The Winter Foundlings (11 page)

‘We always take them in September.’ She gave a narrow smile. ‘The head wants them to realise how lucky they are, but the trip affected Ella most of all.’

‘How do you mean?’

The teacher’s gaze made me feel like I’d missed something obvious. ‘Because she’s today’s equivalent of a foundling, isn’t she? Her father abandoned her, then her mother died.’

I studied the painting more closely. The place looked even more haunting than in real life, its windows grimed with shadows.

‘I don’t know what I’ll say to her friends when term starts,’ Lynette said quietly.

‘Ella could be back by then.’

Her smile faded as she shuffled the children’s paintings back into a pile. When I looked out of the window, Roy Layton was being driven away, shielding his face with his hand. I left Mrs Milsom tidying feverishly, as though her life depended on an immaculate classroom.

It was already dark as I walked down the street in Ella Williams’s footsteps. There was no one around, and curtains were already closing, Christmas lights glittered over people’s front doors. It still seemed incredible that a child had been seized from the heart of the city, less than a hundred metres from her school.

14

It’s been days since Ella ate anything; the hunger has become a dull pain that never stops. The man hasn’t been back since he took her out in the van, and the box has felt smaller since then, stale air smothering her.

‘Do you know what day it is, Ella?’ the man asks when he unlocks the door.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Christmas Eve, silly girl.’

The torchlight settles on her face and she stretches her lips wider. Instinct tells her to shield her eyes from the dazzling light, but it’s safest not to move a muscle. His shadow looms behind the bright wall of light. It’s impossible to guess whether he’s pleased or angry. Her hands are so cold, they can no longer move, fingers brittle as icicles. Maybe he’ll put her in the van again, and drive around for hours. That would be better than staying inside the box; at least then she could watch the world passing, instead of staring at the dark. Tears seep from the corners of her eyes, but her smile doesn’t falter.

‘I’ve got you a present,’ the man says.

‘Have you?’ Ella tries to sound pleased, but she’s shivering so hard that her voice quakes when she speaks.

‘Come here, I’ll show you.’

He lifts her over his shoulder, and her arms flail, head lolling like a rag doll. The ache in her stomach is so intense that she wants to pound his back with her fists.

‘Close your eyes,’ he snaps. ‘No peeking until I say.’

A door creaks open and Ella feels herself being lowered to the ground. She keeps her eyelids tightly shut, waiting for permission.

‘Now you can look.’

The strip-light overhead makes her blink. She’s standing inside a tiny room, with bare bricks and a stained mattress. There’s a plate of food on a small table, sandwiches and a muffin, still wrapped in its plastic bag. Warm air gushes from a heater on the floor, touching her feet like a blessing.

‘Do you like it?’ the man asks.

For once her smile is genuine. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘I hope you know how lucky you are. No one gave me presents when I was a kid.’ The muscles in his face contort, as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

‘Poor you,’ Ella says quietly. ‘You must have been lonely.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ His eyes crawl across her face. ‘Remember, this is just for tonight. One foot wrong and you’re back outside. Understand?’

‘I’ll be good, I promise.’

Her mouth’s watering. She’s longing to grab food from the plate, but the man’s still standing there.

‘Don’t I get a kiss, princess?’

A wave of nausea rises in Ella’s throat, but she forces herself to walk towards him, arms outstretched.

15

Loneliness and being alone are two different things. At least that’s what I told myself when I woke on Christmas morning in an empty bed. The central heating was making ominous clattering sounds, and the air in my bedroom felt icy. So far the cottage had resisted every attempt to raise its temperature, but when I pulled back the curtains, I stopped caring. Edgemoor Woods had turned into the perfect Christmas card, the sky an empty shimmer of blue, lines of fresh snow balanced on the branches of conifer trees.

