Her fingers tremble as she scrolls down to his number. A phone on Wesley’s bedside table pulsates, on silent. She grabs it and sees her own number flashing up. What the fuck? Her mind is racing. Why would Wesley go out and leave his phone? She slumps onto the bed, her mobile in one hand and his in the other. She tosses hers angrily aside – it lands with a thump on the duvet – and concentrates on getting into Wesley’s. But he has a passcode and even though she tries three combinations none is right and it won’t let her in. In frustration she replaces his on the pine nightstand. What is going on? Wesley always has his phone attached to him. Unless … She goes to the window and pulls aside the ugly brown curtains. She has a view of the high street but it’s empty. Has he got another phone? She gulps. She’s heard of burner phones, has seen them used in crime dramas on TV. Maybe he’s cheating on her after all and uses a different phone to call his other girlfriend. No. No, she’s being paranoid. He’s probably popped out to get some milk or something at the all-night petrol station and forgot his phone. Nothing more sinister than that.
The light is too bright, one of those cheap paper lanterns that was once white and has yellowed with age. Olivia stands up and flicks the switch so that she is plunged back into darkness. It feels symbolic somehow. Isn’t she always the one left in the dark? She continues to sit on the arm of the sofa, with the curtains not quite closed, a chink of muted night sky reflecting on her thigh. She doesn’t want to go back to bed until Wesley gets home.
She can hear the far-off wails of an ambulance and she’s reminded again of that night twenty years ago. They would still have been in the club on this day in 1998 with no clue of how their lives were about to change. Unless the others knew? And planned to leave her behind.
It had been such a strange time after the accident. She’d been so ill, so worried about her leg and not knowing if she’d ever walk again that those first few months after her friends vanished had gone by in a blur. But something else had made her reluctant to look back on the hours before they went missing. Guilt. Because in the club that night, at approximately this time, Olivia had been thinking bad thoughts.
It had been a normal Saturday night out with the girls. Sally was excited about Mal, the boy she fancied and who, she felt, was close to asking her out. And Tamzin and Katie were on a mission to get drunk. Did Tamzin flash the cash a bit more than usual? Olivia couldn’t remember. They did leave the club earlier than they normally would, she recalls that much, and even though Katie and Tamzin had argued they’d seemed fine with each other on the drive home. She has an image of Tamzin staggering over to where Olivia had been standing at the bar by herself while Sally was snogging Mal, and Katie was dancing with a group of strangers. She’d been feeling melancholy, nursing her one glass of wine while the Chemical Brothers boomed overhead, thinking of Wesley and how she wished he’d been there and she’d felt a little – she feels bad for this now – resentful towards Sally for her obvious hostility towards him. She’d been worrying about how her relationship with Wesley was going to work if her best friend couldn’t stand her boyfriend. And she’d also felt a twinge of jealousy, as Sally tossed her glossy dark mane back over her shoulder while she snogged and flirted with Mal, that boys seemed to fall at her feet and Olivia had been Wesley’s second choice.
‘Mate,’ Tamzin had said, slinging an arm around Olivia’s shoulders, ‘don’t let me drink too much tonight. I have a booty call.’
‘A booty call?’
She’d put her finger to her lips and tried to make a shushing sound, although her hand kept moving away from her face because she was so unsteady on her feet. She gave up and sank onto a bar stool instead.
Who had Tamzin been planning on meeting up with? Olivia shakes her head trying to remember more clearly. Has she remembered this before? She’s never really allowed herself to examine that night in forensic detail because it was too painful and, after months in hospital undergoing multiple operations, she had been woozy with morphine. Is she now imagining that conversation with Tamzin? That’s the problem with memory. Especially after twenty years. How can you be sure of what is true and what your mind has made up? Looking back at that night is like trying to watch an old VHS movie that’s been played too many times so that part of the tape is worn away.
A movement – a flash of clothing – in the field opposite brings her back to the present. She opens the curtains wider, her heart picking up speed. Is it Wesley? But, no, the gait is wrong. This person is tall and wiry. He’s climbing over the stile and steps down onto the pavement, his face illuminated by the streetlight. She stiffens in surprise. It’s Dale. What is he doing by the stones at this time of night? Subconsciously she touches the spot on her thigh where the bruise is forming. Dale had found her but had he been the one to take her there in the first place? Had he drugged her? No: that makes no sense. Why would he do that to her? To punish you for telling Jenna about Tamzin. She pushes away the thought. It’s ridiculous. Dale wouldn’t do that. He had his own reasons for not disclosing to Jenna that he’d been Tamzin’s boyfriend the night she went missing. Unless … Her thoughts begin to run away with her. A booty call. That was what Tamzin had said. Who was she going to meet? Could it have been Dale? Had he lied about being away from Stafferbury? Who would have checked? He hadn’t been a suspect, had he?
The sound of a key in the lock makes her jump off the sofa. Wesley’s back. Had he gone out to meet Dale? She contemplates getting back into bed and pretending to be asleep, but no. She won’t. She’s going to confront him. She stands in the middle of the room in the dark. He doesn’t notice her at first. He’s carrying what looks like a shoebox, which he sets down on the kitchen counter. He does everything quietly, like he’s in a mime show.
She waits, watching him as he places his keys gently on top of the box and slips off his trainers. And then he takes something from the inside of his coat pocket. It lights up in his hand and her heart sinks. It’s a phone. So he does have two. She can’t believe he still hasn’t noticed her standing there. He opens the cupboard above the fridge, which he knows she finds hard to reach, then slips the box and the phone into it. While his back is turned she makes a decision. She’ll go back to bed and pretend to have been asleep. He’ll only lie if she confronts him. Or get nasty. Or blame her for being paranoid. This way he won’t know she’s seen where he’s put the box. She can snoop tomorrow.
He turns just as she’s getting into bed. She pretends to be stretching in sleep, squeezing her eyes tightly shut but she senses him walking over to her. ‘Liv?’ he says quietly, stroking back her hair, the bed dipping under his weight. ‘Are you awake?’
She makes a groaning noise but doesn’t open her eyes. Let him think she’s still out of it. She’ll confront him when she knows more about what she’s dealing with. She feels him sliding into bed, his back to her. It’s not long before he begins to snore. She’ll wait until he’s gone to work in the morning and then she’ll see what he’s up to. Her phone next to her flashes, briefly lighting up her corner of the room. She tenses, wondering if Wesley will notice, but he doesn’t stir. She reaches for her mobile. Who would be texting at this time of night?