All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  But she pushed him away. The memories were unlocking, reordering themselves inside her head. The fragments coming together, creating a cohesive picture of what had happened that afternoon. And as it all clicked into place, she realised a piece was still missing.

  ‘Your phone,’ she said. ‘Give me your phone.’

  Sam frowned. ‘You’re not supposed to use them in here. There are signs everywhere.’

  ‘Give me the phone!’

  It was in the pocket of his jacket. She’d seen him put it in when he’d first come in. Too impatient to wait, she reached forward, grabbed the phone from his pocket and dialled Ellen’s number.

  * * *

  Ellen’s phone started to ring. A number she didn’t recognise but she answered it anyway.

  ‘Ellen? It’s me,’ Abby said. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’

  As Abby explained why she was calling, the playground memory disappeared. By the time she hung up, Ellen was smiling. She had been right all along. The case wasn’t solved. Not yet. She might be an outsider, but there was a reason for it. It wasn’t – as she used to believe – because she wasn’t good enough. The opposite was true. The reason she found it so difficult to fit in was because there weren’t many people as bloody good at being a detective as she was. And that, she told herself, was their problem, not hers.

  * * *

  Freya was on her way out when Ellen and Alastair arrived at Ennersdale Road. She opened the front door and stood there in the doorway, blocking their way.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you lot anymore,’ Freya said. ‘Unless you’re here to tell me you’ve arrested my mother.’

  ‘This is about your father, actually,’ Ellen said.

  Freya’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Please tell me he’s alive?’ she said. ‘I keep thinking … he can’t be dead. If he was dead, I’d feel something, wouldn’t I? But I haven’t felt anything. Not a single thing. I think he’s scared. That’s why he hasn’t made contact with me. He didn’t kill Kieran, you know. I’ve told you that but no one will listen. All of this is her fault. Not his. How can I get you to see that?’

  Ellen took a step forward. ‘Freya.’

  Freya must have picked up something in Ellen’s voice. She shook her head, put her hands over her ears.

  ‘Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up! He isn’t dead! I know he’s not dead and if you’re here to tell me he is, I won’t listen.’

  Ellen reached out and touched the girl’s shoulder. Freya jumped as if she’d been electrocuted.

  ‘We found a body,’ Ellen said.

  Freya’s hands fell to her sides and she slumped against the doorframe. Her breath was coming in short, sharp bursts. Ellen worried she was about to start hyperventilating.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so keen to protect him,’ Ellen said, speaking loudly so the girl would hear her. ‘It’s not like he really even cared about you, is it?’

  ‘He loved me.’

  ‘No.’ Ellen shook her head. ‘The only person your father loved was Cosima. He would have done anything for her, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I told you!’ Freya shoved her face close to Ellen’s. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for wanting to set him up,’ Ellen said, forcing herself not to take a step back, away from Freya’s angry red face. ‘I mean, if my father behaved like that, I’d want him to pay for it.’

  ‘It was never about him,’ Freya screamed. ‘Why couldn’t you see that?’

  ‘Who was it about then?’ Ellen said. ‘If you don’t tell me, people will never know the truth. He’ll be remembered as the man who killed Kieran Burton and Virginia Rau and had an affair with his business partner’s daughter. All his hard work, everything he’s done for you – no one will remember any of that.’

  ‘No!’ Freya lunged, hands like claws as she went for Ellen’s face. Alastair jumped forward, grabbed Freya in a headlock.

  ‘You bitch.’ Freya struggled hard but Alastair held her tight. ‘You lying fucking bitch. I made it so easy for you and you still messed it up. You have your story now and you’re sticking to it. Even though you know it’s bullshit. Dad and Cosima? Who came up with that story? It’s all there, staring you in the face. You’re just too stupid to see it.’

  Freya’s head jerked back. At first, Ellen thought she was scared. By the time she realised what was happening, it was too late. The back of Freya’s head connected with Alastair’s face. A loud crack and Alastair cried out, let go of Freya and staggered back, hands on his face. Freya pushed past him and started running.

  Two

  Freya raced down the hill, feet pounding on the pavement, the impact vibrating up her ankles and shins. Running from Ellen Kelly and her lies. She ran fast, but it wasn’t fast enough. Behind her she could hear Ellen Kelly, shouting at her to stop, and Kelly’s footsteps. Getting closer.

  Too fat to run fast.

  Too fat and stupid and ugly to keep her man.

  His face. Sneering at her like she was a piece of shit. Like she was nothing and all the things she’d done for him counted for nothing. All the work and money and support, all the twisted perverted things he got her to do when they were in bed together; none of it meant anything to him.

  Stupid, fat, ugly.

  She thought it was about bringing them closer together.

  When all the time, he was using her.

  And sleeping with her mother.

  He laughed when he told her.

  Right before he announced he was leaving her.

  Her lungs were about to explode. She had to keep going. As soon as she stopped, it would all be over.

  She reached the bottom of the hill. Barely running now, barely moving at all. Heard Ellen Kelly before she felt her. The detective dived into her and she fell forward, Kelly’s arms around her middle. Kelly’s body on top of hers as she hit the ground.

