Bring Me Back (B.A. Paris)(49)

The next day – Tuesday – there was another envelope in the post, containing another doll, and another email in the evening – EIGHT. Layla’s subsequent emails, on Wednesday evening – SEVEN – on Thursday – SIX – and again last night – FIVE – only add to the sense of helplessness I feel, at being unable to stop the wheels of fate from turning. Bizarrely, the overriding emotion I feel is shame, that at forty-one years old, and six-foot-four, a few little dolls can unsettle me so much.

The pressure of the countdown is beginning to take its toll. Exhaustion has set in. I only go to bed when I’m dropping with tiredness and I lie there, my mind going round in circles, wondering where it will end, how it will end, while Ellen sleeps the sleep of the dead next to me. Each morning, I’m up early so that I can hide the latest Russian doll in the drawer in my office before she gets up.

Tony got back to me the day after my phone call – the ninth day of the countdown – to say that he and a couple of officers, armed with the photo of Layla they’d used in the initial search, plus a computer-enhanced photo of what she might look like now, were going to make discreet enquiries at hotels, B&Bs and hostels in Cheltenham. I used this news to persuade Ellen that going away wouldn’t be a good idea even though a part of me was tempted to jet off somewhere exotic just to get away from the relentlessness of the countdown, only coming back once the ten days were up.

‘Imagine they find Layla and we’re at the other end of the country,’ I said, and Ellen had agreed it would be better to stay in Simonsbridge.

Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m still keeping things from her. But if I tell her about this latest series of Russian dolls, she’ll urge me to tell Tony about them and Tony, with this added proof that Layla is back, will double his efforts to close the net on her. And I don’t want that. I don’t want her arrested like a common criminal. What I want is to be able to see her first, to talk to her by myself. Which is why I sent her an email on Wednesday warning her that she’s currently the object of a search.

I shouldn’t have, I know. I only sent one line – The police are looking for you in Cheltenham. If I’m honest, it isn’t just about not wanting her to be found until I have a chance to see her. Stupidly, I thought she might be so grateful for the tip-off that she would put aside her countdown and agree to see me. But she never replied.

I look at Ellen’s note again, wondering what I should do. She’ll have had lunch by now, so there’s no point in driving into Cheltenham just to come home again. The thought of her having a solitary lunch in a café makes me feel guilty all over again. When had I become so careless with Ellen’s feelings, when had I stopped making an effort? If only I’d been honest with her five weeks ago, when I found the doll on the wall. If only I’d shared the dolls, the emails with her. If I truly loved her, I would have, I acknowledge. If I truly loved her, I wouldn’t have let anything come between us. Now the distance between us seems huge – her note is evidence of that. Normally she would have come and told me that she was going shopping. Maybe I should phone her and suggest meeting for coffee.

The sound of the car coming in the drive makes the decision for me. I go into the hall and open the front door.

‘Sorry,’ I say, as she takes a couple of bags of shopping from the car. ‘I’ve only just seen your note.’

‘It’s fine,’ she says, but I know that it’s not by the way she pushes past me into the house without letting me take the bags from her, as she usually would.

I follow her into the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it,’ she says, dumping the bags on the side.

Something in her voice, a slight bitterness, makes me look at her properly. Her face is drawn, unhappy and when I think about it, I realise she’s looked drawn and unhappy for a while. I can’t remember the last time she laughed. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Having lunch on my own. I left you the same note on Tuesday and it was still on the table when I got back.’ She stops unpacking the bags and looks at me, a bunch of bananas in her hand. ‘You didn’t even notice I’d gone.’

‘What’s with the note anyway?’ I ask, getting angry. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me you were going out?’

‘Why should I always be the one to come and find you? You never leave your office any more, you don’t even bother to have lunch unless I fetch you.’

‘That’s not true,’ I protest.

‘The last three days I’ve had lunch here in the kitchen on my own. So, as I said, I’m used to it.’

Hating that I’m the cause of the hurt in her voice, I take the bananas from her and put my arms around her.

‘If I tell you I’m sorry a third time, will you forgive me?’ I ask. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise. It’s holiday time, so I’m not going to be so busy now,’ I add, knowing she’ll think that the reason I’ve been staying in my office is because of my workload.

‘I thought you were avoiding me.’

‘No,’ I say softly. And as she sinks her body into mine, I feel real hate for Layla for coming between us, for upsetting the equilibrium of our relationship.