Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘The dog,’ I said, looking over my shoulder at you.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s an innocent. I’m not burning a dog alive.’ Truth was I wasn’t willing to kill the old man either.

  This was the first time I stood up to you, the first hint that things were getting out of hand.

  I’d done everything you asked of me, just to be near you. I’d stolen for you. I’d lied for you. I’d put laxatives in your enemies’ drinks. I’d been your foot soldier. But I wasn’t prepared to kill an old man and his dog.

  You began sloshing petrol around the door, and up the walls. ‘I’ll do it myself,’ you said.

  I should have been stronger. I should have told you no. But I feared I might lose you.

  The fire spread quickly. ‘Come on,’ you said, dashing away – soon out of sight through the trees.

  The flames licked the building, and I’m not going to lie, I cried. I couldn’t get close to the door.

  I ran around to the back of the building – there was an area where part of the building had broken away. I tugged at the wood, pulled it free, and the little dog shot out.

  ‘Hey! Mr!’ I called through the hole. The smoke was filling the barn, and he looked over at me with sad eyes. ‘Come on,’ I yelled.

  He crawled across, and I helped him out. The dog raced to his side, as he lumbered away from the building, and propped himself against a tree, catching his breath. ‘Thank you,’ he said, lifting the dog into his arms.

  You never did find out how badly I let you down that day.

  Chapter 16

  ROSE

  Now

  I drive down narrow country roads. Houses are now a rare sight between endless fields.

  ‘Is that it?’ Becky says, pointing out a cottage in the near distance.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say, noticing the satnav insists we have over half a mile to go to the village, but I slow up anyway. It’s a beautiful cottage, picture postcard perfect, with roses around the door, and my hopes rise that it is where Willow is staying.

  ‘Floral Corner,’ I say, seeing the sign, and putting my foot down on the throttle once more.

  ‘Shame,’ Becky says, looking back. ‘It looks well nice.’

  I pull up outside Ocean View Cottage at three o’clock, tired and achy from the drive, though thankfully my migraine has shifted, for now at least. The cottage is pretty with jasmine climbing the whitewashed walls. It’s perched on a hill looking over a small deserted bay, a short walk from a country pub and a little shop at the foot of the hill.

  I’ve parked in a layby, and we get out of the car, and grab our holdalls from the boot, before walking up the rustic road towards a wooden gate. It’s so peaceful here; just the sound of birds chirping in the trees, and the distant crash of waves on the beach. The sun is warm on our backs and, once we’re on the path leading to the front door, the stunning view of the sea fully opens up in front of us. I stop for a moment, and the sea gives the appearance of winking at me as the sun glints on the silvery blue water. The sand is a burnt-orange colour, and I imagine pulling off my socks and trainers, and sinking my feet into its warmth, and wonder if Willow has been down there – reading, paddling. But then I think of the letter with the photographs, the last call from her. She was lost in finding her mother’s killer – had she even noticed her surroundings?

  By the time we reach the door my stress levels have lowered. I love the sea air, and memories of childhood holidays in Cornwall with my parents drift in. I wish we were here under different circumstances – a holiday with my daughter, perhaps Aaron following on in a few days. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

  The front garden is laid to lawn, though browning due to the hot summer we’ve had so far, but it’s neat, with a freshly painted fence, and a wrought iron bench under the window. Had Willow sat here, trying to work out who took her mother’s life?

  ‘It’s so quiet,’ I say. As though the world has ended.

  ‘A bit too quiet, if you ask me,’ Becky says, looking around.

  I ring the bell three times, before bending to look through the letterbox. ‘Willow! Are you in there?’

  Becky steps across the grass towards the window, and cupping her hands around her cheeks, to block the sun, she looks in. ‘I can’t see anyone,’ she says.

  I clench my fist and rap my knuckles against the door. ‘Willow, it’s me. Rose,’ I call out.

  ‘She could be in the garden,’ Becky says, pointing to a six-foot gate leading to the rear of the house.

