The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  * * *

  I imagine it’s because Ryder finds no hard evidence that after twenty-four hours I’m free to go. It’s late, the night damp with drizzle, but I walk, aware of the entire day I’ve missed, of time like sand slipping through my fingers. Slowly, my strength returns, and I feel the mist lift and my mind clear; walking faster, until it comes to me what I have to do first. Pausing for a moment to text Will.

  If you have time, I think we should meet. I’ve discovered what’s going on.

  I imagine his stunned surprise as he realizes I’m no longer being held by the police, the curiosity he won’t be able to resist. But I no longer care. Almost immediately he replies.

  I’m in Brighton tomorrow, could be with you for midday. There’s a pub north of Tonbridge in Sevenoaks - the White Hart.

  I text Bea.

  They let me go, for now. Have you had a chance to read the files? I’m meeting Will for lunch tomorrow, hope to find out more.

  Then back at the B&B, I’m met by my landlady, who’s clearly waited up for me.

  “Mr. Calaway? Could I have a word?” I wonder how long she’s been sitting, fretting, wondering if I’m coming back. “This is quite difficult.... But you know, about the police and everything. . .”

  “I can assure you I haven’t done anything wrong,” I tell her. “Detective Sergeant Ryder has his wires crossed; he just doesn’t know it. We’re trying to solve the same case, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know. . . .” And I see her cozy, chintz world has been threatened by the mistrust left in Ryder’s wake. Her eyes flit anxiously. “It’s just that this is a certain type of establishment. Our guests expect certain things.”

  “If it would help, I can pay you now.” As I reach in my pocket for my wallet, she backs away as if half expecting me to produce a loaded weapon. I peel off some notes, counting them.

  “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you, or any of the other guests. There’s enough there to cover what I owe you—plus another night,” I tell her. “Then I’ll leave.”

  * * *

  Upstairs, Ryder’s presence is in my room, in my emptied holdall, my clothes spread carelessly about the floor, the pointlessness of the squeezed-out shampoo bottle in the bathroom. Catching sight of my reflection, I see what my landlady saw just now.

  I stare at the face in the mirror, for a moment not recognizing it as my own. It’s old, world weary, causes anger to rise unexpectedly in me.

  Scattered around are the empty whisky bottles that Ryder found. I look for the half-filled one next to the television. Holding it for a moment like a lifeline, I’m about to twist the top off it and drink straight from the bottle.

  Then somehow finding iron strength in my shaking hands, I ignore the voice in my head telling me that I’ll only go out and buy another. I take it into the bathroom and pour it away.

  Something happens to me then, and as my body starts to shake, emotions, long buried, clamber to the surface. It’s not just how I look. Hating how I’m feeling, I punch the door frame. Twice, three times, focusing on the pain in my bleeding knuckles before clutching them, leaning back against the wall, slipping silently to the floor.

  Ella

  How could my father do that? Steal me from my mother?

  “Ella?” Julia says gently. “Do you understand how serious this is?”

  Feel myself shrink into the sofa, afraid.

  “Reading this, I think it looks as though he threatened her.” Her voice is worried.

  I nod. “I think she must have had a secret. He knew what it was. And he used it.”

  “Something to do with Theo?”

  I pass Julia the next folded page. Slowly she opens it, frowning as she reads, then puts the paper down. “I don’t understand. It’s a birth certificate. Why would he have this? Who’s Elodie Tara Moon?”

  I thought that if I believed hard enough, someone else would, too. That for a while, what I most wished for would be real. Theo. But it never will be. My whisper reaches Julia.

  “I think she’s me.”

  I pause. “My father had Theo’s birth certificate, too. He kept everything together. Here.” I pass it to her. “If I’m right, he’s still my half brother, isn’t he?”

  Holding my breath, watching her frown as she tries to take it in.

  “We need to find him, don’t we, really badly, so he can explain?” I ask.

  But her face is full of sadness. “I can’t believe that you’ve known all this time. That you were adopted.”

  I shake my head, because I wasn’t adopted, not properly. I was stolen. “I only knew for sure when I sent off for my birth certificate. And then, when I found Theo’s.” Suddenly I’m shaking. “I knew he was my brother. I’d always thought we had the same father. I was wrong. We have the same mother. My father—how could he do that?”

  I feel Julia’s hand on my arm. “It’s too much to keep to yourself. It’s why it’s hit you so hard.”

  Suddenly I feel numb. Then there’s a knock on the door. She goes to answer it. I hear low voices; then she turns to me. “Ella? Will you be okay if I leave you, just for two minutes? That’s all—and I promise I’ll be back.”

  I nod. She closes the door softly, and I’m alone. Suddenly I’m so tired. The sofa is soft and I curl my feet up, lean back against a cushion, close my eyes for a few seconds.

  When I open them, Julia’s back.

  “Sorry I had to leave you like that,” she says. “But it’s good you’ve slept. You’re tired because of the shock.”

  Pushing myself up on the sofa, I stifle a yawn.

  Then Julia says, “Ella? We’ve always been honest with each other, haven’t we? You know I would never lie?”

