This Is How It Ends Read online

  Dylan had rushed in a few hours later, furious and full of questions, which she’d only partially answered before a porter came to take her away for a brain scan. She’d been given the all-clear on that front, but she couldn’t quite believe it. She’d hit the road so hard she’d been blinded momentarily and the headache that had started in the back of the police car reasserted itself as each dose of codeine began to wear off, feeling like small spikes pricking her eyeballs, making even the dimmest light unbearable. Nothing could hurt so much and be unimportant, she thought.

  Her next dose was due in ninety minutes and already she was aware of the pain in her arm changing, becoming sharper and more localised around the break. The sensation of grit behind her eyes, shifting and scraping.

  Just get through this, she told herself. Get him off your back and then you can rest.

  Ella took a deep slow breath and went into the cafe, a bell sounding as she opened the door.

  Dylan looked up from his laptop at the noise and Ella froze, pinned there by the ferocity in his eyes. She wanted to turn around and walk out, but knew that if she did she would only be delaying the inevitable.

  A woman came up behind her, thanked her for holding the door. Ella moved to let her in and kept moving, one wobbly foot in front of the other, until she was standing at the table.

  ‘Sit down.’ An instruction, not an invitation. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  She took the seat with her back to the window and watched him at the counter. She could see how wound up he was, hand braced, foot tapping, as the woman in front of him tried to work out what she could safely order with her complicated set of food allergies. He was usually better at hiding what he really was.

  When he glanced over his shoulder at her, Ella smiled automatically, got a blank look in return, and cursed herself for falling into their usual pattern so quickly. Today was not usual, she reminded herself. She needed to be strong. Not let him dictate to her or manipulate her. She needed to remember that he wasn’t in control of her any more, even if he thought he was.

  Dylan returned with a mango and passion-fruit smoothie, full of crushed ice and garnished with a few raspberries the same colour as the fat straw sticking out of the fragrant glass of slush.

  It was a drink you’d bring a child, Ella thought.

  Across the table he poured a sugar into his espresso, stirred it violently, sending coffee sloshing into the saucer.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Staying with a friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘A new one.’

  ‘The old woman I saw at the hospital?’ he asked. ‘The Keith Richards lookalike?’

  Ella nodded, ignoring the jibe. ‘She was at the protest. She’s asked her solicitor to handle the police-brutality claim. He’s doing it pro bono.’

  ‘The assaulting-a-police-officer charge, you mean.’

  ‘I’m the victim here,’ Ella said, forcing herself to hold his gaze even as he glowered at her. She wouldn’t make any more apologies to him, no more excuses or explanations for things she’d done right that he insisted were wrong. She would stand by her actions. ‘And if you don’t understand the distinction, and why it’s so important, then there’s no point talking to you.’

  Ella could see that he was struggling to stay calm. The tables around them were empty but there were enough customers in the cafe to keep his voice low. He threw back his espresso, tapped the empty cup against the saucer a couple of times, a tiny movement that only gave away how angry he still was. Angrier than when the conversation began, she thought, because he’d already lost control of it.

  ‘I suppose it was your new friend’s idea to check you out of the hospital,’ he said. ‘Do you realise how dangerous that was? You have a head injury, Ella.’ A thin smile tightened his face. ‘Explains a lot. You’d have to be brain-damaged to do what you’ve just done.’

  Ella scowled at him.

  ‘It doesn’t explain why you were at that fucking protest when you were supposed to be meeting me, though.’

  She placed her broken arm on the table. ‘I told you I was going.’

  ‘And I told you not to get involved. There—’ He stopped as a man walked past them, heading for the door. ‘There were people waiting for us. You’ve made me look like an idiot, Ella.’

  ‘If you’d taken me seriously that wouldn’t have happened,’ she said. ‘I’d made it totally clear how important that demonstration was, I told you I had to be there. You don’t get to dictate my life, Dylan.’ She gave him the fiercest glare she could muster through the gathering pain. ‘You don’t have to be in my life at all.’

