by Michael Wood
‘You been to see Call Me Fred?’ Lee Marriott was a thin boy with brilliant blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin so pale he was almost translucent.
Ryan smiled. ‘Yeah. Just finished the tests.’
‘Here’s a tip: when he gets on a subject he really likes he spits when he talks; so always lean back when he comes near you.’
‘Cheers.’
‘You any good at pool?’
‘Not really.’
‘Table tennis?’
‘A bit.’
‘We’ll have a game after tea if you want.’
‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Lee moved up the sofa so he was next to Ryan. ‘Look, don’t worry about this place. It’s scary at first but you’ll soon settle in. Miss Moloney’s all right as long as you’re all right by her, and the other staff are pretty cool too. As for the rest of us lot, we all get along just fine – we have to really,’ he sniggered.
‘Thanks.’
‘Let’s have that game now. I fucking hate Star Wars.’
By the time the evening meal came around at 6 p.m, Ryan had spoken to all seven boys and was relatively relaxed in their company. There were a couple who seemed a bit distant but, when he factored in the reason why they were all here, he could perfectly understand that.
Ryan entered the dining room with Jacob, Mark, and Lewis. They were laughing and joking. To the outsider they looked like four school pals on their lunch break. Once they were seated the plastic cutlery gave away the seriousness of where they were.
Ryan had been too knotted up to eat at lunchtime. Now he had settled in and relaxed with his contemporaries for a few hours, he found he was hungry, and was the first to finish his bland chicken dinner. They all chatted between mouthfuls: safe subjects like football, TV, and the fact Mark Parker couldn’t do more than ten press-ups in the gym.
Following dessert (soggy treacle sponge and lumpy custard), it was back into the recreation room for a few hours before they went to bed at nine o’clock.
Ryan beat Lee easily at table tennis but there was no malice, no arguments, no threats of reprisals – it was all good-natured fun.
Nine o’clock came far too quickly for Ryan’s liking and he was soon locked up in his small room (not a cell). He was finally alone after a hectic first day at Starling House. He wasn’t tired. It had been years since he had a bedtime. As he lay wide awake on the single bed, looking up at the ceiling with its cracked paint and damp patches, his mind drifted. How did he end up here? Where were his mum and dad? What were they calling themselves now?
The room was sparse. A single pine bed with matching bedside cabinet. A cheap veneer wardrobe secured to the wall and a plastic chair. There was one shelf which had a few dusty paperbacks. The room lacked atmosphere and there was a cold draft coming from somewhere. There was nothing personal or comforting about it. He wondered what the other boys’ rooms were like. Had they brought items from home: posters, photographs, games? He wondered if he was allowed to visit the other boys in their rooms. Something else to ask Lee in the morning.
Ryan listened to the silence. He couldn’t hear anything from the outside, no traffic on the roads, no people walking by. He wondered how far he was from civilisation. He’d never been to Sheffield before so had no idea of the layout. It was in Yorkshire, which had two shit football teams, was about all he knew. He remembered his uncle coming up to Sheffield for the snooker once when Ryan was a little boy but that was the only time the city was mentioned in his house.
There were no sounds coming from anywhere else in the building. He strained to hear any of the other boys talking, either to themselves or each other through the walls, or any of them crying, but he guessed the walls were too thick.
He took a deep breath and sighed. His first full night in Starling House. His first of many. Lee and Jacob had made the first day manageable but he would give anything to be back home with his mum and dad, to be hugged by them one more time.
A tear fell from his eye, down his face and onto his pillow.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum. For everything I did. I’m really sorry,’ he said, quietly, under his breath. ‘Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I need to see you.’
Ryan turned over and hid his face into his pillow to muffle the sound of his sobbing. Just because he couldn’t hear anyone else, it didn’t mean they couldn’t hear him.
He cried uncontrollably; cried himself to sleep. He was just nodding off when his door was unlocked from the outside.
