by Emily Elgar
In fact I’m relieved she’s not going to put up a fight. There’s no way I was going to let her come with me. Perhaps her encounter with Tony has made her more risk averse, more rational, which is no bad thing.
“Just stay in here with the door locked, try to relax.”
“Yeah, I will. Just make sure you get a photo of him, OK? Pretend you’re on a video call or something, take a photo, send it to me, and then I can make sure it’s the same bloke.”
I wave my phone at her and nod to show that I know what I’m doing.
“Call me if you need me, all right? I’ll just be down the road, and don’t forget to lock this door,” I say as I open the door to the hall.
She salutes me.
“Good luck, Uncle Jon.”
I shut the door and wait for a moment, until I hear the lock slide closed. Good. It makes me feel braver, knowing she’s safe. I walk quickly away from the pub in the warm evening as though trying to outpace any doubts. I pause by a walker’s signpost just after the pub parking lot. The arrow pointing to the left catches my eye. I hadn’t mentioned anything to Cara; I knew we were close, but not this close. The sign says PORT RAYNOR BEACH; the place where Danny died is just a mile away. Port Raynor lighthouse, one of the few still operational in Cornwall, two miles. I’m relieved Cara didn’t see the sign. I know she’d want to go to the beach if she had. Aware Cara could be watching from the window, confused as to why I’ve paused here, I start walking again. But with each step I feel my courage wane and I have the vertiginous feeling that I’m walking away from life as I know it, that everything is about to change.
19
Cara
It’s only when I feel the lock slide in the door and I am alone that I feel my whole body release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I sit on the edge of the bed and try to shuffle my thoughts into some kind of order. Everything Jon said in the car about Meg, about what she was doing to Grace, was mad, completely insane, but I know now that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not true. Intellectually, I think he’s right, but I won’t believe it, can’t believe it in my heart, until I hear it from Grace herself. I remember Charlie, how his leathery face twisted in anger—“She’s sick!” Was his shaky finger pointing at his daughter, Meg, not Grace like I’d assumed? I remember how Grace used to slump lower in her wheelchair when Meg was close, how she seemed to become sicker, more fragile. A pain flames in the middle of my forehead. Every thought, every memory feels like a tiny sharp hammer inside my head and the sharpest hammer of all, the one I know I won’t be able to answer or understand for a long time to come, is why didn’t Grace tell me what was happening to her?
I stand to look out of the window. The high street below is empty apart from an empty crisp packet that floats along, caught by a breeze in the gutter. The early evening summer moon hangs low in the sky as though it’s keeping an extra-close eye on Rainstead tonight. In the distance a lighthouse winks out its warning. I watch as Jon walks down the hill towards the Bull. With his flimsy raincoat, Converse, and black-rimmed glasses he sticks out like a sore thumb. I should have got him to change into a tracksuit or something. He stops to look at a sign, like a foreigner just off the boat from a distant, more tasteful, and prosperous country, then carries on walking. I press my hand to the grubby window and without even knowing I’m going to say anything, I whisper, “Come back safe, won’t you?”
Then I feel stupid and drop my arm to my side.
I pull the curtains closed and sit back on the bed. There’s no TV and I don’t want to look at my phone, it’ll only make me feel guilty. Mum’s tried to call twice and sent a few crazy-sounding text messages. I texted her back before Jon left: I’m sorry, Mum. I’m really fine. I’ll be home tomorrow xxx.
I lie back on the unfamiliar, overly springy bed and feel the beat in my temple thud against my hands. I regret sleeping the day away—there’s no way I’m going to sleep until Jon’s back. I decide to go downstairs, ask if they have any acetaminophen for my head.
The pub has low ceilings and the same thick, heavily patterned carpet as upstairs. There’s a well-trodden path, the color of Marmite, running through the center of the carpet, leading to the bar. Although it’s not busy, I glance around the few drinkers, checking faces, make sure he’s not here.
