by L. V. Hay
A strange weariness descends on me, like a giant hand is pressing down on me. My body feels heavy. Everything seems pointless. I’ve tracked India through the last weeks of her life … for this? Surely not. I’m still missing a large piece of the puzzle, I am sure of it.
Mum looks up, her expression defeated. ‘Not until I’ve told Tim. I owe him.’
‘You should have thought about what you owed him twenty-odd years ago.’
My hand flies to my mouth as soon as the words are out of it. I’m horrified at the condemnation in my tone, yet still a part of me believes my mother deserves it. Perhaps she thinks so too, because she does not flinch. She absorbs my vitriol.
‘I never wanted it to be this way. You have to believe that.’
‘I don’t know what to believe anymore.’
Out of nowhere, that lethargy infecting my bones dissipates. My energy returns. I spring up from the sofa and stride towards the door. I have to get away from this house, the decades of secrets contained within it.
‘Poppy, where are you going? Poppy!’
I don’t look back at Mum, even though she calls after me. I run out of the Coach House, leaving the front door open. Night has fallen; clouds gather over the city, obliterating the stars. Rain starts to patter, lightly at first, then harder. The paving stones become slick with it, shining like mirrors under the streetlamps.
I race down our street towards the bus shelter at the end, knowing a night bus should be on its way within the next five minutes. I’m right. A big double-decker turns the corner just as I arrive. The doors open and let me inside.
I take my seat among some bleary-eyed shift workers and wired party-goers. Chatter echoes all around me. But I hear none of it. I just wait for the slow vehicle to take me to my destination.
Fifty-six
He blunders down the seafront. He’s not wearing a coat. Hands in his pockets, arms drawn to his sides; but this offers little protection against the harsh winds coming off the beach. He’s tired, irascible. After another fitful night’s sleep, he ended up single-handed most of the afternoon. Tonight, he’s going to relax. There’s a box set, a pizza and a six-pack of beer with his name on. He doesn’t normally eat junk food or drink heavily, but he needs it. Maybe if he’s lucky, she will join him.
As he unlocks his car, the lights flash and the alarm chirrups. He slides in behind the wheel, shoving the box onto the passenger seat. But he doesn’t move or turn the key in the ignition. He enjoys the silence for a moment.
He finally fires up the engine. He takes a deep breath, breathing it out slowly in time with the indicator, as if it were a metronome. A dull ache throbs in his left side, and there is a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow. Distracted, he rubs at them as he turns the wheel, reminding himself of their cause. Phantom pains: nothing more, nothing less.
All that is over now.
In his pocket, his mobile rings. Pulling it out with one hand, he baulks at seeing her name – She Who Must Be Obeyed – flashing on the smartphone’s screen. It feels like he’s under surveillance. Worse than that: trapped. Not for the first time, he wonders if he could get rid of his phone or change his number. But he needs it for work; it would be a hassle.
Besides, she would only present him with a new one, in the box, proclaiming she ‘just wants to help’. She’d only sense his antagonism. The smile would fall from her lips. The guilt and shaming would follow, her endless recriminations. It would be his turn on the kitchen chair. He’s not sat there for years, has sworn he never would again, vowing he would do everything he could to appease her, contain her, try and keep her at bay. If he were to sit in that chair, she would catalogue everything that has been done for him, listing each one on her bony fingers, the clank of her bracelets sounding like chain links. No escape.
‘Who’s been here, all along?’ She would hiss, ‘Who’s always picked up the pieces?’
In return, that duplicitous part of him would grovel to her. He’d promise to be good, to fall back in line. And a part of him would mean it, wanting her to love him again. Anything to be back in favour, to not see the dark anger shining in her eyes.
He presses the hands-free button on his phone. ‘What is it?’
Beyond the windscreen, darkness falls over Brighton. The pier’s lights flash in the twilight as bunting flaps against the wind, which is picking up speed.
She takes his gruff tone in her stride. ‘I’ve been calling you all day!’
