My Mother's Silence (ARC)

by Lauren Westwood

  ‘Any more questions?’ Nick sounds like a police commissioner conducting a press conference.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Loads. But I’m sensing that you don’t want to answer them.’

  He laughs. ‘Maybe you should have been in the police. Though it’s not hard to spot a reluctant witness. Or suspect.’

  We go outside and sit on a bench. I open the Styrofoam container, lamenting the good old days of newspaper.

  ‘Yeah, I guess it’s health and safety this and that these days,’ Nick says. I offer him a chip.

  As we eat, I stare out at the boats bobbing up and down on the incoming tide. ‘I’ve found out something,’ I say. ‘About Ginny. I think she might have been pregnant.’

  I’m half-expecting a drumroll or at least an exclamation of surprise. Instead, Nick just nods. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s why she broke up with her boyfriend and then, later on, was desperate to get back with him.’ He takes another chip.

  ‘Well good for you for working that one out,’ I say, a bit put out. ‘But did you also know that it’s looking like she stole my boyfriend? Byron – the big bloke back there.’ I indicate with my head. ‘I don’t have any proof, but I’m going to keep looking. He was the one who came up with the whole “rogue wave” story.’

  Nick frowns. ‘You think he had more to do with it than that?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I say. ‘He was gone for much of the time when I was at the party. Getting more alcohol from the caravans nearby. He found me and came back to the lighthouse to use the emergency phone. I was told that he wanted to find Ginny – to tell her what had happened. No one had seen her, so he went off to search with his cousins and a few of his mates. Not long after, Jimmy and Mackie came back, telling everyone what they’d seen.’

  ‘So you’re saying that they made up the story to keep questions to a minimum?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t look good if people found out that he’d rejected her too, as well as James, if that’s what happened. And then she went out onto the rocks and threw herself into the sea.’

  Nick lets out a low whistle. ‘You should have been a cop,’ he says.

  ‘No.’ I sigh. ‘It seems like everyone else knew something except me.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he says wryly.

  We sit in silence for a minute. The whole conversation – and everything, really – is making me feel sick. Or maybe it’s the fish and chips. They are delicious, but greasier than I remember.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Have the rest.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He stands up and takes the empty container to a nearby bin. I stand up too. I sense that Nick Hamilton has quite a few additional thoughts that he’s not sharing. That annoys me.

  ‘So should we go, then?’ I say tetchily. ‘I can drive my own car. I’ve barely had anything to drink.’

  He frowns. ‘You’ve had beer.’

  ‘So have you.’

  ‘Less than half a pint.’

  I shrug. ‘You’re the cop. You decide.’

  ‘I have.’ His voice is firm. ‘You’re coming with me. We can sort your car out tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s damned inconvenient for everyone.’

  ‘Inconvenience is better than regret.’

  I’ve got nothing to say to that as we walk to the car park. Nick opens the door of his Vauxhall for me and I get inside. The car smells of paint, and the back seat is full of Nick’s easels and equipment.

  I put on my seat belt, forcing myself to breathe, but I can feel my pulse quickening. My hands grow clammy; the fish and chips are heavy in my stomach…

  He glances at me as we leave the car park. ‘I know you’re upset,’ he says, ‘but maybe you need to get away from all this for a while. How would you feel about coming round tomorrow? I could make a start sketching you. I’ll cook you breakfast.’

  I experience a fizzy surge of adrenalin, like a shaken up can of Coke. ‘I’ll have to see what the family is up to,’ I say, not wanting to seem too eager. ‘And how Mum’s doing.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says.

  As we drive towards the main road, a group of teenagers is huddled near the bus stop. A car comes towards us, and one of the kids tries to kick a bottle under it. Another one runs across the path of the car to get the bottle before it reaches the opposite kerb. Nick has to slam on the brakes. ‘Fucking kids!’ he yells.

  But I’m not paying attention. My hand clenches on the door handle, as somewhere in the damaged part of my brain, a spark ignites. Headlamps… a figure rushing across. A flashing light. I let out a little cry as the images vanish.