  She tried to fight Kelly off her, but she had no strength left. There was nowhere to go.

  It was over.

  * * *

  ‘How did you know?’ Freya asked.

  It was the first thing she’d said since Ellen had tackled her and knocked her to the ground. After that, all the fight seemed to go from the girl. She let Ellen caution her, handcuff her and stood silently beside her while they waited for the squad car that Alastair promised was on its way.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Ellen asked.

  She wasn’t about to tell Freya about the CCTV footage. How Abby had suddenly remembered the jacket Freya was wearing in the photo on the mantelpiece in her apartment.

  ‘You were never meant to think my dad had anything to do with it,’ Freya said. ‘I told you she rowed with Kieran. I told you they hated each other. But you ignored it all like it was nothing. How could you think Dad would do something like that? How could you not see?’

  ‘Is that what it was all about?’ Ellen asked. ‘You killed him so that we’d think your mother had done it?’

  ‘She had sex with him,’ Freya said. ‘Even saying it makes me want to throw up. My own mother. But that’s not why I did it. I killed him because he was going to leave me. After everything I’d done for him. Three years of that fucking Masters. Three years working in that wine bar, listening to all those boring people with their boring lives and boring shitting stories. Three years and then he turns around and tells me he’s had enough. And you know what? I could have got him to change his mind. I’d done it before but this time … this time he was ready for me.’

  Her voice dropped to a whisper and Ellen had to lean in to catch what she said next.

  ‘He said he was going to her party. Said he wanted to see if she was up for a second round. I asked him what he was talking about and he told me. And he said he wanted to do it again. That I could watch if I wanted.’

  Ellen had to stop herself putting her arms around Freya’s shoulders and comforting her. The poor, deluded woman.

  ‘She turned him against me,’ Freya said. ‘I’d worked s
o hard at keeping him. I wanted to prove everyone wrong. All those stupid people who thought he wouldn’t stay with me. I know that’s what people thought. A guy like him, he’s not going to stay with someone like you. Someone as fat and ugly and useless as you are.’

  Ellen wondered about the damage it would take to make someone think about themselves in those terms. She thought of her own family, her birth mother Noreen and her adopted parents. She thought of the damage passed down from one generation to the next, how important it was to do everything you could to break that cycle when it was your turn to be a parent.

  ‘If I’d let him go,’ Freya said, ‘it would be like telling everyone they were right all along. I couldn’t do that.’

  Ellen heard sirens. The sound coming from Lewisham, getting closer.

  ‘And Ginny?’

  Freya sighed. ‘She saw me getting the knife from the kitchen. She was going to tell you lot about it. I couldn’t let her do that. I had a spare set of keys for my mum’s car. For the times she’d had too much to drink and she’d have to call me to drive her home. God, the number of times I had to do that. You wouldn’t believe it.’

  A black squad car pulled up in front of them. Ellen took Freya’s arm, led her towards the car.

  ‘It’s time to go.’

  ‘None of it was my fault,’ Freya said. ‘I think you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘You didn’t have to kill them,’ Ellen said. ‘You can’t blame anyone else for that.’

  An officer got out of the car and opened the back door. Ellen put her hand on top of Freya’s head and pushed her inside.

  ‘Families,’ Alastair said, as they watched the car drive away. ‘Larkin had it right, hey?’

  Ellen ran through the names of everyone they knew in common. Came up with a blank.

  ‘Larkin?’

  ‘You know,’ Alastair said. ‘This Be The Verse? They f… ach, never mind.’

  Ellen left it at that. He could be a funny old fish sometimes. She looked at his face. The bleeding had stopped but his nose was a right mess.

  ‘Come on.’ She linked her arm in his and walked him in the direction of the wine bar. ‘Let’s get that cleaned up.’

  ‘And then a pint?’ Alastair said. ‘I’d say we’ve got something to celebrate.’

  ‘Not for me,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Aw, come on,’ Alastair said. ‘What’s so important you can’t have a quick drink first?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ellen said. ‘It really can’t wait. There’s something I need to do.’

  Epilogue

  It was a perfect early summer’s day. Three days after she’d arrested Freya and Ellen was taking a day off. Family time. Greenwich was alive with colour. Thick green leaves on the tall trees in the park; red and yellow and pink roses in the flower beds that ran along the edge of the pirate playground; and the shimmering, silvery sparkle from the river winding its way out of the city on its journey towards the North Sea.

  Ellen, the children, Sean and Terry stood at the top of the park, eating ice creams and looking at the city, spread out from the banks of the river, north, east, west, as far as they could see. Her favourite place in the world, with her favourite people in the world. Ellen knew how lucky she was.

  ‘Can we go on the donkeys?’

  Eilish tugged at Ellen’s arm, her little face scrunched up, pleading.

  ‘Aren’t you too old?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Please?’ Eilish said. ‘I love the donkeys.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Sean grabbed Eilish and swung her in the air, making her giggle.

  The donkeys were kept by the Blackheath entrance to the park. Eilish ran ahead with Sean and Terry, while Ellen and Pat followed more slowly.

  ‘Do you mind if I don’t go on?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Ellen said. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Cos it’s the sort of thing you love and you take loads of photos and get that look on your face.’

