Текст книги "The Betrayal: A gripping novel of psychological suspense"

Автор книги: Laura Elliot

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 34

Nadine

Stuart lied to me, lured me to Alaska on the pretence that he was a man on a reprieve. Instead, he was on borrowed time and had known that the span of life left to him could be measured in months. Pretence had no longer been possible when we returned to Juneau. Daveth drove us to the hospital where Stuart received a blood transfusion and underwent a series of scans.

‘Sinister,’ he told me when he was discharged from hospital and we’d settled into the lodge he has rented. ‘That’s what my oncologist in London called my cancer. I kept imagining it sliding through a dark street in a hoodie. So, I decided to outrun it.’ He paused. ‘Will you stay with me?’ he asked. ‘I need someone who won’t look away in disgust if things get…’ He hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘Hard to manage.’

‘You’d need a nurse… hospitalisation.’

‘In time, maybe. But that won’t be necessary until the end. This is my last photographic assignment. I’ve spoken to my agent. I always hated the thought of a posthumous exhibition but that’s what it will be. I’ve made peace with my death, Nadine. I know my work will be in safe hands.’ He smiled, forced me to smile back, which I did to hide my terror.

How does the mind process that kind of information? Probably in stages, in mood swings that veer from wildly optimistic to the darker reaches. Which is better? The slow acceptance of one’s death or the instant realisation that it’s all over, as Sara must have understood in that instant of collision. No time for terror or regret. No time to put her house in order. I dislike that euphemism, as if the approach of death requires a particularly strenuous bout of spring cleaning.

Stuart’s apartment on Canary Wharf is sold and he plans to end his days here. I listen as he tells me what must be done when I return to London with his photographic equipment and photographs, the framer and gallery owners I must contact.

I drive a jeep and learn to negotiate the roads around the lake. Stuart has worked out an itinerary of things we must do, places we must visit. Daveth has returned to sea and the photographs on his blog are of different voyagers leaning over the side of Eyebright to stare goggle-eyed at whales and calving icebergs.

Stuart, fiercely independent and proud, is still strong. We sit together on the glass fronted veranda and watch autumn die. Each day brings an added radiance to the forests. The leaves fall suddenly here, a breath and they are gone, says Daveth. Stuart, too, seems possessed by that same radiance. It shines through the grey pallor of his illness as he follows the flight of eagles with his binoculars, photographs a caribou glimpsed between trees, a moose swimming across the lake. Daveth, who lives nearby, calls to see us between cruises. Soon his season will be over and he will build his boats during the winter.

I take my breakfast and my laptop to the veranda this morning. There’s an email from Ali. She has a leading role in the next Barnstormer’s production. Brian had also emailed. His Willow Passion ceramic boxes have been shortlisted for a prestigious craft award. I’ll miss both events. How glibly I promised to be with them, Jake by my side, for all family celebrations. I’ve already missed the first one. Eleanor’s birthday celebration never changes. It’s nighttime in Dublin. She’s probably back in her bungalow now. I wonder how she and Jake sustained their conversation in Louisa’s Loft for the night.

My phone rings. Separate continents are not a barrier to thought transference yet I’m surprised to see Eleanor’s name on my screen.

‘Thank you for the book,’ she says. ‘It’s kind of you to remember those of us back home.’

I ignore the remark and watch a bird hovering against the grey sky. It’s a sullen day in Juneau and the bird is too far away to identify. I suspect it’s a sharp-eyed eagle checking out its prey.

‘I believe Stuart is unwell again,’ she says.

He’s dying, I want to shout the words out loud in the hope of lessening their dread.

‘He’s coping and is still very active,’ I reply. ‘Did you have a nice meal in Louisa’s Loft?’

‘The food was excellent, as always. But what used to be a grand occasion has now been reduced to two. At least that’s what I thought.’ A meaningful pause follows. I know these pauses. They usually proceed a meaningful announcement and Eleanor does not disappoint. ‘We were joined by a third party.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your friend, Karin Moylan.’

