Bring Me Back: The addictive new page turner from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors

by B A Paris

  I actually laughed, thinking it was a wind-up, because only the day before I’d told Pat, over a couple of pints, how happy I was with Siobhan. I’d immediately felt embarrassed for confiding in him and when I saw a shadow pass over his face, I thought he was feeling the same embarrassment and blamed my emotional outburst on the drink.

  Even now, all these years later, I can’t bear to remember what I did, I can’t bear to remember how, when I realised Siobhan was deadly serious, I yelled that I was going to kill her. I can’t bear to remember how, when I clenched my hands into fists and drew my arm back, she cowered in front of me, screaming at me to stop. It was my father’s words about removing myself from situations of conflict that pierced through the fog in my brain, and dropping my arms, I shoved her aside so that I could get to the door. But she fell, hitting her head on the edge of a low table. And as she lay there pale and motionless on the floor, I thought I’d done what only moments before I had threatened to do, and killed her.

  She wasn’t dead, but she had to have twenty stitches to the cut in her head. To my relief, she didn’t press charges. Instead, her four brothers came round for a visit. I left Ireland soon after, not because of what they did to me, not because I was scared they would carry out their threat to kneecap me if they ever saw me again, but because I was worried about what I might do the next time I lost my temper. That’s when I moved in with Harry.

  My temper led me into two more scrapes, one of which led to me being charged with GBH after I beat up a colleague who called me Paddy one time too many. After that, I managed to more or less stay out of trouble, until the night I attacked Harry.

  And until the night I lost my temper with you.

  SEVENTEEN

  Now

  I walk into the kitchen and see Ellen standing at the worktop. At the sound of my arrival she moves away quickly, her right hand hidden guiltily behind her back. I don’t have to look at the row of Russian dolls to know that the little one is missing.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles, as if I’ve caught her doing something terrible, and my heart goes out to her, hating that she feels guilty for holding a piece of her past in her hand.

  ‘What was Layla like as a child?’ I ask, wanting to give her something. Nevertheless, my question surprises me as much as it surprises her because she turns around, a frown on her face.

  ‘That’s something you’ve never asked me.’ She lets it hang in the air for a moment. ‘A free spirit. She loved being outside, she hated having to go to school because it meant being indoors. She loved drawing. We both did,’ she adds.

  ‘It must have been hard for you both when your mother died,’ I say, realising that we’re having the conversation we should have had years ago.

  ‘It was, especially for Layla. I knew how ill Mum was but I kept it from Layla to protect her. So her death affected her badly.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She gives a small laugh. ‘She sort of became Mum.’

  ‘You mean she took on her role?’

  ‘No, it was more than that. It was as if she was her. She spoke like her, took on all her mannerisms.’

  ‘Wasn’t that uncomfortable for you and your father?’

  ‘Yes, especially when she was both herself and Mum at the same time – you know, asking a question then replying in Mum’s voice. Sometimes she had whole conversations with her.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried?’

  She shrugs. ‘I had other things to worry about. Dad tried to knock it out of her, though, and eventually she stopped, at least in his presence.’

  ‘Do you mean he was violent?’ I ask, shocked.

  She nods reluctantly. ‘He could be. It was awful that final Christmas. That’s why she left. She was afraid of what might happen.’ Her face becomes suddenly bleak. ‘I miss her so much.’

  I want to tell her that I do too. Instead, I change the subject.

  ‘Have you seen the garden this morning? The lilies are out.’

  She nods. ‘They’re beautiful. I’ve actually been wondering if we should have our reception in the garden,’ she goes on.

  I look at her, then realise she’s talking about our wedding.

  ‘The garden won’t look as good in September,’ I warn. ‘But we could, if that’s what you’d like.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says, smiling. ‘Shouldn’t you be leaving? Didn’t you say your meeting with Grant is at eleven?’

  ‘I’m going now,’ I say, giving her a kiss. ‘I was waiting for rush hour to be over.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ she says. ‘Text me when you’re leaving London, then I’ll know what time to expect you.’