LEE MARRIOTT
Blackpool. August 2013
I was born by accident. It’s not that my parents didn’t want me, they did, well, Mum did. It’s just that I was a surprise for them both.
Mum and Dad had tried for years to have a baby. They married when Dad was twenty-five and Mum was twenty-one. They tried from the honeymoon onwards but nothing happened. Twenty years later, out I popped. I was their middle-age miracle.
I’ve heard that story so many times from Mum that I could give a lecture on it. I could go on that boring quiz show with the leather chair and have it as my specialist subject. At first it was a sweet story, as if I had waited more than twenty years for the right time to be born, or the angels were preparing my mum and dad to be the best parents ever (that’s a direct quote from Mum’s story, by the way – pathetic, isn’t it?). After hearing it more than ten million times it starts to get annoying; more than annoying, it’s irritating. It’s a fucking pointless story, and I hate it.
Mum took her role of mother far too seriously. She refused to let me out of her sight. I wasn’t allowed to play out, in case I fell and hurt myself. I wasn’t allowed to climb trees, in case I fell out and cracked my skull open. I wasn’t allowed to the shops on my own, in case I was knocked down by a car and killed. Dad wasn’t allowed to take me to a football match, in case I was kidnapped. I lived in a bubble.
Every summer we went on holiday for two weeks to the same place – Blackpool. Have you ever spent two full weeks in Blackpool? Fuck me, it’s boring! Have you ever spent two full weeks in Blackpool living in a tin-can caravan with your parents every single year since you were born? It’s torture! I’m fifteen – why do I want to go to Blackpool? Why do I want to go on holiday with my mum and dad? Why do I want to spend two weeks in a shitty caravan the size of a public toilet? I tell you, torture.
This year was different. Actually, no, it wasn’t. It was exactly the same, only this time I met someone, someone fun. Liam.
Mum and Dad allowed me some freedom for the first time. I was allowed in the arcade in the caravan park but I couldn’t go off-site without their permission. I looked up from the slots to see this guy looking at me. That was Liam, and he looked just as bored as I was. I smiled. He smiled. I went for a drink, so did he. We got chatting. He was on holiday too, with his nan and granddad, but they spent all day playing bingo so he was allowed to do whatever he wanted – lucky sod.
Liam asked if I wanted to go down to the beach. I didn’t even think of asking Mum and Dad. I just went. We had some chips and swapped stories. He was from Carlisle. His Mum and Dad were working all summer so his grandparents were looking after him. As a special treat, they’d brought him to Blackpool for the week – some treat!
We went to the top of the Tower and spent a good half hour looking at the view. Then Liam invited me back to his caravan and we drank a few cans of lager. Can you believe that was my first taste of alcohol? I tried vodka too but I didn’t like it, and I wouldn’t even try the whisky – the smell alone was too much. I decided to stick to lager and I had a few cans, followed by a few more. It wasn’t long until we were both seriously pissed. I’ll always remember that day as being one of the best ever. Liam was everything I wanted to be – fun, free, happy, good-looking.
It was after midnight when I got back to my caravan. It was a cool night and the breeze seemed to sober me up a little. Mum and Dad were still up, obviously, and they were both angry. At first Mum was thrilled I was safe
, until she smelled the lager on my breath. They both kicked off, saying how I’d disappointed them and let them down. I heard the story of how I was a miracle birth again. I always had that thrown in my face. Dad sat calmly while Mum ranted. She said we were going back home first thing in the morning. I said no as I’d arranged to go out with Liam. I refused to leave. I was having fun for the first time in my life. Dad told me off for cheeking my mum, and he sent me to bed. Well, it was the table turned into a bed. Not the same thing.
I can’t actually remember what happened next. One minute I was lying in bed, the next I was turning on the gas canisters for the stove. I didn’t think of the consequences until afterwards but I’m not sorry. They were suffocating me. For how long did they think I was going to put up with being their prisoner?
