When I open my eyes, all I see is white. I’m sprawled on the bathroom floor, the bright ceiling lights glaring, my cheek pressed to cold white tile. I bolt upright but I’m alone. The bathroom door is shut; there is only darkness visible through the ornate glass that makes up its top half. My head spins from the sudden movement. On the side of the basin next to me: blood, a long ugly smear, a half handprint. There’s pain coming from the side of my head, and when I touch my forehead my hand comes back dark red and gummy. He must have smashed my head into the porcelain washbasin. A blow to the head. Head wounds bleed a lot, I’ve heard, or perhaps I saw it in a film. I can’t remember. But it means they’re often not as serious as they look, right? Then again I could have a concussion. I try to estimate the damage, the pain. It feels like I’m drunk and hungover all at the same time. I think of the baby and put my hand to my stomach. And then quickly down between my legs. My fingers come away without blood this time. No blood, no miscarriage. Thank God. Be safe in there, little one. Please be okay.
I pull myself over to the door, head throbbing, waves of nausea. I can’t hear anything coming from the next room. I gingerly wipe the sting of sweat and blood away from my eyes with my T-shirt, then I press my ear to the door, and I wait. Nothing. I think he’s gone. I pray he’s gone. I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious but it must have been a while. The blood on the white tiles has crusted and dried. I rise up slightly to kneel and peer into the dark glass of the door. There is no movement in the next room.
I try the door handle but I know it’s locked even before I pull back. The small metal key that’s usually on the inside of the bathroom door isn’t there anymore. He’s locked me in.
I try the handle again. Solid. I’m trapped. He wants to keep me here. He’s gone but he wants me to stay. In case they can’t find the USB. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. He’ll be back, after he’s got what he needs.
Who is Patrick? Is he the man on the other end of the phone? Whoever he is, I know now that he’s working for whoever owned that bag. I’ve lost. They have everything. My phone with the location coordinates was by the bed. They’ll know to look for something as obvious as my phone. With enough time they’ll find the GPS coordinates for the USB on it, and they’ll check both areas in that clearing until they find it. I’ve led them straight there.
I need to get out of here before they come back. I need to walk away from this. Leave all of it, go home. Run. Then Mark and I can call the police. We’ll explain everything. At this stage I don’t care what the consequences of that may be. We can work that out later; maybe we can bargain with the information we have. Either way, we need police protection now. I don’t want to end up like the Sharpes.
But then I remember Mark’s text. He is on his way. Where? Here? But how can he know where I am? How can he know I’m here, in Norfolk? I thought he might work out what I was up to once he got home, but how can he know it’s happening here? I rack my brain and then I remember. It’s so simple. About three years ago I lost my mobile phone after a night out, and when I got a new phone Mark installed a phone finder app for me so we could track the new one if I ever lost it. All he needed to do was open up my laptop at home and click on the app. And bing, there I am.
And he’s on his way here to meet me right now. Thank God.
We’ll ring the police as soon as he gets here, and he should be here soon, very soon. And then it hits me. He won’t be coming here. He’ll be going to wherever my phone is. Oh my God. He’ll be going straight to them.
I have to stop him. I have to get to where they are before he does. I have to warn him or he’ll walk right into it. I need to save him. This is all my fault.
I shake the bathroom door, hard this time. I’m trapped and I hear myself let out a muted whimper of frustration. I peer through the empty keyhole. The key’s not on the outside either. No key to poke out of the lock onto the floor and pull under the door like they do in the movies. Patrick has tossed it or taken it. I look up at the window in the door. The intricately engraved birds of paradise frozen in song above me.
I rise clumsily to my feet as the bathroom spins sickeningly around me. I wait for the burst of dizziness to pass.
I grab a thick hotel towel off the rail and wrap it around the ceramic soap dish. Hopefully the noise won’t wake anyone. I turn on the shower to muffle the sound, just in case.
