by Sara Foster
‘What do you want to do now?’
‘I haven’t written my Santa letter yet.’
‘I think Santa is on a tight budget this year,’ Martin laughs, ‘so don’t ask for too much.’ She catches her mother glaring at the back of his head as he leafs through his book. His words sink in. That look sinks in.
A horrible thought pops up. She can’t shoo it away.
They lie about everything.
No, she tells herself. You can trust your own family to tell you the truth, of course you can.
Eleanor sits at the small portable table they use for dining. ‘Mum, can I have some cake?’
‘I thought you wanted to write that letter.’
Her elbows are on the tabletop, fists pushed hard against her cheeks. Her eyes, glistening, squint at nothing. ‘Perhaps I’ll just have a surprise this year.’
Is it her imagination or does she see her mother’s shoulders loosen as she hears these words? ‘All right. And yes, of course you can have some cake.’
Moments later a bowl is set down in front of her, a neat triangular slice of chocolate cake inside it. She picks up her spoon, toys with it, finds she doesn’t want to eat it now.
Her mum sits next to her on a folding chair and puts a hand on her arm. ‘You okay?’
She nods, not trusting herself to speak. Since they moved here Eleanor has felt an unspoken need to be gentle with her mother, not to blame her for things that are beyond her control. Perhaps it’s because Aiden seems to give her such a hard time, huffing and snarling through each day, scowling as she speaks, growling in reply. Can’t he see that their mother is already as weary of this life as they are? It’s their father Eleanor is furious with, for pushing his dreams onto all of them.
Her father closes his book with a snap, jumping her from her thoughts. ‘I’ll go and find Aiden,’ he says. ‘It’s getting late.’
She hears the familiar grinding squeak of the deadbolt, and then she is alone with her mother.
‘Come here, love.’ Gillian pulls Eleanor onto her lap. Eleanor rests her head on her mother’s shoulder, her worries unwinding as Gillian strokes her hair. Ask her, a voice insists. Ask her. She’ll tell you he’s fat and funny and lives in the North Pole. She’ll promise he’s real.
Neither of them speaks. The shed door bangs softly on its hinges. The portable fan whirls in a fury, unable to cool the room.
20
carols
‘Jez, come here for a sec.’
Philip Bevan is dressed, ready for work, scanning through the morning news as he reads the iPad. Jez pads through in his dressing gown and kisses Philip’s head. ‘What is it?’
‘Isn’t that the woman we saw by the river last Thursday? The one freezing her tits off in the rain.’
Jez peers closer. ‘Yeah, I think you’re right.’
Philip turns to his boyfriend with wide eyes. ‘She’s Arabella Lane. She’s that woman who was found floating in the Thames near work.’
Jez picks up Philip’s mobile and holds it out. ‘Then we’d better call the police.’
In Naeve’s bedroom, Ian, Naeve and Eleanor regard one another warily. ‘Eleanor had a bit too much to drink at the party last week,’ Ian explains to Naeve as he moves to lean against the wardrobe. ‘It happens. I was disturbed too when I saw the state of her, and I’m relieved she managed to get herself home safely.’
‘I’m sorry, Naeve,’ Eleanor adds quickly, wondering where Ian is leading this conversation. ‘The last thing I would ever want to do is scare you.’
Naeve looks from one to the other. Eleanor opens her mouth to add more, but then stops. She sees that Ian is trying to protect Naeve from the scarier truth, that Eleanor might have been drugged against her will. And yet it makes her want to scream. She has witnessed too much of this sort of deception in her life, and she can see already from the suspicion in Naeve’s eyes that they haven’t really cosseted her from anything. Naeve knows there’s more to the story; and now she understands she’s not allowed inside it. Her father has just made her feel more alone and uncertain than ever. It’s all Eleanor can do not to put her hand out to clasp Naeve’s, but she stops herself, knowing her reasons might be misread.
