The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Things changed, though I suppose siblings usually drift apart once they become teenagers. Well, the normal ones do. I’m always suspicious of those grown-up brothers and sisters who claim to be best friends – or, worse still, mothers and fathers with their daughters and sons who go around telling everyone what great mates they are. It’s too weird for words. Family and friends are supposed to be different – that’s why they are different words.

  We’ve had our niggles but, for the most part, Ollie and I have lived our own lives.

  I turn away from the photos and try to come up with anyone else who might link Sarah to me. If I really think, there are plenty of people because she’s only a year older than me. We lived in the same small village, went to the same school, shopped in the same places – and so on. But no matter how long and hard I think, I know nobody links us more directly than Ollie. She was his girlfriend and I’m his sister. How much closer can it get?

  My memories might be sketchy but it can’t be him who attacked us both. I know it can’t. I’ve seen everything Ollie went through over the past year and it’s hard to believe anyone could fake that grief.

  If I’d been sleeping at home instead of at Naomi’s the night Sarah died, I might have heard Ollie arrive back at the time he insists he did. I’ve thought a lot over these months about how much I wanted to give him an alibi but couldn’t. Mum feels the same, too – not that she’d ever talk about it. She’s such a heavy sleeper that it’s long been a family joke that she’d doze through erupting volcanoes, meteor strikes and earth-quaking lightning storms. It was all very funny until the one time when Ollie could have done with her waking up as he got in.

  Or perhaps he never got in at the time he told the police…?

  ‘Shush.’

  I’m talking to myself but it doesn’t stop those dark thoughts from scratching away.

  Not only that, I’m alone in the house with him.

  With a shake of my head, I flip the laptop lid closed once more and then pick my cold toast up from the table. It goes in the kitchen bin, uneaten, and then I start searching through the cupboards. Above the counter-top is a biscuit barrel that we’ve had for as long as I can remember. There’s a blueberry muffin at the bottom, the stump stale and hard, the top soft and squishy.

  I have to press it to my nose to be able to smell even a hint of it. When I do, all I get is a sense of earth, of mud. It reminds me of an old PE kit that I accidentally left in my schoolbag one summer. By the start of the next term, it reeked of fusty, stinking dirt.

  After returning the muffin, I try sniffing more things around the kitchen. Cookies, jam, a jar of Marmite, mustard, an apple, cheese from the fridge.

  Everything smells the same – as if I’m lying face-down in a field, my nose to the ground. I nibble at the cheese but it tastes the same as the toast and again I feel sick. I end up spitting it into the sink and washing it away.

  It tastes of nothing, smells of nothing – water is the only thing I can keep down. I drink a mugful and then a second, wondering if it’ll be enough to keep me alive – or in whatever state I’m apparently in.

  Before I leave the kitchen, I flick through the pile of paper and cardboard destined for the recycling. Mum always stacks these things next to the kitchen bin, largely to remind Ollie and myself to do the same. I pull out a copy of the Westby Weekly News and stare at the photo of the man on the front. The headline reads: ‘Village on alert over post office break-in’ – which is enough to send most of the residents into meltdown.

  Westby is a place in which very little ever happens. If it weren’t for the easy bus ride into Langham, it’d be a nightmare for anyone to grow up here. It’s the type of place where people are born, live and die, while barely leaving a fifty-mile radius. A long journey is the hour it takes to get to the coast; the highlight of the year is the Medieval Street Fayre every July; a major talking point is whether the grass on the green near the church needs to be cut.

  According to the newspaper – which Mum buys religiously every week, even though it’s all on the Internet for free – someone smashed through a back window at the village post office last week. He or she didn’t manage to steal anything, yet the break-in is enough to cause ‘major alarm’.

  There’s a photo on the front page of a man with scruffy dark beard and moustache, plus hair to his shoulders. It’s one of those police sketches that look like it’s been drawn by someone who has never seen an actual human being.

  This is the so-called ‘Hitcher’ Mum was talking about.

