Chapter Twenty-Five

Through the dimpled glass of the porch door, Stella vaguely registers a light – torchlight, flickering across her face. Frank. Frank. It must be Frank. He’s come back. He’s hammering on the glass. The light again. Stella opens her mouth to shout but her voice is gone or her will is gone and only a small mewing sound comes out. More banging. Kicking. He’s trying to kick the door in. He can’t get in.

Go away, Frank. Just go away, just go away.

Stella drifts in and out of consciousness. She’s so thirsty. So very thirsty. But she has no strength to get to where the water is.

Water, she hears water.

It’s the sea lashing up onto the Saddle Rock, the sea lashing against the cliffs, the sea smashing Muriel against the rocks.

They said she had no face left. Muriel washed up broken. Broken by the sea broken against the rocks.

Water gurgling out from the broken pipe in the scullery, dripping down the back step, drips like a torture. A magnified, thundering waterfall.

Stella’s head swimming with water, so much water, drowning.

Muriel drowning, bobbing in the water, face down.

‘Charles Darwin,’ says Marcia, standing at a blackboard, a long cane in her left hand that traces a wiggly chalk line round and round the garden. ‘Charles Darwin,’ she repeats, ‘had a path. A path he used for walking and thinking. Every day at 11am precisely, he’d get up from his desk. It’s the rhythm we’re interested in. The rhythm of walking, the steady plod, plod, plod. It helps the thoughts to find their place. Try it, Stella.’

Stella cannot walk. She cannot even stand up.

Picture a place – it has to be a good place. Imagine you’re walking. Feel the rhythm of your tread, feel it smooth and even, everything, smooth and even.

Marcia’s strong, black hand spreads butter onto crumpets. Stella watches her fingers flex, the miracle of Marcia’s fingers flexing.

The warmth of Marcia’s hand between her shoulder blades, the steadying flat of Marcia’s hand.

Walk, Stella. You can walk.

Stella is walking the dune path, soft sand underfoot, soft salty breeze coming in off the sea. Stella follows the soft sand path. It’s Marcia up ahead. It’s Marcia she’s following, not Muriel.

Marcia, wait, wait, wait for me.

Stella, sitting alone on the Saddle Rock, looking out across the smooth, silver sea.

In the little blue suitcase there’s a letter from Marcia. Addressed to Stella. She still hasn’t opened it. Marcia said not to open it. That was the very last thing she said.

‘Don’t open the letter, Stella, not until you’ve written everything down in the blue silk book. I would like to know your story. I would like you to know your story. Then you open the letter. Have you got that?’

Stella is suddenly desperate to touch the suitcase. She wants the suitcase, she needs the reassurance of her hand on the soft worn leather. She feels around her but touches nothing but the wall. Her hand reaches out and touches nothing but the cold lino floor. Pressing both her hands to the floor, Stella tries to push herself up. She has to get the case. She has to get water.

Then there are legs in front of her, two strong legs, standing square in front of her, thick blue serge trousers and a big bunch of keys dangles from the leather belt. Then an arm, two arms, reaching down to her. Marcia. Stella stretches out to grasp the open hands, but they’re not there, there’s nothing there. Stella grasps at the air. There’s nothing there.

The banging goes on, the boom bang boom of the big bass drum, in a big brass band – the Salvation Army band – marching. Navy blue uniforms, stout black boots trampling all over her. She must get up and get away from here. Stella twists her body and tries to curl her body up, curl it up against the wall. There’s yelling and panic and yelling and someone screaming out her name.

‘Stella! Stella!’ Marcia, Marcia. The banging stops. The marching feet are splashing through water.

Marcia, help me.

Maybe Stella doesn’t want help. Maybe she wants to lie here and fade away in this hellhole where she belongs. She’s never really left this place, not really. Here is where she’ll stay until she fades away. No point in calling for Marcia. Marcia’s miles away. Another place, always was, always will be. Stella has been foolish. Worse than foolish to think anything else was possible.

In the letter it will say ‘sorry, Stella’ and that Marcia has her own life, her own job and her own home in London. Shall we just stay friends, though? I’d like that.

Why would Marcia want Stella or anyone like Stella hanging like a millstone?

And Marcia would be right.

Stella knows now she is someone who has killed not once, but twice. What does that make her, eh?

Marcia will wash her hands of her. Stella deserves it. Everything that happened between them was nothing. It meant nothing. It was meaningless. It was nothing

Everyone, washing their hands, holding them under the broken pipe, wringing their hands. Washing, washing, washing.