You Can Trust Me: A Novel

  “No, no, and no. But Dad did find my bottle of Nembutal the day after Julia died. He challenged me about it. At first I blamed it on Poppy. Then, when we heard the postmortem on Julia, he couldn’t help but make the connection. He came to me again, furious.” Paul sighs. “I told him Julia had asked for the Nembutal as part of some article she was doing into fashion industry suicides. That I’d had no idea she wanted to kill herself. Dad believed me. He wanted to believe me. But he could see straightaway that there would be a huge scandal if people found out I’d supplied her an illegal drug, whatever I thought she was going to do with it.” Another smile twists around Paul’s lips. “The whole suicide story worked very well, actually. Almost everyone believed she was secretly depressed and suicidal.”

  “I didn’t. Damian didn’t.”

  “That’s right,” Paul says softly. “And when Dad knew you were suspicious about Julia’s death, he got scared that you would find out what I’d done. Scared for me, of course. But also terrified of the scandal. I could have gone down for fourteen years. I’m Paul Harbury, the boss’s son. Harbury Media would never have survived me going to jail. Dad would have lost his business. We had to distract you, stop you investigating, so I came up with a lie for him to tell you.”

  “A lie?”

  “About Will. To preoccupy you, so you’d forget about Julia. It was sadly easy to convince you he’d gone with that whore Catrina again,” Paul says with contempt. “No trust.”

  What’s he saying? That Will didn’t sleep with Catrina? That, all along, Will was telling the truth?

  “I can’t promise Will is faithful, but my father didn’t see anything in the hotel in Geneva. I know that.”

  “Leo lied to me about that?”

  “And to his own wife,” Paul says with relish. “And you believed them both.”

  Shame fills me. I look back at the car where Will lies unconscious, and my guts twist into a tight knot. “If you hurt me and my family, your father will work that out too,” I say, trying to sound convincing.

  Paul’s eyes widen. “Who’s being hurt?”

  “You killed Damian.” Another image of the blood in the car, the throat oozing red, flashes in front of my mind’s eye.

  “That’s right,” Paul says smoothly. He points across the cove to a pinprick of red that glows in the darkness. “D’you see that fire?”

  I nod.

  “That’s Damian’s car with Damian inside it. After I transferred you to the trunk of your own car, I took his and torched it on a field just outside Salcombe. It’ll look like a bunch of drunken vagrants got carried away.” He sounds smug. “The police won’t find anything of me in there.”

  Oh, God. Poor Damian. “So what are you going to do with us?” I glance from Zack to Hannah, then look up at Paul again.

  “We’re going to play a game,” Paul says, his eyes gleaming.

  My heart thunders against my ribs. “What game?” I keep my gaze fixed on Paul’s dark, mean eyes.

  “A choosing game,” Paul says. “Kind of like musical chairs.” He chuckles and looks down at the children.

  My heart skips a beat. “Choose?” I say, my voice a whisper. “You mean you want me to choose which one you kill?”

  “No.” Paul shakes his head contemptuously. The easy smile has gone. Suddenly he looks furious. “Credit me with a little originality, you stupid bitch.”

  I stare at him, my stomach falling away. “What do you mean, then?”

  He watches me. I get the sense he’s waiting to see if I can work it out.

  My head spins. I can’t think. I try to work out what he must mean. He is a murderer, but he’s saying he doesn’t want to kill my children. “Choose. Choose.” I repeat the word, hoping it will help me understand. “Choose what then, if no one dies?”

  Paul shakes his head. “Oh, one of them will die,” he says slowly. “And you are going to decide which one.”

  Panic spirals up into my throat. I can barely speak. “But you said you weren’t going to kill them. Either of them.”

  “That’s right, Livy,” he says. “You are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Kill one?” I stare down at my children, unconscious in the damp, cold night. The wind plasters my blouse to my body. Spray mists my face. I’m frozen, yet I barely feel the cold. A single tear leaks out of my eye.

  Paul watches as my entire world spins on its axis. I gaze from my beautiful boy to my angel girl, curled up on the bare rock.

