B L A I R E
•
When I leave the café after a few hours, in need of a change of scenery, I don't get far. I end up in the library, drawn to the smell of books, the stacked shelves, the quiet. I need to focus, and it's pretty hard when there's a constant stream of people in the café, everyone making noise.
The library is silent. It's just me and Regina here, and she's engrossed in a book, sitting behind the information desk. I'm at the other end of the building, sitting cross-legged on a stiff sofa hidden from Regina by the stacks, the book cradled in my hands.
My earphones are plugged in, Sukie's podcast playing. I've gone back to some of the older episodes, ones I don't need to pay attention to because I know how they end; it's the perfect background noise for research.
Though what I'm researching, I don't know.
I keep getting distracted. Thoughts of Elizabeth. What her deal is. Who she really is. Why she has the book and why I'm in it, why she plays her cards so close to her chest.
Once I've been through the book again, praying for something to jump out at me, I pull out my phone again to text Sukie, to ask her when her shift's over. The last app I had open was my gallery, the futile stream of blurry photos. I heave a sigh at my incompetency and scroll through from the first to the last, a few words understandable here and there, but mostly just what Betsy's written. Not Elizabeth's annotations.
Except the second to last photo.
I nearly fall off the sofa.
It's the timeline page of the book, the one where Elizabeth has written my own name beneath her own and my mum's. But now that I'm not rushing, now that I know to expect it, I see something else.
Alongside every other tragedy in the timeline, she has written names. It's in black pen, so small and precise that I must have mistaken it for typed font. But now I can see it isn't. It's Elizabeth's handwriting. Thirty names. All of them taken from the list I've made, names I recognise already.
I zoom in as much as I can, so I can see exactly what she's written.
1619: Temperance (1)
1644: Henry (2)
1669: Norma (2*) & Michael (3)
1694: Nicholas (3*) & Isabel (4)
1719: Alice (3) Henrietta (4) Savannah (4) Francis (4)
1744: George (4) Rachel (5)
1769: Rebecca (7)
1794: Oscar (8)
1819: Simon (6) Emily (7)
1844: Ronald (9)
1869: Robert (10)
1894: Duncan (11)
1919: Amelia (12) Ruth (13) Clarence (13) Ethel (13) Edwin (13)
1944: Louise (11) Margaret (13)
1969: Eleanor (14) Edward (14*)
1994: Alison (15) Josephine (16)
I don't know what to make of it. My brain is scrambled. It feels like a washing machine on a spin cycle with nothing inside, pointlessly turning and turning and getting nothing done.
These are the names that mean the most. Names that meant a lot to Betsy, names that Elizabeth has figured out; the ones she has weeded out from everything else in the book, that she has put in some kind of order. But I don't get it. I don't know what the numbers are for, what the asterisks are for when there are no footnotes. They seem to be stars for the sake of stars, leading to no later thought.
The distrust of Elizabeth is growing.
She knows something I don't, and she doesn't want me to know it. She's hiding something from me and I can't make the connection.
I don't know how long I've been here when Sukie shows up, waving to catch my attention. I pull out my earbuds, plunging into the near-silence of the library.
"Hey there," she says. "How'd I know I'd find you here?"
"I needed quiet," I say. "I needed to concentrate."
"Find anything?"
I nod. She dives over to me, launching herself at the space next to me on the sofa.
"What? Something in the book?"
"Something in Elizabeth's copy," I say. I show her the photo. "This one wasn't blurry, and I realised she'd written on the page."
Sukie takes the phone in both hands, scanning Elizabeth's notations, zooming in and out as she studies the names and their numbers. Her eyes flick back and forth, going over and over and over. She frowns, squinting at the tiny writing. "What're the numbers for?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe she's got her own index somewhere."
"Maybe, I don't know. This is the only photo that came out clear."
"Who's Esme?" she asks.
"Who?"
"Here. Above your mum's name. She's crossed out Esme too."
"What?" I grab the phone, zooming in. How did I miss that? "I don't know. Esme?"
