Now You See Me (25 page)

C'mon, Hannah, you can do this.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing myself steady as I edge towards the bathroom window. I reach up and slip my fingers between the window and the frame, can just feel the metal bar holding the window open. I nudge it upwards with my fingertips, but it doesn't budge.

I try again. Nearly topple over and have to grab the sill to steady myself. Above me the clouds finally burst, sending down a sudden violent shower of rain.

Hell. I swallow, blink the water from my eyes, refusing to think about what will happen if I slip and fall. Gripping the sill with one hand, I raise myself onto the tips of my toes and, fingers aching with the effort, give a last desperate push.

The window flies open, nearly knocking me to the ground. I cling on to the edge of the wall, steadying myself, gulping air to stop myself crying out in fright.

You can do this.

Carefully, placing both hands on the wet window sill, I heave my body upwards, feet scrabbling against the wall. My arm muscles scream with the effort, and for a moment I think I'm going to collapse and fall, but I manage to get myself halfway through the window. Resting on my stomach for a few seconds, I dig my toes hard into the brickwork and pitch myself inside.

There's a crash as one of the bottles on the window ledge hits the floor, smashing on the tiles. Damn. I pick up the shards of glass and throw them in the bin, mopping up the liquid with a flannel and shoving it into the laundry basket. Then rearrange the jars and tubs of cream – with any luck Martha won't notice.

The door to Danny's room is ajar. The tin is still there, behind the radiator. I pull it out and lift the lid.

The notebook has gone. Along with the envelope of money.

Oh god. I have to get that notebook back. I'm sure if I can crack the code everything I need to know is inside. Certainly enough to convince Martha. Perhaps Danny's hidden it somewhere else. I run my hand under his pillow and the duvet. Lift the mattress. Look in the wardrobe, in the folds of the clothes in the drawers. Peel back the rug on the floor.

No sign anywhere.

I check my watch. Quarter past seven. I have to think. And fast.

Backing towards the door, looking upwards, I scan the very top of the wardrobe and the bookshelf. It's then I spot what I missed before. A glimpse of white peeking over the rim of the bookshelf. Balancing on the edge of the bed, reaching up on tiptoes, I manage to grip the corner between the tips of my middle fingers and yank it towards me.

A thump as several sheets of paper and something harder hit the floor.

My heart almost stops when I see what's lying there. A notebook – but not Danny's. I stare at it, hardly believing what I'm seeing. My diary. I pick it up and flip through the pages. Yep, my handwriting on every page.

What on earth is it doing here?

A shiver ripples through me as the truth sinks in. Danny. He's been in my house, in my room. I can't remember the last time I wrote anything in that diary, so I've no idea when he might have taken it.

I feel sick, shocked, outraged. And yet…here I am, doing the same.

But there's a difference, I tell myself, trembling. I don't want to be here, but I don't have a choice.

But Danny? What does he need to find out about me?

I grab my diary and shove it into the waistband of my jeans, then pick up the pieces of paper. They're letters, the first dated six weeks ago, from a Dr John Stanner at the Department of Psychiatry at Somertree Hospital. The shrink Danny saw.

Dear Mrs Geller,

I am writing again regarding your son Daniel Geller, who has attended several outpatient appointments with me. He has now missed three sessions in a row, and I have no choice but to terminate treatment.

I know that this will not come as welcome news, given your anxiety regarding his “missing years” and the possible trauma that may have resulted. I have indeed tried very hard to encourage Danny to speak freely about this time, but frankly with no success. I can neither confirm nor refute the diagnosis of amnesia, though I have to say that retrograde amnesia lasting this length of time is rare without accompanying severe head trauma.

But in my opinion, given my brief acquaintance with Danny, this is not a case of amnesia. It is not possible for me to formally diagnose what he might be suffering from, since he has avoided cooperating with me at every juncture. Danny, as far as I can tell, has treated his time with me as some kind of game – one whose object is to outwit my every attempt to help him.

