Saving Sophie

by Sam Carrington

  ‘Did you hear me, Karen?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. Um … she hasn’t actually remembered anything, I’m afraid.’ She took a quick draw of breath, then continued before Rachel could jump in, ‘She’s tried really hard, spoken to the police, her friends … you know, everyone from their group, and basically she’s no further forward … there’s nothing new. I’m so sorry.’ She paused, listening for Rachel’s reaction.

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointment oozed through the line. Karen couldn’t imagine how terrible it was, not knowing what happened to Erin, yet being aware someone else did. Someone must hold the key to the events: know where Erin went, what happened, how and who killed her. Personally, Karen hoped there was only one person with knowledge of all these details: the killer himself.

  But, a niggling concern, a disquieting uneasiness over Sophie’s claim not to have remembered a thing from Saturday night, together with where she’d been found, meant she wasn’t so sure. She could trust her daughter, couldn’t she? Of course in the past there’d been teenage cover-ups, things Sophie clearly didn’t want to tell her parents about; parties, what she and her friends got up to. Usual things. But surely, when it came to something as serious as this, she wouldn’t hide the truth. Would she?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The phone call with Rachel ended with more apologies from Karen. That was it. She had to pull out all the stops, she couldn’t bear to hear herself spluttering another apology down the phone. She had to try and get to Rachel, she owed it to her. Tomorrow she’d get up and prep straightaway for the journey. Dig out her journal, her countless leaflets and self-help books, and work out the strategies she’d need to get to her. If she had a plan, she might be able to make it. She’d managed to get to her counsellor almost weekly, albeit with someone else driving her. Why was this task so difficult, verging on impossible? It really wasn’t much further away from the counsellor’s Torquay office, heading out of Torquay itself and along the rugged coast for a few miles. She used to love visiting Rachel, always trying to arrange the coffee meet-ups at hers because her house had a sea view which she found calming.

  This wouldn’t be a casual meet-up or a counselling session, though. Karen guessed the difficulty lay with the added apprehension related to the reason she needed to go. It was a level of anxiety she hadn’t dealt with since her attack, and even then, that had been her experience, her own personal issues to deal with. Not someone else’s. So, how could she be expected to cope? It wasn’t merely an appointment where she sat for an hour and talked about herself, how her experience had left her fearful of venturing beyond her own four walls. This was going to be time spent where she was the one doing the listening, the comforting. It sounded easy, really. But in reality it felt like climbing Everest – the air thinning as she went, the oxygen being sucked from her lungs. Karen wasn’t ready to be in the chair opposite the couch, as it were. Her role was to be on the couch. She exhaled loudly. Mike was right. She always played the victim.

  Maybe it was time to change that. Rachel deserved it.

  The slamming of the front door interrupted her thoughts. Sophie. Rachel’s words came to her: I’m constantly waiting for her to walk through the door. Karen put her hands to her face, pressed her fingers to her eyes to stop tears escaping. How would she feel if she never again heard Sophie bursting through their door, slamming it so irritatingly hard as she always did?

  ‘Mum? Where are you?’

  Karen wiped at her face, stood up. ‘I’m in here, love.’

  ‘Dad’s cooking,’ Sophie said, making a face as she came in, throwing her bag down on the sofa. ‘Why? He never cooks.’

  ‘Hi, Mum, good day?’ Karen said in a sarcastic tone, raising her eyebrows. Sophie stared back, narrowing her eyes, saying nothing. ‘Never mind then,’ Karen muttered. ‘Don’t be harsh, Sophie. I was on the phone so he made a start on it or we wouldn’t be eating till nine.’

  ‘On the phone to who?’

  Karen didn’t feel like a re-run of the conversation, or the news story. ‘Rachel.’ She said, quickly moving towards Sophie to give her a hug. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Weird. Don’t want to go into it if I’m honest,’ Sophie lifted her shoulders up, gave a fleeting smile. ‘I’m going up for a shower.’ And she turned and left.

  Karen thought Sophie looked pale, tired. Which was to be expected. But there was something else. Like a detachment, a numbness draining her usual liveliness from her. She seemed edgy and keen to avoid talking. But then she didn’t want to talk herself right now, so perhaps it was the same for Sophie. She shouldn’t read too much into her behaviour, she was in shock still, grieving for her lost friend. How should you act in those circumstances?

  With all the drama of the unfolding events, Karen’s focus had been on Rachel, on Erin. She needed to concentrate on her own daughter. Though she’d always felt they were fundamentally close, their relationship was strained. Her fault, she’d pushed Sophie to the back of the queue when it came to attention. The attack, her phobia, dominated the household. Her ability to be a good parent, a supporting one, diminished because she’d placed her own selfish needs first. She knew that.

  If Sophie couldn’t remember Saturday night, the unrecalled hours in which anything could’ve happened, then she’d have to help her. Karen’d known immediately, when the police brought Sophie back, that something was amiss. The stories from her friends were so unconvincing – if she’d been put in a taxi home, then why didn’t she get home? The police, too, would realise this and come back, ask more questions – they had to be prepared for that. Have some answers ready.

