by Amy Cross
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, only for another beep to indicate that yet another review has been left.
My curiosity piqued, I take the phone and check what the fake Dora Ohme has written this time. Her latest review is on a book titled The Death of Elizabeth McGarrett, which looks to be some kind of ghost story. This time, the fake Dora has left a much longer review.
“Why do authors persist in writing about the dead, if they have no knowledge of the subject?” I read, and it's not hard to feel the reviewer's irritation. “Whoever wrote this book knows nothing about the way souls are viewed by creatures that inhabit the void. In particular, I was annoyed that the author suggested a soul would be taken simply because of where the body happened to die. The author clearly knows absolutely nothing about the soul auctions and how they truly work.”
I should stop reading and get on the road, but that phrase 'soul auction' seems to crop up in several of Dora's book reviews, so I decide to check out the next paragraph.
“I have my doubts that the protagonist in this book would ever be the subject of a soul auction,” the review continues. “Nothing in the book suggests that she would attract much interest at all. I fear that in reality, such a woman would either cross the void unharmed, or would simply be snatched from the darkness and pulled down to where the creatures usually dwell. The author of this book clearly thinks that his lead character is sufficiently well-rounded and interesting, but she is anything but.”
Clearly Dora Ohme, or the person writing reviews under her name, has strong feelings on this subject. In fact, I'm starting to wonder whether this particular reviewer is entirely right in the head.
“I only once saw the outcome of a soul auction,” I read, “and it was nothing like the nonsense presented in this so-called novel.”
Okay, now we're getting into the realm of fantasy.
“I saw a woman on the beach,” the review continues, “not thirty feet from my own front door, face down a demon that had clearly come to claim a soul he'd won at auction. I'll never forget the sight of that poor woman collapsing on the pebbles, or the sight of her baby clinging desperately to her body as its mother lay dead on the beach. Nor will I forget the sight of the woman's other child, a girl no more than four or five, racing along the shore as waves pounded the beach. Even now, thirty years later, I recall that horrific sight in great detail, and I even remember catching a glimpse of the creature that killed the woman. I looked into its eyes, and I immediately pulled my curtains tight shut. So that is how a soul auction unfolds, and how the dead are treated by these monsters. Ignore the nonsense presented in this book.”
Feeling a flutter of concern as I get to the end of the review, I immediately re-read the last paragraph. I tell myself that I'm jumping to conclusions, that I'm seeing connections and patterns where they don't exist, but at the same time I can't help noticing some of the specific details that this person mentioned.
A woman collapsing on the beach.
A baby clinging to her body.
Another child running to help.
And all of this happening just a few yards from Dora's cottage in Curridge.
My hands are shaking as I read the review again, and then I read it a fourth time. I keep searching for some indication that this is a sick joke, but whoever wrote this review seems to be very serious.
And whoever it is, he or she seems to be writing about the day – thirty years ago – when my mother collapsed and died right here on the beach in Curridge.
“I saw a woman on the beach,” I whisper as I read the review again, “face down a demon.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lizzie
Thirty years ago
“Oh, it was awful,” I continue with a laugh, before taking another sip of red wine. “I was, like, eighteen years old at the time and for the life of me, I couldn't unzip the bee costume. So I had to walk all the way home, first thing in the morning, right through the center of town and -”
Suddenly I burst out laughing as I remember the ridiculousness of the whole situation. I swore I'd only have half a glass tonight, but the guy already refilled me twice and I can tell that I'm getting a little tipsy. I really need to get some water and cut out the wine, but at the same time this is the first time since Rob's death that I've been able to relax, even for a second.
“Sweetheart?”
Feeling someone tapping my shoulder, I turn to find that the landlady is standing behind me.
“I've settled your girls down in the room,” she says, “but I think you should go up to them soon. Just to say goodnight.”
“Of course,” I reply, shocked, “but -”
Suddenly I see that Kate is no longer in the booth, and that her drawing equipment has been tidied away. Startled for a moment, I check my watch, only to find that somehow it's a little after 11pm.
“What the hell?” I stammer, before turning to the guy and seeing that he's a little amused by my confusion. “How did it get that late?”
“I'm afraid it's my fault,” he explains. “I kept you talking and evidently neither of us noticed the time.”
“Don't worry about a thing,” the landlady continues, “your girls are absolutely fine. But I do think it'd be best to get up there and check on them as soon as you can.”
“Yes, of course,” I mutter, getting to my feet. “I can't believe how time flew past.”
Genuinely shocked by myself, I feel as if I've just been the worst mother. I've been sitting here with this complete stranger, chatting away to him for more than six hours, and I barely gave my children a second thought. I remember sitting down at the bar and insisting that I could only drink half of a very small glass, and then somehow all these hours just rushed past unnoticed.
“Are you sure you can't finish your glass before you have to go?” he asks.
“No, I really have to get upstairs,” I reply, glancing around to make sure that nobody else is watching. I'd hate to be seen as a bad mother, although when I look at the landlady I see a hint of disapproval in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” I continue, “I genuinely lost track of the time.”
