The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller by Shalini Boland

sure I’ll get used to it again.’
    ‘Whatever makes you most comfortable, sweetheart. It’s not a problem.’ She sniffs and then smiles as she gazes down at the album. I follow her gaze.
    ‘Look at the state of you, Mum,’ Cara says. ‘You look well pissed in that photo.’
    A younger version of my mother leans against a good looking man with dark hair, his arm around her waist. Her eyes are unfocused and she does look slightly drunk. But she also seems happy. Her clothes are casual – jeans and a vest top, her hair tumbling down around her shoulder in blonde waves. The man wears jeans and a white t-shirt. He’s much taller than her, staring directly at the camera, as though he’s looking at me. Seeing right into my soul.
    ‘That’s your dad, Marcus,’ my mum says. Although I already guessed that much. ‘Handsome devil wasn’t he.’
    ‘Yes,’ I agree, my eyes glued to the photo. ‘Yes, he was.’
    My mum closes the album and passes it back to Cara. ‘Put that back in my room, love.’
    ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Can’t I see some more? Are there any of me and Cara growing up? Maybe they’ll help me remember.’
    ‘These are just pictures of me,’ my mum says. ‘Of my younger days. They’ll be boring for you.’
    ‘Do you have any of me?’ I ask.
    ‘Yes, of course, but they’r e ― ’
    ‘They’re in storage,’ Cara interrupts.
    ‘Yes,’ my mum agrees. ‘This place was getting cluttered, so I had a clear out. The albums are in storage, but I’ll go and get them soon. Then you can come over again and take a look.’
    My shoulders droop. I had hoped that seeing photos of my childhood would help me get my memory back. Never mind.
    The rest of the day passes quickly and pleasantly enough. We talk some more about my childhood, about school and growing up. But I don’t remember any of the things they tell me. Not a single thing.
    As the day wears on, my mum becomes more and more emotional. She’s worried about me, and begs me to stay for the whole weekend. But the thought fills me with dread. I find my sister a little intimidating. She’s friendly enough, but I don’t relish the idea of staying overnight. Even though, it turns out, this is the rented flat I grew up in, where she and I shared a room for over twenty years. No, I can’t stay here. I crave the peace and solitude of my own house, so I leave my mum and sister at around five o’clock. My mum cries, and I feel bad for her. But not bad enough to stay.
    The journey home is a nightmare, with commuters crammed into the train carriages, and no spare seats, so I have to stand for the entire ninety-minute journey back to Christchurch. I almost fall into a taxi at the station, and I’m too tired to think about anything other than the fact that I’m so pleased to be nearly home. My shoulders relax as we cruise down Christchurch High Street. The town is fairly quiet for a Friday evening, just a few clusters of people heading into the local pubs, wine bars and restaurants.
    At last, we cross the stone bridge which leads to my house. I’m looking forward to washing the travel-grime off my skin and having something to eat. The taxi comes to a stop, its engine still running, and I pay the driver, adding on a generous five-pound tip. I step outside, breathing in the familiar river air, and fumble about in my bag for my house keys, panicking for a few seconds when I don’t locate them instantly. I finally wrap my fingers around them, unlock the front door and stumble inside.
    Home.
    Something’s wrong. I realise the alarm isn’t bleeping. I’m sure I set it this morning. My body tenses. Should I be worried? Is someone here? An intruder? But my fear turns to annoyance as my brain catches up and I realise who it is.
    ‘Mia! Is that you?’ His voice floats down the stairs
    Shit, I’m right. It’s Piers.
     

 
     
    Chapter Twelve
    Dual feelings of relief and irritation flood my body. It’s not an intruder. Piers must have let himself in with