The Unmaking of Ellie Rook Page 7

  There are no obvious caves around the mouth of the den, nothing for anyone to cling to. Liam catches up with me and we search in silence, probing all the feasible places with sticks, flattening the coarse marram grass. ‘Remember to look for the little things,’ Liam says. A belt, a scarf, a shoelace. A button. ‘My mother always travelled light,’ I reply.

  As the morning wears on, the weather turns unseasonably warm. Tempers fray. I pick a fight with Liam over nothing. Lashing my jacket round my waist, I reluctantly retrace my steps and run into Piotr. He produces his finds, spread out on capable hands: a disposable lighter; a scrap of fabric; a hair clip.

  I dismiss them all – she didn’t smoke, she never tied back her hair – and turn to the sea with a frustrated sigh. The sun is high, light splashing across the surface of the water.

  Liam approaches, consulting his phone. ‘Okay, so we have approximately two and a half hours before high tide. Is there anywhere else you want to look?’

  Glancing around, I see that the search seems to be coming to a natural pause. People are drifting back towards us; the old couple from down the road are sharing a flask of tea. A plane drones overhead and we all look up.

  ‘Paul.’ Liam shields his eyes. ‘Our guy in the sky.’

  Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I imagine being up there, spotting the rabbits scampering on the headland, looking down on the gorse and the tops of the trees. My eyes spring open.

  ‘They say Finella took to the treetops to escape.’

  Not surprisingly, no one answers me. Liam takes a swig from his water bottle, and Piotr drops his unappreciated treasure trove onto the pebbles. The hairclip is a child’s, with a palm tree and a tiny monkey. I imagine my mother cowering in the branches of a tree. Too afraid to come down. Shhh, the sea lulls, and then boom! The noise punches me in the chest.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I dig my fingers into my scalp. ‘What’s the point? Her body might never be found. It happens all the time.’

  Piotr touches my shoulder very gently. ‘For today, you have done enough. Maybe tomorrow we try again.’

  Liam taps his clipboard. ‘All participants will be informed of any future activity. Have you added your email address?’

  Piotr gives him a level look. ‘I do not own a computer.’

  Liam shrugs. ‘I expect you’ll hear.’

  He moves away. I hear him shouting up the beach, rounding up his troops. Calling off the search. The sea is now so bright and blue it makes my eyes smart. Anyone would think I was crying.

  14

  The trek back up to the car park is steep and exhausting. I just want to get home and collapse on my bed. Draw the curtains, erase the world. Sharon has set up a picnic table in the car park, and River is already there, munching his way through the sandwiches. He avoids my gaze, and I wonder if he’s been here the entire time. I never saw him down on the beach. My attention is diverted when Dad climbs onto a bench to deliver a speech. It’s unexpected and oddly poignant. He thanks everyone: Liam for the maps, Sharon for the food, mountain rescue for being such a friend to the community. He looks up to the empty sky and thanks Paul, who is probably back at base and nursing a beer. He’s grateful for everything. I’ve never seen my dad like this.

  ‘We’re a family that never asks for help,’ he says. ‘We keep ourselves to ourselves, and when one of us is in trouble, we do our best to get them out of it. The way you’ve turned out today, to help find my Imelda, my lovely girl—’ His voice cracks. The lady from the post office wipes her eyes. ‘What you’ve done here today – I’m proud to think of you as part of our family. You are Rooks, every one of you, and that is the highest praise I can give you.’

  The crowd break into spontaneous applause. I stand back a little, taking it all in. One or two individuals appear to dislike being tagged as Rooks, and I can’t say I blame them. I’ve been slagged off for it all my life. The scrappie’s daughter. Tinker scum. I’ve fought it with teeth and nails and brains. The Rook name usually brings out the worst in people – and the worst in me.

  But then, as I reflect on his words, I realise how smoothly Dad has brought everyone into his fold, on his terms. Most people would be glad to count themselves part of a larger community family in times of trouble, but not Dad. Lawler Rook would never give away his power like that.

