The Reunion: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Mum, that’s totally incredible,’ Marcus said, wide-eyed. ‘It’s just, like, amazing.’ He didn’t know what else to say so he pulled his phone from his pocket and began thumbing the keys.

  ‘I’d keep quiet about it if I were you, mate,’ Nick said. ‘Don’t put anything on Facebook, and I wouldn’t text your friends either. Once the story gets out, there’ll be no peace.’

  Marcus sheepishly stuffed his phone back into his pocket. ‘Anyway, where’s Dad? I’ve been trying to call him all afternoon, ’cos he was going to give me a lift later.’

  Claire looked away for a moment, breathing in deeply. ‘He has some things to take care of, love.’ It was a placeholder lie that she hated telling, but it would have to do for now. She had no idea where Callum had gone or what she would tell her children. They had a right to know everything, but how would she explain that their father had been charged with a sexual offence against a child? The police had put Marcus through the mill, grilling and almost accusing him while Callum had looked on, knowing what he’d done.

  But any further thoughts were interrupted by the telephone. ‘Yes,’ Claire said several times after answering. She gripped the worktop, drawing in breath – a breath that was deep enough to signal either a scream or a long sigh of relief. In the end, it escaped as a small gasp. A gasp that said Nothing more can shock me today. She hung up and stood perfectly still. ‘That was the police,’ she said. ‘They’ve found Dad.’

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Easy As

  I’m humming a little tune and my teeth are chattering. I wish I’d put on my cardigan. The water swells around my ankles, then draws out again, sucking me down an inch or two into the sand with every step. I glance behind me to check I’m not leaving a trail of footprints, the wind whipping my hair across my face. With every wave that rolls in, with every footstep washed away, it’s as if I never even existed.

  Claire watched me like a hawk when I set off, but she isn’t any more. It’s just her bright green towel left on the sand as she leaps in the surf with Nick. Everyone knows she fancies him.

  I’m going to buy ice cream, and no one can stop me!

  ‘Ha ha,’ I call out to a dog as it gallops past me in the breakers. ‘I’m off on my own like you.’ Its owner trails the dog’s lead in the water as he plods along.

  I’m running! Running like the dog, bounding through the waves in my plastic sandals, water splashing up everywhere. Up ahead on the flat expanse of beach, the sand blows in horizontal streaks as if it’s coloured with pastel chalks and someone’s smudged their finger through it. The pound coin is hot in my salt-sticky palm.

  Rum and raisin or chocolate?

  I glance back at the others again for good luck. They are dots in the distance now and my heart picks up speed as I wade knee-deep in the sea. ‘My sea’, I told Claire, as we raced down to the shore after our picnic. ‘My sea and I’m in it first.’

  ‘Stupid Len-monster’, she called out and I’d laughed, falling head first into the waves. ‘You’ll get a stitch swimming so soon after eating, silly!’ She only said it because Mummy always does.

  Why are they always so worried about me? It’s not as if I’m going to die.

  There aren’t many people on the beach today. It’s too windy, though the holiday season has begun – swarming with tourists, Mummy told me, as if they were insects. They pay her money to stay at the farm – Trevellin Farm Bed & Breakfast, £18 per person per night. We get a lot of guests in the summer. There’s that weird man in the lilac bedroom at the moment. He smells of wet dogs and always has crumbs stuck in his beard. Claire says he’s saving them for later. She also says that he’s come away for a dirty weekend because she found a rude magazine under his pillow when Mummy made her do his room. Claire gets a pound every time she makes a bed and wipes around the bathroom.

  I wade out of the water and head inland across the ridged sand.

  ‘Where you off to, young lass?’

  My heart leaps. Don’t speak to strangers. I glance sideways at the man, breathing a sigh of relief.

  ‘To get ice cream,’ I tell Mr Headley. He’s the headmaster at my school. My cheeks flush red because he’s looking at me in my swimsuit – Claire’s swimsuit – and it’s a bit big. I clamp my arms around my chest.

