Bonbons are a bit rubbish.
There is more dripping, with two puddles forming close to where the postcard spinner rack used to be. The rest of the unplastered walls are crumbling. The newspaper racks that used to sit by the front door have gone, as have the long shelves that housed the magazines. It feels like the final memories of my father belong to this place but they’re almost gone, too.
The final door also has a board resting across it but it is easy to move out of the way. The storeroom is where Dad would keep everything that was out-of-season. Unsold Christmas cards and wrapping paper would be boxed up and put away until November came around again. It wasn’t like now, where the build-up to Christmas begins in August.
There was a box marked ‘Mother’s Day’, another for ‘Father’s Day’ – plus Easter cards and gifts. Luckily for Ollie and me, unsold Easter eggs would not keep for a year, so we always ended up with free chocolate after Easter Monday. On one occasion, there was a large Smarties egg that Ollie really wanted. He hid it in the storeroom, ensuring it couldn’t be sold, and then moved it into view when the Monday had gone. He got his free egg but offered me most of it, saying it didn’t taste right. The chocolate was fine, of course – it was the dishonesty that got him.
That’s the brother I remember. How did he become whatever it is he confessed to being?
The air in the storeroom feels sludgy, thicker than in the rest of the shop. I shine the light from my phone into the first corner but the device dims and beeps in annoyance, warning me again that the battery is low. Shreds of light creep down from above anyway and, even though it hasn’t rained, there are more puddles on the floor from the gaps in the unfinished roof. Everything is a murky, milky grey.
My phone beeps once more and starts flashing an extra red light. It makes sense to start beeping and flashing when the battery is already low, right?
It is as I’m trying to make the flashlight come back on that I spot it. In the corner of the storeroom, shrouded in shadow, is a fold-down cot-type camp bed. Rails run around the edge and there is a lumpy mass underneath a white sheet.
I gasp, knowing what’s underneath but having to see for myself. Of course this is where Ollie would hide something. He had the same upbringing around this place that I did. In so many ways, it makes everything worse. This will now muddy those memories of our father.
The sheet isn’t a sheet at all, it’s a thin, fleecy blanket: warm and soft. I hold onto my phone, using the light to illuminate the corner of the room, as I steadily pull back the cover. I see the long, wavy red hair first, then the pale-grey waxy skin that is unmistakably Helen. Her lips are pressed together, eyes closed. I’ve never seen a dead body before… not counting my own. She seems peaceful but then, as I pull the blanket down further, I see the twisted indentations in her neck from where someone has strangled her.
From where Ollie has strangled her.
I close my eyes, unable to look at the horror any longer.
The poor girl.
I turn, still staring at the blankness of my eyelids before a stone skittles across the floor and clatters into the wall. I shine my torch up and the figure in the doorway shrinks away, blocking it with his hand. I expect Ollie, somehow out of his cell – but it’s not him at all. It’s too tall, the features too wrinkled. It’s not Ollie, nor Robbie, Ben, Naomi, any of the Ravens, or the Hitcher. It’s no one from my list.
It’s Jim.
He takes a step forward but I can’t see him properly because he’s still blocking the light from my phone. I angle it away from his face, pointing it towards his midriff, leaving his top half in shadow. I want to ask how he knew about Ollie bringing Helen here but then, from nowhere, I’m in the river again. I’m fighting for air, pushing against those hands. One on my chest, one on my head.
And then I remember.
Chapter Forty-One
Robbie’s battered Vauxhall chunters into the night and I’m alone on the road, barefooted and furious at myself for kissing Ben. I don’t know why I did it. It’s easy to blame him for suggesting we go upstairs, but I went willingly. I was upset because I know Robbie and I are coming to an end – the end of our era – and I don’t want to be alone.
It’s not a good enough reason.
I stumble along the pavement, trying to avoid the tiny stones that scratch my feet, but when I reach the house, Jim is there, sitting on the low wall, shaded from view by next door’s hedge. He says he was called out to a party because of neighbour complaints about noise. After calming things down and making sure the neighbours were happy, he drove here – to my mum’s house – where she was waiting up for him.
Or so he thought.
She was really waiting up for me.
Jim and I sit together on the wall. It’s dark and there’s an edge to the breeze, even though it’s not cold.
‘Do you know the first thing your mother asked me?’ he says.
I’m tired, confused and emotional. It’s been a long day but he’s Uncle Jim and, for whatever reason, he wants to have a conversation.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘She asked if you were at the party,’ he says.
‘What did you say?’
‘That I didn’t see you.’
‘Oh.’
I think he’s telling me this because he wants me to be grateful for him covering but it’s not that at all. His voice is low and controlled, but bristling with something else.
‘She didn’t ask if I had a good day,’ he says. ‘She didn’t ask if it’d been hard, if I’d had a lot on. She didn’t ask about anything to do with me. She didn’t even say it was nice to see me. The first thing she asked was how you were.’
I’m on the wall, unsure how to reply. ‘Sorry,’ I manage, although I’m not sure why I say it. I stand, ready to head inside, but then there’s something clamped over my mouth and a hand on the back of my head. After that, there’s only black.
