The Girl Who Came Back

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.

  ‘Shush…’

  ‘I thought you’d be safe. Nobody ever used that back lane. We’d left you playing in the garden loads of times. You were happy out there.’

  ‘I know, Dad. I know…’

  ‘I should have stayed out there with you.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘They said I was watching the football but it wasn’t like that. The game was on but I’d only gone in to go to the toilet. They made it sound like I’d locked you out, or something. Like I cared about the game more than you.’

  There’s snot leaking from his nose, tears pooling in his eyelashes. I want to say it’s fine but he’s clearly been wanting to say this for thirteen years.

  ‘Then you were gone,’ he adds. ‘I thought you were playing hide-and-seek. I was laughing, saying I was coming ready or not. I checked the bushes and the shed. Then I went inside and looked upstairs, then down, then I realised…’

  ‘I’m here now, Dad.’

  He sputters out a mix of saliva and snot, like a horse snorting. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  He shakes his head then holds out his hands. ‘Not only that. This.’

  Oh.

  He has me speechless because what is there to say? It’s squalor.

  ‘Can you come back another time?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  He nods. ‘Saturday. Come back on Saturday. It’ll be different, I promise.’

  I rub his shoulder and he snakes an arm around me, hugging me close. I’d love to say it was a heart-wrenching moment, a monumental meeting of father and daughter – but the smell of rotten eggs is so bad that I can taste it. As the stench catches the back of my throat, it takes all I can muster not to gag.

  Twelve

  I’m on my way through the lounge area of the Black Horse when Pete waves me across to the bar. I assume news has got around about who I am but it’s not that at all.

  ‘You know Ashley Pitman?’ he asks.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘He was asking about you.’

  That takes me by surprise. ‘When?’

  ‘Lunchtime. He wanted to know how long you’d been here, how long you were staying for, what name you’d checked in under… that sort of thing.’

  Pete seems as confused as I feel. He’s whispering so that the blokes at the furthest end of the bar can’t hear.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ I ask.

  ‘Not much. He’s barred for one, so I told him to get out.’

  ‘He’s barred?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Are you in trouble, or something?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing like that. It’s complicated, but it’s nothing to do with him.’

  Pete’s eyes narrow, weighing me up. I get the sense he’s got enough on his plate as it is.

  ‘I don’t want trouble with the Pitmans round here,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t want trouble either.’

  ‘At least we’re agreed on that.’ He pauses, looks both ways and then lowers his voice even more. ‘You could say I’m not best friends with Ashley Pitman.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He and his brother have a legacy around this village. Some love them, some don’t. I’m in the “don’t” camp.’

  Nattie said something similar last night but didn’t seem able to give much in the way of specifics.

  ‘Why don’t people like them?’ I ask.

  Pete looks past me this time, making sure nobody’s anywhere near us. It’s like we’re running a drug deal. ‘They run a taxi company now but they’ve had other businesses before. Max and Ashley used to run a garage with their dad. A lot of people thought they were rip-off merchants but they employed some of the locals, so others thought they were heroes. There was some problem with trading standards and they got shut down. That caused a right fall-out because Ashley was going around accusing people of reporting them. They owed a few people money as well – and the people round here have long memories.’

  ‘I didn’t know any of that.’

  He shrugs. ‘Now you do. All I’m saying is that you should tread carefully around that family.’

  I start to reply and then realise I’m not sure what to say. My mum is part of that family, which means I am as well.

  I thank him for the tip and then head upstairs with the box of articles from Mum’s house, giving me plenty to read later. The photo from Georgie is inside as well. I change quickly and, by the time I’m done, Nattie is waiting downstairs for me, nursing a glass of wine. She downs it in one and then loops her arm into mine, leading me outside once more.

  ‘My mum loves you more than me,’ she jokes.

  ‘She spent most of the time trying to shove food into me.’

  ‘You too?! I don’t know what’s wrong with her but she’s not happy unless she’s trying to feed people.’

  Nattie tugs me in the opposite direction to the church, towards the darker side of village.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise.’

  ‘I don’t think I like surprises.’

  ‘You’ll like this… well, maybe. Probably. Definitely.’ A pause. ‘Probably – let’s stick with that.’

  When we get to the bottom of the hill, Nattie takes me out along a narrow lane that winds around the back of some cottages. We cross an arched stone bridge over a narrower part of the river and then there are a set of football goalposts in the middle of a field. She leads me around the back of the clubhouse and along another lane until we emerge into a small play park. The sign reads: ‘Ridge Park’ and there are swings, a roundabout and a pair of climbing frames atop a springy black mat. For a moment I think we’re heading for the swings but Nattie continues past, heading for a tree in the far corner of the field.

  ‘Ta-da!’ she says.

  I squint in confusion. ‘It’s a tree.’

  I follow her closer until I see what she’s actually pointing at. There’s a large raised knot in the middle of the thick trunk, with some sort of wreath around the edges.

  ‘This is your memorial,’ she says.

  When I’m close enough to touch it, I can see that the wreath is far more complicated than I thought. It’s woven like a wicker basket, with branches and slivers of wood intertwined together to create a sort of crown. There are small beads of paint flecked throughout, like jewel stones.

