‘I’m glad I have seen you.’
‘I don’t want you to think bad of me.’
‘You mean about the tracking and stuff? That was coercion.’
He wrinkles his brow. ‘Coer-shun?’
‘It’s a word for what my father does. Forget it.’
‘I will not forget. I will not forget you.’
This time, I do touch him. I run my fingers over his forearm, and the blond hairs bristle beneath my touch. It’s not enough, but enough for now. I’m not sure what he’s getting at, and Offshore Dave is watching us, slouching against the Portacabin with an unpleasant grin on his dirty face. What is this? First Julie and now Dave.
Pity none of the staff ever noticed what was going on under their noses before it got to the point of no return.
After Piotr leaves, I sit out in the front garden for as long as I can. The patchwork cushion is still mouldering away on the bench where my mother left it, the day before she disappeared. It seems an apt metaphor for how things have turned out. Something is rotten in this little kingdom. I listen to the sharp mew of the gulls, the faraway shush of the sea, all the while straining to hear the distant sound of a car engine that will herald the return of the men.
I’m still trying to come to terms with my mother loving someone who isn’t my father. In some ways, the fact that it’s Shelby makes it worse. I’m already mourning the easy, comfortable relationship I used to enjoy with him. Now he feels like a stranger, and I’m being forced to think about my mother’s personal life – her sex life Where did they do it behind my father’s back? In the caravan? In the woods? I don’t want to contemplate it, but I can understand my father’s jealousy. It’s enough to drive anyone insane.
A horrible image floats into my head, of me pinning the teenage Katie Coutts to the changing-room floor because she dared to make a move on my boyfriend. I can hardly bear to think about it, and now my mother is suggesting something far more evil. Plan B – the cold-blooded, premeditated murder of my own father. It’s a world away from simply lashing out in anger. My mother is turning into a liability. Will I be able to steer her away from her scheming or, like everything else, is it going to be taken out of my hands?
I’m afraid of losing control of the situation. I’m being blown off course by an unrelenting wind and I’m afraid of what I might do. Self-pitying tears smudge my cheeks. What if?
What if?
I am my father’s daughter. I’m backed into a corner, if the white mist rises and I’m pushed . . . who knows what I’d be capable of?
A thin plume of smoke is rising from the Duthies’ chimney. I imagine them going about their ordinary little lives – Sharon reading Woman’s Weekly with the radio on; Liam looking for jobs on Gumtree. At least he was able to boomerang back to a messy, chaotic, normal mother, whereas I’ve been plunged into a nightmare. Hot shame fills me. My mother is a victim. We’re all victims and it’s making us crazy.
A subtle smoker’s cough from across the road grabs my attention. I walk to the garden gate and there’s Liam, having a fly puff in his front garden. He raises his hand and wanders over.
‘Hey. How are things?’
Oddly, I do not feel the need to blurt things out to Liam. My family affairs slink away under a rock and wait.
‘Och, you know. Getting by.’
He takes a drag of his cigarette. ‘Saw your dad going out earlier. And River.’
‘They were going to look at a car.’
‘Oh.’ He nods, and we lapse into silence. ‘Saw Rocky too, a while back. On his bike. Pedalling like fuck!’ He laughs at his own wit. ‘Maybe he had an appointment.’
His choice of word makes my skin prickle. ‘Why would you say that?’
He raises his shoulders and lets them drop. ‘Just something I heard.’
‘What? What did you hear?’
He holds up a hand. ‘I don’t want to make things worse for you.’ His eyes, glittering with untold secrets, tell a different story.
‘Believe me, things cannot get any worse.’
‘Well, they’re saying that . . . that Rocky had a hand in your mum’s death. It stands to reason – we don’t know anything about him, his background or anything. He could have a criminal record. He could have done this sort of thing before.’
Cold is creeping up my spine. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘Befriending a woman, and then when the going gets tough—’
I make an impatient noise. ‘Wait a minute – who’s saying this? Who’s making up this nonsense?’
His little-boy face takes on a certain smugness, like he’s stolen all the apples. ‘People have conversations in pubs, and sometimes they reach the right ears.’
