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

Автор книги: Laura Elliot

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 50

Nadine

Tears roll down Eleanor’s cheeks when she sees me. Her mouth moves but she’s unable to speak. She’s silent for the first time since I’ve known her. Helpless, silent and scared, my poor, bewildered mother-in-law has suffered an ischemic stroke. Hopefully, there’ll be no lasting damage but looking at her lying there it’s hard to equate her with the woman she was. I want her back: whole, healthy, bossy and insufferable. She’s a warrior and that determination will bring her through. I tell her this as I sit beside her bed. The need for Jake to be on standby in case of a crisis has passed but I’m only allowed a brief time with her. I’m not sure she recognises me or, if she does, how quickly she will forget me when I leave.

He met me at the airport. He was exhausted, older looking, his hair greying. When did that happen? He opened his arms to me. I ran towards him and we hugged like old friends, not lovers, but it was good to feel his familiar embrace. He’d parked the Shard band wagon on the roof of the car park. I noticed the logo. Designed by Feral’s wife, he said. It lacks the eye-catching power of the previous one but neither of us make mention of this fact.

‘How long will you stay?’ he asks when we leave the hospital.

‘Until Sunday.’

‘I appreciate that.’

We are once again on the bridge, holding our breath in case it cracks beneath us.

We stop to shop in The Pavilions. This is the first time we’ve shopped together since we moved into Sea Aster. But we’re not really together, as our separate shopping trollies signify. We head off in different directions but keep meeting in the same aisles, exchanging strained smiles and making a ‘fancy seeing you here’ jokes. We queue together at the check-out. I take sneak peeks into his trolley to check if his taste buds have changed. The contents look familiar, the usual staples. Nothing that suggests his appetite has been influenced by her. Karin. My teeth clamp on her name but we never speak it. She or her, that’s our reference point.

When we return to Sea Aster I read the feature in Core. I remember Jimmy French. Weasel eyes and fingers stained with nicotine. He was a cypher for this sensationalist piece of journalism, nothing more than that.

Jake makes our evening meal and talks throughout. This loquaciousness is new. It worries me. He never talked for talking’s sake, and, now, he skirts around the main subject. He drinks too much wine and it allows him to finally show me the drawings she did for First Affiliation.

When I was seven months pregnant on the twins I went into premature labour. The urge to save them was the most primal emotion I’ve ever experienced. They were born after an emergency caesarean section and, afterwards, looking at them in their incubators, I was filled with the same joy and unconditional love I experienced when Ali and Brian had been laid in my arms. That same protective love surges over me when I pick up my phone and ring Karin Moylan.

She doesn’t seem surprised to hear my voice. Has she been waiting for this moment, knowing we’d face each other sooner or later? She suggests we meet tomorrow and take afternoon tea in the Westbury Hotel. What a novel idea. Business affairs are sorted out over lunch. Affairs of the heart belong to candle-lit dinners but afternoon tea is a civilized ritual and, so, we will behave accordingly. But I’m a lioness whose cubs have been threatened and civility is a luxury I can’t afford.

Elegant armchairs are arranged around tables laden with tiered cake stands and plates of finger sandwiches. She’s seated when I arrive, her legs crossed, her hands joined and resting on the white tablecloth. Demure is a word that comes to mind until I look into her eyes and see the glitter. It’s hatred, disguised under a cataract of guile. But I recognise it, embrace it. The past does not heal. That’s the cruellest myth of all. It lies in abeyance until time pulls the trigger on memory. Three six nine, the goose drank wine… the words beat a rhythm in my brain. I remember us kneeling on my bed, hands clapping, challenging each other to be the first to miss the beat… our hands moving faster, faster… frantic and furious like the beat of my heart. I resist the urge to run and sit down opposite her in a soft armchair. My neck is damp and the flush that rushes to my face is, I hope, invisible behind the layer of makeup I applied before I left Sea Aster.

‘I’ve already ordered,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve an appointment in an hour.’

