4
It’s been a while since I sent the email to the journalist who wrote the article about the Cranes, and he’s finally responded. I’m meeting the bloke today, though yesterday’s encounter with Elias has left me badly off-balance.
The pub in south London is exactly the kind of place I’d expected – though I hoped to be wrong.
A squat, weary building on the outskirts of the city, with crusted paint around the windows and a wooden sign that groans on its hinges every time the wind slaps it.
A place set to look like it serves grudges by the gallon.
Inside, every beer spilled since the seventies seems to have left a ghost behind. They all rise to meet me the second I step through the door, tangled with the scent of damp wool and fryer grease.
I definitely do not belong here, and it’s clear from the way the man behind the bar sizes me up like I’m a solicitor come to audit their till.
The outdated pop song playing low does little to soften the ambience.
Before MacLeish gets here, I order a black coffee – mostly for my hands to have something to hold – but the barman scoffs and tells me the machine’s been ‘temperamental since May’. He leaves out the year. But that’s enough for me.
So, after settling with sparkling water that tastes as though the barman used it to wash his socks, I wait at a crooked round table near the window.
MacLeish turns up late, looking like someone who takes Captain Morgan for breakfast and Richmonds for dinner.
Bloodshot eyes. Creased shirt. Old sweat, arriving half a second before he slumps into the seat opposite me.
I can’t tell whether his hair is naturally ash-coloured or just hasn’t seen shampoo in days.
‘I dinnae really remember the details, if I’m honest,’ he says with a faint tug of a Scottish accent after hearing my brief introduction to this mistake of a meeting.
He barely glances up as the waiter delivers his rum.
The server’s expression shifts from distaste to curiosity as his eyes flick between MacLeish and me, but he says nothing and moves on.
‘That’s quite surprising,’ I say, keeping my tone light but pointed. ‘It’s not every day you get the chance to write about patricide in Great Britain.’
He snorts into his drink. ‘No, but there’s worse shite than that I get tae chase.’
He tries, awkwardly, to sound refined – like a man who believes he works for The Guardian, rather than whatever back-alley online publication still tolerates him.
Letting the silence sit there on purpose, slouched and smug, he takes his time with the rum.
My grip firms around my glass.
The bastard is waiting for me to blink first.
I debate whether my stomach can take another minute of this without losing the dim sum I had for lunch.
I push again. ‘I’m trying to understand what was left out – the family history, not just the arrest line.’
‘What paper did ye say ye were from again?’ He squints, blinking as though he’s only just registered me. Then he sloshes his glass and smacks his lips like a dementia patient who’s forgotten his meds.
‘I’m not,’ I say smoothly. ‘I’m a writer. I’m working on a thriller.’ Not even a hitch in my voice.
I hate that.
‘Ohhhh,’ he drawls, posture loosening, gaze shifting from scrutiny to ease. That single syllable melts away his guardedness like cheap wax. ‘Well, then ye might want tae speak wi’ the brother.’
I school my expression. Under the table, my fingers curl against my palm. ‘I thought you didn’t remember the case.’
His eyes sharpen. ‘I said I didnae remember the details.’ His thumb rubs against his forefinger where it rests on the table. ‘It’s hard bein’ a journalist nowadays – with blogs and social media and all the rest of it. Folk’ll believe anything.’
The latter comes out slower, more meaningful.
I grind his words quietly between my molars, nails digging crescent moons into my palm beneath the table.
When the meaning finally sets in, my tongue presses hard against the back of my teeth and my nails bite deeper into my skin. ‘Are you saying the article wasn’t true?’
He snaps up in his seat like a puppet yanked upright.
‘I’m sayin’ cash is hard tae come by, as I’m sure a wee no-name writer like yerself understands.’
His eyes drop briefly to my handbag.
I narrow my eyes at him, fingers already twitching. Because he’s been selling me bloody gossip.
Jaw clenched, I slap fifty quid against the table, and he snatches it as if it might grow legs and run off.
‘Old man Crane was known for a bit o’ domestic violence, yeah,’ he mutters, eyes darting to the side. ‘Heard it didnae take much tae get the boy worked up wi’ him.’
I stare. ‘You left that out in the article.’
He grins. ‘Can’t print what ye can’t prove. But knock on enough doors, ye hear things.’
‘What about his mother?’ I ask.
He regards me shrewdly for two long breaths.
‘Typically,’ I say hurriedly, ‘when someone grows up with one parent missing and the other violent, they internalise it. Could be the basis for something more sinister.’
He hums. ‘Emotionally stunted, no secure attachment figure, aye?’ His lips curl into a sneer. ‘Christ. Ye women watch too many crime dramas and think ye’ve got a bloody doctorate in forensic psychology. Sociopathic da’, absent mum, troubled son, jealous brother?’
I try not to make it obvious that my mind has latched onto the adjective he’s attached to the brother.
When no follow-up comes, and two thick beats of silence hang between us, I reach into my bag again. Fingering another note, I pull it out and slide it across the table. The Queen stares back from it as if she’s in on the joke.
‘And what else have you heard?’
He grins a mouthful of crooked, yellowed teeth and pulls a battered packet of cigarettes from his coat. He taps one halfway out and offers it to me.
I glance pointedly at the NO SMOKING sign at the door, and he follows my gaze. With a muttered curse, he tucks the cigarette behind his ear and takes another swallow of rum instead, enjoying the tiny kingdom of leverage I’ve handed him.
‘I’ve heard…’ he drawls then, clearly enjoying the stage he’s placed himself on. There’s a pause, drawn-out and purposeful, as though he thinks I might gasp or beg. But when I don’t so much as blink, he moves on. ‘There’s some… unhealthy brotherly rivalry in the mix. Some lass.’
