After a good few minutes of waiting behind the living room door, I’m starting to feel a little foolish when I hear something else. A rattling, almost definitely the back door handle, and a scratching, like someone is trying to jemmy the lock. Oh shit. I’ve spent the last three years keeping out of trouble in a psychiatric institute and I’m about to meet a sticky end in a quaint Shropshire town. If I wasn’t so scared I could probably have found the funny side of the situation.
The kitchen is in darkness and with the blinds closed I’ve got no chance of seeing who’s outside the back door. Shit. My only hope is the element of surprise. Whoever is trying to break in is clearly no expert at it – they’ve been out there making a racket for about ten minutes and the door has remained firmly closed. I debate throwing it open and thrusting the poker at whoever’s behind it,
Pirates of the Caribbean
style, but on reflection, the last thing I want is to end up on another murder charge for offing some confused drunk who’s stumbled upon the wrong house and can’t get his key in the door.
The rattling has stopped. Maybe they’ve given up and gone away. Poker still in hand, I creep over to the kitchen window and peer through the blinds. The darkness outside is thick, and I can see nothing more than my own reflection. A sudden thump against the glass makes me scream out in shock, and it takes me a full minute to realise what’s caused it. My scream turns to a laugh of nervous relief. A huge black cat sits on the window ledge, pawing to be let in – none other than my resident stalker, and local stray, Joss. Taking a deep breath, I open the window and he stalks through.
‘You bloody dumb animal,’ I chastise affectionately, adrenalin giving way to the relief coursing through me. Joss purrs and rubs his face up against mine, unaware of the fuss he’s caused. I lay out a bowl of Weetabix – his favourite – and, checking the back door is still locked, return to the comfort of my living room. Joss follows faithfully, curling up in front of the fire and promptly falling asleep.
I’m annoyed at myself for reacting so foolishly. The only thing creeping around my back garden in the middle of the night is a stray cat, desperate for his Weetabix fix and a warm place to sleep. What a fucking idiot. Still, I make a check of all the doors and windows: better safe than sorry.
6
Jack: 24 September 1987
‘Yo, Shakespeare, catch.’ Jack flung the chocolate through the air and laughed as it hit the other boy square in the chest. ‘Too slow.’
‘Cheers.’ He frowned. ‘What time are the others coming?’ He’d looked at his watch three times since arriving at the house just fifteen minutes ago. The third time Jack had had to stop himself laughing out loud.
‘Soon. Why, you nervous?’
‘No.’ He said it quickly but Jack could tell he was lying. He’d dressed for the occasion, wearing what Jack was sure were his coolest clothes, but still his ASICS trainers and unbranded navy joggers weren’t going to cut it with the rest of the group. These were boys who, even at the age of twelve, were wearing Nike and Fred Perry – Billy probably thought Fred Perry was the bloke who ran the newsagent’s.
‘Just chill out. They don’t bite. Well, not unless I tell them to.’ Jack frowned as his Street Fighter lost yet another life. He threw the controller at the console, scowling. ‘Fucking boring game. We need some new stuff to do.’
‘You’ve got way more here than I’ve got at mine.’ Billy was gazing around Jack’s room, soaking in every detail. Remnants of previous hobbies littered every available space: the guitar he’d pestered for weeks to learn only to give up after six sessions; last year’s absolute must-have trainers caked in mud, lying on top of a jacket that probably cost more than the other boy’s entire wardrobe. It was quite amusing to watch.
‘Pile of junk. When Adam gets here he’ll want to go out and play Tracker. You might get your nice new trainers dirty.’
Jack grinned as the boy tried his best to look unconcerned. Likelihood was he’d spend hours scrubbing them clean before going home. It must be absolute shit to have parents who were ever present, constantly asking you where you were going, who you were with. Then again, he’d seen Billy’s house – from the outside, of course; he was certain he’d never be asked in – and in a place the size of a postage stamp he could imagine it would be hard to avoid each other.
When the doorbell rang, Billy flinched. Jack laughed and jumped up.
‘I’ll get it,’ he yelled to whoever might be in the house. He hadn’t seen Lucy since he woke up at eleven. She’d probably gone out to do the weekly shop and wouldn’t be bothered if he wasn’t here when she got back. His parents were the kind of people who thought teenagers should be given their freedom to grow – and who hoped he didn’t notice when Lucy went through his school bag to check his homework diary.
