The Wake: an absolutely gripping psychological suspense

by Vikki Patis

  Toby is silent. He cannot disagree with her, I realise, doesn’t want to disagree with her. He loves his mother, despite everything. It is his father that he hated. His face crumples and I see his eyes are shining with tears. He turns to me, and my heart breaks a little more. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t witness this.

  ‘I just wanted a family,’ Fiona says softly. ‘To be surrounded by love and laughter. My own childhood… My parents were cold, unfeeling.’ Her lip curls as she speaks. ‘They only had children because it was what you did back then. They never loved us, though my brother had an easier time of it than I did. When I was born, I was an immediate disappointment by nature of my sex.’ She looks at me again, her eyes boring into mine. ‘My father only wanted sons.’

  Her words send a spark through me. Is this not how I felt growing up? Abandoned for the secret sons, able to feel only resentment towards my half-brothers. But Fiona had never tried to bring me into the fold. She had left me firmly on the sidelines, the unwanted daughter from a previous marriage.

  As if hearing my thoughts, Fiona smiles sadly. ‘I tried with you, when you were younger. But I was still a secret, still the mistress.’ She spits out the word, glancing up at the woman standing beside Lexi. At my father’s latest mistress, I realise. ‘I thought you would both be there that day. Richard didn’t tell me you had tonsillitis. We were supposed to be watching Felix play football, but Richard texted to say he was going to the beach instead. I was annoyed at first, but I saw it as an opportunity.’

  ‘To get rid of us,’ I spit.

  ‘No. No. To meet you. I was going to bring the boys down. I’d packed some sandwiches and a flask of tea. I thought we could have a picnic.’ Fiona begins to cry again, a hand pressed against her throat. ‘I never wanted that to happen. Never that.’

  As she speaks, her gaze pinning me to the spot, I can almost see the memories behind her eyes. The memory of that bright June day, rain clouds moving slowly in, the sky darkening. Saffy’s crumpled body lying below where we sit now, on the rock bridge at Perranporth, her hair across her face, her eyes staring up at the sky, unseeing.

  I shiver at the image and pull back, breaking the spell between us. Another tear falls from Fiona’s eye as she watches me move away, her gaze wary as she tries to anticipate my next move. But even I don’t know what that will be.

  ‘Skye.’ Toby places a hand on my arm and I look at him. He’s crying too, silent tears sliding down his face, and I can almost hear his unspoken plea.

  I shake him off, anger rising again. ‘What? Wasn’t it you who told me to go digging? Wasn’t it you who told me where to look more closely? Where to find this letter?’ I wave it in the air.

  ‘But I… I didn’t…’

  ‘No, you never do,’ I sneer, surprised at my own venom. ‘The Asquiths never know what they’re doing. Never know what pain they’re causing to others. If they even care.’

  ‘You’re an Asquith too,’ Fiona says, and I glare at her. She climbs shakily to her feet, her back rigid, her chin tipped up as if in defiance. ‘You’re part of this. We all are.’

  ‘I was a child!’ I shout, gratified when she flinches. ‘I was ill, at home in bed. I had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Find me a seashell, Saffy,’ Toby says quietly, and I feel my insides freeze. The memory floods back, winding me. Saffy sitting on the end of my bed, Nala at her feet, brushing the hair of one of my dolls. Why can’t you play with me, Skye?

  I’m ill, Saffy. Go away.

  Hurt in her eyes, her cheeks colouring. Mum bustling in with a tray loaded with soup and buttered bread. Leave your sister alone, Saffy. She’s not well.

  But I’m bored, Mum!

  Dad walking past, pausing in the doorway. Mum blowing a hair out of her face. Take her out, will you? Skye needs to rest.

  Saffy’s pouting face in the doorway, the toe of one foot pressed against the frame. Find me a seashell, Saffy. Find me a pink one, with yellow stripes. Just like your bracelet. It will make me feel better. A smile, like the sun coming out. Don’t come back without it.

  And she didn’t.

