The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (13 page)

After the bridge, we cross a few busy roads and find ourselves on the opposite side of the river to the rowing club. We pass a café, a kids’ crazy golf course and a playground. Further along, it’s quieter. More rural. There’s no footpath, just the grassy river bank. Consequently, there are no people this far up. Just a few ducks and geese swimming alongside us to check whether we have any food for them.

‘Where do you want to sit?’ Jack asks.

‘Anywhere’s good,’ I reply.

‘Shade or sun?’

‘Sun.’

Jack stops walking. ‘Here?’

I nod, and we sit facing the river, our legs stretched out in front of us. Jack opens the carrier bag and plunges his hand in, pulling out my feta salad, followed by a bottle of water and a BLT for him. His hand brushes mine as he passes me my food. I’m all too aware of my body, my crush still plaguing me. I wish I could shake it off.

‘Not a bad spot,’ he says, taking a bite of his sandwich.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I agree.

We sit in silence for a while. Eating, gazing at the river. It’s peaceful. This morning’s breeze has died away, and I shrug off my cardigan, enjoying the sun’s warmth on my arms. My salad is delicious. I hadn’t thought I was that hungry, but now I wish I’d bought more food.

‘I’m stuffed,’ Jack says, putting his empty sandwich packet back in the bag. He pats his stomach. ‘Possibly not the best lunch to have before a 5k row.’

‘What time’s your session?’

‘Not for another hour.’

‘How did you get into rowing?’ I ask, pulling up fistfuls of grass and letting the blades fall through my fingers.

‘Me and my sister did it as kids. She stopped, I carried on. Started studying for my coaching qualifications when I was in my early twenties. I love it. Wouldn’t want to do anything else.’

‘Do you think, maybe, I could train to be a coach? I’ve been thinking I need to do something, and rowing is the only thing I seem to enjoy.’

‘Yeah, why not.’ He turns to me and nods. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’

‘Could I pick your brain sometime? Find out the best way to go about it?’

‘Sure. I’ll come over some time and we’ll check out a few courses online.’

‘Amazing. Thank you!’

‘You’re welcome.’ He gives me a smile, and holds my gaze longer than he needs to, his eyes softening into something else. But I won’t make the same mistake I did last time. No. If Jack wants to take this further, he’ll have to make the first move.

As the water from the shower pounds my body, I can’t help smiling. It’s funny how things can turn around in such a short space of time. At last, I have something exciting to aim for, to work towards. Maybe now I can put the accident behind me and become a normal person again. I hope so. Even if I never regain my memory, I can still have a good life.

After our picnic today, Jack went off to his coaching session. Nothing romantic happened between us, but I have the feeling that it’s only a matter of time. I can sense an undeniable spark between us. I don’t blame Jack for holding back. He’s just come out of a long-term relationship, and I don’t want to end up being his rebound. I want to be more than that.

I’m enjoying the hot water as it cleanses me, my legs ache pleasantly, and my feet tingle. I’m looking forward to a glass of wine on the balcony. I turn off the shower and smooth my soaking hair from my face, squeezing the excess water from the ends. Inside the shower cubicle, steam envelops me. I open the glass door and give a little shiver as the cooler air hits my body. I grab a towel from the shelf and wrap it around me. Then, I take another and begin drying my hair. I think I’ll blow dry it for a change tonight.

I open the door to the en suite and step into my bedroom.

‘Here she is.’ A slurred voice freezes me in my tracks.

I scream.

Someone is sitting on the end of my bed.

Chapter Twenty One

‘What the fuck, Piers!’

‘Had a nice shower, did you? Getting yourself all tarted up for your new boyfriend?’

‘What are you doing here? How the hell did you get in? You gave me your keys.’

Bloody Piers has broken into my house. And by the look of him, he’s absolutely blind drunk, sitting – or rather, swaying – on the end of my bed, staring at me through glazed eyes.

‘Got another set haven’t I.’ He’s tapping himself on the forehead with his forefinger to indicate that he’s done something clever.

‘Well, you can give them back, and get the hell out. You scared me to death.’

‘That was the idea, stupid.’ He grins.

‘It’s not funny. Please leave.’

‘Erm . . . No.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ I mutter. He’s totally shitfaced. How am I going to get rid of him? ‘Let me get dressed and then we can talk.’

‘Go ahead, get dressed.’ He flings his hand out, gesturing to me to carry on.

‘I’m not getting changed with you in here. If you won’t leave the house, then at least go upstairs and wait for me.’ If he leaves the bedroom, I can call the police while he’s up there. Get them to come and kick him out.

‘Nothing I haven’t seen before, babe,’ he says with a leer.

‘For Christ sake, Piers, what are you even doing here?’ I pull my towel closer around me.

‘I saw you.’ He’s pointing at me, his finger outstretched, waggling up and down accusingly.

‘Saw me?’ I’m confused. ‘Saw me where?’

‘Saw you at the pub with
him
. With Jack
Wankington
from the rowing club. Looking all cosy together.’

