by Sara Foster
‘You don’t recall Arabella leaving the party?’
‘No. Will told me I ran after her, and we were all on the bridge for a little while, and then he brought me back to the party. He said Arabella came back to The Atlantic briefly and spoke to me while I was half passed out, but I don’t remember any of that.’
She doesn’t miss the quick glance between Prashad and Kirby. She isn’t sure what it means, but she still squirms.
‘Who do you remember seeing Arabella talk to at the party?’ Kirby continues.
Eleanor tries her best to refocus. ‘Only Nathan, really. I noticed her speaking to him once towards the beginning, and he wasn’t really paying attention to her, so she got up and left. Then I saw the slap a little while later – but that’s it.’
‘Who else did you see at the party?’
Eleanor reels off a few names. ‘There were more people there, but I don’t know everyone’s name yet.’
‘So, you don’t know what time you left the party?’ Priya says, almost before Eleanor has finished speaking.
‘No, I’m not sure. I know Will took me back and I was lying down in the reception area for a while, but he told me that I disappeared again when he came to try to help me get home.’ She hesitates. ‘So, I don’t know how I got home from there.’
Prashad nods. Looks down at the briefcase. Then turns to look at Eleanor again, unblinking.
‘Your aunt says you didn’t get home till around two o’clock in the morning.’
Eleanor frowns. Surely that can’t be right. Why would Susan say that? Then she remembers overhearing Susan talking to Ian. How had she described Eleanor? As coming home paralytic, in the early hours of the morning. Eleanor dreads to think what Susan witnessed. No wonder she wasn’t keen on Eleanor right now.
‘Do you remember checking the clock at all during the night or when you got home?’
‘No. Only at half-past ten when I was at the party – and then when the alarm went off yesterday.’
‘We have witnesses saying you and Arabella left the party between eleven and half-past – the party finished at around twelve, and yet you weren’t found on the doorstep until two. But you haven’t any idea of what you were doing between those times?’
Eleanor’s stomach lurches. They think she has something to hide. And does she? Why is all that time a blank? What was her aunt doing awake at 2 am anyway? How could she know all this?
What the hell is going on?
She clutches the edge of the table, trying to calm herself. Priya Prashad is watching her intently. ‘Eleanor? Did you hear the question?’
Eleanor looks up at her and meets her eye. The woman in front of her looks kind and concerned, not hostile.
‘I don’t remember,’ she replies, her voice wavering. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, louder, striving for confidence. She knows she must hold their gaze – the first sign of guilt is looking away.
‘We have some CCTV footage not far from The Atlantic.’ Steve Kirby produces a photo from a folder in front of him. ‘This is a photograph taken from it at half past eleven. Could you take a look at this please, and tell me who you see there.’
Eleanor looks at the photo. ‘That’s – that’s me – and Arabella.’
‘In the video you are both hurrying, almost running. Then you put your hand out to Arabella, and she holds both of hers up, and backs away from you, shaking her head. What do you think you were both doing?’
Eleanor stares hard at the photo, trying desperately to bring it to mind, but there is nothing. ‘I don’t know.’ She doesn’t mention how upset Arabella looks – she’s sure they can see that for themselves.
‘You have no idea what was going on there?’
They wait. No one says anything. Eleanor can feel the room slipping away from her. She thinks she’s going to pass out – and perhaps it would be a good thing, if it got her away from this interrogation.
‘Eleanor, do you remember this?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know why you were chasing her?’
Eleanor shakes her head no.
‘Eleanor,’ Priya says gently, ‘don’t wait to tell us what you know. It’s much easier if you tell the truth now and avoid trouble later. Is there anything else you can tell us, Eleanor? Anything at all?’
Eleanor thinks of the ring. It could be critical evidence – this is the moment for her to confess she has it, and hand it over to the police. Already she can see they don’t quite believe her story. If she keeps things from them, then everything could get a lot worse.
She opens her mouth but a surge of fear stills her tongue. What if they don’t believe her? What if she’s arrested? She cannot cope with their suspicion. She feels so guilty. She just needs to get away to try to figure this out on her own.