  ‘Are you OK? What is it?’ Nick pulls up at the side of the road.

  ‘I … I just remembered something.’

  The words come out garbled as I try to recreate in my mind that drive down the single-track road after I left the party. A person… running in front of the car headlights. Did I swerve? Did I hit them? No. The steering wheel… where was the steering wheel? Why does everything about the memory seem wrong?

  ‘Who was it? Do you know?’

  ‘I… I think it was Ginny.’

  My head hurts and I want to claw at my skull and rip away the veil and release the memories. The right memories, not these flashes that don’t make sense. Ginny was up at the lighthouse, not anywhere near the road. The idea that this new memory – a new precious glimpse into what happened that night – might be false, is just too much. A sob escapes my throat. But I can’t allow myself to cry… I just can’t.

  Nick doesn’t say anything at first. We sit at the side of the road, and I can tell that he’s worried about me.

  ‘This can’t go on,’ he says, his voice unusually gentle. ‘It’s tearing you apart.’ He takes a long breath. ‘I think I should get the police file. Like you mentioned before. All this needs looking into. Properly. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, I mean… I think so.’

  ‘These flashes: you’ve had them before?’

  ‘I’ve had nightmares. A “vision” of Ginny on the rocks, that I now think might be real. I also have panic attacks. I get them when I’m in a car and someone else is driving. But this one is new. The headlamps and the… girl.’

  ‘There are a lot of misconceptions to do with memory loss caused by head trauma,’ he says. ‘In films, the memories all come back at once in a rush. And sometimes that does happen. But in the majority of cases, when there is nerve damage, the complete picture may never return.’

  ‘That’s what I was told.’ I sigh. ‘But how can I know if these flashes are real?’

  ‘You can’t,’ Nick says. ‘Not with a brain injury. That said, the mind works in mysterious ways. Sometimes with the right stimulus, memories can return. The flashes might be a piece of the puzzle, but they’re not conclusive. You’d need other evidence to back them up, if that makes sense. Then, we might be able to see the whole picture.’

  My mind sticks on the word he used. We.

  He goes back onto the road, driving towards home. I stare straight ahead as we leave the village. It’s foggy and the twin beams of the headlamps barely penetrate the inky blackness. When we pull into the cottage yard, the rectangle of light in the kitchen window is a welcome sight.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Nick, my voice heavy. ‘For rescuing me again.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ he says. In the dim light, his eyes are a luminous, twilit blue. ‘I’ll get my mate to drop the file around tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks. I just want to know the truth… that’s all.’

  His eyes hold mine, and I want much more than that. I feel an electric charge arc between us, like the crackling in the air before a storm. He reaches up and brushes away a strand of hair from my face. My skin glitters at his touch.

  ‘Good night, Skye,’ he says, his voice low and deep. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I get out of the car. ‘Good night.’

  34

  When I go inside, Bill is in the kitchen. He tells me that Mum has been agitated all evening because I wasn’
t there. I feel bad for causing her stress, and glad that she’s settled now, and has apparently gone to bed. He perches against the sink. ‘Look, Skye,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry about Emily getting the diaries down, and about not telling you about the… other thing.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I don’t think knowing would have made it any easier.’

  ‘Do you think it explains anything?’ he says, looking worried. ‘Ginny’s state of mind or… her hormones? Do you think it would have helped the investigation if I’d told the truth?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I say. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, I think Mum knew about the pregnancy too.’ I tell him my suspicions about the second coach ticket and Mum talking Ginny out of the abortion. ‘It’s looking like she didn’t tell the police about the pregnancy either.’

