by Lee Moan
Sam recalled the incident and bit down hard on his back teeth as self-recrimination and simmering anger fought for supremacy. “I didn’t shout,” was all he could say.
“You didn’t have to,” Rachel countered. “Your message to her was loud and clear, Sam.”
Sam exhaled loudly, and suddenly felt the need to sit down. He slumped into one of the patio chairs and rubbed his face with his hands.
“You don’t even realise what you’ve been like, do you? You don’t realise what it’s been like living with you. You spend hours stuck in that study, and when you do come out you’re in a foul, foul mood.”
“I was blocked, Rachel,” he said wearily. “It was a just a bad patch, that was all. I never expected–”
“Never expected to lose her? No, of course, you didn’t. But the truth is, Sam, that’s how she’ll remember you.”
“Rachel, please,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I tried to warn you, Sam. Remember? I said I didn’t care anymore that you ignored me, but not to shut your daughter out. Becky didn’t want a prolific author, Sam. She just wanted her dad.”
He turned away, tears welling in his eyes.
“Oh, Sam,” said Rachel, a trace of softness in her voice now, “I don’t mean to drag up every bit of your behaviour over the last year. God knows, if you feel anything like what I’m feeling, you don’t need any more guilt.”
Sam felt a bitter laugh rising in him, but he held it back.
“It’s just that, today of all days, I need you, Sam. We lost our daughter yesterday, and I’m looking at the one person I should be turning to for support, the one person who can help me get through this, and . . .I don’t know if our love for each other is strong enough.”
Sam looked up slowly. “Rachel, you know I love you. Ever since we moved here I’ve been here for you, but you’re the one who retreated into yourself. I’ve not been able to get through that emotional blank wall you put up. I–”
Rachel came over quickly and sat beside him. “Yes, Sam, I admit that. It was selfish of me. It was confusion, I guess. I just didn’t understand why you wanted to move out here, away from everything. You’ve been so distant lately. I was afraid it was because deep down you didn’t love me anymore, and hadn’t loved me for some time.”
Sam felt an ache in his heart, the pain of being so misunderstood by the woman who was supposed to know him best in the entire world, and then the soaring sensation of hope that they were making steps to reconciliation. He realised then that he needed her today as much as she needed him.
“I’ve always loved you, Rachel. I still do.”
She smiled now, and that smile ignited something in Sam’s heart. “But if we’re going to get through this, Sam, we have to start over. We have to be totally open with each other, totally honest. No secrets, no lies.”
He held his arms open tentatively, and Rachel moved into his embrace with similar hesitancy. Sam held her so close he thought he might crush the life out of her. But as he held her, he thought about what she had said, about truth and honesty, about secrets and lies. A stab of pain sliced through his joy at the prospect of telling her about Kelly Burnett, about the affair. Rachel had handed him an opportunity to confess, had given him such an open invitation that it seemed insane not to tell her now, whilst they were on the brink of a new understanding.
Maybe this was the time . . .
The distant, muted sound of a telephone broke the silence.
Sam searched Rachel’s face but the bright, open expression had closed to him, her eyes dropped.
“You'd better get that,” she said. “It's probably important.”
He hesitated, wanting to ignore the damn telephone and just tell her the truth.
The ringing became more insistent.
“Sam?” she said, a tiny nod towards the house.
He turned and slipped back through the patio doors, picking up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Sam, it's Richard. How are you, my friend?”
“Not good,” Sam said.
“Of course, Sam. I just wanted you to know that we’re thinking of you. God, this must be impossible for you right now.”
“It is.” Sam paused. One thought kept running through his mind. Why did Becky die? Why?
“Richard?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Are you still a shareholder in Northern Star Ferries?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Listen, would you be up to a little visit? I'd really like to talk to you about something. About the accident.”
“Of course, Sam. Anything I can do to help.”
Sam glanced at Rachel who was still outside. He didn't think she was ready. Not yet.