  Where should she start? The obvious people, the ones who had apparently put her in the taxi, were Erin and Amy. Then there were those who either might have seen that, or were told about it – Dan and, who was it, Tom? Yes, Tom. Karen hurried to the dining room and switched her laptop on.

  She was friends with Amy on Facebook; she’d start with her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sunday 8.00 a.m.

  Hey Beautiful, how are you this morning? I hope you have woken with me in your heart and mind! I dreamt of you, as usual. My night was full of visions of holding you. I awoke believing I knew what it was like to touch you, the echo of you remained on my fingertips for a few blissful moments, the memory of the texture of your skin, your body against mine, still fresh. It was amazing, and I can’t wait for this to become reality. It’s all I can think of, it dominates my every waking moment, my every unconscious thought.

  It’s been months now. I was really hoping you might feel ready to meet. We should be together, we would have an incredible future. I know it. You are my soul mate.

  We are meant to be.

  Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sophie

  With the towel loosely draped around her, Sophie sat on the bed, her laptop open beside her. The two pictures displayed on the screen mocked her. It was almost as though she was looking at pictures of a random girl, in a scene she’d never observed through her own eyes. Yet, she must have, the second picture clearly showed her face. Had she seen her surroundings, seen who was there with her – perceived everything – but chosen not to attend to it? Memory could only encode and store information for later retrieval if it was perceived and attended to. She remembered that from her psychology course – she’d found bits of it interesting, even though she’d dropped out early to do her NVQ in retail skills.

  Was that why she was struggling to recall anything from Saturday night? It seemed unlikely her mind hadn’t attended to even a small amount of information though. She could understand some missing memories, even a few significant ones – but the entire evening? There had to be another reason for her inability to remember. Apart from the obvious: alcohol.

  Zooming in again, for the umpteenth time, Sophie moved the cursor around the picture: dark, concrete floor; a chair, wooden from what she could gather, only the bottom of two legs were visible, the rest of the chair obscured by he
r own body and black dress. Sophie gulped as she continued to scan, the hairs on her arms became erect, a coldness spread over her skin. There was something on the ground of the first picture. She moved the laptop closer to her face, squinted at the screen. Beside the chair lay an object, rounded in the middle like a ball, longer thinner bits protruding from it.

  An image, sharp, quick like a flash from a camera, hit her: a gag, a man shoving it roughly in Erin’s mouth. Tying it tight.

  Sophie pushed the laptop away; her hand flew to her mouth to suppress the scream.

  No way, no way, it isn’t possible. She’d been there. She’d seen the man who murdered Erin.

  Had she witnessed her friend’s death?

  Suddenly, Sophie wanted nothing more than to forget what she’d remembered. Her mind just couldn’t process what it was telling her. It was too much to think about. She hoped no more of her memory returned. Ever. She could dismiss it completely then, go back to the blankness. But that thing was there on her laptop, blurry, like her memory, but there. What the hell was she going to do?

  The noise of the hairdryer in her ears momentarily drowned out the horrifying thoughts. She took her time, dragging the process out. Usually she’d kneel in front of the long mirror to dry her hair; tonight though, she couldn’t tolerate looking at herself. After blasting it until it resembled straw, Sophie flicked the off switch. She couldn’t be bothered to straighten it. She unplugged the dryer and sank to the carpeted floor, pushing items of rubbish forward with her outstretched legs.

  Her room was a mess. A bare-chested Justin Bieber looked down from the wardrobe door, his eyes seeming to chastise her for the lack of tidiness. Her attention turned to the framed montage of photos hanging above the dressing table. Erin smiled out at her from the group of faces. Sophie remembered how they’d bickered about who was the best artist, or the hottest – Justin or One Direction. It’d been childish. Fun.

  No more.

  She shook her head, wiping the tears away, and pulled herself up. She should get dressed; dinner must be soon. That was going to be a fun-filled half-hour, sat at the table in silence with her parents. Actually, she hoped it would be in silence, she didn’t want them talking about Erin, or asking her more questions. Perhaps she’d bring her dinner up to her room, avoid the possibility altogether.

  Or, perhaps she should tell them about the pictures.

  Her mouth filled with excess saliva. No. That was a terrible idea, they’d freak right out. The scene played out in her mind’s eye: a call to the police by her mum, being interrogated by the detectives in a stuffy room with her on one side of the table, them on the other, the pictures put in their hands to analyse. She shuddered, blinked the vision away. No. She couldn’t say anything yet, the pictures wouldn’t be helpful to the investigation anyway, they were of her, not Erin. And besides the gag, the chair and some concrete, there were no other clues as to where the pictures were taken. She couldn’t even trust the source, her recollection, anything.

  There was no point throwing this into the pot, not when there was nothing to gain, bar a load of hassle from her parents, particularly her mother. She’d go into overdrive, her panic attacks would rocket out of control, her phobia increase to the point where Sophie herself might be forced to stay in the house to be with her. She just couldn’t stand the thought of that. And she had no idea how her dad would react. Didn’t bear thinking about. This really was a nightmare. Just when she’d thought it couldn’t get worse.

