Authors: Louise Stone
S is for Stranger (23 page)
The weather did a complete about turn and dark clouds shifted across the sky as I filled up with petrol. I figured there was enough time to sprint inside and buy a coffee, fearing I might fall asleep at the wheel. Having been to the toilet, I stood in a queue of two to order a double espresso from Costa. Across the way, in WH Smiths, a Chinese lady was using broad gestures and talking fast in a high-pitched voice. Her boss looked perplexed, shaking his head. The woman jabbed a newspaper in her senior’s face.
‘Yes?’
I focused on the spotty teenager in front of me.
‘Double espresso, please. To take out.’
He followed my gaze as he struck the keys on the till. ‘Two twenty-five.’
I handed over the correct change and he turned to the giant Gaggia machine. A couple of minutes later, he passed me a paper cup, shoving a plastic lid on top.
‘What’s going on?’ I indicated the argument going on behind him.
‘Woman says a child came up to her claiming to have been kidnapped.’
My heart dived into my stomach. ‘Kidnapped?’
‘Yeah, yesterday early morning, you know. I just started my shift, so I wasn’t here.’ He smiled. ‘But then her mum came over and told her daughter to apologise.’ He grinned now, the pockmarks around the corners of his mouth widening. ‘You see it all in service stations.’ When I didn’t respond, he said, ‘Enjoy your drink.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, distracted, and took a sip of my coffee.
I wanted to talk to the woman across the way, see if she could tell me anything, anything at all. But it was hopeless. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and, besides, I knew where the answers lay. It wasn’t with that woman. It wasn’t here.
In fact, I was just over an hour off from where it all began; my mouth turned dry at the prospect. I walked hastily to the car, knocking back the espresso as I went, and jumped in. If that woman’s sighting was correct, then I could at least continue forward in the knowledge that Amy was alive: for now.
It wasn’t long before I hit the A-roads and I was taking no prisoners: flying around the bends and up and down the familiar Welsh hills. With each passing mile, the grey sky intensified and thunder sounded, clouds trembling on the verge of breaking. The rubbly, gorse-covered sides of the Ceredigion Valley grew steeper, sucking me in. It was as if the seaside town knew: today was the day. A sense of foreboding appeared to linger in the air; a valley shrouded in dark secrets. As I sped over the final crest, Aberystwyth came into view and the first drops of rain crashed down onto the windscreen.
The seaside town appeared desolate as I drove through the centre toward the seafront. The odd person hovered in a shop entrance, cowering from the rain as it pelted the crumbling houses and shops. The weather kept shoppers at bay and I easily parked along the seafront. The waves crashed against the wooden pier; its thin stalk-like legs quivering as it fought the elements. The flashing lights of the arcades twinkled brightly through the deep-set fog hovering above the promenade.
I cast my eye over the length of the seafront. The buildings looked so familiar and, yet, not. In many ways, I could envision the younger me running along the seafront and laughing with friends on the beach as we barbecued. Yet, in so many other ways, this place had been as much a ghost to me then as it was today. In the last week, I had become less certain of what I knew or what I thought I had known. As if the past and present had become almost elusive, intangible: almost as one.
I needed to find the house. The house where it all began.
I used all my force to open the car door as I fought the thrashing wind. The sea air hit me smack in the face; I could taste salt on my lips, smell the seaweed. Drawing the collar of my coat up further, I bent my head against the driving rain and headed into town.
The nearest place open was a fish and chip shop. I pushed the door and paddled in, water dripping all over the floor.
‘You win bravest customer award.’
I looked up, pushing wet strands of hair from my face and mouth and smiled half-heartedly. I was sodden right through, my wool coat water-logged.
‘We’ve had no one in here so far,’ he continued, in his sing-songy Welsh accent. ‘Not that I blame them, mind. Who’d want fish in this weather? When you could probably catch one in your own backyard?’ He chuckled heartily at his own joke.
‘I was wondering if you could help me, actually.’ I wiped the drop of rain hanging off the end of my nose with my sleeve. ‘I’m looking for a house, maybe a former hotel, near the cliffs. I know it’s not much to go on.’
He was busying himself with something, his back to me.
