Somewhere Only She Knows

THE VISIT

Fifty-five years in the future…

‘Francesca, you have a visitor. Are you up to seeing her?’

The silver-haired woman glanced over the top of her glasses, placed her reader onto the small table next to the armchair, and smiled to the girl in the nurse’s uniform. ‘Please, call me Frankie. And yes, of course I am up to it. It is rare enough to receive a visitor at all these days.’

The words were accompanied by a warm smile, which grew broader as Frankie realised who the visitor was. ‘Sammie!’

The young woman ran into the room, leant over and gave her great-aunt an everlasting hug. ‘I’m sorry it’s been so long... bloody finals and realising I hadn’t revised enough, three hours sleep a night, and all that...’

Frankie put a finger over her lips. ‘Hey, I understand. It’s only been three months, and they’ve just transferred me here so I’m still trying to settle in. And some things are more important than little old me!’

Sammie sat down in the second armchair. ‘No, they’re not. Well ok, on a temporary basis maybe. But you’re important too. To me.’

Frankie wiped away a tear that suddenly appeared from nowhere. ‘And you mean the world to me, Sammie. And not just because you’re the only one who ever comes to see me.’

Sammie lowered her head, and then lifted slender hands to brush the long auburn hair from her face. ‘It stinks. I hate my mum and dad for shutting you out.’

‘You can’t hate them for that, Sammie. Hate is an evil word. And they had their reasons.’

‘Did they? Granddad never disowned you, right up until the day he died. And he was there, when... when it happened. So why should my parents pretend you don’t exist?’

That annoying tear was there again. ‘Jake was the best brother anyone could ever have. One of the world’s good guys. Perhaps the only one who ever really understood me.’ She let out a tiny ironic laugh. ‘Or the only one who could ever cope with me. Mental illness is not easy to live with, for me or those around me. Something you are no doubt coming to understand.’

She reached out a slightly-trembling arthritic hand. Sammie wrapped hers around it, and caressed it lovingly. ‘You are the reason I decided on a career in mental health, auntie.’

She smiled. ‘I know. And on that subject, and subtly steering things away from less pleasant times, how did the finals go?’

She blew out her cheeks. ‘Good... I think. Heavy going. But I did ok.’

‘I’m sure you did wonderfully well. And are you going to sit holding those roses for the entire visit?’

She glanced down to the white and yellow flowers on her lap. ‘Oh... I almost forgot about them. I’ll find a vase.’

‘No, I’ll find a vase. And then I’ll make us some tea. I think I can remember where the kettle is.’

Sammie started to protest, but then saw the cheeky glint in her great-aunt’s eyes, and grinned. ‘Sometimes I forget you might be an old wrinklie but you’re still as sharp as a pin.’

Frankie struggled to her feet, grasped the walking stick, and wrenched the flowers from Sammie’s hand. ‘I’ll forgive you for that, as you brought me such beautiful roses. Just remember, you’re the one who forgot she was holding them!’

‘Give you that one.’

Frankie flicked the kettle switch, found a vase from the small cupboard above the fridge in her mini-kitchen, and threw teabags into mugs. ‘So what do you think of the new pad?’

Sammie joined her, and arranged the flowers in the vase. ‘It’s cool. Almost like a luxury hotel suite.’

‘And no bars at the windows.’

‘Auntie...’ Sammie narrowed her eyes.

She chuckled. ‘It’s ok, my dear. I accepted my fate a long time ago. But at least now, half-crippled by arthritis and seventy-five years old, they have finally realised I am no longer a threat to society. I am even allowed to stroll around the gardens unsupervised.’

‘Auntie, you know as well as me this is just a normal care home. If you wanted you could hit the town and go clubbing every night!’ Sammie walked over to the window, and stood gazing across the sloping lawns surrounding the old Georgian building. ‘It is beautiful here. And such a lovely day.’ She lifted her eyes to the almost clear sky. ‘Look... just one little cloud in the sky.’

Frankie joined her. ‘Little Cloud...’ she whispered, another single tear unable to keep from rolling silently down her cheek.

‘Auntie?’

