Come Back For Me Page 6

  Mum’s voice fills my head. It’s too commercial. Look at it all set up for the tourist trade, I’m surprised Annie allowed it.

  If she’s still here, Mum. Maybe she’s not. Rachel from the B&B didn’t confirm it.

  No. She’ll still be here, Mum says as a cold gust of wind blows, catching me off balance as it hits me face on. Any stronger and it could have taken me into the sea, and I look over my shoulder uneasily as I step away from the edge.

  My legs feel like liquid. The other few passengers have disappeared and already the ferry is preparing to leave. I pull a hand out of my pocket and clutch the bag that weighs down on my shoulder, forcing myself to walk forward, my eyes wandering to the trees just off to the right in front of me. Any minute I’ll be able to see through them to my house the other side.

  I keep moving to where the jetty ends and the path sweeps past it. In either direction I would pass my garden. To the left the path opens up on to Pinecliff Walk, the main route to the cove at the other end of the island. This way leads past the length of my garden with the white picket fence. To the right, the path winds inland to the village, and then further on to the lakes.

  I take neither. Instead I step over the well-trodden ground and creep forward towards the trees until my house starts to come to me in fragments. Jigsaw pieces of brick and glass and roof tile until I’m suddenly at the bottom of our garden.

  My chest aches from the scent of a familiar blend of heather and pine that is so overpowering I find myself reaching for a tree to stop from swaying too far. I make no move to wipe away the tears running in rivers down my cheeks until I’m soon sobbing, choking down great lungfuls of air. I collapse against the tree, unable to take my eyes off my house. My precious home. We should never have left you.

  Memories flood back as I search its windows, all of them closed and curtained. No one can see in. No one, most likely, wants to look out. I seek out my old bedroom window that sits on the far right side, next to Danny’s, imagining my old heart-dotted curtains hanging on the other side of it.

  I don’t have to close my eyes to smell Mum’s casseroles and roast dinners wafting through the house or hear her voice calling us in for tea, and I grip tighter to the tree to keep from running up to the front door.

  It takes me a while to notice the police tent, even though you cannot miss it. Its presence is overwhelming as it perches in the corner at the very edge of the woods.

  My eyes flick back and forth between the house and the activity unfurling. A man wearing a black overcoat is bent over, raking a patch of ground. He lifts his head to call someone, pointing at whatever he’s found.

  I tear my gaze away and look back at the house. For all the years that have passed, I could be hiding in these trees right now, waiting to jump out on Mum. How time can slip into the ether as if it never existed. I can’t even imagine I’ve had a life anywhere other than Evergreen and yet there have been twenty-five years of it.

  I used to weave through the pines I’m standing amongst until I got to the only tree that ever mattered, but even from here I can see it’s not the same. At some point my treehouse was ripped out, leaving it naked.

  I let out a groan as pain tears through me, shrinking back when someone near the tent looks in my direction, reminding me I’m effectively spying on a murder scene.

  I turn my attention on the bare tree again. Dad built us the treehouse. I’d begged him for a year before he finally found enough wood and spent a month hammering in nails, fixing it like a nest into the branches.

  He built it the year I turned ten. I’d had two summers in it before I never saw it again, but I had climbed its wooden ladder every day. Often I would take a blanket and, if it was dark, a torch and a Tupperware box of sandwiches, and would sit in it for hours, reading books, colouring, writing in my diary.

  ‘It’s an accident waiting to happen,’ Bonnie had muttered more than once.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I’d cried. ‘Daddy’s made this for us.’

  ‘Us?’ she laughed. ‘You wouldn’t get me in that if you paid me.’

  ‘Danny?’ I’d turned to my brother. ‘You like it, don’t you? You’d come up there with me.’

  Danny had shrugged as his eyes trailed up its makeshift ladder. He’d spent as much time in it as I had. Never with anyone but me, but often he’d go up there alone, sit on its platform, and look out. What he was looking at, I had no idea.

