Her Last Tomorrow Read online

  There are a few moments of silence before McKenna speaks. ‘You’re free to go, Nick.’

  21

  Nick

  Brennan dropped me back home and decided it would be a good idea to leave me and Tash alone for a while. A nice touch. Light the blue touchpaper and retire; hope that everything comes out without them having to do a full day’s work. I don’t know if it’s just the stress of the situation, but I’m getting more and more cynical with every passing hour.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Tasha says eventually.

  ‘I didn’t hide it from you,’ I reply.

  ‘Don’t dodge the question,’ she says. I’m surprised by how calm and level-headed she seems. In a way, that makes it all so much more disturbing. I can only think of two other occasions in the whole time I’ve known Tasha that she’s gone beyond the fury and despair of a situation and settled in this weird trance-like state.

  ‘I didn’t not tell you. I mean, when would be the right time? Over dinner one night? During the adverts in Coronation Street? At the altar just before we got married, perhaps?’

  ‘I had a right to know, Nick. I gave my life to you,’ she says through gritted teeth.

  ‘And you wouldn’t have done if you’d known about that? About one stupid, idiotic incident. Not even one whole day but one evening, one small, stupid incident that I’ve regretted ever since? You never knew that Nick. You know the Nick who’s stood in front of you now. The family man who’s only a family man because of that incident. Because it changed me. It made me who I am today. Personally, I’m grateful for that, and you should be too.’

  Bad move, Nick.

  ‘Grateful? You want me to be grateful?’ Tasha shrieks, a full two octaves higher than she’s been speaking so far. ‘Nick, I have given my life to you. And now I discover that you’re, what, a violent criminal?’

  I bury my face in my hands and make a noise that sounds like an Olympic weightlifter going for the world record. ‘You know exactly who I am, Tasha. I haven’t hidden anything. Not deliberately, anyway. Don’t you understand that? When I look back on my life before that incident, it’s like an out-of-body experience. It’s like I’m looking down on someone else’s life. Like I’m watching a film. I didn’t hide what happened; I just completely blotted it out. I wanted to forget it. I needed to forget it.’

  She looks up at me and sneers. ‘Are you honestly trying to tell me that in all the time you’ve been with me you’ve never thought about that night? Not once?’

  I sigh. ‘Of course I have. It’s passed through my mind. Of course it has. But it’s not like I think of it every day and go out of my way to make sure you don’t find out about it, is it?’

  ‘What about America?’ she says, a lightbulb going on in her head. ‘That would have been the perfect opportunity to tell me. You could’ve said “We can’t go to America because I’ve got a criminal record. I did something stupid a long time ago and now I’m going to tell you all about it.” But you didn’t, did you? No. You made up some stupid excuse about work, deadlines and money. Try telling me you didn’t hide it from me then, Nick.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I say. ‘I mean, yeah, of course that had a bearing on things, but work was a factor in—’

  ‘Stop, Nick!’ she shouts. ‘Face it. You lied to me. You lied because you didn’t want me to know the truth and because you couldn’t handle the truth yourself. Just like you can’t handle the truth that you fucked up yesterday. Majorly.’

  ‘I know I fucked up, Tasha. Christ.’ How many ways does she want me to say this? Does she not think I feel like shit about what’s happened to Ellie? That I don’t blame myself? All I want is Ellie back here with us, safe and happy, and Tasha playing the blame game isn’t helping things in the slightest. I know I fucked up.

  ‘Do you? Do you, Nick? Because I don’t think you do.’ Her nose is now just inches from my chin and she’s looking up at me, sneering, her eyes bloodshot as the spittle flies from her mouth. ‘I don’t think you get it at all.’ One corner of her mouth lifts as she snorts and leaves the room.

  Moments later, I hear the bedroom door slam and I close my eyes. I realise pretty quickly that sitting here on my own in the quiet isn’t going to do me any good, so I look for distractions.