 ‘It... it doesn’t matter. A very long story...’ She turned away, and eased herself back into the armchair. Sammie placed the mugs on the occasional table nestling between the chairs, and put a hand into her great-aunt’s.

‘It seems to me it does matter. You might fool others, old woman, but you don’t fool me.’

Frankie smiled, shaking her head at the same time. ‘It was a very long time ago, and everything that happened was due to my illness. Given your choice of career, you know all too well what one of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia is.’

‘Seeing people who aren’t really there.’

‘Exactly. Which makes my very long story not really worth telling.’

Frankie felt her hand squeezed a little harder. ‘And what if it wasn’t the PS? What if your illness actually gave you the perception to see the girl others didn’t?’

She looked up, startled. ‘My own grandfather said the same thing.’ Then her eyes narrowed. ‘And who said it was all about one person... and a girl?’

Sammie’s head lowered. ‘Before he died, granddad told me some stuff. He wasn’t going to, but I kind of forced it out of him. I knew it was just a tiny part of the story, because only you know what really happened... but it was enough to set me thinking.’

‘Hmm... thinking what an evil bitch your great-aunt was?’

‘No, of course not...’ She looked up, and caught the wry smile. ‘Thinking... thinking there was a lot more to the story than anyone else knew.’

Frankie sucked in a deep breath. ‘I suppose there was.’

‘See... I am a genius!’

‘Genius or not, it is too painful a story to tell and to hear. You should look to the future, Sammie, not a past that is dead and gone.’

‘Is it dead and gone, for you?’

The tears came, for real this time. Sammie reached into the tissue box, and handed her great-aunt a wad. ‘Auntie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

She dabbed her eyes, trying to smile through the pain that still lingered. ‘You didn’t, Sammie. Just memories, you know?’

Sammie knelt at her great-aunt’s knees, and took both her hands. ‘Have you ever told anyone what really happened?’

She shook her head. ‘Of course not. Who would believe the ranting of a crazy old biddie who did such a bad, bad thing?’

‘I would.’

Frankie leant forward, and pulled them tight together. Her frail body was shaking, but it was nothing to do with age or arthritis. ‘Oh Sammie, you have the spirit and good heart of your grandfather, for sure.’

‘Yes, I do. And if he were here right now, he’d be smiling and making sure you told me every little detail.’

The words made Frankie look round. Someone was standing on the far side of the room, gazing out of the window. Jake turned, smiled and nodded, and gesticulated a get-on-with-it-then movement. Then he faded away.

Sammie saw the smile on her great-aunt’s face. ‘So what did he say?’

‘Huh?’

‘What did he say... granddad?’

‘You’re far too perceptive for a twenty-year-old.’

‘It’s my job. Well, it will be, if you’ll help me.’

‘I’ll do all I can, but I don’t see how an old crazy woman can help.’

‘Will you stop with the crazy please?’

‘I’ve got a certificate to prove it.’

‘You’re funny, for a wrinklie.’

‘So what could I possibly do to help?’

‘Tell me your story.’

‘Why?’

‘Ok... to be accepted into Cambridge for my masters, I need to complete a dissertation. Ideally, a case study. Most other work I’ve read has been based around famous crazies. I wanted to be different, take an unknown subject and then argue for alternative perceptions.’

‘Wow... just make sure they don’t see you as the crazy.’

She nodded. ‘I know, a fine line. But I think together we can pull it off.’

Frankie hesitated, and dabbed her eyes again. ‘I’m not sure, Sammie.’

‘Please? I think it might be good for us both. And... I have a bit of news. You remember the old windmill, just downriver from where the pub used to be?’

A stab of nervous dread wafted through Frankie. ‘The windmill?’ she whispered.

‘According to yesterday’s news podcast, it’s become unstable. In a week or two they’re demolishing it.’

‘No... no, they can’t...’

‘There’s a lot of opposition, but it seems there’s no choice.’

Frankie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘So why did you think to tell me that bit of shattering news?’

Sammie smiled, and linked hands again. ‘Because granddad said you were... fond of it. Like it meant something.’

‘Enough to make me tell you my story?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Hmm... I think I’ve been outthought. So how long have you got?’

‘All day.’

