Payback

by Gemma Rogers

  ‘Sophie, I’m glad you called.’

  ‘Hi Mum, everything okay?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from Sue. It’s bad news. Gareth died in a car accident almost two weeks ago.’

  My blood ran cold and I squeezed the phone, knuckles turning white.

  ‘How?’ I asked, the hair on my arms bristling despite the temperature.

  ‘Someone ran him off the road apparently, going around a bend. Sue and Jim are devastated. Losing both your children. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Mum blew her nose down the phone as I tried to take in the news.

  I hadn’t seen Gareth for years, but there was a time when he meant a great deal to me. The reasons we’d grown apart seemed so silly now, childish even. But that’s just what we were, children.

  There was a long pause where I could hear Mum snuffling on the other end but couldn’t find the words.

  ‘Are you all right, Mum? Is Dad?’

  ‘Yes, we’re okay, a bit of a shock that’s all. I thought you’d want to know. You two used to be so close.’

  ‘Was he married?’ I blurted.

  ‘No, he lived with a woman in St. Albans, but they weren’t married. I just can’t believe it. Poor Sue, burying both your sons. It’s just not right. Your kids are supposed to outlive you.’ I could hear the rustle of tissues down the line. Mum and Dad had always been closed to Gareth’s parents. They lived a ten-minute walk away from the agency and I’d spent pretty much every Saturday night there as a kid.

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’ I asked, chewing the inside of my cheek, but they said they were going to have an early night. I felt bad for feeling relieved. I didn’t want to get dressed and drive across town when I was ready for bed myself.

  We said our goodbyes and I brushed my teeth, retiring to watch television in bed. I’d promised myself I’d have a tidy tomorrow; the flat was starting to look like a family of four were in residence instead of just me.

  I tried to focus on a documentary about adoption, but my mind kept slipping to Gareth. Thirty-six was no age to die.

  Next day, at 11 a.m. sharp, Hope rang the doorbell of 32 Park Lane. I hadn’t seen the house for years and it seemed smaller than I remembered. But outside everything looked the same, white metal-framed windows, the mostly glazed front door with its seventies leaf pattern. Even the enormous hydrangea in the sickly pink shade remained in the front garden. Hope had been keen to come along, she wanted, ‘to see the property through my eyes’. Learn why it wasn’t selling. It would be good experience, although the reason was obvious to be honest: Osbornes had overpriced it.

  Mrs Davidson took a while to come to the front door. I could hear muffled voices and her silhouette grew larger through the glass as she approached.

  ‘Hello, please come in,’ she said, smiling and moving aside to let us through.

  I stepped into the hallway which led to the kitchen.

  ‘Please go through,’ she gestured as I hesitated, overwhelmed at the interior, frozen in time and just as I’d remembered.

  I walked into the kitchen, unable to stop the memories bouncing around my head. I came to a stop by the larder, taking it all in. The cream cabinets, the checkerboard linoleum flooring, the archway, all untouched by twenty years. It seemed like it had been an eternity, but I could still hear my friends’ voices as they were then.

  ‘You okay?’ Hope whispered, eyes narrowed.

  I nodded, forcing myself back to the present.

  ‘Did you manage to find one of those flyers?’ I asked Mrs Davidson as she came in to join us.

  ‘No, Gerald threw them all away and the bin men came early, before I had a chance to dig one out.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Hope said, grimacing.

  ‘Yes, well never mind. We haven’t had one yet today, so perhaps that’s the end of it. Right, would you like to have a look around. Feel free to have a wander and I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I said, moving straight towards the stairs. Gripping the wooden banister, I inhaled the unique scent of the house. Every home had a different aura, a different aroma, ingrained into the walls and carpets. The occupants would never know it was there, they were blind to it but Park Lane smelt faintly of blossom with a hint of bleach.

  I climbed, taking in the green striped wallpaper and beige carpet until I reached the top of the stairs. Every door was open, but I headed instinctively to the master bedroom. It seemed so much smaller, but I was grown now.

