His hand shot out, forcing Ruby back, back, back, until she collided heavily with the wall. The breath was knocked from her, his hand was squeezing tighter and tighter.
‘Say another word and I’ll kill you. I swear it,’ he rasped, flecks of his spit landing on Ruby’s face.
‘There’s nothing you can threaten me with any more,’ Ruby spat back. ‘As far as you’re concerned I’m already dead.’
From somewhere, Ruby managed to find a grim, victorious smile. It had the desired effect. He dropped her like a stone, watching her collapse to the ground.
He walked away from her quickly, then stopped, turned, and hurried back – kicking her harshly three times in the ribs. As she rolled away from the blows, he bent down grabbing her by the collar.
‘You’ll regret this.’
Dumping her back to the floor, he walked over to the bedside table, snatching up her inhaler.
‘No.’
Ruby was crawling across the floor towards him now, hand outstretched, beseeching. But he was too quick for her, crossing the room quickly, unlocking the door.
‘Goodbye, Ruby.’
The door slammed shut behind him.
110
He marched away from the cell, muttering obscenities. He passed through the second door, then turned down the left-hand corridor towards the third and final door. Unlocking then relocking it, he climbed the ladder back to the ground floor.
The house was even more of a mess than usual and it fitted his mood perfectly. His brain felt scattered, his head throbbed violently. He kicked the kitchen chair savagely, then before he knew what he was doing, he’d picked it up and hurled it against the wall. It broke into several pieces but he felt nothing. Just a crushing emptiness.
Already he could feel the darkness creeping up on him again. Those familiar feelings of desolation. And deep, deep loneliness. He had been cursed since birth – he knew that. Born to a whore of a mother in bloody degradation, he would have never survived infancy had it not been for Summer. He had always worshipped her – for her love, her patience, her kindness. Now he bitterly regretted her charity – why hadn’t she left him to die? Why had she consigned him to this?
Was their love a curse? She had been ever present in his life, teaching him to navigate life’s many dangers, teaching him to give and receive love. Latterly, she had been absent of course, but she always came back to him. In the end, she always came back.
As he snatched up the shattered pieces of the chair, ramming them into the already overflowing kitchen bin, which belched some of its contents on to the floor, he felt the full extent of his foolishness. Why was he so easily duped? She was out there, always so close to him that when one of these girls drifted into his life, purporting to be her, he fell for it. He believed. But he couldn’t have got it wrong again, could he? He had watched this one for months, seen the emptiness in her life, witnessed the arguments with her so-called family. They didn’t know her, didn’t understand her, but he did and he’d seen her searching for him. Searching for her missing half. But what if he was wrong? He had been so sure…
This thought took all the strength from him and suddenly he sank to the floor. Curled up in a ball amidst the broken wood, rotting food and the dirt, he started to cry. He never cried but today he couldn’t help himself. He cried for all the disappointments and anguish over the years. For all the false starts and false idols. And for the girl he had loved and lost.
111
Emilia Garanita stabbed the off button on her computer and picked up her bag. She was already late – the household would have descended into merry chaos by now no doubt – and she had spent an unsatisfactory day trying to re-hash the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ story to make it look like there were fresh developments.
She was halfway to the door, when her desk phone rang. She was very tempted to ignore it – today had been a dead loss – but old instincts die hard. For a journalist a phone call is just a story waiting to happen. So she crossed the room and snatched up the phone.
‘Garanita.’
‘Got a phone call for you. From a woman. About the bluebird tattoo.’
Emilia’s mood descended still further. Since putting this story in the Southampton Evening News they had had no end of loonies, chancers and wannabe detectives jamming their line with dead-end ‘leads’. Each was as deluded as the last – Emilia had ended up regretting agreeing to help Helen Grace with this one.
‘Put her through,’ Emilia barked, keen to get this charade over with.
‘Hello?’
The voice on the other end of the phone was cracked and tremulous.
‘Emilia Garanita. How can I help you?’
‘Are you the journalist?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Asking about the bluebird tattoo?’
‘Yes.’
A pause, then:
‘Is there a reward?’
Emilia sighed inwardly. This conversation was developing in a depressingly familiar way.
‘Only if the information provided leads to a conviction.’
‘Yes or no?’ The voice had a sharpness to it now that made Emilia pay attention.
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘£20,000’
‘When would I get it?’
‘We can discuss that when you come to my office. But I’d need to know the nature of your information before we meet.’
‘My daughter had that tattoo. She’s dead now. But she definitely had one of those.’
Emilia sat back down at her desk, silently pulling her phone from her pocket and opening the Notes app.
‘What did she look like?’
‘Thin, bit tarty I guess, but she had something. Like her mother.’ The cracked voice chuckled now, but it sounded bitter not joyful.
‘Hair colour? Eyes?’
‘She was a striking girl. Black hair and big blue eyes.’
Emilia paused, her finger hovering over the screen of her phone.
‘What did you say her name was?’
‘Her name was Summer, God rest her.’
‘And she’s dead you say?’
‘OD’d. Her brother found her.’
‘She had a brother?’ Emilia replied, failing to keep the excitement out of her voice.’ What was his name? And where is he now?’
There was a long pause, then she replied:
‘I’ll tell you when we meet. You don’t get anything for free in this life, my dear.’
And with that, she rang off.
112
Ruby lay dead still on the floor. She was shivering uncontrollably, but she made no attempt to move towards the bed. Her lungs burned, her throat was tight and she felt far too faint to stand.
The fight was over now, Ruby knew that. Why had she pushed him so far? Had she thought she could break him? No, she knew that her verbal assault on her captor was the last act of a desperate girl. The death throes of her resistance. She would never see her mum or dad again. Cassie or Conor. If they ever did lay eyes on her again, they would find her here, rotting in this horrible place.
Breathlessness used to panic her – a legacy of those trips to the hospital when she was young – but now she welcomed the feeling. She had never asked for much in life – had never expected much – but she hoped now that she would be granted one small mercy. Slow asphyxiation would be a blessing, a way to cheat him out of further punishments and humiliations. It would be a small victory, but a victory nevertheless.
If she could drift away, here on this floor, then maybe she would see her family again. Perhaps there was an afterlife or somewhere where she could be at peace. Surely that wasn’t impossible? She had never believed in anything like that before, but now…
But she didn’t believe it. Never had. And life had taught her not to expect happy endings. Ruby knew in her heart that she would go on suffering until the bitter end. There would be no escape for her and this place – this strange doll’s house – would be her tomb.