by B. A. Paris
I go up to bed and when the sun wakes me early the next morning, I feel calmer than I’ve felt for ages. With the prospect of ten days’ respite from Layla’s increasingly erratic demands, I feel almost optimistic. I look at Ellen asleep beside me and feel a twinge of guilt at the way I turned my back on her last night. I wish I could make it up to her, take her in my arms, show her that I love her. But I can’t. And the thought that she might wake up and expect me to propels me out of bed.
I dress quietly and go downstairs.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ I ask Peggy, giving her a morning cuddle.
It’s one of those beautiful, still Sunday mornings when everyone is in bed and the only sound comes from the birds chirruping in the trees and the chickens clucking in the garden of a nearby house. I glance across at Mick’s house and see him standing at the window. I raise my hand in acknowledgement and when he waves back, I feel guilty that I haven’t made more of an effort to get to know him.
As I walk along the river, I think about where Ellen and I could go. I’ve never lost my desire to visit Lewis but when I suggested it to Ellen last year, she said it was the last place she wanted to go. I can understand why. It’s where she lost her mother, where she lost her father – even if that wasn’t such a great loss. It’s also where she saw Layla for the last time. Anyway, it’s too far. Perhaps we should just stay here; Simonsbridge is so beautiful at this time of the year. Why sit in a car for hours only to end up somewhere equivalent?
My sudden reluctance to go away niggles at me, urging me to be honest with myself instead of hiding behind a long car journey. The truth is shameful; in a hotel, I won’t be able to wait until Ellen is asleep before joining her in bed. My mood plummets. I call Peggy from the river, hating the person I’ve become, the person Layla has made me become.
The village shop opens at eight on a Sunday so I buy bacon and eggs along with the papers before heading home. As I approach the house, I’m struck by a terrible sense of déjà vu. Because there, standing on the wall, is a little Russian doll.
I cover the last few yards in a couple of seconds and snatch it up, putting it quickly in my pocket. I look up and down the road but there’s no one around. Remembering how I saw Mick standing at his window, I go over and knock on his front door, forgetting that it’s only quarter past eight in the morning.
He takes a while opening it.
‘Sorry,’ he says. There’s a bowl of porridge in his hand. ‘I’m in the middle of giving my wife her breakfast.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say, taking in his dishevelled appearance. ‘I’ll come back later. I just wanted to ask you something.’
I wait for him to ask me what it is I want to know but he’s already shutting the door.
‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘I have to go.’ He raises the bowl of porridge, reminding me of his task in hand. ‘Come back in about an hour, I should have finished by then.’
I cross back over, looking up and down the road again, knowing that I’m not going to see Layla because she’ll be long gone by now. Gone where? Back to Cheltenham? My ears pick out the sound of a car engine turning over, then the sound of it driving off. It sounded as if the driver was in a hurry. Was it Layla? She hadn’t yet learnt to drive when I knew her, but twelve years is enough time for that to have changed.
In the hall, I hear the sound of the shower running, which means I have a few minutes before Ellen comes down. I take the shopping through to the kitchen, intending to make a start on breakfast. But I feel too agitated so I go out to the garden, hoping its tranquillity will work its magic on me. A window opens upstairs and looking up, I see Ellen smiling down at me.
‘Did you go for bread or have you been in your office?’ she asks and I want to yell at her to leave me alone.
‘Bread,’ I say. ‘I got some bacon and eggs too,’ I add, making an effort.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ she says. ‘I’ll have muesli.’ Words rush into my mouth – why can’t you be more like Layla! – and I bite them back quickly.
Over breakfast, I feel her eyes on me as I work my way through my bacon and egg sandwich.
‘Finn,’ she says, after a moment.
‘What?’
‘Please phone Tony.’
‘It’s Sunday.’
‘He won’t mind.’
I know she’s right. Besides, Layla has gone too far now with the doll with the smashed head. At least the one I just found on the wall was intact.
‘Alright, I’ll phone him after breakfast.’
I don’t particularly want to phone Tony in front of her but she’ll think it strange if I disappear into my office to do it, and I don’t want her to think I have anything to hide. Even though I do. Which is why I draw the line at putting Tony on loudspeaker, as Ellen perhaps expects. But the risk of him mentioning that Thomas saw Layla standing outside the cottage is too great.
‘I’m afraid this isn’t just a social call,’ I say, once we’ve established that we’re both fine.
‘Go on,’ he says, and I suddenly realise that Ellen doesn’t know I told Tony that she thought she saw Layla in Cheltenham.
‘It’s about Layla,’ I begin. ‘A couple of things have happened that have made Ellen and I wonder if she might still be alive.’
‘Has something else happened?’ he asks.
‘Some weeks ago, Ellen found a little Russian doll on the wall outside the house. Then a few days later she thought she saw her in Cheltenham,’ I add for Ellen’s benefit.
‘Yes, you told me about that. But what has a Russian doll got to do with it?’
