If You Knew Her: A Novel
Emily Elgar
Acknowledgements
I would like to start by thanking my brilliant agent, Nelle Andrew, who believed in this book before even I knew I could write it.
Great thanks to the hugely talented Lucy Malagoni at Little, Brown for always going above and beyond; and to the whole Little, Brown team for all their work and dedication.
Thank you to my godfather Tom Shields for his sage advice – ‘Don’t not do something just because it’s a hard thing to do.’
Thank you to my dear friends who always make me laugh and for providing ever-absorbent shoulders; and to the Stonehouse for giving us all shelter over the years.
Great thanks to my wonderful sisters – Laura Pettifer and Catherine Williams – together we’ll always be the Elgar girls.
In deepest gratitude to my incredible parents Edward and Sandy Elgar who have been absolutely unshakeable in their faith in this book and their love for me throughout my life.
Finally, to my dear husband James Legend Linard for being by my side every day. I love you.
At every moment of our lives, we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss
PAULO COELHO, Eleven Minutes
Prologue
The darkness seems to pull her towards it, holding her in a freezing embrace as she moves down the lane and deeper into the treacle-thick night. The air electrocutes her lungs with each icy inhale, and her legs feel slick, sure of their new direction. She hears the stream bubbling by her side and the branches from the silver birch trees creak over her head like arthritic fingers knitting together.
The moon shines its mottled, kindly face, silvering her path like a fairy godmother; she smiles up at it before it vanishes again behind a fast-moving cloud. She feels entirely of the world; it moves easily along with her, as though some invisible force has, with a small sigh, been released within her, and she’s in step with life. She starts to hum, surprising herself, something made-up, childlike; it’s a nonsense but she doesn’t care and she doesn’t feel ashamed.
Why didn’t she notice before how smooth the world can be?
Her hum turns into a name. She calls out long and light, ‘Maisie!’ She stops and calls louder this time, ‘Maisie!’ She listens. The silence of the night is like a presence itself, taut and endless. Any moment now, there’ll be a scampering in the hedgerow, a sweet snap as Maisie’s nimble paws break delicate twigs. But for now there’s just a thick silence. She chooses not to worry; Maisie will be running in some nearby field, her body tight with adrenalin, nose to the ground, tail wagging, deaf to everything except the cacophony of smells around her. She adjusts her bag on her shoulder, calls again and keeps walking along the familiar pock-marked lane.
The flash of the car lights from behind startles her, like they’re intruding on her private moment and have caught her doing something no one else should see. The car is familiar. She waves, casting shadows on the tarmac, her arms preposterously long.
She breaks into a little run; there’s a passing point ahead, they can stop and talk there. But it’s as though running has caught the car’s attention – exposed some weakness in her – and she feels as if the car lights have locked onto her back with an animalistic ferocity, like the glazed eyes of a wild animal in a trance of instinct, nostrils full of prey. She feels the lights coming faster and faster, galloping towards her. A scream rips from her throat, but the wind whips her voice away, as if it’s needed elsewhere, at another drama. The car growls, so close behind her now.
Her bag falls from her shoulder and her neck whips round as the car bites into her hip. She feels her bones crack as easily as porcelain; the impact makes her spin, an insane pirouette to the edge of the stream. Her feet can’t keep up and she falls back. Thorns shred her useless hands as she clutches the hedgerows for support, but it’s just brambles and loose branches; it doesn’t even slow her down. She hears herself scream, distant, as if it’s coming from someone else far away. Her head sounds like a piece of meat slammed down on a butcher’s table as it hits something hard.
The stream is quite narrow; it fits her well, snug as a coffin. Her heart beats energy around her body with such force she can’t feel anything else. Even the ice water that busily trickles around her, trying to find its new flow with her in the way, doesn’t sting any more. The freezing air smells of wet, rotting things and her breath leaves her in blowsy clouds like small spirits, as if part of her was escaping, dissolving into the night.
She opens her eyes; the sky is still inky with night-time, and raindrops sting her face like tiny wet kisses. The car has finally come to a mechanical panting halt above her.
She places her hand between her thighs and raises it to her eyes. There’s no blood. Thank god, there’s no blood. Maisie, naughty Maisie, barks. She hears footsteps against the tarmac. They pause above her. She wishes they wouldn’t. It’s a relief when they walk away again. Pre-dawn silence seems to cover her, tucking her into her new bed. She feels held by the stream, calm in the silence, and she decides to drift off, just for a while, and when she wakes up, everything will be clear and she’ll feel free again.
1
Alice
I sit down in my usual chair, facing him. His head is turned towards me, patient, waiting for me to begin. I don’t expect a welcome, which is good because he never offers one. He just waits, professional, for me to start talking, which eventually I always do.
‘Hi, Frank – Happy New Year. Hope your Christmas was all right. It’s good to see you.’ I smile at him.
He doesn’t move; his expression doesn’t even flicker.
‘It feels like I’ve been away for ages.’ I look around; his sparse little area is just the same. After all the rain, the bright January light from the window is a relief; it catches dust motes floating in the air.