Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, taking a gulp of wine.

  ‘You’re my perfect ten,’ he said, leaning forward and pressing his lips tenderly against hers. Yes, she really liked him.

  ‘I’m more of a twelve,’ she said, as he slowly moved away and picked up his drink. ‘So which uni are you hoping to go to next year?’

  ‘Not sure yet,’ he said, his eyes on her as he took a mouthful of his drink.

  ‘What do you want to study?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ He smiled.

  ‘What do you want to be when—’

  ‘I grow up?’ He laughed. ‘Rich, hopefully.’

  She laughed too, and sipped her wine.

  ‘OK, you’ve asked me enough questions,’ he said, reaching over and curling a tendril of her hair around her ear. ‘It’s your turn to tell me about Justin,’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ She wasn’t sure she was ready to tell him about Willow, but he seemed desperate to know about her life. ‘The thing is, I’ve got a little girl. She’s two.’

  ‘What? God, you don’t look old enough.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m not. I had her when I was seventeen.’

  He looked shocked, his eyes trapping her in a stare.

  ‘I’d been seeing him – Justin – thought I loved him.’ She grabbed her bag. ‘Perhaps I should go home,’ she said, sensing he disapproved.

  ‘No. No. Don’t be daft. Sorry. It’s a bit of a shock that’s all. But I like you, Ava. I like you a lot. Stay. Please.’

  As he leaned forward and kissed her again, a man approached and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Dexter, mate,’ he said, his heavy aftershave making Ava feel woozy.

  Dexter turned. ‘Mate,’ he said, rising and hugging the man, as they patted each other on the back. ‘Long time.’

  The man didn’t look Ava’s way. It was as though she was suddenly invisible to both of them. ‘The old crowd are over there,’ he said, as they released each other. ‘Come and say hello.’

  ‘OK,’ Dexter said, grabbing his drink.

  ‘I won’t be a sec,’ Ava said getting up. She moved away, and headed for the ladies’, certain Dexter didn’t even notice her disappear through the crowd.

  The loos were on the other side of the bar, down a narrow corridor. As she went to open the door someone grabbed her arm, and dragged her around a corner where it was quiet.

  ‘Jesus, Justin, let me go,’ she cried, but his fingers pressed deeper into her flesh. ‘Please.’

  ‘Willow’s my daughter too,’ he said. He was high, his eyes glassy. She noticed a tattoo on his shoulder, red and raw. ‘Willow’. When had he had that done?

  ‘You were the reason she ended up in hospital,’ she said.

  ‘That was Peter’s fault, not mine. Listen, I want to do better by her, Ava. I’ve got big plans.’

  ‘No! It’s too late.’

  ‘I’ll fight you. She’s my daughter too.’ He looked towards the door to the bar. ‘I see you’ve brought in a new daddy.’

  ‘What?’ He meant Dexter. ‘No. No he’s a friend. He doesn’t even know Willow. Not that I owe you an explanation.’

  She finally freed herself, and stormed away. Looking back over her shoulder, she called, ‘I’m leaving Cornwall, Justin. I need to give Willow a better life, and there’s no way in hell you’ll ever be a part of it.’

  She dived into the loos, and locked herself in a cubicle, breathing deeply, her chest tight as she tried to ward off tears.

  When she finally ventured out, Dexter wasn’t sitting at the table, and her eyes flicked around the room, searching for him, finally picking him out a few tables away, leaning over chatting with a group of men – some of them throwing their heads back, laughing.

  She headed back to their table, sat down, and knocked back her drink at speed. She couldn’t see Justin – she hoped he’d left.

  Eventually Dexter approached. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘They’re great guys, but they’ll keep you talking.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Fancy another?’

  ‘I should get home.’

  ‘OK. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes. Fine. Actually, I will have another wine. It’s my round.’ She rummaged in her purse, a sudden rush of dizziness wafting over her, and handed over a ten-pound note. ‘Do you mind getting them in?’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. He pushed once more towards the crowded bar, getting lost from view in the throng. He would be some time. Maybe she should leave – get a taxi home. But her heart was still racing from seeing Justin. And she felt odd too. She needed to calm down.

