The next photo has Ben, Robbie, Naomi and myself on a beach. It was the first trip we went on after Robbie passed his driving test. I remember sitting in the back seat with Naomi, singing at the top of our voices with the windows down and music up.
The last is the four of us with our cheeks smushed together. It was taken at Langham’s Party In The Park a year ago, the weekend before Sarah died. It was a glorious day and we spent the afternoon listening to bands and then having a picnic on the edge of the lake. Naomi took the photo on her phone, stretching her arm as far as she could, but still managing to crop out the right side of her face.
‘Can you believe that was only a year ago?’
Ben’s voice makes me jump so badly that I almost drop the picture. He is only a few steps behind me, apparently moving with the silent stealth of a ninja.
I glance to the photo once more and then back up.
‘It seems like it was ages ago.’
He nods and takes the photo from me, looking at it with a gentle smile and then returning it to the windowsill and lining the three pictures up.
‘Do you remember that girl in the pink wellies? She didn’t want to get them dirty and every time we saw her, she was wiping them down.’
I’d forgotten until he mentioned it but now the stranger burns brightly. She was all blonde extensions, long nails and pink, pink, pink. Mud was not her thing and we spent the day following her around and trying to take photos without her noticing.
Ben grins, taking a step towards me. He’s close enough that I can see the peppering of stubble on his chin as his eyes burn through me. It feels as if I’m unable to move my feet, unable to escape his gaze. It is blue and bright, fixed only on me.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Sorry for not texting. I didn’t know if I should.’
I have no idea what he’s talking about, so shrug. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
He moves so quickly that I don’t have time to step away. His hand is cupping my chin and cheek, lips pressing hard into mine. It takes me a second to realise what is happening and then I pull away.
‘What are you doing?’ I gasp.
‘Huh?’
‘You’re going out with Naomi. I’m with Robbie…’
He raises a single eyebrow. ‘Yeah, but after last night, I thought…’
Ben tails off and I can’t stop myself from blurting out a ‘what?’.
His features fold into a frown, forehead creasing. ‘We were in Helen’s parents’ bedroom. It was late and—’
I hold a hand up to stop him because the memory is suddenly as vivid as if it was happening now.
Oh, no.
Chapter Nine
Ben’s fingers cup my chin as he delicately lifts my face until our lips are pressing together. His other hand is in my hair, tracing a path that leads to the base of my neck, which makes me shiver. I’m not pulling away, not trying to stop him. Instead, I’m pushing back into him, one hand on the bottom of his back, other on his side. He kisses me… no, we kiss each other. It feels good, gentler than it is with Robbie. His lips trace their way down to my neck and then I’m clutching him tighter, chin resting on his shoulder. The digital clock reads 10:42.
I blink myself back into Ben’s cottage, memory brimming with guilt from the previous evening. We were upstairs in Helen’s house, in her parents’ bedroom having blocked the door with a clothes hamper. In the background, the house party was ongoing with the undercurrent of music and teenage chatter, plus the wafting smell of barbecue. Naomi was slumped in the swing chair that hangs from a tree in Helen’s garden, having had too much to drink. We left her there and headed inside.
Ben is staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I can only manage a weak: ‘We kissed.’ Fact, not a question.
His eyes narrow and he takes half a step away from me. ‘You don’t regret it, do you? I mean, I don’t think it’s the time to tell Naomi, but…’
‘We didn’t…?’
His eyes narrow and for the tiniest fraction of a second I want to run. We couldn’t have done...
‘You know we didn’t,’ he says. ‘You do remember last night, don’t you? I didn’t think you were drinking…?’
I nod quickly. Too quickly. ‘What about Robbie?’
It’s more something I’m saying to myself – ‘how could I do this to him’ – but Ben nods slowly, misunderstanding the meaning. He thinks I’m saying we should tell Robbie about the kiss. Robbie is a year older than us all, taller with a thicker build. I know precisely what Ben’s thinking – that if the conversation with Robbie ever happens, he doesn’t want any part of it.
