The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  I massage my temples and squint back at the screen. The boy’s nightmares ceased by the time he was eight – about the same age as Esme’s started. Maybe the pilot’s spirit was laid to rest as his story was told. Amy’s hasn’t been.

  I bookmark the web page; it’s a stepping stone on the way to the threshold of wholehearted belief.

  I can’t help wishing that I was her first choice as mother. The pilot didn’t have the option of being reborn to his original parents, but according to Esme, Amy did. Not immediately, of course; conceiving – sex – was the last thing Brian and I were thinking of at the time. But surely she could have waited? Picked her moment to make sure she came back to me? I don’t dwell on wondering why she didn’t, and distract myself by searching Facebook for Esme Lawrence.

  She’s been less careful with her own page than she was with Amy’s. It’s open to anyone who wants to look. I move in closer. Esme beams from her home page, her face framed with jazz hands. She looks too innocent to be playing painful and dangerous games like the one she might be playing with me.

  There are other pictures too. A yellow hoop arcs above her head like a giant halo as she skips through it down a running track at her school sports day. She smiles from a rickety-looking stage, her silver-foil top hat falling over her face. She drips and shivers on a sunless beach, blows out candles on a chocolate cake.

  Her list of friends is long: Lara, Olukemi, Rishna, Poppy, Lola, Josh, Ethan, Henry, Pavel. Her messages are pretty much what I’d expect from a girl on the brink of adolescence.

  I soooo love Rhys. He can’t leave Hollyoaks. He just can’t! I’ll die.

  Ugh. Banana flavour anything makes me wanna puke. Love bananas tho.

  The new boy on HO is cute!!! Better than Rhys.

  We’re doing a Moulin Rouge routine for the end-of-term show. Can-can and everything. I want a lacy bra and frilly pink knickers but Mum says no. Proper annoying.

  Family: Libby Lawrence

  Friends: Poppy Brewer, Olukemi Sharif, Josh Dobbs, Lara Pryce

  Education: Whythenshawe Junior

  Philosophy: Dance yourself dizzy

  Music: Lady Gaga

  Books: Skellig, His Dark Materials

  Movies: Finding Nemo, The Princess Diaries

  Television: X-Factor, Hollyoaks, Glee

  Games: Angry Birds, Wii

  Sports: Swimming, gymnastics

  Activities: Tap-dancing, singing

  Interests: Having fun, boys

  It’s easy to get a fix on what she’s watching and thinking, who she’s talking to, what her plans are. Google Maps lets me track her from Wythenshawe to her school’s gates.

  She should be more careful. Libby should too. Anyone could cruise the website, befriend her, pry and prey. It’s how Amy’s killer could have found her if Facebook had existed back then. If it had, I probably wouldn’t have let Amy go on it, not at her age. But if she had used it, she’d have been more sensible and I would have been more attentive to what she was saying and doing – despite what the press and the public might say.

  Esme’s carelessness and the freedom it gives me make me angry. She deserves to be stalked and caught. Goosebumps bristle at the thought.

  My search on Facebook throws up lots of Libby and Elizabeth Lawrences, but none of them are the one I’m after. Not from the pictures displayed anyway. I click on each one but most are set to prevent access to everyone other than Friends. If the Libby I’m looking for is there, I can’t find her. Google can’t either.

  She’s a young woman, probably cut off from an active social life by the demands of being a single mum. The internet would be a source of entertainment, of information, a way of staving off isolation. Either she really doesn’t use computers, just like Esme said, or she’s gone to great lengths to make herself invisible.

  Her obscurity makes me suspicious. I didn’t think it was possible to hide so completely on the internet. I only wish it was. I know from long and bitter experience that the finger of accusation can be pointed from news sites and forums, and that bitches with blogs are always ready to speculate and hate.

  Then there are the ghoulish sites dedicated to unsolved crimes. I click on one and see a parade of faces, Amy’s included.

  Some of the other faces are familiar, high-profile cases that dominated the news, just as Amy’s did. Some of the photos are black and white, the grainy shots dating the victims as much as their clothes and hairstyles.

