The Girl That Shouldn't Exist

The Girl That Shouldn’t Exist

Chapter One

Rose

The day before Rose Blake’s eighteenth, the warm July air held a strange expectancy as if a surprise may await her. However, Rose was certain her parents had no plans to celebrate her birth. The afternoon had been hot with the relentless buzzing of flies and the stench of rotting manure, hanging like a low smog over the farm. Rose was sweaty and aching from helping her father shear the ewes. The sheep were now grazing on the jagged Cumbrian fells, while Rose lazed on a haybale, daydreaming about Michael and the summer-blue of his eyes.

Her stomach rumbled for the umpteenth time and she reluctantly returned to the farmhouse. The rich aroma of stew flavoured the stark kitchen. But Rose knew her portion wouldn’t include the mouth-watering lamb, simmering on the stove. She would be served stodgy potatoes and a few carrots if she was lucky.

Rose headed up to the bathroom to wash and put on a fresh smock. A noise halted her on the landing. Her mother was sobbing. She’d cried a lot after the death of Rose’s younger sister but that was years ago. Her mother’s grief had mainly dried and turned into bitterness, usually aimed at Rose. She snuck towards the sound, stopping outside her parents’ bedroom.

‘It’s okay, Rachael. I’ll make sure she stays away from that McGovern boy,’ her father said.

‘After all we’ve done for her, John. She’s just a little slut like the whore that gave birth to her,’ her mother said. ‘She’s brought shame on us. We should never have taken her in. If we hadn’t, Abigail would still be here.’

‘Rachael, it was an accident,’ her father said.

‘You can believe that, but I never will.’ More howling.

Rose’s heart thundered but it wasn’t because of her mother’s accusation. She’d known for years her mum blamed her for Abigail’s death. And it wasn’t racing because someone had spotted her with Michael. She’d get a thrashing for sure, but she didn’t care. Her mother had said something profound, something that changed everything.

Rose backed away from their room, avoiding any loose boards. Quietly, she closed her bedroom door and sat on her bed – heart still galloping. She wasn’t their 'real' daughter but Abigail was. Rose recalled her mother’s bulging stomach which deflated soon after Abi’s arrival. Everything started to make sense: the softness in her mum’s eyes when she smiled at Abi, her father’s joy when Abi did anything half-useful. And, unlike her sister, Rose didn’t have her mother’s dark hair nor did she resemble the spineless, sandy-haired man who always did his wife’s bidding. Rose felt separate and now she knew why. These people were imposters. But was her real mother any better? She had, after all, given Rose away. But maybe her birth mother regretted letting Rose go? Maybe she pined for her lost child? Was it possible that Rose could be reunited with a mother who wouldn’t beat her or wash her mouth out with soap for looking the wrong way?

The front door clicked open and closed below. Rose stood up, alert, listening. Her parents were still in their room. They never had visitors. The only time her family mixed socially was at church. And none of the congregation would enter their farmstead unannounced. Adrenaline coursed through Rose’s limbs. Something was wrong. She wasted expensive seconds assessing her room: a bible on her desk, an oak wardrobe, a chest of drawers and her single bed – nowhere safe to hide. Footsteps on the wooden stairs. Slow, careful steps. More than one person. The tread of people who wanted to take you by surprise. Rose crept to the wall beside her door and pressed her slight frame against the exposed stone, praying that if it swung open, it would shield her. The floorboards creaked as the unknown intruders passed her room. Had her parents heard them? Or was her mother still sobbing with fury?

A female scream pierced the air and Rose’s heart lurched into her throat.

Then her father shouted, ‘No, please stop.’

A dull thud. Maybe someone dropping to the floor. Furniture being thrown around, feet stamping, kicking and the whacking of something hard, against something softer. Rose wanted to bolt from the house screaming but she remained crucified against the cold stone of her wall.

The noise abated. Silence. An eerie, covert quiet. Footsteps moved towards her room. Rose’s chest rose and fell sharply. She thought she might pass out there and then but she remained straight-backed, arms pinned. The brass handle turned as her door groaned open, concealing her and whoever entered. A smell of violence – blood, sweat, testosterone. Her wardrobe doors banged and she jumped but remained hidden. Drawers were yanked out. Her heart smashed against her ribs. The bed was tipped up. She scrunched her eyes shut, no longer able to breathe. Urine dribbled down her thigh.

‘There’s nothing,’ a deep voice said.

A metallic taste filled her mouth as she bit down on her lip. Time crawled. Just when she couldn’t bear another second, the bedroom door screeched closed.