  According to the report, he is so-named because someone saw a similar man thumbing a lift a mile or so outside the village last month. It might be the same man, it might not be. Either way, there’s nothing in the story to specifically link this person to the break-in, or anything else as far as I can tell.

  In truth, this sort of suspicion is reserved for anyone who looks a bit different, or turns up in Westby out of the blue. A few years ago, one of the girls in the village decided to start dressing as a goth and people would cross the road to avoid her. Not everyone, of course – but a single person is one too many.

  As I scan through the Hitcher story, it doesn’t take long to realise what nonsense it all is. The first witness is Mrs McKeith, one of the village gossips who owns the pharmacy. She blabbers on about seeing a suspicious man in the alley at the back of her shop – and that’s it. She’s probably been dining out on the story all week.

  The second witness is no surprise, either.

  Rebecca Watts is one of a trio of girls in my year at college who act like they run the place. That’s partly because they do. The three of them all have long black hair, which is why they’re collectively known as the Ravens. I’m not sure who came up with the nickname – it might even have been one of them – but they’ve had it since they were about fourteen.

  When Sarah’s body was discovered and the media came calling, everyone knew they were after someone vaguely attractive to stick on screen. Up stepped Rebecca the Raven. She sobbed for the cameras, her sixteen-year-old breasts hoiked up as if on a winch, lips pouting like they’d been pumped full of collagen… which they might have been.

  I doubt she and Sarah had shared more than a dozen words with each other – but no one seemed to care and it’s not as if any of the reporters checked. The Ravens crave attention and, after Rebecca’s performance, she and Sarah had become best friends ripped apart by a dreadful crime.

  Here she is now, having apparently seen the Hitcher on her way home from college. Her photo is on one of the inside pages of the paper and I think it’s the same one they used throughout last summer – all tits, teeth and sucked-in stomach.

  I read the story twice but am not sure what to think. It’s so flimsy but perhaps it was this long-haired, bearded bloke who drowned me in the river? It wouldn’t explain what happened to Sarah last summer, yet it’s surely better to think that this mysterious loner could be a potential killer than it is to suspect my brother.

  After returning the paper to the pile, I turn and find myself eyeing the cooker. It’s wide and white, with a silver extractor fan at the top. The type of thing seen on some cooking show. Mum bought it brand new a few years ago as a Christmas present to herself and cleans it thoroughly at least twice a week. It’s like therapy for her. There’s rarely a time when it’s not sparkling. She enjoys cooking.

  Well, enjoyed.

  The past year has taken its toll on her almost as much as Ollie.

  Even with all my layers of clothing, I’m still cold, so I turn on the gas and click the ignition button. There’s a gentle whoosh and then the ring of flame burns blue. I stare at it, watching the fire dance, but when I hold my palms near, I feel nothing. I turn the heat up to its hottest, making it flare higher, hearing it sizzle with energy, but still none of the warmth seeps into my fingers.

  It is then that I feel like doing something stupid. My hands are practically in the flames anyway, so what would happen if I actually touched the fire? Will
I be able to feel the heat? Will I burn? Can I be hurt?

  If I’m dead but I’m not, then what am I?

  The blue at the base of the flame licks into the orange at the top as the gas continues to hiss. I close my eyes and lean forward.

  Chapter Five

  The door handle behind me snaps down and Ollie appears in the room. I flick the stove off and turn to see him in a pair of boxer shorts, with a baggy T-shirt. He doesn’t bother to stifle a yawn as he eyes me suspiciously.

  ‘Why are you up?’

  Perhaps he heard me up and about, maybe he checked my room – or Mum might have woken him earlier for some reason. Either way, there’s no surprise that I’m here in front of him. If he had been the person holding me under the water a few hours ago, wouldn’t he be more shocked by my miraculous reappearance?

  Ollie cricks his neck and stretches his arms high. He’s a little under six foot, seven inches taller than me, and his fingers scrape the ceiling.

  When I don’t answer, he nods at the stove. ‘You cooking?’