  I half nod, then gaze at her, frightened again because I know from her voice, this isn’t over yet.

  Her face shows how sorry she is. “I’m not sure quite how to tell you this. But I’ve just found out something about Theo. Something, I think, that somewhere, deep down, you already know.”

  I can’t stop my heart from leaping erratically with hope, because something, no matter how bad, is better than knowing nothing.

  “Is he in prison?” I ask quickly, because it’s the only thing I can think of.

  She hesitates. “Theo isn’t in prison. You’ve never met him, have you?” Her voice is gentle.

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, Ella, I’m so sorry.” There are tears in Julia’s eyes. “He died, honey. A long time ago. Before you were born . . .”

  She’s looking through the papers I’ve given her. My eyes turn toward the window. I see myself running across the grass to the old cedar tree, where I thought of him waiting for me, a ray of sun lighting his face; forcing myself to listen as I hear her say it, over and over—Ella, Theo died, honey—until the rushing of the wind blots it out.

  I’d known. From the dreams I still have, where he joined the moths and the pheasants that my father killed, from the letter hidden in my father’s desk.

  I wanted so badly to be wrong. I wanted someone in my family who’d really care.

  Suddenly I can’t breathe. It’s the spider’s web again, only the strands are snapping, all around me until I’m left with a tightrope and nothing to hold on to, a yawning abyss below, as my body starts to shake. Then it goes dark and suddenly I’m spinning, then falling, down and down.

  “Ella, it’ll be okay. . . .”

  The words come from far away. I can’t tell where from. Just feel Julia’s arms as she reaches out and catches me.

  43

  I’m tired beyond belief the next morning. Wrung out, empty. I run a cold shower that’s like needles on my skin, that takes my breath away. Feel no better.

  Desperate to talk to Bea, I know I must confront Will first. This is where it starts and ends. With Will. Has it always been that way? If he’s uneasy as I walk into the White Hart, he doesn’t show it.

  He looks up, not bothering to conceal his interest. “Noah.”

  “Gla
d you could make it,” I tell him.

  “I have to admit I was interested to hear what you’d found out,” he says. “Did I hear a rumor that our friend Ryder took you in?”

  From the lightness of his voice, the coolness of his gaze, it’s impossible to read what he’s thinking.

  “I had a most comfortable night in a small cell, thank you,” I tell him. “The standard twenty-four, after which, in the absence of any good, solid evidence, fortunately he was forced to let me go. Let me get you a drink.”

  “Another scotch,” Will says briefly, raising his glass to me before emptying it.

  I take my time at the bar, indulging in idle chat with the girl who serves me, letting Will wait, before I take the drinks—his scotch and my own orange juice—back to our table.

  His eyes linger on my glass. I’m ready for his caustic remark, to deflect it with indifference, but today, Will doesn’t waste time. “So. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m still tying up a few loose ends,” I tell him. “At least I was, before Ryder got in the way. But I’m fairly sure now, that April had discovered something. Most of her clients were mothers carrying babies diagnosed with serious problems. I’m no expert, but I’ve talked to one or two of them. One had a baby with Tay . . . ?”

  I pretend I’ve forgotten, feigning ignorance, drawing him in, playing on my lack of expertise, but I can never forget what Daisy Rubinstein told me, or the reality of it etched on her lovely face.

  “Tay-Sachs,” he says sharply. “What about it?”

  “It wasn’t just Tay-Sachs,” I continue. “There were babies with heart defects. That’s your area, isn’t it?”

  Will looks cagey. “It’s a complicated field, Noah. There are many types of problems and different treatment options. I see a few of them. But anyway, go on.”

  “April had gathered statistics.” I’m watching every muscle in his face, every shift of his gaze, every blink of his eyes. “Her data wasn’t conclusive, but it looked as though she’d stumbled across an irregularity. You see, the newborn mortality rates at two hospitals stood out.”

  “That’s news to me.” He says it pleasantly, but I can see that suddenly he’s rigid. “Amateur statistics can be glaringly inaccurate.” He pauses, then asks too casually, “I’d be interested to take a look, though. Do you happen to have the notes with you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. But that wasn’t the end of it. She started to look deeper into why some babies were treated and some were not. I think she suspected a pattern of some kind, but never quite worked out what it was.”

  On the table in front of him, Will’s phone buzzes. “I have to get this. Will Farrington.” He speaks into it and I watch him frown.

  “Oh, for goodness sake. Whatever’s the matter with her?”

  He listens, irritation written on his face. “Which clinic?” He pauses. “I can’t possibly come now. I’m in a meeting.”

  There’s another pause, then he says, “Text me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Sorry,” he says, ending the call, then taking another swig of scotch. “It’s my daughter—and Rebecca’s away. Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “You’re sure? This will keep,” I tell him, watching him torn, weighing family obligations against the reality of leaving here without knowing what I’m going to say.

  He shakes his head impatiently. “You were saying . . . you think April had found a pattern.”

  I nod. “I went over her notes; then I talked to some of her clients. Then one of them gave me a questionnaire.”

  “That’s quite standard,” he tells me. “These days, it’s all about patient feedback—not that most patients can be bothered.”

