Don’t Turn Around: A heart-stopping gripping domestic suspense. Amanda Brooke
don’t know, Jen. Honestly, I haven’t taken that much notice. Does it matter?’
I push past Charlie and cross the living room towards the window. Across the sprawling city, lights are flickering on as the summer’s day draws to a close. My eyes travel the route I take to work along the Strand to Mann Island and I’m struck by how many hotels I can see. ‘What if it’s one of those? What if I walk past him every day?’
Charlie keeps his hands in his pockets as he approaches. He’s heard the tremble in my voice and when he realises it’s my entire body shaking, he pulls me back into his arms. ‘He’s not interested in us, Jen. If I thought he was a threat, I would have done something about it,’ he tells me.
It’s a nice thought but what Charlie gains in height, Lewis always made up for in muscle, and if he’s working as a personal trainer, I imagine he’s more than a match for my would-be hero. ‘The only reason you don’t think he’s a threat is because that’s what Lewis wants you to believe. He’s bad news, Charlie. He always was. Why can’t you see that?’
‘I do,’ he says, kissing the top of my head. ‘But none of us are teenagers any more. What happened with Meg changed us and I bet it changed Lewis too. He’ll have enough on his plate looking after his mum. It’s time for us all to get on with our lives.’
‘Unless you’re Meg,’ I remind him.
As I close my eyes, I replay the snatches of video included in this evening’s news report; Meg blowing out candles on her tenth birthday, playing football on the beach with me and Sean, taking centre stage in a school play. But then my thoughts turn to Ruth, her voice breaking as she told the reporter how Meg’s death was a slow and painful process that began when Lewis invaded our lives.
‘It’s not fair. He can’t come back here and expect us all to forget what he did,’ I say, only to realise that Ruth has made sure he knows that we haven’t. ‘It’s not over. It was stupid to believe it ever was.’
Ruth
The build up to Meg’s tenth anniversary has followed a familiar pattern of emotions: the growing sense of impending doom; the tension during the day itself as I relive Meg’s last hours and imagine her torment; the brief respite that I allow myself when I go to bed having survived another year without her; waking up this morning to begin the countdown to what should be Meg’s twenty-eighth birthday on Sunday.
When Geoff decided to go into work today, leaving me home alone, I felt nothing but relief. Yesterday had exhausted us both and the only reason we managed to get through the anniversary without a cross word was that we didn’t talk that much at all. I’m all talked out.
Luckily, the TV report was the last in a series of interviews I’ve given in recent weeks – my last desperate attempt to get people to take notice of our work before Geoff has his way and we wind up the foundation. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. The press had grown weary of the retelling of the version of Meg’s life that satisfied the coroner but has never satisfied me.
Don’t get me wrong, I accept that Meg had suicidal thoughts but on that last morning, I thought she’d turned a corner. She said she had plans. I never thought … Something else had to have happened. The note we were left with didn’t explain it. She had written just twenty-two words, twenty-three including her name, and I can recall each one by heart.
I’m doing this because of you.
I don’t expect anyone to understand why I chose this way. Bury my shame with me.
Megan x
It’s not enough. My Meg had more to say and it was about Lewis. In her final texts to him, she demanded that he answer her messages and, when that failed, she asked him not to hate her. He would have known she was about to expose him and despite an alibi that placed him in the gym all afternoon, he was there. Witnesses can be bought, or threatened. They can also be silenced and that was what he did to Meg when he tore the note in two.
I’ve been quiet for too long, and I could tell Geoff wasn’t happy with me as we wrapped up the interview. He’d been skulking in the background and I thought I was prepared for the argument, but after thirty-two years of marriage, I still can’t predict my husband’s reactions. It had never crossed my mind that it wasn’t what I said about Lewis that had upset him as much as the fact that I had shared our home videos of Meg.
After she died, Geoff had spent an age collating and digitising every image and recording he could find of her. The painstaking task had occupied his mind for a while, bringing light relief to our darkened world, and when it was complete he’d presumed we would sit down and watch them together, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to see our beautiful girl shine, only to watch her light dim before my eyes, or face the finality of the blank screen when the recordings came to an abrupt end.
Tipping back my head, I stretch my spine and listen to a low whine coming from the floor above. I’m sitting alone at the breakfast bar in the cavernous kitchen I designed myself. We had the house remodelled the year after losing Meg, extending out to the side by knocking down the garage with its indelible memories, repositioning the kitchen, and adding a fifth bedroom upstairs. Not that we needed another bedroom. Sean had decided to stay in Stratford after completing his degree and our nest had been well and truly emptied. Geoff wasn’t the only one who needed to find a way to stay connected to our daughter, and while he has his library of videos, I have my kitchen.
Resting my hands on the cold granite counter, I stare up at the ceiling until my focus adjusts to the middle distance. I don’t generally tell visitors this is where Meg died. I expect most would think it ghoulish but after ten years, her death no longer holds the power to shock me. I’m aware of her absence constantly and there’s something comforting about being this close to the spot where my daughter’s soul left her body.
It’s one of the few aspects of my grief that I don’t share during my campaigning, that and how I chat to Meg whenever I’m home alone. Lately, I’ve been telling her my worries about the future and how Geoff’s plans are diverging from my own. I promise her I won’t forsake her memory and give up on the helpline because the two are inextricably linked. I know there are national charities that have the resources to do our job and more, which is why the demand for our services has been in decline, but I can’t let it fail.
‘God, Meg, I hope this relaunch works,’ I whisper.
As always, the returning silence is deafening. The high-pitched whine I’d heard earlier has stopped too, replaced by light footsteps moving about upstairs. The palm of my hand is ice cold as I place it over my fluttering heart. For the briefest moment, I let myself imagine it’s Meg. How I’d love to hear her giggling, or the creak of the bed as she and Jen use it as a trampoline until I have to yell at them to stop.
My breath catches in my throat. I wish I’d never shouted at her. If I had my time again, I wouldn’t worry about them breaking the bed, I’d run up and join them. But it’s not Meg’s footsteps I hear and no amount of wishful thinking will make it so.
Hiring a cleaner was a spur of the moment decision. Jen had been telling me how well Charlie’s business was doing and how he might be expanding from domestic to commercial services. I suspect she was sounding me out about taking on our office cleaning but we have years to run on the current contract and it was at home where help was needed.
Geoff and I are at the office five days a week and we often bring work home at the weekend. What free time we have is usually spent wining and dining potential clients or, in Geoff’s case, meeting them on the golf course. Hiring help made sense but I never expected to be sitting here imagining that it’s Meg upstairs. It’s no good, I can’t bear it any longer, I simply can’t.
My heart is thumping and I’m about to shout up to Helena and ask her to leave when I hear the growl of Geoff’s Audi pulling