Undertow (19 page)

“Billie,” she pleads.

“Just tell me.” I shake her hard again and I feel her go limp.

She looks at me, helpless now. A thing of pity. Hair stuck to her face with snot and tears, her body shaking. She manages to speak through the sobs. “I don’t know it all,” she says. “Just that there was a fight.”

“Who?” I demand. “Who was fighting?”

“Tom – your dad. He hit Jonty, I think.”

“And then?”

She lets her head fall and makes a keening sound, like an animal. “Don’t make me, Billie.”

The noise is pain. And it hurts me too. But I won’t stop. Can’t stop. “You have to,” I spit. “You have to tell me.”

And she does. “He hit Jonty,” she wails, “and then he pushed Will off the pier.”

The butterflies inside me take flight. I feel them rise in my throat. Pushing out a “No”. But even as I utter it I know it is hopeless.

“I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m so sorry.”

And we’re both crying. Me propping her up with my hands, but I can’t hold her. Can’t be held.

“How?” I manage.

But she shakes her head. “I wasn’t there. They told me. He told me.”

“Your father?”

She nods. Pulls her head back up so her red-rimmed eyes meet mine. “It was over me,” she says. “The fight. Do you understand, Billie? It was my fault. That Will died. That your dad—”

I’ve heard enough. I let go of her arms and she crumples into a chair, sobbing out more apologies.

But
sorry
isn’t what I need.
Sorry
won’t change the fact that Tom wasn’t brave, or just a coward who never wanted kids.

He was a killer.

JIMMY

IT TAKES
two weeks for Tom’s body to come to shore. Blue-lipped and bloated, it catches in the anchor rope of the
Amelia
in a harbour twenty miles down the coast from Seaton. At first the owner thinks it’s a dolphin, so pale and cyanotic. But then the tide swells, bobbing the lifeless corpse up to the surface for a second, and instead of fins he sees fingers, and he knows it is a man
.

Jimmy identifies the body. Laid out on cold metal in the basement of the hospital, the fluorescent lights tingeing his skin an impossible green, water still swelling his flesh so that he looks less like a man than a monster: the Incredible Hulk. But even through his
Marvel
disguise, Jimmy can see it is him. Can see where the toy car cut his forehead. Can see the hands that together span three octaves. The mouth that turns up slowly into a lazy smile. The same mouth as their father. As his own son
.

A week later they bury the body. And a week after that Jimmy leaves Seaton: leaves his girlfriend, leaves the little boy with the lazy smile, and doesn’t come back for seven years
.

BILLIE

MUM IS
balled in the armchair, her arms tight around her legs, her body still shaking with tears. I feel weak with it, too. Dizzy. But I can’t curl up. Can’t give in to it. Because I need to know more. Because she has told me what he was.

But not who. Or why.

And she wasn’t there. So how can she know for sure?

I look frantically round the drawing room. At the books. The files. I pull them off the shelves. Shaking them. Trying to find where Eleanor has hidden the rest of the secret. Where she has buried it. Waiting for a slip of paper to fall out.

But there is nothing. Of course there is nothing. Because it isn’t her secret to keep. Because she wasn’t there either.

But Jonty was. Jonty saw it all. And Jonty didn’t crash his car. Jonty didn’t drown. Jonty called the house just days ago.

Jonty is alive.

And then I see it. See Mum stamping on the answerphone. Broken black plastic shards I swept up weeks since. And something else. The handset on the polished table. Still displaying a signal. Which means…

I run to the hall and pick it up and dial 1471.

The number is local, the same code as ours, as Danny’s. I punch in “3” and listen as the line connects.

“Dr Lister.”

I falter for a second, thrown by the title. But it is him. The same voice, thick with money and class.

“I— My name’s Billie—” and I am about to say “Paradise”, when I change my mind, remember who I am— “Billie Trevelyan,” I say.

“You’re—”

“Het’s daughter.”

There’s silence. And I’m scared he is going to hang up. That he changed his mind. That whatever he wanted to say to Mum can stay buried. But I can’t let it. I need to speak to him. To see him. “Can you meet me?” I say.

