Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘OK,’ Becky says, getting up.

  *

  The pub garden is noisy with chatter and laughter. Children play on a brightly coloured slide and climbing frame. The pub itself is ancient, with a lopsided roof, the red brickwork crumbling. I’m amazed it’s still standing.

  It’s quiet inside; you can almost hear people slurping their drinks. It’s gloomy too, after the bright light of the sunny evening – the tables are dark wood, the curtains deep burgundy, but I want to stay inside. Becky drops down on a seat at a table in the corner. She feels the same way.

  A young lad serves me at the bar, and I carry a glass of wine and an orange juice to the table, menus wedged under my arm.

  Before looking at what I fancy to eat, I pull out my phone – obsessively checking for calls or messages.

  ‘No signal,’ I say. ‘Oh God, what if Willow tries to get through?’

  Becky leans over, reaches for my hand, her eyes meeting mine. ‘Stop worrying for a moment, Mother,’ she says. ‘You’ll spontaneously combust, and it will make a terrible mess.’

  I smile at her efforts to ease the tension. ‘Easier said than done, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know. But seriously you’ll be no use to anyone if you don’t relax a bit.’

  She sounds far too grown up.

  ‘Are you OK sitting inside?’ she goes on. ‘I thought we could chat easier in here.’

  I glance beyond the window towards the pub garden at a group of women in bikini tops and shorts who are throwing back their heads in laughter, clutching large glasses of wine. A couple of lads are jabbing each other playfully, slopping lager. A child lies on her stomach crying and thumping the ground. I haven’t room in my head for the liveliness through the window.

  I turn to Becky. ‘I prefer it in here,’ I say, turning my phone over in my hands.

  ‘OK. Good.’ Becky picks up one of the menus. ‘Then let’s pick what we want to eat.’

  *

  I’m about to tuck into battered cod and triple cooked chips, when Becky leans over the table, our foreheads almost touching. ‘He’s been watching us for ages,’ she whispers.

  ‘Who?’ I say, shuddering. I lower my cutlery and go to turn.

  She grabs my hand. ‘Don’t look,’ she snaps. ‘We don’t want to scare him off.’

  ‘Who?’ I repeat, my heart picking up speed.

  ‘Some idiot, he’s giving me the creeps, is all.’

  ‘Let me look then,’ I say.

  ‘No. If you turn, he’ll leave.’ Her eyes are far too wide. This is getting to her.

  ‘You don’t know that. He’s probably a regular. What does he look like?’

  She glances past me, and bobs back. ‘Light brown hair, forty – quite good-looking for an oldie but a bit weird too.’

  I whiz round. Whoever this man is, he’s staring right at us.

  I look back at my daughter.

  ‘Flip’s sake, Mother, talk about obvious.’

  I look over my shoulder again, to see he’s standing now, downing the last of what looks like a gin and tonic.

  I jump to my feet.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Becky crosses her arms over her chest and slides down in the chair.

  ‘I’m going to ask him why he was staring.’

  ‘No. No, please don’t.’

  ‘But it could have something to do with Willow.’

  ‘Yeah, right, like he could be Ava’s killer, or something. Mega reason not to go right up to him.’

  I take a gulp of wine.

  ‘Too late, he’s gone,’ she says, sounding relieved.

  I see through the tiny front window he’s getting into a red car. I sit back down and look at my food, my appetite gone.

  Becky silently pushes her salad around her plate.

  ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ I reach across the table and touch her cheek. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be here in Cornwall.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going home if that’s what you mean.’ She spears a cherry tomato with her fork. It splits and splatters across her plate.

  *

  ‘Was everything OK for you?’ The man collecting our plates has a ready smile. He’s in his fifties, and I suspect he’s the landlord.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say, looking at the meals we’ve barely eaten. ‘We weren’t as hungry as we thought we were. Eyes bigger than our bellies, that’s what my mum used to say.’

