‘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.’
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.
Ellen stretches her arms above her head, flexing them. ‘Good idea, I could do with a break.’
‘I thought we could go for a walk in the hills.’
‘Not with Peggy, then. It’ll be too far for her.’
‘I’ll take her out when we get back.’
We leave Peggy asleep under the table, put a couple of bottles of water in a rucksack, and make our way to the end of the village and up into the hills beyond.
‘So,’ I say, as we walk along hand in hand. ‘How are your illustrations coming along?’
‘Fine. I just hope Stan likes them.’
‘How old did you say he was?’
‘Eighty-three.’
‘Just shows you’re never too old to write,’ I muse.
It’s a beautiful day, perfect for walking because the sun isn’t too hot and there’s a gentle breeze blowing off the hills. After an hour or so we find a flat stone to sit on and stop for a drink of water. And all the while I’m wondering if an email has come in from Rudolph Hill.
Impatient of sitting still, I stand up and pull Ellen to her feet. ‘Come on, time to go.’
Our pace picks up on the way back. As we approach the house we see Mick in his front garden.
‘Hello, Mick,’ I say, going over. ‘How’s your wife?’
‘Not well,’ he says. He shakes his head wearily. ‘Depression is a terrible thing.’
‘Perhaps I could go and see her,’ Ellen offers. ‘Have a chat with her.’
‘She doesn’t really like to chat.’
‘Read to her, then. Would she like that, do you think?’
‘It’s very kind of you but she isn’t comfortable around people. She doesn’t even like family visiting. She’s alright with Mrs Jeffries, though.’
‘Well, if you ever feel like you need a break or a beer, you know where we are,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks.’ There’s an awkward pause. ‘I better go and see if she wants anything,’ he says, turning and heading to the front door.
We cross over the road to our house.
‘I just thought she might like some younger company than Mrs Jeffries,’ Ellen says.
‘Unfortunately, when you’re depressed, you end up cutting yourself off from the entire world,’ I reply, and because she knows something of what I went through in the years following Layla’s disappearance, she gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. In comparison to Mick’s wife – I realise that we don’t even know her name – who lost her two sons and her health, I feel slightly ashamed that Layla’s disappearance affected me so badly.
Peggy is awake so I take her for her walk and when we get back, she heads for her basket and I head to my office. The first thing I do is check my emails. There are plenty of new ones and I run my eye down them quickly. But there isn’t one from Rudolph Hill and I feel frustrated by his silence.
I decide to take the bull by the horns.
I think we should meet, I write, knowing he’ll never agree. And unbelievably, a reply comes straight back.
So do I
I stare at the screen, my skin prickling at the image of a faceless person sitting patiently in front of a computer for the last four days, waiting for me to get back to them. I pull my mind together. Time to reel him in.
Where?
You have the address
My heart thuds dully. The cottage. Had there been someone there yesterday, secretly watching me? Would they have shown themselves if that man hadn’t come along? Had they watched me leave, happy to have lured me there for nothing?
When? I write.
Tomorrow
What time?
4pm
Should I mention Layla, see what he says when I ask him to bring her with him, as if I believe he’s genuine? In the end, I simply tell him that I’ll be there.
After dinner, I tell Ellen I’ve had Grant on the phone and need to go back and see him.
‘Tomorrow,’ I add. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ she says. ‘He’s your client, you need to keep him happy.’
‘I need to keep you happy too,’ I say, going over and putting my arms around her.
‘Then how about we go up to bed?’ she murmurs.