The Switch, page 27
I hope nobody else is out here. I’m probably just exhausted and anxious.
I edge up the drive, then freeze. They’re in the kitchen again, both of them drenched, kissing wildly. When Finn pulls back, his expression is so loving. A look he once reserved for me.
I blink hard, suddenly despairing and helpless. God has blessed me and now God mocks me.
My resolve hardens into ice. There’ll be no divine intervention. Nobody is going to help me. I have to do this myself.
I creep round to the front door, unlock it, feel the relief of warmth after the harsh rain. I remove my damp shoes and tiptoe down the passage, hiding in the storeroom behind the kitchen.
My hand curls around the little bottle in my pocket. I can hear the kettle boiling; he’s making tea.
As the noise fades, I can hear their voices.
“I’m going to come straight out and say it,” Elena says, sounding tense and nervous. “I know Sophia killed Claudine.”
What?
“Why—why would you think that?”
“I’m sorry. I know it was wrong—but I snuck into your house and read Sophia’s diary.”
“Sophia would be…pretty mad about that.”
He’s fucking right I’m pretty mad. How dare she?
“You’ve misunderstood,” Finn goes on quietly.
What’s he doing? He’s not going to…
“Claudine and I—we had a very special relationship…and…”
You can’t tell her, you can’t tell her, I can’t believe you’d betray me—
Quickly, I grab my mobile, calling him. The ringtone dances out, but he doesn’t pick up.
“You’re right that I knew Sophia long before university.”
I have to act. Now. She has no right to share our secrets. Finn doesn’t get it: knowledge will be her weapon. She’ll use it to destroy us.
Nothing is going to stop me protecting my man and my child.
58.
Elena
I open my eyes and instantly the pain is agonizing.
The throb of a migraine, only multiply it by a hundred: boring behind my skull-bone, punching at my temples, weighing heavy on my lids, and I think of those old-fashioned photos of the dead with coins placed on their closed eyes to press them down. I feel more dead than alive.
What happened? Where am I?
The ceiling spins. I’m naked. Back in the bedroom, the one I was in last night. Daylight sears through the window.
I try to turn my head, but it happens in slow motion. What’s wrong with my body? I can see something red out of the corner of my eye…but…everything is spinning…
* * *
—
I open my eyes again.
The room is darker now. I fight the urge to sink down again into sleep. I turn my head and start.
There’s a large red stain spreading out across the white sheet. Some of it has smeared on my arm. My fingers crawl up and touch skin. Red on my fingertip. It highlights the detail of each line and whorl. Blood. In my hair too, crusty on my earlobe.
A noise wells up from deep in my chest and tries to escape through my vocal cords, but they’re too sluggish to comply.
What’s happened to Finn? Where is he? Did Sophia come? Would she—would she do that to him?
I need to get up but my body won’t listen—
I’ve been drugged. By who?
I’ve read about date-rape drugs in the papers from time to time, and shuddered at the thought, but never before known what it’s like to feel as though my body has lost all free will.
I can’t believe they’d do this to me.
I try to cry out his name—
—but the room blurs, as though I am underwater. I close my eyes, trying to fight, but the current laps over me and I go down, down, drowning in oblivion.
* * *
—
I wake up again. What time is it? My head is blurry and one ear is ring-singing.
Fragments of memories whirl in my mind: the drive to Cornwall on Friday; dinner with Finn; the photos; Claudine’s grave; our kiss. Finn opening up to me and my heart filling with shock. All I remember was the thought: this can’t be, he must be lying. His voice becoming more and more distant, a heaviness coming over my limbs, him crying out, Are you okay? I felt him trying to grab me as I slid down onto the floor…
Then what? Waking up in that bed, I recall in horror. With blood next to me. Did I dream that?
But wait…I’m no longer in the bedroom.
Someone has moved me. I’m gazing up at a pitched wooden roof; a small skylight that lets in daylight.