  Becky glares at me. She’s of the opinion that if we pay for our food, we don’t have to explain ourselves if we don’t eat it. They only ask because they’re afraid we’ll put a one-star review on Trip Advisor.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ I ask, as he’s about to walk away.

  ‘Since two,’ he says, looking at the huge clock on the far wall.

  ‘No, I mean, have you worked here long?’

  ‘Ah, no, not long. The wife and I took early retirement to fulfil our dream of running a little pub in Cornwall a couple of years back. Turns out it’s more of a nightmare at times.’ He laughs.

  ‘I wonder …’ I fumble with my phone, getting up a photo of Willow. ‘Has this woman ever been in here?’

  He furrows his forehead, studying the picture for a few moments. ‘Yes, I’ve seen her. Don’t ask me when. One day’s the same as any other.’ He shrugs. ‘She certainly looks familiar.’

  I would never make a private detective. I’ve no idea what else to ask.

  ‘The man sitting by the door a few minutes ago,’ Becky says, pointing to the seat the stranger vacated. ‘Does he come in here regularly?’

  He peers over his shoulder, and back at us. ‘He’s been in a couple of times.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’ Becky is on a roll.

  He scratches his head, and his salt and pepper hair stands up with electricity. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be back,’ he says, as he carries away the plates. ‘We do a catch of the day on Monday, a lovely midweek roast on a Wednesday, and if the forecasted storm stays away, we’ve got a BBQ planned for Friday.’

  *

  We head up the road towards Ocean View Cottage, and my phone springs into life as the signal returns: two messages and a voicemail from Inspector Jones.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ I say, stopping in the middle of the road. ‘There’s a message from Willow.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Becky says, as our heads touch and we read it together:

  Hey, Rose. So sorry I’m not there to greet you. I’m in Newquay, staying with a friend. I’ve discovered something important. Please make yourself at home. I’ll give you a call soon. Love, Willow X

  ‘Well that explains it,’ I say, sighing with relief as I close the message. ‘Thank God she’s OK.’

  ‘Is she?’ Becky says. ‘How do you know she even sent the message?’

  ‘Oh, Becky, you watch far too many thrillers on Netflix. Of course she did. It’s from her phone.’

  ‘Yeah, but someone could be holding her kidnapped and forced her to type the message.’

  I don’t want to even consider Becky’s theory – that something so awful could have happened. I need to believe Willow is fine.

  We continue up the road, my phone pinned to my ear as I listen to Inspector Jones’ voicemail:

  ‘Hi, Rose,’ he says. ‘I got your message. I’ve filed a missing persons report for Willow, and we’ll circulate her as a missing person on the Police National Computer. Some officers will ask about in the village. Can you send a recent photo of her to my email address, please? Plus we’ll need to do a search of the cottage too. And, Rose,’ he goes on, ‘try not to worry.’

  I fight against the fact Willow is a missing person. We’ve had a text from her now. She said she’s OK. But as I link arms with Becky and we make our way up the hill, I still can’t get it out of my head that Willow’s in terrible danger.

  Chapter 26

  ROSE

  Now

  It’s ten o’clock. Becky has gone to her room.
I’m restless – anxiety bubbling under my skin, waiting to boil over.

  Sick of pacing the same stripped wooden floorboards – sick of the hum of the fan whirring, the feeling of helplessness – I grab my jacket and leave the cottage. I make my way down to the beach, the darkness swallowing me as I head across the sand with the aid of my phone torch, hopeful the sea will calm me.

  A cool breeze tickles my face, as I sit on my jacket a few yards from the rolling waves, my arms wrapped around my knees, squeezing, my chest rising and falling as I focus on my breathing – in, out, in, out. My eyes fix on the sea; in places shimmering metallic in the full moon. The current moves and shifts, as black as ink – impossible to know where the sea ends and the sky begins.

  It’s lonely here, but the crash of the waves against the sand sooth my jangled nerves and confused mind – comforting. I’ve always loved the sea. I visited Crantock as a child, and loved to race down the hill from the caravan site where we stayed to the beach, swinging my bucket and spade. There was nothing quite as beautiful as Cornwall in the sunshine.