  I leave the house and get in my car. I sit for a moment then type St Mary’s into the satnav. I hate that I’ve lied to Ellen, that she believes I’m going to see Grant James to finalise his investment. But I’m not. Today, I’m going back to my past, back to where I used to live with Layla, so that I can ask Thomas Winter why he thought it was Layla he saw standing outside the cottage.

  I haven’t been able to sleep for the last few nights, not after that last email from Rudolph Hill. Those two little words – Right here – have sent me to hell and back. If – and it’s a huge if – Layla is alive and it’s not some cruel hoax, then Rudolph Hill has to be Layla’s kidnapper. I try not to let my mind go there, I try not to imagine her kept prisoner for the last twelve years. It’s a hoax, I tell myself, it has to be.

  It’s hard driving along the roads that were once so familiar to me. The nearer I get to St Mary’s, the more I find myself thinking about Layla. The hardest thing over the last twelve years has been the absence of a body. I know it sounds terrible, that I should want her body to be found, but at least I’d have had closure, instead of lying awake in the dead of the night, torturing myself with images of her being held prisoner, having to endure God knows what at the hands of some maniac. It’s the not knowing that’s the hardest, the reason I’ve preferred to accept that she’s dead.

  I park in front of the little station, needing the walk to the cottage to calm me. As I get out of the car, I see the ghost of myself walking through the station entrance and onto the platform, waiting for the train that will bring Layla back from her weekend in London. Unable to stop myself, I follow him onto the platform and watch as Layla steps off the train, beautiful in a flowing red dress, and runs down the platform into his arms, her red hair streaming out behind her. Suddenly tearful, she clings onto him, murmuring that she missed him and when she whispers over and over again that she’s sorry, he thinks, in his stupid innocence, that she regrets having gone to London and leaving him behind.

  The pain of betrayal snaps me back to the present. Leaving the station, I follow the road to the cottage. I can smell the sea in the warm air, taste the salt on my lips. As I near the cottage, my heart feels suddenly heavy and my mouth goes dry. The stone wall of the cottage comes into view, then the upstairs window, then the little garden at the front, and – I come to an abrupt stop, unable to believe what I’m seeing. I expected to find the cottage unkempt and uncared-for. But the beds are full of flowers and there are red geraniums in the window boxes.

  ‘Layla.’ My voice catches in my throat and for one crazy moment I think that the door is going to open and she’ll be there, on the doorstep, ready to run to me and tell me that she’s glad I’m home, like she used to. Even when it remains closed I can’t accept that she isn’t there, because in my mind the flowers prove that she is, so I run, my heart pounding as I go. I arrive at the gate, fumble with the latch, hurry to the blue wooden door and thump on it. But she doesn’t open it so I thump again, and again, because I need her to be there, because I’ve never stopped loving her, despite trying to close my mind to her, despite loving Ellen.

  A man’s voice comes from behind me. ‘You won’t get any answer, it’s been empty for years.’

  Rage – red-hot and violent – rips through me. I stay as I am, fighting for control, trying to erase the burning anger from my face so
that I can reply civilly to the person who’s ruined the few seconds where I’d allowed myself to believe Layla was alive.

  I gesture towards the garden. ‘It doesn’t look empty,’ I snap, finding my voice but not my composure.

  ‘That’ll be Thomas.’

  I take a breath and turn slowly, preparing myself for the jolt of recognition that will surely appear on his face when he sees me, the words that will spring unchecked to his lips, ‘Are you . . .?’ before the rest of the question dies away, leaving an awkward silence in its place. But the man, some ten years or so older than me, is thankfully unfamiliar.

  ‘Thomas?’ I ask in pretend puzzlement.

  ‘The old gentleman who lives next door. He’s been tending the garden for years.’ He nods at my cottage. ‘You’re not the first that’s showed an interest in buying it. But it isn’t for sale, never will be, according to Thomas.’

