by J. A. Baker
‘Don’t, Peggy,’ Alec warns, his back as straight as an arrow, ‘this is completely different and you know it. This is your chance for you and your mother to start again. A fresh start.’
She wants to cry out to him that he has no idea what he is doing, what horrors he is about to unleash. She wants to tell him that she and her mother are completely different people with no common ground worth speaking of and that her mother hates him. She wants to scream at him that Audrey Penthorpe, his own mother-in-law thinks he is a murderer and a paedophile. But she doesn’t. She remains silent all the way to the hospital, praying to whichever god may be listening, that by the time they get there, her mother will already be dead.
36
Audrey
She can hear voices, quiet murmurings of ghosts hovering over her, their words a stream of whispers floating in and out of her consciousness. She doesn’t recognise them, knows this isn’t her bed. What is going on? There was a man - that much she does remember. He had a deep voice, thick hands. Why can she remember his hands? What was he doing to her? Something over her face. Heat. Coughing, choking. Lying outside on the grass. Sirens.
The voices over her fade away and she is left in silence to ponder over where she is and why she is here. She tries, makes a concerted effort to piece it all back together but something hard and sharp is pushed into her arm and before she can begin to analyse anything, she feels herself descending, slowly falling into a deep vacuum of emptiness where darkness reigns supreme.
When she awakes there are more voices surrounding her. She doesn’t open her eyes. Easier that way. At least she can pretend she’s still asleep, pretend that none of this is actually happening.
Another voice. A lady. She sounds young - mid-twenties perhaps. A thin, sibilant tone with a strong northern accent.
‘We’ll know more when she wakes up but as far as we can tell, apart from some minor burns on her face, she only suffered smoke inhalation. She’s a very fortunate lady, your mother.’
Mother?!
Audrey lies quite still, hoping they can’t see the pulse that is starting up in her neck at the sound of their words, see the quiver of fear on her skin.
‘We need to find some accommodation for her. A member of the team from Social Services has been here but we were hoping that since she has family …’
A voice she thinks she knows cuts through the air, and she has to exercise all her strength to not sit upright and rip out the cannula that is attached to the back of her hand, to tell them to ignore him but she can’t seem to summon up the strength.
‘She can come and stay with us. It’s not a problem.’
Yes, it is! It’s a huge problem.
‘We’ve got a spare room, haven’t we?’
The voice is met with silence until another voice she doesn’t recognise dips in, ‘We need to assess her when she wakes up. The doctor should be round shortly.’
Then the sound of something being put at the end of the bed. Notes, perhaps? A clank of plastic hitting metal; the soft shuffle of comfortable shoes, the tell-tale squeak of nurses’ footwear, moving away from her. More silence. Awkward, loaded with a sentiment she can’t put her finger on. Within a couple of seconds, she can hear the sigh of movement on vinyl seats and pictures them, the two of them sitting close by, watching, waiting, willing her to open her eyes. What will she say to them? How is she supposed to react? Trying to calm her breathing, she waits a few seconds, then slowly drags her eyes open. It is surprisingly painful, as if a film of sandpaper is wedged between her eyelids. And that’s when she sees it - a vision of beauty, an angel framed by a halo of light filtering in from the window beyond. Peggy. Her back is upright, not slouched as Audrey imagined, and her dark hair is scraped back from her face in a thick ponytail. She is slim: no, thin. Very, very thin. Even more so than when she last saw her at the beach, and her eyes are downcast, her dark lashes glossy against the backdrop of autumnal sunshine behind her. Audrey wishes she could stop time, keep this perfect vision intact, hang onto it for forever. A keepsake to tuck away in her mind.
‘Hello Audrey. Just take it easy, don’t try to sit up. The doctor will be here shortly.’
The moment is gone, shattered into a thousand tiny fragments by the sound of his voice. Her blood turns to sand as she slowly tilts her head and sees him sitting there at the side of her bed, smiling, his mouth drawn into a grimace, his perfectly straight teeth bared as if in anger.
