The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Naomi is drumming her fingers on the table. ‘So, er… why are you wearing so many clothes?’

  ‘I was cold. Anyway – last night. I don’t remember much.’

  It’s not the smoothest of segues, but Naomi goes with it.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d been drinking. Were you really that bad? Perhaps someone spiked you? Remember that Karen girl last year? She reckoned she’d been spiked but I heard she was putting it on to try to get sympathy from that Jason guy. Anyway, what do you remember?’

  Naomi has spoken so quickly that it takes me a moment to figure out what she’s asked. ‘I remember being in the park with you in Langham. You had that bottle of cider.’

  ‘That’s all? You must’ve been proper out of it. You don’t remember Helen’s party? Her mum and dad are on holiday, they’re due back today, so we went over for a barbecue and pool party. Well, paddling pool. Big paddling pool. Still a pool, though.’

  At the mention of Helen’s name, I know who she is. She’s been in our year throughout school and now college. We’ve never been great mates but nod to each other and say hello. There’s that stat about ninety per cent of human interaction being non-verbal but I reckon at least half is nodding and saying, ‘hello’ or ‘all right’.

  Naomi has her phone out and is flicking through the images. She turns it around to show me a photo of someone bombing into the paddling pool, then thumbs the screen sideways to bring up a second image. Robbie’s on the corner of a sofa and I’m on his lap, sipping a can of fizzy Vimto. We’re both grinning, gazing into each other’s eyes, but I have no memory of it happening.

  ‘Was this last night?’ I ask.

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘Not all of it…’

  The Ravens clump down on a booth across the aisle from us and I feel the death stares punching through the air.

  Robbie returns moments later, hunched over us, palms again on the table. He seemingly can’t look at me as he gazes through the window towards his car. ‘I’m really not feeling well,’ he says. ‘I’m going home. Are you all right to get the bus back?’

  I shrug but Naomi says it’s fine. Robbie frowns at me once more, then pecks me on the top of the head before heading outside. We watch him go and then Naomi leans in, whispering so the Ravens cannot overhear.

  ‘He’s acting weird,’ she says. ‘What did you get up to last night?’

  Chapter Seven

  Naomi doesn’t seem convinced when I tell her that I’m not sure why Robbie’s acting strangely. When her food arrives, she lets it go, polishing off her salad and then mine. When we’re done, we ignore the Ravens and head outside. It’s Naomi’s idea to walk home, so we do, following one of the trails back to the village. Naomi talks a lot, largely about how we only have two more weeks of college before we go on leave for our end-of-year exams. She wants to know what I’m going to be up to for the rest of the summer, saying her mum wants her to get a job. When I know what to say, I reply properly. I fudge it when I don’t.

  Before long, we’re passing the ‘Welcome to Westby’ sign and then we’re at the bridge that crosses the river.

  I stop, peering down at the water. In the daylight, it seems clearer than I remember from the previous night. A pair of adult ducks is next to the bridge, quacking away as a small fleet of ducklings glide past. There is no one around except us, though a low chatter of giddy children carries on the breeze.

  Naomi is at my side, leaning over the bridge and watching the baby ducks. ‘It’s a year since Sarah, isn’t it…?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She turns, hoisting herself up so that she’s sitting on the low wall, facing away from the water. I join her and neither of us speaks for a minute or so. I knew Sarah through Ollie – and Naomi knew her through me. It’s tenuous but that doesn’t take away from the impact when someone who is in a person’s life most days is suddenly not there any longer.

  ‘We should do something,’ Naomi says.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno. They’re doing that candlelight thing in a couple of days, but that’s not Sarah, is it? Imagine if you died – how would you want people to remember you: some solemn candle thing, or a proper blowout?’

  I open my mouth to answer and then remember the water in my mouth, my nostrils, not being able to breathe. It feels too close to think about.

  ‘Sorry,’ Naomi adds, ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s okay, I know what you were saying.’

  ‘So… we should do something to remember her by. Perhaps ask your brother?’

