Читать книгу He Will Find You: A nail-biting and emotional psychological suspense for 2018 - Diane Jeffrey, Diane Jeffrey - Страница 14

~

I’m desperate to get out of the house, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to go outside the next morning, either. The rain is still beating down, although, looking out through the bars of our bedroom window, I can see a tiny patch of clear sky over the lake. My mother used to say if there was enough blue to make a pair of trousers for a sailor, the weather would turn out fine. Wishing I’d inherited her optimism as I stare at the sky, I reflect that the seaman in question would have to be fairly small.

I sigh, and Alex pleads with me to get back into bed. He’s lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. He seems to be appraising my bare body. I kneel on the bed next to him.

‘Lie on your tummy,’ I order. He doesn’t move for a second or two, but then he turns over. I start to knead his shoulders. He groans – in pleasure, I hope, rather than pain, but just in case, I massage his muscles more softly.

‘Is this new?’ I ask, running my fingers over his right shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’

‘Is what new? Oh, the tattoo. Well, I had it done before Justin Bieber if that’s what you mean.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Bastard has the same tat. It’s Banksy.’

‘I know that,’ I say, admiring the artwork inked onto Alex’s skin. The picture is of a girl with her hand stretched out towards a red balloon. ‘My nephew Oscar is a big fan. We’ve taken him to Bristol a couple of times to see Banksy’s street art and some of his works on display at M Shed.’

‘Well, Girl with a Balloon appeared on a wall somewhere in London, not Bristol,’ Alex informs me. ‘I still haven’t decided if I want the caption inked on next to it.’

‘What is it?’

‘There is always hope,’ he says.

I examine it again. The balloon is heart-shaped. It’s not clear to me if the girl has let go of the balloon or if she’s trying to catch it. Either way, it’s out of her reach. Before I can ask Alex any more about it, he jumps out of bed.

‘Breakfast in bed,’ he says. ‘You wait here.’

I’m left for a while to muse on Alex’s choice of body art design. I would have thought he’d go for something more athletic, but I’m not sure what exactly. I suppose you wouldn’t have the five Olympic rings unless you’d actually competed in an Olympic Games. Or the Nike logo unless they sponsored you. And a slogan like “no pain, no gain” would be a bit trite. But something along those lines. I didn’t even know he had a tattoo. I’m surprised at this, although I’d only seen him naked once before coming here, and on that occasion the lights were dimmed.

I allow myself to reminisce about that night. It was four months ago. I close my eyes and can feel myself smiling. I remember Alex stripping off his clothes in a few seconds flat and then climbing into bed. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching me undress as he waited for me to join him. I’d been amused and turned on by how keen he seemed. Thinking about it now, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t see the tattoo on the back of his shoulder.

I noticed the scars, though. At the time, I didn’t dare ask him about those. Now, I’m burning with curiosity.

Alex comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray. Smelling the toast, I’m conscious of how hungry I am. I plump the pillows up behind me and sit up straight as he puts the tray down carefully on my lap and gets into bed next to me.

‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he warns, twirling a strand of my red wavy hair between his fingers and then taking a mug from the tray.

At first I don’t understand what he’s referring to, but then I catch him looking down pointedly at my tummy.

‘Lie-ins will soon be nothing more than a distant memory,’ he adds. ‘Or is the plural lies-in?’ He slurps his tea.

‘No. You were right first time. Lie-ins.’

‘Ask the language expert,’ he says. He puts his mug down on the bedside table, and then he starts to fondle one of my breasts. ‘And is it my imagination, or have these already got a bit bigger?’

‘It’s wishful thinking on your part, I’d say,’ I reply, mirroring his grin. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject of bodies …’ I begin in a more serious voice.

‘Ye-es?’

Gently, I take his arm and stroke his wrists. ‘Can I ask about your scars?’

‘OK,’ he says, but then there’s an awkward silence and I regret bringing it up. ‘Well, it’s not a big secret. I was nineteen,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d left school. I was supposedly on a gap year, but I ran out of money very early on, got dumped by my girlfriend when we were in Australia and came home. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd, we were taking drugs, I got depressed …’

‘Go on,’ I say when he pauses.

