Bring Me Back (B.A. Paris)(25)

The smell of mustiness and neglect hits me straightaway. I’m assailed by so many memories that my legs are almost pulled out from under me – of Layla standing here in the hall, of her sitting on the stairs to pull her boots on, of her running down them and into my arms. I wait for the images to fade, listening for the sound of somebody’s presence, a movement from one of the rooms, a floorboard creaking upstairs. But there is only silence, and the dust of hopes never fulfilled, taunting me with what could have been, if only I’d acted differently.

The front door is still open and as I turn to close it, I notice a large pile of musty letters, leaflets and free newspapers pushed back against the wall behind it. Another couple of leaflets lie by themselves on the mat, newer, cleaner. Realising what it means, sweat prickles my spine. The only way the mail could have become squashed up against the wall is by somebody opening the front door wide enough to let themselves in. The leaflets on the mat have come in since, maybe earlier this morning. Which means that someone was here, might still be here.

I reach out and push open the door on my left, which leads to the kitchen. There are so many familiar things – the pottery mugs that hang from hooks beneath a rack where we stored our plates, the row of eggcups sitting on the window sill, the low armchair where Layla would sit curled up in front of the wood-burning stove. They are all there – but they are almost unrecognisable. Twelve years of dust has obliterated all colour from the room and the pervading air of neglect and abandonment shocks me to the core. I remember how I had wanted to keep everything as it was, in case Layla came back. But if she had, how would she have felt to see the cottage unloved and uncared for?

I take a quiet step back into the hall and push open the door to the right. The sitting room is also empty. I think about calling out, but if there is anyone there and they had wanted to be seen, they would have shown themselves by now. But why would they hide? They’ve brought me here, so it must be for a reason.

I should have called Tony, asked him to come with me. It’s too late now. I’d been so sure it was just some elaborate hoax. But what if it wasn’t? I look up the stairs to the landing above, remembering the Right here message I received. Is Layla up there, bound, gagged, Rudolph Hill standing over her, waiting for me to come and find her? The urge to tear up the stairs is overwhelming. But I need to be careful, I can’t afford to put Layla in danger. I check myself; Layla can’t really be up there, can she?

I put my foot on the first step, testing it. It doesn’t creak so I start going up as quietly as I can, bending my head to avoid the low ceiling. The bathroom is on the left, the door ajar, which explains the smell that sours the air, from stagnant water in the toilet bowl. On the right is the bedroom that Layla and I used to share. I go in; it’s empty. Her dressing gown, barely distinguishable under its cover of grey, lies across the chair where she draped it the morning we left for Megève. The smaller bedroom, along the corridor from the bathroom, yields no secrets, no Layla tied to the bedpost waiting to be rescued, no Rudolph Hill waiting to blackmail me. Emotionally drained, I sit at the top of the stairs, looking down into the hall below, trying to absorb the knowledge that my journey here today has come to nothing. I’d left home thinking that by this evening, I’d know the truth behind the trail of Russian dolls and the emails. But I’m just as far away as ever.

I take out my mobile to check the time. It’s four thirty. Time to send a message to Rudolph Hill to find out what the hell is going on.

I’m here. Where are you?

A reply comes straight back.

Where I’d said I’d be

I feel a wave of fury that he’s continuing to play with me.

No, you’re not. I’m at the cottage but you aren’t

I can’t believe you’ve forgotten

Forgotten what? I type angrily.





I thought you would understand


I pause, suddenly aware of the shift in the tone of the messages. There’s something that seems off about them.

What do you mean? I ask.





The address


I sit for a moment, wondering if I should stop the whole thing now. But I’ve come this far, so I may as well carry on.

What address?

The email address

The urge to hurl my phone down the stairs is terrifying. Instead, I stab out a message, my fingers fumbling on the tiny keys.

Who are you, why are you doing this?





You know who I am


Yeah, Rudolph fucking Hill!

I can’t believe you haven’t understood

What – that you’re some sick psycho trying to make me think that you have Layla?

I chose it especially so that you would know it was me

If you still loved me, you would have understood





Goodbye Finn


I stare at the message, completely thrown at the mention of love, and the use of my name. I read the message again, more slowly this time. A chill runs down my spine – the bastard wants me to think the message is coming from Layla. Unless – no, it’s a trick, another step in his game. But my fingers are already picking out her name.

Layla?

I wait, my heart in my mouth. But there’s no reply and I give a roar of frustration, hating that I’ve fallen into his trap again. He never had any intention of being here today, all he wanted was to lure me to the cottage. But why? Just to prove he’s the one calling the shots?