Jane and Ben moved away last night.
Nobody has told me officially because I’ve not spoken to either of them since that night at Jane’s house. I heard through various acquaintances that Ben sorted out some sort of job transfer with his bank. Their family of three is off to London for a new life.
Good for them.
I mean that.
It’s strange how we’ve been friends for so long and yet, in the past six weeks, I don’t think I’ve missed Jane. I doubt that she’s missed me, either. That must be who I am. Perhaps I should never have been scared of being alone because, in the end, I thrive on precisely that.
I cross to my kitchen and put the kettle on. My kitchen. I never did move in with Andy. I was doing it for the wrong reasons – and I’ve already gone through that once. It wasn’t anything to do with him googling David. In the end, I figured why wouldn’t he be searching for my husband’s name? If roles were reversed, I probably would.
It’s been a confusing few weeks trying to piece together everything that happened. I found out that Mum got her Lennon autograph from one of the other residents who lives on her row. Veronica called me the morning after everything happened at Jane’s. It’s not a massive surprise because, as I already knew, she’s spent a lifetime telling anyone who’ll listen about the time she saw him on the street. The last time I saw her, she still claimed she’d always had it.
As for Yasmine, I don’t know what to think. She never showed up for another class and the ‘really got it coming to her’ that I overheard must have meant someone else. She could have been talking about that night’s EastEnders for all I know.
Trevor, who Jane hit in my car, is out of intensive care. He’s conscious but still in hospital. I suppose that’s one thing. Mr Patrick tells me there was a sighting of a young man running in the centre of Gradingham at roughly the time of the crash. It’s a new line of enquiry that is, apparently, still open – even if it is nonsense. Whoever they’re looking for didn’t steal my car and didn’t hit Trevor. I can hardly tell the police that – but I’m in the clear anyway. My insurance company are even paying out – and it’ll be more money than my car was worth. What goes around definitely does not come around. I can promise people that.
So it’s over.
I win.
Hurray for me.
Life goes on.
I’m pouring hot water into a mug when the letter box clinks. I pop in a teabag and then cross to where the mail has hit the welcome mat.
There is an IKEA catalogue, something from a bank – and then one letter with my name and address handwritten on the front.
I recognise Jane’s writing immediately. It’s not changed since school and we sat together for long enough. There was a time when actual, real letters used to mean joy. It would be something from a friend or a penpal. A mate from camp who we’d never see again. Now it’s only bills and adverts.
Except for this.
The pages inside have been torn from a notebook, with the scrambled spiral holes along the left side. The letter doesn’t say much – but it says enough.
Why did ‘you know where’ mean the lake at Little Bush Woods?
Jane hasn’t signed it – but she doesn’t need to. I’d somehow missed that. In believing it was David who was texting me, I’d led the real messenger directly to the place where my greatest secret is hidden. Jane must have followed me. I suppose it would be a fun game with most people to tell them to meet ‘you knew where’ – and then see where they go. How many long buried stories would emerge?
And so she knows.
I’d already led her to the lake and, when I told Jane that I’d killed David, it wouldn’t take much for someone to figure out that the two things are intrinsically connected.
There is no further threat, but I suppose it is implied. Jane knows my secrets – all of them. I suppose this is her way of saying that, if I go for her, then she’ll come for me. That, perhaps, she has already set things in motion. Perhaps an anonymous tip to the police that they should check the lake? Even with that, there would be no proof that I put David there. That’s if he’s still there anyway. He could be bones by now.
But Jane knows – and she’s saying that it’s not only her who is going to spend a life looking over her shoulder. We all lash out when we feel under threat.
I finish making my tea and then take the lighter from the cutlery drawer. I burn the letter in the sink, watching the embers crisp black before I run the tap to wash it all away.
Who’s good and who’s bad?
Everyone might be the hero of their own stories and, whatever others may think, I’m the hero of mine.
If you were totally gripped by Close to You, you'll love The Girl Who Came Back, an unputdownable thriller with an incredible twist.
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