Bring Me Back (B.A. Paris)(43)

It was something Ellen said – no, the way she had laughed when I’d thought she was pointing the finger at Harry when in fact she’d been pointing it at Ruby. ‘No, of course not!’ she’d said, ‘Not Harry!’ because it was unthinkable that Harry would do such a thing. But I know better than anyone that love makes us behave out of character, that it drives us to do things we never thought we’d do. Hadn’t Harry told me only the other day that he wished he had married, settled down?

I hate where my mind is going but I can’t stop myself. Maybe he’s in love with Ellen, has been from the very start. Was that why he used to invite her to stay at the flat during her trips to London? When I asked Ellen, at the beginning of our relationship, if there’d ever been anything between her and Harry, she’d assured me there hadn’t been. But what if there had been, on Harry’s part? He himself had said the appearance of the first Russian doll was all about timing, because I was going to marry Ellen. What if it had been him who had left it, and when neither Ellen nor I mentioned finding it, he had brought one to lunch with him so that he could pretend he’d found it standing on the wall outside the house, hoping to provoke us into admitting that we’d found one too. I remember the look on his face when Ellen had showed him she now had a full set. Had that been a look of relief, that the seed he’d wanted to sow – that Layla had returned – had already taken root? There’d been no need for him to show us the Russian doll he had in his pocket – until I told him I didn’t believe that Layla was back. I hadn’t confided in him about all the other dolls I’d found, as perhaps he was expecting me to, so he had shown me the Russian doll he’d supposedly found on the wall, hoping maybe to prompt me into telling him about the others. But I hadn’t. What about the one I found on the plate in The Jackdaw? How could he have put it there without Ruby or Ellen or me seeing him? Unless he asked someone to do it for him. Someone who worked in the pub? Ruby? Were Harry and Ruby in this together? My mind feels as if it’s spiralling out of control.

Wanting to put an end to it, I drag myself off the doorstep. Ellen comes out of the kitchen, worry furrowing her brow.

‘Are you alright?’ she asks.

‘Fine.’ I head for the stairs. ‘I’ll be as right as rain after a shower and a sleep.’

‘If you need anything, call me.’

But all I need are answers, and she can’t give me those.

With so much going round in my mind, I dread not being able to sleep. But I fall asleep quickly and when I wake up the next morning, I wonder where the turmoil of the evening before had come from. How can Harry be behind the emails? They’re so obviously from Layla, as are the photos I received. There’s no way that Harry could have got his hands on them, or known that Layla and I referred to the tree stump on Pharos Hill as a Russian doll.

It’s strange what he said, though, about never believing that Layla was dead, or that she’d been kidnapped, that he’d always thought she’d turn up one day. He’d never told me that, although he may not have wanted to get my hopes up. I give my head an angry shake, hating that other theories, even more terrible than those that had tortured me last night, have begun to crowd my brain, demanding attention. What if Layla had turned to Harry after she disappeared from the picnic area in Fonches? Is that why he never believed she was dead, because he knew that she wasn’t? Is it possible that he gave her shelter, helped her to hide? But why would he have done that? He didn’t even like Layla. Unless his dislike of her had been a smokescreen. Maybe he’d been in love with her all along, maybe he was the guy she’d slept with in London that weekend. I shake my head, annoyed at myself. First I think Harry’s in love with Ellen, now with Layla.

I turn and look at Ellen, asleep beside me, one arm behind her head on the pillow, the other lying across her chest. Not so very long ago, I would have gently lifted her arm out of the way and gathered her to me, I would have started kissing her while she was still half-asleep. But that was before Layla. The guilt I feel drives me out of bed and down the stairs to the kitchen. The post is lying on the mat and as I stoop to pick it up, I see a brown envelope with the same white sticker on the front, except that this time it’s addressed to me, not Ellen. I don’t have to open it to know that it contains a Russian doll. I take it through to the kitchen, slit it open with a knife and shake the contents into the palm of my hand. As I thought, it’s a Russian doll. Except that this one has had its head smashed in.





THIRTY-NINE

Layla

I knew Finn wouldn’t understand the get rid of Ellen message, at least not fully. Since receiving it, he’ll have been trying to think of ways to tell Ellen that it’s over between them, he’ll be wishing he’d never asked her to marry him in the first place. He’ll have opened his mouth a hundred times, ready to say the words that will bring me back. Yet he’ll never say them, not because he lacks the courage but because he’s too kind to break Ellen’s heart. Which sort of annoys me, because he hadn’t been too worried about breaking my heart all those years ago. I put aside my annoyance because it isn’t important. What is important is that Finn understands what I meant.

It still surprises me that I want to hurt Finn when I love him so much. But there’s something in me that needs him broken, so that I can put him together again just as I want. My disappearance all those years ago hadn’t broken him, not really. His descent into hell had been self-indulgent. Financially stable and without dependants, he could allow himself to wallow in depression. If he’d had to work for a living, or had a child or children, he would have given himself the proverbial kick up the backside; he would have had to, just as I’d had to, in order to survive.