The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  Two Japanese tourists ask me to take their picture, both of them with one foot either side of the line, straddling time. One of them stands behind the other and peers over her friend’s shoulder.

  Two become one.

  The picture is blurry with camera shake but the tourists smile and thank me. As I walk on, I hear them ask somebody else to take the picture again.

  ‘Come on,’ says Jill, ‘let’s step over it.’

  I take her hand and cross the line. As my foot touches the ground on the other side, I try and convince myself that I’ve stepped out of the darkness of the past. Moved into the dazzling light of a new world and time.

  But the silver line is hard, horizontal. Capable of being crossed, but not bent or altered. Like the truth. Amy is missing on both sides of the line and I am a disgraced mother.

  ‘I want to go home,’ I say. ‘I’m tired.’

  There’s a police car parked outside my house when we arrive. The door opens and Lois climbs out. She looks flushed and flustered.

  ‘Thank God you’re back,’ she says quickly. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’

  ‘My phone’s switched off,’ I say, frowning. ‘Why? Oh God . . . it’s Bishop, isn’t it? The other prisoners have got to him too. Or he’s had a heart attack or something. This can’t be happening. It can’t! He’s got to be convicted!’

  Lois steps towards me and takes my hand.

  ‘It’s not Bishop, Beth,’ she says. ‘The trial is still on course . . . But there have been . . . developments. She squeezes my hand. ‘We think we’ve found Amy’s body.’

  I have waited so long to hear those words that I can only blink at her. Realisation seeps through me, like water into sand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve found a body,’ Lois says, trying to be calm. ‘We can’t confirm that it’s Amy’s yet, but we’re confident it is, seeing where we found it.’

  ‘Where?’ I wail. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘A body was discovered earlier . . . under a classroom block at Amy’s school.’

  I let go of Lois’s hand, push away Jill’s outstretched arm, ignore their calls for me to go into the house. My steps are slow and uncertain, then quickly gather pace until I’m running as fast as I can down the road in the direction of the school.

  ‘Beth!’ Lois calls behind me.

  I keep running. A stitch stabs at my ribs. As I turn the corner, there’s a small group of people milling around the school gates, trying to peer through them.

  ‘Oi! Do you mind?’ one of them says as I barge by. ‘We were here first.’

  I shrug off the hand at my shoulder and pull at the gates. The two policemen on the other side shake their heads.

  ‘There’s nothing to see,’ one of them says. ‘You should all go home.’

  ‘It’s my daughter that’s buried under there! You’ve got to let me in.’

  The people behind me gasp and whisper, press in for a closer view. The gates clang and squeak as they strain against their hinges.

  ‘Beth!’

  I turn to see Lois getting out of the police car. She pushes through the crowd and tells the policemen to unlock the gates. When they step aside, I see the school behind them.

  It hasn’t changed much. It looks smaller, a little shabby, the paintwork flaking. The windows bloom with paintings of gaudy daffodils, giant eggs and malformed chicks. Shaky, mismatched letters spell out ‘Happy Easter!’ Alongside the words, a wide-eyed Jesus shoots up to heaven trailed by patchy glitter.

  The single-storey classroom block is tucked away in a corner of the playground. Its windows are blanked out and a tarpaulin tunnel runs from the door to the police vans parked outside. I start to run towards it but Lois pulls me back.

  ‘We can’t go in there, Beth,’ she says. ‘It’s a crime scene.’ She takes my arm and steers me towards the school’s main building. ‘We can wait in the headmaster’s office.’

  ‘Is Brian there?’

  ‘He was in Oxford for a meeting. But he’s on his way back now.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Should be here pretty soon. Let’s go in and wait, shall we?’

  I stare at the classroom block, willing myself to see through the walls but scared of what I might witness if I could. I imagine men in white protective suits and face masks carefully sifting layers of rubble, the pop of flash bulbs recording every stage.

  I remember receiving a letter from the headmistress explaining that the classroom had to be built to relieve overcrowding. She regretted that it meant the loss of a small part of the playground but was sure that parents would understand the need for it, and reassured us that the benefits would be felt by everyone at the school.

