Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Well send her my love once she turns up, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, trying to sound positive. ‘A bit tired from the journey, that’s all. It’s beautiful here, though. We’re right next to the sea, and the weather is amazing.’

  ‘Well, it’s peeing it down in Germany. I wish I was there with you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And Becky, is she OK?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  She glances over, and I smile. ‘Aaron?’ she mouths, and I nod. She reaches out for the phone. ‘She wants a word,’ I say to him. ‘I’ll pass you over. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  As Becky tells Aaron about her dad getting engaged, transforming into an excited teenager once more, I head for the kitchen to search out some bread, and grab some cheese and butter. The fridge is full of fresh food. Willow must have been here recently. Or someone else. The photos, her letter, and voicemail, the fact none of her clothes are here spin around in my head. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

  A calendar hangs on the kitchen wall. I lift it down.

  At the top is a picture of a guinea pig, and the month is July. It’s packed with jottings in Willow’s handwriting, and my eyes flick over them, attempting to take them all in at once. I finally settle on July 20th. Today.

  Rose and Becky arrive.

  She was clearly expecting us.

  I make some sandwiches, before finding a bottle of white wine in the fridge. I pour a large glass. It’s not the best idea. It may aggravate my head. But I’m willing to risk it.

  I take the wine and sandwiches into the lounge, the calendar wedged under my arm, and drop down onto the sofa next to Becky. She’s finished talking to Aaron, and my phone lays abandoned on top of the magazines on the coffee table.

  I study the calendar, and Becky leans her head on my shoulder.

  ‘That’s Willow’s handwriting,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. It was in the kitchen.’

  There are lots of dates where a Gareth visited her, or she met up with him. I recall how she mentioned him when she called me.

  ‘Look,’ I say, pointing out an entry from a week ago. ‘It looks as if she’s visited Ava’s mother, Jeannette Millar, at somewhere called Green Pastures in Newquay.’

  ‘And Justin too,’ Becky says, pointing at an entry two weeks ago. I’d told her earlier what Eleanor had said. That Justin was Willow’s father. Had Willow really met up with him?

  I yawn and stretch, my tired mind struggling to make sense of everything, before picking up a sandwich and taking a bite. I’ve got to keep my stamina up. ‘Have one, Becky,’ I say, gesturing to the plate.

  ‘I’m not hungry, thanks. I feel a bit sick actually.’

  ‘Because you haven’t eaten,’ I say, taking another bite, before standing up, and padding towards the front window. I stare out, willing Willow to skip up the path with her radiant smile and a flick of her golden hair. But despite the beautiful, sunny evening, a dark sense of foreboding washes over me – and a dreadful fear I may never see her again.

  *

  Maybe it’s the long drive, or the fact I drank two glasses of wine quickly, but I nod off on the sofa, waking much later to find the house in darkness.

  ‘Becky?’ Disorientated, I pull myself up straight, and rub my eyes, before fumbling around on the coffee table for my phone. It’s almost ten o’clock.

  I hear the flick of a switch behind me, and the room fills with light. I turn to see Becky in her PJs, her hair damp, heading into the room. ‘I thought I’d let you sleep,’ she says. ‘You were exhausted.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, stretching my arms above my head, and yawning. ‘I must have needed it.’

  ‘I’m in the box room. I didn’t want Willow’s room. I’m a bit freaked by it, if I’m honest.’ She drops down next to me, smelling fresh and flowery. ‘The fact Willow was in there, and now she’s not. I’m being silly, I know.’

  I wrap my arm around her shoulder and hug her close. ‘And this is the girl who binge-watches horror movies.’

  ‘That’s different. This is real. Where is Willow, Mum?’

  I tuck a straying curl over her ear and she pushes my hand away – hating her hair being touched. ‘I don’t know, love,’ I say. ‘But we will find her.’

  ‘Promise?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to find her, Becky. I can promise you that.’

  Chapter 19

  AVA

  2001

  Peter’s laughter, the shrillness of Gail’s voice, and the feeling that her family hated her, coupled with the heavy bass of the music, and the wine in her system, made Ava’s head throb.

