by NC Marshall
“In their eyes you are.”
“I’m nearly sixteen, Mum.”
“I know, I know.” I smile at my daughter’s purposeful attempt at grown-up tone, which nudges at my heart strings.
“She is still a kid!” I hear my dad shout from somewhere in the room near Lucy and I chuckle at his comment. No matter how old she gets, Lucy will always be a little girl in her grandparents' eyes. Mine too, I suppose.
“I was just calling to see how the journey was going Mum, say hi to Auntie Trisha for me when you get to Scotland.”
I wince. I’d told Lucy I’m travelling to Glasgow to visit my sister for a couple of days. Only Trisha and my parents know the truth of where I am actually going. Lucy doesn't need to know. I feel sick to the core for lying to her.
“Okay, Lucy, I’ll call you tonight. Tell Grandma and Grandpa I’ll speak to them later too.”
“Great, Mum, will do, speak soon.”
I end the call to my daughter. Tears form in my eyes as I look out of the window at the passing landscape, slowly changing as the miles roll on. Beyond the hills, the sea soon starts to creep into view sparkling under the sun. A perfect golden coastline fully emerges a little later, but the wonderful view does nothing to ease the feeling of dread I have in the pit of my stomach. If it wasn’t for the memories of this place it would be truly beautiful. I lean back and try to relax, but memories of Ali race through my mind.
*
Ali was one of my best friends from when we were eight years old and in our fourth year of primary school along with Jenna, who we had befriended a year later when she moved to Sandbroke.
Ali and I were inseparable from the start, even though she was a lot more dramatic and showy that I ever was; we had a lot in common and we got on really well. When Jenna joined us the bond was strengthened even more. They are the only true friends I have had. I have a few friends now, but none of them have even come close to the relationship I had with Ali.
Our friendship remained strong all the way through secondary school. I always felt blessed to have friends like Ali and Jenna. We were tightly knit and I felt I could turn to Ali in particular for anything. She was there for me whenever I needed her and I knew she would always give me honest advice when I needed it or a shoulder to cry on during those times when I was younger and I felt as though my whole world was coming to an end, problems that were miniscule in comparison to those I’d face as I got older. She had a heart of gold and would help me out in any way she could. A true friend.
Both Ali and Jenna were outgoing and confident; similar in many ways. They both took anything that came their way with a pinch of salt. Ali couldn’t give two hoots what people thought of her and enjoyed living life to the fullest. I was a little more reserved and more conscious of what people thought of me. Next to the two pretty and popular girls, I always looked at myself as being quite plain and boring and I suppose most other kids at school did view me as the odd one out of the three of us. But I didn’t care, being with Ali was always an adventure and I enjoyed not knowing what the next day with her was going to bring whenever we were together.
The three of us remained close friends up until we got into our first year of college, where we slowly began to drift apart. Ali started to hang around with a new group of girls who were in the same drama course as her. Jenna and I also saw very little of one another. Finally, they both became just another face in the crowded college corridors to say a quick hello.
At eighteen, everything changed and my life was suddenly flipped upside down. A few months before my courses were due to finish, I was forced to drop out of college and a short while later my family and I moved away from Sandbroke permanently. By then, Ali, Jenna and I had lost contact almost completely. I heard from Jenna once, just before I moved away, to tell me she was moving to Bristol with her family, then I heard nothing else from her. Ali never bothered getting in touch at all, so neither did I. That’s how things have stayed for a full fifteen years until now. Why now?
*
Half an hour later, the train pulls into Sandbroke station, I peer out of the window, memories already coming back in an abundance of emotion-filled flashbacks. As the train's doors open, passengers rush to grab their belongings and escape the uncomfortable confinement of the second class carriage. I’m itching to get off the train and stretch my legs after such a long journey, but I find myself frozen to my seat, still gripping onto the plastic cup of now cold coffee. The train hostess from earlier spots me and makes her way along the aisle, towards my seat.
“Everything okay there?” she asks, bending to eye level with me.
I need to move, I know I do. I have to do it for Ali. Slowly, I stand and gather up my belongings.
“Yes, fine,” I manage. I steady myself and start walking shakily towards the open carriage doors. Carefully focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, I step out onto the platform and move towards the station exit. Then, I find myself on the once familiar Sandbroke high street.
I take in a long breath and hold it, the memories now running quicker than I can count as a wave of heat hits me like a solid iron wall. Welcome back Emily.
Chapter 3
There was only one place that I would even contemplate staying for my short trip back to Sandbroke. To be honest, apart from the cabin I had booked, there were only a couple of overly priced cottages in Sandbroke that were vastly out of my price range free for the dates I needed. When I hurriedly searched the Internet to find somewhere to stay after my call to the police department yesterday, there had been few small B&B’s, but the only ones with rooms available at such short notice had been further out of town than I really wanted. The summer season has now started and Sandbroke has always been a popular thriving tourist spot. Although I haven’t been back in years, I knew that Ceaders Holiday Park would still be going strong and it would provide me comfortable surroundings for my short stay. The log cabins are on the coast overlooking Ceaders Bay and were popular back when I had lived here. At the time, the holiday park was owned by a lovely lady called Maggie Donnelly. I called yesterday to make a reservation to learn that Maggie retired a year ago, but the park has now been taken over by her daughter Rose, who I remember was a few years older than me and attended the same senior school as I had. Luckily we didn’t know each other well enough for her to remember me when we spoke, which I’m thankful for.