‘Been working.’
But for once, she does not launch into her usual repertoire of emotional blackmail. She sounds breathless, like she’s been running. She’s svelte for her age, but it’s by luck, rather than design. She counts walking to the corner shop for a Daily Mail and up and down the stairs her workout for the day. Too late, he regrets answering; he realises from her tone that she is excited. He knows what this means. He can feel his early night disappearing from him, receding like the dark tides of the beach below the seafront.
‘Guess who’s got out?’
He can hear the wide smile in her voice. She’s always loved drama.
His fists clench around the wheel. ‘Again?’
‘Don’t be like that.’ The unmistakable pitch of a pout at the end of the line. ‘I’m doing my best here.’
He takes another a deep breath, composes himself before answering. ‘Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not coming all the way this time. Send one of the others to my place.’
‘Of course. Thank you, darling,’ she purrs, hanging up.
He chucks his mobile on the passenger seat, next to the box of folders. He catches sight of his weary, bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror: he must be mad. Flicking the indicator switch back again, he turns the car around.
Back towards The Lanes.
Fifty-seven
The bus drops me a few streets away from the Prince Albert. My breath recovered, I break into a run again. It’s a massive assumption that Jenny will be at the club, but I have no other means of getting in touch with her. I pray she’s there, because who else can help me? Not Tim, not Mum. Definitely not Matthew. Not even Ana will give me a straight answer.
Jenny links all of this together somehow. But how?
As I round another street corner, I hear raised voices. I fancy one is Jenny’s, though part of me is sure it’s wishful thinking. As I draw closer to the Prince Albert, I see the female bouncer shouting, her big mate standing behind her. He’s silent as ever, his big arms crossed, an intimidating figure.
A black car waits outside the club, pointed away from me. It’s parked unevenly, two wheels mounting the pavement. A large man has his back to me; no jacket. Even though I am too far away, I know who it is.
Matthew.
He has someone with him: someone much smaller, slighter. A girl. It’s difficult to see who she is – his bulk blocks my view.
I can see her struggling though, but he easily maintains his grasp on her arm. Matthew ignores the complaints of the female bouncer. He holds her off his other arm, his own threat clear. The two bouncers could probably take him, but they give Matthew a wide berth, maybe because they fear their intervention will make the confrontation worse.
The girl Matthew is holding fights him now. She tries to twist her body away. She grabs and punches at his hand and arm ineffectually. But he manoeuvres her through the passenger door of his car. He slams it after her. And as he does I catch a glimpse of who it is.
Jenny.
‘Wait!’
The wind snatches my words away. Up ahead, Matthew slides into the driver’s seat, never looking in my direction. He guns the engine and hares off towards the seafront.
Another burst of adrenaline takes me towards the front of the pub. The female bouncer and her mate quit their gesticulations. They look to me, surprised, as I appear in front of them.
‘What the hell was that?’
The female bouncer curls her lip at me. ‘Don’t criticise what you don’t understand.’
I stand there, speec
hless and glowering. Too right I don’t understand.
‘Who is Matthew to Jenny? Tell me!’
The Korean bouncer seems surprised, but folds her arms. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I eyeball her back. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘I don’t care what you believe.’
Irritated and confused, I shoulder past the two door people, intent on some answers.
It’s not busy. The front bar is deserted; my heart sinks. But then I spot Adonis, carrying a tray of glasses through from the back kitchenette. He hasn’t seen me. Humming along with a EuroPop version of Prince’s ‘When Doves Cry’, he places the glasses upside down on the shelf by the till.
I stride towards him, taking no notice of the curious stares from the few customers at the pool table or draped in booths. I muscle my way in front of a young woman with a mullet who’s been waiting for a drink. She rolls her eyes but says nothing.
‘Oi.’
