The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  It’s three hours before I’m taken to an interview room, a few more minutes before Ryder joins me. I wonder if the younger man accompanying him will temper his obvious contempt.

  His nod is perfunctory. “This is Sergeant Elliot.”

  Elliot takes the seat next to Ryder across from me at the small table.

  “Right. I don’t think you’ve been entirely truthful with us, Calaway. We’ll start with the facts, beginning with the crush you had on Ms. Rousseau—or Miss Moon, as she was then—when you were at school and the fact that you were witness to Norton raping her.”

  His words are mocking, slicing like knives into the shroud of my privacy. Twisting the facts to intimidate me further. “I didn’t witness anything. What actually happened was that I found her, after.”

  That he doesn’t question me further tells me that either from Bea, or Will, he knows this. He clears his throat, then carries on. “If you say so, sir. And you maintain you didn’t know she’d been raped? Even though, years later, you were about to be married? Sounds a little far-fetched, if you ask me.” Making no attempt to disguise his pleasure in demeaning me.

  “Sometimes the truth is,” I tell him. “You’re a cop. You should know.”

  Ryder glowers. “A witness has come forward.”

  My blood runs cold.

  “You were overheard saying you wanted to kill him,” he continues. “The witness says you had to be restrained.”

  I’m silent. The witness can only be Will, only he didn’t witness any such thing. He made it up. It’s a measure of the desperation of a guilty man, only no one will believe that. I see us both through Ryder’s eyes. The failed lawyer and the almighty surgeon.

  “There’s also the fact that Ms. Rousseau called you, twice, the evening before the murder—a fact that you deny.”

  “She lost her phone. Do you know that?” Interrupting him, wondering if he knows. “She called the North Star the next morning, to ask if anyone had found it. Speak to John Slater.”

  Ryder’s stare is full of hostility. “I’m talking about her home phone. Perhaps she wanted to tell you she’d set up a meeting with Norton. You’d talked about it, hadn’t you? Old flames, discussing how to get rid of him. I think you saw a chance to right an old wrong and you took it. That reclusive life you lead, writing fairy tales about serial killers . . .”

  As he says that, I know in a flash that someone’s checked out my cottage. I picture a stranger going through my home, my desk, my notes for my new book. Containing the rage that flares inside me, I know, too, that here, I’m powerless.

  “I think it’s messed with your head, Calaway. You drove all the way from Devon, waited in the car park at the North Star while Ms. Rousseau got him drunk; then when Norton was the last one out of the bar, saw your chance.”

  Slowly, terrifyingly, I see that in Ryder’s insane little world, he actually believes it.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Words that stick in my throat. “And how would I have had April’s phone? Or her glove?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe she’d found her phone. Left it in the pub with a glove and Norton picked them up. Who knows?”

  “It doesn’t explain why she took an overdose.”

  “I’d say—and I’m not alone here—she’s a bit of a fruitcake. History of physical and sexual abuse, depression—not surprising.”

  But they’re not Ryder’s words. They’re Will’s. Between them, they’ve done what I dreaded.

  Ryder goes on. “And there’s another problem, because on the actual day it happened, no one can say where you were.” He sits back, staring malevolently across the table at me. “You’ve got to admit—it stacks up.”

  “I can give you the number of Sam—the mechanic. He’ll tell you he had my car that day.”

  “Yeah.” Ryder’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “This Sam . . . Let me get this right. A west country yokel who would say anything if you slipped him enough. How much did you pay him?”

  This time I’m seething, fighting back the urge to reach across the table and grab him by the tie, then punch him in the head.

  “Call him,” I say, ice calm. “You have my phone. It’s in my contacts.”

  Then I sit, silent, using steel strength to maintain my composure, at the same time reading between Ryder’s lines. The subtext.

  He’s convinced he has proof that I’m guilty.

  * * *

  I’m taken back to my cell, where they continue to hold me on suspicion. Ryder has twenty-four hours, minus the three I’ve already been here, to make it stick. Twenty-four hours for Bea to work out the truth.

