Gone

  Sudden silence outside. She raised her head. Looked with watering eyes at the hole. Nothing. Then a splash about twenty yards away. She tensed, ready for the whine of the angle grinder. Instead his footsteps faded – as if he was going to the very end of the chamber near the furthest rockfall.

  Clumsily she wiped her mouth, swallowed the sour taste and, taking care not to move too fast and set her head spinning, carefully knelt up on the ledge. Clutching the lip of the porthole on the starboard side she steadied herself and peered out.

  The section of the tunnel that reached to the rockfall was visible from this side of the barge. The water in the canal shone dully: the moon had moved and was now shining directly down the shaft. The walls narrowed at sickening angles, making her head lurch, but she could see Prody clearly. About twenty feet away from her. Almost in the darkness. Focus, her exhausted mind said, watch – he’s doing something important.

  He was a long way down the chamber, at the edge of the tunnel where the water level had lowered over the years to reveal a strip of ground about a yard wide – the same path that ran the length of the canal, and that she had walked with Wellard on Tuesday. Prody had his side to her. His shirt was filthy with black canal water, his face not visible in the bad light, and he was studying something in his hand. Martha’s shoe. He put it into the pocket of his fleece and closed the popper to keep it secure. Then he dropped to an ugly crouch and began to study the ground. Flea gripped the edges of the hole tighter and pressed her face into it, breathing open-mouthed, straining to see.

  He was pushing away the leaves and the muck, scooping it in great handfuls and letting it pile behind him the way a dog would, digging a hole. After a few minutes the scooping stopped. He shuffled a little nearer on his haunches and began to scrape carefully. The ground there was soft – like the rockfalls, it was mostly fuller’s earth, with one or two boulders lodged in it – but she didn’t think it was a rock he was cleaning around. It was too regular. Too clearly a shape. If anything it was corrugated iron. A wave of weakness passed through her. It choked her and sent pins and needles sparkling through her head. It was a pit. She hadn’t noticed it before – would never have noticed it – because he’d covered it so well with earth, but she knew instinctively what it was. A grave. Somehow Prody had sunk a pit into the floor of the canal. It would be where Martha was buried.

  He sat for a few moments contemplating the shape. Then, seemingly satisfied with what he’d seen, he began to scoop the earth back. Flea’s trance broke. She ducked under the rucksack and waded back towards where she’d dropped the acrow. Arms out in the dark water she groped blindly for it. She could drag it through into the aft compartment. Wedge it somewhere and tighten it against the closed hatch. That would give her some time. But not long enough. She straightened, eyes darting from side to side. The rope locker caught her eye.

  It’s not a sweetie, Flea . . .

  Stealthily she snaked her hand into the rucksack, pushing past the hard, salty chemical ball, feeling around the other things. The chisel, the climbing cams, the length of green parachute line that went everywhere with her because her father had sworn by it. Never underestimate the problems para line can get you out of, Flea. Her fingers found something small and plastic – a cigarette lighter. Another of Dad’s must-haves. She usually carried two – no, today it was three: there was an extra one at the bottom. Teeth clenched, she raised her eyes again to the rope locker.

  Outside she heard a splash. Closer to the barge than she’d have expected. Another. Closer yet. And another. By the time she’d realized he was running towards her the impact had already come: the barge seemed to lift nightmarishly, tremble and shudder, as he hurtled into the hull. She heard him bounce away into the water, splashing. She shrank back from the rucksack, cringing. Saw a flicker of light and dark go past the hole. Then silence again.

  She began to pant with fear. She couldn’t help it. She looked across at the bulkhead – it seemed miles away. At the other end of a very long, narrow tunnel. The walls were seesawing from side to side. Nothing was real. It was like something she had dreamed.

  Another series of splashes. This time from behind. She cramped herself forward. Tensed. Prody landed exactly behind the place where she stood. She actually felt his weight on the hull. Felt it echo through her own muscle and organs like a sonic boom. As if he wanted to shake the barge out of the water.

  ‘Hey!’ He banged on the hull. A series of sharp hammerings. ‘Wake up in there. Wake up!’

