The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (10 page)

I shake my head.

Piers leaves me and my vodka-induced vomit, his footsteps receding down the stairs. After throwing up once more, my head clears a little and the room stops spinning. I still feel the urge to laugh, thinking how I’ve discovered the key to getting rid of my boyfriend – a pile of unglamorous puke. Maybe Piers will be so disgusted he’ll leave me for good.

Chapter Sixteen

I wake with a start. It’s dark. I must have finally fallen asleep on the sofa. I remember clearing up vomit and then scrubbing at the carpet – which is probably ruined now. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, a sour taste lingering. Further images of my hellish day flash up in my mind. My sister’s sneering face, my mum’s tears, the house stuffed with strangers and their pitying gazes, Piers’ disgusted expression.

I feel like I should stir myself. Get up and go to bed. But what if Piers is down there? I can’t face him. He’ll want to sleep with me and I realise the thought repulses me. But, all the same, it’s a little creepy up here, alone in the lounge, in the dark with the French windows open, the curtains billowing.

There are no sounds now but the sigh of the river and the boats gently knocking together. I should close the balcony doors, it’s not safe to leave them open overnight – anyone could climb up and walk in.

I must have spooked myself, because now I fancy I see a shape out there. It looks like a person, but it can’t be. It’s surely just my imagination. I should get up off the sofa and close the doors. The hairs on my neck and arms prickle, rising up, a warning of danger. I’m rooted to the sofa. I swear the shape is moving, walking towards me. I want to scream, but my mouth won’t open, my throat doesn’t work. I don’t dare even swallow.

It’s not my imagination. It’s real. There’s someone out on the balcony, coming closer. A woman. The same woman I saw in my dream. She’s out there and she’s angry. Coming for me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her. Slowly, slowly she walks into the room. It’s too dark to make out her features. Just her silhouette. If she ran at me it would be better, it would spur me to action, to scream and run, to lash out. But her steady pace has immobilised me. I know her, but I don’t know her. I can’t think straight. Her grim expression pins me to the spot.

She’s not here to talk.

My stomach lurches in terror and I finally find the muscles I need to open my mouth and scream . . .

My eyes fly open.

There’s no one here.

I didn’t utter a sound, but my mouth is open. I close it.

My heart is pounding, my body slick with perspiration.

It was a dream. Just a dream. I’m in the lounge, but there is no woman. There’s no one here but me. Just me, in a sweat-soaked nightmare. I lurch to my feet and stumble across to the balcony, closing the French windows with a bang and a shudder of fear. My heart is beating loud enough to wake the neighbours. I have to get out of this room. It’s freaking me out. I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t help thinking anyone could be in here, hiding in the shadows, behind the sofa or pressed up against the wall behind the curtains. Watching. Waiting. I’m desperate to run back down the stairs to my bedroom – I don’t care if Piers is there or not.  I’m going downstairs to my bed where I will sleep with the lights on and the windows closed.

If I can sleep at all.

I don’t feel too bad this morning, considering how monumentally awful the weekend was. I spent most of yesterday in bed trying not to think about anything other than what the best cure for a hangover is, and how many paracetamol it’s safe to take without straying into overdose territory. But, the worst thing was the constant flashbacks to my nightmare which punctuated the whole day. The feelings of terror stayed with me all through my waking hours and into the night. It’s the second time I’ve dreamt about that woman, and I’m praying it will be the last.

Piers left sometime yesterday. We barely said two words to each other all day. I think he wanted me to apologise to him for daring to vomit in his presence. I’m also pretty sure he expected me to be more grateful for the party he arranged. But, as I was barely coherent for most of the day, the most he got out of me was: ‘I’m not very good company, you should go home.’ To which he didn’t reply.

Now, I’m on my way to the rowing club, walking briskly. It’s early, but I couldn’t lie around in bed this morning. Despite everything that went wrong over the weekend, I’m more positive today, full of a nervous energy that I need to make use of. I don’t know if Jack will be there, but I hope so. I want to get out on the water. I need to do something active. Something other than exploring the disaster my life used to be.

