It wasn’t that Lila’s flat didn’t have a bath – it did, a huge, deep, claw-footed cast-iron thing that emptied the tank at five inches and chilled the water within seconds. Maintaining personal hygiene at the flat was a puritanical experience, akin to self-flagellation with cold water and rough towels. Having the option of a proper soak in hot water was more than a small pleasure. With this in her mind she opened the taps in the beautifully modern bathroom, perched herself on the edge of her rented bath, and watched the steam rise with comforting anticipation.
The epileptic fits of the day before had been an unpleasant surprise; it had been a long time since she’d had to face the humiliation of having a seizure in public, even longer since she’d experienced one so bad that she’d wet herself. The medication she took daily had kept them in check for years, and if she had one at all, it was when her defences were down and she allowed dark thoughts to run riot. More often than not, the fits were transient partial seizures, which to anyone else would look like daydreaming or drunkenness. A full-blown fit was so rare she could remember the exact day the last one had happened, but she didn’t want to think about it.
Dwelling on that period of her life was something she actively avoided, doing anything she could to distract herself. Coming back had brought some things way too close for comfort already, but questioning herself about why she had come in the first place was pointless. It didn’t matter; she was where she was. What did matter was how soon she could get away.
Soaking in the bath, she chose not to think about anything other than coffee and food. Fits made her hungry, and she needed caffeine before the headache that had begun to niggle at her turned into a full-blown howler. She bathed quickly and only half dried her hair before she dressed and went out of the door in search of breakfast.
As she wandered up Westgate Street, towards the cathedral and to the only café she could remember, she thought of Stella and wondered where she had gone, and why. Perhaps Frances had finally managed to drive her out. As an accomplished escape artist herself, Rachel didn’t question why her sister had disappeared. Anyone who had known their family would have been able to answer that.
However, she was utterly puzzled as to where Stella might have gone. To the best of Rachel’s knowledge, Stella had spent the last nineteen years looking after Valerie. She didn’t have friends or a social life, or a bolthole like the flat. She was hardly the type to reinvent herself in the way that Frances had. Besides, she was the quiet type – timid, nervy, and not the sort of person who could disappear easily. She was probably avoiding Frances, a motivation that Rachel could entirely understand.
Once inside Café Milano, she immediately experienced a rush of nostalgia. The place had hardly changed since the days when she and Stella had lingered over their milkshake and coffee, pretending for an hour or so that they didn’t have to go home. She took a breath, filling her lungs with the scent of vanilla and fresh-ground beans, smiling as she recalled that she had discovered Italian coffee in this place, long before the big chains had flooded the world with their skinny lattes and pretentious chai.
There was a seat at the back, half hidden behind a bamboo screen, a perfect place to people-watch without being seen herself. She ordered coffee and a bacon roll, then sat back and looked around at the other customers, soaking in the normality of them and hoping it would rub off a little. Then she saw him, a tall man striding across the room. The way he moved was painfully, heart-stoppingly familiar and the recognition sent a cold shard of fear slicing through her gut. He was heading straight for her and her only escape was the bad wiring in her brain and the way it could opt out of trouble whenever it saw fit.
***
He was sure this time. He had caught glimpses before, the turn of a head, or the sound of laughter so painfully familiar that it induced a sensation of time grinding to a standstill. His heart flip-flopped and fluttered pointlessly like a moth battering at a light bulb. So many times over the years he’d found that it wasn’t her after all. Just some woman who thought he was a weirdo freak.
Now he was holding up the queue at the cashpoint as he stared at the café door, one hundred per cent sure that Rachel had just walked through it.
‘You asking to be mugged?’ a woman said aggressively, pushing in front of him so that she could get to the machine.
Charlie had been so rapt by the realisation that Rachel was back that he’d forgotten that he was standing in the middle of town with a hundred pounds in crisp twenties just sitting in his hand, looking ripe for the picking.
‘Arsehole!’ the woman hissed as he moved away, hastily pushing the money into his pocket ready to launch himself across the road.
He got as far as the café door before chickening out and turning towards the newsagent’s instead. If he were going to go in and confront her, he needed to gather his thoughts. He would buy a paper, something to hide behind when he pretended that his being there was just an accident.
A lot was at stake. If he had any sense he would walk away and make himself believe that he hadn’t seen her at all. He would pretend it was the same as all the other times he’d felt a faint glimmer of hope, only to see it fade and die as soon as he’d called her name and been given an odd look by a complete stranger. As his mother would say, only one good thing had ever come from dealing with the Porter family and that was Amy. Everything else that touched them always turned to shit.
However, he’d been waiting a long time for this moment, and he was going to have his say now.
The woman in the shop wanted to chat and he just wasn’t in the mood.
‘Comes to something doesn’t it?’ she said with a cynical shake of her head.
Charlie hated random statements. ‘Pardon?’
‘In the paper. Bodies. Here, right on our doorstep and the woman who did it has gone missing. Not that they’re saying that, but it’s obvious isn’t it? If she’s done a runner, she must have done it. Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ she said, shuddering as she handed him his change.
He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but accepted his change with a tolerant smile and glanced down at the paper. His eyes were immediately drawn to the left-hand column on the front page. The names stood out like two nuns in a brothel. Porter and Baxter. He scanned the article, and exhaled slowly.
No wonder she was back.
***
Rachel knew that he had come in looking for her. His movements were too purposeful for this to be a coincidence. She ought to have known that this would happen, but had stupidly hoped that she could avoid it. If the police hadn’t insisted that she stick around she would have been back in London by now, instead of sitting around and wondering why fate was such a relentless bastard.
Of course Charlie had aged; they both had. She just looked old, but on him greying hair and lines around the eyes had enhanced the air of artless charm he’d always been blessed with. She watched helplessly as he ploughed an inexorable path through the crowded café towards her table.
Had there been a back door, she would have bolted, but she was trapped. Stomach pitching and rolling, she could do nothing but wait for the moment she had been dreading for nineteen years.
He had spotted her easily; she was only half-hidden behind the bamboo screen and he was moving towards he like a guided missile. Pushing past the other customers, he made his way to her table and slapped a newspaper down in front of her. ‘I didn’t think anything would bring you back, until I read this. It’s been a long time, Rachel,’ he said, his voice rank with bitterness.
She forced herself to look down at the paper, the sea of words blurring underneath the stark headline – Two Dead in Local House of Horror.
Until that point she had almost convinced herself that