  I glance over my shoulder, raising my eyes to Ocean View Cottage. There’s a light on in Becky’s room. This is all too much for her, and I was pleased when her dad texted earlier, reminding her once more she’s got so much to look forward to.

  My eyelids grow heavy. I close my eyes for a moment, running my fingers through the sand.

  Justin … Rory … Peter. Had one of them killed Ava? Or had someone else ended her young life? Dexter? Is Dexter the man in the yellow cap in the fourth photo? Would the inspector have recognised him if he was, or is the picture quality too bad?

  My phone rings out too loud, bouncing off the cliffs. I open my eyes and pull it from my pocket.

  ‘Aaron,’ I say, answering the call, and a surge of relief rushes through me.

  ‘Hey, how’s it going?’

  It’s so good to hear his voice, and I want to tell him everything. ‘It’s all a bit odd,’ I say, my voice sounding lost on the deserted beach. ‘Willow’s not come back, and I’m worried.’

  ‘Have you tried calling her?’

  ‘Of course, loads of times.’ I rake sandy fingers through my hair, depositing grains onto my scalp. ‘We’ve even told the police.’ I desperately wish he was here by my side, holding me close. ‘But then I got a text from her earlier today saying she’s staying with a friend in Newquay.’

  ‘Well, there you go. Mystery solved.’ He sounds far too certain. ‘It’s what Willow does, Rose. When it gets too much, she takes off. Disappears. You know that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘So you’re still there? At the cottage?’

  ‘Mmm. I’ve come out for some air. There’s a beautiful bay nearby, and I’m sitting here in the darkness. Thinking.’

  ‘You sound exhausted.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m not sure I will tonight.’

  ‘Listen, sorry, I’ve got to go, darling,’ he says. ‘I’ll call you when I can. Love you.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, and when he ends the call, my heart sinks.

  I shove my phone into my pocket. I need him right now more than I’ve ever needed him, and feel so close to tears my head throbs. I close my eyes again, and after some moments I hear the sound of stones crashing down the cliff face some distance away.

  My eyes spring open, and I look around, a shudder running through me. Over on the far side of the bay, standing on the cliff edge is a figure silhouetted against the night sky. I can’t be certain, but whoever it is seems to be watching me.

  My chest tightens. I jump up and grab my jacket, eyes glued to where the person is standing. I head up the beach towards Ocean View Cottage, my legs heavy in the sand. I’m about halfway when I look over my shoulder. I can’t see the figure. I stop to fumble in my pocket for my phone and flick on the torch. The light picks out someone at the foot of the steps that are cut into the rock face. I can’t see their face.

  Fear thuds in my chest, and something inside me tells me to run. But my feet sink into the sand even more, slowing my pace. I stumble, falling onto my hands and knees, my breath catching in my throat.

  I pull myself up and flash the torchlight around the area. I can’t see anyone, but they couldn’t have gone. They must be somewhere.

  I turn and head onwards, but within moments I sense someone behind me. Before I can twist round, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my head. I stagger forward, and the ground rises up to greet me. I fall hard on the sand. My vision blurs but I know someone’s still here, hovering over me, crouching – touching my hair – stroking it. I feel their breath on my skin.

  ‘Leave.’ It’s a muffled whisper. I try to lift my head, but before I can see my assailant, everything goes black.

  *

  I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious, but when I come round, whoever hit me has gone. I rub my head – there’s a bump, blood on my fingers. The shock of what’s happened hits me. I need to get back to the cottage.

  I take a deep breath, and ease myself up, wobbling precariously, trying to get my balance. Once I feel stable, I move up the beach, heart thudding. I’m not far from the cottage now – almost there – looking over my shoulder every few moments.

  Once inside, I fumble with the bolts on the front door, pulling them across, one, two, three, and rest my forehead against the opaque glass.

  Someone is trying to scare me away. Is this what happened to Willow?

