an action. Tina was about five years younger than Muriel, but if Anna had thought the years had been unkind to her mum, they’d been downright cruel to Auntie Tina – her wrinkled skin had a grey hue to it, her dyed blonde hair was thin and patchy, making her eyes seem pale, almost albino.
Anna gazed back towards Billy Cawley’s old bungalow, the memory of the game Knock, Knock, Ginger making her skin crawl. They’d been having innocent fun, hadn’t they? Being here now, she could envisage the two of them like she was seeing the imprints of their younger selves. Ghostly figures. She’d not allowed herself to think about Jonie for a really long time before today. But she knew, despite not consciously remembering her, what had happened that sunny afternoon was part of her. Had affected her more than she’d ever cared to admit to. Now, facing Tina, everything rose to the surface. Tears slid down her face.
‘Don’t. Don’t cry. Tears won’t help anyone,’ Tina said.
She’d created a shell, one that had hardened over time. They all had.
‘Sorry.’ Anna brushed the tears away with her fingertips. One word, weighted with guilt, years in the making. Not once had she uttered that word when it happened.
It wasn’t her fault, after all.
But Tina thinks it was.
‘Why are you back?’
Instinct told Anna not to mention the doll’s head.
‘Came to see Mum.’
‘Never bothered before.’
‘No, well – being the anniversary year …’ Anna felt herself cringe; she dropped her gaze.
‘So, you thought you’d come back to where it all began?’ Tina swept an arm out in front of her, indicating the bungalow. ‘Got a guilty conscience?’
And there it was. Thirty years on, the man responsible having served time in prison, and still Anna was getting the blame. Well, she wasn’t that little girl anymore: the meek, mild-mannered pushover Bella. She was Anna, and she’d had to work hard to overcome her weaknesses; she’d worked hard to heal the mental scars left behind.
‘No,’ she said firmly, shaking her head. ‘Have you?’
She didn’t know where to begin looking for the grave, or even if she should. Voluntarily opening old wounds probably wasn’t wise. But then, coming here seeking him out wasn’t a wise decision either. Yet, here she was. Facing her demons.
As she slowly lifted the metal latch and stepped through the wooden gate into the church grounds, Lizzie shivered. It’d only been a gentle breeze brushing against her skin – a warm one at that – but it had triggered hundreds of goose bumps to appear on her pale, freckly arms. It was like a ghost had touched her. Walking briskly to the church door, Lizzie put all thoughts of ghosts to the back of her mind. The door creaked loudly as she opened it. Inside was silent. Cool. Empty, as far as she could tell. Flowers adorned the ends of each pew and at the altar stood a huge display of white lilies, daisies and aster – all left over from a wedding, she presumed.
A stray memory came to her. She’d been inside this church before. Sunday school – she remembered being at a small table at the back, sitting with other children. She’d gone a few times, but then something had happened; there’d been a reason she stopped attending. But what was it? She filed the memory away with all the other half-formed, blurry memories of her early childhood.
There was no sign of a vicar. Lizzie ducked outside again and wandered to the far side of the graveyard; she’d work her way backwards to the entrance. It wasn’t a huge area – the village had always been small. Many of the headstones were old and tilting, the writing faded. It shouldn’t take too long to find Rosie’s. She read the names of those she could decipher as she moved around. None of them caused a memory to stir. Until one; the name on it making Lizzie’s blood chill in her veins.
Jonie Hayes.
One of the three names she did remember.
She hurried on past it, not wishing to linger. Not wanting to ‘go there’ yet. It was too early – she wasn’t ready. One step at a time.
The air seemed to still as she approached the grey, granite headstone that bore her mother’s name. Lizzie crouched beside her mum, eyes tightly squeezed, trying desperately to remember something. Anything about her mother. Nothing came to her. It could be because she was trying to force it – if she relaxed, didn’t try so hard, something might come.
For the moment, she could only recall a snippet of one memory.
The day her mum gave her Polly.
Tuesday 18th July – the day before
‘Be back for lunch, Bella. And no going near Blackstone Close, you hear me?’
Her mother’s shrill voice followed Bella out of the house. She called back over her shoulder, ‘No, Mum. I won’t!’ rolling her eyes towards Jonie to prove she thought her mother’s warning was something she found annoying. She didn’t. She really wanted to do as her mum told her – going to Blackstone Close made her skin creep.
Of course, they would end up there, though. They usually did – even during term-time. Now they’d broken up from school, she knew it’d be where Jonie would want to go for the next six weeks. Jonie put up her usual convincing argument so they’d do what she wanted them to do. Said that it was more fun to goad Creepy Cawley than to waste the summer staying in playing stupid Barbie or watching TV. Bella had failed to impress her friend with her entertainment ideas. She’d wanted to make up some dance routines – ones like they’d been doing in PE at school. Miss Hanson had told Bella that she had “flair”, whatever that meant. But she knew it was good. She didn’t receive many compliments, so this was something she’d taken on board and wanted to build on during the holiday. She, Bella, was actually good at something.
‘Come on, then. I’ve found a way through the back of the close, so he won’t see us coming,’ Jonie said, her eyes wide with excitement. Bella forced a smile. She didn’t get why Jonie thought it was so thrilling to knock on someone’s door and run away. It was childish. And pretty stupid. She couldn’t tell Jonie that, though.
A few minutes later, they were squeezing through a small gap at the bottom of some bushes at the back of Blackstone Close. Jonie got through first and helped drag Bella through. The twigs scraped at her bare legs.
‘Ouch! Mind.’
‘Shh, Bella. Someone will hear us.’ Jonie looked down at Bella’s legs and tutted.
Bella rubbed at them. If she ripped her shorts, her mum would be mad. She hoped they wouldn’t go back through the bushes when they were done.
They crouched down, across from the bungalow.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Bella asked, wishing she were anywhere but there.
‘Well, we need to make sure he isn’t watching before we go in, don’t we?’ Jonie shook her head. She had a way of making Bella feel stupid, shutting down anything she said immediately.
‘Yes,