Shell House (17 page)

       
When it was approaching a week since she’d moved in she asked Rosa, politely, to go home. She reassured her that she was mentally calm and feeling much better, which was the truth. She wasn’t feeling back to her usual self by any means, but she had shifted from depression to melancholy. This to her was a huge relief and far preferable to the great chasm she’d felt she’d been helplessly lying in. At times she was still staring into the void but it was looming behind her rather than gaping in front of her.

       
All her possessions had been packed up and taken from her old house and her old life, and brought to her in a large van. Rosa had helped her arrange pieces of furniture in each room but Gabrielle had left unpacking the boxes of books and ornaments to when she was alone.

       
She needed physical activity to keep her busy and feel as though she was making herself a home, however temporary it felt. As ridiculous as it seemed when she thought about it, and quite impossible too, she held onto the hope that she would one day be able to go and live near her father, or even with him. As much as she knew this notion would never come to fruition, she didn’t want to lie to herself that it wasn’t what she hoped for.  Although right now, a one hour visit with him would have elated her; even just a phone call when she came to think of it.

       
Having emptied most of the boxes, stored the unwanted ones and generally made the strange house a home, she’d spent the last few days not really knowing what to do with herself, other than to think. She hadn’t even felt inclined to write or make an attempt at the diary she wanted her father to read; it all seemed so very pointless.

       
Her attention was drawn to the telephone that was sat in the hallway. It was a 1980s, green retro affair sat on a dark wood telephone table. It was extremely dated and inconsequential. But to her it represented her father. She’d lifted the handset many times and listened to the dialling tone. She’d promised not to make any phone calls and she knew how serious it’d be if she was traced, and she didn’t want to go through that again. She kept telling herself she’d make a call from her mobile in a few weeks time, forgetting that Rosa had taken it from her to be destroyed. A few friends from where she used to live had called her on it, and as painful as it was, she’d had to ignore them. More than anything, she wanted to speak to her father, and without her mobile the retro phone in the hallway felt like a life jacket being thrown to her. It frightened her, the undefined expanse of time that was laid out until she could speak to him again. What if he died in that time, was all she kept thinking.

       
There was a strange type of anger gurgling up inside her. She’d become aware of it when Rosa had reiterated the no phone call policy before she’d left. Then she’d begun reasoning with herself about whether she could risk a quick call and the emotion had seemed to tap her on the shoulder. There was an odd shift in her that she’d not noticed before and it’d begun when the police had moved her to the temporary safe house. She’d spent her whole life without her mother and most of it being unable to reach her father. All she wanted was the short time with him that he had left and she was beginning to feel angry about being told she couldn’t.

       
The idea of him secretly coming to live there with her had crossed her mind several times but she knew it was absurd and something she couldn’t possibly ask him to do.

       
The problem Gabrielle had was that she was beginning to wonder what she was hiding from and if she wanted to be protected anymore. It seemed that it was everyone else around her who didn’t want her identity to be discovered. She toyed with the idea of moving near her father and facing the music, but then the terrible guilt of what it would put him through and how the Tailbys’ and their family would feel hit her.

       
She got up from where she had been sitting and staring into the garden and wandered into the hallway to turn the heating up, the telephone table glaringly obvious from the corner of her eye. She ignored it and a sudden overwhelming desire to look through her collection of old photos began to sweep over her. She realised she hadn’t looked properly at the ones belonging to her mother. Just the thought of it lifted her spirits. She turned the radio on, made herself a hot drink and emptied boxes of photographs onto the kitchen table. The telephone was forgotten about, for the time being at least, and it was replaced with another idea forming in her head, an idea she needed time to think through.

CHAPTER NINE

        When Harry arrived home from his walk he was surprised to see Jonathan sitting in his kitchen waiting for him.

       
“Decided to return then? Worried about your inheritance?”

       
Jonathan frowned at first; not gathering what his father was on about.

       
“Is that what you think of me? I don’t want your money or anything from you other than to talk.”

        Harry shuffled across the kitchen to put the kettle on. His legs were stiff from the bitterly cold winds.

       
“Anna pleased with herself?”

       
“About what? I haven’t seen her; she left me, remember?”

       
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know she was going to reveal Gabrielle’s identity? Or was it you?”

       
“How bloody dare you! Whatever I think of Gabrielle, she’s still my sister. I could never and would never do something like that. For one thing it’s exposed us all, not just her, so why would I do that? I don’t know if it was Anna or not but it had nothing to do with me.”

       
Harry sighed and sat down at the kitchen table with his son. He removed his hat and gloves but left his coat on, trying desperately to get warm. “What a bloody mess.”

       
“Quite. What are you going to do about it all?”

       
Harry stared at Jonathan and searched his face, unable to believe he was genuinely concerned.

       
“What are you doing here, Jonathan? We haven’t seen or heard from you for weeks and you turn up demanding to know what’s happening.”

       
“I stayed away Dad because, if you remember, you asked me to leave and the reporters were swarming the place.”

       
“Have you heard of the telephone? Marvellous invention.” Harry got up from the table, hearing the kettle begin to boil.

