Page 50 of The Blue Hour

Grace remembers sitting on the faded orange chair next to Vanessa’s bed. It was noon, but the room was dim, the curtains drawn against the light. Vanessa was cursing the sound of the sea. ‘I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it,’ she kept saying, ‘it’s driving me mad, I can’t shut it out.’

Grace had barely slept in two days, she was frazzled, at the end of her rope. ‘I can’t stop the tide, Vanessa. Use the ear plugs I gave you, here, come on—’

‘Leave me alone!’ Vanessa hissed, slapping her hand away. She was mean and feral, half-mad with pain, poison spilling from her lips. ‘Let me go, you ugly old bitch, why won’t you let me go?Boule de suif,boule de suif, he was right! He was right about you. You’re dragging me down, keeping me here against my will, imprisoning me. You won’t let me go! Why won’t you let me go?’

Staying sane is a trick.

If Grace allows herself to think about it, she wonders whether in the end she gave Vanessa the extra dose of morphine to ease her pain, or just to shut her up.

33

When she wakes, freezing, the window is still open and the bottle of whisky half-empty on the nightstand, but the seal on the vial of morphine is unbroken.

There is a voicemail on her phone from Mr Becker. ‘I need to talk to you. I’d rather do it in person than on the phone. Would it be OK if I came up this week?’

Grace goes online, she looks at the weather forecast, she checks the tide timetable.

Next weekend is best, she writes back to him.Storm due to hit the following week. Saturday – any time after 10.30am. Low tide is 1.30.

She gets up and closes the window and crawls back into Vanessa’s bed. She falls asleep quickly, picturing Becker and Nick Riley and Vanessa and her – all of them here, inside this house, while outside the sky empties itself into the sea. A fire in the wood burner and food on the table and all of them together, safe from the storm.

Vanessa Chapman’s diary

Women aren’t supposed to look, are they? They’re supposed to be looked at.

And if they see something violent or ugly or frightening, they’re supposed to cover their eyes and swoon, they’re supposed to flinch. They’re supposed to look away.

They’re not supposed to move closer, to narrow their eyes and peer, to examine and observe and appraise.

They’re not supposed to make of horror something of their own.

34

The sky ahead is slate-grey, the pines along the roadside bristling in the wind. A storm is coming – it’s due to hit the west coast on Sunday night, according to Grace, which gives Becker forty-eight hours, though he’s hoping to be in and out by the end of the day, or by tomorrow morning at the latest.

On the radio, they’re discussingDon’t Look Now. Du Maurier again! The film adaptation will be fifty within a couple of years, there’s talk of a rerelease. The man on the radio is talking about mesmeric horror, about the tricks played by a tortured mind, about recurring patterns and motifs that remind the viewer that some griefs are inescapable, some destinies inevitable.

Becker turns the radio off.

Just before he gets to the coast road, he stops for petrol. He fills up the car and goes into the little shop to pay the cashier, holding his phone against the card reader to feel its reassuring haptic buzz. On his way back to the car, he feels the buzz a second time: checking his phone, he sees he has a message, from Helena.

Hey, can you come over? We need to talk x

He stops in the middle of the forecourt, staring at the screen.Come over?

The driver of the Volvo station wagon attempting to leave the garage toots his horn and Becker jumps out of the way. He looks at his phone screen again.

This message has been deleted.

Fumbling for the key in his pocket, Becker unlocks the car and climbs into the driver’s seat.Every time you leave this estate, my son goes running over to see your wife.His hands are trembling a little as he presses the ignition button and puts the car into drive.Don’t worry about Hels, I can keep an eye on her.He pulls away from the petrol pump.You could go and talk to Grace Haswell, go on, I know you’ve been itching to get out there.

It was Helena who suggested he go to Eris in the first place. They were in his office, the three of them, that first day when they found out about the bone – it was Helena who told him to go. His heart is thumping fit to burst, he feels a little light-headed. He checks the rearview – there’s no one behind him. He picks up his phone again. He could call her. And say what? He could turn left into the road ahead, drive all the way back to Fairburn, arrive home unannounced. He pictures himself, opening the front door of the lodge, quietly making his way up the stairs.

He switches the phone off and turns right, towards Eris.

Grace is waiting for him at the end of the track, in front of the chain, arms folded across her chest.

‘Shall I bring the car up?’ he asks as he climbs out, and she shakes her head.

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