  She looked down at Willow playing with a Fisher Price phone that had once been hers, and despite her daughter looking content, jabbering into the receiver, Ava wished again that she could give her a better life.

  She crouched and stroked her daughter’s hair, catching a curl around her little finger, the silky softness somehow comforting, and Willow smiled up at her, trying to hand her the receiver. ‘Mummy crying?’ she said, tilting her head.

  Ava hadn’t realised she was, and swiped away the tears with the heel of her hand. She lifted Willow from the floor, and held her close, sniffing into her hair.

  ‘Let’s go out,’ she said. It was time to do something proactive. She would go and see Justin. Confront him. Find out if he wanted her and Willow in his life. If he didn’t, it was time to move on.

  Once downstairs she snuggled Willow into her pink coat and hat, and pulled on her own duffle coat and scarf.

  She opened the door and the cold air rushed in, stinging her face. Was she doing the right thing? She’d seen the figure running down the road earlier. What if he was still about?

  Convincing herself he would be long gone, she stepped out into the dark night, and strapped her daughter into the buggy that always stood by the front door, then put on her gloves. She attempted to push thoughts of the figure from her mind. Had he really been watching them as they slept?

  She hurried down the narrow, uneven road, lit only by a full moon that was slowly disappearing behind heavy clouds.

  It would take about ten minutes to get to Justin’s place, and as she raced along, she tried to stay hopeful. Hopeful that Gail was wrong, that Justin wasn’t seeing other women. He hadn’t answered her calls or messages for ages, she reminded herself. But Willow was his daughter. And he’d told Ava more than once that he loved them both. And she loved him too, didn’t she?

  ‘Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark,’ Willow was saying, her gloved hands over her eyes, her legs bouncing up and down, slamming against the buggy.

  ‘Yes, it is dark, darling girl,’ Ava said, her eyes flicking to and fro at the bushes and trees either side of them. ‘But we’ll soon be at Daddy’s house.’

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark.’

  As Ava reached Cranberry Close, the moon vanished behind a cloud. ‘Not far now, Willow,’ she said, wishing she’d brought a torch. She pushed the buggy towards the house Justin shared with his dad and the Bristow brothers. She remembered them from school – when they bothered to attend. They were a bad lot, who were into drugs and petty crime. She hated them. Hated that Justin had got mixed up with them.

  Outside the house, Ava looked up to see Justin’s bedroom light on. She crouched in front of Willow. She didn’t want to take her daughter inside – that’s why she hadn’t been before – but she couldn’t leave her out on the lonely street. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

  ‘Daddy,’ Willow said, bouncing her legs against the buggy and giggling.

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Ava lifted her out, and they walked hand in hand up the path to the front door. It had once been a beautiful house – a 1930s bay-fronted semi, with a heavy oak front door. But now there were signs it wasn’t being cared fo
r. The front garden was overgrown, empty beer bottles and cans sharing space with nettles and wildflowers, and the paintwork was chipped, curtains sagged at the window.

  She knocked on the door and waited.

  Eventually one of the Bristow brothers opened the door. She couldn’t tell them apart – both tall and too skinny with cropped black hair. ‘Ava,’ he said, a smirk stretching his yellowing skin. ‘Come to see Justin?’

  ‘Is he in?’

  He smirked again as he stepped back and gestured for her and Willow to enter. ‘He’s upstairs. I’m guessing he isn’t expecting you.’

  She looked into his vacant, staring eyes. ‘I’ll go up, shall I?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He staggered away, disappearing through a door that led to the lounge.

  She picked Willow up and climbed the stairs, passing the toilet, the door standing open, an unpleasant smell of urine reaching her nostrils. The house was filthy.

  ‘Justin?’ she said, tapping his bedroom door. But before he could answer, clarity hit her like a fist. She didn’t want this life for Willow either. She wanted so much more for her darling girl.

