by J. A. Baker
I’m writing this because I took the liberty of visiting your parents and was deeply saddened to hear that you have been writing to them on a regular basis. I apologise if you think this bold of me but your lack of response left me with no other option. For so long now, I have told myself that you were too busy to write to me or that the postal service up there is erratic and unreliable. But of course, I now know that that isn’t the case.
You have made an active choice to ignore me.
Not only that but your parents also informed me that rather than feeling compelled to go there to care for your gran, you opted to do it, telling them you needed some time away from everything. I know now, that by ‘everything’, what you actually mean is me. You needed time away from me.
I tried to remain upbeat as I spoke with them. What else could I do? I put on a brave face, told them I wished you well, pretended I wasn’t hurt by your actions. But I was. I am. Very hurt.
I am sitting here, trying to picture your face as you read my words, your downcast expression, the stoop of your spine as you now appreciate that I know. I am crushed, dear Clara. Crushed not just by your need to leave me in such a manner but by the fact you couldn’t tell me face to face. I thought we had everything that any couple could ever want but I now discover that it was a one-sided affair. The feelings I have for you are unrequited and the devastation I now feel as a result of that is vast, a fathomless sea of hot emotions that swirl in the pit of my stomach day and night. There is no end to it, no reprieve. The misery I feel is crushing, a bottomless pit of despair.
Please come back, dear Clara. Please do something; write or call me. Anything at all. I will take whatever crumb of comfort you are willing to throw my way, such is my desperation, and I promise I hold no ill feelings toward you. I could never do that. You are still my whole world even though I now know that I am no longer a part of yours. I would love to hear from you, if only for you to explain why you felt a need to leave me like this. I feel as if my life has been ripped apart, my feelings ground underfoot.
What I wouldn’t give to see you one last time. I know now that it’s over between us. I accept that, I really do. I just wish you had told me yourself and saved me the indignity of hearing it from your parents in such an unexpected and, dare I say it, humiliating way.
I’m going to sign off now, knowing you are glad to not have to hear from me anymore. I’ll never stop loving you, dear Clara. You are my moon, my sun, my stars. My reason for living. Your beautiful face will forever be embedded in my brain, etched into my heart, carved deep, deep into my soul.
Stay safe, dear girl, and know that you are loved always.
Dominic xxx
16
Present Day
‘It feels darker than last time, more trees, less light,’ Alex says as they pick their way through the long grass; branches and twigs cracking underfoot, the whistling of the wind sending an eerie tingle down his spine. ‘I mean it’s fine,’ he says, correcting himself, standing up that little bit taller, pushing back his shoulders and taking a deep breath. ‘I’m good. It’s just I’m thinking that if we need to make a run for it or anything like that, then we’re done for, y’know?’
Dane shoots him a knowing grin, his eyes, black as the night sky, twinkling with undisguised mischief. ‘Yeah, like old Rosey is ever gonna catch us. As if he is gonna even give chase. Have a word with yourself, Winston-D’Allandrio. He’s in his sixties. I bet he can’t remember the last time he even broke into a fast walk, never mind a fucking run, especially one that has him galloping after a couple of teenagers!’
Alex lets out a hollow laugh, still unsure about this. Still unsure just how far Dane will actually go. All of a sudden, throwing stones at windows seems like a harmless pastime. Something in his gut tells him that Dane has something bigger planned. Something more destructive. A knife twists in Alex’s stomach. He balls his fists together, his knuckles cracking, his nails digging into his palm. He tells himself to stop being so soft. This is the guy who tried to press himself up against his sister, the same guy who has threatened his mate with a U in his exams just because he skipped a couple of lessons. Whatever they do to him won’t be half as bad as what he has tried to do to some of his pupils.
‘My dad reckons Rosey has got it in for me just ’cos he remembers him from when he taught him, way back when.’
Alex thinks about that statement, wondering why anybody would hold a grudge for so long. It doesn’t make sense to him but then, many things that adults do leave him scratching his head. For all he gets top marks in his schoolwork, life in general still baffles him.
