The death of my big sister resulted in the loss of two members of my family. I don’t think I have ever properly mourned either. At least that’s what my psychologist tells me. It seems that this is the cause of all my problems, never mind the fact that manic depression is hereditary and my maternal grandmother was famously as mad as a box of frogs. But, so-called professionals are uncannily able to ignore certain facts if they think they are right.
Despite my mother insisting that she recognized my symptomatic behaviour, her opinion was ignored. My psychologist decided that cognitive therapy alone was the answer, leaving my poor mother to beat herself up and think that somehow she was the cause of my instability and should have done more to protect me. This couldn’t have been further from the truth, and it wasn’t until a sensible psychiatrist concluded that I was suffering from my first manic-depressive episode that she was able to let herself off the hook.
Now, a few weeks after my release from the nut house, I could see the effect my illness had had on her. I felt guilty just as she had. Guilt is a funny thing. It’s infectious. It spreads like a disease and our home smelled of it. It oozed out of my bedroom.
My existence was monotonous and mundane. I spent my days in my pyjamas staring at the television in the sitting room while American talk show hosts tried to solve the problems of the masses. One hillbilly moron merged into the next as the words floated past me.
* * *
Autumn blanketed the countryside around our house and I became frustrated by my lack of a life. I watched the leaves outside being blown to and fro. The wind lifted them up into the air, suspending them in time, before dropping them somewhere else. I realized I needed a change of scene.
I flipped open the lid of my laptop. Before I knew what had happened I’d found myself on a website and booked myself into a small hotel on the coast. I couldn’t think clearly at home, with my mother watching my every move, and I felt I was in danger of becoming agoraphobic. A break would do me good. Explaining my sudden urge to escape wasn’t going to be easy and was likely to alarm both my family and doctors.
For the first time in days I found myself wanting to wash. I ran a bath and filled it with lavender bubble bath and jasmine oil. The scents filled the room and a sweet steam clung to the walls. With my radio tuned to Classic FM, I pulled down the roman blind, lit a number of large cream candles, and turned off the lights. I slipped out of my kimono and into the soapy water. Immersing myself in the bubbles, I floated on a quartet of violins.
I lay dreaming in the old Victorian bathtub for three quarters of an hour before washing my hair repeatedly with shampoo scented with rose hips and cotton. After rinsing my hair, I stepped out of the cloudy water and onto the white tiled floor. A cold chill ran through me, making the hairs on my arms stand to attention like guards. Patting myself dry and wrapping a powder blue towel around my chest, I ran conditioner through my long hair before I dared to regard myself in the mirror. I looked a bit better, although dark shadows remained beneath my solemn blue eyes. My skin was pale. The touch of summer sun I’d caught a few months before had now abandoned me. Straggles of dripping hair hung around my face and clung to my neck and shoulders. Staring at myself a while longer left me feeling numb. I looked pathetic. I turned away and went back into my bedroom where I dried my hair, before sliding into bed and turning off the light.
Lying under the cocooned blackness of my duvet, I hatched a plan that would explain my sudden departure and allow me to break away from the confines of my family, without a bombardment of questions. I knew that if I told them I was going away alone it would set alarm bells ringing. So, I concocted a story that I was going to visit Toby, an old school friend who now lived in Oxford. Once I felt confident I’d be able to get away without raising suspicions, I was at last able to drift off into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next few days passed uneventfully but offered me the chance to lay the groundwork for my escape. Initially my mother was wary of letting me go, but I assured her that I’d be in safe hands with Toby, who she knew well and trusted. As predicted, she let her shoulders drop and I was relieved to have put her mind at rest. Thanks to the white lie, I felt guilt-free.
Early on Thursday morning, I pulled out a worn leather suitcase that had been collecting dust in the back of my wardrobe and packed a number of warm sweaters. It was nearly impossible to forget the vast number of pill bottles that covered my bedside table. I scooped them up and dropped them in, before dragging the surprisingly heavy case downstairs.
