“Of course, you do, dear,” she says, turning her smile on me again. “I’m Lily. I’m your friend. Lily, from Buddleia House.”
The man in the uniform is still there between me and the railing, his arms now outstretched like a policeman holding back a mob. In the distance beyond him, a small crowd gathers on the high bank of the harborside, family and friends waiting for their loved ones, no doubt. No such waiting party for me.
I turn back to the woman, and I wonder how I was ever fooled before. “I know who you are,” I repeat, and this time my voice is calm, and I know she means me no harm. Holding on to Chloe, now resting peacefully at my shoulder, I close my eyes against the cut and slice of the January storm, and once more I dream of darkness.
23
Jess
When the call comes through that Avril and Daisy are on the incoming ferry, we’re halfway up the seemingly endless steps from Alum Bay beach, the chairlift machinery now officially out of service in the approaching storm. After the drama of these past hours, we can hardly believe the news of this development, but it is so positive and real that it’s all we can do to hang on to the handrail and pull ourselves upward against the biting wind, up toward the car park above.
“How the hell did she get off the island in the first place?” I shout up to James, struggling to be heard over the gale that batters around our ears.
“She went via Yarmouth—Jacobs says they can’t believe she got through . . .” James’s breath is labored as he takes the steps two at a time, desperate to get back to the car, to Daisy. “But then I’m guessing the police presence there was probably nowhere near as strong as it would have been on the Portsmouth route. She came in on the Portsmouth ferry, so I guess they thought she’d go back on that one too. That, and she was traveling as a foot passenger, rather than by car. They said the disembarking vehicle checks had been ‘vigorous’ since they’d had Avril in their sights—but I’m guessing they took their eye off the ball with regard to the foot passengers.”
Chloe is the first to reach the top, and she stands waiting for us to catch up, her face set in a scowl of anger. “Idiots! I still don’t understand how they could have missed them! Yarmouth is only a small place—how can you miss a kidnapper and a baby, for God’s sake? There are posters up everywhere! It’s been all over the news!”
James slings his arm around her, kissing the side of her head and hurrying her toward the parked car. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Chlo,” he says, his face at last registering some kind of tense hope. “We’re getting her back.”
Chloe starts to cry again, but this time they’re tears of relief.
I take the keys from James and climb into the driver’s seat. “I’ll drop you at the ferry terminal first,” I say. The sky is already dark, the last lights of day disappearing beyond the sea’s churning horizon, the vast cliffside car park now virtually deserted. The car rocks lightly as the wind blusters across the hood, spraying leaves and sand over the windshield. “Then I’ll go back to fetch Emily. We can’t risk her driving herself—not with all the tablets she’s been taking. And I saw she had a bottle of wine in her hand when she went upstairs earlier.”
I start the engine and head out toward the Yarmouth road, seeing signs of the turbulent weather all along the dark route. Branches and leaves litter the roadside; a loosened pub banner flaps precariously across the country lane, and on the front gravel of the Country Stores, a plastic garden bench is upended and traveling toward the field next door. In the half-light of the car, I feel James watching me, and I turn to meet his gaze. I see how shocked he is by the day’s events, and how grateful he is to hand the problem of Emily over to me. In the back seat, Chloe is already calling Max, asking him to meet her at Yarmouth harbor, sharing the good news.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” I tell them both when we pull up beside the police cordon at the entrance to the quayside, and James clings to me, thanking me before rushing out with Chloe, into the night, out toward his baby daughter.
Alone, I turn the car around and head off toward my sister, leaving behind me the blinking lights of Yarmouth harbor. Emily will expect me to take her to her daughter; she’ll be standing alone on the doorstep, the family home behind her empty and silent, and she’ll be waiting for me to take her to Daisy without delay. She’ll be nervous and hopeful, holding back the tears as she chews on her thumbnail and waits, her impatience growing by the second. But I’m afraid she’s going to have to wait a bit longer. We’ve got unfinished business to attend to.
