by Gemma Rogers
My phone beeped on cue and I unlocked the screen to view the message:
DON’T TRUST HIM
‘Are you getting texts now too?’ He leant over to peer at my screen.
I snatched it away, like a child refusing to share a toy.
James rolled his eyes and held out his phone, showing me the screen:
STOP LYING TO HER
My voice caught in my throat. Whoever it was, they were reading my mind. It’s like they could hear inside the car. But how? I rubbed the condensation from the window, straining my eyes to see through the streaks.
James spoke first. ‘I’m not lying to you, Sophie, I promise.’
‘What happened to Helen?’ I asked.
‘Helen? What’s she got to do with this. You sound a little crazy, Sophie.’ He stared out of the window, away from me.
‘You sound like you’re avoiding the question,’ I persisted.
‘Helen and I were engaged in college, we were young, only nineteen. She was my first love and I guess you could say she broke my heart. She fucked my best mate.’ He snapped back around, venom in his voice. I recoiled and the silence stretched out between us.
‘Why did you visit Hayley’s parents?’ I asked, my voice lower, calmer.
‘I was looking for Hayley.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Gareth was looking for her and I was helping. Do we have to talk about this now?’
I sighed; it was useless trying to get a straight answer out of him. Perhaps the texter was right.
‘James, please take me home. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know there’s stuff you’re not telling me.’ I shifted my body away from him and stared out of the window.
A minute later, the engine started, the car reversing out of the parking space. We drove home in silence, neither wanting to be the first to speak. The atmosphere was frosty and all the way back I was second-guessing myself. I didn’t believe James meant me any harm, but how did I know for sure that he was a victim in all this too? There was so much he wasn’t telling me about Gareth and Hayley. I knew he knew more than he was letting on. Was he simply protecting Gareth’s memory? Or was there more to it?
James drove around the back of the agency, right to my front door, jumping out to rush round and help me out of the car. The atmosphere had dispelled a little, my anger fading. I was too tired to continue the argument. What was the point?
‘Thanks for taking me to the walk-in centre,’ I said.
James stared at me, his eyes boring into mine so intensely I had to force myself not to look away. ‘No problem. I’m going to nip to the shop to get some bits. Can I get you anything? Microwave meals?’
I smiled at that but shook my head. ‘No thank you.’
‘They’re trying to break us. You know that, don’t you? We’re stronger together.’
I wanted to believe him, but so many things didn’t add up. With everything that had happened, I didn’t know who to believe any more.
‘I need some time,’ I replied as I tried to manoeuvre my crutches into position.
James took my keys from me. ‘I’m just going to open your door for you.’ He held his hands, palms outwards in a placating gesture.
‘Thanks,’ I said, limping through the door as he held it open. ‘I’ll call you,’ I added.
James let me go, although he looked deflated. The fight had gone out of him too.
Once I’d locked myself in, I cranked the heating to high, flopped onto the sofa and pulled the throw over me. My foot ached where it had been poked and prodded and I wanted to sit and feel sorry for myself. I knew I’d have to ring Dad, get to him before he spoke to Frank. I didn’t want Frank to have to lie on my behalf, but I was dreading the call. Whenever anything happened with the business, Dad flew into panic mode. He couldn’t let it go, couldn’t let me run things by myself.
Just as I closed my eyes for a few minutes, the tiredness sweeping in, there was a loud knock on the door below. I wished I had one of those high-tech security entrance buzzers as I hobbled down the stairs. Before I could open it, a knock came again, raising my hackles. I was slow, but I was in pain. I unlocked and heaved open the door, hopping on one foot.
‘Ms White?’ A stubby man wearing a beige mac with round glasses on the end of his nose held up a warrant card for me to examine. His fingers tremored as they closed the black wallet before I’d had a chance to see more than just his photo.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Constable Wren and this is Constable Morris. I believe you have already met. May we come in?’ I manoeuvred around the tight hallway, pulling open the door wide and seeing Constable Morris, who came out to the alarm last night, appear behind him. I directed them both inside, up the stairs, hobbling after them.