  He laughed, low in his throat. ‘So, that’s it? You breaking up with me?’

  Ella could feel the thin cardigan she’d borrowed from Molly sticking to her shoulders, damp under the arms with sweat.

  ‘Look, let’s go back to the flat and discuss this properly,’ Dylan said.

  ‘No, we’re talking about it here.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  She dropped her gaze, looked at the cloudy finish of the zinc tabletop, a spray of tiny black spots like burn marks. She brushed her thumb across them, feeling his eyes boring into the top of her skull, waiting for an answer she had already given by suggesting they meet here in the first place.

  Of course she didn’t trust him. In the year they’d been involved Dylan had done nothing but undermine her, bully her, try to worm his way inside her head. And she’d let it happen because she believed seeing what he was doing was the same as resisting it. She’d felt a haughty kind of amusement when he started to turn on the charm last winter, let him manipulate her in bed just the same as he did out of it. She’d stood outside herself as she panted and begged, pretending this was how she got the upper hand with him, that she’d always had a plan.

  Now she realised how naïve she was.

  Just a kid, after all. Playing games with a master.

  Behind the counter a glass smashed and Ella flinched, looked up to find Dylan staring intently at her. When they were together he rarely looked elsewhere, didn’t check out other women like most men did, didn’t glaze over while she was talking. When she was with Dylan she was under a microscope. Pinned like a specimen, scrutinised by a sharp and practised eye.

  ‘You need me, Ella.’

  ‘And you need me to keep my mouth shut,’ she said. ‘If anyone found out what’s been going on between us, you’d lose your job. What would happen to me? I’d finish my PhD. Get a career, get on with my life. You’d have nothing.’

  ‘Threats now? That’s nice, after everything I’ve done for you.’ He tapped the teaspoon on her knuckles, one after another. ‘You’re not the only person who knows how to cause damage. And you’re so much more brittle than I am. All those secrets, Ella. All those weaknesses. You’re only as strong as I’ve made you.’

  She shrank back from him, the sting of truth in his words.

  ‘We both know what the real Ella Riordan looks like, don’t we?’ He nodded, seeing he’d hit her where it hurt. ‘You think your new friends would like that Ella? The girl from Garton. . .’

  ‘They know I started police training.’

  Dylan blinked at her.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of where I came from,’ she said determinedly. ‘In fact, I did an interview this morning where I talked about everything that happened there. Why I left. The investigation. All of it.’

  ‘Ella, for Christ’s sake, are you insane?’

  ‘I wanted it all out in the open. After this—’ She lifted her broken arm. ‘I wanted to talk about where this kind of police brutality comes from, and the journalist had done his research. He asked me about Garton; I told him the truth.’ Ella felt herself swell where she sat, relishing the unfamiliar sensation of having wrong-footed him. ‘It’s really freeing, not having to hide it any more.’

  ‘Where’s it going to run?’

  ‘The Guardian.’ She couldn’t keep the delight out of he
r voice. ‘Martin Sinclair interviewed me. He’s an old friend of Molly’s. She set the whole thing up.’

  Ella smiled at the memory of sitting with him in Molly’s flat, this man whose articles she’d read, whose new book she had on her bedside table. He’d batted away her praise, clearly embarrassed, but flattered too. After he left, Molly teased her about fancying him, then warned her off older men. ‘They’re sexual vampires, Ella. They stay young by fucking all the life out of girls like you.’

  It struck her now, looking across the table at Dylan, how right Molly was.

  Ella shook the thought away.

  ‘It’s going to be a significant piece, Martin says. I know you’d have told me not to do it, I thought that when Molly suggested it – “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself, Ella. Right?” – but I think it’s an opportunity for me to raise public awareness of a very important issue.’

