Hannah worked her fingers between the tie and the leg of her jeans and pulled as hard as she could. The plastic cut her, sending a line of pain through the pads of her fingers, but it didn’t give at all. She tightened her grip. It wouldn’t break but if she could stretch it enough, maybe she could get her foot through. Clenching her jaw, she tried again, leaning back in the chair, pulling with as much of her body weight as she could. Come on, come on – please. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge.
He was leaning on the doorbell now and it rang through the house like an alarm, shrill and constant. ‘All right, all right,’ Nick shouted, and then, seconds later, she heard Mark’s voice.
‘If you’ve touched her, you fucking little germ . . .’
‘You’ll do what?’ Nick said. ‘Set me up for murder? Have me thrown in jail?’
‘Where is she?’
The sound of quick footsteps down the hallway. Hannah yanked at the tie again, almost tipping herself forward out of the chair, tears of frustration in her eyes. She tried standing again but the ties were too tight: she couldn’t straighten her legs.
‘Hannah.’
Mark stood framed in the doorway, the mouth of the corridor dark behind him. She was seized by terror. He was wearing jeans and his black jumper, the outfit she’d watched him put on in the hotel room that morning, but it was as if she’d never seen him before. Who was he, this stranger? This rapist. This killer. She saw him look at the ties round her ankles and then at her hand, and when she followed his glance, she saw that her palm was covered in blood.
‘What’s he done to you? Has he hurt you? He’s hurt you.’ He came towards her, arms out, but she twisted her body away from him, hands out, shielding herself.
‘No. Don’t touch me.’
‘Han . . .’ He reached out but she shoved his arm away, recoiling from the contact.
‘I said, don’t touch me.’
She flailed, trying to keep him off, but he grabbed her head and held her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. At first she resisted but then she stopped struggling and stared back.
‘I know,’ she told him. ‘Patty, Hermione – I know everything.’
His hands dropped. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he stepped away from her. His body seemed to sag momentarily, as if she’d knocked the wind out of him. Transfixed, she watched his expression change from shock to regret and then, too quickly, to a kind of resigned acceptance that sent a chill through her. He looked at her with detachment for a second or two, and then, as if coming to himself again, he spun around. Nick was standing near the door, watching them.
‘What have you done?’ Mark said.
‘She needed to know.’
Mark shook his head as if he was actually pained. ‘You’re mad.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘See, I told you – he’s insane, crazy.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Will you kill her, too,’ Nick asked, ‘now that she knows? It would be a shame – you actually love her, don’t you? The first time in your life you’ve ever cared about anyone other than yourself. Except for Mum, obviously.’
Without warning, Mark launched himself across the room. He swung, aiming for Nick’s face, but Nick anticipated him, took a step sideways, then drove his fist into Mark’s stomach. Mark doubled over and Nick grabbed his collar, pulled him back and then hurled him against the wall. A dull thud – the wall was plasterboard, soft.
‘I hope you did better than that inside, pretty boy.’
Nick made a sound, half-groan, half-roar, and threw himself at Mark. He brought his knee up, aiming for his brother’s groin, but he missed and Nick caught hold of him by the hair, pulled his head down and dragged him across the room, feet scuffing against the flagstones. He threw Mark against the wall by the door and there was the crack of skull on stone. Mark started to slump but Nick’s hands went round his throat and pinned him against the wall. ‘You killed Hermione.’
‘You’re mad.’ Mark laughed as much as the hand round his throat allowed. ‘You’ve always been mad. Headcase,’ he said to Hannah, ‘that was what they called him at school.’
Nick took hold of the collar of his jumper and bounced his head off the stone three times, each blow harder than the one before. ‘Admit it: you . . .’ Crack! ‘. . . Killed . . .’ Crack! ‘. . . Hermione.’ Crack!
When he raised his eyes, it was a second or two before Mark could focus. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
She’d known, she’d already known, but it still hit Hannah like a fist in the stomach.
‘You . . . It was you who threatened her,’ said Hannah. ‘It was you.’
‘I didn’t – I didn’t have to. She was scared of me, anyway. Because she knew,’ he said.
‘Knew what?’
‘That I was there. That afternoon.’
Nick stared at him. ‘How?’
‘Let go of me – I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.’
Nick bounced him backwards a final time then let him go. Mark staggered. When he’d steadied himself, he ran a tentative hand around his neck. Hannah saw the gleam of blood in the hair above his left ear.
‘She saw me leaving your place,’ he said, voice hoarse. ‘She’d heard about you leaving the club with Patty and she’d come to finish things with you. We bumped into each other on the street.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Nick. ‘If she knew then, why didn’t she go to the police?’
‘Because I sorted it out, you fuckwit. Like I’ve always had to sort everything out.’
‘How?’
‘I asked her what Geoffrey Landis and her employers at the hospital would think if they knew about the drugs she’d sold us over the years, all those dodgy prescriptions. What she’d do if she couldn’t be a doctor any more.’
‘You . . .’