I stood well back from the caravan as I struck the match. The wind blew out the first few; the fifth one went straight through the window. The curtains caught fire so I ran, knowing this would be it. I hid behind another caravan a few rows back and watched as the flames took hold. Suddenly, bang, the caravan was torn apart and a massive fire ball flew into the air. It was well impressive. The baked-bean-tin caravan just disintegrated.
Now I’m free of them. I can do whatever I want without having to answer to anyone. I’m so relieved, like a weight has been lifted from me. I’m free. I’m finally free.
FIVE
Prompt as always, Adele Kean knocked on Matilda’s door at seven o’clock sharp. She opened it to find her best friend standing on the doorstep with a bottle of wine in one hand and a takeaway curry in the other.
It was a special day for Adele. Nothing to celebrate, there would be no cards or presents, it was something to reflect upon. Twenty years ago today, Adele’s then boyfriend had gone off with another woman leaving her in a bedsit in Manchester to look after a two-year-old baby alone. It had been a nightmare time for Adele and thanks to the intervention of her parents, and meeting Matilda, she had been able to pull herself out of her quagmire, qualify as a pathologist and regain control of her life.
They sat at the kitchen table, curry laid out before them, wine poured, and raised their glasses to a toast.
‘To proving that fresh starts are achievable,’ Matilda said, surprisingly optimistic for her.
‘To hoping that bastard suffered a painful death from some flesh-eating virus,’ Adele offered.
‘I don’t think I want to eat this now,’ Matilda said, looking down at her curry.
‘OK, we’ll be sensible and toast achievements,’ she said, rolling her eyes. They clinked glasses and began to eat.
‘Do you ever hear from Robson?’
‘Any chance we can refer to him as The Bastard, please?’
Matilda sniggered. There was definitely no love lost between Adele and Robson. She had called him The Bastard for as long as Matilda had known her. It was a stark contrast to the relationship Matilda had enjoyed with her late husband. He had been dead almost two years, and she would give every single possession she owned to have him back.
‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Matilda asked, unable to refer to him as a bastard.
‘No, thank God.’
‘What about Chris?’
‘Not since he was ten. A couple of years ago, when I’d had a few to drink, I tried looking him up on Facebook.’
‘And?’
‘He wasn’t there. I thought he’d have gone in for the whole social media thing – an entire world of women at his fingertips. He’s either changed and is now a one-woman man, or he’s dead. I like to think it’s option two. More wine?’
‘Better not,’ Matilda said, placing her hand over the glass. When James died, Matilda had turned to drink to cope with the loss and it had got out of hand. Like she had saved Adele when she moved to Sheffield, Adele had returned the favour and helped her through the torture of losing the man she loved. Now, Matilda didn’t trust herself around alcohol. She never drunk when she was alone and only dared to have a glass or two with friends. Just to be on the safe side.
The conversation over dinner moved on to safer territory like Matilda’s visit to her parents earlier in the day and the prospect of Adele’s son, Chris, starting a new job, hopefully, as a teacher. However, during the quieter periods, Matilda could see the loneliness in Adele’s eyes. She always said she didn’t need, or want, a man in her life to be happy, but now that Chris was out of university and would be leaving home soon, the prospect of living alone and surrounded by silence was beginning to dawn. They would have to do more things together; Matilda would make sure of that.
Adele stuck to the wine while Matilda made herself a coffee, and they went into the living room.
‘Oh, I didn’t know this was out,’ Adele said, picking up the hardback copy of Carl from the side table.
‘It’s not. It comes out this Thursday. Sally Meagan left it on my doorstep this morning.’
Adele opened the cover and looked at the inscription. ‘Bloody hell, she’s not going to let you forget, is she?’
‘As if I could anyway. I think about him every day. I drove past Graves Park yesterday and I almost had to pull over I teared up so much.’
‘Is there no news?’
‘There’s no one looking for him. The case is shelved. There have been no sightings for months.’
‘It’ll get reviewed at some point though, won’t it?’
