The Death of Her

by Debbie Howells

  I watch Jen closely, but her only thought seems to be what this means for Angel, and her shock appears genuine. Either that, or she’s a supremely good actor.

  ‘That doesn’t mean it’s happened to Angel.’ She shakes her head, refusing to let herself go there.

  ‘There’s more I have to tell you, Evie,’ Abbie Rose says quietly. ‘There are press cuttings, extensive police reports and witness statements. They all say the same thing. The name of the teenager who was babysitting when it happened was Jen Russell.’

  It’s as though Jen’s been given an electric shock. ‘No!’

  Abbie Rose gives her a few seconds. ‘I know this is upsetting, Evie, but—’

  Jen’s shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t me . . . I couldn’t forget something like that.’ But as I watch her, doubt flickers across her face. Her eyes swing round to me. ‘Charlotte? You must have known about it. Tell her, please . . .’

  Her eyes are pleading with me to back her up, to tell Abbie Rose that this is a terrible mistake. I shake my head slowly, glaring at Abbie Rose, hating that I’ve been put in this position.

  ‘No . . .’ Jen keeps saying. ‘No. This is proof. Don’t you see? Proof that I’m not Jen, and that I just look like her. You have to believe me . . .’ She looks from one of us to the other.

  ‘I have a photo of her.’ After removing it from an envelope, Abbie Rose holds it out to Jen. ‘This is the little girl you were babysitting. Her name was Leah Danning.’

  Jen looks at the photo, then puts it on the bed. ‘I don’t remember any of what you’re telling me . . .’ She thumps her fist weakly on the sheets, a look of desperation on her face.

  Abbie Rose looks strained. ‘We have a Genevieve Russell on our records. There’s a photo.’ She pauses. ‘There’s the fact that Charlotte identified you. I’ve been to your school, Evie. All the evidence confirms that you and Genevieve Russell, who was babysitting that day, are the same person. But like everything else, right now you can’t remember.’

  Jen stares at her, speechless.

  ‘I have something else I need to tell you,’ Abbie Rose says quietly. ‘PC Miller’s had the initial forensic reports from your aunt’s house, which is where you think you’ve been living. It’s clear someone’s been living there, and your aunt has been dead for some time. But . . .’As she pauses, I look at Jen, wondering how much more of this she can take. ‘There are clothes there, that look as though they might fit someone your size. They’ve found fingerprints that match yours. But there are no children’s clothes. No toys or books. Evie, there’s no sign a child ever lived there.’

  ‘There must be . . .’ An anguished look crosses her face. ‘Surely you saw Angel’s room. It’s at the top of the stairs. Her name’s on the door. Everything’s pink.’ She stares at Abbie Rose.

  The policewoman looks uncomfortable. ‘As I said, right now, it isn’t as you remember it. Maybe she was staying somewhere else. Maybe you both were. I don’t know how else to explain it.’

  ‘I – we – live there . . . It’s our home.’

  ‘There are more forensic reports to come. Maybe they’ll show something.’

  ‘And if not?’ Jen whispers, terrified, Abbie Rose’s silence telling her that nothing is certain, how little the police know. ‘Who’s doing this, Abbie?’ she cries desperately. ‘Who’s trying to hurt me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Abbie Rose looks troubled. ‘Evie . . . If Angel lived there, Forensics will find something.’ She speaks gently. ‘But at the moment, there’s no record of her anywhere – no birth certificate, no medical records. There’s the fact that no one seems to know either of you. Even if we later rule it out, we have to at least consider the possibility that the trauma’s brought back the memory of what happened fifteen years ago, when you were babysitting a little girl who matches the description you’ve given us of Angel.’

  Jen gasps, as the reality hits her. ‘You don’t believe me.’ She stares aghast at Abbie Rose. ‘You don’t think Angel exists.’

  ‘No. That’s not what I’m saying.’ Abbie Rose is firm, but her eyes don’t quite meet Jen’s. ‘I’m really not. But I think it would help you to talk to a counsellor. The person I’m thinking of is an expert in memory loss. She may recommend a scan, too. I was talking to her this morning.’ She breaks off, trying to be diplomatic. ‘Evie, you’ve suffered a serious head injury. There’s no disputing your memory has been affected.’