I start my walk from the train station only briefly taking in my surroundings as I go. I know that from here, the coast is approximately a fifteen-to twenty-minute walk. I could have taken the easy option and hailed a taxi outside the station, but my bag isn’t too heavy and I could do with the fresh air to try and clear my pounding headache after being stuck on a busy train for almost seven hours.
I keep my eyes to the ground, only looking up in small glances to enable me to get my bearings, which come back to me at an amazingly quick speed. I see there has been some restoration work done in the town centre. New shops have sprung up that I don't remember, along with a few cafes, an Italian restaurant and a modern-looking pub on the corner of the high street that I'm sure used to be a post office. Although the small town has been updated, it still has the same layout as I remember and holds the same seaside village-feel charm it always did.
I’m sweltering hot as I reach the end of the small high street. It feels a lot warmer here than it did back at home. But then I am a lot further south in the country than I am used to now. The grey skies and cool drizzling rain that I left early this morning in the North East are very appealing at the moment. Already, I can detect a slower pace of life here, something that would in normal circumstances easily appeal to me. But now, I yearn for the fast-moving city crowds back at home that I can get quickly lost amongst.
I stop just before I reach the cabins and lean against a low dry stone wall attached to the side garden of a pretty pale pink painted cottage to catch my breath. I attempt to pull myself together before I go any further. Behind me, the cottage garden is alive
with brightly coloured plants and flowers, the sweet smell of honeysuckle grips onto the air. Families with small children dot the pavements, all moving in the same direction. The children gleefully clutch onto buckets and spades heading home after an undoubtedly fun-filled day at the beach, away from the soft sands and shallow waters of Ceaders Bay. Taking off my thin cardigan, I wipe my brow on it and tie it neatly around my waist, then dig out a pair of sunglasses from the bottom of my unorganised handbag. Sliding them over my eyes, I briefly wonder if I am putting them on for the purpose in which they are intended or to try and mask my identity to some extent.
Immediately, the sun starts to burn into my exposed pale shoulders, and within a matter of minutes they begin to itch and turn red. I bend forward and bury my aching head in my hands. What am I doing here? I swore I’d never come back. A vision of Ali then enters my head and compels me to continue onwards.
There’s a slight and highly welcome sea breeze as I head closer to the seafront and round the corner towards the holiday park. I pass the old church that my mum and dad had been married in, refreshingly unchanged by the amount of time that has passed by. Beyond it, the sea is a welcoming shade of bright blue merging seamlessly into the cloudless sky above. I can see the cabins now, a little further back perched in neat rows all identical in their auburn coloured wood and pretty white gloss painted windows. Shifting the rucksack on my back, which now seems to weigh far more than I do, I continue ahead and enter the small lodge at the park’s entrance which houses the reception.
No one is here. There is a desk in the corner with a bell on it that I press hastily. I need to get out of these clothes and into a cold shower as soon as I possibly can.
“Hello there, sorry to keep you,” says a woman. I look up from the desk to see that it’s Rose Donnelly, rushing from outside to greet me behind the desk. Her wild red, curly hair and tiny frame haven’t changed at all from what I remember.
“Hi,” I say, as politely as my nerves will allow. “I have a booking.”
“What’s the name?” asks Rose. Thank God she hasn’t recognised me. I’m really not in the mood for a catch-up. For once, I feel glad at the fact age has changed me so much.
“Emily Moore,” I reply, hoping it still doesn't click. I rub at my sweating forehead.
“It’s a scorcher isn’t it?” Rose says, thumbing through a reservations diary.
“It certainly is.”
“Yes, I have you here,” she says, handing me a form to fill in and turning behind her to get a key. “You were lucky when you called yesterday. We only had the one cabin available. I guess it was meant to be.” She smiles, as I slide the form containing my details over to her and she hands me the key.
“You’re in cabin number seventeen,” she says. “First road on your left and just follow it round. Enjoy your stay, Miss Moore.”
“Thank you, I will,” I mumble back. I know that I won’t.
Throwing my bags to the floor as soon as I enter the cabin, I take a look around what I will be reluctantly calling my home for the next couple of days. I had been here a few times as a kid. I had never actually been inside one of the holiday cabins, however, and on first impressions am pleasantly surprised. It is a deceptively large space. Wooden from floor to ceiling with a small open plan kitchen in the corner and a stone-built open fireplace, surrounded by country cottage style furniture. Printed floral curtains hang at each of the large windows and matching canvas sofas fill the space. I continue to make my way through the cabin and discover that it has a large bathroom with a full-size roll-top bath tub and brass taps polished to perfection and two bedrooms both of which look out over the beach below boasting an unobstructed view of the ocean beyond. It would be a great place to stay if the circumstances were different. Lucy would love it, but I would never bring her here. How could I?