‘I had to. All my life you’ve fucked things up for me. You’re a worthless piece of shit.’ He moved his hand to his pocket and then, before Hannah could even shout a warning, Nick gave a horrible cry and doubled over. Mark pushed, driving the knife further in, then twisted his hand and pulled it out. Nick grabbed for it but missed and Mark jabbed it in again, higher this time. Nick staggered backwards. Looking down, he saw the two roses of blood blooming across the lower part of his T-shirt. ‘What . . .?’
Mark lunged forward and grabbed him by the neck of his coat. He drew his arm back and Hannah saw the knife, a long, mean razor of a thing. ‘When are you going to learn?’ he said, shoving it forward again. ‘You should know! You should know not to try to screw with me.’
Nick leaned forward and for a split second Hannah thought he was falling. Then, though, he reared back again, looked Mark in the eye, and head-butted him in the face. Mark gave a cry of pain as blood poured from his nose and Nick grabbed him by the collar and spun him sideways into the table, sending chairs flying.
The knife lay on the floor. Hannah saw Nick look at it and then at her. Hand pressed to his stomach, he stooped, picked it up and came towards her, holding it out. He bent at her feet, and with two quick strokes cut the plastic ties.
‘Get out of here!’
Light-headed, holding on to the arms of the chair, she stood. Mark was on his feet again, too, holding his wrist under his nose, blotting the blood with his cuff. With a shout, he lurched across the kitchen and fell on Nick, bringing him to the ground. Nick fought but the wounds were already making him weaker and Mark quickly pinned him to the floor and smashed his face into the tiles.
‘Run, Hannah,’ Nick said, voice thick with blood. He brought his knee up and smashed it into the small of Mark’s back, making him grunt with pain. ‘Go.’
Mark swiped at her, grabbing the leg of her jeans, but she pulled free of him and ran. Down the corridor and back to the front door, their grunts and cries loud even there. It was a fight to the death: one of them was going to kill the other.
The door was unlocked, Nick had unlocked it for Mark, and she yanked it open and lurched out on to the path. In the dim light, the white van seemed almost to glow. She ran to it and pulled the driver’s door open. Without much hope, she checked the ignition but of course Nick hadn’t left the key. She went to the back door in case he’d left it there by mistake when he’d pulled her out, but it wasn’t there, either. He must have it – it must be in his pocket.
Mark’s Mercedes was parked at the mouth of the drive, facing out, ready to go. With a glance back at the house, she ran to it. She tried the door but it was locked.
She felt a burst of panic that she quickly suppressed: there was no time; she had to concentrate, think clearly. Come on, Hannah.
Her phone: it was in her bag. She ran back across the drive and climbed into the van’s front seat. At first she thought the bag was gone but then she saw that it had fallen forward into the footwell. She snatched it up and scrabbled through it, cursing the clutter of old receipts and tissues. Come on, come on. Glancing through the windscreen she saw the front of the house, the door gaping blackly open. What was happening? Who was winning?
At last she found the phone. She pressed the button to unlock it but nothing happened. For a moment, she panicked again – it had run out of battery; it was useless – but then she remembered: Nick had turned it off. Almost laughing with relief, she turned it on and dialled 999, fingers fumbling. Nothing. She tried again: still nothing. Looking at the screen, she saw the signal icon: there was no reception. They were too far out in the country.
With a cry of despair, she threw the phone down on the seat. It bounced and fell into the gap by the handbrake. Almost in tears, she stuck her hand down and groped for it, getting her fingers on it but then feeling it slip farther away.
In the doorway of the house now, a man appeared, visible only in outline. She froze. Which one – Nick or Mark? Who had won?
‘Hannah.’ The shout seemed to fill the whole sky.
Mark.
He stepped free from the shadow of the house and started down the path towards the van. For a moment she was immobilised by fear but then she yanked the passenger door open and got out. Her feet sounded deafening on the gravel.
‘Hannah!’ He came after her and she heard herself give a cry of alarm. ‘Hannah, get back here.’
A wall ran from the side of the house, and in the dim light, she made out a wooden gate partly hidden by overhanging foliage. Shoving it open, she found herself in some kind of formal garden, raised beds divided by paths paved with stone. Mark was ten feet behind her, she could hear him breathing, and without thinking about where she was going, she plunged down the central path.
‘Hannah!’
At the back of the garden there was a long brick wall and what looked like a greenhouse. Next to it was another gate. She headed straight for it, trying to find the quickest route through beds full of fruit canes and the moon faces of leeks gone to seed, but Mark saw where she was going and climbed over one of the beds to cut her off. He snatched at her coat, just missing, and she screamed. ‘Get off me!’
He jumped down right behind her but then he skidded, almost falling over, and she took her chance and ran again. In her terror, she seemed to find a new gear and she reached the gate and managed to slam it before he could get through. Ahead of her now, she saw, twenty or so feet away, was a deep ditch, an old ha-ha, and then fields, just fields, and here and there a stand of trees and then – thank God, thank God – she saw a handful of lights, tiny, like jewels, a mile away, maybe more, but lights.
The gate slammed shut again.
Into the ditch and then up the other side, legs burning, Mark thundering down after her, ten feet behind. She tripped, put her hands out to stop herself, felt thistles. Across the first field, her ankles turning over again and again as her feet found rabbit holes and stray briars, a half-buried lump of stone. Overhead, the sky was smothered in cloud and gave hardly any light. Her heart was thumping, her breath coming in great jagged gasps. He would kill her – if he caught her, he’d kill her. Run.
