There’s a picture of Rebecca in Jack’s room. In the photograph, Jack is still a baby with chubby arms and the slightest hint of ginger hair. Their faces are pressed together, Rebecca’s long dark hair tumbling over her shoulder, and she is dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a Breton t-shirt. Even without make-up, Rebecca looks glamorous. I know Tom only keeps it there for Jack’s sake – he has removed all the other pictures of her from the house – but it still feels like a place marker, a warning that she could come back at any time and reclaim her family. I want to smash that picture into little pieces.
‘I just wish we could spend more time together, be a proper couple,’ I say. ‘I only get to see him at lunchtimes. He doesn’t want me there on an evening in case Jack sees me.’
‘Well, it is still early days. You’ve only been seeing each other for a couple of months.’
We lock the car and walk up the path towards Malham Cove. The footpath is wet and slippery from overnight rain and grey clouds gather overhead, obscuring the view. Ahead of us, the teenaged walkers in brightly coloured anoraks climb the steep path like a row of tiny ants heading into the clouds.
‘I know, but I don’t see why we can’t hook up after Jack has gone to bed. I could leave before he wakes up.’
‘He might be a bit confused if he gets up in the night and sees his teacher in bed with his dad!’
‘I suppose. Tom says he does sometimes climb into his bed in the middle of the night.’
‘Poor kid, it must be hard for him. He’ll be missing his mum.’
I know she’s right. It must be so confusing for Jack and I don’t blame Tom for putting him first. I just wish I didn’t have to keep treading on eggshells around the subject of Rebecca. Everyone acts like she was some sort of saint or something. She left him, not the other way around.
‘I know, I’ll try to be patient.’
It’s thanks to Rhona that I met Tom. He’s a black belt second Dan in ju-jitsu and was teaching self-defence classes in the village hall over the summer. Rhona, in another aborted attempt to get fit, had persuaded me to give it a try. The class was almost entirely composed of middle-aged women, immaculately made-up and dressed in Lycra. As soon as Tom walked in, they flocked to him, helping him to set up the mats, paying their subscriptions and flicking their hair flirtatiously. Even in his white gi that looked like a pair of pyjamas, you could tell his body was ripped.
‘He’s a bit of alright, isn’t he?’ Rhona whispered. ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’
I tried to focus as Tom took us through some basic strikes and releases but there was something about his smile, his confidence and those crinkly eyes that made my heart pound. I felt an instant connection. Even though we were in a dusty hall full of people, it felt like there were only two of us in the room. His physical proximity as he straightened my arm or moved my leg into a different position was like a delicious form of torture. I was glad when the session finished, and I could cool down.
Most of the class headed to the Black Swan afterwards to ruin our hard work with a few drinks. I didn’t think Tom would notice me, surrounded by all these gorgeous women, but he kept catching my eye and smiling. As we were leaving, he asked for my number.
I had been single for a while before I met Tom. I had had a few short-term relationships since moving to Yorkshire but they never amounted to anything. Men my age just didn’t seem interested in settling down and I wasn’t prepared to be casually thrown aside when they’d had their fill of me. They told me I was too clingy; one had even described me as a ‘bunny boiler’ when I challenged him about the amount of time that he was spending with his ex. I had tried internet dating, but it was full of morons that were only interested in one thing. I was holding out for the full package: a man who would treat me right, who was in it for the long haul, who wouldn’t cheat on me as soon as my back was turned. Tom was sweet and kind and the chemistry between us was undeniable. Even though he was a lot older than me and carried a lot of ‘baggage’ (as my sister would say), I really liked him.
I didn’t tell Rhona at first. I knew she would warn me off. She would have said it was too soon, that he was on the rebound. Tom’s ex-wife Rebecca had walked out on him a few months before and gone back to her native New York. When I did tell her that we had started seeing each other, over one too many glasses of wine, she promised not to tell a soul. I didn’t want people judging him for moving on.
‘Has Rebecca been back in touch since she left?’