  I hear Becky lumbering down the stairs behind me. She flicks on the hall light. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Oh God, Becky,’ I say, turning to face her, blinking in the brightness. ‘We need to go home. Now.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ Her eyes look browner than ever – wide and worried.

  She puts her arm around me, and guides me into the lounge, where she clicks on the side lamp. We sit down on the sofa. I’m shaking – can barely see through the blur of tears.

  ‘You look really white, Mum. What’s happened?’ she says again.

  ‘Someone knocked me out,’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘They told me to leave.’

  She covers her mouth. ‘Oh my God, Mum. Are you OK? Are they still out there?’ She looks towards the door.

  ‘No. No. They’re long gone.’ I fumble with my phone, and she takes it from me.

  ‘Shall I call an ambulance? The police?’ Her eyes are back on me, her voice full of concern. ‘What were you doing out there on your own in the dark in the first place, Mum?’

  ‘I needed some air. I didn’t expect someone … shit!’ I say, burying my head into my hands, feeling the lump under my fingers. It’s so sore. ‘What the hell’s going on, Becky?’

  She taps my phone. I hear her voice, calm and crisp. ‘Police, please,’ she says, and I look up at her. She’s just a child, and yet she’s so grown up – I desperately need her right now.

  *

  The police arrive as the village church bells chime midnight: a woman officer of around thirty, a younger male PC, both in uniform, both look as though they’ve been on duty for a week.

  ‘I’m PC Lewis,’ the female cop tells me, showing me ID. ‘This is PC O’Timoney.’

  Holding Becky’s hand, unsure whose benefit it’s for, I lead them down the slope towards the beach, their flashlights lighting the area.

  ‘It happened about here,’ I say, stopping. ‘But it’s a waste of time. Whoever hit me has long gone.’ I look towards the cliff. ‘He was over there at first, staring down at me.’

  ‘You know it was a man?’ she asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Well, no. Not really.’

  The officers walk towards the steps in the cliff. PC O’Timoney climbs up them and onto the cliff top, searching the area with his torchlight. PC Lewis remains below, angling her torch over the steps.

  But they’re shaking their heads as they walk back, their torches making me squint. I cover my eyes, look down at the sand.

  ‘There’s nothing that we can see,’ PC O’Timoney says. He’s
Irish, has a look of Ronan Keating. ‘There’s nothing much over that side of the bay. No houses for about quarter of a mile. Did you hear a car?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ But I can’t be sure.

  We make our way back to the house in silence, and I realise Becky is still holding my hand.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I whisper. It’s a silly question.

  ‘You’ll need to come down to the station to make a statement, Mrs Lawson,’ PC Lewis says over her shoulder, as we reach the cottage and they make their way down the path towards their car. ‘Try to recall anything at all about your assailant. In the meantime, get your head checked out.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, and because there is nothing more we can do, Becky and I step inside the house and close the door.

  Chapter 27

  ROSE

  Now

  It’s 2 a.m. I can’t sleep. I throw back the quilt and sit up. A yawn and stretch later, I get up and pad towards the window.

  From a patchwork wing-backed chair, I look out across the bay for almost half an hour. It’s a full moon and I watch the tide going out, taking the events of earlier with it.

  ‘Where are you, Willow?’ I whisper.

  A memory floats in of Willow, around twelve years old, telling me she’d seen someone hanging about Darlington House wearing a mask. It was just one of her stories, but it scared me. Despite the fact I was twenty-five at the time and a mum who should know better than to listen to her crazy stories. I remember sleeping with a cricket bat by my bed for about a year after that. And round about now, I wish I had that bat.

  I get up from the chair, return to bed, and squeeze my eyes closed. But my brain still won’t close down, and for the rest of the night I barely sleep. When I do, vivid nightmares where Willow is trapped in a white room by a faceless man invade.

  *

  I get up early, shower, dress in shorts and a stripy blue and white T-shirt, and tie my hair up in a ponytail. I poke my head around Becky’s door to see she’s still sleeping, and close her door gently, deciding to let her have a lie in.