Little Black Lies (42 page)

‘Peter’s not dead, Mummy. He’s in the boathouse.’

I stop moving. Everyone does. Without our noticing, Michael has woken and pushed himself upright next to his father. His eyes dart from me to the group in the doorway. ‘Hi, Auntie Catrin.’

‘What?’

I’m really not sure who said that. It wasn’t me. I can’t speak. I can only stare.

Michael blinks sleep from his eyes and they drop to the floor, the way they always do when he knows he’s in trouble. ‘We hid him in the boathouse when everyone was watching the eclipse. We gave him your sleeping pills so he wouldn’t cry. Chris said if you thought he was gone you’d start to love him like you love us. He said you’d be like the other little boys’ mummies, all sad and everything. It was Chris’s idea.’

Chris has stopped moving. His head feels as though it’s glued to my shoulder. I don’t think he’s breathing.

‘Chris wrote the notes too. I saw him. He posted them in town.’

I’m vaguely aware of Sander getting to his feet.

‘I think Peter wants to come out now,’ says Michael. ‘We ran out of pills. He’s been crying a lot today.’

I am not moving. I cannot. So the world moves for me. The house dissolves into mist and I’m outside, feeling the rush of the wind, the salt spray in my face. Sounds hit me in the darkness from all sides. Fireworks exploding. The shouting of people I love. The screaming of gulls. The deafening thunder of the wind and, from the nearby town, the sound of the cathedral clock striking midnight.

‘Rachel, let us go. Come back.’

‘Rachel, slow down. You can’t run down there in the dark.’

‘Someone get these friggin’ cuffs off me!’

‘Mummy, I’m sorry.’

‘Mummy!’

I see the beach, gleaming pale in the glow of a thousand fireworks. It’s far below me; then not so far, the beach is rising up to meet me. Explosions like gunfire echo around the rocks. I fall and the beach catches me. I have no breath, no strength in my limbs, no thoughts in my head, but the old stonework of the boathouse is in front of me now. The boathouse that nobody has been inside for a decade or more.

‘Rachel!’ Sander’s voice from the clifftop. ‘They say the skylight is loose. That’s how they got in.’

I’m looking round, for the route the boys must have taken to get on to the roof. I see rocks, loose stonework in the walls, and just as I throw myself against it, Callum is beside me. He kicks out and the door flies inwards. The smell of wet straw and soiled nappies hits us. Callum heads in first, I pull myself in front of him.

Peter, tear-stained, dirty, dopey with sleep and drugs, is sitting on an old horse blanket. He is surrounded by straw and clutching his stuffed rabbit. A look of bewildered desperation takes over his face and he lifts his arms towards me. As I drop to my knees, I hear rushing feet and then a strangled cry that tells me my best friend is back by my side. My son’s arms reach up, clasp tight around my neck, and with his chubby fingers, he loosens the rusty, slime-ridden chain that hangs there.

The albatross falls from me, and sinks, deep down, into the sea.

Friday, 3 November 1995

(Twelve months later)

39

Dad’s voice is coming out of the radio as I arrive at Catrin’s old house above Whalebone Bay.

… that was John Wilcock, of the Falkland Conservation, updating us on the oil-spill clean-up currently taking place around Carcass Island, and this is a reminder to everyone out and about on boats around the islands, any sign of pollution on the water, get in touch with the Conservation straight away. At this time of year it can have a devastating impact on our wildlife.

I park, in the safest place there is, nowhere near a slope of any description, pull the handbrake on tight and turn to check that Peter is sleeping peacefully in the back seat. I can’t help but smile. He’s grown so much this last year. And when he’s awake, he just will not stop talking. A real mummy’s boy, as well, follows me everywhere.

You’re listening to Rob Duncan and this is the afternoon show on Falklands Radio. I’ll be signing off in a few minutes, but first some news I’ve been saving all day. Good news at that, all the way from St Andrews on the east coast of Scotland, about some great friends of ours who, sadly, left these shores not quite a year ago.

Right, better do this properly. Where’s that bit of paper? Thanks, Mabel. Ahem.