The wind had already picked up; a branch scratched against the windowpane. A greyish-yellow light made a pattern on the oak floor. The house felt eerily quiet. I went into the empty kitchen, popped some bread into the toaster, and made myself a large mug of tea, before sitting down at the old farmhouse table to inspect an Ordnance Survey map I’d found on the sitting room bookshelves. It practically covered the entire table and I struggled to unfold it, battling with crisp corners and folds that refused to bend.
In between drinking the sweet milky tea and taking bites of hot buttered toast, I lost myself in the map. Looking down at the expanse of Suffolk coastline I realized how unfamiliar I was with my own part of the world. The hotel I’d booked was in a small seaside town called Southwold. It was rumoured to be very pretty.
The previous night I’d asked my mother if I could take the dog with me. Raising an eyebrow, she’d asked if Toby would mind having him to stay. I explained that Toby worked, and during the day I was going to be alone. I wanted Wookie for company. (Will and I had spent many childhood hours enjoying the Star Wars films and as it just so happened that our big scruffy brown mongrel of a dog shared an uncanny resemblance to Chewbacca.) My mother agreed to let me take him and asked no more about it. As I bundled my suitcase, wellington boots, and dog into the back seat of my car, I began to feel something that echoed of excitement. I was hardly setting off to conquer the Alps, but my trip represented an adventure of sorts.
It was about a quarter to ten when I got into my little red Fiat and headed down the driveway. My mother stood on the gravel, watching and waving, and I gave a little hoot before driving out the gate and setting off through our small village. Watching in my rear view mirror as the house got further and further away, I remember thinking that it no longer felt like home, and sadness pulled at my brain.
I drove through ‘Constable Country’. The landscape resembled one of his famous paintings with its vast and changing sky. Suffolk is a quiet, low-lying, under-populated county of few towns. Among its gentle hills and arable fields is the occasional grassy pasture where black and white, or brown cows graze. The landscape is dotted with picturesque gabled farmhouses with terracotta tiled roofs, their plastered walls variously painted in whites, soft creams and yellows, faded pinks, and the occasional washed-out garnet colour known locally as ‘bull’s blood.’ The crops had been harvested, and most fields were now ploughed or palest green with newly planted winter wheat. It was a scenic drive, despite the gathering black clouds above and the ominous wind clattering the trees. The road wound through little villages forgotten by time, and I thought it unlikely that anything very interesting ever happened in them. Each village had its own pretty church and tidy green, with the verges and gardens neatly manicured. People took pride in the appearance of their streets. You could almost smell the community spirit.
There is only one road that leads in and out of Southwold. When I reached the town I slowed right down and took my time to observe the streets and buildings. The houses were a mix of red brick Victorian cottages and some older ones, plastered and painted in subtle pastel colours.
I passed a number of nice looking pubs and a few greens before reaching the coast road. With no plan, I crawled along the road looking at the neat colourful beach huts and the pier. The coast and Heaths are an area of outstanding natural beauty. I saw a lighthouse standing proud in the distance and I couldn’t help feeling that it was my undiscovered secret.
I fel
t I’d come to the right place and that fate had somehow led me there. A single, large raindrop landed on the windscreen. I pulled the car over onto the verge and turned the engine off. The wind howled and whistled all around and the waves jumped and tumbled onto the shore. Seconds later, buckets of water began to pour down from the sky. The drops pelted the roof of the car and made a tinny noise above my head. Wookie in the back seat watched with detachment. The raindrops snaked their way down the glass. But then the downpour ceased almost as quickly as it had started. I examined the scrap of paper on which I’d written down the hotel address. I made a U-turn, and headed back into the town.
It wasn’t hard to find the Swan Inn, a large, cream detached pub just a street back from the main promenade. I pulled into the gravel car park, where there were only two other cars. I got out, stretched my legs, and let Wookie out of the car. He sniffed about before cocking his leg on an unsuspecting dustbin. With the wind whipping my hair, I grabbed my bag and whistled for Wookie to come to heel.
