Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  As soon as she arrived, Eleanor knew it had been a mistake to come. She is watching the scene from a distance; her thoughts preoccupied with Naeve. However, as Will takes her hand and leads her onto the ice, it has already begun to snow. Finally! Eleanor reaches out to catch some of the soft flakes as they float onto her gloves. Just for a few moments, she pleads silently, let me belong in this fairy tale. The scene around her is picture perfect – if only there wasn’t a small ring in her pocket, its circle of diamonds like a dozen shards of ice.

  She wants to confide in Will, but every time she tries to mention it she cannot get the words out. She remembers the last time she had produced the ring in front of him – the shock and fear on his face. She can’t do that again – she’s going to have to figure this out on her own.

  Unaware of her reluctance, Will leads her among the crowds. ‘This place is amazing, isn’t it,’ he shouts over the music and the voices, turning in front of her so that he’s going backwards while pulling her forwards with him. Eleanor smiles, holding on tight, trying not to wobble as they travel in circles around and around the rink. The spinning, the blur of people, it’s making her nauseous. She tries to steady herself but she can’t focus on anything because nothing will stay still. The snow has died away, but the world is a kaleidoscope, reshaping her thoughts into memories, entirely against her will. She is shivering, not from the cold but from the fear that her life is about to crash down around her again.

  October 2005

  It is the first time she has been back to the charred wreck of the house. The place still reeks of smoke. Her father wanders aimlessly around the perimeter, as though searching for salvage. Gillian has stayed behind in town to talk to the bank, because she doesn’t trust Martin to handle anything without losing his temper. The past few days in the local motel have been filled with contemptuous silences or angry discussions in low voices.

  Eleanor loiters close to the car with Aiden, who is refusing to get out. She can hardly bear to look at the burned ground, the broken windows, the blackened boughs of trees. Instead she focuses her attention on the shed, which has, incredibly, survived intact.

  They all turn as they hear a car race down the driveway towards them, sending stones spinning from beneath its tyres. Solomon’s ute skids to a halt and a stout woman gets out and slams the door, marching across to Martin.

  ‘Are you Martin Brennan?’ she demands, charging right up to him.

  Martin looks flabbergasted at being accosted like this. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My dad is in the hospital because of your bloody family,’ she says. ‘How dare you accuse him of starting this fire. He hasn’t moved that stuff in his shed for years, and there has never been a problem until your lad and his troublemaker friends started hanging out close to his house. He knows they were down there the other night. I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed his bloody dog an’ all.’

  This must be Philippa, Eleanor realises, aghast. She is unrecognisable from the girl in the paintings. She is in her late fifties, her hair a grey cropped dome and her face a ruddy red.

  ‘You have no proof of any of this,’ Martin stutters.

  ‘Not yet, maybe, but you bloody well wait,’ Philippa retorts.

  As she swings around she notices Eleanor for the first time. Eleanor moves in front of Aiden, trying to shield him so that Philippa doesn’t see him.

  Philippa’s face softens as she walks towards Eleanor. ‘Dad liked you very much, and I’m sad it’s come to this,’ she says. Then she spots Aiden behind Eleanor and her frown turns to a glare. ‘But you, boy, I hope you’re bloody well ashamed of yourself,’ she spits. ‘Do you know my dad’s had a heart attack because of all this – hooked up on wires and all sorts. If he comes through it he’ll never be the same. He’s been a proud, independent man for as long as I can remember, he’s fought in a war for god’s sake, survived all that, and now you’ve reduced him to being spoonfed like a baby. I hope you can live with what you’ve done.’

  She storms back to her vehicle without a backwards glance, and moments later the ute roars away.

  No one moves or speaks at first. Then Eleanor thinks of Solomon in hospital, of Aiden cowering in the car, and before she knows what she’s doing she is charging at her father in undiluted rage. She manages to propel her small body with such force that she knocks Martin off balance, winding him as he staggers back. She slams her fists into his chest, crying out, ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ Aiden is behind her, pulling her away, and her father storms off quickly towards the blackened tree line, towards the place the cubby used to be. Aiden still has his arms around Eleanor as they hear their father release one long howl – whether of rage or distress or self-pity she will never be sure.