While I hesitate to offer advice to a family member outside the remit of therapy, I would urge you to encourage Daniel to seek further help, as he strikes me as quite a disturbed, if not dangerous, young man.

I scan the next letter, short and to the point. It's from Mr Givens, the head, asking Martha to come in urgently to discuss Danny's behaviour.

The last has another official letterhead, the local hospital in town. I glance at the name at the bottom – Dr Julian Gray, a consultant in the Accident and Emergency department.

Dear Mrs Geller,

I am writing to you with reference to your appointment on 12th May for your son Daniel. As you are aware, we did an abdominal ultrasound after the incident at his school, to check for any injuries related to his persistent vomiting. While we were happy to report that there seemed to be no problems, we have since checked his patient records and found an anomaly.

According to our records, Daniel Geller attended this hospital ten years ago, age six, after referral from his GP for acute appendicitis. As a result we removed his appendix via laparoscopy and he made a full recovery. However, this more recent scan appears to reveal an intact appendix. Moreover, the radiographer has made no note of incision marks on the abdomen.

As a consequence we can only conclude that there has been some kind of mix-up with Daniel's hospital records, though we can find no trace of any other Daniel Geller ever having attended here. I would be very grateful if you would contact me forthwith, as we would like to clear up this matter as soon as possible.

Have I understood right?

I think so.

I read through the letters again, fighting to keep the words in focus, letting the meaning sink in. Then fold and stuff them into the back pocket of my jeans. I've found what I need.

Proof.

I wander, dazed, down towards the seafront. Sit on one of the benches overlooking the slipway. With the evening so grim, there's hardly anyone around. Just a few people walking dogs, wrapped up in raincoats and cagoules.

I take the letters out my back pocket and read them again. Make sure I haven't made a mistake.

Should I go to the police? I wonder. I could ask for Janet Reynolds, tell her everything. She'll have to take it seriously.

Yet how can I let the police turn up on Martha's doorstep without warning? I must talk to her first. But the thought of another confrontation makes me feel sick and dizzy.

It's different now, I remind myself, my hand clutching the letters. Now I have proof even Martha can't ignore.

I take a lungful of salt air. Release it slowly. I'll wait for Paul to get home from his conference, I decide. I'll tell him and Martha together, and Paul will know what to do. And if Martha freaks out, tries to blame me, I feel sure he'll intervene.

I glance at my watch. He probably won't be back till nine or ten. That's a couple of hours away.

I close my eyes for a moment. Listen to the sounds around me. The
ark-ark
of gulls, the distant bark of a dog. The faint lap of waves on a rising tide.

But what about Danny? I think, with a lurch of anxiety that has my pulse racing again. Danny will have guessed something was going on when I didn't turn up at the bandstand. Maybe he's already checked his room, discovered what's missing.

He'll be waiting for me at Dial House.
He'll be prepared.

What can he do though? I have the letters, the letters he stole before Martha could read them. How can he explain those away?

He can't, I reassure myself. But the sudden creepy feeling that he might still be down here, waiting for me, propels me off the bench and up towards the pier. As I approach, I get a sudden, prickly sensation on the back of my neck. Tiny shivers running across my skin, like ripples on a lake.

As if someone's watching me.

I spin round, checking behind. No one, apart from an old man walking along the promenade, a paper sandwiched in the crook of his arm. He doesn't even look in my direction as he passes.

Stop being paranoid, I tell myself, ignoring the thump of my heart. I have to calm down. Walk. Breathe.
Think.

Where can I go? I can't go to Dial House, and I daren't go home, in case Danny is waiting for me there. I could turn up at Lianna's or Maisy's, but they'd soon sense something was wrong, and I can't talk to them before I've even spoken to Martha and Paul.

Besides, I need to keep moving, fast, to distract myself from my nerves. So I take the footpath that weaves round the coast to Ladd's Point. It should be quiet out there. No chance of bumping into Danny.