  But now the treehouse is gone and the windowsills have been painted teal and a shiny new conservatory stands at one side. Now there is a white tent in the garden and blue-and-white police tape tied around the trees, and if I’m not careful, a detective will come over and ask me what I’m doing.

  ‘You okay?’ A voice behind me makes me jump and I turn, still slumped against the tree, and wipe a hand furiously across my tear-streaked cheeks. A woman about my age is staring at me oddly, an amused smirk on the edge of her lips. She pulls her dark navy parka tighter to her, one hand gripping a camera that hangs around her neck.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I mumble.

  She gestures over to the tent. ‘Horrible business, isn’t it?’

  I nod, unsure how to answer, deciding that saying as little as possible is best.

  ‘Do you live here?’ she asks, and there’s something in the way she says it that suggests she already knows I don’t.

  When I shake my head she slowly holds out a hand. ‘I’m from the Bournemouth Echo.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’ I shake her hand. ‘Do they know anything more about the body, then?’ I ask as casually I can.

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ She continues to watch me carefully, her lips threatening to break into a grin. ‘You don’t look the type to have come for a nose,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not.’ My fingers automatically reach for the hard skin on my thumb and begin picking at it.

  ‘Do you mind if I get your name?’

  ‘Why do you want that?’

  ‘I’m just writing something up on general public concerns, that kind of thing. To be honest, if I go back with nothing, my boss will have me and I’m running out of things to report on.’

  I hesitate, toying with the idea of making one up, but in the end I tell her the truth. ‘Stella. Stella Harvey.’

  ‘Stella Harvey,’ she repeats slowly, nodding as she bites her bottom lip. She glances back at the quay. ‘How long are you here for then, Stella? You know the passenger ferry doesn’t come back until tomorrow?’

  ‘I know. I’m staying at one of the beach houses,’ I tell her. ‘Just for a couple of nights.’

  ‘Well, it would be good to catch up with you, Stella Harvey,’ she says, but before she goes to leave, she pauses and adds, ‘I’ll probably see you around.’ And with a swing of her camera, she smiles and wanders off towards the white tent and the huddle of officers.

  I decide to stop by Rachel’s house so I can drop off my bag, taking Pinecliff Walk to avoid the police tent.

  It’s clear up close that the picket fence isn’t the one my dad put up. From a distance it looked the same but this one has clearly been installed by a professional, with its neat, straight lines and perfect points, and I have an overwhelming urge to kick it.

  Up ahead, the new conservatory flashes brightly, its glass sparkling against the backdrop of blinds that have been pulled closed. I wish the new owners would let me see some part of the life they have inside, but it’s blocked from view and I have to make do with the outside.

  Still I contemplate whether they’ve made the small kitchen any bigger, or if they’ve knocked down the partition Dad had put up to give Danny and me a bedroom each. It wouldn’t have taken them long to notice you could hear everything through the thin wall. I sigh deeply as I take one last glance before carrying along the path as it bends away.

  Pinecliff Walk snakes along the coastline for a mile and a half until it reaches the furthest point of the island – Pirate’s Cove. Sometimes it meanders so close to the edge that there’s a clear view of th
e sea, but at others you’re too far away and have to imagine the water beyond the trees or at the bottom of cliffs. At these points other little tracks spider off it, some well-trodden routes and others more makeshift cut-throughs to the cliff and beaches below.

  There was one path in particular we’d made ourselves that led to my secret place by the small clearing, and it’s at the tip of this that I pause. It’s funny that even after twenty-five years a wave of nausea washes over me as I glance to my left.

  I’d loved that place once, but when I’d turned up on Jill’s doorstep on my last day and she’d suggested going there, I’d frozen. I hadn’t told her why I no longer wanted to return to that spot. I hadn’t told anyone what had happened there only two days earlier. Instead I’d reluctantly agreed to meet her there and had buried my secret. It was the first box I’d shut the lid on.

  Further up the path I pause again, this time when I’m at the top of the driveway that leads to Jill’s house. Even if I knew my old friend still lived there I’m not sure I yet have the courage to knock on the door.

