Who Killed Ruby?

by Camilla Way

  ‘OK,’ Miranda says, offering a reassuring smile. ‘You’ve done brilliantly. I think that’s enough for today—’

  ‘No!’ Viv says. ‘Absolutely not. That’s not an option. I need to do this. I need to remember.’ She lets out a deep breath. ‘Could I … would it be all right for me to have a few minutes on my own? Would that be OK?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go and make some tea. Take your time.’

  When Miranda leaves the room, Viv gets up and stands at the window looking out at the rainy garden beyond her own hollow-eyed reflection. She thinks of the photograph she has of herself and Ruby, taken shortly before her murder. In the picture she is leaning in close against her sister’s bump and they are smiling at the camera. The memory is so vivid, she can feel Ruby’s warmth along her left side as she leaned into her. Every time she looks at that picture, she feels the loss of Ruby as the physical absence of that warmth, the left side of her perpetually cold, abandoned. Now, though, without Cleo, that coldness has spread to every corner of her, an icy expanse that she will feel every second until she sees her child again, that she won’t be able to bear it if she doesn’t – it is as simple as that, she will not be able to bear it.

  She goes to the door. ‘Miranda,’ she calls. ‘I want to go on.’

  They are seated in the armchairs, the lights dimmed once more, the LED bar flashing its rhythmic pattern left to right, left to right. Vivienne has walked through the memory until the point where Ruby has returned upstairs after Morris left. She concentrates, casting her mind back until she is alone in the living room once more. Almost immediately the slow build of dread begins.

  ‘Nothing can hurt you, Vivienne,’ Miranda reminds her. ‘Ruby’s death was a long time ago. You are an adult now, and you are completely safe; what you are remembering is all in the past.’

  Viv nods and she clings on to the feeling of being in Miranda’s basement, her calm voice reassuring her, keeping her tethered to the safety of the present.

  ‘OK, are you ready to go on? Can you recall what happened next?’

  Her mouth dries, her heart pounds hard against her ribs. She makes herself take another step. ‘There’s someone else at the door,’ she says. She is only dimly conscious of the tears streaming down her face.

  ‘You mean you hear another knock?’

  ‘No. Oh! They … they’re pushing it open. Ruby must have left it on the latch – and whoever it is, is standing in the hall.’ She has not remembered this before and she feels panic swirling inside her. ‘I don’t … I can’t …’

  ‘Who is it, Vivienne? Who’s standing in the hall?’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know! I can’t see him and he doesn’t speak!’

  ‘OK,’ Miranda says. ‘OK, let’s take a break here.’

  But Vivienne pays no attention. She is standing on the precipice. She thinks of Cleo and something shifts inside her – something stronger than the self-preservation that has been keeping her memories locked deeply inside of her. She steps closer to the edge. And then she’s there, in freefall, remembering.

  ‘He’s going upstairs …’ she whispers. ‘He’s going up to Ruby’s bedroom!’

  ‘OK, you’re OK,’ Miranda says. ‘Take a moment to breathe.’

  But Vivienne barely hears her. ‘I can hear Ruby shouting. She’s crying and shouting and then … and then she screams … there’s a loud thud, the whole house shakes …’ Vivienne’s breath is coming in rapid gasps. ‘It’s all gone quiet and I know something bad has happened. The other person, they’re still up there.’ Her voice rises in distress.

  ‘Take your time, Vivienne, you’re doing so well.’

  ‘I get up and go to the foot of the stairs. I want to make sure that Ruby’s all right, but I’m frightened. I’m so frightened …’

  She doesn’t notice Miranda leaning forward and taking her hands in her own. ‘Vivienne, you are OK, you are safe.’

  ‘The other person is still up there with her. He’s still up there in Ruby’s room. I’m going upstairs,’ Viv continues. ‘It’s quiet now. I’m going upstairs and I push open Ruby’s bedroom door, and …’ But the black weight is pushing down on her chest with such intensity that she can hardly breathe. ‘No,’ she cries. ‘I can’t. I don’t want to!’

  ‘Vivienne, we need to stop.’

  ‘No,’ she whispers, the world seeming to telescope away from her as she permits herself to see, finally, who’s standing in the room with Ruby’s body. ‘No …’

  ‘What is it, Vivienne, what’s happened? What have you remembered?’

