by Leah Mercer
‘Frank!’ She decided to laugh it off, like his hand had just ended up there and he hadn’t any control over it.
But he didn’t move. She tried to get up from the bed, but he took her arm, locking her beside him. A quiver of fear went through her, but she refused to acknowledge it. This was her brother-in-law. Bertie’s family – almost her family. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. If Bertie could be sure of it, then she could be, too.
But when she tried to get to her feet again, he tightened his grip and the fear ballooned, her heart beating fast.
‘Frank? Frank, I need to get going now.’ She tried again to pull away, but he held her fast. ‘Frank, let me go!’ Her voice rose in pitch and Frank put a hand over her mouth, stopping her cries. His hand reeked of tobacco and booze and, for a second, she thought she was going to be sick. But she couldn’t – she had to use every inch to fight what he was doing now, thrashing and kicking as he pushed her down on the too-soft mattress, using his weight to trap her as he wriggled her jeans over her hips and yanked his own down.
She couldn’t believe this was happening – she couldn’t let this happen – and yet it was, as the sharp, scraping pain of him forcing himself inside of her, as the squeaking bedsprings protested his movements, as he finally collapsed on top of her, his hand falling away from her mouth.
She had nothing to say now, anyway. Nothing as he pulled out of her and rolled over. She barely saw him. She barely moved.
‘If you say anything to Bertie about this,’ he said, ‘then I’ll tell him you wanted it. I’ll tell him we were screwing all those nights back at his house, and all through the tour, too. And he’ll believe me, you know he will. I’m his brother, and you’re nothing but an amateur pub singer. I’ll tell him you screwed me so you could get the pub gig, and that’s how you got this tour, too. By screwing.’
Frank sniggered, sitting up. ‘That’s why Mike booked you, you know. Because he thought you might be an easy lay, not because you can sing.’ Then the weight of his body lifted off the bed, and she heard him cross the room. The door slammed, and she raised a hand to her necklace, her fist closing around the heart pendant as if it was the only thing that could save her body from rotting, disintegrating slowly into the mattress and fading away.
I am always with you. I will always be here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ELLA
I struggled to wake up the next morning. I’d barely slept, but not because I was thinking about my mother . . . because I was thinking about my aunt. She’d come through the operation all right, thank God, but she’d been so groggy that she’d barely been able to open her eyes before sinking back into sleep. I’d stayed at the hospital until Rob had told me in no uncertain terms to go home – he was going to be kicked out soon, anyway – and so I’d hugged him again then climbed into a cab.
Back at my flat, I’d crawled into bed and turned off the light, lying in the dark as my thoughts swirled. All across the country, my newspaper story was being read by thousands of people. Yet I felt so distant from it, as if it was happening to someone else. I hadn’t even seen a copy of it. I still wanted to find my mother, of course. I still wanted to hear from her why she’d left. But right now, what was important – what really mattered – was my aunt, the woman who had stepped in to pick me up when the bottom had fallen out of my world.
The woman I’d never let in.
I dragged myself from bed and left another message on Jane’s voicemail at work, telling her that I wouldn’t be in the office again today. Then, I took a cab to the hospital, retracing my steps from the night before. My aunt had been moved on to the ward, and Rob was already at her side. She looked so pale and small in the bed, and my heart flipped. Please may she be all right.
‘Hi,’ I said in a whisper. Rob glanced up, then stood to hug me.
‘The nurse told me that she had a good night,’ he whispered, relief evident on his face. ‘She woke up for a bit about an hour ago. She’ll probably be awake again before long.’
I nodded, my gaze sliding back to her face as guilt poured through me. Rob and I spent the next hour or so looking at our phones, commenting on the weather and staring into space, time crawling by at a pace slower than I’d ever known. Finally, my aunt stirred and opened her eyes.
‘Oh! Ella, you’re here. I must have nodded off.’
I smiled, wondering how she could go from sound asleep to one hundred per cent alert in one second. My aunt was just like that: completely present, giving every minute her all. My stomach twisted at the thought of how she’d given me everything she could, despite me turning away.