  I tell myself I never believed it was anything to do with Ollie anyway. ‘I’ll make you something if you want.’

  He bobs on the balls of his feet and his eyes narrow. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch.’

  ‘Then what do you want in return?’

  ‘Eternal gratitude? The knowledge that I’m the greatest sister you could ever have?’

  He peers around the kitchen, focusing on the back door, and then turns back to me. ‘There must be something going on.’

  ‘Nothing’s going on!’

  ‘Then why are you volunteering to make me breakfast?’

  ‘Because I’m a nice person – and an amazing sister.’

  His head tilts and then he starts to nod slowly. He doesn’t seem convinced by how marvellous I am, by which I should probably be offended. Eventually he cracks into a small smile and rubs his hand across his shaven head. ‘All right. I’ll have beans on toast if it’s going. Bit of brown sauce wouldn’t go amiss, either.’

  ‘All right – I’m not your slave.’

  ‘You said—!’ I grin at him and he stops mid-sentence. ‘Thanks,’ he adds.

  ‘Don’t get too used to it.’

  At some point a couple of years ago, one of Mum’s friends lent her a diet book that was packed with gory details about the evils of salt, sugar and pretty much anything that tastes good. Ever since, she’s filled the cupboards with healthy things because she’s convinced we’ll all die a horrible, painful artery-clogged death otherwise. That’s offset by the fact that she does occasionally give into the devil and buy things like blueberry muffins. I guess she figures the reduced salt and sugar in the baked beans she buys allows her the odd cake as a compromise.

  I plop two slices of gluten-free bread under the grill – it always comes out better than when the toaster gets involved – and then empty a can of low-fat, lower-taste baked beans into a pan and turn the stove back on. Ollie is still in the doorway, leaning on the frame and tapping away on his phone.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever made him breakfast, aside from tipping some cereal into a bowl, but it feels satisfying to be doing something normal.

  Ollie doesn’t look up from his phone when he next speaks. ‘You look awful, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. I’m cooking you breakfast, remember.’

  He still doesn’t look up. ‘Why are you wearing so many clothes? It’s boiling out – that’s why I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘I was cold. Mum reckons I’m coming down with something.’ Ollie’s eyes dart towards me and then his food. ‘Don’t worry,’ I add. ‘I’m not going to give you the plague.’

  Ollie slips his phone into the waistband of his boxers and yawns again. ‘What time did you get in?’ he asks.

  ‘After Mum had gone to bed.’

  Not a lie.

  He smirks. ‘Tut tut.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Early. After I saw you in Langham, I pretty much came home and didn’t go back out.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  He shrugs. ‘I saw you at about half-three, so after that. I don’t know.’

  The beans are smouldering, so I give them a stir and then flip the toast.

  At Ollie’s prompting, the events of yesterday are beginning to return. I’d gone shopping with Naomi in the morning and then we’d hung around in the main park in the centre of Langham. It’s a sprawling mass of green, with a small boating lake at one end, a mini-golf course and a bandstand. There was some sort of fête going on and the sun was high and bright. There were lots of local stalls, with people selling jam, cakes and crafts. That’s not really our thing – but we were perfectly happy to sit in the shade, tap away on our phones and quietly take the piss out of passers-by.

  That’s what you call a quality afternoon.

  Not that I’ve ever understood that saying. When has anyone ever literally taken the piss? And why – and where – would they be taking it? Who’s going around with tubs of their own piss ready for other people to take? And if people are going around giving away their piss, aren’t they the winners in that situation? If a person is going to make fun of somebody else, wouldn’t it be better to give them piss? That way, the subject of the joke ends up with the piss, while the person doing the laughing has given away the piss.

  Anyway…

  ‘I don’t remember seeing you,’ I reply.

  Ollie shakes his head. ‘You were with Naomi, heading off towards the lake with a large carrier bag and a bottle of...’ He tilts his head again. ‘I thought you’d stopped drinking…?’

  ‘That cider was Naomi’s.’

