The Girl Who Came Back

by Susan Lewis

  “Stephie…”

  “Jules! If you have the time, please get my room ready, because no matter what you say I’m coming home.” And before Jules could protest any further, the line went dead.

  Hanging up her end, Jules had no idea whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She loved Stephie so much, and knowing she was coming, that she actually wanted to come, was so moving and uplifting that she felt almost afraid of how much it mattered.

  Of course, she should have told Stephie herself about the release, and she would have had she not guessed that Stephie would react this way. She was twenty-one now and needed to get on with her life as much as the rest of them. This year out of uni was supposed to be helping her to do that, though Jules knew that Stephie’s mother, Tina, was still worried. This was the third university course Stephie had abandoned, and she still had no idea what she wanted to do with her future.

  Please get my room ready because I’m coming home.

  How wonderful it felt to know that Stephie thought of this as her home, which it kind of had been since she’d started her attempts at uni. With her problematic older brother, his equally problematic wife, and two small children taking up all the extra space in Stephie’s parents’ house, Stephie herself had asked Jules if she could rent a room with her whenever she came back to Kesterly. Jules had been delighted, but of course had never charged Stephie a penny, and had made sure, before sealing the deal, that Tina didn’t think she was trying to use her daughter to replace Daisy.

  What Tina thought was that she’d love to come and live with Jules from time to time too. It would be as good as a month in a spa in comparison to all the goings-on in their house.

  “You think when they grow up that they’ll go away and leave you alone,” she’d complained, before realizing whom she was talking to.

  “It’s OK,” Jules assured her. “I know it’s not always easy being a parent, and just as long as you don’t think I’m trying to be that for Stephie…”

  “What I think is that you’ll enjoy spending time together. It might even help you both to heal.”

  So that was what they’d done for the past couple of years, house-shared whenever Stephie was in Kesterly, and it was odd, in fact totally unexpected, how being with Stephie often helped Jules to bear things a little better. Stephie spoke about Daisy as freely as if she might walk in the door at any minute. No one else ever did that, apart from Jules when she was with Stephie. Of course they shed tears together too, and talked about all the terrible things they hoped were happening to Amelia, and how desperately they dreaded them happening to Dean.

  Occasionally she and Steph would make the two-mile drive down the hill to Hope Cove, where they’d scattered Daisy’s ashes on the beach, or they’d post songs, film links, or anything else they felt would be of interest to Daisy on her Facebook page. It was surprising and moving how many of Daisy’s friends still did the same, especially around the time of her birthday or anniversary of her death. Hey, Daisy Daze, thought you’d love this singer…Take a look at these guys, Daze, amazing dancers, don’t know how they do it…This made me think of you, and how much we all still miss you.

  Jules was at her computer now, intending to get on with some work, but wondering what Daisy would say about her killer going free so soon after the girl had ripped their lives apart.

  Are you going to haunt her? she typed into an email to Daisy that only she would see. Will you and Ruby scare her literally to death? Do you want revenge? You were never the sort to wish ill on others, nor was I, but I have to admit I am now.

  She paused in her typing and took a steadying breath. It had been a while since she’d last written to Daisy, and doing it now was making her feel light-headed, as if she were losing a sense of where she was. It didn’t matter; what was important to her was how this sort of communication seemed to create a more tangible connection than simply thinking the words in her head.

  I often wonder if you can see what her life is like in prison. Do the other inmates make her life hell? Is she damaged now—I should say even more damaged than before? What is her father doing? Will he come back to Crofton Park too? It sullies the feel of the moor even to think of them being here. They’re like the enemy on the hill, great big mounds of toxic waste that we need to get rid of.

  Realizing she was allowing her hatred to get the better of her, she went to the fridge, poured herself a glass of wine, and settled down to begin again.

  Can you see Daddy, my darling? How’s he doing? Is there a way you can help to cheer him up? I miss him almost as much as I miss you.