The air was still, heavy and empty. Her eyes opened a fraction. She remained pressed against the wall, unharmed and quite alone. A shuddering breath left her as feet pounded down the stairs. She bent over, gulping air. Adrenaline retreated down her spine, making her gasp. The front door slammed shut. Rose straightened herself and edged towards the window. Two men, carrying holdalls and wearing balaclavas, were running across the yard. One of the men disappeared behind a barn while the other looked back. She held her breath but he didn’t glance up, but she saw the summer-blue of his eyes. The man turned, hurrying after his accomplice. Rose exhaled, walking backwards and bumping into her wall. She slid down the rough surface, whimpering like a cowering farm dog.

Chapter Two

Liz

Seven years later

The street felt a little edgy in the cold midnight air as Liz Tomb made her way home. The queue at the taxi rank had been massive but it wasn’t far to walk, and it was Lancaster. Nothing much ever happened in her sleepy town. The effects of a night drinking cider were taking hold and Liz desperately needed the toilet. In her younger years, she could give a camel a run for its money in the holding liquid stakes, but not now. The camel would most definitely win, though she thought wryly, she was still good at getting the hump. She’d left Mark drinking in a dreadful bar, annoyed that he’d refused to come home. The place was heaving with students and she’d felt ancient. She was certain Mark was having some sort of midlife crisis, what with his floral-print shirt and his dancing. Jeez, he might have looked okay headbanging, if he still had hair.

Her irritation pushed her stride a little harder and she felt the burn in her lungs as she climbed the hill. She needed to drink less and exercise more but her resolutions had already slipped weeks ago.

Apart from a couple walking towards her, the area was deserted. The twosome passed, entangled and laughing, oblivious to Liz. She pressed on. A cold wind burrowed into her chest and she bowed her head. Brittle leaves scraped along the pavement, making her jump like a skittish pony. She liked to think she was sensible, not easily scared, yet a few dried twigs had her heart leaping. She took a breath of the cold air and lifted her gaze. The street was reasonably well lit, though the blinds and curtains of the surrounding houses were closed at this late hour.

She sensed, rather than heard, someone following. Liz swung around, the couple were no longer visible but there was no knife-wielding maniac or hooded youth behind. Still, there was a feeling of disquiet. The chill air pinched at her nose, her cheeks, her fingers but something colder iced down her spine. Her need to urinate left as her body focused on getting ready to flee. Her heart thumped as she turned back to her route. Trees swayed in the breeze, flitting shadows everywhere. She marched forward, her stride braver than her heart. Not long now till she reached the cul-de-sac where her home stood. Solid and safe, in one of the best areas of town. She just needed to get behind that glossed-black door and this stupid unease would dissipate. Footsteps behind, her heart pumped harder, but then she registered the clack of heels. Just a woman, not a threat. Although some ancient survival alarm was still shrilling through her, urging her to move at pace. Practically running, her lungs on fire, she turned the corner to her street. She’d made it.

The adrenaline left her system and the need to urinate became urgent again. She fumbled with her keys as she opened the gate and dashed up the path, bounding up the two steps that led to her door. Belcher barked as she pushed the key in the lock. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder. A figure stood on the other side of the road, in the darkness, watching her. The yellow streetlight didn’t reach whoever had followed her, but she could make out a slim outline – female. Something about the person seemed familiar, but not in a good way. It was a feeling she shouldn’t be having; no friend of hers or family member would follow her home and then stand watching as she entered her property.

Stop it, you’re being stupid, you’ve had too much to drink. The woman was probably just waiting for someone. Liz pushed open the door, stepped onto the mosaic tiles, and banged it shut behind her. Warmth greeted her but the chill remained. Her hand was on the bolt but then she realised Mark would need to get in. Making sure the latch was on, she rushed to the downstairs WC, not a second too soon.

Belcher jumped up as she opened the lounge door. Stroking his head, Liz gently pushed him down. The Labrador charged to the back entrance and she let him out, locking the door behind him.

She hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Under the cover of darkness, she crept along the deep shagpile to the bay window and peeped out of the blind. The woman was still there. Patiently waiting or watching in the freezing January night. She wore a three-quarter length coat which exposed her slim calves and ankles. Liz shuddered, feeling the cold for her. The stranger looked to be a similar height and build to Liz – maybe that’s why she’d appeared familiar. Headlights flashed into the street and the woman was momentarily lit before falling back into shadow. A taxi stopped and Mark practically fell out of it. He paid the driver, oblivious to the slight figure across from him. The cab turned around and her voyeur was once again illuminated. The woman was clutching something, but Liz couldn’t make out what it was. Mark approached the house, one step forward, two to the side. The front door slammed and he staggered up the stairs.