* * *
It was pure chance that I made contact with Sammie when I did, when, on reaching a point of change in my life, I had lighted on the idea that my old friend might be the one to help me be reconciled with my mother after so many years apart. I’d tried to contact Emily a few times in the early days, when I knew where she was living, but my letters had gone unanswered, and I feared making direct contact with Mum when I’d hurt her so deeply before. Only recently, I had completed a monthlong retreat at an ashram in North Wales, a place recommended to me by a girl I’d met on my travels around Europe, and I’d emerged full of hope and newfound energy, my clearest goal being to find my way back home. Many of the residents at the rural retreat were there battling with addiction; others, like me, were trying to make sense of the lives they’d found themselves living and, by the same token, trying to make sense of their past.
It’s hard to explain without sounding like some New Age evangelist, but my time at the ashram taught me to value myself again, something I hadn’t done for many years. The wide open countryside, the quiet community, the long hours spent in silent contemplation—these things converged to give me the clarity and space I needed to acknowledge the mistakes that I’d made and the mistakes that had been made against me. It was time to forgive—to forgive myself, and others, to start thinking about the rest of my life, and live it. I knew that Sammie would welcome me without judgment, despite all this time of separation. She was always a good person, a kind and trustworthy friend, and I felt certain that she would still be in touch with my mother, to whom she had been so close in childhood. When I boarded the train in Wales, I found myself hurtling toward London, not knowing quite where I would land next, and on arrival at Euston station, I sought out the nearest internet café, where I handed over my payment details and began my search. For two hours, I sat in a window booth looking out over a dreary London back street, drinking vending-machine coffee and trawling through pages of listings for the seemingly infinite number of potential Sammie/Samantha/Sam Evanses. Eventually, grudgingly, I set up a fake social media account just so I could narrow the possibilities down, and before long, to my astonishment, I found her. My heart raced, because there she was, Sammie Evans, unmarried with two children and still living in our hometown, her profile picture showing her tiny frame and smiling face unchanged. I had found her! Now I could reach out to her, and maybe, in turn, to Mum and Emily. Now I could go home. Everything was suddenly so clear and simple.
But when I read her latest entry, posted just days earlier, my lucid resolve shattered.
Am feeling such sadness at the loss of one of the loveliest women I’ve ever known. RIP Olive Tyler xxx
Beneath the words was a photograph of a white-haired woman sitting on a wooden bench in a rose-filled summer garden. My garden. My mum.
The funeral was held two days later. From first contact, Sammie took control, instructing me to take the next train to Fleet, where I would stay with her. In my state of uncomprehending shock, I didn’t put up any kind of resistance, and the day and a half leading up to Mum’s service are still something of a blur to me. What I do remember is the unfettered joy I felt on seeing my sister, Emily, entering the church, and despite the sadness our reunion marked, hope soared inside me as we chatted at the after-funeral tea, well past afternoon and into evening, the pair of us together again, laughing, remembering only the good things, the things we could build a future on. When Emily brought up the idea of me joining her
family over on the island, I really thought I might be dreaming, or drunk on sherry and bonhomie. But as I left Emily at the church hall, my sister hugged me with such fervent warmth that I knew she meant it. I was forgiven, and we would be together again. Sisters.
Back at Sammie’s, I opened another bottle of wine and lit the fire as she fetched a platter of bread and cheese.
“Just like old times,” she said, sitting cross-legged beside me on the hearthside rug, “except with alcohol and cheese rather than chocolate and chips.”
We’d changed into our pajamas, and I was glad her kids were away at a friend’s for the night, so that I could have Sammie all to myself now that the funeral was out of the way. I’d hardly seen her during the service; she had kept to herself at the far side, away from the family seats, and afterward she had only said a brief hello to Emily. The initial shock of my mother’s death was subsiding, and for the first time since I’d arrived, we talked properly about our lives over the past years, filling in the gaps that we’d each missed in the other’s experience. I knew it was only a matter of time before she asked me, but still, I was thrown when the question came.
