‘Misty.’
‘Perfect!’
The carousel begins to turn, the horses rise and fall. As we pass, Libby’s face is anxious and watchful. Esme waves and leans back, her hair matching the colour of her palomino’s tail.
‘Hold on tight,’ I tell her.
We pick up speed and the peaks and dips of the undulations get higher and lower. The onrush of cold air muffles the drone of the organ music and makes my eyes water. Lights flash, blurring into a haze of watery white. I grip the handle on the horse’s neck tighter, suddenly queasy. I turn to Esme to see if she is okay. She’s laughing, whipping her horse with her hand.
‘I’m going to beat you!’ she shouts. She kicks her heels to spur her horse on and turns to me. Her smile has gone and her expression is serious; the joyful light in her eyes has the glint of mischief. ‘You’ll never catch me!’
It might just be gravity or the pitch of my horse, but her mouth seems off kilter, as if she’s smirking. Libby has the same look when the ride ends and Esme has to help me down from my horse.
‘So much for you looking after Esme,’ she says.
‘I didn’t need looking after!’ Esme says. ‘It’s only a merry-go-round.’ She points at me and laughs. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’d be no good on proper, fast rides.’
‘No, I don’t suppose I would.’ I lean against the railings overlooking the river. The murky water swells into small, grease-slicked waves, then recedes. My stomach does the same.
‘What about the London Eye?’ Esme says, pointing further along the riverbank. ‘That looks great.’
‘No, I don’t think I could go on that,’ I say. ‘Not right now.’
‘I think you’ve had enough for one day too, love,’ Libby says. ‘Maybe tomorrow, eh?’
Esme beams at me.
‘Will you come on it with me?’ she says.
The thought of it makes bile burn in my throat and mouth.
‘Why not?’ I try to smile. The effort makes me nauseous.
Libby winks at Esme.
6
I’m queasy for the rest of the day and stretch out on the sofa, fighting a headache. When I close my eyes, I feel giddy. Snatches of sleep go by in a blur of fairground lights, laughter, Esme’s lopsided smile.
I wake up squinting: an echo of Libby’s wink. The room begins to spin once more. I’m orbited by Bagpuss, Esme’s essay, Amy’s photo, the statue with the colour missing from its heel. Discordant fairground organ music plays in my head.
I force myself to my feet and up the stairs. Amy’s bed is stripped bare, cold to the touch. I shiver and retreat to my own bedroom. Still the organ music plays. I get up and shut the bedroom door.
Libby rings first thing in the morning.
‘I’ve told Esme you believe her. She guessed as much after the way you behaved yesterday.’
Part of me feels guilty for leading her on; I am not totally convinced she’s Amy after all. But another part of me feels guilty because I might be letting Amy down, by not believing what she says and looking the other way.
‘How is she?’ I say. ‘No fits or tantrums?’ My question is driven by worry as much as curiosity.
‘The happiest I’ve seen her in ages.’ Libby sounds defeated, resentful. ‘She’s raring to go. Dying to see you.’ She sucks in her breath. ‘Sorry, Beth. That was . . . clumsy of me.’ She doesn’t sound sorry.
My head thumps.
‘I’m glad she’s looking forward to seeing me.’ There’s a reluctance in me that I can’t explain but manage to ignore. ‘You’ll come here then? For some lunch?’
‘Esme’s set her heart on the London Eye.’ There’s a challenge in her voice, daring me to go, daring me to say no.
My stomach kicks.
‘Oh, okay then,’ I say. ‘I’ll just wait for you at the bottom.’
‘No. She wants us all to go together. Like a real family, she said.’
‘Libby, I’m not sure I can cope with going round in circles again. Especially way up over the river. Maybe Esme can’t either.’
‘She was fine after the merry-go-round.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘No.’ I think I hear a smile in her voice. ‘But the Eye goes a lot slower than that did. You’ll both be fine.’
I agree to meet them at noon at the London Eye.