  ‘But what I’ve remembered is reliable,’ she cries. ‘It’s what’s missing that’s the problem.’ Judging from her face, she knows that isn’t true.

  ‘There’s too much that doesn’t add up, Evie. Right now, we can’t be certain about anything. We have to question everything.’

  It’s clear from the way Evie looks at Abbie Rose that she doesn’t trust what the policewoman is saying. But I can see the DI’s point – all there is to go on are two subjective accounts, the first being Evie’s, fragmented and unreliable, the second being what Nick told the police. Is he any more reliable? There are no photos, no evidence whatsoever, that proves Angel exists.

  ‘Abbie . . . please, please don’t stop looking for her . . .’

  ‘The search is still going on.’ There’s a note of uncertainty in Abbie Rose’s voice – I wonder if Jen catches it.

  Then Jen does something that catches us both off guard. As she picks up the photograph of Leah Danning, an uncontrollable wave of emotion seems to sweep over her. Doubled over, she clutches the photo to herself as a terrible noise comes from her. Somewhere, deep inside, she remembers.

  ‘Oh God . . .’ She’s moaning, distraught, as Abbie Rose gets up to call a nurse.

  Leaning forward, I take one of her hands in mine. ‘Evie, it’s OK.’

  But she doesn’t hear me. ‘Oh God, oh God . . . It was all my fault . . .’

  The nurse comes in and we’re immediately ushered out into the corridor.

  ‘Was that necessary?’ I say angrily to Abbie Rose. ‘You’ve told me enough times how fragile she is, and look what you did to her.’

  Abbie Rose shakes her head wearily. ‘Believe me, I got no pleasure out of that. But there’s a child out there. We’ve no leads. The only person who knows anything about her is Evie herself. I had no choice.’

  She looks exhausted as she has a word with one of the nurses, then walks away, leaving me standing there. Uncertain as to whether I should stay, I catch the nurse as she comes out of Jen’s room.

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘I’ve given her something to calm her down, but it might be best if you come back tomorrow. Are you a friend?’

  ‘Not really. I knew her a long time ago.’ I look at the nurse. ‘But I suppose, right now, I’m all she has.’

  11

  It’s clear that Abbie Rose’s brutal reminder of Leah’s disappearance has taken its toll on Jen. When I see her the next day, she seems to have regressed, hardly saying a word, her eyes blank. But there’s something I want to talk to her about.

  ‘Evie? I’ve been thinking. I want to help you, but I need to ask you something.’ I wait. Still silent, she turns towards me. I go on. ‘Since you moved into your aunt’s house, the fact that no one knows you, and that you didn’t tell Nick, suggests you may have been in hiding. But what if someone saw you – and you didn’t know. I’m not thinking of Nick . . .’ Concerned she’s having trouble keeping up, I pause for a moment. ‘It might sound far-fetched, but maybe the same person who took Leah? Leah’s disappearance was never solved. Maybe, locked away in your subconscious, you know something. Something that could lead the police to whoever took her.’

  She stares helplessly at me. I don’t want to frighten her, but I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. What if I’m right? What if Jen knows something?

  When Abbie Rose turns up, she drip-feeds more details about Leah Danning to Jen, about how she used to babysit on Saturday mornings, while Leah’s father played golf and her mother worked in an estate agent’s. Some of it seems to resonate with Jen,
and I imagine her briefly reliving the heart-stopping moment she noticed Leah had gone; recalling the agony of the police search; the anguish that must have gone on for months after that terrible day. The end of life as she knew it – but far worse for Leah’s family.

  ‘I’ve brought the photos I told you about, of the hockey team. Your old school lent them to me.’

  But Jen seems miles away.

  Abbie goes on. ‘Here.’ She passes them to Jen. ‘Your teachers spoke highly of you. You were sports captain, form captain, brilliant academically, well-liked by staff and students alike . . .’

  It’s clear from Jen’s face she doesn’t trust a word Abbie Rose is saying. I wonder what’s coming next.