  Pain snakes through me as the memory fades, the last time I saw my sister’s face. Her bright smile, keen to impress her big sister. I’ll make you better, Skye.

  Was it my fault? Was it her search for a seashell which lured Saffy onto the rocks? I picture her walking along the shore, lifting the shells and dusting off the sand, discarding them when they didn’t fit the bill. She was always the bolder sister, the more adventurous one who wasn’t afraid of getting dirty, scrambling up trees and hiding in caves. I picture her climbing the weather-beaten steps beneath where I stand now, her fingers slipping as she climbed higher and higher, towards the woman who had stolen her father. The woman who would change everything forever.

  I feel the damp rock beneath me, my arms tightening around my waist as I try to breathe through the pain. I remember telling Toby about that day, my eyes blurry with tears as I confessed my guilt during one of our video calls. He first contacted me a year ago, reaching out across the years and the distance to make contact with his sister, to forge a different path.

  Toby’s hand is on my shoulder now, his voice gentle. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he says quietly, and my eyes fill once again with tears.

  Oh, but it was. She was the most loved sister, the better daughter. Where I was shy and quiet, Saffy was loud and exuberant. Easy to laugh, easy to cry. She was like a storm, battering against the windows to be let in. She demanded to be loved, and she was. I knew nothing of my mother’s postnatal depression back then; all I saw was her face brightening when Saffy entered the room, her eyes softening. My drawings discarded on the floor by her bed; the cup of tea, clumsily carried from the kitchen, left to grow cold on the table. Only Saffy could reach her.

  The pain is like ice running through my veins. I think of the years after, those long, empty years spent in my grandparents’ house, their eyes full of grief and blame. The strained conversations with Mum, her face beamed across the Channel onto my laptop and still, still, I am not enough. Still it is Saffy she wants.

  I stand, knocking Toby’s hand away. My eyes are fixed on Fiona, the pain and guilt turning back into rage. I was a child, an innocent child who had not, could not, have imagined the consequences of her request. But Fiona, my father’s secret lover, had wanted to tear us apart. And she had managed it, had brought our lives to a standstill, ripping any joy away from us. Away from me. But no more.

  ‘Enough,’ I say, my voice barely above a whisper, and spring towards her.

  49

  The Daughter-in-Law

  Skye moves faster than I can blink. She throws herself at Fiona, hands outstretched, and they tumble to the ground, a blur of limbs and flying hair. They are so close to the edge – too close. I hold my breath as they fight, Skye’s fingers in Fiona’s hair, moving ever closer towards the edge of the cliff and the violent sea beneath.

  Toby catches my eye and I open my mouth to speak, but before I can move, Eleanor releases my arm and runs towards them, reaching out and taking hold of them both. She is stronger than she looks; she has Skye’s shoulder in one hand, her fingers gripping her tightly, and Fiona’s arm in the other.

  ‘Get off me,’ Skye growls, trying to free herself, but Eleanor doesn’t let go.

  ‘Stop this,’ she says, her voice calm, her head dipped as she tries to meet Skye’s gaze. ‘This isn’t the way.’

  I watch them as if they are frozen, a photograph snapped at the very instant things change. I see Skye break free as Eleanor turns to look at Fiona, pulling her off balance. I see Eleanor’s eyes widen as her foot slips, her mouth open in a silent scream. And then she is gone, over the edge and plunging into the darkness below.

  ‘Eleanor!’ Her name rips from my throat and I run, dropping to my knees and peering over the edge. It is black, the sun gone now, the moon hidden behind thick dark clouds, and I cannot see her. ‘Eleanor! Where are you?’

  Toby lan
ds beside me, his fingers gripping the rock as he scans the sea below. ‘There!’ He points, and I see her, bursting out of the water. He moves as if to climb down, but a hand grabs his shoulder.

  ‘This way!’ Skye says, pulling him to his feet. They run towards the steps and I follow, listening for their footsteps in the dark. I pause suddenly, turning on my heel towards Fiona.

  ‘Leo!’ I cry, my arm lifting to point towards the car, and she nods, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Go!’ she calls, and I do.

