Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

  ‘Morning, Eva,’ she says as she sits down opposite her friend and takes off her jacket, placing it carefully over the back of the chair. ‘I think it’s time to talk now, don’t you?’

  27

  Eva

  Things didn’t go as planned, but then they never do, do they? Man makes plans and God smiles. That’s what Greta used to always say to me when I was younger. If things ever went awry and I got upset, she would stroke my hair and say it to me, soothing me with her calm, solid words that always made sense. She had an idiom for every occasion.

  The journey to my parents’ house had my stomach in knots. By the time I reached it, my entire intestinal system was doing somersaults while my heart did a fine job of trying to escape out of my body, bouncing around my ribcage and clawing its way up my throat.

  At one point, I even considered turning around and leaving but knew how pointless and silly such a move would be. After putting this much effort into finding them, after all these years, it would have been ridiculous. I was nervous; that’s all it was, and it’s understandable when you consider the circumstances. The fact I made it thus far is a feat in itself. Or at least that was what I kept telling myself as I marched up to the door with my heart in my mouth and knocked as hard as I could, so hard my knuckles burned and throbbed with the effort. I stood for a while, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, my shoulders so tense and rigid I had to rotate them to alleviate the pain that was setting in at the top of my spine.

  When it eventually opened, I thought I was going to pass out. Blood rushed to my head and I had to hold onto the doorpost to steady myself. It took a few seconds for it all to sink in. It was her standing there – the lady from the cabin in town. My mother, the fortune teller. I can’t even recall what my first words to her were. I’m pretty sure I shrieked and took a couple of steps back in shock.

  She led me inside, or I barged past her. I can’t quite remember how it all happened, but regardless, I ended up sitting in the living room trying to keep my anger in check. My initial shock quickly changed to fury. Those times she spoke to me – did she know who I was? And if she did, what did she think I was – some sort of doll she could tinker with? Somebody whose feelings didn’t count for anything? So many things rushed through my head while I waited for her to sit down and speak to me. This woman held the key to both my future and my past and didn’t seem to realise the damage she had done by just being who she was. I had already met her without realising it, and I felt stupid and deceived.

  The silence in the house was the first thing I noticed once she had placed her backside down on one of the chairs after pacing around the room nervously. It was eerily quiet. No ticking clocks, no creaking floorboards. Just a deathly silence. I broke it with my words.

  ‘You!’ Was all I could say over and over. ‘All this time and it was you!’

  She had nodded and at least had the good grace to look shamefaced. My voice was shrill and echoed around us. I didn’t care. I was furious and wanted her to know it. All my life I had waited for this moment; planned it, dreaded it, dreamt about it, and she ruined it by being somebody I didn’t want her to be.

  ‘So where’s your pathetic little familiar then? Gone into hiding, has she?’

  My stomach went into a spasm at the thought of seeing that child again. I didn’t think I could bear to hear her voice, to listen to the near truths that she comes out with.

  ‘Bella?’ my mother said sharply. ‘She’s one of the kids from up the road. I look after her sometimes when her mum goes to work. Got the gift she has,’ my mother said, tapping the side of her head conspiratorially. ‘She can read people better that any spiritualist I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few in my time.’

  ‘Or you tell her!’ I had shouted, thinking that she probably already knew it was me and had fed the child information. I was right all along; the pair of them were mocking me from the word go.

  ‘I tell her nothing,’ she replied frostily. ‘Like I said, she has a gift. Got a good little intuitive brain on her she has. She’ll go far in life.’

  I shook my head dismissively and turned away from her to indicate how idiotic her words sounded.

  ‘Anyway, forget about your stupid fortune telling nonsense. Where is he?’ I had added, my eyes scanning the room for my father. I wanted them both to hear what I had to say. Things get distorted and changed when there are no witnesses to hand. I didn’t want either of them twisting my words or trying to catch me out. They had the information I desperately craved and I had nothing. They were both one step ahead of me and I felt exposed, like a defenceless child again, discarded and unloved; standing on the outside looking in.

