Chapter Twenty-Eight Jade
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jade
I can see why he chose this location. It’s the back arse of nowhere.
There’s no CCTV, no houses for half a mile, not even a reliable phone signal, unless maybe you stand on the verge and hold the phone at a sixty-degree angle while humming.
I run a thumbnail across the Clio’s dashboard, tracing the outline of a sticker Mum put there years ago: ‘Minions Are Life’, it says.
We went to see the movie Despicable Me for my thirteenth birthday, and the Minions were our favourite characters.
I keep checking my face in the rear-view mirror.
Not for make-up, not for stray hairs – just to see if I look different, now that I’m here to arrange a murder.
My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are wide, almost cartoonish.
I look like a teenager on her way to a house party her mum doesn’t know about.
My hands keep finding their way to the steering wheel; they grip and relax, grip and relax, like I’m doing stress-relief exercises.
I try to hold them steady, but the more I think about what I’m doing, the more they tremble.
It’s been a week and a half since I first asked Steve to help me out, and I still can’t believe I’m going through with it.
There’s a part of me that wants desperately to believe this is all a joke, or a test, or a dream.
Or that any second now, Mum will bang on the window, mascara streaking, and drag me home in a swirl of angry perfume and threats to call the police.
Instead, the only thing in view is the hedgerow – a knotted black mass that looks like it wants to swallow me and the car whole.
Obviously, I’m glad that Mum hasn’t picked up on any of my plans, but it’s also pretty crap that she hasn’t noticed anything different in my behaviour.
Or maybe she has noticed, but has chosen not to say anything.
I get that – despite living together, we have separate lives – but it would have been nice to think that Mum paid more attention to what I do.
Perhaps if she’d interfered a bit more, asked what I was up to, pushed to get to the bottom of things .
. . perhaps then, I might have changed my mind.
Or maybe not. I think I’m just getting the jitters.
My head is a shambles. Now that I’m actually here, the gearstick slick beneath my palm, I feel like my whole body has been hollowed out and replaced with cold, heavy air. This is the kind of place they find missing people, months later, after the foxes have done their work.
My breath fogs up the windscreen. I wipe it away with a sleeve that smells vaguely of fabric softener and stale cigarettes.
I tell myself it’s fine, that this is the plan.
I rehearse the conversation, try out different ways to say what I need, but every version sounds laughably naive.
Steve said the guy would be ‘professional’, and that I should treat it like a job interview.
But what questions do you ask at a job interview for murder?
I keep imagining different versions of tonight – the one where the hitman turns out to be a cop, or a sadist, or an opportunist who decides to kill me instead, just for fun.
Each time I imagine that, my heart tries to climb out through my throat.
I count the seconds between beats, willing them to slow down.
The minutes tick by. I fidget. 4G isn’t working, so I scroll through old texts. The heater starts to make a weird tapping sound, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every noise, every shift in the wind.
At 02.28, a pair of headlights flares in the rear-view mirror.
My body tenses, as if an electric current just ran the length of my spine.
The lights are distant at first, but within seconds, they swell until they’re a whitewash in the glass.
My hands jerk instinctively, shielding my eyes.
The approaching car moves slowly, deliberately, as if it’s stalking rather than driving, its beams blinding, shining into the Clio’s interior as it draws closer, no doubt illuminating me from behind.
I feel exposed. My heart is racing. Is this him?
The car cruises past and pulls into the space in front.
It’s an old silver Toyota Corolla, the sort that pensioners drive to Tesco on weekday mornings.
I can’t tell if I’m sweating or shivering. Probably both. The Corolla’s interior is dark, and the silhouette in the driver’s seat is so still that, for a second, I think the car is empty. Then the passenger window cracks just wide enough for a wisp of cigarette smoke to curl into the night.
A full ten seconds pass before anything happens. Then the hazards click on – one, two, three deliberate flashes.
I review the plan – get out, don’t look nervous, get in the back seat.
No sudden movements. I try to imagine how people act in movies – confident, ironic, bored – but nothing feels right.
I almost laugh at myself for thinking this would be like in the films, where you just hand over the cash and walk away.
Psyching myself up, I square my shoulders. This is business. A transaction, nothing more. I’m just here to outsource a problem. It’s not like anyone will even know about Bella Newbury going missing. That thought is comforting and horrifying at the same time.
I clumsily pull the hood of my sweatshirt up and step out into the raw, damp cold.
The Clio’s door shuts with a noise that sounds ten times louder than it should.
As I walk towards the Corolla, my feet crunch on old grit and broken glass.
The smell of wet, rotten leaves fills my sinuses.
I imagine the crows in the field watching, hunched like dark-robed judges.
I keep my head down, as if that might make me invisible. I glance up once at the car, and for a second, I almost turn around and run. But I don’t. I walk up to the rear door and wait. Through the open window, a voice, low and flat, says, ‘Get in.’
There’s nothing else. No greeting, no joke, not even a ‘please’. I open the door, heart hammering, and slide on to the back seat.
The car is warm, which is unsettling. I expected it to be freezing.
There’s a chemical sweet smell – air freshener, maybe – as well as fresh cigarette smoke.
But underneath is something tangy and metallic, a smell I can’t quite name.
