by Jodi Taylor
She stood well back in the shadows. In a quiet, deadly little voice, she said, ‘I’m going to kill you.’
‘Well, yes, Izzie, obviously.’
‘You ruined my life.’
I opened my mouth to say, ‘Glad to have been of service,’ but something stopped me.
‘Actually, Izzie, I think you did that yourself. You’re the one who betrayed St Mary’s. You’re the one who picked the losing side. People are dead because of you. People don’t like you. You’re actually very unlikeable.’
Yes, good move, Maxwell. Winding up the unstable woman with the gun who’s always hated you, in an out-of-the-way place where no one will come to your aid. On the other hand, I’d known her a long time and she did like the sound of her own voice. She probably had a lot more to say before finally putting a bullet in me.
I continued. ‘The bear’s fine, by the way. Just a few stitches and he was as right as rain.’
I turned as I spoke and finally got a good look at her. ‘Which is more than can be said for you, Izzie. You really should have got that nose seen to.’
I was exaggerating to wind her up. I’d broken her nose but the slight bend was barely noticeable and then only if you were looking for it.
She said nothing. The gun was rock steady in her hand. This was a new Barclay. One completely in control of her emotions. I wondered if she’d been taking lessons from Clive Ronan. Speaking of whom …
I looked around. ‘All on your own today? Don’t say he’s dumped you already. What is it with you, Izzie? You just can’t hang onto your men, can you?’
As I’d hoped, that was a red rag to her bull. Her voice rang around the barn.
‘You stole my life. He was mine. He loved me. I was everything to him. And then you came along and it was as if we never existed.’
We? Hang on a minute. Just hang on a minute … That wasn’t right.
The gun came up. This was it. She was too far away for me to reach her. There was no one else around. I was completely unarmed. This really was it. I was going to die. I’d killed her. She’d killed me. Now, after all our duels over the long years, she was finally going to come out on top.
‘Wait,’ I said, desperately. ‘Just wait a minute. Can we please stop killing each other and just talk for a moment? You keep saying this and I don’t think I’ve been listening properly. When you say “I stole your life” what do you actually mean?’
She scoffed. ‘It’s a little late to pretend ignorance now. You know what I’m talking about.’
‘No,’ I said, quietly. ‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’
For a second I thought she’d just go ahead and shoot me anyway. Outside in the distance, I could hear the shouts and cheers as the Raft Race continued towards its chaotic end, but in here, the silence was like a blanket. Everything hung in the balance, and then she shrugged.
I let my own shoulders drop. So far so good. I spoke quietly. Anything to reduce the emotional temperature. Up in the hayloft, something scuttled over our heads.
‘I’ve heard you say this before, Izzie. I always assumed you meant I’d stolen Leon Farrell from you and that maybe I’d somehow stolen your career at St Mary’s as well. Is that what you mean?’
She stared at me. ‘No, of course it isn’t. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’
‘Izzie, I honestly have no idea. Please – for once – can we just talk to each other?’
Without waiting for a reply, I deliberately turned my back on her and walked over to a convenient hay bale, which meant I was even further from the door and from her, too. I felt her relax a little at the increased distance between us.
She watched me sit and arrange my riding habit in folds around my feet. I waited in silence. She would have to speak first.
After a long while, she joined me, perching opposite on an old metal corn bin. She still had the gun but now it rested quietly in her lap. We looked at each other.
For the first time ever, she spoke to me as an equal. No sneering. No abuse. She spoke almost like a little girl. ‘Did he never mention me at all?’
Thank God, I had the sense to top and think. I had a sudden revelation. This wasn’t about Leon. Or anyone at St Mary’s. And there had only been one other man in my life. My heart began to thump because surely she couldn’t be talking about …?
It was no more than a whisper because my throat closed so hard I could barely get the words out at all.
‘Who’s “he”? Who do you mean?’
She swallowed hard and her voice wasn’t steady either.