  With a smile hovering over her lips, she went on,

  Did you watch me finding a flight for you the other day so you could go and join Stephie on her travels? I didn’t pay for it, of course; I’m not that nutty yet! What did you think of the tops and shorts I picked out for you to take with you? I could especially see you in the lime and turquoise sundress, and those gorgeous sparkly gladiator sandals. I’m not sure if they’re still all the rage, but they were so eye-catching that I couldn’t stop myself putting them in the basket. You know, I almost heard Daddy reminding me that you need to take sunblock. Do you remember how he used to go on about your delicate skin and how you need to protect it? Knowing him, he’d have taken the flight to Bangkok with you to make sure you got there safely, the way he used to when you flew to Chicago to see Joe.

  I wonder if you can see what they’re all up to now in the States. You know that Joe was late starting college. He took what happened very badly—worse, I think, than I realized—but I was so busy trying to cope with me and Daddy and the grannies…His father put him into therapy. I think it helped, because he’s just finished studying for the bachelor’s degree he needs to get into law school. He told me in one of his emails that he’s feeling confident that things are finally on course. Do you know if he’s found another girlfriend yet? Do you mind if he has? I think I would, but of course I’d have to get over it. He’s going to be here soon. I’m anxious about him running into Amelia or going to seek her out. What’s he going to do, confront her and tell her how she’s devastated our lives? She already knows that and I really don’t think she cares.

  She stopped typing again and drank more wine. She was feeling better, calmer, as though something was lifting itself from her heart and allowing her to breathe more easily. It was often like that when she wrote to Daisy; it was as though her daughter still had the power to bring light into her life.

  Amelia’s big day had arrived. The release was happening right there, on the TV screen, in all its repugnant glory.

  “We’re expecting her at any minute,” a reporter from the local news was saying over a wide shot of the open prison’s bizarrely hospitable entrance, with its jaunty flower beds and helpful signage. “As you can see, some friends have turned up to greet her….”

  “What friends? She never had any friends before,” Stephie spat in disgust. “So where the hell have that lot suddenly come from?”

  Having no answer for that, Jules and Andee continued to watch, waiting for Amelia to appear from the black hole of the facility.

  “One of the friends was telling us earlier,” the reporter continued, “that they were looking forward to the coming-out party later.”

  As Jules flinched, the news anchor said from the studio, “Coming-out? That makes her sound like some kind of debutante about to be presented to the Queen.”

  “Indeed,” the reporter retorted drily.

  The camera suddenly swung round as a stretch limousine pulled up in front of the prison. On the screen a chauffeur, complete with cap and gray suit, got out and went to open a rear door. A lithe, handsome young man in a leather jacket and faded denim jeans emerged.

  “WTF?” Stephie hissed incredulously as the waiting women surrounded him.

  “Any idea who that is?” the anchor asked the reporter.

  “None,” the reporter replied, “but it would appear Amelia Quentin’s going to be leaving prison in style.”
/>   “I feel sick,” Stephie muttered.

  Feeling much the same way, Jules glanced at Andee, then back at the screen as the reporter cried in a burst of excitement, “Here she is. Yes, it’s definitely her. The girl who killed Kesterly’s beloved Daisy Bright.”

  Jules’s stomach churned again, and as Amelia came further into shot she felt her blood running cold.

  “My God,” Stephie murmured in appalled amazement.

  Amelia didn’t look like someone who’d spent the past two years suffering all kinds of hardship behind prison bars. Dressed in a chic apple-green dress, black low heels, and a colorful silk scarf, she looked more like a young sophisticate leaving an expensive department store or exclusive spa than an ex-convict vacating a penal institute. Her mousy hair was styled in an elegant boyish cut, and her normally pasty skin was enlivened with a subtle but effective application of makeup.

  “Amelia! A word for the local news,” the reporter shouted, as the waiting friends gathered around the girl.

  Amelia didn’t look up. She simply continued to accept her friends’ boisterous welcome as though there were no cameras present at all.