The driver doesn’t turn. I can only see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, dark and focused.
He’s silent for a few seconds, just smokes his cigarette, tapping the ash out of the window.
I try to look unimpressed, like this is just a regular Tuesday for me. It’s not. ‘Thought you’d have a nicer car,’ I say, immediately regretting it.
He blows out a stream of smoke and flicks the butt out of the window, its orange glow eaten up by the dark.
‘I don’t like to draw any attention.’ His voice is neutral with a hint of London in it.
‘The less you stand out, the less you’re remembered,’ he adds.
There’s no more preamble. ‘Who’s the mark and when do you want it done?
’ he asks, like he’s taking an order for pizza.
My mouth feels like sandpaper. ‘Her name’s Bella Newbury. I need it done as soon as possible, please.’
‘Got a home address?’
‘She lives in Lymington. Flat 12, Seafoam Court, Ellington Place. I can write it down for you.’
‘Nothing in writing. I can remember. Does she work?’
‘Um, yeah. She’s an estate agent. She owns Newbury New Forest Property Group.’
He draws a breath in through his teeth. ‘High-profile? That’ll cost you extra.’
I flinch. ‘What? But—’
‘Or you can leave now.’
‘How much extra?’ I ask.
‘Another five hundred.’
My heart sinks. ‘I don’t have it.’
‘Not my problem. And I’ll need it all upfront.’
I stammer out a reply. ‘I thought I’d pay you half now, half once the job’s done.’
‘This is the real world, love, not TV. All upfront, no refunds, no “change of heart”.’
My brain races, trying to think of a way I can get the extra with such short notice. ‘I’ve got the amount we originally agreed on, but that extra five hundred might take a while.’
‘Give me what you’ve got now,’ he demands, ‘and I’ll text instructions on where to leave the rest.’
‘I’ll need proof once it’s done,’ I say. ‘A photo, her phone, and whatever ID she has on her at the time. And the body needs to disappear without a trace. It can never be found. That’s the most important part.’
‘You’ll get proof it’s done,’ he agrees. ‘But you never contact me again. Understand?’
‘Yes.’ I pause. ‘How will you do it?’
‘Better you don’t know.’
I realise he’s right. I don’t want to know.
I fumble in my bag, with numb fingers, for the envelope stuffed with cash.
It’s ironic that the proceeds are all courtesy of Bella.
That she’s funded her own demise with her credit card and her designer gear.
I question if I can trust him to keep his word.
To do the job. I suddenly wonder if he and Dodgy Steve might be in cahoots.
Maybe they’ll split the cash between them without carrying out the hit.
Even though it’s a lot of money to me, it seems such a paltry amount for someone’s life. Like she isn’t worth more than a second-hand car or a holiday in Torremolinos.
I pass the envelope to him, and he takes it without turning around.
I find myself blurting, ‘How do I know you’ll actually do it?’
He looks at me in the rear-view, his gaze cold, but not cruel. ‘You don’t,’ he says. ‘But my line of work runs on reputation.’
I can’t decide if that’s supposed to be reassuring.
‘Get out. And don’t look back.’
I don’t need to be told twice. I fumble with the door handle and step back into the cold. The car peels off, gravel popping under the tyres, and is gone before I can even cross to the Clio, the engine noise fading into the distance.
I stand in the darkness for a while, registering the way my breath ghosts in the air.
Gravel crunches under my trainers as I shift my weight, but I can’t bring myself to move.
My mind spins slow cartwheels around the question: Did I really just hire someone to kill my sister?
And I wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life, or if this is what the road to freedom is supposed to feel like.
An owl screeches somewhere above, and I flinch, shocked out of my trance. I realise it’s starting to rain. I stagger the few paces back to the Clio. My hands are shaking so badly I can’t even grip the door handle at first; I have to tuck them under my armpits, count to ten, and try again.
When I finally manage to turn on the ignition, I catch my reflection in the smeared glass of the driver’s-side window.
My face is flushed, eyes over-bright, and I realise I’m looking at the same face as my twin.
Again, I wonder if I should have got to know Bella instead.
But I squash the thought as soon as I have it. It’s too late now.
I turn the key, and the Clio sputters to life.
I put it in gear and drive, feeling the adrenaline start to ebb, replaced by something cold and sharp in my chest. I keep thinking about whether or not I should have asked him more questions, whether I just hired a professional or paid a con artist. My mind runs through every possible outcome, none of them comforting.
The drive home is a blur. I keep expecting blue lights to flash in the rear-view, or the Corolla to reappear and run me off the road.
But the lanes are empty, and the only thing keeping me company is the splatter of rain against the windscreen and the thump of the wipers.
I rehearse what I’ll say if I’m pulled over: ‘Just coming back from a late shift’ .
. . ‘Got lost’ . . . ‘I’m picking up a friend who drank too much’.
Every lie feels as weightless and useless as tissue paper.
When I finally make it home, the flat is silent and dark. Mum’s asleep, oblivious as usual. I peel off my coat and collapse on to the sofa, mind racing, nerves absolutely shot. I don’t know if I’m the victim, the perpetrator, or the hero of my own story. It’s all a jumbled mess right now.
I shut my eyes and wait for the sun to rise, dreading the photo that will show me it’s done.