In Her Wake Read online

  The pub is warm and crowded, full of people standing, chatting and drinking and laughing. Near the door there is an older couple sharing a bottle of wine and some crisps. They talk, heads close, faces wrought with mild irritation as they try hard to hear each other over the noise.

  I look at the floor and wind through the people to make my way to the bar. When I get there I clear my throat and smile at the barmaid.

  ‘Hello.’ I’m too quiet and my greeting is lost in the rumble. I try again. ‘Hello?’ And again, a little louder. ‘Excuse me?’

  She looks at me and I flush, heat quickly spreading over my neck and cheeks. ‘I wonder if … um … do you have any rooms? For tonight?’

  ‘Hang on,’ she says, as she scrapes her hair back off her face and takes a ten-pound note from the man she last served. She spins around, flicks open the till and her fingers grab at the change so quickly they blur. She turns back, shoves a glass beneath the Guinness tap and lets it pour while she flips the lid of a slimline tonic and pushes it across the bar with a glass filled with ice, lemon and what I presume is gin. She holds one hand out towards a man further down the bar, stops the Guinness tap with her other, then wipes her brow in the crook of her arm and looks at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says smiling, and blows upwards against her fringe. ‘Manic today. What did you say?’

  ‘I’m looking for a room. For tonight? A single. Or a double would be fine too.’

  ‘No,’ she says, nodding for an order over my shoulder. ‘We’re totally booked. You’ll struggle to get a room anywhere in St Ives at this late notice. It’s crazy at the moment and it’s only June!’

  ‘Oh, yes. OK. Thanks then.’ I pick up my bag.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She waves an empty glass at me and smiles again. ‘A drink. Would you like one?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ I say. ‘But, yes, why not?’

  ‘Let me sort this order out and then I’ll be back with you.’

  She blows her fringe up again and bends for a glass.

  ‘Right,’ she says, when she returns. ‘What’ll it be?’

  I automatically think of David again. He always used to order our drinks. I would sit at a table while he went to the bar, keeping my head down to avoid eye contact with anyone until he returned with a pint of bitter, half a lager and a packet of honey-roasted peanuts.

  ‘Half a lager, please.’

  There’s no space to sit at the bar and I don’t fancy standing alone at the wall, so I take my drink and push back outside. The late-evening sun bounces its apricot light over the surface of the sea, which the tide has brought part-way in. A few of the boats have been lifted free of the sand and now bob noiselessly. I sit at one of the tables and sip my drink. A group of teenagers – the girls underdressed and the boys looking hopeful – roll past clutching bottles of beer and cigarettes. There’s a chill in the air so I pull a sweater from my bag and wrap it round my shoulders.

  ‘Hey,’ says a voice from behind me.

  It’s the girl from behind the bar. Her forehead is glistening with a film of sweat and she carries an empty tray. She looks out over the sea and breathes in. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she says, caught for a moment by its beauty. Then she looks back at me and smiles again. ‘You looked a bit lost in there. I texted a mate of mine. He runs a bed and breakfast, a hostel. It’s just up the road. It’s not the smartest, more a surfers’ hangout, but he’s got a bed for tonight. If you want to stay longer you can chat to him.’

  It’s all I can do to stop myself crying. I want to thank her for her kindness but I worry that if try it will come out in a jumble, so I smile at her and nod. I wonder if she might sit and talk to me. If she might listen to my story. Maybe she would understand? Be full of sympathy and gentle words. Or maybe she would stare at me with newly cooled eyes, her compassion sapped by a world where the haunting faces of stolen children fight for column inches with celebrity tittle-tattle every single day.

  ‘It’s not far, but if you’d prefer not to go, I can ring him back,’ she says, her face now showing signs of uncertainty.

  ‘No,’ I manage. ‘That’s great. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’ She sidesteps out of the way of a table of people as they get up to leave. ‘His name’s Greg.’ She puts her tray on the table and as she clears the glasses and empty crisp packets she gives me the address and directions to the hostel. ‘It’s not far. About a ten-minute walk. Maybe fifteen.’

  ‘Thank you again. I appreciate your help.’