Adonis turns. He has a cloth over his shoulder. He does not look as pristine as he usually does. His shirt is rumpled, like it’s on its second day of wearing. There’s a shadow of stubble on his usually clean-shaven face, dark lines under his eyes. He has not been home. Seeing me, the barman’s expression clouds. What is he trying to protect Jenny from? Surely not me.
‘You again.’ Adonis’s hands are on his snake hips.
I get straight to the point. ‘Why did Matthew take Jenny?’
‘You know him?’ Adonis averts his eyes, but not before I see the surprise in them. For the first time, I see uncertainty in his demeanour. But if he is going to tell me anything more, he stops himself.
‘Who is she?’
‘Who are you?’ Adonis counters, a smirk on his lips.
I stand there, glowering. Adonis’s loyalty to Jenny, the way he protects her, is infuriating me now. The woman with the mullet tuts impatiently, drawing his attention.
He rolls his eyes skywards. ‘Look, Jenny’s not in any direct danger, OK?’ Adonis looks to the other woman at the bar and indicates he’s seen her.
My eyes narrow. ‘How do you know that for sure?’
Adonis stalls. He acts like he hasn’t heard me. He draws some pale ale, places the pint glass on top of the bar. Foam spills over the lip of the glass, pooling underneath.
I can sense a revelation, just out of my reach. I stretch for it, but still it eludes me. I take a deep breath; bite my tongue. Adonis has information I need. It won’t help to alienate him now.
‘Please. Where is he taking her?’
Adonis’s gaze meets mine. ‘I think you probably know, if you really think about it.’
Insight crashes through me. I do know.
But I can’t accept it, not yet.
I turn on my heel and race back out of the Prince Albert.
Fifty-eight
I don’t have a plan.
A mixture of disbelief and dark fury transports me to Elemental in what feels like an instant. I find myself at the glass doors of the club on the beachfront. There are people gathered on the pebbles nearby: party-goers quaffing last-minute cans before going into the bars; lovers walking hand in hand.
But I blunder past them all, single-minded. I move towards the decking of the beer garden at the beachside bar. I am refusing to acknowledge the truth. I gulp in the cold night air. Adonis’s words follow me all the way: …you probably know … if you really think about it.
I grab the smooth steel handrail of the steps. Below, I spot Matthew’s black car, now parked sideways up the slip road by the beach. I duck behind a closed umbrella on one of the patio sets, staying out of sight.
The back door of Elemental opens.
I hear them before I see them. A low voice hisses through teeth: the unmistakable growl of someone trying to keep an argument under wraps: Matthew. Jenny’s voice soars above his, semi-hysterical – angry and tearful.
‘Get your hands off me!’ Jenny bucks like a toddler, dragging her feet as Matthew guides her across the decking, ‘I hate you!’
Matthew mutters something to Jenny that I don’t hear. He scoops her up at the waist, yanking the skinny teen off the ground. He tucks her under one burly arm. She slumps, knowing when she’s beaten. All fight leaves the girl.
Another car drifts down the slip road, parking next to Matthew’s, at the back of Elemental. The passenger door opens.
Ana clambers out of the car, opening her arms to the teenager as if to try and usher her into a hug. But Jenny pushes past her, wrenching open the back door of the car. She slams it shut after her. Ana shakes her head at Matthew, her condemnation obvious. He shrugs as if to say, What?
The handover complete, Ana gets in the passenger side. Matthew seems to sag at the click of the door, still waiting by the slip road; the outsider. He watches the other car reverse away, then he turns around and moves back across the decking and into Elemental, the door closing after him.
I can’t believe it. Betrayal pierces through me. All this time, Matthew has entertained my investigation, in order to try to take it in the opposite direction. Towards JoJo, even towards Tim!
Yet all this time, not only was Matthew talking to my sister online as Wolfman404, he must have known who Jenny really is. Ana, too.
The Temple twins are both liars.
Fifty-nine
A taxi deposits me outside Matthew’s place in that big, white converted house. I watch the cab reverse back out of the small car park and go back the way he came before turning back to the tall block. A porch light comes on as I come into its range, setting a dog off somewhere.