A rain of glass smashes and patters across the bathroom tiles and the plush carpet of the bedroom. Shards pepper across my cheeks and my hair. I turn off the shower and hold my breath, listen. I hear nothing. No doors open along the corridor, no voices. I drag the bathroom garbage pail over to the door and step carefully onto it, laying another towel over the jagged window frame to protect myself from cuts. Then I clamber as quickly as I can through the shattered window, back into the main room. As expected, my mobile phone is gone. Ignoring the fresh cut I’ve opened on my arm, I run to the bedside phone to call Mark, to warn him. But then I stop. I can’t call Mark. His number is in my iPhone. I don’t know it by heart. Modern technology. I don’t even know my husband’s phone number. I wish more than anything I had memorized it. But I haven’t. So, I can’t call him. I can’t warn him. The only way I can reach Mark now is to go to the buried USB coordinates myself. I need to go there, find Mark, and warn him before it’s too late. I need to stop him from following my phone right into the middle of all this, right into danger.
I scan the room. My rucksack is gone. Dammit. But it’s something else that makes me pause. The safe door is open and the safe empty. This throws me. That’s where the Glock was. It’s gone. How did Patrick know the code? But of course, I always use the same code. I use the code we have at home, one that is so easy to figure out it’s laughable. Mark’s birthday. Maybe Patrick did come to our house that day. Either way, somehow he knew Mark’s date of birth; he must have gone through the obvious choices and then struck gold. And now I have no gun. I have no gun, no phone, no plan.
There’s broken glass on the carpet. There’s blood on the bedspread. We’ve made quite a mess in here; I’ll have to clean it up at some point but right now I don’t have time. The clock on the bedside cabinet reads 4:18. It will go off in twelve minutes. I slam the off button and toss it onto the bed. I’ll need to take it with me; it’s the only way I’ve got of telling the time now.
In the mirror, the top left corner of my forehead on the hairline is red, swollen, crusted with black. For a second, feeling overwhelmed, I think about calling the police. Sending them to the woods. But I need to get Mark away from there first. I don’t want him caught in the chaos of police gunfire.
Instead I dress hastily, jam shoes on, then pull on the beanie hat that will cover the rest of the mess Patrick has made of my head.
Twelve minutes later I silently lift the latch on the front entrance of the hotel. The Do Not Disturb sign left hanging on the door to my highly incriminating room is the only thing between me and police interference. It will take me an hour to get to that spot in the woods, and I have no phone to call Mark, or Eddie, or anyone else who might help, no GPS to guide me, and no plan of what I’ll do when or if I get there. Just one simple thought: Save Mark.
It’s still dark outside. My breath fogs in the air. Five A.M. is already the sort of hour that prompts you to question your life choices. This morning, that feeling is particularly apt. I really have made bad choices in my life, but at least now that I know that, I’m in a position to rectify them.
With no phone or watch, I have to rely on the little plastic alarm clock. If I run, it should halve my time. I run. I run for a long time.
At 5:43 I start to panic. I’ve made my way as far as the tiny layby on the B road. I must have passed the spot and missed it. I head back into the forest.
At 5:57 I hear voices. They’re coming from the right, about a hundred yards away over a sloped area. I drop to my knees and crawl up the slope to the top of the incline and peek over. In the clearing, two figures stand talking. No conflict. No guns in sight.
I can’t make out the figures in the predawn light but I listen. I inch closer, desperate to remain hidden even as the leaves and forest debris crunch beneath my weight. The voices are clearer now, but something stops me short.
That voice. I know it. I love it. It’s Mark. Mark is here already. I want to leap up, charge into the clearing and into his arms. If he’s in danger, we’ll face it together.
But something stops me.
His tone.
His voice is cautious, businesslike. He’s clearly doing what he’s told. I’m too late. Shit. He must have run into them, trying to find me. They’re making him help them find the USB. I slide farther along the ridge. In the thin light I see that Mark and another man are now down on their knees, scraping at the forest floor, leather gloves brushing through leaves, scrabbling soil. The second man has read the notes on my phone, he knows I buried the USB, and now he’s making Mark help him look for it. He has both sets of coordinates; it’s only a matter of minutes before they find it. Shit. I need to think of some way to get Mark out of this.
