
the house tonight and we’ll talk properly.’
‘No, Laura. You’re not getting it, are you?’ He sounded exasperated. ‘I
don’t ever want to be in that house or anywhere near you again. You are
poison.’
‘Eight o’clock,’ I replied. ‘Come round for then and I’ll make us
something nice to eat.’
He shook his head as he approached his car and drove away.
 CHAPTER TWO
LAURA – THREE MONTHS AFTER RYAN
There weren’t many mourners at Ryan’s funeral – a dozen at best and
probably all family, from what I could see, although my view from inside the
car wasn’t clear. There had been at least twice that number at Chantelle’s, and
she was a filthy drug addict. But then who would want to be seen in public
bidding a final farewell to an accused paedophile and murderer? It wouldn’t
reflect greatly on anyone.
When the newspapers reported that a body had been found tangled up in
fishermen’s nets off the East Sussex coast, where Ryan was thought to have
stepped off the cliff, I crossed my fingers and prayed it would be him. It was
only when he was positively identified through his DNA that I could truly
relax.
The date and location of his funeral weren’t advertised, and it had taken
many calls claiming to be a family member wanting to know where I could
send flowers before I discovered the funeral director organising his service
and the location.
Ryan’s body wasn’t driven in a hearse. No family members followed
behind in black limousines and there was to be no church service or burial for
him. Instead, he’d been taken in the back of an unmarked coroner’s van
directly to the crematorium in neighbouring Kettering. The only flowers
greeting his arrival were my lilies, hand-delivered and left by the door with an
anonymous card attached reading I won.
Outside the crematorium, photographers from news agencies and a local
TV station I’d tipped off took pictures and filmed his coffin being removed
from the vehicle and whisked inside. I hadn’t only taken Ryan’s life away
from him, I’d taken his funeral, too.
I decided against joining Ryan’s mourners and risk being unmasked, so I
remained in my car instead. Although I’ll admit to feeling a little frustrated at
not being there as the final curtain circled his coffin after all my effort. I
wondered what they’d do with his ashes and if they’d be scattered somewhere
near Charlotte’s. I’d never engineered the deaths of a husband and wife
before. I’d find it hard to top that with my next candidates.
As everyone made their way inside, I recalled the last time I’d been to a
crematorium was to say goodbye to Olly. There had been even fewer of us
there than at Ryan’s funeral – myself and six of his vagrant friends, who I’d
bribed with enough alcohol to last them a week. I wasn’t even sure if they
knew who Olly was.
I missed talking to my friend. Even when we weren’t in touch, just
knowing he was about somewhere had made me feel there was someone on
my side. I still couldn’t understand how the coroner and policewoman had got
when and where he died so wrong. Why did they dismiss my claims so
readily? I was sure I was with him at least six months after they reckoned he
was dead. Regardless, I was happy not to have shared his last breath.
My house was still empty when I returned home. Immaculate, but
empty. Despite the number of open windows, plug-in air-fresheners and reed
diffusers I’d placed in each room, the oily smell of fresh paint still hung
thickly. The Polish decorators I’d employed had done a wonderful job of
papering the walls and repainting the ceilings. Everything from the banisters
to the skirting boards and door frames were now coated in a pure, glistening,
Arctic white. It was like being inside an igloo.
I’d Pinterested, then replicated examples of rooms I’d seen in online
interior design magazines. I used bright accent colours of yellows and greens
for my new cushions, curtains and rugs. I had family photographs reprinted
and framed to hang on the walls and arranged on the sideboard and
windowsills. And I’d brought brand-new bedding and soft furnishings for the
girls’ and Henry’s rooms. I’d done the same with Tony’s room, although once
we were a family again, it wouldn’t be long before he returned to our bed.
The lighter evenings of spring held the darkness at bay, so I pulled open
the reglazed bifold doors and sat on a patio chair to enjoy a cigarette. I’d need
to give up the habit before Tony and I were reunited, as he loathed the smell
of smoke. Around me, the bushes and lawns had been neatly trimmed, the
girls’ tatty old trampoline dismantled and disposed of at the rubbish tip, the
fence repaired, new turf laid and the flowerbeds dug over and replanted.
Everything around me was a kaleidoscope of colours and freshness. A new
start for everything and everyone.
I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about the future. Now there
was no Ryan or Janine to interfere in our lives, there was nothing to prevent
us from rekindling what we once had, apart from Tony’s stubbornness. He
hadn’t taken me up on my offer to visit the house after the plaque unveiling
and talk our problems through. In fact, he’d kept to his word that he didn’t
want anything to do with me at all.
 It was quite disheartening to begin with, but I realised it was my own
stupid fault. I had pushed him too far too soon. Maybe a part of him really
was grieving Janine’s death. I used to pride myself on my patience and there I
was, trying to hurry him while he was processing it. And I’m trained to know
that people say silly things they don’t mean when they’re in pain.
My mobile phone rang. I panicked and stubbed out my cigarette like a
guilty schoolgirl, flicking the butt behind a watering can. The number was
withheld and I hoped it was Effie or Tony calling. They’d recently changed
their numbers, so I’d been forced to drive to their house after the legal papers
petitioning me for a divorce arrived. However, to my surprise, they’d moved
from their rented home. And when I’d visited Alice’s school to pick her up
one teatime, her teacher told me she’d relocated to a private school in another
county, but refused to tell me where. There was no trace of Effie on social
media, and Tony had even taken a sabbatical from his own company.
My only means of communication with my husband was by email. I’d
tried several times in the last week, informing him that Henry was poorly with
a bad chest infection and that he really should visit. When he failed to reply, I
wrote again and threw in a few medical terms and threats of a hospital stay for
good measure. I also attached a picture of Henry asleep in his bed to lay the
guilt on thicker.
‘Hello, is that Mrs Morris?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Belinda from Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home.’
I clutched the phone tighter to my ear. ‘Is it Henry? Is he okay?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He has a visitor here but I need your permission before I
allow them in.’
‘Who is it?’
‘His father, Tony Morris.’
‘Yes!’ I replied quickly. ‘Yes! And ask him to wait with Henry. I’ll be
there soon!’
I hung up, flustered and flushed with excitement. I knew Tony couldn’t
remain angry with me forever, and once he thought our son was ill, of course
he’d want to see him.
I was unsure of what to do first. I ran up the stairs two at a time and took
a swig of mouthwash to rid myself of my smoky breath. I grabbed a casual
outfit – skinny jeans, Converse trainers and a T-shirt that was just tight
enough to show off my slim waist. I hurriedly reapplied my make-up and
sprayed my neck and wrists with the Issey Miyake perfume that Tony loved.
Can’t wait to see you and Henry together, I typed. On my way now. xx.
Then I grabbed my car keys and rehearsed what I was going to say to him
when he learned I hadn’t been entirely honest about Henry’s poor health.
He’d probably be irked at first, but once he saw his son and how devoted I
was to him, his animosity towards me would come to an end and he’d forgive
my little white lies.
I pulled up in the driveway of Henry’s care home, feeling sick to my
stomach with nerves. I didn’t recognise the girl on reception wearing a
‘Trainee’ badge.
‘My son, Henry Morris, can you tell me where he is, please?’ I asked.
‘His dad took him out in his chair for a walk in the grounds,’ she replied.
‘Are you okay?’
I hadn’t realised my lips were pursed and my fists balled. I could barely
get the word ‘yes’ out because I desperately wanted to cry happy tears.