  I go down the path and back through the gate, closing it behind me. ‘He lives next door?’ I ask, indicating Thomas’ cottage.

  ‘That’s right. But you won’t find him there. He’s in hospital, been there for a couple of weeks now.’

  I look at the man in dismay. ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Yes, in Exeter. Only to be expected really, he’s in his nineties now.’

  I nod slowly. I want to ask him what happened, if Thomas had a heart attack, if he knows what ward he’s on, but it might sound strange after I’ve pretended not to know him.

  ‘Oh well, if the cottage isn’t for sale,’ I say, wanting him gone.

  ‘Don’t think it ever will be. It’s like a shrine.’

  ‘A shrine?’

  The man nods. ‘A young couple used to live here and she disappeared during a holiday in France. The man came back for a while, apparently, waiting for her to turn up and when he realised she wasn’t going to, he upped and left, leaving everything exactly as it was. Take a look through the window and you’ll see what I mean.’

  He has a pleasant enough face but it doesn’t stop me wanting to push my fist into it.

  ‘Do you live in St Mary’s?’ I ask, tortured by images of him, and others maybe, peering ghoulishly through the windows.

  ‘Moved here six months ago. If you’re looking for something to buy, I suggest you go to one of the estate agents in Sidmouth.’

  I start to move away. ‘Right, thanks.’

  I feel his eyes on me as I walk back to my car. I’m gutted that I’ve come all this way for nothing. If I’d brought my keys with me, I could have gone back to the cottage once the man had moved on, to have a look around inside, so that I wouldn’t have had a completely wasted journey. But I’d only wanted to see Thomas so I hadn’t collected them from the safety deposit box at my bank in Exeter, where I’d left them twelve years ago, along with Layla’s jewellery, the day I’d left St Mary’s. I could have kept them with me but I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to return to the cottage. Yet I couldn’t consider selling it either.

  I’d like to go and see Thomas but I can’t very well walk into the hospital and start asking him questions about supposedly seeing Layla. But Tony could.

  I take out my mobile and dial his number. He answers on the second ring.

  ‘Finn? Everything OK?’ His voice is sharp with worry, and at first I think he knows something of what’s been going on.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ I reassure him. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  ‘I’m phoning to ask a favour, actually. I know it’s a big ask but would you pay Thomas a visit? I’m curious as to why he thought it was Layla he saw outside the cottage.’

  ‘Why, has something happened?’

  I debate how much to tell him. ‘Just that a couple of weeks ago, Ellen thought she saw Layla in Cheltenham. It was probably only someone with the same sort of red hair but it does seem strange, coming on the back of Thomas’ sighting.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Tony muses. ‘Alright, leave it with me. I’ll go and see him this afternoon.’

  ‘Thanks, Tony, I really appreciate it.’ I feel bad sending him all the way to St Mary’s when I know that Thomas is in hospital. But I don’t want him to know I’ve been to the cottage. And it’s only a small detour; it won’t take him long to get to the hospital from St Mary’s.

  I don’t feel like going home so I take a drive along the coast to the other side of Sidmouth, then park up and go for a walk along the beach, wishing I’d brought Peggy with me. When I’m tired of walking, I find a pub and sit nursing a beer, mulling everything over.

  Tony finally phones at 5 p.m.

  ‘Tony,’ I say. ‘Did you manage to see Thomas?’

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. I went to St Mary’s only to find that Thomas was taken to hospital last week. Seems he had a nasty fall.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.’

  ‘I only found out because, when he didn’t come to the door, I went down to the village shop. They told me he’d been taken to the Royal Devon and Exeter so I went straight there.’

  ‘And did you see him?’

  ‘No.’ He pauses. ‘It seems he died in the early hours of the morning.’

  I feel a sudden guilt. ‘That’s so sad,’ I say. ‘I should have gone to see him, I promised I would.’

  ‘He’d been tending your garden. Full of flowers it was. I thought for a minute that you’d sold the cottage but they told me at the shop it was Thomas’ work.’

