The Woman in Black (21 page)

In the parlour of her small, tidy, terraced house in Hackney, Eve Parkins was putting the finishing touches to a birthday present she was wrapping. The summer sun streamed in through the windows, making it the kind of day that anyone would feel grateful to live through. That was how Eve was trying to feel. And, for the most part, succeeding.

She carried the brightly wrapped parcel into the living room. Edward stood there in his best clothes, looking in the mirror, trying to straighten his tie.

‘Ready?’ she said to him.

He turned to her. ‘Yes.’

Eve straightened his collar, pushed his tie into place. ‘Very smart.’

He smiled at her and Eve felt her heart break.

Seven months. That was how long it had been since the events at Eel Marsh House. Seven months of pain and anger and sadness, of guilt and loss, recrimination and rebuilding. And finally, mercifully, the relief they had felt coming from just being alive. Eve and Edward had started a new life together. They had left the house. She just hoped the house could leave them.

‘Here,’ she said, handing him the present. ‘Happy birthday.’

Edward smiled. Joyfully, naturally. Eve felt a painful
kind of love for him in that moment. He started to unwrap his present, Eve helping him. He pulled off the paper to reveal a new set of coloured pencils and a big book of sketch paper.

‘So you can make new drawings,’ she said. ‘Colourful ones.’

Edward looked at the sketchbook. Eve saw his smile fade away, and his expression alter. Like clouds obscuring the sun on a summer’s day. He was the mute boy again. Eve’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Edward? What’s wrong?’

He kept staring at the pencils. Eventually he looked up.

‘Will she come back?’

It never left them. No matter how far away they had moved, how much they had tried to fill their lives together with other things, it was always there.
She
was always there. They would be out somewhere, in a park or on the street, and one of them would catch a glimpse of someone who looked like her, and they would be plunged back to that night in the house once more. Then the moment would pass and life would slowly begin again. These little interludes had become less and less frequent as time wore on, and Eve hoped that eventually they would disappear altogether. The sharp pain would become a dull ache. It would happen and it was happening. But not quite yet.

‘Will she?’ Edward asked, his eyes fearful.

‘No,’ said Eve. ‘She’s gone.’

Edward kept staring at her, seeking reassurance. Eve said the words she had spoken so many times to him, the words he needed to hear, to believe in. The words that she wanted to believe in, too.

‘She fed on all the bad feelings inside of us. So if we stay happy, she can’t come back. Do you understand? You have to promise me you’ll be happy. All right?’

‘Yes …’ Edward didn’t sound so sure.

‘Edward?’

‘Yes.’ Firmer this time.

‘Good. Now where’s my smile?’

Edward smiled. And the sun-filled room became so much brighter.

‘Very good,’ she said.

‘Your turn,’ said Edward, still smiling.

Eve pointed to the corners of her mouth and slowly formed a smile for him. It wasn’t like her smile of old, part of her daily battle armour; it was something different, something new. A smile born out of joy and relief and love for Edward. Edward knew that, and it made him love her even more for it.

But her smile faltered as she glanced at the framed photo on the wall. It did that, caught her
off guard. Even the sunniest days could cast the darkest shadows.

Unexpected tears formed in the corners of her eyes as she became lost in the photograph and her memories. Harry and his crew. All looking at the camera, all smiling. Forever smiling. She had rescued it from the fake airfield, taken it home and framed it. It was all she had of Harry. The bravest man she had ever met.

She wiped her eyes. Remembered what he had said about living in the present, about being there for the people who need you now.

‘Come on, you. Time to go.’ She took Edward’s hand and they left the house, walking off down the street.

The living room was left empty.

Almost empty.

A figure stepped forward from shadow to sunlight and stared at the framed photograph. At the smiling faces.

Other figures stepped forward too. Small, emaciated figures, their bodies showing the manner of their deaths, their eyes empty. Their mouths opened and they began their whispered, hushed singing once more.

‘
Jennet Humfrye lost her baby … Died on Sunday, seen on Monday … Who will die next? It must be YOU …
’

The ghost choir dispersed. The tall, dark figure stared at the photograph until the glass cracked. Her bone-white face reflected back at her in dozens of jagged slivers.

She melted slowly back into the shadows.

And waited.