  ‘What look?’

  He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘You know, like the donkeys are so cute and we’re so cute. Ugh.’

  Ellen laughed and gave his arm a gentle punch.

  ‘Ugh yourself, mister. If you’re not careful, I’ll pull out all those photos of you as a little kid later tonight and make you look at every one of them. I just need to post this letter first.’

  She ran over to the postbox on the edge of the heath. A notice on the front gave the collection times. The next collection was at four pm today. Two hours from now. Still time to change her mind, if she wanted to. No. She shoved the envelope into the box, quickly.

  ‘Who are you writing to?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Someone I used to know a long time ago,’ Ellen said.

  She linked his arm in hers and pointed at Eilish, sitting on top of a donkey that was being led slowly along a narrow path between the donkeys and an ice-cream van. The sound of her daughter’s laughter travelled across the heath, filling every dark corner of Ellen’s soul.

  This was all that mattered. This moment, right here, right now, with her son beside her and her daughter’s laughter all around her and her brother and his partner and the bright sunshine with its promise of summer and better times to come.

  Dear Noreen,

  My name is Ellen. A long time ago, I was your daughter. We lived together in a small flat in Peckham. You, me, my twin brother Sean and our baby sister Eilish. There’s a lot I don’t remember from that time but the things I do remember are probably the most important. I remember your smile. I remember Sean and I sitting on a lumpy sofa, one either side of you, while you read to us. I remember us being in a cafe with you, both of us giggling as we took it in turns to take mouthfuls of creamy hot chocolate from the spoon you were holding. I remember you singing to us in the evenings. You used to sit between our beds and sing to get us off to sleep. Do you remember that too? You were warm and kind and funny and we loved you very much. I think you loved us too.

  I don’t remember our father. I don’t know if he lived with us or if he lived somewhere else. I wonder what he was like and if he made you happy. For some reason, I don’t think he did make you happy, but I don’t know why I think this.

  I remember the night Eilish died. It was the last time I ever saw you. I was crying. I held onto your legs and begged you not to go. The policeman said you had to come with him, but I thought I could make you understand that was the wrong thing to do. I was scared because I’d never been away from you before. Not even for a day. You were crying too but you wiped your tears and you bent down, right down until your face was level with mine. You told me to be a good girl and you told me not to worry. You promised me you would be back soon.

  For the longest time, I believed that promise. All through my growing up and way beyond that. Even more so after I married and had children of my own. I would look at them and think: how could any parent make a promise like that and not keep it?

  I don’t know the answer to that. There are so many things I don’t have answers to. I’ve realised it doesn’t matter. The fact is, there are some things I don’t know and never will know. I can choose to spend my life letting that eat away at me, picking at it like a scab that will never heal. Or I can let it go. I’m choosing now to let it go. I’m choosing to let you go.

  You’ll see my address isn’t on this letter. That’s not because I don’t want you to find me. It’s because if I put down an address, I would be watching the post everyday, obsessing over whether or not you were going to write back to me. I would spend my time and energy on that, instead of on the things that matter: my own family, my own life.

  I don’t know how Eilish died, or why. I don’t know if you killed her on purpose or if it was an accident or even if you didn’t kill her at all and the whole terrible business was some tragic miscarriage of justice. I don’t know why you promised you would come back for me and you never did.

  All I know is that you were my mother once. And during that short time when we were together, I lov
ed you.

  Nothing else matters.

  Ellen.

  * * *

  A wooden cross marked the grave. This would be replaced eventually with the permanent headstone Charlotte had ordered. White marble with gold inlay. Ginny’s name inscribed across it in an ornate, curling font. No age or date of birth. She wouldn’t have wanted that.

  Being here felt awkward. She’d thought it might help. Hoped she would feel closer to Ginny here, where her body rested. But it made no difference. Nothing did. The empty numbness surrounded her like a fog. Cold and impenetrable, it seeped through her skin and into her bones, leaving no room for anything else.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  It wasn’t enough, but she had nothing else to offer. She might as well have driven the car herself. Her fault. All of it. She stood a while longer, waiting. Nearby, a man and woman were tending a grave, pulling weeds from around it, the woman crying the whole time.

  Her legs quickly grew tired and the back of her throat tickled. She put her hand on the cross, felt the shakes vibrate up her arm and knew it was time to go. She’d spotted a pub down the road. Ten minutes away. She’d timed it on the way here.

  As she hurried through the paths of dead people, the voices swirled around her, weaving in and out of the fog around her. It always happened this way. The throat first, then the shakes, followed by the voices that grew louder until she got rid of them the only way she knew how. The only voice she never heard was the one she’d come here to find today.

  She wanted to remember it, but already it was fading. The music, the way Ginny’s voice rose and fell when she was happy or sad, Charlotte was finding it difficult to hold onto that.

  It was me. I pushed you.

  Charlotte shook her head, couldn’t bear her daughter’s voice. Not here in this place.

  I wish I’d killed you.

  Freya’s voice but Mother’s face. Charlotte walked faster. Through the gates and onto the busy road. Ankles twisting as she wobbled down the hill, heels too high.