  ‘After Leah disappeared, it all changed.’ Abbie Rose frowns. ‘It seems as though you had some kind of breakdown. I’ve looked back at your medical records.’

  ‘You mean Jen’s.’ Her voice is flat.

  ‘OK. After Leah wasn’t found, you – Jen – spent a few months in rehab. It looks as though you tried to take an overdose. And after . . .’ She trails off, which means whatever she’s about to say isn’t good. ‘Understandably, I think what happened affected you really badly. You weren’t yourself. A number of referrals are listed in your medical records—’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Jen’s voice is a whisper. Then she folds her arms, moaning quietly, rocking herself. It’s a step too far for her, and suddenly it’s as though we’ve lost her. She’s taken the only way out she can, retreating into herself as the fight goes out of her and she slumps forward. Giving in.

  I walk with Abbie Rose out to the car park. ‘You have thought, haven’t you? That whoever attacked Jen might know she’s in the hospital, with a police guard. But if her memory is coming back, it’s just a matter of time. When she goes home, what if they’re just waiting for the right moment to finish what they started?’

  ‘Has she said anything to you?’ Abbie Rose sounds irritated.

  ‘Look, she hasn’t. I’m just trying to help, that’s all. And it seems to get further than bullying her.’ I didn’t intend for that to burst out the way it did, but it’s true. It does seem as if Abbie Rose is bullying her.

  ‘Charlotte –’ there’s a steely tone in her voice – ‘I know you’re trying to help, but we know what we’re doing.’

  ‘If you say so, Detective Inspector.’ I shrug. ‘Like I said, I’m only trying to help.’

  She pauses, straight-faced as ever. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’

  I shrug again. ‘Whatever.’

  By the time I get home, I’m regretting getting so involved in the police investigation, but at the same time, I find myself oddly gripped by Jen’s background. After a sunny afternoon, the air is cool and damp and the wind has picked up. Drawn by the promise of a sunset, I pull on a coat and running shoes and head for the coast path.

  As I walk towards the setting sun, Jen’s attack, the hospital, Abbie Rose, they all suddenly seem a world away. Breathing in the salty air, I’m thinking of Rick again, wondering when he’s coming back. My call will have shown up on his phone, but he hasn’t returned it.

  Ducking under a fence, I leave the coast path behind me, crossing the rough grass towards the cliff edge. Standing there, I feel a sense of exhilaration as I listen to the waves below crashing against the rocks. Danger too; from the wind buffeting against me, from the knowledge that there are only inches between me and the long drop onto the rocks below. As the sun slowly disappears below the horizon, I step forward, poised on the edge, raising my arms towards an orange-streaked sky, and in the invisibility of darkness, I scream.

  I hear it echo as I spin all the way round, not caring if anyone hears me. A madness grips me, a sense of liberation from the frustrations of the day, from how I’ve been drawn into the police investigation. I scream again, revelling in the feeling, as the last of the sunset fades and night falls.

  Casey, 1998

  I remember dusk and gasping for air. Swimming against the tide of disapproval and criticism, my parents’ expectations always out of reach. Waves of anger, crashing over me, dragging me down.

  My mother’s words. ‘At last we’ll be a proper family.’ As she speaks, dusk darkening around me by another degree. She was pregnant, preparing the way for the child who was to come, because I wasn’t enough. I never had been. I saw it in the mirror, epitomized by white skin and dull eyes that stared unblinkingly back at me, hiding the turmoil that lay beneath. I was the invisible child, even before my sister was born. Born to be silent.

  In an environment that’s joyless, when the light is perpetually fading, all you can see are shadows, but did you know shadows have their own dance? At night, as I lay in bed, I’d watch them, obscenely summoning other shadows in a grotesque danse macabre. Closing my eyes, I’d give them faces and shrill, terrifying voices, which they’d silence as they loomed close to me. Then they’d smile, holding out shadow-hands towards me. It was a world that beckoned me to join it. Without realizing, I’d crossed a line.

  Maybe my mother knew. She didn’t guard me with her life, the way mothers are supposed to. No one guarded me. And when the baby was coming, she sent me away.

  ‘You’re going to stay with Auntie Maureen.’