  She had stared at me, her eyes rheumy and puzzled.

  ‘My father!’ I had shouted, tears spilling over. ‘Where is he?’

  She had shaken her head and looked away while I waited for her response. I didn’t initially understand what she had meant and it had taken a couple of seconds to click. She just sat there shaking her head over and over. I watched as she bit at her lip and dipped her head as if in prayer.

  ‘When?’ My mind had been in near collapse at this point. How had I missed his death? All these years I had kept a close eye on them to make sure they didn’t move house and yet my own dad had died and I didn’t even pick up on it.

  ‘A few months ago,’ she had said quietly as she raised her head and looked away from me.

  A few months ago, when my relationship with Gareth was coming to a head. I had been preoccupied and had taken my eye off the ball. So thoughtless of me, so stupid and negligent. I had put so much effort into chasing a phoney fortune teller and a dead man. All that energy, all those years of waiting, wasted on this… this pathetic creature in her horrid little house.

  ‘How?’

  I have no idea why I asked. I don’t remember him and don’t even feel any sort of connection to him but it seemed like the right thing to say at the time. I just wanted information and was prepared to grasp at anything.

  She had sighed and rubbed at her eyes with her pale fingers. ‘Heart attack.’

  After that we had sat in silence for what felt like ages. It gave me time to gather my thoughts. I still had plenty to say, lots of questions that needed answering, and I wasn’t prepared to go until I had the information I needed.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked tightly. ‘You haven’t asked me anything at all.’

  She had nodded and I took this as a yes.

  ‘I’ve seen you out there a few times, standing looking in. I didn’t realise who you were the first time I saw you in town but then you’ve hung around here quite a bit and I just put two and two together, and then of course you look so much like Russ…’

  She was right. I had stood out there a few times trying to drum up enough courage to go in but never quite managed it. One time, shortly after I moved here, I had drunk a full bottle of wine and almost got to the door before turning round and leaving. I was a mess, close to some sort of breakdown, so with hindsight I’m relieved I never managed to go through with it.

  ‘Okay,’ I had said after a while, my chest tight with anxiety. ‘I’m going to come right out with this. I’ve spent all of my adult life with so many questions and now I would like some answers.’

  I watched as she slumped ever so slightly, her shoulders hunched and uneven. She looked different from the times I had seen her in town; older, less manicured. Tired and weary.

  ‘Why didn’t you come for me? I was taken into care and you made no attempts to get me back. Why?’

  My mouth was desert dry as I spoke, the words ragged and misshapen as they tumbled out of me. Thirty odd years they had been stuck in there, waiting to emerge, waiting to see the light of day.

  She had nibbled at her nails and stared down at her feet, at the stupid, bright pink slippers she was wearing, before answering. ‘You were better off where you were, believe me.’

  And that had been it. After all these years, all the waiting, all the feeling of re
jection and that was her stock answer. That was the best she could come up with. A rock-sized lump rose in my throat.

  It was all I could do to stop myself from shaking her. Did she have any idea of how lonely I had been over the years? Did she know or even care how much effort I had put into finding them and how insulted and unwanted I felt when I discovered I had a brother that they had decided to keep when I was left in care?

  ‘Better off?’ I had spluttered, my face rigid with disbelief and anger. ‘Better off? How the hell do you know that? You have no idea about me or my life! For all you know I could have been subjected to all kinds of abuse over the years.’

  ‘And were you?’ she said with a voice that betrayed no emotion whatsoever. ‘Were you subjected to any sort of abuse? Because if you had stayed here, I can give you a cast iron guarantee that you would have been abused enough for a hundred people.’

  I had felt myself go cold at that point, my skin prickling with horror at what I was about to hear. I had known making this visit would be opening a can of worms and listening to her voice, I could tell they were about to come slithering out.