‘Oh yes, but not by me, and not for long either. I honestly don’t think we’ll know anything until a body turns up.’
‘You think he’s dead?’
‘As much as I hope he’s still alive, yes, I think he’s dead.’
‘Oh God, the poor mite,’ Adele said, looking at the front cover and the smiling little boy looking up at her. ‘God only knows what his mother’s going through. Are you going to read this?’
‘I read the introduction. I’ve looked in the index and I’m mentioned all the time, and it’s not going to be complimentary, is it? I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of character assassination just yet.’
‘Why don’t you put it away, then, instead of leaving it around tormenting yourself? You’ve got a library now, haven’t you? Oh, I thought you were going to show me around.’
Matilda had inherited thousands of books from a young man she befriended during a murder case she’d worked on the previous year. Jonathan Harkness had lived in self-induced isolation, surrounding himself with crime fiction novels to escape the reality of the outside world. When he died, he left his entire collection to Matilda. She wasn’t sure whether he was gifting them to her because she had shown an interest or it was his final act of sticking two fingers up to the police.
At first, Matilda had been so angry she had wanted to dump them all. On closer inspection she saw some were first editions and some were signed copies. They might even be worth quite a bit of money one day. She had read a few and become hooked and promised herself she would look after the collection and even add to it when new books were released.
Since James’s death, Matilda now lived alone in a four-bedroom house. She had ample space to turn one of the rooms into a library. She’d had floor to ceiling shelves fitted, a new carpet, and had replaced the glass in the window with an expensive tinted glass so the sunlight wouldn’t bleach the pages and spines of the books. Matilda had even treated herself to a comfortable Eames chair with matching footstool so she could sit in here of an evening and read whenever she wanted to escape from a difficult murder case for an hour or two. The irony of reading crime fiction while investigating real life crimes was not lost on her.
‘I’m impressed. It looks functional yet cosy,’ Adele said, standing in the doorway (shoes off, of course).
‘You don’t like it, do you?’
‘No. I do. I just think it’s a waste of a perfectly good bedroom.’
‘It was you who said I should keep them. What else was I supposed to do with them?’
‘No. You’ve done the right thing. I like it. I really do. Wow, this chair is
very comfortable,’ Adele exclaimed, sitting back and putting her feet up.
‘It should be for the money it cost.’
‘I can imagine myself sitting here, glass of wine, maybe some sushi. I could actually fall asleep in this chair.’
Matilda smiled. ‘You could book a weekend break here if you like?’
Adele picked up the nearest novel. ‘So how is the humble pathologist represented in crime fiction then? Am I a maverick who works outside the rules to nail the killer at any cost?’
‘No. You’re either grumpy, moody or an alcoholic.’
‘Oh, not like me at all then,’ she smiled.
By the time the evening was at an end, Adele was in no fit state to drive so Matilda said she could stay over. Adele went up to one of the spare rooms while Matilda went around the ground floor to make sure all the windows and doors were locked. As she whispered goodnight to James in their wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, she shed a tear. Every night, she cried for the man she loved who had been taken from her far too soon.
The following morning, Matilda was woken to the unfamiliar sound of life going on in another part of the house. It had taken her a long time to adjust to living on her own after James’s death, especially as James had been a noisy bugger. She had discovered new sounds – the clocks ticking, the fridge humming, and the house settling. At first, they scared her: they were the sounds of loneliness. Now, she was used to them.
As Matilda descended the stairs she recognized the noise straight away – Adele was on her treadmill. She went into the conservatory to see Adele running at speed; yet she didn’t have a hair out of place and there was just a hint of sweat on her forehead.
‘This is actually quite a good treadmill. I might have to get one myself.’
‘I thought you enjoyed going to the gym?’
‘I do. Especially when that Scottish bloke is working there. I love a man with a Scottish accent.’
‘You’re a tart, Adele. Are you nearly finished? I’d like to get 5k in before work.’
