The Betrayal by Laura Elliot Page B

The lash of shame, I’ve never forgotten it. As if someone had taken a blade and sliced into my heart, exposing its secret for all to see.
    They were still shouting. Karin must also be able to hear but she stayed in her room. A door banged. Max was leaving. Joan shrieked something after him. I huddled under the duvet. Rain struck the walls in flurries and the wind whistled against the thatch. I thought about the three little pigs and the house of straw but the roof held strong. Only the furious rattle of the window frames disturbed the silence that settled over Cowrie Cottage. I knew we would not be going to the Shard gig tonight. I couldn’t wait for morning, to be on the road and in the warm circle of my mother’s arms.
    An hour passed. I knocked on Karin’s door. She refused to answer. I knocked harder, called her name. When she didn’t come out I went into the parlour where Joan was curled in an armchair, a rug pulled over her shoulders. Broken glass covered the floor beside the back wall. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes slitted from crying. The bottle of vodka on a small table beside her was half empty. She was drinking it neat. The room stank of alcohol. She was incoherent when I persuaded her to go to bed. I helped her into their bedroom. She was so light I could have carried her. I thought of deadwood, ready to snap. The bed was unmade, the indent of two heads still visible on the pillows, the sheets tangled. She tripped over Max’s mountain boots – the ones he’d worn when we did our trek through Monsheelagh Forest – and sprawled forward onto the bed.
    I pulled the duvet over her and listened, really listened, to the gale outside. It reminded me of an orchestra, shrill musicians without a composer to keep them in tune. Joan’s hair covered her face. Her eyes, when I pulled the fringed aside, were closed. I wasn’t sure if she was asleep or unconscious.
    I waited for Max to return. Another hour passed. Was it the front door he’d slammed behind him? If so, he’d probably gone to the village. If it was the back door and he was on the cliff he should be wearing his boots. I banged again on Karin’s door. Still no answer. I turned the handle. The door was locked.
    I shook Joan awake. ‘Where’s Max?’ I kept shouting into her face. ‘Where has he gone?’
    ‘Gone to hell… to hell,’ she muttered. Her head lolled to one side, her clavicle a taut outline against her throat.
    I checked the kitchen press where the torches were kept for walking home at night from Barney’s pub. One was missing. I took the red one I always used and zipped up my anorak. I walked along the top path. I was drenched in minutes, my feet sodden from the long grass. The steps were slick with rain. I held tightly to the railings as I descended and was almost swept off my feet when I shone the torch on the dark ocean below. The tide was full in, higher than I’d ever seen it. Savage white horses dashing against the cliff. I called Max’s name repeatedly but the wind buffeted my voice and pitched it into the waves. Spume moistened the air, salted my lips as I clung to the railing and made my way back to the path.
    I was frantic when I reached the gate leading to the cottage. Could Max have taken the steep path to the cove? My trainers skidded on the mud when I tried to find the trail. I sat down heavily, grasping heather and bracken to stop my fall. Lightening flailed like a whip in the pitch black sky. I huddled into my knees as the thunder roared. He would never have taken this path. Nor would he have used the steps. He must be in the village, drying off in Barney’s pub.
    I crawled back to safety and returned to the cottage. Somehow, Joan had pulled herself together. She’d showered and wrapped her hair in a towel, smeared on lipstick and made black coffee.
    ‘I can’t find Max.’ I was sobbing, terrified by fears I was unable to utter aloud.
    ‘He’ll be back.’ Her voice was still slurred but I could make