Frankie wiped away the last of the tears. Her hands seemed to be shaking more than usual, but perhaps Sammie was right, and letting it all out would be good for both of them. It would be a hard slog, telling the story she’d locked away for fifty years. She’d intended it to go to the grave with her. But maybe Jake had made an appearance for a reason... telling her that in her twilight years, it was the right time to finally let it fly free.

Before it was too late.

‘I will tell you, Sammie. But first there is something important to do. In the cupboard next to the fridge, there’s a bottle of brandy I’ve been saving for a special occasion.’

Sammie smiled, grabbed the bottle and two brandy glasses. ‘Are we really going to need alcohol to brace ourselves up?’

‘Oh yes. And you might need a walking stick too, by the time I’ve finished! Fifty-five years is a hell of a long story to tell...’

________

1

Fifty-five years earlier

(Present Day)

The stern-looking woman dressed in what appeared to be a man’s dark grey suit slapped the thick folder back onto the big silver desk.

‘I’m not convinced.’

The younger man with the sandy hair sitting by her side shook his head. ‘With all due respect, Miss Peabody, you’re not here on the front line with her. We’re the ones who have actually witnessed her remarkable progress over the last year.’

She threw him a look that should have turned him to stone. ‘And I’m the one who has to justify the major decisions we make. In case you’re not aware, Mr. Robinson, the Norfolk and Suffolk Mental Health Trust is hardly riding the crest of a success wave right now.’

He glared out the stare. ‘So what you’re saying is patients well enough to be discharged have to suffer because you are too afraid to release them into the big wide world, in case you lose your job.’

The stare became even more piercing as the eyes narrowed. ‘May I remind you I am the one with the power that actually matters? The power that decides who keeps their job and who doesn’t.’

‘Ah, so it’s like that.’

‘Children...’ The older woman sitting the other side of the grey suit held up a hand. ‘Playground bickering isn’t solving anything. Can we please concentrate on the matter in hand?’

Ellen Browning didn’t take nonsense, not from anyone. And especially not from women who felt the need to wear masculine suits in order to be taken seriously. Unfortunately though, she had to walk a fine line between those who controlled the finances of the home she headed up, and those who cared only about what was best for the patients.

Sometimes that line was so fine it was hard to see it at all.

‘The simple fact, Matilda, is that both Richie and I feel the time is right for her to be discharged. Keeping her here will have a detrimental effect. Six years institutionalised is more than enough for any teenager, and now she’s a grown woman she needs life experiences, not confinement in an artificial world that bears little relationship to reality.’

Matilda Peabody shook her head again in an unconvinced kind of way, picked up the folder, and thumbed through the pages. ‘One year ago, a serious incident, requiring physical intervention?’

‘She’d just been told her grandfather had died, and as you well know they were very close.’

‘Even so...’

‘It wasn’t as drastic as it seemed.’ Richie groaned inside, aware the incident would qualify as one of the deciding factors. ‘She was upset, understandably. He was one of her only two links to the outside world.’

His argument fell on deaf ears. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t sanction this.’

Ellen shook her head. She very much agreed with Richie’s assessment. They could do no more for Frankie except keep her confined like a zoo animal, the last thing a twenty-year-old needed. Unless the delightful Miss Peabody could be convinced, it looked like their patient’s immediate future was already decided.

The next few minutes would be crucial, but the only person who could do the convincing would be Frankie herself. ‘Matilda, I think she’s ready, but perhaps the best way to prove it to you would be to carry out a little real-time test with Frankie?’

‘Go on?’

‘She’s not yet been told about her grandfather’s inheritance. My suggestion is that when we call her in, we tell her we’ve kept the news from her for almost a year. If she is still emotionally unstable, she’ll react badly... as you Matilda will expect her to. Richie and I think she’ll react positively. Whichever way she goes will decide her future. Do we have a deal?’

‘I suppose so... as it appears I’m in the minority anyway. So be it.’

Ellen pressed a button on the desk, and spoke when her assistant answered. ‘Jane, please bring Frankie into the office.’

Richie just had time to position a chair on the opposite side of the desk, and she was there. Dressed in pink slacks and a pale green hooded fleece top, her long dark-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Pale skin wrapped around high cheekbones, and her pretty face was a little thinner than it really should be, giving away the institutionalised life she’d led.