  ‘Yes, good idea.’ I take the initiative and open the gate. Leaving our holdalls on the front doorstep, we walk into the back garden. ‘She’s probably out in the sunshine,’ I add, but as soon as I see the tiny garden – a square of neatly cut grass, also faded by the sun, I know Willow isn’t here.

  After looking in through the patio doors at the rear of the house, we head back to the front door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Becky says, and I turn to see a teenage boy wearing a yellow baseball hat at the bottom of the path, staring our way. ‘God, do you think it’s the boy in the photo?’

  I take the picture from my bag of the man in a yellow cap, and study it. It’s difficult to tell, as it was taken so far away. ‘I’m not sure.’ I look at him a little longer before calling out, ‘Hello!’ He stands waxwork still. ‘Excuse me, but have you seen Willow?’

  He turns, and races down the road.

  ‘Wait,’ I call after him, dashing down the path, but he’s young and wiry – soon out of sight.

  ‘That was odd,’ I say, walking back up the path, and stuffing the photo back in my bag with the others.

  ‘Freaky,’ Becky agrees.

  There’s a stone ornament by the door – it’s a rabbit wearing a waistcoat, meant to portray the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, I suspect. As a child, my dad would often leave keys under garden ornaments if he or Mum weren’t going to be there when I arrived home from school, something he and Eleanor would do too. I lift it. Sharing a home with a beetle and several worms is a brass key.

  ‘Yay!’ Becky says, grabbing it. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘But where is she?’ I say, taking the key from Becky and sliding it into the keyhole.

  She shrugs. ‘The shop perhaps? Maybe she’s getting things in.’

  I turn the key and open the door. But I’m not convinced she’s gone shopping. She still hasn’t replied to my voicemail from earlier. Something isn’t right, and my stomach churns – my stress levels, so successfully lowered by the sight of the sea, creeping up again.

  ‘Willow!’ I call out as we step inside, despite my certainty that she’s not here. ‘Willow, it’s me, Rose,’ I go on as we head through a narrow hall, and into a small, square lounge. The floor is wooden, with scattered rugs in primary colours. A bright orange sofa and armchair are angled around a wood burner, and a twenty-inch flat-screen TV. The walls are painted cream, and there are a few pictures on the walls of generic scenes I recognise as Cornwall. On the coffee table is a pile of tourist magazines.

  I pick one up, and flick through it, memories of visiting the places inside as a child, flooding in. ‘I think it’s a holiday let,’ I say.

  I go into the kitchen, where there is barely enough room for one person, and there’s a vague smell of something spicy in the air. It’s got plenty of cupboards for its size, a cooker, fridge, kettle, and microwave.

  I stream water into the kettle, not sure why. I don’t want a hot drink. In fact, I could do with something stronger.

  Despite that, I flick on the kettle out of habit, and head back to the lounge, where Becky is looking out through the patio doors, into the back garden. I look about me. There’s no sense of Willow’s presence. She’s always been messy, leaving her clothes everywhere and driving me crazy – but it’s clean. Spotless. Too immaculate, in fact, as if the owners have cleaned it ready for the next holidaymakers. But Willow has possession until August, that’s what she said. Then why does it feel as
though Willow has never been here?

  ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ I ask.

  Becky turns. ‘Let’s look upstairs first,’ she says, heading for the door.

  Before I can reply, she dashes by me, and I follow her up. There are three bedrooms and a bathroom, but it’s not until we get to the third bedroom that I sigh with relief. Willow’s red leather jacket is lying on the floor in the corner – typical Willow. I race over to pick it up, pressing it against my nose, breathing in her perfume. ‘She must be out,’ I say, looking through the window at the lonely bay below. But things still aren’t right. There should be piles of her clothes, make-up, bottles of perfume. I open the wardrobe. It’s empty. A shiver tickles my spine, as I glance out of the window to see a cloud cover the sun.

  ‘Where is she?’ Becky says, as the feeling of unease grows, settling heavy on my shoulders.

  Chapter 17

  AVA

  2001

  Ava descended the stairs, Willow in her arms.

  Seeing the front door open, she put Willow down, and ventured outside, where the air was freezing.

  ‘Peter?’ she called into the darkness, wondering if he was outside having a smoke. ‘Peter, are you out here?’