Then in the half-light I see the face of the man holding my phone. I bite back a gasp. This man isn’t Patrick. This is not the man who attacked me in my hotel room. Panic jolts through me. There’s more of them. Does Mark know? Where is Patrick? I chance a glance behind me but the wood is deathly silent. Has Patrick gone? Has he done his part and left, or is he out in the darkness somewhere, keeping watch? Mark and the man stand and wander over to another patch of the clearing. This new man is taller than Mark, his dark hair peppered with gray; beneath his overcoat I catch a glimpse of a suit and tie. Expensively dressed—even as he slowly kneels near Mark and continues to search in the dirt and leaves. He reminds me of Eddie, but with a continental slant. This must be the man who was on the other end of the phone, I’m sure of it. Patrick has delivered my phone to him and they’ve been looking for the USB ever since. My phone app must have led Mark straight to them and now he’s been forced to take part in their search too.
Now I can see Mark’s features, grim and determined, as he scratches around on the forest floor. Is he wondering where I am? Is he scared? He’s hiding it well but I can still see the fear playing across his face. I know him so well: I know he’s using all his will to hold it together. Maybe he has a plan. I remember the way he fooled the receptionist at the Four Seasons just a couple of weeks ago, how good he was at playing his character. He’s smart; he’ll have a plan. God, I hope he has a plan.
I scan the clearing, desperate to come up with my own plan, but what can I do? I have no gun. I can’t just charge in. I’d end up getting us both killed. I need to think of something. I have to stop what’s happening, before they find the USB and Mark becomes dispensable. Before Patrick comes back, if indeed he’s out there. We can do this together, Mark and I, if I just think.
I decide to crawl nearer to the USB. I’ve been able to use the darkness as cover, but the light is relentlessly building and I’ll be exposed soon. I wriggle awkwardly back down the slope and toward the second GPS spot, to the tree I’d picked yesterday as my landmark, where the USB is buried. Their voices fade away and I pray I’m right that the tall man won’t do anything to Mark at least until they’ve found the USB. I find a spot out of sight, in the sunken hollow behind my tree. A perfect view of the GPS location.
There’s movement now, snaps of twigs, footsteps coming closer. I press flat against the hard, cold ground; I can just see them over the crest of the ditch. They have given up in the first spot and are moving toward the second set of coordinates. They head right for me and sink to the ground to continue their search. They start digging in silence. Mark’s so close to me now. I want to scream, “Run, Mark, please run!” but I know our lives depend on me not doing something stupid like that. What’s his plan? I don’t know what to do. This is all my fault. God, he must be so worried about me. Where does he think I am? Does he think they have me? That they’ve killed me? He’s almost close enough to touch. I could just reach out, let him know that I’m here—
It’s then that Mark finds the USB. I see it happen in slow motion.
He palms it and throws a glance over his shoulder to the tall man, who continues searching, still oblivious. Good work, honey, I think. Come on, drop it in your pocket, buy us some time. Hit him when he’s not looking.
But he doesn’t do that. Mark doesn’t do that. Because what Mark does next astonishes me.
Instead of pocketing the USB, he laughs. He laughs and holds it up! A child with treasure. His smile broad and genuine. Delighted, he stands, brushing the leaves and muck off his knees. What is going on? The tall man nods. His face breaking into a tight smile, he tosses my iPhone down into the leaves near Mark’s feet. He doesn’t need it now; he’s got what he wanted. Mark bends to pick it up.
The tall man reaches into his pocket and I strain to see what he’s reaching for, praying not to see a familiar glint of gun metal. “No copies of the files?” he asks Mark.
I notice I’m trembling; the leaves around my arms rustle ever so slightly.
Mark shakes his head. “No copies,” he says as he slips my phone safely into his pocket.
Is Mark acting? I don’t get it. I don’t understand what’s going on.
The tall man nods, pleased.