The barmaid is chatting to a woman of a similar age. As I get closer I hear their local accents. They could have grown up with each other, neighbors, the other’s history as familiar to them as their own. Just like me and Grace, or what Grace and I could have been like. The barmaid is the same woman who checked us into our rooms. She’s maybe somewhere in her fifties, bottle blond, a little plump, kindly looking, but her smile is hesitant, as though she’s learned not to trust people she doesn’t know.
She reluctantly moves away from her friend and bends across the bar towards me.
“What can I get you?”
Suddenly it feels rude to ask for headache pills without at least paying for a drink, so I say, “Pint of Coke and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, thanks.” I emphasize my Cornish vowels. I want her to know I understand, that I’m the same as her. She hears, smiles, warmer this time, and nods before half filling a pint glass with ice and pouring my drink.
“So I’m guessing you’re not here for a holiday,” she says. “You and your uncle must be—”
“Visiting family?” I say, more of a question than a statement. It sounds like total bollocks, but she just nods again. She knows it’s none of her business. She puts my bag of crisps on the bar and I hand her coins from my pocket before she turns back to her friend. I pick up a sticky menu and pretend to study it for something to do. My head throbs, but being here, distracted from my thoughts of Grace, seems to be easing it slightly. It hits me that the barmaid and her friend probably know the Craig twins—one of them could have sat on the stool I’m on right now. I hate thinking about Robbie, the man with the tattoo. The thought that he has a brother, a twin, sends a trickle of fear down my spine.
I finish my drink quickly and am about to ask for the painkillers before heading back upstairs when the barmaid’s friend runs her fingers through her short brown hair and says, “Course, I tried to tell those lads we’ve had two deaths because of the rip currents in that one cove, but did they listen? Did they heck. Just shrugged like I don’t know what I’m talking about, like I haven’t lived here my whole life, and then ran off towards Raynor with their surfboards.”
My stool creaks as I strain to hear them. The noise makes both women look up at me, surprised, as though they’d forgotten I was there. I know it would be easier, safer probably, to ignore the sudden lick of curiosity in my stomach, to quietly go back up to my room and stare at my phone until either Jon sends me a photo or I fall asleep. But I know I won’t, and besides, the friend raises her eyebrows at me like I’ve just elbowed my way into their private chat.
“Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t help but hear,” I say, “but I’m from Summervale, near Ashford. You probably heard about Grace Nichols, the disabled girl who was kidnapped? Meg, her mum, was murdered?”
Drip, drip.
Both women listen, their eyes round, expectant as I keep talking.
“Well, I knew them a bit and I’m just curious. Is Raynor Beach near here? That’s where Grace’s brother, Danny, died, like twenty years ago, wasn’t it?”
I watch the two women thaw with every word. Now a connection has been made, their smiles open up like arms flung wide. The barmaid’s friend shuffles her stool towards me. She has a short list of names tattooed in scrolling text on her upper arm.
“Oh God, you knew her, did you? That Grace Nichols? Honestly, when I heard what happened to her, I thought I was going to be sick, and to think it was her own dad too. Thank God he’s locked up, that’s all I can say. I just wish they could throw away the key. Bloody nutter. I bet everyone in Summervale’s spitting with anger. Imagine if anything like that happened round here, Gillian, to one of ours, we’d all be spitting, wouldn’t we?”
The woman do
esn’t stop to see the barmaid shake her head and doesn’t seem to hear her as she says, “Can’t even imagine, Luce, can’t imagine.”
“God and the poor mum, what was her name again? Meg. Megan. That’s it. The poor woman. I heard she was nothing short of a saint to that girl, literally laid down her life for her daughter.” Gillian nods along as keeps talking and I try not to wince as they praise Meg. I don’t want to piss Luce off, so I just sit and make all the right noises as she babbles on.
“And to think she’d already lost her boy. Remember, Gill, Christie was working at the chip shop round the corner when it happened.” She turns back to me and says, “Christie’s my ex–mother-in-law. Anyway, Christie said she heard the ambulance from way off, couldn’t believe it when it stopped just outside the chippie and the paramedics went running down the path, towards Raynor. Christie said for weeks after that she couldn’t get the poor woman’s screams out of her head. She said she knew, as only a mum can, what those screams meant. Poor soul.”
