The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘I’m sleeping here,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s everyone gone?’ I ask Robbie.

  He glances at the watch on his wrist. ‘It’s just after four in the morning, Ell. Where do you think?’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘We’ve been here for hours.’

  I pull his wrist towards me and look at the time because it’s hard to believe. It felt like an hour, two at most. Was I really dancing with Naomi for all that time?

  ‘You were really going for it,’ Robbie says, confirming my thoughts. I don’t reply.

  A handful of others say goodbye but most trail back along the path without a word, tired and ready for a kip. Without the music, it’s no longer a party – just a small group of people hanging around in the woods. Naomi and Ben are sleeping – sort of – so it’s just Robbie and me.

  ‘You want something to eat?’ he asks. The table of food looks like it’s been in the path of a tornado. There are wrappers and crumbs everywhere. So much for the bin signs. I shake my head and start clearing up – something Mum wouldn’t believe if she could see me now (although I’m glad she can’t).

  It’s not long before the four of us are the last ones standing – or lying, in Naomi and Ben’s cases. We watched the sun set and now it’s beginning to rise again, with the first peeps of red and orange creeping through the trees. Insects are starting to buzz, birds beginning to chirp. I can’t feel the warmth but it’s lovely nonetheless. It’s a year to the day that Sarah was taken and we’re all here, all still standing.

  ‘Did you have fun?’ Robbie asks.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I didn’t know her very well.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  He nods. ‘I know she was your brother’s girlfriend and in my year but we didn’t have any classes together. I don’t think I even knew her name until she was found in the river. She was just the girl at your house every now and then.’

  I’m not sure what his point is and have no idea how to reply. Sometimes it’s easier to say nothing, to let a statement hang.

  ‘Shall we go?’ I ask. Robbie shrugs, so I nudge Naomi gently with my foot. She grumbles, rolling into a defensive ball, so I flick her once more.

  ‘I’m sleeping,’ she says.

  ‘We’re going,’ I reply. ‘You can come if you want, or we can leave you for the bears.’

  ‘There are no bears in England.’

  ‘The squirrels then.’

  Naomi pops an eye open, then two. She sits up cross-legged and stretches her arms high, before aiming a kick at Ben. He squeals and rolls over.

  ‘It’s the morning,’ Naomi yawns.

  ‘Very observant,’ I reply.

  ‘We stayed up all night.’

  ‘Also observant.’

  Naomi scratches her head and yawns again. ‘We are such badasses.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure there are far more badass things out there.’

  She straightens her hat and tugs up her socks. ‘Let’s go then.’

  The four of us trudge back to Robbie’s car and then he drives us back to Westby. We pass a milk float on the way, at which gets Naomi excited for an unknown reason. She loses interest almost immediately and then needs to be woken up when Robbie pulls up close to her house. She twists in the seat, kisses Ben on the lips and then wraps her arms around me. She slurs goodbye to Robbie and then stumbles her way up the path.

  Ben is dispatched next, though he is half asleep too, then it’s just Robbie and me. I clamber into the front seat when it’s just us, squeezing between the gap in the seats and then plopping down, all elbows and knees.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’ Robbie asks with a yawn.

  ‘I don’t even know any more.’

  He drives the short distance until we’re on my street and then he parks outside number twenty. It’s almost daylight, though early enough that people are unlikely to be out of bed.

  ‘Are you going to be at college in, er’ – Robbie looks at his watch – ‘five hours?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll see you one way or the other. I know your phone’s on the blink.’

  ‘Right. See you later.’

  I don’t give him a chance to kiss me – I can’t face that – so open the car door quickly. In trying to get out so fast, I stumble and only stop myself from falling by grabbing onto the passenger seat.

  ‘You all right?’ Robbie asks.

  Because of the way I tripped, my head is level with the seat. I struggle to keep myself level but have a clear view underneath. There’s a moment in which it feels like everything has stopped.

