CHAPTER 46
Ella
The autumn leaves crunch underfoot as I pull the gate closed behind me.
Luther tugs excitedly on the lead, despite knowing that this never works.
I tap my upper thigh. After a moment, he returns, nudging his warm body against mine.
My fingers sink into the shaggy fur under his neck, finding the spot that he likes.
I throw one last look over my shoulder, ensuring the bungalow is as I left it.
Secured and safe. It’s been a year since the trial where Immi was sentenced, and yet I still feel an uneasy niggle when I try to leave home.
A terrified voice that questions if the doors are locked, if the windows are secured.
If Immi can get in, despite being in prison.
“Elsie, are you still there?” Janet’s voice comes through the phone. Her Yorkshire twang makes my name sound even more unusual. I went back to my real name after everything that happened. It only felt right.
“Yes, sorry, just walking Luther,” I say, and we follow the street down to the pond. “What did you say?” I ask, knowing my mind wasn’t focused.
Janet lets out a gentle laugh, one that I have become accustomed to.
I first met Janet when I went by Ella, working with the police and lawyers in what feels like a different world.
She was stationed at the courthouse then, but has since moved to the prison system.
Now she acts as my illegal but comforting fairy godmother.
“There really are no updates, pet. Imogen moved wards last month and seems to be settling in fine.”
I work my hand over a frayed edge on Luther’s lead.
“Is she still taking the therapy sessions?” I ask.
There’s a rustle from Janet’s line, and I imagine her moving papers around, perched at the edge of her seat as she always used to. Hair pulled into a bun, the rouge on her cheeks too dark for her pale skin and a collection of bright bangles on her right arm.
“Yes, but you know I can’t tell you what notes the therapist has shared,” Janet replies.
Not for the first time, I wonder if it’s won’t or can’t.
I don’t push her on it, though. I’m just pleased that Immi is seeing someone.
The trees bustle with an autumnal frustration, and I glance back over my shoulder at the cottage before we turn the corner.
The greens of the small patch of front garden are fading, giving way to oranges and yellows.
This time of year used to feel cosy and inviting, but now I crave the bright, honest light of summertime.
I pass a rose bush in one of the bigger gardens up the next street.
The flowers are wilting away against the breeze.
They remind me of Shearwood Village and the dark, plump roses that lined our house.
Rufus’s house. Roses were always Rufus’s thing. I look away.
“I know. Do you think I can maybe send her some money? Encourage her to get private sessions?” My own therapist challenged me on my insistence on staying updated about Immi, if perhaps I was too scared to let go of the past. I’m inclined to agree, at least a little.
Yet I know this is about my protection, too.
If I can help Immi get better, then I can give her the freedom to never return to me. I can move on, safely.
“You can certainly send an inmate money, but there’s no saying what Imogen will spend it on,” Janet replies, and there’s an absentminded delay in her words.
I wonder what else she’s doing, typing out a quick email or sorting out a last-minute task.
I remember when I was busy, when my working hours seeped into my spare time until they became homogeneous.
Now, I work a solid twenty-one hours as a school admin and nothing more.
I sit behind a locked front entrance and report to a strict senior administrator.
It’s just enough to pay for the cottage, Luther’s needs and a few luxuries.
And it’s perfect.
“I just wish I knew…” I say more to Luther than to Janet, forgetting for a moment that she is even on the line.
“Oh, I know you do, pet,” Janet replies quickly, her attention back.
“Thanks for the update, though. Do you want to grab coffee on–” I start.
“Look.” Janet lets out a short, sharp breath that rustles down the mouthpiece.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but a concern was raised about some of the things Imogen was saying.
Some of her ideals, let’s say. The team has referred her for more support.
More sessions and potentially a psychiatric review to focus on that night. That night with your brother.”
Janet talks fast, in such a low, hushed tone that I have to stand still and press a finger into my ear to catch it. I stand, unblinking, for a moment. Concerns?
“You don’t come up, pet. Don’t worry. But I think they are realising that she’s got some issues to work through there. That’s all I can see. I have to process the referral notes, see,” Janet continues.
“Did she mention what happened to my brother?” It comes out as a desperate whisper, and I am there again, fighting for my life against Immi.
“Sorry, pet,” Janet says.
“Can’t say,” I finish with a sad smile.
“I need to go, but shall we have coffee next weekend?” Janet’s voice returns to full volume, and I nod, aware that she can’t see me as she rings off. Janet doesn’t need to see me, we always have a standing coffee date.
Luther tugs on his lead, his tail wagging to move me forward, but I can’t.
I shove my trembling hands into my pockets, searching for a loose thread.
I may never get the answer to what happened to Nate that night.
Not anything concrete. But I am certain that she did it, that somehow, for whatever reason, Immi killed Nate.
He left the manor, hurt and confused. He stumbled into a vintage car, a car I later learned in court belonged to Immi’s uncle.
And when the car was finally recovered, sold illegally, there was no evidence. But no one just disappears.
Luther lets out a bark. His eyes trained on me.
“Sorry, buddy.” And I start moving forward.
“Which way do you want to go?” I ask him as we resume walking.
My fingers graze my throat as I draw my coat closed.
I can’t handle touch in that area now, as silly as it is, the idea of wrapping a scarf tight sends waves of fear through me.
The wind bites my bare neck. Luther tugs on the lead, dragging us down the hill towards the centre of the village and, of course, the pond.
“It’s always the pond with you, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s a bit cold for that now?” I say, but he merely totters ahead, ignoring me.
“Right you are,” I reply. Luther isn’t much of a talker, and in that respect, we are quite different.
Things are calmer here, in Winmere. The village crackles with life as the clouds move through the sky, but the energy is slower.
Children run down the steep hill and bustle into the corner shop, ignoring the Only two children at a time sign in a way that feels nostalgic.
There are wood pigeons that sing their little melodic song in the trees, and ladies who walk their dogs in pairs under umbrellas despite there being no rain.
I pop in an earbud, just the one. I want to be able to hear the world as it unfolds around me.
I hit play. The sound in the speaker rises as the wind picks up.
Darkness will come soon, but we’ll be home long before then. I can’t stand the darkness anymore.
At the pond, I let Luther off, smiling as he runs straight towards the water, feet padding at the edge as he watches the fish swim below him.
I sit on the bench, feet pressing into the mud, and increase the volume of the music.
A subtle black strip of leather tight on my ankle peeks out as my jeans roll up.
Ankle bracelets are made of leather, which shocked me.
I imagined them to be hard chunks of plastic, but instead, they’re malleable and soft on my skin.
The light flashes as a reminder, not that I need one. I don’t hide it anymore.
I was charged with perjury for what I did to Henry, an expected end to my lies.
This is the price I want to pay now. The music plays in my headphones.
Ironically, I stopped listening to podcasts.
A few have reached out to me, desperate to hear my side of the story.
But it doesn’t have the same allure that it used to.
There is no comfort in hearing tales of murderers and killers.
There’s no sense that justice will ever come from it. I see it now as Benji once did.
But sometimes, late at night, with Luther lying heavy at the bottom of the bed, I wonder what would happen if I told my side of the story, and if that would help find Nate. Or if that would secure what I have always known to be true, the night of the Househill Murders. That my brother is gone.