‘I don’t want to kill anything.’
‘Everyone wants to hunt and anyone who says they don’t is lying. It’s an undeniable, primal need. You eat meat.’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘It is,’ he counters. ‘All meat comes from a kill. If you’re going to enjoy meat, you should take pride in killing it first.’
‘So this isn’t just for fun … you’re going to eat the deer?’
‘Why can’t it be for both?’
I swallow hard.
He puts the rifle in my hands. It’s heavy, alien; I’ve never held a gun before.
‘You’re going to shoot her.’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘It’s simple.’ He comes closer and before I can protest, he rests the butt against my shoulder and shows me how to aim. I see the deer through the rifle.
‘You need your weight behind it.’
His hands drop to my hips. My heart scatterguns. I don’t want his hands on me. I’m back on the hill, his grip bruising as he holds me down. The rain mingling with my tears as I beg him to stop.
‘You can do this,’ he whispers, moving my hips to shift my stance. Then he slips his hands around the front of my body so I’m pressed firmly against him.
‘You’ve got two shots. First to wound, second to kill. She favours her right, so, when she tries to run, swing right, cut her off before she can escape.’ His breath fogs in the wintry air. ‘Just squeeze the trigger.’
We are playing a game of chicken. I’m pretending to trust him and he’s pretending to trust me. He wants to know how far I’ll go to please him, to convince him he’s won me round and all is forgiven so we can skip, hand-in-hand, into the realm of happily-ever-after.
Can I turn the gun on him? This thought is dark and potent. Will I be quick enough?
‘Do it,’ he whispers. His hand snakes across the back of my neck, moving my hair to one side, exposing my throat. He hardens against me. It’s turning him on. It’s sick. He’s sick.
‘No!’ My protest is so loud, the deer skitters into the safety of the woods.
I spin around, raising the gun and level it at his heart. My head fills with white noise.
His mouth takes on an amused little twist, but I see the shock in his eyes. The fear.
He’s not convinced I have it in me.
Not convinced I will go that far.
I close my eyes and pull the trigger.
Chapter Forty-Five
154 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
Ruby had the baby. I haven’t seen her since I visited the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but she called and asked me to pop over this morning.
Gingerly, Ruby lowered herself and baby Claudia onto the sofa; god knows how many stitches are holding her perineum together. I made tea because it is a sin to walk into a new mother’s house and expect her to do it. Even from the kitchen I was inhaling that new baby smell which makes everything feel fresh and serene and still.
I returned with two steaming mugs. ‘God bless you,’ she said, taking one from me. ‘And thanks for the flowers; they’re beautiful.’
Everyone loves flowers. I sent George some too, to thank him for distracting Jack so I could escape. But I think George was most pleased with the crate of biscotti I dropped round after he mentioned you’d often ‘gift’ him some from Mugs. I didn’t go into all the details with lovely George about why I needed him to distract Jack, and he was gentleman enough not to push.
‘How’re you feeling?’ I asked Ruby.
She smiled. ‘Happy. So happy but so exhausted. I’ve never been so blissed out and tired in all my life. You just don’t know anything like it until you’ve had a baby.’
‘Good. And has Tom gone back to work?’
‘He didn’t have a choice. Work has been so busy for him.’
I nodded again even as I silently judged him for not taking the full amount of paternity leave to help raise his child. Ruby was pale and tired and still in pain.
‘Poor Claudia,’ she said. ‘Nobody wants to be a January baby – it’s the most miserable month of the year.’
‘That’s true, she’s in for a lifetime of “re-gifted” presents from the Christmas reject pile.’
‘Years of bland Boots bath and body sets. And what about when she’s older? Two words: dry January.’
‘Ah yes, the dreaded new year’s resolution will be a thorn in her side, but I’ll spoil her.’
‘Here,’ said Ruby, holding Claudia out to me.
As I took her, I couldn’t help but think about the first time I held you.
She was sleeping, her tiny fists bunched up beside her chubby cheeks. ‘She’s so small,’ I whispered. ‘She has Tom’s dark hair.’
We were both quiet, staring at the baby in my arms. ‘One day it will be me holding your baby,’ Ruby said.
I made a noncommittal sound and hugged Claudia closer.
‘That’s still the plan, isn’t it?’ she pressed.
I looked up; Ruby’s tired eyes bored into mine. ‘Maybe.’
‘Why “maybe”?’
I took a breath. I know it shouldn’t matter what other people think, but Ruby and I have been talking about babies for years: trips to the park, joint family holidays at a Cornwall cottage just like we used to do with the Westwoods at Wisteria, watching our children in their first nativity. I know Ruby, her family unit was pretty poor growing up and I’d become entrenched in this perfect future she had planned for her own children. She was going to take my rejection of motherhood personally. ‘I’m just not sure it’s what I want.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?’
Why is it no one ever asks a woman why she does want children, but everyone’s keen to ask a woman why she doesn’t want them? ‘Lots of reasons,’ I said vaguely. ‘I like having my own time and with Ethan working as much as he does, I’ll be left at home to take care of the baby.’
I didn’t tell her the idea of pregnancy turns my stomach or when I picture motherhood, I see snotty noses and dirty nappies and a screaming, red-faced baby, and I simply don’t feel that pull so many of my friends talk about.
‘But what will you do without a baby?’
I gave a little self-conscious laugh. ‘What do you mean?’
Claudia woke, gurgled and started to cry. I got that panic I always do when a baby starts to cry, as though it’s my fault. Ruby grimaced as she leaned forward to take her from me. Once Claudia was in her arms again, Ruby lifted her jumper and let her bare breast flop free. ‘Come on, baby girl,’ she cooed. ‘Are you hungry, beautiful?’ Ruby’s a natural. Claudia found her nipple quickly and fell quiet again. ‘I just mean it’s not like you have a career or anything. Throwing parties and decorating the house is all well and good but don’t you want your life to have some purpose?’
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It didn’t sound like Ruby – it sounded like Ethan. ‘He’s been in contact with you, hasn’t he?’
She flushed. ‘Who?’