‘I don’t remember much,’ Eleanor says gently instead. ‘I found the ring in my purse in the morning, and I took it to work because I had no idea then that Arabella had died. I thought I was going to hand it back and find out how it came to be there in the first place – I was hoping that by the end of the day it would just be a stupid anecdote. But when they announced she was dead I was shocked, because I couldn’t remember anything. I came straight back here, but I didn’t tell anyone for a little while because I was too scared. That’s why I hid it – I just didn’t know what to do.’
Naeve’s eyes are wide. ‘But . . . but,’ Naeve says, glancing between them, ‘if you don’t remember some of the night, how do you . . . how do you know you weren’t involved?’
‘Because she’s barely taller than you, and she could hardly stand up,’ Ian says, with a sharpness that makes them both tense. ‘And Arabella is around five foot ten and goes to the gym all the time – she’s had kickboxing lessons, for god’s sake. There is no way Eleanor could overpower her, especially while she was under the influence.’
He sounds so certain, so commanding. As Eleanor and Naeve stare at him, trying to take in this fact and weigh it against all they know, Eleanor can already think of the counter-arguments. She certainly doesn’t have a water-tight alibi. However, Naeve nods, even though her eyes brim with tears.
Instinctively, Eleanor reaches out and puts a hand on Naeve’s arm, ignoring the way she flinches. ‘Naeve, look at me.’
Naeve turns slowly.
‘I’m just as scared as you are about all this, and I promise I would never put you in danger.’ She holds Naeve’s gaze to implore her cousin to trust her.
Eventually, Naeve nods. ‘It’s just that when I saw Daddy carrying you inside you looked such a mess, I didn’t know what to think.’
‘That’s completely understandable,’ Ian interjects, ‘but we have to consider the repercussions before we go to the police. Your mother is caught up in all this too – she could lose her job for something that’s nothing to do with her.’
Naeve looks down. ‘Who cares,’ she mumbles. It’s not subtle enough for either of them to miss, and Eleanor watches her uncle’s face darken.
‘Really, Naeve? Really? You don’t want to live in this house anymore? You don’t want to go to your beautiful and very pricey school anymore? You don’t want all your clothes or all those gismos you’ve got in your bedroom anymore? You don’t want to go to your super-expensive art classes anymore? Do you know how much your mother’s job provides for you?’
Eleanor silently digests her uncle’s list of valuable assets in Naeve’s life. She wonders if her cousin attributes the same worth to them – or if there are other things she might prize more.
Naeve’s expression has hardened at her father’s words, but she doesn’t object. She stares defiantly, and father and daughter face off for a protracted moment.
‘I know you understand me, Naeve,’ Ian says, his tone noticeably colder than a few minutes ago. ‘In an ideal world, of course we would go to the police, because they would believe we were innocent until proven guilty. But we live in the real world, and things don’t work that way. And that is why you will not say a word of this to anyone until we have figured it out. Our family is too important to be dragged through the mud – because that’s what it will be, Naeve – walking down school corridors with people whispering and pointing; and who knows how long it will last, and what will come of it.’
Eleanor watches Naeve’s tough stance falter, as her face pales, even though she is obviously trying hard to stay composed. Cold winter light has dulled the whole room. Could she be reading this wrong, or is she really watching her uncle blackmail his child into silence, when they all know that the ring should go straight to the police, whatever it
means for them. She stares at Ian. Is he just trying to protect them, or does he have more to cover up? Because despite his profession of openness, Naeve is still in the dark about Ian’s relationship with Arabella – and that is bound to cloud his motives. Is he trying to protect the family, or is he just looking after himself?
Ian turns back to his daughter, and when he speaks his voice is a thousand times softer than it was only seconds before. ‘You must be exhausted from all this worry. Come and sit in the snug with me, we’ll put the TV on – don’t tell your mother – and you can try to get some rest.’
Naeve lets him lead her away, but Eleanor cannot summon up the energy to move. Her mind has flown over the tower blocks and spires of London, back through the wormholes of time, to sit once again at the bar opposite Arabella, watching her hand move, the powder being sprinkled into her drink, imploring herself not to reach for it, not to be so stupid, but of course she does, and she is.