  ‘I don’t think he’d be interested. Some people still think he might’ve… well, y’know…’

  Naomi hums in reply. ‘I’ll talk to a few people and see if we can think of an idea. It’s the longest day tomorrow, so we can probably come up with something.’

  She swings her legs and then kicks off from the wall, landing on her feet. One of her socks has slipped down to her ankle, so she hoists it up and turns towards the village centre. She lives on one side of the bridge, I live on the other.

  ‘I’ve gotta get going,’ she says. ‘Mum and Dad are having a family barbecue and I’m not allowed to miss it. Not if I want some peace, anyway. Dad’ll go bonkers if I’m late.’ She nods aimlessly towards the village. ‘You all right by yourself? I dunno if Rebecca made it up but everyone’s going on about that Hitcher bloke.’

  She glances to the water below and I know she’s thinking of Sarah.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I reply.

  ‘See you at college, then.’

  It had escaped me that I’m supposed to be at college tomorrow. It feels so strange after the way I woke up this morning.

  ‘See you there,’ I say.

  She starts to walk away and then stops, turning to face me again. She tugs on one of her pigtails and then presses her lips tight before speaking. ‘Are you and Robbie going to make up?’

  ‘I didn’t know we’d fallen out.’

  ‘There’s something going on between you. You should fix it – he’ll be off to uni in September and then, well… I dunno.’

  I smile thinly back at her and say I’ll talk to him, then she turns and heads off along the towpath, not looking back.

  Robbie’s a year older than us, and Naomi is right. In a few months, he’ll be escaping the village and we’ll still be here. My thoughts are so jumbled that I don’t know what to think. Naomi told me to fix it, but I don’t know what to fix. Robbie’s the one who was looking at me strangely and then rushed away from Tape Deck. What did I do? More importantly, what happened last night?

  The adult ducks waddle away after the little ’uns, leaving me by myself on the bridge. I stare down towards the river and, for a moment, it feels as if everything that happened was a dream. The water in my mouth and nose, the barefooted walk home, that sense of someone’s hands on my chest and head, pushing me under. Then I spot the dirty trail up the side of the riverbank from where I hauled myself out of the water.

  I pass across the bridge and edge around the bank until I’m overlooking the spot where I climbed up. There’s a rounded splurge of flattened earth from where I sat halfway up, trying to figure out where I was and what was happening. I tell myself the patch of land isn’t that big because my arse isn’t that big.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m a third of the way down towards the water. I can see the imprints of my hands in the muck, plus a deeper pool where my heel mushed into the ground. The lower I go, the wetter the earth, until I’m level with my arse print. As I continue, my foot slips and I need to cling onto a clump of roots to stop myself tumbling feet-first into the river. I stop and take a breath, peering towards the water. Now I’m lower, it seems to be moving quicker, babbling and jabbering away from the village.

  Without thinking, I take off my shoes and multiple socks, then I remove my tops and jeans until I’m wearing only a pair of shorts and long-sleeved base layer. I tread carefully closer to the water until I’m low enough to dip
my toe in. I’m already cold but the water is colder. I’m shivering, knees touching awkwardly as my feet bow out. I force myself to continue waddling penguin-style into the water. The riverbed is soft, with slivers of grit and who knows what else digging into my feet. Still I continue moving as the water comes over my ankles, my knees. When it touches the bottom of my thighs, I stop. The current isn’t strong but I’m not a great swimmer – ironic, huh? – and I’m not that tall or heavy either. After dragging myself out of this river, it’d be pretty stupid to find myself struggling in the water again.

  I stand with my legs wide enough that I have as firm a base as I’m going to manage and then close my eyes. At first all I can see is darkness but then I can taste the water again, feel those hands on me. My head’s whirling and I’m spinning, falling, choking… except that I’m not. When I open my eyes, I’ve not moved. I’m still standing near the middle of the river, staring towards the bridge.