The next field was ploughed into furrows a foot high, each one a mini-breaker of solid mud. She started hobbling across it, heading towards the lights, tripping on huge clumps of clay, struggling to keep her balance.
Then, without warning, she caught the tip of her boot. She sprawled, hitting her head on the crest of a furrow, cutting her palms on stones. As soon as she landed, she started to get back up but before she could do it, a hand grabbed the material of her coat. He pulled her up, threw her down on her back and straddled her.
She fought, hitting him, scratching his face, trying to get her knees up behind him like Nick had, but he was too strong. He caught her wrists and forced them down on either side of her head. She wrenched her upper body sideways, turned her head and bit his forearm.
‘You . . .’ He lifted her by her collar and thumped her head backwards against the ground. The pain was stunning; it spread in waves across her skull, and for a moment she lay still. Above her, his face was lost in the darkness; she could only make out his eyes by the shine across them.
‘Nick was right, Hannah,’ he said, breathing hard through his mouth. ‘I do love you.’
‘Oh, God, you’re mad.’ She struggled again, trying to get her hands free, but he just held her down harder, pressing her wrists further into the mud.
‘Stop it. Stop fighting and listen to me.’
‘You’re a murderer – you killed Hermione, Mark. She’s dead. Do you even know what you’ve done? Do you know what that means? You’re a killer.’
‘How can you say that?’ he said, and to her amazement, he sounded hurt – actually wounded. ‘This was for you.’
‘What?’ Her voice was full of horror. ‘No.’
‘It was all for you.’
‘No, Mark. No. This had nothing to do with me.’
‘It had everything to do with you. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been working to try and keep this all under control, to try and save our marriage?’
‘Save our marriage?’ She was incredulous.
‘The stories, the explanations – layer after layer and nothing seemed to satisfy you. You just wouldn’t stop digging – it was like you were trying to destroy us.’ He seemed to choke and she heard blood bubble in his nose. Was he crying?
She tried to move but he pressed his weight down again, pinning her firmly.
‘You’re the first woman I’ve ever loved, Hannah. Do you know what that means? Before you, everyone I’d ever met was with me for one of two reasons: as a way of getting to him or for my money. But when I met you – I can’t give you my money. You don’t want it.’ He laughed, as if the whole thing were delightful. ‘You won’t use my cards, I know you feel weird about the Audi – and I love it. It’s wonderful – you’re with me because you want me. Me.’
‘Mark, please – let me go.’
‘No, I need you to listen, Hannah – I’m trying to explain. You’re different. You’re everything I ever wanted – remember I told you that, on our wedding day? I could have had a lot of different women – once you’ve got money, it’s amazing how attractive you are suddenly – but you’re not like that. What I’m trying to say is that you’ve got class. It’s in everything you do – the way you dress, how you look. Your books and music and films. Even your running – I know you hate it but you do it because you’ve got backbone. That’s class.’
‘Mark . . .’
‘Hannah, I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. We can keep a lid on all this, Nick, until the deal’s done – we’ll find a way. I’ll sell the company and then we’ll leave London, go wherever you want. We can forget this ever happened – put it behind us and . . .’
‘What? Mark, you killed someone.’
‘Only because I had to – to stop you finding out.’ His voice rose in frustration at her refusal to understand. ‘I didn’t want to but I had no choice. Nick was going to ruin everything – it was all going to come out, I was terrified of losing you. I had to try to—’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I think so. Yes.’ Mark said it calmly, matter-of-fact. ‘See? He’s gone and you know everything now. We can start again with a clean slate. We’ll go somewhere and make a fresh start. We can make this work; I know we can. Tell me we’re going to be fine.’ He tightened his grip on her wrists. ‘Say it.’
‘I . . .’
‘Say it.’
‘I can’t – I can’t. You’ve killed people – we can never go back.’
He gave a cry of pure anguish. ‘You . . .’ He looked at her for a second, eyes shining in the dark, and then he let go of her wrists and grabbed hold of her coat by the neck. He pulled her towards him and now, at this angle, she could see his eyes, rage-filled and terrible.
He lifted her higher, jerking her upwards, then thrust her back against the ground. Her head hit something hard in the earth – a rock. The burst of excruciating pain was still resonating through her brain as he dragged her head up and smashed it back down again. He was going to kill her, too. She was going to die here, in the pitch dark, in the middle of a vast, empty field miles from anywhere. She thought momentarily of Tom at home in London waiting for her and she thought her heart would burst.
Up again and down. Her vision was starting to chequer – she was going to black out. With her right hand, she scrabbled around, searching. Down went her head again and for a moment, everything turned black. Then her fingers found what they were searching for: a stone the size of her hand, cold, sharp on one side. Through the fear and panic came one clear thought: This is it.
She gripped the stone, lifted her arm and then, screwing every ounce of her terror and panic and horror together, she smashed it into his temple. For a second Mark seemed merely stunned. Then he gave a single grunt and slumped on top of her.