  Her vision began to blur. Her head felt heavy.

  A strong arm lifted her to her feet. ‘Let’s go, Ava.’ But the voice was muffled. She couldn’t be sure who it was.

  ‘Dexter?’ she tried to say, but her lips wouldn’t form the words. Her feet were moving, as whoever it was jostled her through the crowd who were up dancing now, a blur of bodies. ‘Dexter?’ she said, as the cold air hit her.

  That was the last thing she remembered.

  Chapter 30

  AVA

  2001

  She was lying in a ditch in woodland, a watery sun low in the sky. A frost had settled during the night, and she was shaking from the cold, or was that fear? Tears flowed from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks, and into her ears. Her head throbbed. She didn’t move. She was in shock.

  Eventually she reached out her hand slowly to pick up her clothes, crushing the fabric in her fists. Whoever had done this had covered her with her coat. They hadn’t wanted her to die of exposure. She wished she had.

  She pulled herself up with the aid of a tree and gingerly put on her coat, wrapping it round herself like a shield. She went to move, bent over, and threw up – coughing, spluttering, crying – who the hell had done this to her? She let out a scream from the pit of her stomach, and birds flew – scared – from the treetops, flapping their wings, startled.

  A small, royal-blue velvet box lay at her feet, calling to her. She kicked it away.

  Sobbing, she stumbled through the wood, gripping trees for support, finally reaching the road. She wasn’t far from home.

  ‘Where have you been?’ her mother called from the kitchen, as she stepped through the front door. She didn’t respond. She climbed the stairs, and headed into the bathroom – numb now, as though this was a stranger’s body that no longer belonged to her. She splashed her face with cold water, before taking off her coat and getting into the shower. She ran it as hot as she could bear, her skin turning red as she stood, motionless for over twenty minutes.

  A knock on the bathroom door startled her. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘I’m not going, Mum.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  She didn’t answer, and eventually her mother’s footfalls descended the stairs.

  Ava turned off the shower and stepped out onto the mat.

  There were bruises on her thighs – gashes on her legs.

  Who had done this to her?

  Once in the bedroom, dressed in clean pyjamas, she crawled under her quilt and hugged her pillow, squashing it against her, burying her face into its softness. Hoping it would take her breath away. Wanting the pain to stop.

  She let out a sob, as she gasped for air.

  The rumble of Peter’s voice below and the sound of Willow giggling gave her little comfort.

  How could she make a perfect life for Willow now?

  Chapter 31

  ROSE

  Now

  ‘Becky,’ I call, as I step out of the sunshine and into the hallway of Ocean View Cottage. ‘Becky?’

  The cottage is silent. I sense already she isn’t here, and my heart thumps.

  I’m about to go upstairs, when I spot through the lounge doorway a note on the coffee table in Becky’s handwriting:

  I’ll be back before dark. I’m going round to the other side of the bay to w
here you saw the figure. Becky X

  ‘Jesus!’ I turn and run through the front door and slam it behind me. Why would Becky do this? I race down the path, fumbling in my bag for the car keys as a gust of wind catches my hair and blows it in front of my face.

  It hits me how our children are no longer almost-adults when we fear for their safety, instead becoming that child who we saw take their first steps; the little one whose hand we released on their first day at playgroup or nursery school, and then walked home in tears; the girl who finally learnt to ride her bike after months of us holding the seat – steadying her, praying she will never fall.

  I jump into my car and pull away with a screech of tyres. At the bottom of the hill I see an ambulance parked outside Justin’s house. Is he OK? Do I care?

  I turn left and head for the other side of the bay – to Becky.

  It’s further by road than across the beach, and seems to take ages as I manoeuvre down country roads, my car scraping against the hedgerow as I hold back for oncoming traffic.