  I moved between the rooms, Hope hovering a few steps behind, roughly calculating the size and condition of each. Pushing the memories to the back of my mind, I tried to view this house as just another potential listing.

  ‘Well?’ Hope said, her voice low so as not to be heard downstairs.

  I turned to her on the landing.

  ‘I haven’t seen downstairs yet, but basically it’s overpriced. It’s in need of modernisation, new windows, new bathroom and a new kitchen. The house hasn’t changed for twenty years and it’s putting prospective buyers off,’ I said, gesturing for Hope to go down the stairs. I followed behind and we looked around the ground floor.

  Gerald, Mrs Davidson’s husband, was in the den, a smaller version of their lounge, watching rugby. He gave an odd salute as I glanced inside. The room felt ominous, not helped by the wood panelling. I couldn’t wait to get out, practically thrusting Hope out of the way.

  ‘It’s oppressive in here,’ I whispered, but Hope didn’t answer. The archway remained and so did the ghosts.

  We sat down for tea at the dining table, drinking from a teacup and saucer. Pink wafer biscuits had been placed fan-like around the edges of a floral painted plate.

  I explained to Mrs Davidson the property had been marketed incorrectly.

  ‘If I may speak plainly, Osbornes are marketing your property as a family home, which it is, of course it is. But the price they are asking for and the modernisation required is what I imagine will be putting families off. You need double glazing, a new bathroom and, although it’s well decorated throughout, the amount of money required to bring it to the standard of other properties currently available means any buyer would be spending over the odds.’ I pulled some particulars from my bag of similar properties and Mrs Davidson leafed through them.

  ‘Well thank you, Miss White, for being frank,’ Mrs Davidson said after a pause through pursed lips.

  I knew I wasn’t going to be delivering good news, but there was little point in sugarcoating. She didn’t strike me as the sort of person who liked having her time wasted. ‘I’m sorry, I understand it’s not what you want to hear, but that’s my honest opinion. I think if you ask Osbornes to lower the price to include the next bracket too, that would increase interest.’

  I finished my tea to be polite, even though it was still a touch too hot and burnt my tongue.

  After thanking Mrs Davidson for her time and the tea, Hope and I left, walking around the side of the house to see the back gate I’d used all those years ago.

  ‘Well, that seemed like a waste of time,’ Hope said, her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. Easy to see she was a rookie now.

  ‘Perhaps, but honesty is the way forward. When Mrs Davidson finally loses all confidence in Osbornes, she will call us, and we will take her house on with open arms. This afternoon, I’ll get you to make a few calls, there’s some people I know who look for refurb projects, quick turnarounds.’ I lingered at the gate, casting my eye over the garden before moving on.

  ‘Have you been inside there before?’

  My core tensed at the question. Some memories, although partially good, were best left undisturbed.

  ‘No, first time,’ I lied.

  3

  August 1997

  It turned out to be easy in the end. I’d spent all night worrying how I was going to do it. Not to mention totally freaking out about the whole plan. I’d convinced myself I was ready, but as the minutes ticked closer, I wasn’t sure. It took forever to fall asleep a
nd when I woke up, Mum was in the lounge, glued to the television, her arms wrapped around herself. I could tell something was wrong. It was Sunday, yet there was no blissful smell of bacon frying and no rustling of tabloids from Dad’s chair either. Instead, I found Dad with his arm protectively around Mum as she dabbed away tears with his hankie. Lady Diana had died in a car crash in Paris and the country was in mourning, the BBC News presenter reported gravely.

  I was never going to get a better opportunity and it had to be done today. They were so absorbed by the television, I was easily able to take the office keys and slip downstairs unnoticed. I was in and out in two minutes, knowing exactly where I’d find them. Dad had a wooden box locked in his desk. You couldn’t be too careful, he’d told me as I watched him hide the box behind a fake panel in his drawer, on Friday after closing. The box housed the keys of all the properties for sale. I found the one I was looking for easily. The address written on the brown tag in my Dad’s scrawl. I swallowed down the guilt which threatened to spill and slipped them into my dressing gown pocket underneath a mound of tissues.