  After the pizza, described by Sharon as ‘crispy’, but actually rather charred, we drink Liam’s beers and watch the news on the small TV in the corner. Sharon shuffles off to the sitting room to watch The One Show, leaving us alone in the kitchen. Liam slags off his ex-wife for a while, and I’m just thinking it might be a good time to go home when he suggests taking it upstairs to the bedroom.

  ‘I don’t mean like that – no way. It’s just that it’s become my sitting room. Gets me away from . . .’ He nods towards the slightly open door down the hallway. Sharon’s cackle competes with the entire audience of The One Show. ‘And these chairs are hard.’

  ‘Sold.’ I get to my feet and take the plates to the sink. When I turn around, Liam is looking very slightly shocked. My face relaxes. ‘What? Was that easier than you remember?’

  ‘Oh yes. You were never easy.’ He takes a step back and waves me through to the hall.

  ‘Part of my charm!’ I wink as I pass him. For a brief second, I am me again.

  No, this is not the first time I’ve been in Liam’s bedroom.

  Memories of feelings come flooding back: anticipation; dread. Deep kisses, eager fingers, the sound of his mother banging about in the bathroom. Lots of guilt. We shouldn’t be doing this. Someone will hear. My dad will kill me if he finds out. My sexual awakening was not a happy time. It made me wary, anxious, hiding secrets that never were.

  Now, perching on the edge of the bed, I compliment him on the way his duvet matches his curtains. His mother’s choice, from Argos. The guitar-wielding rockers have been replaced with safe prints of Johnshaven and Edinburgh Castle. The place smells of fabric conditioner, not the raw teen spirit of Lynx and trainers that used to set my pulse racing.

  ‘What happened to all your posters?’

  Liam laughs. ‘Rolled up in the wardrobe, along with the rest of the school crap. My mother kept it all. God knows why. It’s like travelling back in time every time I hang up my stuff. Remember how we all signed each other’s shirts on the last day?’

  ‘Yeah, you signed my boob, as I recall.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember that.’

  ‘Really? Did you sign everyone’s boobs?’

  ‘Probably. I was on a mission back then!’

  ‘Oh, I remember.’

  We are conspirators again. His smile melts me, just a little. But this time my mother is between us, banging about in my mind. He has a bottle of whisky hidden in the wardrobe, like he did back then, and time slips a little as he pours it into two plastic glasses. I sniff mine and take a prim sip.

  ‘My dad will kill me. You know what?’ I flash the glass at him – a clumsy cheers. ‘Maybe you only really grow up when you leave home. And when you come back again . . .’

  I leave that hanging. He looks around the room, whisky held on his tongue, making that sour lemon face. He nods, swallows.

  ‘And when you come home . . .’ He underlines the word with a wave of his tumbler. ‘You regress. Have I regressed? Is that how you see me? A loser who’s had to return to the fold?’

  ‘Don’t put words in my mouth.’ I’ve hit a nerve.

  His whisky is disappearing fast as he warms to his grievance. ‘You’ve got the high ground because you had to come home. You had no choice. And neither did I, to be honest. I’m stuck here because I can’t afford a fuckin’ flat. I’m waiting for the council to get back to me, but I . . .’

  ‘Liam, I don’t think you’re a loser. Where is this coming from?’ I dump my glass on the bedside cabinet. My head is starting to ache – with booze, with worry, with lack of sleep. I massage my eyes. ‘This is a conversation for another night. I think I’m going to head home.’<
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  He puts aside his own drink and drops down next to me on the bed. We sit, staring gloomily at the carpet.

  ‘Do you remember? In the woods? The first time we . . .’ His voice is so soft I can barely make out his words. Too soft, too intense. I remember the Triumph Herald and the mossy smell of rotten upholstery. I remember what happened afterwards, but maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s blocked it out. I hide behind a spark of humour.

  ‘I think about it all the time!’

  ‘You do not.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’ve been a world away. Bet you never thought about me once. I think about you all the time. I can’t get you out of my head.’

  I straighten up, blinking at the furniture in front of me, not quite sure how to defuse the situation. ‘You got married, had a child. I hope Katie never sussed you out!’

