“Oh.” She sounds unsure. “I suppose a coffee wouldn’t do any harm. How about tomorrow? I could do late morning—I live in Cheltenham, though.”
She sounds doubtful again. But distance is the least of my worries. “It’s not a problem. I’ll come to you.”
“Actually, I know just the place!” Sounding more like the Bea I remember. “The most dull, nondescript café there is—at Tambridge Services. Miles from my home and it’ll save you having to drive all the way here. It’s perfect, Noah. Anonymous and absolutely ghastly. No one ever hangs about.”
* * *
When I get there, early, I see what Bea meant. Tambridge Services is indeed dismal. Inside are brown tables and chairs, and my nose wrinkles at the odor that lingers, of stale deep-fried food and cheap coffee. I buy a black tea, finding a quiet corner away from everyone else, where I wait.
Keeping half an eye on the door for Bea, I watch the random assortment of people wander in and out. Then, to my annoyance, someone comes and puts their bag on the table right opposite me. Just as I’m about to get up and walk away, she pulls off her hat and grins.
“Bea!” I get up and kiss the cheek she offers. “You haven’t changed—except, well, maybe that hat.”
She may be going through a divorce, but the years have been kind to her. There are a few faint laughter lines, but her hair is still honey blond, and her eyes are bright.
“My clever disguise.” She hugs me, then holds me at arms’ length, her eyes twinkling. “You’re a gorgeous man, Noah Calaway!” she says, sitting down, looking around. “You know, it’s worse than I remember in here.”
I wonder what kind of a man she’s married to, who warrants such subterfuge. “Yeah. It is, as you said, perfect. Can I get you a cup of tea? I thought it was the safest bet. I mean, a tea bag and hot water . . .”
“Thank you, but I’ll pass.” She glances at my cup with distrust.
“How are you? And I’m sorry—about . . .” I’m talking about her divorce.
“About James? Don’t be. He’s a shit. I can’t believe I stayed married for so long. Anyway, it’ll be over soon, and I can move on.” Her voice is bright enough, but I can see in the faint shadows under her eyes, the weariness she tries to hide, its toll on her.
“What happened?” I start to ask, but she shakes her head.
“Honestly. Let’s not go there. Tell me about April. If you ask me, Norton had it coming to him.” She glances around guiltily, then lowers her voice. “I really shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Actually, it happens I agree with you. What do you know about him?”
Bea sighs. “I met him once. And by met, I mean that I was at April’s house, after school one day. Though I have to admit I completely asked for it.”
“What do you mean?” My ears prick up.
Bea shrugs. “As you know, April and I used to hang out after school and she’d come back to my house. Quite often, as it happened. But when it came to inviting me to her own home, she was always reticent. Secretive. Of course, now, I understand why. But then . . .”
She looks at me, her blue eyes honest and tinged with regret. “I was a bitch, if you want the truth. I knew there was something she was keeping from me, but I’d no idea what it was. I told her that if she didn’t take me back to hers, I wouldn’t be her friend.”
Bea shakes her head. “I don’t know who I thought I was, giving her an ultimatum like that. Anyway, I remember walking down that street she lived on, thinking she was deliberately taking me to the wrong place. I’d never seen anywhere like it. Magnolia Drive, I think it was called.”
“It was.” It was how I’d felt.
“Of course, you went there. You probably remember that the house was just as grim. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I never could have believed April lived there. There was always something extraordinary about her, I thought.... Anyway, there we were in the kitchen, with April standing over at the sink making us glasses of orange squash, when Norton came in. Straight away, he stood too close to her. I remember staring at them, horrified, because she was so beautiful and he was this vile creep. That was when she turned and pushed him away. Then she told him to fuck right off. I’d only ever heard her speak like that—in jest—to one of the idiots at school, He started walking away—well, stumbling really. He was that drunk. Then he came over to me. I’ll never forget how his eyes wandered up and down me, as though he could see through my clothes. He was repulsive.” Bea shudders.
“Anyway, when he’d gone out of the room, I asked April if he was always like that. She nodded, then said she didn’t want to talk about it. Shortly after that, her mother came in, and then a man arrived. I heard their voices as they went upstairs.” She shakes her head as if trying to shake the memory. “I don’t think April could bear me being there. She told me I had to go, that it was a mistake asking me there.”
Bea’s eyes fill with tears. “I knew she was strong. She told me she used to fight to keep him away. But she didn’t always win. I kept away from her after that.” Bea’s voice wavers. “Wasn’t that awful? Of course, what I should have done was help her. Told one of our teachers or something. She hated it there. It was awful. And she had nowhere else to go.”
Until it got so bad that the authorities intervened, when Norton raped her.
Bea goes on. “The worst of it was her family. She had an older brother. Jason, his name was. He was a nasty piece of work. He was killed a few years later—in a car accident, so the story went. Rumor had it he was into drugs. Anyway, back then, he and his friends . . . Well, you know how pretty April was. I never knew for sure, but I suspected he was taking their money in return for her . . . favors, let’s call them.”
Suddenly I feel sick. “Did she tell you that?”