She nods and turns her head back to Peggy. She could stay like this for hours, just staring at her, taking on board every aspect of her daughter’s beautiful features. And they are beautiful. Even the scars. They are part of who she is, not something she should be ashamed of. She wants to say hello, to reach out and feel her daughter’s soft skin against hers but hasn’t the energy and also fears the repercussions of such a move. She needs to remember that Peggy hates her with every fibre of her being. Audrey has to earn that love back, show her that she wants to do everything she can to make it up to her, to catch up on those lost years. Which she will. Once she is better and out of here, she will do whatever is required. Because it will be easier now. The connection has been made. Peggy is here, everything is tangible. Anything is possible now. It’s all hers for the taking.
37
Rachel
The town is busy, which, in a way, is a good thing. More people to question, more faces to search for answers. The downside is that she is getting hard stares from certain prim-looking characters every time she puts a poster up. One old lady has already asked what the hell she thought she was doing defacing public property; ruining bus stops and lamp-posts that are paid for by tax payers’ hard-earned money. Rachel showed her the pictures of Sheryl, explained the situation but was met with a scowl and a stream of reasons why she should get herself off home and leave the police to carry out the job properly and not be out here stepping on their toes, messing up their work. Rachel wanted to ask what work, since they haven’t taken her claims seriously and believe her sister has gone off on some kind of weird sabbatical to find herself just because of a few stupid text messages. But she didn’t. She smiled and nodded and accepted the old lady’s speech with good grace, waited till she was out of sight, then continued plastering the posters around town, stopping passers-by, showing them her sister’s smiling face only to be met with a sad shake of the head before they moved on and continued with their day.
She refuses to give in, despite getting nowhere. She absolutely will not forget about her sister and leave her to the hands of the local police efforts. If it takes her till midnight to make some headway with this, then she will stay here to do it.
Newsagents, she discovers, are the most helpful.
‘Aye, course you can, love,’ the man behind the counter, in the tiny tobacconists, says to her when she asks if she can put a poster up in his window, ‘put it right in the middle so everyone can ‘ave a good look, see if they recognise ‘er.’
She thanks him profusely and moves on, going from shop to shop, some saying they would love to help but company rules state no posters, while others suck on their teeth a while before agreeing and allowing her to stick it up with the other bits of paper in the window, offering Xboxes and washing machines for sale.
The heavens open as Rachel grabs another handful of posters out of her backpack. Scurrying out of the fat droplets, she stands in a bus stop with her wad of papers.
‘You know her, then?’ a voice says behind her. Rachel swings round to see a man in his thirties staring at her with interest.
‘Yes. Yes, I do. Do you?’
His voice is soft as he speaks and he has a slight southern accent. Rachel tries to control her breathing and keep her anticipation under wraps. He may simply be making conversation. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. This might go nowhere, a complete dead end. She’ll no doubt go up plenty of those whilst searching for Sheryl.
‘Yeah, kind of,’ he smiles at her, a lopsided affair. He is unshaven and a slight sheen of grease co
vers his dark hair. She stands stock still, waiting for him to elucidate. A bus growls to a halt next to them. She stands to one side to let him pass but he waits and shakes his head, ‘This one isn’t mine.’
Rachel nods knowingly and watches as a throng of people filter onto the bus, jangling pockets full of money to find the right change. And then they are all gone, leaving her and this man alone under the cover of the green shelter. Bullets of water pelt the Perspex roof as the shower gets heavier, increasing in strength, dark clouds above releasing a torrent of rain on the town.
‘She was my counsellor. I used to see her once every few weeks but stopped once I got back on my feet, y’know?’
Rachel nods that she does know and smiles at him, ‘So you haven’t seen her for a while then, I take it?’
He nods and shrugs. ‘She was brilliant. Really helped me through some tough times but I stopped going earlier in the year. No need to continue, really.’