“Why did you leave like that, Jess? Why did you leave without a good-bye?”
I looked at her face, so open and trusting, and perhaps it was the warmth of friendship, or maybe it was the wine, but I told her everything. For the very first time, I shared with another human being the reasons behind my sudden flight from home, unburdening the shame and guilt that I’d carried with me all these years, for betraying my sister, for extinguishing another life, for the pain and distress I’d caused my beloved parents.
In return, Sammie told me Emily’s version, and in the space of one evening, my world seemed to flip inside out.
* * *
Emily is waiting on the front drive when I arrive to collect her, her coat buttoned up, her dark hair swirling around a pale and vacant face, and it takes her a second for her to register my arrival and climb into the passenger seat.
“Did James call you?” I ask. “Did he tell you? They’ve found Daisy?”
She nods, pulling the seat belt across her chest, bringing her thumb to her mouth to gnaw at its ragged edges. We drive in silence for ten minutes or more, until I pull off the main road and detour out toward a coastal viewing point, dark and deserted, overlooking the unsettled waters looking out at the mainland beyond.
“What are you doing?” she asks, and they’re the first words she’s spoken to me. Her voice rises. “What the hell are you doing, stopping in the middle of nowhere when Daisy could be waiting for me?” I can see her glance about nervously, fear rising to the surface. “Jess? What are you doing?”
You wouldn’t want to stand out on the cliff front right now; you wouldn’t stand a chance. In the safe security of this wind-battered car, Emily is my captive audience. Here, Emily has nowhere to run.
“I think we need to talk, Ems. We need to talk about the past.”
* * *
That night, Sammie listened, and for not even a moment did she question my version of the truth. She was always a good listener.
“I had no idea about the pregnancy,” she said, looking down into her glass, choosing her words carefully. “No idea at all, Jess. Did Emily ever really talk to you about what happened with Simon that night?”
I stared into the flames, struggling to find the right words for something I’d never before spoken aloud. “When I woke the next day, I was sick as a dog, and more terrified than I’d ever felt in my life—because I knew something awful had taken place with Simon at your house. Something too awful to even put into words. Emily wasn’t speaking to me, and I couldn’t remember a thing, so how could I even start to explain it to her? But one thing I can be certain of was that I wouldn’t have encouraged him in any way—I couldn’t stand the bloke—and I know I wasn’t drunk!”
“You weren’t!” Sammie reached out to touch my arm. “I know that. You’d barely had a drink, Jess. But what do you remember?”
“I remember feeling light-headed—and you helping me into your room—and then Simon, sitting on the edge of the bed, and his creepy little friend Lizard in the doorway—I remember him handing me a can of Coke—” I can hardly go on. “And—and then nothing. Nothing until I’m stumbling in through my own front door with Emily, and then waking up the next day.”
Sammie nodded for me to continue. “It wasn’t your fault, Jess.”
“But it must have been,” I replied, feeling no closer to unraveling my knotted tangle of memories. “Emily said I was pissed out of my head. She said I might not think I’d led him on, but that we’re all capable of acting out of character when we’re that drunk. And how could I argue with that? She was the one who found me with him. There was no doubt about what had happened in there. She was the only other person who saw the way it was.”
Sammie fell silent, a sadness passing behind her eyes. “She wasn’t the only one there, Jess.”
I waited for her answer, still not understanding what it really meant.
“I was there too. I saw what happened to you, and, God forgive me, I never said a word.”
* * *
Beyond the windshield, the storm continues to rage, blasting sharp pins of rainfall against the metal armor of the car. Emily has fallen silent again, refusing to be drawn into conversation until I take her to James at the quayside.
“Did Sammie ever get through to you, Ems?” I ask now, swiveling around in my seat to look at my sister in the darkness.
“What?” she replies impatiently. She looks at me as though I’m mad.
