Page 46 of The Vow
Through the legal grapevine I heard a woman had been arrested in connection with Matt’s disappearance. From a distance, I gleaned more details from an indiscreet colleague, who confirmed it was Amy who was being held in custody. Then told me of her daughter’s return from uni. Matt had told me about her. Jess – like her mother to look at, but ten times smarter.
I imagined the police seeing first-hand how Amy was volatile; Amy unravelling. The inconsistency, the aggressive behaviour she was capable of. I felt no sympathy for her. People like Amy didn’t deserve pity. Not when they’d done what she’d done. But while Matt was still missing, I wouldn’t let myself indulge my grief. Rule one was to maintain control at all times, meaning my grief was locked away with other painful memories, in a part of my mind that would forever remain firmly closed.
Amy doesn’t deserve. Nothing should follow that sentence. To put a word there denotes that she deserves anything at all. I tried to talk to her, years ago. But she didn’t listen, just got rid of me as soon as she could, when she had no right. We arebound together forever by the vow we made; by the mingling of blood. There is no undoing the past.
It seems bizarre that it’s Matt who’s unwittingly drawn us together again. She won’t have told anyone about the friendship that used to exist between us. How after our drifting apart as teenagers, she’d gone out of her way to make sure I wouldn’t find her – changing her name, moving away, making her social media profiles private. What hurt me most was that she’d got away with it. That she had her cosy life, while I struggled. Even as more time passed, I couldn’t let it rest.
But unless they really want to remain hidden, it isn’t difficult to find someone. Fifteen years ago, it took a private detective I couldn’t really afford, who found her in days after discovering she’d changed her name. I wasn’t sure what I was doing this for. An apology? A hint of our old friendship? Or just to remind her what she’d done …
After catching a bus, I walked to the street where I knew Amy was living. It was an autumn day, the blustery wind whipping up the newly fallen red-brown leaves, as I found the terraced house on a small housing estate in Eastbourne.
Knocking on the door, when she came to open it, from her look of astonishment, it was clear I was the last person she was expecting. Instead of asking me in, she stood in the doorway. ‘What are you doing here?’
I wanted to tell her,for you to make amends for what happened to me. For you to know how much I’ve suffered.But instead, I watched her face. ‘How abouthello, how are you, how lovely to see you after so long …How long has it been?’ Even though I knew exactly how long, I spoke sarcastically, pretending to consider. ‘I think it’s eight years, by my calculation. I thought I’d come and tell you about what’s happened in my life, ever since you dropped me and didn’t bother to get in touch.’
I watched her eyes flicker over me, knowing I’d changed from the teenager she remembers. After losing weight, I’d recently had my long hair cut into a chiselled style that accentuated my cheekbones. My make-up was minimal but dramatic – black mascara, red lips, my clothes well-cut, smart, as if I’d come from work. It was another of my rules – dress for the life you want to live, even if you don’t have it yet.
In her ripped boyfriend jeans and faded sweatshirt, I wondered if she felt as frumpy as she looked. Folding her arms, she stood there. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Can I come in? Let yourself go a bit, haven’t you?’ Without being invited, I walked past her, then stood there, looking around the hallway. When she didn’t say anything, I prowled into her living room, poking around until I found something. ‘The husband?’ I waved a framed photo in the air towards her, deliberately goading her. Then without waiting for her reply, picked up another. ‘Oh, a baby. How sweet. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself. What’s its name?’
This time I got a response. ‘Put the pictures back.’
But I ignored her. ‘Quite the nice life you have here,Amy.Does he know? The husband? About what happened all those years ago? About what kind of person you really are?’
She lost control the way I’d always known she would, rushing at me, trying to grab the photos. But as she wrestled them from me, one of them fell to the floor. When she picked it up, the glass had cracked.
‘Never mind.’ My words were loaded with cynicism. ‘I’m sure you’ll think up a way to cover yourself. Back to your question, as to why I’m here.’ Dropping the act, I leaned towards her until my face was inches from hers. ‘I’ve come to tell you what my life has been like, ever since your sister died. Ever since your bloody gran told my parents. They sent me away,Amy. Not to some nice private school like you might have gone to, but to some vile prison camp where I was bullied. For three years my life was hell. After that, guess what? It got even better.’ My voice took on a mocking tone. ‘Did you hear they disowned me? Imagine – nowhere to go at Christmas, no birthday cards, no friendly phone calls,just to see how you are, darling.’Not just that, but they disinherited me, too. When the wealthy old bastards die, I get nothing.’