The rain continues to pelt the shelter and Rachel stares up at the clouds overhead, trying to stop the tears from escaping. When she looks back at him he is holding out his hand for her to shake. She takes it, his grasp firm and warm despite the plunging temperature.
‘I really hope she turns up. She’s an amazing woman.’
‘Yes. Yes, she is,’ Rachel says, the lump in her throat a hard stone of anguish.
A roar behind her sends her a shiver up her spine as another bus pulls in, throwing a spray of water into the gutter. She watches as a river of rain snakes its way down the glass, a mesh of dirty streaks, dark and dreary, like the mood she is carrying inside.
‘This is mine, I’m afraid,’ he says as he apologetically sidles past her clutching a fistful of money. He waits while a stream of people file off then turns to give her one last half-hearted smile before jumping aboard and disappearing inside. Rachel feels ridiculously bereft, as if the only link she had with Sheryl is gone. A town full of people and nobody knows anything. Fighting back tears, she steps out into the rain, a torrent of water washing the streets, thundering down on people sending them scurrying into shop doorways for shelter.
Head down, she picks up her pace and turns up a side street, ignoring the door to the practice where Sheryl’s office is based. No clues in there. Just a room where she met some of her clients. At least now the police have finally decided to move their arses they can access the files, look into some of her patients. A lot of them have gone through major issues in their lives and may have gotten too attached to her, done something stupid. God, she hopes not. The very thought of it makes her feel sick to her stomach. That’s always Sheryl’s problem. Too soft with people, too gullible when it comes to a sob story. Stopping, she thinks better of it and pulls out another poster, then sticks it up on the battered old door that leads to Sheryl’s office. Water runs down her back as she presses it firmly onto the wet surface, cursing the British weather under her breath.
‘Related to you, is she?’ The voice takes her by surprise. She turns to see a woman behind her, dyed blonde hair piled high on her head and a silver stud through her lower lip. She is in her late twenties and is scrutinising Sheryl’s picture so closely her eyes have narrowed to tiny slits. The rain appears to have no effect on this striking creature. Rachel stares at her flawless complexion and lacquered hair and nails. A tiny drop of rain slides down her forehead and over her eyelid, clinging to the dark lashes before she shakes her head slightly and blinks it away.
‘Yes, she’s my sister.’
‘Thought so,’ she replies pensively, ‘you can see the resemblance. Same shape nose. Ski slope. Not like my hooter.’ She brings her finger up and strokes the soft cartilage below her eyes as if to prove her point. ‘I see her about here quite a bit. She comes in the cafe where I work. Not seen her for a while though.’
Rachel feels her heart start up and has to take a deep breath to stop a squeal escaping.
‘Hope she’s okay. Seemed like a nice lady. Always left me a tip.’
She starts to walk away and Rachel reaches out to stop her. She wants to huddle somewhere warm and dry and demand that she tell her all she knows about Sheryl, beg her to start at the beginning and leave nothing out. But the studded lady has pulled away and is losing interest, her phone already pressed to the side of her head.
‘Was she with somebody or on her own?’
She stops and turns, her brow furrowed in confusion, her blonde hair threatening to topple down over her face as a blast of wind takes her by surprise, rattling its way past her in a rush, ’Huh?’
‘Sheryl? My sister! Was she alone or with somebody when you saw her?’
The woman shrugs and turns away then says something into the phone and turns back, her voice almost drowned out by the gush of the rain as it pounds the cobbled alleyway, ‘With someone! Always with someone. Sorry gotta go.’
And with that she is gone, her feet galloping through the puddles, her hand cradling her phone to her shock of white hair as she disappears out of sight. Rachel spends the next hour traipsing through town, sticking the last of the posters up anywhere she can - walls, windows – she’ll stick them on people’s backs if she has to. Only when they have all gone does she decide to head home. Soaking wet, her hair drips into her eyes, her beige raincoat now a dark grey colour as she trudges wearily back to the main road. She is too tired to make the mile-long journey home. Walking here seemed like a good idea at the time, given the lack of parking facilities but now she is bone achingly tired and freezing cold. She hasn’t the energy to walk back. Even her teeth hurt.
