‘Sid?’
‘Don’t you remember? Big bloke, a few years older than me. He was in our band. Shite singer. Anyway, she’s married to him now. They own this pub.’
‘I remember him. Who could forget his singing?’ I prod my potato with my fork. ‘I’m just surprised she got off with him that night, let alone married him.’ Not only was he tone deaf but we always said he had a face only his mother could love.
‘Oh, he’s all right. Anyway, Helen might remember something useful. It’s worth a try.’
Was it possible that Helen knew more about what was going on in your life than I did?
‘It’s so frustrating,’ says Daniel in a loud whisper as we leave the pub.
It has started to rain again. The sea is fierce, the waves crashing against the slimy, seaweed-covered rocks. He strides ahead of me to his Astra and I trot after him in my heeled boots. He stops when he gets to the car. ‘Why do I get the sense that people know more than they are letting on?’ He has to shout to be heard over the wind and rain. ‘Leon, Lorcan, even Helen. I feel that they’re hiding something from me.’ I sense his frustration coming off him like steam, yet why do I get the feeling he’s angry at me? It’s not my fault Helen wouldn’t talk to us.
When we asked Helen about that night she insisted she couldn’t remember anything, then her face seemed to close in on itself and I knew we’d get nothing more from her today. But there was something in her expression, in the way she fidgeted and avoided eye contact with me, that made me think she knew more than she was letting on. I never trusted her, she bullied me at school and it doesn’t seem that she’s changed.
‘Try not to get paranoid,’ I tell him. ‘It was a long time ago.’ How can I explain to him that for some people you are just the girl who went missing years ago? To us, you mean a whole lot more.
‘I think we should pay Lorcan a visit tomorrow. I want to find out more about him.’
I blanch. ‘Daniel, tomorrow’s Sunday. Lorcan will be with his family …’
‘Somebody’s robbed me of my family. And it could be him. I need to know.’
He indicates for me to get in the car but I shake my head. ‘I’m going to walk, I fancy some fresh air,’ I say. It’s not even three o’clock yet, it’s too early to go back.
‘Are you mad? It’s pissing down and it’s already getting dark.’
How can I tell him that I’d rather walk miles in the rain than go back to that lonely apartment? He’d think I was ungrateful. It’s a nice place; it’s just too remote for my liking, not to mention its sinister view.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist.
‘I’ll ring you later,’ he says as he gets into the driver’s seat. He slams the door and winds down his window. He frowns, his face and hair wet from the rain. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’
‘I’m a big girl, Daniel,’ I laugh, remembering you saying exactly the same to me once when I expressed my concern over Leon. If only you had listened to me.
He smiles warmly, his eyes twinkling. ‘You’ve always been stubborn, Lady Frankie,’ he laughs and my heart contracts. What I’d really like is for him to come back to the apartment to keep me company, but I feel too shy to suggest it. He’s already said he’s not married but that doesn’t mean he’s single. That ring on his finger suggests to me that there is someone special in his life. An image of him kissing me, undressing me, flashes in my mind and I shake my head trying to dispel it, feeling guilty for having these thoughts about your brother.
‘I’ll pick you up in the morning, about ten thirty,’ he calls out as he pulls away from the kerb.
The streets are deserted, the air redolent with the smell of fresh rain and seaweed. The taunting cackle of seagulls circling overhead makes me flinch. I’d forgotten how much I hated those blasted things; vermin of the sea, as my dad used to say. An image of him from yesterday, prostrate in his hospital bed, that awful guttural noise emanating from his throat, pops into my head. I can’t shake the feeling that he was trying to tell me something.
As I walk along the pavement I have to keep tussling with my umbrella to prevent it turning inside out. In the end I give up and shove the wet umbrella in my bag, letting the rain brush my face and drench my hair. There is a strange kind of freedom in it, I think as I breathe in deeply and then exhale, allowing all the stress of the last few months to dissipate into the rain.
When did life become so complicated?