‘My father.’
My world fractured into a hundred thousand glittering fragments. A hundred thousand glittering fragments rearranged themselves into a new pattern and fell back into place leaving me adrift in a suddenly unfamiliar world.
‘Are you talking about …? Do you mean …?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘John Maxwell. Yes, of course I am. My father.’ She drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Our father.’
Never mind trying to find words. They could come later. In a hundred years or so. I stared at her and struggled for calm. Really struggled. And what was I going to say to her when I could speak?
It didn’t matter. She had more than enough words for both of us. They just tumbled out. She couldn’t get them out fast enough. It was as if something deep inside her had given way and whatever it had been holding back couldn’t be contained for another moment.
‘He was my father first. We were a family. We were happy. We were. I adored him. He was so big and handsome, he would sweep me up in his arms, and I was his little princess. And then he was gone and my mother wouldn’t stop crying and there was never enough money and we had to live in a horrible house and my new school was horrible as well and she kept trying to talk to him but he just cut us out of his life because now he had a new little princess and it should have been me. You stole my life.’
I stared at her. I know mine had not been a functional family, but I had no idea about any of this. That my father been married before. Or if not married, had been in some sort of relationship. A serious relationship that had produced Isabella Barclay. No idea at all. No idea I had a sister …
She was crying now, overwhelmed by whatever pent-up emotions were raging within her. The gun was weaving all over the place.
‘For God’s sake be careful, Izzie. You’ll blow your own feet off in a minute.’
She snapped. Her head flew up.
‘Shut up! Just shut up! Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it? You’ve never had to struggle the way I did. Do you know how many jobs I had to take to get myself through uni? How much student debt I racked up? And I had to send money home to my mother. Because she never got over him. He ruined her life as well. But not you. You just cruise effortlessly through your perfect life, don’t you?’
Her mouth made ugly shapes. Bitter words flew across the gaping chasm that would forever lie between us. ‘And then I came here. I was going to show him … make him proud … make him see me …Then you turned up and everything I’d worked for slowly slipped away. Is it deliberate? Do you deliberately follow me wherever I go – wrecking my life?’
I stared at her and the tears just ran down my cheeks. Not only from shock and fear, but pity. Pity for her. And anger. Because she was the one who got away and I hadn’t.
It came out as a whisper. ‘Oh, Izzie, if only you knew …’
‘What? If only I knew what?’
I could see it now. Now that I knew, it was easy. She was short, just like me. She had ginger hair, just like me. People had remarked on the resemblance in a casual sort of way. Even I’d noticed it. We were like two peas in a pod. Except she was the one who got away.
‘If only you knew how lucky you’ve been.’
‘Lucky? You call me lucky?’
‘Yes, I do. You had the luckiest escape of your life when John Maxwell left your mother.’
She barked a harsh, contemptuous laugh and rage boiled up in
side me. I couldn’t hold it in. I forgot to be conciliating. Forgot the threat. Forgot the gun. Forgot everything.
‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? You stand there, dripping with self-pity over your supposedly tough life and you don’t have a bloody clue. You had a home and a mother who loved you. You grew up free from fear. Yes, money might have been tight but there are worse nightmares. There was no John Maxwell in your life. Because he was in mine instead. Do you remember your ninth birthday? Well, I remember mine but not for the same reasons, I’m sure. Yes, I had two parents but one was a monster and the other was a waste of space. Don’t tell me your mother wouldn’t have fought for you like a lion. Any mother would. Well, I wasn’t so lucky. Mine just let him get on with it. And I was going to hell in a handbag. I lost count of the times I was suspended from school. If one of my teachers hadn’t taken me in hand, I’d be in a prison cell or dead by now. And don’t talk to me about getting through uni. Three jobs, Izzie! Three! And that was with a scholarship. Whereas you …’ I was desperately trying to keep it all together but my voice had deteriorated into some dreadful rasp that hurt my throat. ‘You never had to hide in a wardrobe. You didn’t have to cope with the pain, the shame, the overwhelming, always present fear. Yes, you could have had my life. Any time you cared to ask for it. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you come and take it? You could have banged on my door anytime and I would have given it to you as a gift.’
