by B A Paris
Ellen stretches her arms above her head, flexing them. ‘Good idea, I could do with a break.’
‘I thought we could go for a walk in the hills.’
‘Not with Peggy, then. It’ll be too far for her.’
‘I’ll take her out when we get back.’
We leave Peggy asleep under the table, put a couple of bottles of water in a rucksack, and make our way to the end of the village and up into the hills beyond.
‘So,’ I say, as we walk along hand in hand. ‘How are your illustrations coming along?’
‘Fine. I just hope Stan likes them.’
‘How old did you say he was?’
‘Eighty-three.’
‘Just shows you’re never too old to write,’ I muse.
It’s a beautiful day, perfect for walking because the sun isn’t too hot and there’s a gentle breeze blowing off the hills. After an hour or so we find a flat stone to sit on and stop for a drink of water. And all the while I’m wondering if an email has come in from Rudolph Hill.
Impatient of sitting still, I stand up and pull Ellen to her feet. ‘Come on, time to go.’
Our pace picks up on the way back. As we approach the house we see Mick in his front garden.
‘Hello, Mick,’ I say, going over. ‘How’s your wife?’
‘Not well,’ he says. He shakes his head wearily. ‘Depression is a terrible thing.’
‘Perhaps I could go and see her,’ Ellen offers. ‘Have a chat with her.’
‘She doesn’t really like to chat.’
‘Read to her, then. Would she like that, do you think?’
‘It’s very kind of you but she isn’t comfortable around people. She doesn’t even like family visiting. She’s alright with Mrs Jeffries, though.’
‘Well, if you ever feel like you need a break or a beer, you know where we are,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks.’ There’s an awkward pause. ‘I better go and see if she wants anything,’ he says, turning and heading to the front door.
We cross over the road to our house.
‘I just thought she might like some younger company than Mrs Jeffries,’ Ellen says.
‘Unfortunately, when you’re depressed, you end up cutting yourself off from the entire world,’ I reply, and because she knows something of what I went through in the years following Layla’s disappearance, she gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. In comparison to Mick’s wife – I realise that we don’t even know her name – who lost her two sons and her health, I feel slightly ashamed that Layla’s disappearance affected me so badly.
Peggy is awake so I take her for her walk and when we get back, she heads for her basket and I head to my office. The first thing I do is check my emails. There are plenty of new ones and I run my eye down them quickly. But there isn’t one from Rudolph Hill and I feel frustrated by his silence.
I decide to take the bull by the horns.
I think we should meet, I write, knowing he’ll never agree. And unbelievably, a reply comes straight back.
So do I
I stare at the screen, my skin prickling at the image of a faceless person sitting patiently in front of a computer for the last four days, waiting for me to get back to them. I pull my mind together. Time to reel him in.
Where?
You have the address
My heart thuds dully. The cottage. Had there been someone there yesterday, secretly watching me? Would they have shown themselves if that man hadn’t come along? Had they watched me leave, happy to have lured me there for nothing?
When? I write.
Tomorrow
What time?
4pm
Should I mention Layla, see what he says when I ask him to bring her with him, as if I believe he’s genuine? In the end, I simply tell him that I’ll be there.
After dinner, I tell Ellen I’ve had Grant on the phone and need to go back and see him.
‘Tomorrow,’ I add. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ she says. ‘He’s your client, you need to keep him happy.’
‘I need to keep you happy too,’ I say, going over and putting my arms around her.
‘Then how about we go up to bed?’ she murmurs.
I nuzzle her neck, about to agree, when my eyes fall on the family of Russian dolls standing on the side behind her.
‘I wish I could,’ I sigh, removing my arms and stepping away from her. ‘But I need to go back out to the office and prepare a couple of things for the meeting.’ Her face falls with disappointment. ‘I’ll try not to be too long,’ I promise, eyeing the Russian dolls balefully, wondering how it’s possible for them to emasculate me just by being there. Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow I’ll know who wants me to think that Layla is alive.
