Escaping Life (16 page)

“
How
far away is it?
”
she asked like an impatient child.

“
Another
couple of hours.  You need the loo?
”
 
She didn
’
t. 
She didn
’
t
need anything other than the impossibility of turning back around and heading
back to Haven.  She had insisted that Graham didn
’
t
come, but now she would have given anything for his company.

“
Yes,
”
she lied,
“
maybe
a coffee, too.  Do you mind?
”
 
He shook his head.  He knew her game:  any tactic to delay the inevitable.  He
had played this game before too.

Pulling off the motorway,
she held on to the door handle as they turned the corner.  He drove pretty
recklessly, or so she thought, much more used to Graham
’
s
sensible saloon car driving.   In many ways, Graham still took care of her,
always assuming that he knew more, or had more experience, with his additional
ten years of life.  She didn
’
t
mind.  She actually liked it, the simple life that she had chosen.  To
wake
in her own time, to potter in the garden, to work as it flowed her way rather
than chase it, and to while away time perusing Haven below her as she sat atop
the cliffs at the end of her garden, her kingdom below her as she climbed over
the fence and sat with her legs dangling over the water below.

They sat in the booth on
overfilled imitation leather seats which stuck to her bare legs; she was still
wearing the shorts from her time in the garden before her best and worst fears
were confirmed by Jack and his little brown file.  They ordered their coffee,
although she wasn
’
t
sure that she actually wanted it.  What she wanted to do was throw up, and as
she had held her head over the foul smelling pan in the service station toilets
moments before, she had wretched and wretched, but nothing had come up.  Sat
opposite this man, his receding hair line and tired, yet still handsome face
staring back at her, she realised that she didn
’
t
know him at all.  She had willingly sat in his car for the last hour, driving
into unknown territory with a complete stranger.  She sipped on her coffee and
prayed that it wouldn
’
t
come back up all over the white plastic table.

“
You
must have thought I was crazy when I called you on that Sunday night.
”
 
She wanted to talk to him.  She wanted to know who this man was.  If he was
going to help her find out what happened to Rebecca, she had to know what she
was working with. 
“
Crazy
woman thinks dead sister is still alive, huh?
”
 
She laughed as she said the words, the gentle laugh that teeters on the edge of
tears of sadness.

“
Something
like that.  You have to admit, it sounds pretty farfetched.
”
 
He thought about adding that he couldn
’
t
think of anything worse than dealing with the case of a car crash, and how he
had desperately wanted to rule it out and tell her that her sister
’
s
case was putting flashback images in his mind that he could barely find the
words to describe.  Instead, they both sat nodding in mutual agreement. 
“
Why
the notes in the paper?  I don
’
t
understand that.
”
 
It was only now that he realised that they hadn
’
t
even discussed this.  After seeing her face, the blonde hair and green eyes too
much proof to ignore, the other questions that had been forgotten were drip
feeding back to him now.

“
When
we were kids, we used to sit with our mum on a Sunday morning.  We always read
the announcements together.
”
 
As the centre of his eyebrows arched inwards, his lips pursing like the
scalloped edges of shellfish, she could see he found their old activities
strange.  Her teeth were clenched together like a defensive fortress. 
How dare he ridicule our old habits,
she
thought. 
“
It
was nice.  We did it every week with lunch, the three of us.
”
 
The once beautiful memories of a sweet and happy childhood seemed to get more
and more tainted every time she brought them out, never more so than right now
at this dinner table.  He could see the hurt on her face; it welled up in the
corner of her eyes, and for the first time he could see that whatever past
events had gone before her, the woman before him now was forged from steel. 
Those tears would fall again at their own peril.

“
Sorry.
”
 
He realised that he had reacted just a little too spontaneously.

“
It
’
s
OK.  I guess it
’
s
a bit strange,
”
she relented,
“
but
they are good memories.
”

“
Why
didn
’
t
she send it to your Mum?
”
 
He didn
’
t
even consider the question.  His careful policing had been put to the test on
this case.  He was always on top of things; he always had things sussed.  Now,
he had been so wrong about this case at the beginning, it was as if he had
called all of his skills into question and his thought processes had been left
tattered on the floor.