  I open several of the links to Amy, like Libby might have done to find information for Esme. But they contain none of the details Esme knows – nothing but the basic facts regurgitated by the press at the time, or the voyeuristic ramblings of people who make a hobby of death.

  I sit and wait by the computer all night. I try direct messaging her umpteen times, my ‘are you there’s and ‘where are you’s like mocking echoes of the shouts I made into the park on the night she disappeared. Calls to a lost girl, lost in the ether.

  There is nothing the next day either, or the day after that. I’m back where I started, dangling like a fish on a hook. Waiting. Wanting. Needing to know the truth.

  The following day, a ring on the doorbell has me rushing to the hall.

  ‘All set?’ says Jill, as I open the door.

  I’d forgotten. I’m meant to be taking her in the car to pick up some donations for the next jumble sale.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I say, disappointed that it isn’t Esme and Libby. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Come in.’

  She follows me into the front room.

  ‘No more from those two jokers?’ she says, looking around quickly as if to make sure.

  ‘No,’ I say, avoiding her eyes. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Good. That’s that nonsense over and done with then.’ Jill gives a nod of her head, inviting my agreement.

  I smile weakly.

  ‘I’m sorry about . . . you know,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  ‘Already forgotten, Beth . . . My goodness,’ Jill says, pointing at the computer. ‘Look at this!’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m glad of the change of subject and feel my body relax. ‘It’s my new toy. So much quicker than my old one.’

  ‘Good,’ says Jill, edging closer to the computer for a better look. ‘So you’ll be able to do the poster for the jumble sale in record time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You couldn’t do it now, could you?’ she says, raising her eyebrows expectantly. ‘I can drop in at the library to get it photocopied once we’ve finished the collection.’

  She’s got that jumble-sale tone to her voice – a mix of strict headmistress and bossy Brown Owl. She umms and aahs over my shoulder as I throw a poster together.

  ‘I know you’re the design expert,’ she says, ‘but I’m the queen of the jumble. Let’s try putting a full stop after “church hall”.’

  As usual, we end up with a poster identical in every way to the one for the previous sale – except for the change to the date. She stands over the printer while I get my car keys and coat.

  ‘Come on,’ she calls. ‘We’re late. We may only be volunteers, but that’s no reason to be unprofessional.’

  In the car, she keeps telling me to watch the traffic, shouts if I miss a turning. When we get out, she reminds me not to leave the keys in the car and insists I should be more careful with the boxes of crockery.

  We pile the bulging bags and boxes at the back of the church hall. I plunge my hand into a black plastic bag spewing clothes. A waft of old sweat, damp and dust creeps around me; Eau de Jumble, as Jill calls it. I should be used to it after so many previous sales, but it still makes me gag.

  I untangle a coat with a furry collar from a spangly halterneck top, fold them in half and drop both on the women’s-wear table.

  ‘You’re going through this lot as quickly as the punters will,’ Jill says, as she opens another black plastic bag and releases more fetid air.

  ‘I don’t want to be here all day,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to get bac
k. I’ve such a lot of admin to sort out.’ It’s only a partial lie, but I hide it behind the long drop of a flower-patterned curtain.

  When we finish, we stand back to survey the racks of clothes and the tables of tatty bric-a-brac. My hands feel dry and grubby; Eau de Jumble lingers on my sweater.

  Jill accepts my offer of a cup of tea, so I walk to the small kitchen at the back of the church hall. Tepid water dribbles over my hands from the immersion heater. The liquid soap has been diluted so much it barely lathers.

  Outside in the hall I hear my phone buzzing with a call. I dash to answer it, wiping my hands on my skirt as I go. Jill is standing at the table peering down at the phone.

  She looks up at me, still squinting from trying to see the screen, but there’s something else in her gaze too: curiosity, anger, disappointment.

  ‘You said you’d finished with them,’ she sneers.

  ‘With who?’

  She waves her hand at the phone.

  ‘Libby’s name just came up on the screen,’ she says, furious. ‘I wasn’t prying, just curious about your new gadget. If I’d known how to answer it, I’d have given her a piece of my mind!’