  Kill Zack to save Hannah. Kill Hannah to save Zack.

  No.

  The tear dries on my face. I will not let this man take my children. Seconds tick away. I breathe in, then out, trying to slow myself down. My fear transforms to rage. How dare he take us and threaten us?

  “Have you chosen, Livy?”

  I turn on him. “How can you expect me to do that?”

  “Because the alternative is me killing them both. This way you save one. Livy’s choice.” He laughs, his dark eyes like bullets. How could I ever have thought he was kind?

  My fury sharpens like the point of a knife. I meet his gaze. I will not tremble. I will not show fear.

  “How do I know they’re both still even alive?” I demand. “Zack’s been unconscious for hours.”

  “He’s smaller than the rest of you,” Paul says in a bored, matter-of-fact voice. “The GHB will take longer to work itself out of his system. But check them both, if you like.”

  I drop to my knees and feel for Zack’s pulse. It’s steady and strong. I shake his shoulder and he moans in his sleep. I turn to Hannah. She is more deeply unconscious, but her breathing is warm on my finger.

  A muffled yell sounds from the car, then a series of thuds. I scramble to my feet, looking round. I can’t see Will from here, but I can hear him. He must be hurling his body against the door.

  “Ah, you see? Will has come round.” Paul rubs his gloved hands together. “Perfect timing. He can watch.”

  He walks away, toward the car. I crouch down again, willing the kids to wake up.

  “Zack! Hannah!” I hiss their names and shake their arms. I try to lift them, to drag them away, but they are heavy. I have barely moved them an inch before Paul is back, Will at his side. His hands are tied behind his back, but the gag has been removed.

  Will’s eyes search my face. “Are you all right? The kids?”

  “They’re all fine,” Paul says impatiently.

  I nod. “I’m okay.” I look down at the children. “They’ve been drugged, so—”

  “We’re waiting, Livy,” Paul interrupts. He folds his arms. “Who’s it to be?”

  “What are you talking about?” Will’s voice rises. “Paul, please, it’s us. We’re friends. You can’t—”

  He stops abruptly as Paul produces a sheathed knife from his pocket. He draws the blade out of the leather. It’s at least six inches of gleaming steel. The same knife that killed Damian, that I last saw held to my son’s throat. Now he places the tip against Will’s shirt, just under his ribs.

  “Quiet,” he orders.

  Will looks down at the knife, but Paul is watching me. His black eyes glint as he searches my face. He’s expecting me to be frightened. But I’m not. I am only one emotion. I am only one idea. One ambition.

  “So which child will you sacrifice?” he asks.

  Will gasps.

  “You promise you’ll let the other one live?” I know Paul will not keep this promise, but still there’s a voice in my head arguing that he told the truth about putting Zack in the trunk of the car with me, that maybe I can bargain with him.

  The same idea clearly occurs to Will.

  “Kill me instead,” he says. “Take me. Save the children. Save Livy. Please, for God’s sake.” Will glances at the knife again. “God, Livy, he was talking about his bike as he got in the car. I had no—”

  “Be quiet.” Paul presses the edge of the knife harder against Will’s side.

  “He’s lying about this choice,” Will say
s. “He’s going to kill all of us, make it look like you went off the rails, just like he did with Julia.”

  “Quiet,” Paul says again.

  Will falls silent.

  “Livy. Now,” Paul urges.

  “I’ll make a choice,” I say, keeping my voice steady. I have to keep him talking. Buy myself time to think. “Just tell me why you’re doing all this? Why did you kill Julia? And my sister? She was only eighteen, her whole life ahead of her and you took it away.”

  Paul tilts his head to one side. He seems to be seriously considering my question. “You wouldn’t understand, Livy Small.” He sneers as he speaks my old surname. “I didn’t want a limited life. I wanted to fulfill my potential.”

  I stare at him. What is he talking about?

  “You can’t make Livy do this,” Will says through gritted teeth. “What d’you expect her to do? Kill them with that?” He looks down at the knife.

  “Her hands,” Paul says. “Her bare hands.”

  I shiver, looking at my hands. They are cold, numb. “Come on, Livy.”