  She groped numbly for the ledge, sat on it and put her head into her hands, trying to stop the blood falling away from her brain. Her chest rose and fell convulsively; shivers ran up and down her arms.

  God, God, God. This was death. This was her death. This was how it was going to end.

  65

  The woman standing in her dressing-gown on the gravelled driveway had gone through most of her life with the name Skye Blue. But, then, what else would hippie Mr and Mrs Blue have called their only daughter if not ‘Skye’? It was obvious, and really she should count herself lucky their name hadn’t been Brown. It was only in the last year, when a good and decent man with the sensible name of Nigel Stephenson had come along and made her his wife that she’d stopped having to make defensive little antihippie jokes every time she signed her name.

  Skye Stephenson had a lot more to thank Nigel for than just a name, she thought, as the lights of his taxi disappeared at the end of the road. A lot more. She had peace, fun, great sex and great cuddles whenever she put out her arms for one. She had a beautiful house too, she thought, pulling the dressing-gown around her and going back down the silent garden path to the opened front door – a detached Victorian with bay windows, a front garden full of peonies and a real feel of home. The windows needed replacing and they’d probably have to put in a new heating system before next winter, but to her it was exactly how she imagined a family home. She smiled down the road after Nigel, closed the door behind her and put the chain on because he would be two days on his business trip and the door couldn’t be seen from the street, which sometimes made her feel vaguely insecure.

  She inched the draught excluder into place with a toe, stop the cold air coming in and snaking meanly around the downstairs rooms.

  Skye’s stitches had healed now and she could move like a normal human being again. She’d stopped wearing the sanitary towel ten days ago and now she really was back to her old self. Still, habit made her go up the stairs slowly, her body still feeling a little full, cumbersome. Her breasts ached all the time. Just the tiniest brush against something and they’d be leaking everywhere. Sometimes she thought she was more eager to get the feeding done than Charlie was.

  She waddled down the long, cold corridor to the nursery, stood in the doorway and took a moment to look at him, fast asleep on his back, arms above his shoulders, head turned to the side, mouth making little sucking movements. Charlie – the biggest and most important thing she had to be thankful to Nigel for. She went to the cot and smiled down at him. If it had been left to her she’d let Charlie sleep in bed with her. It would be easier to soothe him when he woke. To wrap an arm around his head and push a nipple into his sleepy mouth. But the screaming brigade of health visitors, relatives and childcare books had trampled her down. Reminded her she was the product of hippies and that, really, if she didn’t set the boundaries now, Charlie would never know which was his bed and which was Mum and Dad’s. He’d be scarred for life and end up a hopeless tangle of separation anxieties.

  ‘But a few minutes now won’t hurt, will it, little boy? Promise you’ll go back afterwards?’

  She lifted him from the cot, grateful not to feel the tug of stitches any more. Put him over her shoulder and wrapped the blanket round him. Then, one hand on his tiny warm skull, the other on his bottom, and moving carefully because sometimes it terrified her that she might trip, drop him maybe, she padded next door to her and Nigel’s bedroom at the front of the house. She kicked the door closed behind h
er and sat on the bed. The light was off, but the curtains were open, and the room was filled with the yellow light of the streetlamp at the top of the drive.

  Careful not to wake Charlie, she lowered her face and gave his bottom a sniff. Nothing. She unsnapped the poppers on the legs of his sleepsuit and wormed a finger in to check his nappy. Damp.

  ‘Nappy change, little man.’

  With an effort, not using her hands, she tipped herself back on to her feet. Carried him across to the baby-changing station by the window. It was quite a number, in green and orange, with a strap to hold him safe and lots of drawers for different things: nappies, bags for the dirty ones, wipes, cream. Skye’s colleagues had bought it for her. She thought the gift showed a tenderness towards babies uncharacteristic of the mostly male solicitors with whom she worked and she was sure they’d only done it out of pity. Probably they were thinking that Charlie signalled the end of her useful career as a divorce lawyer.

