Mo Hayder - Hanging Hill

It was dark and warm in the bin. She couldn’t hear anything outside, just the hot percussive in and out of her own panting bouncing off the plastic walls. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and carefully lifted the carrier bag to her knees, silently using her fingernails to slit a hole in the plastic. Inside were the remains of a kid’s packed lunch – a couple of squashed drinks packets, a screwed-up ball of silver foil with crumbs on it, a wad of napkins printed with blue dinosaurs – and three baked-beans cans. She pulled the lid out of one of the cans and put it between her knees, crushing with all her might until it folded into two. Then she reversed it and folded it again. She did it three times before it split along the folded edge. She held it against her fingertip – sharp. It would work if she got the right angle.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel. Kelvin. She held her breath, raised the tin lid in both hands above her head. He went past getting so close she could hear his breathing, a raspy, deep-barrelled noise. He wasn’t fit in spite of his job and his army background: the drink and the cigarettes had taken their toll. She could have outrun him, could have got to the road if she’d just had the confidence. She heard him go round the house twice, circling like a buzzard, passing so close to the bin she felt his clothing brush it. Then his footsteps disappeared towards the road.

After a long time she dared to look out. The long, sun-baked drive led to two stone newels, the gates standing wide open. She was just in time to see him exit and stand in the lane, looking up, then back down the hill. He hesitated, then turned and began to walk in the direction of his cottage.

When she was sure he had gone, she clambered out of the bin. She stood for a moment, unpicking the wad of dinosaur napkins, then carefully cleaned out the inside of a second beans can. She rinsed it under the garden tap, dried it with the napkins, pulled the knotted condom out of her pocket and dropped it in. She secured it by wadding a couple of napkins on top. Then she rinsed her hands again, splashed some cold water on her face, and began to hobble down the driveway towards the road. It was early afternoon. The sun had just begun its long descent from the top of the sky.

Sally sat at the open kitchen window, an untouched cup of coffee at her elbow, and stared out across the fields. The Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill had its new leaves on, and the outline it cast against the midday sky was thick. One day it had been a line of skeletons, stretching their hands to the sky, and the next they’d fattened into trees. Just like that, summer was on its way.

She picked up the phone and looked at it. No messages, no texts. Steve had already gone to the gate for his flight home. She unfolded the wet wipes, now dry, and flattened them on the table, tracing her fingers across the words.

Evil bitch .

There was a way of dealing with this. There was. She just couldn’t see it yet.

The doorbell rang and she sat bolt upright. She hadn’t heard a car. There definitely hadn’t been a car. Hurriedly she folded the tissues, went to the window and leaned out. Standing on the porch with her back to the window was a woman, filthy dirty and dressed in torn jeans, hair straggling down her back.

‘Hello?’

The woman turned, looked back at her without a word. Her face was bruised, her nose swollen; there was dried blood in her hair and on her face. Her eyes were dead black holes.

‘ Zoë? ’

She shovelled the wipes into a drawer, slammed it closed, went into the hallway and unlocked the door. Zoë stood with one arm against the wall, her shoulders sagging, her head drooping. She gazed at Sally as if she was looking at her across a great, shattered expanse of desert. As if she’d found herself in a world so terrible that no one, no one, could ever adequately describe it.

She tried to smile. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. ‘People keep telling me I should ask when I need help.’

Sally was silent for a moment. Then she stepped on to the porch and put her arms around her sister. Zoë stood there stiffly. She was shivering.

‘Give me a bath, Sally. And something to drink. Will you? That’s all. I need a little money to get home, but I’ll pay it back.’

Sally shook her head. She held Zoë out at arm’s length, studying her in the sunlight. Her nose was a bloodied ball. There were rivulets of blood running down her chin and her lips were swollen. She couldn’t meet Sally’s eyes.

‘Please don’t ask. Please. Just the bath.’

‘Come on.’

She guided her inside, kicking the door closed, and helped her down the corridor. Zoë limped painfully along, grunting slightly with each step. In the bathroom Sally turned on the taps, then collected the towels Millie had left lying around that morning, and dumped them in the laundry basket.

‘Here.’ She put a clean towel around Zoë. ‘You’re shivering.’

‘I won’t outstay my welcome. I promise.’

‘Shut up.’ She switched on the heated towel rail, and brought flannels and clean towels from the airing cupboard. While the bath ran she went to the kitchen and prepared a tray with a tall jug of mineral water and a pot of coffee. Even as a child Zoë had drunk loads of coffee. Black and strong.

Back in the bathroom Zoë had peeled off her clothes and was climbing into the bath. Sally put the tray on the window-sill and watched her. It was strange enough to see another woman’s naked body in her bathroom, but to see her own sister’s. To see all the skin and muscle and flesh that Zoë walked around in, the covering that she lived in day to day and was so used to she didn’t even look at. Not so different from Sally’s, with the dimples and the small pouches and sags and records of life, except that Zoë was so tall and slim. And something else – she was covered with injuries. Welts and cuts and bruises everywhere. Some looked old, some new. She winced as she settled in the bath, soaked a flannel and held it to her face. The nails on her right hand were broken and black with blood.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ Sally said. ‘More beautiful than I ever was. Mum and Dad always said you were the beautiful one.’

There was a silence. Then Zoë began to cry. She pressed the flannel into her face, leaned forward and took long, convulsive breaths, her shoulders shaking and shuddering. Sally sat on the edge of the bath and put a hand on her sister’s naked back, looking at the vertebrae standing white and sharp under her skin. She waited for the spasms to slow. For the awful, racking sobs to fade.

‘It’s OK now. It’s OK.’

‘I was raped, Sally. I was.’

Sally took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’

‘The man who killed Lorne Wood. He raped me – I got away. I’m supposed to be dead.’

‘The man who killed Lorne ? But I thought Ralph Hernan-’

Zoë shook her head. ‘It wasn’t him.’

Sally didn’t move for a few moments. Then she reached for the towel. ‘You shouldn’t be in the bath. Get out. They have to test you.’

‘No.’ She pulled her knees up to her chin and hugged them. ‘No, Sally. I’m not going to the police.’

‘You’ve got to.’

‘I can’t. I can’t.’ She dropped her forehead on to her knees and cried some more, shaking her head. ‘You think I’ve been strong and independent all my life, don’t you? But that’s wrong. I was stupid. When I left school I was stupid. All the money I got to travel the world? I told Mum and Dad I’d got a magazine to pay for it – that I was working for them.’

‘The travel magazine.’

‘Oh, God – it never existed. I got the money from doing stupid stuff.’