A Rip in the Veil (19 page)

“Well it died, no?” Mrs Gordon shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

*

When they left, two days later, Mrs Gordon handed a wrapped bundle to Matthew and stood back. She refused the matching earring, assuring Alex that she should keep it.

“It may be that we run into each other again, aye? And then we’ll know each other by the earbob.”

Alex laughed and hugged her, which surprised Mrs Gordon so much she nearly fell.

“Go with God,” Mrs Gordon said, a quick pat on Matthew’s cheek. “And you child,” she added, smiling at Alex. She put a restraining hand on Alex’s arm and waited until Matthew had moved away.

“Your middle name fits you, lass. You’re truly his Ruth.”

Chapter 14

“Matthew?”

“Hmm?”

“Who’s Ruth?”

He glanced at her. “Haven’t you read your Bible?”

“No,” she said, irritated by his tone. “I’m the heathen, remember?”

“So you know nothing of the Good Book?”

“Of course I do! I know about Abraham and Isaac, and the twelve tribes of Israel and…” she snapped her mouth shut at his amused look.

“And the New Testament? About our Lord Jesus?”

“Oh, like when he turned water to wine or walked on the lake of Galilee? Yes, I’ve heard them too.” She’d seen a couple of very explicit movies about the life of Jesus Christ – and in particular his death.

“Well that’s good then,” Matthew smiled, “you’re not an entire heathen.” She swiped at him and he laughed, swiping back, the laugh becoming a wince when he moved his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, “I shouldn’t have…”

He waved away her concern. “I’m okay, lass.” They shared a quick smile; he’d used her word.

“Okay,” she repeated and took his hand.

“Ruth,” she said, reverting to her original question. He stopped and took both her hands in his.

“I like Ruth, but why do you ask?”

She squirmed a bit. “It’s something Mrs Gordon said.” He stood waiting and she was very aware of how her pulse hammered through her wrists and into his thumbs, or was it from his thumbs and into her wrists? She was woozy with his proximity.

“It’s my middle name, and as she didn’t want to know our real names she asked me for my middle name. And when we left she stopped me in the door and she said…”

“What?” he prompted.

“That it was an apt name,” she mumbled, “that I was indeed your Ruth.”

His eyes softened to a golden green, his hands tightening around hers.

“That would make me very glad,” he said, kissing her on her brow before turning to walk away from her.

“Hey!” she protested, catching up with him. “You can’t just say something like that and then leave me hanging. It makes me feel as if I’m left out, somehow.”

“I could find you a copy of the Holy Writ, have you read it for yourself.”

Alex looked round. “Where? Unless you think those sheep over there might have a book or two squirreled away under a gorse bush.”

Matthew laughed, stopped. He looked down at her and cupped her chin.

“
Wither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I will die and there will I be buried
. That’s what Ruth says.”

“Oh.” Alex didn’t know what else to say, but she was certain she would fall if he took his hand away.

This was getting far too serious, she reprimanded herself as she followed Matthew. She saw him shift his shoulder and wanted to rush to him, place a hand on the sore and itching wound. Bloody Florence Nightingale, she grinned. Except that prim Ms Nightingale didn’t go round with designs on her patients, while Alex, well, she was drowning in want.

Over the last few days, she’d grown increasingly more aware of him, to the point where she’d considered turning towards him and just… She swallowed back a gust of nervous laughter. She wondered what he’d do if she did that, if he’d be surprised should she place her hand on his crotch and fondle him. He would probably be horrified at her forwardness, but she was pretty sure she’d be able to take his mind off that rather quickly.

His Ruth. A wave of heat washed up her neck and face. Those words, the way he’d said them, making her heart beat so hard it made her nauseous, and she’d known every single syllable to be true. Poor John, she sighed, never had it felt this way with him. Luckily Diane would be there, standing in the wings with broom and shovel to sweep up the pieces and glue them together.

A strand of bright green jealousy swirled through her head as she saw the two of them laughing over a glass of wine, Diane perched on a stool to watch John cook. Diane settled Isaac on her lap and he leaned back against her chest with a contented smile on his face, and Alex felt a knife tear through her gut. She came to a standstill as she dug for her little doll. She couldn’t find it, and she turned out her pockets, rifled through her roll.