‘I’ll go grab some coffee,’ Rob said, getting to his feet. ‘Give you two a chance to talk.’
I nodded, barely registering his words. All I could focus on was my aunt.
‘Aunt Carolyn . . .’ I sat down in Rob’s chair and put a hand on her arm. Even under the sheet, it still felt cold. ‘I’m so sorry you saw that article before I had the chance to talk to you. I know it must have been a shock.’
Carolyn met my eyes. ‘Yes, it was, and I do wish you’d spoken to me first. I knew you’d been thinking of your mother lately, but I never once thought that, after all these years, you hoped she might still be alive.’
I swallowed. ‘I know it might seem far-fetched, but there is a chance. There was an advert, and—’
‘Ella.’ Carolyn’s soft voice interrupted me, and I waited for her to launch into her rationale that the advert could have been placed by anyone. She was so certain my mother was dead that I wouldn’t have expected anything different.
‘I put the advert in the paper, Ella.’ She squeezed my hand, and my mouth fell open. Carolyn had placed the advert?
‘The classified advert?’ I asked, unable to believe we were talking about the same thing. ‘The one with the ten words? I am always . . .’ I swallowed, unable to complete the sentence.
She nodded, her eyes holding mine. ‘I’m sorry it made you think your mother might still be here. I never in a million years thought you might see it. And even if you did, I’d never have imagined you might believe it was your mother. I didn’t realise . . .’ She swallowed. ‘Didn’t realise you still hoped.’
I dropped my gaze, feeling my cheeks colour. Had I still hoped? Was that why the advert had slipped through my defences? Was that why Carolyn had placed it, too? Did she think my mother might be out there? It was hard to believe, given how sure she’d always seemed.
I lifted my head. ‘But . . . why? Why would you put an advert in the paper?’
Carolyn sighed. ‘I’ve placed one every year since Jude died. It’s a way to remember her, I guess. A way to keep her alive in my mind – to say sorry that I couldn’t help her. I suppose I could have done it all over the phone, but by going to London I felt like I was fulfilling a dream she’d always had, walking the streets she’d wanted to. The advert was meant only for me and her memory, and that’s why I never left a name. I didn’t need to.’
I glanced down at our clasped hands as emotions tumbled through me. I’d been so angry at the possibility my mother had left me to live her own life then dared to come back into mine, but she hadn’t. My mother was dead. Bertie may have thought he saw her, but given his memory . . .
The same sadness I’d felt last night flowed into me once again, banishing the last lingering flames of fury. The advert that had started me out on this path, well . . . all of this could have been avoided if I’d just talked to Carolyn about it. But I couldn’t, because I’d been so afraid to let her in; to be vulnerable. Funny how the journey I’d taken had smashed down those walls now, leaving me more exposed than ever.
‘The article mentions someone called Bertie.’ Carolyn’s voice cut into my thoughts, and I met her eyes. Her face was pinched, and worry shot through me. ‘Please tell me you didn’t talk to him. I know you had those letters, but . . . Did you speak with him? Did you get in touch?’ Her face went even paler, and I shifted in my chair.
‘Are y
ou okay? Shall I get the doctor?’
Carolyn shook her head and held up a hand. ‘No, no. I’m fine.’ Her tone was sharper than I’d ever heard before. ‘But please, just tell me. I need to know.’
I drew back, surprised at her urgency. I knew she wasn’t happy Bertie had lived with my mum, but surely he didn’t warrant this alarm. Maybe if I told her that I’d met him and there was nothing to worry about, she’d relax.
‘I did go up to see him,’ I said, trying to get it all out quickly so she didn’t need to worry any longer than necessary. ‘And, Carolyn, he’s such a gentleman. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He—’ I broke off as Carolyn clenched my hand so strongly it hurt.
‘Ella.’ Carolyn’s gaze was so intense that I couldn’t move. ‘Promise me. Promise me you’ll never see or talk to him again. Please.’
