I’m back there again, ripping my legs on gorse, trying to wake up. There are two men on the cliff edge; I’m petrified one of them is Will. It was him moments ago, but now it’s the man in the heavy boots. He’s bleeding, staggering, clutching his chest.
Help! I scream. Get away from the edge!
The other man turns to look at me. It’s Fred, smiling. But someone’s coming up beside me, leading me forward, taking me with her. Before I can stop her, she shunts both of them forward over the edge.
I stare at my hands, covered in blood. And it’s then the truth hits me: she didn’t push Fred.
I did. It was me.
* * *
I sit up, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, shoulder twinging. Flicking on the light, I look at my hands. No blood. Smoothing my hair, calming myself down, I undress out of my moist pajamas, going down the silent hallway to Alice’s room.
No one’s been in here for a while. I unfold a T-shirt from her chair, holding it to my nose, inhaling her sweet perfume, relieved to find a sensory trace of her, and then I slip it on.
I’m not sure if I’ve touched anything in her room since the day she left when I cried on her bed. I draw Big Bear to me. And then, soothed by my child, my love, my memories of her, I sleep.
* * *
The world seems asleep as I cross the garden, buttoning up my coat. The security light clicks on as I undo the side gate, my breath visible in the chilly air. It’s November, almost four weeks since that horrific night, but it feels like yesterday. I walk quickly, looking all around me, my heels catching on the ground as I turn down the alley, eyes fixed on the light at the end, the shimmer of the sea.
I thought about ordering a taxi, but it’s such a short distance, and I’m trying to build up my confidence. Yet, I’ll never feel completely safe, not until I know where she is.
As I fix my bag on my shoulder, it aches, almost healed but not quite. I’ve been left with a nagging pain, not just there but everywhere in my body. I’m still struggling to sleep, missing the children more than ever, finding the house so empty and lonely on my own. Just like Fred predicted.
And Fred… I can’t think about him without feeling angry, betrayed. We’re in the cooling-off or reflection period, as Maria Kane calls it: twenty weeks to think about who’s getting what. Yet, I don’t think there’s much hope of equanimity or peace. He’s still living with his parents, being nursed back to health by Monique; he’ll be returning to work soon.
The police haven’t found Ellis. The lead has run cold and Fred isn’t pushing them to do more, given his transgressions. No one seems to care about the man who died. There will be other cases out there warranting their attention—greater injustices.
It may just be me, but I care. I care that she killed him. And my father too, if that’s true.
Turning the corner onto the seafront, I run the last bit, ascending the steps to Rumors. Jam is waiting for me at our usual table and I couldn’t be happier to see her. She kisses me, rips open two packets of chips, piling them on top of each other, sliding a milky cocktail toward me. “Santa’s Little Helper.”
“Isn’t it a bit early?”
“Nah. It’s never too early to celebrate.” She looks beautiful, in a red dress, red lipstick. We’ve dressed up tonight, for no reason.
“So, how’s Nate?” I ask, sick of talking about Fred.
“Oh, you know…” she says, taking a mouthful of chips. I can tell she’s going to criticize him and here it comes. “He wants to teach me chess, can you believe…? I’d rather masturbate with sandpaper.”
I laugh, glancing around the room for a disapproving elderly woman, but there aren’t any. It’s all yachties and GDs, just the way it’s always been.
And then the waiter leans in, placing a glass down in front of me. “One Liquid Viagra?”
“No, not for—”
“From the lady outside,” he says, pointing discreetly to the doors.
I turn to look, my heart freezing at the sight of her. She’s there on the decking, staring at me, completely still.
“What’s wrong?” Jam swivels on her chair, her face tightening. “Is that her?”
I push back my chair.
“Gabby, you’re not seriously going to…”
I am.
I need to hear the truth.
“Think about this,” she says, gripping my wrist. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” I smooth my blouse, tucking it into my pencil skirt. I feel like a dry branch that could snap.
She removes her phone from her bag. “Then I’m calling the police. If you keep her talking, we can trap her.”
“No, don’t. Not yet.” I look over my shoulder again. She’s still staring at me, waiting. I look back at Jam. “Don’t take your eyes off me. When I nod, call them, okay?”
She nods solemnly.
Right on cue, my shoulder throbs as I go across the room, recalling pain that’s locked in my body, as I squeeze between people, chairs.