‘No, there’s nothing else,’ she tells them in a small voice.
No one speaks as they make their way out of the station, stopping to collect Eleanor’s belongings. In the car on the way back to Harborne Grove, Prashad turns to look at her. ‘We may well want to talk to you again, Eleanor. Are you planning to travel anywhere outside London in the near future?’
‘No.’
‘You are a witness in this investigation now, even though you don’t remember all of the evening, so for the time being you need to notify us if you leave the city.’
‘I understand.’ Eleanor wraps her arms around herself and stares out of the window again, but this time she is too lost in her thoughts to notice anything.
At the house, she is escorted right up to the front door. Eleanor finds herself standing awkwardly beside her aunt, saying goodbye to the detectives. The space between them bristles with everything unspoken as the detectives head down the steps to their vehicle. Prashad swings around. And there it is. Suspicion as clear as day. But mingled with something else – kindness – sympathy? Eleanor regrets misleading this woman – she wants to run upstairs and hand over the ring before things get murkier and messier. But in the few moments that she thinks this, Prashad turns around again and is gone.
Once the door is closed, Eleanor rushes up the stairs without a word to her aunt and closes the door to her room. She puts her hand under the mattress, feeling around for the ring. Only when it’s in her grasp again does she begin to calm down. Without thinking, she slips it on her finger, studying the way it reflects the light, trying to decide what to do next.
11
the bridge
Priya Prashad is aware of Steve watching her, trying to read her thoughts. She doesn’t speak. She’s replaying the interview, reviewing all the moments that had set alarm bells jangling; trying to decide whether they can trust Eleanor at all.
‘So, what do you reckon?’ Steve asks eventually. ‘You chose not to mention a few things back there. You think this girl has something to do with it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Prashad watches the road as she drives. ‘But whatever is going on, Eleanor Brennan certainly has something to hide.’
There is a curt knock, then the attic room door begins to open. Panicked, Eleanor pushes the ring back under her mattress just as Susan’s head appears around the door.
‘What did the police want with you?’
Susan has never visited her here before and the little attic room no longer feels like a refuge. Eleanor’s heart is still pounding; she prays she pushed the ring in far enough and it doesn’t drop out at her feet.
‘I talked to Arabella briefly at the party,’ she says hesitantly. ‘They just wanted to know what she said.’
When Susan doesn’t reply, Eleanor meets her gaze. She’s expecting to see that shrewd assessing look that Susan always seems to pin her with. The worried frown takes her by surprise.
‘What did you tell them?’
Eleanor only pauses for a second. ‘Nothing much. I don’t really remember – I was drunk.’
Susan’s mouth tightens. Eleanor hesitates longer this time. Can her aunt sense the lies that are building? How can she tell Susan about t
he ring, the memory loss, the CCTV images? They all point to Eleanor being reckless and impulsive at best, and at worst – what?
‘When will my uncle be home?’ she ventures, keen to change the subject. Although, once she’s said it the question seems bold, as though she is crossing some personal boundary, but she is desperate to know.
‘I’m not sure.’ Susan sighs. ‘I’ve put the girls in the snug and have said they can watch as much TV as they want today. They both seem very tired. Thank you for taking them out this morning.’
This is the closest Eleanor has ever had to an amiable chat with her aunt. And that’s not the only thing that’s strange – because there’s a schism in Susan’s appearance today. Eleanor cannot miss the paleness to her face, the fact that her make-up doesn’t sit quite right. Her eyeliner and mascara is too heavy – there are cracks in her foundation around her nose and hairline. Eleanor has wanted to see behind Susan’s facade, but this frightens her. Her uncle is missing, her aunt is floundering, Eleanor feels unstable, and the girls are creeping around at night. This family is coming apart.
She is aware that she is trapped up at the top of the house with only one route of escape. ‘I think I might go out for a walk, then,’ she announces impulsively. ‘If you don’t need me here.’
‘Fine. Just keep your phone on in case there’s reason to call you,’ Susan says, turning back towards the stairs.