  My question tingles on the edge of my tongue: Why did you never write, not even once? I’d lost count of the number of letters I sent before I eventually gave up. But now that I am in grasping distance of finding the answer, I find my feet picking up again. I tell myself it is the thought of seeing Bob Taylor that deters me, but I know it is more than that. I know I am still unsure if I’m ready for what I might discover.

  In contrast, Rachel’s house, set among a scattering of beach houses a little further along, is less familiar and imposes no vivid memories. I knock loudly on her door as spots of rain begin to fall, and by the time she opens it my hair is wet.

  Rachel is at least a head shorter than me and somewhere in her early fifties. Her brown hair streaked with grey is pushed back from her face with a thick navy Alice band. She is wearing a wool cardigan that falls to midway down her calves and, as she peers at me from the other side of large round glasses, she effortlessly gives the impression she isn’t pleased to see me. I offer my name though I’m sure she knows who I am.

  ‘Come in,’ she says as she lets me into a large but dimly lit hallway. Too much dark mahogany furniture lines the walls and there is little space for us to stand but right in the middle of a red woven rug. ‘I didn’t want any guests,’ she reminds me. ‘I don’t want you staying any more than three nights.’

  I shake my head. ‘I won’t,’ I assure her, the unfriendly welcome making me think even three is too many.

  ‘I double-lock the door at nine in the winter but it’s too dark to be out past then anyway. There are no streetlights on the island,’ she goes on, ‘but I assume you already know that, don’t you? You said you used to live here.’

  ‘I did. A long time ago.’

  She nods as she moves to a bureau and pulls out a book from its top drawer, flicking through the pages until she finds the last one to be written on. ‘I need your name, address and telephone number in here.’ She taps a pen against the pad and hands it to me. ‘Then I’ll show you up to your room. You can pay me in cash now or when you leave, it’s up to you.’

  ‘I can do it now,’ I say as I begin writing.

  ‘I make breakfast at eight but you’ll need to sort yourself out for anything else.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘There’s a shop and a café in the village but they shut early in winter.’

  I nod. ‘Thank you.’

  She waits for me to finish writing and takes the book from me, reading my address. ‘So how long since you were last here?’

  ‘About twenty-five years,’ I say.

  ‘And where did you live?’

  ‘The Quay House,’ I tell her, and wait for the inevitable widening of her eyes and parting of her mouth. She reaches out to hold on to the bureau beside her, and as her gaze roams my face, I can tell she is searching for clues as to what this means.

  ‘I was only eleven when we left,’ I say, shrugging, hoping she might think I therefore have little memory of the island. I’m relieved when she tells me to follow her upstairs to a pleasantly large and clean, but dark bedroom. The trees outside the window sap what little light there is, made worse by more mahogany furniture and a deep purple bedspread.

  Rachel fumbles in her pocket and produces two keys. ‘These are for your room and the front door, but as I say, I’ll be double-locking at nine.’ She begins to back out but pauses before heading down the stairs. ‘I only agreed to you staying because you said you had friends here, but if people don’t take kindly to you coming back, then—’ She breaks off, leaving me no wiser as to what she’d do. No doubt tell me I’d need to go.

  ‘We don’t need any more upset. We’ve been through enough the last few days and can do without more people poking their noses in,’ she says, looking at me pointedly. I go to protest but Rachel carries on, quieter now. ‘This was a good place to live until last Friday and now …’ she shakes her head ‘… now you’re better off just keeping your business to yourself.’

  ‘I promise I’m not here to cause any trouble,’ I tell her and eventually she nods and leaves.

  I dump my bag on the bed, pulling out my purse and phone and stuffing them into my coat pockets. Her accusation that I’m only here to be nosy riles me, and I hate that she thinks she has more right to be here than I do.

