I Found You

by Lisa Jewell

  ‘Incident?’ says Frank. ‘What incident?’

  Kitty smooths out her trouser legs again. ‘Something to do with a girl. A friend of his sister’s. No charges were pressed but it was very unpleasant and his parents decided to cut the cord. Unforgivable, really unforgivable.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘At first I appreciated him being here after my husband died, but after a few weeks, he … well, he became increasingly difficult to live with. We headed off to Ridinghouse Bay that summer, as we’d done so many summers before. I thought it might lighten things up a little. But if anything he was angrier there, angry with me, angry with the world. There was a … malevo­lence about him. I started to sleep with my bedroom door locked.’ She looks up at both of them, checking that they have registered the poignancy of her last comment.

  ‘Then one day he came bounding into the house, full of joy and talk of cakes and of you, this “nice family”. And I understood there was a girl and I suppose part of me thought, well, maybe this is it? The mythical girl who was going to fix him. And then you all turned up that day and I saw little Kirsty: so young, so pure, so completely incapable of dealing with a damaged soul like Mark. And my heart dropped.’

  Alice looks at Frank. What is he thinking? she wonders. He looks so closed, so numb.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kitty continues, delicate fingertips running up and down the curve of her teacup. ‘He took her out, seemed smitten, bought her flowers, took her to the movies, then suddenly he came home saying it was over, he didn’t care, “didn’t give a shit” were his exact words, that he could do better, she was just a little …’ She stops and purses her mouth. ‘Well, you know, not very nice. But it only lasted a day or two and then he seemed to move on, there was a girl coming from home, he told me, a singer. He was going to watch her perform, with some friends. I was relieved. So relieved. It seemed as though he was finally moving on after the death of my husband. His strange obsession with your sister felt like a distant memory. And he asked me if I could go out for the night as he wanted to invite his friends back after the gig, maybe a few of the nicer people from the town. He said it would be confined to the bar. Manageable. He wouldn’t let it get out of hand. And of course I said yes. Anything to make him happy when he’d been so unhappy; anything to see him behaving normally when he’d been behaving so abnormally. So I came back here for the night. It was nice, having the house to myself, not having to worry about Mark. Until …’ A muscle in her cheek twitches and she taps her fingernails against the sides of her cup. ‘A phone call from a roadside box, at one a.m. “I’m in trouble.” God. I’ll never forget. I’m in trouble. It was as if I’d been waiting for that call from the first day I met him. And here it was. And he was breathless and in pain. “I’m dying,” he kept saying. I’m dying! He wouldn’t let me call the police. I didn’t even ask why because deep down I knew why. Not what. But why. I got straight into the car and there he was, sitting on the rocks, down by Middlehurst Bay, in a pool of blood. He was white-blue. Like something dreadful spat out by the sea. I parked and I clambered down those rocks in the most stupid shoes, the first ones my feet found as I left the house. I cut my leg open on something as I slipped down. I still have the scar. Here.’ She rolls up the neat trousers and shows them a livid vertical scar up the side of her left shin. She slowly pulls the trouser leg down again and continues. ‘The sea was wild that night, deafening. I could see the coastguards with their flashlights out on their boats, the lifeboat pushing out to sea, the blue lights flashing in the town. Sleepy old Ridinghouse Bay was alive that night. I’ll never forget it. I found my way down to him and I managed to get him to his feet. The boats were coming closer. We only had a few minutes. And then he pointed, to the slope below. Check, he said, check if she’s dead.’

  Frank stiffens; his shoulders push back.

  ‘So I slid down the rocks and there she was …’

  ‘She?’ Alice says sharply. ‘You mean Kirsty?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kitty says. ‘Of course. Didn’t Mark tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Frank voice emerges as a soft groan.

  ‘Oh.’ Kitty looks flustered. ‘I assumed … well. What exactly did he tell you?’

  ‘That he let go of her. That she “faded”, that there was nothing he could do to save her.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kitty blanches and her fingers move to the pearl that hangs from a fine gold chain around her neck. ‘I … I … I didn’t know what had happened. I assumed at first, I don’t know, drunken high jinks, that maybe he’d been trying to rescue her. So I went to her and I felt her pulse and she was still alive. But not conscious.’