At last, Luce stops talking, drains the last of her white wine.
Gillian shakes her head at the memory, but then a gruff male voice from across the bar barks, “Gill!” and with a roll of her eyes she walks away to serve the man.
Luce takes a big breath, as though she’s about to start talking again. I leap in, my headache forgotten, before she does.
“So he died here, did he? Danny?”
She looks at me, slightly despairingly, like I haven’t been listening, like I’m being dim. She nods a couple of times, slowly, emphatically.
“Yes, just a mile down the coastal path at Raynor Beach.”
She nods in the direction of the lighthouse before her eyes glaze over and she’s shaking her head again and saying, “That poor, poor woman. And she was pregnant too. I remember one of the ambulance boys told Christie later that she was pregnant. At the time I was surprised her pregnancy was never mentioned in the news reports, but then I thought she must have lost it and didn’t want the bloody world to know.”
She’s wrong, of course, the baby did survive, but only just. I wonder whether Grace in utero felt her mother’s screams, whether those screams echoed around her brand-new heart. There’s a brief silence before Luce continues.
“I was just saying to Gillian: Raynor looks like the most peaceful spot in Cornwall, but those rip currents are bloody lethal. Some of the old boys even reckon it’s cursed.” She wrinkles her nose. “But it’s just them currents, they’ll whip you off your feet, even in shallow water, and hold you under like a bloody crocodile until you stop kicking. The council do bugger all, of course. If it was popular with tourists round here they’d be signs and lifeguards and all sorts. Can’t have one of those nice rich people from London drown, can we?” As Gillian walks back to us she lifts her glass and waves it at her friend. By the time Gillian has filled Luce’s glass I’ve made my excuses and got down from my stool. I let the pub door bang behind me as I walk into the warm night.
I don’t make a conscious decision to go. It’s almost like I’ve been here before. My feet seem to know the way. They know they have to take me to the place where a whole family was destroyed so many years ago. I have to go to the place where Danny died.
5th June, 2019, later
Raynor Beach
He arrived at 1 a.m. I was standing in the kitchen, lit by the streetlight pouring through the window, waiting to let him in through the back door. He kicked off his shoes outside and put plastic covers over his feet. He said it would be better for me, for both of us, if he didn’t leave any trace that he’d been in the house. The reality of him being there was overwhelming, his online avatar become flesh. He was like a miracle. I raised my finger to my lips, “Shhh.”
I showed him the three syringes I’d made up—stuffed full of the drugs she used on me. Ketamine, OxyContin, and sleeping pills, all crushed and mixed with water. I could draw a syringe with my eyes closed. I’d fixed the needles and pushed the air out of each one, the liquid inside rising like nectar at the end of the needle. In return, he showed me the ties for her arms, the gag. He smiled, and as they caught the light I saw how his teeth looked like they’d been filed to sharp points. Mum’s snores grew louder and he followed me down the hall.
We paused outside her door to check we were ready. His jaw was flexed, his eyes wide, already focused on what was behind the door. He licked his teeth as he pulled the hood of his coat over his head, carefully zipped it all the way, gloves already on. For the first time I realized this man who knew the secret of my life wasn’t the kindhearted person he made me believe he was. He had lied to me. He wasn’t here to atone for past crimes, he wasn’t interested in rehabilitation. I could feel the anger in him, the violence.
“Well, are we going to do this or not?” he whispered. His voice was light, a reminder that this wasn’t a big deal for him, like he wanted me to know he’d done much worse.
“We tie her up, we inject her, we take the money, we leave.” My voice was only just audible as I said the words I’d written to him again and again.
She didn’t stir until Tony was standing directly over her. He leaned down, grinning, inches from her face. She opened her mouth to scream but Tony was too quick. No sound came. He punched the gag into her mouth so deep she wouldn’t be able to cough it out. Her eyes bulged in panic, her limbs started to lash about. But Tony had already pulled her right arm hard above her head and using one of mum’s scarves tied it to the bed frame. I wanted to tell him to be gentler, but there was no time.