It had been more than two and a half years since I’d last seen father and
son together, and at times I’d worried if I might ever witness it again. Dusk
was approaching, and I didn’t want to miss another minute, so I hurried
outside and scanned the surroundings, anxious to catch my first glimpse of
them together.
The building had been a stately home before the owner fell on hard
times and was forced to sell. The extensive grounds were always neatly kept,
with flowerbeds, sensory gardens and a play area, all surrounded by lush
woodland. Finally, in the distance, I saw Tony kneeling by the side of Henry’s
wheelchair. Their heads were turned as they looked down a slope and towards
the lake below, watching a family of snow white swans gliding past. I clasped
my hand to my mouth and my eyes moistened.
But as I grew closer, something was wrong with the perfect picture
before me. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I saw Tony’s arm. He had a
sleeve of tattoos starting at his left shoulder and going all the way down to his
wrist, just above the watch strap. The man next to Henry did not.
My stomach flipped one hundred and eighty degrees as I ran hell for
leather towards them.
‘Get away from my son!’ I screamed, and looked around for help but to
no avail. ‘Leave him alone!’ The man turned his head to look at me and I
stopped in my tracks.
My son was with a dead man. He was with Ryan.
 CHAPTER THREE
JOHNNY
By the look on her face as she approached me, Laura thought she’d seen a
ghost. I’d counted on it – I wanted to mess with that mad bitch’s head from
the moment she first clapped eyes on me.
‘Get away from my son!’ she cried when she realised I wasn’t her
husband. ‘Leave him alone!’ Her head turned quickly, desperately searching
for someone to help her. But the area I’d chosen to take Henry to was
secluded. The three of us were very much alone.
Her face collapsed when she got a better look at me. I’d cut my hair
short like my brother’s, and shaved off my beard so I had his uneven stubble.
I wore his favourite vintage Nirvana T-shirt and had swapped my glasses for
contact lenses.
Her bewildered expression told me she wasn’t sure if her eyes were
deceiving her. I lifted one hand from Henry’s wheelchair and made an action
like I was going to let it slide down the slope and into the lake below.
‘I don’t want to hurt your son,’ I said forcefully, ‘so I suggest you back
up.’
‘You’re not Ryan.’ It was part question and part statement. She hesitated,
unsure of her next move. She kept pushing her foot forward, then pulling it
back as if doing the hokey-cokey. Her mouth opened and closed, but no more
words came from it.
‘Feel free to move closer,’ I continued, goading her. ‘But Henry is
strapped into this heavy chair, and when I let go and he ends up in that lake,
you’re going to have a hell of a job dragging him out by yourself.’
‘You’re his brother,’ she said, the penny having finally dropped. ‘I saw
you at the fune—’ She stopped herself.
‘I’m Johnny,’ I replied. ‘Thank you for your card and flowers. You
couldn’t even leave him alone after you’d killed him, could you?’
‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone. You have me confused with
someone else.’
‘Is that how you want to play it, Laura?’ I asked. ‘Because I have all
night.’
 Ryan had told me so much in detail about Laura that it felt like I knew
her, especially after reading the lengthy email he’d sent me shortly before he
died. In it, he’d described what her ex-husband had told him about her and the
false accusations Laura and Effie had made against him. Everything that had
gone wrong in his life stemmed from something Laura had started. And while
Ryan had paid the ultimate price, she’d got away scot-free. But that was about
to change.
Henry was becoming restless and squirmed in his chair, perhaps sensing
the animosity surrounding him. I hated scaring the boy, but from what I’d
learned about Laura he was her Achilles heel and I needed him as leverage for
her to take me seriously. I patted his arm gently to calm him, but it had no
effect.
‘Don’t you touch him!’ Laura barked, then swiftly changed her tone so it
became less aggressive. ‘Please, you’re scaring him.’
‘Why shouldn’t I hurt your kid? You didn’t give a shit about hurting my
family or taking Ryan’s son away from him. Charlotte was expecting a boy –
did you know that?’
She shook her head, then held her hand up as if she were trying to nip in
the bud whatever I was going to say next.
‘I don’t know what Ryan told you,’ she began, ‘but he was a very
confused man who needed help. Both Janine and I tried, but he was too far
gone. Did you know he tried to break into my house and kill me?’
‘We all know what he did, because you spread it across social media. He
broke in because you pushed him to it. For God’s sake, you poured blood on
his wife’s wedding dress and put a dead pig next to it! What did you expect
him to do? Laugh about it? You knew exactly how he would react. You
provoked him and he played right into your hands.’
She shook her head. ‘No, whatever he said about me isn’t true. Look at
me. I’m a mum of three young children and I volunteer for a charity that has
people’s welfare at its heart. How am I a threat to anyone? If you just give me
my son back, maybe I can help you to understand your brother.’
I let out an exaggerated laugh. ‘Come on, Laura, you can do better than
this.’
‘The police must have told you they have proof he killed Janine.’
‘Yes, and I don’t believe it.’
 ‘They found his hammer at the scene.’
‘The hammer that was in his flat when you came to look around it.
Coincidence, right?’
‘Are you accusing me of killing Janine now?’
‘Did you? Wasn’t Janine in a relationship with your husband?’
She tried to mask a flicker of surprise at my knowledge, before play-
acting an eye-roll.
‘I know you’re only trying to protect Ryan’s name,’ she said, ‘and if I
was in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to believe the facts either. You grew up
with him, you loved him, you don’t want to think about the bad things he did.
But can’t you see? You’re making the same terrible decisions he made.
Please, I beg of you, for Henry’s sake and for your own, don’t let Ryan’s
mistakes ruin your life too.’
If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought there was a grain of truth
in Laura’s words. She made a convincing case and a compelling victim. But I
knew my brother.
‘Tell me about your son, Laura. Tell me how Henry came to be like this.’
My change of tack threw her and she paused for a moment.
‘The umbilical cord became caught around his neck during labour and it
starved him of oxygen,’ she explained.
‘Only that didn’t happen, did it? That’s just a lie you’ve told yourself
because it’s easier than admitting the truth. I know exactly what happened to
Henry.’
‘It was a complicated labour,’ she replied firmly.
‘Your husband told Ryan that you lie to yourself about your past and re-
edit things you’ve done to paint yourself in a more sympathetic light.’
She tried to mask her surprise. ‘I don’t know why Tony would’ve said
such a thing but—’
‘And I know that Henry’s complicated birth is just another one of those
lies, isn’t it? He was born perfectly healthy.’
‘Tony said that?’
‘No, Effie did.’
Her eyes narrowed slightly, unable to hide her betrayal.
 ‘When Ryan died and his name was in every newspaper, Effie felt so
guilty about the part she played that she came to find me after the funeral,’ I
continued.
‘You can’t believe what she says. Effie is a complicated girl.’
‘She seemed perfectly okay to me. She told me how you and she made
sure her recording of the conversation with my brother was taken completely
out of context.’
‘But I bet you believed every word of it when you first heard it, didn’t
you? I’ll wager you turned your back on him like everyone else did and that’s
why he killed himself. That’s why you’re here tormenting my son and me,
because you feel guilty.’
Her words cut deep, but I couldn’t show her that.
‘Effie told me how Henry was a perfectly normal little boy for the first
four and a half years of his life. Then you did this to him.’
‘No!’ she bellowed, her eyes piercing. ‘That’s not true! Ryan and Effie
have filled your head with lies. I would never hurt my baby.’
I pulled out a photograph that Effie had given me from the back pocket
of my jeans and held it up. The wheelchair tugged in my other hand.
‘Isn’t this him blowing the candles out at his third birthday party? He
looks fine to me.’