"I'm guessing she's dead too," Sukie says, and then gasps. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, that came out harsh. Ugh." She sighs and slips off her shoes to pull her feet onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. "What're you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that I don't trust Elizabeth any further than I can throw her, and I am weak as fuck."
"I don't think she's trying to kill you, Blaire."
"Maybe not," I say. I mean, she's had hundreds of opportunities if she wanted me dead; we've shared a space for well over a month, in a creepy house in the middle of nowhere. "I think she has something to do with all this, though."
"In what way?"
I groan, letting the book fall from my lap to the space between Sukie and me. "I don't know. Are there town records or anything? Any information about, like, weddings and births and deaths?"
"There are archives, yeah," Sukie says. "Regina will know where they are. She has everything like that, it's part of the library's collection."
"So it's here?"
Sukie nods. "You think Elizabeth's lying about something?"
"I don't know. Yes? Maybe? Probably? I don't know. I asked her how long she's lived here and she told me she bought the house in 2000. That doesn't answer my question, though. I assumed she moved here in 2000, but I don't think she did."
"Oh. You think she's always lived here?"
"Yeah." I press my lips together, hands clasped tightly. "Yeah, I do. I think she knows more than she acts like she does. And I think that if we can find a list of birth records, then she'll be in there."
"Okay." Sukie hitches her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go and bug Regina."
Regina, deep into a thick romance book, looks disgruntled when we tear her from the pages, until she slips back into her friendly, customer service persona, and greets us with a smile.
"What can I do for you girls?" she asks.
"Can we look at the archives?" Sukie asks in her best butter wouldn't melt voice. "Have you got the records of births, deaths, and marriages?"
Regina chuckles. "You know I do, Sukie. You can probably find it all online if you know where to look – and don't ask me, because you know me and technology – but I've got the archives in the back. There's not a ton to see – we're not a huge town – so I've arranged it by century."
Damn.
"Can we have all the births, deaths, and marriages from 1900 to 2000?"
She sounds so authoritative, like she knows exactly what she's talking about, and my admiration grows tenfold.
"Not a problem. Just hold on here a minute. I'll go and find it."
She disappears through a door behind her desk and I turn to Sukie, leaning against the desk.
"I feel like shit's about to go down," I say. "I can't shake it, the past couple of days. I've had such an ominous feeling."
"Oh, god, Blaire, you can't say that. Not in a town like this! Ominous feelings are what get people killed in Anchor Lake."
"Sorry. Ugh, yeah, I'm sorry, Sukie. I just ... all of this is overwhelming."
"I know," she murmurs. "We can put it to bed, if you want. We can just, you know, pack it in for a while."
"No. We need to see this through. I'm not giving up," I say. "I feel like we're so close. We just need a push in the right direction."
"Roger that."
A couple of minutes pass before Regina returns, carrying three hefty ring binders that look like they weigh more than her, and when she heaves them onto the desk, they slide off each other.
"Okay, a bit more than I remembered," she says with a laugh, "but that's one hundred years of births, deaths, and marriages. That should keep you busy for a while!"
"How's it arranged?"
"By year, and alphabetically within each year. I found that easier than chronologically."
"Perfect. Thanks, Regina!"
"That's what I'm here for. Looking forward to your next episode, Sukie!"
Sukie blushes. So Regina does listen to the podcast.
"Right," I say once we've hauled the files over to a table, big enough to spread everything out and search through it. "I know Elizabeth isn't dead. I doubt she's ever been married – she told me that's not something she's ever wanted. But I don't trust her, and she did have a child."
"All right. You look through marriages, I'll go through births," Sukie says, shoving aside the death file. "We're looking for Wickham, are we?"
"Yup."
"Is that her real name?"
"I don't know."
"So we could also be looking for anyone called Elizabeth?"
"Possibly," I say. Sukie grimaces. "And I don't even know for certain that her name's Elizabeth, either." She laughs at that. "Let's just look for Wickham. Any year, any first name. I want to know if there are others, if any of them lived here."
