Find Me (Immersed Book 1)

by Francesca Riley

  A second girl chimed in, “You mean those disappearances way back when? My Auntie said people used to say it was her, the mum, causing it. Did you hear that?”

  “Uh huh. I think the story was, swimmers who came into contact with her died or disappeared. But she was basically a good person, so she drowned herself to end the curse.”

  There was no mistaking the gossip’s subject. Skye quivered with rage. She didn’t dare try to see who was speaking until she had herself under control.

  “So intense,” the second girl responded. “We did a school project on old village stories once. Like, sea ghosts who take your soul, or whatever.”

  “Are you two serious?” a male voice interjected scornfully.

  “She was hardly a ghost, Jaz.” The first girl chastened, perhaps to placate the boy who’d spoken.

  “I know, obviously. Just saying.” There was a brief silence, then, “They never found her body, right? So how do they know she really drowned?”

  Skye’s stomach churned and she tasted bile in the back of her throat.

  “I guess they don’t,” the first girl replied. “What else, though? My mum hates those stories. But don’t you think it’s kind of weird? She’s here, ten or whatever years later, and suddenly this stuff’s happening again?”

  “Ooh, you’re right! You mean Harvey. She was on his boat… Too creepy. What was her name again?”

  Skye tried to stand, awkwardly hampered by the height of the stool and fixed bar, to tell the girls to…

  “Shut the hell up!” the male voice growled, accompanied by a sharp bang, as though something had been smacked down, hard, onto a table.

  Skye stood on the bar’s foot-rung, holding the windowsill for balance, and leaned forward to see. Sitting a couple of tables over, facing her was a slightly familiar golden-haired boy, his eyes so angry that she felt a warm throb of gratitude towards him. In front of him liquid had spilled from a mug.

  “What?” a blonde girl whined, her back to Skye. Beside her was a dark-haired girl.

  “You know the ocean claims what it can. Keeps what it takes. Talk of a curse is bullshit. Tourists might lap it up, but –” At that moment he looked up. His hazel eyes widened as they met Skye’s. The boy she’d seen earlier on the beach.

  Alerted by his stillness the girls began to turn. Suddenly self-conscious, Skye tried to sit, her foot slipping on the foot-rung. The boy slammed his palms on the table making the girls jump and turn back to him.

  “Well, that about kills my appetite,” he said harshly, holding their attention. Skye managed to regain her seat. “But…if you still want to watch Kris’s band practice they’re starting about now so we should move it,” he finished in a more ordinary tone.

  The girls complied. Sounding unabashed, they filed past Skye, unaware of her presence. She was unsurprised to recognise the blonde girl she’d collided with in the shallows. Unable to look away from them, Skye met the boy’s gaze as he looked back at her.

  “Sorry that took so long!” Morgan put down a tray of meringues and coffee. “Mum’s taking a break in a minute, she’ll join us before I start.” She perched on the stool next to Skye. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Skye tried to shrug it off, but Morgan frowned, eyes narrowing. Reluctantly, Skye filled her in on the overheard comments. Morgan made suitably disgusted noises as she listened, but Skye thought her eyes looked guarded.

  “Arggh, this town! Welcome to Bannimor, right? I’m so sorry. I probably know them. I did think I saw…” She seemed to change her mind about finishing her sentence, and nudged meringues towards Skye instead.

  “Try to forget it. It really is just morons being morons, and there’s no cure for that. Here. Sugar for shock, coffee for anything.”

  Comforted by Morgan’s commiserations, Skye felt a little better as flaky meringue melted on her tongue. Although she was shaken by what she’d just heard, she’d known that coming back, one way or another she would collide with Sebastian family history. Not all at once like this, first day, but she was all grown up. She could cope.

  Looking up she saw Rowena approaching with a woman in tow, who was talking avidly. Skye tensed – it was one of the women from the table she’d accidently eavesdropped on earlier.

  “Come on, you two,” Rowena called cheerfully, setting down coffee cups at the booth they had vacated. With a sinking feeling, Skye slid of her stool to join them.

  “This is Moira,” Rowena indicated her guest. “We were at school together. She just moved back to the village.