  I finally pull up in a layby. Across the grass plateau I see Becky on the edge of the cliff, far too close, a silhouette against the pale blue sky. I climb from the car as a restless wind whistles across the land, the sound rising and falling – the cries of lost souls.

  ‘Becky,’ I call. Despite my voice struggling to beat the wind, she hears me and turns, raising her hand.

  I wave too, as I set out across the wild grass towards her with determined strides. ‘Becky, get away from the edge, sweetheart,’ I call, as another gust whips across my face, swallowing my words.

  As I get closer I pick up on the sound of the waves crashing against the sand. The sea is angry today.

  Suddenly a figure appears at the top of the cliff steps, wearing a dark hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. He sets out, running towards Becky.

  She looks towards him, stumbles. Her leg slips over the edge, and my body screams out in pain as the runner grabs her arm and yanks her back. He’s talking to her now. Resting his hand on her shoulder for a moment, before setting off again.

  ‘Mum,’ she says, as I reach her. She’s crying. ‘God, if that man hadn’t grabbed me—’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I say, letting out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. I grab her and hold her close, realising I’m crying too. ‘I thought for a moment you—’

  ‘Please don’t be angry, Mum,’ she says, eyes wide. ‘I just wanted to help.’

  I release her. ‘What did you think you would find here, Becky? You shouldn’t be up here on your own.’

  ‘I know. You’re right, there’s nothing to see. The first house is at least a quarter of a mile away.’ She moves from my embrace and points across the fields towards a house in the distance. It’s the cottage I spotted on our way here – Floral Corner. The perfect cottage – where I’d half-hoped Willow was staying. ‘We could go there, maybe,’ she says. She’s stopped crying now, and wipes her tears away with her hands. ‘Ask if they saw anything last night when you were attacked.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘They may have heard a vehicle or something,’ Becky goes on.

  ‘I’m not sure, maybe we should leave it to the police. I’ll mention the place when I give my statement.’ As another gust of wind almost topples us over, I say, ‘Come on, let’s get back to the cottage.’ And we link arms and make our way back to the car.

  *

  The wind is calmer as we head up the path to the cottage. It’s a warm breeze, the kind that tans you quickly – may even burn you without you realising.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Becky says.

  I look down at the bay. A solitary figure is sitting close to the sea, hugging his legs, his back to us.

  A chill runs through me, as memories of last night flood in. ‘I’ve no idea. Let’s go inside,’ I say, thrusting my key in the door.

  ‘It’s that boy again,’ she says, as he turns and looks up at us. ‘Remember. The one we saw outside the cottage a few times. Look, he’s wearing the same yellow cap.’

  ‘Yes, well, let’s leave him to it, shall we?’ I’m super nervy right now, my hand trembling as I push open the door.

  ‘We should speak to him. I reckon he knows something about Willow.’

  ‘Not right now,’ I snap, stepping inside. ‘Later, maybe,’ I go on, trying to sound calmer. She follows me in, and I close and bolt the door behind us.

  ‘But he’ll be gone by then, Mum.’

  My vision blurs a little, and my head starts throbbing. Maybe I should have had my head injury checked out.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Becky asks, following me as I head for the kitchen. She fills the kettle, flicks it on, as I knock back a couple of tablets with water. This room is far too small for the two of us. ‘Migraine?’ she asks. ‘Or is it where you were hit?’

  ‘I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a headache,’ I say, leaving her to make some coffee.

  I sit down on the sofa, and lean my head back, going over and over everything. Justin? Peter? Rory? Dexter? Justin? Peter? Rory? Dexter?

  ‘Here you go.’ Becky plonks down a weak-looking coffee on the table in front of me, startling me. I’m far too jumpy.

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ I say.

  She sits in the chair, and takes a sip of her drink. ‘So what have we got?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Let’s try to piece it all together. Think like Sherlock.’

  I know she’s not deliberately trivialising the situation, but I’m irritated. I rub my temples. The pain is becoming intolerable, and I have a vague sense of nausea.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You look so white? You been dating vampires again?’

  I rise. ‘To be honest I feel pretty rough. I think I’ll have a lie down for a bit.’

