Dark Place to Hide (28 page)

‘Diane got pregnant at around this time. It wasn’t with me, so was it consensual, or wasn’t it?’

‘It can’t have been consensual,’ Tara jumps in.

‘Let’s not forget she’s also disappeared. If we follow the line the police are taking, she left of her own accord and hasn’t been spending much of her own money. It’s the perfect set-up for a woman running off with another man – a woman who doesn’t want to be found.’

Tara turns up her nose. ‘Was it Stephen?’ she says after a long pause. ‘If it was – she’s certainly not gone off with him.’

‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t keeping her somewhere.’

‘But why? And if Stephen took advantage of Diane, why would Gillian be the one plying her with alcohol and pretending it’s a soft drink?’

‘I know – that’s what confuses me.’

Tara pauses, her eyebrows raised. ‘Wouldn’t Dee have known if she’d been raped? You know…even if she’d passed out, wouldn’t she be able to…tell?’

‘Not necessarily,’ I say, slowly. I clear my throat. ‘She and I had…sex regularly…if he was careful, she might not have had any pain or bruising – and no memory of any of it.’

Tara trails her finger through suds on the draining board. ‘Did the police find anything on Diane’s computer? Have they told you?’

‘They brought it back yesterday.’ I point to it on the sideboard. ‘There’s nothing that raised any suspicion. Not a thing.’

‘Well – that’s good isn’t it?’

We stand staring at each other, our arms folded, getting nowhere.

‘I’ll need to pass the information about the drinks on to the police.’ I scoop up the tea towel. ‘And I need to talk to Morrell’s wife.’

Tara stays late, long after the dishes are cleared away. I find her presence comforting – mostly because, as your best friend, she keeps you alive. We talk about you and I hear your voice
in her words; things I didn’t know. Like how much you were looking forward to the ‘yellow sunlight’ during our holiday in Rome and how you were secretly plotting ways to hold on to Frank. This evening, I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want to drop back into that lonely place I face every night without you. There are still so many unanswered questions. I still don’t even know if you’re alive.

I can see what you admire in Tara; she’s straight talking and clean in her interactions, if that makes sense. I feel I know where I am with her. She’s trustworthy; she will say if I’m crossing any lines or talking rubbish.

Tara eventually collects her plastic boxes and steps outside to meet the taxi. She reaches out to me for an embrace and I pull her close and bury my face in her hair. We hold on to one another, each soothing our own fears, until the taxi driver beeps his horn. We must look like secret lovers, forced to tear ourselves apart. I know you’ll forgive me this moment of consolation, Dee. I know you’ll understand.

Everything is still once the taxi pulls away. Any day now, Mark will call and arrange to collect Frank, then I really will be on my own. There is not a wisp of breeze to disturb the air. A distant owl calls out and I stare at the velvet sky, the stars like pinpricks leading through to another universe. It feels like a temple out here, but I cannot clear from my mind the image of another man’s hands on you, forcing you, invading you in such a private and intimate way. I knew it was one explanation for the enigmatic pregnancy, but it had seemed so unlikely that I hadn’t let it take root. Now, everything fits. It brings up a surge of vomit and I throw up outside the front door in a clump of hydrangeas. You were violated that evening and I wasn’t there to protect you.

I make a decision. I don’t want to be in our estranged bed without you. Using a torch, I drag out a plastic sheet from the shed and lay it on the lawn. I get into the loft to track down a sleeping bag and choose yours, hoping that it may still smell of you. My wish is in vain; it’s musty and gives off wafts of paraffin, but I want it next to my skin regardless. Frank is bemused; he follows me around, wagging his tail and wondering what game we are playing. I leave the door to the kitchen open, light a candle inside a lantern and lie down for the night on the soft grass. Frank joins me, finding a warm nook between my legs.

I send a prayer up to the brightest star I can see that you are still with us, somewhere on this planet, and that we’ll be reunited before I know it.

The day after the party

Diane leaves the doctor’s surgery and hurries back to St Mary’s before afternoon classes are due to begin. She wants to find Tara before she sets up her drawing session, to tell her she won’t be joining her at the new Pilates class after school – not when she feels like this.

