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“He’s the father of the twins I mentioned earlier. That’s where they were staying apparently. This summer.”
There’s a strange silence, which Jessica leaves to play out deliberately.
“Well,” says Debra, “that was nice of him, to let you have a tour. What’s it like, his house?”
“Yeah. Kinda quirky. Kinda grand. Kinda spooky. He thinks it’s haunted.”
“Oh, does he?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well,” says Debra crisply. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?”
“No,” says Jessica. “I believe in a hell of a lot of things. But not in ghosts.”
“When you’re dead, you’re dead,” says Debra. “Don’t you think?”
“Yup. I certainly do. At least, I hope so!” She laughs dryly at her own attempt at humor, but then glances at Belle and notices a strange look on her face, as if she wants to say something, but cannot find the words. The atmosphere has become taut and slightly edgy. Something’s changed and Jessica’s not sure what.
Then Debra pushes back her chair and says, “I must say, it’s been very nice having some company, even if it was somewhat unexpected, but Belle and I should probably be getting on with things now.”
“You’ve been very hospitable,” says Jessica, mirroring Debra’s action and pushing back her own chair. “Thank you so much for the delicious food. It’s been a while since I had a home-cooked meal like that.”
“Well, you’re not being looked after properly, are you?”
Jessica stops and looks at Debra. “I’m sorry?”
“Sorry,” says Debra. “I get notions about people. And I just feel like someone should be looking after a nice girl like you, and they’re not.” She smiles and it’s oddly warm, almost unnervingly maternal.
Jessica feels a swoop in the pit of her belly and returns a stiff smile. She grabs her jacket and points toward the front door. “How do I get to the front entrance? I kind of came in the side way.”
“Oh yes, just follow the path from the driveway to the left, then you’ll reach a small copse. Cut through it, veer right over the bridge, and rejoin the driveway there. Then it’s about another two minutes.”
“Great! Thanks. And good to meet you both. I’m in town for a few more days, so maybe I’ll bump into you in the village?”
“Oh, I doubt it. We don’t get out much.” Debra says this with another warm smile, but, still, her words leave Jessica with a chill in her gut.
Jessica leaves the ramshackle house and sets off through the overgrown grounds. A moment later she hears footsteps behind her, and turns at the sight of Belle, running to catch up.
“Hi!” she says. “Thought I should guide you, make sure you don’t get lost.” She casts a small glance in the direction of the house as she says this. And then they walk in silence for a while, a sharp breeze whipping at their hair, the only sound that of the dogs sniffing and panting behind them.
Suddenly Belle turns to Jessica, her hands deep in the pockets of her military-style coat, her cheeks flushed with color. She stares hard into Jessica’s eyes.
“Please,” she says, “tell me—am I real?”
Twelve years ago
Portsmouth, Hampshire, UK
After work the next day, Polly catches the bus to the chalet park at the other end of Eastney Beach. Her memories of the layout of the park are vague. She hasn’t been here since she was sixteen, but she remembers a central area, like a small roundabout with a stone sundial at the center, and gravel tracks that radiate out from there in various directions. She remembers that she and her ex would go straight across this roundabout in his car and that the dealers’ chalet was halfway up, with a sharply obscured view of the sea, just before a curve in the road.
And then there it is, right in front of her, just as she remembers it. Heavily curtained, unkempt. Could it be possible, she wonders, that those feckless boys who once supplied half of Portsmouth’s year 10s with weed still live here?
She knocks on the familiar door and hears a gruff voice. “Yo. Who’s that?”
“It’s Polly, I used to go out with Jordan Brown?”
“Polly?”
