by C. L. Taylor
Alex presses pause on the remote and stares into the dark, angry eyes of the man freeze-framed on the TV. He recognises him from the trial where Anna gave evidence. Steve Laing was sitting a couple of places down from them on the public viewing bench and spent the whole trial hunched forwards, staring at Donna Farrell as she twisted her hands together in the dock. And he tried to have her killed. Jesus Christ! Alex’s thoughts flick from the trial to Anna and he snatches his mobile out of his back pocket and searches for her number. Has she even heard about this yet? She’d been so nervous about giving evidence, convinced the defending barrister would try to pin the accident on her. She barely slept after she came out of the hospital. Whenever she closed her eyes she’d be right back in the car, listening to her colleagues screaming as it tipped over and skidded down the bank. And when she did finally fall asleep she’d have terrible nightmares that would make her wake up screaming. It was horrible, watching her fall apart over what had happened, constantly blaming herself when she was as much of a victim as her colleagues who’d died. She’d always been so strong and ballsy and he didn’t recognise the nervy, paranoid woman she turned into. She was convinced that someone was out to get her. He could have happily throttled the person who tried to freak her out with those stupid ‘sleep’ messages but it was hard to support her, not least because he was riddled with guilt about his behaviour before the accident.
He’d only signed up to Tinder because he was curious, not because he was actively planning on cheating on Anna. He’d heard so much about the dating app that he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. He certainly hadn’t expected anyone to swipe right on him or send him a message and he hadn’t bothered to reply to the first few women who did. But then someone wrote something that made him laugh and he couldn’t help replying. It was just banter, he told himself. He wasn’t doing any harm because he had no intention of meeting up with her. And he wasn’t cheating on Anna if he wasn’t having sex or falling in love. It was just a bit of fun, a distraction from all the crap that went round his head the rest of the time. He liked who he was on Tinder. He was a funnier, wittier, more erudite version of himself and he got a kick out of it whenever he made the other woman laugh. He did feel guilty though, when Anna came back from work saying how tired she was and then went straight into the kitchen to make the dinner. He felt like a shit then; a miserable, slimy excuse for a human being. He knew he should end things with her so she could go and find someone else, and the weekend she was in the Brecon Beacons with her team he primed himself for the awkward conversation he’d initiate when she got back. Only she didn’t walk through the door on the Sunday afternoon, weighed down with her suitcase and stress. She didn’t come back at all and a tiny part of him hoped that maybe she’d decided to leave him and he was off the hook. And then her stepdad called from the hospital with the news.
Alex places his phone on the coffee table and picks up his gin instead. He’s got no right to ring Anna and talk to her about what he just saw on the TV. The chances are she’s already seen it and if she hasn’t … he swigs at his drink … someone else is bound to get in touch. She made it clear in her last text that she didn’t want to hear from him and that’s okay. She deserves to move on and get on with her life.
He takes another swig of his gin then sets it back on the table. As he does his mobile vibrates, making him jump. He snatches it up. It can’t be Anna, surely. That would be too weird. But the WhatsApp message isn’t from his ex-girlfriend, it’s from Becca.
Sorry if I’ve been a bit off with you. The investigation’s still going on at the hospital. I found out yesterday that it’s to do with an abnormally high number of patient deaths and it’s got everyone worried, me included. There’s something I need to tell you but I’d rather do it in person. When can we meet?
In Memoriam
In Memoriam
Elizabeth Harding 1946–2016
God saw the road was getting rough
The hill too hard to climb
He gently closed her weary eyes and whispered ‘Peace be thine’
I liked my mum best when she was asleep. Her skin, normally pinched tight between her brows, would smooth and soften and her pursed lips would slacken and part. She’d give a little sigh as she drifted off, a gentle ‘ooh’ of contentment, and her long lashes would flutter then lie still. I’d hold her hand as she slept, something she wouldn’t let me do when she was awake, and stroke her hair back from her forehead.
