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

Автор книги: Laura Elliot

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 58

Nadine

I keep my fears at bay when I’m painting. It’s become my escape. Perhaps it always was, but it’s different now. I don’t grow disheartened or indifferent as the course becomes more demanding. I don’t feel the urge to drop out with half-baked excuses and hide half-finished canvases in crowded attics. The students in Bonnard are young and giddy, happy to miss lectures and still-life classes. The mature students are diligent. Like me, they’re aware that time is relative and dangerously swift in its passing.

It’s a month since the fire yet the back of my neck tingles when I think of her. Is it over now? The scorching? Have the flames sated her thirst or is she waiting for an appropriate moment to strike again? Was it arson or an accident? Jake sounds shaky when he rings. He’s not sleeping well. Night sounds startle him awake. He has a sense of being observed without being able to observe the observer.

I’ve signed Sea Aster over to him. I could feel the force of Eleanor’s decision dragging me down. She meant well but some memories can’t be eradicated. I’ll always see Karin Moylan in the bay window, sense her imprint on the furniture, in the attic, in Jake’s bed, the scorched barn. Why would I need a house with such crushing associations? I want Jake to use the attic as the recording studio. It’s perfect for his needs. I can visualise it already: skylights, a spiral staircase, one of the walls knocked down and converted into a picture window with a view over the estuary. He has to put the fire behind him. The insurance company will pay the claim without a quibble. In the cold light of day it’s difficult… impossible… to believe she’s responsible.

Wharf Alley is busy this morning. Saturday is a popular day for tourists who disembark from the tour boats to explore the art and craft centres. Last week I met Chloe Laker, the curator of the Wharf Alley Art Gallery. She’s planning an exhibition for later in the year and has invited me to submit four of my paintings. I showed her my newer work. They’re more experimental – we’re encouraged at Bonnard to think conceptually – but she picked the four Sea Aster paintings I’d been working on in my spare time. I explained that they are personal and self-indulgent. The portrayal of a life I’ve left behind. Chloe is adamant. They will fit the theme of emotional alienation the exhibition intends to explore.

At the Wharf Diner, many of the customers are also eating outside. Not Seeing is Believing is doing a brisk trade. Aurora said she gave Jake an angel. I can imagine his expression. He doesn’t believe in psychics who see metaphysical spirits in blank spaces.

A taxi pulls up beside the complex and I’m amused, as I always am, when I watch the amazed reaction of strangers, who survey the brightly painted containers. But this young man is not a stranger. My amusement turns to surprise when I recognise Peter Brennan.

‘I tried ringing but your phone was off,’ he says when he’s made his way along the walkway to my balcony. ‘When Ali said you were living in a shipping container I thought she was joking. But this place is fantastic.’

I switch on my mobile. Three missed calls, all from Peter. I’m flattered but surprised that he should visit me.

‘I’m just about to have my lunch.’ I gesture towards the table. ‘Would you like some pasta?’

‘If it’s not any trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’ I set an extra place and we eat together, easy as old friends with a history to share.

‘How’s Madge?’ I ask. His mother was known on Oakdale Terrace as a force of nature, always knee-deep in community activities.

‘Busy as ever organising everyone,’ Peter replies and smiles ruefully.

‘And Luke?’

‘Dad’s retiring soon and looking forward to it.’

‘Were they surprised to hear Jake and I had split up?’

‘A bit,’ he admits.

‘Madge used to call us children playing adult games when we first moved in.’

He nodded. ‘You and Jake were so young compared to the other parents.’

‘That’s because we were.’

‘All the lads thought you were hot.’

‘I find that very flattering, Peter, and quite enlightening. I was under the impression you all wanted to marry Ali.’

‘That was before puberty hit. Once the hormones got a grip we had you in our sights.’ He laughs then clears his throat. ‘I’d planned to spend today with her.’ At last he’s got to the point of his visit.