  ‘Is it where you were hit, Mum? Should we go to the hospital?’

  ‘Let’s see how I am after a little sleep,’ I say, leaving the room.

  It’s gone 3 p.m. when I wake. I’ve wasted precious hours, when I should have been searching for Willow. I stumble out of bed, and into the bathroom, where I splash my face with cold water and clean my teeth, as my mouth tastes foul. I realise, as I pat my face with a towel, that the worst of my headache has dissipated, and I’m left with a dull fuzzy feeling, as though my brain is wrapped in cotton wool.

  I step into the shower and turn the water up as hot as I can stand. My hair clings to my skull, and I squeeze my eyes closed as soapsuds roll down my face. They’re there again. The four men swimming around my mind: Justin, Peter, Rory, Dexter. Justin, Peter, Rory, Dexter. Justin, Peter, Rory, Dexter.

  I step out, wrap myself in a towel, and sit on the toilet seat.

  Let’s try to piece it all together, shall we? Think like Sherlock.

  I half-smile at Becky’s words – and now far less agitated I try to think like Sherlock. But it’s no good. My head spins once more.

  Still wrapped in the towel, I get up and head into the room Willow was staying in and pick up her leather jacket. I rummage in the pockets: a tissue, a till receipt from the local shop, and a screwed-up piece of paper. I hang the jacket on the back of a wooden chair, before smoothing the note flat on the top of the chest of drawers. My heart picks up speed. Just one word written in capitals:

  LEAVE

  I lumber across the room, and as I pass the window my chest tightens and a shard of panic plunges through me.

  ‘Becky,’ I cry, slamming my hand against the glass. She’s out there. Sitting on the beach with the boy in the yellow cap.

  *

  Once dressed, I leave the cottage and dash across the beach towards them. Angry tears that Becky has been so stupid yet again, spilling down my face. ‘Becky,’ I cry, losing a flip-flop, but carrying on across the sand as though my daughter’s life depends on me. ‘Becky, what the hell?’

  They both look up, innocent eyes on me as I stop a few yards from them and dash away tears with the back of my hand. Am I becoming paranoid? Surely I have c
ause to worry, after what happened to me the night before.

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’ Becky says. ‘This is Isaac.’

  He doesn’t smile, but continues to stare from under his baseball cap.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be able to talk,’ Becky goes on calmly, as though I’m not standing here breathing heavily, with a tear-stained face. ‘But I think he’s eighteen and lives with his parents. When I showed him a picture of Willow, he said he knows her.’

  ‘Really? Have you seen her lately?’ I ask him, stepping closer. He looks far younger than eighteen.

  He raises his shoulders in a shrug.

  ‘You can hear me, can’t you?’ I ask, crouching down in front of him.

  He nods his head.

  ‘He hears perfectly well, I think,’ Becky says, and starts nibbling at her thumbnail.

  ‘Why do you keep coming to the cottage?’ I say, staring into his worried eyes.

  He makes his hands into fists, his thumbs up, and moves both fists up and down in front of his chest.

  ‘What does it mean?’ I ask Becky. We learnt a bit of sign language several years ago, to help communicate with a deaf friend of mine. Becky picked it up better than I did, but there’s a lot she doesn’t know.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she says. ‘He keeps doing it.’

  ‘Have you seen Willow lately?’ I repeat, sounding far too agitated.

  He clambers to his feet, his face expressionless – difficult to read.

  ‘Mother!’ Becky snaps. ‘You have to treat him gently.’

  But it’s too late. The boy – Isaac – takes off sprinting, sand spraying up in his wake, his long, thin legs taking him to the slope that leads to Ocean View Cottage and the village. Within moments he’s out of sight.

  ‘He’s pretty good at running off, isn’t he?’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Yes, and he knows something, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘We should go after him,’ I say, as Becky gets up, steadying herself with the aid of my arm, and brushing sand from her jeans.

  ‘We’ll never catch him, Mum. Anyway, he’ll clam up if you pressure him.’