The Unmaking of Ellie Rook

by Sandra Ireland

  Stop right there. That’s the very thought pattern that kept her here, wasting the best years of her life with a man who didn’t know how to love her. All the excuses she made for him – he’s tired, he’s working too hard, he had a difficult childhood – all covering up the truth. My father is a cold, cruel man who will never change.

  I rummage through cupboards and drawers, grabbing underwear, tops, a fresh pair of jeans, a hairbrush; hastily rearranging the remaining clothes so Dad won’t get suspicious. We’re good at that – rearranging things so we don’t cause a wrinkle in his day. Just as I’m about to close the last drawer, I discover a couple of leaflets, carefully hidden under an old bathing suit. (When was the last time my mother went swimming?) I pull them out with difficulty, my arms full of clothes, and shove the drawer closed with my knee.

  I’d been on a night out in Hanoi when I got that tearful phone call from my mother, the one that made me face up to what was really going on here. I couldn’t get any sense out of her at first, and I was a bit drunk, which didn’t help, but eventually it sank in. I can’t do this any more. I need help. I’m not sure what the catalyst was, or why she suddenly cracked, but I spent the next few hours on the phone to various agencies in the UK. I badly wanted to scoop her up and get her out of there, but I couldn’t get the time off work, and all the earnest people I spoke to at a distance said the same thing: she has to be the one to seek help. You can’t do it for her.

  So I texted her all the information I could get. All the phone numbers that could have been her salvation: Women’s Aid, the National Domestic Violence Helpline, Victim Support. Even the police, which was a non-starter, given our family policy. Maybe she would have gone down that path, if he hadn’t been receiving all her personal messages on his cloned phone. I’m not sure I want to know how that conversation went, but whatever happened, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

  We meet on the landing. She emerges from the bathroom in my fluffy robe with her hair turbaned into a white towel, smiling her gap-tooth smile and looking relaxed, more like herself. If things weren’t so crazy and dangerous, this might be a normal mother-daughter night. We should be bingeing on a box set and eating Pringles, not cowering upstairs, waiting for the slam of the door.

  I hustle her into my room. ‘Here are some of your clothes.’

  ‘You didn’t make it obvious?’

  ‘No. I used to live here, remember? I’m going to make you something to eat, and then I’ll try and ring the hospital again. I’ll say I’m his . . . Oh my God.’ A thought strikes me, something so huge I can barely put it into words. ‘I can say I’m his daughter . . .’

  Mum’s face crumples and she flops down on the edge of my bed. ‘You’re not,’ she says bluntly. ‘Many’s the time I’ve wished you were. It might have spurred me on to leave, to get out of here. If he gets better – when he gets better – we need to get away. That was the plan, to go down south. I don’t know where. Now that your dad knows I faked it all . . .’

  She gives a hopeless little shrug. I thrust her clothes onto a chair with such force that the pile starts to collapse. ‘One step at a time. You should think about that refuge in Aberdeen I told you about.’ I brandish the leaflets. ‘Remember I sent you these? You’d be safe there. They have security on the doors and everything.’

  She shivers. ‘I couldn’t bear that. It would be like being in jail. And anyway, what about Shelby? If Shel’s not dead already, your father will finish him off to get at me.’

  There’s no denying it. I sigh and sit down on the bed too. Both of us stare at the floral carpet for a long time.

  ‘Plan A definitely hasn’t worked,’ she whispers eventually. ‘We need a Plan B.’

  The pattern on the carpet seems to shift. My eyes follow the creeping leaf design into ever-decreasing spirals. Even though I don’t want to know the answer, I ask the question.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Plan B is . . . You have to kill your father.’

  35

  I’m in the kitchen when my father comes back. My brain is running on so many tracks it feels like St Pancras in there. I’m replaying my mother’s preposterous plan, which goes against all the tenets of motherhood.

  You have to kill your father.

  When she said those words, every bit of heat in me had trickled away. I told her the idea was ridiculous, that it made no sense, but she gripped my arm, nails as sharp as bird claws. It has to be me. It’d be easy for me to escape, she said, to go back to the life I had before. She’s supposed to be dead – and besides, she couldn’t bear to be locked up. Her place is with Shelby now. He’s all she’s ever wanted.