  ‘Mum lied?’ He looks as shocked by hearing this as I do by saying it.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ I say. ‘When I heard that the “rogue wave” story was made up, I told her that that didn’t matter. That Ginny would never have committed suicide. But now, I see that Mum knew more than she was letting on. She knew that Ginny went out to the lighthouse to get back with James.’ I decide to keep my suspicions about Ginny and Byron to myself for now. ‘As soon as he rejected her,’ I continue, ‘she had a motive to throw herself into the sea. When Mum heard that no one saw the accident, she knew that it was at least possible that Ginny might have killed herself – and her unborn child. It’s no wonder she’s coming unravelled now. That must be the worst thing for a parent.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bill says. He paces back and forth. ‘It would be.’

  ‘And there’s one other thing you should know,’ I say, taking a breath. ‘I’ve asked Nick – my friend in the cottage – to look into the case. He used to be a DCI.’

  Bill frowns. ‘Is that wise?’ he says. ‘What do you think he’ll find?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. But I think it needs to be done.’

  ‘What about Mum?’ he asks the perennial question.

  ‘I’m doing it for Mum,’ I say with force. ‘And all of us. It’s the secrets and the uncertainty that have kept us apart for so many years. Nick may not find any new answers.’ I get ready to go upstairs. ‘But I hope he does.’

  35

  I don’t sleep well. My mind is full of strange flashing lights: will-’o-the-wisps luring me into a deep, impenetrable bog… Images of my sister out on the rocks like a terrible dark angel. A sting on my cheek, a bone-shattering jolt. Blackness. A voice. A running figure. Help, I’ll go and get help…

  I wake up with a start, the dream dissolving to nothingness. Who was speaking, what was happening? I yank at my hair like I can somehow dislodge the memories, make the dream return. If I was dreaming…

  I sit up. I’m in my bed. Outside the window there’s only swirling white. Snow is falling!

  I get out of bed and dress quickly. I can already hear the high, excited voices of the children outside in the garden. Though it’s dark and cold here in the winter, because we’re right on the coast we don’t get much snow. I understand why the kids are excited.

  When I go downstairs, Mum is in the kitchen, staring dreamily out at her grandchildren. The boys are hurtling themselves around in circles like whirling dervishes, trying to catch the flakes on their tongue. Emily is on the swing, staring absently at the flurry of dancing white. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Mum says.

  ‘It is.’ I smile. Right now, I don’t even feel angry with her.

  I put on my coat and boots and walk over to Skybird. Nerves flutter inside me. This time, they have nothing to do with my sister or that night. My hair is covered with snow as I stand on the porch and knock. A minute later, the dog barks and the door opens.

  Nick is wearing jeans and a blue jumper. His hair looks freshly washed, and I can smell his aftershave and an undernote of masculinity. I remember the brief touch from last night and feel a little dizzy.

  ‘Skye.’ He gives me that smug, bemused look. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Sorry. I… didn’t have a great night.’

  ‘No problem.’ For a second he frowns. ‘Do you want to… no. Actually, stay right there.’

  I stand there on his doorstep as he disappears back inside. Kafka runs out and begins sniffing everywhere, like he’s been transported to a new world. I go off the porch and join him, holding out my hands and twirling slowly like the boys were doing. Kafka clearly thinks I’m off my rocker and starts to bark at me and chases his tail. Clever dog.

  I stop twirling. Nick is standing on the porch with his sketchbook. He looks up from the paper. ‘Don’t stop,’ he says.

  I laugh as the dog jumps up and tackles me. I fall on the layer of snow in the grass, and Kafka licks my face and I give him a big hug. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a dog, and it seems like even my laugh is rusty. The snow continues to fall, and eventually I gather enough snow to make a big snowball. Nick is so intent on what he’s drawing on the paper that he doesn’t even notice before I throw it at him and it splats him in the chest.

  ‘Hey!’ he says. He sets his sketchbook down and pelts me with snow. I try (not too hard) to run away, but he grabs me, and the next thing I know, I’m pressed against him. His eyes are soft as he looks at me, and his hands brush the snow from my hair. But then he lets me go. He walks back to the porch and picks up his sketchbook.

  ‘Come inside,’ he says to me. ‘Kafka,’ he commands. ‘Go to the kitchen.’

