This is a story of Robbie and Ruby who are cousins and very close in age. From the beginning we know who murdered Ruby but what the reader does not know is why? What would drive a young boy to murder? And do the dead stay dead? Read and find out.
(I chose Holliday Grainger as Ruby and James McAvoy as Robbie.)
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Chapter One
Ruby Ryan 1975
My lungs feel as if they are burning like fire. My eyes are open, and I see the reeds swaying back and forth, so gentle, so serene; like an underwater ballet.
I feel my arms thrashing as I try and reach back, but my hands cannot stop him. I kick out with my legs, but they move as if in slow motion, and he is strong, so very strong.
I must breathe. The pain is too much. I open my mouth and feel the water rush in. I want to scream, but I cannot. I feel his hand tighten on the back of my neck, while I grow weaker. I am in agony. My mind is screaming, but I am silent, as silent as a tomb. Then I feel warmth, and everything is dark. I see no more.
I watch the girl; her face is in the mud. Her dress has risen on her cold pale thighs; her skin is white, like alabaster. I hear the boy screaming, and then I look over, and see an old man running from the house, his expression is one of terror, following him is an old woman, her face is ashen.
They reach the girl together, and the woman screams, as the boy and the man yell at her to phone for an ambulance. I look down as the man turns the girl over; her eyes are open, staring, glazed and empty.
The woman cannot move, and for a moment she seems frozen, her face stricken then the man roars at her, and I watch as she races back to the house, she is screaming.
I watch the man lift the limp body of the girl, as he cradles her in his arms, he is also weeping. The girl's arms fall back as the man rocks her, she looks like a wet and bedraggled rag doll; limp and useless.
I want to follow the woman, and no sooner do I think this than I am there, right beside her. She is crying and shrieking as she begs the operator to send an ambulance, she says her granddaughter has drowned, and then her legs give way. Her screams have now turned into keening howl; it is almost primal as if it is rent from her bowels. I wish she would shut up.
I look around the kitchen, the walls are painted a sunny yellow, and there are dishes in the sink. I watch the curtains sway; they are made of cotton with yellow daisies bordering the edges to match the walls. I hear a soft whirring sound, and see a fan swivel; it is this that makes the curtains move, for the window is shut. The cupboards are pale grey, for some reason this annoys me, they should be pale cream. On top of the stove is a baking dish with the remains of a roast turkey in it. On the cupboard is a tray with a picture of the Eiffel Tower; it seems pretentious in such a simple setting. Alongside it are jars which denote flour, sugar, salt and one marked tea. I turn and see the table is tidy and in the center is a bowl of cherries, they are a rich glorious red, ripe for the tasting. On the wall are three ceramic ducks as if in flight, I screw my nose a little, it is quite tacky.
From a distance I hear the wailing, and rather lonely sound of a siren. The place is so quiet that the noise is enough to wake the dead, and I shiver, I don't like to think of ghosts, they frighten me. I wonder about the man holding that girl, and again I am immediately by his side. The boy's face is stark white which is made worse by his dark hair and deep blue eyes; his nose is pinched as if he is having trouble breathing. I see a breeze blow a lock of his hair onto his forehead, and he impatiently swipes at it, his hands are shaking. The old man is also pale, as he moves aside while the emergency services try, and resuscitate the girl. The man takes out a handkerchief and mops his brow with it as well as his eyes.