  She shrugs. ‘It was nothing; I hope the room’s not too grotty.’ She smiles. ‘And now back to the fray!’ Then she disappears back inside the pub, a wave of noise spilling out of the door as she opens and closes it.

  Her directions are perfect and she is right, it’s not a long walk and I’m grateful for this; my bag is growing heavier with every step and the straps are digging into my shoulder. The hostel is in a largish residential house on the edge of town. It’s quite modern, built in the seventies, I guess, with white, pebbledash walls and large, plain windows that look over the sea, the glass marked with dried salt splashes. I push open the door and find myself in a scruffy lobby that appears to double as both hostel reception and a sitting room for guests. There are two old sofas and a small melamine table in one corner, which holds a selection of teabags, instant coffee and sugar sachets in a faux-wicker basket next to a grubby kettle. There is nobody behind the front desk and though there’s a small bell with a sign telling me to ring for attention, I decide against it, happy to wait until whoever is supposed to be there returns of their own accord.

  As I wait, I pick though the display of leaflets fanned out beside the bell. They advertise a multitude of distractions for rainy days: tin-mine tours, pirate-themed adventure playgrounds, a seal sanctuary, an aquarium that looks as if it’s seen better days and a handful places to plod nose to tail on shaggy, pot-bellied ponies. Ten minutes later and still nobody has appeared so I tentatively ding the bell. A girl in a tie-dyed smock with purple streaks in her black hair and a nose-ring arrives. Her nails are painted dark green and her eyes are rimmed with thick black kohl.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking for Greg,’ I say, my voiced coming out in a strangled mess.

  ‘Join the queue,’ she mutters as she slopes off.

  She yells for Greg and when she returns she says, ‘Wait here. He’ll be down in a sec.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, but she’s already disappeared into the back room.

  I sit on one of the sofas and occupy myself with the straps on my bag until I hear a door. A man walks into the room. He’s about my age, perhaps a little older, though his clothes are those of someone much younger with rips in his jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt stretched loose around his neck to show the strong line of his shoulders. He has film-star looks with wavy hair that’s been bleached by the sun and a knowing glint in his eye that, of course, immediately renders me tongue-tied.

  ‘I hear you want me,’ he says, a West Country accent colouring the edges of his nonchalant drawl.

  I stand quickly. ‘The girl … she called … from the pub…’ My voice trails to nothing.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘Which girl.’

  ‘Behind the bar,’ I say. ‘About … a room.’ My face is burning.

  ‘Oh, sure, yeah. You need somewhere to crash for the night.’

  I nod.

  ‘St Ives is like Jesus and Jerusalem at the moment. No rooms anywhere.’

  ‘Bethlehem.’

  His brow furrows. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I mumble.

  ‘Anyway, you’re in luck. I had a couple of arseholes cancel this morning. Like I haven’t got a business to run or anything.’ He stops speaking and smiles. ‘You don’t need to know all this.’ He laughs and holds out his hand, tanned and smooth with a surprisingly delicate wrist encircled by a collection of
leather bracelets and faded fabric bands. ‘I’m Greg.’

  I look blankly up at him. ‘I’m…’

  My chest begins to constrict. I feel my breath coming in short bursts and a heat spreads up the back of my neck. A name. I need a name. But not Bella. I can’t say Bella. I don’t want there to be any chance of David finding out where I am.

  I need a name…

  Be me, silly! says a familiar voice.

  Of course.

  ‘I’m Tori,’ I say quickly. ‘My name is Tori.’

  Tori squeals with glee. How exciting, she says. I get to come out and play!

  ‘Tori?’ Greg says. ‘That’s pretty. I like it.’

  I smile. And so does Tori.

  ‘Well, Tori, I was about to have a beer. You fancy one?’

  I hesitate before nodding.

  He disappears into a room behind the front desk and a few moments later reappears with two cans of lager. He hands me one, then sits on the sofa and stretches out his legs in front of him as he opens his can. It fizzes loudly and he puts it to his lips to catch the foam. My heart quickens and I feel ridiculous.

  I pull the tab on my own can and we sit in silence. The silence is uncomfortable, but when I glance up at him, he doesn’t seem in the least bit worried, just sits there looking handsome and relaxed and drinking his beer. I want to say something. But what? Should I mention books? Or music? No, not music. I know nothing about music. I could talk about my job, but in my experience mentioning I’m a librarian tends to cut a conversation dead rather than start it.

