Chapter Sixteen
I pocket my phone and go for a drive, the way I used to when the twins were tiny and I just needed them to sleep for an hour.
Directionless, nothing but the hum of traffic and the rumble of tyres on concrete in my ears.
Back then it was to have a moment to myself, to listen to a podcast or just some music, anything other than the whines of babies needing something from me.
A chance to reset. Now, it’s to think, to be alone with my thoughts and figure out how the hell to put the plan I have in my head into action.
It isn’t straight forward. It’s going to be tough and I find myself wishing I could ask someone for some help, or support at least.
I haven’t completely isolated myself in life.
I have Carol from the infertility support group, and the others too.
I have Harper, who despite her exasperating ways has always been there for me when I need her.
And DCI Gary Quinn, who I’m becoming more and more tempted to call with each passing mile.
We’re on a road built two thousand years ago by the Romans.
There’s no lefts or rights, just an arrow-straight path, so there’s absolutely no reason for me to think that this car is following me.
But I do. I do because it’s happened before.
Multiple times. Paparazzi or people who just genuinely hate us tailing me, wanting to snap a picture or shout some sort of verbal abuse. It could be that.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, wishing I could just pull over and let them pass. But there’s no space to do that. I have no choice but to keep going and hope that eventually when there’s a fork in the road, they’ll go one direction, and I’ll go the other.
The windscreen on the car behind me is tinted, so dark it can’t be legal. I can’t see the driver or any passengers, even though their bonnet is practically touching my boot. They’re too close. If I had to slam on the brakes right now, it would cause a collision.
My hand shakily checks my seatbelt, and as I exhale, my lips quiver.
I press my foot on the accelerator and speed, seventy-five up to eighty miles per hour to get some distance between us, but they follow suit.
The rev of their engine makes me terrified they’re actually going to try and run me down.
I’m not in a small car by any stretch, a Mythos black Audi A3, but the car behind me could crush it easily. Drive over it like a monster truck.
I fumble for my phone, holding down the button on the right-hand side.
‘Call James,’ I shout, but the call doesn’t connect.
There’s no signal. This fucking first world country has less signal available than any of the third world countries I’ve ever been to with all of its rural areas like this.
Fury and terror mottle together as I think about what my options are.
I can’t go any faster than I already am.
I’m afraid I’ll lose control of the vehicle. So I choose to do the opposite.
Pumping the brakes just slightly, I try to see if this will get them off my back, but I jolt forward from an impact.
Steel on steel. I let out a scream, my seatbelt cutting into my neck.
They’ve hit me. More of a nudge, but still.
Whoever they are, they’re doing this on purpose.
They’re teasing me, playing with their prey.
I want to speed up, to get as far away from them as I possibly can, but I haven’t moved my foot from the brakes to the accelerator, and as I press my foot back down there’s a loud crunch.
I’m thrust into the steering wheel, my neck close to snapping.
The collision sends me off the road, into a ditch.
It all happens so fast, I’m still trying to lift my head up when the black car cruises by, and I swear, I swear, I swear it’s Raven I see in the passenger seat. Her oily crimson hair blows out of the open window, trailing along behind as the car deserts me.
* * *
I sit there, my car steaming in the ditch, trying to figure out what to do next.
For a while, I physically can’t move. Besides the tremble running through my body, I am still.
There are no cars whizzing by. No one saw the accident.
No witnesses. No one coming to help. I have no choice but to move, to reach for my phone, which skittered from the passenger seat to the floor on impact.
Now I will call the police. Dial 999. I need help, from DCI Gary Quinn, from anyone.
I manage to pinch my phone from beneath the seat and pull it towards me, punching in the numbers.
There are no bars of signal, but surely an emergency services number would connect despite that, piggyback off a signal from somewhere, a satellite perhaps.
But it doesn’t. I try the SOS emergency call because even without a signal, that’s what it’s there for, isn’t it?
The call doesn’t go through. A bellow rips from my chest. This day has gone so awry.
Now what do I do? I can’t just stay here, in the hope that James or Skyla will load up Life360 and see my little icon trundling down the A429 at a snail’s pace. I know I’m the only one that actually ever really uses that app.
