‘Hi, Mum. Sorry, I just couldn’t—’
‘No, no,’ her mother interrupted. ‘See what I mean, then? I’m not over-reacting, am I?’
‘It appears not.’ Anna approached her mother and gave her a brief hug, kissing her cheek, which was icy cold, like she was dead already. After stepping inside, she closed the back door and turned to face her mother. ‘So. What did the police say?’
Muriel dropped her gaze. ‘I’m not bothering them with this,’ she said curtly.
‘But it’s weird, and maybe even threatening. Why would you call me in a panic but not inform the police?’ Anna could feel the annoyance flowing through her body. She’d only been in the house for thirty seconds and already she was losing her patience. She shouldn’t have come back here.
‘It’ll be kids, won’t it? Nothing better to do with their time. Nothing changes there, does it?’
‘You seriously think kids hammered a head to your door? Why would they?’
‘Things have moved on from the simple knocking on the door and running away game, Anna.’ Her cool, blue-grey eyes penetrated Anna’s, sending a shiver trickling down her spine like cold water from a shower.
‘Kids or not, you have to call the police.’
‘No, no.’ Her mother placed a hand on Anna’s arm. ‘I think it’s best to ignore it. They’ll get bored, move on elsewhere. It’s just a game to them.’
‘If it’s just a game, why were you so scared when you rang me?’
‘A shock, that’s all. When it first happened I reacted badly. I called before I had time to think about it. Silly prank, that’s all.’
‘But two minutes ago you said “I’m not over-reacting, am I?” And coupled with me almost giving you a heart attack and you saying “I thought someone had come for me” – I’m going out on a limb here and guessing that you’re really freaked out by this and don’t think it’s just a silly game!’
‘You know how it is – now you’re here, I suddenly feel daft. It doesn’t seem half as scary as earlier. Living alone, it does things to you, love. Makes you see things that aren’t there.’
Anna felt even less convinced by this. ‘But the head is there. Plain as day. You’re not seeing things.’
‘Yes, the doll’s head is there, I know. It’s more that I see meanings that aren’t there – like I attach significance to something trivial, assume things, that kind of thing. Overthink everything these days. It’s my age, I expect.’ Muriel gave a lopsided smile, her entire face crinkling like tissue paper. Time hadn’t been kind to her mother. ‘Let’s have a tipple. I assume you’re staying the night, aren’t you?’
God. No. She most certainly wasn’t intending to. ‘Oh, erm … I only asked James to have Carrie for the evening,’ she lied. ‘I was going to drive back home later.’
‘Please stay, Anna. You haven’t been back in so long and I need you now. One night won’t kill you.’
It might.
Guilt surged through her. If she stayed tonight, there was a strong chance she’d be talked into staying the whole weekend – God forbid, even longer now that school had broken up for the summer holiday. James would jump at the opportunity to spend extra time with Carrie. The divorce had hit him hard, but it was the restricted time with Carrie that really hurt him. Her mother didn’t have to know that, though. ‘I’ll call James, see what he can do. But I can’t promise anything, Mum.’
Muriel’s face relaxed as she took two glasses from the display cabinet and poured a large glug of sherry into each one – she knew full well she was going to get what she wanted.
She always did.
Saturday 13th July
She hadn’t slept well, the night passing slowly as images of her childhood filled the hours which sleep should have. Lizzie had spent the bulk of her life trying not to remember her upbringing. Trying to bury it along with who she used to be. She wasn’t that girl anymore, but she knew it was just beneath the surface, lying dormant. She’d worked hard to keep this other self hidden. And up until the opening of the letter yesterday, she’d succeeded.
‘You were restless last night,’ Dom said as he appeared in the bedroom doorway, his toothbrush vibrating in his mouth, white foam escaping onto his chin.
‘Sorry, did I keep you awake?’ Lizzie asked. He disappeared again, and she heard him spitting in the sink, then the tap running. He returned, his face now free from white paste.
‘It doesn’t matter. Not like I don’t keep you up with my snoring is it?’ He smiled and walked over to the bed. ‘I guess it’s payback.’ He placed his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and pushed her back onto the mattress, straddling her. He lifted her top and traced his tongue along her ribcage, around the edges of her dragonfly tattoo. She wasn’t in the mood, but it wasn’t Dom’s fault. She gave a playful squeal and wriggled beneath his body.
Lizzie hadn’t believed her luck when Dom had asked her out. Continued to disbelieve it as the years went on, but not only had he stayed with her, he’d asked her to marry him too. Despite Lizzie’s insistence she didn’t want children, he’d wanted to be with her. Told her he was going to spend his life with her – until they got old and died. Lifelong love, commitment, loyalty – they were alien concepts to Lizzie. The fact Dom promised all these things both thrilled and scared her. Why would he – should he – be any different to the others? But here they were, seventeen years later, still happy and in love.
She didn’t want anything to change that. Least of all the one person who’d messed up her life over thirty years ago.
And she couldn’t help but wonder how Dom would react if he found out about her past; the fact she’d kept things from him for all that time. Marriage is based on trust; secrecy is the enemy. She remembered those words as though he’d spoken them moments ago – they’d both repeated that mantra for the first few years, the rest of the time it was just something they’d assumed. Dom would feel betrayed if he knew.
‘Come on, you’ll be late for work.’ Lizzie pushed him away.
‘Okay.’ A flicker of concern crossed his face. ‘Anything on your mind?’ Dom tucked his shirt back into his suit trousers and straightened his tie. ‘Tough job coming up?’
‘No. Well, actually yes.’ There it was. Her get-out clause – she could say it was work-related. ‘I’ve got to cover a story – not one I’m keen on doing if I’m honest.’
‘Can’t another journo do it?’
‘In theory, yes. But I haven’t had much on lately – being freelance you kinda have to take what you can.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’re going to be late – I’ll tell you about it tonight.’
She hated herself, lying like that. She should just tell him the truth. Maybe she would later – instead of spinning him a story, she’d sit him down, open up. Finally. He would either accept that she hadn’t been able to talk about it before now, or not. It’d be better to have difficult