The Girl Who Never Came Back (16 page)

She ignored the calls. After all, she figured, these people weren't her family, not really. She had to get away from that house, and back to London. Back to the only people who really mattered anymore. As she reached the fence at the bottom of the garden, she paused to look at the gate. Twice in her life, she'd seen the silhouette of a little girl standing by the gatepost, as if unable to get all the way to the house. Swinging the gate out of her way, Charlotte grabbed a rock and used it to prop the way open.

Feeling another shiver pass through her body, she glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to find someone standing nearby. There was no-one there, of course, but the sensation had felt very real.

"There you go," she whispered, hoping that something nearby might hear her. "There's nothing stopping you. You can go back now, if that's what you really want, but..." She paused. "If you want my advice, you'll stay by the river. Just because you
can
finally go back, doesn't mean you should, but..." She paused again. "I guess it's up to you," she added, before turning and making her way across the lawn. In the distance, her sister was still calling for her to come back. She sounded completely insane, which was, perhaps, the whole point. Ruth had always been highly strung, and she'd finally allowed her anger and bitterness to spill over.

Spotting Tony and Sophie embracing up ahead, Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and saw that the rock had come loose, allowing the wooden gate to swing shut.

Twenty years ago

"What are you doing?"

Startled, Charlotte looked away from the window and saw that her sister Ruth was standing in the doorway, watching. It was late, and they were both supposed to have gone to bed, but Charlotte had instead been standing by the window, staring out at the dark lawn.

"Nothing," she said quietly.

"Are you looking at something?" Ruth asked, making her way across the room until she was standing right next to Charlotte. They both looked out the window for a moment. "What were you looking at?"

"Nothing," Charlotte said again.

"I don't believe you," Ruth replied calmly.

"I thought..." Charlotte paused. "I thought I saw something, that's all. Down at the bottom of the garden."

"Like what?"

"Like... another girl."

Ruth turned and stared at her for a moment. "What kind of girl?"

Charlotte shrugged. She felt as if she couldn't trust Ruth, even though they were supposed to be sisters. There was just something in Ruth's gaze that seemed suspicious and alert, and Charlotte felt that the lack of trust was mutual.

"There can't be another girl in the garden," Ruth said cautiously. "We're the only ones."

"I know," Charlotte replied.

Ruth turned to look back out the window. "So tell me what you saw?"

"It was nothing."

"Tell me."

"I thought I saw..." Charlotte paused again. "I thought I saw a girl, standing down by the gate. I couldn't see her face, but I thought I saw a silhouette. I was watching for a few minutes, and it was like she was trying to come closer, but something was holding her back."

"So she was moving?" Ruth asked.

Charlotte nodded.

"Maybe you
did
see someone," Ruth said after a moment.

"Should we tell Mummy?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Ruth paused. "How big was she?"

"The girl? About the same size as us."

"So it was a little girl?"

Charlotte nodded.

"A little girl standing at the bottom of the garden," Ruth said, seemingly lost in thought, "trying to come back but not able to get past the gate." She paused. "I'm two years older than you, you know," she added eventually. "Two years is a long time, especially when you're young. It's, like, twenty per cent. That makes me smarter, and it means that I understand things better, things that you don't understand at all."

"Like what?"

"Like..." Ruth paused. "Like who that girl was at the bottom of the garden."

"But you said -"

"I know," Ruth said firmly, "but I still know who she was. Well, I think I do."

Charlotte paused. She knew she should ask, but she was scared of the answer. "Who was it?" she asked eventually.

"I'm not telling you," Ruth replied. "Not yet."

"Was it a ghost?"

A flicker of a smile crossed Ruth's lips. "Whose ghost could it be?"

Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.

"Maybe it's my sister's ghost," Ruth said after a moment. "That would make sense, wouldn't it? Maybe she's trying to come back, but something or someone is making it so she can't get through the gate."

"What sister?"

"Charlotte."

"But I'm right here," Charlotte replied tentatively. "I came back."

"Huh," Ruth said, staring intently at her sister. "I suppose so. Then it can't be Charlotte's ghost, can it? Not if you're right here." After a moment, she reached out and touched Charlotte's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as if she was checking that she was solid. "Mummy's weird sometimes," she added. "She says and does weird things. She's been weird since you disappeared, and I think she'll keep being weird. But then, I suppose you're used to that. You know what she's like." She paused. "Don't you?"

