Following the directions on his phone, Oliver took the next turn-off on the left, then the first side street on the right. They were now driving parallel to the motorway, with a single row of houses separating them from countless cars on their way to somewhere else.
The houses were old and weather-beaten, but the gardens were well-maintained. The grass was cut short and flowers outnumbered weeds, which made Oliver guiltily think of his own garden.
Brigid’s house was faded yellow with a waist-high hedge running along the front of the section, and a sagging wire gate across the driveway. Oliver turned off the car engine and examined the house for signs of life.
‘Look familiar?’
(I think I remember where I lived!)
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Oliver sighed. ‘It’s been a long time. Has it changed much?’
(Oh. The house used to be brighter, and there was a wooden fence. The gate squeaked so if we wanted to sneak out we had to squeeze between two loose boards.)
‘Who’s we?’
(Me and my sister, Jill.)
‘You had a sister?’
(Sure.)
‘Does your family still live here?’
(How am I supposed to know? I’m dead. Besides Mum was old back then, she’d be ancient now.)
Oliver sighed. One of the more frustrating things about the hitchhikers were their limitations. They knew why they’d come back to the world, but that was about it. Life would have been a lot easier for Oliver if they were all-knowing.
The curtains on the front windows were drawn and there was no car in the driveway. The mailbox was stuffed with advertising material. It looked like no one was home, but Oliver thought he’d better make sure. He unlatched the gate, which opened with a screech of tortured metal.
(Huh, that’s exactly what it sounded like.)
Leaving it half open, he walked up to the front door and knocked. He rubbed his hand over his face nervously, and strained to hear the sound of any footsteps approaching. He knocked again and pressed his ear against the frosted glass set into the front door.
No one came.
Oliver quickly walked back to his car and retrieved the shovel, then scuttled down the side of the house before anyone could spot him.
He felt a touch of deja vu. During the last investigation his hitchhiker had dragged him into, he’d ended up poking around in a back garden, looking for signs that a hole had been dug. Now he was here to dig one himself. Maybe it was deja vu. Or maybe it was irony. Actually he didn’t care what it was, he just wanted to get this done quickly.
While the front garden was well-groomed and weed-free, the back of the house was the opposite. Oliver’s feet sunk into tall grass as he surveyed the overgrown bushes that edged the property. Through gaps in the branches he could see cars travelling along the motorway.
What Oliver didn’t see was a lemon tree.
Which corner?
(Over there.)
I can’t see where you’re looking.
(Oh, right. The left-hand corner.)
Oliver walked over to where grass met soil. Where he was guessing there used to be a lemon tree, there was now a small rose bush with bright pink flowers.
He knelt down and, placing the shovel on the ground next to him, he stared at the dirt uncertainly.
If they dug up the lemon bush wouldn’t they have found what you buried?
(Then why am I here?)
‘Okay, fair enough. How deep did you bury it?’ he muttered, as he ran his hands over the bone-dry dirt. There hadn’t been any significant rain in almost a month, yet the garden looked in good health, so someone was watering the flowers. Oliver glanced nervously over his shoulder at the house, but no angry homeowner came bursting through the back door.
(Pretty deep. It was up to my elbows.)
Oliver tried and failed to picture the length of a nine-year-old girl’s arms. Reed was almost nine and he assumed that children were around the same size regardless of sex at that age. Based on that, he didn’t have far to dig.
Which was fine — if he knew exactly where he was digging.
Because it was a shallower hole than he’d been expecting, he decided to use his hands instead of the shovel.
He struck out with the first hole. And the second. By the third he was convinced that Brigid was lying through her deceased teeth.
And then his finger tips scraped against something that wasn’t dirt.
His hands found the edge of the object, then wriggled under and pulled it into the open.
It was an old, square biscuit tin. The cover picture showed lots of different types of biscuits, most of which Oliver realised were still for sale now. When he scraped the dirt off the lid he saw it was dull red.
‘Is this it?’
(No… it’s something else that was buried in the same place.)
‘I see you were old enough to have perfected the art of sarcasm,’ he replied.
(Open it. Open it.)
‘I’m trying,’ he muttered. His fingernails gripped the edge of the lid and he pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Did you glue it shut?’
(No, that would be stupid.)
‘I was …never mind.’ He pulled harder and felt one of his nails bend backwards. ‘Damn it.’ He snatched his finger away and shook his hand several times, like that was going to magically erase the pain. He went to suck the finger, but stopped when he saw it was covered in dirt.
(You’re not even bleeding.)
‘It’s stuck!’ he argued.
‘Who are you talking to?’
Oliver whirled around, however he was still on his knees and ended up sprawling into the rose bush.
A woman stood next to the house. She was holding a shopping bag in one hand and car keys in the other. But Oliver was more focussed on the biggest dog he’d ever seen in his life, which stood next to her.
‘I can explain,’ he stammered.
‘Really?’ the woman replied.
Oliver scrambled back up to his knees and the giant dog took on a more realistic size, still big, but not mutant monster big.
‘Can you? Can you explain what you’re doing digging in my back garden?’
