Ten Little Words Read online

  ALSO BY LEAH MERCER

  Who We Were Before

  The Man I Thought You Were

  The Puzzle of You

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Leah Mercer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542007634

  ISBN-10: 1542007631

  Cover design by Heike Schüssler

  For my son.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  JUDE

  April 1988

  Jude yanked open the door and squinted into the grey sky, the filtered light stinging her eyes. She hadn’t been outside for days – weeks, even – and each breath of the damp, salty air burned her throat like whisky. She’d kill for just one more shot of alcohol, but her stash was gone now. Sunk into her, bottle after bottle, absorbed into her blood.

  Into her body.

  Into her soul.

  But it wasn’t enough. Not enough to blot out the images of him – of his fingers gripping her arm, of the stink of tobacco when his hands covered her mouth, of the coiled tightness of his body as she struggled against him.

  Not enough to erase the memory of a soft mouth on hers, either . . . of how his fingers stroked her hair, of the tenderness in his voice when he said her name.

  Of the ten little words he echoed before sinking into her, like a promise, like a vow.

  I am always with you. I will always be here.

  Jude had echoed those words, fiercely pulling herself against his body even as, inside, part of her pushed him away. And later, when he was gone, she’d repeated the words to her daughter – whether as a desperate pledge to remember or to delete the past, she didn’t know.

  But nothing would be enough to erase what had happened. God knows, she’d tried everything: from antidepressants to counselling (a wasted hour, where she’d sat in silence), to giving her daughter every last piece of herself in the hope she’d magically morph into a mother, to drinking as much as she could. And she couldn’t bear it any longer. Couldn’t bear what she’d become in her quest to bury it all; couldn’t bear her daughter shaking her awake each morning, jerking her back to the torturous present. She couldn’t struggle any more through stale-bread breakfasts, forgotten lunches and hasty suppers of baked beans because that was all the pantry contained.

  Maybe if it had just been her, she’d have let the days unroll until her body couldn’t take it any longer. But it wasn’t just her, and she wasn’t just damaging herself. ‘If you can’t live for yourself, live for your daughter,’ one clueless GP had told her, back in the early days when her sister, Carolyn, had managed to drag her out of bed. Jude had wanted to laugh so hard the whole rickety clinic would collapse. Didn’t the doctor know that Ella was the problem?

  Jude loved her daughter, of course she did. But she didn’t want to stare into a face that was a constant reminder of all that was bad . . . of all that was good. Didn’t want that twisted torment of hate and love, of anger and loss, to claw at her heart. Didn’t want her.

  That sounded horrible. That was horrible. How could you love your daughter but not want to be her mother? How could you wish she had never existed and at the same time want to protect her from everything? Want to keep her safe from life . . . from you?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing, but leaving all this behind. Jude gazed out to the sea, the waves rolling towards her, one after another. She could feel them calling; feel her body respond. The urge to be oblivious, weightless in the briny water, was overwhelming.

  Behind her, the flat was silent. Ella was still sound asleep, tangled in her duvet with one bare foot flung out like it was trying to run off on its own. She wouldn’t be alone when she finally woke; Carolyn should be here soon, on her daily mission to haul Jude back into life. She was more of a mother lately to Ella than Jude had been, and when Jude was gone . . . well, Ella would belong to Carolyn, be the child her sister had never been able to have. Carolyn would throw herself into mothering Ella, the same way she had mothered Jude after their parents died.

  Pain twisted Jude’s insides, and she let out a strangled cry. She didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t stay. It was the story of her life.

  The story of her death, too.

  She closed the door behind her and stepped forward.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ELLA

  July 2018

  ‘Have some cake, Ella!’ Jane waved a huge piece of cream-laden Victoria sponge under my nose. I glanced up from computer screen, trying to keep the annoyance off my face. Stuffing myself with cake didn’t appeal to me any more than chit-chatting with my colleagues, and most of the time my headphones were firmly in place. Thankfully, my job as an audio archivist at the Musical Museum – built in an attempt to elevate Hastings above other fading seaside destinations – made that seem more conscientious than rude.

  I forced a smile. ‘I’m okay, thanks.’

  I winced as my co-workers started a rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ that even my blaring sound file couldn’t block out. For my first few months here, my boss, Jane, had tried everything to involve me in work social life, inviting me to nights out and stopping by my cubicle to chat each morning. I hadn’t been unfriendly – I hoped – but I wasn’t interested. Jane and my colleagues were lovely, but I didn’t need the unnecessary clutter in my life. I wanted to go from my studio flat to work and back again, rolling along nicely in my cosy little cocoon. Minimal interaction, minimal distractio
n.