“Alex?” Matthew stood beside her. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t find it, my baby, your gift. And I need it, because I miss him so much, and I want to pretend that I still can touch him.” Matthew fell to his knees and helped her look through the few things again. No miniature wooden baby. “I saw him, I had an image of him sitting in Diane’s lap, and he was happy and safe, and I want him to miss me! But he won’t, will he? He’ll have other adults in his life, and I’ll fade to be nothing but his biological mother, the woman who gave birth to him but never saw him grow.”

“Of course he’ll miss you, but not yet. Later when he grows and starts wondering about who he is, he’ll think about you. But right now he’s a wee lad who’s lost his mother, and it isn’t a bad thing if he has others to love him, is it?”

No, she conceded, that was not a bad thing, even if she would have preferred it to be somebody else than bloody Diane.

“He’s John’s child, much more than mine, in the beginning he was only John’s, because I couldn’t bear to touch him.”

“Because of his father?”

She nodded and dragged a hand across her face. “I was so afraid I’d see him in Isaac’s face.” She sat down, crossing her legs. “I’ve never told anyone what happened to me, not even Magnus or John. I just couldn’t.” She raised her face to meet his eyes. “But I think I have to tell you.”

He lowered himself to sit beside her and took her hand in his. “Why do you think that?”

She nailed her eyes into his and swallowed. “I have to tell someone; and it has to be you.”

“Aye,” he said, and swallowed just as audibly as she’d done. “It has to be me.”

She followed the acrobatic antics of a swift with her eyes. He put a hand on her nape, rubbing slow circles over her skin.

“I told you, didn’t I, about that time in Stockholm when I threw John’s ring at him and stalked out.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw him nod, and she sat for a bit trying to sort her memories from those months into some semblance of order.

She’d been in a foul mood, but four hours and several shopping bags later, she’d decided to treat herself to a real night out on the town.

“So I ended up at Spy Bar, and who should I meet there if not Ángel.” She shook her head; not at all a random meeting. Ángel had been following her for a fortnight or so by then, since their first meeting at an IT fair in Dusseldorf, but she didn’t know it at the time. All she knew was that she wanted to party, and Ángel was a fun guy, however unexpected his presence here in Stockholm.

For a couple of hours they’d sat and talked, mostly about Ángel and his career as a photographer, but also about Seville – their common ground.

“Photo what?” Matthew asked.

“It’s a way of making pictures,” Alex said, deciding it would take far too long to explain this in detail.

“Anyway; after a couple of drinks, Ángel took me dancing.” He was a fantastic dancer, and when the music slowed, he held her close, crooning along with the lyrics. He had wonderful hands. Gentle and warm as they floated up her spine, down to graze her buttock, up along her flanks.

He’d made love to her there, on the dance floor, and it was only hands, nothing else. So when he asked her if she, well, would she like to, Alex nodded. They didn’t talk on their way back to his hotel room.

It was midday before she managed to leave his hotel – she had to, she had a flight to catch. When she told him she was going to Italy he brightened. So was he, he told her, now wasn’t that a coincidence? Coincidence my arse, but she didn’t know that at the time, did she?

“I still don’t understand how I could be so…well, naive.” She threw Matthew a look; he’d grown increasingly darker as she’d told him about Ángel. Now he nodded, somewhat curtly, eyes very green.

“And John?” Matthew sounded censorious.

“He’d left me like a hundred messages. So I wrote him back, telling him I was off to do three weeks of installation work at the Banca Popolare in Milan, and then we’d see.”

Three – almost four wonderful weeks with Ángel. Days spent in the dusty offices of the bank, evenings and nights with this experienced and creative lover, doing things she’d never done with anyone before. But she didn’t tell Matthew this.

“I think…well, now I think that he slipped me things, you know?”

Matthew shook his head.

“So much wine, so many colourful drinks, and every now and then he added something to them.” How else to explain just how fuzzy those weeks were? And anyway, she’d never have agreed to unprotected sex had she been all there – at least she didn’t think so.

