Local Girl Missing by Claire Douglas Page B

Daniel of my memories. ‘OK, you’ve persuaded me like always, Lady Frankie.’
    He pushes the gearstick into first and I re-fasten my seat belt, relieved that I get to kill a few more hours before having to return to the apartment. As Daniel turns the car, something at the bay window of my apartment catches my eye. I look up, startled. A face is pressed to the glass, gazing down at us. My blood runs cold. Is it you? I crane my neck to get a better view but it’s too late, Daniel is already heading away from the house, to the coastal road below.
    The Seagull has hardly changed in twenty years. The old-fashioned paisley wallpaper, the ruddy-faced old men nursing pints at the bar, each with a malodorous dog in tow, the smell of chips and vinegar with the faint undercurrent of wet fur hanging in the air – all is exactly as I remember. Even the fake birds hanging from the ceiling and the stuffed seagull on the windowsill are still in residence. It’s like stepping into a time capsule.
    The pub is on the edge of the town, overlooking the stormy seas and the strip of beach, which narrows thefurther you go along the coast so that by the time you reach the old pier it’s disappeared. A middle-aged man sits alone at the table in the corner reading a tabloid and drinking a pint. His dark hair is thinner, his stomach has expanded but I recognise him straight away. It’s Leon’s brother, Lorcan.
    Daniel nods greetings to the men at the bar and the woman serving them pints. She’s buxom, older than me, mousy hair springing out from her parting in corkscrews. I hover behind him, hoping that I’m not recognised by Lorcan.
    ‘Awright, Daniel, my love,’ the woman sing-songs in a strong West Country accent. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. The paper keeping you busy, is it?’
    Daniel grins. ‘You know what it’s like, Helen. All work and no play.’
    She cackles and then notices me for the first time. Our eyes meet and with a thud of recognition I realise who she is.
    Helen Turner. Your friend from the estate.
    Her jolly face falls. ‘Frankie? Well, well, well,’ she tuts and shakes her head disbelievingly, ‘so the rumours about you being back are true.’
    I know I shouldn’t be surprised that gossip about my return is already rippling through Oldcliffe like a Mexican wave, but I am. I’d forgotten what it’s like living in a small town. And then it hits me, and I suddenly feel too hot in the stuffy pub. Anyone from my past who still lives here could have sent me that letter. They’re obviously all aware that I’m back.
    Helen glowers at me over the pint glass that she’s cleaning, reminding me of how much she disliked me at school. I always suspected her animosity was because she wanted to be your best friend and was jealous of me. She must have been overjoyed when I left the sixth form to go to boarding school. I remember how grumpy she seemed when I bumped into you again in that bar, and like before, we became inseparable. I know you felt sorry for her so we let her tag along when we went to The Basement on a Saturday night, but for the most part Helen was a hanger-on, a bit part in your life.
    She was never particularly attractive but the years haven’t been kind to her; the sea air has taken a toll on her once-smooth skin, enlarging her pores and reddening her nose. ‘How are you, Helen?’ I say, my accent-less voice suddenly conspicuous in this backwater pub.
    ‘Aw, don’t you talk posh,’ she sniggers, the men at the bar joining in with a chorus of guffaws. ‘And look at you in all your finery.’ I feel overdressed in my black trousers, red wool coat and silk scarf. ‘What are you doing back ’ere then?’
    To my annoyance I feel my cheeks flame. ‘I, um, well …’
    ‘Spit it out, love,’ says one of the men, the short, squat one with a bald head and glasses. He looks like a character from that game we used to play when we were kids, Guess Who?
    ‘She’s come to see me,’ Daniel