The Girl Who Came Back Read online

  The next voice belongs to Max. I realise now that there is a subtle difference between the two brothers. Ashley speaks more slowly and deliberately. There’s a suggestion of menace to almost everything he says. Max is far more nuanced. He doesn’t sound angry or annoyed, more worried – probably out of concern for his wife and son.

  ‘You know there could be an explanation for that,’ he says.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For her memories.’

  A chill licks my back and I can’t stop myself shivering. My ears tingle, straining to hear what’s next.

  Mum speaks now: ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All that sort of stuff was in the papers at the time. I remember the photo of Olivia at the beach. Lots of people will. Anyone could’ve seen that. I’d bet there was one of her at the birthday party, too. They were released to help people identify her. Some of that will have ended up online, but there are newspaper archives in libraries. If you wanted to go looking for things, you could find everything out.’

  It feels like a lamp has been switched on, when there’s that fizzing buzz of electricity in the fraction of a second before the bulb illuminates.

  There is a short gap before my mother replies: ‘Are you saying you don’t believe her?’

  ‘I’m saying this is the problem with putting yourself out there. People can find things out and use them against you.’

  Logic, not emotion. When I played this day out in my mind, that’s what I wanted. It’s what I told myself: logic. Explain who I am and where I’ve been.

  Except that’s no good when there are real people involved; when there are tears in another person’s eyes, when their bottom lip wobbles. I think I said everything I wanted to but I don’t know for sure. I want to be my mother’s daughter and yet there’s still a part of me that wants to leave the village and not come back. I thought I’d be fine with everything but it’s simply too weird.

  There is another pause. The only sound is the gentle bash-bash-bash of Harry playing on the floor. I lean against the wall and slowly lift up one leg, then the other, alleviating the cramp. How long can I get away with hanging around here until someone comes looking for me?

  ‘Why don’t you say what you really think?’

  Mum’s tone is scolding and raw. She sounds stung, as if none of this crossed her mind.

  ‘I don’t know what I think,’ Max replies.

  ‘I do,’ Ashley says. ‘She’s a fraud. Shows up after all this time. Has she asked for money yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She will – mark my words.’

  ‘Is that what you think? She’s an imposter?’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got to say – but I wouldn’t go leaving my kid with her if I were you.’

  Another chill ripples along my spine and there’s a large part of me that wants to stomp down the hallway and start wagging fingers. Or worse. The insinuation that I’m a danger around children is beyond offensive.

  Mum’s voice is barely concealed fury: ‘Don’t you dare talk about her like that. This is still my house and—’

  ‘It’s not your house.’

  ‘Well it’s definitely not yours.’

  I wonder what the issue is between my mother and Ashley. Whether his true problem is with me or her. Max doesn’t seem to be saying or doing much to calm whatever’s going on between his brother and his wife.

  Mum’s voice wavers this time, cracking halfway through her reply: ‘Why would someone do that? We’re not rich.’

  ‘It looks like you are.’ Ashley is dismissive, as if this is obvious. ‘Big house, big car, coffee shop. How much do you spend on getting your hair done every month? Your nails? Fake tan? Christ—’

  ‘Hey!’ Max finally interrupts. I don’t catch what he says next but it’s probably along the lines of saying that his brother has gone too far. When I tune back in, he sounds conciliatory: ‘I think what Ash is saying is that there are all sorts of nutters out there. You see things in the papers all the time. You should ask her something hard.’

  ‘Like what? How much do you remember from when you were five? She’s been honest enough to say that there’s a lot she doesn’t remember. Do you really think someone’s going to go through all this, to fake everything, just for the takings of a coffee shop or some cab fares?’

  ‘Cab fares!’ Ashley shouts his reply and then lowers his voice. ‘You’re always talking us down. Up on your high horse—’

  He’s shushed by Max and I can sense them turning towards the hall, listening in case I’m near. I push up onto my toes again, feeling another cramp in my left calf.

  When Max – when my stepfather – talks next, he speaks quickly, knowing it can’t be long until I return. ‘You can pay for a DNA test,’ he says. ‘There are all sorts of companies online who do it. If she is who she says she is, ask to swab her mouth.’

  ‘No. How would you feel if your own mother asked you to do that? It’s offensive to me and her.’

  It’s Ashley who replies: ‘We could steal some hair, send it off and—’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘If she’s got nothing to hide, then—’

  I’ve been resting on one leg for too long and press back onto the other, making one of the floorboards squeak. There’s a moment of silence and there’s no turning back now. I stride along the hall back into the conservatory, keeping my head high and at least pretending to be full of self-assurance. Ashley is staring at me and I return it with as much interest as I can manage. I read a book about confidence recently and it all seemed very easy in theory. Stand or sit tall; speak slowly and clearly; smile – even if it is a shit-eating ‘up yours’ grin; make eye contact and don’t look away.

  ‘Nothing to hide about what?’ I ask.

  The silence booms and even Harry has stopped playing on the floor. I can feel him looking up towards me with those huge eyes but it’s no time to turn away from my step-uncle.

  Ashley pushes himself up from the chair, now ignoring me and losing the staring battle.

  ‘I’m going,’ he says.