‘How come,’ Alex says, feeling as if all barriers that once stood between them are now lowered, ‘that you go to the local school and not a private one? Your parents are loaded. Didn’t your mum want you to go to a school that…’ Alex stops, stares down at the ground while choosing his next words with care and precision, ‘…that offered you a wider choice of lessons? At my old school we had trips to America and Canada and loads of other places that our current school would probably never visit.’
Alex lets out a long breath as Dane shrugs and drags a stick through the long grass, seemingly unperturbed by his question. ‘Dunno. Maybe she tried to get me in one and my dad said no. He’s not one for schools or anything to do with education. Says it’s a waste. He thinks you learn more once you leave and get a proper job. Anyway,’ Dane says with a crooked smile, ‘I don’t think I’d fit in at a private school, do you?’
Alex laughs and shakes his head. ‘I think you would but it doesn’t matter, does it? Because we’re in this one now and we’ve only got one more year and then that’s it for us.’
‘For me maybe, but not for you it isn’t.’ Dane kicks at a stone and shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘You’ll go on to college and then university and you’ll get a degree in Advanced Mathematics or Physics or some other shit that I could never do. I’ll leave and work for my dad on a building site, but that’s fine.’ He picks up a stone and skims it across the floor. It lands in a clump of grass with a thud. ‘It made him a packet, building houses, so you never know, I might end up a millionaire.’
They laugh together and Alex feels soothed by the easiness between them. He moves closer and nudges Dane. ‘Tell you what. Let’s knock on his door and tell the old fart what we really think of him, eh?’
Dane’s laughter is loud, raucous even. ‘Nah. He’ll probably call the police. We can have more fun by taunting the old bastard. Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s put the creeps up him. You go around the back and I’ll do the front of the house.’
‘Wait! What? What are we going to do?’ Alex says, panic slithering into his voice. He would rather stay with Dane, have safety in numbers, not do this alone. Whatever this is.
‘Anything you like,’ Dane shouts as he disappears amongst the towering foliage, his voice swallowed up by the dense gathering of trees.
Anything you like.
Alex swallows, rubs at his face with his sleeve and takes a deep breath. What does that even mean? Anything you like. Enough to scare the old guy but not enough to warrant him calling the police. Sometimes, trying to work out the tangle of Dane’s thoughts is like foraging through a deep jungle, trying to pick out the salient points and discarding the rest.
Crunching his way through the waist-height, gnarled shrubbery, Alex winds his way around the back of the house, wondering why anybody would even consider living here. This place looks ready for demolition, the surrounding woods eerie and dense, the darkness making him shiver. The hoot of an owl in the distance accentuates his isolation. It echoes through the treetops, a shriek into the night, swallowed by the gloom.
He tries to imagine what Mr Rose’s house looks like inside. He visualises dirty tiled floors, sticks of broken furniture and an old black-leaded fireplace covered with grime and soot. Alex shivers, his eyes lowered to the ground as he concentrates on his footing, trying to not fall down one of the many rabbit holes that are littered across th
e uneven ground.
A moss-covered fence lies in pieces around the perimeter of the house, its wooden slats rotten. Alex bends down and brushes his fingers over the rough surface of the wood. He picks up a piece and heads around the back of the house, thinking that he must be mad, wondering how he let himself end up in such a juvenile situation. All of a sudden, he feels silly. Childlike. This whole thing is horribly predictable. Here he is playing the stereotypical angst-ridden teenager role, and yet… and yet for once it feels good to be rebellious and not always be the lad who worries on behalf of other people. Not be the sensible one who curbs his own feelings to spare the feelings of those around him. It is mind-numbingly boring being good all the time, being moral and upright and virtuous. Having a conscience is tiresome. It’s time to have some fun.
