Free Hidden by Emma Kavanagh Page B

walk down the tarmac drive, keeping my steps light. Will jam my thumb onto the round of the doorbell, will hear the distant ringing. I will wait. As long as it takes. After one minute or five, there will be the creaking of footsteps. A murky silhouette through the warped glass of the front door. And there Mara will be. She will stand there for a moment, a flood of emotions will cross her face. Perhaps one of them – before she realises what is to come – will be pleasure at seeing me. Then she will look down, she will see the gun. And she will know that she is going to die.
    Will she beg, I wonder? Will she apologise for what she has done?
    I will lift up the gun, watch her beautiful, big green eyes go round with horror. I will pull the trigger.
    My breathing is steady, easy.
    A bird, a magpie, lands on the bonnet of my car. It stares at me through the windscreen. One for sorrow. I lift the gun. I’m ready.
    But then I see something, a movement from the quiet house. I pause, stare. But there is nothing. My eyes playing tricks on me. I wait, though. Just in case. Then I see it again, a flutter of motion behind the glass. My heart beginning to beat a little faster.
    I pull the door handle. Quiet. Careful. I push the car door open, slip out, keeping low behind the hedge, hugging the gun close to my side. I peer through the leaves, the world turned green. Can make out the front door, sunlight catching on the letter box.
    There is a creak. The door beginning to open. I move, adjust, lift up the gun. Take aim through the leaves.
    Then I see Mara. She is framed in the doorway, the sunlight catching on her red hair, dousing it in flames. It is pulled back, tied in a rough bun. She is wearing jeans, ones that I have never seen on her before, and the barest slick of make-up. She has something in her hands, although I can’t see what it is; is looking at it, is shaking her head. She hasn’t seen me.
    I stare at her. The gun is shaking. She is more beautiful than I remembered.
    I stand up, make the gun steady, step out from behind the hedge. I want her to see me before she dies.
    She freezes. Stares at me. Her mouth falls open.
    I pull the trigger.

11
     

Charlie: Tuesday 26 August, 10.32 a.m.

Five days before the shooting
     
    ‘STUART.’
    ‘Hey, Charlie. God, it’s been . . . what, an hour now?’
    ‘Yeah, I know. I know. I was just wondering if you had anything new on Emily Wilson?’
    ‘In the past hour?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘No.’
    I’m flicking my pen against the surface of the desk, flick, flick, flick. Can feel Dave looking at me. I’m annoying him. Flick. Flick. Flick. The sound merges into the low hum of the newsroom’s feeble air-conditioning unit, the distant click-clack of computer keys. ‘Oh.’ I don’t know what I was expecting. Why I thought he would tell me something different. Perhaps I thought it would be the same for everyone else, that the snaking rivulets of their thoughts would all wind their way back to Emily. ‘So, there’s no sign of the—’
    ‘I told you, Charlie. The PM will take time. They’ve got a backlog down there. You’re looking at a couple of days at least.’
    ‘And tox—’
    ‘Toxicology will follow the post-mortem. Patience isn’t one of your virtues, is it?’
    I sigh. Cradle the handset of the phone between my shoulder and chin, rub my hand across my eyes. My other hand keeps flicking the damn pen. I’m starting to irritate myself now. My vision has begun to blur at the edges, a dull throbbing headache building from the base of my skull. The air in the office is thick, feels like you could reach up and grab a handful, and I wonder if it is this that is making my head ache. It isn’t. I know that. It’s the fact that I’ve had three hours’ sleep in as many days, but I like to cover all my bases.
    ‘Sorry, Stu. I know I’m being a pain.’
    I can hear the force’s press officer smile. He’s a big guy, around six-foot-four maybe, with these huge round cheeks