I tried again. ‘Um …’
‘Here you go, free.’ He handed me a polystyrene cup. ‘Tea. I presumed you take sugar.’
‘Thanks.’ I smiled and held the warm cup appreciatively. ‘Just what I needed.’
‘House you say?’ His thick, bushy eyebrows furrowed. ‘I don’t know of no house like that. Well, I mean, can’t you tell me anything else? Why you need the house, is it a National Trust property?’
‘I went there once for an enormous party. A kind of secret party for the wealthy.’ I knew how far-fetched it appeared. ‘Oh. Never mind. I’ll just have to drive around.’
‘Are you that woman?’
‘Which one?’ I asked, pulling my damp hair around my face.
‘The one with the child missing?’ He smiled. ‘You were in the newspaper again yesterday. Says you used to go to this university.’ Beaming, he patted the countertop.
‘I’d show you but I wrapped one of our customer’s chips with it.’
I nodded. ‘Right.’ I sighed deeply. ‘I really need to find this house.’
The man looked perplexed. ‘OK, tell me again. A house that was once a hotel nearby?’
I nodded.
‘In Aberystwyth?’
‘No, on the outskirts somewhere.’
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Just a second.’ He left the room through a metal chain curtain at the back and returned with a plethoric-looking woman, a potato in hand. ‘My wife, Morwen.’
‘Yes?’
I explained again.
She smiled and looked at the man. ‘Pete, you do know what she means, the manor house, ten miles or so outside of Aberaeron. It was on that programme a few years ago. Does that sound right?’ She glanced at me now.
I shrugged. ‘Possibly.’
‘There’s nothing for you in that place. It’s derelict now,’ she said. ‘In fact, rumour has it some girl was murdered there but no one ever could confirm that.’ She prodded her finger at me. ‘You don’t want to be going to a place like that by yourself.’
‘The lady just needs to know where it is,’ her husband said. ‘Come on, Morwen.’
‘OK.’ She put down the potato, wiped her hands with a tea towel and pointed to a map on the wall. ‘Let me show you.’
A few minutes later, after I had made her repeat the directions to me a good few times, I left the warmth of the shop and headed back out into the wind and the rain. The clouds were darker now and hung lower in the sky; the castle on the hill silhouetted against the stormy backdrop.
I climbed in the car, grateful for the shelter and cranked up the heater. Seconds later, condensation ran off the windows and I was forced to let some outside air in. The wind whistled past and the distant sound of thunder out at sea reverberated through the town. Gripping the wheel with clammy hands, my knuckles white, I turned the key, waited for the light and pulled out. The rain hammered the roof of the car making it almost impossible to hear anything. Anything: except for the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.
A quick glance at the clock: three forty-five. Fifteen minutes.
I passed through Aberaeron, as the woman had directed. The multi-coloured houses sitting alongside the harbour ordinarily looked so bright in the sunshine but, now, even they appeared melancholic. Boats skipped up and down on the rough water. One sole fisherman bravely readied his nets for the trip out to sea and the local grocer’s shop was open for business but, otherwise, there was little sign of life.
Once out the other side, I came to a fork in the road and headed right, as I had been told. The lane was narrow, almost impassable and my headlights bounced off the hedgerow and stonewalling. I had no memory of the route; even as I followed what I presumed was the same road as the taxi twenty years previously. In fact, the further I drove into the Welsh countryside, the more unsure I became.
I thought about the techniques Darren had taught me and I knew I had to force a memory to surface. I needed to know I was heading in the right direction and that’s when I saw it: the lighthouse out at sea. That night, just as today, I recalled the light as it bounced off the inky sky, over the choppy water and across the cliff face. Hitting a ridge in the road, the car jolted me upward and I focused my attention, once again, on the lane in front of me.
A light flashed on the petrol gauge: I was almost running on empty.
‘Shit.’ I hit the steering wheel, my mouth like sandpaper. ‘Not now.’
I shifted gear. Three forty-eight. I had twelve minutes. Twelve minutes. My throat closed up and I pressed down hard on the accelerator: pushing the Honda to its max.