  Dad didn’t open the estate agents on a Sunday, so I knew I’d be able to put it back before he’d notice it was missing. It didn’t make me feel any better though. I’d done some things before, pranks mainly, which I’d got into trouble for. Occasionally, I’d been grounded for backchatting or failing to tidy my room. But nothing like this. This was a different league altogether. It couldn’t have been more perfect, the planets had aligned, all of us had agreed and everything else had fallen into place. I just had to hold my nerve.

  I crept back upstairs, my legs like jelly. I had done it. I’d managed to steal the key and my parents hadn’t moved from the sofa. A loud gurgle came from my stomach. I’d have to get my own breakfast this morning.

  ‘Sophie, Diana has died. It’s awful. Those poor boys, losing their Mum at such an age. They’re so young,’ Mum wailed from the lounge as I passed by.

  I didn’t go in, I needed to hide the key, plus I didn’t want to see Mum crying or Dad consoling her. It was terrible, the devastation of the general public leaked out of the television. She was beautiful, and the princes would grow up without a Mum now. But I couldn’t understand why my Mum was getting so upset? It wasn’t like she knew her, was it?

  I forced a bowl of Honey Nut Loops down, ignoring the palpitations which fluttered in my chest as I went over the plan for tonight.

  We were all meeting at seven, by the postbox towards the end of my road. Then we’d make our way to the house, go through the back garden and in via the kitchen door. That way we’d be hidden from the main road and no one would report a group of kids going into an empty house. Everyone was bringing a sleeping bag and a torch. Elliot had suggested bringing candles, but there was no way. What if someone burnt the carpet? They were all under strict instructions not to smoke or drink anything in the house; I didn’t want to leave any evidence we’d been there.

  The detached house was devoid of furniture, a shell waiting to be sold, but it was a perfect location for tonight. The owners had emigrated to Spain, so there was no chance we’d be caught by them. Sometimes, if Dad knew the owners wouldn’t be there, he’d take me along when he was getting a house on the market. I’d help measure and he’d take the photos, all the time telling me the business would be mine one day. I’d smile and nod, but it wasn’t what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a journalist like that Kate Sanderson on Newsround. At the forefront of the action, reporting from exotic locations. I wanted to travel the world, but first I had to pass my Geography GCSE.

  We were going into year eleven in a couple of days, preparing for our GCSEs next summer and the life we wanted beyond secondary school. Robyn, Becca and I had been friends since the first year. We were the middle-of-the-road kids, not nerds or outcasts but not cool enough to be the popular ones either. We left that to the blonde bitches. It was our name for them, although Robyn always took offence; her hair was the perfect shade of gold and the rest of us envied her for it, although of course we didn’t tell her. Hayley joined in year nine, her father was an officer or something in the army, so she was always moving around, never settling anywhere. As an only child, she was scarred by years of conveyor-belt friendships that rarely lasted. Woodfield was the first non-army school she’d been to, as her mum didn’t want to live in the ‘garrison’ any more. I had no idea what she meant. Robyn lived around the corner from her and one morning they struck up a conversation as they walked to school and from that day, she was part of the middle-of-the-road gang.

  The plan had all started with the blonde bitches, a group of three girls I likened to the witches in Macbeth. They were who I pictured when Mrs Purse read Shakespeare’s words aloud, hunched over a cauldron, their faces as ugly as their insides. Of course, they weren’t unattractive, quite the opposite. They were sickeningly pretty and all of them had boyfriends in the year above. They thought they were, in Becca’s words, ‘the dog’s testicles’. They teased us mercilessly, snide comments before being shoved out of the way in the corridors. The word ‘virgin’ had started to be thrown around as an insult. It stuck in our throats. It was obvious they’d all copped off with their older boyfriends. You could tell by the way they carried themselves, strolling around with an air of superiority that they’d moved to the next level. Engaging in adult activities: drinking, smoking weed and having sex, whilst the rest of us watched on wishing we could upgrade our boring lives. Worried we were being left behind.

