Mary-Jane Riley - After She Fell - A haunting psychological thriller with a shocking twist

Alex breathed in deeply. East Anglian air. More specifically, North Norfolk air with its taste of salt and freedom and sense of space. There was a reason why everybody talked about the wide East Anglian skies – the world seemed to go on forever. She closed her eyes, continuing to breathe in the air that, despite its heat, felt cleaner and fresher than the diesel, spices, and dirt of London. She had missed this. For all the ghastly events of two years ago, she had missed this. Of course, this trip to find out more about Elena’s death was another burst of conscience easing, but, who knew, maybe some good could come of it, if only to help Cat.

‘Hi.’

She turned towards the voice and found herself looking at a boy – teenager, a young man – who could only be described as beautiful. Thick dark hair was brushed away from his forehead, cheekbones were sharp, top lip was slightly fuller than the bottom. Chocolate-brown eyes that were fringed by long, girlish lashes appraised her. He held a cigarette loosely between his fingers. For a moment Alex felt awkward, gauche even. Then she told herself not to be so silly. This was an adolescent. A beautiful one, but one who was about Gus’s age. Younger. ‘Hallo,’ she said, smiling.

‘Did you want some help? Only …’ The boy raised his eyebrows. Looked her up and down, slowly.

She felt discomforted. ‘Only what?’

‘You looked … lost, that’s all.’ He smiled back at her. Dazzling.

‘No, not lost,’ she said. ‘Only looking. It’s a beautiful building.’

‘What?’ He followed her gaze. ‘Oh, yeah. That.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s school, that’s all I know.’

‘You a pupil?’ Though she had guessed this, and not only because she could see books protruding from the rucksack slung over one shoulder.

‘Yeah, just. Exams. Then I’m outta here. Maths. Do you want to know where to go? Directions? That sort of thing?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Really, I’m fine, thank you.’

He stared up the drive. ‘Y’know, I never really look at the building. I know it’s beautiful; a great example of some sort of architecture yadda yadda, but hey, to me it’s school. Even if I live in a sixth form house and can wear my own clothes, go out at lunchtime, even smoke.’ He grinned. ‘As long as they don’t find out, of course; it’s still school with all its petty rules and regulations. I’m so past it.’ He threw the butt down and ground it under one trainer-ed foot. ‘But you don’t want to know that, mystery lady. Good to see you.’

‘And you.’

‘Name’s Theo, by the way.’

‘I’m Alex,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ He sauntered off, lifting a hand as he went. ‘Ciao.’

Ciao? Didn’t that go out in the eighties? And what did he mean, ‘yeah’? Had he recognized her? But it was two years ago, and the newspapers had not only wrapped fish and chips but would have been used as compost by now. So what? She couldn’t worry about that. More likely it was a teenage tic.

She went back to the car and drove slowly past the entrance, peering up the drive. Theo was standing motionless, staring at her. For some reason, she shivered.

She found the Devonshires’ holiday home pretty easily with the directions she’d been given. The car had wheezed and bounced down a long rutted track that looped and curved down a hill until she reached the flint cottage that stood stark against the sky. Alex had to walk round the cottage to find the front door. She could see why. Whoever had originally designed the cottage had wanted visitors to marvel at the view. The sea, less than a hundred metres from the door, was grey and endless. She could have been at the house at the end of the world. The only sounds were the screams of gulls above her and the crash of the waves onto the shore. She looked to her right: grass and open fields with the beach below; to her left, in the distance, she could see cliffs, rocks, sea defences, the beautiful building that was The Drift.

Somewhere along there Elena had fallen.

The key was where she had been told it would be: under the stone pig guarding the front door. Marvellous, she thought, people still left their keys the first place a burglar would look. She felt comforted by the thought that the world up here hadn’t changed much in the last couple of years that she’d been living in London, where, if you left your key under a stone pig, you’d more than likely get back to find your house stripped bare.

The air in the hallway was pleasantly cool and the rooms of the cottage were large and tastefully furnished: polished rosewood tables juxtaposed with modern settees. A cracked leather sofa. An old-fashioned upright piano and a couple of Ghost chairs. The kitchen had what she thought must have been the original pamment tiles, but there was every mod con, including a rather alarming-looking coffee maker. In the fridge she found a cold chicken and a bowl of salad as well as milk, eggs, butter, and a bottle of wine. Cat had been true to her word and had asked her housekeeper to stock up the fridge with essentials so she wouldn’t have to go shopping straightaway.

She brought her case in from the car and took it upstairs to the main bedroom, which was furnished with an iron-framed bed, a dressing table, chest of drawers, and a door through to a small bathroom. Again, everything tasteful and charming. Cat had come a long way since their schooldays. Peering through the window there was that view again: endless sky and sea, the sun high and unforgiving. She was conscious of the sweat on her forehead. Fresh air, that’s what she needed.

A cooling breeze was coming off the sea as she walked along the stretch of beach below the cottage. She’d walked across the grass to shallow steps that had been cut into the cliff enabling her to scramble down. She stood for a moment, imagining she was the only person in the world, for that’s what it felt like, then she turned to her left, walking along the shoreline in the lee of the cliffs.

After ten minutes of walking she reached the section of cliff where the road above had been swept away in the ferocious gales and sea surge of the previous year. As she looked up she could see the remnants of blue and white police tape fluttering in the breeze. She imagined Elena standing at the edge of that road, looking down onto the beach and the rocks below. What had been in her mind that dark, cold December night? Had she been frightened? Or calm; sure of what she wanted to do. How unhappy must she have been to overcome her fear of heights? It was a long way to fall, but then it took only a split second decision to jump, and once that decision was made, you couldn’t go back.

If she had indeed made the decision for herself.

Alex looked around and saw the rocks that Elena had most probably landed on, the seaweed draped over them like throws on a chair. Nearby, a family was picnicking, their red and blue tartan rug spread out underneath them, two boys – one aged no more than two – digging in the sand. A short distance from them, a young man and a woman lay on two towels soaking up the sun. Near to where the sea sucked at the shore, a woman was throwing a stick into the waves for her retriever to fetch. The scene was summertime on an English beach. Pity it was a beach where a teenager’s broken body had lain for an old man to find.

She looked up again, along the clifftop. A chalet bungalow teetered right near the edge, gripping the last of the land for dear life. It looked as though it only needed a wisp of wind to send it toppling onto the sand below. It was weather-beaten and abandoned, with a broken door and smashed windows. Alex imagined the owners had given up the fight.

Suddenly a missile barged into her legs almost knocking her over. As she regained her balance, she saw the now very wet retriever sitting at her feet, a stick in its mouth. It dropped the stick, looking hopefully up at her, wagging its tail across the ground, distributing sand everywhere. Alex laughed, bending down for the stick before throwing it as far as she could.