The Unmaking of Ellie Rook

by Sandra Ireland

  ‘So how long has this little love affair been going on, under our noses? You’ve kept it quiet, haven’t you? I only put two and two together when Shelby upped sticks. Wagons roll, but his hasn’t moved for years.’

  ‘I’ve known Shelby for ever. Distant cousins and all that,’ she says. ‘Not related, not really. I love him to bits. I’ve always loved him. Him moving up here was a way for us to be together. Not the best way, but . . . Well, you know the score.’ Her gaze flits between River and me, and we nod in unison. We know the score.

  ‘I’ve been sleeping up here in a bender,’ she says. ‘That was part of the plan, so he would know where to find me. I’ve been saving money for years – stashed it in a soup container in the freezer, so Dad didn’t know. I should have taken it with me, but I wasn’t sure my plan would work. What if he came after me and found the money? He’d know I was leaving, and he wouldn’t let that happen.’ Her voice breaks. ‘You know that, Ellie. We’ve always known he’d kill me rather than let me leave.’

  For a moment I can’t speak. The truth has been let loose, this shameful knowledge known only to us, deep down. Never voiced, never shared. My tongue won’t form any words, even though the spell of silence has been broken.

  I recover enough to say, ‘So Shel brought you the money – your rainy-day dosh. I thought it was River’s drug money.’

  River raises his eyebrows in such a comical way that I almost laugh. Yes, it’s ludicrous that I suspected my brother of dealing drugs, but what was I supposed to think?

  Mum shakes her head, as if it’s all too much to take in. ‘And then it all felt very real. I’d done it. I’d got out of that place.’

  I look at her with a sudden flare of irritation. ‘You know the dust is never going to settle, right?’

  I try and catch her gaze, but she won’t let me in.

  ‘You hear about people faking their deaths all the time,’ she continues. ‘I knew it was the only way I would ever get away from your father. He told me he’d hunt me down and kill me if I left. And that was without knowing about Shelby.’

  I sit back and take a good look at her: the deep frown line; the lank hair. Wildwood leaves clinging to her coat. She smells different and dirty. Maybe I did lose her to the waterfall, and she’s come back as something else. Not my mother, but someone new. I have no idea what we’re going to do next, but somehow I have to come up with an addendum to Plan A.

  ‘Right. You can’t stay here. If the cops get fresh info about Shelby, this will turn into a crime scene. They’ll be right back – and so will Dad, if he gets an inkling of what’s going on.’

  ‘He won’t. He thinks I’m dead.’

  I’m no longer convinced of anything. Fear cramps my stomach like hunger. ‘Get your things together and we’ll . . . we’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Where are we going to take her?’ River asks. ‘Remember, Dad could be tracking your car at this very minute.’

  ‘He can try.’ I shoot him a sly grin. ‘I made Piotr promise to disable the software. Dad won’t be tracking anything any more.’

  ‘Good job.’ River holds up his fist and I bump it with mine.

  I take a deep, shuddery breath. ‘I hate to say it, but our jackets are on a very shaky peg. Aiding and abetting a fake death, plus wasting police time, and not to mention getting on the wrong side of Dad.’

  ‘Plan A was a shit plan.’ Mum wipes her eyes and I reach for her hands again.

  ‘I’ve thought of something . . .’ I say. ‘It just might work, if we can hold our nerve.’ Shelby’s voice comes to me from a great distance: Hold the line. It gives me strength.

  ‘What about Shel?’ Mum picks nervously at the feathers on Shelby’s hat. ‘I put these in his hatband. I’ve been feeding the crows out in the woods and they bring me little presents. Sticks, stones, feathers.’

  ‘Buttons.’ I remember my little black visitor in the sitting room, with his message of hope. ‘One thing at a time. We’ll get you to a safe place and then we’ll worry about Shel. Come on, let’s go get your tent and stuff.’

  As plans go, it’s a precarious one. It will mean walking into the lion’s den. And asking my mother to face up to her worst nightmare.