  She was babbling, speaking half to herself, and all I could do was stare at her and wonder – yet again – how we got into this mess.

  She wants the king executed, but she wants me to go down for it.

  And then there are the details of the phone conversation I’ve just had with the hospital in Aberdeen, plus all the little anxieties – the fragrant fug in the bathroom, the rifled drawers. Will my father rumble us? Can I pull this off?

  Then I realise I’m making scrambled eggs and toast for two and quickly chuck a couple of rounds in the bin. And two cups of tea! I fire one of them into the sink just as Dad opens the door. They all stroll in – Dad, Dave and River, with the two dogs – bringing with them the scent of the night: dank vegetation and foxes. That’s probably from the dogs. Their tongues are lolling like they’ve been chasing something.

  Dad pulls out his chair. He looks suspiciously calm, but that means nothing. He is a volcano waiting to blow. I try to catch River’s attention, but he has perfected his poker face and gives nothing away. The earlier injury to his lip is beginning to dry up, but there’s a fresh scratch on his cheek, as if he’s been attacked by trees.

  ‘The bird has flown.’ Offshore Dave sidles up too close to me as I refill the kettle. I shy away from the smell of sweat and fuel. I want to say my mother isn’t a bird – or if she is, she’s a crow who’ll peck your fucking eyes out – but I keep quiet. When Dave fails to get a reaction, he takes himself off to the table.

  Dad rubs his beard. ‘What I don’t understand about you two’ – his stony gaze flicks between my brother and me – ‘is this. If you only just found out your mother was alive, wouldn’t you try and bring her back here?’

  Neither of us speak. I glance at River, but he is leaning against the counter, staring at his feet.

  ‘Out of loyalty to me, even?’ our father continues. ‘Look what she’s put me through!’ His voice is gathering strength, volume. ‘I thought she was dead. You two should have brought her back to me. Her place is HERE!’

  He stands up so suddenly that his chair rocks backwards. One of the dogs whines. This time, River does catch my eye. Every sinew in my body is tight, as if I’m preparing to run. My father’s voice rattles my ears.

  ‘Have I taught you NOTHING about family loyalty? We Rooks stay together, no matter what. It was your duty to bring her home.’

  I’m so scared my insides have turned to water, and my gaze is fixed on the floor. One of the dogs pauses by my elbow and sniffs. I stiffen. A wet nose travels down my thigh, snuffles at the back of my knee. I hear a growl starting low in its throat. It must be scenting my mother. I hold my breath. River opens the biscuit tin and makes a big play of breaking a digestive in two. Both dogs are immediately distracted and sit to attention, drooling. I start to breathe.

  ‘So.’ Dad sits down at the table again. He steeples his fingers and glares over the top of them. ‘Your mother can’t have gone far, unless you helped her escape.’

  ‘No,’ River says, too quickly. He glances at me.

  ‘She can’t have gone far,’ Dave echoes. ‘She’s got no car. Dogs got the scent up there all right, but—’

  ‘Maybe she got the bus.’ All eyes swing to me. I’m aware I’m gabbling, but anything to keep them away from her. ‘I . . . I called the hospital. Shelby’s there, so – so maybe she got
the bus to Aberdeen. She’d want to see how Shelby’s doing.’

  Dad looks at me with a strange light in his eyes.

  ‘Oh yes. She’d want to see how Shelby’s doing. That’s the answer. You didn’t think of that, did you, Dave?’

  They grin at each other, but Dad’s expression makes my blood run cold. I have one more card to play. As I place the mugs carefully on the table, I slip a glossy leaflet down beside the milk jug, where, until recently, PC Sampson’s pastel bereavement literature had sat. I can’t get my head around the journey we’re on. It’s making me dizzy.

  Dad is quizzing Dave about bus timetables. Now he spots the leaflet and picks it up. I watch his face harden as he reads it.

  ‘A women’s refuge?’ He glances up at me. ‘What the fuck? You’ve been filling her head with more of this nonsense, haven’t you?’