Inside the pub, I stood in a cosy room with a lit fire in the hearth. It smelled of home cooking. The ceiling was supported with heavy beams. Copper pots and pans from days gone-by hung on hooks over the bar. The walls were decorated with turn-of-the-century photographs. It ticked all the boxes. From behind the bar a woman smiled at Wookie before greeting me. She was short and round with a kind, plump face.
‘Can I help you, love?’ her broad Suffolk accent resonated.
‘I’ve got a room booked. Annabel Livingstone.’
She nodded immediately and reached for a key.
‘Follow me,’ she said.
We went through the bar and restaurant and up a narrow staircase to a brightly lit corridor.
‘I’ve put you in number five.’ She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. ‘I think it’s our nicest room.’
It was a charming room with a large bed and a window looking out onto the street below. There was an antique dressing table, a flat screen television, and two nice pencil sketches of the surrounding area. By the window sat a large armchair and a small side table with a potted plant on it.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, patting Wookie on the head. He sat by my side waiting for attention.
‘The TV has all the Freeview channels. There’s a hairdryer in the drawer and tea and coffee making facilities on the table by the door. We have free Wi-Fi and in your en-suite there are towels plus some complimentary toiletries. If you need anything else then just ask. I’ll be around all day.’ She cheerfully dropped the keys into my open palm before disappearing back into the corridor.
I threw the covers back and flopped down onto the crisp white sheets, taking a long, deliberate breath. Now that I was here I wasn’t sure what I was planning to do, or why I’d come. I sat up and searched through my suitcase for the book I’d packed. I hadn’t been able to concentrate on reading for months and months, but I figured it was worth having another go. I propped myself up against the feather pillows and opened my Stephen King. Wookie flung himself down on the floor, knowing his walk would have to wait for now.
About an hour later, I looked at the clock and realized I was hungry. It was nearly one so I decided to brave the weather and search the town for something to eat. Filled with the satisfaction of reading again, I put my book down, pulled on my wellies, clipped Wookie onto his lead, and left my room.
Stepping out onto the street I was greeted by drizzle. I pulled my collar up around my neck and decided to turn left and see where it led. After ten minutes’ ambling, I came to a small bakery that advertised freshly made baguettes. Hooking the dog lead around a lamppost, I ducked inside to escape the wet. A pimple faced teenage boy sat on a stool behind the counter fiddling with his mobile phone. He glanced at me and waited for my order as I inspected the options on the chalkboard.
‘I’ll have a ploughman’s baguette, please.’ I checked my pockets for some money.
‘Want mayo wiv’ it?’ He stuffed the sliced roll with chunks of cheddar.
‘Please,’ I responded in the same curt tone he’d used.
I paid for my lunch and left the shop, pleased to see the rain had more or less ceased. The road remained deserted and I wandered along the seafront looking for a bench. Before long I found myself perched on a low, damp wall that separated the pavement from the beach. I couldn’t see anyone walking on the sand, or the street, and only one lonely car drove past, its windscreen wipers waving slowly. Things had worked out as I’d hoped. Apart from a wet Wookie who sat by my side, begging for a piece of my roll, I was completely alone and I liked it.
I let the dog roam free on the beach while I finished my lunch. When I’d eaten the baguette, lemonade, and chocolate bar, I called Wookie and put him on his lead. The waves were grey and rough so I resolved to explore the town further and save the coastal walk for the following day. As I traipsed along the damp streets admiring the houses and shops, I grew increasingly aware of my solitude. I knew the autumn weather wasn’t inviting, but I seemed to be walking through a ghost town and I began to find it spooky. I turned the corner and spotted a shop with a newspaper board outside. The headline read: ‘Second murdered girl found on beach.’
I stopped dead, realizing that the small town was in the centre of a national murder investigation. Caught by a strong, sudden urge to smoke, I nipped in to buy some cigarettes. A man in his sixties greeted me.
‘Yes, miss?’ he looked over the top of his glasses, his face was weathered.
‘Twenty Silk Cut, please.’
He took a pack from the shelf behind him and rang in the amount on the till.