‘I don’t think so. Tom doesn’t like to talk about it. I know she didn’t send a present for Jack’s birthday because it really upset him.’
‘I don’t know how anyone can walk out on their kid like that. She must have had some sort of breakdown.’
‘Maybe.’ I try not to be annoyed by Rhona’s comment. Why does everyone feel the need to find excuses for Rebecca? People are always speculating about what drove her to it, whether Tom was to blame, but I don’t listen to village gossip. Tom will tell me the full story when he’s ready.
Rhona tactfully changes the subject and starts talking about Parents’ Evening which Trevor has organised for next week, and how she’s going to break it to Oliver’s parents that he’s a monster.
‘I mean they must already know, right?’ she says, more to herself than to me. ‘No-one can be that deluded.’
I concentrate on the path ahead of me, occasionally stopping to take in the scenery and a swig from my water bottle. In defiance of the forecast, it has remained dry, the sunshine breaking through the clouds in shafts of warm gold. The route is an easy one with spectacular views from the top of the cove. We find a grassy spot next to the vast limestone pavement to take off our rucksacks and eat our sandwiches, breathing in the cold air and looking down at the village and tiny houses. From here, the world and all its problems seem to lose their significance. I wish I could stay up here forever and not have to worry about blasts from the past and competing with ex-wives.
We begin our descent, treading carefully on the limestone steps which feel as slippery as marble underfoot, and saying hello to the occasional walker passing by. When we get back to the village, we head straight to the Black Swan for a well-deserved drink. I strip off my jacket and hat and get warm by the blazing fire while Rhona goes to the bar and orders large glasses of Malbec. My cheeks are probably bright red, and my hair is damp with sweat, but I feel happy and invigorated by the exercise and fresh air.
I root through my bag to retrieve my mobile phone and my heart jolts as I see there is another message, this time on WhatsApp. I don’t recognise the number. I think about deleting it unopened, but curiosity gets the better of me. With trembling fingers, I open it. Once again, it’s a picture message but this time I know for sure that it hasn’t been taken from my social media accounts.
I don’t need to look at this picture again to remember it; every single detail is etched in my memory. The white sandy beach, the moonlight reflected on the water, the sky lit up by lasers and the couple locked in an embrace. To an outsider, it might look like a photograph in a travel magazine, advertising romantic getaways. The two people are in shadow and their faces are turned away from the camera. You would have to know them as well as I do to recognise them. Their bodies are entwined, his lips pressed against hers.
Memories I had consigned to the back of my mind flood back: the sound of dance music pumping from the large speakers, the waves crashing against the shore, the smell of grilled chicken drifting from the food stalls, the feel of the warm, sultry air on my bare shoulders. My heart is beating so fast I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins. I feel light-headed and I wonder if I’m going to faint. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself before Rhona comes back to the table.
She is walking over now, carrying two glasses brim full of red wine. I quickly drop the phone in my rucksack as she puts the drinks down.
‘Hey, are you OK? You’re as white as a sheet.’
I fake a smile. ‘I’m fine, just a little cold.’ I take a big gulp of wine, which hits the spot and calms my nerves.
I wait a few minutes and then make an excuse to go to the loo. In the privacy of the toilet cubicle, I take out the phone and look at the message again before deleting it. I will have to change my number. The first picture may have been a mistake, an unlucky coincidence, someone from my past just wanting to get in touch, but there’s no misunderstanding here.
This picture could destroy me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He sifts through their lives like a prospector panning for gold, not even sure what he’s looking for. A private message perhaps, an email.
He must have flipped past that image a hundred times without appreciating its significance. It looks so ordinary: just a boy and a girl kissing in the moonlight. It was only when he took a closer look at the time stamp that he realised what he had uncovered.
He could have taken it straight to the police, but there would have been questions about how he obtained it. He would have to admit to hacking into their accounts. It might not even stand up in court. Besides, he’s trusted the police before, and they let him down.