‘Police ears? You had a conversation in the pub with an off-duty cop, is that what you’re saying?’
His expression crumples. ‘No! It wasn’t me!’
‘Oh yes, I can see it now. You and Danny Findlater having a pint. He’s a DI now, isn’t he?’
He nods before he can stop himself. ‘It’s only what everyone else was thinking. And anyway, they can’t arrest him – not until more evidence comes to light. They’ve asked him to come in voluntarily, because he was off work sick the day she fell – if she fell – and he has no alibi.’
‘But Liam, River was there, when Mum . . . when she fell. If Piotr was involved, he would have seen him. You’ve concocted a story, haven’t you? You’ve grassed him up.’
I keep my voice low, even though I want to snarl at him. What the hell am I going to do now? How the hell can I let Piotr take the rap for something that never happened? Especially when the very subject of the missing persons inquiry is upstairs, sitting at my dressing table?
Liam drops the fag end onto the road and presses a hand against his chest. ‘So I get the blame for doing the right thing? I might’ve known you’d be on his side.’
‘There are no sides.’
‘Oh, I think there are.’
I stare at him. ‘You’re jealous? You think I’m shagging Piotr, so you thought you’d get your own back by peddling lies about him?’ I make a noise like a moan. ‘What have you done? I really, really don’t need this right now. There is nothing to be jealous about, because there is nothing – you and me’ – I wave my hand back and forth between us – ‘NOTHING.’
‘Fuck off.’ Liam makes an angry gesture with his hand and goes to storm off, but then he bounces back. His face is pale and hard. ‘Fuck right off. If you don’t want me, fine, but I’m sure as hell not letting you end up with some foreigner!’
I gasp. My father’s words roll back through the tears. Get off my property.
‘I belong to no one,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I’m my own person.’
It’s time I took control.
38
Back in the house, I hunt for the very thing I discarded just two weeks ago. I was too sure of my ground back then, still sticking to the old patterns. No outside interference. Keep it in the family. But now all I can think of is Piotr, who doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this mess.
The table is littered with debris that no one has any intention of clearing. I suppose I’ll have to do it eventually, but right now I have bigger things on my mind. I move the stone-cold teapot and the milk jug. There’s no sign of the pastel leaflets – I remember dumping them in the bin – but there’s nothing else there either. I go to the ‘junk drawer’ and rifle through the old phone chargers and batteries. And there I find what I’m looking for: PC Lorraine Sampson’s business card.
Lorraine crosses her legs neatly and sits back with an air of expectation. Across the table, I fidget in my father’s seat and wonder where the hell to start. I feel like my rap sheet is written on my face in large print: lying about my mother’s disappearance; wasting police time; concealing a felony (and a felon); covering up a serious assault; and probably aiding and abetting a truant. I don’t have time to dwell on it though. Dad will be back soon and I can’t bear to think about what he’ll say –
what he’ll do – if he finds a cop in his kitchen. Steeling myself, I take a deep breath, clasping my hands together like I’m praying.
‘I think you’ve taken Piotr in for questioning, and you need to let him go. He didn’t do anything. I know he didn’t.’
PC Sampson hitches up a little in her seat. ‘Piotr?’
‘Polish guy. Works here. Sorry, I don’t even know his surname.’ I cringe inside.
She pauses for a beat; glances at her notebook. ‘Ah yes. We’ve had some new intelligence to suggest that he was quite close with your mother, so he attended for interview voluntarily this afternoon.’
‘And? Being friendly with people doesn’t point to anything. My mother was friendly with lots of people.’
That isn’t strictly true, but this whole thing is ridiculous. Surely PC Sampson can see that?
‘Ellie, you called me because you said you had some new information about your mother.’ She puts down her notebook and mirrors my position, leaning on the table. We must look very earnest. A sly glance at the notebook reveals only a few squiggles on an otherwise blank page. All apparently low-key, but my heart is pounding with such force I feel sick.
‘Yes, my mother. You see . . . it’s complicated.’