  ‘It’s not an official village thing,’ Nattie says. ‘Some of the kids made it years ago.’

  The name OLIVIA has been carved into the knot of the tree, from which the crown is hanging.

  ‘What do you think?’ Nattie asks.

  ‘It’s a bit weird…’

  She laughs. ‘Of course it is now. Everyone thought you were dead. This was where we came to talk about you when we were kids. Like I said yesterday, loads of people didn’t remember you properly but you were this myth, so everyone told ghost stories.’

  I’m not sure whether to be flattered. I probably should be.

  ‘I visited Mum again this morning,’ I say. ‘Mine and yours, back to back.’

  Nattie lets out a low whistle and then flops to the ground, resting her back against the tree. I follow her lead and we end up staring out towards the empty play park. It’s another blue-skied day; warm but not too hot. The tree provides a satisfying shade.

  ‘Your mum’s not too bad,’ she says. ‘Always pays on time, lets me go early sometimes. Doesn’t try to cheat anyone on overtime. Doesn’t freak out if anything gets broken. I once dropped a whole tray of cups and plates and she said it was fine. Didn’t even take it out of my wages.’

  ‘Do you know her well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Our mums know each other – which is why I got the job. They don’t hang out as much these days.’

  ‘How come?’

  Nattie’s fidd
ling with her phone, fingers swishing across the screen as she hammers out a message. She speaks without looking up. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘If I tell you, you’re not going to tell her, are you? Mum would flip if she thought I was telling you stuff.’

  ‘I’m good with secrets.’

  Nattie turns to look at me and grins. She likes the sound of that. ‘She doesn’t like your stepdad or his brother. Calls them Tweedledum and Tweedledickhead.’

  ‘Which one’s which?’

  Nattie puts her phone down and laughs. ‘I have no idea. All seems a bit stalkerish to me.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Your stepdad used to go out with your mum when they were fifteen or whatever, then they end up getting married fifteen years later…? It’s like a bad romcom. A really bad romcom with Adam Sandler.’

  She clears her throat and then yawns, before lying back on the grass and closing her eyes.

  ‘Your little brother’s cool. He’s been over the house a couple of times. He pulled a tea towel off the kitchen counter and brought a massive bag of rice down with it. I almost pissed myself laughing – then Mum made me clear it all up for encouraging him.’ She pauses. ‘Still worth it though.’

  ‘I think he was calling me “Egg” this morning.’

  ‘Egg?’

  ‘Short for Olivia, I guess. Who knows?’

  ‘I went to the christening. It was in the church and then there was a buffet at the village hall. I only went for the food.’ She holds her hands out high above her, a metre or so apart. ‘Bloody loads. I had about two pizzas by myself. Rhys must’ve eaten half a pig. There was one of those spit-roast things on the go. Cake as well. I had to throw it all up in the toilets.’ She pushes herself up onto her elbows and turns to me. ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

  Nattie lies back down and it’s silent for a minute or so. My bare legs are in the sun and it’s wonderfully warm on my skin. I’ve never had a friend like Nattie, someone with whom everything comes easily. It doesn’t feel like she’s holding anything back. This is her and people can either take it or leave it. She’s so open and honest that it leaves me off-guard. I wonder if I might blurt something out because that’s what she does. That could be dangerous and yet I still want to spend time with her.

  ‘Your stepdad got pissed,’ Nattie says out of the blue.

  ‘When?’

  ‘At the christening. His brother, too. What’s his name?’

  ‘Ashley.’

  ‘Yeah – him. Couldn’t stand up straight and fell down the stairs at the front of the hall. All the blokes ended up doing this really lame bro-thing.’ She puts on a deep voice. ‘“Yeah, bro. You all right, bro? I bet I can jump higher than you, bro.” They did this standing jump competition out on the grass. Your mum went home on her own and left them to it.’ Nattie pauses. ‘More cake for me, I guess.’

  The afternoon is so peaceful that I feel like I could lie here with Nattie for the rest of the day. There aren’t even birds whistling and chirping, no hum of traffic, no constant bustle of people. It’s glorious. I close my eyes and stretch out close to Nattie. She brushes the back of my hand with hers and we giggle. People seem to like doing that, to make sure I’m still around and haven’t disappeared into thin air.

  ‘Max and Ashley don’t have many fans,’ I say.

  ‘My mum says Max used to follow her and your mum around when they were at school. They’d be walking home and then he’d be there; or they’d go to the cinema or bowling – and the Pitman brothers would turn up.’

  ‘Didn’t they all used to go out together?’

  ‘I think this was before that, when they were thirteen or fourteen, something like that. Mum says Max kept asking your mum out, then she eventually gave in.’

  ‘She gave in?’

  That’s not quite the story I’d heard from Georgie.

  ‘I know. Creepy, huh? Keep on at someone until they give up and say yes.’

  ‘Do you know why they broke up in the first place? My mum and dad were married at twenty-one.’

  Nattie nudges my hand again and we both push up onto our elbows. ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this,’ she says. ‘Mum only told me after the christening because she’d had too many gin and tonics. Get her pissed and she’ll tell you anything you want. All she said was that your mum disappeared for a summer and then everything changed.’