  ‘And you didn’t call an ambulance?’ The tendons on Frank’s neck are tight with rage. ‘You didn’t—’

  ‘He put a knife to my throat.’

  ‘Who?’ says Frank incredulously. ‘Mark? I thought you said he was injured? That he’d lost loads of blood?’

  ‘He was injured. Well, he seemed to be. But when I came back from checking Kirsty and he said, “Well?” I said, “She’s breathing.” And he said, “Get us out of here, now.” And of course I refused. Of course I did. I said, “No. I’m calling an ambulance!” And he staggered to his feet and this knife appeared. And suddenly he had me, from behind, knife to my throat and I thought: Well, here it is. He’s going to kill me.’

  She pauses for a moment and takes a sip of tea. ‘We carried your sister to my car and laid her out in the back.’

  ‘She was still alive?’ Frank sounds hollow with disbelief.

  ‘She was alive. Yes. She was.’

  ‘Did you … did you try to resuscitate her?’

  ‘He wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘And she died? Yes?’

  Tears have turned Kitty’s eyes to glass. She nods, just once. ‘Very soon afterwards. Before we were halfway home.’

  ‘On the back seat of your car?’ he asks.

  Kitty is crying now. Her tears splash on to her pale cheeks and she wipes them away with the backs of curled-up fingers. ‘I am so sorry. It was just … I was so scared. He had the knife. I didn’t know …’

  ‘Where is she?’ Frank too is crying now. ‘Where’s Kirsty?’

  ‘She’s – oh, God. I am so, so sorry. We parked the car in my garage around the back.’ She indicates the far end of her beautiful garden. ‘We stayed there for hours. I mean, literally, hours and hours. With Kirsty in the back. I was hysterical. Utterly hysterical. We were waiting for a knock on the door. We were waiting for sirens.’ She covers her face with both her hands for a moment. ‘We had the car radio tuned into the local news. We waited and we waited until finally, lunchtime the next day, it came across: they’d called off the search. There were still people out there, townspeople, on their own boats, but the official search was over. A sweet policeman came to my door that evening to tell me. Mark and your sister were assumed to have drowned. Your father was the hero who’d died trying to rescue them. There was no mention of you. I had to pretend to be shocked.’

  ‘But what did you do with my sister?’ Franks booms. He gets to his feet. ‘Where is she?’

  Kitty’s body becomes small, as though she is trying to fit herself into a box. Then she gets slowly to her feet and says, ‘Come.’

  Alice looks at Frank and he looks back at her in alarm.

  ‘Just come.’

  They get to their feet and follow Kitty to the French windows. She unhooks a key from a nail behind the curtains and opens up the door. Then she guides them across the garden, all curved beds full of meadow flowers, lichen-mottled urns and weeping willows, towards the far end where it meets the fields beyond. Here there is an oak tree, old and imposing, a giant puffball of green leaves stark against the bright blue sky.

  Kitty stands next to a rose bush, bejewelled with small white buds. ‘Kirsty is here.’

  ‘You buried her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t bury her. Of course I didn’t bury her! Mark buried her. He locked me in the house and he buried her. I planted the rose bush. Afterwards.’<
br />
  Frank sinks to his knees, on to the soft spring grass. He opens up his hands and caresses the ground with his palms. Then he glances up at Kitty with suppressed rage. ‘All these years,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘My mum.’

  ‘There has not been a day gone by when I have not thought of your mother.’

  Franks flicks his gaze up to her again, angrily. ‘Where is he?’ he demands. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No. I don’t. I haven’t spoken to him since the day he made me talk to that girl on the phone and pretend to be his mother. I don’t know why he made me do that. To spite me, I suppose. To cause me pain.’ She sighs. ‘I wished him luck, and then I told him I was going to remove myself from his life, not that I’d been a great part of it. Not since he changed his identity. It was too risky for him to talk to me or visit me. But I told him that I could play no more part in this subterfuge. So I sent him some money. And I hoped he would just finally settle down and be normal. The girl sounded …’ She shrugs. ‘Well, she sounded like she could look after herself. She sounded tough. So I left them to it.’

