by Amy Cross
“And she didn't say anything else?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know, like... Did her behavior change when she heard about it?”
“Elly, what are you on about?”
“Nothing,” I reply, realizing that I'm on a hiding to nothing. If my mother was covering things up, I doubt she'd have suddenly blurted it all out to Bob at the end or started dropping random hints.
“Oh God, it's the Coopers,” Bob mutters, adjusting his tie again. “Milly Cooper could talk the hind legs off a donkey at the best of times.”
“You've got -” Just as I'm about to tell him about the egg stain on his shirt, I decide there's no point worrying him. “You'll be fine,” I tell him. “You can do this.”
“You too,” he replies, with a faint smile. “You're doing a great job, just like at your father's funeral.”
“You were there?”
“Back row, but yeah, I show my face.” He turns as half a dozen new people arrive at the door. “Barry, Milly, I'm so glad you could make it!” he says, shaking each of their hands and offering a gregarious smile. As I hand out A5 sheets to each of the new guests, I can't help but feel impressed by the way Bob is handling this situation. He genuinely seems to be holding himself together.
With more cars arriving now, I step back and wait politely as Bob leads the Coopers into the crematorium. I don't remember seeing Bob at my father's funeral and I'm a little surprised that he was there, since his relationship with my mother started later, but I know that he was around at the time so I guess he just showed up as a courtesy. I've always had a vague feeling that I recognize Bob from somewhere, so I guess that explains the sensation. As more guests arrive, I dole out a bunch more sheets of paper, and after a while I find myself running on auto-pilot, which is the easiest way to get through the day.
And then I see her.
Making her way across the car park, a familiar woman is already looking distinctly awkward as she reached the door. It takes a moment, but finally I realize where I've met her before.
Felicity Haughton.
The woman from my father's funeral.
“Hello,” she says with a faint smile. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
“I...” Staring at her for a moment, I try to work out why she's here. After all, she was having an affair with my father before he died, and she was supposedly the love of his life, so it made sense for her to be at his funeral. But my mother's. “Felicity,” I say finally, as I hand her a sheet of paper, “I didn't expect to see you here.”
“I didn't expect you'd remember my name,” she replies, clearly a little embarrassed.
“Did you know my mother?”
“A little. I just thought I should...” She stares past me, watching as people take their seats, before handing the piece of paper back to me. “You're right,” she adds, turning to walk away, “I shouldn't have come.”
“No, wait,” I reply, hurrying after her, even though the long-threatened rain has finally begun to drizzle down. “I need to ask you something.”
“I only came because...” Stopping, she turns to me, and there are tears in her eyes. “I suppose I wanted to close a chapter.”
“What chapter?”
She sighs.
“You know the truth, don't you?” I continue. “About my parents?”
She eyes me cautiously. “What truth?”
“That they were together to do a job, not because they were in love.”
She doesn't reply, but I can see from the look in her eyes that I'm on the right track.
“Graham Bradshaw loved you,” I continue, “but he married Margaret because he was committed to something else. That's what happened, isn't it?”
“I really shouldn't have come,” she replies. “Forgive me, but -”
“Sophie Longdale,” I say suddenly.
She freezes, as if the name has horrified her.
“My father loved you,” I continue, “so I'm guessing he told you at least some of the truth. He must have done. No-one could keep all that guilt inside.”
“Bingo,” my father's voice whispers in my head.
“It's not for me to say,” Felicity replies. “Please, Elly -”
“Sophie,” I remind her.
“This isn't the time or the place to be talking about such things.”
“I need to know!” Behind me, organ music starts up in the crematorium, but I don't move an inch. Even as more rain starts to fall, I have to get to the truth. “Graham left you to marry Margaret and raise me,” I continue. “That's the truth, isn't it? He loved you, but he was committed to the game so he was willing to sacrifice everything, including his relationship with you, in order to look after me.”
“Elly...”
“But he was only human,” I add, “so he couldn't stop loving you. He kept in touch with you, or maybe he got back in touch after a few years, and you carried on your affair in secret. I don't blame you, Felicity. In fact, it's the opposite of that, I feel bad for you. None of this should have happened.” I wait for her to reply, but she seems stunned, as if she can't find the words. “I can piece the rest together,” I tell her finally, “and I can work it all out by myself. The only thing I need from you is... I need a yes or no answer. Am I on the right track?”
She pauses, clearly torn. “Yes,” she says after what feels like an eternity.
“Yes, I'm on the right track?”
She nods.
“So my real name is Sophie Longdale?”
“I don't know the whole story,” she continues. “I only know the parts Graham told me, and he tried not to tell me anything at all. It just all became too much for him to deal with. He'd come to see me and he'd unload it all, he wanted to tell you the truth but he knew he couldn't. He struggled with it, Elly, and sometimes he drank too much because he needed to find a way to calm the voice in his head. This might sound silly, but he said he sometimes heard your voice whispering to him, begging him to tell the truth. He thought that was his subconscious mind's way of telling him that...” Another pause. “He sometimes thought you'd worked it out, or that you were starting to guess.”
