CHAPTER ONE
JUDE
April 1988
Jude yanked open the door and squinted into the grey sky, the filtered light stinging her eyes. She hadn’t been outside for days – weeks, even – and each breath of the damp, salty air burned her throat like whisky. She’d kill for just one more shot of alcohol, but her stash was gone now. Sunk into her, bottle after bottle, absorbed into her blood.
Into her body.
Into her soul.
But it wasn’t enough. Not enough to blot out the images of him – of his fingers gripping her arm, of the stink of tobacco when his hands covered her mouth, of the coiled tightness of his body as she struggled against him.
Not enough to erase the memory of a soft mouth on hers, either . . . of how his fingers stroked her hair, of the tenderness in his voice when he said her name.
Of the ten little words he echoed before sinking into her, like a promise, like a vow.
I am always with you. I will always be here.
Jude had echoed those words, fiercely pulling herself against his body even as, inside, part of her pushed him away. And later, when he was gone, she’d repeated the words to her daughter – whether as a desperate pledge to remember or to delete the past, she didn’t know.
But nothing would be enough to erase what had happened. God knows, she’d tried everything: from antidepressants to counselling (a wasted hour, where she’d sat in silence), to giving her daughter every last piece of herself in the hope she’d magically morph into a mother, to drinking as much as she could. And she couldn’t bear it any longer. Couldn’t bear what she’d become in her quest to bury it all; couldn’t bear her daughter shaking her awake each morning, jerking her back to the torturous present. She couldn’t struggle any more through stale-bread breakfasts, forgotten lunches and hasty suppers of baked beans because that was all the pantry contained.
Maybe if it had just been her, she’d have let the days unroll until her body couldn’t take it any longer. But it wasn’t just her, and she wasn’t just damaging herself. ‘If you can’t live for yourself, live for your daughter,’ one clueless GP had told her, back in the early days when her sister, Carolyn, had managed to drag her out of bed. Jude had wanted to laugh so hard the whole rickety clinic would collapse. Didn’t the doctor know that Ella was the problem?
Jude loved her daughter, of course she did. But she didn’t want to stare into a face that was a constant reminder of all that was bad . . . of all that was good. Didn’t want that twisted torment of hate and love, of anger and loss, to claw at her heart. Didn’t want her.
That sounded horrible. That was horrible. How could you love your daughter but not want to be her mother? How could you wish she had never existed and at the same time want to protect her from everything? Want to keep her safe from life . . . from you?
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing, but leaving all this behind. Jude gazed out to the sea, the waves rolling towards her, one after another. She could feel them calling; feel her body respond. The urge to be oblivious, weightless in the briny water, was overwhelming.
Behind her, the flat was silent. Ella was still sound asleep, tangled in her duvet with one bare foot flung out like it was trying to run off on its own. She wouldn’t be alone when she finally woke; Carolyn should be here soon, on her daily mission to haul Jude back into life. She was more of a mother lately to Ella than Jude had been, and when Jude was gone . . . well, Ella would belong to Carolyn, be the child her sister had never been able to have. Carolyn would throw herself into mothering Ella, the same way she had mothered Jude after their parents died.
Pain twisted Jude’s insides, and she let out a strangled cry. She didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t stay. It was the story of her life.
The story of her death, too.
She closed the door behind her and stepped forward.
CHAPTER TWO
ELLA
July 2018
‘Have some cake, Ella!’ Jane waved a huge piece of cream-laden Victoria sponge under my nose. I glanced up from computer screen, trying to keep the annoyance off my face. Stuffing myself with cake didn’t appeal to me any more than chit-chatting with my colleagues, and most of the time my headphones were firmly in place. Thankfully, my job as an audio archivist at the Musical Museum – built in an attempt to elevate Hastings above other fading seaside destinations – made that seem more conscientious than rude.
I forced a smile. ‘I’m okay, thanks.’
I winced as my co-workers started a rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ that even my blaring sound file couldn’t block out. For my first few months here, my boss, Jane, had tried everything to involve me in work social life, inviting me to nights out and stopping by my cubicle to chat each morning. I hadn’t been unfriendly – I hoped – but I wasn’t interested. Jane and my colleagues were lovely, but I didn’t need the unnecessary clutter in my life. I wanted to go from my studio flat to work and back again, rolling along nicely in my cosy little cocoon. Minimal interaction, minimal distraction.
Cheering and clapping erupted as Siobhan blew out her candles. Then someone turned up a godawful song on the loudspeakers. The one thing my self-imposed bubble couldn’t do was block out rubbish pop music, so with lunchtime celebrations for Siobhan’s thirtieth (I’d pegged her at forty, at least!) well underway, I yanked off my headphones and admitted defeat.
I pushed back my chair and grabbed my lunch bag, thinking today might be a day to escape to the museum cafeteria. Filled with throngs of screaming kids and sunburned holidaymakers in the summer and earnest OAPs trying to wring the most from their waning years in the winter, I usually shunned it at all costs. But right now, I’d take anything over some bloke crooning about the shape of his girlfriend’s body.
I eased past my colleagues, who were clustered around Siobhan’s desk, and made my way up in the lift to the cavernous lobby. Already I could smell the coffee from the café, positioned just off the entrance to catch any visitor, big or small, in its net of exorbitantly priced stale cakes and weak lattes.
I fixed my eyes firmly on its door to avoid the staff members dotted about in their annoyingly bright red ‘Can I Help You?’ shirts and made a beeline for an empty table in the corner, well away from the raucous mum-and-babies group blocking off half the space with their oversized prams (they must be planning to take their infants off-roading, by the size of those things; I wouldn’t be surprised if they were fully motorised). The mums were staring down at their newborns with a mixture of awe and fear, and I tore my gaze away. Not that I longed to have a baby – God, far from it. My cat, Dolby, was more than enough responsibility. But just seeing mothers and children was dangerous territory for me, and I never strayed too far from the boundaries I’d set years ago.
School holidays had yet to begin, so, thankfully, the café was quiet, apart from the mums and babes. I sank into a seat and stared out of the window at the sea in front of me, watching the waves whip the water white and gulls fighting the wind. No matter where you went in Hastings, the sea would draw your gaze, as if the whole town was built for nothing but to offer up awe and admiration for its vast expanse. As a child, I’d stared for hours, willing the water to part and my mother to emerge like some mythical mermaid. I believed she’d meant those ten little words she always said to me each night.