Life Ruins

by Danuta Kot

  Matt had checked his watch. ‘Tell you what. Kay’s making pizza. We’ve got a bit of time. Let’s put your room back together then get something to eat.’

  So that’s what they’d done. And he’d shown her lots of ways not to go into meltdown when she lost her temper.

  Anger is useful. It’s energy. Don’t waste it.

  And right now, she needed that energy. She needed it to keep herself afloat, but more than that, she needed it to help Paige. But she wasn’t letting Neil get away with it. She looked at all his stuff on the floor and forced her breathing to slow down. ‘I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have said that. You know you shouldn’t. Don’t worry, I’ll go. You know I didn’t do anything wrong so don’t pretend you’re doing me any favours. We both know you aren’t.’

  ‘You can see it any way you like, Becca.’ He waited a long moment, watching her warily, then said, ‘Oh, before you go . . .’ He reached onto a shelf behind him and handed her a small tablet computer. ‘You shouldn’t leave these things lying around. Hannah found it behind the bar this morning.’

  She’d never seen it in her life before and was about to say so when she saw that someone had written ‘BECKA’ on it in marker. She took it from Neil without a word.

  Alek appeared at the door and she stalked past him, still angry at his earlier dismissal. They didn’t speak as they went to the room where the storage lockers were and he waited while she got out her stuff. There was very little – her bag, her coat and a pair of trainers she wore if her feet got too tired – loser shoes.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said suddenly. ‘About before. That is not a nice man. I didn’t want him to . . . You tell the police? About Paige?’

  Becca wanted to hang on to her anger. She wanted to be angry with all of them, with Neil, with Hannah, with Alek, with Jared . . . but she felt too tired. ‘It’s OK,’ she muttered as she shoved her things into a carrier bag.

  ‘I fix your car,’ he said, handing her an envelope. ‘Here. Your windscreen – it has a crack but it will be OK. For a bit. The windows – I had to use tape, I’m sorry. You can drive the car, just . . . not open or close. The tyres – all fine.’

  Becca nodded. ‘Thanks.’ She wanted to ask him about the man he’d been talking to, about what Neil had said. She wanted to thank him for being on her side but she couldn’t trust her voice. She dumped her tabard on a table, pulled on her jacket, stuffing the envelope into her pocket, and was ready to go. Alek walked to the door with her. Making a sudden decision, she looked up at him. ‘Neil said you haven’t got a daughter.’

  ‘Why should I tell Neil about my life? He is nothing. Take care, Becca.’ He closed the door behind her.

  And that was that. No more drop-in. No more job. She walked down the street, wondering where to go and what to do.

  Shoving her hands into her pockets, she found Alek’s envelope. It was bulky and irregular. She opened it, and her keys fell out, along with a ten-quid note.

  She wasn’t taking that. She wasn’t a charity case. He could just . . .

  She could just . . .

  She could accept it. It was a nice thing to do, almost like they were friends. Why should I tell Neil? But he’d told her, Becca.

  OK.

  ‘Thanks, Alek,’ she said out loud.

  But there was no one to hear her.

  Chapter 27

  Becca walked along the road, following the signs to the beach. There were cafés along here that were always open and she was starving. She huddled herself into her coat. It was freezing, with a cutting wind that was blowing straight off the sea.

  The front was lined with fish restaurants, but most of them were shut in the winter. She passed one that was open, but it was deserted. It looked depressing and she was miserable enough already.

  The cobbled road leading to the harbour forked off the main road and she followed it down. There was a line of low, red-brick buildings, one with the sign ‘Harbour Café’. There were a few more people at the tables. That looked OK. That would do. Becca pushed open the door and went into the welcome warmth of steam and the smell of hot fat.

  A couple of women sat in a corner, their heads close together, talking. They stopped and watched Becca in silence as she came through the door. Becca took a table by the window. Almost before she had sat down, a waitress appeared. Becca ordered chips and tea. ‘And some bread and butter,’ she said.

  The waitress scribbled something down. ‘Small or large? Tea?’

  ‘Large.’

  She hung her coat round the back of the chair. She could get a job in a place like this – Bridlington was full of cafés – she could work for a week or two while she decided what to do.

  Her flat was paid for up to the end of the month. There was no way she was going to get that money back from the skinflint landlord. Her car was fixed and was parked round the back at the drop-in.

  She could pack up, move somewhere else. Back to Leeds? Too many people knew about the Bexgirl story, and anyway, where would she live? If she couldn’t afford a flat in Brid, she couldn’t afford one in Leeds. Another city? But it looked as though someone was making sure the story followed her wherever she went.

  Could she find a way of hiding?

  Bridlington had seemed like a hiding place, but it wasn’t.

  ‘There you go, love.’ The woman dumped a plate of chips in front of Becca, and a mug of tea.

  ‘Thanks.’ The smell of the chips made Becca’s spirits lift, just a bit. Alek’s tenner was a lifesaver, but she had no idea what she was going to do next. She wasn’t even sure how much money she had left. Bexgirl had paid quite well, but Becca had never really thought about saving. She probably had about £300 in the bank, and she’d get the week’s money Neil had promised her – another hundred quid.

