The Beauty of the End (21 page)

41

A
lone, I sit on the narrow bed at the back of my cell as reality closes in. I think about April's life slowly slipping away from her; how dangerous Will is, and how evil. How my future is in Bea's hands. How the link between Will and Norton has to be April. How even now, there is no proof.

I think of the lies Will's told Bea, and Ryder, too, painting me as the twisted monster, who had never got over losing April. Who lost his mind, murdered Norton.

Only it's Will who's the monster. Suddenly I'm cold. Is it Will, too, who murdered Norton? Who never got over losing April? Will, not me, whose judgment is in question, whose arrogance has pushed him over the edge.

And of course, given the choice between the smooth, accomplished, life-saving surgeon and the reclusive writer who walked away from his legal career, it's obvious who is the more credible, more reliable; the man you would trust with your life.

Then I think about what Bea told me. If there'd been another baby, if it had been mine, she'd have told me, surely, during that time we were together. Then my mind wanders, back to the days when April seemed consumed by darkness; to the memories I've buried away.

I feel a wave of shame, as I remember Bea's scathing words, her utter disbelief, because she's right. There are more lies, embedded in the life I've created, away from the eyes of the rest of the world. Lies I've told not just other people, but myself.

 

 

 

It was my first winter at university. Five months since I'd seen her. February, a cold, grey month of heavy coats and woollen scarves. Mine was navy, a double-breasted coat that used to belong to my father, on the big side and not really student attire, but perfect for walking city streets, imagining myself the successful lawyer I would one day be.

London's a big city to search for someone, but I'd had a clue. The name of a diner where she worked, that she'd let slip, never imagining I'd turn up there. There were a few by the same name, but I'd narrowed it down. Not that I'd gone in. I remember I'd lurked in a doorway, watching her in the bright lights inside, her easy smile, her long hair neatly tied back as she took orders and carried trays.

I couldn't tell her how I'd watched her, mesmerized, for nearly five hours, my hands deep in my pockets, shivering as I'd felt the temperature drop, terrified that if I went away for just five minutes, she'd disappear. She wasn't the only one with secrets; I'd been too embarrassed to ever tell her.

* * *

I remember seeing her, just before ten o'clock, pulling on her coat, making her way to the door, called back briefly by another girl, before she finally stepped outside. I remember I'd had to orchestrate my arrival to time it to perfection, crossing the street just as she crossed the other way, as I knew she would. I'd watched her the previous night, too.

I remember the surprise on her face, the faint flush to her cheeks that could have been the cold. How she'd kissed me, on the cheek, hesitantly, then drawn back. We'd had a trivial conversation, in which I'd told her I'd been up there for a lecture. Only I hadn't. That was a lie, too.

Had I noticed under the coat? In the glow of street lamps it was hard to tell, but I'd seen her working, hadn't I? Beneath the apron tied around her waist, her shape had most definitely changed. I'd seen that.

Bea was right. I'd told myself she'd put on weight. Eaten too many meals at the diner, in doing so choosing to turn away. How could I have done that? Here, twenty years too late, I do the math. And I know.

So many times I told myself April abandoned me. But she'd been pregnant with my child, and at the time she most needed me, I'd abandoned her. My eyes fill with tears of shame, but I'm confused, too, because later, when we were going to be married, when we should have had no secrets, why hadn't she told me?

She must have seen me look, then look away. Heard the silence where there should have been words, asking her. Felt alone when I should have been with her. It was my doing that our wedding hadn't happened. This was what had come between us.

There was a baby I hadn't known about. My baby. I think of Bea's words.
There was always so much you didn't know.
She'd said it twice, the first time when April left me just before the wedding, and again, just recently
.
All along, Bea had known.

I know I must find Bea. Find out if the baby lived.

Getting up, I pace the small room, agitated, needing answers; more than ever needing a drink, then another and probably another, until the alcohol deadens the memories that have surfaced, raw and bleeding. My inadequacies, my failures, my mistakes, because I've lied to myself about those, too.

Within the confines of the cell, my thoughts bombard me, then rebound only to ricochet off the walls to come at me again. Here, there is no fantasy world to escape to, no whisky bottle to numb my mind until they've gone. Just hard, cold reality, staring me in the face, as in the half darkness, the almost silence, for what feels like an endless night I'm forced to wait.

42

I
must have eventually dozed, because I'm woken by the presence of someone beside me, led back to the same room as before, where Ryder's already sitting, his back to me.

I take the seat opposite, my blood chilling, as I look at his face.

“Rather convenient, isn't it? How you forgot to tell us you were a lawyer?”

“I don't see it's relevant,” I tell him. “It was a long time ago.”

He fidgets impatiently in his seat. “Clarify one thing for me. Are you here in your capacity as a lawyer or as you told us, an old friend?”

“I can't exactly represent someone who's unconscious. When she comes round, that will be up to Ms. Rousseau.” A textbook answer he can't argue with.

“Well, that's looking less and less likely,” Ryder snarls back. “She's got a chest infection today, tomorrow it'll be pneumonia, the day after that, they'll switch the machines off.”

