Glad to have thought of something positive to do, I Google architects in Cirencester on my phone. There’s only one firm in the local area: Anthony Green and Co., and I scroll through their website, looking at the profiles of the people who work there. But there’s no Luke. He could be new to the firm, I reflect. Maybe they haven’t had time to add him to the website, or perhaps he works somewhere else, like Tewkesbury. That is where we met him, after all. But a brief search of architects in Tewkesbury doesn’t yield any results either.
Disappointed and frustrated, I head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of peppermint tea. While I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I empty Dylan’s lunch bag and tip out the empty crisp packet and the half-eaten carrot inside. Then I open his book bag and rummage through. He has a reading book, Fat Frog, and a reading record book. Mrs Bailey has written inside: ‘Fabulous reading, Dylan. Practise the tricky word “the”’ and she has added a silver sticker with a smiley face. Tucked neatly inside the reading book, there’s a sealed blue envelope with nothing written on the front and a folded-up picture Dylan has drawn of me, Theo, Delilah and him. We’ve got circular bodies and randomly placed stick limbs and we’re all smiling. One happy family. I feel a twinge of guilt, swiftly followed by anger at Theo. That’s what our family should look like, I think. It’s his fault it doesn’t, not mine. I attach the picture to the fridge with a magnet. Then I tear open the envelope.
Inside is a printout of a photograph on white A4 paper. No words. No explanation. Just a picture of a children’s playground – an artistic shot in black and white, oddly angled upwards so that the sky dominates the picture. Rows of rippling grey fish-scale clouds and an ominously looming sycamore above a climbing frame.
There’s something familiar about the shape of the climbing frame. And when I examine the picture more closely, I realise that it’s similar, if not identical to the climbing frame in the Abbey Grounds park. But what’s it doing in Dylan’s book bag? Is it a kind of homework or did someone put it there by mistake?
Another picture of the park like the message on my Facebook page. It’s strange and unnerving, but I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Eight
My sleep is punctured by dark, disturbing dreams. Sharp, horrific images of Charlie blaze through my mind, lit in lurid, searing detail: Charlie crying and whimpering, snot mixing with her tears, her hands stretched in front of her as she makes a futile attempt to ward off her killer; Charlie lying lifeless on the kitchen floor, red blood blooming on her white pyjama top. In my dream, someone bends over to check her pulse and suddenly her eyes fly open like in a horror movie. Then, slowly, she stretches out a quivering hand and makes a gurgling sound in her throat. She’s struggling to say something. ‘M . . . mm . . .’ she chokes out, as the blood trickles over her lips.
‘What is it, Charlie?’ Someone says. Is it me?
She lifts her head and stares straight into my eyes with such hatred it sucks the air out of my lungs.
‘Mm . . . mm . . . Murderer!’ she rasps.
I jerk awake, swimming in sweat. There’s a piercing pain behind my right eye and my throat is dry. Climbing out of bed, I stumble into the bathroom and take a couple of Nurofen and a sleeping pill. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I realise I must have forgotten to take out my contact lenses last night and they are now stuck to my eyes. When I finally manage to extract them, they pop out with so much suction that for one second, I think my eyeballs are going to come with them. I rub my red eyes and gaze at my blurry image in the mirror. A feeling of guilt and unease gnaws at my belly.
‘You just need some sleep,’ I tell myself. ‘All of this won’t seem so bad in the morning.’ So I crawl back to bed and lie with a cold flannel to my forehead, trying to keep completely still. Eventually, I drop off into a deep and unbroken sleep until I’m woken by the shrill shriek of my alarm.
After dropping Dylan off at school, I take the long route home through the Abbey Grounds, partly to avoid a group of mothers standing on the corner, but also because I want to see if the photo in Dylan’s book bag really was taken there or if it’s my imagination.
The park is nearly empty. There are just a few dog walkers doing the circuit of the lake. Everything is damp from the rain last night and there is a low mist hanging over the still, grey water, lending the day an other-worldly feeling. Just the sort of morning when Molly and her ghostly friends would be out and about, I think. Through habit, I try to memorise the scene so that I can describe it accurately in my writing as I head over the small footbridge, past the grass-covered remains of the ancient Roman wall, towards the play area.
I stop just inside the fence and, taking out my phone, crouch opposite the climbing frame and take a snap. Then, I sit on the metal bench, and shielding the screen so I can see clearly, I compare the two photos – the one I’ve just taken, and the one I found in Dylan’s book bag.
I suck in my breath in surprise. I didn’t really expect to be proved right, but the resemblance is uncanny – undeniable. That sycamore tree is in the
