In Her Wake Page 11

  Rain rinses the world of its sins. It wipes the slate clean.

  I make myself walk on.

  One, two, three, four.

  I reach number 4a and stand in front of it. My knees threaten to buckle. I rest a hand on the gate post to steady myself. The door is pea-green, paint peeling, wood rotten at the bottom. There’s a ramshackle shed with torn felt roofing in the front yard, with a request not to fly tip scrawled in black paint across its doors that looks more like graffiti than somebody’s dictate. The yard is littered with weeds so mighty they’ve torn through the concrete and there’s a window next to the door in which hangs a greyed net curtain punctured with moth holes.

  I want to run, but I won’t let myself.

  There’s no bell so I lift my shaking hand, picture what’s behind the door, a warmly lit hallway, a console table with cut flowers, a rack of coat hooks, shoes lined up beneath.

  I knock.

  Footsteps approach the door.

  My heart is pumping hard and fast. The familiar clamp tightens around my chest. I breathe slowly. Try to keep calm. And when the door opens the air is slammed from my lungs.

  A woman stands in front of me. I try to take her in but all I can see are her eyes. Eyes that shine out of her pallid face like beacons. Green eyes the colour of sea glass.

  My eyes.

  The woman standing in front of me has my eyes. And now I am in no doubt at all that this person, this woman, is my sister.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I try to talk but no words come out. Everything begins to spin. I’m worried I might be sick.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice cuts through me.

  Speak.

  ‘I … well, it’s … I…’ My voice stutters. ‘I’m a … journalist. I’m researching … the child that went … missing…’

  Her green eyes narrow to thin slits. She crosses her arms. She’s thin and her face is so gaunt it gives the impression she’s sucking in her cheeks. Her lips are pale and cracked with a small cold sore in one corner. She has lank, mousy hair, almost the same shade as mine. It hangs below her shoulders and is in need of a cut. She wears a clean white T-shirt, a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms, and a blue plastic watch, an ancient digital one, like a child might have.

  ‘Fucking vultures. Go away.’ She slams the door in my face.

  I don’t move. All I can think about are her eyes and her mouse-coloured hair. We are even the same height. Her skin is pale and translucent, like mine, the skin I’d grown up with, the skin I thought I shared with Elaine. My skin isn’t the same as Elaine’s. It’s the same as this woman’s.

  My sister.

  I bang against the door as hard as I can, battering the wood with the flat of my hand. My palm stings with each hit.

  The door flies open. Her face is flared with anger. I don’t allow her to speak or shout or slam the door again; I come out with it. A tumble of words falls from my lips, my nerves obliterated by my need to tell her everything. I tell her about Elaine’s death, about Henry’s wrists, the knife, the letter on his best blue writing paper, the crispy, yellowed cutting, worn through along the folds. I tell her everything and I don’t stop speaking, not even when she falls backwards into the dim hallway, a hand against her open mouth, her head shaking backwards and forwards, mouthing No, no, no.

  When I finally run out of words, when I have told her everything, I stop and I wait, panting like an exhausted athlete. Her face is pale, her eyes wide. I search for signs of understanding, of acknowledgement, perhaps even happiness, but there are none. She glances over her shoulder into the darkness behind her, then looks back at me before stepping out of the house and pulling the front door closed behind her.

  The lock clicks loudly.

  ‘You can’t be her,’ she breathes. ‘She drowned. She’s dead.’

  I shrug unsurely.

  ‘You’re her? You’re Morveren?’

  My eyes fill with hot tears. ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘But I think so.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  We don’t speak for what feels like forever then she looks up at the rain.

  ‘You’d better come in. You’re getting soaked.’ Her voice is a mumble, thick with the Cornish accent I am starting to get used to.

  A door key hangs on a piece of string around her neck. She fumbles with it, her hands trembling too much to fit the key in the lock. Finally the door opens and she ushers me in, avoiding my eyes as I pass.

