The Unmaking of Ellie Rook

by Sandra Ireland

  23

  A crow hops into my line of vision, far out, on the exposed sandbar. He’s on a mission, pausing now and then with his head cocked. He picks up a sprig of seaweed, discards it. Walks on. He’s spotted something, he’s gathering speed, and the big white terrors descend from the sky with their weeping and wailing. It’s something dark; I can see it from here. A piece of rubbish – cloth, perhaps – buried in the sand.

  The crow stops, eyeballs his prize. He investigates it with the tip of his beak, gives it a test pull. There’s a bit of give in it, and the crow really starts to go for it, determined, unearthing a ribbon of dark matter from the sand.

  I imagine what Liam would do, if he were here. He’d be racing down there with his clipboard. Remember, we need to look for the little things, he’d be saying. A belt, a scarf, a shoelace. A button. The clues are all there. My heart twists. I edge closer. The ground alters under my feet as I venture from the dry sand. Below the tideline, the rock pools are deep and the seaweed is like bright green jelly beneath my boots. I slip more than once. One slip is all it takes. Boom.

  The crow flaps upwards and settles some distance away. He watches as I pick my way over the rocks, waiting to see what I’ll do next. Will I go for his treasure, his telltale, tip-of-theiceberg fold of fabric? His head tilts to one side. I reckon he’s laughing at me. And just like that, my heel skids on the slimy green. I land heavily on my backside in one of the pools. Embarrassed and floundering, I regain my feet, but the bird has flown, and whatever desire I had to investigate further goes with it. What the hell am I doing? My clothes are as heavy as my spirits as I turn around and drag myself back to the beach.

  I realise belatedly that someone apart from the crow has witnessed my pratfall. A lone figure, watching from the shore. I struggle up to him.

  Piotr’s face is solemn. ‘Did you see something, Ellie? Did you find anything?’

  I look at him blankly for a second. ‘What? Oh, no. Low tide, eh? Lots of . . . stuff. I saw a crow pulling at something and I thought . . . Phew, I’m thinking too much. I need a break from thinking.’

  We both glance down at my legs. My jeans are black with water; it’s funnelling down the crack in my backside. It’s bloody freezing. Piotr is no doubt mistaking my pained expression for extreme anguish. He springs into old-fashioned-gentleman mode.

  ‘Here, let me help you. You’re soaked.’

  ‘Just a bit.’ I smile, but I avoid his helping hand and march ahead of him up to the stony beach. My feet are slopping around in my boots, my jeans are plastered to my skin and the hem of my jacket is saturated. And I have to drive home like this.

  ‘Come home with me. I will give you a towel,’ Piotr says, as if he can read my mind.

  It’s a tempting offer. My teeth are beginning to chatter.

  ‘Um, okay. But . . .’ I’m about to ask where he lives when he makes a sweeping gesture towards the fishing bothies, and everything clicks into place. We head towards the second bothy, the place that had given me a glimpse into someone else’s desperation.

  ‘Did you see me and Liam, that time? Having a nosy?’

  He nods. ‘I was up on the cliff. You guessed who lived here?’

  ‘No. No, I never thought of you.’ I feel a bit awkward now, like I’ve been rumbled snooping through his stuff. ‘It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. I’m a Rook – we don’t like people knowing our business either.’

  His face softens at that, and I recognise a little chink of myself. He busies himself with the door, which seems to be unlocked but firmly wedged shut.

  ‘No one cares who lives here.’ He addresses the wooden planks as he puts his shoulder to them. ‘If not me, the junkies will use it.’

  My gaze drops to the window ledge, the beachcomber’s collection I’d noticed before: sea glass, pebbles, tiny shells. The door gives way with a loud creak and Piotr holds it open for us both to enter, me shuffling along like an old lady in my cold, clinging clothes. Piotr’s warm hand touches my back.

  ‘You are freezing to death!’

  ‘N-not quite.’ I’m so cold I actually feel sick. I slip off my coat, and he shakes it out and hooks it over the back of a pine chair beside the hearth. A fire is blazing in the grate, but it feels like a sham, a garden bonfire that might burn out at any moment, leaving us in the dark. Woodsmoke and fresh pine logs cover up other, less savoury smells: damp; mice. I pluck miserably at my soaking jeans and he goes on the hunt for a towel, returning to hand me a huge bath sheet printed with palm trees and parrots. It takes me back to Asia on a wave of nostalgia. I was sunbathing on a towel like that just two weeks ago, but it’s all receding, like a dream, and I can’t bear it. Piotr mistakes my stupor and takes the towel from me to drape it gently round my shoulders.

