Chapter 41: After

AFTER

“So, where to?” November asks, as Hannah sinks into the leather-scented interior of the limousine. “Not back to work, clearly?”

Fuck. The shop. Hannah feels like smacking herself in the forehead with the paper bag of pills she is holding.

“I completely forgot about work. I need to phone my colleague. Can you drop me in Stockbridge? I live on Stockbridge Mews, it’s near Dean Park Street.”

“I have no idea where that is,” November says pleasantly, “but assuming Arthur does, then yes.”

She leans forward to talk to the driver, while Hannah calls the shop. When Robyn answers, Hannah explains the situation, fielding Robyn’s shocked concern and listening to her admonishments to go home, rest up, and on no account to come in next week.

“I’m not going to take it as sick leave,” Hannah says now, in answer to the last in Robyn’s long line of instructions. “I’m not ill—but I’ve got loads of holiday left, I’m going to ask Cathy if I can take a week as leave.”

“Good!” Robyn says sternly. “I don’t want to see your face for at least a week. Now go. Rest. Relax. Eat chocolate and don’t worry.”

She hangs up and Hannah sighs.

I’ve been sent home, she texts Will. Everything’s okay. Baby’s fine. I’m getting a lift. See you shortly. xx

“Everything all right?” November says, and Hannah nods.

“Yes, work is being really nice, it makes me feel like a complete shit.”

“Why?” November asks in surprise. “It’s not your fault.”

Hannah only shakes her head. It’s not because she believes what happened today was her fault. It’s because she has no intention of following Robyn’s advice. It’s not that she doesn’t want to—but she can’t. She was swept along by events ten years ago, and she has spent every year since struggling against that feeling of powerlessness and panic. This time she is not going to sit there while Geraint digs around in her past and lawyers do things behind the scenes. She’s going to take control.

“I’m going down to Oxford,” she says to November. “I think it’s the only way. Since Neville’s death I’ve been going crazy—running over and over my memories of that night, trying to figure out if I was right, if I really did see what I thought. But the more I find out, the more the whole case feels wrong. I feel like there was something that I missed, something that’s been eluding me all these years.”

“What do you mean?” November asks uncertainly. “What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know, that’s the problem. Maybe if I go back, talk to the other people who were there that night, speak to Dr. Myers…” She swallows. “I have a friend in Oxford—Emily. I spoke to her a couple of weeks ago, when Neville died, and she invited me down. I brushed her off at the time—I couldn’t think of anything worse than going back. But now… now I’m going to say yes.”

She looks at November. November’s expression is worried.

“What do you think? Do you think I’m crazy? Will does.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” November says slowly. “I’m just… I’m not sure traveling to Oxford alone is such a great idea. It’ll be really obvious that you’re going down there to poke around, ask questions.”

“So what are you saying? I need some kind of alibi?”

“I’m saying…” November takes a deep breath. “I’m saying… take me.”

“Take you?” Hannah tries not to let her face show her surprise. But we barely know each other, she thinks, although it’s only half-true. She’s only known November a few hours—but she’s April’s sister. A part of Hannah feels like she’s known her much longer.

“Look, I’ve never been there.” November is speaking fast now, trying to get her point across. “To Oxford, I mean. I never saw where April lived, and where she died. And honestly—that bothered me. It bothered me then, and it bothers me now. You could bring me down to Oxford and tell Myers the truth—that Neville’s death stirred up some ghosts for me, and I want to lay them to rest by seeing where April lived. I don’t think the college authorities would refuse that.”

“No…” Hannah says slowly. “No, I don’t suppose they would.” The more she thinks about it, the more it feels like a good plan. There’s safety in numbers, and November will be able to ask questions that Hannah can’t.

“We should make sure he’s still there,” November is saying. “What’s his full name?”

“Horatio.” It feels strange on Hannah’s tongue, oddly intimate. She remembers April’s words, the night of Dr. Myers’s party, Horatio’s asked me and a couple of girls to go for a drink in town… It seems scarcely believable now, such a clear crossing of lines.

November taps at her phone, and then holds it out for Hannah to see.

“That’s him, right?”

“That’s him,” Hannah says. It’s the Pelham College English faculty page, first entry, Professor Horatio Myers, Senior Dean of Arts. A little older, a little grayer, but surprisingly unchanged—much less so than Neville, the hollowed-out ghost of a man staring out from the BBC website. Myers, by contrast, looks sleek, well-fed, like someone who has lived very comfortably in the intervening years.

“We’re just coming up to Stockbridge Mews, Ms. Rain” comes a voice from the front of the car, over the intercom, and Hannah jumps. November presses a button.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

She turns to Hannah.

“It was so lovely to meet you, Hannah. This will probably sound stupid, but I feel—I feel a lot closer to April than I have in years.”

Hannah nods. It doesn’t sound stupid, because she feels the same way.

“Are you sure?” she says. “About coming to Oxford, I mean? Because you don’t have to. If you feel like you have to look after me, then don’t. I’ll be with Emily. Or I can ask Will.”

“I’m coming because I want to,” November says. The car slides to a halt, and Hannah picks up her bag.

“Well, thank you. And thank you for the lift.”

“It was nothing. Take care of yourself, Hannah.”

“I will,” Hannah says. She climbs out, and watches the car draw away, November’s silhouette getting smaller and smaller in the rear window. And for a moment, she looks so like April that it almost breaks Hannah’s heart.