  41

  Alone, I sit on the narrow bed at the back of my cell as reality closes in. I think about April’s life slowly slipping away from her; how dangerous Will is, and how evil. How my future is in Bea’s hands. How the link between Will and Norton has to be April. How even now, there is no proof.

  I think of the lies Will’s told Bea, and Ryder, too, painting me as the twisted monster, who had never got over losing April. Who lost his mind, murdered Norton.

  Only it’s Will who’s the monster. Suddenly I’m cold. Is it Will, too, who murdered Norton? Who never got over losing April? Will, not me, whose judgment is in question, whose arrogance has pushed him over the edge.

  And of course, given the choice between the smooth, accomplished, life-saving surgeon and the reclusive writer who walked away from his legal career, it’s obvious who is the more credible, more reliable; the man you would trust with your life.

  Then I think about what Bea told me. If there’d been another baby, if it had been mine, she’d have told me, surely, during that time we were together. Then my mind wanders, back to the days when April seemed consumed by darkness; to the memories I’ve buried away.

  I feel a wave of shame, as I remember Bea’s scathing words, her utter disbelief, because she’s right. There are more lies, embedded in the life I’ve created, away from the eyes of the rest of the world. Lies I’ve told not just other people, but myself.

  1996

  It was my first winter at university. Five months since I’d seen her. February, a cold, grey month of heavy coats and woollen scarves. Mine was navy, a double-breasted coat that used to belong to my father, on the big side and not really student attire, but perfect for walking city streets, imagining myself the successful lawyer I would one day be.

  London’s a big city to search for someone, but I’d had a clue. The name of a diner where she worked, that she’d let slip, never imagining I’d turn up there. There were a few by the same name, but I’d narrowed it down. Not that I’d gone in. I remember I’d lurked in a doorway, watching her in the bright lights inside, her easy smile, her long hair neatly tied back as she took orders and carried trays.

  I couldn’t tell her how I’d watched her, mesmerized, for nearly five hours, my hands deep in my pockets, shivering as I’d felt the temperature drop, terrified that if I went away for just five minutes, she’d disappear. She wasn’t the only one with secrets; I’d been too embarrassed to ever tell her.

  * * *

  I remember seeing her, just before ten o’clock, pulling on her coat, making her way to the door, called back briefly by another girl, before she finally stepped outside. I remember I’d had to orchestrate my arrival to time it to perfection, crossing the street just as she crossed the other way, as I knew she would. I’d watched her the previous night, too.

  I remember the surprise on her face, the faint flush to her cheeks that could have been the cold. How she’d kissed me, on the cheek, hesitantly, then drawn back. We’d had a trivial conversation, in which I’d told her I’d been up there for a lecture. Only I hadn’t. That was a lie, too.

  Had I noticed under the coat? In the glow of street lamps it was hard to tell, but I’d seen her working, hadn’t I? Beneath the apron tied around her waist, her shape had most definitely changed. I’d seen that.

  Bea was right. I’d told myself she’d put on weight. Eaten too many meals at the din
er, in doing so choosing to turn away. How could I have done that? Here, twenty years too late, I do the math. And I know.

  So many times I told myself April abandoned me. But she’d been pregnant with my child, and at the time she most needed me, I’d abandoned her. My eyes fill with tears of shame, but I’m confused, too, because later, when we were going to be married, when we should have had no secrets, why hadn’t she told me?

  She must have seen me look, then look away. Heard the silence where there should have been words, asking her. Felt alone when I should have been with her. It was my doing that our wedding hadn’t happened. This was what had come between us.

  There was a baby I hadn’t known about. My baby. I think of Bea’s words. There was always so much you didn’t know. She’d said it twice, the first time when April left me just before the wedding, and again, just recently. All along, Bea had known.

  I know I must find Bea. Find out if the baby lived.

  Getting up, I pace the small room, agitated, needing answers; more than ever needing a drink, then another and probably another, until the alcohol deadens the memories that have surfaced, raw and bleeding. My inadequacies, my failures, my mistakes, because I’ve lied to myself about those, too.