  I kneel down on the rock and gaze at Hannah. I put my palm over her face, letting my fingers trail onto her throat. Her skin is soft and pale, her pulse throbbing under my touch.

  “She looks so like Kara, doesn’t she?” Paul says.

  Beside him, Will stiffens. I look up. What on earth am I going to do?

  “You want me to make it her … Hannah?”

  Paul’s face darkens. “I want you to choose, you stupid bitch. Now, get on with it.”

  I press my hands against Hannah’s throat. For a moment I imagine what it would feel like to squeeze the life out of her. The thought is unbearable.

  Impossible.

  Please, help me. I flash back to Kara’s funeral. I prayed then, but stopped halfway through what I was saying: a request to some vague notion of a higher power. Please, give me strength.

  A new energy fills me. I stand up and look Paul in the eye.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I won’t.”

  We stand in silence for a moment. Then Paul sighs. He holds up his knife. “Say good-bye to your husband, Livy.”

  “No!” In a second I’m across the rock, hurling myself at Will, trying to get between him and Paul to push the knife away. Taken by surprise, Paul staggers back. I fling my arms around Will. He bends his head, whispers in my ear:

  “Get the knife.”

  A split second later, Paul is dragging me off him, pushing Will away. He is angry now, his breathing fast and furious. He yanks me over to Zack, who is nearest. He forces me down, to my knees, then kneels beside me. He shoves the knife into my hand, keeping his own, gloved hand on top of mine.

  “When the teacher is ready, the student will appear,” he murmurs.

  I’m barely listening. My throat is dry.

  “It’s quickest if you cut the jugular,” Paul instructs. “Tip the head back, then side to side. He won’t feel a thing.”

  My fingers curl around the metal handle. It’s warm from being in his hand. I can’t stop shaking. I shuffle closer to Zack. His skin is so smooth and clear. The thought that I have the power to slice it open sends terrifying shivers through my whole body. I glance at Paul. He is tense with anticipation, those dark eyes fixed on me. Will is several meters away, on his knees, watching.

  “I’m ready,” I say. Rain begins to fall. The sound fills the air.

  “Good.”

  I tighten my grip on the knife and reach for Zack’s head. I tip it back and he moans gently. His hair is soft in my hands, already damp from the rain. I hold the knife in position over his throat. One slip now … Oh God, I’m so close. Paul loosens his grip just a little. He wants me to choose this, to take responsibility, to make the cut.

  My hand trembles. I fill with hate and fury. It’s now. It has to be now.

  Paul crouches right next to me. I am looking down at Zack, but I still can feel the heat from Paul’s body, his air of expectation.

  Fast, I pull my arm across my body, away from Paul. He loses his hold on the knife. Lunges for it. I whip it out of the way and it flashes, bright, before my eyes. With a roar I bring it down, all my body weight behind it. I plunge it through Paul’s plastic overalls, into his belly.

  He yells with pain. Shock fills his eyes. He reels back. I cling on to the knife. It slides out of him. In a split second I take in the blood that oozes out onto the white of his plastic suit. He doubles over and I whip round.

  Will is right there. He turns, holding out his bound wrists. I fumble with the knife, trying to slice through the rope. Rain patters on my face. Hands grab me from behind. I turn. The knife falls from my hand, clattering onto the rock. Paul looms over me. He raises his hand. A second later he hits me across the side of the head. I crash to the ground, lights flashing before my eyes.

  Paul staggers over me, holding his belly with one hand. He falls to the ground beside me. He is panting, bleeding, furious.

  “You bitch,” he says. “You fucking bitch.”

  I try to rise up, but he is stronger. He pushes me down, flat on my back. And suddenly he is on top of me, his weight bearing down, his knee heavy into my belly, his free hand forcing my shoulder back. Pain sears through me.

  I scream.