‘But I can’t contact her,’ he says. ‘She’s not answering her phone.’

‘She’s probably sleeping late after last night’s performance.’

‘Here’s the thing.’ Peter walks to the railing and stares across the river. ‘I booked a ticket to see The Arboretum Affair. I was hoping to surprise her but she wasn’t performing.’

‘It must have been her night off?’

‘I spoke to one of the sylphs afterwards.’ He shook his head, his eyes glazing slightly. ‘There’re something else, those sylphs.’

‘And?’ I prompt him.

‘Christine is her name. She shares with Ali. Anyway, she said Ali left the cast a fortnight ago.’

‘That can’t be right.’ I’m unable to hide my shock as I join him at the railing. ‘She would have told me. I’ll give her a ring now. See what’s going on.’

‘You’ll need better luck than me. She’s not picking up.’

He’s right. Ali’s phone rings out, even her message machine is inactive.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip, Peter. I’ve no idea what’s going on.’

‘Do you have an address for her? I can call around and see what’s up.’

I write down her address. ‘She may not be there,’ I warn him. ‘But ring me and let me know if you make contact… or if you don’t.’

I fight back my uneasiness and clear away the lunch dishes. It’s a month since I’ve seen Ali. She’s cancelled on three occasions when we were supposed to meet. I could understand her cancelling a coffee date but not Stuart’s posthumous photography exhibition. We had planned to eat beforehand but she rang just as I was leaving Wharf Alley and said she was coming down with a cold. She sounded croaky and kept blowing her nose, as if to reaffirm how wretched she felt. I was more upset than annoyed. I needed her with me. Seeing Stuart’s photographs was going to be an emotional experience and I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t battle her germs with a packet of Lemsip for one night.

The exhibition was wonderful. I rang Daveth afterwards, unable any longer to put off hearing his voice. He’s in Glacier Park at the moment with a group of environmentalists. When the season is over he’s coming to Cornwall for his grandmother’s hundredth birthday celebration. That’s where his roots are. He’d like to spend some time in London, talk about us, our future, if such a possibility exists. He hesitated when he said that and waited for my reaction.

‘Yes,’ I replied. Yes, oh, yes. Knowing that I would see him again allowed me to admit how much I missed him. His brawny arms, the relaxed slant of his eyelids, his smile, intimate and knowing. I saw us… and the space where we once lay together. Small and closed off from an immeasurable vastness. The smell of oil and brine and, faintly underneath, the scent of the cedar wood soap he always uses. But I can’t think of him now. Ali is to the forefront of my mind.

Her emails are breezy and funny, filled with anecdotes about Mark and Christine and other members of Barnstormers. Not once has she hinted that she’s unhappy or considering leaving the play. But she’s an actress. We paid a fortune to train her to pretend.

Peter rings. He spoke to Christine. Ali is spending the weekend with friends. I know this is untrue and Peter probably knows it too. He’s hurt, disappointed that she should treat him so casually. Their arrangement to spend the day together was made some months ago.

Jake is in Germany, the first leg of the German tour, but he answers immediately.

‘I rang her before I left for Germany.’ He sounds as surprised as I am. ‘She never mentioned leaving the play. Not that I’m objecting. I’m relieved she’s got sense at last. It was a piece of exploitative – ’

‘Jake, stop thinking like an outraged father. Being in that play was a big deal for Ali. She wouldn’t have left without a good reason. I’ll ring you as soon as I get in touch with her. How’s the tour going? Any sign…you know?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay. I’ll be in touch.’

We’re incapable of a normal conversation. Just brief exchanges that break under the burden of an unspoken name.

Chapter 59

On Monday morning I travel by tube to Islington. I’m not sure if it’s my anxiety that makes Ali’s flat look even more dilapidated than on my previous visit. I ring the bell three times before the front door is opened by a man who looks as if I’ve dragged him away from tinfoil and a syringe. He stares blankly at me and shakes his head. He’s never heard of Ali or Christine. I suspect he may have forgotten his own name. My anxiety since Peter’s visit has turned from nagging to acute.