  Cheering and clapping erupted as Siobhan blew out her candles. Then someone turned up a godawful song on the loudspeakers. The one thing my self-imposed bubble couldn’t do was block out rubbish pop music, so with lunchtime celebrations for Siobhan’s thirtieth (I’d pegged her at forty, at least!) well underway, I yanked off my headphones and admitted defeat.

  I pushed back my chair and grabbed my lunch bag, thinking today might be a day to escape to the museum cafeteria. Filled with throngs of screaming kids and sunburned holidaymakers in the summer and earnest OAPs trying to wring the most from their waning years in the winter, I usually shunned it at all costs. But right now, I’d take anything over some bloke crooning about the shape of his girlfriend’s body.

  I eased past my colleagues, who were clustered around Siobhan’s desk, and made my way up in the lift to the cavernous lobby. Already I could smell the coffee from the café, positioned just off the entrance to catch any visitor, big or small, in its net of exorbitantly priced stale cakes and weak lattes.

  I fixed my eyes firmly on its door to avoid the staff members dotted about in their annoyingly bright red ‘Can I Help You?’ shirts and made a beeline for an empty table in the corner, well away from the raucous mum-and-babies group blocking off half the space with their oversized prams (they must be planning to take their infants off-roading, by the size of those things; I wouldn’t be surprised if they were fully motorised). The mums were staring down at their newborns with a mixture of awe and fear, and I tore my gaze away. Not that I longed to have a baby – God, far from it. My cat, Dolby, was more than enough responsibility. But just seeing mothers and children was dangerous territory for me, and I never strayed too far from the boundaries I’d set years ago.

  School holidays had yet to begin, so, thankfully, the café was quiet, apart from the mums and babes. I sank into a seat and stared out of the window at the sea in front of me, watching the waves whip the water white and gulls fighting the wind. No matter where you went in Hastings, the sea would draw your gaze, as if the whole town was built for nothing but to offer up awe and admiration for its vast expanse. As a child, I’d stared for hours, willing the water to part and my mother to emerge like some mythical mermaid. I believed she’d meant those ten little words she always said to me each night.

  I am always with you. I will always be here.

  Through the days and months – through years – after my mother left, I’d held those words close to my heart. Police had long since closed the investigation, ruling her disappearance a suicide after finding her clothing and jewellery on the beach, with witnesses claiming they’d seen a dark-haired woman enter the sea the morning she went missing. Still, I believed.

  I knew she’d return, even as my aunt Carolyn closed up the dingy council flat Mum and I had lived in, moving me into her huge, empty house. Despite the nightly nightmares that my mum had drowned – despite the memory of her face and arms around me growing fuzzy – I trusted she’d come back. Every night I fell asleep without her was like a kick to the gut, but hope is a funny thing. It has a way of springing up anew after withering away, like daffodils each spring.

  Slowly, though, the soil inside of me grew drier, until the very part that hope fed off was dead: unfertile ground, barren and wasted. The tender shoots stopped growing, leaving behind thistles of longing, anger and pain. I still stared out at the sea, but now each breaking wave was like a tombstone marking my mother’s grave, reminding me over and over that she’d left. That she’d chosen to leave, despite the words she’d said to me each night. Wherever my mother’s final resting place was – for her body had never been found – she wasn’t here.

  I’d been wrong to believe in her. I’d been wrong to trust. She didn’t keep me safe – just the opposite. She’d hurt me, so much that some days I hadn’t been able to catch my breath.

  Now, thirty years later, I felt neither anger nor pain. My mother was gone, and life carried on. I couldn’t say I was happy, but then, I didn’t want to be happy. Being happy meant you had something to lose, and I wasn’t about to risk that. I might have moved past hope, but those brutal years of longing had made their mark, the sole of their boot permanently imprinted on my heart. I was moving through life in a comfortable bubble of my own making and the only person who had the power to hurt me was me . . . and maybe Dolby, when she rejected my lap in favour of her fuzzy blanket. I’d take the vicissitudes of a cat over those of other people any day, though.

  I tore my gaze from the café window and unpacked the little lunch I put together each morning, running my eyes over the familiar items: ham (honey-roasted, two slices) and cheese (Emmental) sandwich (granary bread), raspberry yoghurt (sugar free), ten celery sticks and my refillable water bottle. I’d eaten this lunch for years and when I laid it all out on the table it was like being with an old friend – a friend who demanded nothing in return, with whom I could eat in comfortable silence.