Bea shakes her head. “Not in so many words. But looking back, knowing what I know now, all the signs were there. And remember how she’d be off school for a few days, then come back, a bit pale, perhaps? But other than that, you’d never have guessed.”
“I remember. She missed so much school,” I tell her.
“Dear Noah. Yes, I’m sure you do.” She hesitates. “I was never sure if you knew why. I knew about one abortion, but there may have been more.”
“I had no idea.” I stare at the table. “She never talked about any of it. Was it really as bad as you remember?” I was looking for another explanation, anything other than the sickening truth.
Bea looks sad. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget. But is it really that much of a surprise? Her father wasn’t around. Her mother was an alcoholic—and a prostitute. God only knows what went on in that house.”
It’s too late, I know that. Even so, I’m flooded with guilt, because I should have known.
Bea reaches into her pocket for a tissue. “Can you imagine how awful it is, growing up somewhere any spare money goes on cheap booze, where sex is for sale, but it’s so much a part of everyday life, it becomes part of your life, too? No wonder she was so determined to leave it behind her.”
I frown. “Ican’t believe she didn’t tell me any of this.”
“Oh, Noah,” she says sadly. “That was always the trouble. There was so much you didn’t know.”
34
“ ‘Oh Lord, is that the time?” Glancing at her watch, Bea grabs her hat and gets up. “I’m so sorry, darling, but I have to go. I have a meeting with my lawyer. Then I’m going to look at a flat. I’m starting a new job, and as soon as I find a place, I’m moving out.”
But she can’t go, not while I’m still taking in what she’s told me. And what is it that even now, I don’t know?
“Bea, you could at least tell me what you mean by that before you go.”
Bea fishes in her pocket for her keys; then when she looks up, her face is guarded. “April should have told you. But maybe she was right. Some things are best left in the past.”
They’re almost the same words she used when April walked out just before our wedding. Then, I made the mistak
e of letting it go. Not this time, though.
“Bea. If you know something that could help prove her innocence, you have to tell me.”
Bea hesitates, then looks worried. “Oh, Noah. If I thought it would help . . . The trouble is, I’m not sure it would.”
“Come on, Bea. There must be something,” I insist, getting up and following her outside. “You and I are her only hope. Even Will thinks she’s guilty.”
Bea doesn’t say anything, just walks, head down, until we reach her car, a new-looking Volkswagen Golf.
Opening the door, she looks across at me. “Be careful with Will. April never trusted him, you know.”
Suddenly, it’s just too ridiculous. I slam my fist down on the car roof. “She fucking married him, Bea. She’d hardly have done that if she didn’t trust him.”
Bea’s eyes widen as she looks at me.
“Sorry.” I take my hand off her car.
“It’s not that.” She looks incredulously at me. “It’s April and Will. I can’t believe you didn’t know. They didn’t get married, Noah. She couldn’t go through with it.”
* * *
Far from answering my questions, talking to Bea has left me with more, left me berating myself, too, for failing to check on April’s past. At the peak of my obsession, I’d tracked her every move. It was when I’d heard she was marrying Will I’d stopped hoping and, for sanity’s sake, given up.
Having made Bea promise to call me when she can, unsure of the significance of what I’ve learned, I drive back to Kent, frustrated, because Beatrice and Will know far more than I do. More, too, than they’re prepared to tell me.
Will. Everything comes back to Will.
I’d no idea they hadn’t married. I’d simply assumed he and April had divorced. And Will had lived happily ever after, as far as I knew, with the famous Rebecca Masters, with their impressive house and no doubt equally talented children, while his professional status had skyrocketed. Will had the life he’d always planned. He had it all.
Only I had to be missing something. I was sure of it. April was in his past. He’d loved her once. He must have. He was going to marry her and for whatever reason they’d parted, but he’d moved on, surely, when he married Rebecca. So why such animosity toward her? Why all these years later were they still in touch?
It seemed reasonable enough to assume that their paths might have overlapped professionally, but there must have been any number of other counselors Will could have referred his patients to, yet he chose April.
So why was he convinced of her guilt?
Ella
I know exactly when my dreams started.
I was nine years old and it wasn’t quite autumn. I remember the yellow dress I was wearing that floated round me when I spun round in circles and the pile of leaves smoldering in some distant part of the garden, the air carrying the sweet scent of their smoke. It was dark but it wasn’t cold and the double doors in the kitchen were open, letting the night in.
My mother was cooking. At least, that was what she called it. I used to think that was what cooking was, until I worked out she was heating up something Gabriela had made, but back then, with her standing at the stove, that was good enough for me. She had her back to me, and I sat on the doorstep, watching the garden get darker and the sky fainter, staring into the night counting the stars.
I was thinking about the galaxies, and infinity, because we’d been talking about them in school. I was trying to figure out how the universe can never end, how small humans really are. That was when the first moth fluttered in, followed by another, then a cloud of them, until they were covering the door frame, disoriented by the light but so soft and delicate, their cream wings painted with intricate black lacework. One landed on my arm and I remember I held my breath, not wanting it to move.