  ‘Is he going to make the tea?’ I joke. As I go inside the cottage, my earlier nerves return in force.

  Nick laughs. ‘I’ll do that. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘but if you’re going to sketch me, then I’d like to get on with it. Before I…’ chicken out, I want to say ‘… change my mind.’

  ‘Fine.’ His eyes don’t leave mine. ‘I’m going to light the fire.’

  The fire has been neatly laid just like before. He takes a box of matches from the mantelpiece, crouches down, and lights the paper at the bottom. There’s a rushing sound as the kindling goes up in a pyramid of flames.

  I take off my coat and put it over the edge of the sofa. I’m unsure what’s meant to happen next.

  He stays down for a minute, watching the flames. Then, he straightens up and turns back to me. ‘I’d like to draw you here, by the fire. You’ll be warm. You can get changed in the bathroom.’

  ‘Into what?’ I’ve got a pretty good idea that the answer is nothing, but I want to hear him say it.

  ‘There’s a robe there,’ he says. ‘I can make you a cup of tea.’

  I take a breath. ‘I’ve never seen much point to that “change behind the screen and put on a robe” thing,’ I say. And before I can second-guess myself, I take my top over my head. I’m wearing a black lace bra, the nicest that I have. I unhook it, never taking my eyes off his face.

  ‘You can stay like that.’ The catch in his voice is the only thing that gives him away. He takes a step back from me. ‘Turn and stand facing the fire. A little to the left.’ I oblige him. ‘Your hair…’ He comes up to me and loosens my hair from its bobble, arranging it down my back and over my shoulder without ever touching my skin. I shiver, every cell in my body aware of him.

  He steps back. ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Now, just relax.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say with a sarcastic edge.

  But actually, I do manage to relax, my mind free of the stress I’ve been under with my family. I stare down at the fire, which is mesmerising in its motion. He positions himself on the edge of the sofa with his sketchbook, and I can hear the sound of his pencil making lines on the paper. I’d been worried beforehand that I’d be bored or twitchy, unable to hold the pose. As it is, I’m hardly aware of time passing. I feel I could stand here forever, basking in the heat of the crackling flames, knowing that he’s watching me.

  ‘Am I allowed to talk?’ I ask.

  ‘If you like,’ he says.
<
br />   I don’t point out that I never did get that cup of tea.

  ‘Am… I doing OK?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  I weigh up the word and how he says it, my mind wandering as to where this might lead. After another ten minutes, he comes closer to me.

  ‘Now, lie down,’ he says.

  The way he says those words… I move my hair back so that my breasts are fully bared. His eyes follow the motion, but already I feel that he’s seeing all of me at once, whether he’s staring at my face or my body.

  He brings me a cushion to prop against. I stare directly at him, daring him to show even the slightest bit of arousal.

  ‘So did you enjoy undressing me last time,’ I say conversationally. ‘When you rescued me from the sea?’

  He picks up his pencil and sketches intently. ‘I needed to get you out of your wet clothes and get you warm. That was all I was thinking about.’

  ‘All?’

  He stops sketching. The flickering light of the fire is reflected in his eyes. He responds only with the slightest of laughs. I like him looking at me. I like the possibilities crackling between us.

  ‘And what about now?’ I say. ‘I’m sure you’ve drawn lots of models.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s true. Female, male, old, young, fat, slim. A body is a body. I’m not interested in just another model.’

  ‘No? Then why am I here?’

  ‘Because you’re a muse.’

  His eyes brush softly against mine for a second before he goes back to his work.

  ‘A muse,’ I repeat. ‘I like that.’

  He laughs again. ‘I thought you would.’

  I lie back watching him sketch, my body warm and languid. I’m amazed by how little time he spends looking at the paper. It’s as if every line is instinctual and charged with motion. I don’t know what the sketches are going to look like, but their creation is beautiful to watch. And then I imagine him bridging the gap between us, the careful mask of restraint slipping from his face. I imagine my skin coming to life under his hands.