Her stomach growls and as soon as she reaches the main gate, she has to break into a sprint and scuttle inside to the nearest toilet. She is just in time. She sits on the seat, her upper body thrust forward as hidden blades hack at her insides.

Last night, she vomited several times as soon as she got home, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb Harper. Now her intestines are letting everything go. Finally, she flushes, peels back the lock and staggers out to wash her hands, propping herself up on the sink. She stares at her sticky, grey face in the mirror. Where have the green patches under her eyes come from? She looks terrible and she is trembling all over, like someone coming out of a bad dose of flu. Except she hasn’t had flu.

She was absolutely fine yesterday when she’d arrived at Doreen’s party. She hadn’t been particularly looking forward to it – Tara couldn’t make it and she’d had the feeling that support for the brusque and prim Doreen Passmore would be thin on the ground. Diane had felt obliged to put in an appearance, but she’d planned to do a polite tour of the room, spend some jovial send-off time with the host, then slip away before it got late.

But those plans collapsed as soon as she arrived. Stephen Morrell spotted her and made a big show of bringing her into the conversation with his wife, Gillian. Then Gillian insisted on
getting her a drink and it would have been rude to walk away. By the time she returned, Elaine had joined them, giggling and fawning over Stephen, insisting the Morrells pose for a couple of photographs, although she noticed Elaine took several more of Stephen when he wasn’t looking.

‘Oh, I’m sorry…’ said Diane as soon as Gillian presented her with the blue cocktail. ‘I thought you heard me say I’m on soft drinks…’

‘Yah, but it’s non-alcoholic, darling.’ Her high-class drawl made her sound pure Kensington born and bred.

‘Oh…in that case…’ Diane’s eyes stretched wide at the first sip. ‘Whoa – it seems quite strong.’

‘It’s just laraha,’ Gillian assured her. ‘It’s a bitter Caribbean orange – with tinted lemonade, ginger and mint.’

Diane stretched out her tongue. It seemed to be icy cold at the edges and on fire in the middle.

‘I
adore
them,’ Gillian said, taking a sip of an identical blue cocktail in a slightly larger glass. ‘You know why? Because you think it’s vodka or something, but there isn’t a drop!’ She winked.

Diane was about to slink over to the drinks’ table and swap hers for a tonic water, when Stephen embarked on a long and convoluted story about how his mother had been involved in a terrible road accident. Once again, it seemed rude to break away and soon she had another blue cocktail in her hand, thoughtfully provided by Gillian.

‘It’ll keep you going,’ she whispered, clinking her glass against Diane’s.

The tale Stephen had recounted in considerable detail eventually wound towards a tedious conclusion, but now Elaine was rattling a bowl of peanuts at her. Diane smiled, shaking
her head, and bent down for her bag, ready to move on. At this point Stephen took a step towards her and clapped his hands together as if he was about to make an announcement.

‘So, tell us exactly what you’ve got lined up for us at the sports day fayre at the end of term, Diane.’

‘Oh, yes,’ chorused Gillian, crowding in. ‘It sounds great fun.’

‘A-am I doing the fayre itself?’ Diane stammered. She knew she was organising the assault course, the hockey match and the volleyball – but surely the stalls and refreshments were someone else’s department.

‘Yes – that’s what we agreed. Don’t you remember? At the meeting last Friday. The one when Tony brought up the issue of toilet duty, and his lordship over there,’ he nodded towards the headmaster. ‘Said he was allergic to Domestos.’ He leant in too close and his nose brushed her ear.

As Diane pulled away she noticed that his words were fading in and out. He said something she didn’t catch, but it was clearly meant to be funny, because he nudged her elbow and the drink she’d nearly finished splattered down her dress.

Stephen started fussing immediately, trying to dab at her chest with a napkin.

‘It’s fine…honestly…’ Diane was blinking fast, trying to shift what felt like layers of wax from her eyes. Her head was feeling too heavy for her neck; it seemed to want to roll to one side and stay there. She needed to sit down. She turned to try to locate a seat, but before she could make a move, Gillian was back at her arm with another full glass of blue liquid.

‘Here, have a sip of this – it will make you feel better.’ The glass looked to Diane like an infinity pool. ‘It’s been a long day. You look like you need perking up a bit.’