  “We haven’t seen each other in years!” Moira said as she slid in next to Rowena. “I can’t believe it, my first day out and I bump into you!” she beamed at Rowena.

  Rowena introduced the girls, Moira smiling and nodding. Then Moira turned back to Rowena, seeming to continue an unfinished conversation. “Yes, when you can’t let your daughters out of your sight without worrying some stranger might, well, you know.” She coyly cut her eyes towards Skye and Morgan, as though afraid to offend delicate ears.

  Morgan raised her eyebrows at her mother. Rowena hesitated, looking from Morgan to Skye, and then seemed to reach a decision. “There’s been another incident in the Bay,” she explained, “involving a girl around your age.”

  Skye’s heart began to thump. She and Morgan exchanged glances.

  “Apparently the girl herself doesn’t recall what happened,” Rowena continued, “but there may have been more than one person involved.” Rowena took a sip of her coffee. Her face was calm, but the fingers gripping her coffee cup were white. “She’d been in the water, and her clothes were torn. A young man may have helped her to the rocks at Ciarlan Cove, but if so, he didn’t wait around. The police want to find him, to help with their inquiries.”

  “Very lucky she was, I say,” Moira butted in, eager to participate. “Looks like that young fellow turning up when he did was providence: no interference, if you get me.”

  “When was this?” asked Morgan. “I mean, when she was found?”

  “Yesterday evening, around six,” Moira replied.

  “Not long after we got back to the apartment,” Morgan calculated.

  “I was out walking my dog,” Moira continued. “I saw a girl staggering along the beach. Didn’t realise there was anything serious the matter actually. Some other people talked with her so I just carried on my merry way. I heard all about it when I got back.” Moira looked excited. She paused to sip coffee then continued.

  “Apparently the only thing she was really clear on was that this chap had helped her get to shore. Then five minutes later she denied ever saying that! Swears black and blue no one was there at all, can you believe it? And this young fellow... Makes you wonder.”

  “Wonder what?” Skye asked tersely. She had been feeling more and more irritated.

  “If he was involved somehow. In murder mysteries, nine times out of ten the first person to find the body turns out to be the murderer.”

  “But he saved her,” Skye snapped. “You said it yourself, she said he helped her. And she’s not a murder victim.” The others stared at Skye.

  “Maybe she isn’t and maybe he did,” Moira responded tightly. “But it’s odd. This girl insisting at first that someone helped her. Not even right to shore, mind. Just left her on the rocks. She’s got virtually no memory of what happened before or after. If someone did help her, I just reckon he might know a thing or two.”

  Rowena interjected calmly, “Really, Moira, the most likely explanation is simply that she lost her footing on the rocks and fell in. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Caught out by the sea?” she shrugged. “Let’s just be glad someone was there to fish her out, or she managed to get herself back to shore.” Rowena picked up her coffee cup again, adding lightly, “Speculation doesn’t really help anybody.”

  Moira looked disappointed, but Rowena’s logic was undeniable, and her hint to drop the subject inescapable. Skye felt the pressure on her chest lighten, although she noticed Morgan watching her, her
expression both sympathetic and curious.

  The talk resumed, general banalities about the village. Skye turned back to the blue sky outside the window, recalling her own disaster in the channel. Then Moira’s new topic of conversation caught her attention.

  “I kept hearing talk about this place,” Moira said. “Someone was telling me about another disappearance here, a while after I left Bannimor. Oh, must have been a good ten, twelve years ago? Remember Daniel Sebastian?”

  Skye’s insides plunged sickly. This could not be for real. It was like a conspiracy against her.

  “Thought of taking him on myself once or twice,” Moira simpered naughtily, “but after Elise materialised out of thin air, well, no one else had the ghost of a chance. He was besotted. Such a gorgeous man. Think you had a crush on him too, didn’t you, Rowie?” Moira laughed as Rowena blushed, her expression tight.

  Moira continued, oblivious to the silent tension at the table. “Delicate looking, like a wee sprite she was. They had a little girl, too. Spitting image of Elise, apparently. Such a tragedy, Elise drowning like that. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. If she did drown, that is.”