Something about Mark’s tone of voice. His posture. This is not right. He doesn’t sound scared. He doesn’t even sound worried. What is he doing? Doesn’t he know they will kill him?
Oh my God. I think Mark’s plan is to try to do the deal. How has he managed that? What happened before I got here; what have I missed? Why would they do the deal when they already hold all the cards?
The other man is on the phone now, talking in a language I don’t understand, his tone curt. When he seems satisfied, he hangs up.
“Done. Check your account,” he tells Mark.
Mark pulls out another phone now, slowly, demonstratively, showing that it’s not a weapon. He looks calm, fully in control. Every inch the businessman. Not one part of him scared, or panicked. I have this disconcerting thought. The two men look the same, the tall man and Mark. The same breed.
The man looks off into the treeline. “Where is she? Your wife?” he asks conversationally.
I catch my breath. Careful, Mark. Don’t be fooled. That man knows exactly where I am, where Patrick left me. Mark has no idea what they’ve done to me. No idea that Patrick attacked me and took everything. He knows they had my phone, though. He knows that’s how he ended up here; he tracked it here. He’ll know this is a trick question. Don’t let them trap you.
Mark scrolls and taps on the phone. He looks up briefly. “She doesn’t know anything. I’ve taken care of her. Trust me. She won’t be a problem anymore.” His voice is bored. His eyes flick lazily back down to the phone. That’s right, Mark. Well played. God, he’s good at this. I watch him as he scrolls away at his phone waiting for the payment to come through. So calm, so together.
But wait, hang on. Something’s wrong here. Why are they paying him? Why would they attack me and steal the coordinates and then still pay us? They have everything they want. Why pay Mark? I mean, Mark’s not pointing a gun at them or anything; why would they give him the money?
A depth charge of sadness surges through me, leaving in its wake an emptiness the likes of which I’ve never known. And all at once it all starts to make sense.
Mark didn’t come here to save me. He came here to stop me from making the deal. To take over the deal. He doesn’t care what they’ve done to me. He doesn’t care that they’ve hurt me. He doesn’t care about me at all. And now he’s doing the deal with them behind my back. Oh God. Mark has made the trade for just himself.
I want to cry out, I want to scream; I slap my gloved hand over my mouth. Because this man, standing here in the woods, is Mark, but it’s not my Mark. This man is a stranger.
My mind races over the facts. Who is this man I married? How long has he been lying to me? How did he do this? My mind retraces everything that’s happened over the past month. When did this start? Mark was the only one who saw inside the plane. What did he see in the wreckage? It was Mark who left a trail that led to the Sharpes. He’s the reason those people are dead. It was Mark who sent me to set up the bank account, sent me to meet with Charles. Mark insisted no one was looking for us or for the bag. He wanted to dump the diamonds. So he could sell them himself? He kept the voicemails about the USB a secret. He hid the USB from me. He wanted it for himself. He’s been covering his own tracks since we left Bora Bora, setting everything up so I’ve been the front man all along, but he can still access all the money without me.
I’m numb with shock. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I never even noticed. I never noticed any of it. But I loved him, I trusted him, he’s my husband, and we were supposed to be in this together. But then, I never really was very good at reading people, was I? And he always, always, was. Silly me. Silly Erin. I feel my heart thrashing in my throat as I realize. I don’t know this man at all. The man I thought I knew, the man I fell in love with, the man I married: he never really existed.
“It’s gone through,” Mark says, nodding, and he pockets the phone. The money has hit our Swiss account.
“Flash drive,” he says, holding it out at arm’s length to the tall man.
“You don’t mind if I check too?” the man asks, indicating the drive. He wants to make sure it works. He doesn’t trust Mark. But then, why should he? I don’t trust Mark now and I’m married to him.
The man walks away from Mark, careful not to turn his back on him. I see now he’s heading toward a black canvas bag left at the clearing’s edge. He bends. He pulls out a slim silver laptop.
With the laptop open in the crook of his arm, he inserts the flash drive. Both men stand silent in the woods as the sun rises and they wait for the USB to load.