TWENTY
Before
I told the police so many lies. I hadn’t wanted to use the toilet, we hadn’t been eating in the car, we had no rubbish to throw away. I didn’t tell you to lock the doors as I got out of the car, I didn’t promise to hurry and, after, I didn’t drive the car back up to the toilet block so that you wouldn’t have to walk all the way back in the dark.
Some things came back to me. I remembered that when I went into the toilet block, I passed a man coming out, that was never a lie. I remembered hearing the car drive off, the one that had been parked outside, and seeing the lorry drive down the slip road, those weren’t lies either. But I couldn’t recall those vital minutes before walking into the toilet block.
Under interrogation, I told the police that we’d been blissfully happy the whole time we were in Megève, I told them that I’d asked you to marry me and that you had accepted, because I needed to get them to stop looking at me as a suspect. Sometimes we lie for the greater good, don’t we? I wish that’s what you had done, I wish you hadn’t told me that you’d slept with someone else. If you hadn’t, we’d still be together, you’d be here with me right now. But it wasn’t a total lie. I had been going to ask you to marry me, on your birthday in April. It’s important that you know that.
I was allowed to make a phone call so I called Harry. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the night I’d beaten him up seven months before. His calm ‘What’s up, buddy?’ reduced me to tears, because he automatically knew that if I was phoning in the middle of the night, it was because I needed him to get me out of a shit-load of trouble again. Within an hour I had a lawyer, within five Harry himself was with me.
I owe him so much.
TWENTY-ONE
Now
On my way to St Mary’s, I stop off at my bank in Exeter and access my safety deposit box to get the keys to the cottage. It’s hard opening the wooden casket because Layla’s jewellery is there and a thousand images rush through my mind, of her slipping the silver bracelet onto her wrist, of her arms around my neck when I gave her the gold watch, of the sudden glimpses I’d get of her earrings when she threw back her head in laughter. I close the box on my memories, and with the keys safely in my pocket, I leave the bank and drive to Sidmouth, where I sit with a pint and a sandwich in a café on the seafront, trying to calm myself. I check my mobile for any new emails, but there’s nothing from Rudolph Hill, so I take a look at the markets and when I see that the stocks I bought yesterday have plummeted, it seems like an omen.
I have no idea how the next few hours are going to play out. A lot depends on whether Rudolph Hill is waiting for me outside the house, or inside. If he’s outside, it means that he’s just some sick bastard who has never met Layla. If he’s inside, it means he has her keys, because there have only ever been two sets, mine and Layla’s – which means that Rudolph Hill is probably the person who took her from the car park that night. Or at least knows who did.
For the first time, it occurs to me that this could be about money. If Rudolph Hill is Layla’s kidnapper, maybe he knows I am wealthy, maybe Layla told him when he first took her that I would pay him if he let her go. But why wait twelve years, why not make his demand sooner? Nothing mak
es sense. Unless he kept her alive all this time and she really is with him. I chase the thought away, before hope can set in. But it comes straight back. What if he brings her to the cottage?
I close my eyes and see myself walking through the gate of the cottage at four o’clock, going into the house and seeing Layla standing there, looking just as beautiful as she did twelve years ago. I open my eyes and do a quick reality check. She wouldn’t, though, would she? Twelve years would have changed her, especially if she’s been kept prisoner. She probably wouldn’t look anything like I expect. And what would she think when she saw me? I look every one of my forty-one years. Although I still have my hair, I also have a beard, and my hair is streaked with grey at the sides, a legacy of her disappearance and my subsequent depression. And despite all the running, I’m a little heavier. I shake my head impatiently, because it’s a wasted exercise. Layla won’t be there. Rudolph Hill, whoever he is, is just using her as bait.
