CHAPTER 77: THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK - CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I stare at the papers Richard pushes at me: old headlines. “By the time they’d pulled out what was left

of him,” he says, “a stab wound inflicted by a fourteen-year-old girl would have been the least of his

injuries. Certainly, it didn’t show up in the autopsy report.”

I digest that. He continues, “Witnesses at the time reported him, apparently giving chase to a young

girl, a redhead. There was a search for you.” He holds up another sheet. I stare out at myself from a

much younger face, ginger, freckled and gawky.

He looks at the photo. “I have to say, Charlotte, that you have bloomed since then...” Then he looks at

me over his glasses, critically, “Although you need to eat. You’ve lost weight in the last couple of

days…. What happened to the knife?”

“I threw it over the bridge into the river.”

“Mmm.... Anyone’s guess then, where it is now. We’ve dredged that section since then. Could even be

part of the pilings for the new bridge.

He picks more papers out of the flurry still issuing from the printer, again pushing them towards me.

“This report, which, by the way, you have not seen, is from the police files. Although Jenkins died at the

time, when the story broke about the home, some months later, it was found that he had been one of

the leaders of a group trafficking in youngsters for purposes of prostitution….”

He pauses. “Do you want to see anymore?”

“Um, no, not right now. Don’t think I could handle it just yet. Later perhaps.”

“I’ll have all the information I have sent to you, and James of course.” He glances over at my Master,

who is browsing his way through the assorted papers, reading, his expression impassive.

Realisation washes over me. My breath shuddering with relief, “Oh, God. It’s over. It’s over.”

“Yes, it’s over. The police may want to interview you, but they are not interested in giving you a hard

time. It’s perfectly clear that you were a victim, not a perpetrator.”

Shaking, my breath is short. My head won’t take it in. Michael tries to hold me, but I twist free. “Mr

Haswell, how can I ever thank you enough?”

Jabbing a finger towards my Master. “You can make sure I get my money’s worth out of him, for a RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

start.” But he is smiling, and my Master nods a brief smile in return.

Then he turns back to me. “Take a few days off. Get yourself together again. Then I want you back in

my office, Monday morning, ten am. Yes?”

I nod. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have enough words to thank you.” I walk around his desk and bending, kiss

him on the cheek.

He looks at me sideways. “You’re welcome, Charlotte. I can assume this is the last of your secrets?”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Yes, oh yes. You’ve got it all now.”

“Good. Now relax and do…. whatever it is you do, with these two for a couple of days.”

*****

Haswell departs, leaving me with Michael and my Master.

Michael hugs me, kissing me firmly on the mouth. My Master lays a hand on my shoulder, kissing me

on the forehead, but there is no joy in his eyes. After a few minutes, he leaves me with Michael.

Michael’s eyes are disturbed.

*****

Although I know now that most of my problems have been dealt with, my Master is silent for hours at a

time. Michael tries to chivvy up some conversation, but is stone-walled, my Master answering in

monosyllables, if at all.

“Master?”

“What is it, Charlotte?” There is no welcome in his voice.

“I’m sorry. What can I do to make it right?”

He grabs me by a wrist, spinning me back against the wall, his expression fierce. I land against the wall

with a bump, the breath knocked out of me. He looms over me, voice angry.

“Charlotte, is that everything now? Michael and I have been building our lives around you. If there is

anything else….”

“No Master, there isn’t. You’ve got it all now. Anything else is just…. detail.”

“He stares down at me, his dark eyes, black pits. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I promise. There’s nothing else…. Master?”

“Yes, what?”

“I know I’ve made life difficult for you. It was never deliberate, not what I wanted.”

“Difficult?” He raises his brows. “Difficult? Is that the right word, do you think? I recommended you to

Haswell. Difficult is not an adequate description of what I’ve had from him the last couple of days….”

I hang my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….”

“Sorry isn’t good enough, Charlotte. You should have told me. You had plenty of opportunities. What

did you think I would do? Hand you over to the police?”

“No.” My voice is a whisper.

“Then why? Why did you not tell me?”

“I wanted to. Really, I did. But … I couldn’t say it…”

“You couldn’t talk to me? Is that what you’re saying? You couldn’t tell me. But you could tell Haswell,

almost a stranger to you, the moment he asked you?”

“What can I do to make it right?” I repeat.

“I don’t know, Charlotte. Right now, I really don’t know.”

And he walks away, into the lounge, banging the door closed behind him.

Michael wraps an arm around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. “He’ll come round. He’s had a rough

ride the last day or two. Let him calm down, and he’ll be himself again.”

But he doesn’t come round. My Master sits, by himself, in the lounge all day.

The following day, it is the same. He sits alone, brooding.

I make a pot of coffee, strong, the way he likes it. Timidly, I tap on the door. “I brought you coffee,

Master.”

“Fine. Leave it on the table.” He doesn’t look at me.

“I’m going for a walk, on the beach. Would you like to come with me?”

“No.”

Fighting back tears, I put on a jacket and head outside. I pass Michael.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Want company?” asks Michael.

“No, I’m fine. I just want some fresh air. I won’t go far.”

He nods, looking unhappy, and I wander off, down to the sea.

There is a strong surf. Autumn is coming, and waves toss their white heads before spilling over onto

the sands. I follow the strand line, looking for anything more interesting than seaweed or jellyfish.

It is calming: the rush of the sea, the sigh of the breeze, the wailing of the gulls, but chilling, I hug my

light top to myself. I’d not realised the season was growing so late. Summer is ending, and soon I must

return to my university.

And what then?

There are sounds, above the whisper of wind and waves. Straining to hear, I turn, trying to identify the

sound.

Raised voices. Shouting. A row.

I follow the sound back to the house, entering quietly, listening.

Still following the sound through the kitchen and the hall, I am just outside the lounge.

It is Michael’s voice. I’ve never heard him like this: shouting, yelling in rage.

I don’t want to go in.

Throat dry, trying to distract myself, I go back to the kitchen, fill a glass of water, hoping that the voices

will quieten. but they don’t. Deciding that I want something stronger, I pour myself a glass of wine

instead.

Leaning back against the wall, just outside the lounge door, I slide down, squatting on my haunches to

listen, sipping my wine.

“…. If you could abandon your damn pride for a minute and show a little empathy. You’re feeling sorry

for yourself? Your feelings are bruised? Look at it from her point of view…”