  My mouth makes a downward turn. ‘Nothing to do with me. I expect she contacted them a while ago.’

  He holds up the leaflet and gives it a stinging slap with the back of his fingers. ‘Because she had such a rotten life with me, didn’t she, Dave?’

  Dave chuckles. ‘Rotten, boss. Didn’t know she was born, more like. All this . . .’ He gazes around the kitchen in wonder.

  ‘Well, I think we’ll pay Aberdeen a little visit tomorrow. The hospital first, see if she’s sitting by his bedside, and if not’ – he waves the leaflet – ‘we know where she’ll be.’

  I catch River’s eye. According to the woman I’ve just spoken to on the phone, an unidentified male had been admitted and a detective is waiting to interview him. Now, despite everything I’ve ever been taught, I’m hoping against hope that the police can protect Shelby.

  My mother is dozing fitfully in the centre of my double bed when I finally escape upstairs. Sighing, I sit down at the dressing table and scowl into the mirror. My healthy tan has faded into dull exhaustion. My mind continues to perform cartwheels, but I cannot see an easy way out of this mess. Mum’s Plan B comes back to haunt me, and I dare to imagine a scenario where we are left in peace to live as we wish. The reality is that she’s hurt my father’s pride, sidestepped his authority. If it becomes known that she faked her death to get away from him, it will be the ultimate humiliation. Rooks are not allowed to break rank – even my gap year was pushing it – and he won’t rest until he’s brought her back into the fold. Would he kill her, like she seems to think? I’ve read those leaflets. On average, two women a week are killed by a partner or ex-partner in this country. I look across at my mother’s face. The deep frown line is still visible between her closed eyes and her lashes are flickering. Am I going to let her become a statistic?

  A light knocking makes me leap up. The door opens, but it’s only River. I press a finger to my lips, and he glances at the bed and nods.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d phoned the hospital?’ he whispers.

  ‘I couldn’t. I didn’t get a chance. And anyway, I don’t have much information. They wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone.’

  ‘Just as well I’m on the case, then.’ I realise he’s smiling. ‘Shelby called me just now.’

  ‘What? Where is he? How is he?’

  ‘He’s discharged himself from hospital. Just walked out!’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ The relief is overwhelming. ‘Typical Shelby. Is he okay? At least he won’t be there when they go to the hospital tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s why he left. He said Dad won’t give up until someone dies.’ We both shudder. ‘Anyway, he says he’s going to lay low for a while. He has a mate in Aberdeen. He’s okay – busted ribs, concussion – but he says he’ll live to fight another day.’

  We both look at Mum. His choice of words feels chillingly prophetic.

  36

  Fifteen Days After

  The next day, Dad leaves early, taking River with him. He doesn’t say where he’s going, but he’s taken the leaflet too. I hope to goodness Shelby is lying low. Offshore Dave is left in charge, although we all know it’s Julie who’ll keep everything going. I can see her through the windows of the Portacabin, fielding phone calls while Dave slopes off to smoke behind the toilets. I don’t want to go near her. I can’t deal with her sympathy while I’m harbouring a dead woman in my room.

  Even with Dad away, I daren’t let Mum downstairs. She’s restless – talking about crows and the woods and the garden – but leaving the fragile safety of that room is not an option. All we need is for Sharon Duthie to catch the vaguest glimpse of her and the news of the resurrection will spread around the countryside like wildfire.

  I bring her a cup of tea and some toast after Dad leaves. ‘I’m worried about River. He’s being torn in two.’

  She’s brushing her hair at the dressing table, sitting where I’d sat and worried the night before. The resemblance between us is clear, although I see my brother there too – the unruly hair, the half-shy, half-defiant expression.

  ‘That last day, down by the waterfall, we talked more than we’d ever talked before,’ she said. ‘I never let on to him about Shelby and me, but I told him I had to disappear. It was the only way I could get away from Lawler. He argued with me. He said I’d be abandoning him.’

  ‘It’s true. You really think Dad’s a good role model?’

  ‘Do you really think he’d let me walk out of here with his son?’

