Your Life For Mine

by Karen Clarke

  I dived for my mobile. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is Katya there yet?’ Marianne sounded breathless as though she was running. ‘There’s CCTV footage of her getting on the train at King’s Cross.’

  A shockwave passed through me. ‘She really is coming here?’

  ‘She’s not there then?’

  ‘No, I’d have called.’

  ‘We want to keep the police out of this, if possible,’ Marianne said. ‘Keep her there when she turns up and I’ll come and get her, take her back.’ She took a breath. ‘What’s your address?’

  From nowhere, a memory jolted me. Marianne, outside Fernley House a few days ago telling me it was nearly the anniversary of her husband Mick’s death. Twenty-six years, but it doesn’t get any easier. Her husband’s name was Mick. Mike. Both shortened versions of Michael.

  My breathing stalled. Could they be the same person? Angie had said there were other women, that Mike left a string of broken hearts in his wake. Was Marianne one of those women? I’d told her bits and pieces about my past since we’d started working together. She could easily have put it together.

  ‘Beth?’ Was I imagining that she sounded nervous?

  ‘How’s Carl?’ It was the first thing to pop out of my mouth.

  ‘Pardon?’ I imagined her eyebrows shooting up. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

  Were Carl and Gemma Mike’s children? What was it Marianne had said? They’ve never had a good male role model in their lives. They were the right age, too.

  She said something else, but the signal was going and I couldn’t make it out. I imagined asking how her husband had died, and was trying to frame the words when the signal cut out. I didn’t answer when my phone rang again, relieved when it stopped abruptly.

  I jumped when the landline shrilled, but Marianne didn’t have the number.

  ‘Just checking you’re OK.’ It was Vic.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I heard pub noises in the background and wished I was with him, sitting in the garden with a cold beer, or at a table in a cosy corner eating locally sourced food with a glass of wine.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said.

  ‘OK.’ We sounded like acquaintances, not two people who frequently shared a bed and had explored each other’s bodies. ‘Vic …’ I began.

  ‘I’ll see you later.’

  When he’d gone the silence closed around me. I switched the TV on and turned it off again, unable to settle. Outside, the sky was fading to twilight. I pulled a cardigan over my vest top and pyjama shorts and went out onto the decking. The back of my neck prickled as my eyes strained through the gathering gloom. Something had snagged my vision: a figure crouching to avoid detection? There was nowhere to hide out here, just an expanse of gorse-covered grass as far as the cliff path. Beyond that, there was nothing but the rocky steps leading down to Perran Cove, where the sea would be swirling, dark and impenetrable.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice sounded small and insignificant. Would anyone hear if I screamed for help? I backed inside, locked the door and pulled the curtain across. Should I call PC Fellowes, ask if he could swing by? But I hadn’t actually seen anyone. It was probably the night playing tricks, working on my overactive imagination.

  Even so, I switched on all the lights and turned the TV on again. I sat on the sofa with the phone in one hand, the attack alarm in the other, and stayed there until I heard three knocks on the door.

  ‘I thought you’d be in bed,’ Vic said, when I let him in. Underneath a faint tang of beer, he smelt of the sea and I wondered whether he’d been for a walk on Porthen Beach without me. ‘What’s happened?’

  He wasn’t angry, but something had shifted, his concern tempered with caution, and with an overwhelming sense of sadness, I knew I couldn’t confide in him anymore.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, faking a lightness I was far from feeling. ‘I was just on my way up.’

  His gaze dropped away from mine. ‘We’ll head home in the morning.’

  I nodded, unable to speak, but he was already halfway upstairs.

  He fell asleep immediately, facing away from me. He was a still, quiet sleeper. There was none of Matt’s tossing and muttering, or kicking off the duvet in the middle of the night, then wrenching it up again. I watched his outline for a while, trying to settle my mind, but when sleep wouldn’t come, I got up and crept to the window. The sky was midnight-velvet, sprinkled with stars, and the moon had risen, tracing a silvery path across the sea. I thought about Mike out there in the ocean, battling the waves, but for once, no surge of guilt followed. If only the other thing wasn’t still hanging over me.