  When Eleanor comes back to her surroundings she is falling. Her knees hit the unforgiving ice hard. Disorientated, she puts her hand inside her pocket and clutches the ring.

  Will hauls her up. ‘Are you okay?’ He is smiling to begin with, but his face drops as he sees the tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise . . . Shall we have a break and get a drink?’

  At her nod he helps her over to the side. They say little as they remove their boots and collect their shoes. ‘I’ll get you something,’ Will says as they walk across to the bar. ‘How about mulled wine?’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ Eleanor agrees.

  ‘You go and find a seat,’ he tells her, heading away.

  As she waits for Will, her phone rings in her pocket. She pulls it out and sees it’s Susan calling. Her heart plummets. Naeve must have told Susan everything – how angry will she be?

  While she’s thinking this the ringing stops, the call timing out, but then it immediately starts again.

  Clearly Susan really wants to get hold of her. Eleanor’s nerves begin to buzz as she takes the call.

  ‘Where are you?’ Susan asks immediately, her tone urgent. She doesn’t sound angry at all, Eleanor realises with a start. She sounds frightened.

  ‘I’m – I’m at Somerset House.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Will asked me to come.’

  ‘Will? You don’t mean Will Clayton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why on earth are you spending time with Will Clayton, Eleanor?’ Susan’s voice is unnervingly shrill. ‘Don’t you know he was one of the last people to see Arabella? He’s still under suspicion. The whole company knows he’s been in love with her for years. Don’t let him latch on to you – once he does, he doesn’t let go.’

  ‘What?’ Eleanor jumps up from her seat. ‘Really? What do you mean he’s still under suspicion? I thought Nathan had been arrested?’

  ‘Nathan has been released, and he’s already called me, looking for you. He says you’ve been trying to set him up, telling Caroline lies, turning up on his doorstep. Is any of that true?’

  The heat drains from Eleanor’s face. ‘Have you spoken to Naeve?’ she asks. ‘She needs to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ve only just left work,’ Susan answers. ‘I’ve been trying to calm Nathan down, but I’m worried about you, Eleanor. I’ll come and get you, I’m not far away.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll wait on the river side of the embankment,’ Eleanor stammers, grabbing her bag and jumping off her bar stool. But when she turns around, phone in hand, Will is standing in front of her with two steaming glasses of burgundy wine.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  Eleanor thinks fast. ‘I really should get home. My mother is here. She turned up last night, to spend Christmas with us.’

  Will stares at her. ‘What, now? Surely you’ve got time to try this?’ He raises one of the glasses. Then his eyes narrow. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Eleanor. What is it?’

  Eleanor takes in his expression. If he’s acting a part, he is doing an incredible job. She glances around them, at the people laughing and joking and sipping their drinks.

  ‘That was my aunt. Nathan is out and on the warpath again.’ She looks at the phone, realising Sus
an has hung up. Thank god she is on her way.

  Will’s face clouds. ‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ he mutters. ‘Nathan will always wriggle his way out of a situation.’

  Eleanor doesn’t pause for breath. ‘Susan also said you’ve been in love with Arabella for years. Is that true?’

  Will stiffens. He sets the glasses down on the table without looking at her, and then says, ‘Please, can you sit down for a moment?’

  Eleanor glances around then moves slowly back onto her seat.

  ‘We were friends, first and foremost,’ he says, staring at his drink rather than meeting her eye, drawing slow circles in the steam on the glass. ‘But yes, I have always had a thing for her. I knew she wasn’t happy with Nathan, and I thought that if I hung in there long enough . . .’ He laughs bitterly. ‘Well, she might have had plenty of affairs, but they weren’t with me.’

  Eleanor leans forward, stares hard at him. ‘What else haven’t you told me, Will? Were you there when she died?’