  The hall is dingy and smells of soup and damp. The carpet is brown and wiry, threadbare along the centre from years of footsteps. I follow her into a tiny but immaculate kitchen. There are no eye-level cupboards, just three shelves stacked with tins, glass jars holding teabags, coffee and sugar, and a spider plant in a plastic pot. Beneath the shelves is a two-ring electric hob. I have never seen a smaller sink, its stainless steel clouded from years of use, but clean, like everything, it’s all so clean. To the right of the sink is a small television, switched on but without sound, the black-and-white picture dancing noiselessly.

  Even more so in here than in the hallway, the air is stagnant and thick. I want to fling open the back door and fill the place with fresh air and the smell of falling rain. And the curtains are drawn. I feel immeasurably trapped. I never close curtains, not now, not even in the middle of summer. I haven’t done since I left The Old Vicarage, where murkiness and claustrophobia and monsters with dark fury, who loomed from the blackness and haunted my dreams, were a permanent presence. Trapped in that house with the shadows and creaks I felt sorry for Elaine, coping with the agoraphobia from which I assumed she suffered. What wasted pity it was.

  The woman leans both hands on the work surface and I watch her.

  What are you thinking?

  A black-and-white cat with one bent ear appears from nowhere and jumps up to rub itself against her. She shoves the animal to the floor, where it curls around her ankles. I think of the longhaired grey cat and wonder briefly if he is missing Elaine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  The cat saunters over to me and I bend to pick it up. I tickle it behind its ear and it begins purring, pushing its face against mine.

  ‘He’s sweet.’

  ‘It’s a she.’

  ‘How long have you had her?’

  ‘I don’t know. A couple of years. Maybe longer. It showed up one day and never left.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘She doesn’t have one.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was going to stay.’

  ‘And your name?’

  She narrows her eyes, her defences instantly up. ‘Dawn,’ she says flatly. ‘My name’s Dawn.’

  She finds it hard to look me in the eye, seemingly more comfortable looking at her shoes, her hands knotting into her T-shirt.

  I rub my chin into the cat’s fur, thankful she’s there to dilute the atmosphere a fraction. The silence feels wrong. It must be hard for her. I know her head will be a mess of questions, doubts and confusion.

  ‘Would you like me to leave?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘I could come back another time?’

  Still nothing.

  I put the cat on the floor and turn and begin to walk towards the door.

  ‘Would you like a glass of juice?’ she says.

  I turn back to her. Her eyes are still on her shoes, arms now locked across her wraith-like body.

  ‘You might as well have a drink or something.’

  I’m not thirsty but I nod. ‘Thank you.’

  I pull out a chair from under the small kitchen table and sit. I watch her reach into a doorless cupboard below the worktop and take two glasses from beside a neat pile of mismatched plates. She stands and takes the glasses to the sink. She is moving as if in a trance. Her head rigid, eyes fixed ahead of her.

  ‘Hope you like orange. It’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I like orange.’

  She nods and reaches for a
bottle of squash from the shelf and I notice her nails are bitten to the quick.

  I look at the television and try to make out what is on, but the lack of sound, the small screen and black-and-white picture make it impossible. I rarely watch television; Elaine hated it and we didn’t have one in the house. David hated it too. He says it kills brain cells and numbs the senses to the richer arts of literature, music and art. I realise then I have no idea whether I like television or not. Why did I let them – Elaine and then David – control me like that? It is suddenly baffling.

  Dawn fills the glasses with water and then turns and hands me one. I sip the drink; it’s a welcome something to do.

  ‘Tell me again what this man said.’

  So I tell her again what Henry Campbell had written in his immaculate handwriting on the blue Smythson notepaper. I tell her slowly this time, giving as much detail as I have, and as I talk I see him clearly, as if he was sitting a few feet in front of me. I watch him put the lid on his fountain pen. Then he places it deliberately on the desk. He seals the envelope, knocks back a handful of ibuprofen with a glass of whisky, then picks up the glinting carving knife and draws it firmly and deliberately down the length of each wrist.