Outside, the woman turned away from their home and disappeared into the night. Just the way she moved, how she held her body, so upright, sent shivers through Liz. She stood there perplexed, her own spine rigid with something akin to dread.

Mark stumbled into the room and collapsed on the bed. ‘Good band, should ‘ave stayed,’ he slurred, before falling instantly asleep or unconscious. He snored and saliva dribbled out of his open mouth as he lay star-fished across the duvet.

Charming. She stared at the straining buttons of his crazily-coloured shirt, his middle-age had most certainly spread. They were both fifty-five but everyone said she looked younger while Mark didn’t attract the same sort of compliment. Liz checked the street again. The stranger hadn’t returned. She made her way downstairs and opened the back door, peering nervously into the dark. Belcher hurtled into the house and she bolted the door. After settling him, she returned to the front door and pulled the bolt across that too. Why some lone female had her so agitated was beyond her. She would lay off the cider in future, it hadn’t proved a good alternative to her trusty wine.

In the guest bedroom, Liz tossed and turned, hearing the rumble of Mark’s snores reverberate around the house. She was still trying to find a logical explanation for the mysterious woman. Why on earth would she be watching their house? Because Liz felt sure that’s what the woman had been doing. An answer flashed into her mind – Mark – was he having an affair? To her knowledge, her husband had only been unfaithful once, a long time ago. But she could still recall those furtive phone conversations, late at night, when he thought she was asleep. She’d been pregnant with their first child and Mark had vehemently denied any wrong doing. Even though she was certain he was lying, she’d stayed, she was having a baby for crying out loud. She’d thought he’d learned his lesson and now this, some woman hanging around. But Mark had still been in the pub when the woman appeared. Surely any potential mistress would be with him there? Maybe he’d ended the liaison again and his ex-lover wouldn’t accept it and was waiting to confront him. But the woman hadn’t approached Mark. Her cider-fuddled brain could keep coming up with variants on the theme all night but none seemed to fit the lone woman who’d stood as still as a lamp post in the cold night. Another explanation came to her. The woman could be one of her sons’ ex-girlfriends. Lord only knew they had enough. Tearful girls had turned up at her door before, begging to see one or other of them. Of course that’s what it was and how silly she’d been to get so worked-up. She wondered if she too might be going through some sort of mid-life drama – turning shadows into monsters, seeing young women as sinister stalkers. She smiled to herself; she’d been reading too many crime novels.

Liz closed her eyes, searching for sleep, but saw the dark form of the woman again. What had she been holding? If Liz had to guess, she would say it was a bunch of flowers. Flowers at midnight? A bouquet to try and win an ex-boyfriend back. No, that didn’t make sense. You bought flowers for a neighbour, a friend or a relative. And why wouldn’t this woman be outside Jason’s flat or Max’s cottage?

Liz must have finally drifted off because she jerked awake as the doorbell sounded. Belcher barked. Grey light crept in the room and she squinted at the alarm-clock – 9 am. Who would be ringing their bell at this time on a Sunday? The ding dong chime went again. She thought about putting her head under the covers but it might be one of the boys. And there was zero chance of Mark answering it, he would be comatose for most of the day. She threw the bedding back and quickly pulled on her discarded jeans and top from last night. The bell went a third time and irritation, instead of her hormones, heated her face. If it wasn’t one of her sons, whoever stood outside would be getting a piece of her mind. Then she thought of the new crime thriller she’d ordered. Did Amazon deliver on a Sunday? She guessed Jeff Bezos’ empire never slept. She ran down the stairs, pulled the bolt back, flung the door open and froze. A young woman stood on her top step, a bunch of wilted forger-me-nots in her trembling hands.

Chapter Three

Liz

Liz felt her mouth dropping open. She was staring at her younger self. The visitor, who appeared to be in her twenties, had the same flaming red hair, the identical eye colouring, one iris blue and one green, and Liz’s slender stature. Apart from the age difference, they could be twins.

‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Rose, your daughter.’

Liz continued to stare, her vision focused on the woman’s expectant face.

Mark called from upstairs. ‘Everything alright, love?’

‘Yes,’ she shouted over her shoulder, coming to her senses. ‘Just someone selling something.’ She returned her attention to the stranger. In a hushed tone, she said, ‘I don’t have a daughter, please go away.’ She slammed the door shut and stood there, shaking.

‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ Mark shouted.

Liz retreated to the foot of the stairs. ‘In a min.’ Still trembling, she moved to the lounge’s bay window. Again she looked through a crack in the blind. The woman had her face up at the window and her palm to the glass, her eyes pleading. Liz nearly screamed as she backed away – her heart thudding harder than last night’s rock band.