  ‘I’m off to get a breath of fresh air,’ he says, as if there might be one tumbling along the sand.

  ‘I hope you find one,’ I say, and begin walking again. But Mr Headley grabs hold of my arm, making me swing around on my heel.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ he asks. There’s a glint in his eye.

  ‘She’s fine, thank you.’ I remember to be polite even though he’s hurting me.

  ‘Send her my regards, then.’ When he lets go, I run off without looking back until I reach the scratchy grass up on the sandbank. Only then do I turn, panting, hands on knees, looking down at the beach. Mr Headley is nothing more than a speck on the sand.

  The marram grass stings my bare legs as I push through. I step over it like a circus pony – big high strides with my skinny legs. Finally, I reach the road. To the right, the track stretches back towards the rocky cliff end of the beach near where the others are. I could have come that way as it would have been quicker, but Claire said not to take the cliff path. It’s perfectly safe after a quick scramble up the scree track, which is just plain fun, taking three giant leaps up and sliding back another couple on the slate chips. Your toes go dusty blue.

  I look both ways and cross the road. No cars except for the ones parked outside the row of shops opposite. There’s the ice cream shop, which is quite famous – people come from all over to buy their Cornish ices. Imagine owning a shop that sold only ice cream. I know what I want to be when I grow up! Then there’s the little café that Mummy won’t go in because Daddy fell out with the lady. Although Claire says that it’s because Daddy likes the lady in there, what with her blue spotty dress and pinned-up hair and her thinking she’s a movie star even though she just serves tea and scones and has jam on her apron. There’s a newsagent shop where Claire and I sometimes come to fetch milk or bread, and then there’s the surfers’ shop that has giant, colourful boards outside on the pavement, all standing upright in a giant toast rack.

  Nigel, the surf shop boy with curly blond hair, is standing in the doorway. He smiles and waves at me. He’s smoking a cigarette. ‘Where’s your big sister?’ he asks.

  ‘Down on the beach. I’m getting ice cream.’

  ‘Choose wisely, then.’ His long hair blows across his face and gets caught in the tip of his cigarette. ‘Fuck,’ he says under his breath.

  I go inside the ice cream shop, tucking my salty, tangled hair behind my ears. The glass freezer counter stretches the width of the shop and there are a few little round tables in front in case you want to eat your ice cream sitting down. I like to eat mine walking along. It tastes better with every step.

  ‘Hello,’ the lady says. ‘What can I get for you?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I say without looking at her. The tubs are arranged in colour order – from the palest, most delicate lemon sorbet on the left to the deepest double chocolate on the right. In-between is a rainbow of tastes – pink, blue, green, red, yellow, beige, orange. My tongue fizzes at the thought of them all.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing to a bright blue one.

  ‘Bubble-gum heaven,’ she says. ‘It’s new.’ She’s holding the scoop. Water drips off it.

  ‘Can I have a scoop of that, then,’ I say, ‘and a scoop of rum and raisin?’

  The woman hesitates, pulling a face. ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod. I have never been more certain of anything.

  Someone else comes into the shop. I spin around on my heel a couple of times, waiting for my ice cream.

  ‘Hello, Eleanor,’ Mrs Lyons says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘Fancy,’ I say, proud to be out on my own. Mrs Lyons is Mum’s friend. She used to be our cleaner. She’s got her two boys wit
h her. They’re younger than me, and one of them pokes his tongue out.

  ‘Here you go,’ the ice cream lady says. ‘That’s one pound twenty, please, love.’

  My cheeks burn the colour of raspberry ripple. ‘But I’ve only got a pound.’ I don’t know what to do. ‘I thought it cost a pound.’

  ‘Price went up,’ the woman says. ‘Do you want it or not?’

  I hang my head. ‘I suppose not,’ I say. By the time I go back and pester Claire for more money, it will have melted. Besides, she won’t let me walk up here all by myself again.