  Outside I wind back round the path to the village. Despite the overcast day, it is eerily quiet. My gaze flicks around the shops, taking in the changes. The bakery has been replaced by a convenience store. Bistro tables sit empty outside the refurbished café. My stomach growls and I’m about to stride over to get something to eat when the journalist suddenly emerges.

  She grins again when she spots me and wanders over, her camera still swinging carelessly from side to side. ‘So what are you actually doing back on the island, Stella Harvey?’

  Evergreen Island

  10 July 1993

  There was a particular day, during the first week of summer, when two occurrences began brewing that would lead to fatal consequences by the end. It’s possible the tracks had already been laid too firmly, but Maria would later consider how her own actions had not helped to divert her family to safety.

  She had seen little of Stella, though she didn’t begrudge her spending time with Jill. In fact, she’d insisted her daughter not feel bad about it (even though she would have liked to see more of her) because friendships were important.

  Jill had been waiting by the gate for Stella right after breakfast, a rucksack weighing down on her bony shoulders. Maria had given them fruit and cake to pack into their bags and, as she stood in the doorway and watched them running up Pinecliff Walk, she found herself peering a little more closely.

  ‘What’s up?’ David appeared beside her, making her jump. He kissed her head, slinging an arm over her shoulder. ‘You missing your girl?’

  ‘A little,’ she admitted, though it wasn’t just that. She’d noticed Jill looked thinner that year. It was easy to spot under the girl’s spaghetti-strap top and the denim shorts she’d also been wearing last summer. Maria shook her head and nestled into her husband. She didn’t want to mention her concerns just yet, but she’d keep an eye on Jill.

  What she’d also considered was that she’d have no clue what to do about it even if there were a problem. Ruth Taylor had her head in the sand about almost everything, and the idea of addressing anything so personal to Bob was – well, out of the question.

  ‘Are you staying for lunch?’ she asked David.

  ‘I wish. It’s so busy today I shouldn’t even be taking a break, but I couldn’t resist popping back to see my gorgeous family.’

  Maria laughed. ‘Well, you’ll have to settle with just me. I’ve no idea where Danny is, but look, Bonnie’s down the end of the garden with Iona.’ She made him stop to watch their oldest child. ‘She looks so carefree,’ she went on, a warm glow spreading through her body.

  ‘Yes, that’s good,’ David said as he trundle
d into the house, and the moment was gone.

  ‘Don’t you think?’ she persisted, following him into the kitchen. ‘Maybe all she needed was to find a good friend and now she has one.’

  ‘Maria,’ he said, stopping her. She heard him sigh even though he tried his best to hide it. ‘You mustn’t keep worrying over Bonnie. She’s fine.’

  But things had never truly been fine, and this was one thing – the only major thing – they’d never agreed on.

  ‘Well, I’ve invited Iona to dinner tonight,’ she went on, refusing to get niggled, ‘so please don’t be late.’ As she spoke Maria glanced out of the kitchen window at her daughter with her new friend. They were laughing, engrossed in conversation, and it was such an unusual sight that Maria almost wished she could take a photograph.

  ‘You see, I’d never get a view like this back at home,’ Iona said, stretching out on the lounger.

  Bonnie watched her friend’s movements. Her long legs made her look like she could be a dancer. She uncrossed her own and slid them down the sunbed until they were almost touching Iona’s. ‘I guess it’s pretty good,’ she said.

  ‘You’re joking, right? It’s amazing.’

  Bonnie looked to the sea and the hustle of the people on the jetty. There were so many of them, as there always were on summer days, stepping off her dad’s boat, excited to see what twee little place they lived in. Sometimes she felt like she was in a bloody zoo.

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t realise how wonderful it is. If I lived here …’ Iona trailed off but it felt like an intended pause to Bonnie when she added, ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere else.’

  Bonnie snorted. ‘You really wouldn’t miss everything out there?’ She gestured in the direction of the mainland.

  Iona shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Bonnie glanced away and saw her dad between the trees, walking down the jetty towards his boat. Maybe she should try and see Evergreen how Iona did, but she didn’t think she could. There was just something about it she really didn’t like.