It’s a fair request, but Eleanor doesn’t want to think of the reasons she might get such a call. Once Susan has gone, Eleanor wonders where she might go. She needs to unscramble her thoughts, away from the emotions and questions that are beginning to pervade all familiar spaces. She changes her clothes again, and as she undresses, it is as though she’s stripping off some of the weight of the day. She checks on the ring beneath the mattress, pushing it further into place. The cold touch of it makes her shiver. It isn’t just a piece of jewellery – it’s like she has brought a piece of Arabella into this house, an insidious connection with a dead woman that’s slowly leaching fear into the atmosphere.
Once she is redressed, with her coat and boots on, she grabs her scarf, gloves and hat and heads downstairs and out the door. Immediately, a blast of cold air hits her. It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon, but the light is already fading from the day – replaced by the insipid yellows from streetlamps and cars, along with the brighter flashes of overhead signs and mobile phones. She keeps her head down as she walks towards the Tube, negotiating the uneven slabs of stone pavement, keeping an eye out for puddles.
Twenty minutes later she sits on the train, trying to look inconspicuous even though she is convinced everyone is casting covert glances at her. She hasn’t even acknowledged to herself where she’s going until she hears the announcement for Embankment and she gets up and shuffles down the carriage. Once on the station concourse she slowly makes her way out, shaking her head at the Big Issue seller who catches her eye. Back in the cold air she wraps her scarf tightly around her neck and pulls on her gloves, trying to ignore the huddled groups and their animated chatter, the Christmas jollity of everyone, it seems, except her.
On Victoria Embankment she stops opposite the pier. The Atlantic is moored today, and she gazes at the blue-and-white sign on top of the boat. She doesn’t dare go closer, but she’s desperately trying to recall herself leaving, to retrace those missing hours. Yet all she sees, over and over again, is Arabella standing opposite her in the bathroom, that monstrous ring glistening on her finger.
And then her heart misses a beat as two figures appear at the entrance to the pier. She turns away and looks around for somewhere to go, running towards a small accessories shop tucked away under the railway bridge. Once inside, she stands near the window, facing away, trying to calm herself before she dares to look again.
When she finally peeps through the glass, detectives Kirby and Prashad are at their car, which is parked on the pavement. Prashad climbs straight in the driver’s side. Kirby, however, stops and turns around, looking back at The Atlantic, before his gaze sweeps across the road towards the little shop in which she stands. Surely he cannot see her peeping at him from one corner of the window, since the glass is half-covered in fake snow spray and she has pulled her hat down and her scarf up over her nose.
It’s only a few seconds until he turns away and climbs into the vehicle, but it feels like forever.
Just as she is beginning to breathe again, a voice behind her asks politely, ‘Can I help you?’
She jumps and swings around. A shop assistant, fake smile pinned in place, waits for a response. ‘I’m just browsing, thank you,’ she replies, noticing how hot it is in here, how bright the lights are on her, and how garish these scarves are in their rainbow colours and myriad fabrics. She is struggling for breath. She has to get out, now.
She heads for the door quickly, opening it and feeling another furious surge of cold air. The contrast between the overheated indoor spaces and the relentless cold of outside is making her dizzy, and her nose is already beginning to stream. As she turns around she spots the assistant from the scarf shop openly watching her through the window. She quickens her pace, hurrying back towards Embankment Tube station, through throngs of shoppers and past a large group dressed in black and wearing Santa hats, singing Christmas carols, those at the front shaking collection tins in time to the music. There’s a press of people waiting for the Tube and she changes her mind, unable to bear the claustrophobia. She walks back out of the station and takes the stairs up to her right, which lead onto one of the Hungerford footbridges – the same bridge she and Arabella had been on just a few nights ago.
As she walks towards Waterloo, she is overcome by a wave of desperation. This was meant to be a new start for her, and yet here she is scurrying through these unfamiliar places alone, crippled by a grief she can’t name, and burdened with a crushing weight of guilt. She has travelled halfway across the world hoping that everything would change, but nothing has. Instead, all these feelings have swollen, becoming more intense than ever.
