The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  Where is he . . . ?

  Knowing there’s still time.

  But she doesn’t ask.

  24

  2016

  What disturbs me most about the photo in the paper is that I hadn’t known—and I should have—that the man who attacked April all that time ago was her stepfather. Not even when we were about to be married, when I should have been the person she most trusted. Perhaps fear had prevented her from naming him, or she just wanted to forget. But if that was the case, how come, after all this time, she had arranged to meet him?

  As I wrestle with the facts, I’m thinking of a teenaged girl, terrified into silence; how it might be not to be able to share the horror and the pain, in doing so unloading some of it, but not knowing if others would believe you. How it might be easier to always keep it to yourself.

  I can see, too, how an outsider would view his murder as revenge for what Norton did to her all those years ago. But there’s another question, too, an important one. Apart from me, does anyone else even know what happened?

  If someone does, if April is charged with Norton’s murder, it gives her a motive. But it still doesn’t make her guilty, I remind myself. There could be any number of people who wished him dead.

  So far, I don’t have the answers. Turning to the back of April’s diary, where a few phone numbers are listed, I search for familiar names, hoping to find Bea’s, not even knowing if they’re still in touch. But it isn’t there.

  I spend the rest of the morning trying to get a sense of April’s life. Making another list, of her regular clients, the odd ones who stop by now and then, the clinic where she works one day a week, mapping as far as I can the last few months. By late afternoon, my floor is spread with pages from her folders and notes of my own.

  Then as I get up, I manage to clumsily knock over the photo I took from her cottage, cursing that I’ve broken the frame. I remove the photo from the shattered glass and see the name written on the back.

  Theo.

  I feel myself frown as I stare at the name, but before I can give it more thought, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, noting an unfamiliar number.

  “Hello?”

  Wishing I hadn’t. Realizing as soon as he speaks, it’s Will.

  25

  I accept Will’s invitation to lunch at his home the following day, because so far, all I’ve drawn is a blank about the murder, and because also I’m curious. About his family and about his home, too—Will’s one of those rare people who seems to have it all.

  I gather up more of April’s notes and continue reading, learning more about territory that’s unfamiliar to me. The stories of parents in emotional turmoil, families in crisis, facing the unimaginable as their baby hovers between life and death; all of them linked by the common thread of sadness.

  And the more I read, the more I understand that for this most awful part of their lives, April was a lifeline, offering support, sharing the load of their pain. Though the notes are about her clients, what she writes indicates that she has more than just an idea of what they’re suffering.

  I pause at that point, wondering what’s happened to her since we parted. Then in another sentence, she writes about miracles, about hope and how fragile life is. How there are no guarantees, but there is always now.

  I stop reading at that point because it’s how she used to make me feel.

  In the moment.

  * * *

  The next morning I make a fleeting visit to the hospital, where I’m now a familiar enough face that the nurses don’t question my presence as I take my usual place at the window into her room, silently projecting my thoughts.

  “I hope you don’t mind my being here. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to say that I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

  Then I add, “Believe it or not, I’m having lunch with Will. Am I stupid or what?”

  It’s intended humorously and I try to imagine what she’d say, half waiting for a reply, straining my ears for a whispered word, my eyes for a butterfly flutter of lashes on her cheek.

  “I sometimes question their reasons for keeping visitors away.” The voice comes from behind me.

  “Sorry?” I turn to see one of the nurses.

  “Well, when someone’s been on life support as long as Ms. Rousseau has, you’d think the police would try anything and everything to bring her round.” Like me, she’s gazing through the window at April.

  “It’s procedure.” I pause. “I might lean too close to her, she might whisper something no one else can hear. But I agree with you.”

  I don’t stay long. There seems no point in holding imaginary conversations with someone who isn’t there. I walk out of the hospital, no more convinced that she’ll wake up than I was yesterday, almost at my car when my mobile rings. This time I recognize the number.

  “Will.”

  “Hi. Sorry, Noah . . . There was an emergency and I got called in this morning, which means I won’t be home after all. But we could still meet, if you like. There’s this pub up the road from you—the White Horse, on the Edenbridge road—don’t know if you know it?” Like me, he’s brusque, businesslike; establishing ground rules.

  “I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  “Good. I should be able to make it for one-thirty.”

  * * *

  I find the pub easily, so that I’m early enough to buy a pint and find a table next to a sash window that looks onto a neat, ordered garden.

  Will is minutes behind me, and in the couple of seconds before he sees me, I watch him, confident and self-assured in an expensive suit and open-necked white shirt. With the same charisma he’s always had, only honed and polished by years of professional acclaim.

  He strides over, holding out his hand. “Good to see you, Noah. Sorry about the change of plan.”

  “It’s fine. Nice pub.”

  “Another drink?”

  I shake my head, picking up the glass I long to drink down but have barely touched, because I need a clear head, still watching as he walks over to the bar, chatting to the staff. It seems here, like everywhere else, Will is known.

  “I was quite surprised to hear from you,” I say carefully when he comes back and sits down opposite me. “And I’m still curious, about why you called.”