  She was about to turn to leave when the door opened, and Justin poked his head out, his white-blonde hair standing on end. He was naked, and made little effort to hide the fact. His floor was littered with empty spirit bottles and cans, and the smell of weed and tobacco smoke mingled with the stench of grubby sheets, made her feel sick. He’d changed so much from the boy she met in Newquay.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, eyes wide.

  Ava lifted Willow up into her arms, and the child looked deep into her face, touching her cheek. ‘Mummy OK?’

  ‘I just thought …’ But she had no words – what she’d planned to say had gone with the realisation she no longer wanted Justin in her life.

  ‘Who is it?’ A female voice came from inside the room.

  A tiny pang of pain came and went. She didn’t want Justin for Willow. She didn’t want Justin for her. She’d been such a fool waiting for him to give her the perfect life she’d always dreamed of – and now it hit her hard that he never would.

  Justin glanced over his shoulder. ‘Nobody.’

  Nobody. ‘I’ve come to say you’re off the hook, Justin.’

  ‘What you on about?’ He sighed deeply, closing his eyes, swaying.

  ‘I don’t want you in Willow’s life. I don’t want you in mine.’

  ‘What? No. Willow’s my daughter, Ava. I have a right to see her once I can get my act together.’

  ‘Let’s face it, Justin; you’ll never get your act together. You haven’t bothered to see her for months.’

  ‘I’ve been busy with my music, and stuff.’ He went to touch Willow’s cheek, and Ava slapped his hand away.

  ‘Don’t touch her. Don’t ever touch her again,’ she yelled, turning and racing down the stairs, afraid tears would come before she could get out of this disgusting house.

  The Bristow brother stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking her way. ‘If he doesn’t want you, love, I’ll give you a quick one.’ He went to grab her, but she pushed him hard with her free hand. He tumbled, cracking his head against the wall.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ he said, as she flung open the front door and ran down the path.

  *

  Tears rolled down her face as she flew along the lonely road, holding Willow against her, dragging the empty buggy behind them, her vision blurring. She hated that she was running from one nightmare back to another. Why had life always been so awful? What had she done wrong in a previous life?

  ‘Wee wee,’ Willow said into her ear. ‘Wee wee, Mummy.’

  ‘Oh Willow, please wait until we get home, darling girl,’ Ava cried. ‘It’s too dark to stop.’

  ‘Wee wee, Mummy. Wee wee, Mummy. Wee wee, Mummy.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ She let go of the buggy and raced into some nearby trees, Willow in her arms.

  *

  It was as she took her daughter’s hand and led her back to the road, twigs crunching under their feet, bushes catching on their coats, that she noticed a truck had pulled up next to the empty buggy, and a prickling sensation ran down her spine.

  Chapter 20

  ROSE

  Now

  I’m awake, but my eyes are closed. Shades of orange burn through my eyelids, and the distant caw of seagulls, reminding me of childhood holidays, tell me it’s morning.

  I don’t want to open my eyes, even though I’m aware it’s another beautiful day. In fact, I don’t want to be in this strange cottage with no idea where Willow is. Tears bubble up, but I know I must snap myself round. If Willow doesn’t return, or at least get in touch, I need to contact the police.

  One, two, three, I prise my eyes open to see the sun’s rays streaming through a gap in the embroidered curtains that sway in a light breeze.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Willow?’ I whisper, imagining her flinging open the door, and in her upbeat, crazy way, racing towards me, knocking me off my feet as she takes me in her arms. ‘Had you worried,’ she says in my fantasy. Like the time she hid in the garden behind the summerhouse when she was about eight. We hunted for her for ages, even contacted the police, Dad and Eleanor crying – in bits that they couldn’t find her – only for her to jump out and giggle, barely seeming to realise the effect she had on us all.

  I lay for some time staring at the ceiling. I didn’t notice how low it was when we arrived. Now it presses down on me, making me feel slightly claustrophobic. Trapped, unable to escape. The cottage is pretty, there’s no doubting that. This room is painted pastel blue, with cream shabby chic furniture. But there’s something in the ambience here that makes me feel uncomfortable. As though I’m not safe.