  “You have to wonder how this is going down with her victim’s family,” the news anchor commented.

  Jules and Andee looked at each other, neither of them knowing what to say, while Stephie glared at the screen as though she might smash it.

  “I’m getting the feeling that there’s something stage-managed about this,” Andee commented as the limousine drew alongside the celebrating group and the young man opened a door for Amelia to get in.

  “Amelia! Do you have anything to say to Daisy Bright’s family?” a reporter shouted.

  Amelia stopped and looked up.

  The camera zoomed in, and as her face filled the screen Jules felt the bile of loathing rise in her throat. It was as though the girl was looking straight at her.

  “I want them to know,” Amelia said softly, “that I’m very sorry for what happened to Daisy, and that I forgive them for the way they’ve treated me, and that I bear no ill will.”

  Stephie gasped as Jules stared at the screen in stunned disbelief.

  “What’s next, Amelia?” someone else shouted.

  “I’m still considering my options,” she replied modestly.

  “Is it true you’re writing a book?” someone else asked.

  “Will it be a work of fiction?” the local reporter called out scathingly.

  Before Amelia could reply the young man took her by the elbow and handed her into the car.

  As it swept away, leaving the street empty but for the press, the local reporter stepped in front of the camera to continue her piece. “So, Amelia Quentin is now out of prison and, we’re told, on her way back to her home on Exmoor.”

  “Have we heard anything from the Bright family?” the anchor asked.

  “No, no comment from them so far,” came the reply.

  “OK, thanks, Beth. Now, for more breaking news…”

  The screen changed and Stephie hit the remote, plunging them into a silence of stunned anger and bewilderment.

  “What the hell was that?” Stephie cried, slapping her hands to her head. “She’s carrying on like she’s some kind of victim, or bloody celebrity, when everyone knows she did it.”

  Looking at Jules, Andee said, “I have a horrible feeling she’s trying to pull you into some sort of mind game, so whatever you do, please don’t respond.”

  “I have no intention of it,” Jules assured her, glancing at the phone as it rang. “It’ll be one of Kian’s family,” she decided. “I’ll call them back.”

  “That bloke who was with her,” Stephie snorted. “Who the heck is he, is what I want to know. And the limousine, and all those trampy-looking females. Where the hell did they come from?”

  “There was no sign of her father,” Jules commented.

  “I noticed that,” Andee responded. “So will he be joining in the ‘coming-out’ celebrations, I wonder?”

  Was the girl really going to have a party? It felt like such an insult, such a slap in the face, that Jules had to put it out of her mind. Andee was right, she mustn’t engage.

  She checked her mobile as it bleeped with a text.

  “It’s from Joe,” she announced, “wanting to know if ‘it’ is out yet.” After quickly texting back she said to Stephie, “I wonder if Dean saw it. I don’t suppose he will have. It’s so wrong that she should be walking free now and he isn’t.”

  “She’s making me feel so violent I hardly know what to do with myself,” Stephie growled.

  Getting to her feet, Jules said, “Let’s try to focus on something else, shall we? The last thing we need is to obsess about her.” As if she’d been doing anything else these past three years.

  Though they tried talking about other things, and actually succeeded for a while, the way the phone kept ringing and texts flooded in was a constant reminder of what they were trying to forget. It seemed everyone Jules knew had either seen or heard about the release and wanted to sympathize, or express their outrage, or offer whatever support Jules might feel she needed.

  “I know Stephie’s with you now,” Danny growled in his deep, gravelly way, “but if you feel that’s not enough, I’m happy to send someone to sit outside and watch the place, make sure she doesn’t come anywhere near you.”

  “It’s fine, Danny, honestly,” Jules assured him. “It’s not as though she’s ever threatened me, and she’s sure to be subjected to all sorts of restrictions, so the chances are we won’t see her at all.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the truth, because we definitely don’t want her anywhere round here. Have you spoken to Aileen today?”