Another bulb flashes on. A woman looks down at me, her face partially obscured by the curtain. Aware of her gaze on me, I jab a finger on all the buttons. A female voice swears at me – presumably the woman on the second floor – but there’s a buzz of static, followed by the click of the outer door. I’m admitted inside, into the communal hallway.
I trudge up to the top flat, every fibre in my body resisting me. I sink down onto the landing, to wait.
About an hour later, Matthew appears at the top of the stairs. His eyes narrow at the sight of me, slumped by his door.
‘Poppy?’
I feel something click inside me. The dance has begun.
‘I wanted to see you.’ I rise from the floor. My voice seems far away, like I’m outside my own body again. ‘Get up to anything interesting tonight?’
That unnerving grin I’m unused to seeing appears on his face. ‘Not really. Just work. Same-old, same-old.’
Another lie. Pain hits me square in the chest, but I don’t give any outward sign of it. I recall Jenny’s ineffectual, yet resigned struggle outside the Prince Albert. Ana’s angry expression. Who could Jenny be to her?
I move closer. I can smell cigarettes on him. The Matthew I know doesn’t smoke. But I’m beginning to realise that Matthew no longer exists, no matter how far back our history goes.
Perhaps this new guy – Matt – is all that’s left?
He smiles and curls an arm around my waist, pulling me to him. I stiffen against him as he attempts to kiss me on the lips. A wanton recklessness works its way through my muscles, from my face into my shoulders. I feel it melting the ball of pain in my throat, blooming in my belly. A tingle works its way through my spine, down my arms to my fingertips. I meet Matthew’s gaze, a seductive smile on my lip.
‘I need you.’ I drape my arms over his shoulders. Even though my nerve endings shriek, I push my body against him. His hands encircle my waist as I brush my lips against his.
Matthew will never tell me the whole truth. I realise that now. I don’t know what he has invested in the deception, but it’s something to do with Ana. And with whoever was driving the car that came to fetch the teenager. Maybe it was Jayden. Whoever it was, if I want to find out who Jenny really is, I need to get inside Matthew – Matt’s – flat.
Tonight.
I can feel his body respond, stiffening against my thigh. I enjoy having the p
ower back. This was how it used to be between us: I would lead and he would follow. He unlocks the door and I push in ahead of him. I pull India’s red hoody over my head as I go. I let it fall to the floor in the hall. I kick off my boots as I wander into his bedroom. He’s close behind me.
‘Take me to bed.’
My gaze alights on the items in the impossibly neat room. I feel outside of my body again. I’m watching myself from above. Everything feels hyper-real, almost movie-like.
I turn towards him. ‘I know you want me.’
Can I really do this? This could be the man who threw my sister from the bridge. But it’s not like I’ve not done this with him before, since India’s death. The only difference is that now I know for sure he’s a liar.
Matthew regards me, apprehensive. ‘Of course I want you, it’s just…’
I pull my top off. I peel down my leggings. I stand before him in just my underwear. I unhook my bra myself and his gaze falls on my breasts. I almost enjoy the conflict that flickers across his face.
I lean towards him, whisper in his ear. ‘Fuck me.’
I grab his crotch in my left hand, undoing his fly and slipping my hand inside. He’s stiff against my palm. He groans softly. I press my lips to his.
He finally yields. He opens his mouth, letting me push in my tongue. As I undo his shirt buttons, I feel his hand on the back of my neck, the other on my breast. I feel the muscles in his big arms contract; his grip tightens.
He breaks the kiss, pushing me away. There’s momentary fear as I fall backwards. I land on my elbows on the bed behind me, legs splayed.
I feel outmanoeuvred, but I don’t betray this on my face. Instead I fix him with my best seductive smile as he looms over me. I reach up and grab his shirt, helping him shrug it off. I reach for his fly again, but this time he smacks my hand away, his expression impassive.