Day of the Accident

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘A child is the most precious thing in the world,’ she says, wiping her eyes quickly as though embarrassed.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘You should keep this safe,’ she says, handing the letter back to me.

  ‘Do you know what hurts the most,’ I say, placing the letter on my lap. ‘The fact that I couldn’t keep her safe … that I actually put her in danger that night.’

  ‘I’m sure that wasn’t the case,’ says Julia. ‘It was just a tragic accident. Nobody is suggesting you had anything to do with it, are they?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I should go now,’ says Julia, standing up. ‘You look exhausted.’

  She is right. My eyes are so tired I can barely keep them open.

  I walk Julia to the door. The porch is dark so I turn the light on.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got some post,’ says Julia, bending down to pick something up from the mat.

  She hands me it. It’s a piece of folded-up paper. Probably a flyer.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, tucking it under my arm as I unlock the door. ‘Listen, thanks again for popping over, Julia, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ she says as she steps out on to the dark street. ‘Now get yourself inside and try to rest, okay?’

  ‘I will. Bye, Julia.’

  ‘Bye, Maggie.’

  I close the door and bolt it. When I come back into the living room the flyer falls on to the floor. I pick it up and make my way to the kitchen. I’m about to throw it in the bin when something catches my eye. The paper is thin and semi-transparent. I can see handwriting through it. This isn’t a flyer.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and unfold the paper. What I see chills me to the bone. It’s a letter written in Elspeth’s distinctive handwriting. I lay it out on the table and read:

  Dear Mummy,

  I’m so scared. I don’t know why I have been sent here. Did I do something wrong? If I was naughty then I can make up for it. I promise I won’t be naughty again. This place is very cold and dark. The walls are bare and white and nobody smiles. I miss my old room. I miss the smell of the countryside. All I see when I look out of the window is concrete and glass. It’s like a prison. When can I come home? They have told me that you and Daddy are not coming back but that can’t be true, you love me more than anything in this world, I know you do. I think about you all the time and wonder what you are doing. There are some books here. They’re old and the pages are ripped but I don’t want to read them anyway because stories and books just remind me of you and then I get upset. Mummy you can’t forget about me, even if you’re angry with me I’m still your daughter.

  Please don’t leave me here. I need to be with you.

  I promise I’ll be a good girl and I won’t make you cross.

  I love you Mummy and I just want to come home.

  Your lovely daughter xxx

  45

  Thursday 10 August

  It’s just coming up to 7 a.m. and the streets are deserted. I sat up through the night, reading and rereading Elspeth’s letter, trying to work out what was going on. It seems she is trapped in some place along with ‘others’ and she is waiting for me to come and collect her. But there is no address on the letter, and it was hand-delivered without an envelope, so I have no way of tracking her down. I’m terrified that she is being held somewhere against her will, but where and by whom?

  I push open the door of the police station and make my way across the now-familiar reception area to the main desk. An older woman with short grey hair sits behind it. She looks up as I approach. Her face is lined and she has a sour expression that deepens when she sees me. It is then, when I look down, that I see I am still in my pyjamas. I’d flung my coat over them and pulled on some trainers in my rush to get out of the house this morning. Still, I don’t care, I just want to find out what’s happened to Elspeth.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ says the woman.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say, taking the letter out of my coat pocket. ‘I’d like to speak to DS Grayling.’

  ‘DS Grayling?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘DS Grayling’s not here at the moment,’ she says. ‘Can I be of any help?’

  I look at her. She’s wearing a uniform and Grayling isn’t here. I have no choice.

  ‘This was put through my letter box last night,’ I say, placing the letter on the desk.

  The woman takes the letter and reads it. She frowns then looks up at me.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, sighing. ‘And why is this a police matter?’

  ‘This letter is from my daughter,’ I say, my chest tightening with anxiety.

  ‘Right,’ says the woman. ‘And that is a problem because …’

  ‘It’s a problem because my daughter is dead,’ I say. ‘She was killed in a car accident three months ago.’

  The woman’s expression changes. She picks up the letter and reads it again then she picks up the phone.

  ‘One moment,’ she says. ‘I’ll get one of the officers to come and see you.’

  Ten minutes later I’m sitting in a small, stuffy interview room. The officer who ‘came to see me’ is PC Kitson, a short, stocky man in his late thirties. He has made me a cup of tea and is now busy reading the letter for the second time.

  ‘And you’re sure you didn’t see who delivered it?’ he says, looking up at me from the other side of the table.

  ‘I’m positive,’ I reply. ‘It was quite late, around nine thirty, and I was seeing my friend out. The letter was lying on the mat in the porch.’

  He nods his head.

  ‘From what you’ve told me, Mrs Allan, it sounds like some kind of prank.’

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘No, it’s definitely her. It’s Elspeth. Nobody else writes like this and the tone of it, the voice, it’s her. My little girl is in danger. I just know it. She’s being held somewhere against her will and whoever delivered this must know something. Can you not check it for fingerprints?’

  He smiles awkwardly.