I stop outside the Grand View, our old hotel. You wouldn’t recognise it now – I hardly do. Gone are the lace curtains that I remember from my childhood, replaced by white wooden shutters. The soft blue of the building is a vast improvement on the bright pink. Still, if I squint I can almost see my dad standing proudly beside the front door, surveying the street, nodding to passers-by, relaxed in chinos and a linen shirt, young and handsome. Oh, Dad. I hoist my bag over my shoulder and quickly walk on, past the neighbouring hotels and guest houses until I reach the bright, flashing lights of the amusement arcade. I shelter in the doorway for a few minutes watching a group of teenagers crowd around a young, spotty youth on one of those motorbike games, shouting instructions at him in unison as he veers first left and then right.
I head back into the downpour, the heavy beat of a dance tune and the shrieks of the kids following me as I cross the road to the sea front.
Sand blows across my path as I amble along the empty promenade, past the clock tower with the gold-painted spire, and the boarded-up lido. The stretch of beach that has the trampolines, big wheel and helter-skelter in the summer months is now empty. My heels clip the pavement as I round the corner, the hulking, dark shape of the old pier ahead of me. This stretch of the town is quieter, the shops and cafés falling away so that only a few larger hotels remain before the path winds up the hill to my apartment. I decide not to cross the road yet. Instead I stay on the promenade, dotted with the odd metal bench, the old pier looming in the distance. The rain drenches me, but I don’t care.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, not that I can hear the ringtone over the growl of the sea and the patter of rain. Mike’s name flashes up on the screen. With a sinking feeling I answer it. He deserves more than a drunken voicemail message.
‘Hi,’ I say, my voice wobbling slightly.
‘Fran? It’s me, Mike,’ he says unnecessarily. The reception is bad and I turn away from the sea, pressing my finger in my other ear to try and drown out the exterior sounds. ‘Are you OK?’
Despite his anger, he still cares enough to ask about my welfare. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say into the phone, fighting back tears. ‘I’m sorry for that awful voicemail I left you. You’re right, I am a coward.’
‘You’ve been through a lot lately,’ he says, and I brace myself for his pleas to reconsider, for me to take him back. Instead he says, ‘I understand. I just wanted to ask if it was OK to stay in your house for the rest of this week. While you’re away?’
I hesitate, swallowing my disappointment. I don’t want him, but my pride is hurt that he’s not putting up more of a fight. Ideally I’d like him to move out now, but how can I say that without sounding heartless? You always did think I treated my boyfriends badly, didn’t you, Soph. It was only because I hadn’t found The One. Except I thought I had … but he didn’t want me.
‘I’m hoping to be back soon,’ I say weakly.
‘My mate has a room I can move into, but not until next weekend.’ The phone starts to break up. I shout into it that it’s fine, he can stay until the weekend. Then the line goes dead. I stand and stare at it for a while, the rain pooling on the screen. Then I thrust the phone back into my pocket.
It’s definitely over, and despite his obvious anger at the beginning, deep down he knows it too. I oscillate between relief and disappointment.
I continue walking, the solitude of the empty streets matching my mood. It can’t be much past 4 p.m. but the torrential rain has brought dusk early; I’m starting to feel conscious that there is no one else around. In the distance I can see
the lampposts flanking the entrance to the pier, their soft amber lights a pair of haloes in the charcoal sky, illuminating the rain. I hear footsteps behind me and quicken my pace, although I will myself not to panic. It might be dark but it’s not late, and I walk around London by myself all the time. What is it about this place that gives me the creeps?
I glance over my shoulder, but I can only make out a hooded figure through the downpour, in a dark raincoat, trousers and sturdy walking boots. It could be a man or a woman, although their height and slim build makes me think it’s more likely to be female. I don’t know what spooks me; maybe it’s the aggressive stance or unfriendly demeanour, the way they hurry towards me with purpose. Instinct makes me break out into a run and I dart across the road and up the steep incline towards Beaufort Villas. The footsteps behind me also quicken and my heart pounds. Am I being followed?