No, he’s on his own now. It’s down to him to expose their lies.
He cannot sleep, he cannot work, he cannot eat. His mind is full of shadows. A simmering rage circulates around his body, threatening to erupt at any point. His desire for answers feels like an insatiable thirst.
Holly haunts his dreams. She doesn’t deserve to be happy, to find love, to have a future. How can she get up in the morning knowing what she’s done? How can she clean her teeth, brush her hair, go to work, as if nothing has happened? How can she live with herself?
He can’t.
All the pain they inflicted to save themselves. All those years wasted, believing their lies. What could possibly compensate for that? An eye for an eye? A life for a life?
He is not unreasonable. He will give her a chance. If she admits what she’s done, he will let her live. All he wants is the truth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eight years ago
‘You do know I’m afraid of heights, right? I mean, really afraid of heights.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ I said, signing my name on the sheet and pushing it towards Meg. ‘Just trust me.’
‘I do, you know I do.’
Meg and I had become the best of friends during our first term at uni. On the surface, we had nothing in common. Meg was self-confident, opinionated and not afraid to rock the boat. I was more conservative, happy to stay in the background, avoid confrontation. But she was funny and caring and I knew I could trust her with my darkest secrets.
I had told her how I felt about being adopted, and the day I had tracked down my birth mother. I hadn’t even told my sister Lisa about that. I was sixteen and had been rowing with my parents about something stupid. I can’t even remember what it was now. Mum and Dad had always been upfront with me about my adoption, had promised to help me connect with my birth mother when the time was right, but I went behind their backs and traced her to Liverpool. I don’t know what I was expecting. A tearful reunion? That she would fall to her knees and beg my forgiveness? But the woman who opened the door was a stranger; a middle-class, middle-aged stranger with a family of her own who didn’t want to be reminded of her past. She made it abundantly clear that I should never turn up at her house again.
In turn, Meg told me about her dad who had died fighting in Afghanistan three years before. His death had knocked her for six, and she had nearly failed her GCSEs as a result, but her mum had pushed her to keep at her studies and make him proud. Her most prized possession was a charm bracelet he had given her on her twelfth birthday. She wore it all the time and would tell me the story behind each charm when she was drunk and maudlin.
She had persuaded me to leave my comfort zone so many times during our first three months at university that it was only fair that she got a taste of her own medicine. I had seen the skydive advertised on Facebook. I had never done anything adventurous before and I thought it was about time I started. I didn’t want to leave university having only ever studied and gone to the odd fancy dress party.
To say Meg wasn’t keen was the understatement of the century.
We were standing in the foyer, surrounded by students dressed in pink and giving out ribbons and balloons. I scrabbled in my pocket for some loose change to throw in a collection bucket that had been thrust in my face and returned my attention to Meg. She was staring at the disclaimer form as if I had just pressganged her into a space mission.
‘Come on, Meg. It’s for charity.’
‘Can’t I just give them my kidney or something?’
The third year organising the Jump for Cancer fundraiser hid a smirk. He was really fit; I wondered if he had a girlfriend. I smiled at him as Meg hesitated.
‘We’ll be together the whole time,’ I reassured her. ‘Just think how proud you’ll be afterwards.’
‘If I live to tell the tale.’
‘It’s really safe,’ the third year intervened. ‘I’ve done it three times already.’
‘You must be very brave,’ I said coyly.
He shrugged. ‘It’s just good fun.’
Meg didn’t look convinced but she reluctantly took my pen and filled out her details. I knew she would capitulate eventually; she just needed a bit of persuading.
‘I don’t see George and Kristóf signing up,’ she grumbled.
‘Well you know what Kristóf is like, charity begins at home, and George has plans for that weekend.’
‘Hmph, very convenient.’ She linked arms with me. ‘Come on, you owe me a pint for that.’