  Amy was excited about it as it was going to be her form room. She never even saw it completed. When they broke up for the Christmas holiday, the block was nothing more than muddy trenches surrounded by wire fencing, hazard signs and cement mixers. A ready-made grave.

  I sink to the ground.

  ‘Oh God! Look!’

  My hand shakes as I point at the trail of large multicoloured footprints painted on the ground for children to hop on. They weave across the playground, doubling back on themselves before disappearing under the classroom block.

  ‘Just like he said,’ I cry.

  ‘Who?’ Lois looks around, confused.

  ‘Ian Poynton,’ I say. ‘He saw coloured footprints. Plates of meat, he said. Feet.’ I turn to her, frantic with confusion. ‘Could . . . could he have been right all along after all? Or . . . maybe he was one of Bishop’s pack too?

  ‘I can’t say anything about him being psychic but it’s very unlikely he was part of the gang, Beth. He would only have been around fifteen at the time. Besides, he didn’t grow up around here. He’s from Weston-super-Mare, I believe.’

  ‘Another victim then. It’s the only explanation. How else would he have known where Amy was buried?’

  My body freezes. Over Lois’s shoulder I see Amy’s ghost appear beside the plastic tunnel. She stands there, pale, insubstantial, motionless as mist. Her spirit free now that her body has been released from its grave. My gaze fractures with tears. She rocks backwards and forwards with her thumb in her mouth and a hunted look in her eyes.

  There’s a shape behind Amy’s ghost. A woman. And a man. I blink and wipe the tears away. I see Libby and Harding. I look again. It isn’t Amy’s ghost. It’s Esme, living and breathing. Real.

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ I sob. ‘What are they doing here?’

  The three of them are ashen and silent, their eyes fixed on the ground. Harding looks up and sees me. He says something to Libby and Esme, and ushers them back into the plastic tunnel, then gestures to Lois that she should take me into the school’s main entrance.

  Lois grips my arm.

  ‘It wasn’t Ian who told us to look here,’ she says quietly. ‘It was Esme.’

  I turn to her, stupefied.

  ‘No . . . I . . . don’t . . . She can’t . . . ’

  Helped by a policeman, Lois half carries, half pushes me towards the school’s reception. I’m numb as they guide me along a corridor and lower me on to a sofa in the headmaster’s office. The seat sags beneath me. I feel as if I will never stop, that I’ll keep on sinking to the floor, into the earth, a grave of my own.

  The policeman pours me a glass of water from the bottle on the head’s desk and tries to put it in my hand. I’m shaking so much I can’t grip it. When I finally take it, the water spills to the floor. I lean back and rub my eyes.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘How did she know?’

  Lois sits beside me; the seat sags further.

  ‘Esme had one of her fits earlier,’ she says. ‘Her worst yet, apparently. When she came round, she kept screaming at Libby to get her out. Libby thought she meant out of the flat and tried taking her for a walk, but Esme kicked off again, screaming about not being able to breathe, telling her to dig. Under the classroom. Libby told Harding. He told the Met.
They gave the order to start digging.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘DI Harding was quite shaken by it,’ Lois says. ‘Not her fit – he didn’t see that – but Esme’s insistence. He said it was so overwhelming . . . the details she gave so . . . compelling, so specific, he couldn’t ignore it.’ She rubs her eyes as if she’s been dazzled. ‘And the details were bang on too.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘What part of the site to dig up. The colour of the carpet the body was found in. That it was buried face down.’

  My hand flies to my mouth.

  ‘Oh God! Amy.’

  Lois pulls me towards her; my sobs soak into her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘but you always said you wanted to know.’

  ‘It’s all I’ve wanted for the last ten years. Now that little monster has robbed me of even this tiny crumb of comfort.’ My fingers clench into a fist.

  ‘We’d never have found Amy’s body without Esme.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ I say, pummelling the sofa. ‘Instead of . . . the relief of finally finding Amy, I’m just bloody angry at Esme for keeping up this cruel pretence. Can’t she see how much it hurts? Why didn’t she just tell us this before? Why won’t she tell us how she knew?’