‘When they were young, Ellen and Layla had a set each of Russian dolls and one of the dolls went missing. Since the one that Ellen found, another has turned up – two, in fact,’ I amend quickly, remembering the one Ellen saw me with in The Jackdaw. ‘Ellen received one in the post and we found the other one in the local pub, along with our bill. The thing is, they – Russian dolls – have a significance for both Ellen and Layla, a significance nobody else knows about.’ And I go on to explain the story from their childhood.
‘And nobody else knows the story?’ he asks when I’ve finished.
‘Only Harry – Ellen told him.’
‘And you’re sure you didn’t mention it to anyone else? Someone who would want to get back at you? An ex-girlfriend, maybe?’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve never told anyone.’
‘Hmm. The one that came through the post – do you know where it was sent from?’
‘Cheltenham – which is where Ellen thought she saw her.’
‘That lends a lot more weight to Thomas’ assertion that he saw her outside the cottage,’ he says. There’s a silence while he mulls it over. ‘Leave it with me, Finn. I’ll have a think, speak to a few people and get back to you.’
‘Thanks, Tony, I appreciate it.’ I hang up and turn to Ellen. ‘He’ll get back to us.’
‘But does he think that Layla has come back, that she’s alive?’
‘I think he thinks it’s worth looking into.’
She gives a small smile. ‘It seems a lot more real now that we’ve told somebody official. I began to wonder if we were mad to think that Layla had come back. What I don’t understand is why she’s hiding. I can’t stop wondering what she actually wants.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see.’ I get to my feet. ‘I need to do a couple of things. See you for lunch?’
In the office, I think about phoning Tony back and telling him about all the other dolls I’ve found, including the one with the smashed head. But if I’m going to go that far, I’ll have to tell him about the emails, as there’s no point him only having half the story. In the end, I decide to wait until he phones me back. If he says that what they’ve got to go on isn’t enough to spend time looking for Layla, then I’ll tell him the rest.
It’s a long morning. I take a look at the markets but I need to be in a good place to trade and today isn’t one of those days. I look for something to distrac
t me and remember that I’m meant to be going to see Mick.
‘Just popping to see Mick,’ I tell Ellen. ‘See if he wants to come over for a drink.’
‘That’s nice of you,’ Ellen says approvingly.
He doesn’t take as long answering the door this time and I’m relieved to see that his hands are free.
‘Sorry about this morning,’ I begin. ‘I didn’t realise it was quite so early. I was just wondering if you saw anybody hanging round outside the house this morning, you know, when you were standing at the window.’
He shakes his head. ‘Can’t say I did but I wasn’t there long. I’d just opened the curtains when I saw you, and then Fiona called me. A couple walked past but they didn’t stop.’
‘Past your house or mine?’ I ask.
‘Yours.’
‘I don’t suppose you saw them leave something on the wall, did you?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Unless they came back once I’d gone. You could always ask Mrs Jeffries, although she tends to sit in her conservatory out the back.’
I nod. ‘Well, thanks, Mick. How’s your wife doing?’
He shrugs. ‘No change.’
‘Well, if you ever feel like having a drink, just pop over. We’re usually in.’
‘Thanks.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘You never know, I might take you up on your offer one day.’
As I cross back over the road, I think about the couple who walked past our house, wondering why I had dismissed them without a second thought. I should at least have asked Mick if the girl – woman, I remind myself – had red hair. But I don’t want to believe that Layla has someone in her life. If she did, why would she be playing these games?
The rest of the day passes unbelievably slowly. Then just before I go to bed, I check my emails and see that one has come in from Layla. I think about not opening it but as always, curiosity gets the better of me. There’s just one word.
TEN
FORTY-THREE
Layla
The day I gave Finn his ten-day ultimatum, I picked up my next consignment of Russian dolls from the post office in Cheltenham. As I carefully unwrapped each of the ten dolls, a pleasing image came to mind. Ten little Russian dolls, lined up on the wall. It reminded me of the song Ellen and I used to sing when we were young, about ten green bottles hanging on a wall. And how, if one green bottle should accidentally fall, there’d be nine green bottles hanging on the wall. I felt a surge of excitement. What if I did a countdown? The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea.
The voice liked it even more.
FORTY-FOUR
Finn
We’re almost into August so business is slow. I spend the morning on the phone to Harry, talking about investments, looking at what our competitors are doing, which funds are working and which ones aren’t. Later, feeling hungry, I wander back to the house and as I go into the kitchen, I see a note on the table.
I’ve gone to do some shopping. If you’d like to join me for lunch, give me a call xx
I glance at the clock on the oven and see that it’s already two thirty, which means Ellen must have left sometime in the morning. I don’t know when the last time was that I actually came out of my office to have lunch with Ellen. The days of meeting in the kitchen at one o’clock have long gone. Ellen used to come and fetch me but she doesn’t any more and it bothers me less than it should.