‘Okay, sure, but Carolyn, you really don’t need to worry. He’s absolutely harmless. You know, he’s been looking for Mum all these years? He really loved her. He thinks he saw her in London a few years ago, and he’s convinced she couldn’t have killed herself.’
Carolyn shifted in the bed, still gripping my hand. ‘He of all people should know your mother won’t be coming back. He of all people should know why she died.’
I sucked in my breath. He of all people should know why she died. Had Bertie been involved in my mother’s death? How, if they’d had no contact since she’d left him?
No. It wasn’t possible. Bertie was . . . Well, he was Bertie.
‘Ella . . .’ Carolyn’s stare lasered into me. ‘Bertie’s not harmless. He’s . . .’ She paused. ‘You have to understand that I never wanted to tell you this. ‘I never would have told you this, if it wasn’t for that article. But I failed to keep your mother safe, and I won’t fail with you.’
‘Okay,’ I said slowly, wondering what on earth she was going to tell me.
‘Your father didn’t die,’ Carolyn said, and my heart stopped.
‘What do you mean?’ I could barely get out the words. ‘Why did my mother tell me that, then? Why did you tell me that?’
‘She wanted to protect you,’ Carolyn said. ‘The same way I want to protect you.’
‘Protect me? From what?’ Our eyes stayed locked, and every bit of me was focused on her. ‘From Bertie?’ My heart was beating so quickly now that I felt light-headed. What on earth had he done?
‘When your mother first told me she was pregnant, I wanted to throttle her,’ Carolyn said, her face tightening at the memory. ‘She had so much ahead of her – she was so talented, and she’d barely started living.’
An alarm in the next bay went off, but Carolyn barely noticed. I felt like my senses were hyper-aware, as if everything had gone into overdrive.
‘She stayed with me and Rob during her pregnancy,’ Carolyn continued, ‘and we tried everything to help her; to do what we could. She never talked about your father, so we never asked. Jude was like you: the more you pushed for answers, the further she’d retreat.’
I felt something brewing inside of me, like a storm approaching. The tension pushed against my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. I wanted to move away, but I couldn’t. I had to hear, in crystal clarity, what she was about to say. Was I finally going to learn the truth about my mother’s death?
‘But when she was sleeping . . . It was awful. She’d have nightmares every night, crying and screaming. Calling out for Bertie and asking him to stop. To please stop, to get off of her, to leave her alone.’ Carolyn winced saying the words, and my eyes widened in disbelief. Bertie? Gentle, friendly Bertie, who’d loved my mother so much?
No. Carolyn had to be wrong. They’d had a relationship – a loving relationship. I’d seen his letters. I knew it was true.
‘After a few weeks, I tried to talk to her about it,’ Carolyn said. ‘But she wouldn’t. All she did was ask me to keep Bertie away from her – to make sure he never contacted her. She’d left him, you see. As soon as she found out she was pregnant with you, she knew she had to go to a safe place.’
I stared at my aunt, trying to take in her words. ‘Bertie is my father?’ My voice was shaky and incredulous.
Carolyn nodded. ‘Your mum didn’t list him on your birth certificate so he wouldn’t have any claim to you, and we agreed we’d say he had died before you were born. We didn’t want to risk you getting in touch with him. He did try to find your mother at one point. It was the summer after you were born – you must have been four or five months old, I guess. I was leaving the house one day, and there he was. I don’t know how he found out where I lived. I suppose he asked around . . . lots of people knew me, of course, since I’d been teaching at the school. He rang the bell and waited for ages, but eventually he left.’
She shook her head. ‘He kept writing for years, though. Letter after letter, all addressed to your mother at my house, hoping, I’d guess, that I’d pass them on. I don’t think he ever knew your mum was staying with me, thank goodness.’
I sat there, the layers of knowledge piling up on top of me. My mother had been in an abusive relationship. An abusive relationship with Bertie. Had Bertie pretended he didn’t remember what had happened – that he’d been violent? Had he forgotten, due to his Alzheimer’s? He’d remembered lots of other things, though. It seemed a little too convenient to just block that bit out.
