‘I can’t go to the police,’ she said.
Sam touched her shoulder and nodded at Ellie.
Ellie stood up. ‘OK.’
Ben took her shoulder and led her away. ‘So that’s it? We’re just going to do this fucked-up thing on the say-so of a frightened girl?’
Ellie stopped and put a hand on his arm. ‘We don’t have any choice. I said I would protect them and I meant it. I will not put them through anything more. This is my second chance and I’m taking it. And I need you, Ben, I can’t do this alone.’
Ben stared at her for a long time, then finally sighed. He got his car key out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It’s parked round the back of the boat sheds. Take them to our place, get them settled, then come back.’ He turned to Sam and Libby, who were getting up. ‘Stay at our house until we come and get you.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Sam said.
Ben looked around the boat for an answer.
‘I’m going to work out what to do next,’ he said.
33
Having teenagers in the back of the car, her hands on the steering wheel, made Ellie remember times with Logan, giving him lifts to McDonald’s to meet his mates, to school on rainy days, home from football, the car filling up with the earthy stink of mud and grass.
Ellie’s fingers trembled on the gearstick as she shifted up, leaving the marina and turning left. Under the bridge once more, always back and forth under the damn bridge. She remembered when Logan was little, she and Ben read The Three Billy Goats Gruff to him at bedtime and it became a favourite. Later they got a CD with the story on it. The troll lived under the bridge, trolls always lived under bridges in fairy tales, and that became a running joke. One time with Logan still in a car seat, not yet promoted to a booster, so he must’ve been five or so, they drove under the bridge to the marina to go and meet Daddy from work, and Logan wondered aloud about trolls living under the Forth Road Bridge. Ellie laughed and played along, the in-joke between them escalating every time they passed the same spot. They set up ‘trollwatch’, keeping eyes peeled, Logan in the back making the shape of binoculars round his eyes, peering at the fenced-off area around the bridge legs, the tangle of wire, the slabs of concrete, the diggers and other works vehicles that were always parked there doing nothing. Maybe it was a troll den, a lair where a bunch of hairy, warty creatures slept and ate and farted and picked their ugly noses, feasting on goats and little children.
Ellie thought about Sam and Libby. Did they have in-jokes like that in their family? A million secrets, meaningless stuff, between Libby and Sam, Alison and Jack. Were they a happy family, despite it all, despite what Jack had done? What Ellie, Sam and Libby had done today had destroyed that family forever, no chance of redemption, cursed now, a lie that the kids would have to tell their mum forever. Ellie wondered how they’d cope.
They were already home. She pulled into the drive, felt the gravel crunch under the wheels, then stopped and switched the engine off. She ushered Sam and Libby out the car, opened the front door and pushed them inside.
Libby pulled her cap off and flapped at her mussed-up hair. Sam removed his cap too, ran a hand through his hair and looked around. Ellie wondered how much he remembered from his first visit here, that morning. She remembered him half-naked in Logan’s room and felt ashamed. She’d led them to this, hadn’t protected them like she promised that first day.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, heading for the kitchen. She nodded at the living room. ‘Make yourselves at home.’
This was ridiculous, no amount of hot tea could make things normal.
Ellie placed her forehead against a kitchen cupboard, one hand on the kettle. She weighed it in her hands, it was half full already, so she switched it on. She placed both hands on the metal surface of the kettle, felt the heat rise quickly, kept her hands there until she couldn’t stand the pain any more.
She looked at her hands. Dried blood caked in the lines on her palm, the joints of her fingers. Burn marks beneath her thumbs from the kill cord, the cut from the scissors across the flesh. She went to the sink and squirted washing-up liquid, rubbed hard, rinsed them off, repeated until they were clean, revelling in the stinging, throbbing pain.
She got the first-aid kit out a cupboard and opened it. Rubbed at her hand with an antiseptic wipe. The cut wasn’t deep, a plaster would do, no need for a bandage. She raked in the box and pulled out the biggest one she could find, about half the size of her palm. She peeled the adhesive off the back and pushed the edges down on her skin, flexed her fist a couple of times to work the stiffness out.
She made mugs of tea, took them through to the kids in the living room like a normal day, two young visitors in need of sustenance. She put the mugs down on the coffee table. Sam stood at the back window, looking at the sea carved out between the bridges. He turned to stare at the road bridge.
Libby was looking at Logan’s most recent school photo on the mantelpiece.
‘Are you two OK?’ Ellie said.
They both turned and nodded but neither spoke.
‘I mean physically,’ Ellie said, squeezing her hand tight. ‘Are either of you hurt?’
Sam rolled and cricked his neck. ‘We’re fine.’
‘What about . . .’ Ellie didn’t know what to say. ‘You know, back there.’
Libby shook her head and looked down. Ellie put an arm round her. Libby flinched and shirked it off, and Ellie was left with her arm hanging in midair.
Libby touched the picture of Logan, lifted it from the mantelpiece.
‘Is this your son?’
‘Yes,’ Ellie said.
Sam spoke. ‘Libby.’
‘It’s OK,’ Ellie said.
‘The one who killed himself?’ Libby said.
Ellie nodded. ‘Jumped off the bridge.’
‘When was that?’
‘Six months ago,’ Ellie said.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Logan.’
‘He’s cute.’
‘Yeah, he is.’ Ellie was aware of the present tense.
‘You must miss him,’ Libby said, putting the photograph down.
‘All the time,’ Ellie said.
Libby looked at Sam, then past him out the window.
‘I won’t miss Dad,’ she said. ‘He was evil.’
Ellie wondered if it was as simple as that. Just decide someone is evil, then you never had to care. But Jack must’ve been nice to his daughter sometimes. Did the bad behaviour annihilate the good, wipe it away so all that was left was a monster?
Ellie thought about the fight on the boat. Jack had been aggressive, trying to reclaim his daughter, his family. Libby made accusations about him, he was stressed. Did that mitigate his aggression? Or theirs? They killed a man, and Ellie wasn’t entirely sure why. She knew what Sam said he saw, but what if Jack was right, what if Sam was unstable, imagining things? What if Libby was lying?
It didn’t matter now, it was done, they just had to deal with it the best they could.
‘I better go,’ Ellie said. ‘Stay in the house until Ben and I come back. Don’t answer the door to anyone. Understand?’
Libby stared at her for a moment.
‘We understand,’ she said.
34
Ellie took a lungful of air as she stood at the berth. This felt like it might be the last time she’d see the marina, her small world, before the weight would be too heavy on her shoulders, the pressure on her chest too much to breathe.
She was standing next to the Porpoise. She ran her hand against the name, painted in blue on the bow. It was faded and chips of paint fell away as she swept her hand along it, catching on her fingers. She turned to the sea and took in the size of it, the span of the bridges, the workmen on the new foundations in the distance.