Behind Ruth, a snapping. She spins to face whatever’s come for her, but there’s no one there, only the trees reeling in an aftershock of wind. In the distance, a small clearing and a tail of smoke. Ruth tucks her mouth under the collar of her coat and moves quietly towards the glade. She steps into the clearing, the space vaguely familiar, like a memory of a memory, then her eyes take on the perspective of Frieda’s photos.
A fire pit at the centre. Wind skims embers from the ashy heap and the strap of a bag reaches out, as if it had tried to fling itself away from the flames. A charred envelope – the kind that would have held a set of developed photos – blows past her shins. She crouches, sifts through the embers with the blade of the knife, pushing over a large hot stone. Underneath is a piece of fabric that’s been protected from the fire. She lifts the material on the point of the knife. It’s silk. She dusts off the ash and holds it up to the lightening sky. Still visible under the dirt are the spots of Farah’s scarf. Ruth stands slowly, the circle of trees soughing, the sound so pure it amplifies her confusion as to why Leila would have burnt her sister’s scarf. She looks left and right. A small, battered metal trunk has been dumped at the edge of the ash, the initials F. C. on the lid. Ruth recognizes it from somewhere, her head so full it’s hard for the memory to take shape. Whatever was inside the box has been emptied, the contents now ash. Just beyond the clearing, an area of uneven ground. Ruth clambers across to find a patch of freshly dug earth, the smell of the damp soil here ripe, as if the centuries of stories that have played out in this place are finally coming to the surface, revealing their secrets. A prickle of instinct tells Ruth to be afraid, but there’s no time to pause and unpick what any of this means. It’s Leila she has to find and, with a gathering urgency, she needs to get home to her baby.
As quiet as a fox, Ruth backs away from the clearing and stumbles over a fallen sapling. The wind rallies and the trees roar with its energy, the woodland as desolate as when she first entered. ‘For God’s sake, Leila, where are you?’ She rights herself, turning towards the exit as a flicker of something swoops down near the fence and disappears. Her homing instinct at once sharpens to a point and she breaks into a run, lumbering at first then gathering speed with an animal energy she didn’t know she possessed. She needs to grab Leila before she gets away, tell her she’s safe, take her home to Giles – enough secrecy, it’s time he knew. None of what’s gone between him and Ruth seems to hold any importance any more, all that matters is home and family and making it work. Houses flash past on Ruth’s left, and through the trees she counts their numbers, the perspective from this side of the fence unfamiliar and throwing her judgement. A few bedroom curtains are backlit as Ruth’s neighbours begin to wake, and the last house before the exit is Sandra and Liam’s. A light is on in their lounge downstairs.
As Ruth comes level with their house, the gruff of Liam’s voice, even at this distance, reaches the sidings. It’s followed by a fragile female reply. Ruth’s panting, she can taste her blood, and she pauses for the briefest second to catch her breath. The high wall obscures most of Sandra and Liam’s window, but from this angle on the sidings Ruth can see more than she’d be able to from the path: the top of the window pane, plus the ceiling and its light fitting. Shapes move across the ceiling inside, shadow-boxers twisting and rebounding along with Liam’s growing volume. Ruth pulls up fast, then onto tiptoes, but she can’t see any more detail. A couple of thumps and a high cry – Sandra is stuck in the house with that man. Ruth sprints to the exit where the pale dawn reveals the entrances to several animal dens. The bushy tail of a fox disappears inside one of the holes.
Voices in the distance, a car door slamming, engine firing up. Ruth leaps through the exit and onto the tarmac, sliding the hardboard back into place, then she scurries along the back path to where the terraces begin. Liam’s shout again, clearer now she’s closer. Ruth thinks about running round to the front of the house and banging on their garden gate, demanding Liam give her Sandra, only her legs have turned to lead. Liam will cut her dead if she turns up at his door. Ruth knows he’s possessive, never worried before if that might translate into violence, but there’s always a first time.