The tall man finally looks up.
“You opened it, I see? But you didn’t decrypt it. Very wise. That makes things easier, right?” He smiles at Mark, a smile devoid of humor.
Mark smirks. So he’d lied to me about that too. He didn’t decrypt it either. He just guessed. He has no more idea than I do what is on the USB. He just knows it’s worth two million euros.
“None of my business. I’d rather not know,” Mark answers.
The other man seems momentarily distracted; he’s focusing on his computer. I wonder what he sees flashing up on that screen. I wonder what secrets worth two million euros look like. I suppose I’ll never know now.
“Happy?” Mark asks. The transaction feels like it’s coming to a close.
“Yes, happy.” The man places the laptop and USB safely back in his bag.
And it’s at this point I realize I’m never going to see Mark again. I’ll never get to touch him, kiss him; I’ll never fall asleep beside him ever again. We’ll never watch our children grow up; we’ll never move to the countryside and get a big dog; we’ll never see a film together or go for a drink. And we’ll never grow old together. Every good thing I’ve ever felt was a lie. And now there is no recourse. He took all of our life together from me. And now he’ll take the rest of it too. Not that it matters now really, but he has access to the Swiss account too. I haven’t checked it for days. He could have syphoned off all the money already, sent it to another account somewhere. That might be where he’s just had the two million euros sent.
And what was he doing in New York yesterday? He can’t have been planning to make an exchange with the Russians, because he didn’t take the USB with him. Maybe he was just trying to find somewhere to live? Maybe that’s where his new life will be? I wonder what he’s really been doing for the past three weeks.
Questions I can’t answer. I should have paid more attention. I should have been less trusting. Too late now.
Mark will disappear and I’ll be left alone, with nothing but an empty house I can’t afford.
Or maybe he will come for me. Maybe he’ll want to clear up the loose ends.
How long has he been planning this?
“I just need the other coordinates now.”
An awkward silence.
A bird screeches in the distance.
“What coordinates?” Mark is frowning.
Ha. Mark has no idea what the guy is talking about. I want to laugh. Schadenfreude. He doesn’t know the tall man needs the plane coordinates too. That last voicemail, the one I got yesterday morning—only I listened to it. Mark only knows about the USB exchange. He has no idea what coordinates the other man is talking about.
“The crash coordinates,” the older man replies. He watches Mark expectantly.
Mark doesn’t know the coordinates. He wrote them down originally, but I was the one who memorized them, in case we ever needed to go back. It had seemed important at the time, in case someone cared for those people. I burned that information the day I burned everything in connection with the Swiss account in our fire pit. I am the only person in the world who knows where that plane is, where those dead passengers lie.
Mark’s made a mistake. He doesn’t know what to say now, so he’ll fake it, he’ll bluff, I know it. I know him.
The silence lengthens. The tall man is beginning to realize something is not quite right. Mark has created a problem.
I hold my breath. Even now, after everything, my heart wants me to shout out and help, but my head screams, Shut the fuck up.
“The plane coordinates. I asked you for the coordinates of the plane. Where did you find this drive? Where is the plane fuselage? We want the location, you understand?”
The situation has shifted up a gear. There’s a sense in the air that things are about to go bad. Very bad.
Mark has no other hand to play. He doesn’t know where the plane is. He must bluff or fold.
He tries doing both.
“I don’t have the coordinates. I don’t have them anymore. But I can give you a rough idea of the—”
“Stop,” the man barks. “Stop talking.”
Mark obeys.
“In your message you said you had the coordinates, and now you don’t. Please explain to me why? Unless you plan to sell the coordinates elsewhere? I hope you understand that this money is for the flash drive and the plane location. You don’t get to pick and choose, I’m afraid. You give me the location or we are going to have a very serious problem.” He holds Mark’s gaze. He’s called his bluff.
They stand in silence, the tension building toward something inevitable.