  ‘I never felt for Katie what I felt for you.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ I snort with laughter. ‘We were young. Stupid. It was first love and all that.’

  ‘Is that how you see it?’

  I shrug awkwardly. ‘I mean . . . of course it was special. Your first time always is. You always remember it.’

  ‘Just cos it was your first time? Not because you thought I was special?’

  I laugh again, uncertain. I’m not sure what he’s getting at. ‘You sound like a teenage girl!’

  He looks at me like I’ve stuck him with a pin. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You were special. I fancied the pants off you.’ I’m still trying to keep it light. ‘Those baggy skater jeans with the all the badges!’

  ‘What about now?’

  The teenage Liam peers out from this man’s face. I catch a glimpse of him, like he’s hiding, too shy to come out. ‘Now? Now, it’s late. It’s been a shitty day and I should be getting home.’

  I get up. He gets to his feet too. We are synchronised swimmers, struggling for breath and floundering. Our thoughts burst out like air bubbles.

  ‘Liam, thank you so much for organising today.’

  ‘Ellie Rook, I still have feelings for you.’

  Bad timing. He reaches for me. I sidestep and put my hands up, like a stop sign.

  ‘Liam Duthie. We’re not in school. I’ve just been searching for my mother on the beach. This is NOT a good time.’

  He is immediately contrite. He bangs his forehead. ‘You’re right. I’m so sorry. I just barged in there, and I don’t . . .’

  I should have shut him down. Instead, I’ve left the situation open. He’s going to bring this up again when things have settled, resolved. Resolution will be painful. I grab the glass and take a huge gulp which burns all the way down.

  ‘Goodnight, Liam. Thanks so much for all your help.’

  He walks me down to the front door, where we embrace awkwardly. Only later, as I get ready for bed, do I take my feelings out and examine them.

  15

  Liam was the boy all the girls in my class fancied. He was older than me, and by the time I was fifteen, he’d already left school. He didn’t go very far – ended up working for a local joiner. In his spare time, he hung about the village with his mates, skateboarding on the pavement and getting in the way of the old folks. Liam wore his hair long and his clothes baggy: skater jeans, red Vans and T-shirts with skulls on. He had a sulky attitude and a bass guitar signed by the lead singer of some obscure indie outfit, which was enough to induct him into any school band in the country.

  I fancied him like mad. The Christmas after I turned fifteen, Liam’s band were booked to do a fundraiser in the community hall and my friend Rachel got us tickets. She’s in New York now, juggling babies and a career in publishing. I occasionally like her posts on Facebook – the ones that don’t make me jealous. Anyway, the gig was policed by fathers and older brothers, and the audience comprised about thirty teens trying to look like we knew all the songs. It cost £3 to get in. The band was called Spanner Monkeys. I think one of them worked in the local garage.

  They’d perfected about six Blink-182 and Good Charlotte covers, and sang each of them twice. Tipsy on smuggled vodka, we didn’t notice. Rachel pushed me to the front. I was a rabbit caught in the spotlights, deafened by the speakers, gazing up at Liam through my fringe. The amps were turned up to the max and the vibration trembled up through the scuffed floor and into my legs. I felt weak and shivery and I knew I’d kiss Liam that night. I knew he’d be my first.

  Liam walked me home after that gig. It was a good couple of miles, but it gave us a chance to cool down. I’d scrubbed myself raw in the shower earlier that evening, determined not to carry the stench of the scrappie into town. I was shivering in green combats and a crop top, because my jacket wasn’t cool enough for a gig and I’d left it at home. We shared the last bottle of doctored Irn-Bru and walked close together, not quite touching. Liam sang snatches of Blink-182 lyrics, and it seemed that he was singing them to me.

  I preferred Avril Lavigne myself, but I hung on to his voice in the dark. Occasionally his guitar case banged off my thigh, and I treasured the feeling.

  We reached our respective houses: his on the right, with the blinds all drawn; mine on the left, dark and sleepy, the roof barely visible for trees. The crows were still up, jostling in the pear tree, although they fell silent as we approached.

  ‘They’re watching us,’ I told him. ‘They sense new things.’

