The Visitors(9)

Was it really too much to ask of herself to take a more compassionate view?

If Holly wanted to stay here in Cora’s home – and there was no doubt at all in her mind that she did – she would just have to learn to put up with her new friend’s constant chatter and focus instead on being thankful for her kindness and hospitality.

Holly stared trance-like at the large picture window. A cool, stark brightness lit up the glass, although the inside of the room was still quite dark. It was mid March and the sun, in its higher position in the sky, seemed to be trying to stoke up a little heat and cheer but wasn’t quite managing to sustain it.

When Holly closed her eyes, she could still see the glaring square of the window emblazoned on the dark canvas of her mind’s eye, like the moment a camera flashes and captures a photograph.

The side window was slightly ajar, and a faint breeze crept in, tickling the surface of Holly’s skin like a lingering shadow. It was too cool in here, and now rather draughty, too. She glanced around the room and noted there was no radiator.

Cora had already told her that she and her late husband had lived in the house all their married life and, like lots of elderly people, had never got around to installing central heating. Holly could understand that decision if money was scarce, but somehow she didn’t think that was a problem for Cora Barrett.

She made a mental note to ask if there was a small heater she could use to warm up the room for an hour before she came to bed.

She sat up and shifted to the edge of the mattress. Maybe the cold was a blessing in disguise. If it had been warm and cosy in here, she could probably have come up with a hundred great excuses to put off the dreaded task of unpacking.

Her motley collection of luggage hunkered down against the opposite wall, almost daring her to gather the courage to begin. In an impulsive burst of action, she sprang across and grasped the straps of the ragged canvas rucksack that had accompanied her to half a dozen music festivals over the years.

She squeezed her eyes closed and then opened them again, ordering the memories back in their box. Now was not the time.

Thinking about music festivals was safe ground, but before she knew it, she’d be trying to work out how she could have made better decisions and stopped the whole horrendous business from happening.

Sadly, it just wasn’t possible to wipe out the mistakes of the past. All she could do now was set things straight, however long that might take.

She would find a way to build a better future.





Chapter Seven





Holly





As Holly tugged at the buckles of the rucksack, a small pile of trainers and shoes spilled out over the floor.

She paired them up and arranged them neatly on the bottom of the fusty-smelling old wardrobe.

Next, she took a deep breath and pulled the suitcase across. Layers of folded tops, cardigans, jeans and sweaters were revealed when she unzipped it and peeled back the canvas top.

She’d already dumped some of the clothing she’d brought with her in a bin bag out in Cora’s back yard. The clothes had been old, but that wasn’t the reason she’d discarded them. It had been because of the memories attached to them.

Day after dragging day, week after long week spent hidden away from the outside world at the clinic. The same pair of old black leggings and baggy grey sweater, worn like a second skin that had the power to protect her.

She bent down and began to unload the contents of her sparse wardrobe. Most of this stuff now bagged around her shoulders and bottom and gaped at the waist, but it hadn’t always been like that. She could remember a time when her hip bones were undetectable beneath a padding of fat.

Her fingers quivered slightly in nervous anticipation at what lay beneath the garments.

She took her time, hanging the two pairs of trousers over the heavy wooden coat hangers that Mrs Barrett had kindly left for her use.

She laid her worn knitwear more carefully than required in the chest of drawers lined with faded floral paper that perhaps had once been scented. Now all she could smell was the distinctive unpleasant odour of camphor.

As she removed the garments, one by one, the horror of what lay beneath began to reveal itself.

Lots of envelopes, in different colours, shapes and sizes. Some opened, with their rucked contents shoved hastily back in, but most unopened, as if they had just slid through the letter box that morning.

Holly hastily gathered them together in an untidy pile, purposely refusing to look at them directly but side-glancing just enough to shuffle them into something that resembled a vague order.

She took out the brown folder that she’d filled with paperwork before she left Manchester. Reaching for an empty plastic carrier bag that had held the sandwich and drink she had purchased when she’d alighted from the train, she crammed all the envelopes and paperwork inside and tied a knot in the top, then stuffed the bag unceremoniously under the bed.

Her breathing felt rapid and shallow now and her hands were shaking a little as she remembered hiding from debt collectors as they hammered on the door of her tiny flat.

She leaned on the narrow windowsill and pressed her face close to the glass, feeling the now welcome chill of moving air against her cheek.

All the houses here on the crescent had sizeable gardens, most of them long and narrow. Mrs Barrett’s seemed a little shorter than the others because of a dense cluster of mature bushes and trees at the bottom that gobbled up about a quarter of its length.