I have to get out of the car and walk down the main road until I can flag someone down, and just the thought of doing that gives me heart palpitations. What if this is a set-up? What if this is a hate crime waiting to happen? Am I going to be ambushed?
Whether I like it or not, these indulgences of thinking everyone is against me happens every day. I can never be too careful, and it’s kept me safe so far, so I’m not about to change now regardless of how paranoid I seem.
The door hangs on its hinges once I’ve managed to get out into the open. I climb up the small incline, leaving my car behind. When I get to the roadside, I look left and right. No cars in either direction, no signal on my device. Sighing, I start an uncalculated walk ahead under the summer sun.
When the first few cars pass without stopping, I wonder if I should stick a thumb out.
Hitch a lift? The fear of them recognising me keeps my thumb wedged into my corduroy trousers.
Yet it amazes me, the number of cars that pass without even bothering to check if a single woman alone on a long stretch of road is okay.
Where do they think I’m going? Where do they think I’ve come from?
The road ahead and behind stretches endlessly, nothing but the sweep of the countryside.
By now, the coffee has hardened on my silk blouse, turned the stain to a creamy brown that scratches against the raw skin on my stomach.
I still haven’t had a chance to inspect the burn, but I imagine the spill has left a few marks.
Blistered? Probably. I don’t look. I just let the material scratch against my skin as I march on.
I don’t notice the whiplash until later, when the adrenalin has worn off. Even when more cars pass, I don’t stop them. I trudge on, terrified to bring attention to myself. My Apple watch has never recorded so many steps in a single day.
When I finally limp through the front door to our home, the first thing I hear is a woman’s voice. A warning, undoubtedly.
‘This thing, in your house, is a demon,’ she says. It isn’t a voice I recognise. It’s American, somewhat monotone, eerie.
I creep down the hallway, finding James on the sofa, Skyla curled up on one side of him, Raven snuggled into the other. There’s a bowl of popcorn balanced on his lap, and as I stare, Raven reaches for the bowl, plunging her hand right in.
Demon, my mind goes there before I can stop it — and how can I think such a thing?
How can I have changed so much from the woman who has deeply longed for her child over the years?
Yearning for my baby has been all-consuming.
She’s all I’ve wanted day in and day out and yet now she may be here, right in front of me, I don’t want her any more.
Not if she’s Raven. How wicked and cruel is that?
What kind of mother does that make me? To reject my daughter after she’s been through such a profound amount of turmoil.
Of course she’ll have changed, become resentful, hateful even.
I should be more understanding. I should be taking her into my arms and promising her I’ll protect her from here on in, the way I should have done all those years ago.
I should be comforting her, no matter how angry she seems or what she puts me through.
But while I look at Raven and see so much of my little girl in her, she just isn’t the tiny toddler who was snatched from her cot — she can’t possibly be.
I don’t know what to believe. It is her, and yet it isn’t.
The word ‘demon’ spins round and round in my mind. Creepy fables and folklore about changelings have started creeping into my dreams. My nightmares. I’ve tried to ignore them, but I don’t think that I can any more. I want nothing to do with this girl, this girl who I’m sure tried to kill me today.
What is she doing back here? I dropped her off in town. I’d been looking forward to a night in with my family. Alone. No outside noise. I needed it. Needed space from her. I needed access to the guestroom.
I look at the wall-mounted clock. Raven could have easily got back here before me, her with a car, me on foot. I’m sure it was her in the car. Flooding with a silent rage, I take a step closer to the three of them.
‘James,’ I say, shakily.
He pauses the movie.
‘I was in an accident,’ I manage, and as I say the words aloud, I choke. Sob. Something I hate doing in front of Skyla. Don’t show weakness, vulnerability. Always be strong. I need my daughter to see me as a source of security. Not this.
The movie, The Conjuring, I learn later, is forgotten. James and Skyla leap up, flapping around me in alarm. Meanwhile, Raven descends into the sofa, throwing handfuls of popcorn into her mouth to mask a smile playing on her lips.
* * *