Checking the time, I finish my sandwich and leave for St Mary’s. When I arrive, I park outside the cottage. There isn’t anyone waiting for me in the road. I get out of the car; nobody comes out of the house. My feet are heavy as I open the gate and walk down the path, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure whoever is inside can hear it. Inside. So he has Layla’s keys. I feel such a rush of violence towards him that I hammer on the door with the full force of my fist, as if I’m driving it into his face. He doesn’t appear, so I take my keys from my pocket and look for the right one. It jams in the lock, but eventually it turns. I push the door open and, ducking my head automatically, step into the hall.
The smell of mustiness and neglect hits me straightaway. I’m assailed by so many memories that my legs are almost pulled out from under me – of Layla standing here in the hall, of her sitting on the stairs to pull her boots on, of her running down them and into my arms. I wait for the images to fade, listening for the sound of somebody’s presence, a movement from one of the rooms, a floorboard creaking upstairs. But there is only silence, and the dust of hopes never fulfilled, taunting me with what could have been, if only I’d acted differently.
The front door is still open and as I turn to close it, I notice a large pile of musty letters, leaflets and free newspapers pushed back against the wall behind it. Another couple of leaflets lie by themselves on the mat, newer, cleaner. Realising what it means, sweat prickles my spine. The only way the mail could have become squashed up against the wall is by somebody opening the front door wide enough to let themselves in. The leaflets on the mat have come in since, maybe earlier this morning. Which means that someone was here, might still be here.
I reach out and push open the door on my left, which leads to the kitchen. There are so many familiar things – the pottery mugs that hang from hooks beneath a rack where we stored our plates, the row of eggcups sitting on the window sill, the low armchair where Layla would sit curled up in front of the wood-burning stove. They are all there – but they are almost unrecognisable. Twelve years of dust has obliterated all colour from the room and the pervading air of neglect and abandonment shocks me to the core. I remember how I had wanted to keep everything as it was, in case Layla came back. But if she had, how would she have felt to see the cottage unloved and uncared for?
I take a quiet step back into the hall and push open the door to the right. The sitting room is also empty. I think about calling out, but if there is anyone there and they had wanted to be seen, they would have shown themselves by now. But why would they hide? They’ve brought me here, so it must be for a reason.
I should have called Tony, asked him to come with me. It’s too late now. I’d been so sure it was just some elaborate hoax. But what if it wasn’t? I look up the stairs to the landing above, remembering the Right here message I received. Is Layla up there, bound, gagged, Rudolph Hill standing over her, waiting for me to come and find her? The urge to tear up the stairs is overwhelming. But I need to be careful, I can’t afford to put Layla in danger. I check myself; Layla can’t really be up there, can she?
I put my foot on the first step, testing it. It doesn’t creak so I start going up as quietly as I can, bending my head to avoid the low ceiling. The bathroom is on the left, the door ajar, which explains the smell that sours the air, from stagnant water in the toilet bowl. On the right is the bedroom that Layla and I used to share. I go in; it’s empty. Her dressing gown, barely distinguishable under its cover of grey, lies across the chair where she draped it the morning we left for Megève. The smaller bedroom, along the corridor from the bathroom, yields no secrets, no Layla tied to the bedpost waiting to be rescued, no Rudolph Hill waiting to blackmail me. Emotionally drained, I sit at the top of the stairs, looking down into the hall below, trying to absorb the knowledge that my journey here today has come to nothing. I’d left home thinking that by this evening, I’d know the truth behind the trail of Russian dolls and the emails. But I’m just as far away as ever.
I take out my mobile to check the time. It’s four thirty. Time to send a message to Rudolph Hill to find out what the hell is going on.
I’m here. Where are you?
A reply comes straight back.
Where I’d said I’d be
I feel a wave of fury that he’s continuing to play with me.
No, you’re not. I’m at the cottage but you aren’t
I can’t believe you’ve forgotten
Forgotten what? I type angrily.
I thought you would understand
I pause, suddenly aware of the shift in the tone of the messages. There’s something that seems off about them.
What do you mean? I ask.