My voice cracked and I couldn’t go on. In the silence, I could hear us both breathing.
Her face was a mask. ‘What are you saying?’
I struggled for some control over my voice. ‘You know damned well what I’m saying. And it happened to me, Izzie. It all happened to me. Because you’re the one who got away.’
More silence. She’d put the gun down. I could probably have made a grab for it but I was shaking as much as she was and there were more important things going on here.
I wiped my nose on my sleeve, dragged in some deep breaths, and tried to calm down. ‘How old are you, Izzie?’
‘What?’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m forty next year.’
‘Listen to me. This is important. Neither you nor I are the villain here. That’s John Maxwell. He ruined both our lives, but I walked away from him and built a new life and you can do the same. You still have half your life ahead of you. Stop obsessing over the past. Walk away from all your bitterness and resentment and hatred and build yourself a new life. Live abroad. Start again. Don’t let him poison your life any longer. Please. I implore you, Isabella, not just for my sake but for yours as well. Walk away now. Let it all go and be happy.’
My words rang around the barn. Something skittered again.
I sat quietly and let her think. I could imagine exactly the thoughts going through her head. Whether strong or weak, when the foundations on which you’ve built your life are kicked away, the result is exactly the same. Everything comes crashing down around your ears. She was struggling to re-evaluate her life as I was struggling to re-evaluate mine. Looking at past events through new eyes. Hearing new voices. Adrift in a sea of uncertainty. And in my case, vowing future vengeance on the man who so casually ruined so many lives. One day I would … And then I shook myself. Yes, great move, Maxwell. Allowing John Maxwell power over your life again. As if I didn’t have Leon, and Dr Bairstow, and Peterson, and Guthrie to show me that there will always be decent men in this world. I could let it go.
But could she?
She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked down at the gun as if seeing it for the first time.
We stared at each other. What now? Where could we possibly go from here?
I spoke again, more quietly this time. ‘I meant what I said, Isabella. Take a few days. Think about it. Change your life. Do something wonderful with it.’
Silence. She wasn’t even looking at me. She was still staring at the gun in her lap. She’d hated me nearly all her life. Was it too late for her to change now?
In the distance, out there in a world a million miles away from this one, I could hear shouts, cheers, and a series of explosions. The Raft Race was ending. The next event was the musical sidesaddle demonstration. I should be going. If I didn’t turn up, they’d come looking for me and suddenly, I didn’t want them to find her. Suddenly – God knows why after everything she’d done over the years – I wanted her to be free. To start again somewhere. To defeat her own demons. Not to let John Maxwell win. I didn’t know why it was so important to me. I just knew it was.
I stood up slowly. She still didn’t move.
I said very quietly, ‘I’m going now. I’m going to walk away and take a chance on whether you’ll let me. Whether you’ll take the first step of your new life. Today. Now. Whether you can leave all the shit behind you and move on. Goodbye, Isabella. I wish you the very best of luck. Be amazing.’
I stepped past her and she still didn’t move. I took two more paces and then looked back at her, sitting on the corn bin, her hair, so like mine, lit up in a shaft of sunlight shining through a chink in the roof. As if she felt my gaze, she lifted her head. We looked at each other for a long time and then she smiled, uncertainly. I smiled back at her. A bit of a first for both of us. I felt a sudden conviction. She would make it. She was tough. She could start again.
I walked across the barn, heading for the open doorway. Back towards the sunshine. People. The rest of my life.
I turned my back on her.
And then the bitch shot me.