Apart from a guy jogging on the far side of the green, oversized headphones clamped to his ears, I appear to be the only person out here. The sun hangs low in the sky, peeping out from a stand of trees on the opposite bank. It’s early, so the air is fresh and cool, the scent of damp grass and earthy river making me think of more primaeval times, although the August sun will soon suck all the moisture from the ground – it’s going to be another hot one today.

Rummaging around in my wardrobe earlier, I found a shelf with a collection of Lycra shorts, leggings, tops and fleeces. I assumed this must be my rowing gear, so I picked out a pair of navy shorts, a t-shirt and a lightweight tracksuit top. Not sure I’ll need the tracksuit, but I don’t know how cold it will feel out on the river.

I glance at my watch. Only six twenty. I’m way too early. Jack said he normally goes out at seven. That’s okay, I don’t mind if I have to wait. I pass the playground and round the bend, crossing the narrow concrete slipway. My pulse quickens in anticipation. I’m nervous about doing this . . . and about seeing Jack again. He was nice to me last time I came here. Easy-going. Friendly. I hope he won’t mind me showing up.

The metal shutters to the boat store are raised. Someone must be here. I hesitate, not wanting to walk inside or call out. I don’t know why I feel so nervous. I stand on the path, waiting for someone to appear, wondering if I look as awkward and uncomfortable as I feel, twirling the end of my ponytail and shifting from foot to foot. I should probably be doing some warm up exercises, but I’m too self-conscious.

Voices float out from inside the boatshed. Female voices. My awkwardness vanishes. I’m disappointed that it’s not Jack. Two young women emerge, carrying a boat between them, over their shoulders. They lay it on two stands which have already been set up on the shingle. The women can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Tall and slim, wearing similar clothing to me, but with flip flops, baseball caps and shades. Items I realise I should have brought with me.

‘Hey,’ one of them says to me with a smile. ‘You going out?’

‘I’m waiting for Jack Harrington,’ I say. ‘Is he here yet?’

‘Jack?’ She glances at her watch. ‘He should be here soon. You got a lesson?’

‘Not a scheduled one. Just hoping he’s free.’

‘Okay.’ She smiles again.

I sit on one of the oversized rocks that punctuate the edge of the path, and watch the girls as they prepare to go out, hoping to pick up tips. Strangely, it’s a ritual that seems familiar. I actually recognise what they’re doing, and I also know the name of the equipment they’re using. Maybe, being here will trigger something and I’ll have a real memory. Something that will help me remember who I am.

I turn my head as an Audi Estate pulls into the car park next to the clubhouse. It’s Jack.

With a splash, the girls are finally on the water, pulling away quickly.

Jack gets out of his car and raises his hand in a wave. I can’t tell if it’s to me or the girls in the water, but I wave back anyway. He closes his car door and locks it with a beep and a flash of lights.

‘Hey, Mia. Coming out?’

‘If that’s okay?’

‘Course.’ He walks my way, his Reefs crunching over the loose gravel. He’s wearing jersey shorts, frayed at the edges, a Club t-shirt and wraparound sunglasses. ‘Want to go in a double?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. I’m pretty sure he’s referring to a boat that will take two of us.

‘No,’ he says, stuffing his car keys into his gym bag. ‘Let’s take out two singles instead. I’m betting you can remember what to do.’

We get the boats out in companionable silence. Jack was right – I do know what to do. It feels like second nature, leaving the shore and following him out into the centre of the river, leaving our footwear lying exposed on the bank. It’s calm and quiet out here, just the water buffeting the splash guard and the warm breeze rippling over my skin. After ten minutes or so, I feel the tingle of blisters forming on the fleshy pads beneath my fingers. I realise that rowing is how I must have got the callouses on my palms.

‘That’s it, Mia,’ Jack calls out from in front. ‘Keep your back straight, and push down with your legs.’

I do as he instructs, and feel the boat surge. ‘Thanks!’ I reply.

We pass the sailing club, and the cluster of mews houses where I live. I’m too busy concentrating on my stroke to look out for my house. Soon, the river widens out into the harbour. There are fewer boats moored up and it feels like we’re heading into a more natural habitat. Just the river bordered by thick hedges and trees – poplars, willows and evergreens – the sky above us and the water below.