She sat slowly into the chair, and gave the three people a slightly-nervous smile. Intelligent deep-blue eyes searched their faces for clues to what they were thinking.

‘How are you, Frankie?’ Ellen asked.

‘Good, thanks. Is my fate decided?’ she replied, getting straight to the point.

The bluntness floored Richie for a moment. ‘Um... not quite. We needed to talk with you first.’

‘Well, I’m here now.’

Ellen decided to go for it, without any sweetening of the pill. ‘Frankie, there’s something we need to tell you. We were informed of it almost a year ago, but refrained from telling you then because we didn’t want it to influence your... desire to leave here. However, in the circumstances, you now need to know.’ She watched her eyes, searching for any signs of manic reaction. There were none. Frankie’s demeanour stayed calm, as she waited patiently to be given the news.

‘In his will, your grandfather left you the pub. Your brother Jake received the rest of his estate, which was not extensive as you know, but he specifically requested the pub to be your inheritance.’

‘He knew I always loved to be there. That’s why.’

Still there was no reaction, and no questions as to why she wasn’t told before. Richie explained. ‘We avoided telling you for a few reasons, one of which was that we didn’t want any one factor to alter your state of mind. Those of us close to you needed to see you to progress to discharge without outside factors to influence that.’

‘I understand. So what now?’

Matilda Peabody finally spoke. ‘Francesca...’

‘It’s Frankie.’

Richie tried to stifle a grin, but wasn’t sure if he’d managed it. Miss Peabody’s face seemed to flick from stern to super-stern in a millisecond. ‘Frankie... how do you feel about the news?’

‘I wish my grandfather was still there running the place. Quite honestly it’s not a lot of use to me stuck in here. But I’m humbled he left it to me.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Apart from the fact my future is in the hands of a woman wearing a man’s suit, that’s all, yeah.’

Miss Peabody didn’t seem to like that too much. ‘May I remind you Francesca, your release is on a knife-edge right now.’

‘It’s Frankie.’

‘Please leave us for the moment.’

She left them to it, headed outside into the July sunshine, and wandered around the extensive grounds of the home, trying to take in the news. She was no fool; at the top of her grades at school before the very unfortunate incident, she’d spent the six years at the home keeping up her studies as best she could.

Paranoid schizophrenia didn’t make that easy. Concentrating for long periods seemed to bring her unwelcome company... people coming to say hello who weren’t really there. Sometimes it got impossible to tell who was actually in the room, and who could only be seen by her eyes.

But once they’d experimented with the medication, the pretend people drifted away. But never completely. Every now and then someone popped in out of nowhere, and wanted to strike up a conversation.

But none of it stopped her progression to womanhood. Mostly self-educated and very intelligent, she’d known straightaway why they’d chosen to give her the life-changing news when they did.

She’d felt like screaming at them, demanding to know why they’d kept it to themselves. But that wasn’t the PS talking, simply the same reaction any spirited young woman would have to people who thought they knew better making decisions on her behalf.

She’d also felt like slapping the prim dyke in the gent’s suit, for looking at her like she’d just climbed out of the gutter. That wasn’t the PS either. Matilda Peabody seemed to attract that kind of reaction... regardless of who was in the same room, mentally ill or totally sane.

But one year late or not, and used as a character-assessment test or not, she’d suddenly discovered her grandfather’s pub was hers. And it made a huge difference. She’d believed it would have been sold after his death, but he’d clearly not wanted that.

He’d wanted her to have it. And because of that, both it and him would live on.

She narrowed her eyes, feeling the anger growing at the deception. Jake would have known of course, and been under strict instruction not to tell her on his twice-weekly visits. But she understood why they’d done it. She understood herself, and she understood her personal carer Richie, and Ellen too... both of whom had her best interests at heart.

They needed her to prove to miss prim-and-proper she was ready for her freedom, without a very good reason to fake it.

And show them all that when she did get the news, she didn’t freak out.

Ellen Browning looked miss prim-and-proper right in her cold, funding-obsessed eyes. ‘Well Matilda, you can’t argue with that.’

She looked almost unhappy. ‘It seems I can’t. But her release will be under strictly-controlled conditions.’

