The Girl Who Came Back

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘You’d have to ask them.’

  That does get a sigh, probably because he knows there’s not a lot he can use.

  ‘What now?’ he asks.

  I nod to the Black Horse. ‘Now I go and wait for my friends.’

  With that, I take a step towards the pub but there is one final question – this from the young newspaper man.

  ‘What do you say to the people who claim you’re an imposter?’

  That was something I didn’t expect.

  ‘Who’s saying that?’ I reply, far more aggressively than I meant.

  The reporter doesn’t want to meet my eye. He looks at his outstretched hand and the phone screen instead. ‘That’s what people are saying,’ he replies.

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘I’m not sure I should get into specifics…’

  I take another step away but he isn’t done.

  ‘Will you take a DNA test?’

  There’s a moment where I hesitate, unsure whether to reply or walk away. I probably should have ignored them in the first place but that sense of being the centre of attention is so powerful. Even though it’s not what I want, there’s a power to it; a satisfaction at being wanted. I wonder how people who are properly famous deal with it. There are stories of those who go on massive ego trips and I can sense that even in a small way. I don’t want money from my mother and yet I could ask for more or less anything and she’d probably agree. I could demand money from the media, not necessarily this pair, but others.

  In the end, I walk away. I definitely made a mistake by stopping but there’s not much I can do now. Ego over logic. I do wonder who planted the idea of the DNA test. There’s no way the journalist would’ve come up with it by himself because he’d have no reason to doubt anything. The police mentioned it, too. It’s not unexpected.

  Nattie and Rhys are already waiting in our booth of the Black Horse when I get inside. The usual crowd of full-time drinkers and fruit machine bandits are in and there is a collective turning of heads as I walk towards the booth.

  Chris is behind the bar again and, while the other patrons turn away after clocking me, he stares relentlessly. His pimply rash has spread from one side of his face to the other, the sort of severe acne with which only teenagers usually have to deal. I can’t work out if he has a lazy eye, or if it’s that he’s never quite gawking at something, more around it. He’s watching a spot close to me but not actually staring directly.

  I stop a few paces short of the booth and stop to stare back at him. ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

  When he realises he’s been clocked, Chris shakes his head and turns to the row of glasses behind the bar. I stay where I am until he makes another sideways glance in my direction and I hold my hand up and out. What are you looking at? I don’t need to say anything because he scurries away into the back room, leaving the bar temporarily unattended.

  Nattie and Rhys slide around to let me sit. They each have a drink in front of them and then Nattie asks if everything’s all right.

  I point a thumb towards the bar. ‘That Chris guy keeps staring at me.’

  ‘It is out who you are,’ Nattie replies. ‘I only told my mum, so don’t blame me. You could possibly blame her.’

  ‘Not that – he was staring a couple of days ago, before anyone knew. What’s his deal?’

  The two of them exchange a brief pouty-lip glance. Nattie shrugs: ‘He was accused of touching some girl a couple of years ago. I don’t think anything came of it – he was never in court or anything – but mud sticks round this place.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘No idea – it was a few years ago. I was too young.’ Nattie turns to Rhys but he shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t remember either,’ he replies. ‘I do remember my mum telling me not to talk to him though. I think he was homeless or something like that. You’d see him around the park during the day, hanging around and looking a bit shifty. Pete probably felt sorry for him, or something? I don’t know if he’s a genuine creep-o, or if he’s like those weird kids at school that stay weird forever. The blokes you see hanging around the underwear sections in department stores.’

  ‘Does he ever stare at you?’

  Nattie tilts her head. ‘Sometimes, I guess.’

  ‘It’s not only girls,’ Rhys adds. ‘It’s lads, too. Look.’ He nods to the bar and, sure enough, Chris is back behind it, staring towards the men at the quiz machine. Or staring close to the men at the quiz machine.

  ‘I’ve never had a problem with him,’ Rhys says.

  ‘Me either,’ Nattie adds.

  Perhaps because he realises we’re watching him, Chris turns to look at the three of us. We quickly look away and Nattie changes the subject.

  ‘Those reporters still outside?’ she asks.

  ‘Did you see them out there?’

  ‘No – but Pete booted them out about half-hour ago.’ She waits and then adds: ‘Did you tell them anything?’

  ‘They were asking about DNA tests…’

  It’s almost imperceptible but there’s another quick glance between Nattie and Rhys. ‘It does sounds a bit OTT,’ Nattie says. ‘Like some trashy talk show.’

  I pause, unsure if I should say it, and then reply: ‘Did somebody say something about a test?’

  The glance between the pair is no longer imperceptible. They each fully turn their heads, giving me an answer.

  ‘One of the journalists mentioned it when he was in here,’ Nattie says. ‘They knew you’d been staying upstairs and were asking around. That’s why Pete threw them out.’

  ‘Someone must’ve mentioned DNA tests to them…’

  Neither Rhys or Nattie reply but something’s changed and they are each suddenly reaching for their glasses.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  Nattie chews on the inside of her cheek before answering: ‘It’s just… this is what people are like. We believe who you are. Your mum believes you – but not everyone will. It’s that sort of village. People love their little rumours and whispering campaigns. Someone starts gossiping to someone else and the next thing you know, some guy from the newspaper is asking about DNA tests. That’s how things go.’