She stared at the picture of a perfectly normal-looking little Henry
surrounded by his friends and his sisters. She closed her eyes and bit her
bottom lip.
‘Henry was at his friend Megan’s house when the girl fell ill,’ I
continued. ‘So her dad dropped him off early while Megan’s mum looked
after her. But you and Tony were too busy arguing to hear Henry let himself
in, and because he got scared by your shouting, he hid himself in his room.’
‘That didn’t happen.’ Her voice sounded small, like that of a child.
‘What were you rowing over? That Tony had read the social services
report about you and realised he’d married a sociopath? Or was it that Olly –
or David, to use his proper name – killed his own mother for you?’
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ Laura roared suddenly, and held her hands over
her ears. Henry began to shriek with the high-pitched wail of an animal in
distress. But I couldn’t stop now, so I raised my voice above them both.
 ‘When Tony stormed out, you blamed your new house for your marriage
falling apart and not your own actions. Then you poured anything flammable
the decorators had left and set fire to it. While you were outside trying to find
your husband, your terrified little boy was trapped in his bedroom. Do you
ever think about that, Laura? How scared he must have been when the thick
black smoke started billowing under his door? Do you think he remembers it?
Do you think every night he dreams about choking on those fumes?’
Laura continued to cover her ears, but I knew from the way her face was
twisting that she heard me.
‘The neighbours called 999 and firefighters rescued Henry,’ I continued,
‘but by the time paramedics resuscitated him, he’d been starved of oxygen for
too long and suffered massive brain damage. Your once happy, healthy kid
suddenly had the mental age of a one-year-old and it’s all your fault.’
‘No, no, no, no!’ Laura said, and fell to her knees. I pointed at a still-
shrieking Henry.
‘I know there was some humanity in you once, because what you did to
him fucked you up. They carted you off in an ambulance and kept you in a
psychiatric unit in St Andrews before you eventually discharged yourself. But
while you were gone, Tony moved him here and the girls out. Even then, you
lied to yourself about why you’d been hospitalised. Effie told me that you
claimed your mum’s cancer as your own, didn’t you?’
Laura clambered to her feet and began to pace in a circular motion, like
a dog trying to find a comfortable position to curl up and sleep.
‘No, that’s not what happened. You’re wrong,’ she muttered. Her fingers
pinched at her thighs. She was falling apart before me.
‘Your daughters didn’t want their dad to tell the police you started the
fire, so Tony promised them he wouldn’t give you up if they stayed away
from you. You thought in time Tony would come round and return, but he
didn’t, did he? Instead he changed Effie’s school to one nearer their new
home and he kept the girls away from you. They were all enjoying their new
life without you until my naive brother interfered and included you on the
email for Effie’s school report.’
‘Please, be quiet,’ Laura begged, her spirit overwhelmed and tears
streaming down her cheeks. ‘I need you to stop now.’
Then her expression blanked, as if she were reliving the moment she
learned Tony had taken her family away from her. Her shoulders hunched like
she wanted to fold into herself and vanish. Henry bounced back and forth in
his chair and Laura reached towards him as if to offer him comfort. But once
again, I took my hand off his chair until she retracted it.
‘You know what horrifies me the most about you?’ I asked. ‘It’s that
after what you did to this kid, you didn’t learn your lesson, because you’re
still putting yourself before anyone else. In trying to destroy Ryan, you threw
Effie under the bus. Your own daughter. At least my brother regretted the part
he had to play in all this.’
‘He only regretted it because he lost,’ she replied. Only there was no
pride in her victory.
‘And what exactly have you won, Laura? Because it sure as hell isn’t
your husband or your children. You have nothing. Ryan said you rattle around
that house on your own. You spend hours locked inside waiting for someone
to walk through the door, and I bet nobody ever does. And you know what?
They never will. You’ve lost everyone, even Olly.’
‘Why are you bringing him into it?’ she sobbed.
‘Why not? You brought Charlotte into it when Olly wanted to kill
himself.’
‘That didn’t happen, it was an accident. He slipped into the river and
drowned.’
‘And you’re rewriting the truth again. Olly had tried to die several times
over the years, according to the coroner’s report. He messed up an overdose
and a hanging. I’m putting two and two together and assuming you, the expert
in suicide, stepped in to help him get it right, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean . . .’ She shook her head again, as if old
memories she wanted to forget were coming back to life inside her.
‘You do, Laura – just tell me the truth.’
‘Olly wanted me to be with him when he died, but I couldn’t do it,
because I couldn’t leave Henry,’ she wept. ‘So I found someone else.’
‘Charlotte?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because she was a vulnerable woman with prenatal depression, and you
saw her as ripe for manipulation.’
‘Please, Johnny,’ Laura begged, clasping her hands together like she was
praying. ‘Just leave now and I won’t tell anyone any of this happened.’
‘And then what? You’ll have a change of heart and come after me?’
‘No, I promise I won’t.’ She wiped snot from her nose with the back of
her hand.
‘There’s just one thing I need you to do for me before I leave.’ I
removed my phone from my pocket and switched it to video mode and began
recording.
‘Because you are so keen on publicly shaming people, and because the
Dictaphone my brother gave Janine has disappeared, you are going to look
into the lens and admit that you encouraged Charlotte to die. Then you’ll
confess to what you did to Janine and admit that Ryan was not a child
molester and that he is dead because of you.’
Her eyes momentarily left mine and glanced to the distance.
‘Hey!’ I snapped, and she looked back at me. ‘I’m not giving you a
choice here. This isn’t something you can mull over. Admit it, everything
you’ve done, then I will leave.’
I watched her on the phone’s screen as she wiped her eyes and cleared
her throat.
‘Never,’ she replied and, just for a second, she couldn’t stop her lips
from curling upwards. Then she opened her mouth wide and let out a piercing
scream.
I heard hurried footsteps pounding close behind me, and as I turned,
something solid hit the side of my head so hard that it pushed me to the
ground.
 CHAPTER FOUR
LAURA
‘Tony, help us!’ I pleaded as my husband appeared behind Johnny. ‘It’s
Ryan!’
I could tell from Tony’s expression that he thought he was seeing things
– that the supposedly dead pervert teacher who’d tried to abuse his daughter
was now tormenting his wife and their disabled son. So I didn’t give him time
to think rationally, only to tap into the instinct he’d learned in the boxing ring
– react to a threat by stamping it out quickly.
‘He’s hurting Henry!’
Tony charged towards us, and before Johnny could defend himself, Tony
caught him on the side of the head with a hard punch. It knocked Johnny off
balance, sending him sprawling face down onto the path.
Johnny lost grip of his mobile phone and it slid across the gravel, but his
grasp also slipped from Henry’s wheelchair. I sprinted towards it, grabbing
hold of the handles and digging my heels into the ground. Then, using all my
strength, I leaned backwards to prevent it from slipping any further down the
slope and into the lake. I pulled it towards me until Henry was safe and I
could calm his hysteria.
Meanwhile, Tony squatted over Johnny and punched the back of his
head and ribs with a ferocity I’d only seen on display in the boxing ring.
Crack, crack, crack, knuckle against cheekbone, fist against skull . . . A
composer couldn’t have come up with a musical arrangement that sounded
any sweeter to my ears.
‘I will kill you for what you’ve done!’ Tony shouted, and I had no
reason to doubt him. Johnny’s plan to confuse me by mimicking his brother’s
appearance had backfired spectacularly. But I wasn’t going to admit to Tony
he’d got the wrong man.
I pulled my son closer to me so he couldn’t witness what was
happening, not that he’d have been able to make any sense of it.