  Despite the close warmth of the buzzing restaurant, Skye felt chilled. Her heart thudded under her ribs. She couldn’t move, or think of a single thing to say.

  “What do you think of the coffee, Moira?” Rowena attempted a diversion but Moira carried on with her relentless reminiscing.

  “Some mystery about it?” Moira squinted into the distance, trying to recall. “Walked into the sea, joined some other swimmers or something wasn’t it? Never seen again? You said speculation doesn’t do any good, but sometimes things get solved that way. Don’t know as that one ever did, though. Tragic,” she shook her head, picking up her cup.

  “Don’t you remember, Rowie?” Moira looked around the table, seeming perplexed by the lack of reaction. Then her face dropped. “Oh, God – they were friends of yours, weren’t they? I’m sorry, Rowie. I’d forgotten.” Her eyes darted around the table again, and focused at last on Skye. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flamed. “Oh…” she whispered. After a brief awkward pause, smoothed over a little by Rowena, Moira escaped.

  9. The Past

  Rowena leaned across and squeezed Skye’s cold hands. “Sorry, love – I didn’t know how to stop her without pointing out you were right here. I’m due back, but we’ll talk later?” she asked. At Skye’s jerky nod, she smiled gently and left for the kitchen.

  After a moment, Morgan broke the silence. “What a cow. Mum should have popped her one, pow, right on the nose.” Her face became fierce as she made a fist. Skye smiled weakly at the image of Rowena popping anyone, pow, on the nose. Morgan grinned too, looking relieved. “Are you okay? Room service is looking better and better, right?”

  Skye shrugged. She felt like she’d been blindsided.

  “I’m supposed to start work,” Morgan said, “but maybe I should stay with you?”

  The offer was hesitant. Skye had no intention of accepting it. “I don’t need babysitting. It’s just talk. Sticks and stones, right?” She tried to sound firm.

  Morgan looked doubtful. “Well, if you’re sure…?”

  “Totally sure.”

  The familiar response got a smile from Morgan. “All right, you’re the boss,” she relented. “See you back at the apartment later?”

  “Yep. Unless you need help?” Skye offered doubtfully.

  “No, we’ll be quicker just us.”

  Skye felt torn between relief and embarrassment. Morgan laughed. “Skye, you should be pleased. Imagine if you were actually useful in the kitchen. You’d never see daylight in this joint!”

  Skye managed a smile, glad for the lightened atmosphere. “Good point. Do we pay for this now?”

  “No – one of the perks: free dining.”

  “Wow, really? You must eat here all the time!”

  “Would you want to be at work outside of work hours? And after today, I don’t expect you’ll be queuing for a return.”

  “True,” Skye conceded, “Another good point.”

  “I have many!” Morgan looked superior. She wriggled out of the booth. “So, you’ll be all right? Want me to walk you up?”

  Skye rolled her eyes. “Yeah, protect me across the scary lobby, please.”

  Morgan shrugged, “Habit, watching out for you, my friend.” She returned Skye’s farewell wave as she turned for the kitchens.

  Taking a meringue to go, Skye left the noisy restaurant feeling as if curious eyes were following her. Maybe she should call her dad, ask him for the real facts? She couldn’t help wondering if she’d ever heard them. Crossing the lobby, she silently rehearsed. “Hey Dad, did Mum kill herself?” Or maybe “Was Mum cursed? Am I?” Or even “Hey Dad, did Mum leave you – leave us – for another guy?” Impossible conversations. She knew she wasn’t ready for it. And she didn’t want to go back to the empty apartment.

  On impulse she decided to be a tourist for the afternoon. Walking the block inland to the quaint village, she was soon among milling holiday makers. She guessed she was one of them now, no longer a local girl. Many of the stores were still the original old stone. It was so familiar, yet somehow foreign. It was surprisingly enjoyable, and she lost track of time exploring.

  At a suitable store she discarded literally dozens of picture-perfect postcards before settling on an aerial shot. She didn’t want to send Dad anything that could be a painful reminder. Although the shape of the coast was instantly recognisable, the ant-sized village was just a splash of colour bordered by green, white and blue. Local and safe were impossible, but she wanted to send him something. Leaving the shop, her mind busy composing a message to write, she collided with someone.