  ‘I go outside. Let you be private.’

  He slips out, closing the door tactfully behind him. The Asian dream snuffs out, and I’m presented with the novelty of stripping off in an abandoned building, in close proximity to a man I know nothing about.

  My gaze travels over the walls. The plasterwork is holding up in places, but where it’s given up the fight, exposed spars of wood jut out like splintered bone. In one corner is the staircase I noticed before, clothes neatly suspended from it, and beneath it, a makeshift bed. A blue plastic lemonade crate, faded by the sea, serves as a bedside table. I can see a paperback and some reading glasses. A bottle of water. There are cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall. Del Monte Peaches. Bananas.

  If I’m going to take my wet clothes off before Piotr, a virtual stranger, returns to this derelict squat, I’d better get on with it. I peel off my jeans and knickers and arrange them carefully over the piled-up logs in the hearth. I spot a single heavy-duty glove perched on top of a half-bucket of coal. A red right-hand glove. It reminds me of that Nick Cave song, the one about the shady character who’s pulling everyone’s strings. My father will be baying for milk for his coffee right about now. If he could see me here.

  The towel is thin and flat from frequent washings, but it smells fresh and it does the job, rubbing life into my raw, stinging skin. Keeping my top on, I tie the towel around my waist like a sarong.

  Settling on the chair, I stretch my toes out towards the blaze. I’m beginning to thaw. My stomach unclenches. It’s a welcome relief to sit here, swaddled in an oversize towel, lulled by the steady crackle of the flames. There’s an open laptop balanced on a wooden box nearby, and my mind drifts to the weekend, and Piotr’s strange visit to my father, laptop under his arm. Why is he at home today? The door creaks behind me and I swing my head round.

  ‘Why aren’t you in the yard?’ I sound more accusatory than I mean to be. I guess the warmth of the fire hasn’t thawed me out completely.

  ‘Your father has given me the day off to do some bookwork for him.’ He nods towards the laptop. ‘I will continue until the battery runs out, and then I will go to the cafe to recharge.’

  No electricity or water. I wonder how he can bear to live like this, and then I think of Shelby and his creed of ‘just passing through’ – while enjoying all the meals and free electricity he can consume. Or me, a gap year adventurer turned wage slave, albeit slaving in the sun. Maybe Piotr has it sussed. My curiosity is growing into fascination. ‘What kind of bookwork do you do for my father? Dodgy dealings, no doubt, or he’d get Julie to do it.’

  Piotr’s smile has a mischievous slant. ‘Rooks don’t like people knowing their business.’

  That makes me giggle. ‘You’ve been here too long, Piotr. You need to leave before you get sucked in. Look at Shelby; he only came for a few weeks.’

  The thought makes me sad again. I feel like Shelby has been thwarted in his life, but I’m not exactly sure why.

  Piotr crosses to the corner near the front window, which is sheeted with plastic. I can see a table, a plastic washing-up bowl and a tray of kitchen utensils. He returns with a tumbler of what looks like water. I’d been hoping for a cup of tea, but I accept it gratefully and take
a sip. My sudden coughing fit makes him smile.

  ‘For shock.’

  I grasp my throat. ‘Jesus, that’s got a kick.’ A different kind of heat sizzles all the way down to my belly. ‘Isn’t it a bit early for this? I should be getting home. I only came out to get milk.’

  Piotr overturns one of the bigger logs stacked by the hearth and, using it as a makeshift stool, sinks down onto it. I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. He raises his glass, which sparkles in the firelight.

  ‘Polish vodka – it will chase away the cold. And it’s three o’clock.’

  ‘Shit.’ A picture of my father waiting impatiently for his milky coffee makes me take a bigger gulp of the vodka than I should, but any desire to rush home seems to be fading. ‘Oh well – I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere!’

  I smile, and the vodka slops unpredictably around my glass when I raise it to him.

  24

  ‘Here’s to you, Piotr the Rock.’

  We clink glasses as if we’ve just met in a bar.