I’m lying on a single mattress. The sheet beneath me is clean and white. But the crumpled blue duvet has been moved here with me and there are still bloodstains on it. So that memory was real.
Someone has dressed me too. I’m now wearing a nightie, a silky plum-colored one that looks as though it might belong to Sophia.
I try to sit up and dizziness becomes a hurricane, swirling around my head.
So I ease myself up inch by inch. Maybe Finn carried me here because it’s romantic, I tell myself. Because it’s private.
But as I gaze around, my heart sinks. Why would he put me here?
It’s an attic room. One half is cluttered with boxes and junk. There’s a framed Van Gogh print of Café Terrace at Night; a lamp and a yellow shade with the tassels half torn away, hanging by a few threads.
The other half comprises my area: the mattress and a bottle of Volvic next to a Granny Smith apple on a plastic plate.
Is this some kind of crazy sex game? I rub my ear in the hope of the ringing dimming, to no avail. Just what was he thinking?
Unless none of this is Finn’s work? I have a blurry memory of waking sometime in the dark, of voices, screaming and shouting, a thump. The more I try to coax it into daylight detail, the more it eludes me, and the more my head hurts.
I’d swear this was the work of Sophia. She might have followed me here to Crugmeer. But this seems a step too far even for her, given that I could go to the police. And even if Sophia were involved, how could she have the strength to carry me, especially in her present condition?
My throat feels thick and parched. I reach grudgingly for the Volvic, as though by drinking it I am accepting my imprisonment. I sniff it—is it safe? I down a third, then cough. I remind myself that I ought to save it, eke it out.
I stagger over to the skylight. I push it hard. It rattles, moves half an inch—but it’s stuck. The sky, which is pale blue with a weak sun, suggests it might be morning. Sunday morning? I think.
There’s a square trapdoor cut into the floor which I try to lift. It’s locked from the other side.
Then I notice another, smaller square cut into the wood, next to the apple on the plate. I can’t work out what that’s for—it looks too compact for anyone to go in and out.
A noise: the little door is opening.
Up comes a hand, holding a plastic plate of bread and butter.
I reach out and hold on tight.
“Finn,” I call down. All I can see is his arm and a little of his chin, prickly with stubble. He must be standing on a ladder, the one I saw dangling down when he gave me the guided tour on arrival.
“What’s going on?” I hear the anger in my voice, the agony.
Silence.
“Finn, just tell me why I’m here. Let me down and let’s talk. I won’t be angry. This isn’t—it’s not you! Is it Sophia, is she…mad at us?”
He tries to pull his hand away, but I hang on tightly.
“Please—look…” I try to think fast. “If she’s jealous, then I’ll go. I’ll drive home, leave you both in peace.”
A sound, as though he’s about to reply, but then the half-formed word collapses into silence.
I hear the thump of his feet on the ladder, footsteps receding on the floorboards below…
“Oh, God!” I let out a cry of fury and despair. I sit there for a while, my head in my hands. That little trapdoor terrifies me. It’s as though it’s been specifically made for this kind of incarceration, that preparations have been put in place well in advance. Did Finn lure me to Cornwall with this intent all along?
Think, I tell myself, think, think, think. What did he tell you before you went under?
Back at the kitchen table with Finn: he was denying that Sophia killed Claudine. And then—then he told me something momentous. What? What? It’s like trying to remember a dream: it slides away the moment I try to pin it down.
I glance around again—there must be something here, anything that might help me escape.
That’s when I see it.
On the wall, partly obscured by the boxes: scribbled writing. I try to push them aside, but they’re too heavy. I crouch down, peering at the wall behind them, and I see the words carved into the wood: Help me! Claudine. I swallow, shocked. Claudine Lambercier, the dead girl, was locked in here? Just as I am now?
This must be the place where Sophia killed her.
Claudine was once her rival. Now I am.
I picture Sophia taking a lighter, setting fire to this room, my body going up in flames, and I shudder.