“Like I said,” the man says, getting to his feet and following me to the door that leads into the hallway. “It's entirely my fault. I'll let myself out the side door and be on my way.”
“I've never done this before,” I reply, heading through to the bottom of the stairs. “What's wrong with me? Why did I drink tonight?”
“Perhaps I pressured you.”
“Nobody pressured me.” I turn to him. “I'm an awful -”
Suddenly he leans closer and kisses me on the lips. It's just a brief peck, but then he stays close for a moment before trying again. I let the kiss linger for perhaps half a second, just long enough to feel his lips against mine, and then I pull away.
“I'm sorry,” he says, “I didn't mean to do anything inappropriate.”
“No, it's fine,” I stammer, “it's my fault. I mean, I'm sorry if I led you on.”
“You didn't. Not at all.”
“I just have to get upstairs to my girls,” I add, as I start heading up toward the landing. “Have a nice stay for the rest of your trip. I hope you enjoy Curridge. Goodbye.”
“Wait!” he calls after me. “Could I get your number?”
“That's really not a good idea,” I reply, quickly hurrying around the corner.
As soon as I'm out of sight, I lean back against the wall and listen to make sure that the man doesn't come up after me. To my immense relief, however, I hear the side door opening just a moment later, and finally he steps outside. The door shuts again, and then I hear his footsteps heading away across the pebbles.
Closing my eyes, I try to regather my composure, but I'm trembling with shock.
“Sober up, you bloody idiot,” I mutter under my breath. “You cannot be drunk.”
I pause, before opening my eyes and realizing that I'll be fine so long as I get to bed. I might have made a huge mistake by accepting a drink, but at
least nothing absolutely awful happened, and I guess this whole incident can serve as a cautionary reminder for the future.
Heading to the door at the far end of the corridor, I turn the handle and step into the room. As I do so, I hear the faint creak of the bed over by the window, and I spot Kate rolling over so that her back is turned to me. I swear, it's almost as if she's sensed already that I've been a bad person tonight.
Stepping over to Alice, I look down and see that she's fast asleep in the crib.
“Hey,” I say as I reach Kate's bed. “Sorry Mummy didn't come up sooner. Are you asleep?”
She doesn't reply, but I know she's awake. I briefly consider leaving her alone, but finally I reach out and place a hand on her shoulder.
“Kate? Are you mad at me?”
I wait.
Silence.
“I should have come up sooner and tucked you in,” I continue, “but -”
“Where's Mr. Puddles?” she asks suddenly. I can tell she's crying, even though she still has her back to me.
“I haven't been able to rescue him yet,” I explain, “but -”
“You promised I'd have him back tonight!”
“I know, but -”
“You always break your promises!”
“I'm trying to be -”
“You promised Daddy would be okay!”
I take a deep breath as I try to figure out how I'm going to make her understand. For a moment, I consider simply climbing into bed with her and giving her a cuddle, but I'm worried that approach might be too extreme. Finally I lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek, but she immediately pulls away.
“You smell like wine,” she mumbles.
I wipe my mouth.
“You always say things will be alright,” she continues, sniffing back more tears, “and they never are.”
“Well, sometimes we -”
“They never are!” she says firmly.
I can't help sighing.
“Let's just try to enjoy the rest of our holiday, okay?” I manage finally. “We've still got a couple of days left here at the beach, and there are so many fun things we can do. Tomorrow, how about we go for a walk in the forest and -”
“I hate you!” she screams, suddenly turning and lunging at me.
Startled, I fall back against the wall, but Kate lands against me and starts slamming her fists into my chest with shocking force.
“I hate you!” she yells at the top of her voice. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
Alice is crying now, but I can't force Kate away as her fists batter my chest and face.
“Stop!” I gasp, finally holding my arms up to protect myself from her fury. “Kate, please! Stop!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Alice
Today
“I thought you were heading home today,” the landlord says as I head back into the pub.
“Call me as soon as you get this message,” I tell Kate over the phone. “It's really important!”
With that, I cut the call and make my way over to the bar.
“I need to stay another night,” I tell the landlord. “Maybe two. Do you have a room?”
“Do I have a room?” He chuckles as he grabs a book from the other counter. “We're not exactly inundated with visitors at the moment, as you might have noticed.”
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” I continue as he starts writing my name on the relevant dates. “How long have you been running this pub?”
“Why? How old do I look?”
“Please, just tell me!”
He stares at me for a moment, before shrugging.
“It'll be twenty-five years come June,” he says finally. “But before that, I worked in the kitchen from the age of fifteen.”
“Do you remember a woman collapsing out on the beach, about thirty years ago?” I continue. “She had two children with her, a baby and a five-year-old girl.”
“I do remember that, as it happens,” he replies. “I remember the baby crying, and the other girl shouting for help. Everyone went running, but by all accounts it was too late. The poor woman had just keeled over and died.” He furrows his brow. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you know anyone who saw what happened?” I ask. “I mean, not just the aftermath, but anyone who actually saw the woman fall?”