Catrin and Callum Murray are delighted to announce the safe arrival of their first child, a daughter. Skye Elise was born at ten fifteen this morning, GMT, weighing seven pounds and two ounces. She has light red hair and both her eyes, it says here, are exactly the same colour. As for what that colour is, well, stay listening. I also understand that mother and baby are doing very well.

I get out of the car and walk to the clifftop. On the horizon, a boat is heading this way. A boat that, even at a distance, looks familiar.

It’s an unusually warm, still day and there are families on the beach below. A group of children some distance away are playing football. One boy, about six years old, has wandered away from the rest. He seems intent upon the sand. Behind me, I can still hear Dad.

Anyone wanting to send a card or a message of congratulations to the new family will be interested to know that my daughter, Rachel, who I’m sure won’t mind my telling you has already been asked to be godmother, is coordinating a parcel to be flown out next Wednesday. So get in touch with Rachel if you want to save yourself some postage.

The boat is getting closer, has cut its speed, is aiming for the small jetty down on the beach. I can barely make out a solitary figure at the helm.

Catrin and I can never be real friends again. I accepted that shortly after the night we found Peter in the boathouse. It is impossible to be friends with someone who has taken so much from you. So, I was almost relieved when Callum persuaded her to move to Scotland. At a distance, we can keep up the pretence, and by asking me to be godmother she is signalling to the world that I am forgiven. It’s enough. It has to be.

In the meantime, I maintain my annual pilgrimage to the place where I killed her sons.

It is exactly four years ago today that I came here, an hour earlier than arranged, in the vain and rather pathetic hope of spending some time with Ben, when Catrin was safely out of the way. I had a feeling she was going to leave him soon and I was determined that I’d be the one to pick up the pieces. Ben. It was all I could think about. A life with Ben.

Above me, in the car, Dad is signing off.

I’m going to leave you now with a song from 1982, when Callum first came to these islands. For his new daughter, Skye, this is Elton John, singing ‘Blue Eyes’.

I would never have told Ben about Catrin and Callum’s affair, she was quite wrong about that. If you ask me what happened, Ben realized when her third child was stillborn. A son with hair the exact shade of strawberry blond as his biological father’s. I did come here to betray her four years ago, I won’t deny that, but not quite in the way she imagined. I came to begin my own affair with her husband.

*   *   *

I’m breathing fast, the way I always do when I come here, but above the sound of my own breath, I hear the engines of the boat down in the bay fall silent. It’s Catrin’s boat, no wonder it looked familiar, but it isn’t Catrin at the helm, she’s thousands of miles away in a maternity ward. That’s Ben down there, tying up on the jetty.

That dream is over, of course. It was over before I killed his sons, because he turned me down that day. He knew, before I’d spoken a dozen words, why I was there. Kindly, because Ben was always a kind man, but firmly, he told me it was impossible. That even if I hadn’t been his wife’s best friend, he simply didn’t think of me that way. And he never would.

‘Where are the kids?’ he said, as I turned from him, choking back sobs, about to flee the house. ‘Rachel, where have you left the boys?’

He followed me out. Saw what was happening almost before I did. He ran towards the car but it was too late. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of his fingers clutching at the car bumper, of Kit’s terrified face as he looked into his father’s eyes one last time.

To my dying day, I will hear Ben’s scream as the car disappeared.

And yet, Ben proved the strongest of all of us. While Catrin, Callum and I were floundering, lost in our grief, he found a way to cope. When Catrin cut herself adrift from the world, seeking only the ghosts of those she’d lost, Ben sought out life, found love and began the world anew. When Catrin was eaten up with hatred, hatching endless but ultimately fruitless plans for revenge, Ben found the courage to forgive.

The pain tearing through him must have been as savage as that which stabbed at Catrin, Callum and me but Ben, the healer, found a way to heal himself.

I watch him now, stepping from boat to jetty, walking slowly towards shore in that loose, easy way he has. He pushes his sunglasses up on to his forehead and looks all around. I step back but I don’t think he can see me all the way up here. There is gorse in front of me, for one thing, and the sun behind. He squats down now, and I see that the young boy is at the jetty too. They start talking. Ben seems to be showing the boy something in his hand, something he pulled from his pocket, and I see now that the child is skinny, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, like Ned and Kit – the two boys I killed.