  32

  It’s almost dark by the time we turn into the yard. My stomach is tying itself in knots as I nose the Fiesta between the Range Rover and Offshore Dave’s van. What is Dave still doing here? The security lights snap on and the vacant plot of Shelby’s caravan shocks me all over again. The yard seems desolate. I cut the engine but neither of us wants to move. River reaches for the door handle with deliberate slowness.

  ‘If this doesn’t work . . .’

  ‘It will work.’ I refuse to dwell on any other outcome. ‘Grit your teeth. We walk in, let him say what he’s got to say and I’ll take it from there.’

  We step out into puddles of soapy water. Offshore Dave has been hosing away the evidence and the two vehicles are glistening down to their tyre treads. So that’s why he’s here. An orange glow spills from the kitchen window, and I experience the familiar squeeze of fear as I imagine Dad waiting for us. He’s probably having his supper – a ham sandwich, perhaps. I wonder if he found the mustard.

  River pauses with his hand on the back door. Everything is changing, and it’s hard for him. I forget sometimes how young he is. Dad treats him like a man, expects him to behave like a man, and yet he’s still a teenager. At fifteen, you don’t want to have to think about your parents’ relationship. You live in a different world – you close your bedroom door, stick on some loud music and zone out. I’ve been there. But it comes at a price.

  We enter, resisting the urge to cling to each other – the babes in the woods.

  Dad is sitting at the table in his usual place. He’s tinkering with a vintage Bakelite radio, its innards spilling out over an old copy of the Press and Journal. Offshore Dave is sipping something from my mother’s Wallace and Gromit mug. Judging by the hip flask beside his elbow, it’s not just coffee. His boots have left gouts of muck beneath the table and no one has bothered to pick up the broken china.

  We venture in. I fill the kettle; River sits down and takes off his boots. Eventually, Dad glances up, screwdriver posed as delicately as a chopstick.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Is it a trick question? Does he know? Maybe Piotr didn’t manage to disable the software in time. The thought of him observing our frantic drive to the caravan makes me feel sick. When neither of us replies, he tries a different tack.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’

  River and I glance at each other. My mouth goes dry, making it difficult to speak.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  He places the screwdriver down on the paper. His hands are obscured slightly by the radio case, but I can see he’s sorting through the bits – the springs and screws, tubes and wires. It looks like he’s assembling a homemade bomb.

  ‘When I started to clean this up, I was puzzled by a black component peeking over this transformer on the left. In the scheme of things, it didn’t seem to fit.’ He scratches his beard. ‘It puzzled me. When I turned the set over and traced the wiring, I discovered it was the power supply rectifier!’

  He grins at Dave, who grins back, even though he hasn’t a clue what a rectifier is.

  ‘Rectifiers of this vintage are often unreliable, so . . .’ Dad sorts through some more parts. ‘I’ve decided to replace it with a modern silicon diode. Ah – here’s what I’m looking for!’

  With a flourish, he produces a black feather. Pinched between finger and thumb, he holds it up to the light. I’m transfixed by its blue-black glint. River tries to catch my eye, but I can’t look away.

  ‘Just get to the point,’ I whisper.

  ‘The point being,’ he says, ‘a little detective work and attention to detail sheds light on most things.’

  I can hear the ticking of the clock; Dave slurping his coffee. My insides have turned to slush.

  ‘Shelby
Smith appears to have acquired feathers in his cap that he never had before.’ He peers closely at the object in his fingers. ‘Crow feathers, to be exact. Now, I can’t imagine Shelby Smith making an Easter bonnet out of that tatty old fedora, can you, Offshore?’

  Dave shakes his head and chortles through closed lips. Dad smiles slowly.

  ‘So, naturally, I’m wondering who did this. Who might put a feather or two in his cap?’

  I bite my lip. I’m a rabbit with a hawk circling above. ‘That doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘No. But this does.’ With a magical flourish, Dad produces Mum’s scarf. The red one with the owls on it. ‘Lying on the seat in his caravan.’

  33

  They say time stands still when you’ve had a shock, but I can still hear that damn clock ticking. Dave’s smirk hovers above the mug; the feather rotates through 360 degrees and flutters to the ground as Dad gets to his feet. He picks up the radio and hurls it across the room. River dives out of the way, and the sound of the crash makes every nerve in my body shrink.