  ‘As far as she’s concerned, she has.’ Lois shakes her head. ‘We’re looking into every possible alternative angle. But right now we’re so stumped, reincarnation is looking like the most straightforward explanation.’ She sighs. ‘God, I never thought I’d hear myself say that.’

  I push her away.

  ‘No. It’s ridiculous that you’re even thinking it,’ I say, fury making my voice sound unfamiliar. ‘There’s an explanation right under your nose. You’ve got to find it.’

  A police car edges through the school gates and pulls up outside the main entrance. Brian climbs out of the back. His face is haggard, his shoulders stooped, as if the core of him is being sucked out bit by bit. A policeman escorts him into the school. A few moments later Brian is in my arms, whatever he’s saying lost in anguished tears.

  I hear him gasp and pull away. I look up. He’s seen Esme and Libby as they walk across the playground. He moves to the window, slowly, as if under a spell. There’s a desperate tenderness to the clawing of his fingers at the glass.

  ‘Amy,’ he says. ‘Oh God, it’s Amy.’

  He didn’t see Esme in Manchester, didn’t want to in case he lashed out at her. The full impact of her resemblance to Amy rocks him on his heels. She looks up at the window. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open.

  ‘Daddy!’ she squeals, and runs towards the school’s entrance.

  Brian backs away from the window and turns to me, trembling. Footsteps slap in the corridor outside. The door bursts open and Esme throws herself at Brian.

  ‘Daddy! I missed you!’ she cries.

  His hand slowly reaches down to touch Esme’s head.

  ‘Amy,’ he says, then pulls the girl closer. Libby stands at the door, sobbing.

  ‘She’s gone,’ she moans. ‘My baby’s gone.’

  I take a fistful of Esme’s hair and pull her away from Brian.

  ‘How did you know where my daughter was buried? No more tricks, you sick little bitch. I want the truth!’

  Esme screams and kicks at me.

  ‘Beth! Let her go!’ Libby yells. ‘You’re hurting her.’

  ‘I’m hurting her?’

  Lois prises my hand from Esme’s hair and pulls me away. Esme runs back into Brian’s arms. Libby stands in front of her, shielding her from me. The three of them walk slowly towards the door.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere!’ I scream. ‘Either of you. Not until I get some answers. Lois, don’t let them get away.’

  But she lets them go, closing the door behind them. My screams give chase.

  ‘How did you know? How did you know?’

  The door opens again and I fly towards it, crashing into Harding. He steers me back to the seat.

  ‘You can’t let them get away with this!’ I cry. ‘You can’t. They’ve got the answers to all of this. I need to know.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, his voice and calm and considered. ‘We all do. But I think I know how we might sort this out, so we can get to the truth once and for all.’

  The interview room at the police station is hot and stuffy. Light from windows with reinforced glass is trapped behind grey slatted blinds. Beyond them I can hear voices, footsteps, the clunk of car doors, sirens. They didn’t use sirens when they brought us here from the school, but they made sure we travelled in separate cars. Libby and Esme weren’t made to wear handcuffs, though, despite my insistence that they should.

  Libby is thin-lipped as she listens to Harding. When he finishes, she blinks.

  ‘Past-life regression therapy?’ she says.

  ‘That’s right. It’s where people are sort of hypnotised so they can access memories of previous lives.’

  She laughs.

  ‘You think I don’t know what it is?’ she says. ‘After everything I’ve been through with Esme?’

  ‘Oh, your research into reincarnation, you mean?’ I say. ‘The details you’ve picked up along the way to give your story some meat?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Libby says tersely. ‘I saw references to it when I was trying to get my head round the idea of Esme being the reincarnation of somebody else. But I didn’t want to put her through it. I still don’t.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that we’ll throw open the doors of her ugly little mind and, guess what? The cupboard will be bare. Nothing of Amy whatsoever.’

  ‘If you feel like that, why are you set on doing it?’ Libby says. ‘You said you wanted to know how Esme knows the things she does.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, if you’re so sure Amy’s not inside her, why put her through it?’ Libby stands with her hands on her hips, daring me to answer.