As a child I didn’t think there was anything unusual about having a mum who was as stiff emotionally as she was physically. She was so highly strung it was as though she was bound with wool from head to toe. She rarely left the house but, if she had to, to buy groceries or visit the dentist, she’d make polite conversation, her red lips lifting with the occasional smile. She only ever addressed me in short, sharp sentences – Leave me alone. Go and play. Not now. I’m busy. She was always busy – sweeping and polishing, wiping and cleaning. ‘In case we have visitors,’ she told Dad if he suggested she leave the hoovering for another day. Visitors? I’d never seen anyone other than us three walk into the house.
I could never predict Mum’s moods. Sometimes she’d burn the dinner and burst into tears. At other times she’d rage at my dad, screaming that he didn’t understand her, that he didn’t care about her, that he had no idea how much she was suffering. Whenever she said the word ‘suffering’ she’d give me a pointed look and then continue to rant. And if she wasn’t ranting she’d lie on the sofa and stare at the ceiling. I don’t remember being saddened by her behaviour. More annoyed and perturbed.
When I started school, Mum was forced to leave the house in order to walk me there. I was delighted to find myself surrounded by so many potential playmates but I was confused by the way they interacted with their mothers. I’d watch from the sidelines as women of all shapes and sizes would wrap their arms around their children, squeeze them to their chests and press their wet lips against their cheeks. I looked up at my mum, wondering if she’d do the same, but when the bell rang she gave me a curt nod and hissed, ‘Off you go then.’ Some of the other children cried when we were told to line up to go in. They clung to their mothers and sobbed to be taken back home. I didn’t look for my mum. My eyes were dry as I took my place at the front of the queue.
Chapter 39
Anna
‘Trevor?’ My whole left side throbs as I crouch down at the utility room door and push at the cat flap. Melanie is at my side, holding a piece of tarpaulin over our heads, panting after our sprint round the house.
‘You should be resting,’ she hisses. ‘Anna, you could damage your shoulder. Be careful.’
‘Trevor,’ I say again. His hands are balled into fists, held in front of his body like a boxer as he repeatedly kicks the door that leads to the kitchen. ‘Trevor, the door won’t open. It’s bolted on the other side. Please calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself.’
He ignores me and continues to kick at the door. He’s breathing heavily and there’s a sweat stain on the back of his T-shirt. His fleece is in the corner of the room with the crumpled blankets, his glasses, several empty bottles of water and some food wrappers.
I look at Melanie. ‘He needs more food and water.’
‘You go,’ she says. ‘I’ll talk him down.’
‘No, I’ll do it. I think he trusts me.’
Trevor makes a low grunting sound as he continues to hammer the door and Melanie hurries back round the building in her makeshift tarpaulin tent.
‘It’s Anna! I want to help you. Melanie’s gone to…’
Trevor stops kicking the door and stands still, his hands clenched at his sides, his back rigid. He’s listening to me. He wants to hear what I have to say.
‘She’s gone to get you some more food and water. We’re trying to get you out of there, I promise. We tried to cross the island earlier but nearly got swept away by the river. The phone signal could come back at any time. I just need you to hold on for a bit lo
nger, then we’ll get you back home. We all want to see our families.’
The wind whips my hair into my face, wrapping it around my nose, mouth and eyes. As I push it away Trevor sinks onto his knees.
‘Talk to me,’ I say. ‘Tell me how I can help you.’
He makes the grunting sound again as he slowly turns to face me and the air is knocked from my lungs.
His face is almost unrecognisable. His lips are swollen and bloodied, there’s a dark red-black gash on his cheek and his eyeballs are slits sitting in blue-black eggs.
Someone has beaten him up.
‘I’m going to get help, Trevor. I’ll be back.’
My stomach clenches and a wave of nausea flows through me as I run through the rain to the front door. This is my fault. I should never have agreed to keep him locked up.
Melanie is in the kitchen, filling a bottle at the tap. She jumps as I slam open the door.
‘Lounge. Now!’ I say. ‘Someone’s beaten Trevor up.’
She gawps at me as the bottle overflows onto her hand, but I don’t wait for her to reply. Instead I haul myself up the stairs and thump on the bedroom doors.
‘Downstairs! Now! Urgent meeting!’