Chapter Twelve
I’ve been wounded several times. I’ve had my fair share of being stretched out on the ground, wondering what the hell just happened, and always with that voice in my head screaming at me to get up. But not this time. This time it was as if the connection between mind and body had been severed. No messages were being received. I wasn’t even sure they were being sent out.
I lay on my stomach where I’d fallen. I could feel cold hard earth under one cheek. I could see a hand on the end of an out-flung blue velvet arm. In the absence of anyone else, I supposed it must be mine.
Even as I stared at it, trying to piece together what was going on, I felt and heard slow footsteps approach. I saw a pair of mud-splattered Timberlands come to a halt about two feet away.
‘Look at me.’
There was no chance. I could hardly move my eyes, let alone my head. Realising this, she took several steps backwards and knelt. Now I could see all of her. Especially her face, frighteningly blank, her eyes empty, completely in control of herself.
She calmly took out the clip, inspected it, and shoved it back in again. Prolonging the moment. Her hands were quite steady.
So was her voice. ‘I’ve always hated you, Maxwell. You’re scum, but I never thought even you would try to buy your life by spewing such filth. You’re a poisonous bitch. You wreck people’s lives. You contaminate everything you touch and I really can’t allow you to live any longer.’
She raised the gun.
I refused to close my eyes. Actually, I wasn’t even sure I could. There didn’t seem to be a single part of me that was working properly. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing. Perhaps I was already dead and these were my last thoughts slowly spilling away …
I stared up at the gun, her arm, her face, those eyes … There was no one else in the world … I saw her finger tighten …
The gunshot sounded loud. Incredibly loud, even to me. For long seconds I stared up at her.
She knelt, motionless, and then, with shocking suddenness, a thin, red line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Her arm dropped to her side as if, all at once, she was too weary to hold it up any longer. Then, as I watched, she fell forwards onto her face. She thudded into the earth and because that’s the way the gods like to do things, her face was about eighteen inches away from mine. Dying, we each looked into the other’s eyes.
I felt no emotion. No fear. No shock.
There were more footsteps, slowly approa
ching. Someone else was here.
Not that it mattered. Still we stared at each other. The last thing either of us was going to see was each other. The gods must be laughing their heads off.
Someone kicked away her gun. Someone stood behind me. I saw her body jerk with the impact of the first shot. And again. And again. Someone was ending her life and still she wouldn’t look away from me, hanging on to her hatred, even in her last seconds.
Someone emptied an entire clip of ammunition into her.
She died between the fourth and fifth shots. I saw the change. Dead eyes now. And still her body jerked and spasmed as bullet after bullet penetrated her now-dead body. Blood and worse splattered my face as the thing that had been Barclay slowly disintegrated in front of me.
I didn’t stay for the end. Somewhere around the ninth or tenth shot, I closed my eyes and let go.
I was out of the game for a very long time.
I know that in fiction, the brave protagonist throws aside the bedclothes, leaps from the bed announcing that he/she/it/everything is absolutely fine, and gets out there and solves the crime/ catches the villain/ saves the world/whatever.
I did none of that.
I lay, staring up at the ceiling or, when they sat me up, out of the window instead. I barely moved. I didn’t speak. There was so much banging around in my head and I hadn’t a clue how to deal with any of it, so I didn’t deal with it at all. I just sat and stared at nothing, unable to comprehend what had happened and unwilling to try, until one day I felt the bed sag. I withdrew my thoughts from wherever they had been and focused to find Leon sitting on the bed, pale and shadowed with worry. He took my hand.
‘Enough. Come back to me.’
I stared for a long time while questions surfaced and sank again in the seething cauldron of my mind, but I had to say something. I made huge effort and returned to the land of the living.
My voice was hoarse with disuse. ‘Who won the Raft Race?’
‘Debatable. Our boat sank first, but after everyone had fought their way to land, it was discovered that Mr Markham had, in fact, swum underwater, reached the rosettes, grabbed both of them, and presented them to the Chancellor. By that time you’d been discovered and no one cared anyway.’