  ‘Crap.’ He’d laughed at me.

  ‘My mother says so. She feeds the crows. She knows about them.’

  ‘Your mum’s a bit freaky.’

  ‘Your mum’s always sick.’

  We stood in the middle of the road, staring at each other, and it could have ended there. He began to detach himself, I could feel it, but I didn’t want the night to end. I slipped my hand into his. Our fingers were warm and sticky with Irn-Bru.

  ‘Will you walk up the drive with me? I’m a bit scared. My mum’s seen stuff there.’

  His cool, teen-rocker expression slipped a little. ‘What stuff?’ He followed me slowly, like an unwilling puppy.

  ‘My mother’s seen Finella around here,’ I whispered.

  ‘What? The chick that jumped the waterfall?’

  We’d all grown up with the story. Some of us took it more seriously than others.

  ‘She saw a woman in white, through there . . .’ I pointed to the trees that edged the far side of the drive, so thick you couldn’t walk through them. ‘There’s no path in there, but she saw a figure. It disappeared like smoke.’

  Being on home turf had given me a surge of power. I knew every scar, each diesel-tainted puddle. My mother always told me that the way to get around a man was to let him think he was in charge. The more you push, the less you get. She taught me that. Her whole life was spent trying to get around my father. So I pretended to be scared, and Liam pretended to be brave.

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Liam turned wary. His hand wriggled from mine.

  ‘Of course I believe my mother!’

  ‘I believe she thought she saw something, but I don’t know . . .’ He stared at the trees. I saw a nerve tic in his cheek and stifled a giggle.

  ‘I’ll protect you!’

  I had Liam where I wanted him. In the dark. Alone. Away from Katie Coutts and all the girls who thought I was scrap. But I wasn’t sure what to do. Weren’t boys supposed to make the first move, or was that just a myth? We’d ended up under the security light beside the big gate into the yard. The halogen glow bleached his face a ghostly white. I was close enough to see the faint red of his pimples and the soft down on his chin. His black hair had a reddish tinge to it. My heart was thumping, and I wondered if he was feeling the same. I press one hand to his black T-shirt, enjoying the pounding of his heart against my palm.

  We leaned in until our lips touched; it felt so good, like that first sip of hot chocolate. The warmth channelled down through my belly, and suddenly his arms were around me. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic, our teeth clashing. I pulled back from the burger-and-booz
e taste of his tongue. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, I heard the squeak of the yard gate.

  A torch beam hit me squarely in the face. Then came my father’s voice, unmistakeably angry.

  ‘What’s all this? Liam Duthie! Get off my property right now, or you’ll be sorry.’

  16

  Eleven Days After

  There are things I need to tackle River about, but it’s after 10 a.m. when I finally hear him banging about in the bathroom. As a kid, he was never one for staying in bed, but he’s turned into a typical teenager. Eventually, he thumps down the stairs, two at a time, and bursts into the kitchen.

  ‘River, we need to talk.’

  ‘What now? It’s Saturday. I’ve got stuff to do.’

  He’s on his way out, snatching things up as he goes, like a whirlwind: wallet, phone, a bundle of paperwork. He is shrugging on his jacket, a half-eaten Mars bar clamped in his teeth.

  ‘Wait!’ My tone is so sharp that he stops dead, half in, half out of the jacket, chocolate dribbling down his chin. ‘Just wait a minute.’

  He lowers the Mars bar, wipes his face with the back of his hand. ‘What? Has that policewoman called?’

  There’s a nerve twitching in his jaw. I’m distracted by his darkness. He is a gathering storm, all pent-up energy and near-adult muscle. It takes me a second or two to click.

  ‘Police? Oh, no – no. I expect they’re done with us. For now.’

  ‘Shit.’ He relaxes visibly and zips up his jacket. ‘Your face – I thought something was up.’

  ‘Family services phoned. First thing yesterday.’

  His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Who?’

  ‘I think it’s the paramilitary wing of social services. What have you been up to? Have you been refusing to go to school? Have you been . . .’ I grip the edge of the table. ‘River, have you been making trouble for Mum?’