‘Robbie will be off to uni in September,’ Ben says. ‘We both know that. He knows it, too. He only needs three Bs and he’ll get that easily.’
‘That’ll still leave you me and Naomi.’
Ben turns away, staring out the window towards the fields. ‘You didn’t tell him, did you?’ he asks.
‘Tell who?’
‘Robbie. When you left in his car last night, I thought, just for a minute, that…’ He stops, clucking his tongue and then starts again. ‘I know it was a big rush because we heard those police sirens at half-eleven. Everyone left outside was being noisy and we assumed one of the neighbours must’ve called. Someone said that the Old Bill were coming in from Langham and we all scattered. The last I saw, you were rushing down the path towards Robbie’s car. You looked at me and you were, well… scared.’ He whispers the final word, still not looking at me.
‘I was scared?’
‘That’s what it looked like.’
‘Scared of Robbie?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was the sirens? Your mum’s bloke is the only police in Westby, so I thought maybe you were worried about him being one of the cops. Later, when I was home, I couldn’t stop thinking about how wide your eyes were when you were heading to Robbie’s car. Then I had the thought that you were going to tell him on the ride home.’
‘Tell him about me and you?’
Another shrug: ‘I suppose.’ A pause. ‘Did you?’
I try to think but there’s nothing after being in the bedroom with Ben. I don’t remember the sirens, nor leaving the party. I have no memory of being in Robbie’s car, let alone knowing what we talked about. It’s like knowing the word for something but not being able to say it. The information sits on the edge of my memory but I can’t get to it.
‘I didn’t tell him,’ I say. I’m not sure why I lie, or, I suppose, it might not be a lie at all. Perhaps I did – and that’s why Robbie was acting so strangely at the Deck.
Ben sighs and nods. He’s relieved – but I’m more confused than ever. Is this the person I am? A cheat? Someone who betrays my friends? I’ve been going out with Robbie for eighteen months or so and all the memories burn brightly. We’ve been happy together and I’ve grown up so much since we started seeing one another. Naomi’s been my friend forever and yet I’ve broken both their trusts. And for what? Ben’s nice enough – but I only know him as Naomi’s boyfriend. We get on, we laugh and joke, we give the piss to people, we go places as a foursome – but that’s it. Kissing him last night was a terrible, awful mistake compounded by the fact that I have no idea why I did it.
Then it dawns on me that I’ve been thinking about who held me under the water and not why they might have done it. The act by itself is brutal – yet he or she must have had a reason. Now I’m discovering that there are lists of people who could have reason to despise me.
It’s not a nice feeling.
Ben must see a change in me because he reaches out. I step away, shaking my head.
‘Not today.’
He stares, arm dangling between us until he rests it by his side. ‘Probably for the best, I suppose.’ He pauses, biting his lip. ‘How are we going to do this?’
‘Do what?’
‘Tell Naomi and Robbie? I know yesterday was the first time and it was just
a kiss but if we’re going to take things further—’
‘Further?’
‘We’ve both felt it between us. We can’t carry on behind their backs.’
I cross back to the breakfast bar and sit on the stool, re-tying my shoes. ‘I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this another time.’
‘Right…’ He takes a deep breath and then adds: ‘I suppose I’ll see you at college tomorrow?’
I turn and head for the door. ‘Yeah – see you at college.’
Chapter Ten
When I push through the front door at home, a pair of voices abruptly stops their conversation. Mum is in the kitchen, leaning on the counter sipping a cup of tea. It’s a little after seven but still bright outside. I’m not sure where the day’s gone. Much of it feels like a dream. On the other side of the kitchen is Jim – Uncle Jim.
He’s one of those men who is somehow both noticeable and forgettable at the same time. He stands and walks with a seemingly constant crick in his neck because he’s so tall. He dresses in a way that’s not quite fashionable, yet not granddad-style either. Today, it’s baggy navy blue board shorts that he would have been able to pull off if it wasn’t for the leather belt he’s using to hold them up. He’s sitting on a wooden chair with his knees crossed in the way that I’m not sure men should be able to manage. He’s lean and sporty, yet he wears cardigans in the winter.