  Maybe they were right, she thought, as she unsnapped the Babygro – because these days the thought of going back to work made her want to cry. It wasn’t just the long hours she dreaded. Or the backbiting. It was the thought of existing at the sharp end of people’s cruelty, as if Charlie’s birth had skinned her of a protective layer. She didn’t think she’d be able to face seeing naked human nature at its rawest any more. It was more than just the few occasions where she’d heard, in the course of the divorces, accusations of child abuse. It was the acrimony, the loading of blame, the feral struggle for self. In just a few short weeks her faith in her job had evaporated.

  ‘Hey, little guy.’ She smiled down at Charlie, who had half woken up and was moving his fists weakly up and down, opening his mouth ready to cry. ‘Just a nappy change. Then a cuddle. Then back to your nasty old cot.’ But he didn’t cry and she managed the change with him still half asleep. She dressed him and laid him on the blanket on her bed. Puffed the pillows up against the headboard. ‘Now listen, little Charlie, you mustn’t get used to Mummy’s bed. The Nazis will come after Mummy if you do.’

  She kicked off her slippers, pulled off the dressing-gown, and crawled across the bed on all fours to him. She thought he might wake up, want to feed, but he didn’t. After a few seconds he stopped agitating his arms and moving his mouth, and his eyes closed. His face slackened. She lay on her side, her cheek resting on her hand, and watched him sleep. Little Charlie. Little Charlie, who was everything to her.

  The bedroom was quiet. The streetlight came in from the window and reflected off points in the room: a glass of water on the bedside table, the mirror, the row of nail varnishes on a shelf high up. Each surface sent back dull, reflective glimmers. But there was an extra glint in the room that she wouldn’t have recognized even if she’d noticed it. High above her head, among the ornate folds and creases of the plaster ceiling rose, nestled a tiny glass disc. The tireless, unblinking lens of a surveillance camera.

  66

  Bang. The barge shuddered. The squeal of rusting metal echoed in the tunnel. Bang.

  Prody wasn’t in the water any more. He had crawled up on to the deck of the barge and was rocking the windlass, trying to dislodge it from the hatch. Three feet beneath him Flea stared up at the hatch. Every time he moved, the stripes of moonlight that criss-crossed their way through the dark were blotted out. She closed her eyes. There was a hard knot in her stomach – a hard knot from thinking about Martha’s shoe. About her grave and about the angle grinder, the way the motor had seized. Because of what? Because it had already been used to chew through meat and bone? And what had been in that sandwich? There was nothing she would put past Prody. Nothing.

  She opened her eyes, twisted her head back and looked at the bulkhead hatch, then up at the rope locker. There wasn’t time to just sit here. She had to—

  Above her Prody stopped rocking the windlass.

  Silence. She stared clear-eyed at the outline of the hatch, holding her breath. There was a long pause, then he fell heavily on the deck, blocking the moonlight outline. He was lying directly above her. Inches away on the other side of the hull. She could hear his breathing. She could hear the shush-shush of his nylon jacket. She was surprised she couldn’t hear his heart pounding.

  ‘Oh, look! I can see your head.’

  She flinched. Pulled herself back as tight into the hull as she could.

  ‘I can see you. What’s the matter? You’re very quiet all of a sudden.’

  She put her fingers to her forehead, felt the pulse there, screwed up her face and tried to put all this insanity into place. When she didn’t answer he shifted so his mouth was to the crack in the hatch. His breathing changed, became spasmodic. He was masturbating – or pretending to. The knot in her belly tightened – thinking about a little girl who probably didn’t even know what sex was, let alone why a grown man would want to do it to a small child. A little girl, or what was left of her, lying in a grave less than fifty yards away. Overhead Prody was sniffing, making a noise as if he was sucking the insides of his cheeks. Something – a drop of moisture – leaked through the gap and hung on the underside of the deck. A tear or saliva, she wasn’t sure which. It trembled in the moonlight, then broke off and fell with a tiny plink into the barge.