  “Whoa, steady!”

  “Sorry,” Skye retrieved the paper bag she’d dropped. Straightening, she looked up. Her cheeks flamed. It was the young guy from the restaurant and the beach.

  “Shopping?” he nodded at the bag.

  “Um – yeah. Postcard.”

  “Oh, right. ‘Wish you were here’ kind of thing?”

  “Something like that.” She had the awkward feeling he thought he knew her. He’d certainly seemed to recognise her at the restaurant. He did look kind of familiar, with his golden-brown short-cropped hair. Behind him a few guys lingered at a Kombi van, the perfect surfer pick-up wagon.

  “Hey, a bunch of us are heading down to the beach – wanna come?” He smiled hopefully. His handsome face glowed with suntanned health, and as he leaned in a little, the clean scent of soap hovered around her for an instant.

  It was such a homely smell, the same soap they used at home. Coming on the heels of agonising over sending Dad a simple ‘thinking of you’ message without hurting him, a wave of homesickness hit her, all the more intense for being unexpected. To her horror, her eyes misted. She fought to make her face stone under the guy’s curious gaze.

  He stepped closer, screening her from his friends, and lowered his voice. “You okay?”

  “Yep, I’m fine. Just a little... No, I’m good.”

  He looked relieved. “So – beach later?” He still looked hopeful, but the charming enthusiasm had gone.

  She was even more uncomfortably certain he knew her, and that she should know him, but the moment to ask had passed. “Probably not,” she said. “Stuff to do...”

  “Okay. Oh, by the way – about before? Sorry about the girls. Idiots, right?”

  Skye could only nod.

  “Okay, well…see you if I see you?”

  “Sure,” she agreed weakly, “See you if I see you.” He did know who she was. Did everyone?

  Twenty minutes later Skye stood in the quiet graveyard on the Bascath Bay hillside, staring at the memorial stone of Elise Margaret Sebastian. It wasn’t her tombstone – there had been no one to bury. Beloved wife and mother. Vanished wife and mother.

  Skye hadn’t been here since this stone was laid. Why would she? Even as a child she’d understood that her mother wasn
’t here. And the sense of comfort she’d got from her solitary visits to Ciarlan Cove, unbeknown to her father, had been enough to feel no pull to this patch of empty earth with its marble adornment. But that sense of comfort had disappeared just a few years ago, and so too had her visits back.

  She was here today to – what – make sure it still felt empty? Or to try to sense if this was a marker for abandonment, not death?

  The girls’ words overheard at the restaurant came back to her. She was so entrenched in fairy tales, the instinct in others to explain tragedy with stories was hardly a shock. Especially when the tragedy was a complete mystery. But it was her tragedy, and the stories were such glaring nonsense she felt like screaming.

  But now something occurred to her. She’d never been able to fathom her dad’s fascination with sea lore. Anything remotely connected with losing Mum should have sent him running in the opposite direction. But what if he actually believed some of the crap she’d heard today? Did he really think he could find answers to Mum’s disappearance in myth and superstition?

  The thought of her lonely father driven to his endless obsessive research by impossible hope made her heart feel like it was breaking. But then what about his Ellie document? Was that just another story, one that hurt him less than accepting Mum was dead?

  Skye had come to Bannimor hoping for answers. Suicidal mother and delusional father was how it was shaping up so far.

  She didn’t notice the tears on her cheeks until a gust of wind cooled them. Feeling hollow and more pathetic than she usually did here, she wiped her cheeks and left the cemetery, descending the steep hillside to the village. With nothing to do but avoid the ocean, she returned to the apartment.

  Back on the balcony, Skye stared at the postcard she’d bought. She felt awkward about it now. It wasn’t the sort of thing she’d ever done or that Dad would expect. She gnawed distractedly at the end of her pen, hunting for words. Giving up she pushed pen and postcard into her carry bag,

  Her issues with the sea weren’t going to help defuse village speculation. She could tell herself she didn’t care what other people thought, but she cared about Morgan. Was she going to ruin it for Morgan, being here? Being lame here?