Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

by J. A. Baker

  Shaking his head, he speaks to the operator on the other end of the line, relating everything that happened. No point in denying it, is there? The entire street saw it all. It was an accident, obviously. It’s not as if he pushed the old guy to the ground on purpose. He can’t be blamed completely for what has just taken place. It was just a stupid careless mistake on his part and now it’s just another fucking thing to worry about.

  It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to turn up. It screeches to a halt beside him and the crowd parts as if by magic, allowing the medics access to the bleeding, elderly man on the floor.

  ‘It was my fault,’ Gareth stutters, feeling awkward and embarrassed by the whole thing. He may as well have taken the old man’s head and smashed it against the tarmac. This is all Gareth’s doing. It seems lately as if life is determined to rain blows down upon him. He clears his throat and thinks how a beer would be most welcome. He wishes he had taken a different route; gone straight to the pub rather than go past the station with its rush of commuters and packed pavements. He could be standing at the bar, ordering his first drink of the evening, but as it is, he is here, soaking wet and staring down at an injured person he has never met before who has an egg-sized lump on his head and who is about to be rushed off to hospital. And it’s all because of Gareth. All of this is his fault. Shit. What a bastard of a day.

  ‘Accidents happen,’ the medic replies softly, touching Gareth on the arm with a gentleness that makes his head ache with guilt. God, he would kill for a pint and a cigarette.

  ‘Do you want any details from me?’ he asks, feeling both helpless and ridiculous.

  ‘We could do with contact details for the patient if you have any?’

  Gareth looks at her blankly, unsure how to respond. It hadn’t crossed his mind they would want him to know anything about the old guy. He has no idea what to say. He mutters, feeling useless and deeply self-conscious.

  ‘Erm, sorry. I don’t know. You could maybe try looking in his pockets?’

  She smiles at him, and once again her kindness catches him off guard, hitting him in his gut; an unexpected punch to his solar plexus. He’s used to misery and shit being thrown his way and has forgotten how to deal with thoughtfulness and consideration.

  ‘It’s fine. We can take it from here. You did a good thing, you know, calling us. Many wouldn’t.’

  Gareth lets out a low whistle and shakes his head.

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid,’ she says sadly. ‘You wouldn’t believe the hassle and abuse we get on a daily basis. Some people can be so incredibly mean and selfish. When I retire, I plan on seeking them out and giving them a piece of my mind. It’s not healthy keeping it in, is it? We all deserve a good blow out and a chance to put right all those wrongs people have put our way.’ She smiles a wide, fresh smile and clicks her tongue. ‘It helps restore the balance, you know? Like yin and yang. But in the meantime I’m just going to get my head down, get on with my job and save more lives. I’ll start by getting this poor man to the hospital to get that bump looked at.’

  Gareth nods. He knows first hand how awful people can be but says nothing. Instead he steps back from the general melee, and lets the medical team do their thing.

  One by one, the onlookers slowly disperse, spreading far and wide as they head off into different directions, eager to get home. Gareth follows a large crowd, unsure of where they are heading. The pub seemed inviting for a while back there but now his mind is elsewhere. He is distracted, his thoughts full of itches he can’t scratch. He needs to do something to get rid of the edgy feeling that has suddenly settled on him. His mind crackles with pent up energy, his limbs are twitchy with a slowly building rage. Every time he thinks he has it sorted, every time he feels calm and starts to develop a resigned acceptance to it all, it creeps back up on him, riling him, niggling at him, reminding him of what he has done. What she made him do.

  Sweat prickles his scalp as he picks up his pace. A thought plants itself in his head. He dismisses it. Madness, that’s what it is; complete and utter madness. He should go home, forget about everything, or go to the pub, get as drunk as he can and sleep it off. And yet… He shakes his head. He has to stop thinking like this. He left all that behind him many years ago. He has a good life here. Or at least he did until that mad bitch stepped into it and turned everything upside down.

  He continues walking, his mind a forced blank and with no idea of where he is going. He should stop and think about this. He needs to be on top form, to keep a clear head. He has work in the morning and a complex project to focus on. The sun beats down on him and water from the earlier downpour trickles down his back. He shivers and looks around, his brain unable to register his whereabouts. Perhaps he’s having some sort of breakdown. How would he know? Do mentally ill people know they’re mentally ill? Do they still have the capacity for self-analysis? His head aches with the thought of it all. The noise in the street seems to grow and booms in his brain. Birds squawk overhead, traffic growls past spraying water everywhere. The inane chatter of people’s voices roars in his ears making him suddenly hot and uncomfortable. Where the hell are they all going to anyway? All he wants is some time to think; just a few minutes of quiet. Is that too much to ask?

  He finds himself being pushed along by the crowds of commuters, his feet struggling to gain purchase on the pavement. His head buzzes, his armpits are wet with sweat. There is so much noise, so much heat and humidity. Bringing his hand up to shield his eyes against the glare of the low sun, Gareth looks up and stops abruptly, letting out a small gasp. This isn’t where he wants or needs to be. Somehow, he has let himself get dragged along with the rush of the crowd, be carried along by their momentum, and now he is here and he feels confused and tired and all he wants to do is sit down and gather his thoughts.