At first, I thought the email Layla sent last Sunday saying TEN, coupled with the Russian doll she left on the wall, was her way of reminding me that I had ten days to do whatever it was she was expecting me to do, even though I’d told her it would never happen. But the next morning, when I went downstairs to give Peggy her breakfast, I found another brown envelope lying on the mat along with the rest of the mail. Realising what it was, I stooped to pick it up. Like the last one, it was addressed to me.
I could hear Ellen moving about upstairs, so I stuffed the envelope under my shirt and went through to the kitchen. I knew it contained a Russian doll but I didn’t know if it had its head smashed in, like the last one I received. I didn’t want to risk opening it where Ellen might see me, so I went to my office, tore open the envelope quickly and shook the contents onto my desk – one Russian doll, its head mercifully intact. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pushed it quickly into the back of my drawer. It was only when I received an email that evening which said NINE, that I realised I was caught up in a macabre countdown.
The next day – Tuesday – there was another envelope in the post, containing another doll, and another email in the evening – EIGHT. Layla’s subsequent emails, on Wednesday evening – SEVEN – on Thursday – SIX – and again last night – FIVE – only add to the sense of helplessness I feel, at being unable to stop the wheels of fate from turning. Bizarrely, the overriding emotion I feel is shame, that at forty-one years old, and six-foot-four, a few little dolls can unsettle me so much.
The pressure of the countdown is beginning to take its toll. Exhaustion has set in. I only go to bed when I’m dropping with tiredness and I lie there, my mind going round in circles, wondering where it will end, how it will end, while Ellen sleeps the sleep of the dead next to me. Each morning, I’m up early so that I can hide the latest Russian doll in the drawer in my office before she gets up.
Tony got back to me the day after my phone call – the ninth day of the countdown – to say that he and a couple of officers, armed with the photo of Layla they’d used in the initial search, plus a computer-enhanced photo of what she might look like now, were going to make discreet enquiries at hotels, B&Bs and hostels in Cheltenham. I used this news to persuade Ellen that going away wouldn’t be a good idea even though a part of me was tempted to jet off somewhere exotic just to get away from the relentlessness of the countdown, only coming back once the ten days were up.
‘Imagine they find Layla and we’re at the other end of the country,’ I said, and Ellen had agreed it would be better to stay in Simonsbridge.
Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m still keeping things from her. But if I tell her about this latest series of Russian dolls, she’ll urge me to tell Tony about them and Tony, with this added proof that Layla is back, will double his efforts to close the net on her. And I don’t want that. I don’t want her arrested like a common criminal. What I want is to be able to see her first, to talk to her by myself. Which is why I sent her an email on Wednesday warning her that she’s currently the object of a search.
I shouldn’t have, I know. I only sent one line – The police are looking for you in Cheltenham. If I’m honest, it isn’t just about not wanting her to be found until I have a chance to see her. Stupidly, I thought she might be so grateful for the tip-off that she would put aside her countdown and agree to see me. But she never replied.
I look at Ellen’s note again, wondering what I should do. She’ll have had lunch by now, so there’s no point in driving into Cheltenham just to come home again. The thought of her having a solitary lunch in a café makes me feel guilty all over again. When had I become so careless with Ellen’s feelings, when had I stopped making an effort? If only I’d been honest with her five weeks ago, when I found the doll on the wall. If only I’d shared the dolls, the emails with her. If I truly loved her, I would have, I acknowledge. If I truly loved her, I wouldn’t have let anything come between us. Now the distance between us seems huge – her note is evidence of that. Normally she would have come and told me that she was going shopping. Maybe I should phone her and suggest meeting for coffee.
The sound of the car coming in the drive makes the decision for me. I go into the hall and open the front door.
‘Sorry,’ I say, as she takes a couple of bags of shopping from the car. ‘I’ve only just seen your note.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says, but I know that it’s not by the way she pushes past me into the house without letting me take the bags from her, as she usually would.
I follow her into the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it,’ she says, dumping the bags on the side.
Something in her voice, a slight bitterness, makes me look at her properly. Her face is drawn, unhappy and when I think about it, I realise she’s looked drawn and unhappy for a while. I can’t remember the last time she laughed. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Having lunch on my own. I left you the same note on Tuesday and it was still on the table when I got back.’ She stops unpacking the bags and looks at me, a bunch of bananas in her hand. ‘You didn’t even notice I’d gone.’
‘What’s with the note anyway?’ I ask, getting angry. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me you were going out?’
‘Why should I always be the one to come and find you? You never leave your office any more, you don’t even bother to have lunch unless I fetch you.’
‘That’s not true,’ I protest.
‘The last three days I’ve had lunch here in the kitchen on my own. So, as I said, I’m used to it.’
Hating that I’m the cause of the hurt in her voice, I take the bananas from her and put my arms around her.
‘If I tell you I’m sorry a third time, will you forgive me?’ I ask. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise. It’s holiday time, so I’m not going to be so busy now,’ I add, knowing she’ll think that the reason I’ve been staying in my office is because of my workload.