  Under the seat, directly below where I’ve been sitting, are the silver, strappy pair of flat shoes I was wearing on the night I ended up in the river.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘I need to tie my lace,’ I say.

  Robbie nods and turns back to the front as I crouch down and pull my flat shoes out from underneath the passenger seat without him noticing. I drop them on the ground next to me, out of his vision, and then untie and retie the shoes I’m wearing.

  ‘Done,’ I tell him. ‘See you soon.’

  He nods as I close the door and then he pulls away, leaving me alone on the street. I spend a few moments looking at the shoes. They’re definitely mine because one of the two criss-cross straps on the left one has a small tear in the fabric. I somehow managed to cause that within a week of Mum buying them for me.

  After the evening we’ve had together, where it’s been fun and normal, it’s hard to believe that Robbie could be the person who attacked me and yet I simply don’t know. He says he dropped me off at the bottom of my road in the early hours of Sunday morning but if that were true, wouldn’t one of us have noticed I’d left my shoes in his car? As soon as I’d climbed out of the car, I’d have surely asked where my shoes were. If for some reason I hadn’t, wouldn’t my boyfriend have queried it?

  Unless that’s not where he dropped me off.

  Unless something else happened on the journey home from Helen’s house.

  There’s little I can do for now, so I head along the lane at the back of the houses. I clamber over our rear gate and then find the key that’s hidden in the hanging basket next to the back door. I close it very quietly and the sneak into the kitchen… which is where Mum is sitting at the table, steaming cup of tea in hand.

  I open my mouth to protest my innocence – I’d heard a noise in the garden and gone out to investigate – but she doesn’t seem angry, simply tired. She nods at the seat opposite her, though I don’t sit.

  ‘Want a brew?’ she asks.

  I put my shoes down on the floor but she doesn’t mention them. ‘No thank you,’ I say.

  She yawns and I wish it was infectious. Yawns are supposed to be. One person starts and then everyone in a half-mile radius is doing the same. It’s not working on me, though. I’ve been awake for two full days but can’t sleep.

  ‘I wondered when you’d get home,’ she says.

  ‘How long have you been up?’

  She fires back straight away: ‘How long have you been out?’

  ‘I’ve been out for precisely one minute longer than you’ve been up.’

  She smiles and then laughs, which is so surreal I’m not sure how to act. When I saw her sitting at the table, I was expecting another ‘my house, my rules’ lecture. I wonder if I should ask if she was awake when Ollie got in but then realise he might not have made it home yet. If he has, I’d only be dropping him in it, too.

  ‘Soooo…’ I begin. ‘How are we going to deal with this?’

  ‘How do you think we should deal with it?’

  ‘Honestly? I think you should return to bed and get a couple more hours’ sleep. Perhaps this will seem like a dream when you wake up.’

  She laughs. ‘Oh, Eleanor… you really are my daughter.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m not in trouble?’

  ‘You could at least say sorry.’

  I finally take the seat.
‘If you want me to say sorry, then I will – but if you want me to be sorry…’

  She sighs and drinks some more of her tea. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘No throwing cups or that sort of thing?’

  ‘When have I ever thrown cups?’

  ‘When Ollie locked himself out and woke you up at three in the morning, trying to get in.’

  Her eye twitches and half a smile forms. ‘It slipped,’ she says.

  ‘That’s not how he tells it.’

  ‘Do you believe your brother or your mother?’

  ‘A little from column A…’

  She laughs again. ‘There will be no cup-throwing, nor hurling, flinging or chucking of any kind.’

  ‘Lobbing?’

  ‘No lobbing either.’

  I’m not entirely sure what’s going on but it really does seem as if I’m not in trouble. It might be a trick to lure me in but I figure she’ll probably find out sooner or later.

  ‘There was a party,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to explain. It was sort of a one-year anniversary thing for Sarah. People talked about her and what they remember. Then it’s almost the end of the school year and people wanted a final blowout before exams. Plus, it was the longest day and everything. It all happened together.’

