The Alibi Girl

by C. J. Skuse

Matilda told such dreadful lies, it made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes… that night a fire did break out, you should have heard Matilda shout. For every time she shouted Fire, They only answered Little Liar. And therefore when her aunt returned, Matilda and the house were burned.

  It goes round and round my head – an earworm eating all my other thoughts until the other thoughts rise up and bite back. Neither me or Neil could have prepared for this. I had been preparing to find Ellis’s body, not Ellis’s victim. Neil had been preparing to find nothing. All we could do was breathe, and even that was difficult through our jumper cuffs as the smell was almost intolerable.

  Matilda told such dreadful lies…

  But Ellis didn’t tell lies, did she? She really was being followed – by the detective I hired. And by this guy. She did have silent phone calls. She was sent a catalogue full of funeral accessories. Someone did kill Tessa Sharpe thinking it was her. And it was this guy who did it all. Whether Neil was ready to admit that or not.

  Halfway through helping Neil remove two more kitchen boards to give us better access to the body, he stops altogether and wipes his gloved hand over his face.

  ‘Stop stop stop, we can’t. I need to call this in now.’

  ‘Call it in? But if you call it in—’

  ‘It’ll be a murder investigation, yeah, I know. But that’s what we’re dealing with now, isn’t it? She’s killed a man.’ He stands up, rubbing his knees and flexing his feet.

  ‘No, we can’t report this to the police. They’ll be looking for her.’

  ‘I thought you wanted the authorities to look for her.’

  ‘But they’ll arrest her,’ I say. ‘She’ll do time for this.’

  ‘I’ve got to call this in,’ he repeats, wearily, removing his phone from his jeans. ‘And if you want another reason other than doing the right thing, then Tessa Sharpe. If this bastard killed her before he tried to kill Ellis, then the police need to know.’

  ‘Why do they?’ I ask, standing up to face him. ‘Tessa Sharpe’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, and her family need to know why.’

  ‘No,’ I say, reaching across and holding his hand over the phone. ‘Don’t.’

  …it made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes.

  His grey eyes stare at me. ‘She’s killed him. He’s been dead for days.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I can smell him,’ I say, barely stifling my own nausea. ‘But you can’t have Ellis arrested for this.’

  ‘Foy, you’re not suggesting—’

  ‘You can’t have her arrested for this, Neil. If what you said is true, she did this in self-defence. Right?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but—’ He rubs his mouth and nose. ‘I don’t have a choice. Look what she’s done.’

  ‘I don’t care what she’s done. As far as I’m concerned she’s killed a murderer and a rapist. She’s done the world a favour. She’s done Tessa Sharpe a favour too.’

  ‘The woman’s dead! What does it matter to her now?! And even if this was self-defence, Ellis needs to face up to what she’s done.’

  …that night a fire did break out…

  ‘Don’t you think she’s been through enough? So she goes on remand for weeks on end, then she goes through a trial, then she has to relive this whole nightmare in court. She knows it was wrong, that’s why she’s run away. She’s scared, and this is what she’s scared of. And she knows now that this is really serious, and there are consequences.’

  ‘We’ve got to hand this over, Foy.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘She’ll go to prison. She won’t survive in there. You know what she’s like. She can’t cope with the outside world, let alone an adult prison.’

  …you should have heard Matilda shout.

  ‘Well what do you want me to do? Huh? Take the rap for her? Hide this back under the floorboards and hope nobody notices the stink?’

  ‘You can deal with this,’ I tell him. ‘You know ways of dealing with this. People who can deal with this.’

  ‘What, because I work with the police? They’re not all bent. It’s not like Luther.’

  ‘You can make this go away. If you really wanted to.’

  ‘Foy, for Christ’s sake, no I can’t. I’m not in the police, I can’t bend the rules.’

  ‘Yeah, you can. You must know someone. Or somewhere.’

  He stares at me. He looks down at the body. Down at the scattered floorboards. The rug. He looks back at me. ‘You can’t be suggesting that.’

  ‘He’s off the grid, you said. Nobody’s looking for him, he’s a lone wolf. God knows what he did to Ellis before she stabbed him. I’d say justice has already been served. You can’t expect her to pay for this. She’s not like you and me. She’s… a child.’

