by Ruth Ware
But I can’t tell her anything. I can’t speak. I can only sit, gasping, and then suddenly blood rushes back into my fingers and I find myself scrabbling for my seat belt, yanking at the door, snatching Freya out of the back seat as the train thunders past, its speed like a scream in my face.
As I slam the car door with shaking hands she leans across, her deep rasping voice carrying easily above the roar of the train.
‘There’s blood on that girl’s hands, and not just sheep’s blood neither.’
‘How –’ I manage, but my throat is stiff and closing, and the words choke me. But Mary doesn’t wait for me to finish. The lights stop flashing and the barriers begin to lift, and even as I stand there, gaping, the car’s engine roars into life jolting across the tracks.
I can’t let it go on … it’s all wrong.
I am still standing there, trying to process what she’s said, when the lights begin to flash again, signalling the southbound train.
I still have time to cross. I could run after Mary, accost her at the station, demand to know what she meant.
But I think I know already.
It’s all wrong.
Or I could catch the next train, just me and Freya. In two hours I could be back in London, safe, forgetting about all of this.
There’s blood on her hands.
Instead I turn the pram around, and I head back. Back to the Tide Mill.
KATE IS OUT when I get back to the Mill, and this time I make sure of it. Shadow’s lead is missing from the peg by the door, but I leave nothing to chance. I check every room, right up to the attic. Kate’s room. Ambrose’s room.
The door is unlocked, and when I push it open, my heart stutters in my chest for it is just like it was when Ambrose was here, barely a paintbrush out of place. It feels like him. It smells like him – a mix of turps and cigarettes and oil paints. Even the throw over the battered divan is the same as I remember, worn blue and white with a faded pattern like floral china. Only now it is fraying at the edges, and even more sun-bleached.
It is when I turn to go that I see it. There, above the desk, is the handwritten sign. You’re never an ex-addict, you’re just an addict who hasn’t had a fix in a while.
Oh, Ambrose.
My throat tightens, and I feel a kind of furious determination flood through me, blotting out my selfish fear. I will find out the truth. And not just for my own self-protection, but to avenge a man that I loved – a man who gave me shelter and comfort and compassion at a time in my life when I needed those things most.
I cannot say that Ambrose was the father I never had, because, unlike Luc, I had a father – just one that was grieving and hurting and fighting his own battles. But Ambrose was the father I needed that year – present, loving, endlessly understanding.
I will always love him for that. And the thought of his death, and my part in it, makes me angry in a way that I have never felt before. Angry enough to ignore the voices in my head telling me to leave, turn round, go back to London. Angry enough to drag Freya back somewhere she may not be completely safe.
I am angry enough not to care about any of that any more.
I am as angry as Luc.
When I’ve finished checking every room, I run back down the rickety stairs, and go to the dresser, praying that Kate hasn’t thought of this and hidden it in my absence.
But she hasn’t.
There, in the drawer where she took it out for me only yesterday, is the sheaf of papers tied with a red string.
I riffle through them, my hands shaking, until I get to the brown envelope, marked Kate.
I take it out. And for the first time in seventeen years, I read Ambrose Atagon’s suicide note.
My darling Kate, it reads, in Ambrose’s characteristic looping hand.
I am so sorry, I’m so very, very sorry to be leaving you like this – I wanted to see you grow up, to see you grow into the person I know you will be; strong, loving, responsible and selfless. I wanted to hold your child on my knee as I once held you – and I am so terribly sorry that I can’t do any of these things. I was foolish not to see where my actions would lead, so now I am doing the only thing I can to make things right. I am doing this so that no one else will have to suffer.
Don’t blame anyone else, my sweet. I have made my decision and I’m at peace with it, and please know, darling Kate, that I am making this decision with love – it’s a father’s role to protect his children, and so I am doing the last thing, the only thing, I can do to protect mine. I don’t want anyone to live in a prison of guilt, so go on: live, love, be happy, never look back. And above all, don’t let this all be in vain.
I love you.
Dad
There is a lump in my throat when I finish reading, a pain so hard and sharp that I can hardly swallow back the tears that are threatening to flood the page.
Because at last, seventeen years too late, I think I understand.
I understand what Ambrose was trying to tell Kate, and the sacrifice that he made. Don’t blame yourself. I am doing the only thing I can to protect you. I am making this decision with love. Don’t let it be in vain.
Oh God. Oh Ambrose. None of this makes any sense. What did you do?
My fingers are shaking as I take out my phone and text Fatima and Thea.
I need you. Please come. Hampton’s Lee, 6pm?
And then I put the letter into my pocket and I get myself and Freya out of that place as fast as I can. And I don’t look back.
IT IS 6.38, and the little coffee shop on the London-bound platform at Hampton’s Lee has shut up, drawing the curtains across the window and turning the sign to closed. Freya is sheltered by her pram and the sensible emergency fleece I shoved into the basket underneath, but she is bored and grizzling, and I am shivering in my summer dress, my fingers wrapped around goosebumped upper arms as I walk back and forth, back and forth, trying vainly to keep my blood moving.