“Of course. I—”

“Do you know Jeanie’s?” I interrupt. “It’s a café on the seafront.”

“Yes. Yes I do. When?”

And I know he’s expecting a “tomorrow”. Or “in a week”. But it can’t wait. For either of us.

“Now,” I say. “I need to meet now.”

The café is empty. A
SORRY WE’RE CLOSED
sign hanging lopsided in the glass. But the lights are on, and I can hear music filtering out. Not Beyoncé. Guitars. And I feel a surge of relief that it’s him.

I knock hard on the window and see him turn, and turn off the radio. Then, wiping his washing-wet hands on an apron, he walks to the door and unlocks it. His eyes on mine the whole time.

“Billie? What’s going on?”

I fall into his arms, clutch on to him. The only steady thing I have. The only real thing.

“It’s Tom,” I say. “My dad… I know what happened.”

I tell him what they have told me – Alex and Mum. The fight. That he pushed Will. That they both drowned. But that Jonty saw it. That Jonty is coming.

He says nothing. Just holds me tight to him, so I breathe through the thick checked flannel of his shirt, breathe in the smell of sweat and bacon fat, and peace, and love.

And I want time to stop right then. Want the world to end with just this fleeting sense of serenity. But the clock doesn’t stop. The seconds still tick around.

There is a sharp rap at the door and I look up from Danny’s shoulder through the glass, pull away from him, and go to answer it.

The man on the other side is tall, still ruddy-cheeked and blond, like the photograph. But his face and hair have thinned and faint shadows show under his eyes.

“Billie?”

“Yes I— This is Danny.”

Jonty nods at him, then surveys the room. The shabbiness of it. Probably used to bars, I think. Country clubs. Not this. But this is where I feel safe. This is where I belong.

“Do you want tea?” Danny asks.

I shake my head. Can’t drink. Can barely swallow. Jonty reaches in his pocket and pulls out a silver hip flask. “If you don’t mind?” he says.

I shrug, and Danny reaches for a tumbler from behind the counter, hands it to him. Then turns to head into the galley kitchen.

I feel a wave of panic and blurt out, “Stay.”

But he won’t. “This is family stuff, Billie,” he says. “Private stuff. You need to do this by yourself.”

“But—”

“It’s OK.” He reaches for my hand. Squeezes it tight. So tight it almost hurts. But I need it. Need to know he’s not lying when he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Shall we?” Jonty indicates a table. Eva’s table.

I nod, and we sit. Me with my back to the wall, my hands under my thighs. Hiding the tremors that betray how terrified I am.

Jonty doesn’t sit on his hands. Jonty has something else. He unscrews the cap from the flask and pours an inch of whiskey into the scratched glass. I can smell it. Its acrid sweetness. He takes a swig then sets it down between us, the fingers of both his hands still touching the glass, still holding on. Courage, I think. That’s what it is. That’s why Mum does it. Strength when you have nothing, no one.

“So—”

“Billie—”

We both speak at once. And then fall silent. And I cannot find the words, though a hundred questions are clamouring for attention, demanding answers: Why were they there that night? Why were they there at all? What was he to them? To Mum? How did it start? How did it end?

Jonty can see them. The words, trapped inside me. And so he finds a way to coax them out of their hiding place.

“Why don’t you tell me what you know?” he says.

“Not much. Just… That you and Will had a fight with Tom. That Tom pushed Will. And they both drowned.” My voice cracks and he pushes the whiskey glass towards me. I shake my head and instead will the tears back down.

“Who told you that?” he asks.

“Mum,” I reply. “Het.”

“She’s wrong,” he says.

“But she—”

But he holds up a hand to bat away the end of the sentence. He has waited a long time for this. He has to finish.

So he starts.

“They were Traveller kids. Worked the fair. They never liked us and we never liked them. Tom or his brother Jimmy. No reason. Just because of who they were. Who we were.”

He pauses, looks at me to see if I am following. I nod, urging him on. Not wanting him to stop.

