Bring Me Back. B A Paris
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in touch with Ellen since the memorial ceremony, that she was trying to make herself a career as an illustrator. When she finally found herself an agent, and had to come to London for meetings, Harry would invite her to stay at the flat. At first, I kept my distance, leaving her and Harry to have dinner together, wondering if there was something between them. As her career took off, she started coming to London more often and I found myself looking forward to her visits. Sometimes our eyes would meet across the table, and I would look away, determined not to get involved. But then I began inviting her to join me in Simonsbridge at weekends. And relaxing in front of a log-fire one evening, she leaned over and kissed me, and we ended up in bed.
It hadn’t been my intention to lie to Ruby when she asked me about Ellen, it was more that I was uncomfortable about who Ellen was. I don’t blame Ruby for feeling sore when Ellen moved in with me last year. Unfairly perhaps, I’ve always suspected Ruby of being behind the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ headline which appeared in the paper shortly after. And because Ellen and I are now getting married, I’d like to delay the conversation – the one where Ruby tells me she’s very happy for me while throwing me daggers – until I’ve had time to get used to the idea myself.
We haven’t been to The Jackdaw since the wedding announcement appeared in the local paper a couple of weeks ago. Ellen insisted on placing it because she felt that everyone, especially Ruby, should know that she’s here to stay. I think she was hoping to silence those who whispered that we shouldn’t be in a relationship, as there are some who disapprove that I’m marrying Layla’s sister. They don’t come right out and say it but I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices as they congratulate us.
I call Peggy out from the river, and after she’s shaken the water off her and onto me, I take the path back up to the road, glad that I’ve managed to avoid Ruby. As I approach the house, I see something standing on the stone wall that borders the front garden and recognise the little Russian doll that Ellen found last week. The fact that she kept it for so long before putting it back where she found it tells me how much it means to her and I feel guilty all over again for saying she shouldn’t keep it, because I doubt the owner is going to come looking for it. But I also feel guilty for another reason. It’s more proof that Ellen never goes against what I tell her, never disobeys me, and although it makes for a peaceful life, I find it perplexing.
I put the doll into my jeans pocket and go into the house. I expect to find her in the kitchen but she calls down to me from upstairs. I send Peggy to fetch her while I check the markets on my phone. A couple of minutes later Ellen comes into the kitchen, looking so desirable in her skimpy pyjamas that I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her back to bed.
‘I hope you didn’t go outside like that,’ I tease.
‘Outside?’
‘To put the Russian doll back.’ I slip my hand into my pocket, intending to surprise her with it, because why shouldn’t she keep it?
‘I haven’t put it back yet.’
I look at her, thinking that she’s joking. But her cheeks have flushed red.
My fingers, clasped around the Russian doll, freeze. ‘What do you mean, you haven’t put it back yet?’
‘I was going to do it after breakfast,’ she says, mistaking my shock for annoyance. ‘I wasn’t going to keep it.’
‘Where is it?’ I hate that I sound angry because I’m not, I’m rattled.
She hurries out of the room and comes back carrying the large Russian doll that has sat on top of the teak cupboard in our dining room since she moved in with me last year. She unscrews it in the middle, takes out the Russian doll inside, unscrews that one in the middle, takes out the next one, unscrews it, then takes out the next one. As she twists the last one apart, I realise that she’s joking, that there’ll be nothing inside and she’ll smile and tell me that of course she put the doll back outside. I raise an eyebrow and begin to smile.
‘Here it is.’ She takes a little Russian doll out and puts it down on the worktop amid its dissected relatives. ‘I was only going to keep it for a while.’
Keeping the smile on my face, I casually remove my hand from my pocket, leaving the doll I found on the wall where it is. ‘Hey, it’s fine, keep it if you want to.’
She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, nobody’s going to come looking for it, are they?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ She begins putting the Russian dolls back together but instead of stacking them one inside the other she places them side by side on the kitchen worktop, starting with the biggest and ending with the little one. It matches the rest of her set exactly. ‘There we are, a complete family of five. How strange that after all these years, I’ve finally found what’s been missing.’
I turn away, wondering what she would say if I told her that I just found a second Russian doll. If Layla’s body had been found, she would put it down to a bizarre coincidence. But her body has never been found. And if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s Ellen thinking that Layla might still be alive.
I’d hate for her to have false hope.
Before
That night, it took thirty-six minutes to get from Liverpool Street Station to St Katharine Docks. As we made our way through the crowds standing outside pubs and wine bars, already celebrating the New Year, I told myself it was the atmosphere that made me feel drunk. But I knew it was because of you.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Layla.’
‘I expected something more Scottish,’ I admitted.
‘I was lucky, my mum got to choose my name. My dad chose my sister’s name and she wasn’t so fortunate. He’s originally from Islay so he called her Ellen, after Port Ellen.’
‘It’s still a pretty name.’
‘Yes, it is. What about you? What’s your name?’
‘Finn.’
‘Irish?’
‘Yes. I was born and raised in Ireland,’ I explained.
You couldn’t get over the size of the Tower of London, proudly illuminated against the night sky, or the majesty of Tower Bridge. By the time we reached the docks, where people were partying on the various yachts and boats moored there, you were completely overwhelmed.
‘This is London?’ you asked.
‘It is,’ I said, pleased at your reaction to the city I loved. I stopped in front of my apartment block. ‘And this is where I live.’
‘Where you live?’ You seemed suddenly doubtful and I remembered that I was meant to be finding you a hostel or hotel.
‘Yes. You’ll never find somewhere to stay tonight so you can stay with me and Harry. Tomorrow, we’ll find you a hostel.’ You still weren’t convinced. ‘We have a little study with a sofa-bed, you can sleep there. You’ll be fine, I promise.’
I tapped in the door code and after a moment’s hesitation you followed me inside. In the lift, your unease grew – but of course, I had more or less kidnapped you. I wanted to put your mind at rest, to tell you that I hadn’t been lying, that you would never have found anywhere to stay that night because every hotel, every hostel would have been booked up months ago. But we were already on the third floor and I hoped that once you saw the flat, you’d feel more comfortable.
‘Oh my God,