by Dan Scottow
That was Kitty’s first experience of death.
But not her last.
She stood and turned back towards the house.
Wiping at her eyes, smearing a streak of mud across her cheek, she edged closer to the French doors.
As she reached the entrance, she stood for a while, picking at the dirt beneath her fingernails.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Her father’s voice came out in a growl. ‘In you come.’
23
It was scrawled messily on a scrap of paper.
Written in a hurry, but definitely Charlie’s handwriting.
He’d climbed into bed late the night before and had been up and away early. Beth assumed he was off to the gym before work. But when she got up, she found the note in the kitchen.
Beth turned it over in her hands, examining it carefully, searching for any sign that it was under duress. But she found none. It simply appeared to be a letter from her husband.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Nothing sinister.
Beth, I have to go away for a few days for work. Totally forgot to tell you yesterday. Sorry. Will be on the road a lot but will try to call when I can.
Love you.
C x
But something about it was odd.
Charlie hadn’t mentioned a trip. It was unlikely he had forgotten. That was not in his nature. Why hadn’t he spoken to her about it earlier when he bent over and kissed her as she lay in bed?
Beth screwed the note up, throwing it in the bin. She sipped her coffee, tapping her finger on the side of her mug.
The noise of a teenaged boy barrelling down the stairs filled the house and Peter appeared in the kitchen.
‘Morning,’ Beth shouted to him.
He grunted in her general direction, opened the fridge and removed a four-pinter of milk. He unscrewed the cap and gulped the contents down.
‘Use a glass, please.’
He ignored her as usual. Replaced the lid, placing the plastic bottle back on the shelf.
‘Where’s Dad?’ he asked.
‘He’s away with work, apparently.’
‘Till when?’
‘A few days.’
‘He never said, yesterday.’
‘No. He forgot.’
Peter raised an eyebrow. The lie wasn’t fooling him either.
He skulked over to the island unit, threw himself down onto a stool and sat fidgeting, lacing his hands over one another, staring down at his grubby fingers.
‘Have you seen my phone?’ he asked finally.
‘No. Where did you last have it?’
‘Not sure. If I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?’
‘How long is it since you’ve had it?’
‘Dunno. Couple of days?’
‘Peter! How can you be so careless with that thing?’
‘I swear I haven’t lost it. I bet Daisy has got it.’
‘We won’t be buying you another one. So you had better hope it turns up.’
‘Am I asking you to buy me another one?’ he replied sarcastically.
He got up and crossed to a cupboard, grabbing a box of cereal.
Returning to his seat, he picked pieces from the carton, throwing them into his mouth.
‘My God, Peter. What is wrong with you today? Can you use a bowl, please?’
Peter sighed loudly, slamming the box onto the counter, folding his arms across his chest. He eyed his mother from beneath his shaggy fringe.
‘Zoe is away on a geography field trip. I’ve got no way of contacting her without my phone,’ he said.
‘Right. Don’t you know her number?’
‘Mum, do you know how a mobile phone works? It’s not the dark ages. You don’t actually have to dial a number anymore. You just press the person’s name.’
‘Okay. You’ll have to wait until she’s home then, won’t you?’
‘But she’s away for ages!’
Peter unfolded his arms, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.
‘I’m sorry, Peter, I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m not the one who lost your phone.’
He tutted overdramatically.
‘I didn’t lose it.’
Beth stood up. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with a stroppy teenager.
‘Okay, Peter. The fairies must have taken it. Maybe write a letter to Santa Claus and ask him to tell them to bring it back.’
As she turned and walked away, she heard Peter’s stool scrape across the tiled kitchen floor.
‘Whatever,’ he shouted petulantly.
‘Yes, whatever.’ Beth held up her hands in surrender.
‘Can I get a lift to school?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I had an accident last night and I don’t really want to drive the car until it’s fixed. Daisy has already been picked up by Sarah’s mum. I’m getting a lift in with Margot and the car is being collected by the garage tomorrow. It shouldn’t take long for them to fix it, but until then you’ll have to get the bus.’
‘Great!’ Peter shouted as he stormed past Beth, into the hallway. ‘I hate my life!’
‘Yes, Peter, your life is absolutely terrible. You’re the first teenager in history who has had to get the bus to school, aren’t you?’
‘Most other teenagers don’t live in a shitty old farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Right. If you hate it so much you can move out, can’t you.’
‘I wish.’
The sound of a horn from outside halted their conversation. As Beth headed out the front door, she shouted to Peter to remember to lock up when he left.
Margot’s silver TT was sitting in the drive. Beth jumped into the passenger seat. She caught Margot staring at her mangled Range Rover. She turned to Beth, her mouth hanging open.
‘Don’t,’ Beth said firmly. Margot nodded and drove away from the house.
24
June 1985, Perry Barr, Birmingham, England.
They sat staring at the animal for at least ten minutes.
Kitty drew her hand across her eyes, wiping the tears onto her white lacy skirt.
‘It’ll be okay,’ Kieran said softly.
