Finn
I’ve taken to watching Ellen as she stands by the cooker stirring something in a pan, or sits at the table, her head bent over a magazine, and try to imagine what would happen if I were to say the words aloud, the words that would rid me of her, the words that would buy me the freedom to see Layla. Sometimes I go as far as mouthing, ‘Ellen, I’m sorry but I can’t marry you’, trying the words for size, testing the weight of them in my mouth. And then I imagine her reaction, first the shock, then the bewilderment, followed by a dawning realisation that I’ve never truly loved her. And finally, a quiet acceptance that I am no longer hers, now that Layla is back.
Except it wouldn’t be like that. There would be tears, which I couldn’t stand, and recriminations, which I couldn’t stomach. So the words remain trapped inside me until I feel as if I’m going to break under the strain of leaving them unsaid. Sometimes, when I’m watching Ellen, I wonder how it has come to this, how I can be contemplating life without her. But then I think of Layla, and Ellen fades into nothing. I remember Harry saying, all those years ago, that Layla had bewitched me. Well, now she’s bewitching me all over again.
As the days go on, I become desperate. I email Layla, asking her again if we can meet, telling her that we need to talk, that I need to see her. But as I make no mention of having done as she asked, she doesn’t reply.
‘How much longer are we going to give Layla?’ Ellen asks one evening. We’re in the sitting room listening to music and supposedly reading but, like me, I’m not sure she’s actually turned any pages.
I lift my head from my book and look across to where she’s curled up on the sofa, acknowledging that I would never normally sit so far away from her. Before Layla, I would have been next to her, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, playing for time, because I know very well what she means. It’s six days since Layla’s last message, seven since the Russian doll came through the post.
‘Before we tell Tony, or someone, that she’s alive.’ I hear the nervousness in her voice. ‘We can’t keep it a secret. The police need to know.’
‘Not yet,’ I say, for the third time. ‘We agreed that we’d wait.’
‘We said a few days. It’s been a week now,’ she persists. ‘If she was going to turn up of her own accord, surely she would have by now?’
‘She was missing for twelve years. We need to give her more time.’
‘Then can we at least tell Harry about the Russian doll that came through the post?’
‘Why?’ I say, perplexed. ‘What good would that do?’
‘I want him to know that I was right when I said that Layla was back. I could tell that he didn’t know what to think, despite the Russian doll I found.’ Something occurs to her. ‘Did you tell him about the one you found on the plate in The Jackdaw, the one you showed Ruby?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I admit.
Now she looks perplexed. ‘But it would have backed up my theory.’
‘As I said, I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up until I was sure.’
‘But you’re sure now,’ she says emphatically, making it impossible for me to stall any longer.
‘Alright, I’ll give Tony a ring.’
Ellen looks relieved. ‘Three heads are better than two. He’ll know what to do. What about Ruby? How much does she know?’
Her question takes me by surprise. I make a quick calculation. I can’t tell her that Ruby knows ten times more than she does, that she knows as much as I do, so how much is it feasible that Ruby would know?
‘She knows why I was upset to find the Russian doll on the plate,’ I say slowly, trying to work it out as I go along. ‘She knows I thought it came from Layla. When I accused her, I mentioned the story from your childhood, so she knows that now.’
‘Does she know that I thought I saw Layla in Cheltenham?’
‘No, I don’t think I mentioned it to her,’ I say, keeping it vague.
She’s quiet for a moment and I hope it’s a sign that she’s going to leave it alone for the moment. ‘But what if—’ She stops.
‘What?’ I prompt.
‘You said that you didn’t want to get my hopes up until you were sure it wasn’t some kind of sick joke,’ she says slowly. ‘But what if it is? What if it’s just someone who wants us to think that Layla is back?’
‘But as you rightly said, who would do such a thing? And nobody really knows the story of the Russian dolls except us.’
‘And Harry.’
I frown. ‘You don’t seriously think that Harry has anything to do with it?’
She bursts out laughing. ‘No, of course not, not Harry! I was thinking more of Ruby.’
‘Ruby? But—’
‘Yes, I know, she didn’t know the story of the Russian dolls until you told her in The Jackdaw.’ She leans forward urgently. ‘But what if you had told her before? I mean, you thought you had, which was why you thought she was behind them. So maybe you had and she just pretended that you hadn’t.’
My head feels as if it’s going to explode with trying to keep up. ‘But what about you seeing Layla in Cheltenham?’
She shrugs. ‘Maybe you were right all along, maybe it was only someone who had the same sort of hair as Layla.’ She pauses. ‘Ruby has the same sort of hair, long and curly.’
‘But not the same colour,’ I say.
‘Maybe she wore a wig.’
‘Anybody could have worn a wig. Anyway, Ruby didn’t know we were going to be in Cheltenham that day.’
‘She could have seen us leave and followed us.’
‘So are you telling me that you don’t think Layla is back any more, that you think Ruby is behind it?’ I ask, frustrated.
‘But isn’t that what you thought at first? That Ruby put the Russian doll outside the house and then one on the plate so you would think Layla was back and change your mind about marrying me?’
‘Yes, but I don’t any more.’
‘So what changed your mind about Ruby? The only thing that has happened since then is that I received a Russian doll through the post. Is that what convinced you that Layla is back? Because if it is, it could easily have been sent by Ruby.’
But I’m not thinking about Ruby, I’m thinking about something else she said, something so shocking that a strange weariness comes over me, as if I’m finally having to accept something I’ve suspected all along, but have hidden from. The air around me suddenly feels heavy. It presses on my chest, making it tight and I realise I can barely breathe. Ellen jumps to her feet and the look of alarm on her face as she hurries over to me makes me wonder if I’m having some kind of heart attack. Craving fresh air, I push her out of the way, go through to the hall and wrench open the front door, gulping in the cool night air.
‘Are you alright?’ Ellen’s voice comes from the hallway behind me.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just need some air – it was hot in there.’
She hovers for a moment but when I don’t say anything more, she disappears into the kitchen.
I sit down on the step and wait for normality to return. It’s a long time coming. I know what did it, why I felt suddenly ill. I push the thought away but it bounces straight back, forcing me to look at it, examine it, consider it. Is it possible that this whole thing with Layla is a hoax after all? Is it possible that I’ve been betrayed by the one person I would trust with my life – Harry, the person I love like a brother?