  There was no reply, but a sudden noise on the road startled her. A glimpse of yellow, as a figure ran down the road. She raced inside, slammed the door, and dragged across the bolt. She stood, shaking, trying to calm her racing heart.

  ‘Mummy?’ Willow was looking up at her, eyes wide.

  ‘I’m OK, darling girl,’ she said, taking her daughter’s hand, and making for the lounge. As they stood in the doorway, Ava tried to summon the strength to reunite with her family. Her eyes flicked over each of them in turn. Had one of them peered at her while she slept? Or had the figure – whoever he was – come out of the darkness and crept up the stairs? She shuddered.

  ‘Ava, you’re back!’ It was Peter, leaning against the table, knocking back another bottle of beer, and grinning over at her.

  A memory pushed its way in.

  ‘You’re just like your father,’ her mum is yelling, blood dripping from her fingers.

  But the memory – so short, so confusing – disappeared as Rory spoke.

  ‘Hey, Pete,’ he said. He was sitting in the armchair. ‘I’m having a stag do,’ he went on. ‘Gail says I’ve got to have it long before the wedding. Apparently I need six weeks to get over a hangover.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, how are you fixed for November 10th?’

  Peter raised his bottle towards Rory. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘We’ll do a pub crawl around Newquay, have a curry – pick up a few women.’

  ‘Rory!’ Gail cried.

  ‘Joking, sweetheart!’

  ‘Well, you can count me in,’ Peter said. ‘Should be a laugh.’

  Gail hadn’t mentioned a hen do. But then she wouldn’t have invited Ava anyway.

  ‘Did you take the money into the hotel earlier, Rory?’ Gail asked him.

  ‘Shit.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘I knew there was something I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Please say you’re messing with me.’

  ‘No, I totally forgot.’ He sounded unconcerned, a half-smile on his face.

  ‘But the balance deadline was yesterday, Rory. They’ve already given us an extension. They told me they have another couple waiting for our slot. Please say you paid it.’

  ‘I’ll take it in tomorrow, Gail,’ he said, giving her a hard stare. ‘They won’t have a problem. Calm down, for Christ’s sake. They’re just trying to panic us into paying.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ Jeannette said, patting Gail’s knee. ‘The village hall is nice, and always available.’

  ‘The village hall?’ Gail sounded close to tears. ‘I don’t want my wedding in the bloody village hall.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Jeannette went on, patting Gail’s knee once more. ‘Now why not show me this cake of yours.’

  Gail looked down at the book open on her lap, and with a sulky tone she said, ‘Well, this is the picture I gave to Margo’s of Newquay.’

  ‘Oh my, you’re using Margo’s of Newquay?’ Peter said, in a silly high-pitched voice, widening his eyes and covering his mouth flamboyantly with his hand. ‘Whatever next!’

  ‘Tell him to shut up, Mum,’ Gail said like a child, as she placed the book on her mother’s knee.

  ‘Did anyone come upstairs while I was up there?’ Ava said, twirling her hair around her finger, struggling to be heard over the chatter and music. Willow looked up at her with wide blue eyes, and then at the room in front of her. She opened her mouth and let out a piercing scream that lasted several seconds. Everyone stopped talking. The only sound now was Britney Spears singing ‘Oops … I did it again’ through the speakers.

  ‘Willow!’ Jeannette yelled, pushing the bridal book towards Gail.

  ‘There is no way I’m ever having kids,’ Gail said, covering her ears with her manicured hands. ‘They’re demons in disguise.’

  ‘Whatever are you screaming for, Willow?’ Jeannette said. ‘Ava, you need to control your daughter. I would never have let any of you behave in such a way. Quite honestly, I sometimes worry about the way Willow is wired.’

  Willow looked up at Ava and smiled. ‘Mummy talk,’ she said.

  Ava returned Willow’s smile and squeezed her hand. ‘Did anyone come upstairs when I was up there?’ she repeated.