As everyone slowly congregates in the lounge I pace back and forth in front of the fire, cradling my injured arm. My thoughts are all over the place – zipping from Trevor’s bloodied face to the loose floorboard at the top of the stairs, to David’s limp body, to Joe gripping the Land Rover steering wheel with battered knuckles. I stop pacing and stare at him, sitting by the window, slumped forwards, his elbows on the table and forehead resting on his wrists. He must have beaten Trevor up. But why? Did he think Trevor was going to warn me about him? But how would he know?
‘What’s this all about?’ Malcolm, standing in the doorway in a white towelling dressing gown, crosses his arms over his chest. ‘I was having a bath.’
Melanie, who’s sitting beside Christine and Fiona on the sofa, rolls her eyes and sighs. Katie, perusing the bookshelf at the back of the room, doesn’t so much as glance at him.
‘Someone has beaten Trevor up,’ I say. ‘Melanie and I went to check on him after we heard him kicking the door to the kitchen and …’ I shake my head. ‘His face is such a mess he can’t speak.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Fiona presses a hand to her mouth.
Joe raises his head from his hands.
‘Are you sure?’ Melanie asks. ‘He might have done it to himself. I mean … it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’ She glances over at Malcolm, whose expression and stance haven’t changed.
‘I’d be very surprised if that were the case,’ I say. ‘He’s got two black eyes and his mouth’s pretty badly smashed up.’
‘Dear God.’ Christine’s lips are thin as she shakes her head.
‘Melanie was the last one to check on him,’ Fiona says, more to herself than anyone else. ‘This morning, after we brought Anna downstairs.’
Mel looks affronted. ‘I did. I posted some food and drink through the door and asked him how he was but he didn’t reply. He just grunted.’
‘You didn’t see his face?’
‘He was curled up in the corner of the room under a blanket. He had his back to me.’
‘And you didn’t ask him to turn around?’ Fiona asks accusingly.
‘What is this? Why are you all looking at me like I had something to do with it?’
‘We’re not,’ I say. ‘We’re just trying to work out when this could have happened.’
‘Who cares when it happened?’ Joe gets up from the table and stares around the room. ‘Our first priority should be getting him some medical care.’
My gaze flickers from his face to the battered knuckles of his right hand. It’s terrifying how easy it is for him to fake concern.
‘He is in a bad way,’ I say tightly. ‘Christine, do you think you could see to him?’
She presses a hand to her collarbone. ‘Me? You want me to go in there?’
‘Yes. He’s—’
‘According to you he was kicking a door down.’
‘Well, yes, but he’s not going to do anything to you.’
‘How do you know?’ Malcolm gestures at his wife. ‘He didn’t have any compunction about knocking Melanie over.’
Fiona rolls her eyes. ‘He didn’t mean to do that!’
Malcolm steps closer, creating a tight ring of people around the fireplace and me. ‘No? Well, he certainly meant to punch Joe.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’d hurt a woman.’
‘I’d offer to go in,’ Fiona says. ‘But I’m not medically trained.’
‘I’m hardly a surgeon.’ Christine raises her eyebrows. ‘Anyone can dab a bit of antiseptic on someone’s face. And anyway, he might be armed.’
‘Armed?’ The word comes out louder than I intended it to. I’ve suddenly remembered the missing knife in Trevor’s rucksack. I backtrack quickly. ‘If he had a weapon don’t you think he would have used it on whoever attacked him? For God’s sake. The important issue here is not whether he’s armed or not. It’s …’ I look directly at Joe, ‘… which one of us let themselves into the utility room and beat his face into a bloody pulp.’
Silence falls again as everyone stares at me, shock etched on their faces. Everyone, that is, apart from Malcolm. He’s staring around the room.
‘Did anyone see Katie leave?’ He walks to the door and pokes his head out into the corridor. ‘Katie?’ he shouts. ‘Where are you?’
The room falls silent as Malcolm walks into the lobby. ‘Aha! There she is!’
Melanie, across the lounge, catches my eye and smiles tightly. Joe retakes his seat by the window, sighing heavily as he stares out at the rain.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Malcolm’s booming voice carries into the lounge. ‘Did you go and get a snack or something?’
