Page 76 of Serenity Falls

I flick through, starting with the black-and-white ones. I presume these must be old photos of mum’s family. I don’t recognize any of these people. I suppose that’s only to be expected. Mum’s family all died young. I had one gran, who we lived with until she died when I was ten. These dark-haired boys and girls in their post-war clothing are desperately unfamiliar to me. The same goes for the slightly stern-looking adults. I guess there wasn’t much time for humour or frivolities after five long, hard years of war. Life was something tough and merciless that you just had to get through.

I put the loose photos down and come to a framed photograph. A wedding photo. A skinny dark-haired man in a suit with flared trousers smiles nervously next to a glamorous woman with long dark hair and a seventies maxi dress. My parents. They look so young and hopeful. All the future ahead of them. And yet … just eight years after this, my dad walked out.

Unlike Nat, he packed a case and left a note. I can’t do this. Mum never heard from him again. Nor did I. Not a birthday card or Christmas present. He just disappeared from our lives. I was only a few months old. And that’s when it strikes me. My dad left in 1979. The same year Mum acquired the house in Serenity Falls. I mean, it might just be a coincidence. But could there be a connection?

Something else catches my eye. Maybe because it’s out of place in this box of memories. It’s a business card. I reach in and pick it up. It’s a deep, midnight-blue. Closing Time is etched on the front in silver writing and, beneath this, a picture of a clock face fashioned as a skull. It looks like a card for a trendy bar or private members club.

I frown. I’m pretty sure my mum wasn’t the type to hang out in late-night bars in the city. The only pub she ever visited was the Harvester and the strongest thing I ever saw her drink was a small sherry at Christmas. But then, Mum worked a few jobs when I was little. Even before I was born, she was the main wage earner after Dad lost his job. I seem to recall her saying she waitressed. Could she have waitressed here? I suppose it’s possible. The card feels old, a little soft. I flip it over to see if there’s an address on the back. There isn’t, but there is more writing: Enjoy the hour. It’s later than you think.

Where have I seen that quote before? Then I remember. On Harold Winsom’s statue in the town square. I tap the card against my chin, staring at the abstract picture on the wall opposite. The vortex of colours seems like it’s moving, swirling around hypnotically. I wince at a sudden sharp pain in the side of my head. What the hell? It comes again. A shooting pain in my forehead. So severe this time I bend double and my hand flies out to clutch the tabletop, knocking the paperwork and photos to the floor.

I remain bent over for a moment, breathing deeply, scared I might throw up. Gradually, the pain in my head subsides. I straighten and take a few more deep breaths. Tentatively, I rub my head. It feels okay but a little tender. Maybe some kind of migraine attack. Nothing to panic about. If it happens again, I’ll call a doctor.

I start to pick up the paperwork and photos. I realize I can feel something damp above my lip. I raise a hand and wipe it. Then I glance down. My fingers are smeared with bright red blood. Shit. I start to walk over to the sink to grab a tissue. Something stops me. A wave of dizziness. My legs give and I sit down on the sofa. I can’t move. I’m suddenly ridiculously exhausted. I glance blearily at the clock. The minute hand ticks over to eleven.

Everything goes black.

21

Sadie blinks her eyes open. For a moment she’s disorientated. Music is playing somewhere, but she can’t pinpoint where. Maybe her dad is playing something downstairs.

The music is insistent. And weird. Kind of tinkly and discordant. Sadie reaches over for her phone and glances at the time – 1.37 a.m. Great. She props herself on her elbow, listening. It’s not coming from inside the house. It’s drifting through the window, from outside.

She flicks the bedside light on, sits up and swings her legs out of bed. She walks across to the window and pulls the blind. It takes her eyes a second or two to adjust. Not just because of the darkness. Because of the weirdness. What the actual fuck?

An ice-cream van is crawling slowly down the street. It’s pink and white, and decorated with Winsom cartoon characters. Two large plastic cornets stick out of the front like horns. The music she can hear is being piped from a speaker on the van’s roof. She can’t see the driver, but walking either side of the van are two figures dressed in what appear to be white hazmat suits, like CSI crossed with Mr Whippy.

The figures have flashlights strapped around their foreheads and they’re each holding a device, like some kind of scanner. Occasionally, one of them turns and points the scanner around. Sadie can see green lights at the end of the device. Are they testing for something – some kind of chemical leak? Radiation? No. Don’t be stupid, Sadie. If it was anything like that, they’d evacuate people, right? So, what the hell is going on?

The van is almost outside her house. Weirdly, the music doesn’t seem to get any louder, just the same low but persistent volume. Dad, she thinks. She needs to wake her dad up. He has to see this.

She walks across the hall, knocks on his door and eases it open. His bed is empty, duvet undisturbed. What? Has he fallen asleep downstairs again? She hurries down the stairs and into the living room. A lamp is on. Dad is a heaped lump on the sofa, slumped sideways, gently snoring.

‘Dad?’

She pads over and shakes his shoulder. ‘Dad. Wake up.’

He snuffles but doesn’t stir.

‘Dad.’ She shakes him again, harder. Still nothing. Which isn’t right. Normally, Dad wakes up at the drop of a feather. Uneasiness stirs in her stomach.

‘Dad?’ She bends down, close to his face. ‘Dad. Wake up. I need to show you something.’

She grabs his wrist and her hand closes around the Serenity band. It’s warm and pulsing slightly, as if with some kind of charge. She snatches her hand away, fighting the urge to wipe it on her shorts. Her dad murmurs sleepily and buries his face further in the cushions.

For one fleeting moment, it crosses her mind that he could be drunk, blacked out. But she can’t smell alcohol on his breath, and when Dad used to drink, it lingered around him.

This is more like he’s been drugged or something. He’s completely out of it. She pushes herself to her feet. The music drifts cheerily in from outside, singers chirping about someone to hold before they’re too old.

Of course, all of this is ridiculous. The van and those figures are probably just a cleaning team. Just another of Serenity’s quirky ways of doing stuff. Either that or she’s dreaming.

She walks across to the living-room window and peers out cautiously. She frowns. She can only see one figure standing by the van now. Where’s the other one?

And then she hears it. A brisk knock, knock on the front door. She jumps. Shit. Her heart wedges in her throat. The knocking comes again. She cranes her neck sideways. A shadowy blur of white is just visible through the bushes at the front of the house.

She tiptoes out to the hall. It’s dark, but in the light spilling out from the living room she can see that the front-door handle is moving, twisting and turning, this way and that, so hard she thinks it might come off. Then, suddenly, it stops. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Her heart is pounding, sweat itching at the nape of her neck. She runs back to the living room and peeks back out of the window.

Both figures are back by the van. One leans in and talks to the driver. A few seconds later, they resume their positions either side of the vehicle and the procession continues down the road.