  ‘I think we’ve all been up there at some point in the last ten minutes,’ Peter said, and with a grin, added, ‘Mum’s sandwiches go straight through you.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Gail. ‘I haven’t moved from this spot since I arrived. What’s this about, Ava?’

  ‘I went to the loo,’ said Rory, raising an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t realise I had to sign in and out.’

  ‘Ava?’ Gail’s eyes were firmly on her.

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘What?’ Gail’s voice was sharp. She tapped an elegant fingernail. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ She finally stepped into the lounge and sat on the floor in the corner, pulling Willow onto her lap, wishing she had an invisibility cloak.

  ‘She’s such a pretty girl,’ Rory said, staring down at Willow. ‘Looks so like you, Ava.’

  Ava felt herself flush. She received so few compliments that when she did she didn’t know how to respond, but she knew she was flattered – stupidly flattered.

  ‘Did you look like Willow as a child?’ he asked her, his eyes, definitely his best feature, meeting hers.

  ‘We both did,’ Gail said, glaring his way. It was true. Ava and Gail were alike when they were children. But today they couldn’t look more different: Ava was pale, her features dainty – whereas Gail’s fake tan, expertly made-up face, and collagen-filled lips, had changed her from the girl she once was.

  ‘I looked just like Willow when I was little, didn’t I Mum?’ Gail said.

  ‘You both did,’ Jeannette said.

  The sudden thought of her sister claiming even a tiny part of Willow was unthinkable. Ava may have made a mistake getting pregnant, but Willow was hers. Gail wasn’t going to share even a tiny moment of that. ‘Willow’s more like me, I think,’ she said, pulling her daughter closer, the child’s hair tickling her nose.

  ‘So, she gets her good looks from you, Ava?’ Rory said, swallowing a mouthful of wine, his eyes meeting hers again.

  ‘What?’ Gail glared at him. She was the confident sister, she’d always gone through life with her tribe of friends. Boys, and later men, had practically fallen at her feet. It was clear she wasn’t happy that Ava was in the spotlight.

  There was a painful silence as Britney Spears stopped singing, and the CD player clicked to standby.

  ‘I was just saying Willow looks like Ava, that’s all, Gail.’ Rory narrowed his eyes, fixed them on Gail.

  ‘But you said you think Ava is pretty.’

  ‘I think Willow looks like her mu
m, Gail. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s not what you said, though.’

  ‘Enough, Gail.’ He glared at her. Ava hadn’t seen his eyes flare with so much anger since she’d bumped into him that time at the arcade. She pushed herself further against the wall.

  Gail looked down at her hands. This was the most submissive Ava had ever seen her. ‘We should leave,’ Gail said, her voice quivering. She grabbed her bridal book and held it close against her chest. For a moment, Ava felt for her sister, wanted to get up and hold her close, but she knew she never could.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Jeannette pleaded. ‘We were having such a lovely time. Ava, why not take Willow upstairs for a little while?’

  Ava wasted no time in jumping to her feet. She lifted Willow into her arms. ‘Pleasure,’ she said, and left the room once more.

  Chapter 18

  ROSE

  Now

  After searching the house and coming up with nothing, and trying Willow’s phone several more times, we sit in the lounge, bewildered and at a complete loss.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ I say, although I’m far from it. ‘Becky?’

  She looks up from her phone. ‘Not really,’ she says, turning up her nose, the sparkle gone from her eyes. ‘My stomach’s all churned up. This is so weird, don’t you think? Where is Willow?’

  I lean over and touch her knee. ‘She’ll turn up, you’ll see.’

  ‘Will she? Her clothes have gone, Mum.’

  ‘I’m sure once we’ve had a good night’s sleep, we’ll be able to think more clearly.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep.’

  ‘We mustn’t overreact. Don’t forget what Willow can be like.’ I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, Becky, or myself.

  My mobile vibrates across the table. It’s Aaron.

  ‘Hey,’ I say into the phone, trying to inject brightness into my voice.

  ‘Hey, beautiful, how’s things? How’s Willow?’

  ‘She’s not here,’ I say. ‘We’re not sure where she is, but hopefully she’ll turn up soon.’ I omit that the only clue that she was ever here is her jacket.