A long shower invigorates me. I dress quickly, keen to see Esme but desperate to avoid a whirl on the London Eye. The thought of it puts me off having breakfast, but I brew some strong coffee, hot and black.
When the phone rings again, I pray that it’s Libby with a change of plan.
‘Mrs Archer?’
I don’t recognise the voice, and for a moment I think it might be a journalist who’s somehow got hold of the story of Amy’s return.
‘Yes,’ I say warily.
‘It’s Sandra. The receptionist at the Spiritualist Association in Belgrave Square?’ She says it like a question, as if she’s not sure.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say hesitantly.
‘I know,’ Sandra says, laughing. ‘Makes a change for us to be ringing you, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. Is something wrong?’
‘No, not at all. It’s just that we’ve had an email from Ian. Ian Poynton? He’s away on holiday but he said you called him before he went? Asking for a phone reading?’
‘That’s right, yes.’ My hand flies to my head. ‘Oh, the cheque! Sorry, it completely slipped my mind.’
‘That’s not why I’m ringing, although now you’ve mentioned it . . .’
‘Of course. I’ll get it off today.’ I frown and shift the phone into my other hand. ‘What is it Ian wanted, then? Can I speak to him?’
‘I’m afraid not, no. Like I said, he’s on holiday. America. But he has sent an email that he’s asked us to forward to you, only we don’t have your email address.’
Once I’ve given it to her, I hang up and run into the front room to switch the computer on. It’s a blueberry iMac, a gift from the staff at the ad agency when I left to have Amy.
Funky and curvy. Just like you, the card said.
Shows how well they knew me, how they struggled to find something to say. I was never funky. The same could be said for iMacs now. It’s clumsy and cumbersome. Slow. It has to think about sending emails and often crashes when it does. I only use it for designing posters for jumble sales, talks at the library, flower shows and charity auctions. Clunky, out-of-date software makes the little wheel spin while the computer thinks about every command.
I avoid using the internet, not because of the time it takes to load the pages, but because of what I might see there once it does. I stumbled across that picture of Amy once. On a feature about missing children on the BBC news home page. She was a poster girl, recognised all over the country. Shorthand for lost. I didn’t need to open the page to know I’d be condemned as a careless mother in the comments section.
I thump the side of the computer as it growls into life. As usual, my email inbox is full of spam and messages from Jill.
Friends of Durning Library AGM
FW: FW: Beware. Fake twenty-pound notes in Kennington
Appeal for blankets for Vauxhall City Farm animals
Leaky tap in church hall
Lunch?
There is nothing from Ian. I thump the computer again. A moment later his email appears in the inbox.
FW: Will You Take It?
My heart is in my throat. This email could be the proof I need to underpin my belief or prevent me from making a mistake. There is sweat on my brow and the now familiar push of nausea.
Dear Sandra
Please forward this to Mrs Beth Archer. She called for a reading over the phone during the New Year break. Nothing came through then, but earlier today I got something here in New York. I couldn’t call her – she needs to see this. And anyway, I don’t have her number any more – it’s been wiped automatically from my phone.
Thanks. See you at the end of the wee
k.
Ian
Dear Mrs Archer
Apologies for sending this email via the Association, but I don’t have an email address for you. I hope that they do, or can get one, as I think you need to see the picture I’ve attached.
As you know, I’ve got my doubts about telephone readings. Ditto for email readings – more so even. But I’m going ahead for two reasons:
a) you sounded like you really needed help
b) the connection I got when I saw this on the wall of a second-hand shop in New York earlier was so strong I felt like I’d been electrocuted. Which is appropriate given what’s in the picture.
A bit of background: I collect superhero comics and inevitably end up in flea markets and shops full of old books, CDs and general tat – very kitsch usually. This is as well. It’s odd, too. Took my breath away really – and not just because of the strength of the connection I got from it.
I don’t know what it was you were calling me about, so I don’t know the significance of the picture or its meaning – if any. All I know is that it was meant for you. I saw your face as clearly as if a light had suddenly been switched on.