‘Her brother Jake has agreed to be her full-time care-giver for the first twelve months. Richie will visit twice a week for the first three months, after which we’ll assess the situation. Both Frankie and Jake will undergo a three-day conditioning course so they know what is required of them. I really don’t see we can do anymore.’

Miss Peabody grudgingly nodded her head. ‘So be it.’

Richie found Frankie sitting on her favourite bench next to the Koi pond.

‘Hey.’

‘Did I do good?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Are you supposed to school your victims before an assessment?’

‘Not really. But you deserved the best shot. And you’re not a victim, you’re a patient.’

‘Still?’

‘For one week.’

Frankie swallowed hard. She’d longed to be a part of the big wide world for the last three years. In seven days time, at the ripe old age of twenty, she would be. And suddenly it was scaring the hell out of her.

2

Five years later

The phrase ‘8 mile’ means something a little different to the locals of East Norfolk. It refers to the stretch of road between the overgrown village of Acle and the seaside town of Great Yarmouth. It’s a dead straight road, apart from one kink halfway along.

It crosses the flat marshes that a couple of centuries ago were under the sea, and is flanked on one side by the railway track, and the other by the river Bure, which gives boating holidaymakers access from the Norfolk Broads to the southern rivers.

In one way the landscape is relatively featureless, but in another it is hauntingly beautiful. Punctuated by the hulks of old windmills and the occasional farm building, it serves now as grazing land for cattle, horses and sheep, and is also a natural haven for wild animals and birds.

Right by the kink in the road is Frankie’s grandfather’s pub, nestling at the point where the road and the winding river are just fifty metres apart. Back in the day it operated as an American-style roadhouse, but as times changed and drink-drive rules became stricter, and a few miles from the nearest populated areas, its popularity dwindled.

When her grandfather retired he leased the building on three separate occasions, but no one could make it pay. But he was never going to sell it, its value much-reduced, and his desire to keep it in the family stronger than the need for a retirement lump sum.

Six months after Frankie gained her freedom, she and Jake had talked through what to do with it. He was already living there, and with three-bedroom accommodation, there was ample room for Frankie to move in too.

‘It’s never going to work as a pub,’ Jake stated the obvious. ‘Not without running a fleet of minibuses to Acle and Yarmouth.’

Frankie nodded, deep in thought. ‘It could work, but with one major difference.’

‘I know that look,’ Jake grinned. ‘Now I’m very afraid.’

‘We make it a pub, but without alcohol.’

‘Huh?’

‘Think about it... we take away the alcohol, and then the drink-and-drive rules, the main reason not to visit us, has gone. There are already three local breweries making zero beer, and even a distilled spirit or two. We turn the place into a family-friendly pub, always have lots going on, and stay open all day in season for the tourists...’

‘Ok,’ Jake grinned. ‘I can see the attraction. But if we’re going to do it properly, we also need to find products not available in Norfolk... make mocktails no one else does.’

‘I feel a world tour coming on.’

They did the world tour. A full six months, backpacking around eighteen different countries, sampling drinks that never once got them near the limit. By the time they returned to Norfolk, the cellar was metaphorically stocked.

And four years later, ‘The Non’ grew to be one of the most popular family pubs in Norfolk.

It didn’t come without a lot of hard work, and one or two clever moves. Frankie wanted to style the place so it looked different to anywhere else, so they took inspiration from Quark’s bar in the TV series Deep Space Nine, and made the entire place a riot of bright colours, even down to the bottles storing the drinks on the bar.

And that was blended with a shade or two of Coyote Ugly. The bartenders were all female, and the occasional respectable dance move on the reinforced bar top wasn’t unheard of.

The large main area was semi-divided, but nowhere was completely separated. On one side, a small stage provided space for a DJ to play tunes, the occasional live act, and for karaoke a couple of nights a week. On the opposite side of the room, a half-divided space stayed true to the concept by playing episodes of the various Star Trek series on a large screen.

Around the corner of the L-shaped room, Frankie had pulled off another clever move, and invited someone with a franchise to sell a certain colonel’s fried chicken. Alongside that was an Indian street kitchen. The overgrown garden at the rear was cleared, and turned into a play area for children... and occasionally the grown-up’s too... half of it covered by a huge canvas roof.

