The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel by Kerry Wilkinson

Author:Kerry Wilkinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786812537
Publisher: Bookouture

Chapter Twenty-Four

I find myself sitting on the seafront wall close to the bus stop, staring out across the grey-brown swill of water. Suddenly the militant seagulls, rubbish cobbles and everything else about this horrible place doesn’t seem so funny.

I don’t believe in things such as mystics, psychics, mind readers and the like but if my necklace really does mean ‘protected’, as my grandmother claimed, I figured a second opinion would do no harm. If someone independent had confirmed the circles have some sort of significance, then I’m still not sure I would have believed that’s what brought me back to life in the river.

It at least would have been an explanation, however. It might have been a mad-sounding theory but it’s better than anything I had before. With Mystic Martha, it was easy to be superior and smug and then… I don’t know what happened.

She wasn’t acting, she was actually terrified of me. ‘Black’? ‘Empty’? What does that mean? I’m black and empty?

If she is a fraud, she’s a good one… or an awful one considering she offered my money back.

Buses only go once an hour and I’ve narrowly missed one. With little desire to explore the rest of the town, I’m left watching the tide slowly flow in. It covers the slick of mud and starts to lick at the edge of the cobbles.

Black and empty.

When she was younger, Mystic Martha must’ve been a right laugh on a date.

When I check my phone, half an hour has passed. I’ve got four texts from Naomi, each asking where I am and wondering if I’m going to college. There’s another from Robbie, who wants to know if I’m okay. I’m not in the mood to reply, not yet, so simply sit and watch.

Black and empty.

What an absolute cow.

The bus eventually arrives but it’s almost four o’clock by the time I’m back in Westby. The village is quiet but that’s only because everyone’s gearing up for what’s going to happen this evening. All the locally owned shops are starting to shut, with sandwich boards being carried inside and open/closed signs being turned. I get a couple of nodded acknowledgements as I head along the high street, then I cut into one of the shortcuts that will take me home. I follow the wall that spans the cemetery until reaching the front of the church and the green ahead.

None of my family are religious and I’ve never been brought up to believe in, well, anything, I suppose. Not even Santa. At primary school, my friends and classmates used to talk about what Father Christmas was bringing them and I’d ask – without trying to be mean – why they didn’t realise it was their parents giving them gifts. Isn’t it odd to tell a child a made-up story until they’re a certain age and then admit it was a lie all along? It’s a bit rich when parents then teach their children to tell the truth. I’ve never been sure if I missed out on something growing up, whether I was normal or the weird one.

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