One year later, 2nd December 2020
Evening
It had been a year to the day since the night at the mine. And as much as everyone around me wanted to make sure I was coping, I wanted nothing more than to be normal. So, for me, it was a regular Wednesday. And I was at work. The day had been as busy as ever and with the last customer gone, I locked The Tea Tree’s front door and sighed. Using my one remaining crutch to help me move, I hobbled back towards the till to cash up, but first, I needed a glass of wine. In the aftermath of Thompson finding me down the mine, I spent some time in the media eye, and though I hated the glare I suppose I was lucky. His vigilance saved me. He had spotted me drive by in Michael’s car and had gone to his house and found the note. Then, assuming it was something to do with where Chloe’s top was found, he headed for the mine, using my clothes to guide him down into the depths. If he had taken a sip of his pint, or stood to get another the moment I passed, I would surely be dead.
The mystery surrounding the Drifter captured the nation’s attention again, who he was, where he’d gone. Holly, Jamie and the others returned home, his survivors. They returned a day after I was found. They said they were in another part of the mine, far away from where Thompson found me. The Drifter had kept them there, wanting to have all of those who had seen him in 1998. The world loved them: heroes, survivors, and the village prospered. People flocked to see the mine, the would-be victims of a mysterious, grudge-holding killer. From what I had been told, the pub was thriving. And people were beginning to let go of the past. I hadn’t escaped the media either; I was another survivor. It threw our small coffee shop into the spotlight with such force we had to take on new members of staff, just to keep up with demand. I thought that once the story of the Drifter and the mine had slipped from the front pages, business would slow. So far, it hadn’t. Business was so good that both Esther and I worked part time, still drawing a proper wage. She could be at home with Tilly more and I could go to my rehabilitation sessions to try and regain mobility in my right leg. I was told it would never fully heal. But, with time and the right exercise, I could walk unaided one day. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do – this was my punishment, I suppose.
And Chloe, she was found, her body carried out in a small coffin, televised to the world. I never made it to her first funeral, so made a point of being there early to say goodbye. They laid her to rest in the same grave that had been empty for twenty-one years. Dad pushed my wheelchair through the cemetery as people cried and offered reassurances to me, the almost-victim. I felt terrible receiving praise for being so brave, so strong. I felt a crushing guilt every time I thought about how the truth about Chloe was still hidden from the world. And they were all there: Holly, Jamie, Michael, Baz, Georgia and Brenda. They watched me intently. I hugged Holly, hugged Brenda, but only because people were watching. They didn’t say anything, and nor did I. When our eyes met it was clear. They would never forget, never forgive, but they would also never speak of what really happened. It was my turn to carry the cross we all had to bear.
And after Chloe’s funeral, I left the village, and I vowed never to go back.
Cashing up the till and locking the safe, I sat down to finish my wine before walking to the Tube and home. On the sound system behind me, Kylie played, the song that took me back to where the nightmare began a year ago. Spookily I was doing the very thing moments before seeing Michael’s shadow outside, flipping my life upside down. It made me shudder and as panic began to rise, I told myself it was behind me, it was done. The others wouldn’t come back because they had their new lives; they had cleansed their guilt from that night, it was now on me. All of it. I doubted they would want to risk anything. Life was a fragile balance. And I knew they would prefer me dead, but killing me now would raise too many questions, pose too many risks for them.
Finishing my wine quickly I double-checked the safe, something I did two or three times a night now, turned off all the lights, locked the door, and stepped into the night. I looked left and right, making sure I was alone. Walking as fast as I could with only one good leg to the station, I boarded the Tube and sighed with relief. I felt safe in a crowd. As I got off at my stop, my phone pinged, a message from Dad, asking how my day was. I messaged back telling him it was long and a good one, then I asked how he was. Since the mine, Dad had been given a clean bill of health. His thyroid condition – which had led to his memory issues – was now under control with simple medication. Baz made sure he took it, just as he promised. He was a good man, a good doctor, just forced into a dark corner by my actions when we were young.
Dad messaged again.
He replied one last time, saying he couldn’t wait, saying he loved me, and I couldn’t help but well up a little. Those two weeks last year were awful, but Dad and I were close again, like when I was young. Maybe it was worth it all for that.
After a long and painful walk, I made it home and, hobbling through my hallway, I walked into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on before sitting at the kitchen table. My foot throbbed from work and the walk home from the station. But slowly I was beginning to heal. I drank my tea in silence. The events of last year still played heavily on my mind, as did the secrets I could never tell.
Finishing my tea, I showered and got myself ready for bed. Before I could settle, I had to check outside. Stepping into the living room I pulled back the curtain and looked onto the street. It was quiet. Satisfied, I hobbled into the bedroom and did the same to look out back. Behind the flat was a small patch of woodland – which I had once adored. Now I wished they would pull all the trees down. Looking out there always made me feel uneasy. I knew I’d not settle if I didn’t. Again, quiet. I let the curtain go, and out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. Grabbing the curtain once more, I looked. Beside one of the tall hazel trees was a shape. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, another cracked ceiling moment. But the shape moved, and out stepped a person. A long, dark coat. Heavy boots. They raised a finger to their lips.
Shhhhh.
I panicked, stubbled backwards and fell onto my bed. Cursing, I got up and looked again – there was no one there. Whoever it was, if there had been anyone there at all, had vanished like a ghost.
But I didn’t believe in ghosts.