Charlotte nodded.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, two young girls poised at either end of a mystery that neither of them could unravel. Although their shoulders were only a few inches apart as they stood side by side, there seemed to be a gulf between them.

"Maybe it was your ghost friend," Ruth said eventually.

"What ghost friend?" Charlotte asked.

"You don't remember Ettolrahc?"

Charlotte stared at her.

"Some days," Ruth added, "Ettolrahc was all you could talk about. She was your best friend, like a kind of double of yourself. She lived in your body, and it was like..." She paused. "I guess it was like she was your real sister, in a way. Sometimes it was as if you preferred hanging out with her instead of me, even though she wasn't real."

"I don't remember any of that," Charlotte replied blankly.

"Or maybe it was the witch," Ruth added.

Charlotte frowned.

"Don't you remember the witch?"

"Witches aren't real," Charlotte replied. "Neither are ghosts."

Ruth stared at her for a moment. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Stuff like that is just dumb," Charlotte said.

"I'm sure it'll all come back to you," Ruth continued after a moment, with a faint smile. "I mean, why wouldn't it? But if it doesn't, I guess I can fill you in." She paused. "We should go to bed. Mummy'll get angry if she finds us awake." Heading back over to the door, she glanced back at Charlotte. "Good night. I'm glad you came back. I missed you."

"I missed you too," Charlotte replied, mostly to be polite. She liked Ruth so far, but she felt no affinity with her, no kinship or connection.

Once Ruth had gone back to her own bedroom, Charlotte stayed at the window for a while. She was convinced that the silhouette of the other girl would reappear amongst the shadows at the bottom of the garden, but after a few minutes she realized that perhaps she'd been mistaken all along. There couldn't be a ghost down there, because ghosts only came when someone had died. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte turned and walked over to her bed. Settling under the duvet, she stared at the dark wall and waited to feel tired. She figured it was natural to be a little out of place, after spending a year away. Then again, she felt as if she was in a completely unfamiliar place, and that despite the warm welcome she'd been given, she was completely alone.

Today

"Charlotte?" John shouted. "Is that you?"

Standing in the doorway, Charlotte wasn't quite sure what to say. She quietly placed her backpack on the chair before pushing the door shut, taking off her coat, and then pausing to look at herself in the mirror. The drive back to London had been a blur, and she felt as if she was in a daze.

"Charlotte?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but she didn't know where to even begin explaining things. Still, that name Charlotte kind of seemed appropriate, and she figured she might as well hang onto it. Although she hadn't gone to the police and told them about the whole mess, she
had
done some research into missing children from the Farnborough area twenty years ago, and with a reasonable degree of confidence she'd narrowed her identity down to one of three girls, named Edith, Kylie and Donna. Frankly, she didn't fancy any of those names, and she didn't see the point in making an effort to contact her 'real' family. The past had proven to be a mess so many times, she figured she should just focus on the future.

"I thought I heard you," John said, coming through from the kitchen and kissing her on the cheek. "You're just in time for the best home-made spaghetti bolognese you've ever tasted in your life."

Charlotte smiled weakly, still not knowing what to say.

"You alright?" John asked, placing a hand on her belly. "Did you tell your sister?"

She shook her head.

"You didn't?"

"It's none of her business," Charlotte replied. "She's not..." She took a deep breath. "Damn it, I could use a glass of wine right now."

"One wouldn't hurt," John said with a smile. "I'll get -"

"No," Charlotte said, grabbing his arm before he could hurry back to pour her a glass. "I want to do this properly," she continued. "I never even thought I
could
get pregnant, and now that I am, I damn well wanna do it right. No more smoking, no more drinking. I'll go on a fucking detox diet and all that crap, and..." She paused. "You know, I've been thinking, and I think you should be aware that I
might
turn out to be an over-protective mother after all. Not, like, overbearingly so, but still... just a tad."

"Doesn't sound too bad," John replied. "If it means anything to you, I'm convinced you're going to be a brilliant mother."

"Not brilliant," she said with quiet satisfaction. "But good, at least. I've... had some bad examples to study at close quarters, and I've seen what happens when things go wrong."

"Huh," John said with a smile. "Why so cryptic?"

Instead of replying, she puts her arms around him and held him tight. Not
too
tight; after all, she knew she had to be careful not to put too much pressure on her belly. She still had six months to go until her due date, and she was determined to be the best possible mother.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

"And I promise," she said after a moment, still hugging John, "that I will
never
lock our child in a shed for a year."

"That's, uh, good to hear," John said, sounding a little confused. "So, dinner's pretty much ready. You hungry?"

"Sure," she said, stepping back from the hug. "I'll be through in a moment, okay?"

Once John had gone back into the kitchen, Charlotte made her way over to the mirror that hung at the other end of the hallway. She stared at herself in the harsh electric light and realized, with relief, that she still knew the person who was staring back at her. Sure, her name wasn't
really
Charlotte Abernathy, but that didn't change who she was. It was tempting to go digging through the past and try to find her real family, but she figured the best option was probably to just focus on the future, at least for now. Placing a hand on her belly, she realized that, for the first time, she could actually feel the faintest bump.

She was sick of worrying about people who might or might not come back from places to which they might or might not have gone. It was time, she figured, to focus on new arrivals.

Bonus

Extract from

The Dead and the Dying:

A Joanna Mason Novel

"Are you sure about this?" Dawson asks as we wait in the governor's office. It's way past eleven, and Sam Gazade is due to be executed at midnight. Although he's been mostly quiet since we arrived, Dawson has been constantly watching me, as if he expects me to suddenly break down in tears.

"Why wouldn't I be sure?" I ask, grabbing a magazine from the coffee table and flicking through page after page of advice about interior design. Everything in the magazine looks so dull and pastel-colored, but I guess there must be people out there who like this kind of thing. Whenever I look at images from normal people's home - which isn't often, I have to admit - I feel as if I'm looking at pictures of a different species.

"I can go in if you like," he continues, his voice filled with concern. "If it's too much for you to see him, I can be the one who actually goes in and -"

"Why would it be too much?" I ask, carefully keeping my gaze focused on the magazine.

"I mean -"

"It's been a while," I point out, turning to him. "I can handle it."

"Sure," he says, before pausing for a moment. "If you change your mind, though, you don't have to come in with me."

"Who said
you're
coming in with
me
?" I ask. "I'm the one who has a connection to Gazade. I'm the one who should go in there. Alone."

Dawson stares at me for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"

"Why would I be kidding?" I ask. "If you think about it straight for a moment, you'll see that it's the best option. The chances of Gazade opening up are already slim, so we might as well do our best to see if we can make him talk."

"And you can handle seeing him again?"

"Jesus," I mutter, putting the magazine down. "Gazade's not gonna open up with you in the room, is he? He doesn't know you. The guy only talks to people who make him feel comfortable, or whatever the hell it is that goes on in his sick mind. The point is, he responds to people he's met before, and he responds to women. He never talks to men, and if you're in the room -"

"I can stop him manipulating you," he says, interrupting me.

"I'm not a child," I point out. "I can look after myself." I pause for a moment as I feel a twinge of pain in my chest. I need to take a pill, but I can't do it in front of Dawson without letting him see that something's wrong. "If there was another way, I'd say go for it," I continue, "but there's isn't, so we can't."

"But -"

Before he can finish, the door opens and Governor Hazel Lockley steps into the room. There's a pained, concerned look in her eyes, as if she wishes Dawson and I would just vanish into thin air rather than cause her any more problems. I don't blame her. The eyes of the nation are on this prison tonight, and any fuck-ups could cause serious embarrassment.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she says, clearly distracted.

"So I can see him, right?" I say, getting to my feet.

She opens her mouth to reply, but something seems to be holding her back.

"This is a matter of life and death," I continue. "We believe that Sam Gazade has crucial information that might -"

"I know," she says firmly, interrupting me. "The diary. I know. Believe me, Judge Wentworth was very keen to stress that point over and over again on the phone just now. You have a very persuasive advocate for your needs, Ms. Mason."

"If this new killer has found Sam Gazade's diary," I continue, "we have to know what he wrote. It's no longer an academic discussion. The diary gives the new killer an advantage over us, and if Gazade dies without telling us what we need to know -"

"You can see him," she says, clearly annoyed. "I have no legal powers to stop you, but I need you to give me an undertaking that this process won't interfere in any way with the procedure we have in place. That man is still going to be executed at midnight, and the only gap in the schedule comes when he's having his final meal, which will be..." She checks her watch. "Right about now," she adds, before pausing for a moment. "Is there no other way? Do you really need to disrupt things like this?"

"We don't have any other options right now," Dawson says. "It's a long-shot, but Sam Gazade might tell us what we need to know."

"He's never told anyone anything," Lockley points out.

"He's never been twenty minutes from death before," I reply firmly. "Maybe that kind of realization will change how he sees things. He has to see that there's no point clinging to his final secret."

"A death-bed change of heart?" she replies, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "You of all people should know that Sam Gazade is a singularly loathsome piece of work, Ms. Mason. He's a vile, psychopathic misogynist with a taste for cutting women into pieces. He's a symbol of everything that's wrong with our society, and I have no doubt that he'll very much enjoy taking this so-called secret to his grave."

"We're wasting time," I reply. "Just get me in there for five minutes and let me try talking to him."

"Are you going alone?" she asks.

"No," Dawson says.

"Yes," I add.

"Fine," Dawson replies, taking a seat. He's clearly not happy with the decision, but he knows there's no point arguing with me. Over the years, we've had plenty of 'discussions' about important matters, and I've won almost every time. Besides, I can tell he's worried about me, and he probably doesn't want to push me too far. Dawson knows what I went through twelve years ago, before I managed to get away from Gazade.

"This way," Lockley says.

As we make our way out of her office and along the dark corridor, there's a palpable sense of tension in the air. Frankly, I'm amazed we managed to persuade her, but I guess it helps that I was able to get a couple of local judges to support my case. Lockley has a reputation as a bureaucrat, and she's widely rumored to be planning to enter politics in a couple of years. All she cares about is getting Gazade executed with the minimum amount of fuss, and I was able to make her see that letting me see Gazade would create less fuss than forcing me to seek an official halt to the process. She's nervy, but I've already promised her that if this meeting delivers results, I'll be sure to give her plenty of credit in the media. She can sniff the chance of some glory, and she can't resist.

Reaching into my pocket, I take out a bottle of pills and try to open the lid as discreetly as possible. Unfortunately, as I tip a pill into my hand and then replace the lid, Lockley glances at me, and I can see the curiosity in her eyes.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Fine," I say, swallowing the pill.

"Want some water with that?"

"No."

She smiles.

"Allergies," I mutter, putting the bottle back in my pocket.

"What are you allergic to?" she asks. "Prisons? Bad ideas?"

"Pretty much everything," I mutter, still feeling the pain in my chest as I try to hide my impatience at the fact that the pills don't work faster. "Oxygen. Life itself."

"Tell me this isn't personal," Lockley says suddenly, turning to me as we reached the door to Gazade's holding area. "Tell me that you really need to see him for a case, and that this isn't some bizarre, fucked-up attempt to deal with your own emotional problems, Ms. Mason. Because I swear to God, this prison is not here to serve as a forum for your scars to be battled out, no matter how deep they might be."

I smile, having anticipated some kind of outburst.

"Tell me it isn't personal," she says again.

"It isn't personal," I reply with a hint of a smile.

"Tell me it isn't a waste of time."

"It's not a waste of time."

"Tell me you're telling the truth."

I smile.

"You think I
want
to look into that man's eyes again?" I continue. "After what he did to me? After what he
tried
to do to me? I was planning to spend tonight in a bar, drinking a hell of a lot of whiskey, so coming down to your rundown prison really isn't my idea of a good time!"

"I don't give a fuck about looking into his eyes," she replies. "All I care about is a clean and ordered process that delivers that man to the table in..." She checks her watch again. "Seventeen minutes. With five to go, he'll be led through. You haven't got long, Ms. Mason, and I just hope you're not on some kind of personal crusade. Gazade can be tricky, but he's finally accepted his fate. Don't disrupt him. All that matters is that at five minutes past midnight, I've got his dead body on a slab, ready to be taken away, cremated, and tossed in the garbage."

"Does he know I'm coming?" I ask.

She shakes her head.

"Great," I say, taking a deep breath. "I guess it's gonna be a nice surprise for him." I pause for a moment, as I finally realize that I'm about to come face to face once again with the man who killed all those women and then tried to kill me. He came damn close, too, and there's not a day that goes past without my mind wandering onto thoughts of what might have happened if I hadn't been able to get free. "So when can I go in?" I ask, trying to hide my nerves. I'm not sure how I'm going to react when I see his face again, and I want to get that initial moment of shock out of the way.

She stares at me for a moment, and finally a faint smile crosses her lips. I'm pretty sure she's seen past my bluster and she knows that I'm worried. I'm not sure whether that's because I've accidentally let the mask slip, or because she just figures it'd be impossible for someone in my situation
not
to be scared.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, taking a step back. "You have fifteen minutes, Detective Mason. Use them wisely, because once they're over, Sam Gazade is going to be unavailable for questioning. Permanently."

Reaching down, I turn the handle and pull the door open. Glancing into the room, it takes a moment for the shadows to become recognizable shapes, and finally I see him, and he slowly turns to me. There's a moment, just a moment, where it seems as if his blank eyes don't recognize me at all; finally, however, his gaze comes alive and I realize that he knows exactly who I am. With a shiver, I realize that he seems pleased to see me.

***

Staring at me from behind the glass screen that separates us, Sam Gazade seems amused by my presence. He doesn't look to have changed much since the last time I saw him; he has that same grin, and those same dark, ringed eyes. Still, at least the fact that he recognizes me means that we don't need to bother with a formal re-introduction.

"I wasn't expecting a visitor," he mutters finally, before cutting off a piece of stake and putting it in his mouth. He chews slowly and thoughtfully for a moment. "You'll forgive me if I continue my meal. Time's a little pressing tonight. I trust your presence doesn't mean that there have been any changes to the schedule? I've become rather accustomed to the current plan, and I abhor uncertainty." He pauses. "You've got a slight limp, Detective Mason. Is that from our last encounter? I didn't think I'd gone deep enough to cause permanent damage."

"We think someone found your diary," I say, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. "There have been certain... developments that could only have occurred if someone had access to the pages you warned us about. There's already been one death, with all the pieces in place, and it looks likely that there'll be more." I wait for him to reply. "Obviously it's unlikely to be a coincidence that this has started up on the anniversary of your first attack, and so shortly before your scheduled execution."

He stares at me for a moment. "Huh," he says finally, before eating another mouthful of steak. "And how are you doing these days, Detective Mason? You look good. A little older, but that's only to be expected. Youth's vigor can't last forever, and you have wiser eyes. For a woman, anyway. I'm sure age and gravity have caused some parts of your body to sag a little, though. I hope you don't mind the question, but have you fully recovered from our last encounter? Physically, I mean. Obviously it's impossible to recover mentally. I know
I
haven't. You're the same, aren't you? You're struggling. You're in pain. By the way, how's your hip?"

"Go fuck yourself," I say, before I can stop myself.

He smiles.

"I need to know where you hid the diary," I tell him, carefully regathering my composure. I just let my mask slip, and I can't afford to do that again. "If we can work out how the new killer found it, maybe we can get some insight into his or her identity."

"And how do I know it's really been found?" he replies. "How do I know this isn't just a last-minute attempt to get me to give up its location? I was expecting you to try something long ago, you know. I was certain you wouldn't be able to ignore that last little piece of the mystery. Going to be hard to convince me. Going to be very hard. Going to be impossible, maybe."

"He carved the symbol into his first victim's flesh," I tell him. "The symbol that you told us about. No-one else ever knew it existed, so the only way anyone could replicate it would be if they had the diary."

"Huh," he replies, clearly taken aback for a moment. "I suppose that's rather conclusive, is it not?"

"The body was mutilated in exactly the same way as your first victim," I continue, "apart from the fact that it was more rotten, which we put down to the fact that perhaps the killer got his or her timing wrong. This leads us to believe that she's someone who's unused to killing, perhaps someone who doesn't relish the act itself."