Bring Me Back: The addictive new page turner from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors

by B A Paris

  We finish our lunch and I ask Ruby for the bill. The pub is busy so it takes her a while to bring it over, presented as usual on a plate, inside a card with a picture of a jackdaw on the front. Ellen goes to the toilet and I watch Ruby as she talks freely with customers. There isn’t any sign of unease or tension in her body. Frustrated, I fish for my wallet and flip open the card to check the amount of the bill – and there, lying inside, is a little Russian doll.

  Shock gives way to anger. But the anger I feel is not straightforward anger at someone having gone a step too far, it’s an anger tinged with hatred, and its intensity shocks me almost more than the little Russian doll staring up at me with its black-painted eyes. Snatching it from the plate, I push through the throng to where Ruby is standing at the end of the bar. The smile on her face freezes when she sees the look on mine.

  ‘That’s enough, Ruby,’ I hiss, leaning in close to her.

  She looks at me in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  I reach out and grab her wrist. ‘Enough of the games. You’ve had your fun, now that’s enough.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Trying to split up me and Ellen.’

  ‘Look, Finn, I’m genuinely happy for you and Ellen. I wasn’t being funny or anything.’ She tries to draw away but I hold her wrist even tighter, aware of my other hand clenching around the Russian doll. A woman pauses in her conversation and looks over at us. I take a breath, steadying myself.

  ‘You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about,’ I say, my voice low. ‘Sending me emails, pretending to be someone else, planting little Russian dolls for me to find.’

  Ruby smiles reassuringly at the woman then locks her eyes with mine. ‘Finn,’ she says calmly. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go of me, please. You’re hurting me, a lot.’ Realising how tightly I’ve been gripping her wrist, I drop it quickly. ‘What on earth has got into you?’ she says, rubbing the livid mark I’ve left.

  ‘I mean it, Ruby, stop playing games.’ I open my palm so that she can see the Russian doll. ‘It’s over, OK?’

  She looks down at it, shakes her head. ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘This. It’s you, isn’t it? You put it on the plate with the bill.’

  ‘No, I didn’t! Anyway, why would I do that? I don’t get it.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You get it very well. You know exactly what I would think if I saw one of these.’

  ‘Look, Finn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She nods at the Russian doll. ‘I didn’t put that on the plate and I have no idea what you would think when you saw it.’

  ‘You brought the bill.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You prepared it and brought it over.’

  ‘I prepared it, yes, and I prepared others and I left them at the end of the counter for one of the staff to bring to you. When I saw it was still sitting there, I brought it over, and I brought others over too. I was doing my job, that’s all.’

  ‘So this plate was lying on the counter?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘What’s this about, Finn?’

  I run a hand through my hair, wondering if I’ve got it wrong after all. ‘Someone’s playing games with me.’

  ‘Well, it’s not me.’

  I’m not convinced. ‘What was the name of your cousin, the journalist?’

  ‘Joe, Joe Walsh. Why?’

  I thump the bar in frustration.

  ‘Finn?’ I spin round and see Ellen standing behind me, and I know from the uncertainty on her face that she saw the thump. ‘Is everything alright?’

  I quickly relax my features. ‘Yes, everything’s fine, just catching up with Ruby.’

  Ellen looks from me to Ruby and Ruby gives her a bright smile. I stuff the doll into my pocket and reach for Ellen’s hand.

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’ I call Peggy from Buster’s side and turn to Ruby. ‘Bye, Ruby, thanks.’ I don’t even try to smile.

  We leave the pub and walk in silence for a while. I know Ellen is waiting for me to say something but my mind is too full of my conversation with Ruby so I wait for her to begin, because maybe she won’t and then I won’t have any explaining to do.

  ‘So what was all that about?’ she asks.

  ‘Just Ruby being her usual annoying self,’ I say casually, for Ellen’s benefit.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘A barb about us getting married.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowns. ‘I thought she seemed happy for us.’

