Blood Ties (41 page)

‘Where are we going, Rob?’ Louisa asked when she realised they were several miles off course to return to Robert’s house.

‘I’m taking Ruby to her mother. It’s about time she met her.’ Robert gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. He wanted to voice his feelings about the Bowman case, about children being with the right parent but he knew it would come out wrong. Besides, while he was paying Louisa for her time, he didn’t expect her to doubt his motives.

Robert swiftly negotiated the traffic and soon joined the beginning of the M1. For the second time in two days, he steered the Mercedes towards Northampton. Part of him didn’t feel real, while part of him felt like he was playing God.

He stole a quick glance at Louisa. She was sitting calmly, looking elegant even in jeans and a T-shirt. On her feet she wore leather sandals. Her toes were long and straight, the nails painted deep burgundy. How he wished it was Erin sitting next to him, perhaps returning from their weekend in Somerset, life as normal, then climbing into bed to curl against her slender back, Ruby content and asleep in the next bedroom.

‘Don’t you think we should wait for the DNA results?’ Louisa spoke quietly even though Robert had tossed his MP3 player into the back and Ruby’s ears were plugged. The girl’s head bobbed in time with the music. Robert’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel, snapping back to reality.

‘No,’ Robert replied. ‘The results will confirm what I already know. And I can’t wait any more. I want my life back. Besides, the police will have to conduct their own genetic investigations.’

‘Police?’ Louisa asked but did not receive a reply.

Robert drove in silence, thinking, trying to keep Jenna from attacking the inside of his mind, begging him not to do it all over again. He made a deal with her. If she stopped ghosting his thoughts, he would steer away from the paranoia that had eventually killed her. It was as he left the motorway at the exit for Northampton, Jenna’s voice echoing inside his head like a bee, that Robert realised he could switch her on and off at will. For now, he clicked her gently into silence.

Ruby, having removed the headphones and slept for most of the journey, exhausted from no sleep the previous night, squirmed on the rear seat. ‘Where are we going, Dad?’ she asked, dragging the back of her hand across her cheeks. The slowing of the car had woken her.

‘To see someone who’s been dying to meet you for thirteen years.’

Ruby didn’t ask any more.

They cruised through the town and turned into the street of terraced houses. The evening sun sent jagged daggers of light from the windscreens and bonnets of parked cars. Robert pulled down the sun visor and searched for a space.

He reversed into a tight gap, cut the engine and got out of the car. When Ruby didn’t get out, he opened the rear door and, leaning inside, gently stroked her head. She was sweating and black hair was stuck to her forehead – the same black hair as her mother, Cheryl. Slowed by her sleepy state, Ruby searched the street with dark eyes and Robert could see that she was wondering where she was.

Home, he thought. I’ve brought you home.

He watched Ruby peel her sticky skin off the leather seat. She must never be without a mother, he thought. At no point did he want Ruby to feel she wasn’t loved, owned or cherished by whichever woman she ended up with. Considering that it might be anyone other than Erin nearly killed him. Knowing the pain that Cheryl had suffered sent his guts into spasm.

Over the last couple of days, he’d become used to imagining the emotions that Cheryl would have spent thirteen years stage-managing. He’d guessed at her guilt, her sense of loss, her self-loathing and anger. Now he would have to imagine the feelings of his wife when she was arrested, prosecuted, tried. The two women would be swapping lives.

The jail sentence wouldn’t be Erin’s punishment. It would be losing Ruby, and Robert couldn’t stand the thought.

As for Ruby, well, she would eventually understand. When the open wounds had knitted together in a cross-hatch of mistrust and new beginnings, she would tentatively ask when her real birthday was, what the weather was like as she’d burst into the world, what her father had said when he first held her. But the answers would stop at week eight. When she was taken. After that, only Erin knew.

‘Hop out, love.’ If they take her away, I can still see her, he thought. I can appeal for visiting rights. Fleetingly, it occurred to him to offer to represent Cheryl in court but it would be too similar to the Bowman case, only this time Erin would be Mary Bowman and he would be no better than Jed.