‘She’s not – ’

‘She’d been stood up by her boyfriend so I asked her to join us. She’s quite charming… and so knowledgeable about politics.’

‘Is there something you want to say to me, Eleanor?’

‘I saw the way Jake looked at her. It’s only a matter of time, Nadine.’

‘Is that what you rang to tell me?’

‘I’m not trying to make trouble.’

‘Then why are we talking about this?’

‘Please listen to me.’ Her usual brisk manner is subdued. ‘I’m worried about Jake. I can’t get him to slow down and think seriously about his future. That awful band, the guitar courses he runs, the sessions he does in that studio. It’s all piecemeal work. And tonight he was jittery, on edge all the time.’

‘You should be discussing this with him. It’s nothing to do with – ’

‘He’s still your husband. Don’t you have any feelings for him?’

‘Actually, no. I don’t want you to ring me again unless we can have a conversation that does not include his name.’

‘The fact that you’re so angry means you do have feelings. Your friend – ’

‘Karin Moylan is not my friend, Eleanor. I left her behind a long time ago. And I’ve left Jake. I’ve no intention of interfering in his life. Goodbye.’

I fill my mug with coffee and drink it black. The life I left behind seems alien, petty. Stuart is my only concern. A boat moves through the lake, the water so still it seems to have solidified into glass. The eagle drops to the water, talons razor sharp. The silence is absolute.

Oh, Jake, you poor, deluded fool. I lean my elbows on the table and rest my face in the curve of my arms.

Karin Moylan drew my image on a blackboard and I self-destructed. I came home from school that evening and locked myself in the bathroom. Sara was cooking in the kitchen. The sounds were familiar, the radio playing on the window sill, the television rumbling in the dining room. A bird warbled shrilly on a tree outside, a harsh, repetitive note that kept me strong as I removed a blade from the razor my father used for shaving. Sara had bought him an electric razor for his birthday but he’d never taken it out of its box. He preferred the precision of a sharp blade.

I cut lightly into my wrist, watched beads of blood rise to the surface and flow. The sting of pain, the red splash on the white ceramic basin, the sickly-sweet sense of relief, I’ve never forgotten it.

Afterwards, I vowed it would not happen again. I scoured the basin and stuck a plaster on my arm. Such secrecy and stealth. The broken promises. I wanted to stop and believed I could until the urge overwhelmed me once more.

One evening I cut too deep. I was almost unconscious when Sara’s frantic banging on the bathroom door brought me to my senses. I staggered to my feet and turned the key, allowed her to enter into my pain. Eoin was unable to understand why I would deliberately harm myself. It was beyond his ken, he said, and reflected my shame back at me. Self-hatred, it grew like a snowball on a steep hillside. Sara did her best to stop my belief that I deserved to be bullied. Nothing made any difference. What if… what if… that same question always lured me back to the blade. The warm trickle of blood, the escape route from guilt.

Stuart talks a lot about Sara. The childhood they shared and the years that followed until she was taken so suddenly from us. I remember the strength of her arms as she struggled to free me from my demons. The voices only I could hear. Unrelenting voices that demanded pain as their reward for silence.

At Stuart’s request I drive him to the Shrine of St Theresa on the outskirts of Juneau. The retreat centre is peaceful and quiet. He spends time in a small chapel and we walk together around the circles of stones that create the Merciful Love Labyrinth. He is silent on the journey back to the lodge. Daveth brings armloads of logs from the back of his pickup truck and I build the fires high.

We visit the Mendenhall glacier where ice as turbulent and textured as a flow of lava cuts through the rocky valley. It seems imperishable, indestructible, yet the slow drip of mortality is active here too. There is a skeletal starkness about Stuart’s photography. I know it’s my imagination but I see limbs writhing within the ice, as if bodies are struggling to be freed from their glistening tombs. Death is here with us, soundless and invisible. I sense it taking a step nearer each day yet we’re comfortable in the silence that has settled between us. I buy art materials in Juneau and, while Stuart works on his photography, I sketch the slumbering lake and forests.