You need to sleep, she tells herself and automatically glances back the way she’s come, trying to decide whether to go home. But as she does so, a man in a dark jacket and jeans, wearing a thick woollen hat, stops abruptly and turns away from her.
In an instant, she is sure he is following her.
She turns away and rushes onwards, wanting to wrestle out of her own skin, certain that the only way to achieve calm would be to step outside of herself. The wide bridge stretches away from her, across to South Bank. She stops and reaches out to the railing, not daring to look back until she has caught her breath. When she turns, the only people behind her are two women, walking together, deep in conversation, each with a scarf up around her mouth.
Did she imagine him? Just how crazy is she becoming? As she registers her hand’s connection with the cold metal, something jars in her mind. Instinctively, she leans over, looking down into the dark water of the Thames. A few bits of rubbish float on the surface, nothing else. And yet for a fraction of a second she was searching for something there. What was it? Why did she feel so desperate?
It’s not even teatime and yet dusk is falling fast. Spotlights shine down onto the pavement, and she walks a little further along and then glances both ways. A few groups wander towards and away from her, but there is no sign of the man.
She looks down again at the inky blackness of the river, hears the gentle noise of sloshing water. The sound seems to lure her towards it and she leans a bit further over the rail, eyes straining, searching for an answer down there. This railing isn’t too high, she could easily go over if she had a mind to. Why had she been so determined to on Thursday night? And how had Arabella ended up down there?
Her hand brushes against something papery. A small sticker is affixed to the railing. One typed sentence. Suicide is the only mistake you can never correct.
The words hit her with such force that she only just catches the sob before it can escape. She looks along th
e railings and sees more messages. She hurries to the next one.
Everything would change if you were gone.
Heart heaving, she speeds up, reading them as she goes. Just these two sentences are written on all the stickers, which are spaced out evenly along this half of the bridge. Eleanor tries to imagine who put them here. The grief and desperation in those short pleas feels palpable. She wants them to be messages for her, to keep going, not to give up, to figure this thing out. But she’s not sure she deserves them.
She looks up and sees the London Eye, its great struts leaning out towards the river, helping it to peer into the depths. Had people seen what happened on Thursday night from up there? She tries to imagine herself as she was, staggering to the edge, Will and Arabella and a group of strangers pulling her backwards. But there is nothing in her head except what people have told her. She is going to have to search outside herself if she wants answers.
She thinks of the ring with a surge of regret. If she had brought it with her, she could have let it drop over the side right now. Then that part of her involvement would be over. Why had she left it at home?
She is almost at the south side of the river now, and she glances back along the bridge. There he is: the man in the dark jacket and jeans, back on the northern side, turned towards her, too far away for her to clearly see his face. He is following her. She sets off at a run, feet hammering the pavement, heart pounding to the same frenetic beat. She takes the steps down two at a time, pushing past a group of businessmen, hearing one of them shout ‘Oi!’ before she takes a right along the southern embankment, racing through the graffitied underpass before she comes out onto the grassed area behind the Eye.
She swings around, waiting for the man to reappear. She looks about for where she might hide, but she’s scared of coming face to face with him around one of those shadowy corners. She finds herself running across to the ticket office, joining a short queue. Moments later she is purchasing a ticket for the Eye, and hurrying to the barriers. As she waits in line she nervously scans the grass and the walkways, but still he has not appeared. Five minutes later, she is ushered into one of the capsules with a group of excited twenty-somethings with northern accents. The doors close and the wheel begins to move, and even though she is trapped she feels calmer now she is confined, with the view spreading out before her. From her vantage point she surveys the bridge. Halfway along, a dark figure leans on the railings, looking out over the water – but from this distance she cannot tell if it is the same man. She follows his gaze towards the point where the Thames disappears into the enveloping night, beneath the glistening lights of London, and reminds herself that somewhere down there, on Thursday night, Arabella was swallowed in that maw of water. Without Will’s intervention, would there have been two bodies found yesterday morning?