Are they coming? They hadn’t texted by 4 p.m., but then my phone ran out of charge – too long in the beachfront cafe at Westridge, nervously checking my messages, refreshing my emails, waiting for their response.
When I sent the text I had no doubt at all that they would come. But now … now I’m not sure. And yet I don’t dare leave. Without my phone, I can’t text them another meeting point. What if they come and I’m not here?
I have reached the far end of the platform, and I turn and walk back, really shivering now, trying to ignore Freya’s increasingly fretful grousing. 18:44 says the clock above the ticket office. When should I give up?
The platform is deserted, but a far-off sound makes me cock my head, listening. It’s a train. A southbound train.
‘The train stopping at platform … two … is the delayed 18:12 from London Victoria,’ says the robotic voice of the announcer. ‘The front seven carriages only will be continuing to West Bay Sands, stopping at Westridge, Salten, Riding and West Bay Sands. Passengers for Westridge, Salten, Riding and West Bay Sands please use the front seven carriages only.’
I make up my mind. If they’re not on this train then I’ll get on board and head south myself to Salten, and phone them from there.
My fingers close over the envelope in my pocket.
Oh, Kate. How could you lie to us like that?
The train is getting closer … and closer … and at last there is the hiss of pneumatic brakes and the noise of wheels on rails, and it grinds to a halt. Doors open, people are getting out, and I scan frantically up and down the platform, looking for the little-and-large combination of Fatima and Thea. Where are they?
There is a beeping noise and the doors slide shut. My heart is thumping in my chest. If I’m going to go back to Salten, I have to go now. There won’t be another train for an hour. Where are they?
I hesitate a moment longer … and then I take a step forward, press the ‘Open’ button, just as the guard blows his whistle.
It doesn’t respond. I press it harder, banging it with my fist. Nothing ha
ppens. The door stays closed.
‘Stand well back,’ the guard calls, and the engine whine grows louder.
Shit. I have spent two long, cold hours on this platform and they’re not here, and now I’m stuck for another hour.
The train noise grows deafening, and it slides imperviously out of the station, ignoring my shout of ‘You absolute fucker!’ to the guard, who wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway above the sound of the engine.
There are hot tears on my face, chilling in the backdraught of the train’s passing, and then I hear a voice from behind me.
‘Fucker yourself, bitch.’
I whip round, and then my jaw drops, and I begin laughing – a kind of hysterical combination of tears and relief. Thea!
For a minute I can’t speak, I just hug her, gripping her neck. She smells of cigarettes … and gin, I realise, with a twinge of foreboding. I feel the crunch of a can in her coat pocket, and I know without looking it will be one of those pre-mixed G&Ts you can buy at Marks & Spencer.
‘Where’s Fatima?’ I ask.
‘Didn’t you get her text?’
I shake my head.
‘My phone’s out of charge.’
‘She can’t get away from the surgery until half five but she’s coming down on the train after mine. I said we’d find a place to talk, text her where to come.’
‘OK.’ I rub my arms. ‘Good plan. Oh, Thee, I’m so glad you’re here. Where shall we go?’
‘Let’s go to the pub.’
I look at Thea, at the way she’s concentrating slightly too hard on articulating her words.
‘Can we not?’ I say at last. ‘I – it’s not really fair on Fatima.’
I feel a twinge of guilt at using her as an excuse, although it’s true, I don’t think she would want to hang out in a bar.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Thea rolls her eyes. ‘All right then, we’ll go and get fish and chips. Assuming the Fat Fryer is still there.’
It is. In fact nothing has changed, from the lime-green melamine counter, to the stainless-steel display cabinets, where golden cod and battered sausages sit lined up in rows.
‘Pick a Pukka Pie’ reads the faded open-and-closed sign on the door, just as it always used to, seventeen years ago, and I wonder – do Pukka Pies still exist, even?
As we push open the door, a wave of warm, vinegar-scented air washes over me and I breathe it in, feeling the coldness begin to leach out of my bones. Freya has fallen asleep on the way to the chip shop, and I park the pram by one of the plastic tables and go and study the menu with Thea.
‘Portion of chips, please,’ she says at last to the red-faced, sweating man behind the counter.
‘Wrapped, or open?’
‘To have here, please.’
‘Salt and vinegar?’
She nods, and the man shakes it on, a shower of salt that skitters across the melamine, like snow, over the two pound coins Thea has slid onto the counter.
‘You can’t have just chips, Thee,’ I say, knowing I’m sounding like a mum, but not able to help myself. ‘That’s not a proper dinner.’
‘It’s two of the major food groups,’ Thea says defiantly, taking the chips back to the table and pulling an unopened can of G&T out of her pocket.
‘No alcohol,’ the man says crossly, and he points to a sign on the wall saying Only food and drink purchased from the Fat Fryer may be consumed on these premises. Thea sighs and slips the can back into her pocket.
‘All right. I’ll have a water. Can you pay for it, Isa? I’ll give you the money.’
‘I think I can stretch to a water,’ I say. ‘I’ll have … um … battered haddock please. And a small chips. And a side portion of mushy peas. Bottle of still water for my friend. Oh, and a Coke.’