  She looks at me and, for a few moments, I’m not sure what she’s going to say. It’s like she’s reading my mind, scanning to see if I’ve left anything incriminating out. Wondering if I’ve really been doing drugs in some sex dungeon.

  ‘Was Ollie there?’ she asks.

  ‘Um…’

  She shakes her head. ‘No matter – I was young once, y’know…’

  ‘In the 1800s, yeah?’

  I get a stony look.

  ‘So, I’m not in trouble?’ I add hastily.

  She sighs. ‘You really should be. I know I go on about this stuff – but you’re at an awkward age. I don’t want to say your whole life hinges on the next couple of years because it doesn’t. That’s what adults tell you when they want to keep you in line. I try not to be like that.’

  ‘I can become an alcoholic crack addict and it’ll be fine?’

  Her raised eyebrows silence me. ‘Know when you’re on a winner, Ell. Look, lots of people have amazing, productive lives with few qualifications at all – but plenty of others have appalling lives despite getting amazing exam results when they’re teenagers. It’s not necessarily what you do, it’s who you are. But part of that is discipline – so if you can discipline yourself to revise for exams and do well, that’s something that’ll hold you in good stead for the rest of your life.’

  I nod, not because I feel I should but because I really do get it. I think about saying ‘it’s only one night’ – but, hey, as she says, I’m on a winner.

  Mum reaches out and I kneel on the floor, allowing her to hug me. I hug her back, too. Twice in two days has to be a record. It’s not that we have a bad relationship but touchy-feely isn’t our thing. It’s more of a noddy-winky thing, which, in all honesty, sounds like a dodgy kids’ TV show.

  When I pull away, she reaches out and strokes my necklace. My re-gifted necklace. Not that I’m still bitter.

  ‘You know this was your grandmother’s, don’t you? Your great-grandmother’s before that, then mine. That’s four generations.’

  I shuffle further away and sit back on the chair. ‘You’ve mentioned it once or twice.’

  Mum gives me the lopsided ‘you’re on thin ice’ stare. ‘There’s nothing wrong with family, Eleanor.’

  ‘I’m not saying there is.’

  I play with the necklace myself. There’s an emblem at the front, some sort of circle within a circle.

  ‘Your great-grandmother was some sort of mystic. She used to do tarot readings, those sorts of things.’

  ‘Tarot?’

  Mum nods. ‘Your grandmother believed in it all, too – but then she was brought up with it.’ She points to my necklace. ‘That’s supposed to keep you safe.’

  My first reaction is to snort and then I find myself clutching the circles. ‘Safe? How?’

  ‘I have no idea. That’s what she said when she passed it on to me. I think it had been blessed or something like that. Cursed, maybe? I don’t know. I wore it for a year or two when I was your age and then put it away.’

  ‘You don’t believe the story?’

  Mum rolls her eyes and then catches herself. ‘I believe in science – but if other people choose to believe the things they do, that’s up to them.’

  The metal circles of the necklace are smooth but feel cold. I let it drop to my chest. ‘Do you know what the circles mean?’

  ‘They’re just circles. Your grandmother believed a lot of things. She’d never eat meat on a weekend. She thought aliens built Stonehenge. She was sure her old house was haunted. You name it, she probably believed in it. Some magical protective necklace is just one thing in a long list. I’m not sure why I mentioned it.’

  She finishes off her tea and then crosses to the sink. ‘You should probably get some sleep. You have college in a few hours.’

  I wonder if I should tell her that I’ve not slept for more than two days and might not need to ever again. It’s a fleeting thought, though. She’d start to think I was turning into my grandmother.

  I say ‘goodnight’ instinctively, but my timing makes her snort in what might be amusement, though could also be annoyance. I’m still marginally on a winner, so don’t push it. I’m at the bottom of the stairs when I hear her calling after me.

  ‘You’re still coming tonight, aren’t you?’ she asks. ‘Ollie would want you there.’