Ben gestures back towards the boat. The kid’s eyes follow his.

Skinny, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, like Fred and Jimmy, the two boys whom everyone has learned to believe died tragic and accidental deaths. Whom, for a short time, people believed Catrin had killed because, in her grief-crazed state, they reminded her, unbearably, of her dead sons.

A sudden cry of panic from my car. Peter has woken, alone and disorientated, and I’m glad of the excuse to run back, to bend into the car and kiss him quiet again. It’s time to go. His brothers will be home soon and I always try to greet them at the garden gate these days.

As I wipe Peter’s tears and promise him chocolate brownies when we get home, I hear a boat engine firing up again.

I don’t want to look back at the beach but I can’t help it. I just can’t. The boat with Ben at the helm is moving slowly, the engines running quietly, but already some distance from the jetty. It picks up speed as it leaves the shallow waters behind and turns away from Stanley, heading out towards The Narrows and open sea. There is no sign of the child.

I get into my car, start the engine, and reverse back. I head home, knowing that I will never come here again. I don’t look at the sea, or the sky. Above all I don’t look at the beach. I do not look at the patch of sand, roughly two hundred yards from the jetty, where a picnicking family will be starting to wonder where their youngest son is.

Author’s Note

Little Black Lies
is a work of fiction, inspired in part by the Falklands conflict of 1982. In the story, I make reference to a few events that actually happened, but my characters are from my own imagination. Any similarity to any real person connected with the Falkland Islands, whether alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

There really was a solar eclipse on 3 November 1994, but I have delayed its impact upon the Falkland Islands by a couple of hours.

Bibliography

I enjoyed the following books, and found them useful:

A Little Piece Of England
by Andrew Gurr (John Blake, 2001)

Storming the Falklands
by Tony Banks (Little Brown, 2012)

Forgotten Voices of the Falklands
by Hugh McManners (Ebury Press, 2007)

A Falkland Islands Story (A Doctor on Horseback)
by Tom Hopwood (Lulu Press, 2007)

Atmosphere, Landscapes of the Falkland Islands
by Ian and Georgina Strange (Design in Nature, 2005)

Birds and Mammals of the Falkland Islands
by Robin W. and Anne Woods (Wild Guides Ltd, 2006)

Falkland Adventure
by Andrew Coe (Bluebell Publishing, 2000)

Old Whaling Days
by William Barron (Irving Lewis Press, 2007)

Acknowledgements

Books are rarely the work of the author alone and mine certainly are not. My thanks to the following:

Adrian Summons, whose idea it was to set a book in the Falkland Islands.

Trish Preston Whyte, who served as an RAF officer in the Falklands for some time, and Andy Williams, who lived there for many years.

The Transworld team, who continue to give me support, encouragement and friendship. I cannot imagine working with a nicer group of people. Special thanks to Sarah Adams, Alison Barrow, Larry Finlay, Frankie Gray, Claire Ward, Suzanne Riley, Kate Samano and Bill Scott Kerr.

Elizabeth Lacks, Andrew Martin and Kelley Ragland of St Martin’s Press, my publishers in the US.

Belinda Bauer, who let me steal her title.

The Buckman family (Rosie, Jessica and Peter), my lovely agents, at home and overseas.

And finally, Anne Marie Doulton, who deserves a special mention in dispatches this year. (She knows why.)

Also by Sharon Bolton

(previously published as S. J. Bolton)

Sacrifice

Awakening

Blood Harvest

Now You See Me

Dead Scared

Lost

A Dark and Twisted Tide

Sharon Bolton
is the author of the bestselling Lacey Flint series.
Little Black Lies
is her first stand-alone thriller since
Blood Harvest,
which was shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger for Crime Novel of the Year.

Sharon lives near Oxford with her husband and son. For more information about her books, or to check out her addictive blog, visit
www.sharonbolton.com

Or join her on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/SJBoltonCrime
or Twitter @authorsjbolton