They’d built a large ranch-style entrance to the car park, which no one passing by could miss, and a fifteen-metre tall illuminated sign made sure every boater who passed by on the river couldn’t fail to notice that the well-known watering hole sat just the other side of the moorings.

The local council had helped out financially, delighted the building was finally generating some business rate income, and without the downsides alcohol usually brought. And even some of the region’s public transport stopped outside to drop off and pick up at peak times.

It had all come together beautifully. Having a purpose in life was helping Frankie’s PS, and with Jake to comfort her on the rare occasions she had a bad day, finally she could look forwards instead of backwards.

And Frankie insisted on one more activity, something close to her heart. One day a week, the paying punters took second place to a different type of visitor. They rotated the visits between six children’s homes in the area, so that once every six weeks the kids from each home could spend the day at the pub, enjoy the play areas, a decent lunch, and a session with the local conservationists, learning why the natural inhabitants of the Broads were so important.

Life was turning out pretty good. But three years after The Non first opened, and right in the middle of a hot, dry peak holiday period, all that was about to change.

3

Glorious Sadness

It was a warm August evening. Very warm. There wasn’t a mooring to be had on the river, and the car park was rammed solid. Half the punters were outside, enjoying the slightly-cooler air of the garden. In fairness, there wasn’t a lot of choice. If they’d all been inside it would have been a can of hot sweaty sardines.

With so many people to keep watered, Frankie worked behind the bar with Dee, the live-in head barmaid, and Jenny, the UEA student who helped pay her university fees with stints at the pub.

It really did feel like a Saturday night at Coyote Ugly.

The DJ was banging out eighty’s classics, episodes of Voyager played one after the other in the ST room, and what seemed like a whole school’s-worth of kids were running around the garden having fun while their parents jigged to the DJ’s music piped to the garden speakers. The whole place was buzzing.

And yet in the midst of all the organised chaos, Frankie couldn’t help noticing one person.

She was sitting alone at one of the smaller tables, drinking a glass of Without beer, and seemingly lost in people-watching. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and beautiful in a simple, pure kind of way. Long straight jet-black hair with just the faintest of curl tumbled over slender shoulders, and big green eyes seemed to shine from a pale, flawless face.

Tiny hands with black-painted nails toyed with the glass, the fingers lifting occasionally to her hair, easing it away from her eyes so she could better watch what was going on around her. There were no rings on her fingers.

She was seriously overdressed though, given the warmth of the night. A pure-white ribbed polo-neck jumper sat over black hipster wranglers, which were just covering the tops of plain black ankle-boots.

Everything about her was simple, understated... and yet somehow she stood out like a lighthouse on a stormy night. Frankie watched her, as best she could between serving drinks to permanently-thirsty punters, and keeping an eye on those outside. Something about her was fascinating, and drew her gaze even when she really should be doing other things.

Dee’s hand squeezing her left butt-cheek jolted her back to the there-and-then. ‘You somewhere on another universe tonight?’ she grinned.

She smiled back, wrenched her eyes away from the black-haired girl. ‘I think I’m knackered, Dee. Just how much can people drink anyway?’

‘You complaining?’ she laughed, dropping three pints onto the bar top, and ringing the notes into the till.

Frankie wasn’t complaining, not about the night’s takings. But she was beginning to wish it was a quieter one, so she could spend a little more time gazing at the girl who was watching everyone else.

Once or twice their eyes met. Frankie let out a half-smile, but the girl didn’t react. Maybe she didn’t see it. Then Jake called out from the door to the cellar, asked her to grab some bottles of a blue liqueur from his arms, and then disappeared to fetch more. She stacked them onto the brightly-lit shelves at the back of the bar, and turned back to the room.

The girl had gone.

One hour later it was closing time, and the staff had to remind punters who didn’t really want to go that they did have homes somewhere else. Or boats. Either way, as Frankie closed and locked the doors with a quick blow-out of the cheeks, the prospect of falling into bed seemed very appealing.

Sleep took a while to come. For some odd reason the image of the girl who’d done nothing but sit quietly at her table with a single glass of beer was welded to the inside of her eyelids. Who was she? And why was she even wondering that, when new people came and went on a daily basis?