“No,” I reply. “Not until after he died, anyway.”
“He might not have been your biological father,” she continues, “but he loved you, Elly. He loved you with all your heart. He gave up everything for you.”
“He gave up everything so that I could be raised to play the game,” I point out, feeling a sense of anger surging in my chest. “That's kind of awful, if you think about it.”
“Which is why he was having second thoughts at the end. The last time I saw him, he'd decided he was going to get you out of it. He said he couldn't live with himself. And then...”
I pause for a moment. “And then he ended up dead in his greenhouse.”
“I wanted to tell you,” she continues. “When I came to his funeral, I was so terribly torn. I was at the wake, too. I went to the house, and I was still planning to tell you everything, but at the last moment I held back. I'm sorry.”
“It's not your fault,” I reply, feeling a shiver pass through my body as I realize that Graham Bradshaw really might have been murdered because he was about to tell me the truth.
“Don't hate him,” she says, putting a hand on my arm. “He was a good, honest man, and everything he did, even the mistakes, were because he wanted to make the world a better place. I know he was wrong to get involved in all this Longdale business, but he realized that at the end. If he'd lived, he would have made everything okay.”
I nod.
“I should go,” she continues, taking a step back. “I'm glad you know the truth. You should get yourself out of this mess and just leave. Don't let them do this to you.”
As she turns to walk away, I realize there's one more thing I need to ask her.
“What about Margaret?” I ask.
She stops and glances back at me.
“If Graham wanted to put a stop to it all and tell me the truth,” I
continue, “then what about Margaret? Did she agree with him?”
“She...” Felicity pauses. “He said she was more committed to the project.”
“Do you think she...” I pause, taking a deep breath as I try to work out whether I can even ask this next question. “Do you think it's possible that she's the one who... I mean, someone obviously knew he was trying to stop it all. Maybe someone close to him, someone who ratted him out and caused him to be...”
We stand in silence for a moment, as the rain contains to fall.
“I don't know,” she says finally, “but Margaret Bradshaw had a tough streak. According to your father, by the end she was the one who was still dedicated to the project. If it hadn't been for her, I think he'd have told you the truth a long time ago.”
***
“Elly, could you put some more tea water on?”
Realizing that I've been daydreaming for a few minutes, I turn and find that Bob is leaning through from the front room.
“Sorry,” he continues, “it's just that the ladies are getting through the stuff faster than I thought humanly possible.”
“I'm on it,” I tell him. As he heads back through and I grab the kettle, I find myself wondering whether I should tell him everything I've found out. Then again, he seems to have truly loved my mother – or rather Margaret, as I guess I should call her from now on – and the last thing I want to do is cause him more pain.
Once the kettle is on, I lean against the sideboard and wait for... something. I feel as if I'm in a void, as if there's nothing left for me to do, but at the same time I've got an overriding urge to do something. I was half-expecting Mark to show up today, and I've been checking my phone every five minutes in case he tries to get in touch. After everything that has happened, I can't believe that he and the rest of the game will just leave me alone, but a definite lull seems to have fallen and I'm starting to worry about where and when the next move will be made. There's a part of me that's already thinking about leaving the country again, maybe heading back to Amsterdam or even going further.
“Hey,” says a familiar voice.
Turning, I see that Jess is standing at the back door.
“Hey,” I reply cautiously.
“So...” She steps inside, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on me. “I heard about your mother, I thought I should come and...” She pauses, with her piercing eyes still watching me intently. “Well, you know, it's polite, I thought I should come and pay my respects.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“And I wanted to see whether...” Another pause. “I wanted to see whether things were awkward between us. After the other night, I mean.”
“Why should things be awkward?” I ask.
“Well... I mean, we did end up, kind of... fucking on the sofa.”
“We'd been drinking.”
“I don't think that was why.”
As the kettle finishes boiling, I start to fill the teapot. I feel as if Jess is trying to get at something, but she's not being direct.
“We should talk about it,” she continues.
“Why?”
“I don't want to lose you as a friend.”
“Victoria Carrington,” I reply, turning to her. “That's your -”
Before I can finish, hot water spills from the kettle and splashes on my hand. Letting out a gasp of pain, I set the kettle down and immediately start running cold tap water over the burn.
“Are you okay?” Jess asks, still standing by the door.
“I know who you are,” I reply. “Don't even try to deny it. Your name is Victoria Carrington and you -”
“Everything alright in here?” Bob asks suddenly. “Oh, sorry, I didn't know you had a visitor.”
“Water's in the pot,” I reply, keeping my eyes on Jess.
“Did you burn yourself?” he asks.
“It's nothing.”
Clearly sensing that something's not right, he takes the teapot and heads back through, leaving me alone with Jess again.
“I know,” I tell her. “Please, don't treat me like an idiot anymore. I know who you are and what you were doing.”
She pauses. “Do you hate me?”
“You knew about the challenge the other night, didn't you?”
She nods.
“You let it happen?”
She nods again.
“So you always knew it was a possibility?”