“Get her other fucking arm,” he shouted at me. I tried, but she lashed it away like a whip before making the hand I used to hold into a fist and punching the opening in my stomach. All the air left my body as I felt the tube travel through me. The pain pushed me back against the wall and the syringes fell from my pocket, my secrets exposed as I dropped to my knees. I held my stomach, pressed the dressing around the tube hard to keep any blood from spilling. Mum was thrashing, still on the bed. She’d pulled the gag from her mouth and screamed just once before Tony, straddling her now, pushed a pillow hard into her face. She bucked and twisted beneath him, trying to unseat him with the strength that I know only comes when there’s nothing left to lose.
Tony swore as his feet and knees slipped against the sheets, he couldn’t keep her back and hold the pillow against her face. He leaned his weight forward, his palm flat, pushing all his weight down against the pillow. He looked wildly around the room for help. That’s when he saw it. Next to him on the bedside table was the iron lamp that used to be Granddad’s, stout and heavy. Bracing himself against the pillow he pulled it from its socket in one quick flick. He released his hand and Mum threw the pillow off her face, gasping like she’d just been dragged out from underwater. He turned the lamp upside down and raised it, high above his head. He paused, as though giving Mum time to recognize this moment so she knew this was how it ended. I heard a sound. It started as a murmur and turned into a shout. I realized it was coming from me. “No, no, no, no!” Mum turned towards me, no longer than a second, but I knew we both saw something in the other that was entirely new. For the first time in my life it felt like we truly knew each other. She made the shape of my name with her mouth, my real name, but no sound came before the lamp flew down fast. I screamed as one of its curled feet struck her forehead. Her limbs tensed and she made a sucking sound as he pulled the lamp away and brought it down, harder, again, again, harder. Until her face couldn’t be called a face anymore and there was no life left in her body. It just lay there, completely emptied. Tony was left panting above her, the lamp shaking in his gloved hand. He blinked at it, as though surprised to find it attached to his arm, before he dropped it to the floor. He slowly stood up and stared down at Mum bleeding quietly beneath him. Then, his head cocked to one side, like he was admiring his work, he turned to me. There was blood splattered across his face. His eyes were fired, crazed with life, as though he’d sucked all Mum’s strength out of her and it now flowed directly through
him. He looked at me and, smiling, raised one finger to his lips.
“Shhh.”
20
Jon
The Bull smells like the bottom of a laundry basket, of old sweat and stale beer. I notice the group of blokes as soon as I walk into the pub. I glance at them. They’ve taken over an area in the pub to the right of the bar with a dartboard and pool table. I don’t want them to see me so I keep my head down as I walk straight to the bar. I order a pint, not because I want one, but because I think it’ll make me stand out even more if I have an orange juice. I feel raw, exposed, out of place. I shouldn’t have worn this stupid raincoat, the fashionable glasses. I take the coat off, but the glasses have to stay. I find a small table close enough but—with the door between us—not too close to the men. I sit and only then look at them.
There are six of them, two sitting at a table and the others crowded round the dartboard. They all look like a variation of the British bulldog: short or shaved hair, white skin made red and angry by the sun or black and wrinkled by the tattooist’s needle. A couple of them are younger than me but the rest look like they’re in their fifties or older. Most of them have huge bellies, taut as drums, full of beer. They have wide, easy smiles. They throw noises back and forth to one another—roars and slurs—but they all seem to understand each other perfectly. They wear gray polo shirts and slack-looking jeans. Their part of the pub is already littered with empty pint glasses, they’ve clearly been here for a while already. The biggest one fires three darts at the board, one after the other, like missiles, and the others bang the table with their palms and shout. I don’t know if they’re congratulating him or laughing at him. The two at the table have their backs to me and are much quieter, only moving to take the odd sip of their pints. They seem separate from the group, watching from the sidelines, not even talking to each other. The one on the left looks older, his back is curled, and he’s wearing a flat cap, but the bloke on the right, closest to me, is younger. His hair is short, light blond, and from here his neck looks too long and thin to hold the weight of his head. One of the older blokes comes over to him, slaps a red-raw arm over his shoulders.