  ‘Foy, please don’t ask me to do this.’

  ‘I’m not asking you,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m not asking you.’

  Neil rubs his mouth for the longest time and stands back by the breakfast bar. ‘You can’t be here.’

  ‘It’s alright. I think I know where to find her.’

  ‘You do?’

  I shrug out of his coat and place it on the back of one of the stools. ‘I need to go to her. You do what you need to do. I’ve said my piece.’ I rummage about in my rucksack for my North Face coat and pull it out, smoothing through the creases. ‘I want to be the first one to find her. I have to be.’

  ‘It’s getting late. You can’t go now.’

  ‘Tomorrow it’ll be five days since she went missing. She can’t wait for me much longer. I’m going.’

  And therefore when her aunt returned, Matilda and the house were burned.

  I use the toilet before I leave, grabbing my things and heading for the front door. John Knapp’s body lies still wrapped in the lino in the centre of the kitchen floor, a mummy in its tomb. Neil closes the door of Ellis’s flat carefully and sees me out. I turn to him on the doorstep and for a second I think he’s going to close the door on me but at the last moment he leans in and we kiss. Solid and hungry, desperate and warm. And after the kiss, we become a hug. Tight and safe.

  ‘I’ll sort it, okay?’ he whispers. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  I don’t want to let him go. As we release he rests his forehead against mine.

  ‘I hope I’m not too late.’

  I buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at Frankly Services. I haven’t smoked for years but tonight I’m drawn to them like the Little Mermaid being beckoned into Ursula’s underwater cave. They promise me freedom from the chronic anxiety marauding through my body, and I weaken under their heady influence. Anyone would.

  One of the loneliest places on earth is a service station in the middle of the night. At first sight it’s inviting and warm and everything glows neon and stinks of fresh coffee. But times like these it just reminds you of how big and commercial and fake the world is. And how alone you really are.

  There are tired families milling about, reading magazines, hand-dryers echoing around the shop units from the bathrooms, a hen party hollering and flashing their tits at a stag party in the arcades. I get a double espresso and a toastie from Costa, use the loos and, after topping up my petrol, I’m on my way again, out into the freezing night in my rental car. The weather report by the time I reach Preston warns of snow flurries in the South West but it’s not too bad until I reach Bristol. Another hour or so to go, traffic-willing. I will make it before it hits too heavy. I will get to her.

  I only mean to have one cigarette, to take the edge off, but I end up going through the pack. Adrenalin kicks in around Clevedon at 5 a.m. and by the time I get into Taunton, I’m out of fags, patience and my petrol light is flashing for the second time. It is snowing hard now, and I have the wipers on full-pelt. The radio is warning of two inches of snowfall. I will walk the rest of the way if I have to. I have good boots. I have my coat. I need to get to her.

  Maybe our knights will save us, Foy.

  No, we’ll save us this time, Ellis. We can u
se our own swords.

  My phone rings as I reach the large roundabout near the retail park. It’s Neil. I can’t get to it in time as it cuts out but within a minute it bings a voicemail message.

  ‘Foy? It’s Neil. I’ve been to the bus station. Asked to see their CCTV of the night she went. She took a bus to Bristol very late. So it looks like you’re on the right track anyway. The other problem… is sorted. Let me know if there’s any news. Bye.’

  He says nothing more. No more clues about Knapp, or if he had the body in his car when he went to the bus station, nothing. I get the feeling I’m not going to find out either. I wonder if he went over the sea wall. I wonder if the furious tide opened its hungry jaws and ate him up.

  It’s six fifteen in the morning when I finally turn the car into the long, barren white stretch of Long Lane. Dread pumps through me like poison. In my head, so many times, I had imagined myself back here. I open the window and a freezing crisp breeze pumps in as I round the perilously icy corners into Carew St Nicholas.

  None of the buildings have changed, all still standing at different heights with their roofs of thatch, tile and slate. There’s still the same sign on the road, half-hidden by brambles and thorns – Welcome to Carew St Nicholas – a Thankful Village. Please drive carefully. But the little wooden sign that had stood on the green for years – Slow Down, Ducks Crossing – has gone. So have all the ducks.