“All right. Do you mind if I come over now?” Sam said.
“Of course not,” Ashworth said. “Come whenever you're ready.”
30
Martello, the Ashworths’ glorious mansion, was situated on the island’s south coast. The Ashworth Estate was a magnificent piece of land. Fourteen acres of lush grassland, surrounded by a perimeter of spruce saplings and juniper bushes. The mansion itself was raised on vast stilts on its eastern side, as the land sloped down to the craggy rocks of Salt Bay. There was a small jetty at the water’s edge, with a small sail boat moored to the end.
Sam drove up the long gravel driveway to the mansion and parked outside the front door. After locking the car, he wandered round to the rear of the building. He found Ashworth sitting on his enclosed patio, an area he liked to call his ‘beer garden’. For a late September day it was quite pleasant, and Ashworth was wearing his immaculate cricket whites, which made his ruddy complexion all the more striking. He was lounging in a plush garden chair and had his feet up on the bench opposite, sipping a gin and tonic from a tall glass. When he spotted Sam, he leapt from his seat and came to greet him across the patio. His face, which was normally full of warmth and joviality, greeted Sam with a grave demeanour.
“Samuel, it’s so good to see you,” he said, pumping his hand, sincerity etched into his broad features. “Can I just say, I am so sorry for your loss. Becky was . . . well, she was a little angel.” Rare emotion passed over him. He cleared his throat. “I hope your coming to see me hasn’t made things awkward with Rachel. How is she?”
Sam thought quickly and answered with diplomacy. “She’s got a lot to sort out . . . with her relatives. You know how it is.”
“Of course, of course,” he said.
Ashworth led Sam over to the patio furniture and gestured to a chair opposite his own.
“Scotch and soda?” he asked, already pouring the drink. He handed it to Sam as he sat down, but the big man remained standing. He tapped his own glass thoughtfully for a few moments, before sitting down himself. Before he spoke, he smoothed over the few remaining hairs on his scalp, an act which seemed to help formulate his words. “Sam,” he said, “I understand you didn’t just call in for a friendly drink.” He studied Sam’s features for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction, but Sam only stared back numbly, without discernible emotion.
“Richard,” Sam said. “I lost my daughter yesterday. What the hell happened, Richard? What happened on that ferry?”
“My good friend,” Ashworth said. “Northern Star will be releasing their report next week, but I’ve already been in touch with them. As a member of the Northern Star governing board, I am privy to certain things. In this instance, I was quite forthright in garnering some information from them. It’s early days you understand, but . . .”
“But?”
“I wanted to let you know what they’re saying before anyone else—as a friend.”
Sam nodded and finally took a sip of scotch. The drink rolled down his throat, burning like paint stripper.
Ashworth took a deep breath and then went on. “Northern Star initially thought the disaster was the result of an engine malfunction. However, early indications show that there was no motor malfunction on the ferry t
hat day. True, after the explosion, damage was certainly done to the engine and the motor compartments—but the explosion came from the lower deck, not from inside . . .”
“A bomb?” said Sam, the question slipping out involuntarily.
Ashworth nodded solemnly. “Attached to the underside of the prison van, most likely.”
“Shit,” Sam said, sitting up straight in the chair. “We’re talking about . . . murder?”
Ashworth did not reply.
The silence was filled with the sound of a child’s laughter. It was thin, echoing, as if heard through the corridors of time. It sounded so much like Becky that Sam’s heart almost stopped completely. The laughter seemed to fill his mind, and for a second he believed that’s where it was—in his head—but then he saw the look on Ashworth’s face. He was looking past Sam, down towards the pool area, and a big dopey grin spread across his face.
Sam followed his gaze. The Ashworths owned a swimming pool that could have catered for several coach loads of school kids at once. By late September, most people who could afford a pool had covered it for the Winter, but the Ashworths’ pool was heated and fresh chlorine was added every two weeks by a guy who came over from the mainland.