In retrospect, this was what confused her the most. Why had he played happy couples with her for those first initial weeks, was it to rub it in just how gullible she’d been? She gnawed her lip; maybe it had just been a delaying tactic while they found the right location, sufficiently isolated to ensure no questions were asked, no matter what goings on.

The day she was supposed to go home, he’d pleaded that she stay a bit longer – he had borrowed a place down in Calabria, and wouldn’t she please, please come? So she did, and it was a fantastic house, set in splendid isolation with only the sea and the rocky landscape surrounding it. Not a neighbour in either direction for as far as one could see, and the last stretch of road was mostly gravel and crushed stone. And Ángel dropped her phone by accident into the pool.

On their second day there, two men had showed up. Ángel introduced them as Franco and Roberto, his assistants. Assistants? Oh yes, Ángel was going to utilise this beautiful place to take a whole series of photos – with her as his model. She hadn’t liked the way he said that.

For the first time, she’d felt a warning drumbeat at the base of her brain, but tried to look unconcerned and told him he’d have to be very quick, as she was only here for two more nights. Ángel just smiled. She’d ended up staying in that damned house for eighty-six more days.

That night Alex was led into the vast dining room, unfurnished except for a large oak table, and on the table was a picture of her mother. Ángel had tapped at the photo.

“Is this your mother?” he’d asked, and Alex had replied that yes, it was.

“And her name?”

“Her name?” Alex had looked at him; given that he had a picture of her, he should know it.

“Tell me her name.”

So Alex had said that this was Mercedes Lind.

“Her real name,” he’d said, “not her married name.”

“Mercedes Gutierrez Sanchez,” Alex had said, not understanding at all. Ángel had punched his fist in the air, shouting that yes, it was the witch, they’d found the witch.

“Witch?” Matthew interrupted.

“That’s what he said.” She tried to sound dismissive.

“And is she? A witch, I mean?”

She shook her head, disconcerted by how Matthew had latched on to this one thing. Once she would have laughed out loud at his preposterous question, but now she no longer knew – not after the last time she’d seen her mother.

She coughed, trying to clear her throat. They were still executing witches in the seventeenth century, and she had an uncomfortable sensation that being branded the child of a witch wasn’t good for your reputation. She decided to continue her story.

After a quick but loud phone conversation with someone called Hector, Ángel proceeded to explain why Alex was here. Bait, he’d said, a juicy worm wriggling on a hook. And tonight…he’d handed her a mobile. She was to phone her mother, give her the first in a long line of instructions. Instructions? Ángel had laughed. Didn’t she understand? Hector wanted her to bring her mother here, to them. So that they could kill her, tie her to a stake and watch her burn.

“Burn her?” Matthew stared at her, aghast. “So she was a witch?”

“Ángel was off his head, okay? All of this was some sick, horrible game to him, a game he chose to extend for as long as he could.” Three eternal months, to be precise.

Ángel had laughed at her shocked refusal. She was locked into a small room, and as he left Ángel leaned forward to caress her cheek. She spat in his face. An hour later, she succeeded in breaking the window, clambered out through the narrow opening and jumped. Two hours later she was back, unable to walk, or talk. They’d been waiting for her, and Ángel had beaten her with as much passion as he’d previously shown her in bed. His last blow broke her nose.

Matthew groaned. “But why didn’t you…” he mimed a kick and a jab.

“Oh, I tried; but Ángel was just as good, if not better, than me.” Reflexively she covered her nose. He’d played with her the bastard, making her think she had a chance to fight free.

“I used to think I was one of those people who’d be really brave, you know?” Alex fiddled with her ring, her bracelet. “It turns out I wasn’t.”

“Very few are,” Matthew said.

Whatever.

Next morning, Alex had been supported out of her little room, still in her bloodied clothes from yesterday, and Ángel had sat her down by the large oak table. In his hand he held a hammer. Franco grabbed her hand, pressed it down against the table. Ángel smiled and asked which finger. Which finger? Well, he said, he’d start with her fingers, then her toes, and after that…he threw a look at a huge set of pliers that lay on the table. Alex swallowed, pressed her knees together, ashamed of the way her legs were shaking. So, which finger? Please, she’d said. Ángel had shrugged, and the hammer came down on her pinkie.