Before We Met(106)

And the things he’d lied about, too. Lying about his brother she could understand – even forgive. In his place, meeting someone she really liked, perhaps she would have done the same in the tentative early days. But you wouldn’t have kept on lying, argued her inner voice; when you knew the relationship was getting serious, you would have said something, even if it meant losing him. And his parents: he’d lied to her about them from the very beginning, before he could ever really have known their relationship would be significant.

‘The boring, ordinary, petit bourgeois people he had to leave behind.’ She heard his father’s voice again. Was that why Mark had lied about them? Had he despised them so much? She thought of the pile of magazine clippings, the aspiration and yearning for sophistication that had risen off every hoarded page like steam. Was that why Mark kept his half of the bedroom so pared back? she wondered. Was that his way of rejecting his surroundings, refusing to own any part of that stifling bungalow with its chintzy rocking chairs and fabric flowers? He’d been designing a different sort of life for himself, hadn’t he, page by magazine page?

And now Neesha. Hannah knew in her bones that Mark had fired her for talking about Hermione’s calls. Why else would he have gone to such lengths to work out who’d told her? And if her for firing Neesha had been legitimate, he would have told her, Hannah, wouldn’t he? He always talked to her about work – under normal circumstances, there was no way he’d fire his assistant without discussing it with her first.

She turned into Studdridge Street, only a minute from home now. Home. Warm light shone from the windows of almost every house, people settling in for cosy Saturday evenings of dinner and television. She thought about the walk back to the station in the rain, the hour or so she’d spend sitting soaked and cold on the Tube to Holloway. She waited for an oncoming car to pass and then made the left turn into Quarrendon Street. There was a parking spot right on the end behind a white van and she pulled in and turned off the engine. She unplugged the GPS and put it back in the glove compartment then sat for a moment in the sudden quiet. The red light was flashing on her BlackBerry again but it was just her brother, asking what time she thought she’d get there; she could answer him once she got to the station. She dropped the phone into her bag, braced herself for the rain and got out.

Tucking the handle of the umbrella between her shoulder and ear, she hitched her bag on to her shoulder and slid the key into the car door. A darting movement at ground level startled her for a second but it was just a cat, the fat tabby from across the road. Rainwater streamed along the gutter at her feet.

‘Don’t scream, and don’t try and run.’

Hannah froze. The voice came from directly behind her, a foot away. A man’s voice, quiet, in control. Mark’s but not Mark’s – scratchier, the accent less cultured. For a second or two the world seemed to stop. She made to turn round but a strong hand had circled the top of her arm, and it was gripping hard, keeping her facing away.

‘Just do what I tell you and everything will be fine. Give me the key.’

‘Get off me. Get off – you’re—’

She tried to shake free of him but the hand gripped harder, fingers pressing into her flesh, sending pain shooting down her arm. She felt hot breath on her cheek, his mouth an inch from her ear. ‘Shut up,’ he said, his voice harder now, ‘and give me the key.’

She jabbed her other arm backwards, elbow up, hoping to make contact somewhere, surprise him enough to loosen his grip just for a second, but he anticipated her and grabbed hold of her wrist. He yanked it up behind her back and she felt something tear in her shoulder. Her umbrella fell to the pavement, followed by the car key. She heard the splash as it landed in the gutter and felt a stab of despair: the plastic fob was light; the coursing rainwater would carry it away and she’d never find it in the dark.

The police – where were the police? She twisted her head but her view was blocked by the white van she’d parked behind, and the Honda she’d seen at lunchtime had been around the curve in the street, on the same side. It was hidden from sight – or she was. She opened her mouth to scream but the hand that had circled her arm was now clamped across her face, forcing her head back. She struggled but he was too powerful, and every time she tried to get free, excruciating pain tore through her shoulder. The taste of leather was in her mouth – he was wearing gloves.

He kicked her feet out from under her and pulled her sharply round. She gasped with the pain, realised her mouth was partially uncovered and screamed. The sound was shockingly loud. She felt him flinch, and hope filled her: someone would have heard it – the police, one of the neighbours. Someone would come to see what was going on. Someone would help her.