‘Mmm.’
‘The thing is . . .’ I avoid her eyes and focus on my fingers, picking at the last stubborn remnants of Beach Gold. ‘My mother had a reason to disappear.’
I can sense Lorraine’s sudden tension. I can see tomorrow’s headlines in the Gazette: LOCAL MOTHER ENDURES YEARS OF HELL. I’m betraying my mother, my family. All our dysfunctional bits are going to be on display like animal parts in a butcher’s window.
‘She suffered years of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of my father. My brother and me, we witnessed it all, but she never spoke up and we didn’t either.’ I swallow, and it sounds loud, even to me. Lorraine leans in closer. There’s a softening about her eyes.
‘It’s okay, Ellie. Go on.’
‘We’ve never been a family for letting folk in, and I guess I thought we just had to live with it, until she phoned me one day, saying that she just wanted to disappear. She had it all planned. I tried to get her help, I really did, but she thought . . . she thought this was her only option.’
‘Did she fear for her life, Ellie?’
I hesitate. She isn’t writing this down, and she seems to sense my hesitation. ‘This is just between us at this stage. It’s all right – just tell me the truth in your own words.’
‘Yes. She thought my father would kill her.’ Best not to complicate things with Shelby.
‘Is that how it seemed to you?’
I nod wordlessly. Have I signed the king’s death warrant? We sit in silence for a beat or two, as Lorraine deliberates on her choice of words. ‘So, just to be clear, your mother faked her death and you and your brother have been covering it up? And your brother is fifteen, sixteen?’
‘Not quite sixteen.’
‘Mmm. And where is your mother now, Ellie?’
My eyes stray to the ceiling. Slowly, understanding dawns on her face, and she indicates upwards. ‘You hid her in the house? In the attic?’
‘In my bedroom.’
A ghost of a smile. ‘That’s . . . novel. You didn’t think your father would look there?’
‘Not in my bedroom, no.’
‘Does she know you’ve contacted me?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sure she’s very afraid, but the thing is, she must disclose the abuse herself, in order for me to get her the appropriate help. Do you understand? Faking your own death isn’t a crime, provided there are no financial or criminal factors involved.’
‘It isn’t?’ I grasp this fragile flicker of hope. ‘She was driven to it. My father, he once locked her in the boot of a car, and some nights she used to sleep in my bed to get away from him. I don’t know what went on, but I remember once he came in and dragged her out of bed by the hair. I was only about ten or eleven, and I tried to hang on to her. We were both crying but he was stronger. She told me to stay in my room. My whole childhood was about closed doors and raised voices and . . . the aftermath. I suppose I only ever saw the aftermath. My mother’s white face and red eyes. And my father – always so bloody normal, like nothing could touch him.’
I press my hands to the panicky rise and fall of my belly. I’m breathless. I don’t think I’ve ever uttered such a monologue in my entire life. I feel light and shaky, like a breath of wind will send me floating to the ceiling.
Lorraine sighs, as if her life is full of such incidents, and I suppose it is. ‘That’s the real issue here, Ellie. Domestic abuse is a criminal offence. If your mother wishes to press charges, we can make this stop.’
Behind me, the hall door creaks, and I spin around. Mum’s standing there. I don’t know how long she’s been out in the hall listening, but she doesn’t seem surprised to find me deep in conversation with a cop. She is blank-faced and silent.
Lorraine rises from her seat. ‘Imelda, Ellie’s been very brave and told me about what’s been happening, but I’d like to hear it from you. Maybe you could pop the kettle on, Ellie?’
I jump up, glad to have someone else taking charge. For the first time since Shelby held me to his heart, I feel safe. I could have reached out like this at any time, and we would have been rescued. So much wasted time. Tears prickle my eyes. PC Sampson, with her leaflets and her razor-sharp grasp of the situation, is going to find a way through this. I go about the whole tea-making business with one eye on my mother’s face. She doesn’t look like someone who intends on sitting down and drinking with the enemy, and I realise with cold dread that she’s wearing her coat and boots.