  When I stop speaking, she lifts her head and for the first time looks directly into my eyes. My skin prickles hot and sweaty and my eyes cloud with tears. I try to stop myself crying but a tear breaks free. I swipe it away with the back of my hand; I don’t want to cry. If I start I might never stop.

  ‘Is Alice here?’ I ask quietly, when I’ve got control of myself.

  Dawn’s gaze flicks to the wall and then back to me. Her lips purse tightly and she nods once.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her room.’ Dawn puts her glass down and walks out of the kitchen. ‘Come on then, if you’re coming,’ she calls from the hall.

  My stomach turns over as I follow her. I’m terrified. My knees feel weak. I try to clear my mind but it’s impossible. There is too much going on. It’s surreal. What will she do, this woman who once wore a green-and-white striped dress and kissed my stinging arm? She’s bound to cry. Or laugh? Will she hug me? Will I recognise her? I count my steps as I move down the hallway.

  One, two, three, four.

  One, two, three.

  Dawn reaches out to open a door at the end of the hallway. Her hand moves as if through water, silently and slowly.

  ‘So you know … she’s not … well…’

  Dawn hesitates before entering the room, as if she might say something more, but she doesn’t.

  The stale smell in the room, which I guess was once the living room of the flat, is even more intense than it is elsewhere. The moth holes that punctuate the gauzy net curtain let in a certain amount of light, but not enough.

  A person sits in an armchair facing away from me, in the direction of the wall. I can’t see her face, but the back of her head looks old, fine grey hair with greasy streaks of yellow. I walk further into the room so I can see her fully. Her face is even thinner than Dawn’s. Her eyes are surrounded by such dark-grey shadows they look like hollows in her skull, and her lips are so pale they vanish into her papery skin. She is dressed in a tired dressing gown that might once have been lilac, with a belt that doesn’t match drawn loosely around her skeletal waist. Her hands, one resting on each arm of the armchair, are mottled, her thickened nails curled under ever so slightly. She makes no movement at all, not even a twitch.

  This can’t be her. This listless, frail person isn’t anything like the snatch of memory from the beach, the pretty woman with thick hair in her green-and-white striped dress and strappy sandals.

  ‘She doesn’t speak.’ Dawn’s voice breaks the silence like a stone through a window. ‘Hasn’t for years. It stopped gradually.’ Dawn doesn’t look at me as she straightens the blanket that lies across the woman’s knees.

  ‘She doesn’t speak to anyone? And she just stares at the wall?’

  ‘Not always. She’s happiest looking at the wall though. Before she became so ill she spent a long time rearranging her pictures. Now she likes to look at them.’

  My hand goes to my mouth and I shake my head.

  No, I don’t want this.

  It’s all wrong, this flat, these people, the smell; it belongs to someone else, not me.

  I follow the woman’s gaze towards the wall where a collage of pictures, postcards and newspaper cuttings paper every centimetre of space. My body stiffens; the display is the artwork of insanity. I glance at the whisper of a woman sitting motionless beside me. My skin crawls with unseen insects and I rub my arms as I lock them protectively around my body. I step closer to the wall, close enough to read the words. The newspaper cuttings are about her child, her disappearance, the thieving. Like so much in this flat they are stained with age. Shocking headlines – some of them the very same articles I’d read in the British Library – shout out of the wall: Child Goes Missing in France, Police Fear for Campsite Girl, Cornish Girl Presumed Drowned.

  Surrounding the articles are pictures. Mermaids. Mermaids in a myriad of guises stare back at the woman in the armchair. Some are glamorous and graceful, pert bosoms peeping out from flowing golden locks, waves lapping at their silvery tails. There are pictures torn from magazines. A perfume advertisement with a woman lying on the sand holding a cut glass bottle to her chest, her bent arms covering her breasts, her eyes shut, thinking thoughts to which we aren’t privy, thoughts that make her back curl off the beach in pleasure.

  ‘She loves mermaids.’ Dawn’s voice catches in her throat. ‘Any picture of a mermaid she found she stuck up. I do it now. If I find one I put it up there.’

