In his bedroom he straightened the ruffled duvet cover, aligned a pillow that was slightly askew. His legs finally buckled under him and he sank to the bed, unable to move. One of his shirts lay across the bed, the one she had worn on the night she revealed the truth to Nadine. She had left a bottle of perfume on the bedside locker. He opened the top and sniffed, remembering the bed linen he had stripped from his bed, the tantalising scent of her body on the pillow cases.
She had climbed the stairs to what was once Nadine’s apartment. Even though nothing was disturbed in the bedroom he knew she had been there. She had opened empty drawers that were once filled with Nadine’s clothes, trailed her fingers over shelves that had held her hats and shoes, left fingerprints on the dusty dressing table.
His thoughts slowed as he walked across the landing, his heart lurching painfully with each step he took. The sun shone through the narrow landing window, as if the winter solstice had come early to illuminate a new beginning. Dust mites danced in the glare, a translucent swirl that moved with an even more frenetic energy when he coughed, his throat so dry he found it difficult to swallow.
The folding stairs descended from the open maw of the attic. He set his foot on the first step and listened for a sound from beyond the trapdoor. The air seemed thicker, suspended in the viscid fear seeping from him. Only his harsh breathing broke the stillness. The slats were steep and the frame of the folding stairs shook as he climbed. He hesitated when his hand touched the trapdoor. For an instant longer he could believe his imagination was running amuck. He could believe that everything would be exactly the same as he had left it four days previously when he locked the door to Sea Aster and drove away.
The truth forced him forward. He climbed the final steps and entered the attic. When he called her name his voice had a detached fierceness, as if it belonged to someone else. Only echoes answered him. His eyes, drawn towards the wall on his right side, closed instinctively as the shadows separated. They formed a tableau, frozen, delineated, eternal. He fell to his knees. It was no longer possible to pretend. To imagine another scenario, a love story with a different ending, a tangled thread realigned into a perfect skein. He could mark the pathway of their journey towards this moment in all its fervour and its flaws. Unintended circumstances, inevitable consequences.
She could have been sleeping except for the twist of her body, the rigid tendons on her hand, her grip still on the microphone. He pressed his hands over his eyes but sightlessness would allow no mercy. He must bear witness to what lay before him.
His old electric guitar had been pulled from its stand and lay face downwards beside her. He reached out but drew his hand back before he touched the marbled slab of her cheek. He stepped backwards until the rim of the trapdoor edged his foot. He slipped once on the slats and grazed his shin as he climbed down. The pain hardly registered.
A squad of garda cars arrived quickly. Two guards climbed before him into the attic. The younger of the two, obviously new to the job, put his hand over his mouth. The older guard’s voice was clipped with authority when she demanded to know where the fuse box was located. The fuse was removed and the inaudible but deadly hum of live electricity was silenced.
When the investigation was completed and Karin’s body had been removed, he stumbled outside. Night had fallen. The gates slid open without a squeak. He hunkered down beside Cora’s cross. Tomorrow he would lay fresh flowers beside it. Stars glimmered coldly on the water. Karin’s fingernails had been mauve-tipped, a chilling colour that suggested time had passed since her heart became a conduit between two electrical charges. A bruise marbled her forehead, blue and waxen as the feathers of a kingfisher in flight.
CHAPTER 76
NADINE
Canoeists cut through the Broadmeadow estuary, paddles zipping towards shore. Their brightly coloured safety jackets remind me of exotic birds sighting land. A swan takes to the air in an ungainly rush, wings spread. Suspended against the sky, its body is as sharp as a woodcut. The main bevy cluster close to shore. I’ve also heard them called a lamentation. A lamentation of swans seems appropriate.
Three months have passed since Karin Moylan’s body was discovered in the attic of Sea Aster. I didn’t go to her funeral. Even if I’d been able to walk unaided, it would have been unfitting to bring my hatred to the graveside. Death has not lessened its force or softened her memory. Jake stayed with me in Mount Veronica while the ceremony took place. He looked older, his cheeks caved in, his eyes still reflecting the shock of his discovery and the questioning he underwent from the police about his relationship with ‘the deceased.’
