The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Never trust a person who eats a gingerbread man arm-first.

  After the bakery, I pass a museum chronicling the history of the town. It is predictably tiny – barely the size of our front room at home.

  When I find myself back on the seafront, the seagulls are forming a beaky-looking army close to the ice cream van. If they have their act together they could definitely take the driver, but I haven’t got the willpower to wait around and find out.

  I finally find what I’m searching for two streets back from the seafront, hidden between a joke shop and a door that offers no clue as to what’s behind. I’d already walked past what I was looking for once, but missed the faded stencilling above the door.

  ‘Mystic Martha’, it reads – except the first ‘S’ and final few letters have disintegrated to such a degree that it reads ‘Mytic Mart’. There are some swirls spiralling from the top but those are faded, too. I knock on the door and wait… then wait some more. After a second knock, there’s another pause and then it swings inwards with a shrill creak that is so pantomime that I half wonder if it’s a sound effect.

  Standing in the doorway is a woman who wouldn’t bother the five-foot mark on a height chart. She has straggly silver hair poking from underneath a dark shawl, with a purple scarf around her neck. Her face is shaded with wrinkles and it’s hard to know how old she is – anywhere from forty to ninety.

  She ducks her head to the side, peering onto the street, and then finally focuses on me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks, voice as creaky as the door.

  ‘Are you Martha?’

  ‘I am… and you’re…’ She stares at me and, for a moment, I think she’s going to pluck my name from the air. Then she adds: ‘… in need of help.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She wafts her hands around the air in front of me, as if painting an invisible picture with her bare fingers. When I step back, she scowls and follows me, still flapping.

  ‘Your aura is damaged, girl.’

  ‘My aura?’

  ‘Your chakra is in need of repair.’

  ‘My what?’

  She stops moving her hands and shuffles back to the door, nodding inside. ‘Come.’

  I figure I’ve come this far, so follow her through the door. I end up in a musty hallway, full of dust, hardback books and dreamcatchers that are hanging from the ceiling and pinned to the walls. My sense of smell is still off but hints of bitter incense make my nose twitch.

  Martha leads me through the hallway into a small study-type room that is lined with even more dreamcatchers. There are far too many to count, but the spindly twigs and strings are attached to every surface. Across the top of the room is a large purple sheet that blocks the ceiling. Aside from the dreamcatchers, the other major feature of the room is the word ‘FAITH’ written in spindly calligraphy over the door.

  I’m ushered onto a stool that’s so short it wouldn’t be out of place in a primary school. Martha stands behind me, out of sight, and I get the sense she’s waving her hands around again.

  ‘Rarely have I seen an energy field that needs cleansing more than yours, my dear,’ she coos.

  ‘I have an energy field?’

  I turn but her hands grip my shoulders firmly and she forces me to face the front. ‘Not for much longer if this is allowed to continue.’

  ‘Um…’

  She suddenly appears in front of me but I’m not completely sure how it happened. One moment she was behind me, a blink later and she was in front. She’s bobbing from foot to foot and I’m not sure where to look. I feel dizzy and am left wondering whether she’s moving at all, or if it’s me. It’s all very disorientating.

  ‘It will be incredibly draining to cleanse an aura this damaged,’ she says. ‘Terribly, terribly draining.’

  ‘I’m not sure if—’

  ‘An act this tiring will require a significant donation…’

  ‘I don’t really have that much money.’

  She stops bouncing. ‘An aura this damaged would generally require at least fifty pounds’ worth of donation.’

  ‘I’m not really here for that.’

  ‘My dear, you might not have intended to come here for this – but you were likely drawn to me. Our bodies are channels and with an aura so badly affected, nature will have guided you to me.’

  ‘Right… it’s just, even if I was led here, I still don’t have fifty quid.’

  ‘You cannot put a price on work this essential.’

  I stare at her, wondering if she’s actually for real. It was her who put a price on the ‘work’.

  ‘I’m only really here to ask you a question,’ I say. ‘I was hoping—’

  ‘Child, I cannot answer questions from a soul whose very essence is so irrevocably damaged.’

  We stare at each other, at an impasse for a moment or two.

  ‘Doesn’t “irrevocably” mean “irreversibly”? In other words, I can’t be fixed…?’

  She shakes her head initially and then starts to nod slowly but ends up making a sort of diagonal swish. ‘Let us hope it is not irrevocably…’

  Martha finishes with a flourish of both her voice and hand.

  ‘I still don’t have fifty pounds,’ I say, fumbling in my pocket and emerging with a screwed-up fiver. ‘This is pretty much all I can manage.’

  She eyes me, then the money, then me again. Eventually the money wins and she snatches the note from my hand, immediately dispatching it into her robe.

  ‘Can I ask my question now?’ I say.

  ‘Your aura…’

  ‘Maybe we can fix that afterwards?’

  She draws herself up onto tiptoes, which makes her tower over me only because I’m on such a low stool. ‘What would you like to ask?’ she says.

  I tug my necklace out from under my top and point the circular pattern upwards. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Martha leans in, taking the emblem in her hand. We’re so close that her shawl is touching my cheek. Damaged chakra or not, she doesn’t seem to have any problem with inappropriate closeness.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ she asks.