This is just what I need to clear my head. My heart pumping, my muscles burning.

‘Had enough yet?’ Jack calls out.

‘No way.’

Although I seem to know what I’m doing, I still feel the need to concentrate. I’m scared of falling in – aside from the embarrassment, the river is dark below, and I’m betting it’s cold and deep, infinite. I wonder if this is where I capsized last week. I shake off the thought. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m out with a friend – an experienced coach. I’ll be fine. But I can’t repel the sense of unease that’s creeping over me. My eyes are drawn by the inky darkness, wondering if this is the spot where I went into the water. Questions assail me. Did I tip in suddenly? Was I scared? Was I alone, struggling to reach the bank? Or was someone with me? Was it really just an accident? How did I end up on Southbourne Beach? It seems strange that I was swept all the way downriver into the bay. Did I manage to swim all that way?

I imagine myself thrashing and flailing, struggling for breath. I could so easily have been taken under by the strong currents. Pulled into the murky depths. Sucked down by the greedy ocean.

‘Mia . . . Mia, are you okay?’ Jack’s voice breaks through my panic. I hear him as though from a long way away. It’s like my ears are blocked with water. Almost as if I’m down there, straining to hear through the rippling layers of the river. I’m breathing too shallowly. Unable to catch my breath, like a repeating rhythm I can’t break out of. Rasping. Gasping. My fingers tingling. My head tight and woozy. Am I about to faint like I did the other night?

‘Mia, don’t let go of the blades. I don’t want you going in.’

I hear Jack’s voice and tighten my grip, my blades hanging heavy in my hands. His face comes into focus.

‘It’s okay, Mia,’ he says. ‘You’re safe. I’m here with you.’ His face blurs again. ‘Look at me.’ I do as he says and refocus on him. His eyes are concerned, gentle. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Drink this.’ He throws his water bottle into my boat and it lands below my seat. I manage to take both blades in one fist and retrieve the bottle with trembling hands. ‘You might have a touch of heatstroke,’ he says. ‘That sun is already pretty strong.’

As the chilled water passes my lips, I begin to feel a little less dizzy and panicked. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just dehydrated.

‘How are you feeling now?’ he asks. ‘Any better?’

A flash of green water and rising bubbles. The pull of the darkness. The river in my lungs. And then, I’m suddenly back in the sunshine. Tugged into the present once more. With Jack. With the friendly blue of the sky above, and the rustle of the trees around us. The comforting sounds of the morning now clear and defined. The air has lost that muffled quality and I no longer feel like I’m underwater.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what happened.’

I see relief on Jack’s face, a concerned smile. ‘You look much better,’ he says. ‘I was really worried for a moment. You looked so out of it, like you were going to pass out. Do you want to get out now? We can walk back and I can pick up the boats later.’

‘No, I’ll be fine. I might have to take it a bit easier on the way back, though.’ I’m starting to feel a little foolish for getting so freaked out. I’m not sure what just happened. It was as though I was in another time and place for a few moments. A dark, scary time and place. What must Jack think of me?

‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘You shouldn’t overdo it. Not with heatstroke.’

‘Honestly, I’m okay. That drink of water really helped. Just got a little dehydrated,’ I lie.

He’s frowning at me. Chewing his lip. I pity the poor man having to put up with me being such a drama queen. I smile to let him know I’m really okay. ‘I promise, I’m absolutely fine now.’ I start moving off, turning my boat around, so Jack has to follow.

When we get back, the clubhouse looks busier, with groups of rowers out front, and the car park filling up. My legs are jelly once we’re back on land, and I don’t think it’s anything to do with my level of fitness. We don’t have to put our boats away, as there are more rowers waiting to take them out. A few people greet me by name. I smile and say hello, but thankfully they don’t ask me about the accident or my memory. I don’t think I could handle any questions from strangers right now.

Jack and I stand a little awkwardly on the path by the boat shed.

‘Shall I walk you back home?’ he asks. ‘Or, if you want company, we could get some breakfast? I don’t have to be at work till later today.’