* * *
I blink back into the storeroom. Jim is a couple of metres from me. He glances towards Helen’s body and then focuses back on me. His eyes almost glow in the dark and when he speaks I can’t see his lips moving.
‘Why are you here, Eleanor?’ he asks.
He’s close to one of the pillars of light that is shining through the half-finished roof, his toe edging one of the puddles. He’s wearing a backpack, which looks so bizarre for someone of his age. He’s not super old and yet rucksacks seem like a young person’s thing. A bag to carry to school.
It suddenly seems obvious. Robbie and I have talked about going our separate ways, about leading different lives and seeing where we end up. But what if I was determined not to do that? To keep the life I had?
Who would be friends with a woman for thirty-six years unless there was something else there? Apart from the school girlfriend my mother mentioned, Jim has always been single, so much so that I thought he was gay. As soon as my father died, he was there. He’s been pining for my mother his entire adult life.
You know you and your brother will always be my number one, don’t you?
I can still hear my mother’s words and I know they’re true. But Jim knew they were true as well. When he got home from his late shift and Mum asked about me instead of him, he realised once and for all that he would never be her priority. He had to get in line, the way he had his entire life.
My phone beeps once more and then the light dies. My eyes have adjusted somewhat but it’s gloomy and the shafts shining through the holes in the roof offer little. There is a thump as Jim shrugs his backpack onto the ground – and then I see something cylindrical in his hands. A pipe or a bat. I’m not sure.
Silence – except for a slow, methodical drip.
‘Did you kill Helen?’ I ask.
The question hangs, echoing and unanswered. Jim doesn’t move and then, even though I still don’t see his lips part, the reply comes.
‘I think the real question is, how are you still alive?’
I shiver. The water is in my
mouth.
‘You left me in the river?’ I say. A question.
‘I drowned you in the river,’ he replies. ‘You stopped breathing. You had gone. What a surprise it was the next morning when your mother called, babbling about a ceiling fan and telling me you were up and about. It was a good job she called, else I would’ve struggled to keep it together when I saw you in the house later that day.’
He adjusts the grip on whatever’s in his hand and it clinks on the ground. Other than a vague shape and his eyes, I still can’t see anything of his top half. There’s no way I can get around him to the door, not without getting a whack from whatever he’s holding. For now, all I can do is keep him talking.
‘Why did Ollie confess?’ I ask.
‘Because, as I told you, I went to see him in the cells. I told him I’d slit your throat and your mother’s if he didn’t.’ Jim speaks calmly, matter of factly, as if he’s telling a story of what he bought at the supermarket. ‘Your brother must really care for you. He was surprisingly pliable.’
‘You were at the college,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘On the morning after the party in the woods. I bunked off but Naomi said you were there. That was when you got into the kit room and planted Helen’s clothes. You either stole Ollie’s key, or used one from reception.’
‘Right little police officer you are,’ he says. ‘Anyway – I’ll ask you again. How are you still alive? I waited all those years for your mother and then, when she’s finally free from your wretched father, she tells me her kids come first.’
He spits the final word as if it’s a piece of rotten food. He’s disgusted by it.
‘You killed Sarah,’ I say, trying to put together the puzzle pieces. It feels like bits are still missing. ‘You wanted Ollie to be blamed for it and thought it would get him out of the way.’
There is a small shuffling and it feels like Jim has moved closer to me, even though it doesn’t look like it.
‘Your mother wouldn’t have handled the loss of your father and brother so closely to one another. I had to look for an alternative way to get him – and then, ultimately, you – out of the way. I shouldn’t have counted on my colleagues, though. The detective lot came in from Langham, as I knew they would, and blew it. Lack of evidence and all that. They didn’t even charge him. But there was no way he could escape that twice. When I followed his car and saw him dropping off that ginger bimbo, I knew it was time.’
His weapon jingles on the floor once more and then he raises it until it’s resting on his shoulder. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Why are you still alive, Eleanor? How are you still alive?’
I glance backwards at Helen’s body, trying to gulp away the pain of seeing her like this. She didn’t deserve it. Jim’s eyes burn through the darkness and I edge towards him, keeping my voice low.
‘I could tell you – but you won’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
Another half-step. ‘You really won’t.’
One smaller step and he raises the weapon. In the slim shaft of light, I can see that it’s a hammer with a long handle. It’s above his head, ready to crash down – but then there’s another scuff of sound from behind.
Jim turns but not quickly enough as Melek hurls himself rugby-style into his chest.
Chapter Forty-Two
There is a loud masculine grunt but I’m not sure from whom it comes. All I see is a flash of movement through the glimmer of light. The two men bounce off the walls with a crunch and then they’re on the floor. A silhouette is on his knees – and then, sickeningly, there is a blur as the hammer crunches down. I wince as something squelches. I don’t want to know what. The shadow groans a swear word and pushes himself to his feet.
It’s Jim.
I have no time to hesitate, to question, to do anything other than run.