  The church of St Nicholas perches on its hill above the churchyard. The war memorial. The Old Cider House. They’re all still standing too. I round the bend into the main street and I expect to see the shop and the post office but they’ve both gone – no metal pavement signs advertising Cornettos swinging in the wind. They’re terraced houses now, with hatchbacks parked on gravel hard standings.

  The pub is still there and I’m filled with the sight of it as I turn into the car park through the open gates. The Besom Inn. I don’t want to be here. It’s a time warp of happy memories and sad losses and it doesn’t feel right to be standing here anymore. The new owners have painted the exterior walls of the pub duck egg blue – it was white when we had it – and it doesn’t suit it at all. The sign’s still there which I’m both happy and sad to see – my dad hand-painted it. I park up beside a building I don’t recognise. It used to be the skittle alley. Now it’s four mini chalets for B&B guests called Besom B&B. Over the back wall is the churchyard.

  I didn’t want to look at the headstones but my head automatically turned that way and I spot them instantly – Mum and Dad, next to one another, between Mary Brokenshire and the village witch, Bridget Wiltshire, all of them topped with thick drifts of snow. The sight doesn’t upset me as much as I thought it would.

  Across the car park, the beer garden is smaller than I remember – they’ve moved the fence to make the back garden larger, and there’s some building where half the garden used to be. A shed or storage unit. Ugly and modern. It’s tables and chairs now. It’s like we were never here at all. The handprints in the cement at the bottom of the climbing frame have long since been dug up and grassed over. Our initials in the fence post, made with compasses after school one day – no sign of them. All of the play equipment – the climbing frame, the swings, the see-saw – have vanished. Dad’s bonfire patch, grassed over. All the trees cut back to stumps.

  And with an enormous ache I realise – the treehouse has gone too. Our castle. That’s where I’d convinced myself all the way here that Ellis would be hiding.

  Desperation kicks in then. I can’t think of anywhere else to go. Do I call Neil? Do I get back in the car? Was there somewhere else we went as children she may have run to? Panic jumps in and every other rational thought splashes out. There’s no poem I can call on either. Everything’s silent and white and the snow’s still drifting down silently. There’s no cars troubling the new blanket of snow on the road. No dog walkers. No people at all. It’s like I’m stuck in a silent nightmare except everything’s real. The one thing that kept me going during the night was the thought that she would be here, waiting for me. But she’s not.

  ‘ELLIS!’ I shout, void of all other options. ‘ELLIS!’ Our voices used to echo here, our laughter would ring out all around the village, but there’s so many new houses on the hilly climbs surrounding the village now, nothing comes back. Long gone are the views and the centuries-old trees. It’s all rendered brick and uPVC windows now. But it doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is her.

  ‘ELLIS!’ My voice doesn’t carry. Nobody comes.

  I trudge round to the front of the pub and rap on the door. After an age and a lot more knocking, a light goes on upstairs in the room that used to be Paddy’s. Next to the lounge. Next to the back stairs where me and Ellis used to steal crisps.

  There’s a small rectangular sign above the pub door. Roger and Miriam Bartram, Licenced to sell Beers, Wines and Spirits to be Consumed on these premises. It used to read Michelle and Stuart Keeton. I swallow a gulp of tears.

  ‘What’s going on? Who’s there?’ comes a groggy growl above me.

  I stand back and look up, the snow falling heavily now onto my face. I can barely see him. For a split second once my eyes have adjusted, I think it’s my dad leaning out – he’s the right age – but it dawns on me too quickly that it’s the current landlord, his eyes all thin and puffy.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you up but I’m looking for somebody.’

  ‘Who?’ he barks.

  ‘A girl, a woman. She’s about my age, and she’s got red – black hair down to here, brown eyes, she’s about my height, I think—’

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ he grunts.

  ‘Yes I do, and I’ve driven through the night from up near Blackpool to get here. Have you seen a woman with black hair and brown eyes, my height and age? That’s all I want to know. Then you can get back to bloody sleep.’