  I head into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I look up at the Rosie Ragdoll. I used to forget it was even up there, sitting on top of the clock, but ever since Ellie disappeared I can’t walk into the kitchen without seeing it, seemingly ten times larger than usual, staring down at me.

  The temptation to throw a slug of vodka into the glass is overwhelming, but I resist. Taking two large gulps of juice, I wipe my mouth and head into my study. My laptop’s still on, so I lift the lid and log back in. Before long, I wish I’d gone for the vodka.

  There’s an email. Another one.

  Half of me is screaming to open the email as quickly as possible, but the other half is holding back, worried about what I might find. Eventually, I take a deep breath and click the email.

  There’s no text; just a photo of Ellie. I know instantly what it is. I know every single photo we’ve ever taken of her, and this isn’t one of them. This is a photo that her abductor – Jen Hood – has taken.

  My vision starts to blur as the tears well up inside my eyes. The picture fades until it’s barely recognisable. I blink and the tears roll down my cheeks, making the picture clear again. She’s clutching a toy that I don’t recognise – a traditional-style teddy bear. She’s sitting in what looks like a loft or attic. What hits me the hardest is that she looks happy. She’s smiling.

  My head’s pounding and I really don’t know how much more of this I can take. My mind is a swirling smorgasbord of confusion, and every extra thought just adds to the effervescent pot. It’s dim and cloudy and I can’t see anything clearly. In my confused state I feel oddly angry at Ellie. If she hadn’t gone missing, if she’d only come home, then we wouldn’t be in this mess. We’d be happy again.

  I guess the stress and anger I’m feeling isn’t really directed at Ellie. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Tasha. What I need right now is her support. We need to support each other. Already, I’m beginning to see why so many couples in situations like this end up divorcing. This growing culture of guilt and blame is pure poison.

  If I could swap Tasha for Ellie, I’d do so in a heartbeat.

  I think back to the first email I received from Jen Hood, and in that instant I know what I must do.

  22

  Tasha

  He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t realise that he fucked up and caused all this. That’s what upsets me the most. If I thought there was even the slightest chance that one day he might understand, that’d be okay. That’d be a glimmer of hope. Something to work towards. But with Nick there’s nothing. I sometimes wonder whether he’s autistic or something.

  It was a very strange feeling taking the medication again for the first time. I was transported back to those dark days, yet I felt oddly soothed by it. It provided some sort of solace, a reminder of a time when things were horrendous but at least they were sure. I knew where we stood. Now there’s nothing.

  I pull the duvet over my head and enjoy the darkness. Enjoy sounds like an odd word to use, but the darkness is comforting. It’s holding the outside world at bay, not visible and not audible. I’m cocooned within my own safe environment, sheltered from everything else. For a fleeting moment, I feel as if nothing can harm me. Nothing’s changed – Ellie’s still missing and my marriage is still falling apart – but just briefly I feel as though I’m protected from it. As if I can leave it all outside, sit in here and breathe calmly, and then return to it all when I’m ready.

  The feeling doesn’t last very long, though, as my intense frustration and the thoughts whirling around my head start to intrude once again. There’s a huge amount of anger, and I’m not sure where it’s really being directed. Is it at Nick? At the police? At myself? At Ellie’s kidnapper? At Ellie her
self? I really don’t know. All I know is it hurts like hell and there’s not a thing I can do about it. It’s the helplessness that hurts the most. Being able to do absolutely nothing to help your own child is the worst feeling in the world. I feel like I’ve failed as a mother.

  Nick’s deception hasn’t helped. And that’s what it was. A deception. It sounds horrible saying it, and almost antithetical to everything I thought I knew about Nick, but there’s no other word to use. I can understand him not telling me as soon as we met, I’ll give him that, but he had plenty of opportunities after that. When I was trying to organise a trip to America would have been the perfect time. But no, he had to come up with some bullshit excuse about work.