Oliver thought about her question. ‘No, probably not.’
The woman stepped forward, shadowed by her dog. She spied the biscuit tin lying next to Oliver, and her eyes widened.
‘Are you a murderer?’ she demanded.
‘No, I’m a writer,’ he answered.
She studied him for a long time and he felt like he was being assessed for the level of threat.
‘You better come inside.’
It seemed she had decided he was something that the dog could handle.
Oliver got to his feet, a movement that caused great interest from the dog, which looked like a mixed breed, half-Great Dane, half-lion.
‘Are you a bleeder?’
Oliver’s attention snapped to the woman.
(Maybe you should have asked if she was a murderer.)
‘Uh, no more than anyone else.’
‘I only ask because if you have less than honest intentions, Monty will take a lot of pleasure in having you for breakfast.
(But it’s not breakfast time.)
Not the point.
‘I promise I’m no threat to you,’ he said out loud.
The woman sighed. ‘Fine. Come on then, let’s have a cup of tea, and a story, and it better be good Mr Writer, because Monty hasn’t eaten today, and there are plenty of places in the garden to bury your bones.
(You even dug your own hole.)
Not helping.
(Wasn’t trying too.)
The dog tilted its head to the side and stared at Oliver, then let out a deafening bark.
(Sit!)
Monty sat.
‘He must like you,’ the woman commented, giving the dog a pat.
(He likes one of us.) Brigid laughed.
Great.
THREE
Oliver went in the back door expectin
g to find a typical kitchen, although he realised his view of a typical kitchen had been skewed in recent years by having kids. He doubted this woman had a bowl with day old milk and crusted cereal sitting on the counter.
She actually had nothing on the counter. In fact nothing in the room at all. Several cupboard doors were ajar and from what Oliver could see they were empty. The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper, and there was a faded square outline opposite the door.
A picture must have hung there for a long time.
(Who are you talking to?)
Myself.
(Oh.)
‘As you can see I’m not exactly expecting visitors. In fact, that cup of tea I promised you won’t be happening. No tea cups, or tea, or hot water.’
‘You’re moving out? Because of the bypass?’
The woman nodded. By his own admission Oliver was hopeless at guessing people’s ages, but she looked to be in her early fifties, a sensibly dressed woman, with shoulder length brown hair. The only jewellery she wore was a smart watch on her left wrist. He wondered briefly if ordering your dog to feast on an intruder counted as canine manslaughter.
While Oliver had been studying her, Monty had been studying him, at least that’s the way it looked when Oliver glanced down to see the dog sitting beside him, his eyes glued to Oliver’s face.
‘He seems to like you. He usually takes a while to get used to people.’
‘Mmm,’ Oliver replied. ‘I’m Oliver, by the way.’ He extended a hand and then promptly snatched it back when Monty issued a deep growl.
‘He doesn’t like you that much,’ she replied with a smile. ‘You can call me B. Why don’t you tell me a story, Mr Writer, while I clean.’ She reached inside the shopping bag and pulled out rubber gloves and a cleaning spray bottle.
Oliver had been furiously thinking of a good excuse since the moment B had shown up. Now he launched into his hastily prepared cover story.
‘I was friends with the people that used to live here years ago, and recently one of the family got in touch. They said they’d buried a sort of homemade time capsule in the backyard,’ he waved the biscuit tin as incontrovertible proof, ‘and they asked me to dig it up before the house was demolished.’
B squirted cleaning liquid onto the counter top and began scrubbing it with a cloth. ‘Nice story. You must write fiction.’
‘I do, I mean, why do you say that?’
‘Because my family has lived in this house for fifty years, and I’m the sole surviving member, and I think I’d remember asking you to dig up a time capsule that I don’t know anything about.’
Her tone was light but he noticed her looking at him sideways. She nodded in satisfaction at the surprise on his face.
Is she your mother?
(No, can’t be.)
Aunt? Sister?
‘Would you like to try again?’ B asked.
She has to be related to you. This was your house, and it’s her house.
(Yeah, well, I might not have totally been telling the truth.)
Shit.
‘Oliver?’ B had stopped cleaning and turned to face him.
‘Okay. I might have made a few alterations to the truth. But someone did recently get in touch to tell me about the tin. I’m just doing them a favour.
B pulled off her gloves and placed them on the counter. She held out her hands, then waved one impatiently when Oliver hesitated.
‘Come on! I don’t for a second believe you, but you did dig something up from my garden so we might as well open it.’
If you don’t live here, then who is this woman? Oliver asked Brigid, as he handed over the tin.
(Promise you won’t get mad?)
Nope.
B placed the tin on the counter and prised at the edge of the lid with her fingernails. For a moment nothing happened, then something shifted and the lid came up on one side. Swinging the tin around, she attacked the other side and reluctantly the lid came off.
Oliver took a step closer, and earned another growl from Monty.
(It’s okay, Monty.)
‘Shush, dog,’ B said.