  I had remained mute and watched her, willing her to continue. I wanted to hear it, every little bit of it, warts and all, no matter how indelicate or upsetting. I wanted every ghastly little detail.

  She didn’t disappoint.

  ‘I should have left him but… things get in the way, and we were… we were both good drinkers. Not something I’m proud of, but that’s how it was. Once I found out I was pregnant with you I hoped the violence would stop, but once you were born it actually got worse. It was you, you see…’ She turned to me and I saw then that tears were coursing down her face. I felt buoyed up. At least she cared enough to cry. It was better than hollow words thrown around the room with little or no feeling. ‘He had always wanted a lad and when you were born it gave him another reason to hate me. But he hated you more, I’m afraid, and nothing I could do would have ever changed that.’

  I had felt myself gasp at that point. All this time I had wondered if they missed me and thought about me. It had never once occurred to me that my own father might despise me. I had no words. She had plenty. It seemed that once she had started talking, she couldn’t stop.

  ‘Then one night it got really bad. He’d had too much. We both liked a drink but he’d gone right over the top. Been out drinking all day he had, and he had carried on into the early hours, knocking them back like there was no tomorrow. Still don’t know how he didn’t collapse or how his liver or kidneys didn’t give out. I think they became hardened to it over the years. Anyway, he had come home full of hell, shouting about how I should have given him a son and how a girl would just be a burden on him, having to constantly fork out for clothes and other unnecessary stuff for you, and about how there would be no money for your wedding when you got older and that all girls did was whine and cry and cost money. He just went on and on and wouldn’t give up saying you were a drain on him and had ruined his life.’

  She stared at me and I didn’t dare breathe in case she stopped speaking. I needed to hear it regardless of how bad it was. It was my early life, the formative years I have no memory of. This was it, in all its grit and glory. I had wanted the truth and by God, I was getting it.

  ‘So I tried to get away. I was scared that night. Really scared. Not like the other times when I gave as good as I got. He was particularly vicious that night, threatening to throw you out of the window while we slept.’

  I tried to hide my shock. It melted back into me, mixing in with the rest of the horrors I store deep inside my body, mingling in with the misery and confusion that runs through my veins making me who I am.

  ‘He caught me trying to get away in the middle of the night. I had you in front of me as he dragged me back. He pulled at you and I heard your arm crack…’ She stopped at that point and closed her eyes, breathing hard and placing her hand over her chest before going on. ‘I remember your screams. He was telling me to shut you up but of course I couldn’t. Your arm was broken. He gave me a good few whacks for not being able to quieten you down. I ran upstairs with you in my arms and looked for places to hide you. Then fortunately he fell asleep in a drunken heap on the floor. I dread to think what might have happened if he hadn’t, if he’d stayed awake and found you…’

  She stopped then. It was enough. We both knew it. Nothing more needed to be said. I had felt myself thanking God that he was actually dead or at that point I may have ended up killing him myself. I had visions of rushing into the kitchen, grabbing a sharp knife and plunging it deep into his mean hateful body. But then, that would make me as bad as him, wouldn’t it? Maybe I am. Who knows, maybe deep down there is a part of me that will always be evil, tainted by what has happened. Or it could be that it’s genetic and trying to escape it is futile. After all, look what I did to Gareth. So many unforgivable atrocious acts; such a terrible dysfunctional family. Perhaps we are all doomed and will never move on from this.

  We sat for what seemed like forever, each of us locked in our own enclave of misery, me thinking that I didn’t feel particularly fulfilled by her revelation but at least I now knew why I was abandoned, and my mother… I’m not entirely sure what was going through her head. I’m not sure I wanted to know. Her face was flushed and I could practically feel the heat as it had pulsed from her agitated body.

