It was the argument with Harry that brought things to a head. One evening, he asked if we could have a drink together, on our own, and I was immediately on edge. When he told me that he felt you were having a negative impact on me, that both my work and my relationships were suffering and that you were probably only with me for monetary reasons, I sprang from my chair, my hands clenched into fists. Harry, who knew my shameful past and had witnessed my temper first-hand, didn’t flinch; it was as if he was proving himself right – that you’d sparked the side of me I’d promised to keep under control. He let me come at him, fixing me with his eyes, never letting his gaze drop, trying to shut down the red mist that was already blinding me. But I was too far gone. Not only did I knock him to the floor, I carried on hitting him while he was down, raining punches onto his face, his body, wanting to pulp him into nothing, to obliterate him. If others hadn’t intervened, dragging me off him, I don’t know what would have happened.
They wanted to call the police, I remember, but Harry, spitting blood from his mouth, told them not to. Guilt replaced the rage I’d felt. I couldn’t bear to look at his bruised and swollen face so I left him bleeding in the bar. I knew I couldn’t go back to the flat so I found a hotel for the night and asked you to meet me there. When I told you what had happened, you were horrified, and then angry, because you’d never seen that side of me before.
How I wish it could have stayed that way.
Now
I read the email again, then sit back in my chair, thinking about St Mary’s. I haven’t been back to Devon since the ceremony we had for Layla, five years ago now. It was Tony who’d suggested it. It seemed to come out of the blue but the timing wasn’t lost on me. It was seven years since Layla had gone missing, so around the time that she would have been declared dead had she gone missing in the UK, and I suspected that Tony, who over the years had kept Ellen and me informed of any developments, hoped a ceremony would give us some kind of closure. Except that being declared dead isn’t the same as being dead.
I wasn’t keen, I remember, but Tony said Ellen was, and as she was Layla’s sister, I felt she had more right to decide than me. Their father had died six months previously and I guessed she wanted to put the past behind her and move on. I thought she would choose to do something on Lewis and I was looking forward to finally visiting the island where Layla had grown up. But I never got to Lewis because Ellen told Tony that Layla’s happiest times had been with me, and suggested putting up a bench in a place that had some special meaning for the two of us.
I immediately thought of Pharos Hill. Layla had loved it there – the half-hour’s walk from St Mary’s, the legend of the lighthouse that had once stood on top of the hill, although nothing remained of it, just a few ruins. We often climbed it for the beautiful view that stretched out over the sea for miles, sitting with our backs against the tree-stump which was shaped, Layla said, like a Russian doll. So I bought a simple wooden bench in kit form and drove to Devon with Peggy, while Tony collected Ellen from Exeter Station.
I was dreading meeting Ellen that day. The only direct contact I’d had with her had been a letter I’d received a couple of months after Layla’s disappearance, telling me that she knew I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her sister. It had only compounded the guilt I felt and I hoped that seven years on, it wouldn’t be visible on my face. But apart from her eyes, Ellen was very different to Layla. If she’d had the same red hair, the same freckled skin, I would have found it difficult. She was slimmer than Layla, more conservatively dressed, more reserved. In short, she was the proverbial older sister and it seemed on that first meeting that she never smiled. It was still awkward though, and with my mind on Layla, I left Tony to do the talking.
Tony and I carried the box up Pharos Hill between us, Ellen following behind with a small bag of tools, Peggy at our heels. We put the bench together in near silence, and after, we’d sat side by side, each of us lost in our own thoughts, while Peggy played with the empty packaging. And sitting there in the late afternoon sun, with someone who had known Layla better than I had, and someone who hadn’t known her at all, I’d felt a kind of peace.
I told myself I’d go back to Devon every year, on the anniversary of Layla’s disappearance or on her birthday, or on the anniversary of the day we put up the bench, but I never have. I preferred to forget about Devon, taught myself to not even think about it. It’s the email I just received which has stirred up all these memories.
It came in on my work email and was from someone claiming to be looking for a house to buy in Devon. It made me immediately suspicious. I’ve never sold the cottage where I lived with Layla so, technically, I do have one I could sell. But how would they know this? There aren’t many people who know I still own it. Even Ellen doesn’t know. She’s never asked about the cottage, just as she never asked why I don’t have any photos of Layla in the house. When she moved in, she didn’t ask if she could put any up, which meant a lot to me, that she’d understood. Neither of us needs reminding that it’s Layla who binds us together.
I look again at the email, a random message sent to addresses on a mailing list, I presume. There’s no name but it’s contained in the email address [email protected]. So who is Rudolph Hill and how much does he know? I decide to treat it as a genuine enquiry – which it could very well be – and send back a quick Sorry I can’t help.
To my surprise, a reply comes straight back.
What about the cottage in St Mary’s? Surely you’re not going to keep it, now that you’re going to marry the sister?
My heart gives an almighty thud. I read the email again, thinking I must have misread it. But it’s even more disturbing than before, because this time, there can be no mistake.
I try to be objective. Rudolph Hill, or the source behind him, has to be someone who knows my past. Ellen’s announcement about our engagement will have been logged online somewhere, and knowing the relentless competitive drive in journalists to find a new story – or a new angle to an old story – there are probably Google alerts set up for my name. So this could simply be a reporter wanting to make a story out of ‘Partner of Missing Woman Hangs on to Cottage Despite Plans to Marry Sister’ or some equally puerile headline. He must have done some digging to know that I still own the cottage in St Mary’s. Or used old knowledge. Is it the same person who left the Russian dolls? Are both these things part of some elaborate plan to make trouble for me? But who would want to? Because the Russian dolls were left with such ease, it has to be someone local.
A voice in my head hisses Ruby’s name. I never found out if she was responsible for the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ article, because it didn’t really matter, even if it did stir up some animosity towards Ellen. I don’t remember the name of her journalist cousin but it could be Rudolph Hill.
I find it hard to believe that Ruby would do such a thing. I understand that she’s sore at me over Ellen, I understand she feels I treated her badly, and I did. But why play games, and why now, why not last year when Ellen first moved in with me? It has to be more than just to get back at me. I look at the email again, at the mention of my marriage to Ellen. And then it hits. The wedding. It changes everything – at least, in Ruby’s eyes, because it makes my relationship with Ellen permanent.
I go and find Ellen. She’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge, looking at its contents, Peggy sitting hopefully beside her. She turns at my arrival and her face lights up, reminding me how lucky I am to have her.
‘I was wondering what to make for lunch,’ she says.
I go over and slide my hands around her waist.
‘Wonder no longer,’ I tell her. ‘I’m taking you out.’
Turning up at The Jackdaw with Ellen is the best way I can think of