  I remember telling her I didn’t want to go. How even my agitated cries failed to move her, just angered her. Even when I screamed, she just yelled over me. Not even thinking to ask why I was so upset.

  I felt another shade of darkness settle. The shadows danced for hours that night, keeping me from sleeping. When eventually I closed my eyes, they were there too, dancing on the inside of my eyelids. Only after sunrise could I sleep, wakening to my father’s loud voice, his hand shaking me. There was no rest, no respite. There never was.

  The darkness followed me to school, lingering all day, until the end, when I was kept back by my form teacher, standing in front of her with burning cheeks, as she went through it all over again. How I’d upset my mother; how I was old enough to know better; how I should grow up; how no one liked a jealous child. How when it arrived, I’d find out I really loved having a baby brother or sister.

  I just stared at the floor in silence, listening to the horseshit spouting from her thin lips, waiting for her to finish. All of them knew I was upset. My mother, my father, my teacher. They had called me selfish, jealous and a dozen other things, but not one of them had asked me to explain.

  The baby got the best room, previously reserved for the use of guests only, which I kind of knew would happen. Not for me a room that smelled of paint and was full of sunshine – the primrose yellow on the walls, the light pouring in through the sash window. My room was on the other side of the house, which lay in shadow. Nothing in it was new. When I’d seen the spare room being painted, I’d asked if mine could be painted too.

  There was nothing wrong with my bedroom, my mother had told me. I wasn’t special enough for a new one. The baby-pink was perfectly fine as it was.

  She didn’t understand how that felt. The more I thought about it, the more it got to me, adding to everything else that wasn’t right; the baby, who wasn’t even here yet; my mother saying how lucky it was that I could stay with Auntie Maureen. How could my own mother not know how I felt? It was like she was talking about a stranger, not me.

  I started picking at the wallpaper in my room, peeling tiny, narrow strips where the edge had already lifted, then making marks where the wall was exposed underneath. And if I didn’t pull the curtains really carefully, the little plastic hooks that held them to the rail would snap off so the curtain drooped, but that wasn’t my fault. They’d been there so long, they’d worn out. Anyone could see that.

  But my parents didn’t see anything the way I saw it. There was a framed Disney picture on my wall, of looming Minnie and Mickey Mouse faces. It was childish; the kind of picture I’d liked once, when I was about three. One day it fell and the glass shattered. My mother was furious.

  ‘Pictures don’t fall off walls on their own,�
�� she snapped. ‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed the wallpaper.’

  ‘But it wasn’t my fault,’ I argued.

  My mother didn’t believe me. ‘The wallpaper didn’t come off on its own, Casey.’ Completely forgetting we were talking about the picture, not the wallpaper. I already knew she’d stopped listening to me. All she wanted to talk about was the baby.

  My parents were always cross. They didn’t understand how that made me feel. How angry I got, how upset I was. How unworthy I felt. They didn’t know either that when my fingers picked away at the wallpaper, if I did it right, sometimes it came off in long sections and, for a while, my anger would go away.

  ‘Don’t think I’m redecorating in here, too.’ My mother’s voice, like glass that I wanted to hurl a brick at and smash. She didn’t care how I felt. ‘Don’t you think I have enough to do, with the baby coming?’

  The baby again. It was always the baby. But there was still the possibility that the baby wouldn’t come, I started to hope. That maybe it would die inside my mother’s body and she’d die too. I didn’t want horrible thoughts about the baby, but I couldn’t stop them just appearing in my head. And the worst thing still happened, because just before the baby came, I had to pack some things to take to Auntie Maureen’s.

  No one listened to my cries of protest. No one cared enough to listen. My parents acted like I wasn’t there. That’s when you know you’re destined not to become someone, because no one sees you.

  Even when I clung to her, begging her not to send me away, my mother didn’t ask why I was so upset. She just told me I was being naughty, when I was actually frightened. ‘Please, please, I don’t want to go there. Don’t make me go there. Please . . .’

  In the end, I ran upstairs, slamming my bedroom door, sobbing as I hurled myself onto my bed, the tears pouring out of me until there weren’t any left.