My brow twitches. ‘What does that have to do with Arthur Crane?’ I ask, keeping my tone level, though it takes everything in me not to recoil from his proximity.
One of his bony shoulders rises. ‘As I said—’ He smiles. ‘Big brother might have a few answers.’
His grin widens with obvious pleasure in himself: he’s just swindled a hundred pounds out of me for little more than a breadcrumb.
I nod slowly and thank him, resisting the urge to demonstrate my actual sentiment by sending my glass with the entirety of its questionable contents into his face.
Pushing my chair back with grace, I gather my things and remind myself that cockroaches are rarely worth the effort.
Nevertheless, the word brother follows me all the way to the door – along with an ugly flicker of relief that I’m no longer chasing the wrong question.
Less than half an hour later, I step through my front door.
As I’m shedding my boots, voices drift from down the hall, and I head into the sitting room.
Before I even reach the kitchen archway, I recognise who one of them belongs to.
‘Marina?’ I frown.
‘Hey, Leah,’ she says and looks at Anna. They both go quiet, offering me a particular look that raises my hackles.
My weight shifts to both feet at that. ‘What happened?’
They look at me, then at each other again.
‘I thought you should know—’ Marina murmurs. ‘I’ve declined a job.’
Something cold and rotten claws up my neck even before she supplies the rest – Marina never declines jobs.
‘It’s Ron’s wedding.’
For a second, the world loses sound.
I see him in the kitchen of our old place, phone turned face-down the instant I walked in. Ron coming home late. Ron kissing my forehead and telling me I worried too much.
Me, believing him.
Sure, I left him, but leaving isn’t the same as being free of it; I still carry the ruin with me, even after learning to breathe around a wound that never quite closed. And now he’ll be standing somewhere in a pressed suit and polished shoes with his hand around hers, promising forever.
The same fucking word he gave me.
My next breath stops halfway in. I try again and get even less air.
‘Sit down!’ Anna says, rushing towards me and guiding me into the sitting room. ‘Feet on the floor. Slow breaths. You know this.’ She continues rambling, but my ears are ringing too loudly to make out the words.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, then repeat it. And again. The couch cushions suddenly feel as though they’re about to swallow me whole.
‘Well,’ Anna says, too brightly, ‘would it help to know he’s already moved on to woman number three?’
I blink.
‘What?’
The chiming in my head swells until Marina’s voice reaches me as if through several feet of water. ‘He’s marrying the mother of his child,’ she says, giving me a pointed look. ‘But people saw him with some waitress last Friday.’
Something inside me drops clean through the floor.
Woman number three. Or twelve.
They say it as if I’m meant to be grateful that he’s that much of a bastard; as if that somehow refunds what he took from me.
Ten years suddenly open behind me like evidence. Late meetings. Boys’ nights. Calls he forgot to return. Showers the second he got home to wash off the truth. Silences I called tiredness because tiredness was easier to process.
How many?
I start counting backwards through our life like an idiot archivist of my own humiliation, lifting every memory to the light and finding it stained by someone else.
And the part that burns? It’s the question that comes slithering in anyway: what was wrong with me that I didn’t see it?
What the fuck was I doing while he was making a fool of me for a whole decade?
Loving him.
Defending him when Anna raised an eyebrow.
Making excuses when Marina ranted.
Choosing paint for our home.
Picking children’s names I never got to share with him.
Building a life around someone who had already chipped away at it before its foundations were even set.
I rake my fingers through my hair to let the cooler air through. Anna and Marina trade snide little shots over him, but the words blur.
Locking onto a spot on the wall my brain made up, I focus on my breathing.
Christ.
My hand lands against my stomach without me even realising I’ve moved it.
I wanted children with him.
What if I’d had them?
What if I’d sunk so far into that life—
‘Come on, we drink today.’ Anna tugs at my elbow. ‘This is a celebration.’
My lids move fast, as if that might clear the fog in my head. ‘Celebration?’ I echo, half-stunned.
The room won’t sharpen into focus.
‘A bullet dodged, little sister.’ She crosses to the cabinet and reaches for the top shelf.
My stomach turns the second I see the vodka bottle.
I glance at the lavatory door in the hall, measuring whether I could make it before I’m sick on the carpet.
‘Nothing like vodka to burn off the past.’
‘Terrible medical advice,’ Marina supplies.
‘Excellent family tradition.’ Anna points the tip of the bottle at her. ‘You need it, I need it, and she needs it.’
Marina’s face folds. ‘Why do I need it?’
‘Because your friend is hurting.’ The words come wrapped around a threat only a big sister can pull off. ‘Though I’m sure E. Crane will help her rebound right back.’
My head jerks towards her, mouth dropping open.
I am actually going to lose that dim sum now.
Marina gasps, mildly stunned. ‘You’re not involved with him, are you?’
‘Of course not!’ I howl.
The room tilts. I’m on my feet within seconds. ‘I need a moment.’
They don’t stop me when I bolt upstairs and cocoon myself in my duvet. Clean sheets. Laundry soap. Cotton. None touches the panic stalking the edges.
Just as my mind starts spooling back to the day I’d found the texts on Ron’s phone—
My gaze catches on a folder on my desk, one corner hanging slightly off the edge.
A taunt as much as a reminder.
My eyes remain on it.
Blue. Bent corner. Elias beneath the flap.
The next inhale fills my lungs completely.
And that’s the problem. There is no sane reason pictures of Elias should anchor me like this. No sane reason the sight of a dangerous man should make my breathing easier when the past comes barrelling through my chest.