The wall is high and topped with a solid trellis a couple of inches above Ruth’s head, the whole window obscured from this angle on the path. Ruth tries to pull herself up a couple of times. There’s no footing and she slips back down, scuffing her knees through her trousers. She kicks the crappy wall that looks like it was put up in a hurry. Mortar sprinkles to the ground. Ruth kicks again and something gives. She crouches, brushing the crumbling area with her hand. A small section of brickwork, about knee height, wobbles. She grips one of the bricks; it’s loose, one edge still set in the wall. She looks to her other hand, at the knife she’d forgotten she was holding so tightly it’s almost fused inside her grip. She digs it into the mortar, scraping away until she can fit her fingers round the edges of the brick, and she works at the back of it until a piece has loosened. She tugs. Cement dusts her hand as a small chunk of masonry breaks away.
She drops the knife to the ground and puts her foot in the space she’s made in the brickwork, gripping the ledge where the wall ends and trellis begins. Without a sound, she levers herself up. Her forehead breaches the top and she blinks hard. Directly in front of her, Liam’s stood in the centre of his lounge with his fists at his sides. On the ground with a protective arm over her head, face angled towards the window in alarm, is Leila.
17
Giles is slumped on the sofa, as if he’s collapsed there and been set in plaster. Bess is in his arms, crabby as she tries to free herself, both dad and baby with their coats on and cheeks glowing with the heat. At Giles’s feet is a holdall and a couple of supermarket carriers, clothes shoved next to a few bits of food from the cupboards; a hasty and angry pack-up, and it’s still so very early.
‘No, Giles.’ Ruth slams the front door behind her, breathless from the sprint home. ‘Please.’ Déjà vu crowds in on her, coming in with yet another emergency, and to a version of Giles’s anger, but there’s no way to indulge it, she’ll simply have to convince him this time. ‘I can’t do this now.’
Giles’s head sinks further into his neck. ‘Well, it’s happening whether you like it or not.’ His expression is hard, determined, with no trace of sympathy or last night’s guilt, their fragile truce clearly over.
She looks from the bags up to Giles’s face a couple of times, her husband’s eyes stung red with tears, and she says, ‘Giles, you have to listen. I need your help.’
Giles doesn’t rise up or shout as Ruth crosses to him, the fight all punched out of him. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve.’ Bess cries and he holds her close. ‘I thought we were finally getting somewhere last night, being honest at last, and then you go and disappear on me in the middle of the night. Like everything we went through yesterday meant nothing.’
She crouches at his knees, waves his words away. ‘You’ve got to come to Liam’s. Now. He’s got someone inside the house. You have to make him open the door. He won’t be able to refuse if it’s you.’
‘Huh.’ Giles laughs breathily. ‘Of course whatever this problem is would be about them. You know, Ruth, perhaps it’s time you accepted the friendship is over. In fact, as far as I can see, Sandra’s been trying to distance herself for ages, but you keep reining her back in with your never-ending issues.’
‘This has got nothing to do with her. She wasn’t even there.’ Ruth grips Giles’s knees. ‘But that might mean Liam’s done something to her too!’ She dips her head so Giles has nowhere else to look but at her. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I should have told you before but I knew you wouldn’t believe me. This time I’m telling the truth.’ She pulls his hand. ‘I can’t do it on my own any more, Giles. You have to help.’
He snaps his hand away from her, his face sullen and drawn.
‘There’s a girl,’ Ruth says. ‘A real girl. I was looking after her. I thought she ran away but Liam took her. He’
s been burning her stuff on the sidings too, trying to make her disappear. I knew she wouldn’t have left Bess on her own.’
Giles groans, his patience straining at the seams. ‘No, Ruth, not this again.’
‘Stop dismissing everything I say. I’m not ill.’
‘Really?’ He swings his knees from Ruth’s hands and she falls back.
‘Yes, really.’
He looks at Ruth with his head to one side, then takes a breath. ‘When I woke up this morning and you were gone, I called your phone and it rang where you’d left it, in the bedroom. After what you put me and Bess through yesterday, you promised things would change.’ Giles shifts uncomfortably to the other buttock as Bess holds tight round her dad’s neck, eyeing Ruth with a wide stare. ‘Then I had this terrible sinking realization that this stuff with you is never going to end, and you’re never going to accept you need help. The nightmare is just going to keep going on and on until you ruin the lot of us.’
‘Look, none of that matters. Please, Giles, I’ve never been more sane or serious.’