I hunted for my trainers in the bottom of the wardrobe, then stepped out into the silence. The city’s roar had been second nature until now – ringtones and juggernauts, music blaring from open windows. But out here, there were no distractions. All I could hear was a hushing sound as the snow compacted under each footfall. I followed a bridleway at the end of the lane and set off through the trees. The rest of the village must have been sleeping, because even the hardiest dog walkers were absent. The woods were empty as I followed the track beside a frozen stream. After a fortnight without exercise, my hamstrings burned, reminding me that I should have warmed up more thoroughly before I set off.

The woods seemed to go on forever, the path unreeling like a spool of film, with no sign of a house or another human being. After twenty minutes I stopped to rest, my breath turning the air smoky and blurring my vision. I was about to turn back when a crackling sound came from behind me, but there was no one in sight. Maybe a branch had fallen under the weight of snow. The sound came again soon after, and this time it was nearer, twigs snapping under someone’s feet. I didn’t stop to investigate, setting off along the track at full pelt, white branches spinning past. I was convinced someone was floundering after me, a shadow moving between the trees. My imagination was so overheated that steam must have been coming out of my ears. My heart was still pounding when I reached the lane, but my panic was dwindling, because there was no sign of anyone. If I had been right, the person following me had veered away when we approached the road, but it was more likely I’d imagined the whole thing. I wondered why I’d let a few unexpected sounds get me so spooked. It was probably just another health freak taking an early walk to offset the Christmas excess. My nerves must be raw because there had been so much pressure recently. I felt embarrassed about racing through the woods as if I was starring in
The Blair Witch Project,
but at least my body was glowing from the exercise.

I stood under the shower afterwards, deciding how to spend the rest of the day. It was a choice between typing up notes about the treatment regime at Northwood, or relaxing on the settee watching reruns of
Harry Potter.
The doorbell rang before I could make up my mind. I hunted for a towel to wrap round my wet hair before running downstairs, but when I peered through the window, the porch was empty. A man was standing by the gate, back turned, peering into the depths of his rucksack. I yanked the door open, because the set of his shoulders and his dark blond hair revealed who it was instantly.

‘Will!’

My brother swung round to face me. He looked almost his old self – tall and rangy, with no evidence of his injuries apart from a slight limp. Only his expression was different. Behind his sky blue stare, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. The change unsettled me. I’d grown used to reading his body language, figuring out whether it was safe to approach.

‘Happy Christmas, Al.’

His face stretched into a grin and I pulled the door wider so he could drop his rucksack in the hall. This version of my brother was clean-shaven and calmer than before, wearing trainers that looked fresh from the box. Six months ago he’d been a shambling mess, struggling through the days in my flat, dragging himself to Narcotics Anonymous meetings.

‘It’s great to see you,’ I said. ‘It really is.’

I tried not to look at him directly because eye contact always made him panic, but he pulled me into his arms. It was the first hug he’d given me in years. The rough fabric of his coat grazed my cheek like sandpaper, but I didn’t care; I could have stood there all day. When he released me, the remote look was back in his eye.

‘Have you had breakfast?’ I asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘My fridge isn’t very festive, I’m afraid.’

He rolled his eyes, but carried on smiling. ‘I didn’t come here for turkey and all the trimmings.’

‘Thank God for that.’

My brother walked ahead of me into the kitchen and peered into the cupboards.

‘I’ll make something, if you want.’ His words were delivered cautiously, as if he was selecting them from a dictionary before he spoke.

‘Brilliant. I’ll light the fire.’

My heart raced as I walked into the living room. In the three months since I last clapped eyes on him he’d metamorphosed into someone else. He still looked like Will, but he had different boundaries. He could meet my eye and cope with being touched. When I returned to the kitchen he was busy chopping mushrooms. There was something unfamiliar about his gestures. He had always been a fidget, completing every action at lightning speed, but now he was methodical, dicing ham into chunks of exactly the same size.

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Not much.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘Living the life of Riley.’