  I heard it first. My mother was too immersed in her own thoughts. For such a big old door, it made very little noise. I initially thought it was coming from somewhere out the back. I had heard children playing earlier and thought that it was just youngsters playing and being unruly. Until I heard it again. The hush in the house seemed to absorb the noise rather than accentuate it.

  I had reached over and poked Trish in the leg, rousing her from her trance-like state. ‘I think there’s somebody at your door.’

  She had sprung into action, like somebody who had spent their entire life on edge. The thought that it might be Gareth crossed my mind, but I was too upset and still in shock to think about it too deeply.

  What I didn’t expect was for it to be Celia.

  And now here she is, standing there, no trace of emotion in her expression, dressed like me, in my mother’s house. She must have followed me. Either that, or she has an amazing memory. I showed her where my parents lived once, many years back. She had insisted we stand and watch to see if anybody went in or out, which they didn’t. We ended up frozen half to death until eventually I suggested we leave. Celia threw a major tantrum on the way home, refusing to speak to me. To this day I still have no idea why she did that. If anybody should have been upset at not seeing them, it should have been me. I knew then that I had to start distancing myself from her. Her behaviour was too erratic, too unpredictable and quite frankly, too bloody scary for me to put up with. I’d had enough upset in my life and craved stability, not the impulsive sort of antics that Celia displayed time and time again.

  ‘Morning, Eva,’ she says calmly as she places her jacket over the back of the chair and sits down directly in front of me. ‘I think it’s time to talk now, don’t you?’

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. How dare she? I’m in awe of her confidence. She exudes power and authority out of every pore, marching in here, taking over and speaking to me in that accusatory tone like I am a small child about to be reprimanded for some terrible misdemeanour. Who the hell does she think she is? And more to the point, why is she even here?

  ‘And you are?’ my mother says in a tone that belies the weak woman she was just a few moments ago. She has regained her strength and is now a fair match for Celia and her false bravado. I wish I felt the same way. I feel sapped of all strength. This whole fucking thing has been a trauma. My throat is still sore as hell after Gareth almost choked me to death and the very sight of Celia makes me sick to the pit of my stomach. I have no idea why she is here but I do know that I want her to leave. Except I don’t think I have the strength to do it. I pray my mother will tell her to get
out, to tell her to leave here and never return.

  But she doesn’t.

  ‘I’m a close friend of Eva’s,’ Celia says softly and leans forward to place her hand over mine. Her skin is cold and scratchy like parchment. I snatch my hand away and watch as she glances over to my mother to see if she notices. My mother doesn’t appear to and instead sits down next to her, a bewildered expression on her face.

  ‘Eva’s?’ she says as she screws her eyes up and stares hard at Celia, her eyes roaming over Celia’s face. She scrutinises her features as she speaks. ‘How did you know Eva was here? Have you been following her?’

  I see Celia flinch at my mother’s words.

  ‘Following her? Don’t be silly! Why on earth would I do that?’ she replies with a forced conviviality that makes me want to vomit. ‘Eva and I are close friends. Very close friends.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ my mother says quietly, confusion wrinkling her brow.

  ‘Look, Celia,’ I say, desperate to keep my tone light and non threatening. ‘I know you’re trying to help here, but this is between me and my mother, so if you want to head back into town, perhaps I can meet up with you there later?’

  ‘Is there something going on?’ my mother asks, her voice laced with suspicion. ‘I’ve already had Gareth here today. This all seems a bit odd if you ask me.’

  I watch Celia’s eyes widen at my mother’s words. ‘Gareth?’ she shouts. Flecks of spittle fly out of her mouth and disperse in the air. My stomach churns as I see the look on her face. Celia spins around, taking in everything around her, scrutinising every little thing in the room. Her gaze rests on a photograph on the back wall. She narrows her eyes and looks at it for a long time before a darkness takes hold in her expression, twisting her features into something I don’t care for.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she murmurs quietly and although I have no idea what it is she has seen, I suddenly fear what she is about to say or do. I know Celia, you see. I know her all too well.