  “Not yet. We’re still not intending to tell Kian, so I hope you—”

  “It’s OK, he’s not going to hear it from me. I don’t think he can handle it. I just want to make sure you can, that’s all.”

  “If I feel I can’t, I promise I’ll be in touch.”

  “You do that. Oh, and before you go, the smarmy bastard who turned up in the limo, do you know him?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Well, if I’m right about who he is…I’m making some enquiries, so I’ll let you know. You’ve got my number; if you’re worried about anything, use it, anytime day or night, phone’s always on.”

  —

  Three days later Jules was in her mother’s room at Greensleeves, watching Marsha’s anguished eyes darting about the room as if trying to find an escape.

  “It’s only me, Mum,” she said for the fifth or sixth time. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  “Nurse!” Marsha croaked weakly. “Nurse!”

  Since this was Marsha’s routine response to most things, Jules knew it was doubtful anyone would come, though she couldn’t help wishing someone would. The carers were a friendly bunch and most stopped for a chat when they could. However, they were busy with afternoon tea right now, and getting those who weren’t bedbound from the lounges to the dining room could be like trying to herd cats.

  “Amelia Quentin’s out, you know,” she said to her mother. “I keep thinking she’s going to get in touch with me, but I haven’t heard anything from her.”

  Marsha’s gaze was focused on nothing now. She wasn’t listening; for all Jules knew, she couldn’t even hear.

  “She doesn’t know where I live,” Jules ran on, “so she’s not likely to drop round.”

  She wondered what she’d do if Amelia did appear.

  She knew what she’d like to do.

  Marsha burped, and a line of drool ran down her chin.

  Wiping it away with a tissue, Jules said, “Do you remember Daisy? Your granddaughter, Daisy?”

  Marsha turned her head away.

  Aware of an awful frustration building, Jules suddenly exclaimed, “It’s all right for you, isn’t it? You just sit here in your own little world with everyone taking care of you, bringing you food, changing your clothes, wiping your blood
y nose…You don’t give a damn about anything that’s happening around you. You couldn’t care less, could you?”

  “Nurse!” Marsha mumbled. “Nurse.”

  “Listen to me,” Jules snapped, grabbing her hand. “I’m going out of my mind here wondering what to do, or say, or even think. Stephie’s trying to help, but she can’t talk about anything else either, and my phone hardly stops ringing. ‘Have you seen her?’ ‘Do you know if she’s definitely at Crofton Park?’ ‘I swear I caught sight of her in Bar 4 One the other night.’ Why do people think I want to know about her? I just want to forget she exists, pretend she never even came into our lives, but how the hell am I going to do that when she robbed us of the most precious thing we ever had?”

  Marsha was cowering away, trying to tug her hand free.

  “Stop it, Mum, just stop,” Jules cried helplessly. “You know who I am and you know I’d never hurt you, so for God’s sake stop being like this.”

  “Nurse,” Marsha whimpered.

  “Nobody’s coming.” Jules tried not to shout. “Do you hear me? No one’s listening to you apart from me, and I don’t know what the hell to do with you.”

  Marsha was starting to shake; tears were filling her eyes.

  Beside herself, Jules shot to her feet. “I have to go,” she sobbed. “I can’t stay here with you today.” Pressing a kiss to Marsha’s head, she made for the door.

  “Jules,” Marsha muttered. “Where’s Jules?”

  “Oh, Mum, I’m here. Why can’t you see it’s me?”

  “Is everything OK in here?”

  Jules turned to find Malinda, one of the nurses, regarding her worriedly.

  “I’m sorry,” Jules mumbled, “I’m not coping so well with her today. I need to go.”

  “Of course,” Malinda said kindly. “She’ll be fine here with us. We’ve got a nice cup of tea on the way, Marsha, and I expect you’ll want a slice of the lovely carrot cake someone brought in….”

  Weighted with guilt and self-loathing, Jules took off along the corridor, promising herself she’d come back later when she’d managed to get a grip—and thanking God for the angels who cared for her mother so much better than she ever could.