  The rocks are cold and damp; my foot slips and I cry out, terror gripping me. I have to get down there. She needs our help. I grit my teeth and continue down, relief flooding me when I feel sand beneath my feet.

  Rain begins to fall as we approach the shore. The tide is coming in fast; the beach is half-covered with water, and Eleanor is so far out. Can we reach her in time? I run across the wet sand, leaping over Toby’s discarded jumper as I follow them towards the sea.

  ‘No, Toby!’ I shout, but he doesn’t stop. He isn’t a strong swimmer, is still afraid of the sea after that time he almost drowned, but still he is running toward it. Skye turns at my shout and she stops, holding out an arm. Toby runs into it.

  ‘Come on!’ he says, but Skye shakes her head.

  ‘You stay here. Someone might need to call the coastguard.’ She looks at me, our eyes meeting. ‘I did this,’ she whispers, her face full of anguish. ‘This is all my fault.’

  I take her by the shoulders, forcing her to focus on me. ‘Now’s not the time,’ I say. ‘We need to go.’ I kick off my shoes and drop my jacket to the sand, Skye doing the same. We run barefoot into the water, the cold sending shockwaves through me. Passing seaweed tangles around my legs but I kick it away, diving into the water and swimming against the current. The sea swirls around us, white-topped waves crashing against us, trying to force us back towards the shore as the rain pelts us from above. But still we swim.

  Skye reaches the rocks first. She uses them to pull herself on, the current threatening to peel her fingers away and carry her off. A wave cascades over us and I feel a stinging pain in my hip where the rock scrapes against me. I cry out. Will Toby have called the coastguard? I try to look back, but water fills my eyes and I’m under again, my lungs burning. No. I kick out, finding the rocks and pulling myself up like a seal, panting. I can do this. We have to help Eleanor.

  I watch Skye fight against the sea, her hair darkened to crimson and flattened against her skull. It is brighter down here, the moon casting a shimmering light across the waves, and I see Eleanor gripping the side of a rock, her mouth open in a shout. Skye heads towards her, diving beneath the waves and gliding through the water like a mermaid. I remember the story of when she saved Toby’s life, teenaged Skye plunging into the water to rescue the brother she barely knew, and I see that in her now. That strength, that intrinsic need to help, to love. She is a good person, I think. She is hurting, but she is good. What we saw tonight was her lashing out, the child inside her desperate for the truth, afraid of what it has revealed. But she never meant to hurt anyone. I know this as I know my own name, and it is this knowledge that drives me on.

  As Skye reaches Eleanor, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into the water, the rain gets heavier. Water pours down from above, mingling with the sea around us. Eleanor’s face is contorted with pain as Skye drags her towards me; she must have been injured by the fall. I wait until they are close before dropping down beside them, taking Eleanor’s other arm and kicking towards the shore. It is easier now, the waves pushing us back to safety, and before long the sea spits us out onto the sand, coughing and gasping.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eleanor says, rolling onto her back. ‘Thank you.’

  Skye hangs her head. ‘It’s my fault you went in.’

  Eleanor smiles wearily, her eyes searching Skye’s face. ‘No, it wasn’t. It was mine.’

  Toby runs forward, dropping to his knees beside us. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Skye shakes her head. ‘I think Eleanor has a broken ankle, and she’s shivering. We need to get her back to the pub.’

  Footsteps behind us. I turn to see the celebrant running across the sand, one arm held over his head against the downpour. ‘I’ve called an ambulance!’ he cries, reaching down to clasp hands with Eleanor. ‘Are you okay? Can you walk?’

  She nods, gripping James’s arm and letting him haul her to her feet. But as she tries to take a step, her leg collapses beneath her. Toby rushes to take her other arm, and together the two men half-carry, half-drag Eleanor back towards the steps, Skye running ahead.