‘May I help you?’ Detective Wren turned, halfway up, holding out a hand.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you though. Please take a seat in the kitchen.’
‘Shall I stick the kettle on?’ Constable Morris asked once we were all in the kitchen and I nodded, feeling a flush rise up my chest as Detective Wren looked around the room and surveyed me as he sat down.
‘Constable Morris has given me an overview of the events leading up to the criminal damage, but can you tell me in your own words what has been going on?’ He withdrew a notebook from his pocket, flipped it open and sat, pen poised.
As I spoke, reiterating what I’d told the constable the night before, he remained quiet, listening intently, his body language passive. I repeated the story chronologically, beginning with the night when we were kids, to receiving the first note, the flowers and calls. Before moving onto Gareth’s death in St. Albans and Becca’s car fire in Hove. Everything up until the brick thrown through my window last night. I told Detective Wren how we were all connected, pulling the photo down from the fridge to show him the cross over Gareth’s face.
He rubbed his chin more than once, his face a constant frown, occasionally taking a mouthful of tea that had been delivered by Constable Morris. I wrapped my fingers around mine, to absorb the warmth.
‘You believe this is a vendetta, against all of you for something that happened twenty years ago?’ he confirmed.
I didn’t think he looked overly convinced and I had to admit it sounded far-fetched. ‘I know how it sounds, but someone is doing this to us. I’m sure it’s connected.’
‘I agree. I don’t believe in coincidences. So, Hayley Keeble is the lady’s name?’ Eyes wide, I nodded, and Detective Wren underlined Hayley’s name on his pad. He rubbed his chin again, scraping the stubble with his fingers. He didn’t seem particularly dynamic, but I felt my shoulders ease down, just hearing him say he believed they were connected too. I wasn’t going mad. ‘Whoever it is, it’s certainly escalating from harassment. I would advise you and your friends to be cautious, Ms White, is there somewhere else you can stay for the time being?’
‘Yes, there is, but the estate agency is my business, it makes sense for me to be here.’
‘Understood. You must take precautions; lock up as soon as you get in, leave lights on and be extra vigilant.’ I nodded although I was pretty much doing all of those things already. Detective Wren stood to leave.
‘I believe you’ve given everything you’ve received to Constable Morris already?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ I replied. He fumbled in the pocket of his coat and drew out his wallet, holding a white card out to me. ‘My contact number is on there if you need anything.’
I took the card, nodding.
‘Let me look into this, I’ll contact Hertfordshire police and do a bit of digging on Ms Keeble.’ I eased myself up from the chair, my tea untouched. ‘No, stay there, we’ll see ourselves out.’ Detective Wren frowned at my bandaged foot.
‘I have to double-lock the door anyway.’ I smiled tightly, feeling a wave of tiredness wash over me. The relief of getting everything off my chest and onto someone else’s plate. I believed Detective Wren would be thorough in his investigation
and he stood a far better chance of finding Hayley than any of us.
Once they were gone, I locked myself in, drawing the deadbolt across and feeling instantly safer. I padded through to the lounge, ignoring my rumbling stomach to lay down for a nap on the sofa, knowing I was putting off the inevitable. I pulled the throw over me and snuggled down. Calling Dad could wait until later.
When I woke, it was dark and I banged my foot on the coffee table sitting up, disorientated and confused as to why I wasn’t in my bed. Howling into the air like a beast of the night, I clutched my foot and attempted to switch on the lamp beside the sofa. The tall stem wobbled precariously. I was clumsy at the best of times and a bandaged foot seemed to exacerbate things. My phone lay on the coffee table, almost out of charge. I pressed the screen, gasping as I’d slept until half eleven. I’d be awake all night.