  But instead of replying, Viv gets to her feet. She stares down at Miranda in dazed horror. ‘I have to go. I have to go now,’ she says.

  Miranda gets up too. ‘Please sit down, Vivienne. We need to talk about this. It’s important that we—’

  But as though she hasn’t heard her, Viv rushes from the room.

  Miranda follows after her. ‘Vivienne,’ she says, ‘you can’t go, not like this. You’re in no state to drive home. Do you have someone you can call, who could come and collect you? Or I could drive you myself.’

  Still dazed, Viv glances back at her. ‘No, no. I’ll be OK.’ She reaches for the door handle and walks out into the street.

  ‘Listen to me, Vivienne …’

  She doesn’t wait to hear the rest. And when she’s sitting behind the wheel of her car once more the full force of what she’s relived hits her anew. She fumbles in her bag for her phone and calls her mother. When Stella answers on the second ring, Viv manages only to cry, ‘Mum, oh Mum …’

  ‘What is it?’ Stella says, her own voice rising in fear. ‘Vivienne, what’s happened? Is it Cleo?’

  ‘I’m on my way home,’ Viv says at last. ‘Please, meet me there. I’ll be forty minutes. Just come, Mum. Please come.’ She hangs up and though she’s shaking violently, she begins the drive home.

  19

  Cleo hears the van come to a stop by the gates. The doors open, and then there’s the sound of his footsteps as he approaches the caravan. She has a split second to decide. When she hears the rattle of the padlock, she runs to the far end of the yard and hides behind a stack of bricks. She can hear nothing but her heart beating, the blood rushing in her ears, her panting breath, knowing that it’s a matter of seconds before he looks inside and discovers that she’s gone.

  Even from fifty metres away, his roar of confusion and rage can be heard above the pounding of the rain on metal and concrete. He clatters down the steps of the caravan and runs to his van. She peeks around the stack of bricks and spies him opening the passenger side door and reaching in. He emerges holding a flashlight. His entire being radiates violence and she is more afraid of him than ever. He makes a circuit of the yard, darting around its edges, shining the light into every hiding place. He wants to kill her, of that she is in no doubt. He wants to kill her, and if he catches her, he will.

  She is shaking so much that she’s afraid she might upset the stack of bricks she’s hiding behind. A few metres away, she’s identified a gap between the wire fencing and adjoining panel of corrugated iron, but it’s barely a foot wide. She’s not sure she can make it through before he catches her. He draws ever nearer, swinging his flashlight, and she has to clamp her hands over her mouth to prevent her terror from escaping into the rainy darkness. She is going to be found and when she is her punishment will be far worse than a severed finger.

  He’s a metre away now, and still closing in. She could reach out and touch his shoe if she wanted. She feels her smallness, her powerlessness, and in that instant her fear is so great that she almost allows it to claim her. Though she knows what will happen if she does, she’s ready to give up and scream for her mother, because she is only a child and she is no match for him and never was. But she shuts her eyes and wills herself to hold on, to be brave, a big girl; to keep still and quiet for a bit longer.

  Above the drumming of the rain she hears a sound from beyond the gates that makes her open her eyes: a far-
away siren. Already the sound is receding into the distance, but it’s triggered a response. He swings around in its direction, then in one quick movement he turns off his flashlight and darts across to the caravan so that he is hidden from sight. She seizes her chance and runs as fast as she can towards the gap in the fence. It’s too narrow to fit through, but she can see footholds above her that will allow her to scale the fence once he’s out of the way. In the meantime she can only hope he will give up and leave soon.

  Instead, he waits a few minutes then resumes his search. If he swings his flashlight in her direction she will be seen. She stands there, fists clenched, eyes tightly shut, praying. At last he gives a shout of frustration and heads back to his van. She stays still, the torrential rain soaking her to the skin, not daring to hope. And then she hears the slam of the door, the growl of the engine, followed by the sudden bright glare of headlights as he drives away. She closes her eyes in thanks, but her relief evaporates as it hits her with horrifying certainty that his next destination will be her home. He will go to her mother, who will have no hope of defending herself against him. She has to get there first. She has to get to her mother before he does. Quickly she scales the fence and hauls herself over to the street on the other side.

