The Girl Who Came Back

by Kerry Wilkinson

‘We did have good times,’ she says eventually.

  ‘You and Max?’

  A shake of the head. ‘The three of us – you, your father and me.’ She asks if I can continue to balance Harry and then leads me upstairs, back into the spare bedroom. She says she dug out another box of things the previous evening and I sit on the bed as she shows me a crusty-looking photo album. The pictures might only be fourteen or fifteen years old but it feels like a different age. Sepia versus colour. There’s a misty fuzz to the edges of the photos, which is likely what comes from being left for such a long period of time – but it goes beyond even that. The clothes seem brighter and looser to what anyone might wear now; any brand logos seem spikier and not as polished as those that adorn high streets all over.

  Each photo has a story, however – and Mum seems happy to talk about them. There’s the first time Dad changed a nappy, the first family visit to the seaside, ditto for the zoo. And so on.

  There’s one picture in particular that she stops on. She rubs her finger across the surface of the photo as if it makes the memory clearer. Dad is such a different person to the one I met in that filthy house. He’s tall and tanned with a strong jawline. Good-looking by anyone’s standards.

  ‘He used to carry you around on his shoulders a lot,’ Mum says, pointing to the child clinging onto her father’s neck.

  ‘We were in Blackpool when this was taken,’ she adds. ‘It was the summer before everything happened. We rented this little chalet on the far end of the shore and we’d walk the whole length of the promenade and back every day. He’d carry you pretty much the whole way, then we’d get chips on the journey back. It was our first holiday as a family.’ She goes quiet for a moment, then adds: ‘And the last.’

  She closes the cover of the album and returns it to one of the boxes she’s taken down from the attic. The moment has passed and Harry is starting to feel heavier. Mum says he’ll probably be fine in his crib. We head back downstairs and it feels as if two arms aren’t enough as I lever him over the top of the rails of the cot into his bed. He rolls over, eyes still closed as Mum pulls a blanket over him. She dabs at my top, wiping away the worst of the dried saliva.

  ‘You end up washing clothes every day until your kids get to about four,’ she says.

  We sit on the sofa and there’s a minute or two where neither of us speak. Mum is nervously looking over towards the crib but there is no sign of Harry stirring. Conversation isn’t easy because there’s only really one thing we can talk about – us. I can’t imagine having the same types of breezy conversations that Nattie and I enjoyed.

  It’s then that it dawns on me that this is what it’s supposed to be like between a mother and daughter. Thirteen years apart or not, there are meant to be secrets and things that aren’t shared. This is probably how we’d be around each other even if there weren’t those missing years.

  The mothers and daughters who go around as if they’re sisters are the exceptions. The weird exceptions. Mothers who should know better, refusing to grow up, or daughters who can’t find friends their own age. It must be a female thing. There are plenty of dads who refuse to grow up – but none I’ve met who hang around with their sons as if they’re all brothers.

  ‘Do you remember the day?’ I ask.

  I don’t need to clarify which one because there’s only one ‘The Day’. It’s when everything changed.

  It takes her a while to answer. She stares off into the distance, back in the moment. ‘I was at work,’ she says. ‘I was doing part-time hours in a supermarket and was on the tills when the manager came over and said there was a call for me. It was the first time that had ever happened and before the days of mobile phones. I didn’t really know what was going on. When I got to the break room, it was Dan and he said you’d got out of the garden, that he couldn’t find you.’

  She clenches her fists and her whole body tenses.

  ‘I remember feeling numb. As if everything was pins and needles and there was a moment where I thought perhaps I was dreaming. That this was the sort of thing that happened to other people. I don’t remember what I said to him or my boss – it’s all blank. I don’t even remember driving home, but I must have done. The next thing I know, I’m at the house and there are police cars everywhere. The neighbours are standing outside their houses and watching me. There was this horrible moment where I knew something terrible had happened. Where I knew you weren’t inside, that you’d never be inside again.’

  She’s speaking really quickly all of a sudden, her hands actually shaking.

  ‘Your father was outside with one of the police officers and I remember someone saying that he’d been inside watching the football when it happened. It might not have even been Dan, it might have been the officer asking a question like, “Were you inside?” – that sort of thing. And there was this really strange clarity to my thoughts. I still remember all of that now. I remember where everyone was standing, I remember exactly what went through my head. It’s so clear. I started shouting at him in front of everyone, saying how could he do this? How could he leave you alone? How could he choose football over his daughter? The officers were trying to get us to go inside because there were so many people watching, but it was already too late then.’

  She pauses for breath – not a surprise given how quickly she’s been talking. When she starts again, she’s speaking much more slowly.

  ‘The thing is, even if you’d come back then. If it had all been some elaborate game of hide-and-seek, or whatever. Regardless of all that, I think our marriage ended in those few seconds. I ended it because I couldn’t help myself… because I wanted someone to blame.’

  I take her hand and, for the first time, it feels like I’m a real burden, that I’m bringing up things that might be best forgotten. Mum squeezes my fingers and apologises, even though she has no reason to.