  ‘She is. But you know Ruby, she can’t help herself.’

  ‘You seemed pretty angry with her.’

  ‘I was. But it’s fine, I’m not any more.’

  ‘Good. You scared me for a moment back there.’

  I stop and pull her into my arms. ‘I don’t ever want you to be scared of me,’ I say.

  Not like Layla was that night, I add silently.

  FOURTEEN

  Before

  Money never interested you, Layla, but even you were surprised when I admitted that in the seven years I’d worked in the city, I’d accumulated enough to last me a lifetime. To be really arrogant, when we left London for Devon, it wouldn’t have mattered if I never worked again – which was just as well because even the thought of it left me exhausted. At not quite thirty years old I was well and truly burnt out.

  I knew that mentally I couldn’t not work for the rest of my life. What I wanted was to take a year out, concentrate on you, on us, and worry about the future later. But you’d become restless. I could tell you were beginning to feel caged, like a beautiful, wild animal. Sometimes you’d snap at me for no reason at all, although you were quick to apologise, as volatile in your temper as you were in your anger and frustrations.

  A week before we were due to go skiing, you were invited by your ex-work colleagues at the wine bar to a girls’ weekend in London. You were so excited about it; you smiled more that day than you had for a while and it got under my skin. But I was too proud to ask you not to go. Instead, I took you to the station and waved you off on the train.

  It was a long two days. I went for walks along the beach and in between, I tried to be the perfect boyfriend and painted the bathroom as a surprise for you. By the time Sunday evening came, I couldn’t wait for you to be back and I planned to take you straight to bed and stay there the whole of the next day. But when I met you at the station, you were so quiet, and my heart almost stopped, because I thought you were going to tell me that you wanted to go back to your old life in London. Instead, you clung to me and told me that you loved me, that you always wanted to be with me, and stay in our cottage forever. And realising how much you’d missed me, my heartbeat smoothed out, and I was glad I’d let you go.

  The following week we left for Megève but once there, your mood didn’t improve. You had never skied before so I’d booked lessons for you each morning, convinced that a spirit like yours would love the mountains. But your heart wasn’t in it and I couldn’t hide my disappointment, or my fear, because it seemed that everything I said or did wasn’t right any more. I asked you if you were homesick or if you were missing Ellen and you dissolved into floods of tears and wouldn’t let me comfort you. There was a nervousness about you and I began to worry that I’d got it wrong, that you wanted to go back to London after all, and were psyching yourself up to tell me.

  On the way home, we stopped off in Paris for dinner and as we walked along the Seine, back to where I parked the car, I drew you into my arms and told you how much I loved you. A part of me wished I’d brought the ring with me, a ring I’d planned to give you on your birthday because I could have proposed to you there and then instead of waiting. But my love seemed to make you uncomfortable, and my doubt grew.

  As soon as we got back in the car, you started crying but when I asked you what the matter was, you wouldn’t tell me. In the end, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pulled off the motorway into a picnic area and told you that we weren’t lea
ving until you told me what was wrong, that I couldn’t fix it if you didn’t talk.

  Nothing had prepared me for what you said next. You didn’t tell me that you wanted to leave me and go back to London. Instead, you told me that during your weekend in London, you’d slept with somebody else.

  FIFTEEN

  Now

  When we get back from the pub, we go our separate ways, Ellen to her office, me to mine. I sit down at my desk and take the two Russian dolls – the one I found on the wall and the one from the car – from where I’ve hidden them at the back of my drawer and stand them on the edge of my desk. Then I take the one I found on the plate in The Jackdaw out of my pocket and put it next to them. Triplets. What is your purpose, I ask them silently, why are you here? What the hell is going on?

  I’m still not convinced it isn’t Ruby. The email address is pretty incriminating. I should have mentioned it to her, told her I’d worked it out. Because I didn’t mention it, she probably feels safe continuing her charade.

