She felt that ache in her heart, that yearning. She desperately wanted to be with him. Needed to. She looked round the room. Crossed the floor, looked out of the window. It was dark outside. The car park was in shadowed pools from the orange sodium lights. Beyond that was the A120.
Marina looked at the phone lying on the bed. It hadn’t rung. She had been told they wouldn’t ring until the morning. She looked again at the window, the road.
They can’t be watching all the time, she thought. Not round the clock. Her heart beating faster, she made up her mind. She picked up her car keys. Left the room.
The lobby was deserted. No one on the desk, no one in the hall. She made her way to the front door, moving as fast as possible, then stepped outside. She stopped, looked round. Checked every angle, every corner of the car park for an observer. Looked up to the road, checked there too.
Saw no one anywhere.
Trying not attract attention by running, she hurried to the car, got in. Turned the engine over and, giving one last look round, made her way out of the car park. Up the slip road, on to the A120. Heading eastwards. Towards Phil. Scanning behind her all the time, checking for other cars following her.
Traffic was light. No one came up the slip road after her. No one joined the A120 at the same point. She breathed a huge sigh of relief. Felt a smile crawl on to the corners of her mouth. Gave a giddy laugh.
She hadn’t been followed. She knew she hadn’t. Felt she hadn’t. She approached the roundabout, ready to turn left and speed away.
Then she heard it.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
Her heart turning to stone, she put the call on loudspeaker.
‘Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’
That voice again. That same fucking stupid voice.
‘I … I don’t know what you mean … ’
‘You were told to stay in the hotel. You’re not there now, are you?’
‘I … I … ’ Her hands began to shake on the steering wheel.
‘Turn the car round, go back to the hotel, wait for instructions in the morning.’
The roundabout was ahead of her. She signalled. Went right round it. Back the way she had come.
‘Good girl,’ said the voice.
The hotel was in front of her once more. She signalled and turned off. Pulled up in the same slot in the car park.
‘Just do as you’re told, Marina. Then we’ll all be happy.’
The phone went dead.
Marina sat there, numb.
Eventually she got out of the car and went back to the room.
To stare at the ceiling all night.
22
The night air hit hard, making Tyrell gasp. It was unexpectedly cold, especially when the April day had been so warm. But then night was something he had only watched from his prison window for years, never actually experienced.
He shivered. The shirt he was wearing was long-sleeved, but he wished he had put a sweatshirt over it. A timid voice told him to go back inside, ignore the crying child and stay where it was safe, and he struggled not to let it win. He looked round, took a couple of deep breaths that fizzed coldly into his lungs and moved forward, away from the caravan.
He smelt salt on the air. It reminded him of the prison on the Isle of Sheppey. He could only make out street lights and house lights far away in the distance. The lights were on in the house next to the caravan. And that was where the noise of the crying child came from.
He stepped away from the caravan, shivering, and moved towards the house. It was old and big, although it may only have seemed that way to Tyrell after being in such a small space for so long. It reminded him of somewhere else. Another house. Another time. A time when …
No. He closed his eyes. Screwed them tight shut. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t go back there.
He slowly opened his eyes. The house was still in front of him. But the other one, the old one, was gone. Good.
He walked unsurely, the ground rutted, holed and uneven. The dogs outside the house remained quiet. There were lights on in the downstairs rooms. The car he had arrived in was parked out front next to the old boxy silver one.
The he heard it again.
He stopped moving, tuning out the wind in his ears, concentrating on the child. It was a child, definitely. A little girl, it sounded like. Crying. Not happy at all. He moved closer until he was right beside the window. He managed to make out some words.
‘Mummy … Daddy … Lady … please … ’
And then another voice cut in, one he didn’t recognise. An angry voice telling the child to shut up, which just provoked more crying.
A shiver ran through Tyrell from more than the cold. A memory swirled into his head of another child. Sad and lonely. Wanting reassurance and love. Getting only anger and pain. Pain that hurt right down inside.
He closed his eyes again, trying to force the memory to swim back down into the blackness. Force it, force it …
He opened his eyes. The memory was gone. But the child was still crying. Tyrell had to do something. Make the crying stop. Find a way to make the child happy.
He knelt down beneath the window, feeling something rise within him that he couldn’t name because he didn’t recognise it. Bravery?
He poked his head up very slowly, looked inside. A kitchen. On the table was a laptop and some other electronic equipment, a half-empty whisky bottle and a couple of glasses. A rough-looking woman sat at the table, looking at the laptop. On the floor beside her, a length of rope tying her wrist to the doorknob, was a little girl. Dark-haired and sad-eyed, her face red and wet. The woman at the table was trying to ignore her. Her face was red too, but Tyrell imagined that was probably from the whisky.
The woman turned to the girl, who pulled away from her, scooting back on the floor as far as the rope would let her. The crying stopped, replaced by fear. Another shiver ran through Tyrell. What had the woman done to the little girl to make her so scared?
‘Fucking shut up,’ she said. Her voice sounded weird. Like it wasn’t tuned in properly. ‘Told you before. You’ll go home when your mother does what she’s told.’ She shook her head, looking back at the screen. ‘Little twat. Should just feed you to the dogs … ’
The words shocked Tyrell. He moved away from the window as if he had been struck. As he did so, he lost his footing and stumbled backwards. The dogs heard the noise and began to bark. He got quickly to his feet, flattened himself against the wall. Slowly stuck his head round the back of the house. The dogs were caged up by the back door, snouts at the mesh, barking and slavering. He pulled his head back in. Fast.
Tyrell looked back in the window. The woman at the kitchen table was swearing at the dogs, telling them to shut up. They ignored her. The little girl cried all the more. The woman got up, made her way angrily to the back door.
Tyrell was breathing heavily, as if he had done something strenuous. He saw a pile of firewood stacked against the wall of the house, near the front. He scurried under the window, picked out a heavy log; small enough to grasp firmly, long enough to swing, heavy enough to hurt. He tested it out a couple of times, got a good action going. Then went under the window back to where he had been. He breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Ready to move for the back door.
‘Going somewhere, Malcolm?’
Tyrell jumped, nearly dropping his club. He turned. There was Jiminy Cricket, the happy, smiling voice of his conscience.
He wasn’t smiling now.
‘I said, are you going somewhere, Malcolm Tyrell?’ The name said with hard emphasis, like he was pushing it into stone with his fist.