  ‘He wasn’t to replace you, y’know…’

  It takes me a moment to realise what she’s talking about but Mum is staring towards Harry’s crib.

  ‘That never crossed my mind.’

  I’m not sure she’s heard because she keeps speaking: ‘I never stopped hoping you’d come back. They declared you dead but it didn’t stop me dreaming.’ She stops to lick her lips. There’s a wistful silence but I don’t know what to say any more than she does. ‘How have you managed to get things done?’ she adds eventually.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Drive? Have a job – things like that.’

  ‘I have a national insurance number from the other family. There’s a small pack of documents, including a birth certificate. I always assumed they belonged to someone who died. I didn’t want to ask too many questions because it’s only recently all of this makes sense. I’m still not used to being called Olivia.’

  ‘Olivia,’ she says. She smirks as if it’s hilarious – which, in some ways, I suppose it is.

  ‘It’s good to hear you say it,’ I reply – and it’s true.

  ‘What did people used to call you? Karen?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Her eyes narrow for a moment but she doesn’t press me on the point. In a lot of ways, it doesn’t matter any longer.

  We’re interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Mum leaps up and hurries from the room, shushing all the way out to the hallway, where a couple of male voices quickly go quiet. She returns by herself shortly after, briefly peering into Harry’s cot and then sitting back on the sofa.

  ‘They’re so noisy,’ she whispers.

  ‘Max and Ashley?’

  A nod and then she pats my thigh. ‘Have you made any decisions about staying in the village, or…?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s still very new. I like hearing all the stories about you and my dad, though.’

  I push myself up from the sofa and spike onto tiptoes so I can see Harry without having to get any closer to him. He’s sucking his thumb again, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in perfect serenity.

  ‘I’m
going to go,’ I say.

  ‘Do you want to go for coffee tomorrow? We can meet at the shop.’

  I tell her that sounds good and that I’ll text her a time when I know what I’m doing. We hug again and, even when I try to pull away, she holds me for a few seconds longer. Her lips are parted when we separate and it looks as if she wants to say something. I hesitate for a moment but if she was going to speak, it’s lost as Harry gurgles from the corner. I tell her I’ll see myself out and then follow the hall to the front of the house.

  Which is when I see Ashley going through my bag.

  Sixteen

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Ashley turns to look at me but doesn’t stop hunting. There’s no sign of Max. My purse is open and he’s flicking through the contents. There’s a café loyalty card in his hand which he flips over to look at the back before dropping it on a side table.

  I march across the floor and snatch my bag and purse from him, cramming everything back inside. He doesn’t try to hold onto it but he barely moves away either, standing uncomfortably close and invading my personal space with the smell of grease and sweat.

  ‘Where’s your driving licence?’ he asks.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘In the name of Olivia Adams, is it?’

  ‘That’s none of your business either.’

  He finally steps back, sneering with incredulity. ‘Really?’

  I realise we’re whispering to each other – hate-whispering, I suppose – neither wanting to be overheard by anyone else in the house. In some ways, it’s a good thing. This is out in the open between us now. He’s telling me outright he doesn’t believe me and I’m letting him know I won’t be bullied.

  ‘I know you’ve been asking around about me,’ I say. ‘Checking up. Spying. Where’s it got you?’

  He scratches the stubble on his chin, weighing me up. I can’t figure out if he’s smart or stupid. Sometimes there’s a fine line.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asks.

  ‘Visiting my mum.’

  ‘Not the house – Stoneridge. Why are you here?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  There’s a massive part of me that really enjoys being obtuse – especially to someone who so badly wants answers.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks.

  ‘None of your business. You’re not my dad and neither is your brother.’

  Ashley takes another moment to examine me, glancing down to my bare legs, across my midriff and chest and then focusing on my face. He’s smirking and it’s a proper game of one-upmanship. A battle to prove who’s winning.

  ‘My brother is married to Sarah – which means her business is my business. We’re brothers and business partners. If you’re here for money, you’re out of luck because there’s nothing for you. You might as well piss off to wherever you came from.’

  He uses his middle and index fingers to motion a pair of walking legs, as if I couldn’t figure it out for myself. No holding back now.

  ‘I don’t want money,’ I say.

  ‘Everyone wants money.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He bites his lip, nostrils flaring, trying to work out what I could possibly mean by that. If I don’t want money, what else could I want? He doesn’t have a clue. This part of him is easy to read – he’s obsessed by money and yet he’ll never have any. He will have been taking shortcuts his entire life, running crappy businesses, fiddling the books, haggling over every pound that anyone else spends. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that but nobody gets rich in a place like Stoneridge. It’s too small, too inward-looking. The ambition he has is tempered by preferring to be a big deal around the village, instead of a nobody in a big city.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asks with a hiss, repeating himself.

  ‘Why d’you think? Because she’s my mum.’

  That gets a laugh. His head rocks back. ‘You’re not fooling me, darling. I’ve looked you up. You’re there telling your gullible mother about walks on the beach and birthday parties – but that’s all online. I’ve seen those photos. Anyone could’ve come out with that.’