  I limp behind, my entire leg radiating pain from where it smashed against the rocks. When we reach the pub, I’m relieved to find Fiona sitting at the bottom of the steps, Leo wrapped in her arms, protected from the rain by the plastic roof. The rain beats against it, pounding in time with my heart. Skye is at the top of the stairs, barking instructions through the open door, as Eleanor is carried up the steps. I hesitate, torn, wanting nothing more than to take my son and hold him tight.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Fiona says, nodding towards my hip. I press a hand against a cut in the fabric, my fingers coming away red. ‘Let’s get you fixed up.’

  Skye comes down the steps, a question on her lips, and Fiona freezes, one hand pressed against Leo’s back, her body turned away. But then Skye holds out a hand, and after a beat, Fiona takes it, allowing Skye to pull her to her feet. When their eyes meet, I see something pass between them, and I know then that the future has been irrevocably altered.

  50

  The Celebrant

  James has always been good in a crisis. It is something he would pride himself on, if he were the type of person to dwell on such characteristics. And so it was without thought that he ran out after Skye and Fiona, intending to do as he should have done to begin with: to mediate. He should have stepped in between them, stopped Skye from doing whatever she was going to do. But he lost them in the darkness, and so it was from the beach below that he watched Eleanor plunge into the sea.

  His heart in his mouth, he ran not towards the sea, but back to the pub, to ask the staff to call the coastguard and an ambulance. When he got back to the beach, Skye and Lexi were pulling Eleanor in, all three of them drenched. He helped Toby carry her to the pub, her skin slippery in their grip, her breathing ragged from the pain.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked as they trudged across the sand. ‘What happened? Did someone push you?’

  She was silent for a moment, her mouth set in a grim line. ‘Only Richard,’ she said finally, and James could find no response to that.

  They took her into the toilets, where she could sit beneath the hand dryer and warm her frozen skin. They wrapped her in blankets and tried to elevate her broken ankle by placing it on top of Toby’s crossed legs, which reminded him of a child waiting for a story. When James asked the staff if they had any pain relief, one of the bartenders handed over a bottle of whisky. James poured her a glass, and Eleanor gulped it down before pouring another measure with shaking hands and handing it back to James with a smile. He laughed, then, at the incredulity of it all. Of him in the women’s toilets, drinking whisky with the mistress, son, daughter, and daughter-in-law of Richard Asquith, his wife waiting outside, her face creased with worry as she held her grandson close.

  He laughed and drank the liquid down, relishing the burn in his throat, and suddenly Tom was there with him, his eyes creased with amusement, his hand warm on James’s shoulder. Well done, old chum, he said. Welcome back. And with those words he realised that he had been separating himself from the rest of the world for too long. Since Tom died, James had never been able to get close with anyone again, had never let himself live the life he was supposed to live. Welcome back to the land of the living.

  He went in the ambulance with Eleanor, following the paramedics down the slippery steps to the beach and across the sand to the road as rain soaked them once more and lightning crackled across the sky. He held he
r hand as they sped towards Treliske, unknowingly replaying the scene of the night Richard died. When Eleanor told the nurse at A&E that James was her husband, he didn’t correct her, and instead went to fetch them both a watery cup of tea while she waited to be seen.

  When he returned, the cubicle was full of people. Skye clutched Eleanor’s hand, her eyes watery as she whispered her apologies. Leo was in Lexi’s arms, his head droopy with sleep, and Fiona stood by the door, hesitant, unsure.

  ‘You look like you could do with this,’ he said to her, holding out one of the cups.

  She made a face. ‘Nobody could do with this,’ she remarked, and they both smiled.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he murmured as Eleanor’s eyes turned from Skye to Fiona, her mouth open, her hand outstretched. ‘Welcome back to the land of the living.’

  Part III

  The Aftermath

  Two years later

  51

  Eleanor

  I bend down to tie up my laces, feeling a slight twinge in my ankle. I suppose I’m at the age where things don’t heal as well, but it’s not going to stop me. I’m sixty-two this year, and I’ve never felt more alive.

  The doorbell rings and I call to Zeke, my black Labrador, lifting the lead from a hook behind the door. I snatch up my coat, winding the scarf around my neck, and open the front door with a grin.