  The water has a slight silty brown hint to it but I can still see most of the way through it towards the bottom. There are stones and twigs, plus probably less savoury things, such as glass. I’ve been stupid in wading out and yet I was drawn to the spot. Lured, perhaps.

  Crouching slightly, I embrace the flow of the river, leaning against it for balance. I squint through the water trying to look for my shoes from last night. I know I was wearing a silver, strappy pair of flats when I was out with Naomi, yet they weren’t on my feet when I came to my senses. They could have been washed downstream, or they might be somewhere around me on the riverbed. It’s not the shoes specifically I’m concerned about, more that they might hold a clue as to what happened.

  I step sideways like a crab, still pressing against the flow for balance, then keep moving until the water level starts to lower. There is no sign of my shoes, no sign of anything other than the type of muck that’d be expected on the bottom of a river. When the water dips below my knees, I turn and start side-stepping towards the opposite bank, where my clothes are.

  I’m a little past the deepest part when my foot snags on something. At first I think it’s an old piece of string or rope, perhaps some sort of seaweed – or is it named riverweed? I take a few more steps and then lift my leg, balancing on the other until I hook the object from my big toe. It’s soaking wet, making the leather heavy, but it’s undoubtedly a bracelet of some sort. The moment I clasp it in my hand, I feel the water in my mouth once more, the panic beginning to rise – only this time I have a clear vision of a person’s hand holding my head under the river.

  His or her fingers are splayed wide across my forehead, thumb on one temple, little finger on the other. I’m being pushed down deeper as I reach up and claw at the person. The only thing I manage to snag is something tied to their wrist. I tug as hard as I can, trying to free myself, but it’s no good. All I manage to do is yank the bracelet from their wrist before my fingers loosen and the small leather strap floats to the bottom of the river.

  Chapter Eight

  I stare at the bracelet, knowing it belonged to whoever drowned me. There are three interwoven strands of light brown leather plaited together, with intermittent knots every centimetre or so. There are no particular identifying marks – no logos or initials – and it is plain enough that it could belong to a man or a woman. I trace my finger across the rougher underside and then try to smell it, but it gives me no clues. I have no idea to whom it might belong, although it’s hard to know anything for sure seeing as my memory’s got that whole Swiss cheese vibe going on.

  From what I remember, it doesn’t seem like the type of thing Robbie might own. He’s into sports, specifically football, and doesn’t wear any jewellery. I’m not sure about Ollie. He went through a phase of wearing beaded necklaces and bracelets a couple of years ago when he thought it looked cool. He must’ve cleaned his mirror at some point because he stopped going out with them and I’ve not seen them since. Thankfully.

  ‘Ell…?’

  At the sound of my name, I turn and look up to the bridge. There’s a lad with sandy short hair and a mucky palm that he’s using to wave at me. This is Ben, Naomi’s boyfriend.

  ‘Why are you in the river?’ he calls.

  ‘There was, er, a duck struggling and I, um… helped it.’

  Even with no time to think, it’s a woefully poor effort at an excuse.

  ‘A duck?’

  ‘Yeah, it, er, swam off in the end.’ I nod towards the other side of the bridge where the adult ducks and ducklings are swimming in circles. He looks over his shoulder towards them and then back to me.

  ‘Do you need a hand to get out?’

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, moving to the side of the bank where my clothes are and edging down carefully. A couple walk past hand-in-hand, slowing as they get level with me. They’re nearing retirement age but still look fit and agile in hiking boots and slim softshells. I don’t recognise them, so they’re likely some of the tourists that pass through at the weekends in the summer months.

  ‘Do you two need a hand?’ the man asks, turning from Ben to me.

  Ben hesitates but I’m already wading towards the bank. ‘Just cooling off,’ I say – which is a far better excuse than some nonsense about rescuing ducks. The man offers a cheery wave and then continues along the path with his wife.

  As soon as I clamber out of the water, the chill hits me worse than before.

  ‘You’re shivering, Ell,’ Ben says.

