The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (45 page)

Ruth paled.

‘Was it money, like your damn sister? Or to get control of the company?’

‘No,’ Ruth whispered and bowed her head. Her fingers, nails bitten to the quick, folded and unfolded the hem of her skirt, over and over in some obsessive-compulsive ritual.

‘Why, then?’

Ruth let out a deep sigh. ‘When Mimi died, I wanted to adopt you. Letitia told Mother you hated me, so Mother, to spare me I suppose, persuaded me not to. Said I couldn’t deal with your epilepsy. I was weak and agreed, but I resented her so much for that. When I learned the truth, that Letitia had in fact lied about your feelings for me, I resented her even more for believing my sister in the first place. And when you came back, you were so angry with all of us, and I felt so guilty for not being there for you.’

‘I thought you were angry with me.’

‘Never,’ said Ruth. ‘I was never angry with you. You were a honey. You still are.’

Warmed by this unexpected affection, Helen smiled briefly, then she frowned. ‘But why would Letitia do that? It couldn’t possibly bother her.’

‘Oh, yes, it could. You were Arseni’s child, and you had to pay for that. That was my sister in a nutshell. Just mean.’

Two step-aunts, one mean, the other a liar. The luck of the draw, Helen thought.
But this is the hand I’ve been dealt.

‘But I came back, didn’t I? I’m here now, so there was no need.’

‘That’s not the reason,’ said Ruth. ‘Mother asked me to. She wanted her dignity back, not be this’—she flung out her arm—‘overweight half-invalid. She was only waiting until she’d seen you again and made sure you were fine, that you’d forgiven her.’ She plucked at a thread which had come loose from her skirt. Soon the hem would come undone.

‘She asked me several times, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Wanted me to inject air into her vein to cause an embolism. I suppose she was physically capable of doing it herself but maybe it’s not an easy thing to do when it comes to it. In the end I did what she wanted.’

Ruth covered her face with her hands. Loud sobs racked her shoulders, and tears spilled out between her fingers as she trembled with grief and guilt. Forgetting her own sadness, Helen put her arm around her and held her close.

She waited for the familiar anger but was relieved when it didn’t come. So far anger had led precisely nowhere. Instead she tried to understand her aunt’s reasons. Aggie had manipulated them all in the end, not maliciously perhaps, but because she was used to getting her own way. Blaming Ruth for giving into some no-doubt forceful demands was pointless.

Still, she’d have liked to say a proper goodbye. ‘How was she when you last saw her?’

Ruth brought a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her nose and eyes. ‘Uhm, I’m not entirely sure. She seemed at peace with herself, so I suppose she must’ve been. Mother never left you in any doubt about her opinions.’

Helen smiled. ‘True.’

‘She blamed herself for your bitterness. You were so sweet as a child, so trusting and generous despite that awful condition of yours. She felt she’d stolen your innocence.’

Helen shook her head. ‘She didn’t. The person who did that was the one who murdered my mother, and in some ways my mother is partly to blame for that. Not intentionally, of course, it just … happened that way. It wasn’t Aggie’s fault or yours. Anyway, I’ve carried enough grudges to last me a lifetime. Now I just want to get on with life, maybe do something useful with all this money. And I’ll need your help with that.’

Ruth nodded. ‘Anything.’

They hugged again, and Helen thought she might finally be able to move on.

As she typed her reply now, a flash of lightning flickered in the distance followed by the inevitable boom, and the café strip light as well as the computer screens dimmed for a moment, then returned to normal wattage. She looked up to see another set of ultraviolet witches’ fingers claw across the sky and knew she’d better finish writing her e-mails before the power went.

There was one from Jason too, dated a few days ago, after she’d last checked her account. Her heart leapt, and she clicked on it eagerly, but it was largely trivial. He talked about work and the house, although he did satisfy her hunger for news about their mutual friends in one short paragraph.

Fay has tossed the crutches. She’s renting a stall at the market and is mega busy making dresses for her grand opening in a couple of weeks. Lee got a job at a veterinary surgery, cleaning out cages and looking after sick animals. And … you’re not going to believe this (actually you probably will …) but he brought home some cross-breed stray, and it’s pregnant(!!!) God knows what the pups are going to look like. :-)

No mention of the last time they’d seen each other and the way she’d left, and she wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that he seemed to be getting on just fine without her. Apart from the fact that he’d soon have a houseful of piddling mongrels.

