No Turning Back, page 12
‘You know what?’ Anna said after she pulled up outside the bungalow. ‘I think I’d rather you rant and rave at me like Leo did, anything but this silence.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Who am I kidding? I need to stop hoping I’ll ever get that from you.’
Beatrice flinched. ‘I can’t. It’s just too much.’
‘Everything’s too much for you. Your mother’s own love, my love.’
Beatrice looked at Anna briefly then looked away again.
‘Oh for God’s sake, say something, Mum! Please say something!’
Beatrice closed her eyes. ‘I find it very hard to…to get a grasp on all the emotions. I worry they will take over and I – I will break.’
‘What emotions?’ Anna asked. ‘What are you feeling?’
Beatrice flinched. ‘Everything, every emotion, I’m filled to the brim with them.’
Anna frowned. She suddenly recalled a similar conversation she’d overheard her mother having with her father once.
‘Is it because of what happened with Dad?’ she asked softly. ‘Or did you have problems with this before then?’
Beatrice avoided her gaze.
‘Whenever it started, you’re ill,’ Anna said softly. ‘Anxiety, depression, grief over Dad, God knows I understand, I think about him every day. But I talk about it too, to Guy when he was around, to Gran, to friends. Maybe it’s best to get it all out.’
Beatrice shook her head vehemently. ‘No.’
Anna took in a deep breath. It was so clear her mother was keeping things bottled up inside. She couldn’t force this from her. ‘You know you can always talk to me, don’t you, Mum? It doesn’t matter what I’m going through, I’m always here for you. I love you.’
Her mother turned to her, her face softening. She placed her hand gently on Anna’s cheek, her eyes full of love. ‘My baby girl,’ she whispered.
‘I’m so sorry you have to go through what you do, Mum, I really am.’
‘And I’m sorry you’re going through what you are, my darling Anna.’
Anna let out a sob and leaned her head against Beatrice’s shoulder, her tears soaking her top. ‘I’m so scared, Mum.’
‘There, there,’ Beatrice said, stroking her hair. ‘It’s okay, darling, it’s okay.’
They stayed like that for a few moments. But then Anna felt her mother stiffen. ‘I better get inside,’ she said.
Disappointment flooded through Anna. She wiped her tears away. ‘Right. I’ll walk you inside, make sure—’
‘No, I’m fine,’ Beatrice said curtly, opening the door. ‘You get home.’
‘Goodnight, Mum.’
‘Goodnight, Anna.’
Beatrice got out of the car and walked down the path, the moonlight streaming over her, making her look like a ghost.
When Anna got home to her empty house, she stood in the centre of her living room, loneliness swelling inside her. She saw the anger and disappointment in her friends’ eyes, the scandal in others. She heard her brother’s self-righteous voice. All of it intermingled with flashbacks to the afternoon Elliot died, the spurting blood, the gurgling noises.
Her scar throbbed, her whole being seeming to ache with the effort of keeping all the memories inside.
She strode out of the house and grabbed her rake, walking to the dark beach. When she got there, she stared up at the full moon. Then she started dragging the rake through the sand, not even looking for cockles, just focusing on the rhythm of her rake going back and forth as the waves crashed nearby.
Chapter Nine
The house in Exmoor was the perfect getaway, a long sprawling brick-built cabin overlooking Exmoor’s valleys. Joni was fascinated by the three ponies grazing in the fields nearby and true to Florence’s word, the long walks and reading did do Anna the world of good. She was able to separate her time there from what was going on back at home, keeping the emails and nasty gift from the so-called Ophelia Killer and accusing articles a hazy distance away.
‘See, I told you this would be good for you,’ Florence said, pouring some wine into Anna’s glass the first evening there.
‘What can I say, you were right as always,’ Anna said, peering out at the darkening valleys as she smiled to herself. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Good. I aim to please.’ Florence frowned. ‘I hope you’ve forgotten those horrible words your brother said?’
Anna sighed. ‘Not really. And you know what? I can’t blame him.’
‘He’s a vindictive little brat, Anna.’