  ‘To you, Ellie the Rook.’

  We exchange a conspiratorial grin. He’s the sort of man I’d like to clink glasses with in a bar. He’d be on business, perhaps, dressed in a smart suit, and I’d be wearing a strappy sundress and make-up. My face would be alive with mischief, not tight with anxiety, and we’d flirt with each other and exchange clever banter. We’d leave reality at the door. Whatever happened between us would be simple and sweet and life-affirming. I swallow some more vodka, feel the buzz. I’m halfway there already.

  As we smile into each other’s eyes, my tropical towel slips, revealing a little too much leg. I don’t rush to cover up, happy to watch Piotr’s gaze slide to my thigh. Warmth stirs deep inside me. I need his warmth right now. I’m acutely aware of our aloneness, our proximity, my knickers draped across his woodpile.

  ‘If I close my eyes,’ I whisper, ‘I can imagine I’m at the beach, a long, long way from here. Heat and sand and strong liquor, and nothing to worry about but me.’

  Polish vodka is good stuff. My eyes flutter shut. I’m aware of the rosy red glow of the fire on the backs of my eyelids. I hear him move, and his shadow flits across my inner vision. I can smell the woodsmoke on his jumper, and when his lips touch mine I realise that this is what I’ve been waiting for. I savour the vodka taste of his tongue. This should not be happening, but I don’t try to stop it. To move might be to break the tenuous thread that connects us. I don’t want the outside world to intrude; all that common sense. This is just for me. The taste of Piotr’s mouth, the dripping-honey heat inside.

  This is insane. Do I say that aloud when we break apart for breath? I can’t be sure. His eyes are like the fire. I can see pictures in them: things I don’t know; things I want to find out. He’s been kneeling on the floor beside me, but now he gets up, pulling me with him. A glass gets knocked over and vodka pools beneath my toes. The towel slips. His clothes feel rough and exciting against my bare skin; his hands travel over my hips. I search for his mouth again and everything melts away.

  We have to break apart briefly as he strips off his jumper. I help, unwilling to separate from him. He peels off my T-shirt, unhooks my bra. I wonder how many times he’s done this with strange women in this dilapidated place. My cautious self hesitates. The path is unknown and dangerous. One slip is all it takes, and boom. But I want to be swept away by his vitality, to be caught up in some raw emotion that has nothing to do with loss and hurt. If I have to fall, it may as well be here, with him.

  We make it to the bed in the corner. It’s piled with a couple of duvets and a blue nylon sleeping bag. His weight presses me down onto the thin mattress, and I can feel the lumps and bumps of the floor, jagged edges of stone. I make some lame joke about being between Rocky and a hard place, which he doesn’t get, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not real. It’s a fairy tale, probably one that ends with a dark moral. The scrap princess and the pea.

  Piotr is kissing my neck and I don’t want him to stop, but he pauses, drawing back to cup my face. When he looks down into my eyes, I see curiosity, an invitation. Intimacy is dangerous. I don’t want that. I turn my head, examine the crude whitewashed wall. My hand sneaks down between us to take hold of him, play with his hardness, his need. He groans and I smile at the crumbling plaster. There is no going back.

  I jerk awake to find myself curled up against Piotr like a baby. Our skin is damp where we’ve been pressed together. My right arm is locked around his back, trapped by his sleeping weight. I draw away carefully, and he stirs a little, but his eyes remain closed. Sleep makes you vulnerable. That’s what I’m afraid of. When you sleep, you’re not in control.

  Time to make a tactical withdrawal. That other girl, the one who sips cocktails on foreign beaches, she doesn’t make a habit of one-night stands. That stranger-in-the-bar scenario has only happened twice, and I’m not sure of the protocol. I’ve brought a fragment of my new life into my old one and I’m not sure how it fits. It can’t fit. I see my father’s face again and struggle into a sitting position. Cold air pinches my nose. The fire has died down, and without its rosy glow the place looks stained and broken. Something skitters behind one of the piled-up boxes. I feel cold inside.

  Piotr’s eyes flick open. He reaches for me but I shuffle away, get to my feet. Despite our intimacy, it feels odd being naked in front of him. I suddenly feel the need to be fully dressed and in control. I dress from the top down – bra, T-shirt. My knickers are dry but my jeans are still damp to the touch. I wriggle into them. Only then do I turn to face him. He’s lying on his side, resting on one elbow, watching me, but not with lust. It’s hard to read his expression.