‘Long story short, one evening I decided to end it all. I was a stupid, self-absorbed teenager. I ran a hot bath, got in and slit my wrists.’

I’d only seen scars on his left wrist. I resist the urge to turn over his right arm, particularly as he’s holding his mug and I don’t want to scald him.

He sees me peering at his other hand, though, and adds, ‘Well, my wrist. I did it wrong. Used my right arm. Apparently if you’re right-handed, like I am, you should start by slitting your right wrist. That way, you can finish the job off better when you need to swap hands. And I managed to cut into a tendon in my left arm. I was in agony even though I hadn’t cut nearly deep enough to kill myself. So, it was a botched job.’

I can hear my own breathing. It has become shallow. I’m uncomfortable talking about his suicide attempt, so I don’t say the words that have just wormed their way into my head. There are more foolproof methods than slitting your wrists. Nor do I point out that he should have cut vertically rather than across his wrists. How do I even know that? ‘I’m so glad it was a botched job,’ I say instead, nuzzling in to him as much as I can without upsetting the breakfast tray on my lap or the mug in his hand.

‘So am I,’ he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.

And then it hits me like a punch to the stomach. If Alex was nineteen, I would have been seventeen. My chest tightens at that thought and I feel nauseous. I have a sudden vision of Alex throwing himself off a cliff and plummeting to his death.

I leap out of bed, making Alex cry out as I cause him to spill his tea. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Seconds later, he is next to me, holding back my hair with one hand and rubbing my back the other as I throw up into the toilet.

‘Morning sickness,’ he comments wryly when I’ve finished retching.

It’s not, but I don’t contradict him.

~

The sun comes out in the early afternoon and so Alex drives us the short distance into Grasmere. I’d rather walk, but I don’t protest; I’m just happy to get out of the house. There are lots of people out and about. From the car park, it’s a short walk to St Oswald’s church, where William Wordsworth is buried. We follow the path round to the back of the church, walking on paving stones with people’s names and hometowns engraved on them. From a much bigger paving slab, I read aloud the first verse of ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’, Wordsworth’s most famous poem.

After Alex has shown me the Wordsworth family’s tombstones, we go by foot to Dove Cottage, a little further up the road. The sign on the house says The loveliest spot that man hath ever found. ‘It is really beautiful here,’ I say. ‘I can see why the area inspired him to write his poetry.’

‘He lived in this cottage with his sister, Dorothy,’ Alex says informatively. ‘They were very close.’

Unbidden, tears well up in my eyes, and I brush them away with my sleeve before Alex can see. I miss Louisa terribly. When we were little, we swore we would live together in the same house, with our husbands. Being without her is like being without a part of myself. Even now, all sorts of things remind me of her. Smells, songs, phrases. Not for the first time, I wonder if one day the void in me can be filled.

By now I’m used to feeling I’m not quite complete, but I feel a very special bond with Alex, similar to the one I once had with my twin sister. Alex and I like the same music, the same activities, the same TV programmes. He often reads my mind, just like Louisa did.

‘There’s a walk that goes from here to Rydal Mount,’ Alex says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘That’s the house he bought once he became rich and famous.’

‘Ooh, can we go and see it?’

‘Well, it’s about five and a half miles altogether,’ Alex says, ‘and there’s a bit of a hill.’

‘I won’t break, Alex.’

‘Yes, but you’re supposed to be taking things easy, the doctor said.’

‘She also said it would do me good to walk.’

‘It’s a bit chilly, though. Wordsworth died because he caught a cold you know,’ he says, elbowing me playfully in the ribs.

‘That was in 1850,’ I say, pleased with myself for remembering the date on the tombstone. ‘Anyway, if you show me the way instead of standing around pretending to argue with me, we’ll soon warm up climbing that hill you mentioned.’

Alex chuckles. ‘Come on, then.’