  “This was different.” Studying his face. “These were questions asked before treatment was started. And I think I’m right in saying, before any treatment was decided.”

  His relief is obvious—he actually laughs. “You think? You need to do better than that, Noah. You call me over here because of something you think but don’t actually know?”

  “The questions were interesting.” Ignoring his outburst, my eyes still riveted to his. “About social background, jobs, income, schools . . . You have to ask, don’t you, what relevance that could possibly have.”

  Then as I watch the faintest tinge of red creep into his cheeks, the tiny muscle twitching in his neck, I keep going.

  “In the case of a sick baby, I can understand questions about the health of the parents, and any history of illness in the family, but social background?” Knowing I have to push him, I take a huge leap of faith. “That’s a step too far for anyone—except you, Will. Isn’t that true?”

  “Are you accusing me of sending out this questionnaire?” His voice is icy. “Because I may or may not have. I can’t be held responsible for every stray piece of paper that gets handed to patients.”

  “As it happens, they were always sent—by post—before each case was admitted. I have the names of staff—as well as patients—who will verify this.” I list the names of the specialists that April had compiled. “Isn’t that your team?”

  Then my own phone buzzes with a text. Bea.

  Where are you? The police want to speak to him. Can you keep him there?

  But after the night of soul searching in the darkness of my cell, drawing together the stories from April’s clients with my scattered thoughts, discounting what wasn’t relevant, after Will’s response, I know I’m right.

  “Sorry about this,” I say to Will. “Won’t be a second.” Texting Bea.

  White Hart, Sevenoaks. Will do my best.

  He looks uneasy.

  “You’ve told your ridiculous story to Beatrice, haven’t you? Was that her? Well, I’ve already told her the truth. She knows you’ve lied, for years, to everyone. The police will get you, Noah. It’s a matter of time, that’s all.”

  “I’ve made mistakes.” I’m calm as I face my adversary. “Only these aren’t my lies, are they, Will? I can see what you’ve done. They’re yours, twisted around and slipped to me when you thought I wasn’t looking. Only now I’m looking. I can see all of them. And you know what? I think Bea does, too.

  “What about the Fairview Medical Centre?” I’m deliberately provoking him, because I need the truth. “Come on, Will. That questionnaire . . . Did you really think you could get away with it? Choosing to treat only babies of families from wealthy backgrounds, with money, education, class? What were you playing at—buying favors or being God? What about the struggling families, up to their ears in debt, who then have to cope with the death of a baby, because the specialist classified them as undeserving of treatment, unworthy of a chance at life? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stares back at me through slitted eyes.

  There’s another text from Bea.

  April’s the mother of Will’s daughter.

  As I stare at the words, my mind empties.

  “Something the matter?” Will asks.

  But as I see how nervous he is, suddenly I know I’ve got him. I try to focus. “Tell me about April, Will. Forget I was about to marry her for a moment. Leave me out of the picture. Tell me how it was.”

  Suddenly I genuinely want to hear what he has to say, but the look he gives me is full of contempt.

  “Leave you out of it?” Words that are loaded with sarcasm. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wished I could.”

  “Did you manipulate her, too? Like the families who come to you to save their babies? All those lives in your hands—I bet you love that.”

  “I save lives, Noah.” His tone is steely. “I have to make decisions. Everyone thinks there are endless resources. Do you know how overstretched most hospitals are? How hard we work to make the best of it? There’s limited money. If I have five babies who need surgery and can only accommodate four, because that’s how many beds we have, I have to make decisions.”

  “You don’t,” I cry. �
�You could send them somewhere else.”

  He throws his head back. “Christ, Noah. There’s nowhere fucking else. It’s the same everywhere. Is it so bad that the kid who’s most likely to make something of his life gets the bed?”

  I shake my head disbelievingly. “So very wrong.”

  But Will hasn’t finished. “Do you know how hard we train, for fucking years? Working all hours, learning skills few others have. Making advances that save lives and benefit future generations. Look at the ER. All that effort wasted on people who have no self-respect. Who abuse their health, the system, waste the time and energy of all of us here. Take the drunks who come in, with their self-inflicted illness. They expect to be treated the same way as the victim of a road traffic accident, because everyone does. It’s taken for bloody granted.”

  “You’re forgetting the human race isn’t perfect. It never will be. And you’re dealing with babies, Will. Making life and death decisions when even in your own warped world, even if you could in some way justify your actions, you have no idea who they’ll grow up to be.”

  “You can take a bloody good guess,” he says scornfully. “Someone’s background is a pretty accurate gauge of how they’ll turn out.”

  “Like yourself?” I say icily. “Do you know what’s even more terrifying?” I stare at him, wondering how this man was ever my friend. “You can’t see it.”

  Then I shake my head. “So April’s the mother of your child,” I add softly. “How does that fit into all of this? When she found out what you were up to, did you decide you wanted her out of the way?”

  “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he flashes. “For one thing, she wasn’t fit to be a mother.”

  “It’s not up to you,” I cry, feeling the sting of his words, of his judgment of April yet again, as I jump to the only conclusion that makes sense. “God. You’ve taken a woman’s child from her.”