Moving nearer to the house, he shakes off any residual negative feelings, feelings that he shouldn’t be doing this, that it is silly and pointless and infantile. Instead he is consumed by a sudden surge of excitement, remembering that this is the man who got too close to his sister, much closer than he should have. Maybe this is what the old guy needs. Perhaps shaking him up and scaring him a little might get the message across. They could let him know that they are onto him. Joss is no angel but she is also still a child and Mr Rose is a grown man and he should know better. He is in a position of authority and needs to be held to account.
Without missing a beat or giving himself any time to change his mind, Alex takes the stick and drags it along the wall of the house, across the crumbling brickwork, over the windows, stopping only when he reaches a small door at the bottom of a set of stone steps. Intrigue pulls him in, forcing him to look closer. The small pale green wooden door is partly obscured by ivy. He tries the handle and gives it a yank. It doesn’t budge. He expected as much. He tries again, giving it one more firm tug then turns and heads towards the back of the house. A door to a cellar. He spots it straight away. It would be interesting to get in there and have a poke around, see what he can find. Maybe another time. If there is another time.
He holds up the stick and once more drags it over the external walls of the house until he comes to a window whereupon he taps it against the glass, quickly ducking back out of view and panting hard. He wonders what Dane is up to around the front. It’s quiet round there. No cracking of twigs, no rustling of leaves. No noise at all. Alex shivers, pulls his hoodie tighter around his body.
The wind picks up, roaring through the treetops like the howl of a wounded animal, before dying down again to a low moan. A stone sits at his feet. He bends and picks it up, turning it over and over in his palm, the smooth cold surface soothing against his hot palm. Then he stands back and throws it up on the roof. It lands with a clatter before rolling down over the tiles, stopping as it hits the guttering. It rocks back and forth, the cracking noise filling the near silence. It stops. Alex waits. Another hoot of an owl. The murmuring of the wind. The susurrus whisper of leaves.
Then next to him, a square of pale-yellow cutting into the darkness as a light is switched on inside the house. He ducks, instinctively crouching down out of view, his heart hammering against his ribcage with a heady combination of fear and excitement. Adrenaline courses through him. Saliva floods his mouth.
A voice shouts out above his head. ‘Who’s there?’
Unable to move, crippled by anxiety married with a level of exhilaration he has never before experienced, Alex covers his mouth with his hand to stem the laughter that is clawing to be free.
The light goes out. His breath escapes in small gasps as he stands, raises the stick and rattles it again, tapping against the window. The light is switched back on. A series of muffled thumps as the window is flung open. Above him, Alex can see a face looming out into the near darkness. He huddles down amongst the foliage, hidden from view.
‘I’ll call the police if you don’t clear off! Do you hear me?’
A couple more seconds pass, the window is slammed shut. Alex waits, thinking he could hammer on the back door then salt himself away in the snarl of weeds and bushes that surround the property. His thoughts are disturbed by a loud bang in the distance. It rings through the woods, filtering through the blackness. Alex’s skin prickles as he hears a roar of protest and the sound of a scuffle nearby. In his peripheral vision he sees the outline of Dane appearing from around the front of the house, a manic grin plastered across his face. In close pursuit is Mr Rose, hands flailing wildly as he tries to reach out and grab at the lad, missing and stumbling then falling onto his knees with a crash.
Alex gasps, the sound drowned out by another thunderous cry as Mr Rose stands and hollers into the darkness, his fists raised into the air. Alex wants to laugh at this man who looks like a parody of himself. ‘I know who you are, Dane Bowron! And I suppose Alexander is here with you, isn’t he?’
Alex is unsure whether to remain silent and do nothing or stand up and run after Dane. If Dominic Rose decides to do a tour of the immediate perimeter of his house looking for suspects, or more specifically, looking for him, then Alex is done for. The old guy might grab him, hang on to him, call the police.