And then . . . is there anything stored in her brain between the moment Arabella slapped Nathan and the morning? Dark blurry shapes, the rain on her face – perhaps – and that vague memory of lying on the front steps to the house as the porch light goes on. However, now she’s been shown the CCTV footage, and Will has told her what he saw, her imagination is filling in other blanks: the pure white of a lifeless body in cold water; the scream of a woman falling. She is already uncertain as to what counts as memory and what is being sketched in by witnesses and theories other than her own. These new nightmares are beginning to taunt her, and she knows this feeling all too well. She understands that if she allows such provocation to linger in her mind for long enough it becomes its own reality, one that’s far more terrifying than anything truly real. She also knows that if she fights it, then it will take that dark energy and use it to become more vivid, and more powerful. So, what is left? How can she ever truly escape?
‘Eleanor!’
She jumps as she realises her uncle is standing opposite her once more.
‘You’re very pale,’ he says as she makes an effort to focus on him. ‘Are you going to be sick?’
‘No, no,’ she waves her hand, ‘I’ll be okay.’
His gaze narrows. ‘Have you remembered anything?’
She closes her eyes for a moment and says softly, ‘I wish I could.’ Then she focuses on him again. ‘Tell me what happened when you found me on the front step.’
Ian moves closer. ‘Your clothes and hair were wet, and your feet were dirty, but it was raining outside, and goodness knows how long you’d been there before I found you.’
‘So, why did you come downstairs?’
He hesitates. ‘I heard a noise.’
‘From me? What kind of noise?’
Ian doesn’t speak for a moment, studying her solemnly. ‘I don’t know if it was you or not,’ he says finally. ‘I just heard something downstairs – so I got up to check, and that’s when I found you.’
Eleanor thinks through his words. There is more she wants to ask about this, but there are also other pressing questions.
‘What are you going to do with the ring?’ she says. Because I found it, so surely it should be my choice, she adds silently. Mine.
Ian stares over her head as though thinking hard. ‘I promise you, in ordinary circumstances we would take it straight to the police. But we have to think through the consequences. You still don’t remember anything, and the ring could get you into serious trouble now. You saw what Nathan was like the other day – he’s dangerous when he chooses to be, and he doesn’t need any more ammunition. I need some time to think about all this. You can see how affected the girls are, I can’t bear the thought of frightening them any further. Don’t do anything for now, Eleanor, please.’
His words make sense, and she finds herself nodding, wanting to protect the girls too. Yet Eleanor fears she has set them all on a terrible path. Suddenly she is nine years old again, sobbing on a bed in a fusty motel room, her mother’s arms around her. The pressure builds in her head, but before the memories can sharpen, Ian’s phone begins to ring.
Quickly, he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at it. ‘It’s Susan. Just give me a second.’
He connects the call. ‘Yep,’ he says tersely. He listens for a moment, his face getting redder and redder. His voice, when he finds it, is loud. ‘Oh no . . . okay. I know . . . I know. There’s been a lot going on here, poor Naeve is in a state . . . Yes, I know that, for fuck’s sake, Susan, I’m going right now.’
By the time he ends the call he is gripping the phone as though trying to throttle it. He lets out a long sigh as he gets up.
‘We forgot Savvie’s carol concert,’ he says. ‘Susan is furious. Savvie is crying at school, apparently, because we weren’t there. I’ve got to go and get her.’
He pushes his chair in and pats his pocket, catching Eleanor’s eye briefly. ‘I’d totally forgotten it was Christmas, to be honest,’ he says, before he hurries from the room.
Minutes later, the house is silent. Eleanor remains sitting at the bench in the kitchen for some time, thinking through everything she has witnessed. Something is definitely off here, but she’s feeling less and less certain of how to interpret it. She had never thought to cast doubt on her uncle’s character, but now she is growing increasingly nervous. He’s had an affair with Arabella. He’s lent her money. He’s told Naeve to keep quiet. And now he also has the ring, and no plans to divulge it to the police. Just what the hell is going on?