  ‘Because,’ I say, ‘it’s time this ridiculous ruse was scuppered for good. There’ll be nowhere else for Esme to hide and she’ll be exposed as the liar she is. Like you will be. With any luck you’ll be put away for a long, long time and she’ll go into care. Then you’ll have some idea of what it’s like to have your daughter snatched away from you.’

  ‘Beth, please,’ Brian says. ‘This isn’t helping.’

  ‘Like you’d know anything about helping,’ I say angrily.

  He glares at me from across the room. Its grey walls are scuffed, the orange plastic chairs around the table the only colour.

  ‘Let’s try and keep this civil,’ Harding says calmly, as he paces slowly around the room. ‘This is a difficult situation. Best not to make it any worse than it needs to be.’

  ‘Could it get any worse?’ My laugh is hard and hollow.

  ‘Oh, it could,’ Libby says, nodding her head. ‘And it will. So I won’t give consent for Esme to have the therapy.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ I tell her.

  ‘And you can’t make Esme do it. She’s my daughter. No surgeon would be allowed to operate on her without my say-so. This is no different.’

  ‘It’s completely different.’ I turn to Harding. ‘Isn’t it, Inspector?’

  Harding sighs.

  ‘Libby, if your daughter needed an operation to save her life and you refused it,’ he says, his tone level and reasonable, ‘a surgeon could go to court to overturn your decision . . . I’m prepared to do the same.’

  ‘You’d be a laughing stock,’ Libby sneered.

  ‘It’s not unknown for the police to act on tip-offs from psychics. This is slightly different, but . . . there is a precedent.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ Libby’s eyes are raw and angry. ‘And anyway, Esme isn’t dying!’

  ‘No,’ Harding agrees, ‘but this might be the only way of solving this. What’s more, it’s the only way of finding out if Bishop was involved in Amy’s murder or not. Justice i
s at stake here.’

  ‘That’s not as important as my daughter’s welfare,’ Libby argues defiantly, jabbing her finger into the air.

  ‘It is to me,’ I say. ‘More so.’

  Libby starts to weep.

  ‘Don’t make her do it, Beth. Please,’ she cries. ‘You said yourself how heartbreaking it is to have your daughter taken away. If Esme does this . . . she’ll be gone for good. I just know it . . . My little girl will be lost.’

  I try to shut her words out, but they burn into me. Harding looks at me and then at Libby.

  ‘Why don’t we let Esme decide? I’ll get the therapist to explain it to her thoroughly, answer any questions she might have . . .’

  ‘You’re not using Ian Poynton, are you?’ I ask. ‘He’s not exactly impartial.’

  ‘No, although we’ve still found nothing to link him with Libby or Esme or to prove he’s a fraud.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t.’ Libby throws her hands up. ‘Because we don’t who he is.’

  ‘He can’t do it anyway,’ Harding continues. ‘He’s not trained. But I’ve found someone who is. Ingrid Williams. She’s a very experienced qualified psychotherapist and hypnotist. Highly respected. Esme will be in safe hands.’

  ‘Does this Ingrid know what all this is about?’ I say, shifting in my seat. ‘I don’t want her influencing Esme, leading her on.’

  ‘She knows the basics,’ Harding explains. ‘No names or specific details but she understands the sensitivity of the case and has agreed to proceed on one condition.’

  Libby and I both cock our heads.

  ‘That neither of you are in the room at the time . . . Apparently it’s normal practice for one of the parents to sit in with the child. It seems the child’s past life experiences are somehow tied up with the parents’ issues in the here and now. I told her that could get in the way this time, given the circumstances. So she agreed it should just be Esme and herself.’

  ‘Where will this happen?’ Libby asks. ‘I’m not doing it at Beth’s.’

  ‘Here at the station, in the suite we use for rape victims. There’s a special room for kids with props like soft toys and murals to help them relax and tell us what we need to know. There’s a two-way mirror so we can see what’s going on. I’ll watch from behind there with Libby. Beth, Brian and Lois will watch in a different room via cameras. Agreed?’