Calm down, I tell myself, as hysteria mounts. The article in Sophia’s diary had stated that Claudine died in a fire in Villefranche, not here. I rack my brains as I try to remember—what did Finn say?
Food might fuel my thinking. I eat the bread and butter and the apple—presumably this is my breakfast—and then lie down in defeat, still feeling hungry.
And then, just as I let go, it comes back to me.
I sit up suddenly.
Finn biting his lip, barely able to look at me, whispering. The shock of his words slaps me again as I remember: “Claudine isn’t dead…She didn’t die in a fire…She’s my wife.”
59.
Sophia
I stand in the kitchen, gazing out at the pale light of the afternoon sun, glinting on Elena’s red car.
“Twenty-four hours she’s been in the attic,” Finn complains, and I turn to face him. “Tomorrow is her birthday.”
I jeer at him, shaking my head. “I spent three months up there.”
That shuts him up. But I see the pain lingering on his face. How was he able to dissociate from my suffering when he has such instant empathy with her? Granted, he’s older now. When we were teenagers our father had him completely under his control, but still…
“I can’t believe you told her!” I say. By the time the drug had kicked in, it was too late: I’d overheard him confessing nearly everything about our past.
“Well, she said she can’t remember anything. So we’re okay.”
“Oh, sure,” I snap back in disbelief.
Finn grimaces. He’s been in a sulk for hours. After Elena passed out in the early hours of Saturday morning, I showed up. He looked shocked to see me. “Did you do this to her?” he hissed. I acknowledged that yes, during their midnight tea party, when I had distracted them by banging the front-door letterbox and they had hurried down the hallway to check, I had taken the opportunity to drug her tea. Finn carried her up to the bedroom; I followed him, carrying the knife I’d brought just in case. We were standing on either side of her bed when it happened. Finn misunderstood my intentions; I leaned over her to see that her pulse was okay, that the drug hadn’t been too much for her; he suddenly lunged, tried to take the knife off me, suffered a small cut on his arm. Blood all over the white sheet and on her hair, like a virgin defiled. I had to bind up Finn’s wound, dab disinfectant on it, calm him down. He was the one who became hystérique, not me.
He kept checking on her to see if she would wake, but by late Saturday afternoon she was still under. We agreed then that she would go up in the attic, just for one night. After much persuasion on my part he’d relented, carried her up the ladder and laid her gently on the mattress. He didn’t lock her in; that was my doing. The old padlocks were still stored in our father’s desk in his former study.
Now Finn’s keen to release her but I’m more cautious. Our whole future is at stake. We need to find out just how much she remembers of their conversation.
He turns as if to storm out of the kitchen, and I run to stop him.
“Alain,” I say softly, pressing my thumb against his. I stand on tiptoe and his eyes darken as I move in closer, daring him to resist. My lips brush his. He pushes me back roughly, saying, “You know we can’t!”
I hear his footsteps as he hurries down the hallway; the slam of the front door.
Fuck him. My brother can be such a pain sometimes. He’s the one who created this bloody mess. Now I’m the one who has to clean it up.
I sit down at the kitchen table and rub the scar on my thumb. I shouldn’t have tried that: the kiss. Shame and regret are already seeping in and I feel like a kid again, on my fifteenth birthday. That night is forever seared on my memory: it rewrote my relationship with Finn.
In those days, we lived in Maison Aubert in Villefranche. I’d spent the day locked in my bedroom, hollow with despair. In the past, Maman had spoiled me on my birthdays with books, dresses, hugs, kisses. A year had passed since she’d fled, after her failed attempt to poison Father. I’d not heard a word from her since. Only Alain’s daily visits kept me sane. But today he had clearly forgotten me, or else Father had stopped him from visiting.
Then, at midnight, a key turned in the lock and my heart leaped: Alain. We crept outside into the woods beyond the garden. By the warm light of the moon he gave me presents: books, chocolates, notebooks. It was the best birthday I’d ever had. When he kissed me at the end, it felt like a fairy-tale come true.