  The phone buzzes with a left message. I push past Jill and grab it from the table.

  ‘You’re a bloody fool, Beth,’ Jill says. ‘Your own worst enemy.’

  Her footsteps echo around the church hall as she hurries across to the kitchen, muttering to herself.

  The message is from Libby. She sounds tired. Stressed. Angry.

  ‘I hope you’re satisfied, Beth,’ she says. ‘Thanks to you, Esme’s had one of her worst fits ever. Taken her days to recover. Getting her to go behind my back and sending emails and the rest of it. What were you thinking? She’s never lied to me before. Isn’t it enough that all this has made a stranger of my daughter already? Back off, Beth. It’s not fair on her or me.’

  I can hear Jill in the kitchen, know that she can hear me, but I have to call Libby right away. I don’t expect her to take my call, but she does.

  ‘How’s Esme?’ I say, trying not to speak too loudly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Libby says. ‘You’re the one who’s been pressurising her with questions.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything, Libby. Not really.’

  ‘Yes you did. You asked her if she could remember what happened to her.’ Libby pauses. ‘I saw it on the computer.’

  ‘Ah, so you do do computers after all!’ I don’t mean to sound triumphant, but being caught out puts me on the offensive.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I only saw your little chat because I found her sprawled on the floor in front of the computer with that . . . Facebook page open.’

  ‘It was her idea, Libby,’ I say. ‘Really.’

  Libby sighs.

  ‘Is she okay now?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s getting there.’

  ‘Did the fit trigger any memories?’ I press the phone closer to my ear. ‘Has she said anything?’

  ‘Only something vague about a book,’ Libby says dismissively. ‘The Man Who Didn’t Wash His Dishes.’

  The words wind me as completely as a punch to the stomach.

  That book used to fascinate Amy, although I never understood why. It was a simple story, too simple for someone as bright as Amy: a man doesn’t do his washing-up for months on end until eventually he can’t get into the house for all the dirty dishes. Amy took it out from the mobile library so often the librarian used to call her the Girl Who Didn’t Read Anything Else.

  Even back then it was an old book. I tried to buy a copy at the time but none of the bookshops could get hold of a copy. Out of print, they said. Unavailable. Never heard of it. Yet Esme has. Because Amy had.

  Belief flares in me, flushing my face.

  ‘Is that all she remembered?’ I say.

  ‘For now, yes. Other odd snippets might come through later. That’s how it normally works.’ Libby gives a sad laugh. ‘Normally. I can’t even remember normal any more.’

  Jill bustles out of the kitchen, tucking her scarf into her coat, jangling a fistful of keys.

  ‘I’d better get back to her,’ Libby says.

  ‘Before you go, Libby,’ I say, ‘I have to ask you something.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did Esme put an envelope through my letter box on New Year’s Eve?’

  I clench the phone tight, not daring to think what it might mean if she says she didn’t.

  ‘No,’ Libby says firmly.

  My head swims. I’m sicker than I thought.

  ‘I did,’ Libby says.

  It’s as if I’ve been snatched back from a fire. The searing heat of madness.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Esme asked me to. She wanted you to see her essay.’

  ‘Her essay?’ I say. I need Libby’s confirmation before I can let relief run through me.

  ‘Well it wouldn’t be mine, would it?’ Libby says quickly. Then she pauses and her tone becomes suspicious. ‘Or are you saying you don’t—’

  ‘No, not at all!’ I say. ‘Of course I believe Esme wrote it.’

  Jill shakes her head.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Libby,’ I say. ‘Talk later.’

  Jill glares at me as I hang up.

  ‘Whatever she said is a lie,’ she says. ‘And talking to her later – at all – is a mistake.’

  ‘But can’t you see?’ I say, exasperation rising. ‘Esme knows something. She has to. How else would she know these things? Libby said Esme wrote that essay.’