‘Is he? Maybe he’s talking the truth. I did kill a schoolboy. Maybe you have to have a certain darkness to do something like that,’ Anna said, recalling what the woman reading the newspaper had said about her.
Florence tilted her head. ‘Darkness?’
‘Something bad inside.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘It takes someone to kill a schoolboy, doesn’t it?’ Her gran was quiet. ‘I think that’s why Leo hates me so much, he can see that darkness. It disgusts him.’
Her gran’s face clouded over. ‘That boy knows nothing.’
Anna looked down at her drink. ‘Really? I think part of him blames me for Dad’s death.’
Florence looked shocked. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘I had an argument with Dad before he died.’ Anna swallowed nervously. She’d never told anyone this. ‘He came back in a hurry from somewhere. I wanted to talk to him, I hadn’t seen him properly in days because of his work. I followed him around the apartment as he grabbed some bits. He snapped at me, told me to give him some space, that he needed to be somewhere. I guess I lost it.’ She bit her lip, tears flooding her eyes. ‘I told him he was a crap dad, that all he cared about was his work. All the things I knew would really hurt him and – and I enjoyed it. I liked seeing him hurt. He stormed out of the house and I noticed Leo had been listening to it all. I realised I couldn’t leave it like that so I ran after him. That’s when I found him.’
‘Oh, Anna.’
‘All those things I said—’ She shook her head, tears falling down her cheeks. ‘I tell myself the work he did on the Ophelia Killings drove him to do it but the truth was, it was those words I said.’ She took in a deep shuddery breath, the grief and guilt still so pure despite the passing of time.
‘No,’ Florence said, clutching her hand. ‘You must not blame yourself. You know what this is, don’t you? Fabricated guilt. You feel guilty about what happened to Elliot Nunn, and about the affair. The guilt is becoming a monster and seeping into everything else. You have nothing to feel guilty about, banish that emotion from your life!’
‘Easier said than done. It’s not just Leo, anyway, I see it in Mum’s eyes too, she blames me. At least Leo says it outright.’
‘Your mother struggles with emotions.’
Anna took a sip of wine. ‘I think Mum and I had a bit of a breakthrough the night of your party actually. But then Mum did her usual and got all tense.’
‘What happened?’
Anna told Florence about the conversation. Her gran’s face softened. ‘Oh my darling Beatrice. She does love you very much.’
‘I wonder sometimes.’
‘I’ve told you before, your father’s death broke her.’
‘But was it just Dad’s death?’ Anna asked, recalling the memory of Beatrice telling Anna’s father how she felt too much. ‘Has she always had a tendency for depression?’
Florence examined Anna’s face then sighed. ‘Yes, not as much but yes.’
Anna thought of how she sometimes felt herself spiralling. Was it something she’d inherited off her mother?
Florence seemed to sense her concerns and squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t think it’s something that’s inherent in your mother. I believe it was triggered by something.’
‘What?’
Florence leaned back and frowned, as though mulling something over. ‘When your mother was a teenager, there was a boy she liked. Peter.’
‘She’s never mentioned a Peter. I thought Dad was her first boyfriend?’
Florence shook her head. ‘Peter was her first love.’
‘Love? Wow, it must have been serious.’
‘Your mother thought so. Her father and I weren’t aware. Peter lived near the dockyards, his father worked there.’
‘So he was from the other side of the tracks,’ Anna said, making quotation marks with her fingers.
‘Quite,’ Florence said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Your grandfather was an old naval man, very strict. He wouldn’t have approved.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Peter died,’ Florence said sadly.
‘Oh no, how?’
‘An accident on the dockyard. He’d started working there with his father. I can’t quite recall, it was such a long time ago, but I do know he’d been running late meeting Beatrice and in the rush, hurt himself. Your mother was devastated. It seemed to trigger this anxiety in her, she hasn’t been the same since.’
Anna took another sip of wine, absorbing what Florence had told her. No wonder her mother sank into such a depression after her husband died. She’d lost the two great loves of her life.
Florence’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Gran,’ Anna said, ‘it must have been hard for you too.’