The sight of young Heidi dancing around the poolside made Sam suck in a sharp breath as a wave of memory flooded through him. She was wearing a cerise all-in-one swimsuit, the same swimsuit she had been wearing the last time Becky had come over to play with her. He remembered sitting on this same patio not so long ago, drinking with Ashworth and looking down at the two young friends sitting by the poolside, their pale white legs dangling in the water as they chatted about whatever six-year-old girls chat about.
“Hello, sweetie-pie!” Ashworth cried, jolting Sam out of his reverie.
Heidi continued skipping around the edge, followed the sound of her father’s voice and offered a big wave and an even bigger smile. Her two front teeth were missing, Sam noted. Just like Becky.
“You be careful, young lady,” Ashworth called down to her. “Don’t go slipping on them tiles.”
“I won’t,” she called back, dancing gaily over to the diving board. She scrambled up the small steps and then fearlessly ran to the end of the board, hopped, skipped and then plunged bum-first into the water. For her slight build, she made a sizeable splash, which rose out of the water like a tongue and then came crashing down on a sun-lounger resting by the pool. There was a high-pitched shriek and then a pair of bronzed adult legs came kicking out from behind the sun-lounger. It was Marine.
Marine Ashworth was a good-looking woman, with a body to die for. She took a lot of care over her appearance, Sam could see that. And there were times when he’d been over for dinner that he’d found himself (after a few too many of Ashworth’s scotch and sodas) looking at her—no, ogling her—and wondering what it would be like to take her to bed. Rachel was not a sex-mad person, something they had both come to accept, and their love-making, when it had been a regular feature in their marriage, was largely mundane and unadventurous. But in Sam’s private thoughts, Marine Ashworth was every man’s fantasy female. No one would have put her with a balding, overweight retired judge like Ashworth. Sam could understand where she got the reputation as a gold-digging tart from, but for the most part, he personally found her quite pleasant.
“Heidi!” she shrieked, brushing the water off her tanned midriff.
Heidi’s dark head of hair reappeared above the surface. She rubbed the water from her eyes. “Sorry, Mummy!” she said.
“If you do that again,” her mother scolded, “you’re going inside.”
“Marine,” Ashworth called down, “she’s just playing. Why don’t you move your sun-lounger?”
Marine looked up at him, glaring over her Burberry sunglasses. There was something deeply malevolent about her look, and after a moment even Sam looked away. Then she returned to her sun-lounger without moving it.
Sam looked at Ashworth, who was in turn looking down at Marine with a range of emotions on his face—anger, embarrassment, sadness.
“You all right, Richard?” he said.
The old judge bowed his head momentarily before answering. “Marine and I, we’re having a tough time at the moment, that’s all. Nothing you want to hear right now, I assure you.” Before Sam could offer a shoulder to cry on, Ashworth patted Sam’s forearm and gave a thin-lipped smile. “You’ve enough worries on your mind,” he said.
The two friends remained silent for a time, both of them staring at a different part of the scenery. Then, finally, Sam said: “So, that’s it? That’s what they think happened?”
Ashworth nodded solemnly.
“Who would have done that, Richard?”
“I wish I knew.”
Sam took a deep breath, fighting the surge of emotion. “So my daughter died as the result of some act of vengeance on a child killer?” Sam was shaking his head as he voiced his thoughts, but the words made no clearer sense when out in the open air. “What does that mean, Richard? What . . .”
Ashworth stared into his glass, disturbing the ice with a gentle swirling motion. “I know, Samuel, I know. It’s madness. If you want philosophical answers, I’m afraid I’ve none to give you. As soon as I hear more, you’ll be the first to know.” He reached out and clasped Sam’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut to stem the sudden sting of tears, and in that moment he saw his daughter as he had seen her in the last moments of her life, standing on the lower deck of the ferry, her bright-blonde hair blowing in the breeze. This news was more of a blow than he’d expected. Hearing that the entire disaster was the result of a revenge attack by some pissed-off islander—that seemed to him like the ultimate insult. In essence, this news was telling him that his daughter died for absolutely no reason at all.
