Back in the car, her hair smelling of cigarette smoke, Joanna checks her mobile for messages before driving away. She sees she has one through Facebook. From Kyle Norris. It’s short, concise, but what he has to say lifts her spirits: Are you in London? I’d be happy to meet up, would make me feel better to have the chance to talk it through with you too; and as a P.S. he gave Joanna his number.
She presses the number into her phone before reversing out of the parking space along Liz and Ian’s street and driving away. Out on the main road, heading towards Witchwood, she activates the call, her heart thumping.
‘Hi … hello … hello . Is that Kyle. Kyle Norris?’
‘Hi, yeah, that’s me.’
‘Oh, this is, um … it’s Joanna Peters calling. You messaged me, I’m Caroline Jameson’s sister.’
‘Hi, Joanna.’ He sounds nice, it immediately puts her at ease. ‘Thanks for calling me. Are you in London, then?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not.’
‘Oh, shame,’ he says. ‘It would’ve been nice to meet up.’
‘Are you okay for us to talk on the phone – I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘No. Cool. Great,’ Kyle assures. ‘Look, I’m so sorry about what happened to your sister, it must be awful.’
‘Thank you, Kyle, but it must have been pretty awful for you too. It’s why I wanted to speak to you … I want to explain.’
‘Just wrong place, wrong time,’ he chips in lightly.
‘That’s the thing, Kyle, it wasn’t as straightforward as that. Me and my sister, we’ve not been in touch with each other for years … I don’t want to bore you with all that, but I need to try and explain her state of mind to you. She was suffering from mental health problems, and although she was having treatment for it, she’d sort of been neglectful of it lately. And the thing is, Kyle, seeing your photo on your Facebook page, I’m afraid, looking like you do – and you’re a nice-looking guy, I don’t mean it that way.’ A jittery laugh. ‘I think, in her state of mind, I can see how she would have mistaken you for someone she was, for whatever reason, very frightened of.’
‘Wow, really ?’ A beat. ‘Well, they do say we’ve all got a double, don’t they?’ Kyle sounds philosophical. ‘It was obvious she had some sort of problem with me from her reaction. So, that’s what it was? Wow. Weird things happen, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and I’m really sorry you got caught up in it all. I didn’t want you to think my family and I thought you were in any way to blame. You were just unfortunate, looking like you do … and I wanted to find out if you were okay? Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m doing all right. I’ve been offered counselling and stuff, but I’m not really into all that … I feel bad about your sister, I wish I could have done something, you know, saved her.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you would have if it had been possible. But, well … after everything that happened, it’s really good of you to say these things.’ What a lovely guy, she thinks. ‘I’m so glad we had the chance to talk.’
‘Me too,’ he tells her. ‘But are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, I’m getting on with things. You have to, don’t you?’
‘Well, please accept my condolences, and um … we’ll keep in touch, yeah? Maybe when you’re next in London, we could meet up?’
‘That’d be nice, yes. Yes, we’ll do that.’
‘Okay, bye for now then.’ Kyle, drawing their conversation to a close.
‘Yes, bye then. Look after yourself, won’t you?’
‘You too,’ he says, ending the call.
Joanna had forgotten how this far-flung part of Gloucestershire, butting up to Wales, felt about as removed as it could be from the golden glamour of the Cotswolds. Leaving behind the gentle sweep of vast agricultural fields, she and the panting Buttons – daft as a puppy and strapped into the front seat like a proper passenger – follow a signpost for Witchwood, when the road suddenly dips, snaking down into a tight tunnel of trees. Unsettled and tense since deciding to make this trip, her sense of foreboding intensifies on her approach to the village; she had hoped things would be all right, but now she’s here, she isn’t so sure. Was this a good idea? Should she have waited for Mike? This is one spooky place. Joanna, responding to the darkening atmosphere with an adult’s perspective from the driving seat of her Audi, has none of the excitement she experienced when seeing it for the first time as a nine-year-old. The lane is only just wide enough for the car, and overgrown shrubbery scrapes against its sides. High and tangled, the verges are still cloaked in winter, although there is some evidence of spring: with snowdrops on the wane, clusters of daffodils bob among the stiffened briar and scrub; but it does nothing to lift her deepening unease.
A bend in the road, and there it is. Looking just as it did all those years ago, except without the jungle of greenery remembered as a child – Witchwood’s giant custodians of beech and oak are now bare. She switches off the stereo, cuts Eric Coates’ ‘Bird Songs at Eventide’ mid-surge, and takes a sharp right turn. The clicking indicator loud in the silence, as the generous bouquet of roses and box of chocolates bought for Mrs Hooper slam against the side of the passenger footwell. Gritting her teeth, fearing they’ll be damaged, she passes the pub, slows to look through to the beer garden, and sees a family kicking a ball through a carpet of last year’s leaves. She hears their collective laughter, the squeals of joy from toddlers who teeter about on new-found legs. But she can’t bear to go near it, it’s still too sad, too raw, even with its newish sign depicting a huge oak tree and the names of different licensees above the door.
She then sees Frank Petley, fixing a poster to the inside of his shop window. Slightly stooped and wearing what could be the same worn-out shop coat, his hair, although almost white, is styled in the same greasy way. The sight of him makes her toes curl inside her leather boots. Speaking to him on the phone to ask for Liz and Ian’s number was one thing, but actually seeing him, yuk ; the man always gave her the creeps. She drives on past the shop, even though it’s highly unlikely Frank Petley would recognise her – she was only little when last here – Joanna’s still wary, and took care to give her name as Mrs Peters when she rang him.
She pulls up at the kerb, engine running, to stretch down to save the roses from further damage. A sharp rapping on the passenger-side window. A faceless black shape pressed against it. The dog collar gives him away.
‘Reverend.’ She leans over Buttons, drops the window to greet him. Older and greyer, he’s as fit as he ever was.
‘Oh, it’s Joanna, isn’t it? I recognise you from your CD covers. Lillian said you were coming – how marvellous to see you again.’ Timothy Mortmain, ignoring the inquisitive snout of her chocolate Labrador.
Joanna swings her legs out of the car and fastens her coat against the chilly wind.
‘I was so terribly sorry … ’ The vicar pauses. ‘To hear what happened to your sister. It must have been terrible for you. I know what an upsetting ordeal it was for Kyle,’ he says, then immediately covers his mouth as if wanting to push the words back in.
‘Upsetting for Kyle ?’ Joanna frowns as she tugs her curls into a ponytail. ‘What? You know him?’
‘Oh . Oh, my dear – I thought Lillian had told you?’ he flounders, steps away.
‘Told me what? No, she hasn’t. She hasn’t told me anything.’
‘I … erm … I think you best speak to her.’ And he’s gone. Surprisingly agile for a man of his age, it is with a sinister tinkle of the bell that he disappears inside the shop.