I hope it helps.
Regards
Ian Poynton
My hands are shaking so much I can barely move the mouse or click on the attachment.
The computer shudders and stalls. The picture opens slowly, bit by bit, from top to bottom, like creeping damp.
A flat, grainy grey surface.
A head, moulded in a cream-coloured plastic.
A head with a centre parting. Long hair.
Jesus’s head.
His neck and upper body. In a tunic.
His arms. Reaching down. Either side of an oblong panel.
At the top of the panel, words.
HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER.
A little boy on the left-hand side of the panel.
A little girl on the right.
In between them the stub of an old-fashioned light switch.
In the off position.
Sticking up.
Sticking out.
Erect.
Oh God!
I recoil from the screen as if I’ve been punched. Blood rushes to my head as I stand up too quickly; bile burns in the pit of my stomach. I am clammy, unsteady, forced to sit back at the desk. I can’t look at the screen but I can’t turn away from it either. When I close my eyes, I still see the image, as if it’s seared on to my eyelids.
What sick kind of imagination could conceive such a thing? Even if it’s meant to be tongue in cheek, it’s grotesque, inappropriate, wrong. Anyone could see that. And if it was made with all sincerity, surely even the most devout of Christians, however innocent, would feel some consternation? See the knowing, salacious hand of the devil?
My shock gives way to the horrible realisation that Ian felt it was connected with me. It was a strong connection too; like an electric shock, he said. A connection so powerful it had compelled him to interrupt his holiday and ignore his own misgivings about ‘remote’ readings.
The real horror is that he’s right. It’s Amy’s fate cast in plastic and stuck on the wall for everyone to see. There were never any leads to prove it – no body with the telltale signs; it was just assumed that Amy had been abducted by a paedophile.
My heartbeat quickens. The picture is a clue to her killer’s identity. It must have been a vicar! The vicar assigned to Amy’s school. Or someone closely involved with the church. The thought overwhelms me. My skin chills, seeps cold sweat.
I pick up the phone and dial Jill’s number.
‘Beth!’ she says. ‘I was just about to ring you. I won—’
‘Who was the vicar at Amy’s school when she disappeared?’
Jill hesitates.
‘What?’ she says.
‘The vicar!’ Impatience is making me shout. ‘Who was he? Did you know him? Is he still there?’
‘I can’t remem . . .’ She clears her throat. ‘Beth, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘The psychic. He told me . . .’ I grip the handset tighter.
‘Oh Beth, no. Not again,’ Jill says, more disappointed than sympathetic. ‘I thought you’d decided to move on.’
‘I can’t. It’s the vicar! He did it. I just know it.’
‘How, Beth? How do you know?’
‘It’s right in front of me. Right here. Written on the wall. Nailed to it.’ I close my eyes. ‘Screwed.’
‘Beth, you’re not making any sense,’ she says. ‘I want you to stay where you are. I’m coming over. And don’t call anyone else. You can’t just go accusing people willy-nilly.’
She’s gone before I can tell her not to bother. She won’t listen to me. Won’t believe me even if she does.
The vicar’s name used to be displayed on the sign outside the school. It might still be there.
The church nearest the school is St Peter’s, just off Walworth Road. I’m out of the door in a flash, and follow the route Amy and I used to take when we walked to school. The route I’ve avoided for the last ten years.
Amy enjoyed school. On her first day, I was more nervous than she was. We both counted off the days on the calendar, but for different reasons. She was excited and pestered me to go shopping for the school uniform. It was all I could do to keep her out of it before term started. For me, each day brought the end of an era closer. My little girl was growing up and I had to let her go. The days of making up feeding bottles and changing dirty nappies were long gone. So were the afternoons spent feeding the ducks in Brockwell Park, making collages with autumn leaves and baking cornflake cakes.
I felt jealous of all the time Amy would spend with her teachers and anxious about the influence they’d have, the experiences I wouldn’t be there to share or moderate.