‘I think that’s why she struggles so much with me. After Peter died, and we found out about their little relationship, her father was very angry. In the argument, Beatrice blamed us for his death, said if we weren’t such “snobs” they wouldn’t have had to meet in hiding and he may not have been in such a hurry to get away from work to meet her. It was irrational, of course. But this is the way teenagers’ minds work.’ Florence shook her head. ‘I tried to reach out for her, comfort her, but she just pushed me away, said I was overbearing. She’s not like you and I, Anna. She doesn’t welcome love and affection like we do.’
They smiled at each other, clutching each other’s hands.
‘You’ve kept me sane the past few weeks, you know,’ Anna said. ‘I really don’t know what I would do without you. Sometimes I wish—’ She stopped.
‘What do you wish?’
‘I wish you were my mum. Is that a bad thing to say?’
Florence smiled sadly. ‘Not at all. But you’re not, you’re my beautiful talented wonderful granddaughter and that’s just as good.’ She held up the empty bottle of wine. ‘Looks like you need a refill.’
Anna strolled down the cobbled streets of Lynmouth, Joni pointing at the seagulls from her pushchair. Anna looked out at the craggy cliffs and peaceful sea. They’d be heading back the next day. She felt a rush of anxiety. But then she shook her head. She needed to be stronger. Her gran was right. She’d been allowing herself to wallow in guilt for too long. She had to go back home and face what she had done, for Joni’s sake. She needed to stop running away from it. And part of that was getting to the bottom of these emails from the so-called Ophelia Killer.
‘I’ll be sad to go back tomorrow,’ Florence said.
‘Me too,’ Anna replied. ‘But you know what, I feel ready to go back. I feel stronger.’
Florence smiled. ‘Good, that was my intention. You just needed to gather yourself. I’m not saying it will be easy when you go home but your mind will be in a better place to deal with it.’ They paused by a small clothes shop. ‘This looks nice.’
‘Not much space for a pushchair,’ Anna said. ‘You go inside, I might go up to the little pier, we can meet there?’
‘Good idea.’
Anna strolled down the street towards the pier, smiling up at the sun. When she arrived there, she stared out at the sea, pointing out the fish swimming below to Joni.
Laughter rang out next to her. She turned, saw a young couple sitting down on the bench nearby. They huddled over an iPad, the girl swiping its screen as the man drank an iced coffee.
Something caught Anna’s eye on the screen, a photo of Elliot’s parents, hands conjoined, sombre expression on their faces. Above them was a headline: World exclusive: Elliot Nunn’s parents tell their story! Then beneath it: Anna Graves Ophelia Killer Copycat? It was an article from her local newspaper, the Ridgmont Waters Chronicle, written by her old friend Yvonne.
Anna put her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The woman reading it looked up. Anna quickly lowered her face and strode back away from the pier, her heart thumping. She pulled her phone from her bag, finding the article.
Paula and Neil Nunn have exclusively revealed the autopsy on their son Elliot showed he’d been poisoned by foxglove before he was stabbed by Anna Graves, the exact same poison used by the notorious Ophelia Killer who terrorised Ridgmont Waters twenty years ago.
‘We think Anna Graves did it,’ Elliot’s father told us. ‘She got obsessed with the case, like her dad did back in the day with all those news reports he did. She poisoned Elliot, he ran off so she stabbed him.’
‘Jesus,’ Anna whispered.
‘What’s wrong?’ She looked up to see Florence watching with worried eyes.
‘Read this,’ she said, handing over her phone.
Florence took the phone, her eyes widening as she read the article. ‘What utter rubbish,’ she said, handing Anna’s phone back in anger. ‘Don’t let this worry you, honestly. The Chronicle has turned into a trash rag, the website is even worse. It’ll probably be taken down soon anyway, they can’t report on an ongoing inquiry.’
‘People will still read it though, especially if it gets into the print edition.’
‘People with an IQ the same as my shoe size. Ignore it.’
But as they walked back to the car, all Anna could see was the headline: Anna Graves Ophelia Killer Copycat?
