The Mercer's House (Northern Gothic Book 1) by Antonia Frost Page B

enormity of the hole which had been torn in their family twenty-five years ago, that it seemed the height of bad taste even to mention the little boy who had been taken away by his mother, never to be seen again.
    So Helen had accused her parents of wishing to harm her, had she? They’d died a year or two after Helen had run off, so if there had been any danger from them it had long passed. And whether or not her brother had hurt her, there was no denying that he’d abandoned her to her own devices after their quarrel. Had he not been so implacable he might have found her long ago; instead he had left it to his daughter to track her down, by which time it was far too late to make it up—Helen was long gone, and might never be found again.
    It was just before seven o’clock when Zanna returned to the Coach and Horses, via the High Street rather than the beach this time. She had excused herself as soon as she saw that Corbin was becoming tired, although it was clear that Alexander would happily have kept his guest there all evening. She had left with a promise to stay at least until Friday, when she was to have lunch with Will’s partner Lou, who wanted to discuss her paintings. In the meantime, she would go and visit Alison Maudsley and see if she could find out any more information about Helen.
    It was getting towards dusk, but the evening was pleasant with the residual heat of the day, and Zanna was in no hurry. She walked slowly along the High Street, her head still buzzing slightly from the wine, looking in the windows of the various shops selling nautical striped cushions and driftwood ornaments. She was admiring a large mirror with a white-painted frame when she felt her phone vibrate in her bag, and took it out to check it. There was nothing but a single email, with the subject heading ‘Helen Chambers.’ Perhaps Alexander had remembered something he wanted to tell her. Zanna opened the email, then frowned in puzzlement, because the message contained only three words. She stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending, until it dawned on her that what she had thought was the subject heading was not that at all; it was the name of the sender. The email had been sent by a Helen Chambers. There was no photo, but the name was clear enough. Was it a joke of some sort? Zanna read the message again, and the words stood out in their stark simplicity:
I am waiting.

3rd April, 1989
    7 PM : I’ve spent all day waiting, it seems. First there was the woman at the surgery who didn’t believe that Rowan had an earache, and kept us sitting for an hour until we finally got to see the doctor. Then there was a queue in the post office. And now Alex, who just called to say he won’t make it home in time for dinner, and not to wait, even though it was ready half an hour ago.
    Still, I managed to do some painting today. The weather has been so unseasonably warm for Easter, and we get this sort of sunshine so infrequently this far north, that I couldn’t wait to take the opportunity. It was such a relief, as despite all my fine resolutions at Christmas I hadn’t done anything, but today the light was so perfect and all the colours so vivid that I couldn’t resist, and I insisted the boys come with me to the beach. I wanted to paint them, but they wouldn’t sit still, so I did a study of the seagulls on the rocks instead. I was feeling so cheerful that I thought the painting would come out well, but now that I look at it, I see something grim, something dangerous, has crept into it, as it always does. The rocks look squat and black, like toads, while the seagulls’ eyes speak of evil and their beaks are as sharp as knives. I know what it is—it’s that dark place in my mind, that dark place which will never let me produce a truly happy picture, which always reminds me of what I am and how I can never be like anybody else. I won’t keep the painting—seeing a reflection of my mind in my work upsets me too much—but perhaps