‘Shh, shh, it’s okay,’ I whispered into his ear, running my hand through
his hair, but still he wailed.
However, instead of focusing all my attention on Henry, I couldn’t draw
my eyes away from the chaos before me. Johnny’s arms and hands flailed by
his side, making occasional contact with Tony’s body, but they were no match
for my husband’s fury, strength and training. Pinkish-red spit bubbles seeped
from Johnny’s mouth as he choked on the blood trickling down his throat
from his nose and gums. His voice was distorted and unrecognisable.
‘I’m not . . .’ he croaked, but Tony had no intention of listening to him.
‘You lied to me to get to my daughter, you sick fuck! You terrorised my
wife and you murdered Janine!’
He called me his wife! A euphoric rush of warmth spread throughout my
body.
I could have pleaded with Tony to stop, told him he’d got the wrong
man and that we’d let the police deal with it. But I didn’t. If Johnny was as
tenacious as his brother, this would only continue, and I longed to get my life
and my family back. Hatred like his would not disappear any time soon.
Meanwhile, the passion and the energy spilling from my husband’s rage
was infectious and arousing. An unceasing tingling began around my pelvis,
and the more animalistic Tony became, the more primal I felt. I craved him, I
lusted after him, I wanted him inside me.
‘He told me he was going to drown Henry,’ I said, clutching our son
tighter.
‘I wouldn’t . . .’ Johnny began, but again, he didn’t get to finish. Tony
had hold of the back of Johnny’s hair, yanked his head upwards and slammed
it back onto the path. Despite the dimming light, I could still make out his
irises as they fluttered towards the back of his head, leaving milky white orbs
in their place.
My stomach felt as if it was riding a rollercoaster, rising quickly and
anxiously anticipating the descent. Tony had someone’s life in his hands and
he was about to make the single most important decision that could alter
everything. I clenched my fists into tight balls and with all my might I willed
him to take that next, crucial step.
I’d never felt closer to – or more in love with – my husband as I was in
the moment when he killed Johnny.
 CHAPTER FIVE
LAURA – TWO MONTHS AFTER JOHNNY
I sat in my office hunched over a keyboard, glaring at a spreadsheet on the
monitor, trying to make sense of next month’s work rota. With ninety-four
volunteers all requesting hours that didn’t include the middle of the night, it
was no mean feat trying to accommodate everyone’s wishes.
I glanced out from the open door of my office and across the room at the
afternoon team. Kevin, Sanjay, Zoe and Joella sat in their booths, half of them
on calls and the rest filling their downtime reading Kindles and magazines.
It had been more than a week since I’d last found time to join them in
the trenches, and I was badly missing the anticipation of the next call. I’d
been so busy and much more cautious since the whole Ryan and Johnny
debacles, but now I was itching to find a new candidate. However, since the
powers that be in our head office had offered me Janine’s job as branch
manager, much of my time was taken up by tiresome administrative tasks.
My lips curled into a smile as I sat in Janine’s former seat, my elbows on
her desk, distracting myself from rotas by picking out stubborn crumbs of
gluten-free biscuits from her keyboard with eyebrow tweezers. If she could
see me now, she’d be turning in the grave I’d sent her to.
The spotlight had been shining upon my branch brighter than it ever had
before, and none of it for positive reasons. First came Janine’s murder on the
premises, and then head office’s humiliation at discovering she’d shifted
money from the charity’s accounts into her own and to an account she held
for a gambling website. When the internal investigation began, the theft
became public knowledge thanks to an ‘anonymous’ whistleblower. And
soon, the eponymous plaque erected in her name was quietly unscrewed from
the wall outside. With her reputation tarnished, I’d disposed of it myself.
End of the Line had lost the public’s trust and so calls to it fell sharply,
along with local donations. So it was the sensible decision to ask me to take
charge. I was the brave volunteer who’d survived two attacks from unhinged
brothers who’d also targeted my daughter and disabled son. And in publicly
forgiving them, my selflessness had made me the face of the charity and
garnered it positive press.
The rest of the team were elated by my promotion, including Mary, our
oldest volunteer and my former mentor. I’d informed her by phone, as she’d
yet to return to the office following the shock of finding Janine’s body. She
still blamed herself for failing to prevent the murder and for not monitoring
Ryan’s fateful visit from the video room, even though it was me who’d told
her he was Janine’s friend. I was quite happy to let her carry the burden of
guilt for as long as she required.
The alarm sounded on my phone to remind me that my day there was
coming to an end. An hour and a half later and I was walking up the street
towards the house, recycling bags crammed with groceries and the handles
digging into the palms of my hands.
Sometimes I’d catch myself absent-mindedly looking around the street,
hoping to see Olly. He’d always felt intimidated by Tony, so rather than ring
the doorbell, he’d hover for hours, waiting for me to enter or leave the house.
I missed him, but Johnny’s words continued to haunt me.
I had been so sure that Olly and David were two completely different
people – until now, because when I gave it more thought, their voices were
the same and their circumstances similar. David had lost all hope when his
wife had been killed by three men who broke into their house; Olly’s mum
had died at his hands while three men she’d sold our bodies to hovered at the
doorway. Or was that a lie, too? Had I remembered my life under Sylvia’s
roof as different to the way it had actually been?
Perhaps my memory had been playing tricks on me lately again, creating
mixed-up images and snapshots of what I thought to be true. I suddenly
recalled a buried memory from a year and a half earlier, of a conversation I’d
had with Olly. He’d had enough, he told me, he had no fight left him in him,
and while he’d said the same thing many times before, I knew this time he
meant it. He wanted my help to die but he was afraid and didn’t want to go
alone, which is when Charlotte came into the picture.
Then I remembered the last day I ever saw him, when Olly came to the
house to bathe and I helped to clean him up. I’d put him in an old suit and
shirt of Tony’s, handed him a pay-as-you-go mobile phone and gave him
enough cash to get a train ticket to East Sussex and a taxi. He looked so
handsome.
Then I saw myself standing alone by a bus stop outside Chantelle’s
funeral and then outside a hospital ward arguing with a doctor about a patient
who hadn’t been admitted. That was why I hadn’t been to David’s funeral. It
wasn’t because I was too sad to face it, it was because he had never existed.
A moped’s horn brought me back to reality and I found myself standing
still in the middle of the road. A cold sweat rushed across my body and I
hurried to the safety of my house.
‘Hello?’ I shouted, taking deep, calming breaths as I pushed open the
front door and pulled the key from the lock. ‘Is anyone around to give me a
hand unpacking the shopping?’
The mention of shopping bags wasn’t the best way to lure two children
and a husband into the porch. Nevertheless Alice appeared, carrying that
bloody cat under her arm like a furry clutch bag. The anticipation of being
reunited with Bieber had been one of the reasons why she couldn’t wait to
move back in. Neither of Tony’s two rental houses had allowed pets and she’d
missed him.
‘Where’s your sister?’ I asked as we carried the bags to the kitchen.
‘She’s still upstairs with Mrs Hopkinson. I won’t have to be home-
schooled when I’m her age, will I?’ She dropped the cat to the floor and it
hissed at me before strutting out of the room. One day, a canal and a bag of
bricks would wipe that entitled look from its face.
‘I don’t think so, darling. If you don’t make stupid decisions like Effie
then there’ll be no reason for us to take you out of school and hire a private
tutor.’
Reassured by my answer, she began stacking the shelves with cans of
vegetables and soups with military precision.