  She lowered her hand and gazed coldly at the hatch. The drop had been liquid but it hadn’t been semen. Yet she’d been meant to think it was. He was tormenting her. But why bother? Why not just get it over and done with? Her eyes went to the place where moonlight sliced into the hull through the scar he’d made with the angle grinder. She thought she understood why. He was doing it because he knew he couldn’t get to her.

  Energy flowed back into her body. She pushed herself away from the wall.

  ‘What are you doing now? Bitch?’

  She breathed in and out slowly through her mouth, moving quietly to the rucksack.

  ‘Bitch.’

  He hammered on the deck again – bang bang bang – but she didn’t flinch. She was right. He couldn’t get to her. He really couldn’t get to her. She began taking things out. The calcium carbide, the parachute line and the cigarette lighters. She put them all on the ledge just under the rope locker. The trick was going to be to seal the hole that went from the locker up to the deck. She could do it with her bloodied T-shirt – but she’d have to wait for him to get off the deck. The time would come. She was sure of it. He wasn’t going to stay up there for ever. She found the empty bottle he’d given her, uncapped it and submerged it in the water, squeezing it gently until it was full. Reaching above her head she squirted it into the locker, refilled it and repeated the process.

  ‘What’re you doing, bitch?’ He shifted around on the hatch. She could feel him above her, moving like an awful giant spider, trying to see what she was up to. ‘Tell me or I’ll come in there and find out.’

  She swallowed. With about a litre of water in the rope locker she shook the bottle and placed it, neck down, in the webbing of the rucksack to dry out. Working in the moonlight, she found the chisel and the six-inch nail she’d been using with the acrow prop. She took her time, lining up the nail, and popping the plastic casing of the lighters with a neat tap of the chisel. Prody was listening to everything, his breathing right over her head. She could almost feel his cold eye swivelling to follow her as she bent and carefully tipped the contents of each lighter into the water bottle.

  She straightened and gave the bottle a shake, watched the contents swishing around. The lighters had been full but there wasn’t much fluid – under a hundred millitres. It would be enough to soak part of the para line and make a wick of sorts that would reach into the next compartment. The rest she’d have to sacrifice to the rope locker to give the acetylene the extra explosive jolt it needed.

  ‘Tell me what you’re fucking doing or I’m coming in.’

  She swallowed. She put her thumb and forefinger on her throat and pressed lightly. Tried to stop her voice shaking as she said, ‘Go on then. Come in and see.’

  There was a pause. As
if he couldn’t believe what she’d said. Then he began to claw and hammer and tear at the hatch, shouting and swearing and kicking. She raised her eyes to it. He can’t get in, she told herself. He cannot get in. Eyes locked on the hatch, she began searching through the rucksack, trying to find something she could put the lighter fuel in to protect it from the water in the rope locker. Prody stopped screaming at her. Breathing hard, he slithered to the edge of the deck and dropped off into the canal. She could hear him walking around the barge, pacing, trying to find a way in. He wouldn’t. Unless he got the angle grinder started again, or unless he climbed back up the hole and somehow found himself another power tool, he wouldn’t get back in. She was going to beat him at his own game.

  She found the plastic tray that had contained batteries for her torch. She took it to the ledge and had turned for the bottle of lighter fuel when a long wave of nausea and weakness came over her.

  Immediately she set the bottle on the ledge and sat down, breathing hard to steady herself. She opened her mouth and sucked in air, but her body was at the end of its resilience. The fumes of the lighter fuel, the stench of rot and fear overwhelmed her. She just had time to tip herself down on to the ledge when a dense and bitter pull rose up through her chest and neck and dragged her feet first downwards until everything, every thought, every impulse, was reduced to nothing more than a tiny red point of electrical activity at the pulpy centre of her brain.

  67

  At four thirty Charlie Stephenson blinked, opened his mouth and began to howl. In the room at the front of the house Skye stirred. She rubbed her eyes and reached sleepily for Nigel, but found cold empty sheets instead of his warm mass. She groaned and rolled on to her back, tilting her head up to see the numbers projected on to her ceiling – 4:32. She let her hands drop across her face. Four thirty. Charlie’s favourite time.