I edge past him and mount the stairs to the flat. At first, there’s no reply. I hear movement inside, the scraping of a chair, faint voices. This time I knock more persistently. The peephole in the door bulges like a suspicious eye. I’ve a feeling I’m being observed before Christine opens the door.

‘How nice to see you, Nadine.’ Her English is perfect, just enough of an accent to suggest it’s not her first language.

‘You too, Christine. I’m looking for Ali. Is she in?’

‘Alysia is not here.’ She steps into the corridor and closes the door behind her. ‘I will let her know you called.’

‘Please tell me what’s going on.’ My antennae is on full alert. I sense Ali within, her tense, wary posture. ‘I heard she’s dropped out of the play. Have you any idea why?’

‘She has her reasons.’ Christine’s expression is as closed as the door behind her. ‘It’s not for me to discuss her personal life.’

‘I’m simply asking if my daughter is okay. I’m worried about her.’ I raise my voice in the hope that Ali is listening. ‘Ask her to ring me. Also, ask why she didn’t meet Peter Brennan as arranged. It’s not like her to disappoint her friends. That’s why I’m so anxious to talk to her.’ I try one last time to pierce Christine’s cool Danish composure and there is a shift, a slight puckering between her pale eyebrows.

‘Alysia is okay, Nadine. She just needs time alone to sort out her feelings.’ She steps back behind the door and closes it. I feel as if it’s been slammed in my face.

I fight back the urge to return to the flat and barge into the room. Nothing will be gained by such a confrontation. At least I know Christine is looking after her.

Jake’s phone goes to message. He’s probably still asleep after last’s performance but he rings back shortly afterwards and listens without interruption when I tell him about my visit to the flat.

‘Did you talk to her?’ he asks.

‘Not yet. Christine says she’s okay. I suspect it’s to do with Mark. He must have ended their relationship.’

This piece of information adds to his relief and his tone lifts immediately. He detests Mark Brewer but I know that’s not his real reason. Karin Moylan cleaves to us like a caul.

Ali rings as the day draws to a close. ‘I’m in a taxi on my way to you.’ Her voice is a shrill whimper, almost unrecognisable. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Of course. Did Christine tell you I called this morning?’

‘Yes,’ she sobs and the phone goes dead.

Has Mark Brewer’s wife confronted her, revealed that her cheating husband has no intention of getting a divorce? Or perhaps Mark himself administered the cut and she’s found it impossible to continue working alongside him. One way or the other, I’m glad. Broken hearts mend, as she’ll discover.

I stand on the walkway overlooking the wharf. The breeze from the Thames is cool on my cheeks. A cyclist, wasp-like in Lycra and a helmet, dismounts and carries his bicycle into one of the containers. When the taxi arrives I walk down the steps to greet Ali. Her face is blotched from weeping. She runs past me without speaking. By the time I return to the container, she’s coiled on the settee, her face turned to the wall.

‘Can I have a tissue?’ She snuffles loudly and grabs tissues from the box I pass to her. After blowing her nose she pushes her head deeper into the cushions.

‘Turn around and tell me what’s going on.’ I speak with a calmness I’m far from feeling. Reluctantly, she sits up and faces me. The sheen and swish have disappeared from her hair. It hangs limply over her shoulders and needs a wash. She winces back from my touch.

‘Mark has left me,’ she says.

‘I’m so sorry, Ali.’

‘No, you’re not.’ She glares at me through bloodshot eyes. ‘You never liked him. Neither did Dad.’ She scrunches the tissues in her hand and pushes my sympathy aside with an impatient toss of her head. ‘You were both right, as it happens. Does that make you feel good?’

‘No, it doesn’t. I hate seeing you so unhappy. But I was afraid for you… the age difference – ’

‘We were supposed to move in together. We’d even picked out our apartment. He promised… what am I going to do… how am I going to manage...’ She bangs her fist against her lip and sobs violently, her thin shoulders shaking.