  But it’s not just the fact that he didn’t tell me. Of course it isn’t. I know deep down that my anger at Nick keeping this from me is just a cover for the fact that it frightens the hell out of me to think that my husband could have been capable of something like that. Even so far back in his past. Can a leopard ever really change its spots? He says he was in a bad place back then and that things are different now, but I’m not so sure.

  He’s not been in a great place for a long time – not since Black Tide – and that impacts negatively on all of us. I know writing isn’t a steady job for most. I knew that when we got married and I’ve accepted that, but sometimes I feel as though that respect could go the other way, too. My job isn’t just important; it’s vital when his pay packet varies so wildly from month to month.

  The truth be told, the financial aspect of our lives scares me. I used to be quite good at keeping an eye on our bank statements, but I’ve not looked for months. Possibly longer. The longer I leave it, though, the harder it gets and the more convinced I am there’ll be something horrible lurking there. Out of sight, out of mind. I presume things must be alright – I’ve not seen any red envelopes come through the door recently. Then again, I’m never around when the post comes. For all I know, Nick could be hiding huge amounts of debt from me.

  The thought sounds ridiculous. I’d never thought Nick could hide a large secret like that from me. I never thought I might suddenly discover we were tens of thousands of pounds in debt. Because Nick never keeps big secrets, does he? But now I know that to be a lie, too.

  23

  Nick

  There’s an internet café about half a mile from where we live, so I decide to walk round there. I figure I should be able to get there and do what I need to do before they close for the evening. Even though the police let me take my mobile phone and laptop back, there’s no way I’m taking my phone out with me. For all I know, they could be using it to track my movements, and that’s the last thing I need. I need to tread as carefully as I possibly can, not arousing suspicion.

  I feel naked walking around without my phone, but there’s not much I can do about that. I’ll be out of the house for less than an hour, if that, and I’ll just have to use the excuse that I forgot it and left it at home if I’m asked. The police don’t need to know that no matter how disorganised I am generally, I almost never forget my phone.

  The town centre is pretty quiet, which suits me. It allows me to stay inside my little bubble, trying to work out what I’m going to say in this email. I know what I want to say, and I know what will happen if I end up saying it. But I need to be tactful, need to take seriously what this person writing as Jen Hood is actually saying. More than that, though, I need to start gently probing. I need to find out who is doing this and why.

  It’s the why part that confuses me the most. To kidnap someone’s child in the first place you need to either really hate the person with a passion or be completely mentally deranged. From Jen Hood’s emails so far, it’s impossible to tell which camp she falls into. I can only assume it must be the latter, because I’ve never made mortal enemies with anyone. Not that I know of, anyway. As for Tasha, I can’t be so sure.

  I’ve tried racking my brains as to who could want to do this to me. The police asked if there was anyone I’d fallen out with work-wise. There isn’t. I’m a writer. There’s nothing to fall out over. They asked if it was possible that a ‘rival’ writer could be involved, and I just laughed. There’s no such thing as a rival in this industry. If a reader sees two books that they like, they’ll buy them both. They’ll buy as many as they want to buy. And, let’s face it, since Black Tide very few people have bought mine. If any writer was going to go on a jealous psychotic rampage against another, it’d be me doing it.

  Black Tide was pretty huge. It came off the back of the urban horror boom a few years back. The tail end of the boom, anyway. It was actually my least favourite of four ideas that I pitched to my agent at the time. It was about a teenage girl in America who goes to stay at her aunt’s beach house and discovers mutilated body parts being washed up on the shore. Pretty derivative and unoriginal, but I had a killer twist. It topped the bestseller charts in the UK and the US and made my agent and my publisher a lot of money. Me, less so. It got us a deposit on our house and I treated myself to a new car, but the success all faded pretty quickly.

