She hears nothing in return at first, only silence, eventually followed by a muted scuffling. The sound of people putting themselves back together. More silence, then she hears Maggie Elliott calling Ruth’s name, John Elliott, too. They’ve put distance between themselves, and the barn.
Emily digests what she heard, and it occurs to her for the first time that perhaps some real harm might have come to Ruth and it might have come from John Elliott. She remembers how he loomedout of the darkness last night. She never asked what he was doing there. The thought that he could be violent horrifies her. To think that she let him lead her down the hill like a lamb to the slaughter.
The barn no longer feels like a safe place to wait on her own.
Imogen wants to pee, urgently, but she’s afraid to leave the bedroom.
A joke? Is that what he thought it was? It looked crazy, proper crazy. A sob convulses her. She cries as silently as she can and feels as if her tears will never stop falling, but when they do, eventually, she finds that she’s angry with him. He didn’t even answer her question about whether she could go home, but she’s old enough to just do it. She doesn’t need his permission.
She gets dressed, gathers her stuff, and goes downstairs and fetches her cello.
“Hello, you!” He’s cleaned himself up, thank goodness. He clocks that she’s holding her bag and cello and gives her a smile that stretches his lips taut and shows a lot of teeth, the way adults do when they’re trying too hard. The television is on, a chat show. The set is garish, the presenters look old.
“Hi,” she says.
“Feeling better?” What a question to ask, as if she was the one who disgraced herself earlier.
“Yep,” she says. “Can you drive me home now? I can wait for Mum at home on my own.”
He objects, saying he can’t possibly leave her alone, blustering away about his responsibility and promises made to her mother to care for her.
“But I’m seventeen,” she says. “You don’t need to stay with me. Why are you acting like this?”
He starts up again, sounding more manic this time, reeling outeven stupider reasons for having to stay with her and her sense of claustrophobia escalates, as does her anxiety.
Trying to be rational with him isn’t going to work, she realizes, but she has an idea. She’ll have to lie to him again, to stop him going on and on and to make him do what she wants. She figures that if she can get him to take her home then once she’s there she can tell him to go.
As he continues to try to justify his position in more ridiculous ways, she stands with her back to him, staring out of the window, and opens her eyes as wide as she can until they’re awash with tears. The way she’s feeling, it’s not difficult to summon them back.
When he’s finished gabbing, finally, she turns to face him and blinks. One hot tear runs down her cheek. Others follow.
She says, “I’ve got the feeling again and I think it’s because I’m homesick. Ineedto go home.”
His face has gone very still. “And what feeling would that be?”
“That I want to cut myself.”
There’s an odd moment before he answers, as if he’s deciding what tone to take and the expression on his face is strangely composed and there’s hardness in his eyes. It scares her. If she was faking before, she isn’t now. She blinks rapidly. Real tears roll down her cheeks and she feels desperate.
He continues to stare at her and it feels almost like he’s toying with her. Fear curls inside her. She wipes her eyes and feels acutely vulnerable.
“Actually, it’s okay, you don’t need to drive me, you’ve done enough. I can get the bus.”
“Sit down.” She hesitates and he repeats the instruction, harshly. She sits. “Now listen,” he says. “Your mum won’t be home for hours, not until this evening, and I can’t leave you at the house on your own, especially if you’re having thoughts of self-harming.”
The way he says it is strangely clinical, as if the words are sticky in his mouth. She’s never heard him sound like this before.
“Unless—” he says.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you’ve been lying to me about that.”
“About what?” she asks, but she knows what he means.
“About self-harming.”
“I haven’t,” she says, but she swallows reflexively, guiltily, and her voice sounds small and unconvincing. How has he guessed?