  Within the confines of the cell, my thoughts bombard me, then rebound only to ricochet off the walls to come at me again. Here, there is no fantasy world to escape to, no whisky bottle to numb my mind until they’ve gone. Just hard, cold reality, staring me in the face, as in the half darkness, the almost silence, for what feels like an endless night I’m forced to wait.

  Ella

  Time is a pulled thread, comes unstitched, as seconds unravel from minutes from hours, then get tangled, so nothing makes sense. Where I can’t think, where night and day, yesterday and tomorrow, truth and lies all merge, are all the same.

  “I’ll call your mother,” Gabriela fusses, holding my arm. “We go to the hospital. She can meet us.”

  “No! Don’t . . . I don’t want her.” Beseeching her, feeling my eyes fill with tears. “Not the hospital, Gabriela. Please . . . I know what I need to do.”

  She shakes her head—at me? Looking down at myself, suddenly I notice I’m in clothes I don’t remember putting on, as if I’ve lost time. It happens again, later, when I’m in the car. How did I get to the car? Gabriela’s driving and I stare outside, but my eyes don’t focus. I’ve forgotten where we’re going, have no idea where we are.

  When Gabriela parks near an entrance to somewhere, then comes round and helps me out, I still don’t know.

  “Come on, little one.”

  I climb out, holding on to her arm, tight, because my legs don’t feel like my legs. She slowly helps me up two steps, then through the door.

  Inside, behind the desk, someone looks up at us.

  “Ella’s here to see Julia.” Gabriela speaks for me.

  “Would you like to take a seat over there?” The receptionist indicates an area with several chairs. “She won’t be a minute.”

  Then something weird happens, because the lady looks at me, can’t stop looking at me, her eyes staring into mine, as I notice her fair hair and feel a shock right through my body, as though somehow I know her.

  Suddenly there’s a buzzing in my ears. Then Julia’s there.

  “Shall I wait here?” Gabriela’s voice is a whisper in the background.

  “I think it might be best.” Julia holds my hand really firmly, so that I can feel she has enough strength for both of us. “I’ll call you if she needs you. Ella? Would you like to come with me?”

  Julia’s office is strangely quiet. I don’t remember how, but when I look up at her, we’re sitting at opposite ends of her sofa.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I whisper. Then because the time is long past for secrets and lies, I tell her.

  My breath is shaky. “I sent away for my birth certificate. I waited two weeks. . . .” I shiver. I’m so cold. “But it never came. Then I got an e-mail.”

  Then all I can hear is silence, until my whisper fills it.

  “I don’t exist.”

  Julia’s eyes don’t leave mine. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday—or the day before.” Looking at her, frightened again, because even the days are muddled and I can’t be sure.

  “Ella, listen to me. What’s happening to you is a shock response. A difficult one, called traumatic shock. But you’ll be okay, I promise you.”

  But I’m not okay—I know I’m not. I’m frozen, like my brain is shutting down. How can just a shock make you feel like this?

  “I think you’d better tell me everything.”

  “They were in my father’s desk.” I’m trying to remember how it happened. Then I think of the papers, my hands shaking as I pull a bunch of them out of my bag. Time does that weird thing again, little frozen seconds floating between us. My breath thaws them.

  “This was the first one.” Passing it to her, feeling how heavy it is.

  Very slowly she takes it.

  Then I watch her face. Know the words she’s reading by heart.

  . . . You will agree to give William James Farrington full custody of the child known as Ella Vivian Farrington. In addition, you will relinquish all parental rights. In return, all details relating to her half brother, Theo Moon, born the third of July in the year 1997, will remain in the safekeeping of Alderton and Chalmers, for as long as the terms of this agreement remain in place. Should they be broken, such details will be placed in the hands of the police.

  Signed on this day, the seventeenth of August, 2004, by

  Mr. William Farrington

  Ms. April Moon

  In the presence of Martin Alderton (witness)

  “I don’t understand.” Julia looks confused. “Why would he do this? And what does he mean by details?”