Was she a fig? She hadn’t seen people who weren’t supposed to be there for a long time, so that wasn’t likely. And she’d religiously kept to her medication routine.

Sleep finally came, but not before Frankie realised something deep inside her was desperately hoping the girl would come again.

The next evening was quieter. During the day was manic, as Sundays always were in holiday season, but as the evening drew in the pub became a little less busy. Dee and Jenny were handling bar duties, so Frankie had more time to mingle, and chat a little to the regulars, something she tried to do as often as possible.

Then, halfway through the evening, her heart missed a beat. She was there, the black-haired girl, dressed again in the white jumper and black jeans.

Why was her heart thumping like a bass drum? It made no sense. All the girl did was sit at a small table, sip her one glass of beer, and quietly watch what was going on.

There was no reason for the nervous ache in her gut.

Frankie watched her from a distance. More than once their eyes met, like she was watching Frankie as much as she was being watched herself. After an hour her drink was almost gone, and that was the perfect excuse to make contact.

Even though her legs felt like lead as she approached her.

‘Hey, can I get you another?’

She looked up, her delicate beauty even more flawless close up. The green eyes seemed to smoulder with a simmering flame, locking into Frankie’s gaze, unblinking. She answered, a small voice as delicate as the rest of her. ‘No thanks, one is enough for me.’

‘I... I’ve not seen you here before. You local?’

She smiled, soft lips curling upwards uncertainly. ‘No. Just a flying visit.’

‘Ok. Well, I hope you’re enjoying our little place.’ She didn’t seem to want any more conversation, her eyes dropping back to the tiny hands curling around her glass, so Frankie left her alone, her curiosity still way short of satisfied.

She looked almost frail, shy, her slender body elegant and graceful, and somehow belying the fact she wasn’t frail at all. Frankie slipped behind the bar, still unable to wrench her gaze away from the mysterious girl who was giving nothing away.

The DJ was having fun with some of the other punters, encouraging them to get on the little stage and sing their hearts out. Sunday was always karaoke night, and there was never a shortage of takers. Some of them could sing as well as most recording artists, some of them... well, perhaps the less said the better.

But it was a popular feature, and it seemed to encourage people to buy more drinks. Whether to keep the vocal chords moistened or for a little Dutch courage, Frankie was never quite sure.

She saw the girl stand, and felt another strange stab of regret waft through her because it looked like she was leaving. But then as she watched, she walked over to the DJ and spoke to him. He nodded, and as a middle-aged woman finished a pretty good rendition of I Will Survive and left the stage, the girl stepped on.

Frankie’s eyes struggled to believe what she was seeing. She was going to sing? She seemed as shy as hell, a butterfly who appeared to want nothing more than to sit unnoticed. Now she was standing centre-stage, the mike in her hands?

Frankie groaned. The crowd was noisy, most of them fired up, having joined in with the very singable words of I Will Survive. What the hell was a delicate orchid going to do to top that? She was going to get slaughtered.

A soft piano introduction filled the speakers, and the breath froze in Frankie’s lungs.

She knew the song, much too well. In her darkest hours, the words had often been her imaginary companion.

The girl began to sing... ‘Spend all your time waiting, for that second chance...’

She knew. How could she know? It just wasn’t possible. Her soft, haunting voice drifted through the speakers, and Frankie’s eyes misted over. And slowly, second by second, the room fell silent.

‘It's easier to believe in this sweet madness. Oh, this glorious sadness, that brings me to my knees…’

Frankie wiped away a tear, realising the girl on the stage was looking right at her as she sang to the now-silent room. What was she doing? The room blurred to a fog, and all she could see was the girl singing the words of Sarah McLachlan’s iconic song, that speared right to her heart…

‘In the arms of the angel, fly away from here…’

For Frankie, it was a perfect storm of torture and beauty she couldn’t tear herself away from. She tried to tell her legs to walk away, but they weren’t listening. She didn’t want to walk away.

’May you find some comfort here…’

The final notes of the piano died away, and as the girl smiled shyly and lowered her head, the thunder of cheers and applause rocked the walls. Everyone was on their feet, appreciating the haunting beauty of the song, and the voice of the angel who had sung it.