And then I’m opening the door and it slams behind me and it’s just her and me on the decking, as though the past three months have rewound and we’re back where we started.
“Gabby,” she says, extending her hand toward me like an old friend.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming here… They’re looking for you. And they’ll find you.”
“Maybe.” As though it’s no big deal. She looks different—smaller, because I’m in heels. Her shorn hair is tucked behind her ears, and she’s still dressed like a dancer. But something about her has changed.
“Shall we?” She motions to the deckchairs, glancing all around her.
She’s twitchy now, no longer self-assured. But then who would be, in her position?
“I’d rather stand.” It’s so cold out here, a lone gull flapping to make traction against the wind. I wish I’d brought my coat and glance back at Jam, who’s standing at the bar watching me, but I’m careful not to nod, yet.
“Why risk coming here?” I ask. “What could be worth it?”
“You, Gabby.” She smiles shyly. “You’re worth it. I wanted to see you.”
This seems impossible to believe. There can’t be any sentiment left between us—wasn’t any to begin with. But not now, after what I witnessed.
Folding my arms, I suppress a shiver. “What do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted: to talk.”
“Then talk.”
Again, the shyness. “Not like this. Not with you so angry.”
“What do you expect? You stabbed that man to death! It was horrific!”
“Shush!” she says, looking about her again.
I lower my voice, stepping toward her. “You said you killed my father?”
“Our father,” she corrects.
“Well, did you?”
“Yes.”
My mouth falls open, amazed by her apparent lack of remorse, her coldness. “Aren’t you even a little bit sorry?”
“Well, obviously, I’d rather not have done it. But it was a case of choosing between him and my mom,” she says, zipping up her bomber jacket. “And I chose her. And I’d do it all over again too… Just like I did with you.”
She gazes at me and I absorb then what I hadn’t noticed before: her blue eyes, wide and trusting. Like Alice.
“It was him or you, and I chose you because I love you, Gabby. You should be thanking me.”
“I don’t think so.” I look over my shoulder again at Jam; she’s still watching me. “That’s the last thing I’m going to do.”
She tries to reach for me, touching my sleeve, yet I recoil, stepping backward. “But don’t you see?” she says. “They deserved it. Especially Dad. Look what he did to your mom!”
I look away from her, at the sea. I don’t want to talk to her about this. If it weren’t for her, Mom might still be here but I’m not going to lay that at her door because that’s one of the few things that isn’t her fault.
“I did it for you and my mom—for the women in my family.” She draws closer again, the silky material of her jacket catching the light of the Chinese lanterns, illuminating her face. She’s still beautiful, breathtakingly so. “We’re sisters.”
“No, we’re not,” I say. “You robbed me of my chance to spend time with my dad. Who knows what might have been, if it weren’t for you?”
A look of anger passes over her face, one hand moving to her hip. “Oh, you think he’d have been hanging out with you, playing happy families? Dream on, Gabby! He was too busy screwing twenty-year-olds.”
“Well, I guess we’ll never know. But one thing’s for sure—” I look her up and down “—we’re not family. You make me sick to my stomach. We’re nothing alike, you and me…”
Her bottom lip trembles, but she recovers quickly, lifting her chin. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, see. Because I was just going to help you get the house. I figured Dad owed you, after what happened to your mom. But then…”
“Then what?” The way she’s speaking—the expression on her face—is making me feel funny, queasy. My shoulder aches, the image of the man with the rope flashing through my mind.
She examines her fingernail, glancing past me into the bar. “Well, then I met you in person, just to make sure I was on the right track—that you really wanted the house. And that’s when you said what you said about Fred.”
The ground lurches beneath me. I clutch the back of the deckchair—almost in exactly the same position as when I first met her. Everything feels weighted, dense, the sea grinding to a halt. “What do you mean?”
“You know…” She plays with her pendant, lifting it to her mouth, holding it between her lips.
“No, I don’t.”
She lets the B drop back to her chest where it gleams like a third eye.
“You said you wanted him dead, Gabby.” Her voice is a whisper, her eyes shining intensely like they did before. “And I told you I knew a way to make it happen—knew a guy.”
“No. That’s not true,” I say, panic washing over me. I think of her knifing the man’s chest, the animal sound of pain, the thud as his body hit the ground.