‘That’ll be seven pound seventy. Anything else I can help you with?’
‘No that’s it, thanks. Dreadful about these girls.’
‘Are you press?’ he hissed. ‘Because I’ve told you lot I’m not going to talk about it. It’s morbid and disrespectful. I refuse to indulge in idle gossip!’
‘Oh, Christ no, I’m not press,’ I said, tripping over my words.
He softened, ‘Well you don’t live round here, so where are you from?’
‘I’ve just come to escape for a few days.’
‘Odd place to come at this time,’ he said warily.
‘I didn’t realize it was here. I mean, I just wanted to come to the coast for a few days, and somehow ended up booking a room in one of the pubs here. I don’t pay much attention to the news.’
‘You mean you didn’t know?’ he said sceptically.
‘No, I did, I mean, I just kind of ended up here without realizing.’
The man cocked his head to one side before sliding the packet of smokes over the counter towards me.
‘Well, it’s a bit odd to come and do the tourist thing at this time of year.’ He looked at me with suspicion. ‘Let me give you a friendly piece of advice, if I may. Watch where you go. It’s probably best not to mention the news to the folks you meet in town. People are awful sore about this business.’
I nodded, thanked him, and hurriedly left the shop. My heart was beating hard in my chest as I took quick strides along the pavement and back to the sanctuary of my room.
Before heading inside, I got an old blanket out of my car and attempted to towel-dry Wookie, who wriggled and rubbed himself against the fabric. I entered the bar and made a beeline for the stairs. I made an effort to avoid eye contact with the small number of people who were sitting on stools at the bar, talking in hushed tones to the landlady, who’d shown me to my room earlier.
I spent the rest of the day in my bedroom. I sat for tireless hours at my laptop looking into the murders that had enveloped this quiet part of rural Suffolk. The first body had been found in April. At the time I had been so out of control I’d not been able to concentrate on anything other than my delusions, let alone a news story. A morning jogger had come across the naked, broken body of the young woman washed up on the beach. The police announced later that she had been there for a few days and hadn’t been discovered due to the cold stormy
weather which had been battering the coast and putting off ramblers. The woman had been reported missing by her family two weeks earlier.
The second body was discovered only ten days before my arrival. A twenty-four-year-old student nurse had disappeared a week before the discovery of her remains. Her boyfriend had appeared on the national news to make a teary appeal for information, and the media had whipped up a storm speculating that a serial killer was on the prowl. The police neither confirmed nor denied that they were working under that assumption, which led to further wild tales being bandied about by the tabloids. No official was prepared to say ‘serial killer’. One police chief admitted that there was a similarity in the age of the victims, but as of yet there was no evidence that connected them, other than the means by which they had been ‘brutally killed and sexually assaulted.’
Slamming the laptop shut, I sat back in my chair and let out a long sigh. I began to wonder if I had chosen this place out of some subconscious urge to be close to the investigation. The morbidity of my thoughts during that period left me suspecting that was the case. For some reason, I wanted to be close to death, to feel its cold presence around me. It was a gloomy realization and I decided I would avoid the story from then on.
Glancing out of the window, I saw the street lamps were on, their gleam reflected in the wet tarmac of the road. A rich blue evening sky sat above the rooftops as the last of the birds returned home to roost for the night. I decided to take myself out and look for some fish and chips. I had no desire to sit alone in the pub eating dinner. I grabbed my keys and wallet and made a decisive exit in search of hot food.
Chapter 3
The next morning I was woken early by the buzzing of my phone. I felt about for it and read the message:
Hope all is well darling. Give me a call to let me know you are alright.
Love Mum xx
I grunted and buried my face in my pillow, dropping my phone onto the floor. Wookie, who was on my bed, looked at me with one eye open and puffed out his cheeks. He didn’t appreciate being woken up either it seemed. If I didn’t reply I would continue to be harassed by messages. I leaned out of bed and retrieved the phone. I text back that I was fine and would call her later on. With the speed of light she responded saying she was relieved.
BENEATH THE WATERY MOON a psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 2