I flip open the file. Most of the snippets inside are cut from newspapers, it seems. I start at the back, the tail end of 1999, and work my way through the Ws for each year. Sukie's scouring the births, starting from 1900 and working her way forward.
I'm a dog with a bone, flipping pages the moment I ascertain that they're useless, keeping an eye out for the name my aunt claims to be hers.
It takes a while. And then I find it. "I've got a Wickham!" I cry out, jabbing the announcement with my finger. Sukie peers at it.
"From 1922," she says. "Something tells me that's not your aunt, unless she's looking fucking incredible for her age."
"It's not her," I say, "but it's someone."
"Someone called..." she prompts.
"Walter Wickham." I pull the file closer, squinting at the tiny clipping. "10th September, 1922: Francine and Percival Wickham are delighted to announce the marriage of their son, Mr Walter Wickham, to Miss Margaret Bell."
"Oh, shit." Margaret Bell. I feel faint.
Sukie flips forward to 1923 in the births, and then 1924. "Bingo! Another Wickham. Here: Mr and Mrs Walter Wickham are pleased to announce the birth of their daughter, Esme Grace Wickham, on the 5th of July 1924. Well, we found Esme. Not the Wickham we want, though."
She harrumphs and keeps searching. "Okay, they had another kid," she says, reading out the announcement. "Mr and Mrs Walter Wickham are proud to announce the birth of their second daughter, Eleanor Diana Wickham, on the 19th of October 1926."
"Eleanor."
"Eleanor," Sukie repeats. "There was an Eleanor who died in 1969, wasn't there?"
"Is it the same Eleanor?" I don't wait for her answer. I grab the marriages, searching each page between 1940 and 1955 until I find one that stops my heart. "Oh, fuck. Look, in 1946. Mr and Mrs Walter Wickham are delighted to announce the marriage of their daughter, Eleanor Wickham, to Edward Martins."
"Same Eleanor," Sukie says. "And she's Betsy Martins' mother."
I think I'm going to throw up. It hits too much, too fast, all at once. I have to lean back, distancing myself from the files, and fan myself when a feverish heat hits, the sweat of horror dawning. "Sukie's short for Suzanna," I say. She frowns.
"Yes."
"And your mother's maiden name is Watanabe."
"Yes..."
"That's how you got your name?"
"Yes. Blaire? What?"
"Betsy's short for Elizabeth," I say, my stomach roiling. "And Betsy's mother's maiden name is Wickham."
Sukie goes quiet. The blood drains from her face. "Oh."
"My aunt is Betsy Martins," I say. Oh, god, I'm going to faint. "Elizabeth is Betsy."
"Oh my god. Are you sure?"
"It's right here!"
"It could be a coincidence," Sukie says. She grabs the file full of birth announcements. "When was Elizabeth born?"
"I don't know, I ... she's sixty-one, I think. 1958? Or 1957."
She goes to 1957 first, but there's nothing under Martins, or Wickham.
1958, however, is a different story. There it is, in black and white. She reads it out with a trembling voice.
"Mrs Eleanor and Mr Edward Martins are pleased to announce the birth of their third child, a daughter, Elizabeth Martins, on the 9th of January."
I want to curl into myself and wake up in another dimension, another reality. "She's Betsy. That's my Elizabeth. It has to be."
"Maybe not," Sukie says, desperation scratching her tone. "Elizabeth's a common name."
I take the file from her and I go back four years, jabbing the page when I find what I'm looking for. "Mrs Eleanor and Mr Edward Martins are pleased to announce the birth of their second child, a daughter, Annaliese Martins."
Annaliese. I didn't know that was my mother's real name. I never knew she was a Martins, that she was born here, that she fled when her parents were slaughtered in their home.
I don't stop now; I'm on a roll. Another four years back, to 1950, shows me the last announcement. "Mrs Eleanor and Mr Edward Martins are pleased to announce the birth of their first child, a daughter, Alison Martins."