We made our way to the Student Union where we found Kristóf and George playing pool and arguing about politics, again. The four of us had become inseparable during our first term. We lived in each other’s rooms, sharing stories, laughing at videos on YouTube, debating the meaning of life, and drinking far too much. Kristóf and I spent a lot of time together anyway because we were on the same course and Meg and I could always find something to talk about at the end of the day. George was so relaxed and friendly that you couldn’t help but warm to him. He could charm his way in or out of any situation.
I found my shyness dissipating the more I hung around them. They were all so confident and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of them. George loved to be the centre of attention and Meg never said no to a party. Kristóf was more reserved and carried an air of intellectual superiority about him which could have been off-putting if it wasn’t so well deserved. We didn’t really have room in our social cluster for anyone else, although George had a string of girlfriends that he was always introducing us to. They became pretty interchangeable after a while.
Kristóf potted the black and finished the game as we joined them.
‘Another round, mate?’ George asked, indicating towards Kristóf’s empty glass. We knew he would be paying for them all night. Kristóf never bought his own drinks.
‘Cheers. So, have you two signed your lives away then?’
‘There’s still time to back out,’ Meg said ominously.
‘Don’t you dare! Anyway, we have fundraising to do. They’re relying on us now. Are you going to sponsor us, Kristóf?’
He looked flustered and muttered something about being skint. I dropped the subject. Apart from George, none of us had any money. I was living off my student loan and what my parents gave me; and Meg had a part-time job in one of the bars in town. I only hoped going to university was going to be worth the ridiculous level of debt I would accumulate by the end of three years.
‘You mean we have to pay them to do this?’ Meg said incredulously, picking up the leaflet again and scrutinising the small print.
‘That is kind of the point.’
‘Well, rather you than me,’ Kristóf said. ‘I hope you’ve got insurance.’
‘It’s all perfectly safe. They do these jumps all the time.’
Meg rolled her eyes and changed the subject. ‘So, what did you get up to at Christmas? You didn’t really fill us in.’
‘Not much. Caught up on my reading.’
I didn’t want to tell Meg the truth in front of Kristóf. Going back home after my first term at university had been as awkward as hell. Everything seemed small and parochial compared to my life in Leeds. I had met my former school friends in town on Christmas Eve and swapped tales of drunken escapades over glasses of rosé, but their stories didn’t mean very much when you didn’t know the people involved. I found my old friends fickle and self-involved, overly concerned with their appearance and how many followers they had on social media. I didn’t feel like they understood the new me.
Nothing had changed at home. My sister had a starring role in the local pantomime and was out most of the time rehearsing. She had fallen in love with one of the cast members who Dad thought was a bad influence. Mum and I kept out of the way as Dad tried to convince her to concentrate on her schoolwork and worry about boys when she was older. They argued about it constantly. I spent most of the time in my room reading and counting down the days until I went back to uni.
‘What about you, Kristóf? Any hidden girlfriends in the Isle of Wight we should know about?’
Kristóf flushed bright red. We had never seen him with a girl. George thought he might be gay and Meg had speculated he was asexual, but I just thought he was shy around women. He could learn a lot from George, who was, true to form, now flirting with the woman behind the bar. He had seemed genuinely upset about missing the skydive and part of me hoped that he would cancel his plans. It would have been great to have him by our side.
In the weeks leading up to the skydive, Meg prayed for bad weather, hoping that it would be called off, but the day dawned sunny and bright. We piled into the minibus and said hello to the other students who had signed up.
‘I honestly don’t think I can do this, Holly,’ she whispered, as the minibus pulled out of the city centre and into the countryside. ‘What if I pass out?’
‘You won’t.’
She bit her lip and looked out of the window. It was a surprise to see Meg like this. She was usually the brave one, the one who never said no to a challenge. I guess her fear of heights was stronger than I thought. She looked like she was going to be sick and we hadn’t even got to the airfield yet.
The day started with a long and boring safety talk. Meg was listening intently, particularly when the instructor took us through all the potential risks. I could see her hands shaking as he demonstrated the right position to be in when we left the aircraft. He showed us the different toggles on the suit, and what they did, even though we were jumping in tandem and would be safely strapped to an instructor.