Everything about him is a contradiction that should make him stand out. Despite all that, he has one of those faces that’s easy to overlook. If I wasn’t looking directly at him, I’m not sure I’d be able to describe what he’s like. There’s dark hair, a few wrinkles, some glasses that he doesn’t always wear… and that’s it. He’s been Uncle Jim for as long as I can remember.
As I enter the kitchen, I nod at Jim and then turn to Mum. The playful hello from this morning has seemingly been forgotten as she glares at me before carefully placing her mug in the sink.
I know what’s coming.
‘There you are,’ she says.
‘Here I am.’
I’m not trying to sound like a smart-arse but that’s the way it comes out.
‘I thought you were feeling ill?’
‘I was.’
‘I thought I told you to get some work done, not spend all day out and about. You were out all day yesterday, too.’ She’s about to launch into something else when she takes a moment to look at me properly. ‘Why are you covered in filth? Where have you been?’
The bottoms of my jeans are covered in the mud from the riverbank.
‘I was in the village,’ I say. ‘Nowhere special.’
‘But you walked home by yourself? You’re seventeen years old, Eleanor…’
Mum carries on, banging on about the Hitcher, the post office break-in, some nonsense about it ‘not being safe nowadays’ – and the usual lecture. I stand and listen, well, pretend to.
I know roughly how much trouble I’m in by how much of my name she uses. ‘Ell’ means we’re on good, friendly terms. Perhaps it’s Christmas and she’s full of seasonal spirit, or I’ve had some sort of brain trauma and cleaned up around the house. Every now and then, I do things like that.
‘Ellie’ is the next step up, or down depending on a person’s point of view. That’s for general use when she wants me. I would say that roughly ninety per cent of interactions involve her calling me Ellie.
‘Eleanor’ means she’s quite annoyed. Luckily, me being out all day and not doing anything I was supposed to hasn’t taken me beyond the ‘Eleanor’ stage. It’s the midway point of the scale, so I’ve not done badly.
‘Eleanor Louise’ means some serious shit has gone down. The last time I got that was when Naomi and I went to a gig in Langham. I told her I was staying at Naomi’s; Naomi told her parents she was staying at mine. Everything was going fine until Naomi’s mum called our house because Naomi had forgotten her asthma inhaler. Our mothers put two and two together and unfortunately came up with four. Because we were at a gig, I’d not heard my phone going off and it was only at quarter past eleven that I realised I had thirty-three missed calls.
Yes, thirty-three.
That got me the full ‘I’ve not raised you to act like this, Eleanor Louise’ treatment.
Beyond all of that, however, is the blow-a-gasket, steam-out-of-ears, coronary-inducing ‘Eleanor Louise Parker’. I’ve only pushed her that far once, when I first got drunk at the fully matured – in my mind – age of fourteen. That obviously sounds bad – and it is – but, in my defence…
Well… okay, I don’t have much of a defence.
Naomi and I had gone through the cabinets in her parents’ house when they were out, we’d found some bottles of strawberry-flavoured vodka, one thing led to another, and I was given the complete ‘Eleanor Louise Parker’ dressing down and grounded for three weeks. Mum even told me she ‘wasn’t annoyed, just disappointed’ – which would have had a lot more impact if she hadn’t spent fifteen minutes shouting at me, therefore proving she was most definitely annoyed. Since then, I’ve not eaten a strawberry and, truth be told, I’m pretty sure they’re the fruit of the devil.
Anyway, we’re at the Eleanor stage and I’m not completely sure how long I’ve been standing and listening to mum go on.
‘… you’re still my responsibility, Eleanor, and you still live under my roof. While that’s the case, it’s down to me to make sure you live up to your responsibilities...’
