‘And a torch,’ I say, trying not to remember the last time I handled that, the dried rivulets of too-red mud.
‘I’ve got everything I need, Mum,’ Milla says, a look of annoyance darkening her face. ‘Except the cash. That’s what I came for.’ Matt stands up and retrieves the Waitrose bag from the dresser drawer. His hands are shaking as he proffers it towards Milla, and it reminds me that tonight is upsetting for him too. He went out on his road bike when he got back from the bank this lunchtime. And then he spent another hour fitting some new kit to it that had been delivered while he was in Geneva. I could tell he was trying to distract himself.
‘Thanks,’ Milla mumbles. She hesitates for a moment, then sighs. ‘And also thanks for trusting me, both of you. I promise I’ve got this; you really don’t have to worry.’
I want to say something, to remind her of the dangers, or plead with her to reconsider. But I stay mute as she pulls her baseball cap on. I follow her out of the kitchen, and then watch her disappear down the drive. Lucy is lying on the sofa watching TV, or at least pretending to – an episode of Friends from one of the early seasons – and I don’t disturb her. Instead, I return to the kitchen. Matt is getting ready to go out – zipping up an old bomber jacket I’d forgotten he had – and suddenly he’s wearing all black too. Would I have thought about camouflage if I’d been doing the drop? Maybe.
‘What if Milla sees you?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like she doesn’t know what car you drive.’
‘She’s going via the railway dumping ground,’ he reminds me. ‘I’ll park on the top road. We won’t cross each other’s paths.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I guess I should go.’ Instead of going out the normal way, he disappears through the French doors at the back, and I realise he doesn’t want Lucy to spot him leaving. I’m not sure when our family became so deceitful.
With nothing else to do, I wander into the living room. ‘Mind if I join you?’ I ask. Lucy doesn’t look up, but she shifts her feet off the sofa, and I take that as an invitation. ‘How are you doing?’ I ask as I lower myself down.
She sighs. ‘Can we just watch TV, Mum?’
Her tone is more pained than curt, so I turn towards the screen. She’s hardly spoken since the detective left, hasn’t asked me why he came, and I’m too tired to push it. It’s the episode of Friends where Ross and Monica become ultra-competitive at a fun game of baseball, and it makes me think about my own children’s sibling relationship. I’ve always assumed their differences mean they can’t be that close. But I was wrong. Because Milla is out there, alone in the dark, risking her safety to protect her sister. She hasn’t questioned Lucy’s innocence at all – unlike me – or berated her for ignoring her big sister’s advice. She’s showing more empathy towards Lucy than I thought she was capable of.
I look at my watch: 11.58.
‘You could go to bed, you know,’ I say to Lucy. ‘It’s late, and there’s no reason for you to stay up.’
‘You really think I could fall asleep without knowing that Milla’s okay? When she’s doing all this for me? Where’s Dad, anyway?’ she adds tetchily.
I can’t tell her the truth. She’s bound to tell Milla that Matt went out to spy on her. ‘Um, he went to the Co-op,’ I lie. ‘He’s got a headache and we’ve run out of paracetamol.’
She looks at me suspiciously for a moment, then turns back to the TV. Perhaps it’s safest not to talk after all.
I sneak a look at my phone: 00.05. Milla will have done the drop by now. God, I hope she’s on her way home. Milla is hardwired to stand up for herself, so I know her instinct will be to wait for Jess to appear and confront her. But Matt is watching the proceedings, I remind myself. If Milla tries anything like that, he’ll intercept her.
The familiar Friends theme tune spills out of the TV speakers signifying the end of the episode. But after a few adverts, it strikes up again with a new one. I can’t really follow the story – my head is too full of panic – but the sound of canned American laughter manages to worm its way in. I don’t check my watch again, but the adverts come and go, and I know Matt and Milla should be back by now.
The theme music again. Black and white outfits. Ross falling into the fountain. Another episode has started. It’s 00.49.
I push up off the sofa. I can’t just sit here, waiting, hoping that my husband and firstborn are going to reappear. Why the hell did I ever think that being this passive was a good idea?
‘Where are you going?’ Lucy asks, fear creeping into her voice.
‘I think I should go and find them.’
She looks at me. ‘Dad followed her, didn’t he?’ It’s more of a statement than a question and I bite my lip. ‘He should trust her more.’
Before I can work out how to respond, there’s a noise by the porch and we whip our heads around in unison.