‘I’m sorry for wasting your time,’ Mum says eventually. ‘I was having a bad day and I just wanted to disappear. I’m sure you’ve felt the same. You just want to leave the world behind for a short while.’
I drop the teabags and turn to face her. Lorraine is standing with her back to me and I can’t see her expression, but her blonde ponytail is nodding subtly, even though I’m sure she’s never experienced anything of the kind.
‘Mum . . .’ I’m just about to plead, to coax the right words out of her, when the back door flies open, admitting a shaft of cold air and the shuffling of work boots. After all my listening for the king’s return, I missed it.
My father assesses the scene as River closes the door. A frozen tableau of women: his missing wife, a police officer and the daughter he doesn’t trust.
Boom.
He sums up the situation in an instant and surges forward to take my mother in his arms. I swear he’s weeping into her neck, but all I can see are her huge, stricken eyes. A deer awaiting the final bullet. I pray that Lorraine sees it too.
He holds her away from him, gazing down into her unresponsive face. ‘Imelda, my love. We’ve been so worried about you. Me, Ellie, River – we were beside ourselves. Whatever’s gone wrong, whatever made you do this, we can work it out.’
I’m speechless, and again Lorraine takes charge. ‘Imelda, would you like to speak to me in private?’
Dad turns to Lorraine, an arm about his wife’s shoulders. ‘No need. She’s home, thank God. I think it’s fair to say her mental health hasn’t been the best of late, eh, Imelda? That old black dog.’ He makes a sympathetic face and my mother nods. She actually nods.
‘Depression,’ she agrees. ‘I’ve suffered for years. I’m so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.’
Dad gives her a hearty squeeze, and as Lorraine goes to speak, he launches into full hospitality mode, silencing her with his bonhomie. ‘Ellie, tea and sandwiches, there’s a good girl. How about we chat over a nice spot of lunch, PC Sampson? River, open a tin of salmon. I know we face this whole issue of wasting police time, and I fully intend to make reparation for that . . .’
There’s a note of panic in his camaraderie, and as he waffles on, I catch my mother’s eye. How could she not speak up for herself when she
had the chance? How can she let him put such a spin on things? It feels like a betrayal. Her face gives nothing away, and all my hopes of rescue begin to recede. I’m drowning in fear.
I seem to be watching everything from a distance. PC Sampson is collecting her things together, preparing to leave, as my father smooths her way with false words. She doesn’t look happy about it, and inwardly I’m pleading with her to stay. Don’t leave us. The power has shifted back to Mum, but she’s scared to use it, and without her cooperation, we’re all in limbo.
There are goodbyes: Dad, pumping the police officer’s hand as if it’s the most normal thing in the world; my mother’s cracked whisper; Lorraine’s strained ‘I’ll be in touch’. I get myself to the door first and manage to catch her eye on the way out, willing her to read my distress signals.
Outside, the yard is deserted, the grabber standing idle. Everyone’s gone home, although I wasn’t aware of them leaving. No white van, no lilac Mini, just PC Sampson’s squad car and Dad’s Range Rover, parked arrogantly across three spaces.
And hitched to the back of it – Shelby’s caravan.
I go weak. I stare at it, searching the battered exterior for hidden meaning. Shelby’s caravan, spattered with mud from the road, ferns trailing from the tow bar. Lorraine has clocked it too, but she has no point of reference. My father is a scrap dealer. She has no way of knowing whether this is out of the ordinary. Is she even aware of what happened up in the hills, of the vicious attack that put a man in hospital? Seconds tick by. She has to walk past the caravan to get to her car, and I can see her taking it all in, mentally documenting its details to share with her colleagues down at the station.
She checks the rear of the vehicle, but the registration plates have long since been removed. As she unlocks her car and moves to open the door, the faint flick of a heavy velvet curtain catches my eye, and the merest suggestion of a face, framed in the caravan window. My sharp intake of breath attracts her attention.
‘I’m going to log the details of my visit, Ellie,’ she says, regarding me closely. ‘I’ll call back in a couple of days, unless . . .’
The Unmaking of Ellie Rook Page 17