  She has me there. River is Dad’s shadow. He has a much better relationship with him than I’ve ever had, though he can see his flaws too.

  ‘I told River we could meet up at some point, that I wasn’t going to be out of his life – or yours – for good, but I needed a . . . a breathing space. He said he understood.’

  ‘No wonder he’s so bloody angry. He’s trying to please everyone. He’s a teenager, and you’ve put all this’ – I wave my hand distractedly – ‘all this responsibility on him. Imagine what it was like for him, having to come home and lie for all he was worth. Lying to his dad, for God’s sake.’

  In the mirror, I see tears forming in her eyes.

  ‘He was so full of rage,’ she whispers. I think of Mandy Cotton and family services. ‘I didn’t know how to handle him. I was scared he was turning into his father, and I could see everything getting worse. So much worse.’

  ‘I think there might be more to this.’ I rest my hand on her shoulder. ‘He seems to spend a lot of time with Ned.’

  ‘Ned’s a friend. A kind, compassionate friend. Someone who’s not covered in filth and constantly cursing. And River is only fifteen, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I’m not saying there’s anything going on, but River’s at that age where he’s getting to know about himself. His preferences. Who’s going to be there for him when he’s feeling his way through the next few years?’

  She bites her lip. A wave of anger quivers through me. It’s going to be me, isn’t it? If I want to be there for my brother, I’m going to have to give up my wandering lifestyle. I’m going to have to move back home and be the mediator, the buffer, just as my mother was. Meanwhile, Mum will be travelling the roads with the love of her life. It will be the making of her. The irony of this role reversal isn’t lost on me – nor, probably, on her. When I glance back at the mirror, her eyes are watchful, calculating.

  ‘So let’s talk about Plan B,’ she says.

  37

  The longer Dad and River are gone, the more agitated I become. It’s impossible to settle, and I find myself trying to second-guess their progress, where they might be and what they are getting up to. My thoughts keep straying to Shelby too. Is he okay? What if he’s taken a turn for the worse and is readmitted to the ward? I torment myself with bleak scenarios: Shelby lying collapsed in the hospital grounds; or Dad looming over his bed with a pillow, and River unable to prevent murder. I don’t even want to be around Mum just now. Her presence reminds me of how close we are sailing to the wind. I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

  I’m outside, mooching around the cars, when a familiar voice stops me in my
tracks.

  ‘Hi, Ellie.’

  Piotr catches me off guard, and I have no time to temper my reaction. Blood rushes to my face and I stutter a greeting. I’m shocked at how pleased I am to see him. It’s only natural, I tell myself, after all that’s been going on, to crave a friendly face. He’s like one of those bothies on the beach – a port in a storm. It doesn’t mean there’s anything deeper.

  ‘I thought you were gone – going – catching a bus?’

  ‘I had to stick around.’

  Warmth blossoms deep inside me, and something unfamiliar. Hope. A fragile, beating butterfly wing. With a rush, I realise I want to confide in him. Share the awful burden that my mother is alive and well and living in bedroomsville, and I don’t know what to do. I want him to see that I’m out of my depth and throw me a lifeline. But I don’t. Even though we’ve seen each other naked, trust is too intimate.

  Julie is at the Portacabin window, sorting through pink invoices. I don’t realise I’m staring at her until she glances up, the way people sometimes do when they can feel your gaze upon them. I imagine her weighing things up, speculating about why I’m having an intimate conversation with Piotr. Do we look intimate? I step away from him.

  ‘Thanks, Piotr. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Um, Ellie – I had to stay. I have . . . an appointment. I cannot leave town just yet.’

  ‘Oh.’ The butterfly wing stops beating. I try to read his face. There’s a little nerve twitching near his mouth, and it puts a hitch in my breathing. Doctor’s appointment? Is he ill? Or have the council caught up with him for trying to make a home out of a condemned building? I wait for him to elaborate, but he closes up. I’m so familiar with that feeling.

  ‘I will do my morning shift first.’ He glances at the yard without enthusiasm. ‘But—’

  I want to reach out to him, but Julie is still watching with greedy interest.