The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow by Alison Cronin

ordered them over the phone. Oh, how she wished Amy had, rather than take that fateful journey.
    Totally unpredicted, like a thunderbolt hurled from the heavens, a mugger had struck. Amy hadn ’t stood a chance. Shoved to the ground she had cracked her skull hard on the pavement. Twelve hours later, at 5.10 a.m., she was dead. No chance to say their goodbyes. No chance to tell her how much she loved her, to thank her, to tell her how much she would be missed, just wham, and then gone. It was all so pointless, so unforgivable. They never caught the culprit, and that made it all the harder to bear. She had no one to focus her hatred on, no one to answer her questions, questions that burned, right to this very day, into her heart with the heat of a branding iron. Why Amy? Why did he have to kill her for the sake of a couple of quid? She hadn’t even put up a struggle.
    Then, of course, later that day - after every reminder that it was her fortieth birthday: from the cards, to the cake, to the banners, had been removed or destroyed - the bouquet had arrived. If there was an Olympic event for weeping, Meli would have won the gold easily that day.
    It was some time later that Meli repacked the contents of the tin, which had been strewn on the floor around her, and clambered from the attic, the precious box in her hand. Somehow it didn’t seem right to leave it up there, all on its own in the darkness. Taking it into her bedroom, she stretched up and pushed it onto the top of the wardrobe.
    In the bathroom she inspected her face in the cabinet mirror. It was not a pretty sight. Red blotchy eyes, squinting from puffy sockets and a shocking-pink nose did little for her appearance, other than draw attention away from her razor edged cheek bones and colourless pencil line lips. Cramming her hair into a scrunchy she secured it away from her face, before splashing cold water over her hot flushed skin. Lifting her head she stared deeply into her green eyes with their flecks of hazel, buried beneath long black lashes. Large intense eyes that seemed to fill her entire face. She blinked, drawing away from her reflection. Eyes that she had inherited from her mother, Amy had often told her fondly. She wished she could remember more about her parents, but she had been so young. How long would it be before her memories of Amy faded?
    Her lower lip began to quiver, pre-empting the involuntary collapse of her entire face again if she didn ’t pull herself together. Grabbing the towel she smothered her face in it, soaking up the wetness, pressing it so hard against her eyeballs that she was amazed they didn’t cave in and embed themselves into her brain. She had got over the loss of her parents; she would get over the loss of Amy too, given time. Chucking the towel carelessly over the side of the bath, she walked briskly away, turning her back on her melancholy thoughts. Feeling hot now, she headed back to her bedroom, and quickly stripping off her jumper, with its tear-sodden sleeves, she changed into a cool white tee shirt.
    Her eyes fell on her birthday cards, sprawled across the bedside cabinet, just as she ’d left them that morning, in preference of her coffee. Slumping onto the bed she idly picked them up and flicked through them again. There were eleven in total, most of them from old friends and work colleagues from Reading. She considered herself lucky that these people had bothered to remember it was her birthday, let alone send her a card. She gulped down the sob that was forming in her throat, and quickly snatched up Cal’s card as a distraction. It was one of those ultra large, thickly quilted cards that always reminded her of a Gossard Wonderbra, and which probably cost almost as much! Dear Cal. He had tried so hard over the past year to help her, to understand what she was going through. But he had no personal experience of a close bereavement. Both his parents and his brother were still alive. No, that wasn’t quite true. He