The Fear: The sensational new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller that you need to read in 2018
thought he was still alive,’ I said.
I didn’t tell her how freaked out I was when I walked into the living room and saw his old chair.
‘Bloody hell, Lou,’ she said when I finally stopped talking. ‘Sounds traumatic. Oh mate, I knew I should have come with you, at least for your first weekend.’
By the end of the phone call I felt calmer than I had done in days. I hadn’t realised how much I was bottling up my emotions or how isolated I was. Alice was the first person I’d spoken to in a week. Properly spoken to, I mean. Superficial conversations with my new colleagues at work didn’t count.
I took Alice’s advice and texted Ben before I got into my car.
I’m sorry for what happened in Dover. There are reasons why I reacted the way I did that I can’t explain right now. You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you afterwards. I hope you’re okay. X
I read the message again, deleted the kiss at the end and then sent it. Ben had twenty minutes to reply before I reached the countryside and the technology dead zone that is Dad’s house. There’s no reception, no Wi-Fi and no neighbours for at least a quarter of a mile. If someone bludgeoned me in my bed, no one would hear me scream. There’s a landline phone downstairs that works, but that’s it.
It’s Saturday now and I still haven’t heard back from Ben. I haven’t heard anything from DS Hope either. When I rang for an update, she told me to ring back this afternoon. The wait has been torturous. I can’t stop thinking about Chloe, and the look on her face as she ran out of the garden centre. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. I remember how that felt – the adrenaline rush of an illicit meeting, the warmth of the kiss, the wretchedness of saying goodbye. I thought I was so grown up. That my life was a romantic movie. That I was in control. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chloe looked so damned joyful that it makes me feel sick. Sick with guilt. She should have been smiling because she’d just been kissed by a boy her own age, not a man old enough to be her father. I just pray things haven’t progressed any further. If he’s put her through what he put me through I’ll never forgive myself.
This morning I decided to try and distract myself by getting on with some of the jobs I’ve been putting off. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom and sorted through Dad’s wardrobe and chest of drawers, bundling jumpers, jeans and suits into black plastic bags for the charity shop. I had a bit of a cry when I found a framed photo of me face down in the bottom of a drawer. There was nothing else that shed any light on who he was or the life he’d lived. Just a few piles of change, some painkillers, half a tube of Deep Heat, betting slips, newspapers, an alarm clock, a radio.
I was fourteen the last time I saw him. It was the weekend before Mike’s court case. Mum waited in the car at the bottom of the track while I walked up to the house that I hadn’t called home for nearly a year. I dumped the cardboard box I was carrying outside the garage, then knocked on the side door. When no one answered, I turned the handle and let myself in. I found Dad slumped in a chair in front of the television, horse racing blaring and an empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He didn’t open his eyes when I said his name and he didn’t stir as I shook his shoulder. Only when I turned off the TV and slapped him, hard, on the back of his hand did he open his eyes.
‘I’m going, Dad,’ I said. ‘To London, with Mum. We’re not coming back. I’ve left a box of my things by the garage. Can you keep it here? Mum says there won’t be enough space in our flat in London.’
His eyes swivelled towards me. They were red-rimmed and puffy, dark pinpricks in a rough, doughy face. He was only forty-seven but he looked twenty years older. ‘Have fun,’ he murmured, then he closed his eyes again.
Now, I push open the door to my old room and throw the bin bags on the growing pile on the floor. Other than the piles of Dad’s crap, it’s exactly as I left it eighteen years ago. I hate this room. Mike never came to the house but he’s in here. He’s ingrained in the fabric of the faded yellow curtains, the peeling wallpaper and the bleached faces of the popstars I pinned to the wall. The number of nights I’d lie in bed, staring into the darkness, losing myself in my imagination. A smile during a kata, trouble finding my things as I got changed, coming out of the changing rooms to discover that I was the only one left in the dojo. Mike appearing behind me and lifting my hair from my neck and—
I back sharply out of the room and slam the door shut. I need to make the call. I can’t wait anymore.
My hand shakes as I pick up the landline and dial the station. If Mike’s been arrested and charged I’ll need to tell the truth about who I really am. And if he hasn’t … No, I’m not even going to go there.
‘Hello,’ says a male voice I don’t recognise. ‘This is DS Walters.’
‘Oh, I was expecting to speak to DS Hope.’
‘DS Hope’s not in until later. I’m her colleague. How can I help?’
He listens as I tell him my fake name and summarise what I told DS Hope, then asks me to hold the line. I can barely breathe as I wait.
‘Right, well,’ he says. ‘It looks like the CPS haven’t authorised the charges.’
‘What?’
‘We carried out a thorough investigation and referred it to the CPS, but I’m afraid there won’t be a prosecution.’
‘But he’s a paedophile! He’s abusing a young girl. I saw him!’
DS Walters sighs heavily. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Well, I can’t actually tell you anything because of data protection rules, but let’s just say that the CPS can be a strange beast sometimes.’
‘Can I speak to them? Tell them what I saw?’
He laughs dryly. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So that’s it? He just carries on doing what he’s doing?’
There’s a pause then, ‘Our hands are tied, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, there’s nothing else.’
I end the call and stare at the phone in my hand. How can this have happened? Mike was sent to jail for five years for what he did to me. Why haven’t they locked him up again? It’s my fault. I screwed up again when I didn’t tell the police who I really am. But it’s not too late to put things right.
A tall man with hollow cheeks, thinning hair and an angular face opens the blue door at 29 Missingham Road. He looks me up and down, sighs and rests against the door frame.
‘Yes?’ He doesn’t say ‘what do you want?’ but it’s written all over his face.
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you and your wife. It’s about Chloe.’
His expression darkens. ‘What’s this about?’
‘If I could just come in I’ll tell you. It’s … quite sensitive.’
‘We’ve already spoken to the police and if you’re a journalist you can fuck right off.’
‘Alan!’ a woman calls from the back of the house. ‘Who is it?’
‘No one!’
‘Please, I’m not a journalist or police. Maybe I could talk to your wife?’
‘She’s ill.’
A curtain twitches at an upstairs window.
‘Please,’ I say as Alan moves to shut the door. ‘A man called Mike Hughes is having an inappropriate relationship with your daughter and I’m worried about her.’
‘Who the fuck are you? If you’re not police or journalist …’ His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. ‘Are you the one that reported him?’