Death due to misadventure was the coroner’s verdict. Faulty wiring. Case closed.
Did Jake suspect what he would find when he returned from Berlin? This question haunts me in the small hours. I want to shake him awake and ask him. Not only did he know the intimacy of her body but, also, the obsessive nature of her personality, her unbounded desire for revenge. Did this understanding make him culpable? Or did free will determine the course of action open to her? Perhaps, someday, we’ll be able to talk about such things… but for now I’m content to hold him when he moans and awakens from his own dreams. I comfort him then, as he comforted me when I was helpless and locked into my own terrors.
Can I forgive her? I hope so. Otherwise, what is the difference between us? If I am to heal fully I must not harbour a festering wound.
Twilight hangs over the estuary. A pewter stillness, the water so smooth it reminds me of ice. Alaska is a dream I lost. I let it go willingly. Daveth still phones every week. He mentions someone occasionally, hesitantly. He will tell me more, I feel, in the months to come. And I’ll be happy for him.
The heron stands motionless at the water’s edge. Nothing disturbs its concentration, neither the traffic pounding across the motorway bridge, nor the shrill voices of the canoeists as they pull their canoes over the pebbled waterline. Is it the same one I drove past on the night I fled from Jake, trying to banish the image of her as I drove recklessly along this pitted road?
I’m stiff when I rise from the jetty. My feet are still weak. I’ll need a walking frame for some time yet. But this evening I ventured out without it. Each week I grow stronger in body. I defy medical predictions, thumb my nose at weighty opinions that decreed my mind would be a broken thing. Hart says all my memories will return if I’m patient and respect the energy of my chakras. He touches the base of my spine and travels upwards, pausing at each chakra until he reaches the crown of my head. Can I feel the energy of his belief, he asks and I nod. Positive energy pulling me away from the negative. I visualise my memories as a patchwork quilt, ragged edges that I must carefully sew back into place.
Sea Aster is for sale. The new owner will be unafraid of ghosts. Where will we live? A mews or a country cottage? A town house or an apartment overlooking the sea? A shipping container? We’ll decide in time. The only decision that matters has already been made.
Jake comes towards me, anxious in case I slip on the uneven surface. He holds me steady when I stumble. I recover my balance and my step is steady as we make our way back to the old house. We close the door behind us. Brian was right. A perfect divorce is an illusion. So, too, is a perfect marriage. It’s love that makes it worth the struggle.
LETTER FROM LAURA ELLIOT
Dear Reader
* * *
Thank you so much for reading The Betrayal. I hope you enjoyed the story. Writing The Betrayal was an all-consuming experience. It took longer than I anticipated and, as I worked on the plot, built up my characters, teased out their personalities and issues, it seemed, at times, as if I would never bring all the strands to a conclusion. It’s a work of fiction but some of the locations exist. Like the Broadmeadow Estuary, for instance, although Mallard Cove and Sea Aster are figments of my imagination.
I live close to the Broadmeadow Estuary and love walking along its shoreline. I paced it over many hours as I contemplated the lives and loves of my characters and
always came home refreshed, ready to sit down at the computer to begin working again.
I have a passion for writing. This passion overcomes the necessity of working in isolation, of turning my back on a sunny day when I have a deadline to meet, of tearing out the heart of a story when it’s not working and beginning again.
Writing the words ‘The End’ and letting a book go on to its next stage is an exhilarating yet difficult experience. Once that happens the book belongs to the reading public. It can be liked or disliked, praised or criticised, discussed or ignored – that is part of its journey - and when some of that reader reaction comes back to me it is always valued. I know then that someone has read my work and I appreciate that they have taken the time to contact me.
I’d love to hear your opinion of The Betrayal and hope you will read my other books: Fragile Lies, Stolen Child and The Prodigal Sister. You can contact me at the links below and if you’d like to keep up-to-date with all my latest releases, just sign up here:
Laura Elliot new releases email
Thank you so much for your support – until next time.
