Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (7 page)

‘Maybe a professional view would help,’ she
suggests, and I cut her off.

‘I’m
going back into therapy.’

Her smile is relieved. ‘That’s a great idea, Eleanor,
that’s exactly what you need. To talk things through with a person who can
really help you.’ She checks her mirror, then signals, turning down the narrow track
that leads to Eastlyn. ‘Is it someone you know?’

‘Same therapist as before.’

‘Excellent, I’m so glad.’ Jenny hesitates, and
the smile falters a little. ‘I go running in the woods sometimes too. At
weekends and during the school holidays.’

She’s
taking the back lanes to the village because the A30 is often nose-to-tail
traffic this close to the weekend. Hedges flash past, damp and green. A brown
tourist sign to the woods, our local attraction. Summer is not far away. Soon
even these quiet lanes will be busy.

Jenny
grips the wheel, staring ahead. The track runs along the edge of the moor, thin
and winding, the hedgerows tall and overgrown. Anything could be coming in the
opposite direction, and at any speed.

‘I
know your history with the place,’ she says at last, ‘and I didn’t want to
upset you. The woods can be a wild place, especially off the main track. I know
what it implies in the newspaper report. That you … ’

‘Made
it all up to get attention?’

Jenny
nods, her expression thoughtful. ‘I don’t believe that though. I saw your face
when you came to my house that morning, Eleanor. Whatever you thought you saw
down there, it was real to you.’

To my surprise, Hannah
is awake when I stroll into the kitchen. Still in her dressing gown, bleary-eyed
and no make-up on yet, but awake. I suppose if she did not get up
mid-afternoon, she would never have time to do anything but work and sleep. Night
shifts are punishing, and I’m glad
that I
will probably never have to work one.

‘How
was work?’ Hannah is lounging on her favourite chair in the corner, slippered feet
up on the pine kitchen table.

‘Don’t
ask.’

She
raises her eyebrows. ‘That bad?’

‘I’m
lucky I still have a job.’

I
sit down with a cup of tea and scan the report in the local newspaper, and my
last hope of anonymity disappears. Someone talked, all right. For hours, it
looks like. And the report is not just about what I saw in the woods last week.
They’ve been digging. There’s an old colour photo of me as a child, probably
from their archives, and an inset photo of my mother’s face in grainy black and
white, with the sensational caption, ‘Angela Blackwood: murdered. Her killer is
still at large.’

Hannah
is watching me. ‘I forgot to tell you, a reporter and photographer showed up yesterday
while you were still asleep. It was early; I think I’d just got in from work. I
told them you’d gone to the school and they took off again. But they took some
photos of the cottage. I think they may have stopped at your dad’s too.’

‘He
won’t have talked to them either. Dad hates reporters.’

I study the headline again. VICTIM’S DAUGHTER
REPORTS MYSTERY BODY IN WOODS.

Victim’s
daughter.
Nice touch.

I glance through the first few paragraphs,
which focus on a garbled account of my statement to police. Some details are
wrong, some have been embellished by a malicious fantasist masquerading as a
journalist. But the rest of the story is ancient history. My ancient history,
that is. They’ve pulled out everything in their archives. My mother’s murder,
the ‘trauma’ I suffered, my years in therapy, even a brief mention of an
incident which took place when I was ten and had somehow forgotten about. The police
had been called that time too. And I got a new therapist a few months later, a
specialist in childhood trauma.

Dr Quick.

I hand the newspaper to Hannah. ‘Bastards are
making me out to be a complete nut job.’

‘You shouldn’t worry about it.’ Hannah crumples
up the newspaper without reading it, then throws it to the floor with a
dramatic gesture. I’m surprised she doesn’t jump up and trample on it too. ‘They
want to sell copies. But it’s done now, and you can move on. These stories
never last. By next week, no one will care.’

‘Meanwhile, I sound deranged.’

She shakes her head. ‘No one believes any of
that crap.’

‘The kids at school believe it. They think I’m
certifiable. Most of the staff too.’ I pause, reconsidering that. ‘Except Jenny.’

‘Is
that going to be a problem? I thought the head teacher was on your side.’

‘I’m
not sacked, if that’s what you mean. But she wants me to take some more time
off. And Jenny agrees with her.’

‘Working
nights is the worst decision I ever made. I never seem to get enough sleep, and
my eyeballs feel like I’ve been rubbing them with wire wool. I could do with a
few days off myself.’