  I lean back, making sure she can see me through the kitchen door. ‘Of course, I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Even though I don’t need to sleep, I’m not in the mood for college. I hide away in my room, waiting for Ollie and Mum to go their separate ways. When they’ve left, I emerge into the empty house. I don’t know Naomi or Robbie’s plans for the day – but there will be lots of people sleeping off hangovers this morning and, sooner or later – likely sooner – news of our late-night party will leak.

  I’m not sure if I believe much of what Mum told me about my grandmother’s theories over the necklace. Actually, I am sure – I don’t believe it has magic powers that somehow kept me alive – but it would be nice to get a second opinion.

  I search the Internet for the intertwining circles of my necklace but it’s hard to find anything that matches. Any wider searches for things like ‘occult’ and ‘mysticism’ only lead me back to the realm of the barmy, so I quickly give up. Sometimes, as distressing as it is in this digital age, the Internet can only get a person so far – and there’s only one thing for it.

  * * *

  Purton-on-Sea is the closest resort to Westby, though ‘resort’ might be pushing it a little. That stokes up thoughts of long sandy beaches, bright blue skies, crystal-clear waters and, perhaps, sticks of rock.

  Purton-on-Sea offers little of that.

  It’s a small town with a cobbled beach, which, if you ask me, isn’t a beach at all. A beach has sand, not a long pile of rocks. People can lie on beaches comfortably, without having solid edges jutting into limbs. Being buried on a sandy beach can be relaxing; being buried on a cobbled beach is grievous bodily harm. What’s more, people cannot – nor will they ever be able to – build a rock castle. Piling stones on top on one another does not count.

  Although Purton-on-Sea is quite crappy, a description that hasn’t made the welcome sign, it is easy to get to. A single bus takes me the hour from Westby to the sea and, by lunchtime, I’m strolling along the path next to the cobbled beach. Because there aren’t enough rocks on display, they’ve built a massive seawall out of cobbles, too. I have to wonder if it’s because someone, somewhere, simply liked saying the word ‘cobble’ and, before anyone knew it, things had got out of hand.

  There are a handful of ho
lidaymakers strolling around, likely because Chernobyl was booked up as a holiday destination. A few maniacs are actually sunbathing on the ‘beach’, towels down and all in case a sudden swarm of a thousand tourists descend.

  Other than that, Purton-on-Sea offers little. There are tat shops at either end of the street that face the sea, with an ice cream van parked halfway along.

  I head past the van and turn onto one of the streets that head towards the town centre, trying to remember where I’m going. It’s been years since I visited here on a day out with school, which I remember largely because Ian Lemon disappeared for two hours and nobody noticed until it was time to catch the coach back. Having that name meant he was, of course, mercilessly bullied anyway, but he certainly made sure he was remembered that day. One of the teachers eventually found him strolling along the broken pier at the far end of town, where he was apparently crab fishing. In fairness to him, he had found something with which to amuse himself among the boredom of Purton-on-Sea.

  I find myself weaving in and out of the small alleys that are largely filled with shops displaying closed signs. There’s a chippy and a fishmonger, plus a small bakery with rows of brightly iced gingerbread men in the window.

  You can judge a lot about a person by how they begin their assault on a gingerbread man. Those who go for the legs first are generally more compassionate. It’s a necessary demolition but people can still get around without legs. It’s obviously a bit more difficult, but things could be worse. I tend to think that’s making the best of a bad situation.

  Biscuit-eaters who initially go for the head are a little more worrying. I have to confess that it’s funnier to go for the head first, primarily because of the imagery of something blundering around with nothing on top of its shoulders, but it’s still a brutal assault. All the more so if the figure is smiling. I feel better about biting off the head of a frowny gingerbread man.

  The real psychos, though – the absolute nutters – are those who first go after a gingerbread man’s arms. It is a targeted, vicious act. The legs or head are open goals – there for the taking – but the arms are wedged into the middle, so the assailant has to go out of their way to eat the arms first. It requires foresight and planning, both signs of a person not entirely balanced.