  I sit up properly, crossing my legs and staring down at Nattie. Her hair is starting to curl and fray like her mother’s, mixing in with the grass.

  ‘She disappeared for a summer?’

  Nattie shrugs. ‘Don’t ask me. I have no idea. Ask Mum.’

  ‘Do you mind if I do?’

  Another shrug. ‘Whatever. Your family, innit?’

  And she’s right. Like it or not, Max and Ashley Pitman are my family.

  Thirteen

  It’s only when the sun starts to dip below the treeline that Nattie and I head back into the village. We talk about everything and nothing. TV shows and bands, a holiday to Ibiza that she wants to take, a festival she and Rhys have tickets for later in the summer.

  It’s nice to be normal.

  I do a lot of listening because it’s been a long, long time since I was able to enjoy things like television, or to imagine going to anything like a festival. It makes me think that perhaps I can have this sort of life. Friends and family, sunny days in the park, two weeks in Spain or Greece during the summer. It’s what everyone else my age does.

  There’s something so welcoming about Nattie. In the space of a day, we’ve gone from strangers to acting like we’ve known each other all our lives. In many ways, I feel closer to her than to anyone I’ve met so far. She’s full of questions but they’re not about where I’ve been for thirteen years, they’re about where my top came from, or whether I have tattoos. She has self-awareness about doing a mundane job in a small village, knowing she might never escape, while at the same time talking about countries in which she’d like to live. She’s a dreamer and a realist all at the same time.

  We stroll back to the Black Horse and claim the same booth we had yesterday. I’ve got my usual pint of Guinness and Nattie’s on the cider again. I get the sense this is her routine.

  She downs the first pint quickly, necks another and then gets back to the wine. I’ve not even got through my first drink and she’s giggly and giddy. Her stomach must be one big pit of mixed alcohol.

  Time passes and I’m thinking about heading upstairs to bed – or at least my box of newspapers – when the doors bang open and Ashley strides in. He heads directly to the bar, finger wagging towards Pete as almost everyone stops to watch.

  ‘No,’ Pete says before Ashley can speak.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘I told you earlier and I’ve told you before – you’re barred.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why – now get out.’

  Ashley is hunched, fists balled with energy and aggression. For a moment, I think there might be a scrap but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he steps away and turns in a semicircle, scanning the pub until he settles on me. He stares for a second or two at most – and then marches back the way he came, banging the doors on the way out.

  There is a hushed moment of near silence and then everything returns to normal as if none of it actually happened. I’m not even sure Nattie was aware of what happened.

  She hiccups and then giggles to herself. ‘I think I’ve drunk too much,’ she says. ‘I might call my mum for a lift home.’ She laughs again and then does precisely that as she slumps into the corner of the booth.

  When she turns up, I wonder if Georgie might be upset or angry at the state of her daughter – or me for being a bystander – but it turns out she’s apparently used to this.

  Nattie stumbles out through the pub doors as her mum watches on, one hand on hip before giving me a wink and a smile. ‘Did you have a good night?’ she asks.

  ‘Not as good as
Nattie.’

  That gets a laugh. ‘See you soon, hon. Don’t be a stranger.’

  * * *

  It’s when I’m struggling to focus on the words of the articles that I realise I’ve had too much to drink as well. I’ve only had three pints – but I’ve not eaten properly since breakfast and I can feel the liquid swilling around my stomach. I’m going to have to be careful with this type of thing. Drinking with Nattie is probably fine – Rhys as well for that matter – but getting full-on drunk has to be a non-starter. I don’t want to forget anything I’m told, let alone allow something stupid to slip out.

  It’s been a good day for information as well. People want to talk to me and I’m more than happy to listen.

  I fill a glass with water from the bathroom and drink that, then refill it and return to my room. It takes a few minutes but my vision does return to the point that I can take the words in.

  There’s an easy chronology to the early articles. Girl goes missing, appeal for witnesses, the police make statements, Mum makes her own appeal… then it goes quiet for a couple of days. There’s a definite change to the tone, from hope of being found to acceptance that it’s unlikely. After that, there are opinion pieces about Dad. Reckless behaviour, irresponsible, should he be prosecuted and so on. It’s all written with the menacing undercurrent that perhaps it was him all along. He killed his daughter and then claimed she’d been taken. It’s always a parent, isn’t it?

  The poor guy.

  I believe him when he says he’d only gone into the house to use the toilet. It’s something anyone would do, something that probably happens thousands of times every day, where a parent will momentarily leave a child unsupervised to go for a wee, or do any number of other mundane things.

  None of the reports say that, of course. It’s reprinted over and over that he was inside watching the football while his daughter was busy disappearing from the back garden. It’s no wonder nobody believed him, no surprise he turned into… whatever he is now.

  As I flick through the publications towards the top, what’s also clear is that Max either knew what he was talking about or he made a good assumption about the media coverage. There is a photo from the beach and another from a birthday party at a bowling alley. There are more, too – a family picture from a play park much like the one out by the memorial tree is reprinted over and over.