‘You’ll manage, Ali. You’re strong. You have a whole new future in front of you.’ I stop, knowing these are not the words she wants to hear. But they are the only ones that come to mind. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I’d no idea you’d left the play until Peter – ’

‘I didn’t leave the play. I couldn’t perform any longer.’

‘Why not?’ I draw her close and she, weeping more freely, relaxes against me. My hand rests almost intuitively on the hard swell of her stomach. Suddenly, I understand why she’s been avoiding me. It seems impossible. It doesn’t happen these days. Not to street-wise young women like Ali with their pills and coils and diaphragms.

‘Ali… how far along are you?’

‘Six and a half months.’

‘Oh my God, so long. Why didn’t you tell me?’ I hold her pale, tear-streaked face between my hands. How had I not noticed? Even now, it’s hard to tell, the swell barely noticeable. I was the same when I carried her, slim as a rake until the last two months.

‘I don’t want it.’ She groans aloud. ‘I was going to have an abortion. But I couldn’t go through with it. I kept thinking I wouldn’t exist if you’d aborted me. You should have, you know, you definitely should have aborted me because my life is shit… shit… shit… and I wish I’d never been born.’

‘You don’t mean that – ’

‘I do… I do,’ she wails. ‘I had the opportunity to get rid of it and I didn’t and now it’s too late. I’m stuck with it. End of story and I don’t want it... I don’t want – ’

‘Ali, stop… stop. You’re talking about my grandchild.’

‘Grandchild. How great does that sound? I bet you want to be a grandmother like you want a hole in the head. And Dad too. Oh, God, what’s he going to say?’

‘The same as me. This is our first grandchild. I won’t have another word said against him or her. Where does Mark feature in all of this?’

‘He doesn’t want to know.’ She grinds out the words. ‘I kept thinking he’d change his mind when the baby was born. But, now, he won’t even be here. He’s been offered this brilliant opportunity to run a theatre in New York and he couldn’t care less about me or the baby or anyone except himself.’ She dries her eyes but her tears keep falling. ‘I hate him and I love him. How is that possible? He dropped me from the cast. He said sylphs don’t become pregnant. How can sylphs not become pregnant when they don’t exist anywhere except in his stupid play?’

She rages on and on. She’s exhausted and has probably forgotten what it’s like to have a good night’s sleep.

‘Ali, listen to me. That decision you made, for whatever reason, to keep this baby was a choice between Mark and your child. You chose your baby. Now it’s time to start respecting that decision.’

I make tea, toast crumpets, cover her with a duvet, and talk… talk… I’m dragging memories from the deep recesses of another time, recalling my father’s fury when he discovered I was pregnant, how his words on that night cut as deep as any blade I ever wielded. This memory strengthens me. I know that Ali has made the right choice.

‘I want to go home to Sea Aster,’ she says. ‘I can’t bear to be in London any more. Everything reminds me of him.’

‘This is a big city. Mark Brewer shouldn’t fill the width of it.’

‘But he does, Mum. He’s leaving on Wednesday. I’ve got to get away from here before then. I won’t be able to bear it… I won’t.’

‘But your father’s in Berlin and the house is locked up. He won’t be back for another week.’

This admission brings on another outburst of tears.

‘I’ll go with you and stay at Sea Aster until he returns.’ My mind is made up. ‘We’ll get through this together. Believe me, when this baby is born you’re love it as deeply as I loved you. And that feeling will never change, no matter what life throws at you.’

Jake’s shocked silence when I phone him sweeps aside the last residue of tension between us. He speaks to Ali for a long time. Afterwards, she falls into a deep sleep. I ring him again when our flight has been organised.

‘I don’t have the new key to Sea Aster. How will I get in?’

‘I’ve organised that,’ he says. ‘Eleanor has a spare one. Cora has agreed to pick you up at the airport. I wish I could be there to meet you.’

