My fear fades into relief before converting into confusion. She’s wearing a white cotton nightdress covered in embroidered bees, and an old pair of bee-shaped slippers on her feet. In the middle of the woods. In the middle of the night. At first, I’m convinced I must be dreaming, but she appears to be real and looks as terrified as I feel.
“Mum? What are you doing here?”
She shakes her head as though she doesn’t know, and looks so very small and old. I can see scratches and bruises on her face and arms, as though she has fallen. She turns to peer over her shoulder, as if scared of who might be listening, then starts to cry.
“Someone smashed a window in the kitchen, then broke into the house. I was so afraid, I didn’t know what to do. So I hid. Then I ran away into the woods, but I think they followed me,” she whispers.
She’s shaking, and looks more fragile than I have ever seen her. I try to stand, but my ankle gives way when I put any weight on it.
“Who is following you? Who was in the house?”
“The woman with the ponytail. I hid in the potting shed, but I saw her.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether what she is telling me is true, or just another symptom of her dementia. Jack told me she’d been found wandering around Blackdown in her nightdress, even the woman in the supermarket mentioned it, but I didn’t believe them. Sometimes we choose not to believe the things we don’t want to. I do it all the time—hide my regrets inside boxes at the back of my mind, and choose to forget the bad things that I’ve done. Just like my mother taught me.
Denying the truth doesn’t change the facts.
I was here the night Rachel Hopkins died.
In the woods.
I saw her walk along the platform after getting off the train, and I remember the sound that it made, because for some reason, it reminded me of her camera.
Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickety-click.
When I lost my presenting job, I went home and started drinking. But then I stopped. I got in the Mini and blew into my breathalyzer. I remember it turned amber, but that meant I was still safe to drive. I made the journey to Blackdown, because it was the anniversary of what happened—as well as my birthday—and I wanted to see her.
My daughter, not Rachel.
It was exactly two years since my baby girl died, and I needed to be close to her. It was Jack’s decision to bury her here in Blackdown, and I still hate him for it, but it’s a lovely cemetery with beautiful views. The church is on a hill, and the nearest parking lot is at the station. The only way to reach her grave is on foot, through the woods. I spent a few hours there, sitting in the dark, telling her all the stories I would have if she were alive. I still feel guilty about not saying something to Rachel when she walked straight past my car to get into her own that night. Maybe if I had, she wouldn’t be dead.
I hear something in the distance and it snaps me out of whatever melancholy I had slipped into. I don’t know whether Catherine Kelly is still following me, but I don’t plan to wait around to find out. I need to get myself, and my mother, away from the woods and somewhere safe.
“Come on, Mum, we need to go. It’s cold and it’s … dangerous out here.”
“Are you coming home, love?”
She asks the question with such happy optimism.
“Yes, Mum.”
“Oh, good. We’ll be there in less than ten minutes, I promise. Then I’ll put the kettle on, make us some honey tea, just the way you like it.”
“We’re only ten minutes from our house?” I ask.
She points confidently through the trees, and although it all looks the same to me—especially at night—I believe her. My mother might be forgetful, but she knows these woods better than she knows herself. I take her hand, surprised by how small it feels inside my own, and we walk as fast as we can. I hear every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig, and can’t stop myself constantly looking over my shoulder. Even if someone was there, following us, it would be too dark to see them.
“I think she knows,” says Mum, clearly confused again.
“Let’s try to be as quiet as we can, just until we get home,” I whisper.
“She has a badge, so I had to let her in.”
“Who?”
“The woman. She knows and now I don’t know what to do.”
My mother looks over her shoulder as though she hears something, and it does nothing to calm my nerves. We take a few more steps in silence, and I can’t help replaying her words. She’s mentioned a ponytail and a badge now, and it makes me think of the female detective working with Jack. The same one who just answered his phone.