‘Labels showing,’ I reminded her. ‘Is your dad home yet?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She pointed towards the garden. ‘Why does he look so sad all
the time?’
I spotted Tony, his arms outstretched and his palms flat upon the waist-
high garden fence posts. He was staring into the distance across the playing
fields. It was a common sight since my family had returned, as if he were
wishing himself a million miles away from where he was now. I told myself
he wouldn’t be like this forever, but as time marched on, my doubts began.
I’d hoped that ending another person’s life might have given us a
common thread to bind us together, but we’d yet to reconnect. He remained
repulsed by killing Johnny, while I’d never been prouder of him for protecting
Henry and me. He’d shown me that, deep down, he would do anything for the
people he loved.
I called to mind an image of Tony, two months earlier, standing over
Johnny’s lifeless body and rolling him over so he was face up. I remembered
how Tony’s expression had changed from pure rage to confusion when he
realised the cut, bleeding, battered man wasn’t who he’d thought it was. Panic
spread through him and he looked to me for an explanation.
‘You said it was Ryan,’ he began, eyebrows arched and forehead
wrinkled.
‘It doesn’t matter who it is,’ I replied bluntly. ‘He was threatening to
hurt us.’
‘But I’ve killed him! What did you let me do?’
‘It was self-defence. You were saving your family.’
Tony’s adrenaline was dissolving, leaving his arms weak and unsteady. I
held them firm in my hands. His shirtsleeves and cuffs were smeared with
Johnny’s blood.
‘Look at me, Tony. I will tell the police what Ryan’s brother was trying
to do before you came. I’ll stand up for you. I’m your wife. I won’t let
anything happen to you for trying to protect us.’
I helped him to a nearby bench, where he sat and held his head in his
shaking hands as I called the police. Soon after, Johnny’s body was driven
away in an ambulance and Tony was arrested on suspicion of murder and
taken to the police station to be questioned. After being treated for shock,
which I feigned, I accompanied a still-terrified Henry back to his room where
he was calmed by staff and put to bed.
Then it was my turn to face a police grilling. Twice I left the interview
to be sick as I recounted the horrors of the evening. By the time I was allowed
to leave, there could be little doubt in their minds that Johnny had been
threatening me and Henry in revenge for the death of his brother. It was
Tony’s and my word against the actions of a dead man.
Alone in the interview room, I thanked God that I’d sent my husband an
email before I’d left the house saying that I couldn’t wait to see him with
Henry. The message, plus the others I’d sent that week claiming Henry was
ill, had concerned and confused him enough to turn up at the care home. If he
hadn’t found me, I hate to think what evidence Johnny might have recorded to
use against me. I made a mental note to take flowers to his funeral like I had
to Ryan’s, only this time the card would read I won again.
As Tony remained in custody overnight, the police brought our scared
and perplexed daughters back to the family home for the first time in almost
two and a half years. I gently explained the abridged version of what had
happened and how brave their father had been.
Alice bought into it immediately and sought my reassurance our family
was now safe. Effie knew when something didn’t add up. However, she was
wise enough not to question me. She hadn’t admitted to seeking out Johnny
after his brother’s funeral and spilling my secrets to him, and I wasn’t going
to reveal that I knew. I let her wind herself up wondering instead. But if she
ever brought up her gut-wrenching betrayal, I’d make it clear that along with
her teacher’s blood, she now had his brother’s on her hands.
On Tony’s release the next evening, his explanation mirrored mine and I
watched with quiet delight as the high regard Effie held him in crumbled. For
the first time in her life, she knew he’d lied to her. Now Tony and I shared a
level playing field where our daughters were concerned.
‘What did you tell the police?’ I asked him when the girls had gone to
their newly decorated bedrooms, leaving us alone. He’d become a shadow,
sitting in the near darkness of the dining room.
‘What you told me to say, that I was trying to protect you.’
‘And did they believe you?’
‘My solicitor says they’ll probably accept it wasn’t murder, but they’re
investigating whether I used unreasonable force. I could still face a
manslaughter charge.’
I regarded my broken husband and wondered how long it might take
before I could repair him. He turned his head to look at me, but I couldn’t see
his eyes. His voice was emotionless and detached.
‘Why did you want me to kill an innocent man?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know what—’
‘No,’ Tony interrupted. ‘Don’t do that. Treat me with respect.’
‘How much respect did you show me when you told Ryan about that
social services psychiatric report?’ He didn’t reply. ‘Johnny was by no means
innocent,’ I continued, ‘and he was trying to make me admit to things I didn’t
do. He was as hateful as his brother.’
‘What did he want you to admit to?’
‘It doesn’t matter now.’
‘You made me a murderer. I have the right to know why.’
 I considered unspooling like a reel of cotton until I was laid bare across
the floor, admitting everything he wanted to know and more. I contemplated
telling him how I’d encouraged Charlotte and many others to die, how I’d set
up Ryan with the help of Effie, and even that I’d killed Janine. But the
thought vanished as quickly as it appeared.
I turned towards the kitchen and flicked on the spotlights to illuminate
the worktops. ‘Right, you must be hungry. Let’s see what I can rustle up, shall
we?’
I removed a shrink-wrapped sirloin steak from the fridge and put some
microwaveable potato wedges into a bowl.
‘Do you know why I think I was confused about you moving out?’ I
continued. ‘Because you kept coming back to the house when I wasn’t here.
I’d find a coffee mug I hadn’t used in the dishwasher, a pile of mail that I’d
left in order of size that had been shifted around, and the bedroom doors
closed. If you didn’t love me or want our life anymore, then you wouldn’t
have kept returning. So I think I must have told myself you and the girls
weren’t really gone. It’s funny how the brain can play tricks on you, isn’t it?’
‘I was returning to find the evidence you have of the End of the Line
donations that we used to set up the business. I didn’t want you holding that
over me anymore. You know I paid it back in donations of my own once we
started making money.’
‘Well, that doesn’t matter now, does it, because we’re all back together.’
Behind me, the legs of Tony’s chair slid backwards. His tone was
deliberate and measured.
‘If you think I’m going to spend a second longer under this roof with
you, then you are deluded, Laura. I’m taking the girls and we’re leaving.’
I shook my head. ‘No, you’re not, Tony. We’re back together now as a
family – as we should be – and none of you are leaving this house.’
He gave a forced laugh. ‘And what would ever make me want to stay
here?’
‘How about this? Because when you beat the wrong man to death, he
was trying to video-record a confession from me. And when his phone fell to
the ground, it continued to record until after you ended his life and I pressed
stop. I now have that phone in my possession with footage that proves you
weren’t just trying to protect us, you’d lost control and thought you were
getting revenge on a man who molested our daughter and duped you into
spilling my secrets. When you heard that recording of Effie and him online,
you were angry and ashamed of yourself. So if you leave me again or try to
take the girls away from me – I will hate myself for it, but I will hand that
phone to the police. There will be no doubt in their minds that you used
unreasonable force and you will go to prison. And even if your daughters still
want anything to do with you, they’ll only be able to visit for an hour every
two weeks – provided I give them permission, which I doubt I’ll do. The rest
of the time, they’ll spend here with me. Just me. Effie is already ruined, and
the same will happen to Alice once her friends find out their father is a
murderer. Is that what you want, Tony? Because I don’t think it is. So I am
asking you not to make me do this.’
He paled and blinked hard as his brain registered my words. Suddenly
he lurched towards me from across the room; my arms covered my face and
chest to protect myself and he pinned me to the fridge. He wrapped his hands
around my throat and pushed into my windpipe. I struggled to breathe, like
Janine when I’d hit her in the throat. At that moment, she’d been terrified of
me, only I wasn’t terrified of Tony. They say you only hurt the ones you love,
so he must still have feelings for me. I didn’t put up any fight.
