The Betrayal by Laura Elliot Page A

the word at me, and had no moral authority to refuse permission. The abbreviated word sounded harsh. I imagined Joan ending her life as a bag lady, sitting in doorways, a bottle hidden in a brown paper bag. We seethed together, united in our sense of injustice but things had changed between us that morning. Karin hadn’t spoken to me at breakfast, nor did she speak to me as we walked through the supermarket where the locals were pretending not to stare at Daryl’s dreadlocks or Reedy’s jeans with the slits across the backside. Joan was pale but sober, her lipstick a red gash against her pale skin, her long, black hair matted. Her dress was torn under one arm, not deliberately, like Reedy’s jeans, but uncaringly, as if how she looked no longer mattered. She reminded me of a Goth, not glamorous or exotic, just defeated.
    Karin grabbed Daryl’s dreadlocks and shrieked laughing when he lifted her and pretended to throw her into the shopping trolley. But once she left the supermarket she became quiet again and went immediately to her room.
    The hot spell of weather had broken. Sullen clouds covered the sky and the tide rode on a grey swell. I spent the afternoon in Monsheelagh Bay, sheltered from the wind by the rocks. I’d knocked on Karin’s door and asked if she wanted to come with me but she’d shouted at me to go away. I’d packed my clothes. We had an early start in the morning. I tried to concentrate on the book I’d brought with me but I was unable to think of anything except the reality of leaving Monsheelagh. How would I cope? What had been a magical time would end as soon as we drove from the cottage. Small children ran naked into the wind and fathers struggled determinedly into the water. I watched out for Jake but no one from Shard appeared. I figured they were probably rehearsing for tonight.
    By evening the rain had started to fall. The smell of roast chicken wafted from the kitchen. Joan was peeling potatoes at the sink. She peered at me through her tangled fringe and I knew immediately she’d been drinking. Max was on the phone in the little parlour. I could hear his voice but not what he was saying. Lynette, his editor, rang every day to talk about the nomad book.
    ‘Where’s Karin?’ I asked Joan.
    ‘Sulking in her room, she said. ‘She’s still annoyed about the party. Do you understand why I won’t let you go?’
    ‘You’re afraid we’ll get drunk.’ Like you, I almost added then felt ashamed as I hurried from her into the privacy of my bedroom.
    She called us for dinner. Max put a record on the old-fashioned record player. Dubussy, he said. ‘Clair de lune’. French for ‘moonlight’. He looked towards the window. ‘No stars tonight.’
    We helped with the washing up then went to our rooms to get ready for Shard. I heard a sudden crash, as if something fragile had been shattered against a wall. I moved quietly past Karin’s room and along the corridor to the parlour. Max and Joan were arguing. Their voices slid under the door and brought me to a standstill. Joan’s high-pitched voice was hardly recognisable. She didn’t believe Max was going to the desert. He’d make it up like he always did, she said. Spin a yarn from a few encounters. Oh, he had a way with words all right. And his way with women. I ran back to my room and locked the door. I wanted to hide somewhere deep and safe. I opened my journal and tore out a page. The words I wrote made no sense. Unable to concentrate I pulled my anorak from the hook on the door and shoved the crumpled sheet of paper into the lining. My fingers probed deeper into the torn slit. All I felt was an empty space. I tore at the lining, the material ripping as I turned it inside out. My letters were missing. I broke out in goosebumps and pressed my face into the anorak in case I screamed out loud. Only one person could have taken them. Karin must have searched my room while I was on the beach in the afternoon. How could I ever face her again?