Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

by J. A. Baker

  The bench is exposed to the elements and within minutes she is freezing, her skin numb to the touch. She huddles down under her collar and digs her hands deep into her pockets for extra warmth. It wouldn’t be so bad if she had a flask of something hot or even if she’d had something to eat or drink this morning, but her stomach is empty and her throat is dry and she is freezing.

  The time seems to go on and on. She sits and waits, her patience stretched to capacity, her face growing colder by the second. It’s like a form of torture, having to sit here in these freezing temperatures with no endpoint in sight. She stares at her watch. The visitor has been in there for over half an hour. What if they don’t come out for hours? Is she really prepared to sit here and freeze her backside off all morning?

  Right on cue her stomach lets out a howl. A headache is setting in behind her eyes. Whether she likes it or not, she needs to eat. She can find a decent cafe; one that actually serves lattes and doesn’t abuse their customers, and then come back here once she has eaten.

  She is too cold and hungry to sit around waiting.

  Her legs are like jelly and she is light-headed with hunger as she walks back into town. This whole visit has turned out to be somewhat livelier than she ever anticipated. It will be worth it in the end, though, once she has Eva back on her side. Things will seem brighter then. Things will be back to how they were when she and Eva were teenagers. That’s all she wants really; to have her best friend back in her life with some sort of tangible relationship that will make her feel secure again. It’s all she’s ever wanted.

  There is a light tinkling sound at her feet as she stands up. She stops and looks down, her eyes drawn to the sparkle of the tiny pile of jewellery on the floor next to her. She reaches down and scoops it up, threads of silver hanging between her frozen fingers. It’s her bracelet; the one Greta gave her. It must have come loose at some point. She isn’t sure how it has happened but thanks whichever deity drew her attention to it. She could so easily have marched ahead and lost it completely, leaving it for some stranger to find. It would have broken her heart when she realised it was gone.

  Lifting it up to the light, she counts the charms, making sure they’re all there and securely fastened on. With a quick nod, satisfied that everything that should be there is there, Celia shoves it into her pocket, zips it up and marches back into town.

  23

  Gareth

  He wakes up earlier than he thought he would, considering last night. The room is blanketed in grey and it’s silent outside save for the weak and distant roar of the sea.

  He makes a point of not looking in the mirror as he passes. He’s not sure he can face seeing himself all battered and bruised. His arm feels as if it’s been hit by a mallet and his nose is so stuffed and choked up he can barely breathe. But he’s alive at least. And so is Eva. It could all have gone so horribly wrong, turned out very differently. He’d had too much to drink; that’s what spurred him on. Fortunately that’s also what made him less able to kill her. He was clumsy, awkward and disorientated, unable to control his limbs properly, unable to think properly. Just as well really. Today could have been very grim indeed.

  Stumbling through to the bathroom, he showers and cleans himself up, feeling the damage to his face as he traces his fingers over it. His nose is swollen and a purple bruise is blooming on his cheek. As for his hand – well she had a good bite at him and it hurts like hell, but he’ll live. No stitches needed which is always a bonus. He couldn’t face having to sit in a hospital waiting room surrounded by last night’s drunkards and druggies who, after a skinful and a good fight, would all look like him – injured and covered in blood. He’ll manage on his own. He did in the past so why should now be any different?

  Hunger gnaws at him, his empty belly growling and contracting, screaming out for food. Breakfast is a croissant and coffee. It’s all he has time for. He has stuff to do; a person to see; unfinished business to attend to.

  He doesn’t notice the sharp sea breeze that whips in from the sea. And he certainly doesn't see the lady in the distance talking to the two young women. Nothing else is on his radar except his mother. His guts twist in anticipation of what he is about to do.

  She’s in the house for a change, which is a positive. That means she’s not in town doing that ridiculous nonsense she actually calls work.

  He doesn’t say anything. He wants to, but the words just won’t come. He sees her looking at his bashed-up face and clocks her trying to hide her shock. He doesn’t know why. She should be used to seeing him covered in bruises. She became a past master at hiding them for so many years she’s almost an expert; putting him in long-sleeved sweaters until the bruises faded, changing his hairstyles to cover the bumps and scars on his head. She should be beyond being shocked by this sort of stuff.

  She steps aside to let him in and they sit opposite each other in the living room, the atmosphere so charged and heavy it practically crackles, until eventually she breaks the silence with her words.

  ‘So,’ she says softly, ‘at long last, you’ve decided to come home.’

  He knows exactly what she’s getting at – the fact he didn’t come back for the old man’s funeral. What the fuck did she expect? Did she really think he was going to turn up decked out in his best suit and pay tribute to an old soak who regularly beat the shit out of him? If so, she is clearly delusional and needs her head looking at. There was no way Gareth was going to take part in the sham that was his dad’s funeral. His father’s friends from the pub will have been there as well as a handful of neighbours who thought of him as no more than a working-class guy who liked a drink every now and then and the sort of man who occasionally gave his boy a clout to keep him in line.

  None of them have any idea. Not a fucking clue.

