In other words, he was constantly on the move. Sunlight burst through the corner window and fanned out. He drew the blinds down. There was an L-shaped settee, a matching armchair, which faced the wall-mounted television that appeared to be his sole form of entertainment, and six chairs around a dining table, which seemed a little excessive for one man. The dazzling kitchen units were too white, and clean. Both of them had learnt self-sufficiency at a young age.
She kicked off her heels. ‘Under floor heating?’
‘Yep.’
‘Very nice. Cosy.’ She wriggled her toes.
He opened a cupboard door in the kitchen and pulled out pans. She stretched out on the sofa and left him to it.
The soup tasted a tad salty but was otherwise good. The crusty bread was still fresh. ‘Nice,’ she said between slurps.
‘So, you've not contacted Mum—’
‘No.’ She had anticipated Deidre. The challenge was derailing Mark’s insensitive probing while giving him the opportunity to befriend her. ‘Don't want to go there.’
‘She's struggling—’
‘Don't care.’ She left the spoon in the bowl. ‘Look, Mark, it's lovely catching up with you. But Mum is off the agenda. And Dad. I want to get to know you.’ She locked onto his gaze and figured he would cave if she held it long enough.
His mild frown evaporated quickly. ‘What's there to know? I'm an accountant. I'm boring. I watch football on Saturdays.’
Ellen picked up her spoon. ‘I can't believe how old you look—’
‘Cheers.’
‘I mean, come on, you were a teenager when you left home. Now, you're this man.’ A man who had lost the chubby cheekbones of adolescence and replaced them with slightly gaunt ones. If he ate soup every day, it might explain the weight loss. He had the olive skin of their maternal grandparents who had emigrated from Southern France when hippies wore flared dungarees. For some reason, her skin tone was less pronounced, a paler facsimile. Sepia suited Mark.
A few cubes of carrot bobbed on the surface. She tasted chicken. It wasn't his fault; she hadn’t mentioned the vegetarianism. When she had arrived in London she started cutting out meat. Dieting was a popular fad, something to chat about over lunch with the girls in the office, and she picked vegetarian because it was easier than some of the other ones – low carb, high protein, this and that – the choice had nothing to do with ethics.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. Just we're a bit like strangers, aren't we? I feel like I'm going on a date with my own brother.’
‘I suppose. I always remember you as this sad girl who hid in her room.’
A painfully accurate description. ‘Had my reasons.’
‘Yes. You did.’ Mark reached over and took her hand. He squeezed it. ‘Sorry. That's all I want to say. Okay? I ignored you. I ignored everyone. I just wanted to get out.’
She slid her hand under the table. ‘We both did. I had to wait longer.’ She shrugged, dismissively. Six years. Her own private prison sentence. ‘And now we're both in London.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me about your work.’
Neutral territory and a wise option. She moaned, she couldn't help it. He offered advice, good advice, which surprised her. Why had she assumed he wasn't knowledgeable about dealing with people. He had his own team, he explained.
He fetched cheese from the fridge. She helped herself to thick slices and smeared butter over the crackers.
Mark fidgeted in his seat, toying with his crackers.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You've banned me from talking about them.’
‘When I'm ready. That's what I'm saying. I'm not ready. Don't let's spoil this evening with them.’ She flicked a breadcrumb at his face. ‘Cheer up.’
He laughed. The crumb fight continued for a few minutes. They had had them as kids; the memory was pleasant.
‘Let's watch a movie,’ he said.
She curled up on the settee and Mark parked himself in the armchair. He was impatient to tell her things. She had rebuffed him, but for how long would she be able to hold him off? She didn't want to hear about appeals and solicitors. There were no doubts in her head about her father. The younger Ellen had overheard the arguments about his “business dealings” through doors and walls. There were other things that she noticed: his coming home late without explanation and the envelopes of cash he handed to Deidre when Ellen wasn't supposed to be looking. The white powder that dusted the coffee table. Using her fingertip, an eleven-year-old Ellen had traced patterns in it until a scowling Deidre wiped it away with a brisk flick of her wrist.
Clues were everywhere. If you were small and curious, they were easy to stumble upon. Mark's analytical mind operated on numbers. This murderer didn't use numbers. Or words. Ellen had found things out by accident, like searching for pennies in her father’s coat pocket and finding bigger things.
Mark picked something mindless and forgettable to watch. The perfect choice.
~ * ~
Returning home to her tiny bedsit, which she now hated, Ellen fired up her iPad and sent a message to Freddie.
Mark wants to talk about them. Him.
The reply came swiftly. Is that still painful for you?
Yes.
It wasn't the memories. She had plenty of those. It was the battles she had fought to make herself heard. She had dared to breach her containment. She had screamed, scratched and cut her way out. For one month she had tried being a mute because, she had naively assumed, people listened better to silent children. Talkative ones were constantly hushed. She had practised every trick, hoping to distract Deidre from her futile efforts to free her father, and none of them, not one fucking thing, had worked.
Have