  ‘When were you going to tell me she’s alive? It was all a scam, wasn’t it? She faked it.’

  ‘We didn’t know.’ River straightens cautiously.

  ‘We hadn’t a clue until today.’ My eyelid twitches. The sudden silence is deafening.

  My father stalks towards us, winding the red scarf around the knuckles of his right hand, like a boxer. I shrink away from him. He shoves his face into mine and I can see the spittle glistening on his beard.

  ‘I’m not stupid. I know you’ve been twisting the knife. She was perfectly fine until you started talking about Citizens fucking Advice and Women’s Aid and all the other nonsense.’

  I narrow my eyes at him. Now is not the time to accuse him of cloning her phone. I need to keep it together.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Bullshit. You couldn’t just leave her alone. Even from a distance you were winding her up, pulling her strings—’

  ‘Me pulling her strings? You’re the bloody control freak!’

  ‘Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for this family. Just trying to keep the family afloat, but I can see now the ship was full of rats! I knew she was carrying on with someone, but I didn’t know who. Not until Shelby Smith did a moonlight flit and it all clicked into place.’ He taps his temple. ‘I took him in. Looked out for him like . . . like family, and this is how they both repay me! Well, I’ve given him a little warning and she’ll get a taste of the same. I take it she’s still up there, on the hills? Channelling fucking Finella? We all know what happened to her.’

  I open my mouth to protest, to speak up for Finella, for my mother, but it’s pointless. He’s already reaching for his car keys.

  ‘We didn’t see her. We did go up there, but she wasn’t there.’ I blurt the words out, not knowing if I’m making things better or worse.

  ‘Dave, we’ll take the dogs. Give them the scent.’ He hands over the scarf.

  ‘It’s dark!’ I protest. ‘What’s the point?’

  My father looks at me with cold eyes. ‘The point is she’ll be all tucked up for the night. Her tent is missing from the garage – I checked.’ He jerks his head at River. ‘Come on. Wherever she’s holed up, she’ll come out for you.’

  River glances at me. I incline my head a fraction and pretend to study the floor tiles as the three of them troop out. The slam of the door shudders through me. The van rumbles past the window, then there’s a pause as someone gets out to open the gate. I strain to follow its progress along the drive, imagining Sharon Duthie peering out of her bathroom window, wondering what the hell is going on. I wait a second or two before coming to life and sprinting to the door.

  I’d taken the precaution of locking the car, and I’d even kept the keys hidden in my jeans pocket, instead of throwing them down beside the kettle like we normally do. My hands are trembling so much that I press the wrong button on the fob and nothing happens. I pull up inches from the car and I press again. The lights flash, but still nothing. Starting to panic, I jab randomly at the fob until I hear the clunk of the locks.

  I’m transported back to that other time, that other car. I feel as though I’m moving through treacle as I depress the catch on the boot and lift the lid.

  In the cramped space, my mother stirs. She’s been lying in the foetal position, eyes scrunched tightly shut. Drinking in the sudden rush of fresh air, she reaches out to me. Her hands are bone white and curled into claws, and a moment of sheer revulsion grips me. I am my father, putting her through this. Dehumanising her.

  ‘I’m so sorry. If there’d been any other way . . . Here, let me help you.’

  She struggles upright. Her lips are dry, and she licks them but doesn’t speak. I’d persuaded her into the boot a few miles down the road. ‘It’s the only way,’ I’d told her. ‘Think of the Trojan Horse! You’re Helen of Troy!’ I’d wiped a tear from her grubby cheek and shut her in the dark. It wasn’t Helen of Troy who was inside the horse, River had reminded me, when I jumped back into the driver’s seat. It was a whole bunch of Greek warriors, slipping into the enemy camp by stealth, under the very noses of the enemy. ‘Exactly,’ I’d replied. Then he said that Helen of Troy was the one who caused it all. We travelled in silence after that.

  Now, I gently grab my mother’s arm and pull her into a sitting position.