  I look at my phone – it’s almost seven – and throw back the quilt. I twist my legs round and push my feet into my slippers, before venturing onto the landing with my wash bag, black leggings and a funky, purple top Becky bought me for my birthday a few weeks back. The door to Willow’s room stands ajar, but Becky’s door is closed.

  Once I’ve showered and dressed, I tap on Becky’s door. ‘Sweetheart,’ I call softly. After a few moments she opens up, her dark curls spiralling out of control, her brown eyes half open. ‘It’s a bit early, Mum,’ she croaks, stretching her thin arms above her head and yawning.

  ‘I thought we should get an early start. I’m going to contact the police.’

  She tilts her head. ‘OK.’

  ‘And I thought we might try finding Willow ourselves. Ask around if anyone has seen her. Make sure she’s not just spent the night somewhere.’

  ‘But surely she wouldn’t have taken all her things for one night. And why hasn’t she contacted us, Mum?’

  My head spins. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, massaging my temples with my fingers. I have no answers. ‘Listen, have a shower and when you come down we’ll decide what to do,’ I say, turning and heading away.

  ‘Your top looks great, by the way,’ she calls after me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say over my shoulder, as I take the stairs two at a time. ‘Someone with great taste bought it for me.’

  I enter the kitchen and fill then flick on the kettle. I don’t know where to begin looking for Willow. Should I ask around the village – see if anyone’s seen her? The local shop might be a good place to start.

  As I pour boiling water over coffee granules, the photos and Willow’s note flash into my head:

  One of these men killed my mother.

  Had she really worked out which one was a murderer?

  Boiling water overflows the mug, as I lose sight of what I’m doing. ‘Damn,’ I say, as it puddles and drips down the cupboard door and onto the floor. I slam the kettle down and grab a tea towel to mop it up. I’m wringing it out when the doorbell rings.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Becky calls, as she thumps down the stairs. My heart picks up speed, and for a reason I can’t quite explain, I call, ‘Be careful.’

  I hurry from the kitchen into th
e lounge and hear a friendly male voice at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I hear Becky say, and my heart thuds faster. I race across the room, and perch on the armchair, arranging myself to look what I hope is nonchalant, rather than like the stress ball I really am.

  The door swings open, and Becky, her hair still wet from her shower, and wearing a long, loose, black T-shirt over ripped jeans, leads a man, who looks to be in his fifties, into the room. He’s tall, and his neat grey hair is combed back from a smiling, bearded face. He peers at me over gold-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Mum, this is Inspector Jones,’ Becky says, raising her eyebrows. ‘He’s looking for Willow. I’ve told him she’s not here at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m Rose … Willow’s stepsister.’

  ‘Good to meet you,’ he says, sticking out his hand, and I half-rise to take it, breathing in his expensive aftershave.

  He pumps my hand up and down for some moments. ‘Call me Gareth,’ he says.

  ‘Well, Gareth,’ I say, recalling how Willow said a man called Gareth was helping her – how I’d seen his name on the calendar. ‘As my daughter said, Willow’s not here at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, yes, she mentioned she may be going into Newquay,’ he says. ‘She was following something up. She didn’t say what.’

  I sit back down, feeling a twinge of relief at his words, followed by panic. Has something happened to her in Newquay? ‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be back soon,’ I say, attempting to keep my voice even. ‘Can I give her a message?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll give her a call.’ He’s Welsh – sounds a bit like Rob Brydon, his voice rising and falling in a pleasant singsong way.

  ‘I’m not sure she’ll reply. I keep trying her phone, but it always goes to voicemail.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give it a go. If she turns up here in the meantime, can you ask her to give me a call?’

  Words bubble up, and before I have chance to arrange them coherently, I blurt them out. ‘Actually we’re a bit worried about her. She asked us to come here, but seems to have disappeared. She’s taken all her clothes too, which is a bit odd, don’t you think? Especially as she was hunting for her mother’s killer.’