I hit a bend and overcompensated with my steering, sending the car violently veering across the road. The rain was coming down harder still and I could barely see a few feet in front of me. The light on the gauge flashed twice.
I was climbing higher, the car struggling to cope with the Welsh hills, and the lighthouse caught the car in its lamp’s compass. The car started to slow and I could hear a strange thudding sound coming from the rear of the car. Moments later, the Honda spluttered to a standstill.
‘No, goddamn it.’ I punched the wheel repeatedly with my fists and cried out in frustration.
With no time to lose, I leapt out and started running instead, moving along the road at a pitiful speed, rain in my eyes. Tearing my coat off, I chucked it on the ground. The rain soaked right through my T-shirt and thin cashmere sweater in seconds, my jeans were sodden. A streak of lightning flashed across the purple-grey sky.
My legs couldn’t go any faster; with no sleep and food I was working on pure adrenaline. After a few yards, my shoe caught on a rock and I stumbled forward, landing heavily on my hands and knees; gravel embedded in my palms. I lifted myself off the ground and I had nearly given up all hope as I reached the top of the hill.
That was when I saw it. The house where it all began.
In that moment, as I stood at the end of the long drive, the last twenty years dripped away with the rain. Bethany was here. Or, at least, it felt as if she were. I closed my eyes and, for a second, I could almost sense her hand clasping mine, the electricity I felt just being near her. Even now, the memory of her was enough to create arousal in the pit of my stomach, a gentle but passionate longing for the woman by my side. Here I was, twenty years later, and I yearned for her touch, for the way she had brought me alive.
My eyes snapped open. She was not stood beside me and I gave a small shake to my head in an attempt to rid myself of her ghostly presence. I was here to face the past; I couldn’t allow myself to be dragged back down into the quagmire of memories and secrets. I needed to focus.
Taking a deep breath, I started the walk toward the house. It was hidden from view, behind a small wood. The rain came at me in horizontal sheets but I was beyond caring, already soaked to the bone and numb with cold. Rivulets of water flowed down the dirt track and the pine needles glistened with water. Halfway up the drive, I stopped, drank in the memories before stepping forward again and, minutes later, the house was in front of me.
With every stride, the uncertainty of what lay ahead grew more intense, more suffocating. A small part of me wanted to run back onto the road, find the nearest house
and get help. But there was no one around for miles and, even if I was lucky enough to find someone, it could be too late. Amy needed me now.
Walking quickly, my trainers squelched and stuck in the mud. I caught the first glimpse of the side of the house and swallowed; a small trickle of saliva worked its way down my throat.
I rounded the bend and the house sat in full view. Memories came crashing back. Years of sadness reflected in the derelict building. The windows were, as I thought, boarded up. However, the wooden planks had been removed from two of the windows.
Light flooded the front room, bulbs hung from the ceiling where the chandeliers had once been. A fire roared in the hearth as it had done twenty years ago. One floor up, another room was illuminated and I realised, fear creeping into my heart, that Amy must be upstairs. The bulb in the upstairs room flickered on and off and I thought back to that night. Bethany had died in that room.
Shakily, I walked up the front steps and stood just as I had done twenty years ago. I glanced to my right as if Bethany might appear. I didn’t know who or what was on the other side. Swallowing hard, I pushed the door and, as expected, it opened.
She was waiting for me.
I walked into the hall, relying entirely on the light from the front room to make my way. The door slammed shut behind me and I jumped. My heart was beating wildly and, with pricked ears, I waited. The wind shrieked as it whipped through the cracks and crevices of the old house, the logs on the fire crackled in the hearth but, otherwise, the house was silent.
The house smelt fusty and dust hung in the air making it difficult to breathe. I crept slowly toward the staircase.
Out the corner of my eye, I caught something glinting in the darkness but pressed ahead, placing one foot tentatively on the bottom step.
A floorboard creaked and, as I turned, an arm grabbed me around the neck.
‘Please,’ I breathed heavily, the attacker’s arm heavy on my throat, ‘I can’t breathe.’
She spoke, a voice muffled by cloth. ‘You’re late.’
I could tell she was slight but fit. I struggled to turn around, get a better look but with each throw of my body, her steady grip only tightened and I gasped for air.