She doesn’t linger on the top of the embankment but scuttles down the other side where shrubs and bushes grow densely, tethered together by rangy, savage brambles. What Imogen knows, because she used to play here as a child with her neighbors, is that if you burrow to the back of the shrubs there’s a swampy area abutting a brick wall.
Underfoot, it’s thick with the blackest mud, but the roots of the shrubs and brambles don’t stray there, so a sort of tunnel has formed over the years, shielded by the foliage around it. At this time of year, she knows it will keep her hidden.
She fights through the rampant brambles. Fat blackberries streak her purple, and thorns rip at her, yanking her hair and opening slender cuts on her exposed skin, one running from the side of her nose to her earlobe, the other across her midriff where her top has ridden up. Blood beads along them.
She’s terrified of him. He’s turned into a horrible, frightening version of the man she’s known all her life.
When she reaches the wall, she has to crouch. She doesn’t fit as well as she used to in the small space. A fleeting memory of childhood play comes back to her, her smiling dad waiting on the track for her to appear with a bucketful of mud and helping her make pies with it. Her feet in yellow wellington boots to match her rain jacket, a plastic shovel in her hand.
She waits, unsure whether she’s doing the right thing staying here or if she should have run further. She waits for a while and it feels like forever. Eventually, the jagged rise and fall of her chest settles into a calmer rhythm and she starts to doubt herself.
What will her mum say when she learns that Imogen ran away from him because of a bad feeling? Because he smashed an egg on his face? Because Imogen found the ring on the floor?
Will Edie say that Imogen is being hysterical? Silly? Oversensitive? Horribly insulting to a close family friend? Or that she did the right thing, to follow her gut and protect herself?
Imogen’s not sure and it’s agony because her mum’s advice and approval mean everything to her. Edie’s not perfect, Imogen knows that, and they’ve had a very difficult year, but Imogen also knows how ferociously and unconditionally loved she is by her mother.
She pushes Edie’s engagement ring hard against her lips, feeling the smooth facets of the diamond, the fussy detail of the platinum it sits within. The metal feels as if it might rip the skin on her lips if she’s not careful.
She shuts her eyes and speaks a wish into it, for her mum to arrive home now, hours early. To make all of this go away. It feels as if she’s living a nightmare.
Jayne keeps calling for Ruth and she thought she heard a reply at first, faint but close, but now Ruth has gone quiet. Jayne tries to hold in her head where the sound of Ruth’s voice was coming from.
Her sense of urgency intensifies. She’s afraid Ruth is hurt; wonders guiltily how many hours Ruth has been out here for. If Jayne hadn’t disassociated, she might have stopped this from happening.
A drystone wall runs alongside the path then deviates from it and disappears into the fog ahead of her. Jayne follows it. This is what I might have done if I was Ruth, out here last night, she thinks. If it was hard to see the path in the dark, I would have stuck by a wall.
It might as well be dark, now, she thinks, visibility is so poor. It’s disorienting. As her ears strain for clues as to where Ruth is, she notices minute detail. Moss and lichen on the stone.
She comes upon Ruth suddenly where the wall turns ninety degrees at the edge of the field. Ruth is crouching, wedged into the corner.
“Stop!” Ruth says.
“It’s me. Ruth, it’s Jayne.”
“I said stop!”
Ruth is holding Jayne’s gun with both hands, pointing it at her. The barrel shakes as Ruth trembles.
“Ruth,” she says. Her military training takes over. Handle the situation. Keep it calm. Assess whether Ruth is still inebriated. “I’m not a threat to you. Can you please put the gun down beside you?”
Ruth shakes her head. Her finger is on the trigger. She clearlyhas intent. She looks terrified. The distance between them is about fifteen yards.
“I don’t know what happened to you last night,” Jayne says. “But I’m here to help you. I promise. And I’m not the only one looking for you. The police are here. John and Maggie Elliott are up here, too.”
Jayne takes a cautious step closer. Then another. She sees that Ruth is freezing and wet through, but also that she’s looking at Jayne as if Jayne is her worst nightmare come true.
I’m the threat, Jayne understands. It’s me. What did I do?
It’s a shock, but she has to control the situation.
“Can you put the gun down for me? Then we can get you to safety.”
Ruth lowers the gun a fraction and Jayne feels a prickle of hope. She steps closer and slowly, carefully lowers herself down to sit a short distance from Ruth, her back against the wall, just the way Ruth’s is. She keeps her body as relaxed as possible.
“Are you cold?” she asks.
The gun tips a little in Ruth’s hands.