Billy hung back in the bedroom as the others traipsed up the stairs. The first boy to enter was Riley. Jack watched Billy’s shoulders sag with relief. He nodded towards Matt. ‘All right?’
Matt grinned. ‘All right.’
The second boy through the door screwed up his nose. ‘Who’re you?’
Jack shoved his arm. ‘Don’t be a twat. This is Shakespeare. He’s hanging round with us.’
‘What kind of a name’s Shakespeare?’ The second boy grinned. ‘Your mum pissed when she gave you that name?’
‘It’s a nickname, dumbass. Because he’s good at English. Shakes, this is Adam Harvey.’
The two boys nodded at one another but neither looked pleased about it.
‘You look like shit, what happened to you?’
Jack spoke again before his new friend had a chance to answer. ‘You shoulda seen the other guy. Shakes kicked the crap out of them.’
‘Them?’
‘Yeah, three of ’em, from Westlake. He kicked their asses, it was wicked. I got him back here before they could bring more of ’em round. Right, Riley?’
Matt nodded and Adam gave a look of grudging respect. ‘Fair play. You coming with us for a game of Tracker?’
‘Course he is. Where’s Peterson?’
Matt shrugged. ‘Dunno. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.’
Jack raised his eyebrows as their new friend gave him a nervous look. He pulled him aside as the other two went down the stairs. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t tell anyone you dropped Mike in it.’
7
Cassie and I have volunteered the last three Sundays at the KIP Project for the homeless in Telford, twenty minutes from Bridgnorth, where Cass lives. I volunteer as a way to give something back, to atone for my sins. Cassie volunteers because I asked her to. Despite her insistence that she gets nothing out of the work we do and is only there ‘to pass the time’, I know that deep down she enjoys the thought that she’s doing something good. Deep, deep down. This Sunday, however, she turns up looking a little sheepish.
‘I want to apologise for the way I was yesterday,’ she says straight away before I even have a chance to speak. ‘I didn’t mean to dismiss that photo; I just didn’t know what to make of it.’
I look around me quickly; there’s no one close enough to hear. The shelter is pretty empty today and until Cass turned up I’d been sorting through donations at a table in the corner of the large room by myself, my mind never straying far from the events of yesterday.
Should I tell her the rest?
And risk her thinking you’re crazy?
Quickly I fill her in on the newspaper article in my bag, my findings at the library and my scare at the house later that night.
‘Shiiiiit. I don’t blame you for being jumpy. Do you want to come stay at mine?’
‘Thanks, but I’m not sure it’s that serious just yet. It was only Joss.’
‘OK, but who the hell put that cutting in your bag? That’s freakier than posting something through your door, right?’
I’m stupidly relieved that she doesn’t think I might have put it there myself. I wouldn’t blame her; the thought has crossed my mind. After all, I’ve had blackouts in the past and done worse.
We’re interrupted by Bernie, the centre manager, who bustles over with a fresh batch of donations. Since I started volunteering two weeks ago, I’ve been amazed by how many people donate their unwanted belongings. The old Susan Webster would never have done that; she’d have thrown them out. I wouldn’t say I didn’t care, it just never occurred to me to help in that way. Bernie hangs around a bit longer than is comfortable and I can tell Cassie is itching for her to leave.
The minute she does – giving us a funny look in the process – Cassie begins to talk again.
‘What if it isn’t Mark?’ she says. ‘Who else would want to make you think you’re going loopy? Maybe his friends? His mum?’
‘Mark’s mum lives in Spain; I never met her. As far as I know, Mark never even told her about Dylan. Something to do with the falling-out they had before his dad died.’ I discard a pair of pants with three holes in them. There are some things even people in need don’t need. ‘And we’re missing the obvious point. How would any of them know where I am?’
Cassie shakes her head. ‘Anyone can find that out. All they need is the internet and half a brain.’
‘What about the Dr Riley thing? Do you think it’s relevant?’
‘Probably not,’ she concedes. My disappointment must show, because she hastily adds, ‘It does look suspicious, though. I could be wrong. I’m always wrong when I try and guess whodunnit on
Midsomer Murders
.’
