SIXTEEN
Before
You never asked me why I left Ireland and came to England. I’m not sure you really realised that I had a life over there, a life I’d rather forget about because I’m not proud of the person I was back then. People called me a gentle giant and until my mid-teens that was probably the case. At least, I never remember losing my temper before my dad told me I couldn’t go out one night, and as he stood in front of the locked front door, I raised my fist and punched a hole right through it. The worst thing was, I’d been aiming for his face and if he hadn’t ducked I would have done him some serious damage. Hopefully, the love I felt for him would have kicked in and I would have stopped after that first punch. The door had no love to protect it, so it got hammered into a splintered mess.
The incident terrified both my parents and me. We’d had no idea of the touch-paper that nestled deep inside me, waiting to be ignited. They impressed on me the need to recognise the warning signs and urged me to walk away from situations of conflict, citing the added danger of my size. And apart from a couple of incidents where I left people with broken noses, I managed to stay out of trouble. Until I met Siobhan.
Siobhan was my first real love. Now I know that what I felt for her was nothing to what I felt for you. But there was that same intensity, the same feeling that we were meant to be together. We didn’t speak of marriage or anything like that, we were still at university. But once I started seeing her, I didn’t notice any other girl, I only had eyes for her, just as I’d had for you. Then one day, when we’d been together for about a year, a week or so after graduation, she said she had something to tell me. She looked worried, scared even, and my first thought was that maybe she was ill, or someone in her family was. Instead, she told me that she was in love with my best friend and had been seeing him behind my back for months.
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.