  But what if this was merely the beginning? The person who sent these pictures to her said there’d be more. Questions suddenly swamped her mind: why was he sending them? If she’d been there, with Erin, why hadn’t he killed her too? How did he know her email address? What else did he know about her?

  The hollering of her name escalating the stairwell signalled dinner was ready.

  But Sophie’s appetite had gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday

  Her stomach grumbled from lack of food. She’d been unable to eat breakfast either, a growing sickness preventing even the idea of eating. Sophie stepped outside into a much calmer atmosphere than the night before, the keen wind having surrendered to the light breeze which now whispered against her cheek. A shame her mind wasn’t as submissive. She slumped into her car, turned the CD player on, pressed the forward button on the car’s steering wheel to change to a more uplifting song, then whacked the car into gear as Katy Perry’s voice attempted to fill her head.

  Dark dreams had disrupted her sleep. She’d awoken that morning with a heavy feeling, an awareness she’d had more to do with Saturday night’s events than she’d first thought. Snippets of the dreams remained with her, disturbing remnants; fragmented, like shards of glass from a broken mirror. Each time she remembered a splinter, it gave her a jolt of pain, as if it had pierced her skin.

  Somehow, the overall sensation left her with the belief that stabbing had been involved in Erin’s death. It was like her brain was attempting to show her what happened, revealing it bit by bit to protect her, knowing she’d be unable to handle all the memories at once. She’d avoided the news stories, the attention-grabbing headlines, choosing not to learn the details of Erin’s death. It appeared the memories might come to her anyway, given time. As would the police. How long before they came knocking on her door again?

  As Sophie drove into the car park, she came out of her thoughts, shocked to see where she was. She’d arrived on autopilot. Shaking her head, she pulled into her usual space. She sat still for a while, to gather herself. Across the road, a group of school kids shouted and pushed each other. She watched them with a mixture of annoyance and jealousy. She hated that they were so stupid, careless in their actions. One shove into the road could see a passing car plough into them – something similar had actually happened not long ago, the girl suffering devastating, life-changing injuries.

  More than that, though, she was envious of their carefree attitude, their naïvety. She’d been one of those kids only a year or so ago. Now, already, she wished she could go back to that time: no responsibilities, the only thing to worry about whether she had on-trend clothes, the right make-up, the best mobile phone. The excitement, the longing to leave school, get out there. The big-wide world was not all it was cracked up to be.

  Sophie checked her face in the visor mirror. Too pale. Grabbing her bag, she retrieved her foundation, deftly adding another layer. Orange was preferable to white. A quick glance at the clock informed her she was late. Dammit. She didn’t need hassle from Anderson’s store manager, he was always quick to jump on anyone who was late. In a sleep-deprived daze, she made her way into the store. As she walked, head down, oblivious to anyone around her, all she could think about was whether she should confide in Amy. She was still the only other person who might throw light on the situation, but given her attitude yesterday, Sophie wondered just how much help she’d be.

  Before entering the staff door, Sophie turned to look behind her, the uneasiness she’d felt last night returning. Squinting against the sun snaking its way between the gap of the clock tower and adjacent building, Sophie could make out a few early morning shoppers milling about: a teenager struggling with a screaming toddler, an old woman dragging a tartan trolley bag behind her, a young couple who looked as though they were headed for Costa Coffee. But no one Sophie recognised. Her heartbeat pulsated in her neck. She continued scanning the pedestrianised walkway, not able to shift the sensation that something was wrong. Someone was watching her. She scrunched up her eyes. No, her dreams, memories, had unsettled her; she was on edge, that was all. No one was even looking in her direction; she was being silly. Still, she wanted to get inside quickly, to the safety of the brightly lit store.

  Amy was already in place behind her make-up counter, smiling broadly. Her fake one, reserved for customers. She looked up, saw Sophie and put a hand up by way of acknowledgement. Sophie returned the gesture before carrying on to her concession. She took the rota from behind the
till. On her own until lunchtime. Typical. She needed the company now, the prospect of being alone with her unpredictable thoughts was unbearable. She looked up to Irina’s end of the store. A new girl stood at the till, talking to a customer. Pity. No Irina to take her mind off things. Returning the clipboard, she surveyed her concession area – whoever had last been working had left it untidy. She’d normally be annoyed, but today she was glad. She took a deep breath and set about busying herself.

  Standing at a rail rammed full of sale clothes, Sophie absently flicked through the hangers, periodically taking one out, swizzling the hook of the hanger around before replacing it, ensuring uniformity with the others. It was a thankless task, but about the only one she felt capable of carrying out correctly today. Despite the people around her, Sophie had never felt so isolated, so alone. Her welling tears went unnoticed.

  ‘Why’s your mum contacting me on Facebook?’ The voice came from behind her.

  Sophie swung around, her hand on her chest. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘In a world of your own there, weren’t you. Sorry.’ Amy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Really though, I know I’m friends with her, but I didn’t expect a grilling.’

  Bloody hell, Mum. ‘What do you mean, a grilling?’ She was afraid of the answer.