       
“Dad, my wife’s just left me. I couldn’t cope with anything else. I had to go back to work as well and that hasn’t been easy either.” Jonathan raised his hands indignantly and let them drop heavily onto the table.

       
Harry turned to look at him suddenly feeling guilty. “I know son, I’m sorry.”

       
They were both quiet while Harry made a pot of coffee.

       
“So where’s Gabrielle? I was hoping to see her but she doesn’t appear to be here?”

       
“Of course she’s not here. She couldn’t stay after her identity was revealed.” There was still a hint of accusation in Harry’s voice and Jonathan detected it.

       
“You have to believe me, Dad. I did not tell anyone where she was. I’d like to think Anna didn’t either but then the last few weeks have shown me I didn’t really know her at all. Honestly Dad, it had nothing to do with me.”

       
“Okay, okay. I don’t suppose you would, having spent all these years pretending she doesn’t exist.”

       
“That’s really unfair! Why all of a sudden are you making Gabrielle out to be the victim in all of this? You were the one who bloody disowned her in the first place. I grew up believing she was a monster not to be spoken of. You Dad were the one who caused all this!” Jonathan stood up from the table causing his chair to scrape on the old brick weave floor.

       
“Don’t you think I bloody know that!” Harry slammed his coffee cup on the table, spilling it on his hands. He ignored the scolding pain, his voice was broken with emotion and he was trying not to let the tears fall. “I’m trying to put it right. How the hell I do that I don’t know!”

       
“I didn’t mean that, Dad, I’m sorry.” Jonathan moved to his father’s side and grabbed his hand. “You’ve scalded yourself with your coffee. Let me run your hand under the cold tap.”

       
Harry snatched his hand away. “Leave me be, I’m alright.”

       
Jonathan moved away as though he’d been burnt himself.

       
Harry, feeling guilty again at his harshness, reached across and patted his son’s hand. “I’m okay, really.”

       
They sipped their coffee in silence for a while. Jonathan was waiting for Harry to tell him where Gabrielle was. He gave up in the end and broke the silence himself.

       
“So, do you know where she’s gone?”

       
“No. No one’s allowed to know. She’s been sent to a safe house. She said she’d contact me as soon as she could but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

       
“I suppose with all the press coverage she won’t be able to.”

       
“She’ll phone me when she can. I know she will.” Harry’s voice was stiff and terse, covering the pain he was feeling inside. “And in answer to your other question I’m not going to do anything about it. I will sit it out until it blows over.”

       
“Blows over? You must be joking! She was convicted of murdering two children.” Jonathan held up his hands before Harry could say anything

       
Harry physically flinched at his harshness. “She was a child, son. I’ve realised that now. She didn’t have any comprehension of what she was doing. Anyway, I have my doubts about whether she did it at all.”

       
“What makes you say that?” Jonathan shifted in his seat, surprised at what he was hearing.

       
“I don’t know really. Having got to know her I can’t believe she could have done anything like that.”

       
“But like you said yourself, she was a child.”

       
“I know, but I don’t think the case was investigated properly. It was a highly unusual set of circumstances and no one knew what they were doing or how to deal with it. I should have supported her instead of listening to other people and running away like a bloody coward.”

       
“Is that why you’re saying you think she’s innocent? Because you feel guilty?”

       
Harry bristled at his words. “You’re one hell of a crass bastard at times.”

       
“I learnt it from you, Mr Hotshot Barrister.” Jonathan smirked, turning it into a smile, causing Harry to reciprocate.

       
“You’re probably right, but I have this niggling feeling about what happened.”

       
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. Or both of you, but seeing as she’s not here, I guess it’ll just be you, which is probably for the best.”

       
“What?” Harry’s eyes widened with interest. “What’s going on?”

       
“This is really difficult for me Dad, because I’m breaking patient confidentiality. I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing and you must keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself until I find out more.”

       
“Come on, what?” Harry took his coat off, having finally warmed by the heat of the kitchen stove.

       
“I was on call the other night and a message came through to the surgery from Ellen Tailby saying she needed a doctor to visit her at home. There was no one else on call apart from me so in the end I rang her and said I was the only one available but I could request a doctor from another surgery. She said no and that she wanted me to come to the house. I’m not her normal doctor obviously...”

       
“Go on.” Harry fetched a bottle of whiskey from one of the kitchen cupboards and poured them both a hot toddy with the rest of the coffee in the pot.

       
“She wouldn’t tell me what she wanted me to come out for, just said she was ill. So, I got her notes out and made my way over to her house.”

       
“Where was John?”

       
“I don’t know. Pub I think. He wasn’t there anyway. He wouldn’t have let me in, that’s for sure. I shouldn’t have gone really, it’s unethical. A conflict of interest I guess...”

       
“But what else were you supposed to do she’d called for a doctor? You’d be in more trouble if you ignored it, surely?”

       
“I should have insisted she have a doctor from another surgery but at the time I couldn’t see what harm it would do. I’d heard she might be suffering from the early stages of senile dementia and thought she wouldn’t know who I was anyway.”