  Will raises his eyebrows, then, lifting his glass, briefly glances away. “You’re a difficult man to track down, Noah. And Devon of all places . . . What is it you find to do down there?”

  The gloves are surreptitiously slipped off, his voice light with an undercurrent of sarcasm. I feel myself stiffen. “I’m a writer.”

  I don’t tell him that I’m moderately successful but I’ve yet to write a bestseller.

  “My turn to be surprised,” he says smoothly. “I had you down as a career lawyer.”

  I know the kind he means, who spend their working lives in small offices dealing with equally small, menial, unexciting cases for moderate fees. Like my father.

  “I still work now and then. I guess I got sidetracked,” I tell him by way of explanation, then stop, folding my arms and unfolding them again, aware of the specter of awkward silence that’s settled between us.

  “Look, I’m not going to apologize,” Will says eventually. “It was a mess. But it’s history. We should clear the air. April was the screwed-up one. We both know that. Though, when you think about her background, it’s hardly surprising.”

  I’m silent, because that’s not how I remember it, and whatever April did or didn’t do, it was Will who was guilty as hell of fucking my life up. Sitting back, I look straight at him. “And you’ve kept in touch with her?”

  Will shrugs. “For professional reasons. It just so happened that her name turned up on a register we use. She’s quite a highly regarded bereavement counselor, and so it’s useful if I need to refer anyone. It doesn’t happen often, but sadly, not all my patients make it.”

  His reference to death is matter of fact. By contrast, I think of April’s notes, fu
ll of compassion; of her gentleness with wounded creatures when I first knew her, suddenly remembering the bird she rescued.

  “Do you see her much?” Remembering how gently she’d picked it up and taken it to the woods.

  “Hardly ever,” Will says. “Look, are you seriously considering representing her? Only, is that wise? I’ve already spoken to a chap I know—he says he’ll fit her in. If you’ve any doubts . . .”

  That he’s curt, rather than kind and concerned, tells me how little he cares.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Even after what she did to you?”

  He’s mocking me. I fight an urge to get up and walk out, but I need information from Will. It takes every last shred of self-control to stay put. I manage to shrug.

  “It’s in the past. Like you said, earlier. It’s history. I’ve moved on. But there’s one thing I’m interested to know. And that’s why.” Sitting back, I fix my gaze on him. “Why you’re so sure she’s guilty.”

  “I’d say it’s obvious.” For a moment, Will’s eyes shift sideways. “Firstly, there’s the evidence. The murder weapon. And her phone . . . And of course, there’s what that bastard Norton did to her all those years ago. I mean, what sort of guy rapes his fifteen-year-old stepdaughter?”

  As he speaks, I’m hiding my shock, my churning stomach, because this is the first I’ve heard of rape. I’d called the ambulance for April, visited her in the hospital—yet I still hadn’t known. And she’d never told me, not in all the time we were together.

  “But of course, you’d know all about that,” he says lightly, still watching me.

  I’m completely thrown, yet in the midst of my turbulent emotions, I’m determined to give nothing away, because we’re sparring partners, Will and I. In combat. Our relationship reduced to winning and losing.

  I nod the lie.

  “You’ve got to admit, it all points to her being guilty,” he says.

  “You’re forgetting one thing.” Holding myself together, I lean forward, meeting his eyes, clutching at the first thing that comes to me. “If it was revenge she wanted, why leave it so long?”

  It’s clear he isn’t expecting that. I watch as his jaw clenches. “I don’t know. Maybe she ran into him and just lost it. Shall we order?”

  * * *

  After that, I’m only half listening as Will tells me about his incredibly talented wife and beautiful daughter, about the house on the North Downs, my ears pricking up when he mentions tours and concert halls.

  “You’ve probably heard of Rebecca Masters?” His face smug, enjoying my reaction, which makes it clear I have. It had been impossible to miss their wedding, splashed across the papers, a lavish affair between the world-famous singer and the dashing surgeon. “You really must come to the house—for dinner. We’ll fix a date.”

  I nod. “Great.”

  It’s not a world I’m familiar with, but even so, I’ve seen Rebecca perform on television, at the most prestigious venues round the world with the most famous orchestras. And suddenly I don’t need to see the house to know it’s spectacular, a mansion set among landscaped gardens, immaculately maintained. Then my thoughts turn to their daughter, wondering how it is to be the child of such legendary parents, if there’s any corner in Will’s life for the ordinary.

  26

  2000

  After the wedding was called off, after I got over the initial shock enough to stay sober, I began to look for April. It was reflexive, just as I couldn’t help reliving our past, holding on to the pain that was my only link to her, as I trudged around the places we used to go.

  I didn’t so much as catch a glimpse of her hair or the turn of her cheek. It was as though she’d vanished. I gave up in every sense of the word. It wasn’t long after, I felt myself shut down. By locking away my most painful emotions, I was able to face the next stage, as I thought of it. I moved out of the flat—which, at the time, symbolically meant moving on. Closing the door on our old home, oblivious to the knowledge that what was in my head would be harder to shift.

  My new flat was a studio, its minimalist interior entirely different from the home April and I had shared, which at the same time both soothed and troubled me, its emptiness a statement only of how little I cared.