‘Go on then,’ I urged, my voice a rasp. ‘Kill me with your daughters
upstairs. You’ve seen what being in care did to me, and that’s just what’ll
happen to them.’
I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheeks, but despite what he
wanted to do to me, he couldn’t bring himself to carry it out. His satisfaction
at the thought of killing me wasn’t as great as his love for his girls.
I gritted my teeth and my heart was racing. He let go and stepped
backwards while I clutched my neck and pulled myself together.
‘So,’ I continued eventually, ‘is steak and chips okay? I’ve got a packet
of peppercorn sauce somewhere.’
He shrank back to his chair in the dining room, a beaten man.
Later, I decided to give Tony a grace period of a couple of weeks before
suggesting it might be in his best interests to move out of the spare room and
back into my bed. But even sleeping next to each other didn’t bring us closer.
Over the next two months I did everything in my power to make our
transition into a proper family a successful one. Fortunately, Alice wasn’t old
enough to know the sort of person her mother really was, and appeared
oblivious to the hostility Effie was showing towards me. I sensed Effie’s
frustration at not being able to admit the truth to her sister or her dad without
dropping herself in it. Likewise, Tony couldn’t admit to anyone that he’d
murdered a man in a blind rage. I was the keeper of all their secrets. I had
plenty of my own, including the spot in the field behind the house where I’d
buried a sealed Tupperware box containing Johnny’s phone and Tony’s gloves
and running shoes, the ones I’d worn when I’d bludgeoned Janine. I hoped
never to need them, but an insurance policy did no harm.
In the search for a new normality, I instigated Sunday as ‘family day’.
We’d begin by visiting Henry in the morning, followed by a drive to a
countryside pub for a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding lunch. The afternoon
would be spent sprawled out across the sofas watching a DVD.
At first it didn’t matter that Alice and I were the only ones outwardly
enjoying this time, but gradually it began to grate on me. My husband was
still far from being the Tony of old I loved. The Crown Prosecution Service
had yet to decide whether to press any charges against Tony and it played
heavily on his mind. He no longer worked overtime or went to the gym, and
when he returned home from work each night, he barely let the girls out of his
sight. It was as if he feared something – or someone – might influence them
in a way he didn’t approve of if they weren’t under his supervision.
‘You can trust me,’ I told him. ‘You know I’d never do anything to hurt
them.’ He responded with silence.
Now, as Alice unpacked groceries in the kitchen, I watched Tony in the
garden alone, a haunted man pinching his eyes and shaking his head. I
observed for the first time how much weight he’d lost. His once-broad
shoulders were rounded and his muscular frame more angular. Seeing my
strong, energetic husband so weak and unattractive frustrated me. I’d been
waiting so long for his return, but my patience wasn’t infinite. He was
becoming as meaningless as my father after my mother’s death.
If things aren’t going to get any better for him, I might need to reassess
our situation.
The thought came out of the blue. I wanted to dismiss it, even told
myself off for thinking it. But then, like thoughts do, it expanded to another
until it spiralled into a full-on conversation in my head.
There is always a way out of his suffering. Who better to help him than
you?
Tony was the last thing I wanted to lose from my life, but he wasn’t the
man I’d married.
 Don’t rush into a decision yet. Just know that the next candidate might
be closer to you than you thought.
I was beginning to wonder if I’d always be the one to suffer, so other
people didn’t have to.
I was about to join Tony in the garden when my phone vibrated. An
email icon appeared on the screen. There was nothing in the subject line, but
the address gave me a chill. [email protected]
I hurried into the garage for privacy and opened the message. Only three
words had been typed.
More to follow, it said.
‘More to follow?’ I said out loud. What did that even mean? I was about
to delete it when I noticed the email had an attachment, a sound file.
The fluorescent lightbulb above me began to flicker like a Morse-code
light show. I waited anxiously for the file to download, wondering what on
earth it could be. Nothing could have prepared me for the answer.
‘I’ll do it,’ I heard a recording of my voice say. ‘If you are serious about
wanting to end your life, then I will be with you in person when you do it. I
will be on your side from the beginning to the end of this process, but this is a
business relationship. We both have our parts to play, Steven. Yours is to tell
me who you are and mine is to ensure your transition is a smooth one.’
The phone slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor. The protective
plastic case prevented the screen from cracking, and I scrambled to pick it up
and listen to it again. Were my ears playing tricks on me? Was I imagining
this? I pressed play again. No, it was for real.
Blood filled my head and made me woozy. I felt as if I were rocking
back and forth, but my body wasn’t moving. I feared I might collapse, so I
grabbed hold of a shelf too hard, pulling it from its wall brackets and sending
it crashing to the floor. Paint spilled across the concrete like lava, splashing
my shoes and bare legs. I needed to calm myself, but I couldn’t. This clip had
the potential to destroy everything I had spent so long working towards.
I had deleted every file from that Dictaphone, so where in God’s name
had this come from? And why today, five months later?
Think, Laura, think. There must be a way out of this.
Only there wasn’t.
In the blink of an eye, somebody else had taken control of me.
 What do you want? I replied, and pressed the send button. Ten anxious
minutes passed and still there was no response. I struggled to breathe, as if I
were having a panic attack.
Anchor, Laura, I told myself. Think of your anchor.
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could and pictured Henry’s face, but not
even he could keep me tethered this time. I held my hands over my mouth,
bent double and screamed until my throat was raw.
 EPILOGUE
EFFIE
I watched upstairs from behind the blind in my bedroom window as Dad
stood at the end of the garden, alone and lost in thought.
Once again, he was staring aimlessly across the playing fields, like he
wanted to be anywhere but trapped in this prison we were supposed to accept
as our home. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d given us one of his big
beaming smiles that made everyone around him feel warm and fuzzy.
Nowadays he looked as miserable as I felt. Mum had done this to him. She
had turned him into a ghost I scarcely recognised.
I couldn’t bear to see him like this any longer. It was time to set the
wheels in motion and put an end to this, before she killed him. I attached the
file stored in my Cloud to the email and hit the send button.
I lay back on my bed, slipped my noise-cancelling headphones on and
picked a Best of R & B playlist on Spotify to listen to. What I really wanted
to do was creep downstairs and watch Mum completely freak out over why a
dead woman was emailing her clips of a conversation she’d had months ago
with a dead man. I wanted to see how long she could hold it together before
she cracked. It had happened before, when she went schiz over Henry. I
hoped she wouldn’t fall apart immediately, though – I wanted her to suffer. I
wanted to make her life as hellish as mine and Dad’s.
I missed living with just Dad and Alice. Everything had been so much
easier without Mum in the picture. It hadn’t always been that way. In fact, at
the start, it had been hard to accept, especially for Alice. Before Mum’s
sudden reappearance, the last we’d seen of her was Dad holding her back as
two paramedics resuscitated my unconscious brother on a trolley. Mum was
hysterical, screaming and with spit flying from her mouth like little white
bullets.
‘I’ve killed him! I’ve killed my baby!’ she kept repeating, and made
deep, horrible moaning noises I’d never heard anyone make before. I guess
that’s the kind of shit that happens when you almost burn your son alive.
Anyway, in the end she was sedated and driven away in an ambulance.
Alice and I stayed the night with an elderly couple across the road. They
kept offering us drinks and snacks, as if that would make everything okay.