‘So
take a holiday. You must be owed some leave. Spend it with me.’ I sip my tea,
which is strong and dark, only a dash of milk. Exactly the way I like it. ‘We
can go to the beach if the weather’s good, maybe hit some clubs afterwards.
Pretend we’re students again.’

There’s a quiet knock at the front door while
Hannah’s still laughing at that suggestion.

‘Oh
Christ, who the hell is that?’ She gets up and peers suspiciously down the
hallway. ‘It had better not be another reporter. I’m not even dressed yet.’

‘Ignore
it.’

There’s
a sudden silence. ‘Oh my God,’ she says blankly.

‘What?
Who is it?’

Hannah
looks round at me from the doorway, clearly bemused. ‘It’s Mortimer Clemo,’ she
whispers.

‘The
vicar
?’

To
my horror, I realise that I must have left the front door open. An open
invitation to someone like him. I hear footsteps in the hall, then the Reverend
Clemo’s deep voice. ‘I’m so sorry, am I intruding? Hannah, isn’t it? Should I
come back at a better time? I just wanted a little chat with Eleanor.’

Wearily,
I nod at Hannah, who is still guarding the kitchen door. ‘It’s okay, let him in.’

She
shrugs, then steps aside for the vicar. Never very good at hiding her disdain
for religious people, she tells us, ‘Look, I have to change for work, so if
you’ll excuse me …’

‘Of
course.’ Clemo watches her go, then turns and smiles at me. He’s using his
church voice, deep and authoritative. ‘Eleanor, Eleanor.’ He opens his large
hands wide, like he’s forgiving me for something. ‘What can I say? I heard your
bad news on the village grapevine, I hope you don’t mind. How are you?’

That
seems to be the default question these days.

‘I’m
good.’

‘You
look a little pale though.’ He pulls out a kitchen chair from under the table.
‘Forgive me, do you mind if I sit? It’s quite a walk from the village.’

I
smell cigarette smoke on him, and wrinkle my nose. Denzil smokes occasionally
too, but with him, it’s almost sexy.

I
try to be polite. ‘Of course, please.’

‘Thank
you.’ He seats himself on the creaking chair, a tall man, folding his legs
underneath him. His white dog-collar is pinching him about the throat; too many
cream teas at the vicarage, I think, then tell myself off for being
uncharitable. He is still smiling, but more solemnly now. ‘I had to come and
see how you are, Eleanor. I feel guilty, you see.’

I
look at him, my eyebrows raised.

‘Because
I was there that morning. Right by the woods. Perhaps I could have … ’ He
pauses in his explanation, looking at me helplessly. ‘If I had known what was
happening when we met in the village, if you had only confided in me, I could
have gone down into the woods with you straightaway. To where you saw that
unfortunate woman.’

I
study him.

‘You
believe my story, then?’

‘Well
… ’ Reverend Clemo makes a wordless rumbling noise in his throat, appearing to
answer without really answering. It’s probably a method he has developed over
the years to allow him to avoid awkward questions. I imagine vicars get a lot
of those. ‘It’s not a question of belief, as such. My interest is strictly in
your welfare.’

‘My
spiritual welfare?’

‘If
you want to put it like that, then yes.’

There’s
a sudden creaking above our heads.

Clemo
looks up at once, frowning sharply as though he thinks we have an intruder. Then
his brow lightens with inspiration. ‘Ah, Hannah. Getting ready for work.’ He
looks back at me, his smile a little too broad. ‘Your friend takes good care of
you, I can see that.’

‘We
try to be there for each other.’

‘I
understand.’ He nods sympathetically, rocking back in his chair. ‘You two are
very
close.’

It
sounds like a statement, not a question. I puzzle over it for a moment, then
say, ‘We’re not gay.’

Reverend
Clemo pretends to look confused, a slight flush in his cheeks. ‘I never
suggested – ’

‘I’m
not gay, at any rate. I don’t know about Hannah. I’ve never asked her. But I
doubt it.’

This
is not quite true. I know for a fact that Hannah is a serial one-night-stander
with men of a certain age, but I am not about to share that with the vicar.
He’s a man of a certain age himself, one of my dad’s generation, and I don’t
think I could handle a complication like that. Not that it is even remotely
likely.

A
question suddenly occurs to me. ‘Do you remember when my mother died,
Reverend?’

The
vicar looks taken aback by my directness, but answers without any obvious hesitation.
‘Indeed I do, yes. It was a terrible business. Truly appalling. I hadn’t been ordained
then, of course. Hadn’t got “The Call,” as we say. But I remember seeing news of
her murder on the television, and praying for you and your father.’