Laura
@elliot_laura
lauraelliotauthor
www.lauraelliotauthor.com
ALSO BY LAURA ELLIOT
Fragile Lies
Stolen Child
The Prodigal Sister
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THE PRODIGAL SISTER
'A page-turner…has all the ingredients of a bestseller.' RTE
* * *
When 15-year-old Cathy Lambert runs away from her Dublin home, she is scared and pregnant. Settled in New Zealand with her new son Conor she believes the secret she carries will never be revealed…
* * *
Rebecca Lambert was eighteen when her parents died and she took responsibility for her younger sisters. Years later, she is haunted by fears she hoped she'd conquered.
Freed from family duties, mother of three Julie Chambers is determined to recapture the dreams of her youth.
* * *
Married to a possessive older man, Lauren Moran embarks on a frantic love affair that threatens to destabilise her fragile world.
* * *
Anxious to make peace with her three sisters, Cathy invites them to her wedding.
* * *
But as the women journey together through New Zealand towards their reunion, they are forced to confront the past as the secret shared histories of the Lambert sisters are revealed.
* * *
THE PRODIGAL SISTER is out now
‘A gripping, multi-stranded novel… An unusual combination of fine writing, strong plotting and a huge cast of well-formed characters.’ Irish Examiner
* * *
'A well-crafted and compelling story traces the deceits which begin unnoticed but end in the destruction of friendships and lives.' Irish Times
THE STOLEN CHILD
If you loved DAUGHTER by Jane Shemilt you will love this.
* * *
It's every mother's worst nightmare. Carla Kelly wakes to find her two-day-old baby daughter's cot empty. Isobel has been taken.
* * *
Susanne Dowling has kept a terrible secret following her fifth agonising miscarriage. When at last she welcomes her new baby daughter into her life she realises they will both be safe as long as Susanne keeps her daughter close, and confesses her lie to no one. Ever.
Carla, a top model, launches a fierce national campaign to find her baby – but the trail is cold. She receives threats and recriminations from strangers – she flaunted her pregnancy in the media, she cashed in on it, she deserves everything she gets – and, pressured by well-meaning loved ones to move on, she begins to fall apart.
But one letter Carla receives stands out from the rest, offering support from a surprising quarter. It sparks a chain of events that opens wounds and exposes shocking secrets from Carla’s past that suggest what happened to her daughter was revenge a long time planned .
And it will bring Carla unknowingly close to the stolen daughter she has sworn she will do anything to get back …
* * *
THE STOLEN CHILD is out now
‘A bittersweet tale of love and heartache.’ Evening Echo
* * *
‘An entertaining and highly thought-provoking tearjerker.’ Closer magazine
FRAGILE LIES
His name is Michael Carmody.
He is a writer and a father.
His son is lying in a coma, fighting for his life.
* * *
Her name is Lorraine Cheevers.
She is an artist and mother.
An illicit affair has destroyed her marriage.
* * *
Michael is desperate to find the couple who left his son for dead, a victim of a hit and run.
* * *
Lorraine is desperate to start a new life for her and her daughter.
* * *
Michael and Lorraine are about to cross paths – damaged souls, drawn to one another.
* * *
They don’t know that their lives are already connected.
* * *
They don’t know the web of lies surrounding them.
* * *
They are each searching for the truth. But when they find it, it could destroy them both.
* * *
FRAGILE LIES is out now
‘Dealing with passion, adultery, deception and tragedy, and how the past has a way of creeping up on you…a really intriguing page-turner with a surprising twist.’ Evening Echo
* * *
‘This page-turner is gripping, all the more because it presents the dilemmas of betrayal with brutal honesty.’ Irish Independent
* * *
‘This well-crafted and compelling story traces the deceits which begin unnoticed but end in the destruction of friendships and lives.’ The Irish Times
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART THREE
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PART FOUR
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
PART FIVE
Chapter
61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Letter from Laura Elliot
Also by Laura Elliot
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THE PRODIGAL SISTER