LOST GIRLS

Celina Grace

© Celina Grace 2009

Prologue

In the dream, it is always the same. Up ahead, I can see the holed stone outlined against the sky; drawn in shadow, a monochromatic sketch in my mind’s eye. The moon is so bright, it’s almost like daylight. I can see the glint of Jessica’s eyes as she comes and crouches down beside me, as I wait by the hedgerow. Behind us, the stream runs over the rocks and flows through the weed that grows like thick green hair in the water.

“Come on, stupid,” Jessica whispers and then she’s gone, creeping forward towards the rocks that are just a few steps away from the hedgerow. They are huge. Monolithic, they rise up and up and up, outlined against the harvest moon; a craggy jumble of stone, all sharp edges and depthless shadows in the moonlight. The Men-an-Tol is enormous, far bigger than in real life – a great stretching circle of stone, the hole in the middle of the rock gigantic, filled with a darkness that ripples like moonlit water. Jessica’s blonde hair shines in this weird, bleaching light, the same colour as the cornfields that grow all about the farm. She creeps away from me, her long, thin legs in their red shorts flashing pale in this strange landscape that is at once a memory and a fantasy. I watch as she draws near the rocks. I can’t move from this spot, I can’t throw off the weight that presses me to the ground. It’s as if unseen hands are holding me to the grass and earth beneath my feet. I manage to move my head. I look down and I am dressed in the clothes that I wore that summer, my favourite outfit of nineteen eighty-two; blue-spotted shorts and a yellow t-shirt, but it’s all wrong because my body is the body I have now, the body of an adult. Jessica has reached the rocks, her blonde hair a puff of corn silk blown by the midnight breeze. She stands in front of the Men-an-Tol and puts her ten-year-old hands on the rock, and somehow I can feel the chill of the stone under my own palms. And at last I can move, can get up and run forward, released from whatever bondage held me to the ground. But it’s too late. I look up, and Jessica looks up, and I see her mouth fall open as emerging from the blackness of the hole in the centre of the stone is a creeping arm, a bulbous leg, as if the blackness itself is coalescing into a hideous form.

Jessica turns to run. I see her mouth wide open, the gleam of moonlight off her teeth as behind her the black figure shakes itself free and rears up against the moon, monstrously big, moonlight glinting off fangs and claws and its dead black eyes. It swoops on Jessica and smothers her blonde hair in blackness; she disappears as if an inky curtain has been drawn across her.

I stand there in the moonlight and scream, and scream, and scream.

Always, in my real life, I wake up then, my heart thrumming. Kicking and flailing, I run from the dream into wakefulness and I lie there in the dark. I remember that I am an adult, no longer ten years old, and the realisation hits me once again: I am grown but Jessica is not. A quarter of a century later, she is eternally ten years old; lost back there with the rocks and the cornfields and the dead white moonlight.

PART ONE

Chapter One

The day of the funeral dawned cold and bright, sunlight filtering weakly through the curtains. The fine weather didn’t last. As I dressed, shivering after my bath, I could see dark grey clouds massing over the distant mountains and a thin white mist beginning to rise from the valley. By the time I went down to breakfast, the sunlight was gone; the sky sagging with imminent rain.

By the time I finished dressing, Matt had already left the room. He’d rested his hand on my shoulder before he left, giving me a reassuring squeeze, but he hadn’t said anything. What was there to say? I sat at the dressing table and drew a thick, black line over each eyelid. My hand was almost steady and it only took two attempts. My skin looked too white, dull and lifeless, so I pinched each cheek.

Caernaven was as cold as it always had been. Despite the clanking radiators in every room, I could almost see my breath as I walked down the corridor, my heels muffled by the carpet runner. I hesitated outside Angus’s room. They’d found him here, just by the door which was now firmly shut, thank God. I looked at the floor, as if there would be some mark, some stain. Nothing, of course. I felt a sudden rush of nausea and swallowed it down. It must be hunger - I hadn’t eaten much lately.

The dining room was as dark as ever. In the blackened fireplace were the ashes of last night’s fire. Mrs. Green, or someone, had switched on a little electric heater which stood in front of the hearth, both bars glowing red but sending out a pathetic heat that barely warmed the patch of floor in front of it. I stood for a moment in front of the fire, feeling my shins scorch in their covering of fine black nylon, putting off the moment I’d have to start making conversation.

The others had already sat down to breakfast; Matt, with my empty chair next to him, Aunt Effie opposite, and next to her, Mr. Fenwick, my father’s solicitor. I poured myself coffee and gave one to Matt, just the way he liked it, black and strong. He smiled at me and I managed to smile back. I directed the remnants of the smile towards Aunt Effie and Mr. Fenwick. So far, so good – I was holding it together. As I sat down, I could feel my eyes being drawn towards the empty chair at the head of the table. For a moment, I could almost see Angus there; dark-suited, his pewter-haired head bent towards the copy of The Daily Telegraph folded next to his plate. He would turn his eyes to me, like twin points of metal. But, of course, I didn’t really see him, because he was dead. Angus was dead. The knowledge kept thumping me in the stomach. I kept wanting to laugh, it was so ludicrous. It kept coming in waves; I was afraid at some point I wouldn’t be able to control it. I poured myself another cup of coffee, trying to distract myself. The coffee pot chimed once, twice, on the edge of my cup.

Aunt Effie and Mr. Fenwick were carrying on a stilted conversation about the order of procedure at the funeral, and various travel arrangements. Matt sat beside me, saying nothing. He ate almost silently, staring across the table, and I wondered what he was thinking. From here I could see the glints of silver in the hair above his temples; they matched the frame of his glasses. I squeezed his thigh under the table and he glanced at me and smiled, briefly. I smiled back, or tried to – I’d been pushing down the scream that had wanted to emerge for so long my face wouldn’t react properly – and the smile came out all wonky.

“You’ll be doing a reading today, Maudie?” said Aunt Effie.

“What?”

“You’ll be reading today, dear?”

I took a moment to reply. “Yes,” I said.

“What will you be reading?”

I struggled for a moment. I felt Matt give my own leg a comforting squeeze and managed to get the words out. “A poem. One of the writers from Katherine.”

Aunt Effie looked pleased. “Ah, of course. Very suitable, I’m sure.”

We were all silent for a moment. I crumbled the toast left on my plate. Matt raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip.

“Yes,” said Aunt Effie, “he would have liked that.”

She looked down at her plate, eyes glistening behind her glasses. Something about her tears made me suddenly feel faint. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I took a scalding mouthful of coffee, the cup chattering against my teeth.

Mr. Fenwick excused himself from the table and we soon heard his brisk steps echoing back from the polished wood of the hallway. Matt put his coffee cup back in its saucer and the tiny sound rang out into the silent room.