  Frank is still staring at the ground where his sister was buried twenty-two years previously. He looks broken.

  Alice crouches down next to him and puts her arm across his shoulders.

  He looks up at Kitty. ‘What were her last words?’ His words are strangulated with grief.

  ‘There were no words, Graham. She didn’t even open her eyes.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he cries, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘All these years, sitting here in your designer kitchen. Eating your dinner. Watching TV. Looking out at the view, knowing she was there? How could you?’

  ‘But I don’t live here!’ Kitty cries. ‘Of course I don’t! I live in Ridinghouse Bay, in the attic. I hate it here! I’d love to sell this place, move on with my life. But I can’t. How can I sell a house with a body in the garden? And I’m only here now because of that girl, the one you came with,’ she says, gesturing to the front of her house. ‘She called me. Yesterday morning. I don’t know why I answered, I really don’t. She’d been trying me for hours. I assumed it was Mark so I didn’t answer. Then the ringing finally stopped and another number came up about half an hour later, a mobile number, and I knew it wasn’t Mark’s number and I’d been expecting a call from someone else and I just instinctively, unthinkingly picked it up. Christ. And then the doorbell started to ring and I thought it was her! So I threw all my stuff into a bag and ran.’

  ‘But we were there,’ says Alice. ‘That was us ringing the bell. We didn’t see you leave. There was no car parked outside.’

  Kitty sighs. ‘I went down the back way, down the cliff stairs. I keep my car parked down in the car park by the beach. I don’t like people knowing that I’m there. I like to be … invisible. And that’s why I’m here, Graham, in this blighted, awful house. Not because I’m heartless. Because, I promise you this, my heart has not stopped hurting since the night your sister died. Not for one moment.’

  The talking stops but the three of them stay in position, Kitty and Alice standing, Frank still on his knees by the rosebush, a terrible vignette of grief and guilt and horror and lies.

  For a moment the silence is absolute. Then Alice turns slowly towards the house and says, ‘We need to find the others. We need to make some calls.’

  Fifty-nine

  Lily studies the food in front of her. There is a large bun that sounded like a rock when the waitress put it on her saucer with silver tongs. There is a plate that is made of two plates, one on top of another with a silver pole connecting them. On here there are many small cakes, some so beautiful she can barely imagine eating them. There are also some extremely tiny sandwiches that look as if they have been made for babies to eat. One of them appears to have no filling other than cucumber.

  Lesley pours tea into delicate cups and eyes Lily intrusively.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘tell me. What was it about Mark that you fell in love with?’

  Lily shrugs. The question is not meant to be friendly. The question she is really asking is: How could you have chosen such a monster to be your husband? ‘I fell in love with him because he was kind. And handsome. And strong. Because he respected me. And my family. Because I could tell that he had hurt inside him and I wanted to help to fix it. I fell in love with him because he was everything I wanted a man to be.’

  ‘But did you never get any … I don’t know, vibes? That he wasn’t quite right? That he was hiding something?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Never. We were happy.’

  ‘So, I wonder why he hasn’t come for you?’

  ‘We do not know when he escaped,’ Lily replies primly. ‘He may have escaped last night, this morning. He may have been to the apartment, looking for me. And found me not there.’

  ‘Has he called?’

  ‘No.’

  Lesley raises one eyebrow and looks at her pityingly.

  ‘He is trying to protect me,’ she says. ‘That is all.’

  ‘Well,’ says Lesley, ‘that may well be true.’ She selects one of the tiny sandwiches and eats it. Then she looks at Lily and says, ‘Eat.’

  ‘I am not hungry.’ This is a lie. She is starving.

  ‘Come on. We could be here for hours. And it’s delicious. Try one of these.’ She places a tiny sandwich on Lily’s plate. ‘Roast beef and horseradish. It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Horse – radish?’

  ‘Horseradish, yes. It’s a root, like ginger, you know. Mixed with cream. Beautiful.’