  When school broke for summer, it hung over us and we didn’t want to leave secondary school with zero sexual experience, which was what we all had. There’d been some snogging, mainly at our classmate Jimmy’s birthday roller disco party. We all thought it would be lame, but it ended up being brilliant, with lots of dark corners and distracting flashing lights. The kissing followed on from all the hand-holding we were doing with the boys, who were trying to keep us upright as we skated in circles to ‘Free’ by Ultra Nate. But that was the sum of our experience.

  Us girls had chatted about getting the whole thing over and done with. We had no boyfriends; no boys we even fancied that much. Except for Hayley – it was obvious she had a massive crush on Gareth, a friend of the family who was in our year. I’d known him since we were in nappies apparently. Hayley wouldn’t admit it, but her scarlet cheeks whenever his name was mentioned told us all we needed to know.

  Because my parents were friends with Gareth’s parents, I often got dragged along if they were invited over for dinner on a Saturday night. We’d sit in his room and play Nintendo; disappearing upstairs as soon as we’d finished our meal. Desperate to get away from the ‘olds’. Thankfully, there was no awkwardness between us. I thought of him more like a brother than boyfriend material and that suited me fine. I was an only child, so the idea of a brother was something I relished. Gareth had a brother, Craig, who was two years old than us. I rarely saw him; Gareth said he only came home to sleep and eat.

  One evening, early in the school holidays, we were hiding out, playing Mario Kart, listening to Gareth’s Mum get louder and louder the more wine she drank.

  ‘She’s so embarrassing,’ he said, gritting his teeth.

  I put my controller down, Bowser’s kart sped off into a ditch with a loud crash.

  ‘She’ll get worse until he takes her to bed, then I’ll have to listen to them do it through the wall. It’s gross,’ Gareth admitted, giggling. I noticed the tips of his ears turning pink.

  ‘Have you ever, you know?’ I asked, my face flushing red.

  Gareth shook his head and looked at a speck on the carpet, unwilling to meet my eye.

  ‘What about your mates, Elliot, James and Mark. Have they?’ I pried.

  ‘I dunno. I don’t think so.’

  We were both quiet for a while. Gareth picked up my controller and handed it back to me, signalling to carry on with the game.

  ‘What if, your friends and my friends, all, you know, did it?’

  Gareth’s
head spun around like I’d slapped him. ‘Together?’

  ‘No not together, you moron. Not like an orgy. I meant, if we all paired up. Get it over and done with. Do you think they would be able to keep something like that quiet? Because it would have to be a secret.’ I spoke slowly, concise. Not quite believing what I was suggesting. What I was proposing sounded far too grown-up to be coming out of my fifteen-year-old mouth. Gareth’s mouth was still hanging open, until he realised I was waiting for an answer and promptly closed it. His voice when he spoke was measured but I could tell from the blotch of red skin on his neck that he was excited.

  ‘I guess so. I mean, I’m sure they would. Do you want me to speak to them?’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Ask them. Anyone blabs though and it’s off,’ I said, my voice unwavering but my stomach somersaulting with excitement or nerves, I wasn’t sure which.

  ‘All right, shitbag.’ A white hacky sack with red stitching bounced off Gareth’s head and into my lap. A sneering Craig was stood doubled over in the doorway.

  ‘Piss off,’ Gareth hissed, his face turning crimson now.

  How long had Craig been standing there? Had he heard?

  Craig nodded a greeting in my direction and I nodded back. He was dark like his brother, cropped hair and good-looking. Well-built and already filling out beneath his tight t-shirts, but he had a meanness to his eyes, magnified by his pointed features. He disappeared down the hallway and Gareth got up to close the door.

  ‘He’s just got his first car, so he thinks he’s the big I am.’

  ‘You’ll be like that one day.’ I laughed, rolling the hacky sack around in my hands. Craig couldn’t have heard; he wouldn’t have resisted an opportunity to torment Gareth if he had.

  ‘How would we pick who’s with who?’ Gareth asked, returning to the conversation.