His next paragraph made her throat constrict.

Charlie’s getting better too. She’s changed a bit, though. In fact, she’s a bit more sensible, if you can believe that. :-D Oh, and she has a message for you, and I quote, “I understand why you left, but I still think you’re being bloody stupid”. Her words, not mine.

He rounded up in the most British of ways, by talking about the weather. For a moment she let the cursor hover over the
Reply
button. She owed him a response but it was difficult. Would he believe her if she told him that every single day she regretted her decision to leave, but it still felt like the right thing to do? That she hadn’t run away to protect herself, but to make life easier for him? She suspected he would understand, but saying those actual words made it all so final.

Or she could be neutral and tell him of a project she was funding with her own money, a hostel for some of Goa’s many orphaned children. He would appreciate her reasons for setting this up because it paralleled his own project.

She was saved from making a decision by a loud boom. The lights in the café went out and the monitors blackened just as the heavens opened. The rain cascaded down the windows, tapped, hammered and gurgled with its own music. People on the street were ankle deep in water almost immediately and dashed for shelter. The door to the café swung open with a clatter, and one of her charges ran in.

‘Lady, lady, you come now. Mr Joe has dinner ready.’

The boy, Ajit, barefoot and with black hair plastered to his skull, knew her name well enough, but like all the other children at the orphanage preferred to call her ‘lady’. Joe, who cooked for the skinny kids, was known simply as Mr Joe.

‘Dinner? Isn’t that a bit early? It’s only four.’

The boy tugged at her clothes. ‘You come now.’

‘Okay, I’m coming.’ Nothing more she could do here anyway. Not until the power came back on.

She picked up her jacket and rucksack and followed Ajit out into the driving rain. The hostel was five minutes away in an old Portuguese colonial house along the beach, and by the time they arrived the rain had soaked through even her jacket.

Laughing, they shook off the worst of the rain on the verandah. A huge stuccoed balcony hung over their heads, and above it, large ornate windows, which Helen had learned was an influence from Portuguese settlers so that returning sailors could identify their houses from the ships.

The house had been a hotel, but the company had gone out of business and she’d bought it with some of her inheritance. In the grand salon where the house began there were still traces of the hotel trade – tourist brochures, posters and a giant rosewood reception desk with an old-fashioned bell, which she’d kept because it added a certain charm.

Joe was in the kitchen stirring something on the hob. The smells of spices and fried chicken filled the air. A stack of clean plates and a cutlery tray stood on the table behind him as well as a bottle of what Joe liked to call ‘the amber fluid’.

‘Where’s the fire?’ she asked, drying her face and neck with a towel.

‘Eh?’

‘You called me back early.’

‘In your office. Something for yer.’

Knowing that she wasn’t going to get any more out of him, Helen hung up the towel and made to leave the kitchen. Ajit followed her, but Joe called him back, waving a wooden spoon at him.

‘You, young thingo. Table laying.’

‘But, Mr Joe …’

Ajit’s protests faded into the background as Helen made her way down the long narrow room which would originally have been the library. Now the mahogany bookcases were devoid of books, and her naked feet slapped on the bare floorboards.

Her office had inherited the grand name of visitor’s salon and was a fine example of what the house would have looked like in its colonial heyday. The walls were painted with vegetable dyes, and the floor tiles were laid in an intricate pattern of terracotta red, royal blue and white, and was in good condition because it hadn’t seen as much traffic as the main lounge. In order to preserve it, she had chosen it for her office. Even so, it was sparsely furnished with only a small dining table for a desk, a couple of chairs which could be spared in other parts of the house, a bookcase with a few folders of paperwork, and no computer. Yet.

She wondered what had arrived for her. Ruth had sent a parcel, but it was unlikely to be here already.

It wasn’t a parcel, it was a person. Engrossed in an old map of Goa on the wall, the visitor turned when Helen stopped in the doorway, with her mouth wide open.