Alison. Annaliese. Elizabeth.
The Martins girls. My mother and her sisters. Lissa, Anna, and Betsy.
"It's true," I say. "You can't deny it. It's right here."
"Elizabeth is Betsy," Sukie whispers. "Oh my fuck, Elizabeth wrote The Key to Anchor Lake. Blaire! Oh my god! She wrote it."
"I..."
I can't. I get up and I stumble out of the back door, sucking in deep air to quell the nausea that has flooded my body. What is it about dramatic revelations that causes nausea? Why am I out here, struggling to breathe?
I retch. Nothing comes up and my lungs ache, and Sukie's arms are around me before I register her presence.
"Hey, hey, it's okay."
"It's not fucking okay!" I don't mean to yell as loud as I do. Sukie doesn't even flinch.
"Okay, no, it's not okay. But ... we know. Oh my god, we know."
It feels like forever before I feel less like I could throw up everywhere, and once I've reoxygenated my lungs, I'm drawn back to the files. I'm numb as I pull over the death records, opening the file to 1994. There, under Martins. Two entries. I know they're there. They're detailed in The Key to Anchor Lake: the night that Josephine and Alison died.
The night that Fee and Lissa died.
Josephine Martins, beloved daughter of Elizabeth Martins. 26/03/1988 - 15/07/1994
Alison Martins, beloved sister of Elizabeth Martins. 03/02/1950 – 15/07/1994
"My grandparents were murdered," I say when it hits me, joining up everything I know from the book with how it relates to me. "Oh, god. Eleanor and Edward, they were my grandparents. They were murdered. Elizabeth watched them die." I can't control the sob that wrenches out of me when I remember the chapter of Mary's book – Betsy's book, Elizabeth's book – where she detailed the attack. Where she wrote that Betsy was in the room the whole time.
Elizabeth was in the room the whole time.
"Blaire, I don't know what to ... god, this is so horrendous. I'm so sorry. Oh, god, poor Elizabeth."
I pull over the copy of The Key to Anchor Lake, letting the front cover fall open. "She wrote this," I say, too shocked and horrified to even be relieved that we found the mysterious author of the mysterious book. I trace my finger over the dedication. J.A.N.E.
"The people she lost," I murmur.
"What?"
"The letters. They're the people she lost."
"Who's N?"
"Her mother." I touch the J, so faint I can barely see it even though I know it's there. "Josephine. Alison. Nora. Edward. She told me yesterday, I didn't even realise. She said her father called her mother Nora. She called her Nono."
"This is huge. Blaire, shit, you solved it." She grabs my arm, buzzing with excitement next to me. I can't get excited. How can I be excited about this? It's my family. My history.
"Betsy never left," I say. "She changed her name and became a recluse."
"She's been here the whole time."
"Sixty-one years."
Sukie closes the files, stacking them on top of each other. "Come back to mine. We need to record an episode of The Anchor Lakey!"
"No." The word comes out shorter and sharper than I mean it to. Sukie jumps. "Sorry. Can we wait? I ... I need to talk to Elizabeth first. Please."
"Of course. Fuck, yes, of course. I'm sorry, Blaire. I'm so sorry."
I stand, legs shaking, knees on the cusp of buckling. "I think I have to go."
"Do you want me to drive you?"
"No. No, thanks. I need the air." I need someone to delve into my brain and fish out my thoughts, and find some way to arrange them in a coherent pattern. I don't know whether to be devastated or furious or confused or relieved, so every possible emotion is cluttering my headspace.
"Hey. What can I do?"
"Just ... don't tell the others. Not yet."
"I won't, I promise." She hovers in front of me like she doesn't want to leave me alone. "Are you sure you don't want a lift?"
"I'm sure. Thanks, Sukie. I should go."
"Okay. You need me, call. I'll be there."
I hug her, catching her in a tight embrace, and I don't let go for several seconds. It feels like a long time, but not long enough once I let go, and I leave.
*