The hug I gave her at the school gates was hungry, lingering. I could feel her waiting for it to end, ready to spring free like a Slinky. She didn’t look back as she ran to join the children lining up in front of a teacher with a clipboard.
The girl behind her was whimpering, her wet cheeks shiny as she tried to see her mother in the crowd at the school gates. I almost wished Amy had done the same. The teacher knelt down and said something to the girl, then called Amy back. Amy took the girl’s hand and led her in.
A stitch stabs at my ribs as I get closer to the school. Memories stab even harder. The gates are closed. The sign has changed. So has the name of the head teacher. There is no mention of a vicar. The gates clang and rattle as I kick them.
I’m running in the direction of the church when a car pulls up alongside me.
‘Beth, where are you going?’ Jill calls through the window.
‘St Peter’s,’ I say, gasping for breath.
Jill drives on a short way, stops the car and gets out. She stands a few feet in front of me, arms stretched out to block my way. Like Jesus on the cross. She’s not a big woman, rather slight in fact, so I could get past her quite easily. But her presence stops me in my tracks. Her green eyes, usually so soft with sympathy, are reproachful, and the thin-lipped mouth that has imparted wisdom and the kindest of kisses is set firm.
‘Let’s go home, Beth,’ she says, stepping closer to me. ‘Now. You can tell me all about it.’
‘No. I can’t.’
She grips my arm firmly.
‘I want to help you,’ she says, ‘but I can’t unless I know how, can I?’
A car stuck behind Jill’s beeps its horn. Jill nods at the driver and steers me towards her car.
‘In you get,’ she says, opening the door on the passenger’s side.
‘Are you taking me to St Peter’s?’
‘Not right now, Beth,’ she says, clearing a newspaper from the seat. ‘Maybe later. Once I know what’s been going on.’
The pressure of her hand on my arm grows stronger as she ushers me into the car. It smells of mints and petrol. She shuts the door behind me, then trots round to the driver’s side.
‘Thank God I
brought the car,’ she says, as she pulls away. ‘I wouldn’t normally bother, but I wanted to get here quickly.’ She looks at me and shakes her head. Her wave of white hair doesn’t move.
When we get back to the house, she helps me along the path.
‘You left your front door wide open too, Beth,’ she tuts. ‘Let’s hope you’ve not been burgled. That would really put the tin hat on things.’
She hesitates at the door, listening, then takes me into the front room and lowers me on to the sofa.
‘I’ll just get you some water.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Tea, then. Hot and sweet.’
‘No, really, Jill. I’m fine.’
She sits beside me and takes my hand.
‘Now, why don’t you tell me all about it?’ She looks around the room. ‘You said something about writing on the wall. I can’t see anything. I hope you’re not hallucinating again.’
‘No . . .’
‘I should call the doctor,’ she says. ‘Have you been getting enough sleep?’
I sit up.
‘I didn’t imagine it,’ I say indignantly. ‘It’s real.’
‘Where, Beth?’ she says, looking around the room again. ‘Where is it? Show me.’
‘On the computer.’
I go to stand up, but Jill puts her hand on my shoulder and stands up herself. She walks over to the computer, slowly, as if it might bite her. She pushes her glasses up her nose and leans closer to the screen.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, turning towards me. ‘Where on earth did you get this?’
‘Ian – the psychic – sent it to me.’
‘Then I don’t know who’s sicker,’ she says firmly. ‘Whoever dreamt this revolting thing up. The damned psychic for sending it to you. Or you for believing it’s got anything to do with Amy.’
‘But it has! Ian knows things about her.’
‘He knows things about you, more like.’ Her face softens. ‘Everyone does, Beth. The press saw to that . . . picking over details about you and your family life and holding them up for everyone in the country to see and sit in judgement on. It’s easy for these so-called mediums to exploit you; I can’t understand why you can’t see that! Why you keep hurting yourself.’ She turns the computer off by pulling the plug from the wall socket. ‘This . . . Ian wants reporting to the police.’
The Second Life of Amy Archer Page 9