  ‘She would,’ Jill says, shaking her head. ‘Look, Beth. We’ve been over this. I’ve got better things to do. You should have too.’ She jingles the keys at me. ‘Come on.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Beth!’ Her face flares with anger. For a moment I think she’s going to slap me, and I pull away from her. She pinches the bridge of her nose and breathes out slowly. ‘It’s just guesswork and gossip.’

  ‘No.’

  I get my coat from the kitchen and walk out of the church hall. I don’t wait for Jill. Don’t look back.

  When I get home, I call Libby again. I tell her I have to see Esme, but Libby refuses.

  ‘Please?’ I say. ‘I need to see her.’

  ‘She’s lost enough school because of all this,’ Libby says. ‘She can’t afford to fall behind any more by going down to London again.’

  ‘I could come to you.’

  ‘No, Beth. I can’t trust you not to push her.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I feel so useless down here. I’d like to be able to help.’

  ‘Yeah, help yourself to what you need and bugger the rest of us.’

  ‘No! It’s not like that. Really.’ I hate the pleading timbre in my voice but I can’t control it. ‘Esme’s the one who got in touch with me. Ask her. She’ll tell you. She misses me.’

  ‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ Libby says angrily. ‘That she misses you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘of course not. But it’s Esme’s welfare we’re both concerned about. Why don’t you ask her if she wants me to come up to see her in Manchester?’

  Libby hesitates.

  ‘She’s already said as much.’ She sounds deflated, beaten. ‘When she first came round after the fit.’

  ‘There you are then,’ I say breezily. ‘It’s better this way. No sneaking around.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Libby says. ‘But there’d better not be any more tricks or nasty surprises.’

  ‘There haven’t been any tricks or surprises at all,’ I say. ‘Not on my side anyway.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I meant there’s just been misunderstandings. Silly, unfortunate misunderstandings. That’s all.’

  There’s a long silence, made longer by the thump of my heart.

  ‘Okay,’ Libby says. ‘When were you thinking of coming?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll get the train tomorrow.’

  9

&nb
sp; Something in my suitcase rattles as I pull it out of the loft. It’s a dove-grey pebble, a souvenir of a week in a Cornish cottage a year after my divorce. I spent the entire time walking along the beach, the scrunch of the pebbles beneath my feet accompanied by the hiss and spray of a churning sea.

  I wished the banks of pebbles would suddenly shift and slide, burying me. And when they didn’t, I sat down and wriggled into them, beyond the sun-warmed stones on the surface, into the chill and damp beneath. A grave of gravel and stones, with no worms or ants to eat at me, no succulent roots to feed. I wondered what Amy’s grave was like. Where it was.

  My arms stretched out, my fingers clawing at the pebbles, reaching for her. All I found was a fistful of hard, cold stones. I sobbed and sat up, the drift of pebbles slipping off me like the skin of a snake.

  I threw a handful of stones, strafing the sea with splash. One pebble lodged between my fingers. I was about to throw it in but stopped and clenched it in my palm. It was round and warm and smooth. Enduring. Like love.

  I brought it back with me, intending to put it next to the picture of Amy on the beach in Zante, but when I unpacked it back in London, it was just cold, hard and colourless. I dropped it in the suitcase, locked it and buried it in the attic.

  It’s the first thing I pack for my trip to Manchester. It is my talisman, a way to guide me to the truth, like the pebbles on the path that led Hansel and Gretel back to safety. I pack the laptop too.

  Just before I leave, I remember the USB stick Jill was given by the printers used by the Friends of Durning Library. She passed it on to me for back-up copies of the posters and fliers should my computer fail. That won’t be a problem any more. Jill has no use for it, but I do.

  Whatever I find in Manchester cannot be lost. There might only be one shot to get the truth on record. If Amy breaks through Esme, once and for all, the things she says could be lost for ever; the memories of the little boy who had been a World War II pilot faded away to nothing once his story was told. I cannot take that risk.

  If she remembers anything, it won’t just be memories – it will be evidence. Perhaps it will identify a culprit, give the police enough to arrest and convict him. It might even lead us to Amy’s grave. On the other hand, it might just show Esme to be a fraud with nothing to tell but stories.