Читать книгу The Escape: The gripping, twisty thriller from the #1 bestseller - C.L. Taylor, C.L. Taylor, C. L. Taylor - Страница 4

Someone is walking directly behind me, matching me pace for pace. Her perfume catches in the back of my throat: a strong, heady mix of musk and something floral. Jasmine maybe, or lily. She’s so close she’d smack into me if I stopped abruptly. Why doesn’t she just overtake? It’s a quiet street, tucked round the back of the university, with space for half a dozen cars to park but the pavement is easily wide enough for two people to walk abreast of each other.

I speed up. Elise will be the last child left at nursery, all alone and wondering where I am. I was ready to leave work at 5 p.m. on the dot, but then a student walked into the office and burst into tears. She hadn’t got her assignment in on time and she was terrified she was going to get kicked off her course. I couldn’t walk away when she was in that state. I had to talk her down. By the time she walked out of the office she was smiling again but sweat was pricking at my armpits. 5.15 p.m. I never leave work that late. Never.

My car is only a hundred metres away. In less than a minute I’ll be inside with the door shut, the engine running and the music on. I’ll be safe. Everything will be OK.

Fifty metres away.

The woman behind me is breathing heavily. She’s sped up too.

Twenty metres away.

I feel a light dragging sensation on the back of my coat; a hand, trying and failing to grab hold of the material.

Ten metres away.

High heels clip-clop behind me as I step into the road and approach the driver’s side of my car. I reach into my coat pocket for my keys but all I find is a balled tissue, a small packet of raisins and some sweet wrappers. I reach into my other pocket and my fingers close around the car keys. As I do, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

My heart lurches in my chest as I twist round, raising my arms in self-defence.

‘Woah!’ A blonde woman my age jumps away from me, her eyes wide. She’s dressed in a thick, padded jacket, skinny jeans and heels. ‘I was only going to ask for directions.’

All the fear in my body leaves in one raggedy breath. She just wants directions.

The woman’s eyes, heavily ringed with black kohl, don’t leave my face. ‘Do you know where I can get a bus to Brecknock Road?’

I feel a jolt of surprise. ‘Brecknock? That’s where I live.’

‘Is it?’ she says. ‘What a coincidence.’

I thought she was in her forties like me but her line-free forehead and arched eyebrows are betrayed by a sagginess to her jaw and a crinkling to her neck that suggest she’s at least ten years older.

She glances at my hand, resting on the window of the car. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going there now?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Brecknock Road. Could I have a lift?’

I don’t know how to react. I don’t want her in my car. Not when I’m feeling like this. I need to calm myself down before I get to the nursery. I don’t want Elise to see me in a state.

The blonde’s eyes flick towards the pavement as a young bloke in a heavy overcoat strolls past. He’s on his phone and doesn’t give either of us a second glance.

‘My son and daughter are exactly the same. Always got their noses in their phones,’ she says convivially as the man disappears around the corner and we are alone again. Either she’s completely unaware of how awkward and uncomfortable I feel as a result of her request or she just doesn’t care.

‘I … um …’ I put my keys in the lock. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not going straight home. I need to collect my daughter from nursery and—’

‘Elise, isn’t it?’

My breath catches in my throat. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Lovely name. Quite old-fashioned but that’s all the rage these days, isn’t it? My daughter-in-law wanted to call my granddaughter Ethel. Ethel, for God’s sake.’

‘How do you …’ I study her face again but there’s no spark of recognition in the back of my brain. I don’t remember ever seeing this woman before. ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’

She cackles, a low sound that gurgles in the base of her throat, and holds out a hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m John’s mum, Paula. He lives just down the street from you. I’ve seen you and your little girl getting into your car in the mornings when I take my granddaughter to the park. I look after her sometimes. I’m from Taunton. I don’t get into Bristol often.’ She glances meaningfully at my car.

‘So am I OK for a lift? Now you know I’m not a serial killer?’

I am frozen with indecision. I don’t know anyone called John but it’s a long street. To say no to a lift would be rude, and I don’t want to make an enemy of any of our neighbours, not when it’s such a lovely street, but this isn’t something I do. This isn’t part of my routine.

‘Please,’ she says, ‘I’m babysitting tonight and John will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

I make a split-second decision. It will be quicker to give her a lift than say no and risk wasting more time with a discussion about it. ‘OK. But I’ll have to drop you at the nursery. It’s not far from Brecknock.’

‘Cheers, love. Really appreciate it.’

She waits for me to unlock the driver’s side door then rounds the car and gets in beside me. I put on my seat belt and put the keys in the ignition. Paula, in the passenger seat, doesn’t reach for her seat belt. Instead she runs a hand over the dashboard then squeezes the latch on the glove compartment so it drops open. She rummages around inside, pulling out CDs, receipts and manuals, then reaches down and runs a hand underneath her seat.

I stare at her in disbelief as she twists round in her seat and looks into the footwells in the back seat. ‘Can I help you with something?’

She ignores me and clambers into the back seat and feels behind and beneath Elise’s car seat, then lifts the parcel shelf and peers into the boot.

‘Paula.’ I unclip my seat belt. ‘Could you stop doing that, please?’

She snaps back round to face me, her lips tight and her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Jo.’

The transformation is shocking, all trace of her cheerful, friendly demeanour gone. She lied to me. She doesn’t have a son called John who lives on our street. She’s never strolled down to Perrett’s Park with her granddaughter. And I never told her my name.

‘I want you to get out of my car,’ I say as steadily as I can.

The smallest of smiles creeps onto her lips as she straightens her jacket and settles herself into the back seat. She reaches out her left arm and drapes it over Elise’s car seat.

‘Pretty girl, your daughter,’ she says under her breath but loud enough so I can hear it. ‘Isn’t she, Jo?’

The malevolence in her eyes makes me catch my breath.

‘Get out,’ I say again. A man has appeared at the end of the street. If I open the door and shout he’ll hear me. Paula sees me looking.

‘Now, now. No need to be rude. I’ve lost something. That’s all. And I think your husband might know where it is.’

I stiffen. ‘Max? What’s this got to do with Max?’

Paula glances over her shoulder again – the man has reached the car behind mine – and pulls on the door catch. ‘He’ll know what it’s about. Just tell him to get in touch. Oh, and, there’s something else.’

She digs into her pocket with her free hand.

‘You should keep an eye on your daughter’s things,’ she says as she places a small, soft, multicoloured glove on Elise’s car seat.

‘And your daughter,’ she adds as she gets out.