As if on cue a waiter arrives with the afternoon tea selection. The clinking of cups and plates makes conversation impossible for the next few moments. Jake has told me about the van. My teeth water as I imagine the gouging she did with her dainty hands. I hear the screech of a knife on metal, the hiss of tyres imploding. Here, in this muted atmosphere where footsteps are silenced on thick carpets and conversations murmur, I want to scream and shatter the illusion that we are having coffee and a catch-up chat about old times.

‘How is Eleanor?’ she asks when the waiter departs. ‘I heard about her stroke on the news.’ She pours tea but does not attempt to fill my cup. I do likewise.

‘She’s making good progress.’

We both choose a sandwich from the selection. The thought of eating makes my stomach churn but I will play this game to its final move.

‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ she says and sinks her teeth into tuna and sweetcorn.

‘I’m sure you are relieved,’ I reply. ‘It would be a heavy burden to carry if you were responsible for her death.’

She finishes the sandwich and dabs her mouth with a white linen napkin.

‘Her death?’ she says. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Her head tilts, inquisitively, and her expression implies that what I have to say is of the utmost importance.

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m stating facts. You gave that information about Jake to Jimmy French, either directly or through Liam Brett. You’ve had your revenge and Eleanor almost died because of it. Jake has told me everything. This has to stop now.’

The bracelet on her wrist slides forward as she takes an éclair from the cake stand. She bites daintily into the pastry, no crumbs or splodges of cream on her lips. She could always eat with style, nothing dribbling on her chin as she nibbled sandwiches oozing with mayonnaise and tomatoes on Monsheelagh Bay.

‘I’ve read that article.’ She lays the half-eaten éclair on the plate. ‘Did Jimmy French write one word that was untrue? Your mother-in-law believes in perception. No wonder she collapsed when she was forced to confront the truth.’

Her composure is intact, her legs crossed at the ankles. She takes another bite of the éclair, her throat hollowing as she swallows. ‘You’ve just made an appalling accusation with absolutely no foundation. Jake told me you were neurotic and I believed him. Not because he said it, men always blame neuroticism when their wives step out of line, but because I saw it at first hand when you were young. It seems that nothing has changed.’

I’m afraid to reach for a cake in case my hands tremble and, so, I link my fingers and rest them on my lap. ‘If you attempt to contact any member of my family again I’ll ―’

‘Your family?’ For an instant I think she will lose her composure. An image of glass shattering comes to mind but she smiles, as if amused by a joke she’s no intention of sharing.

‘What about my family?’ she asks. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten?’ She places the half-eaten éclair on the side plate. Her teeth have made indents in the soft choux pastry and she now intends to savage me. ‘You were responsible for everything that happened on that holiday.’

Jake said she’s mad and I believe him. Mad with revenge and imagined lesions.

‘How could I possibly have had anything to do with… with…’ After all those years I still can’t bring myself to speak his name.

‘Max,’ she says. ‘Your lover.’ She lifts her handbag from the floor and snaps it open. ‘We all have our own versions of the truth, Nadine.’ She flings an envelope on the table. It’s small, letter-sized, no address. She stands and brushes imaginary crumbs from her skirt. ‘Don’t ever threaten me again with groundless accusations. A betrayed wife is pathetic but one with a history like yours has even less credibility. Go to the police if you want to make a fool of yourself. I fucked your husband senseless and you could charge me with that. However, last time I checked, adultery was not a criminal offence in the statute books.’

Her words rebound off me. They are visceral and should hurt but all I feel is fear. I open the envelope after she leaves and draw out a photocopied sheet of paper. I see the replication of the original, the dark squiggle of the serrated spiral-bound journal I once used to spill out my heart. I should flitter it, allow it to be swept away with the remnants of bread and half-eaten cakes but I read it, knowing, as I do so, that the contents will bring me face-to-face with my fifteen-year-old self.

Dear Max

This is the first love letter I’ve ever written. It will never be seen by anyone but me. I’d die, simply die a million deaths if Karin found out or Joan or you… God! That would be so embarrassing. I’m all mixed up and so excited. Like I’m on a swing swooping high and low.

