He’s silent on the line, I hear him exhale and cover his receiver. A muffled conversation. When he comes back on the line his tone is grim.
“Listen, Emma, I need you to turn your mobile phone off, please. We’re sending a police officer around to you now. They’ll stay outside your accommodation for the night to—”
“What the hell is going on, Peter!” I erupt, cutting him off mid-flow.
There’s another thick silence before he answers.
“They’ve found out who you are, Emma. The press. We don’t know if they know where you’re staying, but best to be safe. I have a contact at the press association, he called me five minutes ago. It’s going to break online at midnight and it’ll be all over tomorrow’s national papers.” He pauses to let me take this in before continuing. “I’m truly sorry this has happened, Emma. This isn’t what anyone wanted.”
I stare unseeing out into the darkness through the window.
This can’t be happening.
“Emma, are you still there?”
It’s going to happen all over again. Just like before.
I sit down hard into the deep armchair. “Yes,” I manage. I need to keep him talking. I don’t want him to hang up, I don’t want to be left alone with this. “How did they find out?” It seems the next reasonable question. “How could they have found out without breaking the law? Without hacking data?”
“We don’t know but we’re looking into it. It was a local reporter apparently. That’s all I can tell you at the moment.”
Zara. It must be Zara. Her face last night outside the hospital. Chris must have told her who I was. That’s why she looked at me that way.
“Right. Okay,” I hear myself say. “Thanks for letting me know.” Then I remember something. “Sorry, Peter—what were you saying about the police? Why are police coming? Am I in any danger here?” The last thing I want is Chris showing up but I’m suddenly perilously aware of how isolated I am out here.
“Um, yes, the police are on their way. They’re making arrangements, you should have someone with you within thirty minutes. It’s only a precaution, but there are some concerns that the press might have information about your whereabouts. Obviously, the Beaufort case is going to attract a substantial amount of public attention as well. We’re just concerned about your safety, and in light of your need to enter the protected-persons program fourteen years ago it would be wise, I think, to be…prepared. Better to be over-prepared than under.”
Oh God. This is actually happening
I throw my mind back to that autumn fourteen years ago. The threats, the letters, the hateful words sprayed on the walls of places they put us, people grabbing at us, shoving us, their faces distorted with anger, baying for a kind of justice that we couldn’t give them, Joe and Mum and me. I wonder if I hadn’t said what I’d said back then if they would have chased us so hard. If I’d have kept my mouth shut, they’d have hated us less. They thought we were lying, that he was still alive somewhere out there, they thought we knew where he was. They wanted the truth even if we weren’t entirely sure of it ourselves.
“Emma, did you hear me?”
“Sorry, Peter, what?”
“The police officers, they should be there soon. But in the meantime, it would be best not to answer the door. Not to anybody, until the police arrive. And turn off your mobile. Steer clear of this landline from now on too unless you see it’s my number calling, okay? Hopefully, we’re still slightly ahead of the game here.” He sounds confident but I know what’s coming. If I need police protection, this is going to get very ugly. I suddenly feel so incredibly alone. Alone in the woods. Alone in my life. “I’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning, if not before,” he continues. “Trust me, Emma, it’s all going to be fine in the long run.”
The line goes dead and I sit in silence, my heart beating loud in my ears. They’re coming for me.
I pull out my mobile and slide off the power just as Peter told me. Outside the windows, I can make out the flutter of snowflakes falling and beyond that the darkness of the dense forest all around me. I’m a sitting duck in this isolated house.
I head to the front door, deadbolting it. If any doorsteppers get this far, they’ll get no farther. I try not to think who else might want to pay me a visit now that the news of who I am is breaking.
I head to the patio doors, tugging hard at the handle until I’m certain it’s locked and secure. I pull the heavy tapestry curtains closed across the great expanse of black outside and shiver.
I dash to the kitchen sink and lean over, pulling on the bobbled rope of the blind until the outside world disappears behind it.
I pull the curtains tight in the living room and the hallway, then run up the stairs to check the windows and close the curtains in the two bedrooms. I know that even a tiny gap in the fabric is enough for a long-lens camera and a photographer with enough patience.
When it’s all done, and I know everything is secure, I slump down on the top step and catch my breath.
Is everything locked? What am I forgetting?
And that’s when I hear it. The crunch of a footstep outside on the gravel. Already? I hold my breath, listening hard. Shit, the police won’t be here for half an hour. It could be a reporter, a photographer, or it could be someone else. We didn’t leave fourteen years ago because of the media alone. We left for our own safety. I think of the house phone lying downstairs on the armchair, my iPhone next to it, turned off.
I listen for another footstep. Nothing, just the pop of the fire downstairs.
I stand and start to take the stairs down, wincing at every creak. Outside, a fox shrieks in the distance, and I pause as the plaintive call echoes out through the woods. But no sound of footsteps. Perhaps they have headed around the back. If I can make it into the living room, I can grab my iPhone, and then I can run back upstairs and lock myself in the bedroom. I can call the police from there.
I continue down the stairs, holding my breath. And then I hear the footsteps on the gravel again, two steps this time, someone turning, right by the front door. I freeze. And then the knocking starts. Three heavy pounds on the door.
Oh, please God, no.
I stand frozen mid-step and watch as the door handle moves, rattling against the lock. And then I run—I bolt down the stairs, run to the sofa, and dive for my mobile. The screen flashes white. I hear the footsteps outside. Whoever it is, they’re on the move. They could easily burst through the thin Victorian windows. I pocket my iPhone, which is still powering on, and grab the house phone as I dart into the kitchen and head for the patio doors. I could make a run for it into the woods behind the house. I could double back on myself through the trees, make a break for the car and head to the hospital, at least there’s security there. But I remember my car keys are still on the ledge in the front hall.