21
new year’s eve
December 2004
They are getting ready for the countdown. It’s their first New Year’s Eve party in the country, and they have decided to splash out. Pub dinner and dessert. In this backwater there’s no fuss about minors staying until midnight, like there would have been in many city places. There are a few other children here and the landlord brings out a giant game of Connect 4 to keep them busy. Eleanor likes the girl with the purple T-shirt who lets her take a turn; she isn’t so keen on the boy who keeps slamming the pieces into the slots before she can get her hands out.
Eleanor’s parents are chatting to locals at the bar. There is only one pub in town, so if they want to be accepted, they have to be friendly. Gillian casts regular concerned glances towards the doorway – Aiden has been gone for a while now. As soon as they’d arrived he’d mumbled something about phoning Brianna in private, then disappeared.
Eventually, Eleanor sees her brother slouch back into the room, his head down and his shoulders so stooped that she hardly recognises him. But then, so much has changed in the past few weeks. Not even Santa can be trusted any more – no longer an uncomplicated hero, but rather a man of ultimate mystery and, quite possibly, catastrophe. Eleanor refuses to articulate her thoughts to anyone, afraid that if she does, he might be cross at being doubted, and therefore vanish and never return. To her relief, her worries hadn’t stopped her stocking from being full on Christmas morning, with books and games and sweets and on the very top a beautiful soft black-and-white toy dalmatian she’d seen in a city shop before they left town for the back of beyond. This rallied her spirits because at the time her mother had said she thought Eleanor was getting too old for stuffed toys, so it was unlikely she would have purchased this herself. She’s brought it tonight – hidden in her bag in case the locals agree with her mother.
Towards midnight, families begin to stick closer together. After a rousing countdown come hugs and kisses and a spontaneous rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’, the pub full of awkwardly crossed arms and sweaty clasped hands. ‘This time next year we’ll have built a house,’ Eleanor’s father says during the height of the arm-pumping, his stare over-bright and his face shining. Standing across from Aiden, Eleanor notices how red and swollen his eyes are. When he sees her watching him, he scowls.
In the car on the way back to the shed, Eleanor’s head lolls against the window as she drifts in and out of sleep. Her mother drives slowly, determined not to begin the new year by killing a roo. H
er dad is quiet in the passenger seat but for the occasional beer-sodden snore. Aiden sits next to Eleanor, his long legs invading her side of the car, forcing her knees towards the door. He might be asleep too – every now and again he sighs.
There’s nothing to do but watch the dim outlines of small, neat clouds drifting beneath a scattering of diamond dust. The night sky of the outback is beyond anything she’s seen in the suburbs, but she’ll never give voice to her awe, because it might sound like a tick mark for living in the shed. Her gaze traces the cloudy stripe of the Milky Way, a cataract streak in the eye of the universe, and she feels so small, and so lost. So impermanent. As she dozes she flies to the clouds and sits atop them to watch their tiny matchbox car with its headlights straining in the dark, their lights illuminating such a short distance, and beyond that just one big black void. She wonders what this year will hold for her, for all of them. Right now, she has no idea; only a dragging sense of dread that refuses to leave the pit of her stomach.
22
messages
‘I’m here investigating a suspicious death,’ the woman tells Sunaad Shyam, manager of the Chancellor Hotel, as she takes a seat. ‘We have traced credit cards back to the hotel, and I would like to know if any of your staff recognise either of these two people.’ She places photographs on the table.
Sunaad isn’t entirely surprised by the visit. He picks up his phone and calls in Travis, one of the receptionists. When Travis arrives, smoothing his tie nervously, Sunaad repeats the question.
Travis stares at the photo. ‘Of course – that’s Arabella Lane, we’ve all read the papers this week.’ He turns to the woman. ‘She didn’t use that name on the booking, though.’
‘And was this the man who accompanied her?’
Travis reddens. ‘Yes.’ He hesitates, gulps. ‘But there was more than one,’ he says quietly.
‘How many?’
‘A few, over time. Three, maybe.’