‘I’m worried about you too, Dad,’ I say.
‘Then go into town, treat yourself, and that will make me feel much better.’ He smiles. ‘Tell you what, let’s meet for lunch at Molly’s Café after my museum stint.’ He walks away, leaving the money on the table, and grabs his coat from the hook by the door. ‘I’d quite enjoy a heart-to-heart with my beautiful daughter.’
*
I retrieve my old bike from the garage, dust off the cobwebs and pump up the tyres, and begin my ride into town, careful to miss any icy patches as I go. It’s a bright chilly day, and the sight of open fields stretching for miles either side of me, and a clear blue sky, is uplifting. By the time I lock up my bike outside the Berwick Advertiser, my head has cleared and endorphins waken from what feels like a hundred-year sleep.
I stroll along the snow-free pavements of Marygate, heading for the salon I used to go to in my teens. Yes, I definitely feel lighter. Perhaps Dad was right: I needed to get out, do something for me.
It’s almost eleven when I push open the door of the salon. Sandy, the owner, who’s in her fifties, and sports short white hair and trendy red-framed glasses raises her hand. ‘Amelia,’ she calls. ‘I thought I saw your name in the appointment book. How lovely to see you.’ She doesn’t wait for a reply, goes on talking to her customer, whilst tonging the man’s blond tresses.
‘Take a seat,’ a young girl with a ready smile says, and I remove my jacket, and sit down next to the window. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee while you wait?’ The girl takes my jacket and hangs it on a hook near the door, ‘Sandy shouldn’t be long.’
‘I’m OK, but thank you.’
I take out my phone, and thumb through Facebook, then Instagram, though I’m barely taking in the posts, my mind far away. I’m finding the smell of hairspray, and perculating coffee; the sound of dryers humming, calming – normal; and the sun warming my face through the glass, comforting.
A sudden thump on the window shatters my peace, and my heart goes into overdrive. I’m clearly not as relaxed as I thought!
‘Hey, Mum,’ calls the young girl, waving at a woman in her forties who has pressed her nose against the window.
Oh God, my heartbeat won’t slow down and a fizz of anxiety pumps through my veins. I need to get out of here.
‘Right, what can we do for you today, Amelia?’ It’s Sandy, now beside me brandishing a comb and a pair of scissors, and I realise it’s too late to escape.
‘Just a trim, please,’ I say, my voice squeaky.
*
‘I was so sorry to hear about your mum,’ Sandy says, once the young girl has washed my hair. ‘And your sister too. Terrible. Terrible.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know how you’re coping.’
I’m not.
I should have known Sandy would mention them; but it’s too late. I’m here now, trapped beneath a hairdressing cape, frozen. Thank God she doesn’t know about the murders, Elise’s disappearance.
‘And I read about the murders too,’ she goes on. ‘What a nightmare.’
‘It’s been a difficult time,’ I say.
She sighs deeply, and takes hold of my shoulders, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. ‘I can imagine,’ she says, her voice syrupy smooth.
I want to tell her to stop. Stop or I’ll cry. I want to tell her this isn’t what I came here for – that I came here to forget.
As she combs through my wet hair, I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly, counting backwards in my head. But something’s taken over. Something I can’t control.
‘Listen, I’m not feeling too well,’ I say, pulling the towel from around my neck, and fumbling to untie the cape. I rise, the cape and towel falling to the floor, and race across the salon. I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. ‘I’m so sorry, Sandy. I’ve got to go.’
I rush out into the cool air, and hurry down the road, where I lean against a wall some distance away, unable to catch my breath.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ It’s an elderly woman, with a cute Yorkshire terrier tucked under her arm. It stares at me with brown velvet eyes, much like its owner’s. ‘You don’t look well.’
I gather my wits. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Honestly. It’s been a long day, that’s all, and it’s not even lunchtime.’ I try to laugh, and she chuckles.
‘Well as long as you’re all right, dear,’ she says, and goes on her way.
I look at my watch. I’m not meeting Dad for an hour. It’s not enough time to cycle home and come back, so I wander into Boots.
Feeling a little disorientated, my heart thumping far too fast, I meander up and down the aisles, breathing in the perfumes, scanning the shelves, buying nothing.
Managing to lose almost an hour in the store without getting accused of loitering, I finally step back out onto the pavement with a few minutes to kill before I meet Dad. I go to move away from the store when I see Julia – her long, patterned skirt flapping her ankles, her phone pinned to her ear.
I look about me, remembering Rosamund saying Finn was staying with her. But it seems she’s alone.
She takes quick steps down the other side of the road. Then, as though seeming to sense me here, glances my way. I duck back into the shop doorway. I don’t want to talk to her – fear what she might say.
‘It would have been murder if he’d died, Amelia. I saw the blood on you when you arrived at the farmhouse that night. It was his blood, wasn’t it?’
She slows her pace, and shuffles