In the blink of an eye the older man’s hand dips into his pocket and pulls out a gun. That’s not a surprise; I think we all knew it was there. The surprise is how swiftly things have escalated. He levels it squarely at Mark. Mark stands frozen, bewildered by this ugly turn of events.
With all my heart, I wish for my gun. But I have no gun. Patrick has it. Wherever Patrick is.
Instinctively I glance behind me but there’s no one there. When I look back at the scene, Mark has moved. His body has turned sideways, and in his hand now is a gun. My gun. I see the silver duct tape. Somehow, he’s got my Glock from Patrick. Oh my God. Mark sent Patrick. That’s how Mark took care of me. That’s why I wouldn’t be a problem: he sent Patrick to take care of me. A small wood pigeon suddenly bursts up into the air behind them. And then a lot of things happen all at once.
Mark jolts at the unexpected movement. He must have slid his finger into the trigger bed of the gun, because as he jerks in surprise it discharges, sending a thunderous crack of recoil echoing through the woods. I told you: Glocks don’t have safeties.
The tall man fires almost instantaneously. What he will no doubt later regard as self-defense. As far as he is concerned, Mark’s bullet barely missed him and he fired to protect himself.
A red bloom opens in Mark’s chest. It happens so fast and I try to tell myself I didn’t see it. Mark stumbles, one arm flailing out, grasping at a tree. He leans his whole weight into it but his knees buckle. In a heartbeat Mark is on the ground. The two gunshots still echoing in my ears.
The tall man scans the trees around the clearing before approaching Mark’s hand, which now lies outstretched on the mud of the clearing floor. The man bends. Mark is groaning, his breath rasping in and out, frosting in the cold air.
The man pockets the Glock. My Glock. I have to clench every muscle in my body as hard as I can to stop myself from screaming.
He takes a moment to stare down at Mark. He fires one more time, down into Mark’s body. It jerks awkwardly against the leaves.
I have stopped breathing. I can’t remember when I stopped breathing. Next to me a dribble of fresh blood trails down my wrist from my balled-up fist. My nails have dug in so hard they’ve broken my skin. I stay as still as I can. I will not cry. I will not call out. I will not die for Mark.
He wouldn’t have died for me.
I let myself sink down farther into the leaves, squeeze my eyes shut and pray for this to be over.
I hear rustling in the clearing as the man wanders about collecting his things. I press my cheek into the musky earth. And then I hear the slow recession of his footsteps, away through the woods, over dead leaves and broken twigs. And then silence.
I lie there unmoving for minutes that stretch like decades, but no one comes. After a time I raise myself slowly. There he lies, in the mud and crumpled leaves, in his best suit and coat. My Mark. Near his motionless body is my rucksack. The rucksack Patrick took. I hadn’t noticed it till now. I guess Mark had it all along. I stumble toward him.
It’s a strange feeling. I’m not sure I can describe it. The love I feel for him is still there. I would do anything to go back in time, but we can’t. I approach warily, timidly. If he’s still alive he may try to kill me. Finish what he started. But as I near him, he doesn’t stir. And somehow that’s worse.
I crouch beside him, and look at him. The same handsome face, the same hair, lips, eyes. The same warm skin.
I gently touch his arm. He doesn’t respond. I become braver, lowering my head toward his. My cheek toward his mouth, the reversal of a gesture we’ve made a thousand times. But instead of being kissed by him now, I try to feel his warm breath on my cheek; I try to hear it. I bend my head to his chest, careful to avoid the hot pooling puddle of blood. I hear a gently muffled beat. He’s still here. He’s still alive.
I push his hair tenderly back, away from his forehead.
“Mark? Mark, can you hear me?” I whisper. Nothing.
I lean closer.
“Mark. Mark? It’s Erin. Can you—” and then his eyes flutter open. He gazes up at me, slow and dazed. He coughs hard and winces deeply at the pain. He’s going to die. We only have a moment.
His eyes meet mine and for an instant, like the flashing recognition of an Alzheimer’s patient, there’s my Mark. And then it fades. Another look passes like a cloud across his eyes. He looks at me in a way I’ll never forget. I see it now. How he really feels about me. It’s fleeting but irrefutable. And then he is gone.