  ‘No!’ Will answers sharply. ‘I asked her to come with me. I wanted her to let me help – I swore I’d look after her – but she laughed at me and told me to go away before she walked off. She humiliated me, once again, so I left. Eleanor, I promise, everything I’ve told you about that night has been the truth. I didn’t tell you how I felt about Arabella because . . . well, because I like you.’ He studies her expression, and reaches for her hand. His touch is clammy. ‘Please, you have to believe me.’

  She snatches her arm away and jumps up. ‘I have no idea what to believe, and I’d better go.’ She gestures towards the scene around them. ‘Has this all been an act? Are you just looking for information, trying to save your own skin?’

  ‘No!’ Will cries, but she watches him redden. His eyes shift past her as though searching for something, and then alight on her again. ‘I didn’t go to the police about the ring, did I? That could have saved me, but I chose you.’

  I chose you.

  Eleanor pauses, suppressing a shiver.

  Don’t let him latch on to you, she hears her aunt warn her.

  She summons her courage and meets his eye. ‘I have to go, Will.’

  ‘No. Wait.’ Will leans across the table and grabs her arm to stop her, then seems to think better of it and lets go. ‘At least let me walk you to the station,’ he pleads. He sounds desperate, but his stare has steel in it, and the defiant way he holds her gaze is unnerving.

  ‘No thanks, I’ll be fine on my own. Have a good Christmas, Will,’ she says, collecting her bag and heading quickly away, determined not to look back.

  She’s thankful to be away from him, but as soon as she’s outside she gets that disconcerting, familiar feeling of being watched. There are plenty of people around this early in the evening, but they are all strangers whose intentions she can’t read, who don’t know her enough to care. As she crosses the road to wait for Susan, she begins to doubt her next move. Are you ready to go back to Harborne Grove? she asks herself. To meet Susan? To face Ian?

  Stop, she commands her thoughts, shifting from foot to foot as the cold night creeps beneath her clothes, chilling her skin. Everything around her seems to be in motion: the people, the cars, the lights and shadows. Even the leaves on the trees are rustling. It’s making her giddy.

  She cannot stop fidgeting. How long will Susan be? She turns longingly in the direction of Temple station. Perhaps she should keep going and meet Susan at home. She’d feel better if she could keep walking. However, as she stares down the road she sees Will on the opposite side, waiting to cross. He’s looking the other way towards the oncoming traffic, but any moment now he is going to turn towards her. Perhaps he has seen her already. Is that why he’s here?

  She becomes intensely aware of the river behind her, the same dark body of water that had filled Arabella’s lungs a week ago and stolen her life. Will knows that Eleanor was there that night, bearing witness. How could she have trusted him? What had made her so sure that Nathan was a killer?

  It was Will, she thinks frantically as she watches a break in the traffic. Will made sure I thought the worst of Nathan. And now he is beginning to cross the road, getting closer every step, his head turning towards her.

  Panic seizes her, jolting her into flight. She runs in the opposite direction, away from Will, from Temple station, from her agreed meeting point with Susan. She sprints close to the low wall of the Embankment, beneath Waterloo Bridge, past a long row of parked bicycles. Her nerves are on fire, at any second she’s sure she’ll feel a hand on her shoulder, a voice next to her ear. Each breath burns, but she doesn’t slow down until she finds herself next to a dark statue of a lion, in front of the towering obelisk of Cleopatra’s Needle.

  Fate has brought her full circle. She swings around, expecting to see Will, bracing herself for confrontation. He isn’t there. She waits a while on wobbly legs, steadying herself with one hand on the wall, but still he doesn’t appear. Slowly, her breathing becomes calmer. What now?

  She puts her hand in her pocket, feeling for the ring, rubbing her fingers along the little cluster of stones. If she’s ever to remember anything, it will be here, she realises. She keeps one finger hooked through the ring, as though this single solid link to Arabella might forge the hazier path to her memories. Then she walks slowly past the monument and back again, stopping at intervals to peer over the wall.

  Nothing.