“Well, mostly we just stayed out of their way. But then Het – your mum – she started seeing the younger one. Tom. Got pregnant. And Roger and Eleanor… They were devastated. And then that night…” He trails off, picks up the whiskey again, then changes his mind, sets it down and pushes it away.

“That night…” I repeat, prompting him. Desperate for him to continue.

“That night. Billie, I— I told the police that your father pushed Will in. I thought he did. At first. It— It wasn’t like that, though. Will fell. He was drunk. We both were. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But the apology is drowned by a wave surging inside me. Of hope. Shining hope. And the insects pause in its wake.

“What?”

“Your father didn’t push Will. He dived in to save him.” He looks up and meets my eyes, wide with it, with disbelief. “He died trying to save him.”

I stare at him. “You mean he didn’t… He wasn’t…” And though I can’t say the word, I feel the hope turn to relief, feel it flood my veins now, like warm whiskey, like courage.

“Tom loved your mother. And you. That much I knew. I always knew. I tried to tell her. I rang but…”

That phone message. That was why he called. And she deleted it. But it doesn’t matter now. Because it’s out. The last secret is out. That it wasn’t because of her, or me. He didn’t falter, didn’t run, didn’t hide. Didn’t kill. He was a hero. He was my dad. And I need to know. Need to know him again. Everything. Starting with…

“His name,” I say. “I’ve never known it. Tom. Thomas something.”

He shakes his head. “Not Thomas,” he says. “Tomlinson. Edward Tomlinson.”

I let out a sound; a laugh, maybe. Tomlinson. Tom. That’s why I couldn’t find him. That’s why I’ve never found him. I was looking for the wrong man.

“I have to go,” Jonty says, rising, his chair scraping the tiles.

And I stand too, because I want him to go. Need to tell Danny. And Mum. Tell her she got it wrong. That he didn’t leave. And that he loved her. He loved us.

“Call me,” he says. “If you need anything.”

“I will,” I say. But I know it’s a lie. Because what could I need now? I have everything.

I burst into the kitchen, my heart pounding, my words falling out of me now.

“It wasn’t him,” I blurt. “He didn’t kill Will. He was saving him. Do you see? Saving him. He was a hero. My dad was a hero, Danny.”

“Oh Billie.” Danny takes me in his arms again, but I’m too full of news to let him hold me. “And his name. I got it wrong. It’s not Tom.”

“No?”

“No, that was just a nickname. It’s Tomlinson. Edward Tomlinson.”

And then it happens. Danny staggers backwards, as if I’ve punched him. Reeling in confusion, his eyes roll as he tries to find his feet.

“Danny?” I say. “What—?”

He holds on to the edge of a table. Bent over. “He had a brother,” he says into the ground.

“Yes. James or something. But what’s that—?”

“Jimmy,” Danny murmurs.

I don’t get it. And like an idiot, a child, I blurt out, “Who’s Jimmy?”

Danny raises his head, looks at me, his face ashen, contorted.

And then my world drops away as, through a sob, I hear him say, “My dad.”

TOM

TOM IS
late. He is supposed to be at her house now. With his bag packed and his goodbyes said. Supposed to be throwing a stone at the window
.

But he has to work. Has to stay late fixing an engine for Jimmy. Jimmy, who knows what he’s planning. Knows he is leaving. And why
.

Tom checks his watch. It is gone half ten already. He’ll be done soon. There’s still time, he thinks
.

He hears them before he sees them. The staggering footsteps, the shouting, the jeering. Knows it is them. Can hear the plums in their mouths, the silver spoons, as they swill their beer
.

They are drunk. Jonty’s mouth gaping open, a trail of saliva hanging, shining like a slug’s trail, then snapping and dropping onto the wooden boards. The other one, her brother, is standing on the bottom rung of the railings like he’s surveying his kingdom. The world that he has inherited. Not the meek
.

Tom should leave them to it. Should walk away. Run, even. He doesn’t have long. But what would she say if she knew? If something happened. So he does the right thing. And the wrong one. He tells him to get down
.