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

or would it be a spur of the moment decision?

      She looked around and there was the chalet bungalow and, further along the path, the caravan that she’d seen earlier from below, also teetering on the edge of the cliff, both looking like they had been abandoned by their owners years ago. Although, as she got closer, she could see there were signs of life in the caravan, even though two of the windows were boarded up. There was an electricity cable of sorts running from goodness knows where and into the caravan. Old and holey socks were pegged to a makeshift washing line at the side. There had even been an attempt to cultivate the patch of earth by the caravan steps. Must be Reg Gardiner’s place, she thought. Perhaps he had seen more than he had let on. If he had a criminal record he wouldn’t have been willing to talk to the coppers. She filed the thought away.

      Walking past the caravan, she came to the chalet. Unloved. Uncared for, definitely empty. She hopped over a small wall, ignoring a scrawled notice that said ‘Keep Out’. On the tufty grass lay Coke and beer cans, cider bottles, empty crisp packets; the wrapping from a couple of sandwiches, broken glass. A leggy yellow rose together with a rosemary bush tried to survive in the dry earth. She went over to the chalet and pushed the door. It lurched open. Without stopping to think, Alex went inside.

      It was the acrid smell that got to her first: fetid, feral, unwashed bodies. The light coming through the windows was dim, so she turned on the torch on her phone and shone it around. In the corner of the room was a frayed and crumpled sleeping bag. Several cigarette packets lay discarded on the floor together with more empty Coke cans, crisp packets, glass from the broken windows. In a small mound of blackened wood and paper there was evidence a fire had been set. A pile of newspapers teetered on the floor, which was covered with cracked and rotting lino. There was an old stool with three legs, a couple of tatty chairs, and a small table that had seen better days. A mound of plaster and rotten wood was scattered on the floor. She looked up and saw broken struts from the bedroom floor above. On the table were what looked like a couple of atrophied bread rolls and an empty can of baked beans, mould growing in the leftover tomato sauce at the bottom. Had someone actually sat at this table and eaten something? Threadbare curtains fluttered at the windows.

      She tried to breathe through her mouth so the sharp, sour smell didn’t catch at the back of her throat. Somehow she didn’t think this was a meeting place for lovers. Surely even hormonal kids wanting a fumble or more would be more discerning? Especially if they came from The Drift. Ha. If they came from The Drift they would have the run of Mummy and Daddy’s second home somewhere along this coast. Not for nothing was it nicknamed Chelsea-on-Sea. Local kids, would they come to a dive like this? Unlikely. There must be better spots. What about junkies? Alex looked. Sure enough, a couple of syringes lay discarded on the floor. Being careful where she stepped, she went over to the sleeping bag, picked it up by one corner. A couple of discarded syringes rolled out and clattered onto the lino. Then a belt and a bent, discoloured teaspoon. Sadness washed over her. Drugs were everywhere. It was a popular misconception that those in the country or in nice seaside villages didn’t have a problem with drugs, that it was confined to urban jungles. So wrong. It was everywhere; many driven to it by the boredom, loneliness, and the isolation brought about by living in a place where there was nothing to do and no public transport.

      The atmosphere was oppressive, bearing down on her shoulders. It was time to get out; there was nothing else for her here.

      She took a last look round, shining the phone torch into dark corners, and saw something dully reflecting the light. She went over and picked it up. It was dusty and grimy so she wiped it on her jeans. An oddly shaped ring, silver probably. An eternity ring perhaps? Alex’s heart beat faster. Could this be Elena’s ring? The one Cat had said was missing? And if it was, what was it doing in a dump like this?

      And who had the other one of the pair?

       CHAPTER 8

       ELENA

       End of May: twenty-eight weeks before she dies

      Is this how it begins? A few snatches of conversation here and a few there: conversation that feels all secret and special. It is intoxicating. Liberating.

      I’m lying on my saggy old bed in an old tee-shirt and scuzzy shorts looking round the room I share with Tara. The posters on the wall: One Direction, for God’s sake; The ‘Desiderata’: ‘No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.’ Really? Maybe it is, now. Strings of fairy lights carelessly winding around the headboards. Our two desks piled high with books and papers; photographs of family and friends Sellotaped onto the walls above. Clothes discarded on chairs, spilling out of the two small wardrobes; shelves jam-packed with books, soft toys, pieces of memories of friends. This is my life on the surface. It doesn’t show the dark side. The you-know-what. The depression. The anxiety. The anorexia. And in recent times, the anger that Mum had to go and marry someone so unsuitable: that’s the word, isn’t it? Unsuitable and young, for fuck’s sake! I mean, what’s that all about?

      I’ve always known I’m different. I don’t surround myself with besties, don’t wear friendship bracelets, don’t want to go to boy band gigs. Apart from the you-know-what, I am happy in my own skin. As I say, just wanting to get through it and out the other side.

      But now.

      But now things are changing. Really changing. I thought that wouldn’t happen until I’d left this dump, gone to uni, gone on a gap year, done something, lived a little. But it’s happening now. Right here, right now. I hug the knowledge to myself, wanting to get each moment out of my head and look at it. Hold it up to the light. Twist it around and around and examine it, watch it sparkle. Is it really happening? Is love really happening?

      There’s a knock on the door.

      I find Max waiting outside, shuffling from foot to foot and blushing. Of course.

      ‘What do you want?’ I ask, not unkindly coz I know he fancies me. A lot. Even if he can hardly bear to look at me.

      ‘I… I… I …’ He looks down at his shoes.

      I try not to sigh. He can’t help his stammer. ‘Come on Max, I’ve got to get back to an essay I’m trying to write. And you shouldn’t be here anyway.’ He would get into real trouble if any of the prefects found him in the sixth form building at this time of day.

      ‘I know.’ His face is anxious. ‘I just …’

      Now I am getting pissed off. I have things I want to do and it doesn’t involve writing an essay.

      ‘I saw you with Theo the other day,’ he blurts out. ‘Coming from the summerhouse. He talks about you to his friends. He’s really horrible.’

      ‘I know that, Max. Don’t worry about it. I don’t.’

      ‘You should. What about me?’

      ‘You?’

      ‘Me.’

      The silence is painful as it dawns on me what he is asking. ‘Max.’ I try to sound even kinder than before. ‘I can’t – you’re too – it’s just …’

      His eyes are wet. Then he thrusts something at me. ‘Here. For you.’ Then he runs off.

      A box of chocolates. A frigging box of chocolates. Oh, Max.

      I throw the box of chocs onto my desk before locking the door. Tara is doing prep in the library and won’t be up for hours. I look at my clothes. I pick a pair of skinny jeans up off the floor, pull an electric blue shirt off a hanger and dress quickly. I won’t have much time to do this. I go to the chest of drawers and find my eyeliner and mascara. Finally, I rub some gloss over my lips and give my hair a quick brush. Rummaging around in my bag, I find my phone and open up Facebook. I hardly ever do this, but I’m happy. I post.