“Did you speak to Sammie at all?” I ask again.
Emily pulls away from me, pressing herself further against the passenger door. She looks nervy.
“She’s one of our only links to the past, you know?” I say, calmly. “She knows more about me—and you—than anyone else in the world.”
Emily looks afraid. Not just a little, but a lot. She knows what I’m talking about, and I’m glad. If I had as much to lose as she does, I’d be afraid too.
“Take me to James,” Emily whispers. “I want to see my daughter. I want to see Daisy.”
I fall silent, pulling the collar of my red jacket closer, suddenly feeling the cold of the wild night air, my mind hardening. “I’m not taking you anywhere until we’ve done this, Emily. We’re not moving until you tell me the truth.”
“What did Sammie tell you?” she asks, and I’m maddened by the question. So like Emily, so like my big sister to hedge her bets, waiting to hear just how much she has to own up to, assessing how much she can leave out.
“She told me everything. She told me about the state you found me in that night of the party. She told me that you knew it wasn’t just one of my episodes—that you both thought he must have spiked my drink.”
Emily has no words. She simply shakes her head, and I continue.
“You knew all about my condition, Emily; you knew what the signs were. You’d witnessed it often enough. If I passed out, I’d usually be out for, what, a minute or two at most—but this—this was something else altogether. I tried telling you so many times afterward, but you wouldn’t have it; you insisted it was my fault that I’d ended up in there with Simon, that I’d got blind drunk and led him on. Well, I wasn’t drunk. And I didn’t lead him on.” There’s a pause, and the wind whips up with such ferocity that it feels as though the tires might lift from the ground. Out across the water, the lights of an incoming ferry come into view: Daisy’s ferry. I know my eyes are steely, moist with tears I won’t let fall. “You knew what happened to me in there, Emi, you knew that he—that he—”
Emily turns away now, because this is too much for her, this is more than she wants to hear—
“He raped me, Emily! He raped me. You know it, and I know it, and Sammie knew it too. And instead of helping me, you sent me away. You arranged my abortion, and then you sent me away.”
I’m breathing heavily now, my chest rising and falling bene
ath a clenched hand, and Emily looks alarmed, as though she’s wondering if I’m all right, if I’m having one of my turns right now. But I don’t want her sympathy, and my rage has nowhere to go but out.
“I was seventeen, for God’s sake! You told me that Mum and Dad wanted me gone—that they knew all about Simon and the pregnancy. You said they were ashamed of me. But Sammie said they never got over me leaving—that they had no idea why I didn’t make contact. She said they never stopped hoping I’d come home—that they even went to the police and reported me missing, wanting them to launch an investigation to find me. What’s the truth of it, Emily? What did Mum and Dad know?”
“Dad was having an affair,” Emily murmurs, and I don’t know why she is saying it, what it has to do with any of this. “You thought that Mum was offhand with you specifically in those weeks before you left, that she could barely be in the same room as you. Do you remember? But she was the same with all of us—it had nothing to do with you. It was Dad with his fancy woman again, that’s all. It just seemed easier to tell you it was because of you. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stand to be near you after what happened with Simon.” Her voice is blunt.
I lower my gaze, shaking my head in hopeless disbelief.
“They didn’t know a thing about it, Jess—about the pregnancy, or the party or any of it. If it’s any consolation, I never gave them any reason to think badly of you.”
“But what about the phone call from the clinic?” I ask.
“There was no phone call,” she replies, and she looks away, out into the darkness of the swirling night air. “I made it up.”
“Why, Emily? Why would you do something like that?”
Emily’s gaze remains fixed ahead. “Because I wanted Simon back,” she says.
Now I see Emily standing beside me on the station platform all those years before, her fingers distractedly circling the sparkling ear studs she’d put on for the first time that morning. Despite my distress, they had caught my attention, catching the summer light, and I remember thinking, they’re new, they’re expensive. They look like a gift.
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