  I put the doll I found at The Jackdaw back in my pocket and push the others into the drawer. Then I log on to my emails – and find another one from Rudolph Hill. I look at the time it was sent and see that it was at about the time Ellen and I left for the pub, six minutes after the previous one asking: Who is Ruby?

  I open it.

  I don’t know who Ruby is

  But I am not her

  She has to be joking. I reach for the keyboard.

  So who are you then?

  A reply comes straight back.

  What if I were to tell you that Layla is alive?

  My heart thumps, then I pull myself together. It has to be some other sick bastard, Ruby could never be this vicious.

  Then I’d call you a liar, I type furiously.

  You don’t believe me?

  No. I press send and when there’s no reply, I begin to relax. And then a message comes in.

  You should

  I want to stop but I can’t.

  Where is she then?

  A reply comes back

  Right here

  A wave of emotion slams my body. I push away from the desk and get to my feet, wanting to run, to get out into the fresh air while I can still breathe. But then, my mind in turmoil, I sit back down again, knocking a cup of cold coffee over. It smashes on the stone floor, spraying liquid everywhere. And into the mess that I’ve become, Ellen walks in, her mobile in her hand.

  ‘Finn,’ she begins. ‘Harry wants to talk to you.’ She catches sight of the smashed cup, then my face. ‘Harry,’ she says into the phone. ‘Finn will call you back.’

  I lean into my desk, my head in my hands, trying to pull myself together. Ellen’s arm comes around my shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks urgently, crouching beside me, trying to see my face. ‘Are you OK?’

  It’s a hoax, I remind myself. It’s only a hoax. ‘I’m fine,’ I say roughly.

  She worms her hand through mine, trying to reach my forehead, and realising that she thinks I’m ill, I seize on it.

  ‘I think it must be something I ate,’ I say, groaning a little. ‘Maybe one of those prawns was off.’

  ‘Why don’t you lie down for a while?’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’ I get up from my desk, glad to be alone, then realise that I’m not going to be able to lie down because I’m too agitated. ‘Actually, I think I’ll go down to the river, get some fresh air.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. You’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I can take half an hour,’ she protests.

  ‘Really, it’s fine.’ I can see the puzzlement in her eyes and plant a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Alright. By the way, Harry isn’t coming this weekend, something to do with some sort of client crisis. He did explain and I listened long and hard but I didn’t fully understand, which is why I wanted to pass him to you.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. But my mind is full of Layla, not Harry. ‘I’ll phone him when I get back.’

  We walk across the garden and as I take the path round to the front of the house, I feel her eyes on me. I know she must be wondering, wondering what the thump on the bar was really about, wondering what my obvious agitation is really about. She’s not stupid. Nobody who feels ill would stray very far from home, and here I am, heading to the river. Except I’m not heading to the river, I’m heading back to the pub to see Ruby.

  She doesn’t seem surprised to see me ducking under the doorway. It’s quieter now, a couple of regulars at the bar and a few others grouped around tables close by.

  ‘Can we talk?’ I ask.

  She heads to a table at the far end of the pub where we won’t be disturbed and as I walk behind her, raised eyebrows and elbow nudges follow me down the room. All the locals know that Ruby and I were in a relationship and many thought we would be together long-term. Until I turned up with Ellen.

  ‘You forgot to pay, by the way,’ she says, sitting down. I reach for my wallet and she puts a hand on my arm. ‘I’m joking. It’s on the house. An early wedding present.’ She looks up at me. ‘So what was all that about earlier on?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, because there are still red marks on her wrists. ‘I thought—’

  ‘What?’

  I sit down opposite her. ‘Ruby, please, tell me honestly – have you been sending me emails, pretending to be someone else?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says emphatically. ‘Of course I haven’t. Why would I do that?’

  ‘The email address they come from – well, it’s you,’ I say, ignoring her question for the moment.

  She frowns. ‘Are you telling me that someone’s hacked my account?’

