CHAPTER 21
Ella
It is beautiful here, tucked in the quiet pocket of sea-salted countryside. A row of shabby cottages, painted in muted pinks and yellows, sits opposite a field, the trees dotted in brown and orange clumps down the lane. In a way, I’d have loved to live here.
There’s a gentle tap on the car window that makes me jump. Immi’s face pressing close, the cold air tousling at her hair.
“Are you sure you want to do this alone?” Immi asks, leaning into the car, the warm coffee stench drifting out.
Jude’s soft snoring from beside me fills the silence as I look back at the cottages.
Henry’s cottage. It could all be over so soon.
Nate’s face flashes, a gentle smile with crooked front teeth and deep laugh lines around his eyes. Always happy. Always young.
“El?” Immi’s face moves in front of my gaze.
I pull the key, so the engine cuts off, leaving us with the sound of the countryside.
“Yes, I need to do it,” I say. Gratitude swells at the bottom of my chest as I look between the two women. We drove down here in near silence, the sun rising with us as we hit the coastal roads, stopping only for cheap coffee and food. Immi grabs my hand.
“If you’re sure,” she smiles.
Stepping back, she opens the door, and I jump out, squeezing her as I do.
“What will you all do while I’m in there?” I say as she gets into my seat. Jude is still resting, her eyes fluttering and her lips moving slightly. We both don’t have the heart to wake her.
“I’ll catch up on some emails, maybe read the book that I bought.
And if this one ever wakes up, maybe get her some coffee,” Immi says, clicking the car door closed softly.
I bite my lip. The animosity between Jude and Immi has always been unclear to me, but it seems all it took was Henry deciding he wanted to destroy my life to pull them together.
I clutch at my bag, pulling it close to my body.
“Thank you,” I say, turning and crossing the road.
A young girl, in her early twenties maybe, leaves the lane, turning left and walking slowly.
Her painted nails run across the autumnal leaves that hang from the bush, large headphones cover her ears and her hair bobs in a low ponytail as she walks.
The gentle smile on her face, rouged cheeks and clear skin, leave an ache in my chest. That was me once.
I turn, the alley darkening as I step forward.
I knock once, short and sharp, against the bird’s morning song.
The door swings open seconds after the bell rings.
“Amy, did you forget–” The door creaks on its hinges. Henry takes a micro-step back, his bare feet squeaking on the old wooden floor. His wet hair drips gobbets of water onto his white T-shirt, leaving little dark marks.
I cough. “Hello.”
What else is there to say to someone you put in prison?
I thought he’d look different, aged and worn. The walls of prison scratching away at his beauty. But that’s not true, there’s still a brightness in his eyes, and infectious humour on his lips, a dimple in his stubbled chin. It becomes harder to breathe.
“Elsie?”
My resolve crumbles slightly, an unmistakable ache coming back.
I say nothing, caught in time, bouncing between the past and the present. My fingers itch to grab hold of him, to dig my skin into his flesh and to tear away until the feeling in my body dissipates. Instead, I draw my bag closer.
Finally, he says, “Come in.”
The inside of the house is almost as quaint as the outside, the decor is both minimal and comfortable.
A collection of patterned cushions line a worn-looking sofa that sits in the middle of the small living room.
The front door and window almost kiss it.
Despite the size of the room, the soft furnishings create a cosy feel.
My eyes drift to the mantel, where there is a framed picture of Henry, his face pressed tight to the young girl I saw in the lane, so their cheeks push together.
I tighten my grip on my bag, stepping towards the fireplace. For a moment, Henry morphs into the version of who Nate could have been.
“How long have you been out?” I say, turning back to him. He’s a criminal, but as his bare feet shift on the wooden floor, something in me weakens. I pull my bag closer.
“How did you find me?” Henry says, eyes darting back to the door.
There it is, the tell I knew I’d find. The shift in his step wasn’t because of what he’d done to me, but for the silly woman he was playing house with. The little piece of something he was scared to lose.
“What’s her name?” I say, nodding at the framed picture. The edge of my trainer catches on the sofa leg as I move forward. The tongue is embroidered in a simple gold and blue initial of my name. When Rufus had gifted them to me, I laughed with confusion.
“Why do I need my name on my shoe?” I had asked, and he’d kissed me on the forehead like I was a schoolchild.
“They’re custom made, just for you,” he had said, and my cheeks burned.
Now, I tap my toe on the wooden floor. An indicator of who I have become.