Behind us, the door swings open in a swell of heat and noise, two yachties appearing, sweaters draped over their shoulders. They barely notice us; one of us too old, the other too boyish. We wait, their brogues crunching on sand.
“It’s true… Damn!” She clicks her fingers, as though this is a lightbulb moment. “I knew I should have recorded it!”
I gaze at the stripes of the deckchair, the lines blurring. “I don’t remember…” I begin weakly, trailing off. Behind her, the sea shifts unnervingly, the lanterns jangling in a sudden gust of wind.
“Well, I do. Clear as a bell. You told me to do whatever it took—that you’d use the kids’ investments if you had to.” She grips my arm, her jacket buffeting, swelling, like devil’s wings. “Which is funny because that’s exactly what Fred did too, only for different reasons.”
“That’s not true. I’d never—”
“Yes, it is! You even told me the name of your investment broker. Something North, right? How else would I know that?” She looks right at me, and I can’t see past her eyes, her pupils bigger than the sea, her grip on me so strong I’m bolted in place. “We’re the same, Gabby. Dad taught us to be ruthless, to do whatever it takes to survive, and that’s what we do.”
“No, I’d never have asked you to hurt Fred.”
“And yet you did.” She shakes her head as though I’m a lost cause. “You told me how small he made you feel, invisible; the way he was sniffing around younger women. And it pained me so much because no one should be made to feel like that.”
“You’re lying!” I tug my hand away. “Don’t touch me!”
Her brow creases. “I just wanted to help—to make up for the past. I swear.” She reaches for me again and this time I hit her hand away.
“Get away from me!” I turn around then, so fast that my head reels, my heel grinding on wood, searching for Jam’s face.
I nod to her.
“Was that the signal?” she asks, a strange look on her face. Disappointment.
I don’t reply.
“Because if they find me, then I’ll have to tell them about you, about why I did it.” She taps her pocket, removes her phone, a web of cracks on the screen. “Hang on, maybe I did record it after all… I’ll have to check.”
I stare at her in horror. “What are you talking about?… You don’t—”
“Have proof?” She smiles. “So, you admit it’s true?”
“No. Not at all. You’re making this up. You’re sick—you need help.”
“You and me both, sis.”
Shuddering, my eyes lift searchingly to the horizon, to the end of the road, the darkness—the direction the police will arrive in. She notices, withdrawing quickly, standing on the steps.
She looks even smaller now, her features pinched and cold. “I guess this is goodbye? Well, you take care now, Gabby.” She blows me a kiss and then turns, running noiselessly, and in a heartbeat, she’s gone.
Behind me, the door opens again to a crescendo of noise and Jam appears, drawing close to me. “They’re on their way, Gabs. Are you okay? What did she want?”
“To talk,” I say, staring in the direction that she disappeared into.
“Well, you were brave—braver than I’d be,” she says, taking my hand. “But you need to get inside in the warmth now. You’re freezing.”
Back at our table, she gazes at me, waiting for me to speak. When I don’t, she says, “Why didn’t you signal sooner, hey? You were ages.”
I shrug limply.
“What happened?” She cups my hands, warming them. “What did she say?”
My stomach backflips in guilt.
“What is it, Gabby? You can tell me.”
No, I can’t. Freeing my hand, I take a gulp of my milky cocktail. Then I turn to look outside, scanning the decking. The police haven’t arrived yet. “She’ll be long gone by the time they get here.”
“That’s what I was saying. We should have rung sooner.” She looks at me quizzingly. “It’s like you wanted her to get away or something.”
“Of course I didn’t,” I reply, my stomach turning guiltily again.
Her expression softens and she pats my arm. “Look, don’t worry about it, hun, okay? They’ll find her. It’s not your job. Just relax and forget about it for now.” She drums the table with her hands. “I’ll get us some more Santas.”
As she goes to the bar, I turn to look outside again, thinking of that cracked phone screen, imagining the police getting hold of it. I picture the man’s head hitting the concrete—Fred’s twisted body beside the bicycle cage.
Dread overcomes me—a ghastly sense of doom. I clench my hands, my breathing shallow. I shouldn’t have gone outside to talk to her, should have phoned the police right away.
Or shouldn’t have phoned them at all.
What if they find her? What if she’s telling the truth?