‘Thanks.’ Cute attempt to make me feel better about my amateur detective work. ‘But you’re probably right. So what do I do now? I’m jumping at my own shadow. And
someone
put that article in my bag.’
‘Well if it is Mark, he’d probably be staying somewhere close, right? He’s not going to drive three hours from Bradford just to post a photo and go home again.’
Ew. The thought of my ex-husband sneaking around Ludlow without me knowing freaks me out. I look quickly at the doorway of the shelter, half expecting to see him standing there watching me. It’s empty, of course.
‘So what are we going to do, call every B and B within a twenty-mile radius and ask if a Mark Webster is staying there?’
‘Or . . .’ Cassie replies, dragging the word out over three syllables, ‘we could call his house and see if he answers. What’s his number?’ She pulls out her phone and out of the corner of my eye I notice Bernie watching suspiciously.
‘Let’s wait until we get back to mine.’ I put my hand over the phone and motion with my head to the prying eyes in the room.
The next three hours seem like days, and even the appearance of my favourite regular, Larry, fails to take my mind off my ex and the photograph of the little boy. It doesn’t seem like Mark’s style to me, but it is a long time since we last spoke. People change.
‘Thanks for today, ladies.’ Bernie says her usual goodbyes as our shift ends. Something strikes me.
‘You haven’t seen any strange men hanging around the last week or so, have you, Bernie?’
She grins and jerks her head at Larry. ‘You mean aside from the usual strange men we get here?’ she teases. Larry bats her arm affectionately.
‘Never mind strange men, what about all the crazy women?’ he responds with a laugh. I join in, seriously doubting he knows how much truth is in those words.
8
While Cassie goes back to her house to change – with the promise that it’s not because she’s been around homeless people – I drive home on my own. When I arrive to an empty mat, I’m relieved and disappointed in equal measure. The house is too quiet, eerily so, and I head through to the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil and pop the lid off the coffee.
I don’t know if it’s the picture of Dylan scraping fingernails over old wounds, but the smell of the coffee makes the fist-sized scar on the top of my arm itch, and automatically I reach up to scratch the puckered skin. A memory I’ve forced into a steel box in my mind seeps back to me. I’m sitting in a canteen, the tables like plastic park benches and the walls such a dirty yellow that I don’t think anyone knows what colour they started out. Cassie sits opposite me, staring at her cold cottage pie as though it might change into a Domino’s pizza if she wishes hard enough. I’m half aware of someone behind me but I take no notice until the words are hissed so close to my ear that to this day I can smell the stale cigarettes and dog-shit breath.
‘Baby killer.’
The sharp pain spreads down my arm. At first I think I’ve been punched, my shock merging with horror as I realise the pain isn’t fading, it’s getting worse. Scalding water has moulded my uniform to my arm, the material trying to force itself into a second skin. Cassie’s voice rings in my ears, a quick ‘Oh shit,’ then she’s upon me, pouring ice-cold water on my arm and ripping the sleeve from my shirt. I hear the words ‘Get a medic,’ but they’re far away like I’m hearing them underwater.
Days later, back in our room – they never called them cells in Oakdale; we were patients not prisoners – Cassie would tell me I was lucky that hulking Netty Vickers (at Oakdale for the attempted murder of the woman who’d slept with her boyfriend) had neglected to put sugar in the water. Sugar in the water, she said, made it impossible to wash off and caused much more damage. I never asked her how she knew that, just like I never asked her what had happened to Netty Vickers. She got transferred while I was still in the hospital wing. I heard the rumours, though. An accident with a kettle of boiling water, though no one could explain how the sugar got in there. I never heard the words ‘baby killer’ directed at me again.
The knock on the door is so gentle, and I’m so caught in that memory, that at first I think I’m hearing things. Nope, there it is again, a soft, almost apologetic padding. There are two reasons why such a simple thing as someone knocking on the door freaks me out. The first is obvious: yesterday morning I received a photograph claiming to be of a boy who has been dead for nearly four years. The second is that in the four weeks I’ve been here, I’ve yet to have a single visitor, except Cassie, who has a key. When you’ve lived with someone for as long as I lived with Cassie, it seems strange, somehow, to have to open the door for them, and the key that started out as ‘for emergencies’ has migrated into everyday use.