  ‘I’m not staying for long,’ Gareth says stiffly, trying his hardest to keep the anger out of his voice. He has to remain calm, to get his words out properly so he can get his point across and hear her answers.

  ‘You never do,’ she replies, staring hard at his face.

  ‘No,’ he says quietly, ‘I never do, do I.’ He wants to ask her why she thinks that is, but opts for silence instead. If he speaks now it will be an explosion of fury that pours out him; years and years of pent-up anger and resentment and frustration. He has to stay cool and not rise to her remarks.

  ‘So what brings you back then? Not very often I get to see my son. Be nice to see you here more often.’

  He grits his teeth and brings his knees together, gripping them with his hands to stop them from knocking. He is so hot and furious he feels he could combust at any moment.

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  Her eyes flicker slightly and a tiny pulse hammers in her jaw. She blinks slowly and deliberately, then turns her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Okay. I can’t guarantee I’ll give you an answer, or at least the answer you’re looking for, but I’ll do my best.’ Her voice is tight and croaky and Gareth couldn’t be sure but her skin looks shiny and damp as if she is breaking out in a sweat.

  He sits for a second trying to work out how to phrase it but eventually decides that blunt force is the only way. No matter how many times he has worded it in his head over the past few weeks, he has never found a way of doing it that seems fitting; each and every sentence clunky and contrived. His eyes fill up as he speaks. He can’t seem to help it. So many weeks of anger and upset locked up inside. And now it is all slowly leaking out of him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me I had a sister?’

  She looks as if she has been shot. Her head wobbles slightly and she brings her hands up to her abdomen, gripping onto her stomach with bony, wrinkled fingers. He waits for her to reply and watches as her mouth moves. Nothing comes out. Her features go slack and she slumps back in the chair, her eyes distant and uncomprehending.

  ‘I deserve an answer, Mother!’ He promised himself he wouldn’t lose his temper. He’s had enough outbursts in the past few weeks to la
st him a lifetime and he is tired of them. He no longer likes who he has become. Who he has become makes him sick to his stomach. He has turned into the person he hated and feared the most with his violent ways and uncontrollable temper.

  Her head lolls about as if she is having some sort of seizure. Gareth doesn’t move. He refuses to be drawn into her stupid little game. Because that’s what this is. She is pretending to have one of her funny turns, hoping it will stop him. It won’t. He will not leave until she tells him why. He won’t let his temper get the better of him, not any more, but he won’t move until she opens her mouth and starts telling the truth.

  ‘I’ve got all day, Mother. Take your time,’ he says dryly, and watches fascinated as she suddenly perks up and lifts her head up as if nothing has just taken place.

  She drums her fingers lightly on the edge of the chair. Her nails are yellowed and ridged, her skin splattered with liver spots. Time hasn’t been kind to her, but then, she hasn’t been particularly kind to herself over the years. As the old saying goes – you get the face you deserve.

  Gareth scans the room, looking for empty bottles stashed away in hidden corners or down the back of the sofa. No need to hide them now she lives on her own. There was no need to do it when his father was alive. It’s not as if he disapproved. She stashed and hid them because all these years she has been lying to herself, pretending she was a good mother and that there wasn’t a problem when all the time this house, this family, was breathtakingly deceitful, carrying on in the most insidious way possible.

  ‘You didn’t need to know. They took her away and she never came back. Why would you need to know?’

  His anger is at boiling point. He has to keep himself in check. After last night, his capabilities scare him. He doesn’t want to lose control again. Not like that. Not ever.

  ‘Why would I need to know? Because I have a sister out there and you should have told me!’ His chest feels tight and for a brief second he feels sure he is having a heart attack. He had forgotten how obtuse and stubborn his mother could be, burying her head in the sand, pretending everything is just fine when it is anything but.

  She shrugs and half turns away from him. He wants to launch himself at her but sits, his eyes boring into her, until she turns back and sighs loudly. ‘This place would have been no good for her. You know that.’

  Gareth almost chokes on his own spittle. His eyes are fixed on her as she continues.

  ‘He hated her. I have no idea why.’

  Gareth wants to add that he hated everyone but lets her go on, afraid she will stop.

  ‘He broke her arm.’

  There is a prolonged silence. He doesn’t need to ask who and she doesn’t need to say. The silence says it all.

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  She slumps, and Gareth can see the tears as they pour down her face. He has never seen his mother cry. Through all the arguments, the drunken battles, the beatings, the screaming and hollering, never once did he ever see her break down.

  He lets her cry herself out. This could just be another way of stalling, yet another of his mother’s strategies to deny him what he wants to hear. He will not leave here until she explains it to him.

  ‘I don’t know!’ she suddenly splutters through a river of tears. ‘I don’t know why I never told you! At first you were too young to understand and then as time went on, it all seemed to be so far in the past, it was pointless bringing it up. What good would it have done?’

  Gareth remains mute. There are so many things he could say to her in return, but he knows she would never be able to comprehend any of his words. She knows nothing of his life, of his contact with Eva. She has never truly known or understood her own son.