  Eventually, she walks up the steps to the paving stones set around the monument. Ahead of her, a low wall forms a barricade to the river. To either side of her, stone staircases lead away, disappearing into the water. She goes down a few steps on the right-hand side, and sits with her back against the wall, hidden from the road. As she watches the dirty brown water milling a dozen steps below her, she implores her memories to find her.

  It is quieter here. Snow has begun to fall lightly again, but it’s wispy and insubstantial, disappearing as soon as it touches the ground. The walls block the view of everything beyond, muting the sound of people and traffic. Ahead of her, tourist boats are moored against jetties. The Atlantic will be among them, just past Hungerford Bridge. Even though it’s only eight o’clock, the darkness is concealing. Is that how Arabella had slipped into the water here, unnoticed?

  But someone did notice, didn’t they? comes that taunting voice in her mind.

  ‘Stop,’ she begs out loud. She feels so tired. Her eyes blur as she watches the dark water lapping softly at the steps, inviting her closer.

  She looks up along the wall that stretches away down Victoria Embankment. If Arabella’s life had ended right here, had Eleanor watched from just up there? She cannot fathom it; it’s unbearable. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, pulling the ring out of her pocket and squeezing it tightly, praying it will help her recover those hidden hours. But there is nothing.

  What if she’d stayed to help instead of running? Could she have made the difference between Arabella living and dying? What if she could have emerged from the fog of those drugs enough to tell someone what had happened?

  What if?

  What if?

  Does she really have to live with such terrible doubts all over again?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers again, but this time she’s not only thinking of Arabella. She’s thinking for the millionth time that if she’d talked to her mother about Aiden’s guilt, his friends, Philippa’s words to him on that fateful morning, rather than let her Dad coerce her into silence, then she might have saved her brother.

  October 2005

  The next time they decide to go back to the charred remains of the house, Aiden refuses to go. He has rarely got out of bed for the past few days unless he’s needed the toilet. Gillian has been trying to cajole him into a shower for the past forty-eight hours, but every time she suggests it he just grunts and doesn’t move.

  Meanwhile, Martin’s mood swings have turned into an impassioned fervour to get back to building. ‘It’s a miracle the shed wasn’t touched,’ he keeps saying
. ‘It was fun living like that, wasn’t it? We’ll be fine in there while we get to grips with the extent of the damage.’ He has reordered the portable toilet to be delivered on Friday. Once that’s in, he tells them, they need to get out of this motel – they’re being robbed blind for this room – it’s time to move on.

  Gillian has said little since Martin shot down the idea of moving back to their old suburb close to the city. ‘We can’t go back, Gill, not after all this. We’ve got to see it through.’ When Martin heads to the car on the Thursday, determined to restore the shed to its former glory, Gillian initially refuses to go, until Aiden begs her to leave him be.

  ‘I’ve left food in the fridge for you,’ she says to him sadly. ‘Please eat something.’

  Eleanor climbs onto the bed next to her brother. ‘I don’t want you to be sad,’ she says.

  He rolls away from her. ‘Leave me alone, shrimp. There’s nothing you can do.’

  Eleanor leans against the cold wall of the monument steps, tears streaming down her face as she remembers. She pictures herself chasing Arabella, having just seen her slap Nathan. She remembers the CCTV footage, of Arabella holding up her hands, saying something to Eleanor as she backs away.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she imagines Arabella cry. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

  Words similar to those would have been enough. They would have called up Eleanor’s ghost, and lured her towards the dark water of the river.

  Because the next time she sees her brother his head is hoisted up to the beam and twisted at an unnatural angle, a chair kicked back behind him. His body is slack and swinging on a rope, his feet almost touching the ground, but not quite.

  The scene is seared into her mind, imprinted in a flash of devastation. She stumbles blindly towards him, her foot catching on the bed they have been sharing, sending her sprawling onto the covers. Her hand hits something spiky and she jumps back again, seeing scattered scraps of paper littering the bed. No, they are not scraps. They are paper cranes.