  I look back at the woman who supposedly gave birth to me and recoil slightly. I am starting to hope Henry was wrong, that he lied, that this place, these people, aren’t anything to do with me. I glance at Dawn, but she won’t look at me, instead she studies the large patch of damp on the wood-chip ceiling. I drop to my knees in front of the armchair.

  ‘Hello?’ I say. Dawn draws in a breath. I ignore it. ‘Hello?’

  The woman moves her head slightly, her eyes are on me, yet seem to be unfocussed, as if she’s aware of my presence, but I am invisible. I look at her hand nearest me. I take in every little mole and mark, irrationally looking for any I might also have, anything that might link us.

  ‘Answer me,’ I say loudly, shocking even myself. ‘Say something!’

  ‘Get out.’

  It was a whisper.

  I turn my head to look at Dawn. Her brow is knotted and her lips drawn so thin they’ve all but disappeared.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Get. Out.’

  ‘What do y—’

  Dawn rushes forward and grabs at my arm, yanking me upright. ‘Who do you think you are? Why are you doing this? I can’t believe I fell for it. Christ, you people make me sick.’

  ‘What do you mean you people?’ I say. The jumbling nerves in my tummy turn to panic as I see how angry she is. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Lies. Fucking lies. You’re not her. She’s dead! Morveren is dead. You’re filth, filth to pretend to be her. Get the fuck out of my flat.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You turn up here with some made-up story about a dead man and a letter, walk into my life and pretend you’re her? Why would you do that? Don’t you think we’ve been through enough? You parasite. Get. Out!’ She is screaming now, her face bright red, eyes wide and staring. ‘Get. Out. Get out. Get out!’

  ‘I’m … telling the truth. He … he … gave me this … address. H-he said—’

  ‘We buried her! There was a funeral. My sister’s dead. Get the fuck out of here, you stupid bitch. There was a funeral. We buried her. Get out!’

  I have no words. Anxiety mushrooms as I watch this person screaming words at me. She lifts her hands and hits me on my shoulder. I try to breathe, but it’s as if all the oxygen in the room is used up. She shoves me backwards into the hallway. Then she does it again, a hard shov
e to the chest that winds me as I fall against the front door and bang the back of my head. Still she comes at me, like a lion, teeth bared, her fingers fixed into claws. I scrabble blindly for the handle behind me with one hand, while shielding myself from the barrage of blows with the other. She catches me on the mouth and I taste blood. And then her banshee shrieking grows to a distant hum as time slows. My fingers search the door, my nails rasping the paintwork, until at last I find the latch. I turn it and the door opens and a flood of wind and rain engulfs me.

  As I stumble out of the house I hear Elaine screaming. The past replays like a horror film before my eyes, as the shadowy figure of a man looms over me. His hand reaches out to grab me. I’m terrified. This man is the monster. He wants to eat me and only Elaine can protect me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in her neck. I block the monster out of my sight as Elaine screams over and over again.

  Get out! Get out! Get out!

  TWENTY-THREE

  Henry Campbell – 22nd May 1990

  Henry Campbell told his wife he was going to a medical conference. He told her the conference was in Bristol and he apologised and said there was no way he could get out of going, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He explained that British Medical Association representatives would be detailing new government outlines in medical procedure and his attendance was mandatory. He wouldn’t stay the night. He would be back, but late.

  As he closed the door behind him, he heard the bolts slide across, top, then bottom, the Chubb, then the chain, and he stood for a moment as his stomach clenched yet again with the pain of this horrendous situation.

  He drove to Cornwall in a daze. Questions pummelled his brain. The same questions that had been repeating in his head for months. What have you done? What were you thinking? Are you insane?

  Nine months had gone by and with each passing hour his disbelief had thickened. He couldn’t bear to be in the same room as the little girl. Every time she opened her mouth to speak or laugh or cry he wanted to tear off his ears. He felt physically sick on those occasions he’d been forced to sit through Elaine’s happy chatter about the day the two of them had had, making bread dough, planting seedlings, collecting fallen leaves from the garden to make a collage.