  There was a second book a year later, which was one I’d wanted to put out for a while. My agent and publisher were less keen, but I talked them round. Even putting From the author of Black Tide on the cover and adverts didn’t work, and the book bombed. It didn’t even sell out its advance. The reviews pages slated it. And that was the end of my relationship with that publisher. Since then, I’ve flitted between a couple of smaller presses who’ve done sod all to promote me and who’ve paid even less than I was getting before.

  As far as a writing career goes, that’s all pretty shitty. But I still don’t think I’d be first in line to kidnap another writer’s daughter, no matter how mentally unstable I was. No, there’s got to be something deeper than that. Something far more disturbing.

  When I get to the internet café, I pay for my time and log on to the computer. I open Internet Explorer, cursing as it takes an age to load (about 40p’s worth of time, by my count), and then I set about creating a new email account. I need an anonymous, throwaway address that I can use to communicate with Jen Hood. One that I’ll only log in to from internet cafés or other places where I can stay anonymous.

  I set up an email address under the name of Simon Spencer and log in. I click to compose a new email message and sit staring at the screen for a few moments before I start typing, the words flowing.

  Why are you so hell-bent on making me kill my wife? If you want her dead, why not kill her yourself? Besides which, why do you want her dead in the first place? What has she ever done to you? I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want to know. Ellie is a five-year-old girl. She needs to be with her parents. Why are you doing this to us?

  Even though I’d planned out every word in my head while I was walking down here, all of that is now gone, replaced by a stream of consciousness. My fingers can barely keep up with the speed of my brain as they clatter across the keyboard.

  I can get you money. Whatever you want. But it’s not fair of you to ask me to do this. I can’t. Why would you want me to do it anyway unless you’re trying to punish me? Are you trying to punish me? Why? What have I done to you? Who are you?

  I’ve only typed a couple of paragraphs, but I’m absolutely exhausted, mentally as well as physically. I know it’s not just from typing the email – it’s from having to process all these thoughts and to try and get my head around what’s happening. It feels like an electric charge buzzing through my skull, a brew of confusion and screaming voices. I feel as though I’m going to wake up at any moment and find out this whole disaster was all a dream, but deep down I know that isn’t going to happen.

  Without even thinking twice, I click the ‘Send’ button.

  I sit back on the hard plastic chair and stare at the screen. My eyes lose focus as I just sit, my brain draining itself of all thoughts and feelings. My eyes feel heavy and tired. My limbs even more so. I just want to stay here and let them come for me. I could do something stupid
, get myself arrested. Get put in jail. Get away from all of this. Whoever’s hiding behind the Jen Hood name would know then that it wasn’t my fault. That I couldn’t kill Tasha if I wanted to. That they wouldn’t be able to get hold of me or email me. That they’d have to release Ellie and find another mug to do their dirty business for them.

  Right now I don’t even know if that makes sense. In my confused state, it seems like a sound plan. But I know I’m in no frame of mind to be making any sort of plan. I know this is exactly what Jen Hood is counting on – throwing me into utter confusion and disarray and hoping I’ll do something stupid. That’s what this is all about. This person doesn’t want Tasha dead. They want me to try doing something stupid and totally fuck it up, the same as I always do. Because I fuck everything up. That’s who I am. That’s what I do. That’s Nick Connor.

  I can feel my hands gripping the armrests tighter and tighter. I don’t look down or even take my eyes off the computer screen, but I know my knuckles will be turning white, the plastic biting into my palms as I squeeze and squeeze, my teeth grinding and the veins beginning to show at my temples.

  Then, at the apex of my fury and anger, there’s a soft ping and a line of black text appears across one section of the screen. I’m looking at it but my eyes are still blurred, unfocused. I blink a couple of times, the letters starting to become clearer. I begin to be able to decipher words.

  It’s a reply from Jen Hood.

  My instinct should be to open it as quickly as possible and see what it says, but my body and mind are still exhausted. With all the effort I can muster, I lift my right arm and drop my hand down on the mouse. I move the cursor across the screen and hover it over the subject line, clicking down on the mouse button. The email loads on my screen.