I continue to run, but my high heels make it difficult to gather much momentum as they keep getting caught in the potholes and I trip more than once. The sound of feet pounds the pavement behind me. I think I hear my name being called, but it could just be the howl of the wind. Panting and sweating, I reach the brow of the hill, but don’t stop to pause for breath. The footsteps are closing in on me. I need to get away. My legs feel weak as I stumble along the road but I keep running and don’t look back until I reach the front door. My hands are shaking as I rummage in my bag to retrieve my key, imagining icy fingers reaching out to clutch my shoulder. I suppress a scream as I fumble with the lock and then, thankfully, the door gives way and I fall into the hallway with relief.
As I go to close the door I see the figure standing at the end of the driveway, partly obscured by my car, the hood of their anorak pulled firmly over their head, hands thrust into pockets. And even though I can’t make out their features, I’m sure I notice a strand of blonde hair whipping against a heart-shaped face.
9
Sophie
Saturday, 5 July 1997
Leon is Jason’s cousin. I’m devastated. I still can’t believe it.
Maybe, subconsciously, I’m attracted to Leon because he reminds me of Jason. They have the same dark hair and blue eyes, that Irish look that I’ve always found so irresistible, the same intensity. There was a time when I thought about Jason every day, after he died. The guilt gnawed away at me until I felt like a shell of my former self. And then I moved away, went to uni and tried to put Jason out of my mind as though he was a once-loved toy that I was responsible for breaking, yet couldn’t bring myself to throw out so shoved to the back of my wardrobe. I knew it was there although I tried not to think about it.
But since I’ve been back, the incessant, relentless thoughts pop into my head when I least expect them. While I’m innocently watching Neighbours, or drying my hair. When my mind drifts from the book I’m reading.
How terribly ironic that I kissed Leon for the first time in the same place his cousin died.
I’d questioned Frankie, of course. ‘How do you know? Are you sure you’re not mistaken? Did he actually say he was Jason’s cousin?’ And, most importantly, ‘Does he know what we’ve done?’
She was pissed off with me – even more than she had been already. ‘Of course he bloody well doesn’t know,’ she hissed. ‘Do you think I’d be stupid enough to tell him?’ She grabbed my arm and pulled me forcefully along the promenade away from the centre of town, all the while muttering in my ear that she’d found out from her mum, that she definitely wasn’t mistaken, that I needed to stay away from Leon if I wanted to keep our secret safe.
But the thing is, I don’t think I can stay away from him. Can I be with him and never reveal what we did? We were sixteen, just a couple of kids. We were young, we were stupid. We loved Jason, both of us constantly vying for his attention. How could we have known what would happen?
And why do I have this sense of foreboding? Like I already know my past is going to destroy my future?
Because the truth is, it’s our fault that he’s dead.
We’ve kept the secret all these years.
Frankie and I killed Jason.
10
Frankie
As I flick on all the lights in the apartment, I tell myself to calm down, to stop being stupid. But I’m unnerved. I can barely bring myself to formulate the words in my head: It was you who was following me. Logically I know it can’t be you. You’re dead. And I don’t believe in ghosts. I refuse to believe in ghosts.
Yet when I walk into the living room and dump my bag on the floor I instantly know someone has been in here while I’ve been out. It’s hard to explain but the air feels different, smells different. More floral. The curtains that I’d opened earlier are now drawn, and the book I’d been reading and left open on the sofa is closed and perched at a right angle on the glass coffee table. My heart starts to race. When I was in Daniel’s car earlier I thought I saw a face at the window. I thought I saw your face. I’d convinced myself it was just the condensation making shapes and causing my mind to play tricks on me.