  ‘I’ve met her,’ he says and watches his mother for some sort of reaction. She hides it well; he’ll grant her that much, but it’s there. A stiffening of her spine, a vein that protrudes slightly on her neck, all signs that she is under stress. That and yet more tears. At long last, Trish Tweedie is starting to crack. Not before time.

  She sniffs and glares at him. ‘When? And how?’

  He decides that it’s none of her business. She doesn’t need to know that part. She doesn’t deserve to know. ‘I just did. We met up. She was in London and so was I.’

  She nods and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘If you want me to say sorry, then I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to say, son.’

  He grits his teeth at her use of the word son. She has never been a proper mother to him. He remembers the blows from her fists when he was a small boy as well as those from his father. His mother didn’t hold back once the gin started flowing.

  ‘She’s here at the minute, in town. She lives here.’

  He sees his mother wince at his words and is glad.

  ‘I know she is. I’ve seen her. She posted this through my door recently.’ She produces a small photograph from the side of her chair and hands it over to him. Gareth takes it and stares at it, waiting for the blurry images to come into focus. ‘It’s your dad and me. And her, before it all happened. Before she was taken.’

  It’s hard to understand how this picture can paint such a happy scene knowing what he knows about the people in it. He can barely bring himself to look at his father’s face without spitting on it. It doesn’t look like his parents. They are younger, slimmer, less ravaged by alcohol and the passing of time. If she hadn’t told him who it was, he would never have known. Funny thing is, he recognises this picture but can’t think where from.

  He continues to stare at it, his mind in overdrive, trying to work out why it strikes a chord with him. It looks so damn familiar. Then it dawns on him. Eva’s house. It was in her house in a frame. He never really looked at it closely when he visited. She had so many paintings and wall hangings dotted about, it was lost in the plethora of colour and design surrounding it. God, he feels like such a fool. All the time her connection to him was right in front of his nose and he didn’t realise.

  He hands the photo back, his face rigid with disbelief. ‘So, are you going to meet her?’

  She shrugs and juts out her bottom lip. ‘Up to her, I suppose. If she calls, she calls and if she doesn’t then life’ll go on as it always did.’

  He doesn’t know what to say. If he is being honest, he hates them both equally. Why should he try to mediate some sort of reconciliation? How they handle their relationship is down to them. All he came here for is answers. He isn’t sure if he got them but he doesn’t think he’s going to get much more out of his mother. He got to see her rattled and upset and that satisfied him. It doesn’t exonerate her in any way for the unspeakable things that she did to him as a child. It just makes him feel better. ‘I’m leaving now and I doubt you will ever see me again.’

  He wonders if she will cry once more or protest or try to stop him. She doesn’t do any of those things and he isn’t altogether surprised. He turns up at her door with a battered face and she can’t even be bothered asking him how it happened. That’s the level of her compassion. If this is the best she can do, he doesn’t want it. They are better off apart. His only regret is the fact that Eva was taken and he stayed. They have both been damaged by this woman. She deserves to be alone.

  He hears a muffled sob as he gets up and makes his way to the hallway. He stops, hoping she will call him back so he can gain a little happiness by refusing. There is nothing but the sound of crying from behind him. Stifled sobs from a woman who didn’t care enough.

  He opens the door, steps outside and closes it behind him for the final time.

  24

  Trish

  Trish Tweedie listens to the sound of her son leaving her. He means what he says. He won’t be back. She knows it. It was obvious by the look on his face; by the way he kept his simmering fury pushed down inside him. It frightened her, made her realise how serious he was. She’s never seen him like that before. And his face… she has no idea what has gone on and didn�
�t ask. Her first instinct was to reach out and touch him but she knew better and held back. Their relationship is too damaged to make such a bold move.

  Her eyes fill up again. He was always such a sweet boy; such a gentle soul. She drags her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. She should have done more to help him; stopped drinking and took him away from it all. She knows that, but it was so difficult at the time. And now it’s all too late.

  She has no idea how he met his sister. She doesn’t want to know. The girl probably sought him out, the way she has sought Trish out. She’s surprised it’s taken her this long. What her daughter doesn’t realise is, her life will be a hell of a lot sweeter if she remains in ignorance. She should take herself back off to where she came from. Easier for them all that way.

  She bites at her nails until they are ragged and torn and then looks around the room. She still can’t quite believe that Russ has gone. He was such a presence, such a big and vocal man and so full of life that the house has a vacuum where he used to be. Instead of him filling it up, the place is suddenly full of shadows and memories, few of them pleasant. That’s why she spends so long out of it. She had planned on retiring soon but then if she does that, what else is she going to do with her time? Sit around this place waiting for God? Best to keep herself busy, keep working. At least that way she gets out and meets people. It keeps her mind off everything; like her son just walking out on her for the final time. She knew it would happen. He’s a good man and she has been a less than decent parent. And as for Russ? Well, the less said about him the better. She should have left him years ago, but then where would she have gone? And what if the life she made for herself was worse than the one she had walked away from? Sometimes it’s better the devil you know.