The Ghostly Past

Chapter 9

They cruised out of the Grey Gardens estate in Max's silver car, not anywhere in particular, but in search of something beyond the claustrophobic confines of the village. "So what is it about music then? What made you think, that's my life right there?" He asked, 80's pop playing from a cd in his car.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I wasn't exactly popular as a kid. I never knew what to say to people. So I guess I put my passion into my music instead. It was a good place to hide." She stuttered to a halt.

"I get that. Kids can be cruel to those who are different to them." Max looked introspective. "But it seems a shame when you're so lovely."

She flushed and smiled at him, "Thanks. No one was too bad. I just wasn't one of them, always on the outside looking in. But music. Music was the thing where everyone looked at me and went wow." She remembered the way other kids had come up to her after concerts and for a day or two, she had found a general level of acceptance that slowly faded again.

"You must be good though, to teach at the Academy. You have to be ridiculously good just to attend as a student, let alone to teach."

"It's just my life." Clara shrugged bashfully. "What about you?"

They were cruising out of the village, near the Academy by this point. "You mean did I aspire to be a chef? Not exactly. I..."

"Wait. Stop the car." Clara said urgently.

"What?" Max glanced at her, distracted.

"Max, stop the car!" She shouted.

He slammed on the brakes, lurching them both forwards. "What?" He looked annoyed.

"That's Anne's car." Clara said. It was parked by the road, right where she and Harriet had found Anne crying originally.

"How do you know?"

"She described it to me." A vintage camper van, blue and yellow paint job. There it was. She opened her car door, leaving the rose in her bag, walking slowly over to the vehicle. "Anne?" She called out. "It's Clara Fitzroy. Are you there?"

There was no answer. Max slammed his car door, locking it and following her. "Doesn't look like anyone's there." He tried the doors, all locked and rapped his knuckles on it. No response.

"Oh please no." Clara whispered, and took off into the trees.

"Wait!" Max yelled, running after her. He caught her easily, but didn't stop her, only following as she tore through the embankments and mounds, ducking under gnarled trees as her inner compass took her back to where she had found Philip's body.

As she crashed into the campsite, she saw a woman's figure sprawled against a tree. "Anne?" She called out, dreading the silence that would surely come.

"Who is that?" A voice said instead.

She shrieked in surprise, falling backwards into Max who yelped as she stomped on his foot.

"Oh it's you." Anne said. She looked awful. She was still wearing the same clothes she had been wearing days ago, her hair greasy and unkempt. Her face seemed older, haggard, pinched with grief and strain. "The kind girl."

"Anne what are you doing here?" Max stood behind her as she spoke. "How long have you been here?"

"I'm not sure." She whispered, standing up. "I've been here all night, I think."

"It's Saturday." Max said. "Saturday afternoon. You've been here a long time if you came at night, madam."

"Why are you here?" Clara asked again.