  Halfway through crunching my celery, I spotted the colourful front page of The Post on the next table, complete with a lurid headline about a footballer’s affair. A man handed out the paper on the promenade each morning, always smiling at me as I passed (I don’t know why because I always rejected his outstretched hand – reading free newspapers full of gossip never appealed). Now, though, I drew it closer, always eager to place another barrier between me and the outside world.

  I aimlessly flipped through the pages, running my eyes over articles on the latest summer trends and celeb weddings. Reading this newspaper made me feel like an alien from another planet. Who were these people, and why would I care? I was just about to fold it up and push it away from me when a tiny boxed advert in the classifieds caught my eye. The text leaped out at me, each word hammering my eyes.

  I am always with you. I will always be here.

  My heart pounded and everything inside me went cold. The words echoed in my mind, growing larger and larger until they pressed on my skull. Images of my mother holding me close each night as she whispered those same ten words clawed and scratched at my soul, demanding entry, and I shoved the paper away from me.

  I sat frozen for a minute, forcing air in and out of my lungs as I batted away those memories. Then, I let out a little laugh. God, how silly was I? It was just ten words. Ten insipid words, uttered a million times by a million people all over the world. Maybe whoever had placed the advert – for there wasn’t any contact information – meant them, but my mother hadn’t. My heart may have sizzled and smoked painfully for years after her death, but hard scar tissue had finally formed. Any memories were just that: memories, echoes of events long past that couldn’t breach my defences.

  I gathered up my lunch things and slung my cooler bag over my shoulder, looking out to the sea again. My mother had chosen to die. She wasn’t coming back.

  And I was perfectly fine with that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JUDE

  July 1980

  Jude fizzed with excitement as she pulled on her tank top, struggled into her favourite pair of skin-tight jeans, and shoved her feet into the high-heeled sandals she’d been dying to wear all summer but would have frozen her toes off if she’d tried. It was her twentieth birthday today and after weeks of rain and fog, it felt like summer was actually here. She was itching to take advantage of the fine weather. Sun brought out way more punters than the endless drizzle and cold she’d been struggling through. More punters meant more money . . . and more money meant an even greater chance of moving to London at the end of the summer.

  She made a face, thinking of the meagre two pounds she’d earned yesterday after singing for hours in the freezing wind on the promenade, trying not to shiver, even though she was already wearing four layers. God, she couldn’t wait to get out of this godforsaken town, where people’s dreams of seaside holidays went to die. London, baby . . . that was where it was at. That was where she would start her career as a singer. She could feel it in her bones, though Carolyn always rolled her eyes when Jude said that, asking if
‘her bones’ knew for certain that she’d be able to earn a proper wage and make a living once she was there.

  But Carolyn was always like that: the practical older sister, doing everything in her power to keep Jude out of trouble ever since their parents had died in a car crash when Jude was fourteen. Carolyn had just turned twenty-two, but she’d taken on the role of both mum and dad with a sense of responsibility that Jude both admired and hated, often at the same time.

  Even her parents hadn’t been as strict as her elder sister, and Jude was certain that had played a major role in her acting up and getting excluded from school at seventeen – although she had to shoulder the biggest chunk of blame; no one had forced her to smoke dope on school grounds. Carolyn had begged and pleaded the headteacher to take her back, but Jude hadn’t bothered to turn up to the meeting her sister had arranged. She wanted to be a singer – she was going to be a singer – and that was that. Why did she need to learn anything else but music?

  She’d spent the next few years working part-time at the supermarket (Carolyn had insisted she either get a job or go to school) and taking music lessons in piano, guitar and voice. Music was her life – the place where she could go to be herself and to escape from the dull, cloistered world – and even Carolyn couldn’t stop smiling when Jude sang. Singing and writing songs made her free, and she couldn’t wait to do it for the rest of her life.

  First, though, she had to get to London. She had almost enough saved up for rent in a bedsit – she’d looked through the London newspapers at the library to see how much it might cost – and all she needed was a little bit more. If the weather would just cooperate, come September she would be on her way. Twenty years old and a Londoner. Jude couldn’t wait to say those words.

  She closed the door behind her and stepped out into the blinding light. Hastings on a sunny day was dazzling: the sea reflected the sun and lit up the whole place, whitewashing the town. It was the polar opposite of a rainy day, when the ocean swallowed whatever light filtered through the clouds and the whole place was deserted and grey. Despite the new sandals pinching her toes, Jude strode down the promenade as if it was a catwalk, smiling at passers-by as they turned and stared. With her curly brown hair, dark eyes and curvy body, she never failed to make an impression, something she hoped would help her stand out in London, even before she opened her mouth to sing.