  It was better than nothing, but most of that would go on rent this month, and then . . . next month, she wouldn’t be able to pay. She fished into her bag to find her phone – something else she wouldn’t be able to afford – and her fingers touched an unfamiliar shape.

  The tablet. She licked her fingers clean, took it out and looked at it. It was a small one – seven-inch; a make she didn’t know. And why had someone written BECKA on the case? How weird was that? Neil thought it was hers, thought she had left it behind the coffee-bar counter. She’d never seen it in her life. Who had left it there?

  Suddenly, she remembered Paige ducking down behind the bar, helping herself to a drink from the fridge and putting a coin on the counter. Hannah had found the tablet this morning. Last night, Becca hadn’t cleared up properly – she’d been too focused on Paige – so she hadn’t gone back behind the counter.

  Had it been Paige’s? Had she left it there, expecting Becca to find it at once?

  She pressed the button and the tablet lit up. A video. Someone had left her a tab playing a video, and she felt the familiar sick twist in her stomach. She should have guessed. Liam had been behind the bar as well. With a sense of inevitability, she tapped it, and the video began to play.

  But it wasn’t what she was expecting.

  The camera was unsteady, moving across a grey, gravelly surface that was covered in places by a sparse green growth. To one side, the sea came into view, then the camera swung away. There was a low wall – not quite a wall, really, just a line of stones. The landscape was odd, with strange mounds, like something was buried there that might come back to life.

  The camera seemed to be following some kind of path. The grey surface sloped away and downwards, the camera jerking and jolting as the person carrying it scrambled over the rough terrain. She could hear breathing, and a tune, whistled almost under the breath, as if the person doing the filming was walking about on uneven, dangerous ground, trying to concentrate, like Matt when he was doing a fiddly repair, trying to line up a tiny screw and a tiny hole . . .

  The image moved up a slope, and then the camera was looking down into a gully. There was an opening half concealed in the shadows of the gully bottom, dark and
featureless. She thought about Jared and his flooded tunnel.

  Now the camera was moving towards the opening, just a grey blur as the person holding it slithered down the slope, then it steadied, and focused.

  The whistling stopped. Now there was only the breathing.

  It was just a rough-edged gap dug into the cliff side, supported by bricks set in an almost flat arch above. Becca tensed. She didn’t want to go in there, but the camera moved inexorably on.

  The light faded and the screen darkened until all she could see was something vague bobbing in the shadows. The breathing quickened and there was a grunt of effort, then a dim light filled the scene.

  She had no idea what she was looking at.

  Water gleamed in front of her, cloudy and yellowish with the vague outline of shapes beneath the surface. The camera moved again and panned across a low, flat ceiling, the same bricks, the same shallow arch. The bricks seemed loose – she couldn’t see any mortar. They were stained rust-red in places, green in others with some kind of growth.

  What kind of place was this? It was like a tunnel, a shallow tunnel. A series of pools crossed by low walls – clearly man-made – stretched away from her. In the middle, two iron pillars rose towards the ceiling, fungal with growths of rust.

  The breathing was irregular, catching in the filmmaker’s throat; breathe – uh! – breathe – uh! The picture froze, but the sound continued, someone whistling that strange, familiar tune.

  A hand came into the picture. She had no scale to judge it against. It reached into the water, scooped something out and held it for the camera to record.

  A piece of cloth . . . stained fabric and wire . . .

  The fingers reshaped and suddenly she knew what it was.

  A flower. A white silk flower.

  Chapter 28

  It had taken Jared longer to extricate himself from the Bridlington caravan park than he expected. He wished he’d thought to pack up and put everything in the car before taking Becca into Brid – then he’d never have to see this place again. It had all gone wrong here – going up the coast meant another chance. He’d start taking care of himself, stop relying on the pills and the whisky, work himself back to something like good health.

  He’d been getting there, before the tunnel. Before the girl.

  His laptop, his phone, his camera and all his camping equipment were already secure in the boot. He dumped the black bags full of dirty clothes – launderette as soon as – onto the back seat, along with a couple of books, his wash stuff and his medicines. A quick recce of the caravan didn’t reveal anything and he was just locking the door when Greaseball Harry’s car pulled up at the entrance to the site, probably here to see Jared off the premises.

  Jared ignored him and gave his road map a quick once over, looking for the best route between Scarborough and Whitby. The plan was to head for Whitby, find somewhere with a decent internet connection and catch up on his website, which provided what passed for his income since the accident. Then he’d find a launderette and get himself sorted. Maybe a night in a B & B – a bit of comfort wouldn’t go amiss – then, stoked up by a good night’s sleep and a full English, he could drive up to Kettleness, where he should be able to locate a site to pitch his tent.

  As he packed the last of his stuff into the back, he saw that Greaseball’s car was rolling slowly towards him. Shit. Jared wanted nothing to do with him. Getting out of Greaseball’s way was one of the big incentives for moving on.

  He slid behind the wheel of his Volvo as Greaseball wound down his window. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ Jared said.

  ‘Yeah, I can see that. I said, where are you going?’