  His legs feel weak as he staggers inside and looks around. The lights and the noise and general hubbub annoy him, pricking his senses, filling him with a slowly augmenting rage. He breathes hard, and almost turns around and leaves. Except he doesn’t. He keeps on going, his feet directing him towards the place he always knew he would go to anyway. Circumstances made the decision on his behalf while his mind was elsewhere. Maybe this was always going to happen. Maybe this is just how things are meant to be.

  Before he has time to change his mind, Gareth reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet then flips it open. He eyes up his credit cards, driving licence and a small wad of cash. It’s all here; everything he will ever need to travel the length and breadth of the country. He can do it; he can put an end to it. All he needs to do is pull himself together and keep walking…

  Whitby

  11

  Eva

  I take the long route there, away from the crowds. Sometimes the swarms of tourists provide a place to hide, giving me a sense of security. But not today. Today I want to be alone, to allow myself some time to think; to be fully prepared for what I am about to do. The noise and commotion will only cloud my thinking and judgement, and I don’t want that. I need to remain sharp, critical. I have to be in complete control when I get there, not some shambolic wreck who can hardly think straight. I want to be precise. I want to fire questions their way. I want to be wanted.

  Turns out even the back streets are busy. I weave through the bodies and try to stay calm, to imagine I’m out for a saunter, just another tourist taking in the sights, and all the while my stomach is churning and my skin is hot with anticipation and fear. No, not fear, more a sense of apprehension. It’s not a feeling I’ve encountered before which is to be expected really. I’ve never been in this position before – about to confront my biological parents and take them to task over why they abandoned me, because that’s what it amounts to; being left alone. Thrown to the wolves. You can dress it up any which way you like by saying I was cared for by foster parents, that I was nurtured and survived it. I’m here to tell the tale, aren’t I? But at the end of the day, my parents – the ones who should have taken me back – ch
ose to live their lives without me. I don’t care what social workers felt was best for me, I know what was best for me, and right now finding my parents is what I need to do. I have a missing life, a black void that needs to be filled and until that happens I am incomplete; half a person, and I so desperately want to feel whole again.

  I pause in front of an old auction house to catch my breath and still my thumping heart. Without realising it, my suppressed anger has risen to the surface. It’s something I have had to work hard to control over the years, and most of the time I manage it pretty well, but I can hardly be blamed if it gets the better of me every now and again, can I? I’ve led a fairly decent life for the most part so I think I’m allowed the occasional slip up.

  I stare in at a nearby coffee house, thinking how a cappuccino would be most welcome then think better of it. More delaying strategies, that’s all it is. I stare in at the smiling faces of the happy people inside, mingling with friends and family, discussing everyday things, chatting about inconsequential stuff. I am insanely jealous. I want to run in there and ask them if they fully appreciate what they have. I don’t. Of course, I don’t. Everyone would think me mad; which I am most definitely not. Unhappy, stiflingly unhappy at the hand life has dealt me, but definitely not mad. Instead I continue walking, taking the narrow path and then up the steps that lead to West Cliff and the place where I would have grown up had I not been ripped from my family at such a tender and impressionable age. I could have spent my childhood here in this beautiful place, if they had bothered to take me back.

  With a fire in my belly, I stride over the grass towards the row of Victorian buildings that stand tall and proud, and up to their house, my house. I stare up at the yellowing lace curtains hanging from the windows and the peeling paint on the old wooden door, and swallow hard to still the hot breath that is now pumping out of me. I bring my fist up, knocking on the door so fiercely, my entire arm judders with the force of it, a wave of pain travelling upwards into my shoulder.

  I wait, my breath continuing to come out in short, sharp bursts. No reply. I try again, this time rapping lightly with my knuckles, the soft trill of my knock echoing into the air around me. Still nothing. I lean in to listen for any sounds from the other side of the door but am met with a wall of silence. My stomach goes into a spasm. All the courage I had to summon up to come here and it’s been in vain. Fuck!

  Leaning against the door for support, I find myself fighting back tears. An empty house.

  My planning and worrying has been for nothing. At long last I find it within me to confront them and they’re not even in.

  I step away from the front door and stare up at the bedroom windows, scanning for any sign of movement. Anything at all. I just want some sort of indication that they are here, that they haven’t moved house. I clench my fists and close my eyes for a second. They haven’t moved. I know that for certain. I’ve tracked their movements for years, kept an eye on them online, checking the electoral roll to make sure they haven’t moved house. I would know if they had suddenly upped and gone.

  I would fucking well know!

  A vibration buzzes against my chest, making me jump. I dread phone calls. They are rarely from people I want to speak to. I lean into my inside pocket and retrieve my phone, staring at the screen in the hope it might be Gareth. It isn’t. Of course, it isn’t. Why on earth would he suddenly decide to contact me now? He hates me.

  I stare at the name on there, then hit the decline button and slide the phone back into my pocket before knocking once more. I should return the call, I know that, but what I should do and what I actually do are two different things. Sometimes we just have to go with our instincts; do what we feel is right for us at the time. And this is right.