‘You’re hard to find,’ said Jason.

He’d changed since she last saw him two months ago. He was no longer battered and bruised as he had been when she’d left him in hospital, but also seemed stronger and taller, as if he’d grown now that he was away from his father’s influence. Days of travelling had given him a rumpled look, but despite the five o’clock shadow on his chin, the goatee, which Helen saw as the essence of him, was still clearly defined.

She’d thought of a million things she might say to him if she ever saw him again, but every single rehearsed conversation went out of her head like it never happened. In three long strides she was halfway across the room. They met in the middle, and he scooped her up in his arms and spun her round, laughing and with no attempt at hiding the tears in his eyes.

‘Are you hard to find, or what?’ he said again.

Without shoes, Helen had to stand on her toes. Draping her arms around his neck, she accepted a kiss from him which brought a flood of emotions to her throat, feelings she thought she’d managed to suppress by telling herself she’d done the right thing.

How could the right thing feel so wrong? And how could the wrong thing be so right?

She gave up thinking and clung to him, feeling every muscle, every curve, every bulge of his body. She wanted him, but there would be plenty of time for that. Right now he deserved to know that he meant so much more to her than that. Laying herself bare, she whispered words she’d never dared to say to another person in her entire life, and had only ever said to Jason once before while he was asleep. Over and over she said them, unable to stop herself, and she saw that he understood, that he had always understood how difficult it was for her.

They were both breathless when he finally let her go. Her rain-sodden clothes had left a dark mark on his shirt.

‘You’re completely soaked,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘It’s still the monsoon. I’ll dry.’

He curled one of her wet tresses around his finger. ‘Helen, why?’

‘I thought it was for the best I left. You said nothing in your e-mails so I thought you agreed.’

‘I didn’t, but I wanted you to tell me face to face. Except you covered your tracks pretty well. Even your aunt’s as tight as a clam. And I didn’t want to ask my dad.’

‘That’s what I pay her for.’

‘You
pay
her to be your aunt? Poor Helen.’

Helen laughed and thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be an idiot. So how did you find me? Not that I mind,’ she added and covered the hand caressing her cheek with her own.

‘Jim,’ he said. ‘Apparently he posted a parcel to you from your aunt. He comes around a lot now that Charlie is better. Says he wants you and me to have a happy ending too.’

‘You think that’s even possible?’

‘We won’t know until we’ve tried, will we?’

He crouched down and opened the top of his rucksack. Typical backpackers’ gear, Helen noticed, with padded waist belt, chest strap, and criss-cross elasticated string at the front, which was holding a pair of Wellington boots in place. Jason handed her a large brown envelope.

‘Here, my father asked me to give you this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Info on the guy who was hired to kill your mother. Who he is, where he lives, right down to what he eats for breakfast if I know my father.’

Helen slipped her finger under the sealed flap and began to tear it open. Then she stopped, filled with suspicion. ‘Why’s he doing this?’

‘That’s the one thing I
did
ask of him. I told him he owed it to you. He’s probably only doing it because he’s hoping you’ll give me up. Something for something, that’s how my father operates. He doesn’t understand anything else. But only you and I can make the decision about being together. Not him.’

Helen stared at the envelope in her hand, then dropped it on her desk. It wasn’t the fact that Moody thought he could buy her with this information which made her put it away, it was the sudden realisation that it wasn’t important any more. Whoever he was, this killer, he was just another name. He meant nothing to her.

For years she’d used her epilepsy and the tragedy of her mother’s death to isolate herself from other people. She’d held onto her condition this way because she’d had a seizure the last time she saw her mother alive, made it into a shield, safeguarding all her anger and loss, but it hadn’t stopped her caring about other people, nor losing them in the end.

She blamed herself for Charlie nearly dying – and as a child even her mother’s death – but knew it wasn’t quite that simple. People made their own choices, and sometimes those choices led to bad results. Despite warnings, her mother had arranged a meeting on a deserted park lane in the early hours. Aggie had involved Ruth in her assisted suicide, and Ruth had had the choice to refuse, but not the will. Charlie had insisted on opening those crates, delaying their escape … although they were equally to blame for that.