‘I didn’t want to hurt it,’ Kitty said through her sobs.
Kieran picked up the cat. Its body was still warm.
Kitty looked away. She didn’t want to see it.
Intestines were hanging from its belly.
‘Look at it,’ Kieran said. ‘It’s so weird.’
‘I don’t want to!’ Kitty shrieked.
‘Kitty, look!’
‘No.’
‘Look at what we did!’
Kieran thrust the dead animal under Kitty’s face. She screamed, turning away, but he grabbed her arm with one hand.
‘Touch it,’ he said, laughing.
Kitty screwed her eyes shut tightly and heard Kieran walking away from her, his feet trudging across gravel. She opened them in time to see him toss the cat like a piece of litter into the bushes at the side of the path. He came running back towards her, wiping blood from his hands down his muddy jeans.
‘It was a stray. It wasn’t wearing a collar,’ Kieran said, placing his arm around Kitty’s shoulder. A huge smile spread over his face.
Kitty didn’t reply. She fiddled with the hem of her dress.
‘It doesn’t matter. It was just a stray.’
Kitty looked down at the floor.
‘My Daddy hurt Smudge, you know. Last night.’
Kieran didn’t reply. He glanced at the giant purple bruises on Kitty’s arms.
‘I buried him in the garden. He was my baby.’
Kieran still didn’t reply. He looked confused.
Sometimes Kitty thought she understood more things than Kieran did. And he was much older than her.
Kitty kicked at the dry dirt on the path, covering over the patch of blood.
‘Are you sure it was a stray?’
‘Y
eah. No collar. Would’ve had a collar on if it’d been someone’s pet. Probably a wild cat.’
‘There’s no wild cats.’
‘There are too. My mum told me. They’re all over England.’
Kitty bit her bottom lip. She never knew if what Kieran was saying was true. She hadn’t ever heard about wild cats.
Kieran turned and walked away down the path.
‘Come on.’
Kitty ran after him. ‘Where we goin’?’ she asked.
‘Have you ever been to the old hotel on the other side of the woods?’ Kieran asked excitedly.
‘No. What hotel?’
‘It’s closed now. All blocked up. But there’s a few boards you can get through and go inside. It’s really cool.’
Kitty didn’t respond. She simply followed a few steps behind Kieran, like a little shadow.
They walked for a long time, the summer heat beating down on their heads. Kitty wished she had a drink with her, but she didn’t complain.
She’d learned not to.
Eventually they arrived at a huge old building.
The structure loomed menacingly, way up into the sky. Chipboard covered the doors and windows. Parts of the roof were missing. They looked all black and burned. The bushes around the carcase were overgrown, but Kitty could tell this place had once been beautiful.
Now it felt sad.
And scary.
‘There was a fire here years ago. Loads of people burned to death.’
Kitty wrapped her arms around her small body. Despite the heat from the sun, she shivered.
‘No they didn’t.’
‘They did too. My mum says it’s haunted and I shouldn’t go in there,’ Kieran continued, a menacing grin on his face.
‘Give over!’ Kitty shouted.
‘It’s true. If you’re here at night, you’ll see the ghost of Bloody Mary. She’ll walk up behind you and tap you on the shoulder.’
‘You’re such a liar, Kieran!’
‘It’s true.’
‘My mum says there’s no such thing as ghosts.’
‘Your mum is full of shit.’
Kitty stopped and stamped her foot.
‘Take that back. It’s not nice.’
Kieran smirks.
‘No. It’s true. My mum says your mum is a liar. Everyone around here knows it.’
Kitty stuck out her bottom lip.
‘You’re mean, Kieran Taylor. Sometimes I really hate you!’
Kieran swatted a dismissive hand in her direction, turning back towards the hotel. He pushed a few of the boards that sat in front of an old doorway and eventually one of them bowed inwards. He slipped inside through the gap.
Kitty looked around.
‘Kieran?’ she shouted after him.
There was no reply.
Kitty walked closer to the doorway, pushing her ear against the wall.
Silence.
‘Kieran.’ She trembled. She was whispering, but she didn’t know why.
Kitty pushed a board where she had seen Kieran push it. She wasn’t as strong as him, and she had to push with both hands, as hard as she could. The board gave way and Kitty tumbled in through the hole.
Into the darkness.
25
The rain had started about halfway into Charlie’s journey and hadn’t stopped. As he pulled up outside the terraced red-brick house, he yawned. Four hours on the road and an early start were taking their toll on him. But he couldn’t afford to be tired. He stepped out onto the pavement and assessed his surroundings. A pleasant enough estate.
Large houses, bay windows, pretty, manicured front lawns. Marigolds growing in neat rows in a few of the flower beds. Nothing like a bit of gentrification, Charlie thought.
They would have been desirable, once. He looked over his shoulder. A group of teenagers who had been kicking a tennis ball around the road had stopped and were watching him. Or were they looking at his car? He glanced at the scratch along the length of his A5 and decided to take the risk.
Pulling out his phone, he checked he had the right address and descended the path before him.