I asked a few more questions, but his answers were either jokey or monosyllabic. All I could discover was that he’d hitchhiked from Brighton the night before and waited in a bus shelter for the sun to rise. He wouldn’t explain why he hadn’t called to let me know he was coming. I could tell he had no intention of describing his new life, so I stopped probing and blathered about myself instead. He looked intrigued when I explained about my research, and the psychopaths at Northwood, minimising all the dangers.

‘You’re not still doing police work, are you?’ Will put down his knife and turned to face me.

‘Not as much as before.’

A deep frown appeared on his face. ‘It’s wrong for you, Al. You should tell them where to go.’

I bit my tongue. There was no point in explaining that I did it to help the victims, not myself. But I knew why he wanted me to quit forensic work. Two years ago he’d been caught in the crossfire during an investigation and ended up with compound fractures in both legs. He carried on preparing the meal, searching methodically through the cupboards for extra ingredients. After half an hour he’d created the perfect breakfast: French toast, omelettes with Parma ham, and mushrooms oozing with butter.

‘Delicious,’ I told him.

Will didn’t bother to reply, too focused on his meal, shovelling food into his mouth convulsively. I wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten. He’d lost his skeletal look, but his face was still dominated by his sharp cheekbones. I was longing to know about his new life, but I was scared one more direct question would send him running for the door. Eventually the silence calmed him, and he volunteered snippets of information. He was gradually putting down roots. A housing project in Brighton had given him a room, and he’d found a job washing up in a pub in the centre of town.

‘It faces the sea. I can watch the tide come in while I work.’

‘Sounds like you’ve landed on your feet.’

I should have been more congratulatory about his first job in years, but the gap between then and now had engulfed me. I remembered tagging behind him at parties, girls chucking themselves at him from every corner of the room. His friends said he had the world at his feet. But he’d ended up in a halfway house, earning a pittance.

When he finished eating Will pushed back his chair and went into the living room, stretching out on the floor in front of the fire.

‘You can rest here,’ I said, offering him the settee.

‘I’m fine.’ He turned away and fell asleep almost instantly, his head cradled on his arms.

I curled up in the armchair and read a magazine, while Will shifted uncomfortably in his sleep. He must have been exhausted because he didn’t wake again until that afternoon, and he seemed startled when he finally came round. I watched him reach into his pocket and pull out a strip of tablets. He swallowed a couple then buried them again. For once they looked like prescription drugs instead of the type you buy on street corners. He was finally taking his chlorpromazine, and I felt like hugging him, because medication was his best chance of recovery. But I wondered how much he’d lost in the process. Patients who took anti-psychotic drugs often complained that their lives became monotone. Things lost their glitter without the manic highs and lows.

When he swung round in my direction, his face was tense with strain, and I guessed that his anxiety levels were soaring. The medication should have been taken hours before. A year ago I would have backed away and waited for him to calm down, but this time I stayed put. He stared at me, his jaw tightly clenched.

‘There’s something wrong with this place, Al. Can’t you feel it?’

‘I like it here.’

‘There was a face in that mirror just now. It was horrible.’

The looking glass held a reflection of the empty window, nothing visible outside except a grey patch of sky.

‘Maybe you dreamed it,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘I haven’t seen any ghosts yet.’ My brother gazed at the fire, thin hands clasped around his knees. ‘I almost forgot, I’ve got a present for you.’

I ran upstairs, and the sound of his footsteps in the living room drifted after me while I hunted for wrapping paper. His present looked beautiful by the time I’d finished, decorated with a plume of ribbon. I checked the spare room before going back down. It was small but cosy, with fresh linen on the bed. Hopefully he’d be comfortable there.

The living room was empty when I went back downstairs, so I searched for him in the kitchen. My heart sank when I saw that the fridge door was ajar. The only items missing were a pint of milk and a block of cheese. I wished he’d taken more. A blast of freezing air gusted from the hallway. The front door hung open and Will’s sleeping bag and rucksack had disappeared. I rushed outside, but there was no sign of him. All I could see was the empty lane and my breath condensing in front of me. I stood there in foot-deep snow, clutching a Christmas present for someone who’d run away without even saying goodbye.