  Lily pushes the sandwich across the plate with her fingertips and sneers. ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, well, just eat your bloody scone then.’

  Lily fiddles with the rock bun thing, breaks a bit off and puts it in her mouth. It tastes of cement.

  ‘You need to put some clotted cream on it. And some jam.’

  ‘Clotted? Cream?’ Her lip curls.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Lesley passes her a small dish of crusty yellow stuff. ‘It’s just cream, for fuck’s sake. Christ. I mean surely you must eat all sorts of grim stuff in the Ukraine? This is just a bun and cream. It’s not going to bite you.’

  Lily gingerly does as she’s told; she takes a scrape of crusty yellow cream, a scoop of jam. She puts it in her mouth and decides she likes it. She does not say this though.

  ‘What will you do?’ Lesley asks. ‘If they find him? If he goes to prison? Where will you go?’

  Lily sighs. ‘I have not thought. I will probably have to go home. After all, my marriage certificate is not legal. I will not be allowed to stay.’

  ‘Do you want to stay?’

  ‘Yes. I think I do. I think I was ready to leave Kiev, ready to be somewhere else. I do not feel as though I have had this experience yet. That I am not finished. But’ – she shrugs – ‘that is life.’

  ‘What are your qualifications?’ Lesley asks.

  ‘I’m training to be an accountant.’

  Lesley raises her brow again, this time with surprise not scepticism. Clearly she does not think that Lily looks like an accountant. Maybe this is a good thing.

  Lesley’s phone rings and once again she is shouting down the phone, telling people what to do. She takes her phone out on to the pavement and Lily watches her pacing the pavement, gesticulating. As she watches her, Lily has a strange thought, that maybe she would like to be like her, one day, when she is old.

  Lily eats her scone and then investigates the other elements of this cream tea. By the time Lesley comes back she has had three small sandwiches and a cake with tiny purple sugar flowers on it. Lesley looks at the diminished spread and smiles knowingly.

  ‘I wonder what is happening?’ asks Lily.

  ‘Yes,’ says Lesley, sighing unhappily. ‘So do I.’

  And as she says this, the little brass bell above the door jingles and they are there, Frank and Alice. They both look shocked and as though they have been crying. Alice helps Frank into a chair and orders them
a pot of tea.

  ‘What?’ says Lily. ‘What is it? Did you find him?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘No. He’s not there and Kitty doesn’t know where he is. But he’s out there somewhere and he’s dangerous. Seriously dangerous.’

  Lily narrows her eyes at her. ‘Dangerous?’ she says. ‘What do you mean?’

  And then Alice patiently recounts a story that is so sad and so horrifying and so dark, yet so believable, that Lily almost forgets she is talking about the man she married. About halfway through, she already knows what she needs to do next. By the time Alice has finished the story she already has her phone in her hand. It is over. Her love affair. Her marriage. Her adventure. Her love for a man she never really knew. What was it her mother had said last week, something about onions? About how you needed to see the worst of a person before you could decide to share your life with them. She had not given herself the time to see the worst of Carl Monrose but now she has been shown it and no, she cannot love a man like that or share her life with a man like that. And neither can she let a man like that disappear into the ether, free to live his life.

  She dials in WPC Beverly Traviss’s number and she says, ‘Hello. Mrs Traviss. This is Lily Monrose.’

  She hears the familiar, forbearing intake of breath. ‘Ah, Mrs Monrose, good afternoon. I’m really sorry we weren’t in touch earlier. We’re still waiting for the—’

  ‘Please. Take some paper. Write this down. My husband’s real name is Mark Tate. He was reported as drowned in the town of Ridinghouse Bay in August 1993 when he was nineteen years old. He is responsible for – at the very least – the death of two people and a physical assault on one more. He changed his identity to Carl Monrose a few years ago and he was last seen on Tuesday the fourteenth of April at around seven p.m. in apartment number one, Wolf’s Hill Boulevard, London Road, Oxted. He is very dangerous. I and various other people will require protection while you search for him. Thank you.’