He arrived at a white door, with small, coloured window panels in the top. Pressing the doorbell, he waited.
Eventually, he saw movement but couldn’t make out anything other than dark, jumbled shapes, distorted by the glass. The door opened slowly. The smell of stale cigarettes wafted out, making Charlie grimace. He recoiled, then realised he was being assessed, trying to regain his composure.
A rotund woman of about seventy stood in the doorway, eyeing Charlie suspiciously. Her clothes were smart, but her white hair was wild.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her voice thick like treacle.
‘I’m looking for Matt Simms.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Is he here?’
She stared at Charlie, waiting for an answer to her question.
‘He doesn’t know me, but I’d really like to talk to him.’
‘What about?’
Charlie wished he had formulated more of a plan before he drove all the way to Birmingham.
He heard a series of knocks and rattles from inside the house.
‘It’s okay, Jude. You can let him in.’ An old-sounding, raspy voice.
The woman stepped to one side, opening the door fully. Charlie saw a fat, elderly man in a wheelchair.
‘Cavanagh told me to expect a visit. Didn’t think you’d be here this quick though. You must be desperate.’
Charlie stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
‘I suppose you’d better come in then. Jude, be a love and put the kettle on, would you?’
The woman’s eyes flicked back and forth between her husband and Charlie, as she shut the door and scurried away down the hall.
The man manoeuvred himself into an adjacent room. Charlie followed. Simms was a different person from the pictures on the internet.
You wouldn’t have called him handsome, but there was something kind and intriguing about his face. He had been fit, healthy-looking.
A distant shadow of the creature before Charlie now, a cigarette tucked behind one ear of a pallid, grey-skinned face. Deep crevices and folds lined the surface. Thinning grey hair, stained yellow at the ends from nicotine, hung limply around his jowls.
‘Sit down then,’ he said as Charlie stepped into the living room. The house was tidy and soulless. There were no photos on the mantel. No art on the walls.
The furniture was clean and modern, but this didn’t feel like a home. No ornaments. Nothing personal.
Charlie sat on a large floral settee, fidgeting with the buttons of his leather jacket.
‘So what do you want, Mr…’
‘Carter. Charlie Carter.’
Simms coughed. A repugnant, rasping noise. He sounded like he was choking on phlegm.
‘Well?’
‘I need some information about Kitty Briscoe.’
‘I’m sure you’re aware that her identity is unknown. She was relocated. Rebranded. She got the chance of a new life. To have her childhood. To grow up.’ A sadness entered his eyes. Charlie felt there was more he wanted to say but didn’t.
‘Yes, I know. But I wondered if you perhaps had any idea where she might be. Or who she might be.’
‘No, I don’t. And I don’t care.’
The wife shuffled into the room carrying a tray with three mugs and a teapot. She poured the tea and handed a cup to Charlie. No milk, no sugar.
‘Jude, could you give us a minute please, love?’ Simms said tenderly to her. She shot daggers at Charlie, then retreated, closing the door behind her.
‘Why do you want to know, Mr Carter?’ he continued.
Charlie watched him. He didn’t look healthy. His eyes lingered on the wheelchair. Simms saw the direction of Charlie’s gaze.
‘There’s not a lot right with me these days. Emphysema. Too many fags. My legs don’t work too great either. Let’s just say I’ve not treated my body well
over the years. God knows why Jude stays with me. That’s devotion for you.’
Charlie cleared his throat.
‘Someone thinks my wife is Kitty Briscoe.’
Silence.
Charlie continued. ‘She’s not. But this person is making our lives hell. I’d like to find proof that she isn’t, before somebody gets hurt. I’d also like to know who is doing this to us. We suspect it may be Kieran Taylor.’
‘Taylor is long gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When he got out of prison he disappeared. He was to report to a social worker regularly. After he’d been out a few months, he vanished.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yep. We weren’t supposed to know who he was… but I had people keeping an eye for me. I called in favours and I found out. So one day, Taylor booked himself a flight out of the UK. Never returned. It’s like he stopped existing.’
‘So he could be anywhere?’
‘I suppose. I’ve often wondered if he took his own life.’
Charlie stood up, slamming the hot tea down onto a side table.
‘How the hell was this allowed to happen?’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Served his time. Did his eight measly years. He was free. If somebody wants to disappear enough, then they will do it.’
‘But he was dangerous!’
‘Was he?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What makes you think Kieran Taylor was dangerous?’
‘He killed a little boy. Tortured him.’
‘Mmm-hm.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What I mean, Mr Carter, is that I was never convinced Kieran was the main protagonist in this story.’
He watched, smiling as Charlie let that sink in.
‘The jury found him guilty,’ he continued. ‘They also found Kitty not guilty. I never agreed with that decision either.’
Simms coughed again, pulling a tissue out of his pocket. He filled it with something brown and lumpy from his mouth, tucking it away in his sleeve.
‘They saw a pretty little blonde girl with big blue eyes who looked ever so sad. She had them all wrapped around her finger.’