‘Milla!’ I exhale. But my relief disintegrates when I see her expression. Her face is deathly pale – at odds with her normally warm complexion – and her eyes are red-ringed like she’s been crying. ‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I put the money in the bin,’ she says quietly. ‘Then I came home.’
‘But you were gone for ages.’
‘I had to …’ She pauses, like she doesn’t want to tell me. ‘I had to hide behind one of the train carriages for a bit. To make sure I wasn’t seen. But I’m exhausted now. I’m going to bed.’
‘Hide? From who?’
‘Please, Mum,’ she says, a bit more forcefully. ‘I need to sleep.’ I watch her walk towards the stairs, then plod up them, her head looking too heavy for her shoulders. I want to go after her, demand that she tells me everything. But I know that’s selfish. My interrogation will have to wait until morning.
‘You should go too, Lucy,’ I finally say. ‘Milla’s back now. Safe.’ She doesn’t move straight away, but after ten or so seconds, she pushes off the sofa, clicks the remote to turn the TV off, and wordlessly follows her sister upstairs.
But not everyone is home safely. I press on Matt’s name in my call history, and listen to his phone ring and ring. I send him a WhatsApp message and will the ticks to turn blue. But I refuse to worry about him. Matt is a grown man – a physically intimidating one at that – in a reliable car with central locking.
He is not in danger.
AFTER
Saturday 11th May
Rachel
It’s raining but I don’t care. I always run on a Saturday morning, and I need it more than ever today. An outlet for my pent-up energy. But I’m wearing trainers, not trail runners, because there’s no way I’m venturing beyond the solid safety of the pavement.
Matt finally got home at 01.38, nearly an hour after Milla, and looking equally shellshocked. But unlike our eldest daughter, after having a shower to calm himself down, he wanted to talk. Right from the beginning he’d found it difficult, he said, watching his little girl prowl across empty parkland. Not because she seemed fearful, but for how easily she took it in her stride. The drop itself had been uneventful, and with Milla appearing so in control, he’d decided to wait for Jess to turn up. While the place was deserted, he was paranoid that some chancer might wander past, find the bag, and pocket the money. And then it would all be for nothing.
Jess didn’t come straight away and, crouching in the damp undergrowth in the shadow of oak trees, Matt had started to wonder whether she would. Getting out of her house after midnight – especially with what happened to her sister – can’t have been easy. But after a while, maybe only fifteen minutes, although it felt longer, he’d spotted her. She’d arrived from the far side, by the old cement works, shoved the Waitrose bag in the pouch of her hoodie, and left via the same route Milla had taken. He’d not worried about that because he’d assumed Milla would be safely back home by then, and he’d returned to his car, grateful that it was done.
But emotional and exhausted, and with the road darkened by bowing trees on both sides, he hadn’t seen the badger lumber across in front of him. Until he caught its startled zebra face in the car’s headlights a second before he smacked into it. It had made such a thud that he irrationally thought he’d hit a person – even though he knew that wasn’t the case – and the shock had proved too much. After checking and confirming that the badger had died on impact, he’d got back in his car and burst into tears. And once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. He cried for the badger, for Amber, and for the effect her death was having on his family. And then his misery widened, crying for the career that was stolen from him, and the dad he’d never felt he properly grieved for.
He told me all this in bed, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. But when I crawled my fingers towards his, he took hold of them. And then he apologised. He said that he knew he was hard work at times. That he was grateful for my patience, and sorry for being so fixated on having everything tidy. How he understood his obsessive nature was a crutch, but that he couldn’t figure out how to let go. Instinctively I knew not to contribute, that he needed my ear, not my advice, so when he finished, we lay in silence for a while, hand in hand, until I eventually fell asleep. I’m not sure when he drifted off, but he was fast asleep when I crept out of the bedroom this morning.
I don’t want to go anywhere near Chinnor Hill – Matt said that he would call the council this morning, but I assume the dead badger is still there at the moment – so I run towards the hamlet of Aston Rowant instead. On the quieter road, I hear the familiar call of a red kite – something between a cat’s meow and a child’s whistle – and I look up into the sky. It’s a beautiful bird. Reddish brown with a deep fork in its tail. It was threatened with extinction in the UK once, but now they’re thriving in the Chilterns – a whole species indebted to a few conservationists from the 1980s. It’s another reminder that small decisions can have long-lasting consequences, and I run a little faster to deal with the adrenalin spike that thought causes.