‘Where are we?’ Ruby climbed out of the car. She frowned at Louisa. ‘I want Mum.’

Robert sighed, wondering if she realised how laden her words were. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’ Robert took Ruby’s hand and guided her to the door of number 18. Cheryl’s house. The house where Ruby had once lived. He closed his eyes, breathed in and knocked.

An old Ford Escort screamed past, windows down, loud music rippling the air. Cheryl didn’t answer. He knocked again and looked at his watch. It was nearly eight thirty, still light, the air warm and thick.

‘The Stag’s Head,’ he whispered when no one answered after a few minutes.

It was a long shot but he didn’t know where else to look. It hadn’t occurred to him that Cheryl wouldn’t be home.

He parked the car right outside the pub on double yellow lines. Leaving Louisa and Ruby to wait, he went into the bar.

‘Is Cheryl Varney here tonight?’ The barmaid was calmer, with only a few customers drinking. She ran a towel across the polished bar.

‘Nope. She only comes in once a month.’ The young woman reached down behind the bar and retrieved something. ‘But she left this last night. Don’t suppose you’ll be seeing her any time soon?’ The barmaid held up a brown leather bag.

Robert stared at it as if it was a limb that Cheryl had left behind. ‘I will. Yes, as a matter of fact I will be seeing her tonight.’ The woman shrugged and handed it across the counter to Robert. ‘Cheers, then,’ he said casually and left the pub before she had a chance to change her mind.

Leaning against the rear of the Mercedes, Robert unzipped the bag. It was a glimpse into the life of the woman who had been destroyed by Erin. It was probably the closest he would ever come to her once Ruby had been taken away.

Robert removed a small purse. He unfastened it to reveal the photograph of a baby. It was the same picture that had appeared in the newspaper after Ruby’s abduction. He tucked it back inside the bag as if he was saying goodnight to an infant. There was a chequebook, a driver’s licence, a hairbrush entwined with long black hairs and two lipsticks. Underneath a packet of tissues, Robert pulled out a set of keys. The key fob was a small picture holder containing another baby photograph.

He slipped them into his top pocket and smiled. He had the keys to Cheryl Varney’s house. They would go inside and wait.

We went Italian – that same night. I didn’t want to sound too keen when he asked but in the end it was him who suggested it. I shut up the shop half an hour early so that I could take extra time to get ready. Truly, I’d never been on a proper date before. I was twenty-eight – although the whole world thought I was thirty-two because I’d got by with the stolen passport – and I’d never been with a man who might end up loving me. I would have to remember not to ask for my payment at the end of the evening.

I arranged for the lady in the flat below to sit with Ruby. She was kind and had been friendly since we moved in. She didn’t ask questions.

‘So, who was the first bunch of flowers for?’ I tipped my head sideways, giving him a playful grin. I forked my food, not really hungry.

‘My secretary. It’s her birthday.’

‘No one’s ever given
me
flowers before. I feel like it’s my birthday too.’ I didn’t count the ones Becco had sent me in Brighton and realised soon after I’d said it that I must have sounded strange. Everyone got flowers at some time.

We talked and he told me he was a lawyer. He said he’d been married before and his eyes dropped when he told me he was a widower. I didn’t ask how she’d died. He said he played squash and liked the movies and had a house in Fulham. He was normal. He paid the bill. He kissed me in the street.

 

 

Even though he tries not to show it, you can see that half of Baxter is missing. No one will ever replace Patrick.

He welcomes us and our holdalls, as if he knew all along that we were coming back, and makes us hot pancakes and syrup and insists we have seconds. He has scars down his neck but we don’t talk about the fire. Enough has been said in our letters.

‘I’ll never understand you, Erin.’ He musses my hair like my father should have done. ‘I’m going to send you back.You can’t run away any more. Your husband is a good man.’

‘He said things,’ I say like a pouting teenager. ‘About stuff he shouldn’t know. He’s been prying into my past.’

