Pretty Little Things: 2018’s most nail-biting serial killer thriller with an unbelievable twist. T.M.E. Walsh
Читать онлайн книгу.
the car park at the pool will be busy, and this sets me on edge because it means I’ll be anxious about the makeup covering my scar not being as perfect as I’d like.
I’ve missed many an outing because I can’t bear the thought of anyone staring at me.
‘Remind me what time I have to pick you up?’ I say.
‘Practice finishes at three.’
I smile. ‘I’ll be there.’
Elle has a sceptical expression on her face as she looks to Savannah. ‘So, you’ll come, next week?’
‘Try and stop me.’
‘Great.’
She smiles at her as she leaves the room.
Savannah looks at me with sympathy. ‘Is this happening a lot?’
‘Doctors said there’d be memory loss. It’s normal.’
‘Look, I really have to go now, chick, but call me if you need anything. Anything with Elle, if you need me to have a chat with her.’
I know she means well, but I do feel a little resentful now. Elle idolises Savannah. And that hurts me.
It’s natural Savannah feels a bond with my daughter – she’s known her since she was small – but I’m only human.
I’m not immune to jealousy.
I see Savannah out and head upstairs to get ready for work. I bump into Elle coming out of the bathroom. She gives me a wan smile as she passes.
Then she stops and turns to me. ‘You won’t forget later on, will you?’
‘Three o’clock. I know.’
‘I could always walk back?’
‘No, Elle—’
‘You know you’ll have to drive on the Linkway,’ she interrupts. She looks unsure. ‘I know you don’t like to drive it any more . . .’
‘I can’t let what happened stop me doing everyday things,’ I say, and immediately feel like a fraud. I’ve let it stop me doing many things during the last six months, but I can’t show weakness to Elle. I have to be strong, outwardly at least.
Elle’s eyes linger on my face, her gaze drifting to my scar. She looks away before I can speak and heads back to her room.
I watch her as she turns and heads off down the landing and realise she’s changed her clothes again. Even as a sixth former, she still has to wear school uniform, and, having taken in her new choice of attire, I silently wish I could justify keeping her in it at weekends without looking like a raving lunatic.
This new style she’s experimenting with is down to her friend Kenzie and I can’t say I approve. Some of the clothes aimed at girls my daughter’s age . . .
I head back to my bedroom and shut the door. I listen for a few moments and when I hear the sound of Elle’s TV, I go to my wardrobe.
I get down on my knees and push some clothes out of the way. I dig right to the back of the wardrobe until my fingers feel the cardboard box.
I bring it out and rest it in my lap.
I place my hands on top, sucking in a deep breath before opening the lid.
Inside are various clippings from newspapers about the missing teens. I don’t really know why I have these. I guess I’ve been following the story on autopilot. I mean, how could I not? Teenage girls, a lot like Elle, have been disappearing in the surrounding villages, and I know what their mothers must be going through.
I see myself in their position. What would that do to me? If I couldn’t protect her?
I glance down at the cuttings. I keep these a secret from Iain. He doesn’t approve, but I had felt a need to help, any way I could.
I remove a few clippings and see the much older ones, from my childhood, bound together with a thin elastic band.
I see Miles. I see his eyes, squinting with laughter, his face yellowed with the time that has passed since this photo was printed.
I should’ve been there. To watch over and protect.
That’s how I feel about Elle. Watch over and protect. No matter what. I was wrong before, to be so detached from her growing up, but I had my reasons. At least now I have time to improve, to be the mother I should’ve been before the accident.
I let my eyes drop to the older paper clippings, give one last look at Miles before covering them up again, closing the lid.
I keep these a secret from Iain too.
I fear he never has and never will understand.
CHARLOTTE
I relish the light breeze as I walk down the road from where I parked my car, towards the heart of the village, the epicentre of all our lives – the village hall, the two pubs, and the corner shops and independents.
I had to drive on the Linkway but today my nerves held better than usual, which means I’ll be able to get through the morning that bit more easily.
I guess thoughts of Ruth, Caroline and the others are too much at the forefront of my mind to care too much about my problems, which, let’s face it, pale in comparison.
I glance at all the cars parked along the high street and am glad I made the decision to park further away and avoid the stress.
Saturday parking is a nightmare here.
I make sure I hug the side of the pavement that’s furthest from the road, as another car comes around the bend at speed. The backdraught sends my hair flailing around my face, and I scramble to pull it back down to cover myself. Instantly I’m a little ashamed. Given what’s going on, a facial scar should be the last thing on my mind, let alone anyone else’s.
Everyone else in this village is used to my face by now, so why can’t I relax?
I used to think village life would be perfect, a safe place to raise my daughter, but scratch beneath that shiny veneer . . .
It’s bad enough that I have to work for Harry Evans, that small shit of a man I mentioned earlier, who thinks I owe him something, especially because he lets me work alongside his son.
‘This shop is a family affair, Charlotte,’ he’d said to me when I asked if there was any chance of work. ‘It’s tradition, you see.’
Well, yes, I did see, and honestly I didn’t care. I just wanted a job after life so cruelly took my old one away. There was no way I could go back to working full-time, not yet.
Savannah said the hospital would have me back in a heartbeat, but I’m not ready. Still, the thought’s comforting.
I come into the heart of the village now, passing the Black Bull pub as I cross the road towards the monument ahead. Just on the other side is the newsagent’s. Evans’s, as it’s so imaginatively called, is already open. I look at my watch. Harry’s opened early.
I step into the shop, the bell ringing as I push the door open. I cringe. Any chance of avoiding Harry for a bit longer is quashed. My eyes do a quick sweep of the area and I see that Dale’s not in yet either.
Dale is Harry’s son. He’s eighteen and has a huge crush on Elle. I might’ve thought it sweet once, but now I know what an idiot Harry is, the less I have to do with the Evans family the better. Keep it professional, do my job, get paid, go home.
‘You’re late,’ Harry says, as he marches down the shop towards me.
I shrug my coat off and avoid his penetrating, dark, beady, bird-like eyes. ‘My watch says it’s five to,’ I say, breezily, trying to remind myself I need to be sweet because I