  ‘Why don’t you say it properly, then? Get it out in the open. What do you really want to say to me?’

  Ashley pumps himself up, standing a little taller – although he isn’t that much bigger than me. I wonder if he’ll actually do it – call me an imposter to my face. We’ve danced around it but it’s clear that’s what he thinks.

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ he hisses, before proving himself wrong. ‘Just know that I know you’re not who you say you are. I’m on to you – and, sooner or later, I’ll prove it.’

  I grin – because I know that’s what’ll annoy him the most. ‘Good luck,’ I say, keeping my voice low. ‘How are you going to do that? You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘I know there’s no way you’re stealing what rightfully belongs to my family. You might have some of this village fooled – but I’m too smart for you, darling. Way too smart.’

  He speaks with such cocky assuredness that I wonder if he knows something I don’t. It’s surely all front: bluster and bravado. I know the type, and yet…

  That doesn’t stop me, of course. There’s no way he’s getting the last word. I haul my bag up onto my shoulder and take a few steps towards the front door before spinning back. I don’t make any effort to lower my voice this time, giving Ashley my sweetest of smiles.

  ‘Oooooh. I’m so scared. I’ve seen smeared dog shits that are smarter than you.’

  Before he gets a chance to reply, I’m out the door and on the way to my car. I regret it instantly, of course. He’s already set himself to make my life difficult and dig around every aspect of my past – and I can’t help but feel I’ve only given him one more reason to find out the truth.

  2012: Lily, 15

  ‘Armitage?’

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been the first name on the register at school. I used to wish someone named ‘Aardvark’ might come along to change things.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Banner?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Our teacher continues to go through the list of names as the cult-like series of ‘yes, miss’ responses continue one after the other.

  When it gets to ‘Nurse?’, Zoe, who is sitting next to me mumbles her ‘yes, miss’ and then we sit in silence until ‘Young’ replies to say that she’s also present. It’s a full house today… but not for long.

  Our form tutor bangs on about something to do with mock exams and the school field being out of bounds for a reason I don’t catch. Zoe is busy doodling love hearts on the back of her workbook with the name ‘Joe’ in the middle. She also has a talent for drawing cats, even though she doesn’t own one. She’s even told me she prefers dogs but, for whatever reason, it’s felines she can sketch. Her books are covered with various biro drawings of hearts and cats, which would be a very curious mix for anyone who didn’t know her.

  The bell finally rings to shut our teacher up and then the entire class grab their bags, desperate to get out. Zoe and I trail out towards the back, shuffling along with the zombie horde. The school is made up of half a dozen blocks but there’s no covered path to get from one to the other. When it’s raining, that means mad dashes to get between buildings – but it also means there are blind spots that are out of view of the classroom windows.

  Zoe and I wait for our moment, slowing our pace and not needing to speak. We’ve done this enough times before that it’s second nature now. As soon as there’s nobody behind us, we calmly head for the hedge at the side of the path and shove our way through. It only takes a handful of seconds and that’s that – we’re out of bounds.

  There’s a mushy patch of grass which we hop over and then we’re on a narrow lane at the back of a row of houses. If there was anyone in the upstairs window of the nearest house, they’d see us – but, as ever, it’s clear. We press up against the fence, u
sing the height to shield us from view, and then Zoe loosens her tie and unbuttons her shirt. She’s momentarily wearing only a bra on her top half but then she pulls a T-shirt from her bag. She swaps her tights and skirt for a pair of jeans and then it’s my turn. I have jeans and a sweater and then we head through to the rest of the estate.

  It probably looks a little odd that we’re carrying bags on our back – but out of our school uniforms, we don’t instantly stand out as truants. When we were out the last time, a police car drove past. We continued walking as if everything was fine and the car didn’t even slow, let alone stop.

  There are no such concerns this time and we’re at the play park before we know it. Joe is the same age as us but goes to a different school a few miles away. He’s already waiting on the swings as we approach, gently rocking back and forth. He’s still in his school uniform, minus the tie – although dark trousers and a white shirt could be office wear for him. Not that he seems to care about things like that.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he calls as we get closer.

  Zoe flings herself at him, dragging him from the swing and pushing him onto the matted floor until she’s straddled across his waist. She pecks him on the lips and then leans back, squirming and giggling.

  There’s another boy sitting on the roundabout, black skin like Joe but with tight braids over the top of his head, dangling to his neck. He’s thicker, more muscled, but as soon as I get near, I know they’re brothers. They’ve got the same pouting lips and wide nose.

  ‘State of that…’ he says, nodding at Joe and Zoe. ‘What’s your name?’

  I settle on the next triangle of the roundabout and drop my bag. ‘Lily.’

  He repeats my name, making it sound rougher than I ever could.

  ‘I’m Lincoln,’ he says, nodding and winking at the same time.

  ‘Do you go to school with Joe?’

  He laughs. ‘Nah, I’m eighteen, ain’t I? Don’t need any of that.’

  Lincoln digs into his jacket pocket and takes out a small tin. It takes me a moment to realise he’s rolling a cigarette – except he’s not doing that. Not quite.