‘Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine until you get back.’

‘Grandparents, eh?’ He pauses, as if he’s still trying to come to terms with the idea. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Adjusting. How about you?’

‘Quite chuffed, to be honest. I just wish it was under happier circumstances.’

Ali is still sleeping, the first time in weeks, I suspect. I think of Daveth. It seemed possible, for a short while, to imagine moving to Alaska with him. Ali would be in New York, I believed. Brian also has plans to travel. He talks about moving to Arizona and opening a pottery in Sedona or, perhaps, somewhere on the South Island of New Zealand. He’s inspired by space and magnificent scenery, as Stuart once was, and the twins will settle in California. But Alaska is out of the question now. My place is here with Ali. I’m not going to repeat history and be a grandmother in another continent.

I awaken during the night, our bodies spooned, and I feel something… a patter as strong as the throb of a heart beating hard against my spine.

Chapter 60

It’s dark by the time we land in Dublin airport. If Cora suspects why Ali is returning so suddenly to Ireland she gives no sign of it when she greets us in arrivals.

‘We can take a taxi,’ I accept the key from her. ‘I don’t want to drag you out of your way.’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she insists. ‘It’ll give Eleanor some time on her own. She thinks I fuss too much over her.’

I suspect Cora is the one who needs some free time and this suspicion is confirmed when she drives from the airport. Eleanor’s recovery is almost complete. Her dominant personality is coming to the fore again and Cora is looking forward to moving back to her apartment in Clontarf. I wonder about her quiet life and how she became involved with First Affiliation. What drew her to their certainties and intolerance? The need to belong, to be part of something greater than herself? My curiously dies away as quickly as it came. I’m tired and overwrought, exhausted already from Ali’s outbursts, her violent weeping.

The car judders as we approach Sea Aster. Mallard Cove needs resurfacing. The earlier tide overflowed the road and puddles remain in the hollows. A swan ambles towards the car, its wings flapping in the headlights. Cora slows, nervous as water splashes against the tyres.

‘It’s okay.’ I open the window and look down at the road. The wind fans the rank smell of seaweed into the car. ‘The water’s shallow and the swans are well used to avoiding cars.’

‘I was bitten by a swan when I was a child.’ Cora sounds uneasy. ‘Nasty things. I’ve never liked them since.’

Ali has fallen asleep in the back seat, her head awkwardly angled against the headrest. The boundary wall of Sea Aster comes into view, the square gatepost visible on the curve. The spreading branches soften the hulking remains of the barn but I’m still shocked at the sight of the blackened walls and collapsed roof.

A car emerges from the gates and swerves onto the road without slowing down. Water aquaplanes from its tyres. To avoid the swan Cora has moved too far over to the wrong side of the road. Headlights clash. She utters a high, frightened shriek and instinctively brakes when she sees the oncoming car. She pulls frantically on the steering wheel and her car waltzes as if the road has turned to ice. A scum of decaying seaweed, strewn under a layer of tidal water. The second car veers past without slowing, dazzling and blinding before it disappears into the engulfing darkness of Mallard Cove.

Cora’s wrists are so skinny. I never noticed them before. Frail and skinny as she struggles to control the skid. The gable ends of the barn protrude like ancient pyramids. Above the trees, the moon is a pale shimmer in the black sky. It casts down my mother’s face and my terror is reflected in Sara’s stricken features. Her awareness in that instant before the collision that there was no going back, accordion pleats imploding and crushing the life from her. She’s there now, with me, smiling before she turns away in all her loveliness… and I am suspended between the random nature of existence and the shrouded certainty of death. The screeching night and the shock of steel and stone as the car hits the wall. It overturns in a slow-motion roll before coming to rest. My eyelids flicker. I see the swan scuttling back to the water, its fat bottomed waddle, so ungraceful out of its natural habitat. My eyes close and all is forgotten.

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