What Happened Next? Episode Seven

Episode SEVEN

THE GIRL IN THE VAN

The echo of my knock faded, swallowed by the quiet street. No voice answered, no shuffle of feet, just the distant hum of the motorway and my own pulse pounding in my ears. I stepped back, contemplating prying one of the loose bricks off one of my neighbours’ walls to smash the window and gain entry, but before I went through with it, the vehicle dipped slightly. I crept back over to the doors and placed my hand on the panels, leaning in to whisper through the crack between them.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said.

“Who are you?” a voice uttered.

“My name is Dolcie,” I explained. “Can you open the door?”

A second later, the back doors twitched, then the right door inched outward with a long, aching creak before a dirt-streaked hand appeared on the inside handle, fingers trembling as they pushed the door wider. She climbed out of the vehicle and stepped forward into the thin beam of the streetlight, her tangled, greasy blonde hair shimmering as she dragged it out of her face. Although the sleeves of her navy blazer were ripped and her grey skirt streaked with mud, I still recognised her. It was the same girl from the locket, yet the smile had long since evaporated. It was Isobel.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

She shook her head, tugging her torn blazer against herself for warmth. I held out my hand, but she ignored it and started looking around at the neighbours’ houses, dithering either out of fear or the biting cold.

“I’m going to ring the police,” I suggested, reaching for my phone.

“No!” she interrupted, her voice hoarse. “Don’t.”

“Why?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

“He said he would hurt my family if anyone found me.”

“Who?” I said, stepping forward. “Who put you in that van?”

“Mark,” she said, as quiet as a mouse.

Every scrap of air emptied out of my lungs. There it was, from the horse’s mouth. My husband was responsible.

Without warning, Isobel’s knees buckled, so I darted forward to steady her by the elbows. Her skin felt ice-cold against mine, and she was so exhausted that she collapsed into my chest. As I held her tightly, I gazed over her shoulder and into the van. There was a zipped-up sleeping bag lying dormant in the corner, a half-empty water bottle, and a packet of half-eaten biscuits surrounded by crumbs.

“How long were you in there for?” I gasped.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “He told me it would be a few days.”

“A few days?” I said, gently pushing her away to look in her eyes.

“He said he just needed me to be quiet, and then I could go home.”

Isobel’s bottom lip jutted out, so I quickly pulled her back in for another hug. Had Mark—my Mark actually done this? I thought of the blood-spattered phone in our garden, the locket in the washer, the paint-splashed clothes that suddenly looked a lot less like paint.

“Isobel, listen.” My voice shook despite me. “We’re going to the police station.”

“No! He said—”

“Right now!” I cut in. “He can’t hurt you there.”

Her lower lip quivered as she gave a weary nod, so I put my arm around her and started ushering her in the direction of my car, but she struggled against my grasp.

“Wait!” she said, stumbling back over to the van.

“Isobel—we need to go! Now!” I shouted after her.

“I just need to grab something.”

A few seconds later, she reappeared on the street with a pink rucksack thrown over her shoulder, clutching the straps as if the bag were the only thing she had left in the world. I lifted my shoulders at her, trying to impress on her that time was of the essence, and she shrugged back as she returned to my side.

“I needed it,” she explained.

“Fine,” I dismissed. “Let’s go.”

Without wasting any more time, I guided her around the corner and unlocked my hatchback from a distance. Every cell in my body was praying that Mark wouldn’t be standing in the cold when we arrived, so I crept around the bushes to take a cautious glance down the driveway before making my way over to the passenger side to open the door for Isobel. Just before she was about to climb inside, her shoulders went rigid, and she pointed over to the shadows across the street, her arm shaking violently.

“What is it?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Someone’s there.”

By a lamppost across the road, a tall figure in a dark coat stood perfectly still. Although I couldn’t see his face, I saw the camera hanging from his neck, the kind with a huge lens that wildlife photographers lug around. Before I had a chance to react, he lifted it up and pointed it directly at us, the glass reflecting the moonlight as he lined up the shot.

“Get in the car,” I whispered.

“Who is—”

“Get in.”

Isobel obeyed, sliding into the passenger seat while I fumbled with my keys. My door wasn’t even open before the first flash exploded, turning the windscreen white, and another burst followed as I jumped into the car and started the engine. As soon as it coughed to life, I started trundling down the driveway, and the flashes became frenzied, blinding me as my front wheels dismounted the kerb. Just as I was about to mash my foot down on the accelerator, a horn from an early-morning delivery driver blared down the street, and in the split second he hesitated, I floored it.

“What was all that about?” Isobel asked.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

Thank you to Merryann Palmer from Ionia, MI for her contribution to this episode!