‘I’m just so tired, Ruth. I almost don’t care, not about you anyway. Or us. But I won’t give up on Bess. She deserves better than this constant chaos.’
‘Giles, there’s a reason—’
‘There’s always a fucking reason.’ Giles twitches – he’s never sworn this deliberately in front of Bess, and the bile is jubilant on his face. He gets to his feet, a little unsteady, and Ruth slides out of his way then stands back a pace. ‘Who is it this time?’ Giles says. ‘Who’s this new girl who needs rescuing, or is it the same one it’s always been, your sister who was in your photos then came out of the wall? Oh, and let’s not forget when she climbed out of the ground!’
‘You don’t understand.’ The fan in the downstairs toilet rattles, like ball bearings in a tumble dryer. ‘But you’ll see for yourself if you come with me to Liam’s. If we don’t get there soon, he might hurt Leila or take her away, then I’ll never be able to find her again.’
‘Oh, this one has a name, does she? And why would Liam hurt her? Why has he got this Leila at his house in the first place?’
‘Because he’s trafficking women.’
‘Jesus, Ruth.’ He turns to the wall laughing, as if he’ll find consensus there. ‘It’s never simple with you.’
‘Call the police then, I don’t care.’ She hands him the landline. ‘They’ll take you seriously. But we have to do something. Please, I’m begging you, before it’s too late.’
Bess is squirming in her dad’s arms, and still Giles refuses to let go, jigging up and down to keep her quiet. ‘You’ve gone too far now, Ruth, way too far. It’s enough. I have had enough.’ Giles’s words are ringed with exhaustion. ‘Nothing’s going on with Liam, and even if it was, it’s got nothing to do with us, so leave it alone, stop bloody poking it.’ He lifts the holdall that’s next to the sofa and moves it to the front door.
‘No,’ Ruth says, standing in his way. ‘You have to help. You can’t leave.’
‘I can and I will.’
Bess reaches for her mum and Ruth puts her hands out for her little girl as Giles sweeps the baby to one side. ‘Get away from her.’
‘What? You’re taking Bess?’ Ruth’s voice rises. ‘No. You can’t. I won’t let you.’ She tries to grab her baby as Giles holds Bess to his chest, circling her with both arms, muscles taut. Ruth would have to pull hard to get her daughter from him, perhaps even hurt Bess in the process. Precious little arms and legs, her soft, soft skin. ‘She’s mine.’ Ruth’s words are clogged with tears, arms shaking with the effort of keeping them at her sides. ‘I made her.’
‘Well, guess what? So did I. And there’s not a lawyer or doctor who would disagree with my decision to give my daughter a better life. It’s done, Ruth.’ He puts a hand on Ruth’s arm to move her out of his way, his grip firm, but underneath he’s shaking with an uncertainty Ruth’s not felt in him before. ‘You made me feel so guilty about Faye, when it was just a kiss. It doesn’t give you permission to carry on dragging everyone else into your madness. And I won’t be held hostage because I did one bad thing.’
Ruth jolts her arm from his. ‘So something did happen between you and Faye. It has gone further.’
‘Well, what did you expect? I’m not an endless pit of sympathy.’
‘Christ, I haven’t got time for this.’ She runs her hands through her hair then drops them to her thighs with a slap. ‘Leila’s in danger.’
‘I don’t know why you’re refusing the help, Ruth, but you need to rein this in. The doctor will be in touch, I’ve left a message with the perinatal unit to let them know you’re on your own now. Maybe tough love is the only way you’ll take me seriously.’
‘You bastard.’
‘Whatever.’ He picks up one of the carriers and a doll of Bess’s falls to the ground.
Ruth picks up the toy. ‘I don’t care what you do, but I won’t let you take Bess.’ She holds the doll to her chest, smelling the dusty sweetness of her baby on the fabric. ‘All that pussyfooting around I had to do in case I scared you away with some problem or emotion that was unattractive, but you’d checked out months ago anyway.’ Giles tries to take the soft toy, and Ruth yanks it back, shouting, ‘No, you can’t have it. I won’t let you take it.’
He stares at her with an open mouth. ‘I don’t know who you are any more, where the illness ends and you begin.’
‘I’ve been caring for a baby. Nothing about my life will ever be the same.’
‘Well, mine neither.’