After our secret kiss Alain retreated for a few days and I was left feeling hurt, confused, wondering what was wrong. It was only when I confided in Marcel, our servant, saw the horror on his face, that I learned the truth. Brothers and sisters cannot be together, he asserted. Society outlawed it. If I got pregnant, I would give birth to monsters. When I next had a visit from Alain, I saw sadness in his eyes: he already knew. Our first kiss would be our last. And so he took my hand, sliced my thumb then his with his penknife, and pressed our wounds against each other, making a blood pact: We can’t be together but we’ll always be together. We’ll be best friends, we swore, soul-mates, survivors in life’s struggle.
I think about taking a sip of wine, longing to blur my pain, but my little girl must be kept safe. Just get through this, Claudine, I pep-talk myself, work out how to resolve things. It’s funny: Claudine is still the name I call myself in my head, just as, even after all this time, my tongue still falters slightly whenever I have to say “Finn” instead of “Alain.”
I watch my brother through the kitchen window, hands curled into fists, walking across the lawn to Father’s grave. I remember how, when we first arrived here, the garden was an overgrown thicket of brambles, like a haunted forest in a dark fairy-tale.
The move to Cornwall was dramatic. A few nights after my fifteenth birthday, Marcel woke me in the early hours. He ordered me to follow him outside. “I’m so sorry, I’m acting on your father’s orders,” he whispered, before pushing me into the boot of a car. I curled myself into a tight, sobbing ball to protect myself during the journey. We arrived at a dark airfield where I was led onto a small private plane. The sight of Alain, looking pale and shocked, was a relief. Our father sat a few seats ahead of us, drinking without looking back; I heard the cold click of ice cubes. Alain whispered that we were beginning a new, secret life in Crugmeer.
The first few weeks were dreary. Father told me that it would be “a fun game” for me to stay in my room and have all my meals there. I disobeyed him once and he gave me a black eye. I screamed at him that he wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for me; after Maman had tried to poison him, I had been persuaded to donate one of my kidneys to him. At the time I had thought that seeing me pay penance for my mother’s sins might compel him to love me; but he only resented me even more.
After that he started locking me in. I felt as though I was becoming an ogre. Every so often I would put on one of my beautiful dresses, close my eyes, and brush my hair, pretending that Maman was doing it. He allowed Alain entry once a day to spend an hour with me. We were torn between wanting to talk and make sense of it all and needing to console each other. When we held each other tight, the sadness and the darkness of the world was muted for a while.
* * *
—
My memories recede: I can hear a noise coming from upstairs. Where the hell’s Finn when I need him? I hurry up the stairs as another suspicious bang comes from the attic. What’s she doing up there?
I need to test Elena. I need to find out how much she remembers. Then we can decide what fate she deserves.
60.
Elena
Dear Claudine and Alain,
I have enclosed, as requested, copies of your birth certificates…
I found this letter in one of the dusty attic boxes. After tearing off the old brown parcel tape, I sifted through the contents, trying to find anything that might help me get out of here: a weapon, a key.
But the boxes were filled with nothing but books. The Crime at Lock 14, The Madman of Bergerac, A Battle of Nerves, etc.—all Georges Simenon titles, covers dusty, pages yellowing. The letter dropped out of one of them, folded into a Christmas card from Claudine’s maman. It’s very moving to read it, though every time I remember my newfound knowledge—they’re half-brother and -sister—my heart somersaults and I feel the shock afresh.
I think back to the photos of the three of them. Now I know why they disturbed me, why Claudine looked so familiar in the article about her death: those dark, haunted eyes framed by thick lashes. I was seeing in Sophia’s younger self an echo of Alain. I had noticed before how similar their eyes are, but put it down to narcissism on Sophia’s part, being attracted to a man who looked like her.