  He doesn’t wait for anyone to object or follow, spinning on his heels and stomping away down the hall. The front door slams and then there’s quiet once more.

  ‘How much did you hear?’ Mum asks quietly. She sounds hurt.

  ‘Not much. What did I miss?’

  She takes a breath. ‘Nothing, it’s just… this is all very new and different. It’s a big shock. People don’t know how to react.’

  She grips my knee and squeezes. I’m real. I’m definitely real. When I look to her, she’s smiling sadly and she looks years older than she did a few minutes ago. Now I’m looking for the things Ashley mentioned, I can see the darker roots starting to show, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. A pale blob or two underneath her ears where’s she’s missed the fake tan. She suddenly seems very tired.

  ‘There’s so much I want to ask you,’ she says. ‘So much I don’t know. Like whether you’ve got a boyfriend… or girlfriend, I suppose. Whether you’ve got qualifications, the places you’ve seen, the things you’ve done…’ She tails off. ‘Where are you staying?’ she asks.

  ‘The Black Horse in town. There’s a room above the bar.’

  She glances towards the ceiling. ‘There’s a spare room upstairs…’

  I look over to Max, whose arms are crossed. He’s watching Harry on the floor, not committing to anything. I wait for him to glance up to me, catching his eye and keeping it.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I reply.

  Six

  The Black Horse is a mix of cosy country pub and bit-of-a-hole. It has the quaint grey stone interior like something out of a British guidebook. I can imagine American tourists heading inside to take pictures of the thick wooden beams and tranquil fireplace, then becoming bemused at the warm frothy beer and lack of ice with everything. There’s no fancy cocktail list or extravagant food menu. It’s all fish, chips and peas; steak pie, chips and peas; or half
-a-chicken with chips and peas.

  If someone doesn’t like chips or peas, they’re pretty much screwed.

  The tables and bar have a slightly tacky feel, not full on gecko-like stickiness but enough that the beer mats hold firm as if they’ve got a bit of double-sided tape on the underside.

  It’s typical Britain that there’s a bed and breakfast room upstairs – after all, who could possibly want to rent a room that didn’t have a pub at the bottom of the stairs?

  Peter, the landlord, seems friendly enough. He’s late-thirties or so, apparently single and running this place by himself. When I pass him at the base of the stairs to head towards the bar, he’s balancing a box of smoky bacon crisps on his shoulder. He asks if everything’s all right with my room, which it is.

  It’s early evening and the bar area is quiet. A pair of blokes are feeding pound coins into the quiz machine in the corner and there are a couple of older men leaning on the furthest end of the bar. From their minimal conversation and glassy-eyed oblivious stares, I suspect they spend a lot of time here.

  Peter is still busy carrying boxes from one part of the bar to the other, so I’m served by another bloke. He’s older, squinty-eyed to the degree that it’s hard to tell what he’s looking at. His strange demeanour is made worse by the fact that it looks like he’s only shaved one half of his face. One side is pock-marked and covered with a pimply purple rash; the other is peppered with thin stubble.

  It’s all very odd.

  He asks what I want but it takes me a second to realise he’s looking at me. I order a Guinness and wait on one of the stools, trying to avoid the stickiness of the actual bar.

  Obviously this is subjective, but Guinness is one of the marvels of human achievement. A roast meal in a glass: no need to eat beforehand because it covers all bases.

  The barman pours the first part and then leaves it to settle. He keeps glancing up to me – or near me – it’s hard to tell, and the more he does it, the more unnerving it becomes. In the end, I take my drink over to one of the corner booths and hide behind my phone. The greatest function of a mobile isn’t the ability to call or text, nor the Internet connection; it’s the wall it puts up. Staring at the screen is an instant message to would-be botherers that their attention is unwanted.

  Or that’s what it should do.

  I’m busy searching for the name ‘Ashley Pitman’ when a shadow falls across the table. There’s a builder-type standing over the table, pint of Guinness in his hand. It looks like he’s not long got off work, with dirty fingernails and a smear of plaster, cement or something similar on his cheek. His sleeves are rolled up, showing off thick forearms, and his hair is a ruffled dark-blond nest. It’s the sort of style that seems like he’s actually tried to make it look that way.

  ‘All right?’ he says, not that he’s asking if I’m all right, of course. I sometimes wonder what other English-speaking countries think of the things we say. How ‘all right’ can be anything from ‘hi’ to ‘get out of my seat before I rip your ears off’. He’s actually asking who I am.

  ‘Hi,’ I reply, non-committal smile and all. It’s good to switch off for a few moments, like I’ve had a long day at work, even though I haven’t.

  ‘I’ve not seen you around before.’

  ‘Nope.’

  He bobs awkwardly and then nods at the other side of the booth. ‘Mind if I sit?’

  I glance past him towards all the empty tables and chairs.

  ‘I’m Rhys,’ he adds, slotting into the space without waiting for a proper answer. He nods at my drink. ‘Nothing quite like one of these to finish the day.’

  He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. I put my phone on the seat and look up to take him in properly. He’s a few years older than me – mid-twenties at the most.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  I snort: ‘You really don’t want to know.’