‘Ugh,’ Thea says, as I slide into the seat opposite her and open up the peas. ‘Gross. Like snot in a pot.’
The chips are perfect: hot and slightly limp with vinegar, zinging with salt. I dip one into the peas and then bite into it, feeling it squish creamily against the roof of my mouth.
‘Oh my God these are good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like triple lard-cooked gastro chips as much as anyone … but proper seaside chips …’
Thea nods, but she’s not really eating. She’s picking at her chips, pushing them around, turning the paper wrapping translucent with fat as she presses them into the absorbent paper.
‘Thea, you’re not trying to soak the fat out of the chips, are you? You realise they’re chips? They’re fried. That’s kind of the point.’
‘Nah,’ Thea says, but she doesn’t look at me. ‘Just not that hungry.’
I shut my mouth, and for a minute I’m back at school, watching helplessly as the school nurse calls Thea in for the weekly weight check, and she comes back spitting and raging about threats to call her dad if she loses any more weight.
I wish more than anything that Fatima were here. She would know what to say.
‘Thee,’ I say. ‘Thee … you have to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she says again, and this time she pushes the paper of chips away, and her jaw juts dangerously as she looks at me across the table. ‘I lost my job, OK?’
What? I’m not sure if I’ve said the words aloud, or just thought them, but Thea replies as if I have spoken.
‘I lost my job. They sacked me.’
‘Because of … all this?’
She just shrugs, her mouth twisting unhappily.
‘Because my mind wasn’t on it, I guess. Fuck ’em.’
I am groping for what I should say – what I can say – when Freya gulps, stirs and wakens. She holds up her arms to be picked up and I pull her out of the buggy straps and into my lap, where she smiles up gummily at me and Thea, looking from one face to another, her eyes darting back and forth. I can see her little mind working … mother … not mother. Mother … not mother.
Her eyes are wide, entranced by it all – the bright chrome counter, Thea’s wide hoop earrings, flashing in the fluorescent lights. Thea reaches out a tentative hand to touch her cheek – and then the bell above the shop door pings, and we turn to see Fatima slip inside, grinning, although she looks tired and worried beneath the smiles.
‘Fatima!’ I stand, giddy with relief, and give her a crushing hug. She hugs me back, and then leans down to hug Thea, and slides into the seat next to her.
‘Have a chip,’ Thea says, pushing the paper across to her, but Fatima shakes her head, a little ruefully.
‘Ramadan, innit? Started last week.’
‘So you’re just going to sit there and watch us eat?’ Thea says with incredulity. Fatima nods, and Thea rolls her eyes. I bite down the urge to tell her she can hardly talk.
‘Them’s the breaks,’ Fatima says matter-of-factly. ‘Anyway … I have to get back for prayers and iftar –’ she looks at her watch as she speaks – ‘which doesn’t give me much time before the train back, so can we cut to the chase?’
‘Yeah, spit it out, Isa,’ Thea says. She takes a sip of water, eyeing me above the bottle. ‘I’m hoping it was something pretty fucking special to drag us down here.’
I swallow.
‘I don’t know if special is the right word. But it’s important.’
I need you. Those three little words, which we never used except in direst straits. She whistles, and you come running, like dogs.
‘It’s this.’
I shift Freya to my other arm, fish the envelope out of my pocket and push it across the table towards them.
It’s Fatima who picks it up, and her face is puzzled.
‘This is addressed to Kate. Wait –’ She slips a finger inside the ripped top, and checks inside, and her face pales as she looks up at me. ‘It’s not …?’
‘It’s not what?’ Thea twitches it out of her fingers, and then when she recognises the handwriting on the note inside her face changes. They are so unlike, so polar opposite in every way, rosy, bird-like little Fatima with her dark, watchful eyes and quick smi
le, and thin, sulky Thee, all bones and fags and heels. But their expressions, in that instant, are exactly the same – a mix of horror, shock and foreboding.
I could almost laugh at the similarity – if it weren’t for the fact that there is nothing, nothing funny about this situation at all.
‘Read it,’ I say, keeping my voice low, and as they pull the thin, fragile sheet out of the envelope and begin to scan down the page, I tell them, very quietly, about what Mary Wren told me. About the argument. I even tell them – my face flushing with defiant shame – about that night with me and Luc, and looking over his shoulder to find Kate there in the darkness, silently watching us both, her face a stone mask of horror.
I tell them about what it was that Ambrose found so sick and wrong. About Kate sleeping with Luc.
And finally I tell them about the bottle. About what Mark told Mary. About the heroin they have found in the bottle of wine.
‘An oral overdose?’ Fatima’s voice is a whisper, even though the bubble of the fryers drowns our conversation. ‘But, that makes no sense. It’s a stupid way to commit suicide, incredibly chancy – the dose would be really hard to calculate, and it’d take a long, long time. Plus it’s easily reversible with Naloxone. Why wouldn’t he just inject it? With his tolerance down, he’d be dead within minutes, with no chance of being revived.’
‘Read that note,’ I whisper back. ‘Read it from the perspective of a man who has just been poisoned by his child. Now do you see what I’m saying?’