  ‘No, I ain’t,’ he barks and slams the window. I stand there for moments, looking out across the road at the silent rows of cottages, at the curtain twitching in one of them. I’m about to start calling for Ellis again when there’s another noise above me. I’m expecting a bucket of piss to come pouring out on me this time but it’s a woman in her dressing gown, a fluffy pink one, like Mum used to wear.

  ‘Is everything alright, love?’

  I look up at her. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘My cousin is missing and I think she might be round here somewhere. Have you seen a woman with black hair, brown eyes, about my height in the last few days? Please can you think for a minute? It is urgent. She’s missing. She could be dead by now, I don’t know.’

  ‘Sorry, love, I don’t think so. Oh,’ she stops.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Actually, we did have a girl here a few days ago, but she didn’t have black hair, she was blonde. And she seemed a bit odd.’ My heart sinks. She can’t mean Ellis. Until she says, ‘I think it was a wig though. It didn’t look right on her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. She did have blue eyes though. She came in, ordered a basket of chips and chicken nuggets and asked to have it out in the beer garden which I thought was strange because it was so cold. She said she wanted to see the treehouse.’

  ‘Oh my god, that was her, yes! That would be her!’

  The woman frowns. ‘Course, she was very disappointed when I said it wasn’t there anymore – said she used to come here as a kid. What’s the big deal with it anyway? We gave it to the school for their playground.’

  But I don’t hear anymore, my legs are going and I turn and go with them, in the direction of Parsonage Lane towards our old primary school. The snow is thick underfoot – no way would I get the car up here – and the cold creeps in through some crack in my boots into my socks. I keep running, keep heaving myself through for two miles, though it feels like five.

  I reach the school driveway, boiling hot in my coat, my eyes watering with the whiteness of the snow. The school gates are closed. I run around the back via the little alleyway and am relieved to see the h
ole in the chicken wire fence is still there, though I can barely get through it now. Once inside, I look around and head straight for the playground. And I see it – the treehouse. In the corner underneath the trees. On the ground. Health and safety. No window boxes anymore. Not blue as it used to be but black and drawn all over in colourful chalk.

  There’s something inside it. At the back. Or is it my eyes? A bundle of clothes. A sleeping bag. Someone’s in there! Please be her, I think as I race towards it. I can barely see in the heavy snowfall but it has to be her, I think. There’s nowhere else she’d go. Please. Please.

  ‘Ellis?’ I call out. ‘ELLIS?’ I cry.

  I drag myself heavily and breathlessly through the snow like a butterfly in glue. Heart pounding. Legs like jelly. Tears freezing on my cheeks.

  ‘Ellis?’ I shout as I ease my way inside the treehouse.

  The bundle doesn’t move. I tear at it, searching for a face or an arm or anything inside it. And then I find her, right at the bottom, underneath all the clothes she’s brought with her and wrapped up in a sleeping bag. It’s her. My Ellis.

  ‘Ellis!’ I grab her arms and shake her. Her face is cold to the touch. I shake her again. ‘Ellis! You wake up now, you wake up now. Ellis! I’m here, I’m here now. It’s Foy!’

  Her eyes open a sliver. And she sees me. ‘Chelle?’ she croaks. ‘Auntie?’

  ‘No, Ellis, it’s me. It’s Foy.’ My tears fall on her face but she doesn’t flinch. She’s so cold she can’t feel them. Her lips are so dry.

  ‘Foy?’ she mutters.

  I wipe my cheeks. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I think I’m dying, Foy.’

  ‘Ellis? Ellis!?’ She slips back into unconsciousness and doesn’t answer me again.

  I hold her close to me, as though some of my life will go into her. Something crinkles – a large piece of paper, tucked into the front of her coat. I pull it out – it’s a note, written on the back of a painting of some woman with weird eyebrows. A confession. Everything she did, everything she lied about. It’s addressed to Neil.

  ‘Ellis, please wake up. Please.’ I throw down the note and tear off my coat, wrapping that around her as well, even though she’s already well insulated. But she’s still so freezing to the touch. She’s been out here for so long. Five whole days. But I’m not too late. I’m here now. She’s alive now, she’s talking to me.