Outside, a gusting wing buffeted against the high asp windows ahead, and the muffled surge of the sea could be heard in the distance — but inside the music filled every corner of the grand room, bouncing back from the high windows and vaulted ceiling to the reaches of the gallery library behind. A strongly resonant sound chamber with just the right balance of absorbent wood: how such music was meant to be heard — with only him at its centre to receive it. He could feel its rhythm and cadences reverberate through his body, rallying his senses, his spirits rising, soaring. He started waving his hands elaborately to the strident, staccato violin bursts, drawing substance and power from what he’d just done that made him feel suddenly master of all around: master of this grand room and this house, master of the village and its petty minions who dutifully passed information back to him, and now master of all those who dared interfere in his life, the Elena Waldrens and their kind.
He froze for a second, lifting one hand to his right cheek. He swore he could still feel where little Lorena had kissed him. The dutiful ‘Goodnight Daddy’ ritual of every night. And every night he could sense too her clinging anxiety as she came close and pressed her lips to his skin, her eyes darting and her small heart hammering as furiously as a humming bird’s wings, that in a way made the whole ritual all the more angelic, endearing. The sense that he had such power over her, yet only a part of her knew how or why.
He looked up, straining his ear to the house upstairs beyond the music, wondering perhaps whether he should make sure Lorena was okay, soothe her brow for a moment: a small victory visit. But he decided in the end to wait a few days: then he could be sure that that victory would be lasting. Nobody would ever trouble them again.
The tears hit Elena as she rounded the bluff beyond Chelborne.
It was one of her favourite views: almost two hundred feet sheer elevation from the sea, with the rolling contours of green hills and pastures ahead spilling gently into the yellow trimmed expanse of Chelborne sands and the deep blue of the bay. On days when the sea was wild, like now, she liked it all the more: white caps could be seen stretching out towards the horizon, more lines of conflict and contrast. She’d captured the view twice before on canvass, but still felt she’d missed the key that made her soul soar when she rounded the bluff on a stark, clear day.
The day was clear now, the wind brisk, aftermath of the previous night’s gale. But Elena felt nothing but empty, desolate, as she looked out across the sweep of the bay.
‘I think that’s it… I’m afraid. We’ve hit a stone wall. The chances of ever finding him again now are virtually nil, in Terry’s view.’ Megan’s words of first thing that morning.
She hadn’t cried then, just the same empty, gut-voided feeling as now. Terry had discovered that the Stephanous had changed their name by deed-pole to Stevens some ten months later, then simply disappeared off the face of the earth. No forwarding address, nothing on electoral registers or credit files. Like her father, the name was now completely anglicised: George Stevens. Megan and Terry were probably right: with no link traceable to the Stephanous, she’d never find him. ‘I’ll bury him out of sight and out of reach. You won’t find him.’ Her father’s words, all these years later, suddenly having crushing resonance. Still a part of her life, despite her fighting so hard to be free from his shadow, was in his grip and control.
Though a few hours later she was far more concerned about Cameron Ryall’s control, his influence over much of Chelborne. She’d quickly shook off her own disappointment: if she couldn’t help herself, at least she could still help Lorena. Mrs Wicken’s words preyed heavily on her mind: ‘One of the most beautiful Oriental girls I’ve ever seen.’
Perhaps Ryall hand-picked these girls for their sheer beauty — God knows there were enough of them, an endless sea of children with angelic faces and big eyes that the rest of the world had forgotten. He’d get them into his trust at first, soothe their brow, some seemingly innocent gentle stroking, then would gradually build up until they were thirteen or fourteen, the age Mikaya had been when she became pregnant, and then… Elena convulsed at the thought. But why didn’t they speak out against him? With Lorena, she could understand: she was too young, too frightened, and probably not too much had happened yet; and what had, she’d blanked from her mind.
But Mikaya had been old enough to speak out, especially given the horror of her pregnancy — yet still she’d stayed quiet. What hold was it Ryall had over them?
She realized she couldn’t possibly know without finding out more about Mikaya, so she’d headed back into Chelborne. After seeing Mrs Wickens the day before, she’d filled in some gaps at the local dress shop and at the health store. But it was all minor stuff: the school Mikaya went to, what clothes she liked; yes, they knew about the whole messy business with the pregnancy, but no, there wasn’t a particular boyfriend they could point to as a likely culprit. ‘We haven’t seen much of her these past couple of years,’ Mrs Frolley at the dress shop finished thoughtfully. ‘Now that she’s away at university.’
Now, visiting Mrs Frolley again to ask ‘Which university?’ — Mrs Frolley was a closed book. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ Becoming quickly flustered. ‘I think I’ve said more than I should in any case… and I’m rather busy now.’ Red-faced, Mrs Frolley scurried away to attend to a customer.
A shop-girl at the health store, after going back and checking, informed her that Mrs Boyle was busy stock-taking and couldn’t see her — so she’d rested her hopes on the ever-reliable Mrs Wickens.
But the reaction with Mrs Wickens was much the same, albeit handled with a more open, folksy reprimand. ‘When I tell you things, it’s in all trust and confidence. I don’t expect it to be used in all strange manners.’
Elena tried to appeal to Mrs Wickens’ maternal instinct, with her having raised four children of her own. ‘This isn’t about any personal clash I might have with Mr Ryall. It’s about the welfare of a young girl who I believe could be under threat. Serious threat.’
Mrs Wickens shook her head. ‘I don’t believe any of it for a moment. Mr Ryall’s a good man. He wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that. He’s been very good to my Rolly these past years.’
It hit Elena with a jolt in that moment: Mrs Wickens’ husband, Roland, worked at Ryall’s local plant. With a business of that size in a small village like Chelborne, no doubt numerous relatives of other villagers and shopkeepers were employed there. After all, Ryall was by far the area’s largest employer. A saving hero to fill the gap after the years of decline in the local fishing industry. Few locals wanted to think badly of him.
A spark of recognition reflected back through Mrs Wickens’ eyes, and she turned away with a slight flush, busying herself with re-arranging her counter newspaper display. ‘Well, you know… we each have our own to take care of.’
And it was driving away from Mrs Wickens’, rounding the bluff, that the build up of frustrations and obstacles finally became too much, and the tears hit. She’d been working against the grain, against the impossible, for days and weeks — for decades if she counted the lost, forgotten time that she’d blanked Christos from her mind, hadn’t even troubled to search for him — and only now was that realization hitting her face-on.
Her father’s hand reaching across the years to still grip tight, affect her life; and now Ryall’s tentacles spreading across Chelborne, blocking, strangling her progress.
The bay ahead became misty and blurred as her eyes swam, and she had to pull over. Maybe that was the key with her painting, that slightly blurred, Monet look — but it barely raised a smile at the corner of her mouth, her spirits couldn’t be buoyed this time; and she sank deeper down, sobbing uncontrollably. She cried more for the lost years with Christos than for this dead end now; after all, she’d only lost a week to discover that she would never make good on the twenty-nine years lost. And for Lorena, it was more the sense of frustration and powerlessness than sorrow. She thought she’d shaken free of her father’s grip years ago, but she’d been fooling herself all along. And now she was facing the same again: another powerful man, and she was unable to prise loose his grip to be able to help Lorena.