  ‘Don’t just go like this,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

  I come over to the bed, gaze down at him. We need to talk. Isn’t that what people say when they’re trying to pin you down? Perhaps I shouldn’t have complicated this with sex. I didn’t set out to, but sometimes life just is complicated. I don’t know how I can possibly fit Piotr into this mess, and yet . . . And yet I want to try. I’m not ready to let him go.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ he says softly. ‘I should have told you before.’

  I sit back down on the edge of the mattress. He holds out his hand and I take it. It’s warm and strong and I clasp it tighter than I feel I should.

  ‘It’s about your mother.’

  25

  As I exit Piotr’s dwelling, I pause to survey my mother’s odd little collection of beach finds on the window ledge, picking up the bone-like stem of a clay pipe and turning it over in my fingers, just as I’m now turning Piotr’s revelations over in my head. Everything he just told me is wrong on so many levels. It’s not what I expected, but somehow, it’s worse. My mother’s lies, my father’s schemes – secrets on top of secrets. There are gaps in Piotr’s version of the truth, of course, but I think I’m starting to piece it all together. White mist seems to steam from my damp clothes. A tight little pocket of anger is threatening to burst in my throat. I want to scream into the never-ending wind in this godforsaken place. In a single sweep I scrape up the glass, the pebbles, the shells and stuff a handful of them into my jacket pocket, before striding away across the sand. I think I hear Piotr call after me, but I’m so furious I don’t look back.

  My drive home is a blur. I have the presence of mind to stop for milk, but after that, all I’m aware of is my fists clenched on the steering wheel, tears welling in my eyes. When my vision became dangerously blurry, I brake at the side of the road and let myself weep. It all came out in a strangled, choked-up storm of emotion. What is that saying of Shelby’s? Hold the line. I have to keep my nerve. I’m weeping not just for my mother, but for myself; for the way the scrappie has always cast a long, dirty shadow over everything I do. In another life, Piotr could have meant something to me. If we’d met far away from here . . . But whatever we might have had is now polluted with distrust and secrets and the spectre of my father pulling our strings.


  In a fit of temper, I scoop my mother’s shells and stones and sea glass from my pocket and pelt them across the car. They hit the dashboard and scatter in an explosion of green and blue and bone white.

  Oh, Mum. The words are wrung from my soul. I realise I’m furious with my mother. What have you done? She has deserted us. Abandoned us in a place I don’t know any more.

  With a man I don’t trust.

  Back in the yard, I clamber from the driver’s seat. I’m not ready to face my father yet. I want to speak to Shelby, but his Land Rover is missing and the caravan is locked up with a chain and padlock. At some point the Yale has been broken, and an old-fashioned hasp has been welded to the door. The caravan reminds me of a big tin toolbox – the nuts and bolts of Shelby’s life neatly stored in one place. I’ve always envied Shelby, that he can put down his wheels here and be content never to stray from the yard. Maybe what I have to tell him will jerk him out of his complacency. I need to find out how much he really knows about what’s been going on here.

  Where is Shel when I need him? I shake the chain, as if that will magically conjure him from the ether. My life is suddenly, inexplicably, full of other people’s secrets, and I’m not sure how much more I can take. As a family, we’ve been quiet for too long. Complicit.

  Turning away from the caravan, I spot River at the back door, scraping mud from his boots with a screwdriver. When he looks up, his cheeks are flushed, like he’s been putting all his energy into the task.

  ‘You’re in trouble,’ he mutters.

  I hold up a plastic carton of milk. ‘Did he miss his elevenses? What a fuckin’ shame.’

  My brother raises his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Seriously. He had to have Irn-Bru.’

  He shakes his head and goes back to his task.

  My father is checking his iPhone at the kitchen table. It’s the latest model, acquired for him by Offshore Dave through an under-the-table transaction in an Aberdeen bar. There’s a can of Irn-Bru to his left and the biscuit tin is open, but I know he won’t have had one. He can only eat digestives with coffee, and he can only drink his coffee with milk. He doesn’t look in my direction, and the silence stretches between us as I place the milk carefully on the table and shrug off my jacket. The white mist has dissipated, leaving an overwhelming need to apologise. In this moment I hate myself.