  ‘That’s why you were ignoring me,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘I’ve got two more interviews lined up for tomorrow.’ Ella swallowed another mouthful of her smoothie. ‘So, I think going to the demonstration was actually a pretty smart idea. I’m going to be able to do so much more good with this new platform. You should see my blog stats. They’ve gone through the roof. I’m picking up thousands of followers. Have you seen the photo Molly took?’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ he said darkly.

  ‘She’s made me famous.’ Ella grinned, secretly thrilled by the attention. She’d been keeping an eye on her stats since she left the hospital and each time they rose she felt a physical thrill, something akin to the chemical rush of instant attraction; she would flush and press her fingers to her mouth to hide the smile she knew was silly and self-indulgent but couldn’t stop from spreading wide across her face. Finally she was making progress and in such a crazy, unexpected style. People were calling her a hero. Others scum. She deserved a medal or locking up with the key thrown away. She was fierce. She was weak.

  She was being talked about. And that, Ella realised, was what she’d always wanted.

  But she couldn’t let Dylan know she felt that way. If he got any inkling how much she was enjoying this new development he’d only become more determined to crush it before she really got started.

  Dylan blew out a long sigh, his whole body sagging and splaying in the chair, making its joints creak. For a few seconds he stayed that way, head tipped back, eyes closed, and Ella held her breath, waiting to find out whether she’d read him right. She wouldn’t believe she’d won the argument until he gave her a clear surrender. She’d been tricked too many times before.

  Abruptly he straightened, all the fight gone out of his face. He hadn’t wanted her to leave – all the talk about her mental state, her problems keeping up with her work, the insomnia and the anti-depressants he’d hunted down in the hiding place under her wardrobe; that was Dylan’s professional side speaking.

  The real him, the imperfect, unprofessional man, wanted to keep her close.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I just want everything to stay the same.’ She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘You know how much I need you.’

  ‘Darling, I know exactly how much you need me.’ He squeezed her fingers so hard she winced. ‘Which means, from now on, you’re going to behave yourself.’

  Ella nodded, forced herself to smile.

  Molly

  Now – 20th March

  Carol comes to mine straight from work, still wearing her forest-green Waitrose fleece under her quilted winter coat, and it prompts a moment of dislocation when I answer the door; my most radical friend’s face above that symbol of gentrification. I’ve never seen her in her work gear before and she catches my look.

  ‘Don’t say a word.’

  ‘It’s just weird.’

  ‘It’s bloody warm,’ she says, shrugging off her coat. ‘I wouldn’t have it on otherwise.’

  ‘Good camouflage too.’ I smile. ‘Nobody would ever think a manager at Waitrose was plotting to bring down the system.’

  She’s brought a bottle of gin and cans of tonic, a couple of ready meals from the reduced section. If she knew why I needed to talk to her so urgently I doubt she’d have been so concerned about food.

  ‘Have you got any weed?’

  ‘Just some resin,’ I say, pointing her towards the mother-of-pearl box on the coffee table.

  Carol starts on a joint while I go into the kitchen and make us stiff gin and tonics. I pick up one of the fat lemons Ella brought earlier this afternoon. I almost put it back in the fruit bowl, feeling like it’s tainted by association, then decide I’m being stupid and cut a couple of slices and drop them into our drinks.

  I gulp down half of my own and top it up again before going into the living room.

  ‘This takes me back,’ Carol says, her voice constricted from holding down the smoke. She exhales. ‘My guy never has it, he reckons there’s no call any more.’

  ‘Mine must have an older client base.’ I hand over her drink, take a quick hit before giving her back the joint. ‘Callum’s been arrested.’

  ‘The murder?’

  I nod. ‘Have the police talked to you yet?’

  ‘Couple of them came to the store. Didn’t go down well with management, that.’ She kicks her shoes off. ‘They know what I’m into but that’s the first time it’s got too obvious to ignore.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ She curls up on the end of the sofa. ‘Fuck ’em, anyway. They don’t have a right to dictate what I do in my own time.’