  He shrugs, pretending he doesn’t care. I know he does. I remember heading towards the water because Naomi wanted to cool her feet in the lake. She’d bought a bottle of cider in the offy close to the college that serves pretty much anyone, ID or no ID. I don’t know what we did after that. It feels like a puzzle where I’m missing half the pieces. Every now and then, someone will give me more bits and I’m able to slot things together. I probably need to talk to Naomi.

  I nod towards the living room. ‘Mum says Jim’s coming over to fix the ceiling fan.’

  Ollie wafts his T-shirt. ‘Good.’

  We share a momentary look of mutual understanding. Neither of us is under any illusions about the nature of Jim’s – Uncle Jim’s – relationship with our mother. We’ve known him forever, even if it’s only recently that things between him and Mum have, ahem, escalated.

  With little else to talk about, I turf the toast onto a plate and then tip the beans over the top. I hand the plate to Ollie and then dump the dishes in the sink, saying he can clean up. As he disappears into the living room, I head upstairs to the bathroom.

  When Ollie said I looked awful, he wasn’t being mean – he was stating a fact. Under the bathroom’s bright white light, the reflection of my skin in the mirror looks even greyer.

  I wonder if the lifeless dull skin is worse than the sprinkle of angry red spots I used to get on my chin when I was thirteen or fourteen. The acne seemingly appeared every time I was nervous, which only made me more anxious, meaning I spent the best part of two years rubbing any number of ‘miracle’ lotions and creams into my skin. None of them worked and, in the end, the spots went away. I wonder if this drab colouring will disappear too.

  My hair is naturally a slightly red shade of brown but now it looks faded. It feels crispy, as if I’ve sprayed too much hairspray and not brushed it out. The areas under my eyes are a purply-grey, making it look like I had a black eye a few weeks ago and it’s only now healing. Changes in a person’s appearance are usually so subtle that staring at a reflection day-to-day is not enough to notice the little things. It’s only when looking back to old photographs – or even those taken a few months before – that differences become apparent. Faces become thinner or fatter, hairlines and styles change, clothes fit in different ways.

  What’s so shocking is how quickly m
y appearance has altered. From yesterday to today, my cheeks have sunken, my face has thinned. It looks like I’ve gone on one of those Hollywood crash diets of eating nothing but seaweed and rabbit poo, washed down with a glass of my own urine.

  Maybe that’s what happens with all these people giving and taking the piss!

  After a dash to my room and back, I apply a few dabs of make-up to my cheeks and under my eyes, if only to give myself a bit of colour. I try not to overdo it and, though I still don’t look like myself, I’m just about passable. I definitely looked worse on the day I woke up hungover in Naomi’s bathroom. I wet my hair and tie it into a ponytail. It still looks like I’ve slept in a skip but it’s as good as it’s going to get.

  When I open the curtains in my room, I shrink away vampire-style from the beaming sun and vast blue sky. I should be warm but feel nothing but cold.

  Even though I’m not massively organised when it comes to clothes, I do move things around based upon the seasons. It’s not exactly winter, spring, summer and autumn; more hot and cold. All my cold-weather stuff has been shoved to the back of my wardrobe, so I have to hunt through piles of things I’ve not worn in months. I eventually settle on a thin but warm base layer, with a long-sleeved T-shirt over the top and a pair of shorts that are underneath tights and jeans. I’m going to look overdressed given the weather but it could be worse – the village goth used to wear a long black leather coat during the summer.

  I text Naomi, saying I’ll meet her at Tape Deck – or ‘the Deck’ as it’s better known – and that there’s no need to pick me up. After that, I grab a shoulder bag and then head downstairs. Ollie is sitting at the dining table, fork in one hand, phone in the other. His thumb is a blur as he types. He has devoured the majority of his breakfast and has orange baked-bean juice clinging to his chin.

  ‘I’m going out,’ I announce.

  He peers up, though his thumb continues to tap the screen.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Mum said to tell you to do some revision.’

  ‘Whatever.’