  ‘So what brings you to Cornwall?’ he says.

  I stare at him, hands gripping the can, which is cold and wet with condensation.

  ‘On holiday?’

  Oh God, speak! You look like a fool. A dumbstruck fool.

  ‘I’m a … a journalist.’

  He sits forward, his hands resting on his knees. ‘A journalist? That’s cool. What are you investigating?’

  I laugh, which I think is very brave. ‘I’m not investigating anything. I’m writing something. An article. For a magazine.’ I hesitate again. ‘On missing children.’

  ‘I’m impressed! I knew someone who went missing once. Went on holiday and never came back. She went to the same playgroup I went to—’ And then he sits back and laughs as realisation dawns on his face. ‘Oh, of course. That’s why you’re here! You’re investigating her, the Tremayne girl.’

  My heart is thumping nineteen to the dozen. ‘You know her?’

  He drinks from his can and nods.

  ‘Yup. The family live here. Her sister was at my school. Year above. The whole town went mental after she disappeared. Her dad was a fisherman, used to drink with my dad in the pub. Not sure they were friends, though. I remember my mum cried about it. The girl drowned but her body never washed up.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Mum and her mum knew each other a bit. You know, from school? Her mum got depressed, at least that’s what Mum said, but I suppose if you lose a kid on holiday you’re going to be upset.’

  I stare at him, unable to speak. He regards me oddly and I know he thinks my reaction is strange. He doesn’t understand why I’m not excited that he knows the girl, why I’m not jumping at the chance to interview him for my article. I drink from my can in an attempt to look less shell-shocked.

  ‘Would you recognise her now?’

  ‘No. I was only about five or six and she was younger. Not at school yet.’ He drinks some of his beer. ‘So what’s the magazine?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Will I know the magazine you work for?’

  ‘I’m … freelance. You know … I write for a few.’

  Greg’s face loses its frown and he nods again. ‘I’ve never met a journalist before.’

  ‘Do they … still live in the same house … do you know?’

  He shrugs. ‘No idea.’

  I try to relax. I hold the can of lager and grip it until my knuckles turn white. He asks me questions and I do my best to let Tori answer, let her pretend to be a confident, successful features writer, while my mind tumbles.

  Where do you live?

  Central London, near Bloomsbury, like Virginia Woolf.

  Who’s Virginia Woolf?

  A writer.

  Television?

  No, books, and she’s dead.

  He doesn’t read books, he says. And he doesn’t like running the hostel. His passion is surfing, which he also teaches. He says the hostel is owned by his parents, who also own a fishing tackle shop in Hayle.

  ‘They think I should be married and have children and a proper job.’ He laughs and tips the lager to his mouth.

  I tell him he’s lucky to be able to do what he loves every day. He tells me Tori is lucky too. That she has a life that would make lots of people jealous. I agree. Tori has an amazing life. A smart flat in a trendy part of London, a great job, so many friends she can’t keep count. All in all, she’s a pretty fabulous woman, the kind of woman who would intimidate me if I happened to meet her.

  As we sit and talk I notice Greg hangs on every word Tori says. He looks at her in a way that men never look at me, watching her every move, his dark-brown eyes drinking her in and, in spite of everything, I smile.

  NINETEEN

  I am awake too early. The fluorescent arms of the alarm clock show a little before five. David, of course, would think it virtuous that my mind is alert and ready to tackle the day, but I want to go back to sleep. What little I had last night was fitful, with a racing mind and a stomach that tumbled with nervous energy. Today is going to be hard, and being tired will only make it worse. But as the sun creeps into the sky and a soft-blue hue casts its light across the small, plain bedroom with its narrow bed and battered wooden chair in the corner, I allow insomnia its victory and ease myself out of bed.

  It’s quiet and everything is still. I dress quickly in yesterday’s clothes, grab a clean pair of socks from my bag and put my trainers on, then leave the room, careful not to make a sound as I close the door. There is movement from the room next to mine, then the gentle murmuring of someone talking in their sleep. I stand still and hold my breath until the muttering ceases, then I hurry along the corridor, praying I don’t meet anybody.

