The Last Charm. Ella Allbright

REWARD ON OFFER.

       Contact [email protected]

       Leila

       December 2017

       From: [email protected]

       To: [email protected]

       Subject: Re. My Charm Bracelet

       Today at 12:32 p.m.

       Dear Caitlin,

       Thank you so much for getting in touch about finding my bracelet. You’ve no idea how much it means to me. I’ve been checking my phone about a hundred times a day ever since I put up the posters and plastered the ad all over social media. The feeling of relief is almost indescribable.

       It was gifted to me on the eve of my eleventh birthday, and without the bracelet, I haven’t felt like myself. Each and every charm on the silver link chain with its little heart-shaped locket clasp is significant, marking a special memory which has the power to make me laugh, smile, or cry.

       Caitlin, have you ever loved someone so much that every time you look at them, a piece of your heart swells with joy simply because they’re in the world? Well, that’s who Jake is to me. Each charm on the bracelet is a part of our story. My life, his life, our lives … and how they’ve intertwined over the past fifteen years. I need the bracelet back, and to convince you it’s mine I’m going to tell you all about the precious memories that come with those special charms.

       I’ll start before our beginning, because you need to know how I got the bracelet and how that day affected my whole life. By the end of this re-telling, I hope you’ll find it in your heart to return my bracelet to me, so I can finish the birthday treasure hunt Jake created, find the last charm, and put it where it belongs.

       Mine and Jake’s story isn’t over yet, no matter what other people might think.

       Leila

       30 August 2001

       The Charm Bracelet & The Heart Charm

      There’s glistening jewellery lying on my bedspread when I get in from seeing Eloise – a silver charm bracelet with a heart-shaped locket holding the clasp together and a tiny chain dangling from it. Turning it over between my fingers, I see a plain silver heart charm hanging down halfway around it. I frown. It’s my eleventh birthday tomorrow so maybe the bracelet’s an early present? But why isn’t it wrapped? And who is it from? There’s no label. I can’t picture Dad buying it, going around shops after spending all day at work plumbing. It can’t be from Mum, because she always wraps presents she says are ‘fit for royalty’ with carefully folded paper, tape sticking the edges down neatly, and a ribbon tied in a bow with the ends curled into spirals.

      Sitting down on the bed as I undo the bracelet to see if it fits me, a scrunching sound echoes around the room. Frowning, I look down and pull a piece of paper from under my leg. Unfolding it on my bare knees, I smooth it out and see a single word and a kiss. It’s both the simplest and the hardest note I’ve ever read.

       Sorry. X

      A heavy thudding sounds up the stairs and Dad bursts into my room, eyes wide, blond hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He’s clutching a crumpled note in his hand, and the paper matches the note I’m holding. ‘It’s your mum,’ he whispers brokenly, ‘she’s gone.’

      I actually feel my eyes widen with shock, and my breath catches in my throat, choking me.

      How could she? How can she leave us? Leave me? I trusted her.

      I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

       Jake

       February 2002

      The motorway that’s whizzed by for most of the journey melts away into grey pavements and red-roofed houses, and Jake can see his reflection in the car window. He turns away. His mum always says he’s striking looking, but Jake’s not sure that’s a good thing, even though she tries to make it sound that way. The last time his dad, Terry, caught her saying it, he’d said Jake was a freak. That it was her fault their son had been born with a cleft palate and different coloured eyes. Having a normal healthy baby, he’d yelled, was more than she was capable of.

      The car journey’s taken forever. They’d left Birmingham as dawn was breaking and Jake can’t wait to get to their destination. He’s fed up of moving houses. He’s twelve or thirteen – he doesn’t know his actual age because his dad won’t let them celebrate his birthday, even though his mum has tried to – and they’ve moved at least six times that he can remember.

      Finally, they roar up outside a white house with pebbles on the bottom half and a red front door. It has double-glazed windows, and the small front garden has trimmed grass. It’s nice. Hopefully it’ll last more than a few months. His dad called their last house a shithole, but it hadn’t been when they first moved in. Even Jake knows that if you don’t mow the lawn, if you leave rubbish in the grass, and kick in the walls and doors when you’re angry, a house will soon fall apart. Just like a family will if you don’t care for it.

      A few minutes later, he’s following his dad up the beige-carpeted stairs with a heavy box in his arms. ‘You’re probably not going to be happy about this, because you’re a moaner like your mum,’ Terry smirks, ‘but your bedroom is at the back of the house, and well … Follow me.’

      There’s a sinking feeling in Jake’s stomach as he trudges along behind his dad’s bulky body. Opening the white door at the end of the corridor, Terry makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. As Jake walks in, the first wall he sees is candy-floss pink. The carpet is thin, also pink, with coloured dashes and dots of what looks like dried paint ground into it in patches. Purple, green, brown, black, yellow, grey and blue. The room is babyish and girly, and he looks at his dad questioningly. He tries not to flush with discomfort but knows he hasn’t succeeded when his dad lets out a nasty laugh.

      ‘It was the daughter’s bedroom. I know it’s going to embarrass you when you have mates around – if you manage to make any this time, that is – but you’ll just have to wait until I have time to paint it another colour.’ The gleam in his eye says he’s enjoying this.

      Jake can feel his jaw quivering with rage. One day he’ll be strong enough to punch his dad right in his big, stupid mouth.

      Then he steps around the corner and his mouth drops open. There are doors painted on the two walls nearest the window. He thinks the first set of doors is supposed to be the wardrobe leading to Narnia, but he doesn’t recognise the others. What he does know is that they’re really cool. He longs to step through one of them into another world, but he rearranges his face so his dad can’t tell, shrugging his shoulders the way he’s learnt to. Like he’s not bothered. ‘I’ll have to wait until you’re ready then, I guess.’ He tries to inject a note of disappointment into his voice and turns away to traipse over to the window.

      ‘Come on, boy.’ His dad yanks him backward so he nearly trips over and bumps his head on a set of empty bookshelves