  In a life that was barely recognizable, I focused on work, putting in progressively longer hours as casework filled my head and took my life over. Even walking along the street, my mind would be on the latest case I was working on, to the extent that I’d reach my destination without any memory of how I got there. Days blurred into each other while alcohol blurred my nights.

  It was six months later, on one such mindless walk late at night, that I stumbled, literally, into Bea.

  “Watch out. . . .” A woman’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. Then she looked up. “Noah! How are you, darling!” Her annoyance gone as she reached up and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Hello, Bea.” Catching a faint whiff of something I thought was brandy on her breath, I was relieved that after my outburst the last time I’d seen her, she appeared to hold no grudges. “You look fantastic.”

  She did. Her fair hair was elegantly swept up, and she wore a print dress nipped in at the waist and matching red heels.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, her eyes lighting at the compliment.

  “You’ve obviously been to quite a party.”

  I was dusting off social skills that, these days, I had little use for. But as I spoke, I watched her smile vanish and a look of pure shock replace it. She stared at me, and I knew whatever she was going to say, it wasn’t good.

  I heard it under the gloom of a street lamp, to a soundtrack of passing cars, while Bea took one of my hands. “Oh, Noah . . . What I have to tell you isn’t going to be easy.”

  “It can’t be worse than the last few months,” I joked feebly, hoping I was right. “I imagine it’s something to do with April.”

  Bea nodded, then looked away, and in those few seconds, I realized I’d far from given up on April. I felt a cataclysmic sense of the earth shifting under my feet. Then she turned back, meeting my gaze.

  “Noah, you should know, she’s with someone.” Even as I glanced around at the passing cars, I could feel her eyes on me.

  I shrugged. “It was inevitable. Sooner or later.” I’d hoped just not sooner—or for a long time. Preferably never.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shrugged again. “Of course. It’s over between us. I know that.”

  She hesitated. “The thing is, it’s a bit more than just with someone.” Her eyes darting anxiously. “They’re engaged. That’s where I’ve been tonight—to their engagement party. Well, not really a party. It was small, just a few of us. For drinks, and dinner.”

  “Great.” I nodded, feigning enthusiasm, determined not to show the truth, that I was still heartbroken and that this news, drip fed, piece by agonizing piece, was devastating.

  “Oh, Noah.” Bea looked desolate. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew. It isn’t great. She says it’s what she wants, but I don’t see how it can be. . . .”

  I felt myself shiver, but I had to know.

  “Who is it?” I demanded. “Who’s she marrying?”

  I didn’t need to hear her whispered answer. Bea’s stricken face said it all.

  * * *

  I don’t know how many miles I walked that night in total darkness, unseeing of every face and building I passed, seeing only April with Will, imagining them together, searching for elusive answers to impossible questions. I couldn’t understand how she could even consider it. Then I thought of Will’s way with girls. Had they been having an affair all along? Had April ever truly loved me? Feeling an unsurpassed hatred toward Will, who I’d believed for so long was my friend, who’d told me April was a whore, then proposed to her.

  He’d broken all the rules, intent on getting only what he wanted—no matter who was in his way. Good old Will, who was everybody’s friend, all the time playing me for a fool.


  It was as the last vestige of my love for April was snuffed out that a new understanding dawned on me. Life wasn’t fair or caring or just, nor did the good guy get the girl—that was a myth, too. Life was a bastard. As for the girl, she belonged to the double-crossing, lying, cheating weasels of the world—like Will—and always would.

  Ella

  In between our appointments, I decide I trust Julia. I like how she doesn’t tell me what to do or anything. No “strategies” or “exercises” like the others tried to give me, which is kind of cool. And telling her about Theo helped, kind of. After I told her, I felt the wave of her shock, then watched her file it away with everything else she knows about me. But it’s still a game. With rules. Next time I see her, I already know what’s coming.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me last time. About Theo.”

  I pause, in one of those expensive silences she waits for me to break, looking at the tiny plait in the side of her hair that’s threaded into her ponytail. She always has cool hair.

  Eventually, when I don’t respond, she continues. “If your parents don’t talk about Theo, and you don’t think your mother even knows about him, I was wondering how you do?”

  There it is. Well, she’d better listen up, because this is where it starts to get complicated.

  “First, I’ll ask you a question.” I pause, to check she’s really listening. She is. “If you had a letter that you really, and I mean really, didn’t want people to ever read—like if you’d done something bad that you didn’t want anyone to know about—you’d rip it up or burn it—or something—wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. Probably.” She looks puzzled. “I suppose you might have a reason to keep it. But then you’d hide it away, really well.”

  “Right. But you agree? As long as the letter exists, you know there’s a risk, or a possibility, of its being found.”

  I pause as she looks blankly at me. But I’ve given this a lot of thought.

  “Things mostly happen because of cause and effect, don’t they?” I continue. “Even people. For example, I am an effect caused by the sexual union of my parents.” Which is something I’d rather not think about. “Everything about me—my hair color, the blue of my eyes, how tall I am, how quickly my brain works—comes from my genes, comes from them.”