  Enjoy your birthday, Beth. It’ll be your last.

  I tensed as something caught my eye. For a second, I thought I saw the flicker of car headlights, further down the lane. I leaned closer to the glass. Was that a car engine? Maybe Andrew Fellowes had driven out to check up on us, something niggling at him about our encounter. Or had Katya finally arrived, dropped off by a taxi?

  I craned my neck, waiting, but if there had been a car, it was gone. There was nothing out there but darkness and the endless, shushing sea.

  It’s almost time. It’s come round too quickly. It’s been more fun than I expected, watching you squirm, seeing you struggle to work it out, behaving like Miss Marple, suspecting everyone. I thought after your adventures yesterday, sneaking away like that, you might have worked it out, but I think I’ve given you too many red herrings. I noticed you didn’t bother visiting his grave in the end. Turned your mind, didn’t she? It’s not far from here, actually. I went there myself, paid my respects. It never helps. Only reminds me of everything I lost because of you. Still. Not long now.

  Soon, you’ll be in your own, watery grave.

  Chapter 30

  I woke from a fitful sleep. Something had disturbed me. A gentle alarm on Vic’s phone, waking us for our trip to Perran Cove.

  He stuck his arm out and switched it off, falling straight back to sleep with a grunt.

  Of course, he wouldn’t want to go now.

  Daylight had crept into the room. I slid out of bed, scooped up my clothes and slipped out of the bedroom.

  Downstairs, I dressed quickly in my crumpled shorts and a T-shirt and checked my phone. My stomach lurched. There’d been a missed call, from an unknown number.

  There was a message too. Katya’s back. The police were waiting when she got off the train at your end. She wanted me to tell you to be careful. She seems to think you’re in danger. Marianne.

  Something loosened inside me. I hadn’t realised just how worried I’d been about Katya. If you speak to her again, tell her I’m OK and I’ll talk to her when I get back.

  Marianne didn’t reply, but it was early, and the message had come through hours ago. Remembering my theory, I wondered if it was even true that Katya had been coming to see me, or a way for Marianne to get the address of where I was staying. It wasn’t as if I’d checked. Could she be on her way to Perran Cove? I recalled Carl’s shiny black car behind me as I drove to Fernley House the day after my birthday; how I’d been convinced the driver was following me, trying to scare me, but it was only Marianne. Marianne, with her love of true crime, her brilliant imagination that inspired creativity in her writing classes. She could probably dream up myriad ways to kill someone and get away with it. It seemed so unlikely she’d wish anyone harm, but it was always the last person you expected. At least, in films. But this wasn’t a film, it was my life.

  I poured myself a glass of cold milk and drank it quickly then looked around. The newspaper was still on the table, Vic’s shoes tucked underneath, my cardigan thrown across the sofa, next to the phone handset. There was no evidence of anyone having a good time here. I knew we couldn’t stay, not after I’d shown Vic that I didn’t trust him. The damage was done. We’d go home, and then what? He’d move back to his place, I supposed, surprised that I was thinking like that, and not about trying to salvage what was left of our relationship.

&nbs
p; I opened the curtains to see the end of a glorious sunrise, the sky marbled peach and rose pink, the sea like rippling silk. It would be a shame to go home without visiting Perran Cove. It had been the whole purpose of the visit. Then again, talking to Angie had been more valuable, and done more for my soul, than going back to the sea would. Even so … it would be good to know that I’d tried. And the water was calm today.

  I quickly checked the forecast on my phone. Storm clouds tomorrow, but no rain today, just plenty of sunshine and a light sea breeze.

  I picked up the laminate the cottage owner had left and studied the timetable of tides once again. Vic had been right; it was a very low tide right now. Maybe I could take some photos on my phone, run down and dip my toes in the sea, if I was feeling brave; be back before Vic woke up.

  I briefly considered waking him, asking him to come with me. Getting me down there had been his aim after all, but I had a feeling he’d want to set off back to Oxford right away, that indulging me now would be a step too far after yesterday. As it was, the journey home was going to feel uncomfortably long. Just the thought of it threatened to bring back my headache.