A bird screeches deep in the forest and I flinch. I scan the trees again; there’s no one there. I stumble to my feet and stand there. Lost, broken, unmoving.
And then I grab my rucksack and I run.
At first I don’t know where I’m running to, but as I move, the plan forms. Self-preservation kicks in. I need to find a pay phone. A phone that can’t be traced. Halfway back to the road, I nearly stumble over Patrick’s body. He’s crumpled to the ground, arms outflung. His throat cut. I run on.
Eventually I reach the road, exhausted, trembling. I tidy myself up. Pull my wool hat down low over my injured forehead. Wipe Mark’s blood from my cheek and head toward the little village pay phone.
The time is 6:53. He picks up after eight rings.
“Eddie? It’s Erin. I’m on a pay phone. Er, it went wrong. Um, the, um, it went wrong.” The wobble in my voice makes my eyes fill with tears. I sound like someone on the news, like a refugee, like a bombing victim. I’m in shock, I guess. Shaky, reedy, breathless. Trying desperately to cling to some semblance of normality even after my entire life has been torn apart. I notice my hand vibrating, poised over the slot, clenching the next coin and Eddie’s crumpled phone number between trembling fingers. What the fuck just happened?
“All right, love. Slow down. It’s all right now, right? You all right? You safe?” He’s with me. His tone concerned, supportive. It’s all going to be okay now. Eddie’s here.
“Er, yes. Yes, I’m fine. My head—but it’s okay. I don’t know what to do, Eddie….” I’m finding it hard to know what to focus on. What’s important. How much to say or not say.
“About what, love? About what? The money?” He’s patient but I can tell I’m making no sense. He’s not a mind reader.
“He’s…he’s, um, and someone else. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t want to go to prison, Eddie.” And there it is. The heart of it. The reason I called him and not the police.
“It’s all right. No questions. Don’t say anything else about it. First of all, Erin, I need you to calm down, all right? Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” I think I can hear him getting out of bed, the squeak of springs. Somewhere in Pentonville two bare feet hit the floor.
“Yes. Okay. I understand. Calm.” I struggle to concentrate on my breathing, to slow it down. I start to notice the hedges along the road, the early morning hush. I hear the murmur of a yawn down the line and the clank of metal echo around his cell. I imagine Eddie sitting, hairy-chested, in the heart of Pentonville, on his smuggled-in burner phone.
“Good. Now where is he? Them? Where are you?” He’s going to sort it out. I can feel it.
“Norfolk. The woods,” I manage.
Silence. I guess that wasn’t what he was expecting.
“Right. Fair enough. And it’s just you?”
“Just me. And him. And there’s another one.” It’s clear from my tone that I am now talking about bodies. Not people.
“Two. Gunshot?”
“Yes. No, one gunshot. And the other one is, er, knife. Knife wound.” I’m aware that I’m not coming across well in this conversation. I breathe in again, exhale.
“Okay. You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
“Isolated there?”
“Very.”
“Perfect. Now, Erin, here’s what you need to do, sweetheart. You need to bury them. Do you understand? Go back and bury them. That’s going to take a while, all right?”
I can’t focus right now. I can’t think. I’m just glad of any direction. I’ll do whatever I need to do.
“Are you near any houses right now, love?”
I look around. Opposite the phone box is a church. Farther down the lane is one other building. A run-down cottage, shabby and overgrown.
“One house. Yes,” I say.
“Okay. Nip around the back and see if there’s a shovel or something. Take it with you. Now listen to me: be careful, sweetheart. You’re going to have to bury them properly. It won’t be easy but you’ll do it. And call me back once you’re done. Different phone box, remember. We’ll sort this all out, don’t you worry.” He sounds confident. It’s so unbelievably reassuring I want to cry. Right now I’d do anything for Eddie.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll call you after. Bye.” I hang up and head for the cottage garden.
And you know what happens next.