‘You might think so,’ Tina said sharply, shaking her head. ‘But I’ll be out here looking all night if I have to. Every night. I won’t stop until I find her.’
And she strode off.
Saturday 13th July
Anna froze; the voice – soft, haunted – causing her heart to stutter.
If people had called her Bella afterwards, she’d ignored them. And, through her own choice, no one had called her that since she’d left Mapledon. She couldn’t bear to hear it, didn’t like to recall the memories associated with it. The last time her friend uttered it. Hearing it now transported her back to a time and place she never wanted to be reminded of.
‘Creepy Cawley, Creepy Cawley …’
The hushed whisper, the goading chant, filled her skull. She shook her head, trying to shake the ghostly voice from it. But as much as she wanted to run, not look back, this was one villager she couldn’t ignore. She turned around.
‘Hello, Auntie Tina,’ she said. ‘I go by Anna these days.’
Tina’s face flinched, her chin tilting up. ‘Right, sure. Annabella was always a mouthful, and Anna is more grown up than Bella. Lovely that you were able to do that – grow up, I mean.’ The words, edged with an iciness, made Anna shiver. She couldn’t blame her for her cutting tone.
Anna opened her mouth but closed it again. For the moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing Tina would want to hear. She fleetingly considered giving her a hug, but the years that had passed created a gulf between them; what had happened thirty years ago ensured the chasm was too wide to bridge with such an action. Tina was about five years younger than Muriel, but if Anna had thought the years had been unkind to her mum, they’d been downright cruel to Auntie Tina – her wrinkled skin had a grey hue to it, her dyed blonde hair was thin and patchy, making her eyes seem pale, almost albino.
Anna gazed back towards Billy Cawley’s old bungalow, the memory of the game Knock, Knock, Ginger making her skin crawl. They’d been having innocent fun, hadn’t they? Being here now, she could envisage the two of them like she was seeing the imprints of their younger selves. Ghostly figures. She’d not allowed herself to think about Jonie for a really long time before today. But she knew, despite not consciously remembering her, what had happened that sunny afternoon was part of her. Had affected her more than she’d ever cared to admit to. Now, facing Tina, everything rose to the surface. Tears slid down her face.
‘Don’t. Don’t cry. Tears won’t help anyone,’ Tina said.
She’d created a shell, one that had hardened over time. They all had.
‘Sorry.’ Anna brushed the tears away with her fingertips. One word, weighted with guilt, years in the making. Not once had she uttered that word when it happened.
It wasn’t her fault, after all.
But Tina thinks it was.
‘Why are you back?’
Instinct told Anna not to mention the doll’s head.
‘Came to see Mum.’
‘Never bothered before.’
‘No, well – being the anniversary year …’ Anna felt herself cringe; she dropped her gaze.
‘So, you thought you’d come back to where it all began?’ Tina swept an arm out in front of her, indicating the bungalow. ‘Got a guilty conscience?’
And there it was. Thirty years on, the man responsible having served time in prison, and still Anna was getting the blame. Well, she wasn’t that little girl anymore: the meek, mild-mannered pushover Bella. She was Anna, and she’d had to work hard to overcome her weaknesses; she’d worked hard to heal the mental scars left behind.
‘No,’ she said firmly, shaking her head. ‘Have you?’
She didn’t know where to begin looking for the grave, or even if she should. Voluntarily opening old wounds probably wasn’t wise. But then, coming here seeking him out wasn’t a wise decision either. Yet, here she was. Facing her demons.
As she slowly lifted the metal latch and stepped through the wooden gate into the church grounds, Lizzie shivered. It’d only been a gentle breeze brushing against her skin – a warm one at that – but it had triggered hundreds of goose bumps to appear on her pale, freckly arms. It was like a ghost had touched her. Walking briskly to the church door, Lizzie put all thoughts of ghosts to the back of her mind. The door creaked loudly as she opened it. Inside was silent. Cool. Empty, as far as she could tell. Flowers adorned the ends of each pew and at the altar stood a huge display of white lilies, daisies and aster – all left over from a wedding, she presumed.
A stray memory came to her. She’d been inside this church before. Sunday school – she remembered being at a small table at the back, sitting with other children. She’d gone a few times, but then something had happened; there’d been a reason she stopped attending. But what was it? She filed the memory away with all the other half-formed, blurry memories of her early childhood.
There was no sign of a vicar. Lizzie ducked outside again and wandered to the far side of the graveyard; she’d work her way backwards to the entrance. It wasn’t a huge area – the village had always been small. Many of the headstones were old and tilting, the writing faded. It shouldn’t take too long to find Rosie’s. She read the names of those she could decipher as she moved around. None of them caused a memory to stir. Until one; the name on it making Lizzie’s blood chill in her veins.
Jonie Hayes.
One of the three names she did remember.
She hurried on past it, not wishing to linger. Not wanting to ‘go there’ yet. It was too early – she wasn’t ready. One step at a time.
The air seemed to still as she approached the grey, granite headstone that bore her mother’s name. Lizzie crouched beside her mum, eyes tightly squeezed, trying desperately to remember something. Anything about her mother. Nothing came to her. It could be because she was trying to force it – if she relaxed, didn’t try so hard, something might come.
For the moment, she could only recall a snippet of one memory.
The day her mum gave her Polly.