  ‘You’re better than Helen of Troy. You’re a strong, clever warrior. You’re Finella.’

  She scrambles out, and I hold her for a second. She feels cold and a bit wobbly. Both of us, I know, are envisaging that other time, over ten years ago, when I helped her out of a boot in a blood-red garage. That time, she’d limped into her own home with one shoe missing, smelling of mildew and mice.

  ‘Oh, Mum . . .’ I’m no longer sure which of us is trembling, but we cling together, making a stronger whole.

  ‘You are Finella. Finella Rook,’ she says. ‘You have to make this stop.’

  It’s what I’ve always been afraid of.

  She stands in the middle of the kitchen and blinks. I suppose she never expected to be back here so soon. Or ever. That wasn’t part of the plan. Her attention wanders to the shards of crockery on the floor. She stoops to pick up a rose-patterned sliver.

  ‘Grandma Rook’s china?’ She widens her eyes at me. ‘Did he do this?’

  I shake my head. ‘That was me.’

  She turns the fragment over in her hand, as if she’s hunting for clues.

  In a bid to take control of a very weird situation, I go into full hospitality mode, clapping my hands together briskly. ‘Right. Let’s get you sorted. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze and you’ll have to be very quiet, but—’

  ‘What? What the hell are we doing here?’ She drops the fragment of china into the pedal bin and wipes her hand on a tea towel, as if it has somehow contaminated her. ‘You said I’d be safe. This doesn’t feel like safe to me.’

  I catch her hand in mine. ‘Believe me, this is the safest place. I’m keeping you in my bedroom. He never goes in there. It’s the one place he would never look.’ Her eyes flicker with doubt, and I plunge on. ‘And we’ve done it! We’ve Trojan-horsed his ass while he’s running around the country looking for . . . you.’

  The you strikes a wrong note. She drops my hand and turns to confront me.

  ‘He knows? He knows I’m still alive?’

  Shit. I scrape my fingers through my hair. ‘It wasn’t our fault! He spotted the crow feathers in Shelby’s hat and put two and two together, and then he found your scarf, the one you were wearing when you . . . fell. That confirmed it.’

  ‘Shelby’s hat? Does that mean he knows . . . me and Shelby?’

  I nod.

  She’s staring at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted snakes where my hair should be. I lift my hands, but she bats me away when I try to touch her again. Her eyes have gone all faraway. ‘So that’s why we couldn’t find my scarf when we were gathering up my stuff.’


  We’d shoved her tent and the few things she had with her into the boot too, and covered them with an old bit of carpet. I hadn’t paid too much attention to the missing scarf. Maybe I should have.

  ‘He was a bit angry.’ I bite my lip in the sort of coy gesture I might have used as a teenager, but it isn’t going to get me out of trouble this time. Mum raises an eyebrow at my understatement. ‘They’ve gone to search the woods.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dad and Offshore and River. River will keep them off the scent.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  I don’t repeat Dad’s words, but she knows his MO by now. ‘Oh Christ.’ She sinks down onto a chair. ‘I need to find out about Shel. You should have seen what they did—’ Her voice cracks, but I don’t go near her again. I’m not sure I know how to cope with this. I’ve always wondered what I’d do if I came across the scene of a traffic accident – would I panic or step up to the plate? It looks like I’m about to find out how far I can go.

  34

  I’ve avoided my parents’ bedroom since she left. Overnight, it had become grey and severe, with the curtains half drawn and all evidence of Mum banished behind the wardrobe doors. Now I’m forced to commit a daring raid on enemy territory in order to collect fresh clothes. Behind the bathroom door, the shower is going at full pelt, and the landing is filling up with the scent of jasmine and cloves. I sent Mum in there with an armful of the fancy products she’s always been scared to use, but perhaps that was a mistake. I wonder if I’ll be able to get rid of the telltale scent before my father gets home.

  In my parents’ room, the double bed is neatly made, pillows plumped, a strip of blue-striped pyjama visible between pillow and duvet. It looks oddly vulnerable. I wonder if he misses her, whether all his bluster and spite is just a cover for a broken heart.