There was nothing for it, I needed food. I limped to the kitchen, forgoing the crutches as I was quicker without them, and created a feast. I cooked an omelette with Micro Chips on the side, followed by a half-full tub of ice cream hidden at the back of the freezer. I munched away, enjoying a David Attenborough documentary on insects. Intrigued by how cut-throat they were, females executing the males, seconds after they’d mated. I wasn’t overly interested in nature, but his voice soothed even the worst of days. When I’d finished and let my food go down, I fashioned a waterproof dressing with tape, cling film and a carrier bag. Managing to have a bath with my bad foot hanging over the side. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was nice to be clean and in fresh pyjamas.
I checked my emails and messages. Called the mysterious texter a few times, hoping if anything, I’d piss them off by calling in the middle of the night. The phone rang but wasn’t answered and there was no voicemail to leave a message. I googled Hayley Keeble as I did most days, to see if anything new came up. I knew it wouldn’t, but it had become a force of habit. It was the same today: Hayley couldn’t be found on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or LinkedIn. If she was alive, which deep down I doubted, what kind of life might she be living now? At school she’d been great at science and wanted to go into forensics. Maybe she was managing a lab in New Zealand? Maybe she’d married and had a new name? I hoped that wherever she was, she was alive, happy and not mixed up in any of this.
I moved onto Facebook, but nothing new had been posted from Becca or Robyn, not for a while anyway. I’m sure they had more important things to think about. Other random acquaintances had posted pictures of their cats and gym sessions, but I wasn’t interested in those. I had a look at Gareth’s page, the mournful messages remained, with some added I hadn’t seen. I clicked through his photos. There were a few from our schooldays and it made my stomach lurch to see him as I remembered him. The boy with the floppy brown hair and cheesy grin.
As I scrolled through, I saw a video for the ice bucket challenge that was popular a few years ago. Frozen in time at the perfect spot; Gareth with an avalanche of water about to hit. It was a charity craze; you had to pledge a tenner and douse yourself with a bucket of ice-cold water, then nominate your friends. Gareth’s video looked like it had been filmed in a caravan park. There was lots of giggling in the background and the image shook for a second before focusing on Gareth:
‘I’m doing the water bucket challenge for ALS and I’ve pledged ten pounds. I nominate Barry, Mick, Louis and Jade.’ Without hesitation, he lifted the bucket over his head, dousing himself in the freezing water. Lots of swearing and laughter followed.
My heart leapt into my throat. I struggled to swallow, as though I was the one under a torrent of glacial liquid, chilled to the bone. Gaping at the screen, shuddering, I replayed the video twice. Positive the voice I’d heard down the phone, from those anonymous calls, was Gareth’s.
33
October 2018
I dropped the phone onto the sofa, Gareth’s words, his deep gravelly voice on loop inside my head. I was right. It was a recording being played down the phone. I remembered the clicking of the tape recorder going on and a cough in the background. I didn’t recognise the voice, but why would I? I didn’t know Gareth as an adult. We’d never spoken and as far as I knew he was dead. It wouldn’t cross my mind the voice was his.
What had he said again? I closed my eyes, replaying it in my head, trying to remember. For the second time, I wished I’d recorded the phone call, but it seemed so insignificant. He was talking about someone; Gareth had said he was “crazy about her back then”. I didn’t realise at the time but it seemed he was talking about him and me. I didn’t know who ‘he’ was.
Stupid I hadn’t made the connection sooner. I knew he was disappointed not to be paired with me that night. I wasn’t sure I’d made the right decision at the time. We were such good friends, it made sense for our first time to be with each other. But what was I supposed to do? Hayley was mad for him. If I was honest, I didn’t want him, not like that. I only started having feelings for Elliot afterwards.
We dated for around a year. I guess you could say he was my first love. He went on to college in Horsham to do a Social Studies course and left me behind. We didn’t break up as such, we were both busy and just kind of parted company. It was all very amicable and when I did bump into him a couple of years later on a night out in Crawley, he bought me a drink and we had a giggle over old times.
