I take a more careful look around. On the edge of the porch, there’s a small garden swing and beside it is a terracotta pot, upturned on top of a terracotta saucer. The pot has been whitewashed and decorated with a few shells. I lift the pot to reveal a little pile of grey ash and several cigarette stubs. The smell of stale nicotine and ash is released into the air. I give the dish a shake and the peak of the ash flattens out to reveal the shiny metal of a silver key.
‘Disgusting,’ I mutter to myself as I take the saucer round to the flowerbed and tip the ash onto the earth so I can pick out the key.
The key fits into the lock of the back door and as I turn it, I hear the telltale click and feel the resistance disappear as the cogs slide around to open the door. I go in without hesitation. I still don’t know what I’m hoping to find in the house. I just know I have to get inside and look around. I close the door gently behind me, slipping the key into the pocket of my trousers.
The kitchen has a breakfast bar, which separates it from the living room, and I’m surprised at how spacious the whole house is; the high ceilings and lack of central walls add to the airy feel. I shiver as I step further into the house. I open the fridge and the smell of rotten food hits me. I pull my head away and, holding my breath, peer inside. Two pieces of chicken look decidedly green at the edges. There is a carton of milk in the fridge door. I give it a little shake and it feels slushy and lumpy. I don’t need to smell that to know it’s off. Pulling out the vegetable drawer, I see that the salad has started to turn to a pulp and liquid sloshes in the drawer. All pretty disgusting and a sure sign no one has been here for some time. Someone either left in a hurry or left with every intention of coming back, but just never made it.
A creak and groan of an empty house from somewhere inside makes me jump. I stand still, just to be certain it’s not the sound of anyone actually in the place and once my heart returns to a more orderly pace, I let out a small sigh. Creeping around empty houses that I shouldn’t be in, is getting to me. I close the fridge door.
Really, what I’d like to do is get the hell out of this house, but I can’t. Not until I find whatever it is I’m looking for.
I walk into the living room and immediately notice the clock hanging on the wall. It’s the same clock as the one in the picture Alice sent Mum of her and Martha. They must have sat on that very sofa.
Alice on the left and Martha on the right. Or was it? Had the picture been reversed by accident? Was Alice really dyslexic?
I look around the living room. There are a couple of paintings on the wall, one is of the beach, probably local, I assume, and the other is of sunflowers; a prettier version of Van Gough’s. I peer at the signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Alice Kendrick.
This is Alice Kennedy’s painting. My sister’s painting. I touch the canvas, my fingers grazing the signature and, for the first time since I held Alice’s original letter in my hand, I feel a connection with her. My sister did this. She painted this picture. My beautiful little sister touched this, she spread the paints across the canvas, she signed her name in the corner. A surge of love swamps my heart and for a moment I think I’m going to cry. I blink away the tears and take my hand away. I can’t afford to break down now. Not after everything that’s happened.
A photograph on the mantelpiece catches my attention and as I turn to look at it properly, I experience another wave of emotion, this time not love but fear.
A man, probably in his fifties, looks out at me. He has fair hair and it is brushed back from his face. He’s wearing a stripy rugby top of pale blue and white and a pair of beige chino shorts. He looks to be standing on the deck of a sailboat, his hand wrapped around the rigging. The sun is shining and the man looks happy and relaxed, as if he’s in the middle of sharing a joke with the person on the other side of the camera.
I take a step closer and pick up the frame. I can remember him as clear as day. His memory never once faded with time. This is my father. This is Patrick Kennedy. I haven’t seen him for over twenty years and never thought I would, hoped I wouldn’t, but now, here he is, smiling out at me. I feel a little sick and take a deep breath, looking away for a moment. The feeling passes and I return my gaze to the photograph. I consciously study my reaction. I’m looking for any flicker of love, any connection, any invisible bond that could never be broken between a father and his daughter. The initial fear has subsided and, unsurprisingly, I feel nothing for this man. Where there should be love, there is just an empty space.
I scan the room for other photographs, but there are none. It’s the same for the hallway. There are four doors leading off from the hall and I guess these are the bedrooms and bathroom. I open the door to the first one on the left. It has a double bed that has been stripped. There are no personal items in the room; it looks as though someone has just vacated a holiday home and the room is waiting for the cleaners to come in and make the bed up with fresh linen.
I close the door and take the next room on the left. The single bed is unmade, the duvet cover shoved back. The wardrobe door is slid open and I can see a few items of clothing hanging up; a blue T-shirt, a cardigan and a white blouse. A couple of jumpers are on the shelf above, the arm of one hanging down, as if it’s been shoved up there in a hurry. Several empty coat hangers are in the bottom of the wardrobe, along with a pair of trainers. I go over to the bed and perch on the edge, opening the drawer of the bedside table. I have a sense of déjà vu. It was only the other day that I sat on Alice’s bed at home in the UK, looking in her bedside table. That time I found the photograph of her and Luke. I wonder what I’ll find this time.
I slide the drawer open, but it contains what amounts to rubbish: half a packet of tissues, a hair clip, a pot of red nail varnish and a biro. I open the next drawer. There’s a notebook, a small white spiral type. I flip open the cover. The first page has the word ‘WORK’ written in capital letters across the top of the page and underlined twice. Underneath is a list of dates and times. I assume it’s for the diner. I turn the pages, one by one, and most are much the same. I come across a couple of pages with reminders of things to do, or names of people. I bend the edge of the notebook and fan the pages with my thumb so they flick through quickly. They all appear blank. Nothing very interesting or incriminating. I’m just about to throw the book back into the drawer, when I see an official-looking envelope. It’s already been opened, so I take a look inside. It’s a payslip from the Beach House Diner to Martha Munroe, dated a couple of months ago. I put it to one side and notice a piece of paper. What strikes me is that it looks out of place with the rest of the items in the drawer and, indeed, in the room. It’s an A5 sheet of bonded writing paper, the sort you get from a traditional letter-writing pad. I can feel the ridges of the paper between my finger and thumb. I hold the paper up towards the window, where a small stream of light trickles through a gap in the blinds. I can just make out the faint watermark. It’s from an expensive pad. On it, written in fountain pen, is a mobile number beginning 07.
It takes a moment for me to realise that this is a UK mobile number, but not one I recognise.
I pull the drawer out further and see another piece of paper, this time the weight is light and there are wide-ruled lines, it looks as if it’s from the notebook I’ve just been looking at. There’s also a thin black cardboard box, about the size of a toothpaste box, along with the image of a blue eye. Disposable daily contact lenses. I give the box a little shake but it’s empty. I pick up the sheet of paper and turn it over. It’s a list. I cast my eye over the items. Passport. Flight tickets. Lenses. Cell phone. Adapter.