‘You
were living in the village then?’

‘Oh
no, I was … nearby. But not in the village itself. Though I had friends and family
here. Such a shock for our little community.’

‘Were
you still in touch with her?’

‘As
a friend, yes. In fact, I danced at your parents’ wedding.’ Mortimer Clemo
smiles at me sadly, his tone suddenly gentle, and I can see that he is deeply
pleased to be of service to me now, having missed his opportunity eighteen
years ago. ‘I can only imagine the impact her brutal death must have had on
your own life. That it is still having, I suspect.’

‘Meaning
what?’

Thoughtfully,
the vicar steeples his long fingers together and leans his chin on them,
looking at me.

‘You
should feel free to unburden yourself to me. To unburden your heart, if it will
help. And you don’t need to fear more exposure. Trust me, Eleanor, nothing you
say will leave this room. The sanctity of the confessional, you know.’ His
voice drops. ‘You are clearly going through something very difficult at the
moment. Something that has destroyed your peace of mind. But it’s nothing to be
ashamed of.’

Nothing to be ashamed of.

The
vicar might as well call me a liar and a hysterical woman, and have done with
it. In an earlier century, I would probably have been hanged as a witch for
what I saw in the woods, by men just like him.

Abruptly,
I rise from my chair. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by, Reverend. It was very kind
of you. But what I need right now is to be alone.’

He
hesitates, staring. ‘Oh, I see.’

I
open the kitchen door and stand waiting.

With
obvious reluctance, the Reverend Clemo gets to his feet, tucks the pine chair
back under the table, and agrees to be shepherded from the cottage. His head
brushes the low beams on the way out. ‘If you ever feel the need to talk –
’

‘I
know where you are,’ I finish for him politely. ‘Thank you, vicar. Goodbye.’

A few minutes
later, I happen to glance out of my bedroom window as I’m changing out of my
tracksuit, and I see Clemo again. He’s standing in the shadow of the trees a
little further down the lane. I can only see his shoes and trousers from that
angle, but it’s definitely him.

I
freeze, wondering what on earth the vicar is still doing there, hiding in the
bushes. Is Clemo watching the cottage?

There
was such a strange look in his face when I showed him the door
, as though my asking him to leave had made him
angry. It unsettled me.

Then
I spot thin tendrils of smoke snaking up through leafy branches towards the
sky.

Get a grip.

I
reach for my jeans and wriggle into them, ludicrously relieved and a bit
embarrassed by my own paranoia.

The
man is having a crafty smoke, that’s all. Enjoying a secret cigarette on his
way home because his wife won’t let him smoke in the vicarage.

‘When I finish counting back from ten, you will wake up feeling
refreshed. There will be no more nightmares, no more daydreams, no more … unfortunate
episodes.’

The voice is familiar. A soft feminine tone, soothing and
trustworthy, yet somehow sinister at the same time.

‘Ten, nine, eight, seven … ’

I drift, hanging onto a last dim memory. My mother’s face, smiling
as I show her the bird’s feather I’ve found. A strong black feather, slightly
dusty from the ground. She takes it and holds it up to the light, then laughs,
stroking it across my cheek.

‘Six, five, four … ’

I look up into dappled sunlight and see her face change, the smile
fading to a look of surprise. What has Mum seen behind me?

Hearing footsteps at my back, I begin to turn my head, curious,
taking a little alarm at her expression.

‘Three, two, one.’

Something clicks in my head. My mother disappears.

I struggle to get her back, to rebuild that half-forgotten face in
my memory, suffering an almost intolerable sense of loss. Yet after only a few
more seconds I can’t even recall what I’ve lost.

My mind begins to empty and
I find myself floating in the silence.

Light
burns against my closed lids.

I am aware of a
strong feeling of relief, as though I have been standing too long on a
precipice and someone has drawn me back from the edge at last. The past begins
to fade away, and reluctantly I let it go, allow myself to return to the
present. Slowly I grope for my surroundings, hearing muffled voices in another
room, a telephone ringing in the distance, traffic in the street below, the
sounds of a busy town.

‘Wake up, Eleanor.’ The voice is insistent.

I open my eyes.

I’m lying on my back on a long, low couch. There’s
a large rectangular window facing me across the immaculately tidy office, the
cream blinds only pulled down partway. Afternoon sun is pouring in below the
slats, filling the office with golden light. I’m dazzled at first, squinting up
at the woman bending over me. There’s a momentary confusion, then I remember.