They put up two camp beds in their spare room, but at some point during the
night, Alice crept under my covers and welded herself to me.
‘Are we going to die in a fire, too?’ she asked, but I couldn’t truthfully
tell her that we weren’t.
Over the next few days, Dad’s eyes became redder and redder, and while
Mum remained in a psychiatric evaluation unit, Henry came out of his coma
and we were told it was unlikely he’d ever be the brother we remembered. At
Dad’s suggestion, Alice and I didn’t visit Henry or Mum.
To give him credit, Dad treated us like adults and levelled with us about
what Mum had done. He explained that she’d confessed to starting the fire
because she blamed the house for all the arguments they’d been having. But
she didn’t know Henry was upstairs and Dad had yet to tell the police.
I was much more of a daddy’s girl than a mummy’s girl, but I still hated
the thought of Mum going to prison for what had been an accident – albeit a
pretty fucking major one. Eventually we agreed it was best if Dad lied to the
police and said Henry had a fascination with matches. In return, Dad didn’t
want us to go anywhere near Mum, and we agreed not to have anything to do
with her until we were older.
Everything changed after that. We moved house and I moved schools.
We changed phone numbers and left behind everything and everyone that was
smoke-damaged.
I think I missed the idea of having a mum more than her actual presence.
She was never one of those hands-on parents like Dad was, so Alice and I
learned pretty early on not to expect a lot from her. Sometimes she looked at
us as if she wasn’t quite sure how we’d landed in her world. Not Henry,
though. She worshipped him. I loved him, too. He was sweet and funny and
he was always trying to make Alice and I laugh with a silly dance or funny
face. Now, by all accounts, he was little more than a vegetable.
We adapted from being a family of five to a family of three fairly well.
In my last school, I’d seen how Farzana Singh had been relentlessly picked on
when her mum came off her bipolar meds and started dancing Bollywood-
style during parents’ evening. I wasn’t going to let that happen to me in my
new school. So from day one I went in there all guns blazing, cocky and
confident, and I surrounded myself with like-minded bitches. I told them
Mum had remarried and moved to Australia, but all the time that I ruled those
corridors, I was just waiting to be unmasked.
I wasn’t sure about Janine when Dad started seeing her. I’d heard so
many horror stories from my friends about how their parents’ new partners
totally messed with the family dynamic, and I didn’t want Janine doing that to
us. But she didn’t try to fill Mum’s shoes and she actually wanted to spend
time with us, which is more than Mum ever did. I knew Janine volunteered
with Mum at End of the Line, but not once did Alice or I ask how she was.
We rarely even spoke of her between ourselves. Janine tried to bring her up a
few times, but she changed the subject when it became obvious we weren’t
comfortable with the conversation. I overheard Dad talking to Janine about
Mum a couple of times, and a small part of me was curious whether Mum
was better or had gone full-on Looney Tunes. But in the end, it was easier not
to think about her than to remember what she’d done to Henry.
Then, after a two-year absence, Mum came crashing back into our lives
without warning. I’ll give her credit, she timed it well. I’d fallen pretty hard
for my English teacher, Mr Smith, and I was sure the feeling was mutual, but
then he did a one-eighty and totally blew me off. I was gutted and had no one
to talk to – I’d lost so many friends when Thom spread it around I’d sent his
naked selfie to his family and boss and he’d lost his job because of it. Then
my grades suddenly turned to crap and I stopped caring.
I was cautious at first, because the mum I remembered wouldn’t really
have cared about what had happened with Mr Smith and me. But this all-
improved, brand-new version of Mum was desperate to know everything that
was going on in my life. I figured I should be able to trust her with anything.
I took a chance and told her what a fool I’d made of myself over my
teacher. I thought she might tell me I’d probably got the wrong end of the
stick and imagined he was interested in me, but she believed every word I
said. She was convinced he was a paedo and had been grooming me. I didn’t
think he was, but I was so angry with him I played along and started
exaggerating what had happened. I thought it was what she wanted to hear.
It surprised me how much I enjoyed having a mum in my life again and
on my side, so when she came up with a plan to get back at Mr Smith, I was
more than willing to go along with it. Then, gradually, I saw her change. It
was as if, rather than just teaching Mr Smith a lesson, she got a thrill out of
ruining his life. It was like revenge mattered more than I did. That didn’t stop
me from doing what she asked. I didn’t even question her when she told me to
steal a dead piglet from the school science freezer.
Then she gave me a memory stick and told me to transfer its files onto
Mr Smith’s work computer. That’s when I started to get scared. Mum had told
me not to open it, but curiosity got the better of me. There were dozens of
pictures of young girls in school uniform on it, some with their tops off and
others showing everything else. I knew in my gut that Mum had taken it to
extremes and I should end it, there and then. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to
disappoint her.
When Mum told me Mr Smith had been arrested for breaking into her
house and threatening to kill her, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Then,
after we played Mr Atkinson the recording of Mr Smith apologising to me
and he was kicked out, I knew this had all gone way too far. Mr Smith
became the talk of the school, but nobody knew why he’d gone until the
police turned up and took away his computer. Then the rumours started that
he was a paedophile.
Had he molested someone at school? That’s what everyone wanted to
know. My name came up a few times. It was known I’d had one-on-one
meetings with him about my falling marks. I denied it and, because of my
reputation for taking no shit, they knew not to push me too far and left me
alone.
Meanwhile, after their initial meeting, Dad agreed to let Alice stay in
touch with Mum. At first just by text, and then finally he allowed them to
spend an afternoon together. That was the day when, early in the evening, I
caught Alice going through Janine’s handbag while Janine was in the bath.
‘Are you stealing?’ I asked.
Alice glared at me, red-faced. ‘No.’
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘I can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’
‘Well, you’d better tell me or I’m telling Dad.’
‘Mummy wants to borrow something from Janine,’ Alice said
reluctantly. ‘This recording thing.’
She held up a Dictaphone.
‘What does she want with it?’
‘I don’t know. I think she wants to play a trick on Janine. I’m going to
give it to her at school in the morning, then she’s going to give it back to me
at lunchtime. I can put it back when I get home. Am I in trouble?’
‘Not if you give it to me first.’
In my bedroom, I pressed play on the Dictaphone. I couldn’t see why
someone had recorded Mum talking on the phone at End of the Line. Then I
realised who she was speaking to – it was Mr Smith, although he was calling
himself Steven. I looked at the display: it had been recorded about ten months
ago. And then I understood why Mum wanted to get her hands on it.
She was trying to talk him into dying.
I listened, part fascinated and part horrified by the things she said.
Conversation after conversation: she agreed to watch him die, then began
listing the best ways to do it . . . It was sickening. She was totally fucked up. I
gradually understood that there’d been some kind of game between Mum and
Mr Smith and they had both used me to get at each other.
I Bluetoothed all the files onto my laptop then handed Alice the
Dictaphone to give to Mum. I told her not to listen to it and not to tell Mum
I’d found her going through Janine’s handbag. She promised. She’s a good
girl. An honest girl. My innocent little sister had no idea how important this
recording was.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with these recorded conversations now
they were in my possession. I could only guess that Mr Smith had given them
to Janine. She obviously knew what was on them, so maybe Dad did, too. I
couldn’t be sure.
But before I got the chance to ask him, Mum hung me out to dry: she
posted all over social media my recording of Mr Smith apologising to me. By
lunchtime, every kid at school thought I’d had sex with my English teacher.