She passes the taxi rank and takes no time at all to make her decision. Swinging the door open she peers in and gets the nod from the driver. Shaking off the excess water, Rachel climbs in, grateful for the wall of warmth that hits her as she slides down in the seat and straps herself in.
‘Busy day, eh, love?’ the driver asks as he glances in his rear-view mirror and swings the car out onto the road.
Rachel grabs a tissue from her pocket before wiping her face and blowing her nose, ‘Yes you could say that.’ She stuffs the tissue deep in her pocket, leans her head back on the headrest and struggles to stop the tears from flowing. She only hopes somebody comes forward, recognises Sheryl from the posters, otherwise it will all have been for nothing.
‘Shopping day, was it?’ he asks as they head out of town, the car swinging through the narrow side streets.
‘No, no shopping today,’ she replies wistfully, staring out at the many cars parked one after another after another. A constant line of vehicles stacked up, all going nowhere.
‘Oh, okay,’ he says and remains silent.
‘I was out looking for my sister,’ her voice warbles as she speaks. She swallows hard, doing her best to keep it together.
‘A little one, is she? Got lost in town?’
‘What? No,’ Rachel half cries, her patience and energy waning by the second, ‘she’s my older sister and she’s a missing person. I’ve been out putting posters up around town. See if anybody remembers seeing her.’ Her words are sharp, clipped. She can’t help it. Desperation is setting in. She’s exhausted, wet, freezing cold, and beginning to fear the worst.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ the taxi driver says quietly and Rachel can tell he doesn’t know what to say to make any of it better. Nobody does. ‘Are you alike?’ he asks softly, ‘I mean I was thinking if I knew what she looked like I might have seen her, y’know? Be able to help maybe …’
Rachel wipes away a lone tear that’s managed to escape, ‘Some people say we do but I don’t think so.’
‘Right,’ he answers and she sees him take a long look at her side profile, ‘I dropped a lassie off a few weeks ago around here. Looked just like you she did.’
Rachel’s head buzzes. She swallows hard and tries to think straight. She can’t afford to get too excited, to jump to the wrong conclusions only to be let down. Again.
‘She had long blonde hair a bit like your colour,’ he says, ‘and she asked to be dropped off
back there in town.’
He has her attention now. Rachel shuffles round in her seat and watches him as he drives, ‘Whereabouts? I mean where did you drop her?’
‘Just next to the coffee shop. You know the one with the tables and chairs outside that are always blowing over?’ Rachel nods. She knows it well. Everyone does. Their flimsy furniture is often to be found clattering its way down the street when the wind gets up, which is pretty often round these parts.
‘She said she was meeting someone,’ he adds and Rachel feels her chest tighten.
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Like I said, longish blonde hair, blue eyes. Oh, and the one thing I do remember was her tattoo - a long snake that went all the way up her arm.’
Rachel feels herself being squashed, her hopes diminished with his words. Sheryl has no tattoos. She is terrified of needles.
They sit for a while. Her silence gives him his answer, ‘Not your girl then, I take it?’
She shakes her head and turns to stare out of the window so he can’t see her face, streaked with tears.
‘Right,’ he whispers as he begins to tap his fingers on the steering wheel as if he is thinking, trying to conjure up a mental image of the missing woman, ‘sorry ‘bout that. Wish I could have helped you more.’
‘Just here is fine,’ Rachel says as they round the corner of her street. The rain has eased up and she suddenly needs to get out of the car. He has turned the heater up and she feels as if she is choking.
‘You sure, love? You’re soaking through. I can drop you off at the door, no extra charge …’
Rachel feels more tears start up at his words, ‘That’s really kind of you but I feel like walking the last bit. I need to clear my head, it’s been a long day.’