I need to breathe but I’m afraid it’ll seem like I’m in some sort of huff, so I continue to hold my breath. Mum has a hand on her hip and is getting louder.
‘… you’ve got important exams coming up, young lady. You have the rest of your life to go out with friends. The rest of the summer for that matter. I keep you on a very loose leash and—’
‘Leash?’
My reply is out before I even realise I’ve given it. It erupts as a shout, more because I’d been holding my breath than anything else.
From nowhere, the frustration and emotion of the day is with me and I’m furious. I step forward, pointing, no longer leaning and listening. ‘You keep dogs on a leash, Mum. Not people – and not me. I’m your daughter.’
She stares at me, before nodding a fraction. ‘You know what I mean, Eleanor. This isn’t about a slip of the tongue, this is about—’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Don’t you tell me to—’
‘I just did.’ I turn my back and step towards the stairs.
‘We’re not done here, Eleanor.’ A pause. ‘Eleanor!’ A shorter pause. ‘Ellie!’
She continues to call my name but I don’t turn until I’m on the bottom step. She’s out of the kitchen following me, her voice fully raised to a shout now.
‘Don’t you turn your back on me,’ she yells.
‘Why? What are you going to do?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your mother and this is my house. You—’
I have no idea what comes over me but I dig down deep and wrench up the one thing I know will hurt her more than anything. I’m burning with shame from my own actions, of what I did with Ben, of the pain I could cause my best friend and boyfriend, of frustration at not being able to remember what happened last night. It all fires out in a single, hateful sentence.
‘Your house? Yours?! This is only your house because Dad died and the insurance company paid up.’
There’s a terrible silence as we stare at each other. It’s too late to back down now so I match her gaze. She peers away first, gulping away what is probably a tear but I can’t help myself.
‘What?’ I spit. ‘You know it’s true.’
Mum takes a step back towards the kitchen and speaks over her shoulder. ‘I think you should go to your room.’
‘Is that with or without my leash?’
She doesn’t reply, leaving me standing on the stairs having won the argument. What a victory, huh? We Are the Champions. We can be heroes.
When I get to my room I slam the door
, but it’s more in annoyance at myself. I slide down it, sitting with my knees to my chest, and bury my face in my jeans. They smell of mud, of the river. I want to cry but it doesn’t feel like there are any tears in me, as if whatever happened in the river last night has washed away the parts that made me who I am.
I should apologise but it’d mean backing down and admitting Mum was right in the first place about me being out for the entire weekend. I know she is right – but letting her know that, well… I just can’t. I suppose being dead doesn’t stop someone from being a complete bitch.
Chapter Eleven
Sometimes, there’s nothing quite like having a good cry to make things better. Well, feel better at least. It took me a while to realise that messing something up is simply one of those things.
Because of whatever happened, I can’t even enjoy that luxury. The more I want to release my upset and anger, the more I get upset and angry that I cannot. I have no tears, so I end up slapping the walls hard, then harder still. It doesn’t hurt anyway.
When the rational part of my brain finally takes hold, I find myself staring at the bracelet I fished from the river. It is almost certainly handmade, the type of thing found on market stalls and craft fairs all over. I trace my fingers over the slightly rough plaited leather but it stirs no memories of who might own it. It looks like the type of thing somebody around my age would wear. Adults wear silver, gold or nothing at all – unless they’re some sort of hippie-type stuck in the 1960s. This is the type of jewellery someone would pick up for a few pounds, or make themselves.
Eventually I put the bracelet into my drawer, hiding it underneath my underwear, before deciding I don’t want to part with it. I think about putting it on my wrist but that seems wrong, too – so I return it to my pocket instead.
That’s when it occurs to me that Naomi might have given me a clue. She was scanning through last night’s photographs on her phone, so perhaps there are hints there? By now, many of my friends, not to mention friends of friends, will have plastered photos of Helen’s party all over the Internet. If I’m going to piece together things I’ve forgotten, it has to be a good place to start.
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 6
