Layla
The trouble was, I couldn’t see inside Finn’s head. Despite the two Russian dolls that I’d left for him to find – one on the wall outside the house, another on his car – despite letting Ellen catch a glimpse of me in Cheltenham, which personally, I thought was a stroke of genius – maybe he was still refusing to believe I was back. Perhaps he didn’t want to believe it. He was going to marry Ellen and no amount of Russian dolls was going to change that. Anyway, didn’t she deserve him after all the sacrifices she’d made?
So I tried to let go. And I might have managed to if I hadn’t returned to the cottage, this time to go inside to take a keepsake of our time together there. The keys to the cottage were the only thing I’d had with me the night I’d disappeared, because they were in the pocket of my jeans, the jeans I’d been wearing the day we left St Mary’s.
I chose to arrive at lunchtime when there was less chance of being seen by Thomas. Like the previous time, I passed unnoticed out of the station. My steps quickened as I walked towards the cottage and as I approached, the past dug its claws in deeper, dragging me back to before, so that when I arrived at the gate, I fully expected Finn to fling open the blue front door, worried that I’d taken so long to come back from my walk to the village. When he didn’t, I thought he must be in the garden, so I let myself in. Lost in the past, I was surprised to find the key hard to turn in the lock, the door difficult to open, as if something was holding it shut. Maybe Finn had put a bag of rubbish there, to take out to the bin later.
I pushed the door harder, shoving whatever was behind it out of the way, and stepped into the hall. And the past, having had its fun with me, tossed me right back into the present. Disorientated, I stared at the mail piled up behind the door, yellow with age, trying to understand, because it seemed so at odds with the flowers in the garden. Even if Finn only came by once a month to keep the cottage up to scratch, surely there shouldn’t be this much mail?
Unwilling to accept what my eyes and nose were telling me – the stench of neglect was everywhere – I reached out and pushed open the kitchen door. A shower of dust fell from it and as I stood on the threshold looking in, it was hard to make sense of what I was seeing. Inch-thick dust covered every available surface and cobwebs hung from the beamed ceiling in shrouds. It eventually sunk in. Finn hadn’t been looking after the cottage, waiting for my return. How could I have ever thought that he would? He hadn’t been hoping that I would come back. I could stop leaving little Russian dolls for him to find. I wasn’t going to get the past back, I wasn’t going to be able to come out of the darkness and into the light. I was going to have to spend the rest of my life in subterfuge, hiding my true self away from the world.
Devastated, my eyes swept around the kitchen. Something caught my eye; a slightly raised rectangular shape on the table, something there under the dust. As if in a trance, I walked over and picked it up, exposing the brown wood surface of the table beneath. It was a letter, the envelope covered in the dust of a thousand years. I studied it for a moment, wondering why it wasn’t lying in the hall with the rest of the mail. I ran my finger across the front of it, dislodging the powdery film, and saw that the envelope had been handwritten, not typed, the ink so faded I could barely make out what it said. I held it up to the light streaming in through the window. There was just one word – Layla.
I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the letter Finn had left for me, because I recognised his handwriting. Eventually, the terrible shaking that had taken hold of me when I first saw my name on the envelope drove me to put it into my bag, terrified that the letter, fragile with age, would disintegrate in my hands before I’d had a chance to read it. What did it say, this letter that Finn had left me all those years ago? Was it a letter of warning, never to go near him again, to not seek him out, in the event that I did turn up? Or was it a letter of a different kind?
Aware of time passing, I left the cottage quickly, pulling the door closed behind me, then locking it, glad there was no sign of Thomas. As I hurried towards the station, I slipped my hand into my pocket and closed my fingers around the little Russian doll, one of the new ones, trying to calm my racing heart. When I arrived, I walked to the end of the platform, where there was less chance of somebody trying to strike up a conversation with me. Not only was I incapable of talking, I didn’t want a friendly local asking me why I’d come to St Mary’s, or a tourist telling me where I should go to next. But the family of four I walked past were too wrapped up in themselves to take any notice of me, as were the young couple sitting on the only bench, his arm around her shoulders, reminding me painfully of how Finn and I used to be.
Eventually, the train came in. The end carriage was mercifully empty and I chose a seat at the back, where I was less likely to be disturbed at subsequent stations. And then, as carefully as my trembling fingers would allow, I unsealed the envelope and gently pulled out the sheets of paper. My heart was in my mouth as I unfolded the pages, and as I did, something slid out and onto my lap. Looking down, I found myself staring at a ring.
I picked it up. It was gold, with a solitary diamond, like an engagement ring. My breath caught in my chest. I felt dizzy, sick. My vision blurred, and fearing I was going to pass out, I forced air into my lungs. The breath that escaped was huge. It shook the whole of my body so violently that the letter slid to the floor. Scared that the ring would too, and that I would never find it, I tried to slide it onto my finger. It was too big for my ring finger so I jammed it onto the middle one. It fitted perfectly. And then I stooped down, rescued the letter from the floor and unfolded it.
The words danced before my eyes. It was a while before I could focus on them and as I read, my whole world, the one I had created for myself, came crashing down around me.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Finn
Since the email from Layla yesterday, I haven’t been able to relax, which is why I’m out for a run. It was the capital letters that did it. They creeped me out. I’d felt threatened, which is stupid, I know. And now I keep wondering what will happen if Layla suddenly appears on the doorstep.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she did. Sometimes I go as far as imagining it – hearing the ring of the doorbell, going into the hall, opening the door, seeing her standing there. But I can’t imagine giving her a hug, ushering into the hall, then into the kitchen where Ellen is waiting. What I can imagine is taking her in my arms and never letting her go. Or taking her by the hand and leading her far, far away from everyone and everything. That’s what makes me afraid.
I arrive at the fence that borders the back of our garden and jump over it onto the lawn. I stand for a moment breathing heavily, stretching my calf muscles, then take out my mobile to check my emails. There’s nothing from Layla, probably because I haven’t replied to her last message, the one where she said she’d found me. I feel I owe her a reply, even if it’s only to tell her to stay away from me, from us, from Ellen and me. But that seems a bit harsh considering we’re her family. So I reply I’m glad you have.
I don’t want to bump into Ellen so I decide to delay my shower and go to my office instead. I log on to my computer and sit there, waiting. A few minutes later, an email comes in.
Have you told Ellen I’m alive?
Truth or lie? Because I’m on uncharted territory, I go for the truth.
No, not yet.
Why not?
Because I want to know where you’ve been for all these years first.
I shouldn’t have come back