  When Vivienne draws up outside number 22 Albert Road she sees Stella waiting for her on the doorstep, and she sits with the engine running, staring at the wet, bedraggled figure sheltering beneath her porch. She has no recollection of the streets she must have driven through to arrive here: everything is blank.

  Stella’s hair is plastered against her face and Viv is struck by how old she looks. When did this happen, the mother who had always been so strong turning into such a frail thing, her vitality ebbing away without Viv even noticing. An icy coldness spreads from her scalp down to her toes, her teeth beginning to chatter as it hits her anew that in a matter of minutes she will have to tell her mum what she knows, and in doing so change their lives forever.

  ‘Vivienne,’ Stella says, shivering in the cold as she gets out of her car and approaches her. ‘What on earth has happened? What is all this about?’

  But Viv doesn’t reply. She passes her mother without a word, unlocks her front door and goes through to the kitchen. Stella joins her and the two women stand contemplating each other in silence.

  It’s Stella who speaks first. ‘Vivienne, you’re scaring me. What’s going on? Please tell me.’

  ‘I know who it was, Mum,’ Vivienne replies. ‘I know who killed Ruby.’

  Stella stiffens. ‘Well … it was Jack, Vivienne, like you always said it was. Jack killed Ruby.’ She walks towards Viv and puts a hand on each of her shoulders, gazing at her with concern. ‘Darling, what’s happened? Are you OK? Do the police have any news?’ When Viv continues to stare at her without speaking, Stella frowns. ‘Vivienne, what’s all this about?’

  But although Viv opens her mouth, the words remain stuck in her throat.

  ‘Talk to me!’ Stella pleads. ‘Have you heard something … about Jack? Please tell me what’s going on.’ She tries to lead Vivienne to a chair, but Viv doesn’t move.

  ‘It wasn’t Jack,’ she says at last. ‘Jack didn’t kill Ruby.’

  Stella drops her hands in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, Vivienne, why are you doing this? Don’t you know how painful it is for me to hear you say such things?’ She sits down at the table. ‘My God, it’s bad enough that Cleo’s missing, I can’t cope with this as well, I really can’t.’ She turns to her daughter and looks at her pleadingly. ‘Come and sit down, darling, and let’s talk sensibly.’

  But Viv doesn’t move. ‘It wasn’t Jack,’ she repeats.

  ‘Oh Vivienne, of course it was.’ Stella sighs and speaks slowly and reasonably, as though to a wilful child. ‘Jack went to prison. You told the police that he was there when Ruby died, that Ruby opened the door to him, that you heard them arguing, that you heard him kill her, then saw him run from the house. Remember?’

  And Viv looks into the violet-blue eyes that are almost identical to her own and says, ‘No. That’s just it. That might be what I told the police, but it isn’t what happened. I know the truth now. I’ve remembered. It wasn’t Jack who killed Ruby, Mum. It was you.’

  Vivienne watches almost dispassionately as the colour drains from Stella’s face. She remembers how, in the care home that morning, Valerie Dryden had said to her, ‘I’m so sorry we didn’t help you back then, love. We wanted to. I wish we had.’ At the time she’d supposed Valerie was referring to the aftermath of Ruby’s death, those cold dark days of bewildering shock and grief, but she understands now that she had been talking about Stella, about the person she really was.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Stella says, managing to speak at last.

  Vivienne learned to tell the warning signs young. The silent, brooding nights of drinking, the particular look in Stella’s eyes that would alert you to the gathering storm. It became necessary to be ever ready for these signs, to become expert at appeasement, at invisibility, at contriteness. Just as important was the need to conceal what went on in their little white cottage. Vivienne had understood, almost before she could talk, that what mattered most to her mother was the admiration of others – that to cause the smallest fracture in her sense of self would spell disaster for them all.

  But occasionally, just occasionally, the truth, like noxious smoke, would leak from beneath the cottage’s doors or through half-closed windows, drifting beneath the noses of the villagers, only for them to turn away, pretend they could not smell it, choosing not to interfere.

  When she was very young, Viv would play out with the other kids on the village green, always last to leave, putting off the moment she must return home for as long as possible. Valerie Dryden had found her lingering there once, long after everyone else had gone, and said, ‘It’s too late to be out, Vivienne lovey. You must go on home. Your mother will be worried.’