  Taking her call would spoil everything. I have no idea why she is so insistent on speaking to me anyway. I’m an adult for God’s sake; an able-bodied grown up who is perfectly capable of functioning on my own. It was all getting to be too much with her. Celia always did have a habit of overstepping the mark when it came to personal space and boundaries. And as for the way she has gone on over the years… well, everyone has their breaking point and I think that as far as Celia is concerned, mine snapped some time back. The thing with Celia is, she thinks she knows me and can see inside my head. She couldn’t be more wrong.

  I wipe away an unexpected tear, anger and disappointment bubbling up inside me, and turn away from the house. I head towards the grass verge on the opposite side of the road where there is a bench. I can sit there for a while, perhaps even wait to see if anybody goes in or comes out of the house. Maybe they saw me coming and hid? It wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing they do will ever surprise or shock me.

  They are every bit as hardened to the needs of others as your average small time criminal. So why do I want to meet up with them? Closure. That’s all it is. I have a well of unanswered questions lurking deep inside me that refuse to go away. Believe me, I’ve tried to ignore them but despite my best intentions they are still there. If anything, the urge for answers grows stronger by the day. I will get the information I urgently need, come hell or high water.

  I start to make my way over to the vacant bench but am beaten to it by a busload of pensioners who plonk themselves down on it with their flasks of tea and chequered blankets which they sling over their laps for warmth while they take in the view. I have no option but to head back into town. I may even find a restaurant where I can sit and be alone to ruminate over what has happened and what I should do next.

  The windy weather is behind me and propels me forward as I make the short trek back down the steps and around the winding path that leads into town. I pass rows of busy shops and arcades, my mind too full to even think about stopping or going inside.

  She catches me unawares, the very sound of her voice sends a needle of dread down my spine as I hurry past her cabin, my eyes half closed against the bracing wind that is coming in from the sea.

  ‘All right there, lovey? In a rush, are we?’

  I stop and stare at her, unsure if she recognises me from my visit earlier. It feels like such a long time ago. Her eyes have a glazed look to them and before I can even think about replying, her eyes are elsewhere, her gaze shifting to the mass of faces behind me. She scans the throng of tourists, hoping to land upon another vulnerable person; someone she can prey on. This is her livelihood. She isn’t a friendly soul hoping to make chitchat with passers-by; she is a grasping, soulless predator who knows no other way to bring in money.

  I pick up my pace, my heels clicking loudly on the pavement, and stop dead when I hear the voice behind me.

  ‘Turn around and leave. It’s bad that you’re here. You should go.’

  A sharp pain cuts its way up the base of my skull and over my left eye. I swallow and clear my throat. Just a child. That’s all she is. A child who has seen more than she should have and is now mimicking the things she has witnessed. I should pity her, not fear her.

  Suddenly enraged, I turn around and march up to the pair of them, the older lady leaning against the door of her cabin as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. This infuriates me all the more. I point my finger at the young girl who is staring at me intently, her hair an unruly mass of knots and curls.

  ‘Why isn’t she at school?’ I bark, my voice reedy and accusatory.

  The lady smiles and rolls her eyes as if I am some sort of imbecile. I don’t look away from her. I am determined I will not let either of them get the better of me again.

  ‘Looking after her for a friend, aren’t I? Go on, Bella, show her. Show this lady your tummy.’

  Without missing a beat, the child lifts her sweater up to reveal an abdomen full of angry-looking spots. I narrow my eyes and try to think of something positive to say; something that will help alleviate the uneasy, uncomfortable feeling that has settled over us.

  ‘See. Chickenpox. Covered she is, aren’t you, Bella? And her mummy has to go to work so she’s staying with me while Mummy brings th
e pennies in. Work can’t just stop ‘cos kids get ill you know.’

  The child nods and gives the lady a huge smile. She is rewarded with a handful of boiled sweets which she munches on hungrily as if she hasn’t eaten for a week.

  I shake my head to show my disgust and shrug helplessly then turn away and hurry through the horde of sightseers before she can say anything else. I make a mental note to avoid walking past her hut in the future. I’m pretty certain she sees me as a figure of fun; somebody wet behind the ears that she can mock and manipulate each and every time I pass by her stupid little gypsy hut, with its awful frilly curtains and piles of stinking blankets. Well, she can think again. I have more street cred and common sense in my little finger than she has in her entire ageing body. I have put up with enough shit in my life to know when to turn my back on people who have a hidden agenda. And she definitely has a hidden agenda. She thinks I’ll be forever calling in asking for advice on my future. I’m not about to line her pockets because I’m feeling down on my luck. Not a chance.

  I half run along the path, eating now the farthest thing from my mind. The restaurants are almost full anyway. I can stop at the shop on the way back, pick up a meal for one and microwave it. The thought of consuming yet more processed food makes me want to throw up, but I can’t seem to summon the strength or enthusiasm to cook a meal just for me. It’s a harsh reminder of my current relationship status. Just another gloomy reminder of how lonely I actually am.