  I ripped a sheet of paper from my notepad and wrote Back soon, gone for a walk xx so Vic wouldn’t worry if he came down to find me gone.

  I slipped my phone and keys into my pocket, pulled on my cardigan and grabbed an apple from the kitchen. My sneakers were by the door and I slid my feet in then paused for a moment, listening to the silence.

  It was surely too early for anyone to be out there, waiting for me to emerge, so they could … what? I thought of the headlights I was sure I’d seen last night, but Katya was safe now.

  She seems to think you’re in danger.

  Did Katya really know something? I thought about calling Dee to check Katya really was home, reassure her I was fine, but it might do more harm than good, and what if Marianne had lied? On impulse, I called the number PC Fellowes had given me instead.

  ‘Good morning, Devon and Cornwall Police.’ It was a different voice, female, slightly bored.

  ‘Oh. Hi. It’s Beth Turner,’ I said. ‘I’m staying at Wayfarer’s Cottage.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’ve a message for PC Fellowes.’

  ‘PC Fellowes isn’t due in until seven.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well … I wanted to him know, I’m going down to Perran Cove,’ I said, as if it was perfectly normal to call the police station at five in the morning and relay this information. ‘Now, I mean.’

  ‘Right.’ Her voice was neutral.

  ‘He’ll understand what it’s about, if you could please let him know.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  I moved away from the door as if Vic might be listening behind it. ‘I’ll call back in half an hour,’ I said. That should give me enough time to get back up here. ‘If I don’t, I’m in trouble and you should send help.’

  ‘Trouble?’ The signal cut out as she started to say something else.

  Heading away from the cottage, munching the apple, feeling the spring of heather beneath my feet, I tried not to give in to an urge to look behind me.

  A woman in running gear with a swinging ponytail was jogging down the path, a glossy black Labrador lolloping at her side. She gave me a cheerful smile as she passed and raised a hand. ‘Morning!’

  I waved back and, reassured by the sight of normal life, carried on in the opposite direction, heading to where the path dipped, turning into steps that were roughly hewn into the rock face above the cove.

  I paused and looked down, heart racing with sudden fear, and dropped my half-eaten apple. This was supposed to have happened with Vic at my side, but here I was alone, staring at the place of my nightmares.

  The view shimmered and settled, not as I remembered at all. In my dreams, it was a place of crashing waves, a whirlpool of froth and ice sucking me down, flinging me about like debris, filling me up until I couldn’t breathe. Only on waking could I superimpose the pale crescent of sand, the changing blues and greens of the water as it had looked when I went into it that day on my Lilo, while Mum and Dad lolled on towels, and Jamie ran out of the cave he’d been exploring and scrambled up the steps to buy ice-creams.

  The urge to turn back and never look at this view again was strong, but I knew if I did, it would haunt me forever. Heart jumping, stomach sliding, I started down the shallow steps, gripping the iron rail that ran down the side – an addition that hadn’t been there back when Jamie and I raced down, with no sense of fear, ignoring shouts of caution from Mum and Dad, excited to explore the rock pools, to look for treasure, and to get into the sea. We hadn’t needed anyone else then, happy in each other’s company.

  ‘Race you,’ Jamie had yelled from the bottom, eyes scrunched against the sun, skinny-limbed in his blue swimming shorts, already nut-brown from four days in the sun. I heard the echo of his voice as I reached the sand, feeling out of breath as I clung to a rock at the bottom, reluctant to let go.

  The cove felt more secluded than it looked from above. Someone would have to peer right over to spot me there, and the water was closer than I’d thought, more than halfway up the small curve of beach. Maybe it was an illusion because I was physically closer. I knew from the timetable that the water wouldn’t reach the steps for several hours.

  ‘Come on, you can do this,’ I urged, imagining I was one of my clients at Fernley House. ‘One step at a time, and remember to breathe.’ I took off my shoes and put them on the cluster of rocks behind me. Digging my toes into the cool, damp sand, I concentrated on moving my diaphragm up and down while keeping my eyes on the view.