  ‘It was my great-grandmother’s.’

  She steps away and narrows her eyes, creating even more wrinkles on her forehead. She looks like a shrivelled potato.

  ‘It’s very old,’ she says – which, in all honesty, isn’t exactly going out on a limb.

  ‘Right… does it mean anything in particular?’

  ‘Symbols mean many things, child.’

  ‘Exactly – so do the circles mean anything specifically? They sort of interlink which each other. I wondered if they had a significance…?’

  I’m beginning to get the sense that Mystic Martha isn’t simply lacking in any sort of mystic powers, but that she’s not even particularly smart at concealing the fraud.

  From nowhere, she springs forward and presses a hand to each of my temples. I have no time to stop her, then, before I can react, she recoils as if I’ve electrocuted her. She shrieks and blows on her fingers, backing towards the door.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘You must go.’

  ‘Huh?’

  She scrounges into her robe and withdraws the five-pound note I gave her, dropping it on the shelf next to the door. ‘You can take your money but you have to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  Martha is shaking her head so viciously from side to side that her features are a blur. She opens the door and backs through it, not taking her eyes from me.

  ‘You’re nothing,’ she whispers.

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘Go!’

  She shouts with such venom, such fear, that I leap to my feet. As I approach the door, she continues to back through it until she’s in the hall. When she reaches the far corner, she screeches again, holding her arms defensively across herself.

  I leave the money and try not to get too close to the woman, instead holding my palms up to show I mean no harm.

  ‘I don’t
know what I’ve done,’ I say.

  ‘Leave.’

  ‘What happened when you touched me?’

  She shrinks even further, cowering from me. I stride to the front door, leaving me at one end of the hall, her at the other.

  ‘I’m not trying to hurt you,’ I say.

  ‘So black, so empty.’

  ‘Me? I’m black and empty?’

  ‘Black,’ she repeats, still holding her arms in front of herself. I stare at her for a few more moments, wondering if she’s going to add anything. She peeps through the gaps between her fingers and then shrieks once more. There’s little else for me to do, so I open the door and head outside, wondering what on earth has just happened.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I find myself sitting on the seafront wall close to the bus stop, staring out across the grey-brown swill of water. Suddenly the militant seagulls, rubbish cobbles and everything else about this horrible place doesn’t seem so funny.

  I don’t believe in things such as mystics, psychics, mind readers and the like but if my necklace really does mean ‘protected’, as my grandmother claimed, I figured a second opinion would do no harm. If someone independent had confirmed the circles have some sort of significance, then I’m still not sure I would have believed that’s what brought me back to life in the river.

  It at least would have been an explanation, however. It might have been a mad-sounding theory but it’s better than anything I had before. With Mystic Martha, it was easy to be superior and smug and then… I don’t know what happened.

  She wasn’t acting, she was actually terrified of me. ‘Black’? ‘Empty’? What does that mean? I’m black and empty?

  If she is a fraud, she’s a good one… or an awful one considering she offered my money back.

  Buses only go once an hour and I’ve narrowly missed one. With little desire to explore the rest of the town, I’m left watching the tide slowly flow in. It covers the slick of mud and starts to lick at the edge of the cobbles.

  Black and empty.

  When she was younger, Mystic Martha must’ve been a right laugh on a date.

  When I check my phone, half an hour has passed. I’ve got four texts from Naomi, each asking where I am and wondering if I’m going to college. There’s another from Robbie, who wants to know if I’m okay. I’m not in the mood to reply, not yet, so simply sit and watch.

  Black and empty.

  What an absolute cow.

  The bus eventually arrives but it’s almost four o’clock by the time I’m back in Westby. The village is quiet but that’s only because everyone’s gearing up for what’s going to happen this evening. All the locally owned shops are starting to shut, with sandwich boards being carried inside and open/closed signs being turned. I get a couple of nodded acknowledgements as I head along the high street, then I cut into one of the shortcuts that will take me home. I follow the wall that spans the cemetery until reaching the front of the church and the green ahead.

  None of my family are religious and I’ve never been brought up to believe in, well, anything, I suppose. Not even Santa. At primary school, my friends and classmates used to talk about what Father Christmas was bringing them and I’d ask – without trying to be mean – why they didn’t realise it was their parents giving them gifts. Isn’t it odd to tell a child a made-up story until they’re a certain age and then admit it was a lie all along? It’s a bit rich when parents then teach their children to tell the truth. I’ve never been sure if I missed out on something growing up, whether I was normal or the weird one.

  Whatever I might think of religion, the church is utterly beautiful and unquestionably the sparkling highlight of where I live. The steepling clock tower was refurbished when I was young and can be seen from both ends of the village. Stained-glass Bible scenes surround the walls and there is an enormous, ancient wooden door at the front. A pretty path winds through the cemetery, with a blooming rainbow of flowers on either side. I walk past the church most days, taking it for granted, but on a day like today with the sun high and sky blue, it takes my breath away.