“Aren't you at least slightly impressed?” she asks. “I think I was a pretty good actress over the past few years. Of course, it helps that I genuinely liked you.” She pauses. “Do you remember when we talked about getting matching tattoos? We even designed them. The names Jess and Elly, next to a pair of hummingbirds.”
“Two fake names,” I point out. “It should have been Victoria and Sophie.”
She smiles. “So on a scale of one to ten, how angry are you?”
Turning the tap off, I look at my hand and see a faint red patch at the base of my thumb. The burn still hurts a little, but I think I should be able to cope. Grabbing a towel, I dry my hand and then make my way over to the door.
“Elly, listen -”
Before she can finish, I punch her in the jaw, sending her sprawling back until she falls and lands hard on her ass outside. She lets out a gasp and clutches the side of her face, and it's clear that she's in pain. Strangely, I don't feel too sympathetic.
“I came to talk to you!” she hisses. “Like reasonable adults!”
“I don't feel like being reasonable,” I tell her, stopping in the doorway and watching as she struggles to her feet.
“Jesus Christ, I think you knocked a filling out!”
“Is that all? Maybe I should try again and get rid of a whole tooth.”
“Elly -”
“Sophie, remember? That's my name, apparently. Victoria.”
“You don't understand,” she replies, spitting out a little blood. “There's no reason for you to be angry, not if you actually think about this properly for a minute. Everything that we did, we did to protect you.”
“If you have to lie to protect someone,” I point out, “then something has gone wrong somewhere along the way.”
“You were supposed to be -”
“A weapon,” I say firmly. Stepping toward her, I can't help but like the fact that she instinctively takes a step back, almost as if she's scared of me. “I was born to be a weapon. I was raised to be a weapon. And now here I am, and I've finally realized the truth, and I still don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do!”
“Do what you're supposed to do,” she replies. “Like you said, you're a weapon. You're supposed to end the game, so end it. You'll still be alive at the end.”
“And that's all that matters, is it? Being alive?”
“Seems pretty important to me.”
“Were you ever tempted to tell me the truth?” I ask. “Even once?”
“All the time.” She pauses. “Do you remember the night we both got drunk and then I put you on the train the next morning to come to London for your father's funeral?”
“Barely,” I reply. “After all, I was drunk.”
“I had to fake it,” she continues. “I was drinking water and alcohol-free wine.”
“Poor you.”
“I had a job to do. I had to get you on that train, and I had to...” She pauses again, as if she's not sure whether to tell me the next part. “I had to make sure it was that exact train.”
Frowning, I try to work out what she means. “Why?”
“Because Mr. Raven wanted to get a look at you.”
“Mr. Raven?” I pause. “What do you mean? Was he... Was he on the train too?”
She shakes her head.
“Then -”
“I was sitting near you during the journey,” she continues. “I was on the train. I had to make sure you got to London, and I had to make sure you didn't have your ticket when you got off at Paddington. Mr. Raven was waiting to check.”
“Waiting where?�
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“Don't you remember the ticket guy? You'd lost you ticket, or you thought you had, and there was this ticket guy who made a fuss and refused to waive the fine.”
“I remember him,” I reply. “Vaguely.”
“That was Mr. Raven. He hadn't seen you in the flesh for quite a while, and he wanted to remedy that fact. He could have done it some other way, of course, but he's always had a taste for the theatrical. He was at your father's funeral too, just keeping an eye on things. I'd gone back to Bristol by that point, he felt that I shouldn't get too involved in the London end of things, in case you became suspicious. That's the thing about Mr. Raven, he's always thinking, always plotting, always trying to stay a few steps ahead of everyone, even Mr. Blue and Mr. White and Lady Red.”
“You know about all of that?” I ask.
“I know what I needed to know in order to get my job done. Congratulations, by the way. How's life as Lady Red?”
“Complicated.”
She touches her jaw again. “I deserved that punch, but now it's out of the way, I'd still like to help you.”
“I don't need your help.”
“You're not out of the game, Elly.”
“I told Mark, I'm not playing anymore.”
“Mark's an idiot.”
“Mark -” Pausing, I realize that I wish he was here right now. I shouldn't miss him, I shouldn't need him, but I'd definitely feel better if he was around. “At least Mark told me the truth voluntarily,” I point out. “He's the only one who's had the decency to do that.”
“Even though he's a murderer?” she asks. “Everyone involved with the game has blood on their hands. Do you think that Chrissie woman stabbed herself in the heart and tossed her own body into the river? Your precious Mark is as bad as the rest of them, and no last-minute pang of conscience is going to change anything.” She pauses. “I have a message for you, from Mr. Raven.”
“I'm not sure I want to hear it.”
“You need to hear it.”
“Why didn't he come himself?”
“He's busy.”
“Hiding in a tree?” I ask, glancing around the garden. “Is he watching us right now?”
“He's busy,” she continues. “Things are moving fast now, but he asked me to come and tell you that even though you weren't supposed to learn all this, you can still play your part in the game. He wants you to know that he thinks the plan to use you was wrong, and that he thinks he can put it all right.”