  It really was breathtaking; the sky a bowl of denim blue and blush pink reflected in the water. No wind disturbed the surface, which was a wrinkled expanse of silk, the sound no more than a gentle murmur as it lapped the champagne sand. It was too calm for surfing, though I knew round the rocky outcrop it could be a different story, white-capped waves blowing up onto Porthen Beach.

  As I looked at the tranquil scene, a seal lifted its sleek head from the water and looked right at me, before bobbing under again. I laughed out loud with surprised delight, picturing Hayley’s face when I told her. I imagined Matt beside me, scooping one arm around my shoulder, easing me forward. A swell of emotion moved through me.

  I dug my phone out and snapped a picture. Here I am, I typed. There was barely any signal, but I sent it anyway, then worried it looked as if I was gloating. Look at me! I did it without you, ha ha.

  I frowned at the screen. There was a message from Jamie, sent about ten minutes ago.

  Where R U?

  Jamie. I thought about him as I looked around me, inserting him into the scene; splashing through the water to push me around on my Lilo, both of us giggling as he tried to tip me into the shallows. Hold your nose, Beth, it’s easy. Put your head under. You can see the starfishes!

  I switched my phone to video and swept it round, noting the light on the water and sand, how black the rocks behind me looked, the cave he’d explored back then like a gaping mouth – seeing it all as I’d paint it once I was home.

  I sent the video to Jamie, with a message. Look familiar?

  It was an olive branch of sorts, but he’d probably think I was taunting him.

  I remembered the screwed-up paper in his office, the footprint in my studio; how he’d always mocked my painting, my choice of career. How much he seemed to hate me, and what my counsellor had told me years ago, about him disguising his guilt – a guilt he’d denied ever feeling. My lungs grew tight and heavy. The memory of headlights the night before flew into my mind. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Jamie know my exact location. What if he was here?

  The video hadn’t sent and, for once, I was grateful for the dodgy signal. I’d be back at the cottage soon. If Vic wasn’t up, I’d wake him, and maybe we’d have breakfast together before leaving. I suddenly couldn’t wait to get away.

  My feet were wet. Surprised, I looked down and saw that the wa
ter had reached where I was standing. I took a stumbling step back. I’d checked the times of the tides, twice, and knew Vic hadn’t got it wrong. How had the water moved so quickly?

  It was OK. I could easily retreat. The steps were right behind me, no need to panic. I forced myself to stand still, to try to enjoy the satin caress of water around my toes. It was like being in the baby pool with Hayley – except it was the sea. The vast, unfathomable sea.

  My pulse was racing. Breathe, just breathe.

  There was no danger, I was safe. The sea was benign, as if showing me I needn’t be scared. I took another photo, hands trembling slightly, this time of my feet. Further proof that I’d done it. I’d stood in the sea in Perran Cove and nothing terrible had happened.

  Turning, I took a selfie with the sea and sky behind me, shocked by the wildness of the image looking back at me. I was pale, my hair a tangled mess, violet crescents beneath my eyes, which were wide and wary. I looked haunted.

  I glanced around once more, committing the scene to memory, imaging it on canvas – a final painting for my exhibition in a few months’ time.

  Putting my phone in the pocket of my shorts, I reached for my shoes. One slipped into the water and I had to scrabble for it. As I straightened, holding out the sodden sneaker, I felt a familiar prickle at the back of my neck and whipped around. There was nothing now but the sea, lapping towards the cave on my right, just a metre of sand still visible at the mouth.

  Glancing up, I searched for signs of life – dog-walkers, joggers on the path above – but saw only seagulls wheeling high, their mournful cries sending a shiver down my spine.

  I reached for the iron rail, pulled one foot from the water and stopped.

  A sound had reached me from somewhere: a child’s cry. Every hair on my body lifted. Hayley? I knew it wasn’t – couldn’t be. A seagull dipped low, so close I felt a draught from its wings. I pressed a palm to my chest, feeling the rapid drum of my heart. It had been a seabird’s cry, the sound amplified by the rocks rearing around me.