  ‘Ah, like that, is it? Mysterious stranger walks into a bar…’

  He grins and it’s hard to remain stony-faced. He has an infectious enthusiasm.

  ‘Who’s the guy behind the bar?’ I ask.

  Rhys turns to look and the bloke who served me quickly turns to pretend he wasn’t watching us.

  ‘That’s Chris,’ Rhys says. ‘He’s, well… I don’t want to say. He’s got issues. Let’s put it like that. I think Pete gave him a job out of pity. He used to hang around the park all day.’

  Rhys checks his shoulder again. Chris is still watching us but he’s being a little more careful about it now, wiping some of the glasses clean with a tea towel while glancing over to our booth every few seconds.

  When he turns back, Rhys has a sip of his drink, leaving a sliver of foam on his top lip. ‘Is Chris causing you trouble?’ he asks.

  ‘No… not really. When I booked into the room upstairs yesterday, he watched me go up the stairs and I thought it was a bit weird. Pete seems nice enough.’

  ‘Pete’s a good guy. Been running this place for years. If Chris gives you any trouble, tell him.’

  I have some of my drink and then motion to Rhys that he’s got some on his lip. He wipes it away with his hand and then leans back into the soft chair.

  ‘So… you’re staying upstairs, then?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Any particular reason? You’re not on holiday, are you?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s just… there must be better places than this. Half the shops still do half-day opening on Thursdays – or they’re closed completely. I didn’t realise that was weird until I went to high school and realised it’s only this place that does that. It’s some weird throwback to a law from the early 1900s – that’s how out of date this place is.’

  ‘You’re still here.’

  He laughs and gulps a mouthful of his drink. ‘True – but I was born here. I work at a builders’ yard, but I wouldn’t choose to be here on holiday.’

  ‘I’m not on holiday.’

  Over in the corner, the men have finally given up on the quiz machine. One of them bangs his hand on the side as if it’s screwed him over and then they head to the bar. The pub has started to fill up without me noticing. A family of two-point-four children is at the table in front of the unlit fireplace, browsing through the menu. I hope they like chips and peas.

  ‘Are you going to tell me your name?’

  I turn back to Rhys, who has his eyebrows raised expectantly. I didn’t come here to make friends and yet… there’s something pleasant and normal about the attention. The right attention. Chris is now serving the quiz machine pair at the bar but I still keep catching him looking in my direction.

  ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ I ask.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

  ‘I’m not sure you can handle it.’

  He laughs: ‘Try me.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘And you’ve lived here all your life?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m going to blow your mind.’

  Rhys presses his lips together and it’s clear he very much does not expect that to happen. He’s enjoying the game, though.

  ‘Go on,’ he says.

  ‘I’m Olivia Adams.’

  Rhys stares at me and then his eyebrow twitches. I can almost see the cogs turning, the memories rearranging themselves. Then it’s there in his eyes and he knows exactly what it means.

  ‘You’re Olivia Adams?’ he says.

  ‘I told you I didn’t think you could handle it.’

  His pint is halfway from the table to his mouth and he hasn’t moved his hand in a few seconds. He presses the glass to his lips but doesn’t drink, instead returning it to the table. Then he turns, leans around the back of the seat and calls towards someone I can’t see.

  I have a momentary panic that he could have called over anyone but, a moment later, the waitress from the café arrives at our table. She’s in a short red skirt with a tight wh
ite T-shirt. Her long red hair hangs to her shoulders. She looks between us and then focuses on Rhys.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asks.

  ‘This is Nattie,’ he says before nodding to me. ‘You’ll never guess who this is.’

  Nattie turns to face me, screwing her lips up into an O. She doesn’t seem that bothered. ‘You were in the café earlier,’ she says.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Left your drink.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  Nattie twists back to Rhys. ‘Go on.’

  He grins: ‘Well, your café is named after her…’

  Nattie does the slow turn back to me, eyes widening. ‘No freaking way…’

  Seven

  Nattie drops onto the seat next to Rhys and stares at me. It’s like I’m something she’s never seen before. A new, undiscovered colour. ‘Olivia?’

  I glance past her towards the rest of the bar. ‘I’m trying to keep it quiet for now.’

  ‘But you’re her? You’re back?’

  I smile and give a small shrug as a reply.

  ‘We knew each other as kids,’ Nattie says. Her words come so quickly that they run into one another. ‘We were in the same class at school. We used to play together. My mum has the photos.’

  ‘That’s what my mum said earlier.’

  Nattie nods as if it all makes sense now. ‘That’s why you were asking who she was in the café earlier. You were checking you had the right person.’ She takes a big puff of breath. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. You were like this bogeyman when I was a kid.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘If I was ever naughty – which, of course, I never was – Mum would say that if I didn’t behave, I’d end up like Olivia. If I ever ran ahead or anything like that, she’d say I’d disappear like you. You were like this myth growing up. Everyone at school knew your name, even though most people didn’t know you. When someone was off sick for a day, we’d say they’d been Oliviered.’

  ‘Nice – you know you’ve made it when you become a verb.’

  Nattie isn’t listening, she’s counting on her fingers. ‘How long has it been? Twelve years? Thirteen?’