I was still watching them when I heard my father come in. Heard him kiss my mother, then come over to where I was sitting. Felt his hand ruffling my hair, then as I looked up, watched him, in one continuous, unbelievable, ugly movement sweep the moths off the door frame, swatting them onto the floor, deliberately putting his foot on them.
I heard my own gasp, and wanting to stop him, I got up and pulled at his arms, felt myself pushed away. I screamed at him that he’s a moth, too, that there are giants.
I lay in bed that night hungry, because I couldn’t eat, haunted by what he’d done, by his callousness toward harmless, living creatures, seeing it over and over, slow motion, in my head. And it was my fault, I knew that, for sitting in the open door, for letting the moths in, for not shutting them out where they belonged. Finally,, agonizing over it, I drifted away on my tears.
And in my dream I made everything right. In the darkness, the moon rising behind the trees, illuminating the gnarled fretwork of their branches, those same beautiful, black-lace moths found my open bedroom window, where the walls had grown flowers, where I gave them a refuge from people like my father, with their sprays and rolled-up newspapers and heavy boots; where they gently stirred the air with their wings, blanketing the walls with their softness, knowing they were safe.
Later, they were joined by the pheasants, who could still fly because no one had shot them; and the rabbits, whose lungs were no longer filled with toxic gas but with pure, clean air; and even the tiniest ants, who would never be boiled between the paving stones because that would never happen here. Sometimes Theo was there, too, but that’s how dreams are. The real and imagined crossing over, until you can’t tell who belongs where.
September 2010 was when the dreams started.
The first night I knew my father could kill.
35
On my way back from seeing Bea, I call at the hospital. As I walk into ICU, the friendly nurse catches me.
“I’m so glad I’ve seen you. I don’t want you to be alarmed, but your friend has one or two problems. We’re running tests. . . .” Her face the mixture of quiet anxiety and concern that comes from having seen it all before.
“What do you mean? What kind of problems?” I’m unprepared, fearful, because since arriving here, I’ve only allowed myself to think she’d stay the same, maybe for weeks.
“She has a chest infection. When patients are like this for longer than a few days, I’m afraid they’re more susceptible.”
“So what happens now?”
“She’s on antibiotics. We just have to wait and see.” Her voice is gentle; reminds me that one way or another, this situation is transient.
As I walk toward April’s room, the reality once again hits home, that she may or may not come through this, may or may not die. Remembering why I’ve come here, my resolve strengthens. I’ve failed her in the past. This time I can’t let her down.
* * *
Later, as I leave the hospital, I text Will.
Had an interesting call from Ryder, who seems to have me pinned as a liar. But I am curious—April tried to call me the night that Norton died. Do you know why?
I know he’s been in contact with April because of recently referred patients. Having a hunch I know what he’ll do, I press SEND, then wait for him to respond, knowing how long he takes is a measure of how much this matters to him.
My hunch is right. Ten minutes is how much.
* * *
When I get to the pub Will’s suggested, he’s already there, has been there a while, judging from his half-full glass.
“Ryder doesn’t miss much,” Will remarks casually.
“Ryder’s a bully,” I tell him. “Old school. I know the type. Ought to be put out to grass.”
Will doesn’t comment.
“So. Do you know why April called me?”
Will shrugs. “No idea. I haven’t even seen her, Noah. Not for months. But you can’t be that elusive. After all, I managed to find you.”
“Yes. And tell me, just how?”
When I’ve made no attempt to stay connected with the world, how did the person I least wanted to be found by get my number? Then the wheels and cogs in my b
rain whir into action and I nod wryly. My medical records. “I should have guessed. But are doctors supposed to go delving into the records of patients who aren’t their own?”
“I know it sounds questionable,” Will hedges. “I felt the end justified the means. And it’s as well I did—don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” Then I frown, because if I’m going to get anything out of him, I’m going to have to abandon my preconceptions, my mistrust, and level with him. “Ryder seems to think I have something to do with Norton’s murder.”
“You?” Will looks incredulous. “That’s insane. Perhaps I should have a word with him.”
“I’m not sure that would help.” This is the police we’re talking about. Is he really that arrogant? Then, seeing his face, I understand. “I see. You mean the infallibility of the medical profession?”
“Has its uses,” Will says curtly. “When I’m not busy saving lives.”
But I catch the smallest hint of self-deprecation underneath. “I’ve heard about that. I was talking to John at the North Star—he told me how you saved his grandson.”
“Not single-handedly. There is a team,” Will says. “We’ve been working on a new surgical approach to treating heart defects. It’s early days, but so far, the results are impressive.”
“Must be quite something—to save a life.”
He nods briefly. “But don’t forget, it’s a job I’ve trained to do. Like you and law. If you thought too hard about the implications of failing, you’d probably crack. To be honest, it’s all part of a day’s work.”
“Even so.” Then I pause, because I wasn’t going to tell him. “I saw Beatrice.”
I watch interest flicker in his eyes. “How is she?”
“In the process of leaving her husband—but okay. What she had to say was interesting.”
For a single, give-away shadow of a second, Will freezes. “Oh?”
I think of Bea’s words, about how April had never trusted Will. How she’d called off their wedding, but I hadn’t known.
The Beauty of the End Page 18