“
Because
she
’
s
dead.  She died four days before Rebecca went missing.
”
 
Jack, who was about to sip at his coffee, the hot brown nectar already on his
lips, put his cup down cautiously, his mind scratching about on the floor in
amongst his tattered skills and thoughts, desperately trying to piece things
together.

“
You
’
re
telling me that Rebecca and your Mum went missing within a week of each other?
”
 
She nodded.  She knew where this conversation was going, and she didn
’
t
want to be there.

“
But
my mother didn
’
t
go missing.
”

“
What
happened to her?
”
 
He couldn
’
t
believe that he didn
’
t
know this already and he moved in to her closer, his elbows sliding his upper
body across the table.   He waited, knowing from the way her eyes had dropped,
and seeing that her shoulders
had
tightened, that she didn
’
t
want to say anything.   The hairs on his arms stood up, the shiver of tension
washing over his exposed skin.  He waited for the answer, tongue almost hanging
out panting.

“
She
was murdered.  Strangled.
”
 
She propped herself up on the table.  She was almost covering her mouth with
her hand, as if muffling the words would somehow make them easier to say.

“
By
whom?
”
 
He waited.  He knew her answer already.  She didn
’
t
need to say anything.  She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders, hands up. 
She didn
’
t
know, but he was willing to bet his life on the fact that somebody did.

“
You
might not know.
”
 
He waited, as she raised her head, her eyes meeting his. 
“
But
I
’
ll
bet you that Rebecca did.
”

“
You
’
re
crazy!
”
she shouted. 
“
Why
wouldn
’
t
she say anything?
”
her voice returning to a whisper. 
“
Why
wouldn
’
t
she go to the police?
”
 
The very idea that Rebecca knew and did nothing was too much for Elizabeth. 
She wouldn
’
t
have left their mother to lie in a mortuary for a month, and then cold in her
grave, her mangled blue neck with a limp and lifeless head, her killer loose,
free and unpunished. 
“
Impossible.
”
 
He was rummaging in his brown file now, his hands delving as deep as they
could, looking for the freshly evidenced letters that Elizabeth had given him. 
He pulled everything out and dropped them onto the table.

“
Look,
”
he said, pointing at the first letter. 
“
It
’
s
time to learn the truth.
”
 
He underlined and tapped the letters. 
“
Letter
two, the same thing.  Look here at the words.
‘
You
have to learn it for yourself to believe.  I had to save you
’
.
”
 
He was staring at her now, and he could see that finally she was starting to
see.  It was becoming clearer to her, as the random words formed into coherent
sentences and all of the comforting ideas that she had surrounded herself with,
to somehow make the last four years bearable, were being washed away, leaving
room for only the facts. 
“
Your
mother was murdered, Elizabeth.
”
 
The words stung as they hit her ears, no matter how much time had passed. 
“
Rebecca
knew who did it.  She disappeared for you.  To save you.
”
 
His voice was soft as he said the words.  He wanted to try and replace some of
the cushions that he was ripping out from under her.  It was at that moment, as
she picked up the letter, that she first saw it.  It was the sea salt frizzy
lock of blonde hair, peeking out from underneath the corner of the brown file
that attracted her attention.  It looked the same as her hair after she had
spent the day down at Haven beach, sat on the harbour wall and chasing the
molten flow of ice-cream down her arm.  As she picked up the cover of the brown
file, she saw the green eyes peeking into view.  But these were not her eyes. 
When she looked in the mirror, her eyes shone like two green emeralds,
perfectly cut for their brilliance and radiance, the multifaceted surface
glimmering in the light.  These eyes that looked back at her showed none of
that same beauty.  These eyes were hollow.  These eyes were dead:  the sunken
devoid cheeks and greying skin a meagre milieu for such once precious stones. 
If he had still needed any convincing, Jack had the confirmation that he needed
as the two faces, one dead and one living, lined up in front of him together.