  ‘No, not that. What I meant was that the address seems to be referring to you.’ The table has already been re-set for the evening so I pull the paper napkin out from under the knife and fork, take out my pen and write rudolph.hill@outlook.com then draw a vertical line between the ‘u’ and ‘d’ of rudolph. ‘Ruby and dolphin. You have a dolphin tattoo.’

  I watch her face carefully as she considers what I’ve said, hoping to see something which will give her away.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘I can sort of see why you think they might be coming from me but aren’t you overthinking things a bit? I mean, why can’t they be coming from someone called Rudolph Hill?’

  ‘Because they’re not. Rudolph Hill is an alias someone has used, probably to make me think they’re coming from you.’

  ‘Why? What do they say?’

  I hesitate, wondering how much I can trust her. But I need to speak to someone who never knew Layla, someone who can pull me back to my logical frame of mind.

  ‘They started by mentioning a cottage in St Mary’s.’

  ‘St Mary’s?’

  ‘Where I used to live with Layla.’

  ‘So what has that got to do with me?’

  ‘The person who’s sending them – they’re trying to make me think that Layla is alive.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her eyes widen. ‘That’s horrible, Finn!’ A frown crosses her brow. ‘But why would I want you to think that Layla is alive?’

  I look hard at her. ‘So that I don’t marry Ellen?’

  Her mouth drops open. ‘Seriously?’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know whether to be amused or outraged. Amused that you could think I’d want to stop you, outraged that you think I could be so cruel as to make you think Layla is alive.’ Her brown eyes search out mine. ‘Surely you know me better than that?’

  ‘It’s not just the email address.’ I take the Russian doll from my pocket and stand it on the table between us. ‘I found this with the bill.’

  ‘Yes, you said.’ She picks it up and examines it. ‘Cute. But what has it got to do with anything?’

  And that’s when I realise that Ruby couldn’t have known the story of the Russian dolls because I had never told her. ‘Did you see anyone suspicious hanging rou
nd the bar earlier?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. The pub was too packed for me to notice anything much.’ She hands the doll back to me. ‘Someone must have found it on the floor and put it on the counter and it somehow found its way onto the plate with your bill on it.’

  ‘Probably,’ I say vaguely, because something has just occurred to me. Only Ellen, Layla and I know the story of the Russian dolls.

  And Harry, because Ellen told him.

  SIXTEEN

  Before

  You never asked me why I left Ireland and came to England. I’m not sure you really realised that I had a life over there, a life I’d rather forget about because I’m not proud of the person I was back then. People called me a gentle giant and until my mid-teens that was probably the case. At least, I never remember losing my temper before my dad told me I couldn’t go out one night, and as he stood in front of the locked front door, I raised my fist and punched a hole right through it. The worst thing was, I’d been aiming for his face and if he hadn’t ducked I would have done him some serious damage. Hopefully, the love I felt for him would have kicked in and I would have stopped after that first punch. The door had no love to protect it, so it got hammered into a splintered mess.

  The incident terrified both my parents and me. We’d had no idea of the touch-paper that nestled deep inside me, waiting to be ignited. They impressed on me the need to recognise the warning signs and urged me to walk away from situations of conflict, citing the added danger of my size. And apart from a couple of incidents where I left people with broken noses, I managed to stay out of trouble. Until I met Siobhan.

  Siobhan was my first real love. Now I know that what I felt for her was nothing to what I felt for you. But there was that same intensity, the same feeling that we were meant to be together. We didn’t speak of marriage or anything like that, we were still at university. But once I started seeing her, I didn’t notice any other girl, I only had eyes for her, just as I’d had for you. Then one day, when we’d been together for about a year, a week or so after graduation, she said she had something to tell me. She looked worried, scared even, and my first thought was that maybe she was ill, or someone in her family was. Instead, she told me that she was in love with my best friend and had been seeing him behind my back for months.