Chapter 35

Jake

He adjusted Brian’s bow tie and ran a clothes brush over his son’s hired tuxedo. In a few hours’ time Brian could become the youngest-ever winner of the R.E. Spencer Ceramics Award. Brian’s love affair with clay began at the age of two when Nadine gave him a lump of play dough to distract him while she was feeding the twins. He was six when he told his parents he was going to become a potter. While Ali flounced around in a tiara and princess dress, and the twins raced each other up and down climbing frames, Brian filled the kitchen shelves with lopsided mugs and fantasy creatures with bulging foreheads. Fast forward to what seemed to Jake like only a skip in time and he, along with Eleanor, were Brian’s invited guests at tonight’s award ceremony where, if Brian was even luckier, he would be chosen from the category winners to win the overall, prestigious R.E. Spencer Craft and Design Award.

‘I reckon the goldsmith will get it,’ he told Jake before they left Sea Aster. ‘His work is awesome. But winning the ceramic category would give my work brilliant exposure.’

The reception room was already crowded when they arrived. A harpist struggled heroically to be heard about the babble of voices and waiters eased through the crowd with trays of champagne and canapés. Eleanor checked out the room at a glance, her political antennae primed for potential contacts.

‘Is that Jessica Walls over there?’ she asked when Brian was being interviewed by the media. ‘I do believe it is. Remarkable woman. All those magazines. I still don’t understand why Nadine gave up such an amazing opportunity to build a new career for herself. She won’t get that chance again.’ She moved towards a small cluster of people and eased skilfully into their circle. Jake never failed to marvel at her ability to infiltrate the most resistant group.

‘Isn’t this a wonderful opportunity to celebrate such amazing young talent,’ he overheard her say. ‘You must meet my grandson, Jessica. Unfortunately, Nadine is still in Alaska so I’m here in loco parentis, so to speak. I’m assuming he’s going to win but as a doting grandmother I’m allowed to be totally biased.’

Polite laughter greeted this remark and Jessica Walls, dramatic in a gold lamé evening gown, accompanied Eleanor across the reception room to where the contestants were being interviewed. Had Eleanor ever expressed such pride in him, Jake wondered. He tried to pinpoint an instant that he could hold up to the light and recognise as a gesture of affection, a memory to cherish. But his recollections of his childhood were cluttered with her busyness. Her constant energy and ambition. Her face on posters, that bland yet determined smile.

‘Jake and Eleanor Saunders. I’d never have put the two of you together.’ A man who had been speaking to Jessica before Eleanor’s interruption nodded at Jake. His thick, brown hair glistened with gel and his aftershave reminded Jake unpleasantly of horse liniment.

‘Most people don’t.’ He smiled ruefully and tried to remember why the man looked familiar.

‘Liam Brett’s the name,’ he said. ‘I used to work with your wife. Is she still in Alaska?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was good. Pity she took off like that. How are things with Shard these days?’

‘We’re happy.’

‘I was at your come-back gig with Karin Moylan. I believe you two know each other from Shard’s previous incarnation.’

Jake remembered him now. That night in The Bare Pit, the sinuous dance steps as he moved around Karin, his eyes never leaving her face. Karin only ever referred to him in throwaway remarks that made him sound like a pet dog. But Liam Brett was no one’s pet dog and his expression as he eyeballed Jake had the aggression of a rutting stag.

‘She’s still a dedicated fan.’ He reached for another glass of champagne and moved closer to Jake. ‘No offence, mate, but her taste in music is something I don’t share.’

‘None taken, mate. Enjoy the night.’

He walked away before Liam could reply. The stoic harpist was still playing, her music lost under the chattering voices. She smiled in appreciation when he moved closer to listen.