“I see you’re doing well for yourself. Lucky for some.” Henry’s eyes scan over me. Through his eyes, I probably have done well; the designer bag, the expensive clothes, the subtle but obvious signs of wealth. I tilt my chin upwards.
“She’s young,” I say.
“How did you find me?” The shift in his voice catches me off guard: rough, hollow anger. Heat races up my neck.
He pushes hair from his face, leaving a wet residue on his fingers. The water marks on his top grow bigger, each one futilely trying to dry before they are soaked again.
“Does your little girlfriend know that you were in prison?” I say, looking for a distraction to the anger that boils. She is me. Hopeful and naive to the fact that this man is evil.
“She’s twenty-three. That’s not little.” He folds his arms.
“Still a big age gap.” I shift, grounding my heels on the floor.
“What do you want, Elsie?” The way he uses my name to run a chill over me, to slap me in the face with all that I hate about myself.
“How did you get out?” The anger makes my voice harsh and taut, it bounces off the walls.
Henry sighs, sinking into the floral sofa against the far wall.
“I was let out. Released. It’s no big conspiracy. It’s been years, I worked hard and did my time.” He smiles.
“In fact, I wanted to speak to you, but I couldn’t find you. I wanted to say sorry.” He leans forward, placing his palms on his jeans.
A sigh pushes out, the anger dissipating once my mind has a chance to process those words. I’m a child again, sat in the prison waiting room while my foot tapped out all the nervous, hopeful energy that bubbled inside of me.
“I’m sorry. I made mistakes, and I hurt you. You didn’t know better, and I didn’t treat you right.”
I sink into a seat opposite. Is that an apology?
Is that enough of an apology?
Does manipulation, coercion, murder and kidnapping deserve to be swept aside with a “sorry”?
We fall into a silence that hums. I know he hasn’t changed, because people can’t do that. You can’t wish yourself into a different person. I would know. I think of Mum, lost, empty and unwilling to move on.
The sting of her palm across my cheek.
The fact that she sent me Henry’s address.
I work my fingers across the edge of my sleeve.
His bare foot taps on the floor.
“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks the tension.
“Why?” I manage, the word barely audible. Nate appears in my mind, moving through the memories I have of him. How is it fair that Henry got to live and Nate never did?
“You did what you had to do,” Henry says.
I shift in my seat, my skin itching. I look at him, the way his cheek dimples and his eyes glisten. This isn’t how it’s meant to go. My anger was meant to drive me, and Henry was meant to tell me where Nate is. And yet, he sits here offering me forgiveness.
“I let you go to prison,” I whisper, because I want to accept his words.
“I deserved it. I hurt someone.” There’s a force in his tone.
Henry rises and comes over, landing on the lumpy sofa so close that his bare arm touches mine. I don’t dare to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Henry says again, but it’s not what I want to hear.
He reaches for my face, and I let him.
To get where I need to, I have to let him.
“You were so young back then.” He cups my face, running a firm thumb over my cheek. My shoulders pull back, but I don’t move away. I can’t.
His eyes land on my lips. My fingers grip at the edge of the cheap sofa. Nate’s voice hovers somewhere in the distance.
My mum’s message tugs at me: Find him.
The air feels cold, his breath pushing against my skin. A sigh fills the gap between us.
He has to have the answers.
“Henry…” I start.
His lips touch mine.
I’m there again, pressed against the tree as the cold April wind whips up my skirt. Henry’s body presses into mine; the kiss was everything I wanted, and yet my hands reach behind, digging into the bark.
I draw my head back now. “Where’s Nate?”
“Elsie, don’t…” There’s a firm hand on my lower back, his body leans in.
“Where’s my brother?” I turn my head away.
Nate.
“I don’t know,” Henry says, dropping his hand and pulling back. There’s a flash of something behind his eyes that makes me draw my bag between us.
“That’s not quite true,” I say. “You were in the house with him.”
“Yes, and he left.” Exasperation drips from his words.
“He was stabbed, he couldn’t have just got up and left. And where to?”
Henry rubs a hand over his brow, his nails neatly trimmed and scraping at his skin. “It wasn’t like you remember it. I messed up, I know that, but I didn’t kill Nate. The knife barely scratched his side. He was talking afterwards, remember? He laughed.”
I do remember. He lay there, the shock making him shiver, and he made a corny joke that didn’t land because of the fierce anger in Henry’s eyes.
Now, Henry continues: “After we… talked… and I… hit you outside, I went back into the house and he was gone. I promise. It was like he just–” Finally his eyes reach mine.