Not
my mother. No longer the dream but reality. All the same, her face is familiar.
Familiar and unsettling at the same time.

I study her face, my eyes adjusting to the light.
Honey-brown hair, neatly cut in an easily manageable bob about an oval face, a
trace of face powder and pink lipstick, tiny creases about her mouth and eyes.

Dr Quick.

‘Welcome back.’ She studies me closely, eyes
narrowed on my face. ‘How are you feeling, Eleanor? Any headache? Dizziness?
Nausea?’ When I shake my head to each of these questions, she straightens.
‘Good, that’s very good.’

I sit up groggily. ‘What happened?’

My throat is dry, a bad taste on my tongue. I turn
blindly, reaching for the glass of water she always used to place at my elbow
during these hypnosis sessions. It’s not there.

‘Oh,
sorry. Water?’ The doctor leans forward and hands it to me. ‘Give yourself a
minute. Try not to hurry.’

I
remember Dr Quick from my childhood as an uber-friendly doctor, habitually clad
in a colourful wool cardigan, soft-voiced, always cracking little jokes to put
me at my ease. Today she is sombre in dove-grey and black, the small
red-jewelled brooch pinned to her blouse her only concession to colour.

‘I’m fine.’ I take a few sips, then replace the
water glass carefully. I’m aware of a slight tremor in my hand. ‘Did the
hypnosis work? What did I say?’

‘You don’t remember?’

I shake my head, though I do remember vaguely. Snippets
of dream-memory, flashing images, half-truths. Nothing I can quantify, and
certainly nothing I can take to the police.

Her mouth tightens. She retreats to her desk,
sitting in her black leather swivel chair, and looks down at her notes. ‘That’s
a pity. I was hoping to be able to discover the root cause of your nightmares
by probing your memories outside hypnosis. For instance, when we talked
earlier, you mentioned a “shadow man” you see at night sometimes, standing at
the foot of your bed.’

‘Yes.’

‘I
asked you to identify it during the session, to give the “shadow man” a name of
some kind. You didn’t seem very cooperative. I’m still not sure what that
signifies. But I would suggest it’s some kind of hangover from the day of your
mother’s murder.’

I can’t hold her gaze. Maybe the sun behind her
head is too bright. I look down, study my hands in silence. That was the one
thing I had hoped to achieve with this hypnosis therapy. Saying goodbye to the
shadow man who still haunts me. Though Dr Quick also refers to it as ‘childhood
trauma manifesting as ritual superstition’ which means little to me.

But
then she’s not the one who wakes up in the middle of the night to find a
faceless shadow looming over her bed.

‘So there’s nothing new,’ I state flatly.

‘I’m afraid not. There was nothing you didn’t already
say in your original sessions, according to my notes. Except perhaps …’ Dr
Quick hesitates a beat. ‘Well, there was a single detail that seemed out of
place.’

I
look up, interested. ‘Tell me.’

‘First, you need to understand that what a
person says under hypnosis is unlikely ever to be admissible in a court of law.
But that does not mean it isn’t factual, that it doesn’t represent the truth as
your subconscious sees it.’

‘You mean I could have imagined it, even if it
seems true to me? But it’s still true as far as I’m concerned?’

‘Precisely.’

I
push myself up into a sitting position. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Basically,
your subconscious may no longer make any distinction between what you remember
and what you
think
you remember.’ She
smiles, the merest twitch of thin lips. ‘So, do you still want to hear what you
said?’

I swing my legs round and sit up properly on
the couch. My mobile, switched to vibrate, is a hard bulge in the back pocket
of my jeans. I was asked to turn it off completely before we started, but of
course didn’t. Though it would be pretty strange to experience a sudden
vibrating sensation in my bottom during one of these sessions.

‘Of course.’

‘Then
I’ll read it through from the beginning. You can draw your own conclusions.’

She reads her notes on the session in her usual
flat voice, almost robotic. There’s nothing new, just as she said.

But towards the end, Dr Quick pauses and
glances up at me. ‘Then you said, “I recognised the white trainers, as he ran
up the slope.” That’s something new.’

‘I’ve always said he wore white trainers.’

‘Not precisely those words though.’ The doctor
shuffles through the document file on her desk, then stops, picking up and studying
an older transcript. ‘Yes, here it is. You’ve always mentioned seeing his white
trainers, certainly. But you never before said that you “recognised” them. Not
once.’

‘So I used a different word this time.’ I
shrug. ‘How is that revealing?’

‘Bear in mind that I’m a hypnosis therapist,
not a detective,’ Dr Quick tells me, leaning back in her chair. ‘And perhaps it
means nothing at all. But the word “recognised” would suggest that you had seen
those particular white trainers before. That you
knew
the man wearing them, in fact.’

I need to see
Denzil Tremain.

Denzil
is uncomplicated, and not entirely into the idea of a relationship, which makes
him perfect right now. If I confide in one of my close friends – Hannah
maybe, or Tris, or Connor – I’m going to end up getting an emotional
response, plus the kind of heartfelt advice that sounds great late at night but
isn’t worth very much when you find yourself alone again.

He
understands because he’s been there. He’s got his own version of the shadow man.
Only in his case, it’s a real person. His father, who has been in and out of
prison most of Denzil’s life. So I’m unlikely to get much advice or sympathy from
him.

But
I’ll get an intelligent ear, and sometimes talking out a problem can make you
see a clear solution where you were blind to it before.

Denzil
has a weekend job at the Woods Valley Garden Centre. It doesn’t pay much. But
with his history, he’s lucky to have any kind of gainful employment at all. He has
tattoos and piercings, like thousands of other people in Cornwall, but where
most flaunt a rose or a skull on one arm, Denzil has both arms covered in
designs, and much of his back. His ears have multiple piercings, and last year
his nose and lip were both pierced too, with a delicate chain running from one
to the other. And his father’s in prison for aggravated assault at the moment.
Nobody seems to know when he’ll get out.

None of that stops me from liking him. I first
made friends with him shortly after my mother was killed. We were at the same
school, and his dad had just been sent to prison for burglary. People pointed
us both out in the playground and hassled us outside school. Even at primary
school, we had a common understanding that life was shit, and if you wanted to
survive it, you had to toughen up.

Saturday morning, I head for the garden centre
to see Denzil, and find him lugging immense sacks of manure from a trolley onto
the display pallets.

Denzil
straightens in surprise, wiping a dirt-covered hand across his face and leaving
a black streak on his cheek. He’s got huge tawny hair like a lion, naturally curly.
‘Ellie? What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve
been calling and texting you for days, but no reply.’

He
looks guilty, not meeting my gaze. ‘I did mean to call you but my phone’s been turned
off. I … lost the charger cable. Sorry, you know how it is.’

I
don’t believe him but say nothing. I understand how it feels not to want to
communicate.

Jago leans out of the office. The boss’s son,
thick-set like his father, and trying to grow a beard by the stubbly look of
his chin. Another one who went to school with me. The place is crawling with
them, which isn’t surprising when you consider that our school is the only one
for miles.

‘Hey,
Ellie,’ Jago says in his whining voice. ‘Saw that story in the newspaper about
you. Shocking stuff. You must have been furious.’

His knowing smile makes my skin crawl. I look
him in the eye and say, ‘
Story
being
the operative word.’

‘Come
again?’

‘She
means it was a load of shit,’ Denzil says drily, and heaves another bag of
manure onto the pallet. ‘Like this lot.’

Jago
stares. ‘You watch your language. Or you’ll be out of a job. Talking of which,
you’d better hurry up with that. You’ve got another two trolleys to unload.’

Denzil
tosses the last sack of manure onto the pallet, then straightens again, wiping
his hands unhurriedly on his black apron. Like me, he has always had a problem
with authority.

‘I
haven’t taken my break yet.’

‘So?’

‘I
want to take it now.’

Jago
looks from him to me, his small eyes unpleasant. ‘Like that, is it?’ But when
Denzil stands looking at him, his face impassive, Jago shrugs. ‘Take your break,
then. But not a minute longer than fifteen.’

Denzil
unties his apron and drapes it over the empty trolley. ‘Come on,’ he says to
me. ‘I know somewhere we can talk in private.’

Jago
watches us go. ‘No smoking anywhere on the site, remember,’ he says, and jabs
his finger towards the sign by the office door that reads in plastic gold
lettering, PLEASE, NO SMOKING.

‘Jago hasn’t
changed much since school,’ I remark to Denzil as soon as we’re out of earshot.
‘Sorry if I’ve caused trouble by coming here. It sounds like he’s looking for
an excuse to sack you.’

‘Don’t
worry about him. Jago’s only the monkey. His dad’s still in charge, and Dick
knows I’m a good worker.’ Denzil winks at me. ‘When I bother to show up, that
is.’

I
smile. ‘Idiot.’