A figure loomed over her. And then his hands were on her throat and he was pushing her head down, into the freezing water. She tried to fight it. She grabbed at his hands, but they were so strong. She twisted and writhed. She kicked out with her feet and felt her heel connect soundly with his crotch. The grip around her throat loosened. She dragged her head up, out of the water, seizing a precious breath.
He punched her in the face. She sank again, his grip even tighter. She scrabbled and scratched at his fingers, but her strength was fading. She needed air. Her lungs were about to explode. She felt her lips part slightly, her brain desperate and conflicted. Don’t open your mouth. But I need to breathe. Just hold on. She would not die in this stinking, filthy pool. She couldn’t. Alice was waiting and Fran had to get back because…
Something gave. A sharp pain in her neck. A sudden lightness in her head. Her lungs were no longer burning because she could no longer feel her body. Her limbs floated uselessly. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t stop this. Her mouth lolled open. And her last thought as the water rushed in was…Alice hates jigsaws…
Gabe had tried to talk Jenny out of it. He’d practically learned the Big Book of Girls’ Names by heart. But she had been adamant: “I want to call her Isabella.”
And they had had a deal. If it was a girl, she would choose. A boy, and the choice would be Gabe’s. Gabe had thought it was a little sexist, but he also knew not to argue with a pregnant woman.
The more he tried to persuade her, the more Jenny dug in her heels. He had always loved that about her. Her stubbornness. Her unwillingness to buckle just to please or pacify someone else. But on this issue, he wished she could be just a little more compliant.
“Most wives wouldn’t want to choose a name their husband didn’t like,” he had pointed out.
“Most wives don’t have such arseholes for a husband. What is your bloody problem with Isabella anyway?”
He couldn’t answer her. Couldn’t explain. He certainly couldn’t persuade Jenny to change her mind, so he tried to persuade himself that it was just a name. A pretty name. And this was their Isabella. Their baby. A completely new person.
It was true that when she was born he very quickly forgot everything except how beautiful she was, how noisy she was, how incredible and exhausting it was now that one tiny little person had completely taken over their lives.
But he still chose to call her Izzy instead.
And the nightmares came back.
He told himself it was just the stress of fatherhood. He told himself it was only natural; his head was all over the place. He would adjust. Things would settle down.
He tried not to listen to the insistent little voice that told him that calling their precious little girl Isabella was a portent of doom. A jinx.
* * *
—
HE STOOD, SO quickly the coffee cup wobbled and slopped cold dregs over his saucer. How could he have forgotten what day it was? Visiting day. How could he not have heard his phone ping with the reminder? Shit, shit, shit. He gathered his things and stuffed them back in his bag. He had to go, now.
He hurried across to the camper van and pulled out his keys. He frowned. The side door was open, just a fraction. Had he forgotten to lock it, or had someone broken in? He pulled the door open and climbed inside.
There was a man in the van. Sitting calmly on the small bunk seat. Even more oddly, Gabe recognized him. It was the young police officer he’d seen in the coffee shop. The traffic cop flying solo.
The disparity, the sheer strangeness, threw him for a moment.
“I’m sorry, but wha—?”
The man rose and struck him in the face. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Gabe didn’t even have a chance to raise an arm to defend himself. His head rocked back against the side of the van. His legs wavered. Before he could straighten, the man punched him again, in the throat. Gabe gasped, choking, trying to draw breath, his throat burning like someone had rammed hot coals down it.
The man picked up Gabe’s messenger bag.
No! he tried to yell, but it came out: “Nnurrrggghhh!”
Gabe grabbed for the bag. Managed to snag the strap. The man threw another punch. Gabe ducked his head to one side. He held tight as the man pulled at the bag. They tugged back and forth, Gabe somehow finding strength in desperation.
The man drew back his arm and punched him sharply in the side. Hot, burning pain. Gabe grabbed instinctively at his stomach, letting go of the bag. The man snatched it, shoved the door open and jumped outside. Gabe lurched after him, but the pain reeled him back. He fell to the floor. Through the open door, he could see the man sauntering casually away.
He tried to reach for the door to pull himself up, missed and fell out of the van, onto the rough tarmac. He screamed, clutching at his side, which seemed to be leaking something hot and wet. The man was just a silhouette now. He couldn’t let him go. The bag held everything. His laptop, the Bible, the notebook, the hair bobble. It was all he had.
He tried to drag himself along the ground, but his energy was seeping out of him. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. It was too thick with petrol and fumes. The sky was too bright. He closed his eyes. Faintly, he could hear shouting. Then, closer, a voice:
“Oh my God. Christ—what’s happened?”
He couldn’t answer. The darkness was soothing. Like a balm. There would be no more pain there.
But the voice was insistent.
“Open your eyes. Look at me. I’m calling an ambulance, but you have to wake up.”
He opened his eyes. A face loomed over him. Familiar. Nice, but tired. The kind waitress.
“I…” He drew his hand away from his side and stared, bemused, at the red dripping from his fingers. “I think I’ve been stabbed.”
Alice waited. She tried not to look as if she was waiting. Or worried. Or afraid. But actually, she was all of them and more.
Fran should have been back by now. She had said it wouldn’t take more than an hour. One and a half tops. That was over two hours ago. They had exhausted the old woman’s old (and frankly pretty rubbish) jigsaw puzzles and had struggled through some stilted conversation. Fran had told her what to say, but it was still difficult, remembering stuff, trying not to say the wrong thing, just like sometimes she forgot to call Fran Mum. She got pretty annoyed about that.
Something about the old lady scared Alice a bit, too. She smiled too much. Alice didn’t like that, not just because her teeth were all yellow. And she was so jittery. Her hands shook when she was trying to put the jigsaw pieces down. There was this odd, sour smell about her, too.
Her twitchiness was making Alice more on edge. She kept asking if Alice wanted another drink or something else to eat, even though Alice’s glass was still half full and she had already forced down three of the stale biscuits. Eventually, just to keep her quiet, Alice said yes, some more squash would be nice. This seemed to make the old lady happy, so Alice took her opportunity: