The girl in the water, p.1
The Girl In the Water, page 1
THE GIRL IN THE WATER
J A BAKER
For my husband Richard, my children, and my late parents who nurtured my love of reading from a young age. Those Saturday morning visits to the library as a child have finally paid off. If only you were here to see it…
The river brought them to me. That’s the only explanation I have for it. Drawn by the pull of its swirling eddies and rising mists, its allure too strong to ignore, they came my way and never left…
CONTENTS
The Escape
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
More from J. A. Baker
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by J A Baker
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
THE ESCAPE
Everywhere hurts as she dips her head and runs. It’s like nothing she has ever experienced before. Even childbirth doesn’t come close. As if needles are being repeatedly inserted into her joints. Stabbing, jarring, eye watering levels of pain. It doesn’t stop her though; she won’t let it. The limits of her damaged body will not hold her back. She pounds the pavement with exhausted legs, feet burning, chest wheezing as she weaves her way out of a dimly lit, tree-lined avenue. Legs pumping until her muscles feel fit to burst, she turns the corner, the anticipation of seeing her family once again searing over her skin, like pinpricks of electricity. The thought of falling onto the warmth of her husband’s oversized chest, of putting up with the constant battling of her teenage offspring, inhaling the familiar smell of her lovely old kitchen: they all loom large in her mind, forcing her on. A sob rattles through her chest. She takes a ragged breath and suppresses it then stops abruptly, frustration gripping her as she is faced with another long road, almost identical to the one she’s just left behind. Where are all the people, for God’s sake? What kind of ghost town is this? Where is the help she so desperately needs?
Her gaze drops to the pavement and tears cascade down her face, hot and unstoppable as she attempts to work out where she actually is. She could hazard a guess but her brain is like cotton wool, refusing to function as it usually would, deprived of nourishment and arrested by fear. Hysteria begins to claw its way up her gut and into her throat. What if she’s being followed? She visualises a dark, sinister figure lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to trip over or get lost or simply collapse from sheer exhaustion, her body folding in on itself from the shock and horror of it all. Her mind goes into overdrive. So many hiding places. A body slotted away down an alley just waiting to pounce. Full of intent and hatred, and laced with a special kind of madness. She starts to run again, picking up her pace at the thought of it. She has to keep on until she is sure she is safe. And until she sees somebody, she doesn’t feel safe. Not in these dimly lit streets. Darkness can swallow people, eat them alive. The filthy, soaking-wet slippers on her feet slap at the puddles on the pavement, sending sprays of dirty water up over her legs. It doesn’t matter. There was a time she would have stopped, cleaned herself up. Not now. Everything is different now.
She slows down and winces, screwing her eyes up against the wave of pain that works its way up her shins, continuing up through her ribcage and landing with a ferocious slam into her skull. She reaches up to touch the wound on her head, fingers trailing over a blood-encrusted gash the size of her fist. Folds of torn, wet skin shift softly under her touch. She retches and presses the heel of her hands into her mouth to stem the vomit that rises.
She looks up again at the road that stretches off into the distance. Terraced houses on either side fence her in, their windows veiled in darkness. At the end of the street, she can see the corner of a huge, Victorian-style, sandstone building, ancient and imposing like a mausoleum. An old hotel perhaps? Or a theatre? Maybe a museum of some sort. It has that kind of look about it: antiquated, formidable. She stares at it, uses it as her focal point, telling herself if she can reach it, everything will be all right.
In the distance, she hears the rumble of an engine, its low purr increasing as it edges closer. A beam of white light dips and rises as it turns the corner and slowly moves towards her. Summoning what little strength she has left, she jumps up and down, waving her hands above her head, shouting to the driver for help, screaming for him to stop. Her heart pounds in her chest. This is it. This is the part she has waited for, for so long. The part where she collapses into the safety of a warm, dry car with a kind-hearted person who expedites her home. The vehicle slows down and a dark-skinned man with slicked-back, silver hair leans over the passenger seat and stares at her with a perplexed expression before shaking his head and moving on, the car lurching as he hits the accelerator with exaggerated force. A lump lodges in her throat and more tears spill down her face: a fountain of despair. She is bewildered at his lack of compassion. Pissed off and bloody furious, actually. What kind of person would ignore somebody in their hour of need? And right now, she is very much in need.
She breathes hard and stares down at her hands, black and bloody, then at her trousers, filthy, creased and torn and she can only imagine what her face must look like. This looks like a fairly nice area, a leafy suburb land. The kind of area where people aren’t used to seeing scruffy-looking strangers staggering around the streets late at night pleading for lifts. What did he think she was going to do though? Rob him? Beg for money? She runs faster, too scared and too angry to stop now. A row of doors pass her by in a blur. She briefly considers knocking, pleading with the residents to help her, but is frightened of what lies behind them. Experience has taught her that things are rarely what they seem. Even leafy suburbs have their dark secrets. Nobody can be trusted. Absolutely no-one. Probably a good thing she didn’t actually get in that car. She’ll find her own way home. She needs to get to a place with lots of people, somewhere with crowds. Safety in numbers.
The building remains tantalisingly distant as she slows down to catch her breath. She hasn’t eaten for so long, she can’t actually remember when it was. A couple of days? Three or four? Probably even longer. She has lost track of time and has no idea what day it is. Her legs buckle as she bends over and rests her hands on her thighs. She stands up and pushes on again, the searing, throbbing pain in her head becoming unbearable. She can’t stop though. Too risky. Just a few more minutes and she will be there.
She hears the yell before she sees them.
‘Christ almighty! What’s the hurry?’ A group of women in their mid-twenties step out from behind a high privet, staggering on stiletto heels, reeling backward as she ploughs into them, scattering them like nine pins. They stop and stare open mouthed when they see her up close, see how filthy her face is, how her hands and arms are smeared and streaked with blood, and the size of the huge, weeping gash on the side of her head as she crumples at their feet, sobbing hysterically.
‘Sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry. I just need… can you?’ She reaches her arm up before snatching it away and curling up into a tight little ball, the cold of the concrete a welcome sensation on her burning skin.
‘Fuckin’ hell! Did your husband do this to you? I’d ‘ave his balls on a skewer if any fella ever tried to do that to me.’
Water seeps through her mud splattered clothes as she unfurls and slumps awkwardly on the pavement, making no attempt to get back up. She is tired. So very, very tired. She murmurs, her voice hoarse, her lips cracked and sore as she tries to speak. The gang of women crouch down beside her, their long hair hanging over her face. It is soft and warm and smells of apples and honey. Even in the grey, dying light, their faces glow with carefully applied make up, their lips shimmering with soft tones of peach and pink lip gloss. She weeps some more at the incongruity of it.
‘Sorry love. You’ll ‘ave to speak up. Hang on a minute,’ One of them stands up and punches a number into her phone.
‘You calling an ambulance?’ one asks the other, who nods and cups her hand over the mouthpiece before turning away to speak.
‘Okay, what were you saying? If you give us your husband’s address, I know someone who can sort him out.’
She shakes her head and stares up at the sea of faces hovering over her. ‘Where am I?’
There is a short burst of laughter followed by a stony silence.
‘Christ. He must ‘ave given you a right good pasting if you don’t even know where you are.’ A tall girl with kind eyes and a full painted mouth takes her hand and stares into her face solemnly. ‘You’re in York, sweetheart. Just stay still now. An ambulance is on its way.’ She
‘York? Why am I in York?’ she mutters but nobody is listening as the whirr of a siren pierces the distant night air and they all turn to look.
1
FEBRUARY 2014 – THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Even in the midst of the chaos, I can hear it. With the removal men shifting wardrobes, sideboards and tables and chairs off the van, even above the shouting and grunting as they heave the bulky pieces of furniture around, staggering with them across the gravelled drive and into the house, even with me yelling at them to be careful with Martyn’s mahogany desk, and even with the dog running round in circles and yelping at everyone and everything, I can hear it. It rushes by the back of the house: an unstoppable surge. A roaring, frothing wall of water that will continue to flow in spite of what day it is, what state the economy is in or what war is occurring in the Middle East and being talked about repeatedly on the news. The river makes its way over undulating ground, carving its way out to the sea while we fret over other things. Some important, some minutiae. It understands none of these man-made problems. The river rolls on regardless, forcing itself through the earth, constant and relentless. I don’t expect anyone else to comprehend it, to understand my draw to this part of the world, the nagging desire to hear the rush of the current. Why would they? But this is where I need to be, near to where it happened, back to where it all began.
‘Where do you want this one then?’
An overweight, sweaty man is standing in the doorway, blocking out the light behind him. An unsightly sheen sits on his skin and perspiration runs down his temples as he stares down at a large, unmarked box, one of the few I haven’t written on with my black marker pen. I did most of them but this one somehow slipped my attention. His chest rumbles as he struggles to catch his breath. I look around at the empty hallway and the rooms leading off from it and am mystified as to what to say to him. This place is completely alien to me. It’s not my home. I left my home this morning. This is where I live now and I don’t even know where any of my things should go.
‘Over there,’ I say a little too sharply and point to an alcove in the dining area. It seems like as good a place as any. He draws a deep breath and lifts the box up, its weight causing him to stagger awkwardly as he makes his way past me into the large, empty room, lunging forward as he puts it down at his feet. I want to shout after him to be careful, that it probably contains all my crockery and we’ll need it to eat off pretty soon but I can’t seem to summon up the energy. It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. It’s highly likely that tonight’s bed will be no more than a mattress on the floor with a crumpled bed sheet slung over it but that’s fine with me. I can handle that. I can’t remember ever feeling so exhausted. Right now, I could sleep where I stand.
I watch from the large, bare living room as the removal men drag the last of the furniture out of the van. A battered old rocking chair, the one I used to use to nurse Tom on the nights he refused to sleep. I say nurse; it was more of a ferocious jiggling movement accompanied by a stream of sleep deprived tears. There’s an ugly chest of drawers that I have kept for no other reason than it belonged to my mother and finally, a small, mahogany box that contains every major event of my life. Very telling, really. Such a small container for all that’s gone before. I had intended to transport it myself to keep it safe but in all the disorder and confusion, it somehow ended up being put in the van, probably manhandled by a dozen or more clammy removal men. No matter. What’s done is done. I march outside and grab it off the bulky male who is carrying it across the driveway. He mutters something under his breath as I turn away. I’m too tired to answer him. I don’t trust my tongue to stay polite so I stay silent instead. I’ll be glad to see the back of today.
Martyn is standing, staring out of the kitchen window when I get back into the house. Beyond the river, in the distance, there is a view of the North Yorkshire hills and he is staring at it intently, looking at the shadowy shape they etch into the grey sky beyond. He’s been quiet all day, loitering in the background, keeping out of the way. I can’t say I blame him. It’s been an ordeal and I doubt I’ve handled it well. Who does? Isn’t moving house right up there with death of a loved one and divorce when measuring levels of stress? Put like that, I think I’ve acted like a bloody saint.
‘I hope to God we’ve done the right thing moving here, Phoebe,’ he whispers hoarsely, a light rattle evident in his chest.
Typical Martyn: full of doubts and worries. I move towards him and place my hand on his shoulder reassuringly. ‘I’m certain. Look around you; this is a dream home. Give it six months and it’ll feel as if we’ve lived here all our lives.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’ His voice is flat, monotone, his spine rigid as I try to manipulate some flexibility back into his posture.
‘Trust me,’ I say, hoping to appease him. I want everything to be perfect, unscathed by what has happened.
He shrugs his shoulders resignedly then smiles as he turns and nods towards the hallway. ‘Have they gone, the removal guys?’ He taps his walking cane on the floor and hobbles over to the table where he slumps down into a wooden chair, suddenly fatigued by it all. I stare at his face. He is looking old; the skin around his eyes baggy, his forehead lined, the shine on his irises dulled by years of constant pain. The past few years haven’t been kind.
‘Just unloading the last few boxes,’ I say and listen to the sharp, metallic grate as they roll down the shutter at the back of the van. ‘I’ll head back out and speak with them.’ I kiss the back of his neck and walk outside, keen to catch them and take the remainder of our things before they come back in the house. I really don’t think I can take any more of this moving palaver. I am bone tired and my tolerance levels have been eroded to the point of non-existence and rightly or wrongly, I don’t think I can stand to have them back in here. I need to look around properly, see our new house for what it really is. Not the kind of cursory look when you first step foot in a house you are considering buying, but a proper look, a chance to decide what should go where, a chance to become immersed in its ambience and get used to the sheer size of it without the hindrance of half a dozen dirty men hanging around, cracking silly jokes and generally getting in the way. Besides, Martyn needs some quiet time now. He’s starting to get twitchy and fractious and may even need a nap. It’s long overdue.
I stand at the gate and watch as they lock the rear of the lorry up, hitch up their pants and clamber into the front seats. I see them watching me and feel my face burn. I’ve been mean. Not exactly mean but definitely curt. No need for it really but right now, I’m running on empty and in desperate need of a break.
I’m flooded with relief as the engine splutters into life and the large, green truck rumbles its way through the village and disappears out of sight. This whole experience has been way more draining and stressful than I ever expected it to be. I sigh quietly. At least it’s over with and I can at last sit down with a cup of tea. That is of course, if I can find the kettle.
As I head back inside, I can hear Tillie yelping and running around frantically. Poor old girl. She will be ready for a walk, her ageing bladder full to bursting. I look at my watch and widen my eyes at the rapid passing of time. Where has the day gone? She will also need feeding. I usually set my watch by Tillie’s toilet breaks and stomach demands. She is my dog now and mine alone. Her physical needs are beyond Martyn’s capabilities. I don’t mind. On my bad days, Tillie is my reason for getting up out of bed and getting on with my day. As soon as I get sorted, I’ll take her over the fields and into the other end of the village. We can do a bit of exploring and call into the corner shop to buy something for tea. Maybe Martyn will come along. Or maybe not. I suppress a deep, mournful sigh. Most likely it will be definitely not. He can sleep in my absence.