‘Ella?’ Carolyn reached for my hand again. ‘You won’t talk to that man, not now that you know what happened, right? Your mother would want me to make sure of that. I have to make sure of that.’
I wanted to nod, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move as my mind whirled. I had a father – a father who was alive; a father whom I’d met.
A father who’d never even known I existed, and who my mother had fled from the moment she’d discovered her pregnancy.
I drew in a breath. It was just so hard to believe that Bertie abused my mother. I could barely fit ‘Bertie’ and ‘abuse’ together in the same sentence. I knew people changed, but I struggled to picture the man I’d met being anything but loving. If he had hurt her, why would she hang on to his necklace? Why would she promise it to me when I grew up? Why would she say those same ten words – the promise they’d exchanged – over and over to me?
But then . . . why would she run from him so suddenly, blanking all contact, if she’d loved him so much? Why would she not even list him on my birth certificate, telling me that he was dead?
Why would she abandon me, ending her life in the sea?
Perhaps Bertie was a different person now. Perhaps he really didn’t remember any of what had happened; of what he’d done. Soon, everything – including my mother – would be erased from his mind. I’d never be able to trust his words . . . trust him. He might be my father by blood, but I’d never know him. He’d never truly be my family.
Family. I glanced down at my aunt’s hand. My mother was gone. I may never understand why she’d left me, but I realised now that she had loved me – enough to have me under horrific circumstances, and enough to try to protect me. The pain of the past would always be there, but I didn’t want to return to using it as my shield any longer. I wanted to let in the people who’d loved me . . . who loved me now, despite the years of me pushing them away.
I wanted to finally have a family.
I smiled at my aunt and gripped her hand, and only ten words came to mind.
‘I am always with you,’ I said. ‘I will always be here.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
JUDE
July 1982
‘Okay, I’m off!’ Bertie dropped a kiss on Jude’s lips. She tried to smile up at him from her place on the sofa. She tossed and turned every night now, unable to close her eyes without Frank’s face filling her mind’s eye. She’d been back from the tour for over two months, and she kept waiting for the day it would get easier – the day the horror, shock and disbelief of what had happened would fade.
But it hadn’t. If anything, it was getting worse, like a rotten limb swelling and blackenin
g over time, tainting the room with its smell. Tainting everything, even this wonderful life she had with Bertie.
God knows she’d tried to put it behind her; to block it out and focus on the present. After Frank had left her room that evening, she’d showered, crawled back into her clothes again, and grabbed a cab to the restaurant in York. She’d smiled and laughed, even with the dull ache between her legs, refusing to believe Frank had done what he did. Refusing to let it enter her mind; her consciousness. All she had to do was get back to Edinburgh the next day to where Bertie was waiting, and she would be safe.
Thankfully, by the time breakfast rolled around, Frank was nowhere to be seen. Mike said he’d taken off to Spain, where he’d lined up a job at a hotel as their entertainment manager. He’d never said a word of it to Jude and she couldn’t have been more grateful. Frank would be out of her life for the foreseeable future, and she wouldn’t think of that terrible night again.
Easier said than done, though, because the more she tried not to think of it, the more it clawed at her brain, demanding to be let in. Those five minutes – if it had been even that – were affecting her every hour, laying siege to her soul and battering every defensive move in her arsenal. She’d been so relieved to see Bertie that she’d thrown herself into his arms when she’d returned, tears streaming down her cheeks. But that was all she could do. Any time he tried to do more than pull her close, her heart started thudding and she had to move away, as if, by making love, he’d know she’d been attacked.
He’d know something was really wrong.
Of course, he already knew there was something wrong. Since she’d come home, she hadn’t sung. She hadn’t even tried to sing or write music. She hadn’t spoken to anyone on the phone, not the pub managers who tried to book her nor the band members who rang to invite her out. She hadn’t talked to Mike, either, despite his many messages. He’d probably found someone else to take her place at the festival by now.