  ‘Here,’ Mrs Lyons says. ‘I’ve got twenty pence.’ She gives it to me. It’s really shiny.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, beaming and handing it to the ice cream lady. She has one hand stuck on her hip, passing me my cone with the other, before turning to serve Mrs Lyons. I leave the shop, whispering a silent prayer.

  Outside, there’s a car parked with a man sitting in the driver’s seat. Two wheels are up on the pavement. The window is down, and his arm is resting on the door. ‘Hurry up, Sal,’ he yells, as I walk past, making me jump. Mrs Lyons glances around. She scowls and taps her watch, making the man swear under his breath. I walk past, licking my ice cream, and he stares at me long and slow.

  ‘I’m off, then, if you’re going to piss about in there,’ he yells, before starting the engine, spinning his wheels and driving off towards the cliffs. I watch him go, suddenly shivering even though it’s warm. My shorts are soaking, and the ice cream is making me even colder.

  ‘No one will ever know,’ I whisper, staring in the direction of the car. It’s only a short way along the road, then a few minutes’ walk along the clifftop path, then a fun slide down the shingle slope. It’ll be much quicker. My mind is made up, so I set off, making sure to keep on the verge. This ice cream is delicious. I feel very grown-up.

  The track rises up and it’s even windier up here than down on the beach. I walk fast but my wet shorts rub against the insides of my legs, making my skin sore, so I take them off, hopping about as they get caught on my sandals. I nearly drop my ice cream.

  A car comes past, hooting at me, slowing down. Red brake lights flash on and off as it pulls to a stop. Then a white light comes on and the car reverses. I stand quite still, frozen. In another second, it’s alongside me. It’s really old and more like a long van, rusty around the wheels. There’s loud music coming from the open window, two people inside.

  Suddenly, my ice cream doesn’t taste very nice. My shorts are around my ankles.

  ‘You know anywhere we can park up, love? If you know what I mean…’ The man is all slurry, as if he’s just woken up. He’s got stubble and his eyes are droopy. He’s not very old. The passenger is a girl. She’s pretty and has her bare feet up on the dashboard. Her toenails are painted purple. ‘Anywhere, like, private?’

  I shrug, licking my lips.

  ‘She’s just a kid, Gaz. She won’t know,’ the girl says, prodding him. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

  The man stares at me, then puts the car into gear before driving off.

  ‘Sorry,’ I call out after they’ve gone. Really, I’m saying sorry to Claire for taking the cliff route back, but if I double back now and go the beach way, it’ll take even longer, and she’ll be even more cross. My ice cream cone tastes really horrid now – the bubble-gum flavour has dribbled into the rum and raisin. If I take it back to Claire, then I’ll have to eat it in front of her and I’ll be sick, but Claire won’t like that I wasted her money. I glance around. There’s no one here. Guiltily, I chuck the cone and its remaining scoop of softening blue sludge onto the verge.

  I pull my shorts off properly and walk on, finally heading across the springy grass towards the scree slope. I weave between the bushes that have sprouted up, all bleached pale like the surfers’ hair. They whip and scratch around my ankles as I hum. Just a little tune to stop me feeling scared for being out here all alone.

  Then, as easy as anything, a warm hand comes over my mouth from behind. I can’t even scream. Can’t even breathe.

  I twist around to see crazy eyes above me – eyes filled with fear and sadness. A finger goes up to puckered, dry lips, telling me to shush, warning me not to make a sound. I drop my shorts as I’m dragged away.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Eleanor Mary Lucas was dressed in white – a white medical gown beneath a white towelling robe. They’d given her pristine white slippers, and her toes, with their misshapen nails, clawed out from the end. After multiple medical tests and hours of police evidence gathering, she’d finally been allowed to wash with the help of a nurse. But the grime was still ringed around her neck, her wrists, her knuckles. Looking at her, sitting in the vinyl-covered chair beside her bed, it wasn’t obvious that Eleanor had spent nearly two thirds of her life locked away. Though it was clear that part of her wasn’t there.