They started yelling words like ‘slag’, ‘slut’ and ‘teacher’s whore’ at me in the
corridor. I did my best to ignore it. Then, on the way home, a gang of boys
from Year 11 cornered me in the park. They started grabbing my breasts and
bum, saying I was ‘easy’. I was terrified they were going to rape me. I broke
free and ran home. I called Mum, screaming at her down the phone and
crying, but she didn’t even apologise. In fact, when I threatened to tell Dad
what we’d done to Mr Smith, she warned me what would happen if I did. I
nearly told her about the Dictaphone, but I bit my tongue. I was going to fight
fire with fire. I vowed to ruin her like she’d ruined me.
Then, just when I thought that day couldn’t get any worse, Dad came
home early from work, tears streaming down his face. He was sobbing and it
was a while before he could tell me what had happened. Janine had been
killed at End of the Line and the police were hunting for Mr Smith.
I immediately had a horrible, gut-twisting feeling that Mum had played
a role in this. And if she had, then so had I. I ran to the bathroom and couldn’t
stop being sick in the toilet. A day later, when Mr Smith killed himself, I had
another death on my conscience.
I couldn’t live with the guilt. I lost my appetite, I barely slept, I locked
myself in my bedroom and wouldn’t speak to anyone but Alice and Dad –
certainly not to my bitch of a mother. I had no one to confide in. Mum and
Mr Smith had used me, but I didn’t think he was capable of murder. Mum, on
the other hand, was capable of anything. I had to tell someone what I knew.
I remembered Mr Smith had a brother. I’d seen his photo on his phone
when he gave me a lift home. So, after his funeral, I approached Johnny
Smith on Facebook and a few days later we met. Mr Smith had told him what
he’d done to me, so Johnny wasn’t as angry as I thought he’d be when I
admitted, shamefully, the part I’d played in his brother’s death. He asked me
loads of questions about Mum and I told him everything, apart from about the
Dictaphone conversations. I might need those myself. Once I’d given him
enough background information on her and what she’d done to our family, I
sat back and waited. Only I never heard from him again.
As time went on, I mellowed out a little and even thought about putting
it all behind me. Mum was back out of our lives again, we’d moved house
once more, I had a private tutor and Alice changed schools. We were no
longer living in Mum’s shadow.
But it all changed when the police arrived to tell us her and Dad had
been involved in an incident at Henry’s care home and someone had died.
They were being questioned. The police let Mum go first, so she took us to
our old house to stay with her.
Mum told us what had happened. Dad had been protecting her and
Henry from Mr Smith’s brother. She said Johnny had threatened to hurt
Henry. It had all got out of hand, and in self-defence Dad had killed Johnny.
Mum kept telling us Dad was a hero, but I knew there was more to her story
than she was letting on. There always is.
Poor Alice couldn’t get her head around what was happening and I held
her hand as she cried. I swallowed hard to stop myself showing Mum any
emotion and waited until Dad was released on police bail. I knew he would
tell us the truth. Only he lied to us as well. I could tell, because he couldn’t
look either of us in the eye when he spoke, and his version was virtually word
for word what Mum had said.
Later that night I sat on the landing at the top of the stairs, listening to
them argue. Dad wanted to take Alice and me home, but Mum wouldn’t let
him. And she had video evidence that would ensure he’d end up in prison for
what he’d done, even though she’d manipulated him into doing it. From the
sound of it, he went to attack her, and I willed him with all my heart to kill
her. But he wasn’t like her. He had no choice but to stay and protect us from
her.
Mum and Alice seemed happy we were all living back under one roof,
but we were far from being a family. She was more maternal towards Alice
than she’d ever been with me, but I wasn’t stupid. She was only sinking her
claws into my sister to get to me.

Over the weeks, I watched as Dad slowly disintegrated before my eyes, and it
was all because of Mum. I fucking hated her. For a long time I believed
Mr Smith, Johnny and Janine were dead because of me. But eventually I
realised it wasn’t my fault – it was the woman who called herself my mother
who was to blame. She manipulated us all, but she wasn’t the only one who
could make someone’s life hell. Today was as good a day as any to start
wiping that smug, satisfied look from her face.
I slipped off my headphones and checked the inbox of the email account
I’d created. Mum had already replied to Janine Thomson’s email asking what
she wanted. The fun had only just begun.
I thought about replying, but hesitated. Instead, it would be more
entertaining to drag this out for as long as possible. I was going to play with
her like those killer whales you see in YouTube clips, tossing a seal into the
air, catching it in its jaws, then spitting it out and doing it all over again before
finally going in for the kill.
I’d send her another clip a few days from now, then another in a week or
so. Maybe I’d start withholding my phone number and calling her, playing
excerpts of her conversation with Ryan down the line.
I hoped her sanity would be the first thing to go, because then maybe
she’d be locked up in that loony bin again and we’d be able to get out of this
house. But if that didn’t work, I’d make the recordings public and ruin her.
‘You have to remember, Effie, you and I are cut from the same cloth,’
she told me once. ‘You are your mother’s daughter. There is so much you can
learn from me.’
She was right. I had learned from her.
And now it was time to start putting all those lessons into practice.
 AC K NOW L E D G ME NTS
First and foremost, thank you to John Russell for all your support during the
writing of this and my other books. Your understanding and patience make
this book business so much easier! And thank you for sitting guard outside the
office to prevent me from being distracted too often. Thanks also to my mum,
Pamela Marrs, for your constant encouragement.
I’d like to offer my appreciation to Chris James, who gave me the seed
of an idea that became this book. Thank you for allowing me to pick your
brains about what it means to be a helpline volunteer. Your input was
invaluable.
Thanks to my early readers, Jim Ryan and Andrew Webber, and to the
Queen of Grammar Kath Middleton for preventing me from making a fool of
myself with draft one! Thanks to Rhian Molloy for your help with school-
related formalities and to Rachael Molloy for preventing me from sounding
like an old man when I was trying to write like a teenager.
Thank you to Carole Watson for making me aware of the point at which
this story could begin. I hope you enjoy what I did with the rest of it.
Thank you to Tracy Fenton for your support – and for your name – and
all the thousand members of Facebook’s THE Book Club. Your ongoing
support continues to amaze and delight me and I look forward to continuing
this journey with you all.
My gratitude also goes towards Jane Snelgrove at Thomas & Mercer for
bringing me into the fold, and to my book editor Ian Pindar for his invaluable
assistance in making Laura that little bit nastier.
Thanks to Margaret McCulloch-Keeble for assisting me in my journey
around a mortuary, and Karen-Lee Roberts for her assistance with police
procedural work. And also to my friend Lyndsay Wiles for helping me to
understand how it feels being a parent to a child with special needs. You have
no idea how much I admire you.
This book is dedicated to the millions of kind-hearted, good, good
people around the world who dedicate their spare time to helping others – be
it in person, via a telephone conversation or through an online messageboard.
You are unsung heroes.
Finally, thank you to whoever you are, for purchasing this book.
Whether you’ve been with me from the start or have only just found me, you
have my utmost appreciation.
 AUT HO R ’ S NOT E
There are more than 400 organisations across the world made up of voluntary
members who offer their time to talk to people with suicidal feelings. For
details of your nearest organisation, please visit www.befrienders.org.
 A B OUT T H E AUT HO R

Photo © 2017 Robert Gershinson

John Marrs is a freelance journalist based in London and Northampton. He

has spent the past twenty-five years interviewing celebrities from the worlds
of television, film and music for numerous national newspapers and
magazines. The Good Samaritan is his fourth novel. Follow him on Twitter
@johnmarrs1, on Instagram @johnmarrs.author and on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/johnmarrsauthor.