The address
I sit for a moment, wondering if I should stop the whole thing now. But I’ve come this far, so I may as well carry on.
What address?
The email address
The urge to hurl my phone down the stairs is terrifying. Instead, I stab out a message, my fingers fumbling on the tiny keys.
Who are you, why are you doing this?
You know who I am
Yeah, Rudolph fucking Hill!
I can’t believe you haven’t understood
What – that you’re some sick psycho trying to make me think that you have Layla?
I chose it especially so that you would know it was me
If you still loved me, you would have understood
Goodbye Finn
I stare at the message, completely thrown at the mention of love, and the use of my name. I read the message again, more slowly this time. A chill runs down my spine – the bastard wants me to think the message is coming from Layla. Unless – no, it’s a trick, another step in his game. But my fingers are already picking out her name.
Layla?
I wait, my heart in my mouth. But there’s no reply and I give a roar of frustration, hating that I’ve fallen into his trap again. He never had any intention of being here today, all he wanted was to lure me to the cottage. But why? Just to prove he’s the one calling the shots?
I go downstairs, weary from all the mind games, and push open the door to the kitchen, planning to shake the dust from a chair and sit for a minute. I pull one out from the table and stop, my hand on its back, remembering the last time I’d sat on this chair, the day I wrote the letter to Layla, the letter I left for her to find in case she came back. Suddenly my ghost is there, and I watch as he takes a ring from his pocket, the ring he’d been planning to give Layla on her twentieth birthday, and puts it in the envelope along with the letter. I watch as he seals the envelope and places it in the centre of the table, ready for Layla to find. But – my ghost disappears as suddenly as he came – the letter is no longer there, all that remains is a rectangle of brown oak where the envelope once lay. Yet the rest of the table is barely discernible, covered by a thick layer of dust. I reach out, run my finger over the rectangle and find it almost dust-free. Which means that, fairly recently, someone took the letter.
I shake the dust from the chair and sink heavi
ly onto it. For all I know, the letter could already have been gone when I came here two days ago, to see Thomas. Is that why Rudolph Hill knows so much about me, from my letter? Is that why there was something so real about his last messages, why I thought for one crazy moment that they were actually coming from Layla? I’m gutted I fell into his trap – how he must have laughed at my desperate Layla? But what had that been about, the one that said the email address had been chosen so that I would know who was sending the messages? Wasn’t I meant to think they were coming from Ruby? If that wasn’t the sender’s intention, the address must signify something else, something I should know. If it isn’t a person, what else could it be? A place? I know lots of hills but none of them are called Rudolph. So some other hill?
With infinite slowness it dawns on me. Not Ruby and dolphin but Russian doll. Russian doll, Pharos Hill. The Russian doll on Pharos Hill. I feel momentarily stunned, as if I’ve just witnessed a miracle. Other than me, only one person knows that Layla likened the tree-stump on Pharos Hill to a Russian doll and that’s Layla. Tears flood my eyes and I dash them away fiercely. It isn’t true, it can’t be. The emails can’t be coming from Layla. And yet, they must be.
I don’t remember leaving the cottage but suddenly I’m back in the car. Pharos Hill is thirty minutes away on foot but only ten by car. Please don’t let her be gone, I pray, as I ram the car into gear and drive off. Please don’t let her be gone.
It takes me eight minutes to get there. I pull to a stop near the foot of the hill and start sprinting up it. By the time I get to the top my breath is coming in ragged gasps and my lungs feel as if they’re about to burst. I look around wildly. I can’t see anyone, but the stump, the one shaped like a Russian doll, isn’t visible from here. I run past the bench we put up all those years ago, its struts etched with the names of friends and lovers, and disappear over the brow of the hill, my leg muscles trembling from the demands I’ve just made on them. The stump comes into sight and I run towards it, even though I can see no one’s there, and there’s nowhere for anyone to hide. Just as I’m wondering if it’s all some hideous joke, and that she was never here, I see a little Russian doll, perched meticulously on top of the stump.