  ‘Mrs Allan,’ he says gently, ‘we know that’s impossible because your daughter passed away. She was identified by your husband at Lewes Victoria Hospital on the twelfth of May, and her funeral took place three weeks later. There is no doubt that she’s dead.’

  ‘But mistakes are made all the time,’ I say, wiping my forehead which is damp with sweat. ‘Morgues get bodies mixed up. I’ve read about it. God, I swear to you, this is Elspeth. It’s her handwriting.’

  ‘Your husband identified the body, Mrs Allan,’ he says firmly. ‘And as your daughter only had minor facial injuries, it would have been a straightforward ID.’

  I flinch. How can he say that so callously?

  He has a file of notes sitting next to him; the details of Elspeth’s death all neatly explained within. But this can’t be explained. This is beyond reason. My instinct tells me the letter is from my daughter because as her mother I know; I just know.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, suddenly remembering something. ‘My husband was in a state of shock when he identified her. He said so in the ICU diary. He was only in there for a few minutes, how could he have been one hundred per cent certain it was her?’

  Kitson looks at me, confused.

  ‘I can bring it in if you like, the diary,’ I say, trying to remember where I left it. ‘You can see for yourself.’

  ‘Mrs Allan, your husband formally identified the body as being that of your daughter, Elspeth.’

  I go to speak but then, noticing his expression, decide that it’s not worth pursuing.

  ‘My hunch is that this is some idiot’s idea of a joke,’ says PC Kitson, looking at the letter again. ‘It’s sick and insensitive but that’s how some of these morons get their kicks. Honestly, I thought these trolls were all on the internet these days but it seems not.’

  ‘But why would someone do that?’ I say, my eyes raw from crying. ‘Why would someone pretend to be my daughter?’

  ‘I d
on’t know. As I said, there are some sick people out there. They hear about these accidents on the news and they want to get involved. It makes them feel significant though they’re anything but.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying,’ I reply. ‘And I’ve heard of people like the ones you’re describing, internet trolls and what have you, but they are usually threatening or insulting. This letter doesn’t seem like it was written by someone like that. And how could they replicate my daughter’s handwriting?’

  PC Kitson sighs and shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t know, could it be one of your daughter’s school friends?’ he says. ‘In my experience children deal with grief in a variety of ways, some pretty strange.’

  ‘If that was the case then it would mean a ten-year-old child had snuck out last thing at night to post it. That doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Didn’t you say the letter was on the mat at nine thirty?’ says Kitson. ‘And you and your friend had been sitting in the front room for quite a while and not heard anything being put through the letter box?’

  I nod my head.

  ‘Well then, it could have been posted at any time during the evening,’ he says. ‘It’s summer. Light nights. Kids are playing out for longer.’

  ‘Some kids,’ I say, glaring at him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his face flushing. ‘I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I just want to find her.’

  ‘Mrs Allan,’ he says, getting to his feet, ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to be exposed to this. It’s the last thing a grieving parent should have to deal with.’

  I nod my head and slowly stand up, feeling dizzy with the heat. I know he’s never going to help me. I’m on my own.

  ‘But if any more of these come through, let us know,’ he says, opening the door.

  ‘I will,’ I say as we step out into the corridor. ‘Oh and could I ask you to let DS Grayling know about the letter too? She’s been working on this case.’

  ‘DS Grayling’s not here today,’ he says, leading me back along the corridor towards reception. ‘But I’ll let her know what’s happened.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When we reach the main doors he leans over me to open them. It’s then I see that he is still holding the letter in his hand.

  ‘May I please keep that?’ I say, turning to face him.

  He looks down at the letter and frowns.

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I want to hold on to it.’

  He looks at me with pity and who can blame him? Here I am standing in a pair of old pyjamas, insisting my dead daughter is alive somewhere. Still, despite what he thinks, I need that letter.

  ‘Please?’ I say.

  He relents and hands me the letter.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, then slip it into my coat pocket.

  As I lie here on my bed, the letter still in my hands, I think back to the events of the morning. The police officer seemed convinced that the letter was just a silly prank and yet it is Elspeth’s handwriting, tall and spidery. How could a random prankster replicate that?

  None of it makes sense and the lack of support from the police just makes it all the more frustrating. I try to order my thoughts. What do I know? That Sean thinks I killed Elspeth; that on the day of the accident I put Elspeth into the car in her dressing gown and drove to the Plough Inn; that there may or may not have been someone standing on the riverbank dressed in red; that actually Elspeth might not even be dead but be trapped somewhere; that Barbara Cosgrove thinks I was planning to do something evil at the riverbank.

  And then there is Freya Nielssen. Who is she?

  My eyes grow heavy. I shouldn’t be able to sleep after all that’s happened, but something is dragging me down. I’m helpless, sucked in. I dream I’m at the river. I feel numb with fear but I know I have to go through with this; that there is no alternative. She’s there in the water, she wants me to stop but I can’t. Her eyes are full of panic. She screams and I push down hard on her shoulders. I feel her wriggling beneath the water. I know I should stop but some powerful force is guiding me; voices inside my head screaming at me to do it. Then, at the last moment, the voices fall silent and I come to my senses. I let go my grip and lift her to the surface.