‘Just lay back and think of England,’ one of the women joked.
Meg didn’t look amused and I felt guilty that I had dragged her into this. I had been so excited about the skydive I hadn’t realised how genuinely frightened she was. It was a testament to our friendship that she was willing to go through with it.
We were given hugely unflattering red boiler suits to wear which stank of sweat and God knows what else. As the plane took off, I felt a jolt of uncertainty. Up to this point, I had been so concerned about how Meg was feeling, I hadn’t allowed myself to be scared, but for a second I thought about what we were about to do and what might happen if it went wrong.
I considered chickening out, but Meg would have killed me.
The instructors were joking about it being their first time as the plane slowly ascended through the clouds to the clear blue sky above. As the plane levelled, we were given a three-minute warning and they opened the sliding door. There is nothing more unnatural than being in an airplane, 13,000 feet above the ground, with an open doorway. The ground looked very far away and the buildings and cars below looked like children’s toys. The noise of the wind buffeting against the aircraft was deafening. I reached over and squeezed Meg’s hand.
‘You can do this,’ I whispered. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
She nodded. I watched my best friend and her instructor edge their way to the door and receive some last-minute instructions. She looked back at me, terrified, and the next second she was gone. A tiny red speck swallowed by white cloud.
It was my turn.
We manoeuvred ourselves to the doorway and I stared into the abyss. There was no turning back now. My mind was totally blank; I couldn’t remember anything they had told me during the safety talk.
Suddenly we tipped forwards and I was plummeting. We were falling so fast I couldn’t even scream. The instructor held my head back as the cold wind stung my cheeks. In the absence of anything to hold on to, I clenched my hands into tight fists.
The freefall only lasted around thirty seconds, but it felt like a lifetime.
I had left my stomach somewhere on the plane and I could barely breathe as I saw the instructor reach to his chest and tug at the parachute. I closed my eyes and prayed it would work. Then suddenly we were jolted upwards and above us I could see the heavenly sight of the rainbow canopy inflating above me.
‘Whoah!’
The instructor said something in reply but his words were lost to the wind. I could feel my heart return to a normal rhythm and the adrenaline slowly wear off as we floated gently towards the ground. I could see the fields below like a patchwork quilt and the tiny outline of the skydive centre. Everything looked so beautiful. I could see Meg in the distance preparing for landing.
It wasn’t long before we were doing the same. I changed my position and braced myself for the impact but my instructor was a pro and landed us with relative grace.
‘Enjoy that?’ he said as he unfastened me from his suit.
‘It was incredible!’
As soon as I reached the others on the airfield I was engulfed in a hug. ‘Oh, my God, that was amazing!’ Meg’s eyes were lit up and there was a huge beam on her face. ‘I want to do it again!’
‘See, you should listen to me more often.’
‘Holly, I am always going to listen to you in future. You are my guru.’ She gave a mock bow and we made our way back to the centre. ‘I honestly thought I was going to wet myself when we were in the plane though.’
‘Don’t tell the others, but I may well have done.’
CHAPTER NINE
During the day, I can distract myself by work, but every night this week I have been woken up by nightmares, my heart racing and my back swathed in sweat. My brain is like a newsfeed serving up a continuous stream of stories from my past. Lying in bed, in the early hours of the morning, I try every technique I can think of to get back to sleep. Deep breathing, visualisation, meditation, but nothing works.
I can’t stop thinking about the message and what it means. How did someone get hold of that picture? I’m the only person who knows that image ever existed. I got rid of it years ago and I made damned sure there weren’t any copies. What do they want from me?
I need to pull myself together. Whoever sent this message wants to scare me and I don’t intend to let them. They can’t know what happened that night. If they did, they would have gone to the police a long time ago. I will just have to wait for their next move. In the meantime, I have a life to live. I refuse to be dragged down by my past.