And though I'm hating every word that comes out of his mouth, it's a picture I've already painted, too many times.

“Your prints are everywhere,” Ryder says softly. “All over her house. How often have you been there?”

“She leaves a key.” I meet his stare, play his game. “For people who know.”

‘There's another thing.” His voice hardens. “Does the name Paul Rogers mean anything to you?”

As he speaks, I feel the blood drain from my face.

Ryder sounds almost triumphant. “Got him off a rape charge, according to my records. Only he was guilty after all, wasn't he? He was convicted a year later, for raping a twelve-year-old girl, it says here.” Hanging on the
twelve
, waving his sheaf of notes at me. “Not your proudest moment, I'd say.” Across the table, his face looms close to mine. “But you know that, don't you, Calaway? And you bloody ran away because that's what you do.”

As he pauses, it all comes back.
Paul Rogers
. . . A name I've never forgotten, though I wish I could, which replays, over and over in my head, as I think of the glittering career I'd worked so hard to build. The guilt and the shame that have haunted me since, because if I'd handled the case differently, maybe I could have prevented another attack. As I bury my face in my hands, Ryder goes on.

“Here's what I think. You're a washed-up lawyer and a flaming alcoholic who lives in a dream world. I've seen the bottles in your room. One only has to look at you. You're a mess.”

“The case wasn't that simple,” I tell him through gritted teeth, feeling the sweat on my face running down my body under my shirt, but Ryder hasn't finished.

“Bet you're craving a drink, aren't you? A nice glass of scotch that burns your throat and warms you on its way down? Like the feel of it, don't you? Only you want another glass, then another, until it fills your veins. Buries the most sordid memories, doesn't it? Solves everything . . .” Pausing, he smirks. “Bit hot, are you?”

As I feel in my pocket for a handkerchief to mop my brow, I notice my hands shaking.

His eyes pointedly on my hands, Ryder's clearly noticed.

“I know your sort,” he says maliciously. “With your whisky bottles, pouring another and another, knocking it back, until your pitiful little life and everyone in it disappears.”

He's taunting me, with every word peeling away another layer of my skin. Under the rawness of my pain, I feel myself shiver.

Leaning forward, he speaks more quietly. “Thing is, Calaway, you've told so many lies, I can't believe a bleeding word you say.”

* * *

I don't remember being led back to my cell. I'm not thinking, just feeling, a bunch of raw nerve cells, in a world that has imploded, in which I'm trapped.

It's a world in which I failed; one where I defended a rapist, who'd lied to everyone, whom I'd suspected was guilty, but who'd had contacts. Who walked out of court and later preyed on a teenage girl. The real reason I walked away from my career.

* * *

I imagine it's because Ryder finds no hard evidence that after twenty-four hours I'm free to go. It's late, the night damp with drizzle, but I walk, aware of the entire day I've missed, of time like sand slipping through my fingers. Slowly, my strength returns, and I feel the mist lift and my mind clear; walking faster, until it comes to me what I have to do first. Pausing for a moment to text Will.

I imagine his stunned surprise as he realizes I'm no longer being held by the police, the curiosity he won't be able to resist. But I no longer care. Almost immediately he replies.

I text Bea.

Then back at the B&B, I'm met by my landlady, who's clearly waited up for me.

“Mr. Calaway? Could I have a word?” I wonder how long she's been sitting, fretting, wondering if I'm coming back. “This is quite difficult.... But you know, about the police and everything. .
.”

“I can assure you I haven't done anything wrong,” I tell her. “Detective Sergeant Ryder has his wires crossed; he just doesn't know it. We're trying to solve the same case, that's all.”

“I don't know. . . .” And I see her cozy, chintz world has been threatened by the mistrust left in Ryder's wake. Her eyes flit anxiously. “It's just that this is a certain type of establishment. Our guests expect certain things.”

“If it would help, I can pay you now.” As I reach in my pocket for my wallet, she backs away as if half expecting me to produce a loaded weapon. I peel off some notes, counting them.

“I'm terribly sorry if I've inconvenienced you, or any of the other guests. There's enough there to cover what I owe you—plus another night,” I tell her. “Then I'll leave.”

* * *

Upstairs, Ryder's presence is in my room, in my emptied holdall, my clothes spread carelessly about the floor, the pointlessness of the squeezed-out shampoo bottle in the bathroom. Catching sight of my reflection, I see what my landlady saw just now.

I stare at the face in the mirror, for a moment not recognizing it as my own. It's old, world weary, causes anger to rise unexpectedly in me.

Scattered around are the empty whisky bottles that Ryder found. I look for the half-filled one next to the television. Holding it for a moment like a lifeline, I'm about to twist the top off it and drink straight from the bottle.

Then somehow finding iron strength in my shaking hands, I ignore the voice in my head telling me that I'll only go out and buy another. I take it into the bathroom and pour it away.

Something happens to me then, and as my body starts to shake, emotions, long buried, clamber to the surface. It's not just how I look. Hating how I'm feeling, I punch the door frame. Twice, three times, focusing on the pain in my bleeding knuckles before clutching them, leaning back against the wall, slipping silently to the floor.