  She looks relaxed already and I wish I felt the same. I realise how infrequently we’ve done this during the last year, got together for drinks and food and idle chat. The only times I’ve seen her recently have been driven by Ella. Wanting to interview Carol, wanting to get involved with her campaigning.

  Now, with my blinkers off, I can see what she was doing. Using me to ingratiate herself with Carol, because she’s well connected and influential, far more so than I am. If Ella’s always had long-term career goals beyond crowdfunding books and flash mobs, then Carol would be the perfect target for her tactical admiration.

  Except . . . that isn’t what she used Carol for, is it? She used her to get to more serious players, the dedicated hardcore. Quinn.

  ‘I’m sure your Callum’ll be alright,’ she says. ‘He didn’t actually kill that bloke, did he?’

  Here’s where I should come clean.

  I’ve been trying to think of the right way to broach the subject since I called her this afternoon and she’s gifting me an opening, but I can’t bring myself to take it. I want to stay in this little bubble for a while longer yet, where we are still friends and allies and I have nothing to be ashamed of.

  ‘Callum’s not that sort of man.’ I sip my drink, notice I’m almost through it. ‘What did the police ask you? Do they think it’s murder?’

  She shrugs. ‘The one who did all the talking didn’t seem too sharp. He only asked me if I saw anything suspicious. As if I’d have told him anything.’

  ‘Did they show you a photo of the dead man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘Maybe they already know who he is,’ she suggests. ‘Not many people walking about without ID on them these days and if he wasn’t robbed it’s all there.’

  ‘But they didn’t give you a name?’

  ‘Nope.’ She rearranges herself on the sofa, puts a cushion behind her back. It’s been bad for years, something with a disc her doctor can’t fix. ‘Didn’t they ask you all this stuff too?’

  ‘Yeah, but I talked to them days ago. I wondered if they knew anything more.’

  Carol eyes me through a plume of smoke. ‘You think you know who it is. Someone from the party? Is it someone I know?’

  There’s an unmistakable thrill in her voice and I’m surprised by it, because she isn’t usually one for gossip, far too moral for that. This
is murder, though, and I’m realising it brings out the ghoul in the best of us.

  Now’s the time. No more avoidance.

  I’ve known this woman for half of my lifetime, we’ve been through things so serious neither of us have ever spoken of them, knowing that to voice them would be to let out a demon best kept bottled. But this is different. This is about Ella, who she hates, and Quinn, who she is besotted by in a strange fashion halfway between maternal fervour and girlish lust.

  She’s going to be furious with me.

  But I need to know.

  ‘Did you know Quinn got early release?’ I ask, trying to sound casual, like this is me changing the subject away from something unpalatable.

  ‘Yes,’ she says slowly. ‘I picked him up from Wandsworth myself. Why?’

  ‘How come they let him out early?’

  She’s leaning forward now, elbows on her knees, a posture I know well. Eagerness and suspicion, readying for an argument.

  ‘He did a deal. Got some information out of his cellmate and they released him.’

  ‘He grassed?’

  ‘The code of silence is for our allies,’ she says coldly. ‘It doesn’t extend to scoutmasters who murder little boys and refuse to give up where the bodies are buried.’

  That sits me back. ‘Quinn got that out of him. How?’

  ‘Ryan knows how people tick.’ Pride in her voice and a hint of threat, I think. ‘If he’d had a better education he’d have made a good barrister.’

  ‘You need a refill.’

  I snatch the empty glass out of her hand, go back into the kitchen and take my time mixing two more drinks, making hers stronger. For a moment I stand with my hands braced against the worktop, staring at my own reflection in the window. I look like a guilty person.

  ‘Why the sudden concern for Quinn?’ Carol asks when I give her the fresh G&T. ‘You didn’t give a shit before he got sent away.’

  ‘Carol, we’ve been through this.’ I lower myself on to the sofa. ‘I was just protecting Ella. You’d have done the same for him.’