The clanging of a bell startled the crowd into a momentary silence. A voice informed them it was time to move into the main hall where dinner was about to be served. The decision of the judges would be announced at the end of the meal.

‘There’s Karin Moylan.’ Eleanor craned her neck and waved across at one of the tables. ‘She mentioned she’d be here with the crowd from Lustrous tonight.’

He followed her gaze and saw Karin sitting beside Liam Brett, her face turned attentively towards him. As if aware of Jake’s gaze she looked over and waved.

‘How lovely she looks,’ said Eleanor. ‘She did a wonderful job on Lustrous. Have you seen the new layout?’

‘No,’ said Jake.

‘Are you talking about the woman with the blue necklace?’ asked Brian.

‘We are,’ said Eleanor. ‘I’m working with her on the new logo for First Affiliation.’

‘She’s been to my studio,’ Brian said. ‘She bought some pieces from the Willow Passion collection.’

‘When was that?’ Jake tried to hide his shock.

‘Last week,’ said Brian. ‘She’s really into my work. Pity she’s not on the judging panel.’

Jake had lost his appetite by the time the first course was served. Why had Karin never mentioned visiting his son’s pottery? Slí na hAbhann, where the craft centre was located, was not somewhere convenient where customers could drop in on a whim. It would have taken Karin almost five hours to drive there. He wanted to question Brian further but his son was talking animatedly to the young silversmith sitting next to him.

Tension rose as the meal drew to a close. Speeches followed and the competitors sat stiffly to attention as they awaited the judges’ decisions. Jake’s eyes stung when Brian’s name was called and his son walked across the stage to receive the ceramics award. He wanted Nadine to share this night with him but she was on Alaskan time and her day was only beginning.

Brian was right about the overall prize being awarded to the goldsmith but the delicacy of the glaze on the Willow Passion collection received a special commendation from the judging panel.

‘Brian, I’m so thrilled for you.’ Karin came to their table when the ceremony ended and shook his hand. ‘Not that I’m surprised. Your work is beautiful. You must be so proud of your grandson, Eleanor.’

‘I’m proud of all my grandchildren but tonight is very special indeed.’ Eleanor rubbed her hand affectionately along Brian’s beard. ‘I’m only sorry his mother isn’t here to share this wonderful night with us.’

‘I’ll send her the video,’ Brian said. ‘She’d be here if she could. Looking after Great-uncle Stuart is far more important.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Eleanor conceded this point. ‘Poor unfortunate man. He should be back in London receiving proper medical attention. I’ve never understood his fascination with ice when all it ever does is melt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long night and I’m off to my bed. I’ll be in touch soon, Karin. Goodnight Jake. Congratulations again, Brian.’ She blew kisses at them and swept towards the exit.

‘Karin, can I buy you a celebratory drink?’ Brian glanced enquiringly at her when she slipped into the chair vacated by Eleanor.

‘Thank you, Brian. A glass of prosecco would be lovely.’

‘What about you, Dad?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ He folded his arms and stared across the table at Karin.

‘Nice engineering,’ he said when Brian walked towards the bar.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Brian said you’ve visited his pottery.’

‘Yes, I have. They’ve quite a nice setup in that craft centre.’

‘And you just dropped in purely by chance.’

‘No, not by chance. I was meeting a client in Tralee and saw the signpost for Slí na hAbhann. Brian brought me on a tour of the studios. Such talent. Quite remarkable in such an out of the way location.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been there?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about tonight? Were you afraid I’d expect to come with you?’

‘It wouldn’t have been an appropriate occasion.’

‘I agree.’

‘So, now you’ve met my son and my mother. What next?’

‘Why are you angry?’

‘You’re manipulating me.’

‘I love you, Jake. Your family are an extension of that love. I want them to accept me on their own terms and if this is the way I do it, why should you object?’

‘Here we are.’ Brian put the drinks down on the table and clinked glasses with Karin. The cut glass ceramic award in the centre of the table glinted and reminded Jake of ice splintering in sunlight.