As Anna drove back from Exmoor the next day, she was quiet, thinking of the article Jamie’s parents had sold. She was due to be making dinner for her friends that night. She hoped they hadn’t read it.
After Guy picked Joni up, Anna spent the afternoon collecting mussels from the rock face near the lighthouse. She hadn’t done this since she was a child, her father’s death there turning what was once a fun family pastime into something tragic. But she needed to be close to her father and she felt closest to him there, at the lighthouse. She chose a spot well away from where his body had fallen. It faced right out to the sea and was thick with mussel colonies, their shiny black bodies stuck fast to the rocks, the sun gleaming down on them. She remembered when just her and her father had come here when she was very young, maybe six or seven. He’d taught her how to choose the right-sized mussels, not too small as they would be too bland, nor too big in case they were chewy. Just right in the middle. He also taught her to only take a few from each colony.
‘We don’t want to be too mean,’ he’d say as he plucked a mussel from the rock, placing it in the green bag he’d brought along with the seaweed he’d put in there to keep them fresh. ‘Just a few then move on a metre or so.’
‘Isn’t it mean taking them from their families though?’
He shrugged. ‘You could say that about any animal we eat. But at least here we’re leaving some space for others to flourish. They’re hardy creatures,’ he said, plucking another off and smiling at it. ‘They survive harsh conditions by sealing themselves tight shut, closing their valves and sucking water within,’ he said, tapping the inky shell. ‘That’s what you need in life, a tough shell to get you through the harsh spots.’
Anna peered towards the area of rock where her father died. ‘What happened to your tough shell, Dad?’
And what was happening to hers? No, she wouldn’t let all this ruin her. She’d hunker down, take comfort within her own shell, her community, the place she’d grown up in and loved. If she could just do her best tonight, make sure the girls understood she was still their Anna, then hopefully the rest of Ridgmont Waters would see that too.
‘Anna?’ She peered up to see a small blonde woman looking down at her.
Yvonne Fry from the local paper.
‘I remember you used to do this when we were kids.’ Yvonne crouched down, stroking her finger over a mussel. The shell cracked slightly. She glanced up at Anna. ‘Oops, always been a clumsy oaf.’
Anna sighed. ‘What do you want, Yvonne?’
‘I think it’s time you told your side of the story.’
Anna shook her head. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, but no. It’s not going to happen.’
Yvonne’s face went hard. ‘I think that’s a mistake, Anna. Public opinion is really turning against you. You need to do something to address it.’
Anna laughed. ‘What are you, my PR manager?’
‘I’m a friend,’ Yvonne said softly, putting her hand on Anna’s arm. ‘I’m just looking out for you.’
‘We haven’t been friends for years. I didn’t hear anything from you after you left school, despite trying to call you. So don’t try to pull that card on me.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ Yvonne said, standing up and brushing the sand from her skinny grey jeans. ‘You know what this community is like, one minute you’re their shining starfish, the next just a mussel being pulled from its home, ready to be devoured.’
‘You were never one for metaphors,’ Anna said, trying to keep calm.
Yvonne smiled then she strode off.
That night, Anna checked her face in the mirror hoping the pink lipstick she’d dug out and thick black mascara would hide how tired she was. She smoothed down her cream dress, and took a quick sip of wine, peering out at the table she’d carefully set in the garden outside. It was on a raised wooden platform that allowed glimpses of the sea and the lighthouse. Not enough for Anna, but at least the sea was close by. It was silly, she’d known the girls for many years but tonight she felt nervous, like she was meeting them for the first time, and that thin glimpse of the sea wasn’t enough to help calm her.
That encounter with Yvonne hadn’t helped. She’d tried to wipe it from her mind as she prepared the mussels earlier, tugging the ‘beard’ out – the hairy-looking fibres attached to the shell – carefully scrubbing barnacles and grains off the shells. It usually cleared her mind, focusing on the task at hand, not letting any other thoughts intrude, her own personal form of meditation. But it didn’t work this time. All she could think of were Yvonne’s words.