  His hands are around my throat, squeezing the air out of me. The scream dies on my lips. He’s going to kill me. And then he will kill my family. Images flash through my mind. Zack wrapping his small arms about my neck, his breath smelling of chocolate, Hannah’s fingers trailing over her makeup bag on the kitchen table. I see Will on the day she was born, his smile of love and pride and relief that the long labor is over and we are safe. I see Dad’s mouth tremble as he walks away from Kara’s body. I see Mum’s gentle eyes. I see Julia, her hair falling over her face as she laughs. And I see Kara, my little sister, running after me as I walk to school, her blond hair tied neatly in plaits, her soft eyes full of an adoration I didn’t want or understand until it was too late.

  “You can’t kill that,” I whisper. But my words make no sound. Blackness flickers around my vision. I am desperate to breathe.

  From the distance comes a roar. Paul moves. Is moved. His weight is suddenly off me. Will has the knife. He is fighting Paul. They roll across the rock. I get to my knees. Will holds the knife, forcing it toward Paul’s chest. Paul’s hand scrabbles at the knife. Seizes it.

  “No!” I lurch toward them. Paul swipes with the knife. Misses. Again, he brings the blade down. He’s aiming for Will’s face, but Will catches his arm. Twists it. I reach them and throw my weight against Paul’s arm too. He struggles. But together we’re too strong. The knife plunges down, into Paul’s chest. The force of the movement pushes him over the cliff.

  With a roar, he tumbles down, down.

  Then silence.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, and everything I have been through already feels like a dream. Even more so when the police sirens signal the arrival of cars and an ambulance and a kind paramedic who reassures me the children are unconscious but breathing and wraps me in a foil blanket and tends to the cut on the side of my head. Nothing feels real.

  After Paul fell, Will scrambled a little way down the cliff to see where he was, but there was no sign of him. Logically we know he must have fallen into the sea. He was badly injured in the chest, and if the knife wound and the fall didn’t kill him, the rocks or the current probably did. And yet … I can’t stop thinking about the silver box and the way it felt. I can’t stop thinking about Paul’s dark eyes.

  We moved the children into the little hut to provide some shelter from the wind. As dawn split the sky with pink light, Will searched our car for the keys, but they were gone. As Will said, they were probably in Paul’s pocket, but again, the fact that he has not been found leaves me fearful that he is planning on coming back, that if he still has means to take our car, he still has power over us. I know that’s illogical, but I can’t help it, just as I can’t stop shivering.

  At
least Will found our phones in the car, along with a bag containing several disposable plastic suits, and a bottle of a clear liquid that I’m certain will prove to be more GHB, the drug Paul gave us all earlier. Will called for the police and an ambulance. Together we stood over our children, waiting.

  Now, in the hospital, we have been examined by doctors and interviewed separately by the police and, two hours after we arrived, we have been allowed back into the room where our children lie sleeping. The medical staff say both of them will wake up properly soon. And so Will and I watch and wait.

  We haven’t touched since I flung myself at him and he told me to get Paul’s knife. You would think after everything we have just been through, that we would hold each other and not let go, but our shared purpose, survival, has gone, and I do not know what to say to him.

  Part of this is Will himself. He is angry, and trying not to show just how furious in front of me. So angry, that I suspect he is scaring himself. He paces up and down the hospital room, glancing at the kids, then looking up at the clock. After ten or so minutes, he goes to fetch coffee.

  “Will?” I say, following him outside into the corridor.

  He turns to me, his eyes blazing.

  “You did what you could,” I say.

  He nods. “It’s just, when I think about how close he came…” Will shudders.

  “I know.” I hesitate. This is not the time for us to talk, but I can’t leave these words unsaid any longer. “Paul told me Leo lied about you being with Catrina,” I say.

  Will looks at me.

  “They wanted to distract me from looking into Julia’s death, they knew you’d been unfaithful before.…” I turn away, feeling my cheeks burn. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.” My voice is a whisper. “I’m sorry you’ve had to live with me not trusting you for so long.”

  There’s a long pause. A nurse passes, her cart of drugs rattling against the linoleum floor.

  Will takes my hand. “You have to trust me now,” he says, his voice low and sad. “It’s … I know I made a mistake six years ago, and I understand why it’s hard to move on, but if we can’t do that, then we don’t have anything.”