Читать книгу On Your Doorstep: Perfect for those who loved Close to Home - Laura Elliot - Страница 18

The letters had started to arrive shortly after Isobel’s disappearance. Mostly they were messages of support, offering prayers and hope. Medals, mass bouquets and holy pictures fell from the envelopes. Good luck tokens also came, small packages with crystals and dried bunches of four-leaf clover, amulets and phials of sand or strange-coloured liquids. The latter ones were usually accompanied by long, rambling descriptions of guiding spirits and psychic predictions. But other letters – Carla was unable to tell if the senders were unbalanced or unbelievably cruel – claimed she was being punished by God for her past wanton behaviour. These letters were mostly linked to the lingerie advertising campaign that the press had unearthed. Photographs had been cut from newspapers. Much folded and with suspicious stains, they were enclosed with the anonymous letters. She saw herself in lingerie and transparent tops, boldly posing. How thoughtlessly she had worn such clothes, proud of her body, enjoying the caress of the camera, blissfully unaware that such images would haunt her future.

Whore of Babylon…Scarlet Bitch…Shameless Hussy…God Has Seen Fit To Punish Thy Wickedness.

Since the Garda search had been scaled down, the number of letters had decreased. Carla flung the morning’s post on the table and made a cafetière of coffee. She read every letter she received, searched them for clues, hoping that somewhere in the crazed ramblings she would find the key to Isobel’s disappearance. So far, nothing had been deduced from the well-meaning messages of sympathy – or from the dark sponges that soaked up her misery and squeezed it out again in vile capitals.

A psychic called Miranda May had sent a prediction in this morning’s mail. For once, the letter claiming psychic intuition was short and to the point.

Dear Carla,

I have received strong psychic signals from your daughter. Look for her in a place of stone. She is safe and well-nourished. Do not be downhearted. Keep the candle of hope burning. Your patience will be rewarded.

Miranda May.

Carla grimaced and folded it back into the envelope. The next letter belonged to the ugly category. Even before she opened it she knew, could almost smell the stale air of venom and religious wrath that possessed the senders. She stared at the scrawling handwriting. You deserved God’s retribution…Your child has been spared a life of shame and debauchery…Harlot. The words no longer shocked or alarmed her and nothing she read brought Isobel’s recovery any closer.

She was cupping a cold mug of coffee and staring into space when she heard the doorbell. Two hours had passed since she had picked up the mail. She had no idea where the time had gone or what she had thought about while she was in that vacuum. It happened regularly, snatches of time disappearing, as if her mind closed down in an effort to bring her through the day. Earlier, the sun had been shining but the sky had greyed now and the rain had started falling.

‘I was just about to give up,’ said Raine, shaking out her umbrella. ‘I’ve been standing outside for ages.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you.’ Carla walked back towards the kitchen, conscious, suddenly, of the groceries she had purchased yesterday and dumped on the floor, intending to unpack them later. The frozen food would have to be binned. The smell of last night’s cooking still lingered in the kitchen but she had no memory of the meal she had prepared. She lifted a bundle of laundry from a chair and gestured at Raine to sit down.

‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘It’s just made.’ She lifted the cafetière, touched the cold glass and placed it back down on the table, switched on the kettle.

Usually at some stage during the day, Raine called to see how she was faring. The Anticipation collection was no longer being produced. Mothers-to-be refused to wear a label with such tragic connotations and Raine, who had invested all her finance in the promotional campaign, had been forced to place her small design company in receivership. Ripples upon ripples, thought Carla. Robert in a desk job and she, sitting here day after day, waiting for…what? Her heart to leap whenever the phone or the doorbell rang? To find a clue among the mail she had scattered across her table? To read the papers to see if her daughter had been mentioned? To wait for Robert to come home?

The editor of Weekend Flair had been apologetic but firm when she had phoned Carla to tell her that her contract would not be renewed. Readers of Weekend Flair wanted to be entertained on Sundays, not reminded of the frightening things that could happen if they lowered their guard for an instant. Returning to the catwalk, even if she wanted to do so, was impossible. Her life, she knew, had changed irrevocably. She had no idea what shape her future would take. The future was the next hour. Thinking beyond that was impossible.