Scenarios fill his head, none of them pleasant – his dad having to collect him from the local police station; his mum screaming that she knew this would happen, that it was only a matter of time before her son descended into the gutter with the other low life scum from the local comprehensive school. It was bound to happen just as surely as night follows day she would shriek, now that her children are hanging around with the miscreants from the local estate and that it is all his father’s fault for being a lazy bastard and not bringing in enough money to look after his family and allow them to go to a better school. The repercussions would be excruciating, an endless round of blame and accusations, their family pushed even further into the darkest of corners. And it would all be because of him.
Alex crawls backwards, feeling his way with his fingers, praying he doesn’t back into something solid that will block his escape. He slides along the ground, his belly rustling against the long grass, and stops, his blood crystallising into ice as he feels a hand on his shoulder, the heat of somebody’s skin pulsing through the fabric of his sweater. He opens his mouth to shout out and is stopped as a sweaty palm is clamped over his mouth.
‘Shh! It’s only me, you big useless fucker.’
Alex rolls onto his back and lets out a low laugh that is frighteningly close to hysteria.
‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake.’ Dane is looming over him, his eyes glistening like marbles set deep in his skull. ‘We got him, Alex lad. We got the old fart out of his house and running like a scared fucking rabbit.’
Both boys back away from the house on their bellies, euphoria rushing through Alex’s system, small pockets of it exploding in his veins. Only when they are out of the dense clump of shrubbery do they stand and run, their laughter ringing around the empty fields.
‘Anyway,’ Alex says breathlessly as they stumble out of the long grass and back onto the path, ‘what was it you were going to tell me about him? You said there was a story that made the papers from years ago.’
Dane lets out another burst of laughter and shakes his head. ‘Ah, God yeah, forgot about that. My old man told me all about it. It happened years ago, was all over the papers at the time. All I can say is that it’s got something to do with a woman – an old girlfriend of his who went missing and was never found. Rumour has it she fell in a lake while on holiday in Scotland and drowned. It’s a huge fucking mystery round these parts.’ Dane widens his eyes in mock horror and lowers his voice to a whisper, staring at Alex, and rubbing his hands together, joy evident in his tone. ‘All I’m going to say is this, did the poor bitch jump or was she pushed?’
17
She remains asleep, lying under the covers slumbering peacefully. Whatever Dominic has said or done to those youngsters to warrant being bothered like this is one thing; but for those boys to put his mother through such an ordeal is another matter. She doesn’t dese
rve to be subjected to such levels of rowdiness. Regardless of whether or not she slept through it all, this is her house as well, and her safety is paramount. He needs to care for her, protect her. All they have is each other. The two of them together in this house. The rest of the world operates inversely to him, thinking differently, acting differently. They wouldn’t understand his ways, would think him odd, stuck in a time warp. But so what? This is his life and he shall live it as he pleases.
His muscles slacken as he sits by her bedside, staring at her face, wondering again what it is he has done that is so terrible that these miscreants feel the need to taunt him; coming to his house, throwing sticks and rocks and making nuisances of themselves. This isn’t the first time it’s happened and he is under no illusions that it will be the last, but each time, it becomes more invasive, more hostile and he is becoming less able to tolerate it.
His pulse quickens at the memory, his knees throbbing where he fell. He trails his fingers over his legs, feeling for bruises and blood. Everything is intact; everything that is, apart from his dignity. News of his fall will be all around the school in no time at all. It’s difficult enough keeping the students in line as it is, keeping a lid on the behaviour of the rowdier pupils whilst trying to deliver lessons without something like this being thrown into the mix.
He scrutinises her features before closing his eyes and reaching out to touch her hand. He shivers. It’s cold and dry. Snatching his fingers away, Dominic leans forward and pulls at the bed sheets, tucking them up under her chin, stroking the wisps of hair that frame her face. She doesn’t move, continuing to sleep deeply.
Ice moves through his veins, the ambient temperature of the room doing nothing to warm him through. He reaches over, touches the radiator, recoiling at the heat pulsing out of it. Even in the sweltering heat of the summer months, this room remains cold. Darkened by trees it is constantly in the shade, a chill ever present that he finds strangely comforting.