‘No,’ Katie says loudly. ‘And don’t even bother telling me off because I don’t care.’
There’s a pause then. ‘Telling you off about what?’
‘Letting Trevor out.’
Chapter 40
We are all congregated in the lobby, staring at the diminutive figure standing in the doorway to the dining room.
Melanie crouches down so her eyeline matches her niece’s. ‘You let Trevor out of the utility room?’
‘Yeah.’ Katie shrugs. ‘I felt sorry for him. It’s not his fault he’s ill. Someone took his medicine.’
I feel a jolt of surprise. ‘You know about that?’
‘I know about lots of things.’ She tosses her head dismissively. ‘I know he was a soldier in the army and he went to Iraq. I know he saw his friends getting blown up. I know he tried to save their lives and they died in his arms.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Melanie puts her hands on her niece’s shoulders. ‘When did he tell you?’
‘When he was in my room. He heard me crying and tapped on the door. I told him I was upset because Mum can’t walk any more and he said he had friends in the army who lost the use of their legs.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because you were too busy shouting at him to get out.’
As Melanie gasps I look from Fiona to Christine. ‘Did either of you know about this? About Trevor’s background?’
They both shake their heads.
‘I don’t understand why you were all so scared of him,’ Katie continues. ‘He’s not a bad man. He’s just confused. Sometimes he doesn’t know if what he’s seeing is real or not.’
‘PTSD,’ I say under my breath. ‘Did he say if he’d been to the doctor, Katie?’
‘He was too scared to so he got some tablets from a friend of his. He said they helped keep him calm,’ she shrugs, ‘until you stole them.’
‘I didn’t steal anything, Katie. I’ve already told Trevor that.’
‘Jesus,’ Joe says from the front door, making me jump. I hadn’t noticed him slip out of the lounge. ‘What a fucking mess.’
‘We need to find Tre
vor,’ I say. ‘When did you let him out, Katie?’
‘When you were all arguing about who beat him up. I undid the bolts on the door.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He ran up the stairs to get his rucksack and then he left.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’ Melanie asks.
Katie shakes her head. ‘He didn’t say anything, apart from thank you.’
‘We need to find him,’ I say. ‘Now.’
The others peel off in different directions. Malcolm insists on going out alone so, as Christine shepherds Katie into the kitchen for a drink, Joe and Melanie head off together. I’m left standing in the lobby with Fiona. She’s staring out of the open front door, rather than at me, but the energy she’s giving off is distinctly prickly.
‘Fiona.’ I gaze up at her ramrod-straight back as I pull on my boots. ‘I know you’re pissed off with me about the vote. Believe me, it didn’t go the way I thought it would.’
‘It’s your hotel, Anna.’
‘I made the wrong call and I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t you think it’s Trevor you should be apologising to, not me?’
That stings but I take it. She’s right. Joe wouldn’t have had the opportunity to beat Trevor up if he hadn’t been locked away. I want to make excuses, to tell her about what happened on the M25 and explain that I never wanted this responsibility. I came to Rum to escape, not take charge. But I can’t, and I won’t. There are no excuses for the decision I made. I got it wrong. Two of my colleagues were killed because I didn’t do my job properly and if we don’t find Trevor he could end up dead too.
‘I will apologise to Trevor,’ I say as I pull on my coat. ‘I just hope we can find him.’
Fiona turns and gives me a long, lingering look. ‘You and me both.’
We walk silently towards the cliffs. The further we get from the house the stronger the wind becomes and the more we are buffeted. It’s almost impossible to walk in a straight line. I have to tighten the toggles on my hood to keep it on my head and bend into the wind as I force one foot in front of the other. There are very few gulls in the sky but there are dozens crouched on the edge of the cliffs, heads curled into puffed feathers. The horizon has disappeared; the sea and sky are the same shade, a great grey canvas that stretches on forever. The sea is angry today, wild and noisy and churning. Huge, dark waves roll into the shore then smash against the rocks, covering them with white surf.