  He slips down the bank until he is on the edge of the river. He spins in a circle, muttering something about a coat – even though he doesn’t have one and it’s warm.

  I wrap my arms around myself, stuttering ‘I know’ before he steps closer and pulls me in for a hug that does nothing to warm me and only gets him wet. I push him away and then brush the worst of the water from my legs and wring out the liquid from the bottom of my top. Ben watches as I start to dress myself, putting on layer after layer until the only things left are my shoes. As I hold them in one hand, Ben reaches down and pulls me up by the other. He has a hand on my lower back, guiding me back to the top, where I sit on the path and put on my shoes. It’s a little squelchy but at least I didn’t cut myself on any of the rubbish at the bottom of the river.

  Ben sits next to me and scratches his head. ‘What was all that about?’ he asks.

  ‘I told you, there was a duck and—’

  ‘I thought you were with Naomi and Rob?’

  ‘I was. We were at the Deck but Robbie wasn’t feeling well, so he drove home – then we walked back. Naomi has a family thing, so here I am.’ I pause for breath and then add: ‘I thought you were working today?’

  ‘I am – Dad’s got me helping out rebuilding one of the barns but Mum’s trying to do some baking for the shop and she’s run out of sugar. She sent me out to pick some up.’ His excuse sounds more made up than mine until he points to a bag of sugar on the path next to him. He nods across the bridge. ‘C’mon, the farm’s only five minutes away. Let’s go get you a towel.’

  We cross the bridge once more, looping around the car park and then following a narrow lane. Barely a minute later, the trees begin to cast a darker shadow, almost growing into one another as they create a tunnel of threaded branches. We head through an easily missable gap in the bushes onto a gravel-strewn path, where the tall hedgerows quickly give way to a low verge, before opening into a vast expanse of green, brown and yellow.

  Ben remains a step or two ahead, walking quickly and not making small talk. There is a steady scrunch-scrunch-scrunch of our footsteps until we reach an open metal gate that would normally stretch across a wide driveway. There’s a circular blue sign to the side that reads ‘Fairbanks Farm & Shop’, with a painting of a sheep underneath.

  The driveway leads to a courtyard peppered with dried mud. A pair of huge barns is directly ahead, with a large two-storey house off to the side. Ben leads me along a cobbled path that rings a pristine garden until we reach a small cottage, when he fumbles in his pocket for a key. He unlocks
the door and holds it open, then says he’ll be right back.

  As he heads towards the main house, sugar in hand, I enter the bungalow. This is where Ben lives – a separate guesthouse on his parents’ property. Unsurprisingly, it has made him both enormously popular and unpopular at college. Anyone who knows him thinks it’s the greatest thing going, everyone else thinks it makes him a pretentious little rich boy.

  The front door opens into a combined living room and kitchen, with a breakfast bar separating the two. There is a bowl of fresh fruit on the counter and I open the cupboards to find shelves stocked with tinned and packaged food. The fridge is chocked with soft-drink cans, salad items, cheese – and all sorts of other things that look like they’ve been put there by Ben’s mum. It certainly doesn’t shout that the place is occupied by a teenager.

  I sit on one of the high stools next to the counter and wait for Ben to return. When he does, he throws me a towel and then disappears once more, saying he’ll be back in a moment.

  There’s a mirror on the wall, so I untie my hair and rub it hard, then comb it with my fingers, trying to get the knots out. I take off my shoes and towel my feet, then I rub underneath my layers, trying to dry off as best I can. None of it stops me feeling cold.

  Five minutes later and Ben hasn’t returned, so I do a lap of the living room, looking at the pictures and paintings until I arrive at a window that overlooks acres of fields at the back of the farm. On the sill are three photographs in identical frames.

  The first shows Ben and Naomi, dressed up ahead of our school’s formal dance. Ben’s in a kilt with black tails; Naomi is wearing an emerald dress that stretches to the floor. They somehow manage to look both young and old at the same time, the flawless skin and optimistic gazes mixed with outfits that no one under the age of about fifty should have to wear.