She lay the lid to one side. Peering into the tin, Oliver saw a small scrap of blue cloth tied into a knot. When she reached out her fingers were trembling. Oliver glanced up and saw the colour had leeched from her face.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked.
B didn’t answer as she pulled out the cloth and gently laid it in the palm of her hand.
What is it?
(I’m not sure.)
It’s freaked her out.
(I didn’t mean to.)
‘Do you recognise it?’ he asked.
She tugged at the knot, but age, both the cloth’s and hers, prevented the knot from coming apart. She handed it to him instead. ‘Open this, will you?’
Oliver could feel an object through the cloth. He struggled with it for a moment before it loosened and he carefully undid the knot. The object was a single small earring, a dull gold loop with a bright blue stone set into the bottom.
B picked it up and dangled it between two fingers. ‘Well. Isn’t that…’
‘…An earring?’ Oliver offered into the silence.
‘Yes, an earring. I’ve been looking for this for forty years.’
Privately Oliver thought that was a long time to search for a piece of jewellery. If Jennifer ever lost something like that she bought a new one.
‘Do you still have the other one?’
In answer, B reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing the earring’s twin.
‘Oh. I’m glad I was able to find it for you,’ Oliver said. Brigid, you didn’t come back from the dead to reunite this woman with her earring, did you?
(Nah.)
‘It’s not my earring. It belonged to my sister, and she was wearing it the night she disappeared,’ B said. She turned to look Oliver straight in the face. ‘How the hell did you know where it was?’
FOUR
‘Well?’ B demanded.
(Wait. B as in Beth? Oh my gosh it’s Elizabeth.)
Who the bloody hell is Elizabeth?
(Ooh, you swore.)
‘I found a letter while I was doing research for a book,’ Oliver began. ‘It was in a collection of papers that had been brought to an auction house as part of an estate sale.’
(Wow, you lie really good.)
Beth didn’t look like she agreed. He could read doubt and fear and hope and disbelief, but not acceptance. He pressed on regardless.
‘It talked about a young girl called Brigid…’
He paused as Beth’s face registered recognition at the name.
‘…who had buried what she called a present in the backyard of this house.’
Beth looked at the earring. ‘And you thought you’d come and break into my house and dig it up? Because why? You thought it might be valuable?’
‘Well, no, and technically I didn’t break into your house, I broke into your yard.’
Beth stared at him.
‘Look, to be honest, this is as much of a shock to me as it is to you,’ he rushed on.
‘I doubt that,’ Beth snorted, and a small bubble emerged from her left nostril.
(Eww, gross.)
Oliver didn’t feel it was the right time to point out the bubble. Luckily the woman gave a big sniff and the snot sucked back into her nose.
(Mega gross.)
‘I had no idea what was in the tin. My source was vague on the details.’
‘And by source, you mean the letter.’
Oliver licked his dry lips and considered his next words carefully, while wondering if Beth had been a prosecutor in her working life. He decided to go on the offensive.
‘Yes, the letter. You said your sister disappeared, do you mind me asking what happened?’
Beth began pacing the floor, striding to the internal door and touching the frame lightly before spinning and passing Oliver on the way to the back door. Monty’s head turned to follow her
every step. She repeated the circuit several more times before stopping and looking up.
‘I’m not sure where to start,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t usually talk about it unless there’s alcohol involved. You’re not one of those new age artists that carries a hip flask are you?’ she asked hopefully.
‘No, sorry.’
(What’s a hip flask?)
You’re too young to know.
(I’m older than you, sort of.)
‘Pity.’
‘Beth, who was Brigid?’ Oliver asked.
The woman screwed her face up in disapproval. ‘Brigid O’Shey. She and Debbie were best friends. Always in trouble, and it was always Brigid leading.’
(Was not. Maybe a little bit, but Debbie didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.)
‘Debbie is your sister?’ Oliver replied.
‘Debbie was eight years old when she went missing, and we have no idea what happened to her. They found this one earring on the side of the road just around the corner. The whole thing was a big scandal, in all the local papers. We even had a television news crew here. I had to dress up in my church clothes and answer a lot of questions that I couldn’t answer. But I knew who to ask.’
With a sinking feeling Oliver dreaded what name she was going to say next.
‘Brigid. She and Debbie went out together that afternoon.’
‘The police must have questioned her.’
(They did! I didn’t like them, or their questions.)
‘Oh they did, on more than one occasion, and she always said the same thing. That she left Debbie at the end of the street and never saw her again.’
(It’s the truth.)
‘Which is a load of horse shit. Everyone knew that Brigid always walked to our house to drop Debbie off. Not out of friendship, but because we always had fancy biscuits.’ Beth turned to look at the tin resting on the counter.
‘Did you ever ask her about it?’ Oliver asked.
‘Of course I did. Or I tried to. But she always ran away from me, and then she…’ Beth’s eyes searched the floor.
Brigid, how did you die?
(Got hit by a car. It really hurt. Not like the time I broke my arm jumping into the river, way worse. But it stopped hurting pretty quick.)
‘She got hit by a car,’ Oliver prompted.
‘How did you…?’
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 49