Stuart’s illness had broken Nadine’s resolve not to contact him. He was dying, she said when she rang him last night. Her voice had quavered then strengthened. He would die in Alaska and she would stay with him until the end.

The news shocked him. He had seen the recent photographs that Nadine had taken – Ali always forwarded them to his laptop – and Stuart, muffled in a parka jacket, his padded trousers tucked into mountain boots, looked so fit it was impossible to believe his time was limited. Other photographs charted Nadine’s life in Alaska. Ice skating on a lake with Daveth Carew, admiring an ice sculpture with Stuart, standing beside him in front of a small stone church. Each photograph spawned another dozen images in Jake’s mind. Why was Daveth Carew in so many of them? Why was he on dry land when he should be on his boat encouraging whales to surface from their icy depths? What right had Jake to feel jealous when he saw a photograph of Daveth and Nadine tucked under rugs on a dog sled ride? And could this heart-sinking sensation be classified as jealousy? He had no idea how he felt about anything anymore.

Chapter 36

He was loading the last amplifier into his van outside The Bare Pit when his phone bleeped. A text from Karin. She was waiting for him in Sea Aster. He sat into the driver seat and read her text again. How had she entered his apartment? The windows and door were securely locked. There was only one answer. She must have taken a spare key from the drawer in the kitchen and had her own copy cut.

Scented candles blazed on the dressing table. A bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice sat on the bedside locker. Karin was sitting up in his bed, pillows plumped behind her, the duvet pulled to her chin. She looked pale in the candlelight, defenceless as he closed the bedroom door. Her expression reminded him of a naughty child who expected to be punished yet the air was musky, vibrating with expectation. He had a sudden urge to shake her and demand his key back. What right had she to break into his apartment and assume everything would be okay with candlelight and champagne?

‘What a face.’ She shuddered in mock apprehension. The duvet slid from one shoulder as she uncurled her hand and revealed the key. ‘You’re mad at me again. But I knew Eleanor wouldn’t mind if I had my own key cut.’

‘But I mind – ’

‘Why? You claim to love me yet you lock your door on me. Are you angry because I took the initiative?’

‘Yes. This should be my decision.’ The sense of unseen strings pulling on him intensified. He had to keep thinking ahead, to try and anticipate what she would say or do next. Her moods veered from fun-loving and sexy to hurt and petulant. He never knew when an inadvertent remark would cause her eyes to harden, her lip to swell.

‘I want to celebrate our relationship, not hide it.’ She grasped both his hands and pulled him towards her. ‘It’s time you took the commitment we made to each other as seriously as I do.’

He filled their glasses with champagne but the feeling that he was participating in a ritual over which he had lost control persisted. She untied the ribbons at the front of her bustier. She stroked her breast, her fingers trailing from the nipple downwards. He responded, as always, a rush of blood, a hardening. Was she like an addiction, he wondered; the longing to consume greater than the satisfaction of consuming? Her lingerie was becoming more provocative. Ribbons strategically placed, heart shaped buttons straining to be opened, alluring slits within folds of lace or brazenly apparent. They drank champagne and made love slowly. Her eyes were pooled in blue but nothing he saw there related to the heat of her body, the promise in her seductive voice. The realisation that she was faking came and went, blunted by the force of his passion.

She fell asleep immediately afterwards. The room was stuffy, the bed too hot. His head ached from the champagne. It had fuelled their lovemaking. What alarmed him more than her possessiveness was the effect it was having on him. He felt as if he was ravaging her with the force of his desire, yet every moan and breathless gasp told him otherwise. He had seen her eyelids flutter and stopped, afraid he was hurting her but she had urged him on. Had the passion he believed they shared been an illusion? He must have misread that unnerving awareness in her eyes. The feeling that he was being observed. Circus tricks. The clown in the ring. No, he refused to believe their relationship was based on such a dangerous lie.