“I don't know that I've ever heard anyone say that they were out there at the time, but I don't think there was any mystery about what happened. She had an aneurysm or something, didn't she?”
Taking a deep breath, I have to force myself to stay calm. Half an hour ago I was getting read to drive away, and now here I am talking to a complete stranger about the moment my mother died three decades ago. My hands are shaking and I'm starting to feel nauseous, and this whole situation seems completely unreal.
“It's been a while since I thought about that woman,” the landlord says. “Why are you interested? Did you know her?”
I open my mouth to tell him that I was the baby clinging to the body, but then I hear my phone buzzing. Pulling it from my pocket, I'm relieved to see that Kate is calling.
“I'm sorry,” I stammer, “I have to take this.”
Turning, I head back out of the pub and stop at the edge of the beach.
“So what's the big emergency?” Kate asks, sounding unimpressed. “I hope you know I'm in the middle of a mountain of work right now.”
“I'm in Curridge.”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“You're going to think I'm crazy, Kate.”
“I already think you're crazy.”
“Did you get my texts about the woman who died?”
“The woman who left a review of your new book?” she replies. “The woman you basically decided to stalk? Not cool, Alice. Not cool at all.”
“She saw Mum die.”
I wait for a reply, but all I hear on the other end of the line is silence. I guess I blurted that whole thing out a little too quickly.
“Kate?” I say finally. “Are you still there?”
“Of course I am,” she replies, and now she sounds distinctly stiff and uneasy. “I'm just not quite sure what you want me to say.”
“In one of her reviews,” I continue, “Dora Ohme mentions witnessing a woman's death right here on the beach at Curridge. It happened thirty years ago.”
“So? That doesn't mean it was Mum.”
“There was a baby clinging to the woman's body. And another little girl was running across the pebbles, screaming for help.”
Again I wait, and again Kate stays quiet.
“I know you don't like talking about this,” I add, “but -”
“Is this about the photo?” she asks, interrupting me.
“What photo?”
“Exactly, Alice. Is this about you trying to find a photo of Mum?”
“Of course not,” I reply, and now it's my turn to start sounding a little cautious. “This has got nothing to do with photos or -”
“Because we've tried everything,” she adds, interrupting me again. “I'm sorry we have such a small, fucked-up family, Alice, and I'm sorry that not one photo or video of Mum survived. I'm sorry all you've had to go on is my admittedly crappy descriptions, but running around in that little town isn't going to change anything. You're not going to magically stumble upon an old photo that satisfies your craving to see Mum's face.”
“I know that,” I mutter, feeling annoyed that she'd even suggest such a thing. “I'm not an idiot.”
“You've got to let it go.”
“I'm not here to find a photo of Mum!” I say firmly. “Dora Ohme wrote about seeing Mum on the beach, she wrote about the moment Mum died. Don't you think that's a bit of a coincidence? Don't you think it's worth checking out?”
“I think you're really reaching for justification here, Alice,” she says with a sigh. “Come home. Come back to London.”
“I'm going to stick around for one more day and see what I can dig up.”
&
nbsp; “Is your car still screwed?”
“My car's fine, but I just...”
Pausing, I realize I can't explain why I need to be here, not really. I guess it's something to do with all the coincidences surrounding Dora Ohme, and maybe it's also because of the strangely specific comments she's been making in her reviews. Still, I can't say any of that to Kate, because she'd write me off as being completely out of my mind. And to be fair, she might have a point.
“I don't have time to deal with this right now,” she says finally. “Alice, let me just say one more thing. Don't use this obsession with Mum as an excuse to avoid working on your book. You're smarter than that.”
“I'm not using anything as an excuse for anything,” I tell her.
“Yeah, well... Whatever. Give me a call tomorrow, when you're back in London. And make sure it is tomorrow.”
“I will. I swear.”
Spotting movement nearby, I turn and look along the row of cottages, just in time to see that Graham is making his way into Dora's cottage. I guess with the police gone, there's no reason for him not to go in there, but it still seems strange that he'd want to go inside when as far as I know the place hasn't been cleaned since the body was removed.
“I'll speak to you soon,” I tell Kate. “I promise. And don't worry about me. I'm fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lizzie
Thirty years ago
Standing in the bathroom, with cold morning light streaming through the window, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and see a faint but very noticeable bruise starting to show on my left cheek.
My daughter did that to me.
My sweet, beautiful, precious little Kate hit me so hard, she left me with a bruise on my face and several more bruises on my arms.
She only stopped last night after Kerry, the landlady, came running into the room to see what was happening. I was sobbing, and Kerry had to sit and comfort Kate while I took Alice out of the room. For a few minutes, Kate was still yelling at me as I walked Alice back and forth along the landing. At the time, I felt as if everything was spiraling out of control, whereas now I just feel numb as I hear Kate's screams echoing through my mind.