‘So? We went for a drink. So what?’

‘He’s married, you know. Bet he didn’t remind you of that.’

‘He did, actually. And I can go for a drink with whoever I like. You and I aren’t together anymore, Piers.’

‘
You and I aren’t together anymore, Piers
,’ he mimics. ‘Bitch.’ He stands up. ‘Did you shag him?’

‘It’s none of your business, but no. I told you, we’re just friends.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Believe what you want.’

He’s glowering at me. My brain is racing, trying to work out if Piers could be dangerous. I’m pretty sure he’s harmless, but I can’t be certain.

The curtains to my bedroom are closed, but the French windows are open. If I screamed loudly enough, would anyone hear me? Would they come and help? What if I screamed and no one came?

‘Piers, please can you leave. You’re scaring me.’

‘Good! You deserve it.’ He lurches to his feet and takes a couple of steps towards my dressing table, lifts the lid off my Art Deco glass jewellery box, and places it carefully down on the table top. He takes out a bead necklace, holds it up and stares at it, then drops it deliberately onto the carpet. Next, he takes out a bracelet and drops that onto the floor, too. One by one, he lifts out pieces of my jewellery and watches them fall onto the carpet. I have no idea what he’s doing, but maybe I can make an escape while he’s occupied. I glance at the door. ‘You hurt me, Mia,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘But you did.’

He picks up the half-empty glass jewellery box and hurls it at the bank of wardrobes to my right. As it smashes into pieces, I feel a sharp pain next to my eye. A fragment must have ricocheted and hit me. But I can’t worry about that now. I have to get away from him. He’s throwing all the contents of my dressing table at the wardrobes now. My hairbrush, mirror, hairdryer, a candle in a glass jar. With each item he smashes, he accompanies it with an insult. ‘Bitch! Whore! Slut!’

I sidle towards the door, but before I can get there, Piers strides over to me and grasps my upper arm painfully. ‘Where do you think you’re going? We haven’t finished talking yet.’

‘Let go,’ I hiss. ‘You’re hurting me.’ His fingers are digging in. Crushing. Bruising.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘It’s less than you deserve. I hate you.’ he leans in towards me, his face up so close I can smell the whiskey on his breath, mingled with sweat and aftershave, feel flecks of saliva on my face as he raves. ‘You know, I was glad you lost your memory,’ he says. ‘I was happy because it meant we could start over again.’ He swipes at his eyes with his free hand. ‘I didn’t
have
to come and claim you, you know. I could easily have left you there.’

His odd choice of words cuts through my fear, piquing my curiosity. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my voice quavering. ‘Claim me?’

‘I mean,’ he says, thrusting his face even closer to mine, so our foreheads touch. ‘I mean, that after your accident I should never have come back.’ He lets go of my arm and pushes me away. ‘I should’ve left you in the hospital to rot. But, I did the decent thing and identified you. I took you back, more fool me.’

I take a step back, letting his words sink in. ‘When you say you “took me back”, you’re not talking about when you took me back home, are you?’

He’s looking sheepish now, as though he’s let something slip. Said something he shouldn’t have. He moves away from me. Peels back the curtains and stares out of the open windows at the gathering darkness. He has finally calmed down. His anger has been replaced by . . . something else. I’m sure I could make my escape now, but the truth is gradually becoming clear to me, and I need to find out if my hunch is correct.

‘Piers,’ I say, ‘were we still a couple when you came to identify me at the hospital?’

He doesn’t reply. His silence tells me all I need to know. But I need to hear him say it. I need to find out why.

‘Piers, answer me.’

‘Technically, not quite.’

His anger has totally dissolved, but mine is about to explode.

‘What!’

He turns to face me, his hands out, trying to placate me.

I’m outraged. ‘You pretended to still be my boyfriend? Why would you . . . How did you think you would get away with that? What could you possibly . . .’

‘It wasn’t like that. We
were
together. We were together for almost a year. I loved you, and you loved me, too.’ His voice is whining now, pleading. He goes back to sit on the bed. He doesn’t seem as drunk anymore. Just tired. ‘You dumped me the night before your accident,’ he says. ‘We had a stupid argument about you not wanting to go to the party, and you got cross and said you didn’t love me anymore. I didn’t think you really meant it. I was sure you’d come around and change your mind, s
o
―
’

‘So you came to the hospital and pretended I was still your girlfriend. You lied to me. You lied to the police.’

‘No.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Not really,’ he says, sounding like a recalcitrant child. ‘I thought the police would think it was suspicious – us arguing on the night of your accident. I was scared they would think I was guilty of something. But I had nothing to do with whatever happened to you that night.’

‘How do I know that?’ I say. ‘We could have argued, and you could have tried to hurt me.’

‘I would never . . .’

‘Really?’ I turn and stare pointedly at the smashed fragments of my possessions strewn on the carpet and all along one side of my bed. At the freshly made dents and scratches on my wardrobe doors.  Piers moves towards me, reaches his hand out to my head, but I flinch back and knock his hand away. ‘Get the fuck away from me,’ I snap.