  ‘Now I feel doubly bad.’

  ‘Too late for regrets,’ he says, not because he wants me to feel even worse but because it’s the truth.

  ‘Well, thanks, Tony. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  I hang up. All I can do now is find Rudolph Hill and draw him out. I’ll let him think that I believe he has Layla, that I believe she’s alive.

  He’ll think he’s luring me, but it will be me doing the luring.

  EIGHTEEN

  Before

  ‘Who is he?’ I yelled as we sat in the car in the picnic area at Fonches, when you told me you’d slept with someone while you were in London. ‘Tell me who he is!’

  You shook your head numbly, terrified by my anger. So was I, and I forced myself to swallow it down. It wasn’t you I was angry with anyway, I was angry with the bastard who had forced himself on you. I wanted to break every bone in his body, cut his balls off.

  ‘I’m not angry with you, Layla,’ I said, taking a breath. ‘I just want to know who it was.’

  Your eyes wouldn’t meet mine. ‘I don’t know.’

  I didn’t believe you but I let it go. ‘Can you tell me how it happened? Did he force himself on you? Did he hurt you?’ That was how dark my mind was – I wanted to believe you’d been raped rather than that you’d chosen to have sex.

  You shook your head again and I took another breath. If he hadn’t forced himself on you, he must have taken advantage of you while you were drunk. I felt sick even thinking about it.

  ‘Alright.’ I looked encouragingly at you. ‘So you’d had too much to drink, is that it?’

  Your eyes brimmed with tears. ‘No.’

  ‘But—’ I tried to work it out. ‘If you weren’t drunk, and you say that he didn’t force himself on you, how did it happen?’

  Your eyes were pleading with me, begging me not to dig any further and as I watched the tears spill from your eyes, dread wormed its way into my heart. But still I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know, even though the truth was staring at me from your tear-streaked face.

  ‘Tell me, Layla. Tell me how it happened.’

  ‘I c-can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  You bowed your head. ‘I wanted to know what it was like.’

  I frowned, not understanding. ‘What it was like?’ My voice echoed hollowly around the car.

  And then you told me. ‘Nobody forced me. I wanted to know what it would be like to have sex with someone else, that’s all.�
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  My mind was slow putting it together. Wanted to know what it was like. With someone else. It. Sex. You had slept with someone, a stranger, because you had wanted to know what sex was like with someone else. First Siobhan, now you.

  I don’t remember much about what happened next. I know I leapt out of the car, tore round to your side, wrenched your door open and dragged you out. I remember shaking you, shouting at you. I remember your voice as you screamed at me to stop, I remember the fear in your eyes as I raised my arm. And then I remember being in the toilet block, trying desperately to control the terrible rage that had consumed me. And after – how long after, I don’t know – I remember going back to where I’d parked the car and finding you gone.

  At first I thought that you were hiding from me, because I could remember dragging you out of the car and shaking you. But I couldn’t remember what had happened between the moment I had raised my arm, and finding myself in the toilet block. I started calling you, telling you I was sorry and when you didn’t come, I took a torch from the boot and went looking for you, terrified that I’d come across your body, that I’d killed you and hidden your body in the trees that circled the picnic area before blanking the whole thing from my memory. But I couldn’t find you, dead or alive.

  I had no idea what to do. I knew I’d have to report you missing but that I’d have to have a story, otherwise they’d see my history and if you didn’t turn up, I’d be arrested for your murder. So that’s what I did; I drove to the nearest service station, because I couldn’t get a phone signal, and made up a story.

  NINETEEN

  Now

  ‘Shall we take the afternoon off?’ I ask Ellen over lunch, needing some sort of distraction, because I’ve spent the whole morning wondering if I should phone Tony back. But I know how ridiculous it will sound. If there were only the emails, it would be more believable. But the fact that someone is leaving little wooden dolls around for me to find proves it’s some sort of sick game and I prefer to find out who’s behind it myself.