  ‘Out of here. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Don’t get funny with me, sunshine. What if there’s any damage? I haven’t checked it, you know.’

  Jared looked over his shoulder at the battered caravan. ‘Look, mate, the only way I could have damaged that caravan is if I’d fixed it up for you. You’ve got my email.’ He pressed the button and his window slid closed. He wasn’t wasting his time with this moron. As GBH climbed out of his car, Jared pulled round him and headed for the entrance. He could see Greaseball watching him and as Jared went through the gate, he was already talking into his phone.

  Arse. Jared wondered what the problem was. The man had tried to throw him out earlier that day and had been a sore loser when Jared said he was staying. Now he seemed mad that Jared was going. Jared’s mood lifted and he grinned as he remembered Becca’s simmering indignation with Greaseball. Maybe he should have let her get on with it. She was only small but he suspected she packed a hefty punch. She would have been good company on his trip up the coast . . . but from what he’d seen, she had her own issues. She didn’t need his as well.

  The road surface was terrible and the car bounced and jolted towards the end of the lane. He eased his foot off the gas. If GBH decided to follow him, it would be the slowest car chase in history.

  His phone rang. He was on a quiet road so he picked up. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is that you?’

  Becca. He recognised her voice, and found himself smiling. ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘Very funny. It’s me. Becca,’ she clarified, before he could say anything.

  ‘I kind of thought it might be. Hi, Becca.’

  ‘Look, I’ve changed my mind. I want to come with you.’

  He glanced in his mirror. A car was coming along the road behind him. He recognised it. It was GBH. Shit, shit, and . . . shit on a plate. ‘I’m driving. Call me back later, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  He had to cut her off. He might have been joking to himself about the slow-motion car chase, but he really didn’t want this guy on his tail. Jared had him labelled as a nasty piece of work, and he’d run into a few in his time. He was in no condition to deal with the guy at the moment. It was possible – probable – GBH was just driving into Brid, but Jared wanted to be out of his way.

  He must have a reason for seeing Jared off the site, for wanting to know where he was going. He’d never shown any interest at all until after the night when the girl was attacked, then he’d wanted Jared gone. Jared didn’t want to start speculating about why. With a bit of luck, all he was doing was making sure.

  But he didn’t want Greaseball to know where he was going. When he got to the junction, instead of turning north, he stayed on the road heading south towards the M62 and the M18, gaining speed now he was driving on a better surface. He kept his eye on the rear-view mirror. The car was still behind him.

  He kept going, taking the turning south at the next junction. His car was powerful enough to leave the guy behind, but Jared wanted Greaseball to back off of his own volition, not because Jared managed to outrun him. He was following a route that would take him away from the east and onto the southbound motorways, right out of the area and away. He was pretty sure that all GBH wanted to know was that Jared was going to be out of his hair. The next turning was signposted M62 and, dutifully, Jared took it. If this went on much longer, he’d end up on the fucking motorway and then he might as well continue south. The Kettleness tunnels weren’t that interesting, and there seemed to be a pile of trouble building up here. He’d head south, get right away from it, concentrate on getting well. It was a shame about the girl – what had happened to her was seriously bad, but what else could he do?

  What went wrong, mate? What stopped you going back?

  I’m sorry . . .

  It’s easy to be sorry . . .

  Becca, stalking away down the path, off to find a bus she didn’t even know existed. Becca, squaring up to tackle GBH at the caravan site. Becca who stood up for someone she’d just met . . .

  A dull ache started low down in his back. He’d let everyone else down. He didn’t have to let Becca down as well. OK. However far GBH followed him, he wasn’t going to let it chase him off. He didn’t know what he could do, but maybe just being around was enough.
The green car was at the junction now. It pulled out – and took the road heading north-west. Back into Brid.

  Jared kept going, watching for the next turn off that would take him back north. As he drove, he thought about Becca’s call.

  What had made her change her mind? She’d probably kicked one of her charges in his disadvantaged teeth and got thrown out. Becca was trouble on legs – he’d seen enough of her to know that.

  He wondered whether to call her now, but decided to keep going. There was no point in losing the advantage and letting GBH see him back in Brid. He’d call Becca from Whitby.

  Chapter 29

  Becca looked at her phone in disgust. So much for Jared. He’d already left, and by the time he called back – if he called back – he’d be in that Kettle place or wherever it was he said he was going. Anyway, it had been a lame decision; she didn’t want to go with him, she just wanted him to look at the video on the tab – Paige’s tab, Paige’s video, she was pretty sure.

  She felt better after she’d eaten. Ignoring the pointed table-wiping from the waitress who collected her empty plate and mug, she stared out of the window. The sea beyond the harbour wall was grey and restless. Sea should be blue with little waves and kids playing in the water and stuff like that. This sea looked like something that would drown you and then spit you out again.

  So what should she do now?

  Kay. She should phone Kay and let her know . . . let her know what? She wasn’t going to tell Kay about Bexgirl and the photo, but she’d have to tell her something – she’d just say she’d lost the job. Becca sometimes wondered how far she’d have to go before Kay finally gave up on her.