I take a quiet step back into the hall and push open the door to the right. The sitting room is also empty. I think about calling out, but if there is anyone there and they had wanted to be seen, they would have shown themselves by now. But why would they hide? They’ve brought me here, so it must be for a reason.
I should have called Tony, asked him to come with me. It’s too late now. I’d been so sure it was just some elaborate hoax. But what if it wasn’t? I look up the stairs to the landing above, remembering the Right here message I received. Is Layla up there, bound, gagged, Rudolph Hill standing over her, waiting for me to come and find her? The urge to tear up the stairs is overwhelming. But I need to be careful, I can’t afford to put Layla in danger. I check myself; Layla can’t really be up there, can she?
I put my foot on the first step, testing it. It doesn’t creak so I start going up as quietly as I can, bending my head to avoid the low ceiling. The bathroom is on the left, the door ajar, which explains the smell that sours the air, from stagnant water in the toilet bowl. On the right is the bedroom that Layla and I used to share. I go in; it’s empty. Her dressing gown, barely distinguishable under its cover of grey, lies across the chair where she draped it the morning we left for Megève. The smaller bedroom, along the corridor from the bathroom, yields no secrets, no Layla tied to the bedpost waiting to be rescued, no Rudolph Hill waiting to blackmail me. Emotionally drained, I sit at the top of the stairs, looking down into the hall below, trying to absorb the knowledge that my journey here today has come to nothing. I’d left home thinking that by this evening, I’d know the truth behind the trail of Russian dolls and the emails. But I’m just as far away as ever.
I take out my mobile to check the time. It’s four thirty. Time to send a message to Rudolph Hill to find out what the hell is going on.
I’m here. Where are you?
A reply comes straight back.
Where I’d said I’d be
I feel a wave of fury that he’s continuing to play with me.
No, you’re not. I’m at the cottage but you aren’t
I can’t believe you’ve forgotten
Forgotten what? I type angrily.
I thought you would understand
I pause, suddenly aware of the shift in the tone of the messages. There’s something that seems off about them.
What do you mean? I ask.
The address
I sit for a moment, wondering if I should stop the whole thing now. But I’ve come this far, so I may as well carry on.
What address?
The email address
The urge to hurl my phone down the stairs is terrifying. Instead, I stab out a message, my fingers fumbling on the tiny keys.
Who are you, why are you doing this?
You know who I am
Yeah, Rudolph fucking Hill!
I can’t believe you haven’t understood
What – that you’re some sick psycho trying to make me think that you have Layla?
I chose it especially so that you would know it was me
If you still loved me, you would have understood
Goodbye Finn
I stare at the message, completely thrown at the mention of love, and the use of my name. I read the message again, more slowly this time. A chill runs down my spine – the bastard wants me to think the message is coming from Layla. Unless – no, it’s a trick, another step in his game. But my fingers are already picking out her name.
Layla?
I wait, my heart in my mouth. But there’s no reply and I give a roar of frustration, hating that I’ve fallen into his trap again. He never had any intention of being here today, all he wanted was to lure me to the cottage. But why? Just to prove he’s the one calling the shots?
I go downstairs, weary from all the mind games, and push open the door to the kitchen, planning to shake the dust from a chair and sit for a minute. I pull one out from the table and stop, my hand on its back, remembering the last time I’d sat on this chair, the day I wrote the letter to Layla, the letter I left for her to find in case she came back. Suddenly my ghost is there, and I watch as he takes a ring from his pocket, the ring he’d been planning to give Layla on her twentieth birthday, and puts it in the envelope along with the letter. I watch as he seals the envelope and places it in the centre of the table, ready for Layla to find. But – my ghost disappears as suddenly as he came – the letter is no longer there, all that remains is a rectangle of brown oak where the envelope once lay. Yet the rest of the table is barely discernible, covered by a thick layer of dust. I reach out, run my finger over the rectangle and find it almost dust-free. Which means that, fairly recently, someone took the letter.
I shake the dust from the chair and sink heavily onto it. For all I know, the letter could already have been gone when I came here two days ago, to see Thomas. Is that why Rudolph Hill knows so much about me, from my letter? Is that why there was something so real about his last messages, why I thought for one crazy moment that they were actually coming from Layla? I’m gutted I fell into his trap – how he must have laughed at my desperate Layla? But what had that been about, the one that said the email address had been chosen so that I would know who was sending the messages? Wasn’t I meant to think they were coming from Ruby? If that wasn’t the sender’s intention, the address must signify something else, something I should know. If it isn’t a person, what else could it be? A place? I know lots of hills but none of them are called Rudolph. So some other hill?
With infinite slowness it dawns on me. Not Ruby and dolphin but Russian doll. Russian doll, Pharos Hill. The Russian doll on Pharos Hill. I feel momentarily stunned, as if I’ve just witnessed a miracle. Other than me, only one person knows that Layla likened the tree-stump on Pharos Hill to a Russian doll and that’s Layla. Tears flood my eyes and I dash them away fiercely. It isn’t true, it can’t be. The emails can’t be coming from Layla. And yet, they must be.
I don’t remember leaving the cottage but suddenly I’m back in the car. Pharos Hill is thirty minutes away on foot but only ten by car. Please don’t let her be gone, I pray, as I ram the car into gear and drive off. Please don’t let her be gone.
It takes me eight minutes to get there. I pull to a stop near the foot of the hill and start sprinting up it. By the time I get to the top my breath is coming in ragged gasps and my lungs feel as if they’re about to burst. I look around wildly. I can’t see anyone, but the stump, the one shaped like a Russian doll, isn’t visible from here. I run past the bench we put up all those years ago, its struts etched with the names of friends and lovers, and disappear over the brow of the hill, my leg muscles trembling from the demands I’ve just made on them. The stump comes into sight and I run towards it, even though I can see no one’s there, and there’s nowhere for anyone to hide. Just as I’m wondering if it’s all some hideous joke, and that she was never here, I see a little Russian doll, perched meticulously on top of the stump.
‘Layla!’ Her name tears out of me, half-sob, half-cry. ‘Layla!’ I snatch up the doll and turn in a circle, calling her name over and over again, Layla! Layla! Layla! willing the breeze to carry it to wherever she is. I call until my voice is hoarse, but she doesn’t come.
TWENTY-TWO
Before
I’m going to have to finish this letter, Layla, because Harry is coming to pick me up to take me to the flat in London. I’m leaving the cottage, you see. You’ve been gone for six months now. I’m not giving up on you, please don’t think that. It’s just too hard being here without you.
Now that you’ve read my letter, I hope you’ll understand how sorry I am for what happened that night and find it in your heart to forgive me. I’ll be close by, waiting for you. If I move on from London, Harry will always know where I am. So come and find me, Layla, and when you do, we’ll get married.
I’m leaving you a ring, the ring I was going to give you on your twentieth birthday, when I asked you to marry me. I love you. I always have, I always will. No matter how long you are gone, I’ll never stop loving you.
Finn
PART TWO
TWENTY-THREE