  When I get to the main gates, the vicar is busy pinning something on the noticeboard. He notices me, nodding at first and offering a cheery smile. I return the acknowledgement but am already past him when I stop and turn.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  He’s a stumpy, round man, wearing dark trousers with a grandpa jumper, even though it’s warm. The white of his collar peeks through above the wool. Aside from a few lonely strands of hair threaded across his head, he’s bald.

  ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ he replies.

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  I continue looking at him, not sure how to phrase things, but he seems to understand, peering over his rimless glasses at me. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  ‘I think I have a question.’

  He smiles again and it’s so reassuring that I wonder why I’ve always ducked my head and speeded up any time I’ve seen him. As if I’m scared that saying hello to someone who believes in God might make me suddenly start singing ‘Kumbaya’ in the shower.

  ‘You think you have a question?’ he says with a smile.

  ‘Okay – I actually have a question.’

  ‘Would you like to ask it?’

  I turn to look over my shoulder, suddenly self-conscious that someone could overhear and think I’m losing the plot.

  ‘Do you want to come into the church?’ he asks.

  He nods towards the open doors and, for a reason of which I’m not sure, it feels like a good idea. He takes a couple of steps up the path and I follow, half a step behind.

  ‘Do I have to call you father or something?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve never been much of a stickler. Some feel comfortable using my first name – Mark – while some of my other parishioners address me as “Reverend Newby” or “Vicar”. I don’t really have a preference. It’s Eleanor, isn’t it?’

  I glance sideways at him as we continue to walk, wondering how he knows that.

  ‘Ellie,’ I reply.

  ‘Ellie it is.’

  He leads me through the front door and my footsteps echo from the hard floor as my eyes struggle to adjust from the bright light of outside to the murky gloom of inside. When I manage to blink into the room, I see a large golden cross at the front, with a beaming stained-glass image of Jesus being crucified behind. Wooden pews line both sides.

  ‘Would you like to sit?’

  I rest a hand on one of the pews but continue standing. I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that it feels like the seats should be there for those who believe.

  ‘I… You’re going to think I’m a little crazy if I ask you what I want.’

  The vicar smiles kindly, the type of heard-it-all-before fatherly look. ‘How about you tell me what’s troubling you, and if it sounds a little “crazy” so be it.’

  I face the front. ‘Jesus came back from the dead, didn’t he? That’s what you believe.’

  ‘That is, indeed, where I put my faith.’

  ‘But how did it happen?’

  ‘It was by the grace of God—’

  ‘But how did it actually happen? Was it like he was sleeping and then woke up?’

  The vicar doesn’t reply at first. Though I’m not looking at him, I know he’s smiling softly. ‘Jesus was sealed in a tomb. There is only one who can know the answer to that.’

  Sounds a bit convenient to me. Resurrecting in front of a crowd is quite the trick. Behind closed doors, well, who’s to know what’s gone on there…

  ‘Do you think anyone else has ever come back from the dead?’ I ask.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder but don’t jump. It’s comforting. For a time, neither of us speaks, though I can sense him breathing. ‘It’s been a hard year for everyone, Ellie. The death of young Miss Lipski is something that hit the village hard, none more so than her friends.’

  I open my mouth to say that I wasn’t referring to Sarah but stop myself, as the
re’s no point. What should I say? That I think I’m back from the dead? Resurrected in the river after being drowned? I shouldn’t be here.

  ‘It’s tough for anyone,’ he continues, ‘but especially for the young to find meaning and understanding where it appears there is none.’

  He removes his hand and we stand side by side, staring at the light beaming through the glass depicting Jesus tied to a cross, spear jammed into his side, red twinkling glass trailing to the floor.

  ‘Can I ask you one more thing?’ I say.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do you believe Jesus came back from the dead?’

  The vicar answers immediately: ‘He did so to cleanse our sins.’

  ‘I know… well, I mean I know the story. It’s just… why do you believe it happened? I’m not saying it didn’t—’

  ‘I know what you’re asking, Ellie.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  His hand is on my shoulder again and I feel better. ‘Don’t be sorry. These are questions mankind has been asking itself for thousands of years. The reason I believe Jesus died for my sins is because I have faith. Other people believe different things – and that’s absolutely fine. It isn’t my job to try to persuade everyone else I’m right, it’s my job to counsel those who have the faith I do.’

  His fingers tense and squeeze my shoulder but I’m not sure whether I can actually feel it, or if it’s simply that I can sense it.

  He spins and I turn to face him. ‘That belief is something that cannot be defined through concrete proof or science,’ he adds. ‘Someone might offer a thousand reasons why something can or cannot be true – but that does nothing to dispel true, genuine faith.’

  I have no idea why, yet I feel teary again. It’s ridiculous and I am embarrassed by myself once again. There are, thankfully, no tears but my throat feels raw.

  My voice is croaky but I somehow get the words out: ‘You believe what you believe regardless of what anyone else thinks?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I don’t say it but the thought is there nonetheless. Dead or not dead, drowned or not drowned – perhaps the reason I’m here isn’t down to anything I’ll ever be able to prove. Perhaps it is more about belief.