The words blur. I can’t read any more. The waiter hesitates then removes Karin’s cup and saucer. The stain on the rim of her cup matches the lipstick stain she imprinted on Jake’s cheek. She stole my love letters, searched my room in Cowrie Cottage, my clothing, my books, my backpack, searched every corner until she found them pushed deep into the lining of my anorak. What possessed me to write such reckless letters? I try and connect with the teenager I once was. So beguiled and naïve, so utterly self-absorbed, a sylph transiently innocent and dangerous with it. Yes, I’ve seen Ali’s play. A satirical tale of good against evil. The eternal struggle.

She still has the original. I stare out the window and count the pedestrians passing below. I note the clothes they wear, and how a man on crutches, his leg in plaster, stops to light a cigarette. Finally, she appears, striding briskly towards Grafton Street. The wind tosses her scarf, blue, of course, and fluttering like a pennant in the midst of a battle charge.

When all evidence of her presence at the table has been removed I order a fresh pot of tea and continue reading. My handwriting slanted to the right in those days. I tended to add flourishes to the letters at the end of my words, and a small circle, rather than a dot, over my ‘I’s.

This morning you watched me on Monsheelagh Bay. Just you and me alone on the beach. We saw the dawn rise. I wasn’t in love with you then. Just kind of embarrassed and unable to think of things to say. You were sitting on the rocks. I had to walk past you. You were still Karin’s father then. The air smelled briny and there was a haze on the sea. I was going to sketch the kittiwakes. I’d seen them from the bedroom window flying against the cliff.

‘What’s this,’ you said when you saw me. You pretended to be surprised. ‘I thought it was a teenage rule never to rise before noon when you’re on holidays.’

I told you I always walk early and you said, ‘Then walk on, Nadine. It’s a beautiful morning. Make the most of it.’

I went far along the strand but I could still see you sitting there when I looked back. Were you watching me too? I didn’t understand why that should matter, not then. I sat on the sand. The kittiwakes were going crazy like dive bombers. I did lots of sketches. The haze was gone from the sea and the tide was way out. I pulled off my sandals on the way back and the wet sand squished between my toes. I walked really slow to give you a chance to go back to the cottage if you didn’t want to talk to me.

‘You must be famished,’ you said when I reached you. ‘How does scrambled eggs and mushrooms sound?’

‘Delicious,’ I said. It was true. I was absolutely starving.

‘Then let’s go.’ You jumped down from the rocks and climbed ahead of me up the cliff path.

You were frying mushrooms in butter and I was scrambling the eggs when I fell in love with you. Just like that. God! I never knew that’s how it happened. Then Karin came into the kitchen and spoiled everything. She’s so small yet it’s like she fills the place when she’s in a mood. It’s always… always about her. Being her friend is exhausting!! I knew I was in trouble when she looked at the table. You’d only set it for 2. When she saw the sand we’d tracked across the floor her eyes went really narrow. You didn’t notice.

‘Set another place, Nadine,’ you said. ‘Scrambled eggs for 3 coming up.’

I was going to tell her how I’d only gone to the beach to sketch the birds but you said, ‘We saw the dawn together. You could have been with us if you weren’t such a lazybones in the mornings.’

You were only teasing her but you’ve no idea what she’s like when she gets into a sulk.

‘Look at the mess you made.’ She grabbed the brush and started sweeping the sand and stirring all the dust.

You tossed the mushrooms onto a plate and put it on the table. The toast popped and the eggs were ready. But she said she wasn’t hungry. Her bottom lip went out the way it does when she’s mad. You took the sweeping brush from her and stopped her going back to her bedroom. It was like she was a bird when you lifted her up in the air and carried her over to the table.

‘I want to have breakfast with my special girl,’ you said. ‘So sit down and keep your old man company. I want to know about everything you’ve been doing since I went away.’

She was really nice at breakfast but she came into my bedroom afterwards and accused me of monopolising you last night and this morning. You’d think I’d planned to meet you deliberately when you were so late coming here.

Were you watching me on the beach? Or were you thinking of Joan and how drunk she was last night. Living with her must be really hard.

I think I’m going crazy, Max.

Is this what love is like?