‘And you blame me?’ A look of contempt crossed her face. ‘If you think it’s my fault, you’re talking rubbish.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I take that back. You’re insane. You know as well as I do what actually happened that day. You can’t walk in here and put it on me. Not when it was all down to you.’
I stared at her, unflinching, until she looked away. Then I laughed, a harsh sound, devoid of humour. ‘You know, I’ve heard of this. People who convince themselves of something, when in actual fact it’s a lie. But I’ve never seen it for myself before. You’re weak, Amy. You could convince yourself of anything. You don’t even realise you’re doing it, do you? You’re one of those people who actually believe their own bullshit.’ Angrily, with a single hand, I swept a pile of letters off a shelf onto the floor. Then taking a deep breath, I tried a different tack. ‘We need to talk, don’t we?’ I tried to sound persuasive. ‘You need to face up to what you did. Then maybe we can both put it behind us – for good.’
‘You have a nerve coming here.’ Amy stared at me. ‘We have nothing to talk about. I never want to see you again. Get out.’
‘Ooo,’ I was taunting her. ‘Ever so slightly losing it, are we?’
‘This is my house.’ Amy’s voice was hostile, her body rigid. ‘Don’t come here again. If you do, I’ll call the police.’
I stood there for a moment, challenging her. ‘I don’t believe for one moment you’d actually do that.’
‘Who do you think they’d believe?’ Her eyes blazed into mine. ‘My life is sorted. Yours clearly isn’t.’ As she speaks, her eyes deliberately linger on my hair, my clothes. ‘You might wear the right clothes, but I wouldn’t mind betting that underneath, you’re the same as you always were. Reckless, acting first, thinking later …’
‘You have no idea who I am,’ I snarl at her. ‘You just wait. One of these days it will be me people listen to – I’ll make sure of it. You won’t have a chance. You’ll regret the way you treated me.’
‘Are you surprised?’ This time, she sounds outraged. ‘After what you did?’
‘You may have convinced yourself otherwise, but we both know who is the guilty one. But if you want me to, I’ll go.’ I hesitated. ‘Just so long as you know you haven’t heard the last of this.’ Picking up my bag, I walked towards the door. Just before opening it, I turned around briefly. ‘There are two sides to every story. Don’t ever forget that.’
‘But there’s only one version of the truth,’ I heard her call after me just before I slammed the door. As I walked away, I wondered if she’d sunk into one of her velour armchairs, with God knew what going through her head. I hadn’t wanted to lose it, but for too long there’d been an imbalance between us, one it was time to redress. Sweet, innocent little Amy who got off scot-free, while my entire life had collapsed around me. Well, she wasn’t getting away with it any longer.
Knowing she’d done everything in her power to prevent our paths from crossing again, I had no doubt my visit would have shaken up her cosy little world. She might have thought she was safely ensconced in her dull suburban life, that she heldthe trump card. But as I walked away, I swore on my life that one day, our roles would be reversed. It would be me holding the trump card. This time, it would be Amy no-one would listen to, Amy who ultimately suffered and who at long last, paid the price.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
With Matt still missing, my conviction grows that the police are right and Amy is connected with his disappearance. From speaking to Matt, I know exactly where she lives, in the house I know from way back, on a quiet lane. I don’t think even Matt knew it was her gran’s house. For a moment, I picture it as it was when we were teenagers; the thick walls with stories embedded in the age-old Chinese wallpaper; where overgrown hedges and flint walls guarded an alchemist’s garden. I wonder if it’s changed. Then I try to imagine how life is there, in a home tarnished by the memory of what happened all those years ago.
One evening before Amy’s arrest, idle curiosity – or obsession, as no doubt some people would call it – took me to that house.Amy’s house.As I stood outside, I couldn’t believe she’d made it her home. It used to be a magical place with a wilderness of a garden. Now, the memory of what happened here is hidden behind the neat front lawn, the closed wooden gate, the curtains masking the glow from an upstairs window.