‘I was just going to . . . You’ve got blood on . . .’

 I glare at Piers, warning him off. Then, I raise my fingers to the side of my head and gingerly feel around with my fingertips until they come to rest on a splinter of glass embedded near my eye. I pull the splinter out and take a look. It’s tiny. I can hardly see it, covered as it is in beads of shiny blood
. My fingers are dripping, and I feel it trickle down the side of my face, warm and wet.

‘I’m sorry.’ He bows his head. ‘You have to believe me that I would never willingly hurt you, Mia.’

I give a short bark of laughter. ‘You just embedded a piece of glass in my head, you tosser.’ You broke into my house acting like a fucking maniac, and you just admitted we weren’t together when you came to the hospital pretending to be my boyfriend. If I called the police right now, they’d arrest you and you’d deserve it. In, fact, I think I will. They’ll slap a restraining order on you, then you won't be able to come near me again.’ A fresh rage is building inside me. Fury at Piers for everything he’s put me through.

‘I’m sorry, Mia.’ He’s backing away from me now, his face red, his eyes wide and scared.

Good, he deserves to be scared. I’ve put up with enough shit from him. This is just about the final straw.

‘Please don’t call the police,’ he whines. ‘I’ll go . . . I’ll . . .’

‘Why shouldn’t I call them? You lied to them, and you just assaulted me. In fact, I should tell them you tried to rape me. That you tried to kill me. Then you can see what it’s like to have nothing in your life make sense. To be scared of everything and everyone. To be alone.’

‘Mia! No!’

‘Yes!’ I cry. I feel as though I’ve lost control of myself. All I want to do is wound him for his crass, insensitive, violent behaviour. How dare he come into my house and try to intimidate me. How dare he. ‘Yes, you arrogant prick. You can go to jail. Maybe that way I wouldn’t have to come home and find you in my house all the frigging time.’

‘They wouldn’t believe you,’ he says. ‘You’re acting insane. Your memory isn’t reliable. Mia  . . . please.’

I gaze dispassionately at the fearful expression on his face. My shoulders slump. Of course I’m not going to lie to the police, but he’s certainly done enough to get their attention. He deserves to be scared, like he scared me. ‘How do I know you didn’t try to hurt me when I finished with you? How can I trust you, Piers? Especially after tonight.’

‘I swear I was nothing to do with whatever happened to you that night. You dumped me and I left. Got blind drunk and went to that stupid party. I was heartbroken. I still loved you. I wanted to be with you.’ He looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot. ‘I still love you, now. I do. Even now. After everything you’ve said and done.’ 

‘After everything
I’ve
said and done?’ I give a dry laugh. ‘You lied to me. You tricked me into believing I was still your girlfriend. Not to mention, breaking and entering here tonight and scaring me half to death. Oh, and smashing up my stuff, and insulting me. Feel free to let me know if I’ve left anything out? No? . . . Okay. Fine. Now get the hell out of my house.’

‘Mia, please.’

‘I said, get out!’ I’m yelling now. ‘And don’t come back.
Never
come back.’

As he rises to his feet, I hold my hand out. ‘Keys,’ I snap. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a bunch of keys, fumbling to slide some of them off the metal keyring. Finally, he drops the set into my palm.

‘Are you going to call the police?’ he snivels.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘That depends on whether or not you leave me the fuck alone.’

‘What about the business? The apartment?’

‘Get out, Piers.’

I follow him down the stairs. When we reach the front hall, he turns back towards me, a mournful expression on his face. I glare at him, feeling no pity, and watch as he opens the front door and leaves. I slam the door behind him. I’d be happy if I never had to set eyes on Piers Bevan-Price again, for as long as I live.

I’m still trembling with anger as I tramp back up the stairs. My feet are freezing. I need to dry my hair and put some warm clothes on. I can’t believe what just happened. I reach the landing and open the door to my bedroom . . .

What a mess. It looks awful. I want to cry. Instead, I walk into the en suite. The steam has dissipated and I’m able to look into the magnifying mirror to examine the cut on my head. The blood has dried in a streak down the side of my face. I bring my fingers up to the wound, checking to see if there’s any glass still embedded in the skin. It feels okay. I open cupboards and drawers until I find a pack of cotton-wool pads. I clean the cut, trying not to give into the tears brimming behind my eyes. If I start crying now, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

As I dab at the wound, I’m interrupted by the doorbell. My hand freezes – cotton wool pad hovering over one eye. What now? Surely Piers wouldn’t dare come back. I was pretty clear about him never showing his here face again. Should I ignore it? It rings again. Now someone’s banging on the door. I sigh and take a deep breath.

I will march downstairs, deal with whoever is at the front door, then I will come back, clean up my bedroom and pretend tonight never happened. I exchange my damp towel for a dressing gown, and head back down the stairs. I slide the chain across, to prevent anyone forcing their way in. And then, I open the door.