don’t tell him I said that!’
‘I won’t, don’t worry. Thanks, Ben. Take care, okay?’ She looked him in the eyes and smiled, trying to somehow show him she was a good person, that she didn’t mean to kill his friend even though he didn’t yet know she had. Then she left the newsagents, the door swinging shut behind her.
‘You got milk?’ Florence asked with a frown when Anna stepped inside a couple of minutes later.
‘Yes.’
‘We don’t need milk.’
Anna popped it in the fridge. ‘You can never have too much milk.’
Florence crossed her arms. ‘Anna, what’s going on?’
Anna sighed. Her gran knew her so well. ‘I went to talk to Ben Miller.’
Florence’s eyes widened. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘I just don’t think Elliot trying to hurt me and Joni was random.’
‘Well no, poppet, he was probably stalking you like Inspector Morgan said.’
‘He wasn’t, I just know he wasn’t. But I think I know why he recognised me. He went to some of the community centre events, he must have seen me there.’
Florence shook her head. ‘Do you realise how risky it was to talk to Ben Miller like that?’
‘Why? He doesn’t know it’s me.’
‘But he might put two and two together, tell someone you’re staying here.’
‘He won’t, trust me.’ Anna walked up to Florence, holding her hands. ‘I’m fine, Gran. It was just a quick chat.’
Florence sighed. ‘I’m just so worried.’
Anna looked into her eyes. She hadn’t considered the strain this would put her gran under too.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t like worrying you.’
Florence stroked her cheek. ‘Please let the police do their job, poppet. I don’t want any more harm coming to my two girls.’
‘Okay,’ Anna said. ‘I promise.’
But as she did the washing up later, staring out towards the dark sea while Florence put the rubbish out, she felt a stirring in her tummy. Is this how her father had felt before he started investigating the Ophelia Killings?
Anna thought back to that summer. It had been hot just like this one. Anna remembered how excited she and Leo had been when their parents had dragged a blow-up pool into the apartment-block gardens for them to cool down in. They’d spent days splashing about and giggling. But then suddenly it all stopped, they weren’t allowed outside.
As the summer wore on and police sirens became a familiar background noise to her life, Anna began to understand why. She started to glean more about what was going on in her town: teenage boys from The Docks were being killed, all found drowned in their garden ponds surrounded by beautiful flowers, just like Ophelia from Hamlet. When Leo grew scared, Anna played the adult despite being two years younger than him, telling him they’d be safe, that the killer wouldn’t get them because they lived in the ‘good bit of town’. He would have nightmares about the murders though, waking in the night screaming. But Anna grew fascinated, following her father around whenever he was home, asking questions about the case, which he refused to answer.
‘You’re too young, darling,’ he’d say, brushing her cheek with his finger as he smiled at her. ‘Now go play with your Barbies, isn’t that what little girls like you are supposed to do?’
But that wasn’t what Anna wanted at all. She wanted to be like her father. So one night, four months after the first victim was found, as summer began to fade, Anna got into her father’s study while he slept and found a photo of one of the victims on his desk, an image that still haunted her: a boy with pale skin lying in a pond, blank blue eyes wide open, dirty ripples of water below him, hints of bright soaked flowers around his head. And then, dotted over his torso, five round bloody marks, skin removed by the Ophelia Killer as trophies, as Anna later learnt.
That was the penultimate victim. A couple of weeks later, her father killed himself on the same day the last victim was found, jumping from the top floor of the lighthouse to the rocks below, the horror of the case finally getting to him.
Anna felt tears spring to her eyes and scrubbed at a plate to force the memories away. Florence was right, she’d been silly to question Ben Miller like that. She needed to leave the investigations to the police. If her dad had, maybe he’d still be alive, not driven to depression by the horror and stress of it all.
She removed the plug, watching as the bubbles spun down the sink. Then the sound of something smashing outside pierced the silence. Florence was out there! She quickly dried her hands and ran out of the open back door, calling her gran’s name.
Then she froze.
Standing on the beach outside was a crowd of people, candles flickering in the darkness. ‘Child killer,’ someone hissed.
It was Elliot’s father, his blue eyes fierce with anger.
The Second One
You’re staring out towards the dockyards, brow creased. You will not look at me. I want you to look at me.
‘Look,’ I say, pointing out of the other window facing towards the beach. ‘It’s starting.’
You turn and narrow your eyes.
‘There, see,’ I say, pointing towards the family spilling out of a car, their bright towels flapping in the wind. There’s a mum and dad, a boy and two girls. The pebbles of the beach shine under the sun, small boats shimmying over the waves in the distance. They’re from The Docks, I can tell from their decrepit old car.
Something changes in you as you look out of the window, eyes alighting on the sullen boy who helps his father get out a tatty-looking picnic hamper. At least this family are trying, taking their kids out for a Sunday afternoon on the beach.
‘Shall we go to the beach?’ you say, smiling now.
‘Really?’
‘Why not? We can get lunch at the cafe.’
‘Oh!’
You laugh. ‘Come on.’
As we walk to the beach together, I feel free like that seagull over there, soaring above the lighthouse and craggy rocks. It doesn’t matter that the sandwiches are a bit dry when we get to the cafe, the fizzy drink too warm. I start to feel like this is the best day of my life, being