  I boil the kettle and make a coffee, digging at the granules, which have hardened into a crusty mass. I hesitate briefly before stirring in two spoonsful of sugar. I don’t usually take sugar, but I tell myself it will help keep up my energy levels. And anyway, maybe Tori takes sugar, part of that devil-may-care attitude she so embraces. Tori enjoys life. Screw the empty calories. Screw the consequences. She’s all about the pleasure. I smile as I sip my coffee and head towards the door.

  Outside the air is fresh and dewy. The sun has broken free of the hills behind St Ives and a crimson shepherd’s warning is reflected across the sea like firelight. The bed and breakfast is at the end of a no-through road and backs onto farmland, areas of grazing separated by dry-stone walling. The fields are punctuated by the occasional slate-grey rock, belligerent and unapologetic, begrudgingly allowing men to farm the land but refusing to make it easy. I walk to the end of the road, lean against the wall and stare out at the sea. It stretches out for miles and miles and miles, and a fine layer of morning mist hovers lightly over its surface. It makes sense, this place. If this is where I am from, it makes sense.

  If…

  The doubts I have about Henry and his letter still pull at me like a riptide. Yesterday I was so sure, but fresh uncertainty inches in again. I push away from the wall and finish my coffee. My nose wrinkles, the tepid dregs too sweet, even for Tori.

  I leave the mug on the table in the reception and return to my room to wash my face and clean my teeth. Then I sit on the end of the bed, hands clasped on my lap, and think about David. I miss him. He has been with me, every day, for so long. He made leaving Elaine and The Old Vicarage possible. Without him I would have scurried back to her, I am sure. The room seems to magnify my solitude, so, l
ike a cat that can’t get comfortable, I stand and go outside again. I decide to head down to the beach for a walk, hoping this will ease the churning in my stomach, which I suspect might never stop.

  I follow the road down from the hostel and soon arrive at a car park that has a ramp and stone steps giving access to a magnificent beach. It’s wide and sandy, and its expanse is dotted with rocks clad in dark seaweed and mussels that huddle together in spiky black colonies. The tide has dragged the water back across the beach and left a maze of hard ridges with tiny pools of water caught within. The sea is flat further out but nearing the shore it breaks from nowhere into rolling, white-crested waves. A solitary surfer is out in the water and I watch him for a while as I breathe in the tang of salty air.

  I pause beside a large rock cloaked by a colony of spiky black mussels and seaweed. I balance flamingo-like to pull off each trainer and sock in turn. The sand is cool between my toes and I scrunch them into it as I bend to roll up the legs of my jeans.

  And then I have a flash of déjà vu, a vivid picture in my mind that crackles into being. There’s a woman. She sits next to this very same rock. She has thick auburn hair, which catches in the breeze. She wears a light summer dress with green-and-white stripes, and has bare legs that stretch out in front of her, crossed at the ankle, with strappy sandals on her feet.

  She kisses the arm of a little girl. Her arm is red and swollen. And it stings.

  It’s my arm.

  She’s kissing my arm.

  Then the image vanishes like a sigh.

  I drop to my knees. Press the flats of palms against the rock. I’ve been here before. The woman in the green-and-white dress is real.

  My heart quickens as I stand and look around me, greedy for anything more. I begin to walk down towards the sea, searching for anything that will nudge my mind into remembering.

  I near the water and a wave breaks and races up the sand in a foamy rush. It runs over my toes and I breathe in sharply as the icy water hits my skin, wrapping my arms around me to block the cold that spreads upwards through my body. I look out over the sea, lifting my face into the onshore wind. I watch the surfer who now sits astride his board beyond the break of the waves. He is looking straight at me. My heart skips a beat as I recognise Greg. He lifts his hand in greeting, but I don’t return it, tightening my arms around myself instead. He gestures at me then leans forward on his board, paddling towards the beach, arms windmilling through the water. A wave breaks and carries him in. I look down at my feet and burrow my toes into the sand. When I glance up I see he’s approaching, his surfboard tucked under one arm, his face cut in two by a wide-open smile.