The radiators throw out heat, warming the yeasty air. Ruth presses her fingers to her skull, wanting to weep at this argument, this same mountain of issues they’ve had in one form or another since the day Bess was born – who does what, who gets what and why none of it is fair – only now her anger tunnels through. ‘It’s all about you, isn’t it, the weight my illness put on you, the fun you wanted to have but couldn’t. Only now there’s something more important than any of that, and you’re going to leave? Leila’s in danger. We’re the only ones who can help.’
Giles pinches the brow of his nose as tears fall to the floor. ‘I can’t take this any more.’ He picks up the last of the carrier bags and moves it to the door. ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’
‘No, you just signed up for the fucking fairy tale.’
He opens the front door and moves the bags outside. ‘I’m done.’
‘You don’t get to take my baby.’ Ruth’s voice is shrill. ‘You can’t take her.’ She tries to grab Bess, tugging her little arm as Giles staggers backwards. Bess begins to cry hard.
‘Really?’ Giles faces Ruth across the threshold. ‘You’re going to make this scene in front of Bess?’ His expression, on the other side of their door, calcifies, shutting Ruth out for good. Ruth’s fingers try to connect with her little girl, but Bess is sobbing into her dad’s shoulder and won’t look at her mum. Giles’s voice is almost a whisper. ‘I’m going, Ruth, and I’m taking Bess. You cannot and will not stop me.’ He places a hand on Bess’s back and the baby softens onto her dad’s chest before turning her sweaty little face to Ruth, eyes wide with fear. ‘Look what you’ve done to my daughter. Stay where you are, don’t you dare come after us.’
Ruth’s breathing too fast and she chokes, throat burning like she’s swallowed seawater. All this time she’s been afraid, unreasonably so everyone kept telling her, that Bess would be taken away, and now the one person who’s supposed to have Ruth’s back is doing just that. Her vision blurs with rage. She bows her head so Bess can’t see and with a shudder she hangs on to the kitchen counter to steady herself, dislodging a package that’s been stacked there behind other mail. It falls to her feet where she can’t avoid but look. The name above the address is Miss Cailleach – that name – not Mr Smith as usual. Giles must have accepted the package from a courier in the last couple of days without telling her. The flap is partly torn at the top, perhaps damaged in transit, or Giles started to open it by mi
stake.
Even here, even now, the presence of this delivery prods Ruth, refuses to be ignored as Frieda’s words play out in her ears: something’s coming for me, keep it safe. She squints at the parcel on the floor, wants to rip it apart, tear it with her teeth, and she kicks it with all her might. It spins and crashes into one of the kitchen cupboards. A white envelope from ‘Express Photos’ pokes out, the same branded envelope that was under Frieda’s bed, and that blew past Ruth less than an hour ago on the sidings.
While Giles struggles back and forth with the bags to the pavement, takes out car keys, peers left and right from the gate attempting to locate the car that Ruth parked right down the other end of the street, Ruth crouches, picks up the package, and like magnets her fingers take out the envelope of photos and break the seal. A strip of negatives in a concertina sheaf. She tosses them aside and removes the pictures, shots that Frieda must have sent away to get developed. Ruth quickly shuffles through the amateur photos, sketchy with focus, some birds only black dots in a pale sky. She slows as she comes to a picture of the glade from where Frieda once took her favourite shot of the kestrel, where Ruth stood so recently. The image is of the fire pit at the centre of the clearing, a debris of bottles and a T-shirt with RAY’S HAND WASH AND VALET in the dirt. Then night-time shots, a view through the fence slats onto the forecourt of the petrol station – Ruth’s elderly neighbour must have been crouched in the undergrowth, staking out the scene with her long lens. The fast-film stock has made the photos grainy in the low light, but the action’s unmistakable. An image of a Transit van on the forecourt under the street light, then another shot of the exposed manhole – Frieda told Ruth she’d seen happenings at night before. Next, the back of a woman climbing out of the ground. Just as Ruth had seen that other night. One photo is zoomed in on the driver who’s replacing the manhole, the detail clear even at this distance, to a standard that Ruth’s phone could never maintain, and even if his face wasn’t in close-up, Ruth would have guessed by the glowing white T-shirt that it was Liam.
The Hidden Girls Page 24
