Page 67 of The Serial Killer's Sister
‘You best go first because you know the area better.’ Serena says, backing away from me and walking to Dean’s car. I’m also the one who’s going to choose the location to ditch the Audi. I seem to remember talk of a disused quarry around here, which might be the best bet. Even if Dean’s car is found at some point, the quarry is far enough away from the well that the two are unlikely to be linked.If anything, police will assume DI Walker’s vehicle was stolen by joyriders and dumped – or that he must’ve been in this area trying to locate Henry Lincoln single-handedly, and Henry is the person responsible for the detective’s disappearance.
It’s the best hope I have.
There are no lights along the lanes leading to the land where the quarry is; only my headlights and those of Serena’s in the Audi behind illuminate the path ahead. The lane narrows so much that the hedges scratch against each side of the car, the high-pitched squealing sounding like screaming. I feel a moment of panic. Have I taken a wrong turning? I’m afraid I’m about to end up in someone’s farm when it suddenly widens and the ground changes, becoming smoother; sandy, and I let out my held breath in a rush. After a few minutes, I brake and get out, indicating to Serena to pull alongside me.
She doesn’t get out immediately, and I can’t see her face. My pulse skitters. Has she changed her mind? I couldn’t blame her – this is going beyond the call of friendship. I lay my hand on my chest, feeling the beat of my heart drumming against it. I’m allowing her guilt that she was suckered in by Dean to ensure I get what I want. I swore I’d never be this selfish again, yet here I am. It really will be the last time, though. I’ll make sure I’m the very best friend to Serena. And here and now, I make a new resolution: I’m not going back to Seabrook Prep. I look up to the night sky, tears pricking my eyes. I’m going to find a new teaching job at a more disadvantaged school, just like I’d intended all those years ago. I’ll prove my worth by contributing to the wellbeing of kids who aren’t as fortunate as those at private schools. And I will lead a good life.
Even if that means leading it alone, without my husband.
The car door opens, and Serena steps into the beam of light created by the headlights.
‘You okay?’ I walk towards her, my hand out. She takes it and I feel its clamminess against my palm.
‘When it’s over I will be,’ she says. She lets go of my hand and edges forwards.
‘Careful.’ I tug at her jumper sleeve, fear sweeping through my veins. The last thing I want now is for her to accidentally fall into the quarry.
‘I’m getting a little tired of deep, dark holes,’ Serena says. ‘Can we make this the last?’
I can’t help but smile. It’s comforting to know someone else who uses humour in stressful situations. ‘With pleasure.’
We go through the plan again, and when we’re both as certain as we can be that we’ve thought of everything, Serena gets back into Dean’s car and uses the wet wipes from his glove compartment to remove her fingerprints. They’ll find her blood in the boot, if the car is ever retrieved, but that can be explained with the abduction story, which she’ll say she was too traumatised to report at the time. Finding her fingerprints on the steering wheel would be trickier to explain, so a few minutes eliminating those is time well spent.
When she’s finished, Serena pulls the sleeve of her jumper over her hand and releases the handbrake. We both get behind the car and with our hands covered, we begin pushing it closer to the edge. It’s hard to begin with, then it gains momentum, moving more easily. Within seconds, I feel a release of pressure, and the car is falling into the black void beneath us in a cacophony of crunching, scraping metal and shattering glass.
Once the noise abates, Serena takes my hand in hers and we stand in quiet contemplation at the edge of the quarry, looking out across the skyline. Twinkling lights in the distance are the only reminder other people exist in this moment. I close my eyes, giving a silent prayer to poor Henry and to all those who’ve been hurt by, or had their lives taken by, Dean Briggs. And as I tilt my head to the heavens, I pray for him, too. That he may be at peace, now.
Shivering with the cold air and shock, we climb back into my car and I whack the heater on as we begin the drive home. There’s still a lot to talk about, decisions to be made about what to say, to whom, and when. But we agree to keep the truth between ourselves.
I’ve replaced one secret for another.
But what’s a secret between friends?
Epilogue
THEN
Avoiding public transport, at least while still in Sutton Coldfield, was a must – I couldn’t afford to be traced that way. Now, two days’ worth of hitching has left me grubby, and my face shows every bit of fear, guilt and exhaustion – my skin sallow, dark circles heavy under my eyes. I stare at myself in the mirror of the service station toilets, loathing the person I see. I splash water over myself, rub my face hard in a vain attempt to rid it of the evidence. Nausea swells in my belly. I’ve had no food to speak of and I’ve already vomited twice, so there can’t be anything left to bring up.
A woman coming out of a toilet cubicle side-eyes me. She’s weighing me up; judging me. I should be used to it, but today irritation is quick to surface, and I glare at her.