Nadine XXXXXX

Chapter 51

Jake

Eleanor was moved from the high dependency unit into a private ward. She cried easily and fell asleep in the middle of conversations. All perfectly normal, her specialist assured Jake. Her recovery process was gradual but consistent. Cora was the only member of First Affiliation allowed to visit her. She would move in with Eleanor when she was discharged and look after her. Eleanor’s acceptance that she needed care amazed Jake. He waited for the return of her old assertiveness but she remained serene, even when she heard that Lorna Mason had been elected leader of First Affiliation.

Her tears fell when she saw Ali, who had flown home on an overnight trip. Three weeks had passed since her stroke and she was struggling determinedly through the painful rehabilitation sessions. Ali pulled tissues from the box on the bedside locker and gently dabbed her eyes.

‘It’s my first chance to come and see you, Gran,’ she said. ‘But Mum’s been keeping me up to date on everything.’

‘Is she in a…a….tin?’ Her inability to remember words would improve, Jake had been told.

‘A tin?’ Ali glanced enquiringly at Jake.

‘The shipping container,’ he said.

He was unable to banish an image of corrugated steel walls and condensation but Ali assured him Nadine’s new home was extremely comfortable.

‘It’s actually quite a cosy tin,’ said Ali and grinned when Eleanor snorted. ‘I’ll bring you to see it when you’re better. You’ll have to come to my play, as well. I’ll organise the best seat in the theatre for you and Cora.’

Such an event would probably precipitate another stroke, Jake thought, but wisely stayed silent. He would never come to terms with The Arboretum Affair. To his amazement the play was still running and had received favourable reviews. Critics could write what they liked about the protest language of movement but it was not their daughter on stage protesting in a body stocking.

‘I’m meeting Peter Brennan for a meal,’ Ali said when they left the hospital. ‘Why not join us? You look like you could do with some cheering up.’

‘I’ll only be in the way.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Dad, it’s just Peter. It’s not a date. He won’t mind.’

‘You married him once.’

‘I was five at the time.’ She grinned. ‘Grounds for an annulment, don’t you think.’

Their wedding had been held in Brennan’s garden shed with Brian, wrapped in a bath towel, solemnly performing the ceremony. Afterwards, Ali admitted she had only accepted Peter’s proposal so that she could wear her princess dress. Jake wished they were still in love. Boy next door and happy ever after. Jake sighed. He and Nadine had had conversations about Mark Brewer. Initially, Jake thought the idea too preposterous to even consider. But Nadine assured him it was a serious relationship that was bound to break Ali’s heart.

A slight shadow of disappointment crossed Peter’s face when he saw Jake. Ali was oblivious of it. She ordered chicken masala and ate about three spoonfuls. She drank only iced water. She was probably developing an eating disorder as well as exposing her heart to a man who was going to destroy it, Jake reflected gloomily.

‘Sylph-responsibility,’ she said. ‘It never stops.’

Peter said she must forget all about sylph-responsibility or any other kind of responsibility when they met in London. He was flying over for his friend’s birthday party in July and planned to spend a day with Ali.

‘Can you believe it? He’s celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday?’ He splayed his hands in amazement and laughed when Jake suggested a Zimmer frame would an appropriate birthday present.

Age and its relentless passage… was he crazy trying to relive his youth through Shard? Was it his love of music or, as Ali believed, a mid-life crisis that had him posturing on a roof? He expressed this thought aloud but, to his surprise, both Ali and Peter disagreed. Peter said Collapsing the Stone was one of the strongest musical statements to come out of the recession.

He felt his mood lift. In a fortnight’s time he was heading to the UK with Shard on their first tour abroad. The venues were small, mainly clubs and pubs but Mik Abel had promised more high profile venues the next time.

Eleanor was home from hospital and in the care of Cora when Jake drove the band members onto the ferry at Larne. Karin’s text arrived as he was about to go on stage in Glasgow. The eagerness with which he once received them had been replaced by dread. Not that there was anything threatening about her texts. Nothing he could hand to the police and claim he was being harassed. He looked out on a mass of indistinguishable faces and was unable to see her anywhere. Another text wishing him luck came before the Carlisle gig. Break a leg, she texted before he want on stage in Newcastle. They stopped when he changed his phone number in Leeds.