  Rhys continues: ‘If you end up staying in the village or even you don’t, you’ll always have this. People want everything to be a conspiracy. Like with those nine-eleven nutters, or the people who think the Tube bombings were done by MI5 or whatever. I guess if you have a DNA test, it shuts everyone up.’

  There’s a pause and then Nattie sums it up in a way with which I can’t argue: ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

  2014: Lily, 17

  There’s a moment where I wonder if Dad has changed the locks. A grey haze scratches at the edges of my eyes and there are intermittent swirly things that rush towards me until I blink them away. The street lights behind aren’t helping – partly because they’re not producing much light but mainly because the orange is burning into the colour of the swirly things and making me even dizzier.

  The key scrapes along the lock and it’s suddenly very funny. Swirly things. Heh. Swirly things are funny.

  My forehead is on the glass of the front door. I don’t remember resting there but it’s really cool and the sharpness makes me incredibly thirsty. There’s water inside, of course, except that my key’s not working.

  Actually, where is my key?

  It was in my hand a minute ago except—

  Heh, swirly things. All pink and green and orange and swirly.

  I wobble slightly as I press away from the glass and the path hurtles up, making me rock back and away from it. A few seconds pass while I try to steady myself, one hand on the door, the other—

  Oh, there’s my key. It’s still in my hand. Did I put it down or something?

  This time it slips seamlessly into the lock and, though it feels stiff, the key eventually turns and I fumble inside.

  The hallway is dark and I nudge the door with my shoulder, waiting for it to click back into place.
I should probably lock it, but when I reach for the catch, the small button in the centre leaps towards me and I can only make it go away by screwing my eyes tightly shut.

  That’s when the swirly things appear again. They’re not so friendly this time. The colours aren’t as bright and, rather than dancing for me, there’s a red swish that burns angrily.

  My head is thundering as I get into the kitchen. The cold of the fridge gives some respite but the light is too bright and I can’t focus properly on anything inside. In the end I stick my face under the kitchen tap and sup from it like a dog. The cool water makes everything feel better, evaporating the swirly things and somehow making it easier for me to see through the gloom of the kitchen. I also realise my key is still in my hand.

  The slurry of confusion clears from my head almost instantly from the water and I’m suddenly aware of what’s happened over the past few minutes. I’m in the kitchen, having fumbled my way into the house. The red digits from the clock on the oven burn 03:17 through the gloom and it feels every inch as if it’s three in the morning. I’ve been awake for far too long. I’ve drunk way too much. My feet, legs and hips hurt from dancing and generally being on my feet.

  I head into the living room without turning on any lights. The lounge chair is calling, if only to help me get off my feet. It’s dark, the only light coming from the clock on the cable box and the vague orangey glow of the outside light through the curtains.

  ‘Hi.’

  It feels like I jump so high that my head scrapes the ceiling. I’m sure I yelp, possibly scream but everything happens in such a fraction of a second that I’m not entirely sure.

  Dad is sitting in the lounger, apparently wide awake.

  ‘Have you been up all night?’ I ask. My voice is croaky but firm enough. It doesn’t betray my evening.

  ‘I could ask you the same.’

  I move onto the sofa, resting my head against the comfortable corner cushion and curling my legs up. The room is so dark that I can only vaguely make out his outline.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘You’re seventeen, Lil. That’s all. I’m still responsible for you.’

  ‘I was only out with Zoe.’

  ‘How’d you get home?’

  ‘In a taxi.’

  ‘Where’d the money come from for that? You don’t have a job and it wasn’t from me.’

  There’s an edge to his voice and it’s obvious something has changed.

  ‘Zoe paid.’

  It’s the first thing that falls into my mind but an obvious lie.

  ‘Zoe?’

  ‘Right – she got some money off her mum.’

  ‘So Zoe bought you drinks all night? Paid for your taxi? Paid for entry, or whatever else you spent…?’

  From nowhere, there’s a pneumatic drill going off at the front of my head. There’s a dull throb underneath as well. The double whammy of drunken headaches.

  ‘Can we do this another time?’ I say.

  ‘What’s wrong with your head?’

  ‘Tired, that’s all.’

  With a flick of his wrist, he flips something across the room, which lands on my lap. I have to pick it up to realise it’s a small ziplock polythene bag.

  ‘Sure it’s not something to do with those…?’

  I run my thumb across the half-dozen disc-shaped tablets in the packet. There’s no chance of riding this out.

  ‘What were you doing in my room?’

  ‘That’s your answer? I find drugs in my daughter’s bedroom and she’s worried about how I found them, not why she has them. If you want to know, I was emptying your bin and – as you clearly know – they were taped to the underside of your desk. I wasn’t snooping, though perhaps I should.’

  He sighs long, waiting for an answer I don’t provide.

  ‘What are they?’ he asks eventually.

  ‘It’s just a bit of E, Dad. Everyone does it.’