Back then, I was more interested in trying to play cupid for my friend. My plan was, if I made it happen, Gareth would see how great Hayley was, and they’d start going out. It was stupid and childish, but I didn’t see it at the time. Love needs to work both ways. I’d made a mess of things, thinking I was so clever. Something must have happened between them that night, even though they didn’t admit it. All this time, had I been missing the obvious? Had they had unprotected sex and Hayley got pregnant? As a result, her parents had made her move almost a hundred miles away and pushed her into having an abortion.
Did she even want to get rid of her baby? She was a child herself, but how would I have reacted if it was me? I imagined Hayley telling her mother, being terrified to admit the truth to her military father. It was strange though, she seemed fine at the Halloween party. Perhaps it was the relief it was out in the open, at least with her parents, and she was moving away? Or maybe she was resigned to her fate? It was such a long time ago I struggled to remember. The secret must have eaten her up. It was such a stigma to get pregnant as a teenager. Had her dad punished her or made her feel dirty? It made me wince and I hobbled up, attempting to pace the room so I could think clearly, but I only lasted a few steps before collapsing back onto the sofa. It was such a mess and guilt weighed on me, like an elephant sitting on my chest, for being a part of it. For being the organiser, the instigator.
I’d ruined her life without even realising it and been blissfully unaware for the past twenty years. What could I do to make amends? How could I say I was sorry when I had no idea where she was? Hot tears splashed onto my fleece pyjamas and I curled my knees to my chest. Were we all going to end up like Gareth? My gut told me his death wasn’t an accident; I didn’t care how much alcohol was in his system.
Who had recorded him? Surely not James? Yet he was the only one still friendly with Gareth. He said himself they met up regularly. James must have got him talking about the schooldays, about that night? Was he picking us off one by one in revenge for Hayley? If so, why? They barely knew each other. Both were shy and quiet; I don’t believe I ever saw them exchange more than a few sentences outside of school. But I felt James held the key to this puzzle. Going to see Mrs Keeble, still being friends with Gareth before his death. What and who was he protecting? The longer he withheld information, the more dangerous it was becoming for all of us involved. I had to challenge him.
I had even more questions than before and still no answers. I was going around in circles. I took some of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed and went upstairs to bed, hoping they would knock me out. I had never been more alone and vulnerable in the place that had always been my home. Even
with a new front door, CCTV outside and extra deadbolts, I didn’t feel safe.
I got a taxi to my parents’ house mid-morning on Sunday, having been too cowardly to ring my dad beforehand. After the initial shock when I came through the front door, I was ushered in and stationed in the kitchen with my foot elevated while Mum fussed around me.
‘Goodness, love, what have you done?’
‘It’s not as bad as it looks, Mum.’
Dad fetched me a cushion and made tea while Mum carried on cooking. She had numerous pans on the stove bubbling away that she was juggling. She was an amazing cook and baker; the kitchen really was the heart of the home when we all lived at the flat. Mum would bake bread sometimes or scones, banana loaf, all sorts. The smell of roast chicken made me salivate as I filled my parents in on what had happened.
I tried my best to play it down, I didn’t want to worry them unnecessarily. I didn’t tell them I was targeted, or that a note had been tied to the brick that came through the window. Instead, I said the police believed it was most likely drunks coming back from The Boar on Friday night. Dad seemed appeased once I’d told him everything was going to be replaced on Monday or Tuesday, all covered by insurance, and Frank had rushed from home to help.
‘Frank was amazing, my knight in shining armour.’ I grinned, taking a sip of my scorching tea. He’d called my mobile whilst I was in the taxi on the way over. Checking I was okay and making sure I’d gone to the walk-in centre to have my foot seen to.
‘I wish you’d rung me Sophie,’ Dad grumbled.
‘I didn’t want to worry you, Dad.’
Everything seemed better once we’d eaten. Dad had made his famous trifle, which he’d been making since I was a child. It was real comfort food and at times I wished I still lived with them so I could be looked after. It wouldn’t be long before the roles were reversed, and it would be me looking after them.