The days passed in a blur of motorways and fleeting glimpses of cities before driving on to their next destination. London with their final gig. Dee Street on the Kings Road was small – Reedy compared it to a dog kennel with strobes – but it had hidden crannies and long passages at the back of the building that soon filled with young people. Jake heard Irish accents, the new diaspora had turned out in force to hear them. Ali had rung with apologies. Sylph-duty. Jake knew better than to protest or, as she would claim, lay a guilt trip on her.

Nadine arrived about an hour after the gig started. She looked slim and leggy in jeans and ankle boots, her hair more tousled than he remembered, its coppery sheen enhanced by the spotlights. She stopped in front of the stage to acknowledge him then disappeared with a glass of wine into an alcove. The heat in the club was intense. He gulped water and wiped perspiration from his neck, relieved when it was time for a break.

A tray of drinks had been set up at the bar for the band. Still water for Hart and for Feral, who, much to the band’s astonishment, had recently announced that she was pregnant. There was also Guinness for Daryl, a shandy for Reedy and a pint of Budweiser for Jake.

‘Thanks for the drinks.’ He sat beside Nadine and took a long swig of beer. ‘I needed that.’

He had a sudden urge to lift the weight of hair from her shoulders and press his lips against her neck. Was she still in touch with Daveth Carew? Her life was a mystery to him and he realised, painfully, that he would never have a chance to unravel it. Why now, he thought, when it was too late for old passions to flare and they had squandered what they once shared.

‘Don’t thank me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t order it. How’s the tour going?’

‘Oh, you know… it’s a start. The lads are happy enough.’

‘Shard sound amazing. It’s a really tight sound. I love the harmonies.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I read about Feral on Facebook.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Any idea how… who?’

‘No. Nor have I any intention of asking. All I know is she and Maggie are thrilled.’

‘I must congratulate her.’ She walked over to Feral, who was talking to Reedy at the bar, and hugged her. Daryl rushed over to greet Nadine and show her the latest video of Jasmine tottering in her mother’s high heels. The band break was short. Soon they would be back on stage. By the time Nadine returned to the table they only had time for a brief conversation.

‘Have you heard anything from her since you changed your number?’ she asked and twisted a tendril of hair around her index finger.

‘Nothing.’

Reedy entered the alcove. ‘Time to go back on stage, Jake.’

‘I’m heading off now.’ Nadine also stood. ‘I’ve an early start in the morning.’

‘I was hoping you’d stay until the end.’ He touched her arm. ‘We’ll be finished in another hour. We could go somewhere afterwards, have a bite to eat.’

‘She’s the only thing on our minds. I refuse to give her that space.’

‘Talking about her is the last thing I want to do. Please, Nadine, stay.’

‘All right.’ She shrugged. ‘Go on. I’ll be here when you finish.’

He was singing ‘Fly by Night’ when the green and purple lasers slashed into blue. Could he have imagined that glimpse of Karin Moylan within the mass of distorted limbs and lurid faces raised towards the stage? He forgot the words. Daryl shot a sideways glance at him and sang the lead line until Jake recovered. The energy had gone from the song. He could see her clearly now. Her glittery dress sparked off the lasers and gave it the appearance of armour. She danced hard, hands high, her eyes as bold and compelling as he remembered. He looked beyond her to Nadine. She too had seen Karin. Jolted by her anger the dancers parted before her then closed ranks as she headed towards the exit. Karin Moylan had also disappeared. Was she a chameleon, capable of blending into her surroundings, shadowy and insubstantial until she decided to step into the spotlight.

He rang Nadine as soon as he came off stage. Her phone went immediately to message.

The barman had a second tray of drinks waiting on the counter. ‘For the band,’ he said. ‘Left for you with the compliments of a dedicated fan.’

‘Get rid of them.’ Jake longed to upend the tray, smash the glasses against the wall. He ordered a shot, knocked it back and ordered another. A new band came on stage, three teenagers, younger than the twins. His phone bleeped. A text arrived.

Brilliant performance, Jake. Tell Shard they rocked tonight. Always yours, Karin.