I head away from Truro, fighting my instincts to collect Jack; I turn for home. My meeting with Billy Adams playing back over my mind. The poor lad; someone’s son. Toby. How must his parents be suffering? Do they believe I’ve known all these years? Money laundering; why? Blackmail? Murder? How can anyone become so obsessed, so consumed by greed and power, to press their own self-destruct button? Someone so apparently intelligent yet so completely stupid. Was the gun, hidden in the chest, held to the head of a terrified Toby? Forcing him to take such a massive overdose? What about my part, my ignorance, then the burying of evidence? Evidence which might have given his parents some twisted form of peace of mind.
How was I not privy to the controversial findings of this case? So consumed with Jack’s protection, I both intentionally and ignorantly turned my back on anything circling your world. But then, that night you came for us, after our decree absolute was granted, shouldn’t I have guessed there was a reason for you to be so desperate to get your hands on the flash-drive? Curbed at the back of my mind – did I really not suspect? Was it then just easier for me to remain ignorant, fearing it would threaten our escape? Billy mentioned Toby’s parents lay low initially, grieving for their son. But now they understandably demand answers, after David’s meeting with the partner. You must have heard whisperings, and panicked knowing someone, somewhere, held your fate. All these years, you’ve believed you got away with it. A tiny contraption suppressing the big fat truth.
You knew, didn’t you, we survived the crash? All the possible searches, Her Majesty’s Services included, could not place you in this country after that night, or for the years that followed. The random silent call of Spanish origin I received, I knew it was you. You couldn’t let go, could you? I didn’t want you found; whilst the bumpy waters of the English Channel divided us, I could breathe. I lied to myself, you were dead. Until I received the call, confirming you were in Spain – was this Billy? I wonder. Immaterial now, but until then I fantasised you were dead. It was only when you returned to the UK, you withheld your number – did you think it would confuse me? Do you then still think I am so foolish?
I can’t put it off any longer – too many questions. I pull over in St Agnes. Grab my mobile.
Hi Billy, sorry for earlier. I need to meet you soon as possible please.
Today? Eve
A woman walks past singing nursery rhymes to her toddler, strapped in the buggy; safe. My underbelly world feels so far removed; how must it feel to be normal? I pull out again for home as my mobile rings out; Lemon Street Clinic caller ID flashes up on the mobile screen. I clutch it between my face and shoulder.
‘Hello?’
‘Evie, hi, it’s me.’
‘Bea, you okay?’
‘Hmm, but… just to give you a heads up, we’ve had a delivery for you.’ Bea’s voice becomes distant as she addresses Ruan. ‘It was recently, wasn’t it, Ru? As in, within the last fifteen minutes or so?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Ruan confirms.
‘Eve, it’s just, there’s been some flowers delivered for you, here.’
‘Oh?’ There’s obviously more to it; it wouldn’t be the first time a client sent flowers.
‘Yeah, the thing is, these aren’t what you’d call nice flowers.’
‘What do you mean, not nice? Carnations?’ I hate carnations, so artificial, too perfect.
‘No, I mean, it’s a huge bouquet of lilies and, well, they look like they’ve been splattered with dark red paint. I mean, actually, it looks like blood but obviously it’s not. Or, at least, I hope it’s not.’
‘What?’
‘There’s something else too, lovely. There’s a card in it. It’s an “in loving memory” card, you know, attached to the cellophane stuff.’
‘Right, and what does it say, Bea?’
‘It says, “till death do us part”, Eve. Then weirdly, on the reverse, in capitals, it says – “SORRY”.’
Is this you, or is it too obvious?
‘Eve? You there still, Eve?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m here. Who delivered them? A florist?’
‘We don’t know. Ru was in my room, helping me move the therapy bed. They were on the front desk when he went back to Reception. We didn’t see anyone. I said to Ru, though, strange they didn’t call out for us. Strange, we didn’t hear them either.’
I can hear Ruan muffled in the background. ‘Oh, yeah,’ Bea continues, ‘Ru’s just reminded me, they were left on the desk, but also, the front door was being pulled to, as he walked back into Reception. He saw the flowers, so looked out of the window.’
‘And?’
‘He wasn’t sure. There was a woman walking down the street, but also a man, loitering outside, and another woman with her children, and—’
‘Okay, thanks, Bea. Basically, he doesn’t know who left them, then. Bin them, out the back. Please.’
‘You sure?’
‘Well, why would I want to keep them?’
‘No, of course, just didn’t know if you wanted to see them for yourself?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks. Bin them, please. Can you ask Ruan to call the local florists for me, please? See if he can find out where they came from. Also, I’m supposed to be at the hospital this afternoon, doing an awareness talk to some of the staff – can you ask him to call, give my sincere apologies? I’m not going to be able to make it.’
‘Sure. You okay? I’ve a spare couple of hours if you want to meet up?’
‘No, I’m fine, a few things to sort out, that’s all. Thanks, though. Catch up with you tomorrow.’
I hang up. Lilies were your favourite flowers; we had them for our wedding. You know I’ve always associated them with death. But sorry? Why would you write ‘sorry’? Was it the florist, apologising for delivering a deathly arrangement? Come to think of it, would they really deliver such vulgar flowers? Surely not.
I pull up against the wall; even my home has begun to feel slightly tainted. Knowing someone’s been inside. I can see Gloria in her garden; she waves to me. I smile, then wave back. This is as much as I can offer; with no inclination for a neighbourly chat, I remain where I am. I let my head fall back against the headrest. So many unresolved issues remain. The note from Sam, on the back of the newspaper articles – was it a warning? Why so abstract, why now? How does she even know about your shenanigans, given I’ve only just found out some of it? Then, who put the envelope in my briefcase, the only people with the means being – me, Jack, Ruan or Bea? Or does Billy have something to do with this? Who has been in my house? Again, any of the above or is this more likely to be you? Why is Jack being so secretive with his mobile at the moment? Or is this because he’s a teenager? Now the flowers.
A flashback of Toby, tumbling down steps, being hurled into the boot of the car, comes pounding back. Would I have been able to intervene? I should at least have tried, but Jack was in the car; I was torn. I should have looked properly at the flash-drive too. What other evidence sits in the remainder of the recording?
I attempt to regather myself. I’ve been on standby for years but, despite the overwhelming urge for flight, I’m nearly ready to deal with this. You. As ready as I will ever be. I flick through my mobile to locate the text I prepared for you late last night.
I know what you want;
I have it. You’ll need to come for it.
Waiting for you. I’ll text you details.
I pressed send. No going back.
My mobile bleeps in my hand; I jump, as two texts jump on board together. The first, from Billy Adams.
This PM, 15.30 St Agnes pub, centre of town?
Then a text from Ruan.
Not a lot of info. But florist said it was deffo female who ordered them. She took them with her, said she wanted to hand-deliver.
Female? Female?
I’m completely shattered. I was so sure they were from you. Do you have someone working for you, who’s responsible? No, not your style; not when it comes to me – you do your own dirty work. It doesn’t make sense. Unless, of course, Ruan doesn’t want me to know the truth? I can’t keep thinking like this. I’m sure I’m edging towards paranoia.