  ‘Everyone? Who are you hanging around with?’

  I have no reply. What’s the point in saying Zoe’s name when he already knows that?

  ‘Are you taking them yourself?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve tried it. Not really my thing.’

  ‘Are you dealing?’

  This time he waits and waits. We sit in the darkness for what feels like an age.

  ‘Does it matter?’ I reply.

  Even longer passes. Dad doesn’t move and neither do I. The night is filled with his disappointment and it hurts so much more than the headache.

  It’s a really long time until he speaks again. When he does, it’s more of a sigh than a statement. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, Lil. Do you think your mother would be proud of you? Of your school results? The going out all the time? Now this?’

  The breath catches in my throat and it feels as if my tonsils have swollen to twice their size. There’s a massive lump that I can’t swallow.

  I can’t speak, so Dad does. ‘I’m not saying I’ve covered myself in glory,’ he says. ‘I’ve made mistakes. I know what I’ve done… but this. C’mon, Lil… what were you thinking?’

  We sit in the dark for another long while. The only clock in the living room sits high on the wall and is shrouded by shadow.

  ‘I wanted to get caught.’

  The words are out before I can take them back.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So somebody would ask me why.’

  ‘I’m asking you why.’

  More silence. I’m trying to think of the words and then they come. The sentences I’d practised in bed over and over but never spoken. Dad can do nothing but listen in increasing horror and fury as I tell him about Uncle Alan.

  2015: Lily, 18

  The police car stops me dead. I’m at the corner of our road, facing the house and it’s parked directly outside: one single white vehicle with fluorescent stripes along the side. The word POLICE blazes bright along the street.

  Dad.

  I race across the road but in the handful of seconds it takes for me to get to the other kerb, the front door opens. And there he is: my father is fine. He’s smiling and happy, cracking a joke with a pair of police officers who are a little in front of him. The three of them all shake hands and then the officers return to their car and pull away as I watch on.

  Dad is about to head back inside when he spots me a little way up the street. He hesitates, the door in one hand as he waves with the other. My heart is still racing as I try to calmly walk to the house but Dad must see it in my face.

  ‘You all right, Lil?’

  ‘I… um… I saw the car and I thought…’

  It takes him a moment to realise and then he’s apologising, even though it’s not his fault. ‘Oh, Lil, come here…’

  I do and he hugs me close. We’ve not done this for a long time and it’s only now that I realise how much I’ve missed it. I might be eighteen but sometimes there’s nothing better than being that little girl.

  He releases me and then we’re in the house. ‘They were asking about shed thefts,’ Dad says. ‘Someone broke into the one two doors down and they wanted to know if I’d heard anything. There have been a few in the local area.’

  We move into the kitchen, where there are three upturned mugs on the draining board.

  ‘I should’ve thought,’ Dad says. ‘After everything with your mother. Did you think I was…?’

  He tails off, unable to say the word ‘dead’.

  The problem is, that’s not what I was thinking at all. It should have been. One time it would’ve been.

  Dad realises and then he slumps back against the fridge. ‘Oh, Lil…’

  We stare at each other for a moment and there’s a moment of absolute clarity where it feels like he can read my mind. He knows what I’m thinking.

  ‘What happened, Dad?’

  He shakes his head and moves into the living room, switching on the television and slumping into the lounger. I follow, putting myself between
him and the TV and then snatching the remote control from the armrest.

  ‘Lil…’

  ‘It’s been nearly a year, Dad.’

  He scratches his head and then pinches the top of his nose. All of a sudden, he seems very old. The wrinkles in his face are deeper, the muscles on his arms that used to bulge when he spun me around have shrunk.

  He’s very, very human.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ he replies. He didn’t before, but he sounds tired now. ‘You’ve turned it around, Lil. Retaken your exams, you’re doing what you always should’ve done. What does it matter?’

  I squat down and sit on the floor in front of him, almost like it’s story time.

  It feels as if he’s ageing in front of me. He squeezes his nose again and the folds of skin on his knuckles almost crinkle back on themselves. There’s something bone-shiveringly horrifying when it becomes clear that parents are mortal. To most kids, mums and dads are superheroes; the fountains of all knowledge and wisdom. They can do anything… until they can’t. I learnt that when Mum died and now it feels like I’m learning it all over again.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ he says quietly.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Because there’s no going back afterwards.’

  ‘I want to know.’

  He nods crisply and that’s that. He jumps up and tells me to get my jacket. A couple of minutes later and we’re in the car. Dad doesn’t say a word as he drives off the estate and heads for the ring road. It’s not long before we’re surrounded by green, the roads narrow, the hedges high. The soundtrack is some play on Radio Four but all I hear are voices talking at one another. The words don’t go in and I don’t risk saying anything.

  It’s around fifteen minutes before Dad checks his mirror and indicates, before turning off the road. He stops on a gravelly lay-by next to a wide metal gate between two hedges and then switches off the engine.

  ‘Is this it?’ I ask.

  Dad doesn’t reply, opening his door and rounding the car until he’s standing next to the gate. I follow, but it feels as if we’re in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask.