Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  ‘Coincidence, good luck, call it whatever you want. I was bloody lucky he was there. You should be thanking him, Iain.’

  ‘Coincidence. Do you honestly believe that?’

  ‘I’ve never had reason to think otherwise.’

  ‘Charlotte,’ he says, his voice softening a little. ‘Baby, you don’t remember everything about that day.’

  I feel a little sick. True, I can’t yet recall what I did that day, in the hours leading up to the accident, but I know my memory will return to me. I’ve gone over it many times in my head. Nothing in the weeks or days leading up to that moment have any relevance in any of this. I’m sure.

  I’m sure.

  ‘You’ve never once mentioned any concerns to me about that day,’ I say quietly. The room’s spinning a bit. I should sit down really but I don’t want to be here with Iain right now.

  I have to get out. I turn to leave. My fingers grasp the door handle.

  ‘I never mentioned any concerns before because you were recuperating and I didn’t want to stress you out and hinder your recovery. The doctors said you’d get your memory back in time and not to force it too much.’

  ‘John told everyone what happened. That’s why Paul Selby was arrested. He’s the one going on trial.’ I turn to him, and I feel betrayed, the accusations he’s obviously reluctant to just say out loud.

  ‘I know, but that’s not the issue here. You should’ve been at work that afternoon, not on that road.’

  ‘Why are you doing this now? Why never back then?’

  ‘Don’t you get it?’

  ‘Obviously not!’

  ‘It was important for us, for Elle too, that nothing set you back. You seemed ready to give up.’

  ‘On myself maybe, but not my family – not on you, and not on Elle.’

  ‘You’ve caused Elle some problems.’

  My eyes flick to his and he immediately realises he’s said too much, gone too far.

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  He stumbles over his words, like he can’t get them out quick enough.

  ‘I think you’re stifling her and I think she’s finding ways to deal with it that aren’t good for any of us.’

  CHAPTER 24

  CHARLOTTE

  ‘All I’ve done is try and keep Elle safe and be a better mother.’ I’m so angry right now I could spit.

  ‘What’s wrong with Elle?’ I say. I walk further into the room, so I can see his face, his eyes, see just what’s going on. ‘If there’s something you’re not telling me about our daughter, then you must tell me now.’

  ‘OK, I think she’s been stealing money.’

  Whatever it was I was expecting, it wasn’t that.

  ‘Elle? Stealing? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Wake up, Char!’

  He looks like he’s shrunk in stature now, like all the stuffing’s been knocked out of him.

  ‘The business is haemorrhaging money, costs are going up, but there’s no increase in custom to cushion it, and here you are, throwing some charity event we can’t afford. Even with the donations, it’s a hit I didn’t want to take. You’re investing too much in what’s going on.’

  I knew this would come up at some point.

  ‘What’s this got to do with Elle?’

  ‘Charlotte, she’s stealing money.’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re telling me you haven’t noticed money go missing – a fiver here, a tenner there? My bank card, the one I use for the business itself, went missing the other day for a few hours. Elle came home from school and later on it was back in my wallet.’

  I don’t know what to say. This is too much.

  I remember the missing money I didn’t remember spending, but the withdrawal receipt there as plain as day, proof that I’d drawn it out. I’d put that forgetfulness down to the after-effects of the accident.

  ‘All this,’ he says, gesturing behind him, outside, ‘is just about keeping up with appearances, isn’t it?’

  I can’t even look at him right now. How could he have kept these things from me?

  ‘Why haven’t you said anything before?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to set you back, but I can’t go on ignoring it.’

  I blanch. ‘What do you mean by setting me back?’

  He rolls his eyes, and buries his face in his hands. ‘Seriously? You really need to ask? I feel like we’re not the same any more, physically or emotionally. There are times I feel like I struggle to get through to you, and I have to wonder . . .’ He trails off and I know what he’s thinking.

  ‘Ask me,’ I say, defiant. ‘Go on.’

  He looks torn, as if the words are hard to say. ‘All right . . . are you seeing John?’

  ‘How can you think that?’

  ‘Just tell me the truth, Charlotte, because there are times when I know you’ve lied about where you’ve been, who you’ve been with, and if it is John, you need to come clean and tell me now. Stop treating me like a mug.’

  I’m thrown by this. What is he talking about?

  ‘This is bullshit,’ I say. ‘Who’s been filling your head with all these lies?’

  ‘I know you’ve lied before.’

  ‘If I’ve lied, tell me, where’s your proof?’

  The bedroom door swings open. ‘That’ll be me.’

  I turn and see Savannah in the doorway. If she’s embarrassed or feeling awkward at hearing our argument, she certainly isn’t showing it.

  Iain goes to her. ‘There’s no need, please go back downstairs.’

  ‘I told you, so I feel responsible,’ she says.

  Iain is shaking his head and inside I am seething. At them both.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to overhear all this,’ he says.

  She looks sheepish. ‘I came looking for you both. I could hear raised voices from the hallway.’

  Iain’s got hold of her arm now, gently trying to steer her from the room.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to know what you’ve done, Savannah. What lies have you been filling my husband’s head with?’

  She looks at me as if I’ve just called her the worst names possible.

  ‘Savannah’s been a good friend to you,’ Iain says, turning to look at me.

  I scoff. ‘Filling your head with nonsense isn’t being a good friend.’

  Savannah comes towards me and Iain closes the bedroom door behind her.

  ‘I’ve always tried to be a good friend,’ she says. ‘To the both of you. When Iain called me once to ask for you, I told him you weren’t there. He said you’d told him you were with me, but you weren’t.’

  I narrow my eyes at her, trying to work out what she has to gain from lying.

  ‘So, were you with John?’ Iain says and his tone is so aggressive that even Savannah places her hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him.

  ‘I don’t even know when this is supposed to have happened,’ I say. ‘And I am not going to stand here listening to you tear me, my integrity, apart.’ I point at Savannah. ‘Shame on you.’

  ‘On me? No, Charlotte, I’ve always been on your side and I’ve tried to help you get through the last six months. We both know John is no good for you. I worry about you.’

  I let out a hollow laugh, I can’t help it. I’m starting to finally see that she might indeed have some kind of ulterior motive.

  ‘You told him about me seeing John the other week.’

  She can’t look me in the eye.

  ‘Iain and Elle should be your first priority,’ she says at length.

  I see red. Before I know it, I lash out and I catch her hard in the face, the slap sounding a crack in the air.

  Her head reels around, ponytail whipping to one side. She falls into Iain. She grips her cheek and turns to look at me, shocked more than anything.

  They both are.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ I spit, jabbing my finger in the air at her and I shove past them both and run down the stairs.

>   I want to cry. Need to cry, but I won’t do it here in front of everybody.

  I bump into Ruth as I cross the green but I can’t stop.

  She calls after me, something about releasing the doves for the minute’s silence, but I can’t see for the tears clouding my vision

  I see John out of the corner of my eye and I keep going. I quicken my step when he spots me.

  I hear him coming after me.

  His hand grabs my arm and I swing around with the force. He catches me against him. ‘Whoa, Charlotte, what the hell’s wrong?’

  He sees the tears fall now.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He realises what he’s said. ‘Obviously you’re not, but . . . tell me what’s happened?’

  ‘Leave,’ I say. ‘He knows you’re here, so please, just leave.’

  ‘You mean Iain?’

  I pull away from him.

  ‘He can’t tell you who you can and can’t see, Char.’

  ‘Leave now, before you make everything worse.’

  His face is serious. ‘No.’

  I try to pull away.

  ‘Why do this to yourself?’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come with me? We can go somewhere, talk, see if we can’t make this better for you.’

  I place the palms of both hands on his chest and shove him away.

  He releases me and I run, my mind wanting to return to a simple kind of nothingness I don’t want to wake from.

  CHAPTER 25

  CHARLOTTE

  I’d been running for what must have been at least a mile. When a stitch started to tear at my side, I slowed to a jog and then finally a walk.

  After my argument with Iain I need to clear my head. After the harsh words and the fact I assaulted my so-called best friend, I don’t care if I walk alone for ever.

  I’d run from John and kept going with my head down, just kept going as if my body was on autopilot, navigating some way out of this mess.

  I hadn’t any destination or route in mind. I just let my mind wander, let everything that has happened to us flood my senses.

  I should talk to Savannah, find out what Iain meant about John. I can’t bear the thought of them talking about me behind my back, keeping their little secrets. It’s not right. Saying I’ve lied about being with her when I’m really with someone else? What’s she trying to do?

  It’s never been a secret to me that Savannah’s always had a soft spot for Iain. I used to find it flattering but since the accident, since the scar on my face . . .

  With all these dark thoughts swirling around in my head, I’m distracted and have to stop abruptly when I realise where I am, how far I’ve walked.

  I’ve ventured into the wood that runs alongside the towpath to Roxham Canal.

  I feel the sweat on my skin, cool with nerves.

  I can smell the water from here and I feel my chest tighten.

  That fear of water. The fear of drowning, the fear of water flooding my lungs and the pain that would come with it . . .

  I’ve done my best when Elle’s been to the swimming pool, but whenever I see water, I fear it, yet I’m also drawn to it as if daring myself to jump in.

  I walk to the edge of the towpath and carefully peer over at the water. I know the canal bed is far deeper down than I can imagine and full of reeds ready to wrap around flailing limbs and drag things down into the inky blackness.

  The light reflects off the surface and dazzles me. My head seems to be swirling and I take a few clumsy steps back from the water before I fall in headfirst.

  My senses feel more alive by the water.

  I hear the buzz of insects, but there is something else in the air. Twigs snap under my feet like tiny brittle bones as I press ahead, ignoring the sense of foreboding that has crept up inside me and coiled itself around the bottom of my spine. It’s always been quiet this side of the towpath, something I used to enjoy when I was a kid growing up around here, but today the stillness feels malevolent.

  I blame Iain for bringing me down today, as a feeling of raw sadness hits me now.

  When I was a kid, and before my father walked out on us, my parents would always take us on family walks. I’d walk holding my little brother’s hand, so tiny and pale in mine. We’d keep in step with each other, match each stride – at least, Miles would try to.

  I try to remember the last image I have of him in my mind, the day the world became that little bit darker for our family. The day the light left my mother’s eyes and never returned.

  The pain of the past threatens to rear up from a place inside of me, and it takes all my strength to push it way back down, banish it from my mind again.

  I should visit his grave.

  The pain would be raw, even after all these years, since I last saw my brother, last spoke to him, and it frightens me.

  As I turn to move further away from the towpath, I realise I’ve only started to think about Miles properly in the last six months and I feel ashamed.

  Maybe having my accident was a good thing in some ways, as horrific as that sounds. It has certainly made me realise I have taken my life for granted for far too long.

  I look to the ground as I walk on, my trainers sinking a little in the damp earth where the sun hasn’t been able to penetrate the canopy of tree branches overhead after the rain we’ve had over the last few days.

  I haven’t passed anyone since I’ve been here and realise I wish I’d stayed with John. He’d know what to do, what to say. That’d give Iain and Savannah, and anyone else, something to really talk about.

  I’d ask him about that afternoon on the Linkway road.

  He’d say it was a lucky coincidence too. I’m sure he would, because that’s all it was and . . .

  What is that smell?

  I had been trying to ignore it, but it seems to be getting stronger, so much so that I feel a wave of cold sweep over my body and stop me dead in my tracks.

  Sickly, sweet rot. It’s nauseating.

  I turn on the spot, my heels digging into the dirt.

  Just leave, walk away.

  Something has died here. A small animal, maybe a fox. We get quite a few of them around here.

  That smell, though.

  Don’t linger. Just leave. That’s what I tell myself.

  It’s not what I do.

  I feel an overwhelming sense to just run. Run away from everything. But I don’t want to go back home.

  I just want to curl up and forget what’s happening here, what’s happening with John, Paul Selby, Iain . . . I want to go to sleep and let all my days fade to black.

  The panic rises in me and suddenly I’m back there in the wreck of my car. It feels so real I can feel the heat of the flames. It’s hard to breathe and I feel a panic attack coming on.

  I run.

  It’s then that I see it, and all sound in the world seems like it’s been sucked away. A flick of a switch and my world is drowned in silence.

  I catch myself too late.

  Something white pokes out from the undergrowth, and I feel my foot roll.

  I scream. I land heavy. Heavy on something soft, yielding.

  I see skin, something lifelike. I say lifelike, but it isn’t. Not in the real sense of the word. The skin is mottled, with a blueish tinge, almost translucent.

  And it’s riddled, moving. Alive but not.

  Ants crawl over pale lips.

  Sickness rushes in my gut, up my throat. I choke and swallow down the bile that burns me from the inside.

  I push myself away, the palms of my hands landing on a soft mess of sticky, stained soil.

  One cloudy eye looks back, the other socket empty.

  They say the soft parts are always the first to go . . . Iain’s voice is in my head, something he’d said to me when the girls had been found.

  The soft parts . . .

  I scramble to my feet. I look down.

  Her bloodstained clothes are torn, muddy, like she’s been dragged, rolled, mistreated, even in death. Her fingernails are jagged
, thick with dirt. Her hair is matted with dried blood, squashed leaves.

  The gaping wound at her neck is alive, crawling with insects.

  But I can still recognise her.

  I’ve seen this face on the TV and in the papers enough over the last few weeks, and I’ve just landed right on top of her.

  This is all that remains of her.

  A life cut short.

  All that remains of Bryony Keats.

  CHAPTER 26

  Madeleine pulled down her face mask as she stepped outside the incident tent, her body suit rustling with each step. She sucked in a deep breath of air. It was tainted, unclean, but it was better than being inside the tent that hid the body from the outside world.

  She walked away from the scene, feet carefully planted on the metal walkway put in place by the SOCOs.

  Charis followed her. ‘Why leave her here?’ she said, coming up beside her.

  ‘The killer’s had to change his plans. We found his gravesite for the other girls.’ Madeleine nodded towards the tent. ‘The pathologist said he thinks the body has been exposed to the elements for some time, judging by the rate of decomposition and insect activity.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why has the body taken so long to find? She was dumped fairly close to the footpath.’

  Charis shrugged. ‘She was obscured from view.’

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘Until today, this place is fairly remote. Isolated,’ Charis said, eyes scanning the immediate area.

  The police-cordon tape fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was far from cold but Madeleine felt the chill deep inside her.

  ‘Bodies dumped in a place like this are usually discovered by a dog walker or, like with the others, kids dossing around and wandering too far.’ She shook her head. ‘Bryony Keats stays hidden? That doesn’t sit right with me.’

  Charis’s thoughts turned back to the body, its condition, the deterioration of the clothes. ‘She looks like she’s been dragged. Her clothes are filthy.’

  Madeleine nodded. ‘Exactly. Her hands were the same too. Like she’d been buried.’

  ‘You think animals disturbed her? Foxes are rife here,’ she said, looking around as if one might suddenly emerge from the undergrowth.

  ‘She must’ve been left elsewhere for a time, before being buried.’ Madeleine said. ‘She’s filled with maggots. Blowfly don’t burrow underground to lay their eggs.’