by Tara Lyons
Did she say it loud enough? Rose questioned herself. Did she shout no loud enough so that Patrick understood? Was changing your mind that late in the game allowed? If she went to him with those feelings of lust and playing with the idea of sex, was it actually too late to say stop?
The questions of doubt and uncertainty swam around her mind like the endless shadow of the sea in front of her. Did she really doubt herself at all? Rose wrapped her arms around herself, deciding she needed some warmth in her bones, and briefly thought of her mother.
Rose was the paramedic’s daughter, a title she loved to share with people, and had been taught about different dangers from a young age. All the accidents, the tragedies, the crimes her mother had faced were explained to her, so Rose’s eyes were open to the wrongs and rights of the world.
Deep in her heart, she knew. She knew that as much as she had been tempted by her boyfriend’s father, as much as she thought she wanted something to happen with him, she had said no. Rose told Patrick to stop touching her and he ignored her pleas. He continued to lift her skirt. He continued to drop his trousers. He continued to force himself inside of her unprotected, She had said no.
The tears came thick and fast; the darkness around her had nothing to do with why she could no longer see. She tried to wipe them away, but more travelled down her cheeks as quickly as she cleared the path.
‘I thought I’d find you here, you whore.’
The violent words were hissed in her ear from behind. Rose spun around and gasped.
‘W-what are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Dylan shouted as he stomped towards her.
The lamp posts behind him blinded her momentarily. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she didn’t see his hand coming towards her. But she felt his whack across the side of her head, forcing her to crash down on to the shore.
‘Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?’ He continued his verbal abuse while gripping Rose’s wrist and dragging her back up from the sand like a rag doll. ‘Did you really think you would get away with… with that?’
Stunned, she was unable to reply. Not that Dylan seemed at all interested in allowing her to answer his questions as he tightened his grip around her and hauled Rose towards the sea.
Chapter 21
I’ve slept the afternoon away. I’m not entirely sure how, what with the fuzz that continually clouds my brain, but somehow, after I showered and regained some warmth in my body, I conked out on the single bed by the window.
The hotel room is a basic one. I’m not bothered, as it’s all I need. The bath towel is still wrapped around me, because my clothes and boots are drying on the two small radiators on either side of the bedroom. As the night-time sky casts its dimness into the room, I flick the switch on the lamp – not that it adds much light – and gaze out of the window.
My chest feels heavy as I watch the people below on the prom go about their business. How lucky are they to wander freely around the seaside, perhaps debating where to go for dinner or which book to read tonight? I, on the other hand, am nowhere near the comfort of my own home and have no idea what my family are thinking or doing or what they’ll eat tonight. That’s not why the heaviness inside me continues to weigh me down though.
Shaking myself from my thoughts, I grab my handbag from the floor and take out my phone; there isn’t a lot of battery life and I didn’t bring a charger. I must remember to pop into a shop at some point this evening.
I don’t know how long I’m staying here. I haven’t thought about that. I’ve paid for one night. Hopefully that’s all it will take.
No messages or missed calls from Rose. There is one from Dave, asking how I am and how my mother is.
Why is he asking after Mum?
Oh shit, of course, because that’s the reason I took the day off. To visit Mum. I really must call the hospice. Instead I compose a reply to Dave, telling him I need tomorrow off too. I can’t think about work right now, which is totally unheard of for me. The thought of concentrating on strangers, on rescuing them and their families, makes my stomach somersault. I need to concentrate on my own; on my daughter.
The only way I can do that is to find Patrick. My time wallowing in the sea came with a spark of clarity that Patrick is the key to finding Rose. I saw his face in the car, before he delivered the bombshell.
The bile rises in my mouth again. I push it down. There’s no time for my feelings.
I just know there was more to what he said, that there’s more going on. When I think about Patrick’s son, about Dylan, and the way he carried himself in the street this morning, he looked… cagey. As if he were trying to slink around. Leaving Rose’s place in the early morning with his head bowed low, then sloping into his father’s car nearly two hours later, but still close to the house. Where had he gone while I was in Rose’s bedroom?
Also, I can’t help thinking there was something off about the way he exited Patrick’s car. He was no longer slouched and slow. There was more of a temper about his actions: whacking the car door shut and practically sprinting off down the street. What had Patrick and his son spoken about so briefly?
‘Dylan knows.’
‘Dylan knows.’
Rose’s voice echoes in my mind. It’s the only part of the voicemail that stands out. I swipe my finger across my phone’s screen, bringing up the voicemail options, and listen to my daughter’s voice again. It’s pointless. There are only snippets repeating themselves.
‘Mum, are you okay…? I’m–’
‘It was Penny’s idea and… I’m sorry… Dylan knows.’
What is Rose saying sorry for. And what in heaven’s name does Dylan know?
The only way to find out is to ask him himself, I decide. But if I can’t even find my own daughter, how the hell will I find her bo–
No, I can’t call him that. He’s not her boyfriend.
My throat is dry. Only for a few minutes, mind you, as the bitter fluid returns, rising up my throat and swamping my mouth. With no other choice available, I dash to the bathroom and empty the contents of my stomach in the sink. I have nothing left to give, and my body jerks with empty promises of vomit.
For a split second, I’m floored by my thoughts, by my weakness and by my inability to answer any of my own questions. But then I see the ruby jewel on the chest of drawers to the side of me and I march back into the bedroom and snatch it up. Enclosing it in my fist, I refuse to drop to my knees and give in.
Thirty minutes later, wearing damp clothes – but resembling some kind of sane person – I’ve left the B&B and am pounding the pavement towards Rose’s house. I have no intention of knocking on her front door again. I just know she isn’t there. Instead, my focus is on Patrick. He has the answers to cleaning up this godawful mess. If he refuses to tell me where Rose is, then at least he can lead me to his son, because something is telling me, with one hundred per cent certainty, that one of those men knows where my daughter is.
The sea breeze is heaven-sent. Not that it’s doing anything to clear my mind’s haze, but it is spurring me on as I take the turn onto Rose’s road. I edge closer to the town centre, to the train station and the student union and that dingy pub where Patrick took me a few days ago, when, although my daughter was still missing, life felt simpler. The quaint public house is my destination. If Patrick isn’t there, I’ll ask after him. If I have no luck, I’ll head to the university. I’m sure to get some locations or hints of his whereabouts. I may even be able to find out his address or discover exactly where the building he teaches in is. Granted, there’s sure to be no lectures happening at this time – the night has completely taken over even though it’s six in the evening – but I won’t leave until I have some concrete information.
My spirit is lifted, only slightly but lifted nonetheless, at having a purpose. A mission.
With my aunt Nora’s ruby heart gem safely tucked inside my jean pocket, I attempt to channel her bravery. It’s soon knocked with
the weight of a thousand punches when I spy two people ahead of me, standing on the pavement outside Rose’s house.
I cross the road, but keep advancing, using the shadows to conceal me and stay away from the light shining from the lamp posts. As I approach, I make out the glistering sequins of the saree I saw Sheetal wearing earlier today. The person she’s talking to has their back to me. I know who it is and can’t help feeling fear and anger and apprehension all at once.
Patrick’s hand is locked around Sheetal’s wrist and she’s obviously trying to pull away from him. I’m too far away to see if she’s crying; it’s hard to ignore the look of panic on her face. There are mumbled voices, but the wind takes their words away on the breeze and I have no idea what they’re saying. I fear if I get any closer, one of them will spot me, and I don’t want them to know I’m here. Edging a little closer, as close as I dare, I crouch behind a black Range Rover parked on the kerb and use it to shield me.
My heart is racing as Patrick points a long white finger at a scared looking Sheetal. What could he be saying to her to entice such a frightened look onto her petite face? He towers above her small frame; is that not enough dominance for him?
And then he’s off, powering down the road away from Sheetal and away from me. I can’t see his car anywhere, and he doesn’t seem to be slowing down. He launches down the street with giant steps, each footstep thundering against the pavement like he’s the Hulk.
I know I should wait until he’s out of sight. What if he turns back and catches me? My mind reacts before my body can tell it to stop and I’m legging it across the road, catching Sheetal before she enters the house.
‘Are you okay?’ I call out as she rummages through her sequinned clutch bag, obviously looking for her keys.
The poor girl is trembling – how else wouldn’t she have found the keys in such a small space? Sheetal looks at me, but seems to look straight through me, as if she doesn’t recognise me.
‘It’s Abi, remember? We met this morning. I’m Rose’s mum.’
She nods her head, though there still doesn’t seem to be any recognition from her, and I can’t help noticing the welling of tears in her eyes.
‘I… I can’t t-talk,’ Sheetal stutters. ‘I’m sorry.’
The keys appear in her hand. I’m losing her.
‘That man. The one you were just talking to–’
‘Mr… Mr Malone?’
‘Yes, the university lecturer,’ I say, playing along with her. ‘Did he upset you?’
Sheetal’s chin quivers, and I do feel a slight sadness for her, but I really don’t have time to pander to her sorrow. Not when I have to find my daughter.
‘No, no, he was just looking for… for his son. Dylan. I share a class with him.’
‘Did he ask you about Rose?’
She frowns and slowly shakes her head. A single tear escapes and runs down her brown skin. ‘N-n-no.’
She’s lying. This is pointless.
I gaze up the street, in the direction Patrick walked off in. I can’t be sure, as the darkness of the evening is doing its best to hide him in the shadows, but it looks as though he takes a left at the bottom of the road. That would lead to the pub we visited. I don’t know the area. Not for sure. There are probably another dozen destinations he could be travelling to by taking that route.
I turn back to Sheetal. Her stunned face reminds me of a deer stuck in headlights, and I realise I’m not going to get much from her. Patrick obviously has some hold over her too.
‘Did Mr Malone tell you where he might look for Dylan next? Did he say where he was going?’
For a moment, it feels like she’s about to reveal everything to me: why she’s on the verge of shedding a waterfall of tears, what Patrick said and why he has a hold over her. She doesn’t. A shrug and down-turned lips are the only answers I receive.
‘I really need to find Rose.’
I stop, hearing the tremble in my own voice, the desperation in it that makes it hard for me to breathe, to concentrate. I just want some help from someone – from the only person I’ve spoken to in Brighton who knows Rose – yet I know there’s a reason this woman is holding something back from me. Why? That’s an entirely different conundrum altogether. Is it Patrick? Could he really be doing this? Talking to Rose’s friends and housemates, getting there before me, instructing them not to talk to Rose’s crazed mother?
My words don’t seem to have an effect on Sheetal. I can only hope that she sympathises with my pain, and that she recognises the look of sadness on my face – the same look I see etched on hers.
‘Do you know where Rose is?’ The air catches in my throat again, so I pause to clear it and attempt to smile. ‘Please, if you know anything – where she’s gone or who she’s with – you would really be helping a mum out here.’
That burning desire of optimism flashes once more in my heart; the feeling that Sheetal is about to show some compassion. I’m wrong again, because she simply shakes her head, takes a deep breath and says, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything.’
Chapter 22
A voice in my head shouts at me, making my body jerk, and I dash away from Sheetal. She was never going to help me; Patrick is definitely manipulating her, just like he once used to do to me. With his older-man good looks and professor charm, and that Scottish sing-song voice of his, he’s a hard man to resist. Who was I kidding, thinking I could cry like a baby and expect help from Sheetal? She’s not a mother; she can’t understand.
That man is a monster. A monster who continues to taint young women, including my daughter Rose… his d–
No, I can’t even think it.
That thought conjures a picture in my mind that… that truly makes me retch.
How could he do this, the nasty piece of twisted shit?
How could he do this to my Rose?
I’m forced to slow my pace. Not unsurprising, really, since I’m running on empty. Empty except for the vile thoughts swirling inside me.
Bending over and resting my hands on my thighs to catch my breath is a big mistake. It’s as if my body has taken this action as a sign and that I’m saying it’s okay to vomit all over the pavement. Thankfully, I don’t. What could I throw up? I can’t remember the last time I ate or drank anything. Funny how life’s necessities take a back seat when your loved ones are in danger. Our bodies just automatically know how to respond: no, we no longer need fuel to survive, and we will plough on with our mission, regardless of exhaustion and dehydration.
I lean back against the wooden fence of a house behind me and ask myself what I should do. What would my mum do, or what would my aunt Nora have done if she was in this position? Patrick is long gone. I never should have stopped to talk to Sheetal. He was the key to me finding Rose; I should have stayed with him. Okay, there’s that pub a little farther on that I could check out, like I had planned all along, but other than that I have nothing. If he’s not there, and part of me highly doubts he will be since he seems to be on his own mission to throw me off the scent, I have no clue where else he would be.
Street lamps ping on in a timely fashion around the bustling and busy square to my left. The chill has picked up and large puffs of white air escape my lips each time I exhale. It’s fucking freezing. And so dark. It feels more like midnight than early evening. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I feel the ruby heart in my right hand and clamp my fingers around it tightly.
What should I do? Where do I go from here?
I gaze along the quiet street. Do I walk in the direction Patrick went? There definitely seems to be more life there: traffic, busy shops open for business and pedestrians zig-zagging in and out of each other. I glance back down the road to Rose’s house: shadows, silence and the unknown. I shudder and look away, catching the road sign directly opposite me as I do: John Street.
Somehow, I’ve managed to bring myself full circle and I’m stood right where I need to be. How could I have been so slow and stupid? This is what I should h
ave done days ago, and if not then, certainly when I found out what a monster Patrick is. Releasing the gemstone from my grip, my arms begin to swing full force like I’m an army sergeant, and I power on towards Brighton’s police station.
Chapter 23
It took about twenty minutes, but the young officer at the reception desk finally realised I was going nowhere until I had spoken to someone in charge. It’s amazing, really, the different reaction you receive when you give someone the stern don’t-fuck-with-this-mother look rather than the desperate I’m-about-to-cry-and-this-mummy-needs-help look.
Now I’m in some kind of family room, I guess – it’s probably not called that at all, but it’s definitely not the dark and dingy interview rooms I’ve seen on TV – with an aging, balding and slightly large officer. Granted, I haven’t painted a picture of Tom Hardy in a uniform, but there’s something about this guy that is warm and cuddly, rather than austere and uninviting. I decide to appeal to his better nature. Praise be to God that he actually has one.
‘Before you say anything, Officer…’
‘Bellamy.’
‘Officer Bellamy. I know how this may sound. My friends and colleagues have warned me that I’m totally overreacting, and you’ll probably think this is a waste of your time. But, you see, I work in the emergency services too. I’m a paramedic and I’ve seen my fair share of tragedies and accidents, even murders and suicides. So please understand, I’m not here on some kind of whim. I truly need your help.’
I’ve got him. He’s warmed to my words. I can see it just in the way he slouches his shoulders slightly – not in a bored way, but in a ‘okay, I’m listening’ kind of way. His clenched jaw loosens. I’ve piqued his interest, and before I lose it, I regurgitate everything that’s happened in my life – sort of like a child at Christmas, giving Santa their never-ending list of wants and needs – since Rose called me on the day of the terrorist attack. For some reason, I skirt around the subject of Patrick Malone. It isn’t a conscious decision, and not something I pre-determined but, as I tell Officer Bellamy about Rose going missing, it becomes apparent the kind of shitstorm that could hit if I tell him about Patrick. The man I had an affair with, who is Rose’s father, isn’t actually dead like I have had her believe her entire life but is alive and well in Brighton and now having an affair with his son’s girlfriend and ultimately his daughter.