31
TELEX REPORT FROM EDINBURGH METEOROLOGICAL CENTRE:
DATE: 16TH SEPTEMBER
REGION: NORTH HEBRIDES
FORECAST FOR THE AFTERNOON IS FINE, WITH A BUILDUP OF PRESSURE AROUND 17:00 HOURS. MOST ISLANDS WILL EXPERIENCE SOME LIGHT DRIZZLE IN EARLY EVENING, BUT THE OVERALL WEATHER PICTURE IS GOOD.
32
At three-thirty on that Sunday afternoon, Rachel slipped off her robe and stepped into a steaming hot bath. It was hotter than she normally liked, but that was good. She needed to feel things right now, even if it was just the heat of a bath. She sucked in a series of quick breaths as she lowered herself into the water, surprising herself how quickly she adjusted to the temperature. Slowly, she rested her head against the curve of the bath and closed her eyes.
She had not come here to think, but by voiding her mind of everything else that cluttered her daily routine—housework, cooking, Sam—she was left with no choice but to turn over various thoughts in her mind. Naturally, it wasn’t long before they touched on her relationship with Sam—where they were going, if they were going to stay together.
The truth was she needed Sam right now. But that was a very different thing to loving him the way she had loved him in the beginning. They had just been through a trauma that was still echoing like thunder in their daily lives, and those echoes would go on for a very long time. The memory of Becky and of losing her would always be with them. As long as they stayed together.
That was really the question, wasn’t it?
Which was worse? Staying together, rebuilding a family life with the memory of Becky ever present in their thoughts, in every decision they made, her face reflected in their eyes each time they looked at each other? Or split, go their separate ways and try to build new lives from scratch with new people, new lovers. Of course Becky would go with them, both of them, into whichever avenues they explored. But would her—God, she hated the word ghost, but it seemed to be the only word to describe it—would her ghost haunt them as deeply in a new life with new concerns and new challenges? That was the real choice here, she thought. And what an awful, soul-wrenching choice to be faced with.
The doorbell
chimed, dragging her out of her reverie. Who could be calling now? Sam had his key and wouldn’t be back for a while anyway. She thought of ignoring it; she had the right to. She was still grieving, and anyone who was a friend would understand that. But something niggled at the back of her mind. The fact that she wasn’t expecting anyone to call made her curious as to who it was at the door. She climbed from the bath and grabbed her bathrobe.
When she opened the front door she was surprised to find a complete stranger on the doorstep. She was a young woman, perhaps twenty, wearing a long leopard skin overcoat that looked as though it had come from some London fashion house. Her entire appearance did not fit with the general look of the islanders.
There was a strange empty moment in which both women appraised each other in silence, before the visitor extended a perfectly manicured hand.
“Hi,” she said. “You must be Rachel. My name’s Kelly Burnett.”
33
My son, my son . . .
Cynthia Garrett lay on her bed in a cold stupor, her waxy skin damp from the unexpected and unseasonable heat that had built up in the past few hours. The medication monitor which periodically pushed 3mg of morphine into her system had malfunctioned earlier that morning, and the brief delay in keeping her sedated and dulled from the pain had lifted, providing her with this strange, surreal surfacing sensation, a feeling of almost total clarity of thought and emotion. Pain came with it, of course, but she didn’t care. She had only ever known pain in one form or another. She could suffer this pain for a while if it allowed her to experience the true meaning of what had happened to her one and only son.
Ben was dead.
Her son was dead and she—this cancer-ridden husk of a woman—was still alive. She should have been dead a long time ago. She had wanted to die a long time ago. One last visit from her Ben and then . . . oblivion. Yes, that would have been perfect. But things had changed. It was one more cruel twist in which the rug she had placed down herself had been yanked from beneath her. She had lived badly. She couldn’t even die well.