  I’ve thought and thought about this. Looked for any other explanation. Not wanting to believe my father is capable of such a thing.

  “I think my father blackmailed a woman called April Moon. My birth mother.” I whisper it, as if I can stop the ripple of my words.

  “Then he stole me from her.”

  42

  I must have eventually dozed, because I’m woken by the presence of someone beside me, led back to the same room as before, where Ryder’s already sitting, his back to me.

  I take the seat opposite, my blood chilling, as I look at his face.

  “Rather convenient, isn’t it? How you forgot to tell us you were a lawyer?”

  “I don’t see it’s relevant,” I tell him. “It was a long time ago.”

  He fidgets impatiently in his seat. “Clarify one thing for me. Are you here in your capacity as a lawyer or as you told us, an old friend?”

  “I can’t exactly represent someone who’s unconscious. When she comes round, that will be up to Ms. Rousseau.” A textbook answer he can’t argue with.

  “Well, that’s looking less and less likely,” Ryder snarls back. “She’s got a chest infection today, tomorrow it’ll be pneumonia, the day after that, they’ll switch the machines off.”

  And though I’m hating every word that comes out of his mouth, it’s a picture I’ve already painted, too many times.

  “Your prints are everywhere,” Ryder says softly. “All over her house. How often have you been there?”

  “She leaves a key.” I meet his stare, play his game. “For people who know.”

  ‘There’s another thing.” His voice hardens. “Does the name Paul Rogers mean anything to you?”

  As he speaks, I feel the blood drain from my face.

  Ryder sounds almost triumphant. “Got him off a rape charge, according to my records. Only he was guilty after all, wasn’t he? He was convicted a year later, for raping a twelve-year-old girl, it says here.” Hanging on the twelve, waving his sheaf of notes at me. “Not your proudest moment, I’d say.” Across the table, his face looms close to mine. “But you know that, don’t you, Calaway? And you bloody ran away because that’s
what you do.”

  As he pauses, it all comes back. Paul Rogers . . . A name I’ve never forgotten, though I wish I could, which replays, over and over in my head, as I think of the glittering career I’d worked so hard to build. The guilt and the shame that have haunted me since, because if I’d handled the case differently, maybe I could have prevented another attack. As I bury my face in my hands, Ryder goes on.

  “Here’s what I think. You’re a washed-up lawyer and a flaming alcoholic who lives in a dream world. I’ve seen the bottles in your room. One only has to look at you. You’re a mess.”

  “The case wasn’t that simple,” I tell him through gritted teeth, feeling the sweat on my face running down my body under my shirt, but Ryder hasn’t finished.

  “Bet you’re craving a drink, aren’t you? A nice glass of scotch that burns your throat and warms you on its way down? Like the feel of it, don’t you? Only you want another glass, then another, until it fills your veins. Buries the most sordid memories, doesn’t it? Solves everything . . .” Pausing, he smirks. “Bit hot, are you?”

  As I feel in my pocket for a handkerchief to mop my brow, I notice my hands shaking.

  His eyes pointedly on my hands, Ryder’s clearly noticed.

  “I know your sort,” he says maliciously. “With your whisky bottles, pouring another and another, knocking it back, until your pitiful little life and everyone in it disappears.”

  He’s taunting me, with every word peeling away another layer of my skin. Under the rawness of my pain, I feel myself shiver.

  Leaning forward, he speaks more quietly. “Thing is, Calaway, you’ve told so many lies, I can’t believe a bleeding word you say.”

  * * *

  I don’t remember being led back to my cell. I’m not thinking, just feeling, a bunch of raw nerve cells, in a world that has imploded, in which I’m trapped.

  It’s a world in which I failed; one where I defended a rapist, who’d lied to everyone, whom I’d suspected was guilty, but who’d had contacts. Who walked out of court and later preyed on a teenage girl. The real reason I walked away from my career.