‘It’s okay…thanks…I’m…’ She drew to a halt unable to find the next word – it had entirely slipped away from her. Gillian held the glass to Diane’s lips and tipped it towards her. She wanted to fight it, but her arms had turned to lumps of solid lead. She felt her eyes roll shut, but the liquid went down. She didn’t seem to be able to stop it. She swallowed and nearly gagged. It didn’t taste right at all.

‘I’m…not feeling…’ She was forced to reach out for Gillian’s arm. The room was pulling away from her, the floor sinking, and she was suddenly so sleepy. She heard a buzz of concern hover around her, then the scene changed; it was darker and colder, there were posters on the walls. She must be in the corridor. The images disappeared and all she was aware of now were footsteps on lino. Everything was cloudy inside her head and Gillian was twittering on like a bird at her shoulder.

‘Fresh air…taxi soon…home before you know it…nice party,’ came the chirping.

Diane didn’t remember any fresh air. She had a vague recollection of being bundled into the dark, leathery recesses of a taxi, but after that the curtains inside her mind closed altogether and it was night for a long time.

When she woke the next morning, her head was like a spinning top, but she was determined to get to school. She hated being off sick – it threw the school into turmoil and messed so many people around. If she was under par, she could set the class work to do and sit quietly at the front. She was hardly at death’s door.

She left Harper asleep and stepped into the shower. She didn’t want to worry him. She was probably overreacting, but as soon as she’d dried herself down, she rang the local surgery. She’d never felt like this before and a tiny glimmer at the back of her mind was telling her she might be pregnant. She felt a tingle all over. Could that be it? How amazing! The beginning of
something new and incredible for both of them. All the more reason not to mention it to Harper – she didn’t want to raise his hopes if it came to nothing.

Thankfully, the surgery could fit her in that day over lunch, but only with a nurse. Diane decided that if it was anything serious, she could book an appointment with a doctor straight away. One step at a time. She wrote the time down on a scrap of paper, even though she knew she would remember it, then she put it in the pocket of her dressing gown while she cleaned her teeth.

By lunchtime her dreams are over. There is no baby. The nurse says it was probably something she ate. Even so, the symptoms she’d had the night before were exceedingly odd and came on so suddenly. It was like a combination of nausea, intense disorientation and complete exhaustion. She knows that for a period last night she’d blacked out altogether. Perhaps she’d caught one of those short-lived bugs that the kids were always going down with. Or maybe she’d had an allergic reaction to whatever Gillian said was in the drink she’d had – something beginning with ‘l’…? – she can’t remember. At least the Morrells were kind enough to get her home. Gillian had been particularly attentive, she recalls – and Diane makes a mental note to thank her with a little card.

16 August – 17
^th
day missing

I’m woken early the following morning by soft kisses, then I realise it’s Frank licking my face. Somehow he’s managed to squeeze himself inside the sleeping bag with me. I have one arm around him and he’s wriggling, trying to get out.

My phone rings as I’m still on the lawn, stretching. Paul has gone the extra mile for me and arranged for me to view the CCTV footage in the hospital. ‘Obviously, we’ve already examined it,’ he tells me, ‘as you know, it was the last place Clara was seen before she went missing.’

‘Thanks, Paul – it means a lot.’

‘If we don’t offer you a few hidden extras, you’ll only pester us and make our lives hell,’ he says.

‘That’s true,’ I say, unzipping the sleeping bag and getting to my feet.

Tara is on her way. She’s called to say she’d left her measuring spoons behind, but when I told her where I was heading, she insisted on coming.

‘Four eyes are better than two,’ she insisted.

We arrange to meet by the hospital café, but I’m early and wander around looking at the position of the CCTV cameras. As I return, I see Dr Swann, his open white coat flapping as he strides along the corridor towards me. He’s carrying a bundle of files and looks harassed and out of breath.

‘Ah, er…am I seeing you today?’ he says as his shoes squeak to a halt. I can see he doesn’t really want to stop.

‘No…’ I drop my gaze. ‘I’m not continuing with the injections, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh,’ he looks personally slighted. ‘You’re not? That’s such a shame – we haven’t discussed it, have we?’ He stares at my face, trying to place me, trying to fix me amongst a myriad of other patients. ‘Too many nosebleeds is that it?’ he adds, suddenly. I’m impressed he’s remembered.