  ‘No bother, my love,’ the nurse had said of the dirt. ‘It’ll come off in good time.’ Eleanor hadn’t known what she’d meant by that. No amount of time was good in her mind. She’d sat bent forward in the bath, watching as the water lapped at her veined and naked body, rippling over skin that looked unfamiliar in the daylight. She wondered who she was, if she was the same person or a new person. A third incarnation of someone she’d forgotten. The nurse, elbow-deep, had encouraged Eleanor to hold the sponge, soap it up, to wash away everything. Her body burned and stung from the bubbles, and then she laughed. She laughed so much she made waves. She wasn’t free at all.

  * * *

  Of course there were questions, a lifetime of those, and Eleanor had to have her lawyer present when they were asked. She didn’t even know she had a lawyer, she realised, as the words floated around her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, when they asked if she’d killed him. Her eyeballs felt huge.

  Shafts of sunlight sliced between the blind slats. In the brightness, she saw a silhouette of the hammer. The big heavy hammer he’d brought down to fix the pipes with. She hadn’t waited to find out if he’d actually died from the blows, but he must have because he hadn’t chased after her. And there was all that blood.

  I am as bad as bad can be…

  He’d given her enough movies to watch over the years. She knew what it was to be evil. She’d told the police about the films, recounted how she thanked her lucky stars that she was safe in there, out of harm’s way. She told them about the little gifts and the trips out too – the places he’d taken her when she’d been good. She smiled when she remembered the butterfly in the jar, but they didn’t smile – the doctors and the police. They just sat there, swallowing, breathing, unmoving. She spoke about the bits she could remember and then, when they asked her a question about one thing, she’d get sidetracked and tell them all about another. Her mind went everywhere. Like that butterfly set free. If it hadn’t already been dead.

  ‘I read books too,’ she said in response to Why do you think he did it? because she couldn’t answer that. When they asked about how he treated her, she told them about the mouse in the cage and how some of her teeth had fallen out. Did you ever go hungry? Did he hurt you? Did he force himself on you sexually? Did anyone see you when you went out on trips? Why didn’t you scream for help?

  ‘Goose is dead now,’ she said, staring at the feet of people she didn’t recognise. But they didn’t know what that meant, that she was sad because of it.

  ‘Why now, Eleanor? Why didn’t you overcome him before?’

  They didn’t understand. Didn’t understand how she could never, and would never, hurt him. She couldn’t tell them why – that she loved him with all her heart. Then that voice in her head again, ringing noises inside her skull just as the hammer must have rung loud in his: Fucking kill him! Do it!

  But she hadn’t.

  Had she?

  Those moments of her life, those few seconds, wrapped up in the years (she thought it must have been many, many, many years by now) blurred into what seemed an even longer stretch of time. Her eyes had
refused to see the blood; her ears were deaf to the crack of bone and core-deep moans coming from him. Even her skin was numb to the fresh wind tunnelling down to greet her, to tempt her out. Blowing her hair.

  And then there was that girl. That beautiful, strange girl. Setting the butterfly free.

  Doing what she’d never been able to do all those years.

  Where had she come from?

  Eleanor stared up at the ceiling to make the tears go back in, then she looked around the hospital room, blinking. She pined for the jaundiced glow of the flickering bulb above her mattress, the tiny fridge that hummed her to sleep, the steady drip of the wobbly tap and the comforting clank of the locks when he came to visit, making her tummy go tight with anticipation. She couldn’t bring herself to look out of the hospital window yet, because she knew it was filled with the whole world. And that was way too big for someone like her.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  It was Jason who identified Patrick’s body. A brief, clinical and impersonal procedure, there were several medical staff flanking him as he gagged at the sight of his father’s smashed-up skull. He’d been bludgeoned to death by a hammer. ‘That’s him,’ he said, nodding and cupping his hand over his mouth. He turned and left, rushing to the toilets.

  Later, he crossed the street to buy cigarettes – his first in years – darting onto the pavement as a car hooted. How the fuck had the bastard got away with it for so long? Outside the shop, he lit up and inhaled deeply, needing to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth. How in God’s name had he hidden her for all these years?