It starts to drizzle again, the sky growing darker. By the time I reach the steep flight of steps leading down to the beach, there's a sharp stitch in my side and my lungs feel hot and raspy. I slow down as I cross the pebbles to the edge of the cove, then begin to clamber up over the boulders, trying not to crush the winkles and limpets clinging to every surface. I pick my way carefully – lose your footing around here, and there's nothing but seaweed to break your fall.

I don't stop until I reach the ledge, the vast expanse of flat rock that extends right round the headland. There's no one here at all, not even anyone fishing. That's why Danny and I loved this place – you're hidden from the coast path on the cliff, and people rarely bother with the arduous climb to get here. There's nothing to disturb you except the screech of gulls and the slap of the sea against the rocks below.

The end of nowhere, Danny used to call it.

A quick glance behind me. The only way back is the way I came, and I don't want to get cut off. The tide's coming in, but the water has only reached the first line of rocks surrounding the little beach below. I should be fine for an hour or so.

I make my way further along the headland, hopping from rock to rock, avoiding the pools stranded by the receding tide, eventually reaching the little gully that forms a natural shelter from the wind. It was here we once saw dolphins swimming in the channel. And here that Danny caught the biggest fish he ever landed.

I shiver at the memory. How Danny has once again slipped out of my present and into my past.

Climbing down into the gully, I sit on a flat piece of rock splashed with yellow lichen, bright as spilled paint. Just at that moment the sun breaks through the clouds, brightening the grey-brown water of the Bristol Channel to an almost-blue, illuminating the Welsh hills in the distance. I inhale deeply, trying to clear my head. My mind feels dull and cloggy, still heavy with my cold. My clothes are damp and I'm a little dizzy; I remember I haven't eaten anything since breakfast.

I close my eyes, hug my legs and rest my forehead on my knees, listening to the rhythmic suck and swish of the waves. I'm exhausted, drowsy almost, yet a buzz of anxiety courses through me like electricity. I want to go to sleep and wake up when all this is over.

“Hello, titch.”

My head whips up. I blink at the figure standing in front of me, blocking the evening sun. With the light behind him, I can't quite make out his features, but the voice is unmistakable. I scramble to my feet.

Danny.

But not Danny, I remind myself, my legs feeling shaky. Not Danny at all.

I squint to get him in better focus. His mouth is curled in something like amusement, but his eyes have all the concentration of a hunter eyeing its quarry.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask, forcing down the stammer in my voice. How come I didn't hear him approach? He must have crept across the rocks like a panther.

The figure in front of me doesn't say anything. Simply looks at me, the expression on his lips morphing into something tighter, more considered. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle again. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. And it's later than I thought; I must have drifted off after all. I glance around, hoping there might be someone about.

But we're alone.

“How long have you been there?” I ask. “Watching me?”

“A while.” He smiles. “But I think I should be asking
you
the questions, Hannah.” His voice is slow and deliberate. “Like exactly what you think you're up to?”

He's been spying on me, I realize. He must have cut back up from the bandstand the moment he knew I'd set him up, and followed me here. My heart picks up speed, my mind keeping pace, alert, racing. Should I act innocent? Pretend I've no idea what he's talking about?

One look tells me I'd be wasting my time. Whoever this is, I know he's not stupid. So I don't say anything. Just stare back at him, trying to hide my growing unease.

“Nice spot,” he says. “Quiet.”

“We used to come here a lot, Danny and I.” I pause, gathering strength for my next words. “But I guess you don't remember that, do you?”

No reply. Instead he takes a step forward, watching me intently. I stand my ground, willing myself not to blink or look away.

“So, tell me,” I ask. “What's your real name?”

I can see his features clearly now, see him wondering whether to try and bluff his way out of this, to carry on the pretence. But then his face slackens and he exhales deeply. The long sigh of someone coming to a decision.

“Eric,” he says slowly, “Eric Fougère.”