Mirrorland, Carole Johnstone [spiritual books to read .txt] 📗

I want to punch him. I want to hurt him so badly, for a moment I wonder if I might, but instead I settle for shouting back just as loud. ‘She isn’t dead!’

He gets so close to me I can smell the sourness of his fury, the hot rush of it through gritted teeth. ‘Then why are you fucking her husband?’

*

It’s getting harder and harder to convince myself that El is only sneering. Plotting. Setting me up just to watch me fall. I know I’m overreaching, stretching my last bitter memories of her to their very limits. I feel trapped, under siege – and all these reminders of our first life here within these walls, these rooms, are making it harder and harder to shore up my defences. There’s a loosening inside me, and not of the good, clean kind. It makes me stand at the kitchen window, rubbing my fingers against those crooked nails as I stare at the wall alongside the washhouse and think of that first email exchange: HE KNOWS. THINGS HE DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW. YOU’RE IN DANGER. I CAN HELP YOU.

Marie’s she was very scared. Vik’s she was terrified of him.

El isn’t the one sending the cards. She’s behind the treasure hunt, she’s sending the emails – but she isn’t sending the cards. I know it; most of me has always known it. I don’t know who was in the garden yesterday, but it wasn’t her. And the kayak in the shed. The Gumotex kayak that Logan said El used to get herself to and from her boat when no taxi was available. Is it a spare? Or did El dump it here after using it to get off her boat? Did someone else?

Worry gies wee things big shadows, hen.

I take out my phone, find Vik’s number.

Ross says you and El were having an affair. Is that true? Did he find out? Did he threaten you?

When Ross comes back from town bearing roses, a bottle of California red, and a heartfelt apology, Vik still hasn’t replied. We drink as slowly as we can, sitting at the kitchen table and staring out at the garden, the afternoon rain battering against the windowpanes in a rhythm that’s nearly hypnotic.

‘Cat. Talk to me.’

When I look up at Ross, his expression is open, concerned.

‘I saw Marie again yesterday. In the shop.’ I swallow. ‘She said … she said that you threatened her, warned her to stay away from El.’

Ross’s brow furrows. ‘I told you, I don’t know who the hell this Marie is.’ He takes out his phone. ‘But we should tell Rafiq about her. She sounds fucking unhinged. Maybe she’s—’

‘No, Ross, wait.’ I think of Marie’s burned, scarred skin, the tears in her eyes. ‘Just – we don’t need to do that. Not yet. Just … if she says anything to me again, I’ll phone Rafiq. I promise.’

He puts down his phone. When I can bring myself to look at him properly, I can see how tired he is, how unhappy, how lost. It stings the back of my throat, my eyes. I believe him, but how can I trust that belief? How can I trust myself? I loathe all this turmoil, this emotion, when I’ve been perfectly numb for years.

‘Don’t,’ he says, with a wince, before reaching out to touch my face. ‘I’ve no clue what I’m doing either. But this isn’t grief, Cat. It isn’t substitution.’ He swallows. ‘Not for me anyway.’

‘Or for me.’ But my stomach feels tight.

Ross clears his throat. ‘When El tried to … when she wrote me that suicide note … when I …’ He looks away.

When you made your choice, I think. When you chose her.

‘It was the worst mistake of my life, Cat. I felt so guilty and so shit-scared – it was my fault: what she did and what it did to you – and when you left for America, it just seemed like the best thing was to let you go. I loved you. I love you. But how could I leave her and go running after you? What would she have done then?’

I close my eyes. The pain in his voice is raw, real. But even though he’s telling me what I want to hear – all I’ve probably ever wanted to hear – there’s a part of me that’s still appalled by that mostly completed Presumption of Death form; by how quickly he has transferred his affections from one of us to the other, just like he did then. Whether or not El’s having an affair with Vik. Whether or not she and Ross haven’t been getting on for months or years. Whether or not thinking any of it makes me the worst kind of hypocrite.

When my phone beeps, I glance quickly at the screen. It’s Vik.

No. To all of it. But are you ok? Want to meet?

I’m not angry with Ross. I’m not jealous of Shona on El’s behalf, or because I think something is actually happening between her and Ross. I’m jealous, I’m suspicious, because it makes me feel better. It dilutes my own guilt.

I push my phone into my pocket, and Ross takes hold of my hands. ‘But what about you, Blondie? Do you love me too?’

I can’t not look at him then. At his tired, beautiful face, so dear to me, so missed for so many years. I can’t lie, or pretend my heart doesn’t do a teenage skip at the old nickname.

‘You know I love you. I always have.’

He stands up, pulls me towards him, presses warm, slow kisses against my hair, my temple, my lips. We stay there for minutes, and I listen to the rain, to his heartbeat and his breath. And I try very hard not to think about anything else at all.

But eventually I have to. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Ross pulls back, looks down at me. ‘Uh-oh.’

When I don’t answer, his expression changes. ‘Shall I go get us a proper drink?’

He lets me