‘You’re married to him. You owe him.’ Baxter drizzles extra syrup on my pancakes. ‘Besides, he wasn’t prying. It was my fault. We were talking about you and I thought he knew and—’

‘He’ll divorce me anyway. Now that he knows what I was.’ Over the years, I’d told Baxter everything. He listened to my full story.

Nearly everything.

Ruby is beating away at the piano. She sings along to the tune she composed for Art.

‘I want you to call home to let Robert know you’re OK, stay here for a couple of days to calm down, and then go back to your life.’ Baxter is filled with sadness, I can tell. He’s thinking that either Robert or I could die in a fire, and he’s probably right. The blaze is already out of control.

I don’t call Robert to tell him we’re OK. Ruby and I trudge around the streets of Brighton, remembering. We sit on the shore like we did when we escaped the fire. Baxter’s flat has been restored but Patrick can’t be. I take Ruby to see his grave. We leave flowers from Baxter’s shop. I miss Robert. I miss my home. It’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be. My past ensures it never will be.

 

It’s Baxter who tells me Ruby has left. He can’t sleep – he hears exploding glass and screams at night since the fire – and he has found Ruby’s hastily scrawled note on the kitchen counter.

‘All holidays come to an end. That’s the point of them. I’ve gone home to Dad. Ruby x.’

‘That’s it then,’ I say. ‘And I didn’t even write any postcards.’

Baxter fingers my shoulders as if my bones are the keys of his piano. He grinds at the knots of muscle that cling to my skeleton. ‘I have a feeling that Robert will understand why you did what you did. Tell him everything. Be so honest it hurts.’

It takes me most of the day to pluck up the courage. It’s like sweeping leaves on a windy day. My courage tumbles away on the first breathy gust of trouble.

By lunchtime, Ruby texts me to say she got home OK and that Robert wasn’t cross. I try to call her but her mobile phone diverts straight to the message service.

‘I’m coming home too, babe,’ I confide and hang up.

 

The train pulls in to Victoria Station just after 5 p.m. Knowing Ruby was safe with Robert, I didn’t leave Brighton until mid-afternoon. I took a walk on the beach with Baxter, slipped my arm round his fat girth while he played with my hair.

From the station, I take a taxi home.

The house smells of dirty laundry and stale food. Robert hasn’t emptied the bins. I see a crumpled packet of Marlboro on the counter and wonder who’s been smoking. I walk around the entire house, like a ghost searching for someone to haunt. The place is completely empty.

‘Rob?’ I call, in case he and Ruby are hiding. They’ll jump out at any minute with kazoos and balloons and party poppers.

The thing is, I’ve forgotten what I’ve done wrong.

The house telephone rings, making me freeze. I stalk back into the kitchen, like a lioness pacing around injured prey. I hang back from the machine as it takes a message.

‘Rob? You there, Rob?’ A pause and then, ‘Pick up if you’re there. Damn it, call me.’

The machine beeps and clicks. I’d recognise Den’s voice anywhere. So Robert’s not at the office. I comfort myself by imagining that he’s taken Ruby to see a movie and then for ice cream. A coming-home treat.

There is a laptop computer on my kitchen table. It’s not Robert’s. It has recently been used because it’s plugged into both the power point and the telephone point and a screensaver, made up of rotating pictures of a man I don’t recognise, swims across the screen. He’s nice looking. Someone’s husband.

I brush my finger across the touch pad and the man dissolves to Outlook Express. There is a rack of unfamiliar emails. For some reason – perhaps my unconscious eye glimpses it first – my heart quickens at the list of unread messages.

Without taking my eyes off the laptop screen, I slide a chair behind me and sit down. I don’t understand whose computer this is and why it is in my kitchen. I can only guess, my heart a caged animal, why my name is mentioned in the subject line of a message from someone called James Hammond.

I double click on the message. There is no saliva in my mouth.

I have to get away from this computer. I run to the bay window in the lounge and scan the street for Robert and Ruby walking home, drunk on ice cream, fizzy pop and a feel-good movie. Perhaps they’ve been bowling or shopping or eaten a hamburger and chips. I study each car cruising by in case they’ve been for a drive but no cars pull up into the empty space outside our house.