  And something, she does not know what, had made Vivienne dare to take hold of her skirt and say, ‘I don’t want to. I am too frightened.’ It was the first time she had asked for help and it would also be the last. Because Valerie had looked at her, so pityingly, but without surprise, before turning briskly away and saying, ‘I’m sure it’ll be OK, off you go.’ Not wanting to get involved, to confront Stella Swift with her posh voice, her good looks, her intelligence, the quiet threat that lay beneath the surface of those beautiful eyes.

  In the years after Ruby died, Vivienne had constructed a new set of truths to replace the reality of her childhood. The nights of drinking, for example. She’d taught herself to remember that this was something that came about in the aftermath of her sister’s death, a natural response to the tragedy, lasting a few weeks, and not the constant feature of her childhood it had in fact been.

  She, both smaller than her sister and more biddable by nature, had been her mother’s favourite. It had been Ruby, so bold and defiant, who’d borne the brunt of Stella’s rages. But Viv’s own privileged position had been as precarious as it was hard won. Constant vigilance was required to ensure she did nothing to incite her mother’s displeasure.

  Her only refuge was her sister. Ruby, who would never fail to step in, to defend and protect her; Ruby, who had nothing to lose and who, the older she got, became ever more intent on breaking free. And then Jack had come along. The fact her sister had a boyfriend, was growing up, the sudden shift in power adding to the pressure building between Ruby and her mother in ways eight-year-old Vivienne couldn’t understand. She could only feel the air grow ever more fraught with danger – the tension tightening and tightening every time Ruby openly kissed Jack in front of Stella, or drove off in his car, a cigarette in her hand, a smirk on her face their mother was meant to see. Horrible and aggressive and awful as he was, Jack Delaney had nevertheless spelled escape and freedom, and both Ruby and her mother had known it. By the time Ruby’s pregnancy began to show, life in the cottage had become intolerable.

  Now, standing
in her kitchen in Peckham, Vivienne says quietly, ‘Jack wasn’t there at all that day, was he, Mum? Only Morris knocked on the door, and then after that, you came home from work and you went upstairs to Ruby’s room.’ She swallows, remembering the argument that had exploded between them, the way it so often did in those final weeks. ‘I heard you shouting, then a scream, then the sound of Ruby falling and then nothing. I went upstairs and there you were.’

  The rain outside has turned to sleet that thuds against the window panes, and still Stella hasn’t spoken.

  When she saw her sister’s body, Viv became hysterical. ‘Mum, what have you done?’ she cried. ‘What have you done?’ She ran to Ruby, kneeling down and shaking her. ‘Wake up! Oh please, please, wake up!’ She tried to lift her sister’s head and her hand had been wet with blood where Ruby’s skull had hit the windowsill.

  And she remembers how quietly, how calmly, her mother had said, ‘She’s dead, Vivienne. Your sister’s dead. It was an accident. It’s not my fault she fell and hurt herself.’

  She hadn’t wanted to believe it. Pain and grief and fear had overwhelmed her as she cried, ‘No, no, Ruby, no!’

  And then Stella had come and kneeled down next to her, gripping her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. ‘Jack did this,’ she said.

  She’d stared back at her mother uncomprehendingly, then shaken her head. ‘No! It was you. You hurt her. You killed her.’

  But her mother had her so well trained. It only took a look, a certain tone of voice, to bring Vivienne into line. ‘Listen carefully,’ she said, each word precisely spoken. ‘Jack did this.’ And when Viv continued to shake her head, Stella had said very softly, ‘Vivienne, are you disobeying me?’

  She had frozen. ‘I … no …’

  ‘Jack Delaney killed your sister. You have to say it was him or I will go to prison, and it will all be your fault. That would be a wicked, wicked thing to do.’

  And she relied so much on Stella’s approval, had spent her short life ensuring that she always did as she was told, that she never disobeyed or displeased her, that almost without knowing it she had nodded. And with that nod she’d experienced a sort of disconnect, as if the world had divided in two, a rift in the universe where on one side lay her truth, and on the other, Stella’s. And if she was to survive, if she wasn’t to lose everything she knew, then Stella’s truth had to become hers, too. She had no one else, no one at all now that she didn’t have Ruby.