For the first time since waking in the river, I feel alive. Those days of skiving off cross-country belong to somebody else because, boy, do I run. I’m through the door, round the counter and out of the delivery room before I can even think. The gate is open at the back and I barrel through that, then sprint along the path until I’m on the high street. My lungs should be burning, my legs screaming, but they’re not. It feels like electricity is simmering through me as I pump my legs and run for all I’m worth.
Jim is not far behind. He has longer legs and is more used to this than me – but I have a head start.
I don’t know why but I head towards the river. It feels as if it’s pulling me, calling me, and I bound onto the towpath, racing towards the bridge. There is a clatter of footsteps behind, the gruff breathless gasps for air. They’re getting louder but I feel invincible. The river is the scene of my greatest triumph, my most incredible trick. Jim held me under the water until I stopped breathing, yet here I am. Beat that.
I continue to run but glance over my shoulder as I move. Jim is a couple of metres back, gaining… gaining.
Except that he doesn’t have to.
As I turn back to look where I’m going, my foot slides over a small rock on the side of the path. My ankle crunches sideways, my knee buckling and then I’m falling. I groan, though there’s no pain – I’ve forgotten what that is – but I still can’t stop myself from slipping down the bank. I grab at stones, roots, anything to stop my fall, but it’s too late. Before I know it, my feet are in the water and here I am again.
Jim’s sliding down the bank towards me but his feet are controlled. Before I can haul myself out of the river, he grabs my collar with one hand, covering my mouth with the other. I can see him clearly now, lip snarling, eyes dark with anger.
‘Second time lucky,’ he says emotionlessly and then he launches me backwards, not letting go as he continues to cover my mouth with one hand, using the other to push down on my chest.
I’m under the water, trying to fight my way up, but he’s too strong. I kick and flail but connect with nothing. I try to scratch him with my arms but the water is heavy and the best I can do is grab his wrist with my hand. I try to prise his fingers away but it’s no use and I can feel the darkness coming for me.
It’s coming.
It’s coming.
It’s here.
Everything is black but there is a hand on my head, another on my chest… only they’re not Jim’s. The fingernails are longer and there are fewer hairs on the wrist. They’re not pushing me under – they’re pulling me up.
I realise that, in my vision, the hands were always pulling me up.
With a gasp, I emerge from the water, expecting to see Jim’s insect limbs around me, to see his fury-ridden face. But it’s not him at all.
Her hair is long and golden with a gentle kink, her eyes are beaming, beautiful blue. Sarah Lipski is a few metres away from me in the river. She has both hands in the water – and then I see Jim. His arms are flailing as she forces his head down into the river. His back is like a large stepping stone in the middle of the water, bobbing up and down, legs flailing before his body sags and goes limp. Sarah lifts her hands and turns to me, water up to her hips, as Jim’s body floats lifelessly towards the bank.
I whisper ‘no’ but it’s already too late.
She’s ghoulish yet beautifully angelic at the same time. Her skin is white and waxy, like Helen’s but glowing with life. She smiles sadly, head at an angle as she puts a finger to her lips.
‘Sarah?’ I say, but she doesn’t reply.
She takes a step towards me and then drops her hands into the water.
‘Did you save me?’ I ask. ‘When I was dreaming, it wasn’t someone’s hands pushing me under the water, it was yours pulling me out.’
She smiles again but the rest of her face is unmoving. For a moment, I think the water level is rising but then I realise she’s sitting down. The water burbles over her chin, then her lips, her nose, before she disappears under the surface completely. I wade towards her as quickly as I can but my legs are heavy and I have to take huge, hulking footsteps.
When I reach the spot where she disappeared, I crouch until the water is at my chin and then fumble in the murky depths, wanting to pull her clear of the river.
There’s nothing there. No one.
I take another step, turning back the way I came, and then inhale deeply, dunking myself under the surface. It’s useless because the water is dank and dark and I can neither see nor feel anything. I gasp my way back to the surface and it’s then that I feel something on my wrist. I fight the urge to pull away, feeling the gentle tug and then… it’s gone.
When I pull my wrist free of the water, the bracelet is no longer there.
For a few moments I stand still, turning in a circle and hoping to see Sarah. All that’s there is Jim, his face and legs in the water, his back like a giant rock.
I wade back the way I came but it takes a long time to reach the bank, even though the distance is short. It feels as if everything has caught up with me – the lack of food, the days with no sleep, the walking, running, wading in the river. By the time I haul myself out, I’m exhausted. I should go for help, tell people it was Jim all along, and yet all I can do is lie flat on my back and close my eyes. For the first time in days, I know I can sleep. Know I will sleep. But first I say a silent thank you to the girl in the river.
My saviour.
Sarah.
VII
One Week Later
Chapter Forty-Three
Naomi sits opposite me, pressing back into the booth that has tapes from Gary Numan on my side through to Siouxsie and the Banshees on hers. She tries to suck her strawberry thickshake through the straw but it’s a losing battle so she grabs a spoon instead.
‘I really am sorry,’ I say – again. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
She swallows a mouthful of thickshake and then picks up a second spoon from the table, twists it in her hand, and offers it to me. She’s not smiling but I guess that would have been a lot to ask.
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 25