She made fresh coffee and carried the cafetière to the table.

‘What’s all this?’ Her sister-in-law pointed to the morning post.

‘They come all the time,’ said Carla. ‘The good, the mad and the ugly.’

Raine, reading one of the letters, shuddered and dropped it back on the table. ‘Sick bastard,’ she muttered. ‘He needs help, preferably from a straitjacket.’

‘Could be a woman.’ Carla shrugged. ‘As usual, it’s anonymous.’

‘Why don’t you destroy this obscene rubbish as soon as you read the opening line?’ Raine demanded.

‘Because…I don’t know…I keep hoping there’ll be a clue.’

‘A clue?’ Raine impatiently interrupted her. ‘We’re talking about the ravings of sick, crazy people. How could you possibly give credence to any of this crap?’

Carla hesitated, swallowed. ‘Maybe this is a punishment…’

‘For what?’ Raine demanded.

‘For the things I did in my past.’

‘Ah! The past.’ Raine tapped the sheaf of envelopes on the kitchen table until they were aligned together. The sound, growing more insistent, echoed her agitation. ‘We’ve all done things in our past that make us wince. Show me someone who hasn’t and I’ll stick pins in them to see if they bleed. No one has the right to sit in judgement—’

‘God has—’

‘God? When did you start believing in God?’

‘It’s easy to mock, Raine.’

‘I’m not mocking you,’ Raine replied. ‘But I want to hear about this God who freeze-framed your past and is now demanding retribution. Is he the same God who said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me”?’

‘It’s the emptiness,’ Carla said. ‘Nothing can fill it. There has to be a reason—’

‘Yes,’ said Raine. ‘A terrible crime was committed. What happened to you and Robert is a tragedy, not a punishment. Have you any more of those letters?’

Carla opened a drawer and emptied the contents over the table.

‘Jesus!’ Raine caught some of the mail in her hands as the letters began to slide over the edge of the table. She placed the letters out of Carla’s reach and pointed towards the kitchen door.

‘Go upstairs, Carla, and change out of that hideous dressing gown. You look like a grizzly bear. You need to get out of here and fast. I’ve some good news for a change. I’ve been offered a job. I’ll tell you about it over lunch.’

When Carla returned downstairs, Raine had sorted the mail into two piles.

‘This stuff has to go.’ She pointed towards the smaller bundle. A much smaller bundle, Carla realised, yet those were the letters that filled her mind. Raine opened the back door. The rain had stopped. A ray of sunshine flared through the clouds. She pulled a barbecue set into the centre of the terrace and flung the letters into the tray.

‘The people who wrote this filth have nothing to do with you…or your past.’ She handed a box of matches to Carla. ‘Torch them,’ she ordered.

The first match blew out but Carla managed to light the second one. She flamed one page then another. They watched the letters curl and brown, the obscene words startlingly visible for an instant before they were consumed.

Over lunch in Sheens, Raine told her that Fuchsia, the British chain store group, had plans to open six fashion outlets in Ireland. They had commissioned Raine to design their rainwear collection.

‘Raine-Wear,’ she said and clinked Carla’s wine glass. ‘What else can it be called?’

‘Here’s to Raine-Wear.’ Carla glanced out the window to see that the rain had once again started falling. ‘Looks like you could be onto a winner with this one.’

‘It’s going to involve a lot of travel.’ Raine frowned, her earlier excitement replaced by anxiety. ‘Mum seems well at the moment, but I suspect she’s doing what she always does, keeping us in the dark about the real situation.’

‘I’ll take care of her.’ Carla reassured her. ‘I need to keep myself busy. This could shorten her life…’

‘That’s not true.’ Raine shook her head. ‘If anything it’s made her stronger. She has no intention of dying until Isobel is back with us again.’