He takes my hand and leads me along a country lane. He proves himself to be a great guide and he knows a lot about the area, its geography and its history. He points out Helm Crag, whose distinctive peak, according to Alex, has earned it the nickname the Lion and the Lamb. I stare at it, shielding my eyes, but I can’t see anything remotely resembling a large feline or a woolly ruminant.

‘That sounds more like the name of a pub than of a fell,’ I comment, but if Alex hears me, he doesn’t respond.

It’s a lovely walk and the sun stays with us the whole time. I’m so glad that the weather has brightened up and we weren’t stuck in the house all day today like we were yesterday, although after my journey up here, it was great to have a lazy day, too, especially as it was spent mostly in bed with Alex. I look at Alex and he smiles at me. A warm feeling of happiness engulfs me as I beam back.

‘This route is part of the Coffin Trail,’ Alex announces, a little further up the hill. That wipes the smile off my face for a moment.

‘The Coffin Trail?’

‘Yes. People used to carry the coffins down this hill to St Oswald’s church to bury their dead.’

We continue to walk up the hill and after a while, we arrive at the tiny village of Rydal. A dog barks as we walk around the grounds of Wordsworth’s home, and again as we walk away, down the hill. On our left is a large sloping field.

‘This is Dora’s field,’ Alex resumes. ‘Dora was Wordsworth’s favourite daughter and he was heartbroken when she died.’

‘What did she die of?’ I ask, intrigued.

He shrugs. ‘No idea,’ he says. ‘He lost all his children. Dora was the only one left but then she died, too. He planted hundreds of daffodils in this field as a memorial to her. It’s quite impressive in the spring when the flowers are in bloom.’

A line from the verse I read on the church paving stone echoes in my head.

A host of golden daffodils.

‘That’s so sad,’ I say.

‘Yes, it is,’ Alex agrees. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like for a father to lose his children.’

It crosses my mind that in a way Alex has lost his daughters. For the moment, at least. His ex-wife won’t let him see them. I wonder if that’s what is going through his head. Then my thoughts turn to my own father. And my mother. It seems to me that it’s somehow far worse for a mother to lose a child, but I keep this to myself.

Alex and I sit down on a wooden bench and admire the view over Rydal Water.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Alex says, letting go of my hand and thrusting his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He brings out a small blue jewellery box.

I open it and gasp at the necklace inside. ‘Thank you. It’s beautiful,’ I say. And it is. It’s a red heart crystal pendant on a silver chain and I’m instantly reminded of his tattoo.

Alex puts it around my neck and I hold my hair up and bow my head so that he can do up the clasp.

‘Maybe you can wear it on the day,’ he suggests.

I tilt my head upwards to kiss his lips, suddenly aware that the sun has gone behind a cloud and the air has become cooler since we’ve been sitting on the bench. Alex must feel me shiver as he suggests we get on with our walk.

I take his hand as we get up from the bench, but he pulls it away to scratch his nose. I turn my head to follow his gaze and see a woman coming down the path towards us, chatting away to her little white dog. I’m not sure what breed it is. I sense Alex hesitate next to me before striding more purposefully up the path. I have to quicken my pace to keep up.

The woman widens her dark oval eyes, which seem to bore into me as she approaches. I think she’s about to say something as she opens her large mouth, revealing a rather prominent set of very white teeth. She has short dark brown hair with red highlights, and severely plucked eyebrows, which only serve to heighten the look of shock on her face. She brushes my arm as we pass.

‘Do you know her?’ I whisper.

‘Never seen her before in my life.’ He has answered me so loudly that I nudge him, certain that the woman has heard him.

But I can tell something is not quite right. I look at him askance.

He glances over his shoulder. ‘I’m just a bit wary of dogs,’ he admits in a much quieter voice than before.

This amuses me. That white dog is so small, after all, and Alex is tall and strong, and he doesn’t seem to be afraid of much.

Something else I didn’t know about him. Perhaps I don’t know him quite as well as I thought. This idea makes me a little uneasy, but that feeling is quickly dispelled as I imagine the fun we’ll have getting to know each other better.