I go to the first ugly concrete plinth, look inside its urn. Empty. When I try to shift it, it doesn’t budge. The second is empty, too, but it moves when I push – enough that I have to grab hold of it before it topples to the ground. Underneath, there’s an envelope inside a ziplocked freezer bag. I pick it up, push the urn back into place, and climb the stairs to the scullery. In the kitchen, I pour myself a vodka I probably shouldn’t have and sit at the table. I should go to the Clown Café, in case Ross comes back, but I can’t wait even the length of time it would take me to climb the stairs. Because of the word written across the envelope in El’s heavy scrawl.
SNOW-WHITE
I take it out of the bag, rip the envelope open. It’s only one piece of paper: narrow-lined and thin.
Dear Cat,
I’ll say it and then it’s said. Maybe I should start with I’m sorry. Or How are you? Or What has your life been like for the past twelve years? But you have to still know me well enough that what’s first on my mind is what’s last too. So I have to just say it. And then it’s said.
He’s going to kill me. If you’re reading this, he already has. I’m already dead.
If you’re thinking good riddance, I guess I can’t blame you. If you’re thinking serves you right, I guess I deserve that too. I hated you once. I don’t blame you for hating me back. And if you’re thinking liar, then all I have is this letter to convince you I’m telling the truth.
It started out as love – or what I thought love was. You know what he was like, you can’t have forgotten that. The intensity of it – of him – how good it could feel when he turned his light onto you. And then all that passion and angst became suffocation, jealousy, control. All men are pirates, remember? Good Prince Charmings don’t exist. He made me feel so small. I’d thank him for looking after me. I’d thank him for his scorn and then his rage. The first time he hit me, he cried for a week. The second, less than a day. By the third, I was the one saying sorry to him. I used to wonder what it was he’d seen in me, but now I think I know. He knew what Bluebeard had done to me. He knew I was weaker than you. He knew I would be a goner for him from the start.
A few years after we were married, he heard about the auction for the house. Our house. I begged him not to, but he bought it anyway. Anything to lock me up inside this prison again. He had me describe every detail of every room. And everything bought, everything put back in place, made my prison smaller, more secure.
You loved Grandpa the most. You loved Mum’s stories the most. Your imagination was always better than mine – when you didn’t want something to be true, you just pretended it hadn’t happened. I think that’s why you forgot the end of our first life, and why you never tried to remember it. I used to think it was for the best.
I could just tell you, right here, what happened the night Grandpa and Mum died. I could tell you and I could promise that it’s the truth, and maybe you’d believe it, maybe you’d even remember it. But I don’t think you would. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that all those unconscious fantasies you’ve created – embedded – are so much stronger than what they’ve repressed. And the only way I can think of to destroy all of them is to give you back what was real, piece by piece, clue by clue. Until you’re forced to remember all of the truth for yourself. Because it’s the only way you’ll believe it.
I know you’ll be angry about the treasure hunt. I hid the diary pages and wrote the clues. And a friend – a good friend, who I know, after I’m gone, will respect my wishes – is emailing them to you. I’m sorry for the subterfuge. I’m sorry I had him pretend to be Mouse. She turned up to the house last year out of the blue. And instead of being her friend, instead of being happy that she was back, I saw only how mad it would make Ross, how badly he’d take it out on me. Because I’m a coward. And maybe it was cowardly to pretend to be Mouse in the emails too, but I thought it would help. I thought you wouldn’t listen to me, but you might listen to her. I’m sorry if the emails or my diary have frightened you. But I guess I want you to be frightened. I want you to remember what happened the night Mum and Grandpa died. I want you to remember what Ross did.
I’ve left something for you in the Silver Cross. That and this letter are all I’ve got left to give you. You have to believe them. You have to believe me. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I know it won’t look like murder. Because he was born to be a pirate.
I think about you all the time. Please don’t think I don’t. When you left, I cried every day, every night, for weeks. And he’d hold me and tell me it was okay. It was okay because at least we had each other. It suits him for you and me to be apart. It always has. I wanted to reach out to you so many times. But I didn’t. Because I knew you were better off without us. Because I knew he’d take away what freedoms he’d allowed me to have if I did. I have my painting, some voluntary work, some friends. I have my boat. He agreed to buy it before he realised that it would be my best escape from him. That’s why I called it ‘The Redemption’. If you’ve found this, then you must remember. How much I loved that story. Any escape is better than none.
I can’t ask you to trust me, because I know you don’t. I can’t ask you to believe me, because I know you won’t. I regret every day what I did to us. I should never have given him control. Not in our first life, and certainly never in our second. Remember HE KNOWS. Remember THE PLAN. The Silver Cross. X MARKS THE SPOT. Remember them and you’ll remember the rest. You’ll know the truth. You’ll know him. You’ll believe me. You’ll be safe.
I’m sorry.
All my love,
Rose-red x
I read the letter again. And again. Run my fingers over El’s pen strokes. It’s her handwriting, her voice, I know it, I know her, but at the same time it feels false. Too careful, too scripted. If you’re reading this I’m already dead; El would once have rolled her eyes in dismissive scorn at something like that. Because surely what she’s saying is madness. I try to imagine Ross hitting her, and I can’t. It’s like trying to imagine him hitting me. It can’t be true.
But it was Ross who told me El had wanted to come back here, had wanted the house to look exactly the same as it always had. And I realise now how ridiculous that sounds. How false. Why would she want to come back here to our prison of twelve years? To this place of death and dread and darkness?
But. If I believe that El really was afraid of Ross and is only trying to protect me, why wouldn’t she have told me what she thought I’d forgotten – whatever it is that he’s supposed to have done? Because everything that I repressed I now remember. Those memories are not false. They can’t be. I remember everything that happened in our first life, including the night Mum ended it by smashing Grandpa’s skull with the Satisfaction’s stern lantern. What else is there?
My head pounds. Silver Cross. I know I should know what that is – I know I know what that is – but I can’t think. I can’t remember.
I finish the vodka. Stand up. Because El was right about one thing at least. A thing that makes me feel cold and afraid and uncertain. She thought she was going to die. And now she’s dead.