‘What?’ I say, my voice harsh with aggression. She opens her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it, and leaves, the door slamming behind her. A knot of regret gripes in my gut. I shouldn’t have been so snappy; shewas likely only concerned at seeing a dishevelled-looking girl alone in a service station toilet. I look intensely at the closed door for a moment, willing her to come back through it and ask me if I’m all right. When she doesn’t, I turn back to the mirror with a sigh.Maybe I look older than fifteen, I think, touching my face. Maybe I won’t need that fake ID after all.
Outside, I spot a group of people, touristy types by the look of them, about to board a coach. I spot its destination lit up on the front. It’s bound for Devon. I’ve always wanted to live by the sea. I edge closer to the group, then mingle in with them as they jostle to get up the coach’s steps, my pulse skipping when the driver glances at me. I wait for his barked demand ofwhat do you think you’re doing?but it doesn’t come. I find an empty seat near the back and quickly take it. For the next ten minutes, sitting with my eyes averted from the other passengers, my nerves jangle and I fear people can actually hear my legs as they knock together. Then, I feel the vibration of the engine under my feet and allow myself to relax back in the seat as we move off.
I’m finally heading for the coast.
Five hours later I glimpse the expanse of glistening water for the first time in real life and emotions overwhelm me. The strongest, guilt, takes centre stage, along with regret for what I’ve done. But as I gaze out of the grimy coach window at the distant horizon, a calmness settles within me, mirroring the silent ocean. I can’t change what happened, but I can try to live a good life and make sure I give back as much as possible.
A sign for Torquay flashes by. I read up on this areabefore leaving – it’ll be a good starting point. Plenty of touristy places offering seasonal work to see me through the first weeks and months, with luck. I trudge from the coach station to the tourist information centre and get a list of nearby accommodation. There’s a hostel – cheap and cheerful looking – that has a view of the sea, and it states that the rooms are single with a private bathroom. I can’t remember the last time I had that. A flurry of excitement is quashed by the stronger sense of trepidation, and the words flying through my mind:you don’t deserve this. I push them away.
I have no choice.
The building isn’t how it looks in the photo. It’s tired-looking, dirty, with flaking paint that reminds me of where I lived before Finley Hall. A swishing sensation deep in my belly stops me, and I grip the metal railings outside. Is this the best place there is? It’s not as though I have a whole host of options. Beggars can’t be choosers, as my mother would say when she slopped beans in a bowl for dinner, or dressed me in clothes she’d found on the steps of charity shops.
If I’m to survive on my own, I have to be brave. With a huge intake of the sea air, I push the doors to the hostel open and walk inside, striding with fake confidence up to the reception. The middle-aged man gives me a cheery greeting. He has kind eyes – a honey-brown colour – that look knowingly at me as he asks my name. I pause, with my purse containing the ID with the falsified date of birth in my hand, my knuckles white with anxiety.
I told Henry we’d planned to run away, that we’d secured everything we needed to ensure we weren’t found, but the IDs aren’t exactly high quality – just good enoughto make ourselves sixteen, so that legally we were free to leave the home and gain our own accommodation. We figured Miss Graves wouldn’t involve the police – it would look bad for them, and they wouldn’t want the attention for fear the police would dig further into Finley Hall. Going all out with fake names was far too risky according to Dodgy Dave, the guy who hooked us up with his mate who only usually forged IDs to get underage kids into clubs. Proper kosher-looking ones would cost more than we’d ever get our hands on. These would be good enough, he’d assured us. As an extra precaution, Henry had said he’d set fire to the files in Miss Graves’s office to make sure there was no record of Kirsty Briggs or Anna Lincoln.
Doing this alone, now, though, makes me edgy. My hands shake violently as I reach into my purse, aware of the guy’s eyes on me. I can almost hear him weighing up whether he should call the police or not, and my paranoia makes me fumble. I pull out both the IDs and as I do, a scan photo comes with it. My breath hitches as I look at the grey and white grainy image of the five-week-old foetus, and my surroundings melt away as the worst moments of my life come back to me.
Tears stream down my face. The journey has been an incredibly long one – the botched abortion thieving me of the chance to ever have children. Maybe that was a good thing – it’s my deserved punishment for what I did. I’ll try and tell myself it’s my choice – because let’s face it – who’d want to bring children into this world? With my genes, no doubt I’d make a terrible mother anyway. I can’t chance ruining another life. I want to run as far away from my own as I can.
It’s suddenly clear what I should do. I look down atthe two IDs, putting the one saying Kirsty Briggs back in my purse. Then, with a smile, I hand the man Anna’s.
‘I’m Anna Lincoln,’ I tell him. It feels odd saying her name – it’s the first time I’ve uttered it since the other night, since Henry and I yelled it after she fell into the well.
But I’m sure I’ll get used to it.