I don’t waste any time hopping in the shower and changing. It’s gone five p.m. now, and I want to get to the police station as soon as I can. I throw on a pair of shorts and the coolest, loosest-fitting top I have brought. There is no air-con in the cabin and the temperature feels stifling.
Leaving the cabin, I walk as quickly as I can through the holiday park. I make my way to the entrance following a winding gravel pathway edged by large grass verges. I pass a busy-looking clubhouse and a small swimming pool and kids play area that I recall never used to be there. The Donnellys really had done well with this place.
“Miss Moore.” I hear my name and my heart catches in my throat when I realise it’s a woman’s voice shouting it. I turn to see it’s just Rose, running over towards me from the reception lodge.
“I forgot to give you this.” She hands me a small envelope with my name written across its centre. “It was handed in last week,” she states.
“By who?” I ask, but I recognise the distinctive curly handwriting instantly and my heart skips a beat. It’s from Ali.
“I don’t know,” replies Rose, pushing a stray curl behind her ear and adjusting her glasses. “It was left on the desk at reception. I didn't see who dropped it in, but I thought I’d hold onto it in case it was for a guest.”
I manage a faint smile and nod. Slowly, I start to open the envelope as Rose smiles back and turns to walk away. Confusion bubbles inside of me. In the envelope is a key, just a single silver house door key with a sticky note attached:
Hi Em,
My address: 12 Ocean View, Cranley Quays. Please don’t tell anyone.
Ali x
Chapter 4
Hot air blasts me full force in the face as I enter Sandbroke Police Station. I assume that the air-con here is non-existent too, just like back at the cabin. It’s almost too hot to breathe. I walk slowly across the tiled floor attempting to keep my sandals from slipping from my hot and sticky feet. Apart from me, there’s no one in sight.
“Hi, I’m Emily Moore,” I say to the young pretty girl on the reception desk. “I’m here to see Inspector Mayland.”
The girl looks up at me from her computer screen and nods. “Hi, Miss Moore. Yes, Inspector Mayland is aware you are coming, I’ll just let her know you are here.” She picks up a phone and points to a waiting area and smiles. “Please take a seat; she shouldn’t be too long.”
I head straight to the furthest corner nearest to both the open window and a large water dispenser. I fill a plastic cup and hold it to my lips. Only then do I notice I’m shaking. I use my other hand to steady the one holding the cup and take a sip. The water is warm as is the breeze coming through the fully opened window. Taking a seat on an old brown battered leather chair, I try to calm myself, but thoughts of Ali continue flashing through my mind. Why does she want me to go to her house and not tell anyone about it? Is she really missing? Should I tell the police? What is going on?
“Miss Moore.” A woman's voice breaks my trance and makes me jump. Water from the cup spills onto my shorts and quickly soaks into the thin linen fabric. A tall, thin woman with shortly cropped, dark hair and pale skin stands in front of me.
“Inspector Mayland?” I ask, brushing off the droplets of water clinging to my shorts, a little embarrassed. I know already it is her as I recognise her voice from our phone call yesterday; she doesn’t sound like she’s from around here.
“Please, just call me Chrissy,” she says, as she holds out her hand for me to shake. A now easy-to-distinguish Mancunian twang to her voice. “Thank you for taking the time to come all the way down here. Would you like to come through for a chat?”
I nod, wishing I could just turn around and head straight back out the door, catch the next train. I could be home by tomorrow if I left now. I could just give the police the e-mail, leave now, and forget this ever happened. But in my heart, I know I can't do that.
I follow Chrissy through to a large office space at the back of the building where there are lots of officers and staff around talking on phones, typing into computers, and scribbling furiously. Who would have known such small police department like Sandbroke would be kept so bu
sy? Chrissy quickly spots my reaction the hive of activity surrounding us.
“They got rid of the Cranley station a few years ago along with a few other small stations in the district due to cutbacks. We do all of their work now too,” she states casually.
“Oh,” I reply, now understanding. “That’s why they are dealing with Ali’s disappearance in Cranley here?”
“Yeah, keeps us busy,” Chrissy answers. “You said yesterday you're from Sandbroke originally?” she asks, genuinely interested.
“Yes,” I answer softly. “I was born here.”
“Must have been a nice place to grow up. I’ve only been here less than a year and love it already. Me and my husband moved here from Manchester for his job.”
I smile politely, hardly hearing what she has just said to me.
“I was lucky enough to get a transfer here when I found out we would be moving. I was with Greater Manchester police before.”
“Really?” I ask, trying to show the interest her friendly attempts warrant.
“So, did you know Alison Martin well?” Chrissy continues through the large office and pauses at a desk to pick up a file that is resting on it. My eyes trail over the file. There’s no name written on the front.
I snap back into focus. “Yes, a long time ago. Ali and I were best friends back when we were at school, but we lost touch over fifteen years ago.”
Chrissy begins walking again, the file now tucked under her arm, which I assume must hold the information on Ali’s case. I follow her, struggling to keep up with her long-legged fast pace.
“It’s a little weird that she got in touch with me,” I say, more to myself than to Chrissy.