  But it’s too late.

  46

  Dear Mummy,

  I think Zoe was right. Parents just let you down. Why aren’t you answering my letters? I know you’ve received them because Freya sent me a card the other week and she said she’d passed them on to you.

  What is it Mummy? Why are you ignoring me? Is this it? I just get left here?

  Weasel Face has moved me into another bedroom. The old one had too many memories of Zoe. I couldn’t sleep in there. Every time I closed my eyes I saw her lying on the train tracks. The new room is better though I still have nightmares.

  School is just as bad, worse actually because now I don’t have Zoe to talk to when I get home. The other girls are being really horrible to me. There’s a big group of them, led by this girl called Jade who sits on my table. It started with them stealing my pencil case, then hiding my coat, stupid things, but then since Zoe died it’s just got worse and worse.

  Last week I was sitting in the library reading my science book and I felt a jolt. I turned round and Jade was standing there grinning at me. She had a pair of scissors in one hand and a clump of hair in the other. It took me a couple of moments to realize that it was my hair. I could hear her laughing behind me as I ran to the toilets. I shut the door and went over to the mirror. When I saw what she had done I screamed. She’d cut off a chunk of my hair. I looked like a freak.

  And that is what they started calling me. Freak. Every time I walked into the classroom I heard it and it was just low enough for the adults not to hear. Freak. Freak. That word hammered at my head. I heard it every moment of the day, from the time I woke up until I went to sleep at night. Sometimes I heard it in my dreams, a horrible chorus of girls repeating it over and over again, freak, freak, freak.

  Anyway, a couple of days ago things changed. I became more like Zoe.

  Jade thinks she’s safe as long as she has that big group of friends around. Everywhere she goes they go with her. There are two who are her best friends – a short, fat girl called Heidi and a tall, spotty one called Paula – and they are the worst. While they are there to egg her on she can do what she likes. But then a couple of days ago Paula and Heidi were both off sick and Jade was by herself. At break, I saw her standing by the boiler room at the far end of the playground. She was bouncing a tennis ball against the wall. Up and down. Up and down. It had been raining and I wanted to look for snails. Since the trip to the museum I’ve been collecting specimens to examine. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Why would you be bothered? You can’t even reply to my letters. Still, it makes me feel better to write it all down. Anyway, as I walked across the playground with my new specimen jar in my hand I felt Jade’s eyes on me. There were no snails but I saw a fat brown slug on the path. I was just bending down to pick it up when I heard it.

  ‘Freak.’

  I looked up. She was still standing by the wall but she had stopped bouncing the tennis ball. She had her arms folded across her chest and her pug face was screwed up with hatred. I put the slug in the jar and walked up the path. I just wanted to go inside to the school library and concentrate on my experiment. But as I drew level with her she kicked my ankle and I fell over. The jar smashed to the ground. I jumped up to try and rescue the slug but she got there before I did or at least her foot did. I heard a horrible squishing noise as she ground the slug with her shoe.

  I asked her why she did it and she said I was a freak, a weirdo who puts dead things in jars. She said that I was a loser whose parents had dumped me and that no wonder Zoe killed herself, having to put up with me.

  And when she said that, my brain went all hot and fuzzy and I couldn’t think straight. All
I could see was her disgusting smile. It was horrible, like an evil clown. I wanted to wipe the smile off her face so I grabbed her hair and smashed her head against the wall, again and again and again. She started screaming but I didn’t stop. I liked the fact that she was scared of me and I wanted her to learn a lesson. I wanted to smash all the horrible things that she had said about me out of her brain.

  She started screaming then some teachers came out and pulled me off her. They started fussing over Jade and I was sent to the Head’s office. I’ve been put in detention for a week and I have to see the school counsellor again to deal with my anger.

  I don’t care about any of it. I’m just glad I stood up to that witch. Whenever she sees me now she backs away. I’ve scared her and I’m glad.

  47

  I wake up sweating. I breathe out slowly, relieved that it was just a dream.

  And then I hear it. Voices. I lie on the bed for a moment, fear gripping my insides. Someone is in the flat. Slowly, I haul myself up and walk to the door, opening it a fraction. ‘Hello,’ I call, but my voice is croaky from sleep and the word comes out as a whimper.

  I hear footsteps on the wooden floor in the living room.

  What if the person, I think to myself as I shrink back against the wall in the corridor, the person holding Elspeth, what if they have come to get me?

  The footsteps draw closer. I lean back into the wall and close my eyes. Any moment now they’re going to grab me and …

  ‘Maggie. What are you doing?’

  I open my eyes and see Sonia standing there with a sweeping brush in her hands.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ I gasp. ‘I thought you were an intruder.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says with a smile. ‘What kind of intruder does the housework?’

  She turns and heads back into the living room. I follow, my heart still thudding with fright.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were here?’ I say, slumping down on to the sofa.

  ‘I looked in on you when I arrived but you were sound asleep,’ she says, kneeling down to pick up the overflowing dustpan. ‘So I thought I’d do a bit of cleaning before you got up.’