My spine tingles. I’ve never suffered from mental illness, although I witnessed the deep depressions my mum used to experience, particularly when I was younger. They were known as her ‘episodes’. That’s what my dad would call them, anyway. I never even told you about them, Soph. I tried to block them out. She would take herself off to the bedroom for days at a time, not even able to face getting up or seeing me, until Dad forced her back to the GP to either up her medication or switch it for a different brand. A few times she had to go away somewhere, to recover. Dad never revealed where, because he wanted to protect me, but I suspect she went to a psychiatric ward or hospital. When she returned she would be OK again, until the next time. She treated each episode as if it had never taken place, refusing to acknowledge or talk about it with me. Maybe in her head they never happened. Over the years it became a chasm between us that was so large that nothing could really fill it and I became closer to my dad. I always knew where I was with him. His feelings for me were constant. Unlike the oscillating emotions that my mum harboured towards me, either loving me so much it was stifling or being utterly indifferent towards me. Eventually the indifference won out. But it’s always been a deep-seated fear of mine that I might take after her. That, one day, I might experience ‘episodes’ of my own.
Grabbing my phone from my bag, I call Daniel. It goes straight to voicemail.
I throw the phone on the sofa in a fit of temper. I tell myself to breathe. Focus. I’m not the sort to get hysterical or jump to conclusions. There must be a rational explanation. There always is. That woman I saw probably wasn’t following me at all, it was just a coincidence that she looked like you. It spooked me and I panicked. Maybe I forgot to open the curtains this morning. I was tired and lightheaded from lack of sleep. I probably had put the book on the coffee table. Maybe the person that owns this apartment has a cleaner – although I dismiss this instantly. Cleaners normally blitz a holiday apartment before the new guests arrive, not while they’re in residence.
For the next few hours I try to distract myself. I eat two pieces of toast and watch some inane chat show, even though the picture keeps breaking up. I’ve nearly polished off a bottle of wine but I’m still unable to settle.
I can’t get the feeling of being watched out of my mind. Somebody was following me earlier, it can’t be a coincidence. They were standing at the end of the driveway watching me as I pushed my way through the front door. The ‘London’ me would have confronted them and demanded to know what they were playing at, but since being back here I’m morphing into that girl again. I don’t want to go back to being insecure Frankie. I’m Fran now, confident, assured, successful. A grown-up.
This place isn’t good for me. Too many memories, too many ghosts.
I feel like I’m in a surreal version of Groundhog Day when I wake up the next morning. The baby began screaming again in the middle of the night and its every cry was like a stab wound to my heart. I’ve wanted children so desperately that
for too many years the desire overwhelmed me, became an obsession, a longing so great I would have done almost anything to make it happen. But I had miscarriage after miscarriage, then stopped conceiving at all. We tried fertility treatment and when I eventually became pregnant, after the third attempt, I was ecstatic. Until just a few weeks later, days before my twelve-week scan, I had yet another miscarriage. I’ll never forget the devastating pain of losing that final baby, both physical and emotional. As the blood and the clots passed violently from my body, so also seeped the final remnants of hope. I was being punished for Jason. I didn’t deserve to be happy.
Around every corner after that there seemed to be a fecund woman with a brood of kids, reminding me of what I’d never have. Six months later, Christopher left me for a work colleague. I’ve often wondered what you would have thought of him – Christopher, I mean. I like to think you would have hated him, called him a smug bastard, or a fool for cheating on me. When I confronted him he promised he’d finish things with her, that he’d be a better husband. But it was too late, I couldn’t forgive him, so I told him to move out and that I wanted a divorce. Since then I haven’t allowed anyone to get close enough to hurt me. Even Mike. But it’s been over three years now, Soph, and I want to fall in love again.
That’s what happens when you wake in the middle of the night. It gives you too much time to think, to wallow in self-pity. So to drown out the baby’s cries as well as the memories, I took two sleeping pills, downed a glass of wine, and fell into a heavy, drug-induced sleep on the sofa. And now I have a banging headache.
I shower and change into a jumper and jeans, wishing I’d packed other shoes apart from the impractical stiletto ankle boots that I’m forced to wear again. The sight of the three empty wine bottles lined up on the counter in the kitchen reminds me that I need to go to the shops today for supplies.
I’m heating up a bowl of porridge in the microwave when a knock at the door makes me jump. It can’t be anyone from outside as they’d need to be buzzed in the main door downstairs. I tiptoe down the hallway, trying not to make a sound in my heels, and peer through the peephole. It’s Daniel, distorted by the convex glass.
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