She stepped off the stage, and as the applause carried on ringing out, she was gone.

4

This Sweet Madness

Just past midnight, a blissful peace had descended on Frankie’s world. The punters were gone, the pub locked up for the night. As she often did, she climbed the outside steps which sat a few yards from the main entrance, and led to the raised river bank.

She eased herself onto the thick wooden railings separating the moorings from the pub grounds, and panned her eyes across her surroundings. Every mooring was occupied, the height of the boating season and the draw of The Non making sure every bit of available floating space was taken up

The boats were mostly in darkness, with just the odd light glowing from a small, curtained window. The faintest breath of cool air wafted tiny ripples over the water, and drifted beautifully across her face. She lifted her eyes to the clear sky and began to count the stars but, as she always did, gave it up after a minute.

A snowy owl flew silently above the river, following the contours of the water, hooting a greeting to her as she watched its silent flight. Right then, it seemed to be the only thing moving.

Inevitably, her thoughts turned to the mysterious girl who had appeared, almost like a ghost, and then faded away again. The song... was it some kind of vague message? If it was, it was too vague to actually mean anything, other than to bring back memories of an awful time in her life.

Maybe it was the PS after all, brought on by a seemingly-innocent event her conscious mind hadn’t even noticed but her subconscious had. Or maybe all the idiotic thoughts were simply the product of a mind that didn’t quite function the way most minds did.

That was the more likely scenario.

A voice right next to her shook away the thoughts, idiotic or otherwise. ‘I used to sit here too, you know. After everyone was gone, and I needed the peace and quiet.’

She looked at the elderly man sitting on the fence by her side, and smiled. ‘It is beautiful.’

He smiled back. ‘Better in the winter though, when there are no boats to spoil the view.’

‘I know. But there’s just something so tranquil about a warm summer Norfolk night.’

‘Even when I sense there is something troubling you, Frankins?’

She let out a nervous laugh. ‘No one’s called me by that name for a long time, granddad.’

‘No one ever did, except me. And stop avoiding the question.’

‘Ok, if you insist... there’s been a girl in the pub, the last couple of nights...’

‘She sang so beautifully this evening.’

‘You heard her? Oh, of course you would.’

‘Of course.’

She shuffled nervously on the wooden fence. ‘I have this odd feeling she’s not what she seems. That she’s here for a reason. But then I think it’s just my crazy head.’

‘Have you ever considered your so-called crazy head might give you the ability to see things others don’t?’

She grinned. ‘I do see things others don’t, granddad.’

‘That’s not what I meant, as you know. Ok, maybe in a way others don’t?’

She thought a moment. ‘So you’re saying my PS is actually some kind of gift?’

‘Hmm... both you and I would rather you didn’t have it, that’s a given. But let me say this... most of the world’s true geniuses, past and present, were actually slightly bonkers. So what does that tell you?’

‘That I’m a bonkers genius?’

He laughed. ‘Maybe so. But think on this... perhaps you have actually been given the gift of increased perception. A perception that sees things outside the box that are actually there, but most others miss. Which, thinking about it, does make you a bonkers genius!’

She looked down to her hands, noticed them slightly shaking. When she looked up again, granddad was gone.

She headed back inside, to find Jake sitting at the bar enjoying a quiet drink. He looked up, and smiled warmly. ‘Been taking the night air?’

‘Yeah. And talking to granddad.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You not been telling me stuff, sis?’

She sat on the stool next to him. ‘I tell you everything, you know that. It’s the first time for ages. But...’

He reached out, and curled a hand around hers. ‘Just tell me.’

‘I... I think I’ve been having a fig, the last couple of nights. It’s kind of disturbing me a little.’

‘Ok. You want to give me the details?’

She squeezed his hand tight, reluctant to find an answer to the question she really needed to ask. ‘I’ve been seeing a girl, in the pub. Sitting alone, like she wasn’t really there.’

‘Pretty, overdressed, voice of an angel?’

Frankie looked up, unable to keep the smile from her lips. ‘You saw her too then?’

He grinned. ‘Everyone saw the karaoke performance of the century, sis.’