by J. A. Baker
10
Audrey
All the papers are laid out on the floor and Audrey is kneeling over them, hands flat on the rug as her eyes roam over them all once again. This is the thing with being retired - it gives you time to think, to get things sorted in your head. When she worked as a nurse, her life was a complete blur of fitting in housework, shopping, and cooking around her working day, as well as attending a constant stream of dentists and doctors’ appointments for the girls. The chores were endless, the time far too limited. But now her mind is clear, her thoughts organised and precise. Too precise. So much so, it’s chilling.
She runs her hand over the printed sheets and reads them once again. Not that she needs to. Every word is etched in her brain, tattooed into her every thought. What if she’s wrong? What if she’s way off beam on this one? She’s thought it often enough. It’s not as if she has willed this on them though is it? None of this is her doing. Her eyes roam over the collection of papers spread out in front of her, re-reading every single word. She isn’t though. She definitely isn’t wrong. And she doesn’t need this plethora of evidence to prove her point. Her memories alone could have told her what was going to happen. She knew it the first time she laid eyes on him. A small boy sitting at the corner of the street, shoulders hunched, his small fists curled up into tight little balls. A mean, thin line furrowed his brow and he sported a dark yellow bruise underneath one of his eyes. She initially felt sorry for him, sitting there all alone, not a single soul around for him to play with.
‘I know you!’ he had shouted after her as she unloaded the shopping bags from her car, ‘you live in my street!’
‘I do,’ she had replied, as she slammed the boot shut and locked it, turning to look at the sad little boy who had nobody.
‘Wanna see my new friend?’ his voice cracked as he giggled and shook his little hands about and stared down at his lap.
Audrey had felt her stomach tighten. She had no idea why at the time, and has spent the last thirty years wishing she had gone with her gut instinct and had the good sense to ignore him and carry her bags indoors. But she didn’t. He was a lonely little boy, ignored by his peers, neglected by his parents. She would just be another to add to the long list of people who had turned their backs on him. It would only take a few minutes to humour this sad, little creature and listen to what he had to say. What harm would it do to chat to a young boy who was in need of a friend? If only she had known. If only...
‘See, here he is. My new mate,’ he had squealed with excitement as Audrey began to stroll towards him, her heels clicking on the pavement, the noise echoing like castanets through the early morning emptiness of the street.
‘I don’t see him,’ Audrey had murmured as she reached the boy and leaned down, squinting against the glare of the low winter sun.
‘Cover your eyes,’ he had whispered, his voice rising in pitch, squeaking with barely disguised excitement. ‘Cover your eyes!’
He stared up at her, his black eye and unwashed face a stark reminder of how lucky she and her children were. Everyone in the area knew about Barry Wilson and his drinking problems. And how handy he was once he had seven or eight pints inside him. Which was most of the time. Social Services were a regular feature in the Wilson household, yet still the boy remained there, subjected to regular beatings day in, day out, week in, week out. Audrey had shrugged the thoughts off and held her hands still over her face as she waited. She had enough problems of her own without taking on somebody else’s disasters. If the police and social services and the school didn’t see any problem with letting it continue, what could she do? Be kind to the boy perhaps? Which was exactly what she was doing. He was feral, she knew that. Often embroiled in fights with other children and in trouble at school. Perhaps if she showed him a little kindness, taught him how to behave around others, some of it might stick. God knows he needed it.
‘You can look now!’ His voice was filled with anticipation as Audrey slowly removed her fingers and stared down, her skin turning icy cold at the sight before her. A throb took hold in her neck. Dizziness washed over her.
‘Where did you find this?’ Her voice was just about capable of being heard, her throat suddenly dry and thick with terror.
‘Found it in the bushes,’ he had replied nonchalantly unaware of her reaction to his grand unveiling.
She stared hard at the bloodied rock laid beside the bird and tried her best to ignore the sickly sensation that had settled in the pit of her stomach. An iron fist had clutched at her intestines and refused to let go as she watched the small, battered bird begin to twitch and convulse on the pavement.
‘Oh, I thought it was dead,’ the lad said softly as he stroked its satin feathers which were shiny and sticky with coagulated blood. And before Audrey could utter a word or stop him or do anything at all, he picked up the rock and brought it down onto the bird’s small body with a loud crack.
Audrey’s feet refused to work properly as she turned away, bile rising up her gullet, burning at her throat. The ground swayed violently as she stopped, fearing she might throw up on the pavement. She finally found herself able to move, her legs wobbling as she rushed home away from the mini-massacre, tears blinding her.
‘Where are you going?’ he had yelled after her, his voice a dim cry in the distance. ‘We need to have a funeral for him! Come back. I was only trying to help him...’
Audrey brushes her hand through her hair and is surprised to see she is trembling. All these years on and that incident still has the capacity to reduce her to near tears. That was the last she saw of him. One beating too many triggered a final visit from Social Services whereupon the lad was taken into care. Barry Wilson was arrested and imprisoned and the wife fled to the other side of the country to live with her sister. She doesn’t remember the Wilson lady ever coming back, although if she had, Audrey doubts their paths would have ever crossed. They were very different people with divergent lives. The mother was a small mousy thing. Brought up on the wrong side of town; the side Audrey was never allowed to visit as a child. The only time the poor woman ever left the house was to go to the corner shop or an occasional visit to the bingo. Audrey wouldn’t be seen dead near such places. She would sooner stick hot pins in her eyes than associate with the type of people who frequented the Globe Bingo Hall. It was full of fishwives and hysterical women. Not her kind of place at all. She had her embroidery and language classes to attend. Bingo was for commoners.
Audrey thought she had seen the last of the Wilson family. Or hoped she had. But then it happened. That summer afternoon; the one that still wakes her up nights, the day her fifteen-year-old daughter walked through the door with her new boyfriend on her arm. Even now Audrey’s stomach plummets at the memory. The sight of her youngest daughter, all doe eyed and giggly as she stared up into the eyes of the boy Audrey once knew, the twisted child. The killer of small things.
‘Mum, Dad, this is Alec,’ Peggy had gushed, her words a hurried squeal of excitement.
Audrey had felt her head pound as he held out his hand for her to shake, cool and soft with manicured nails. He clearly didn’t have a job that involved manual labour. And he hadn’t changed that much, although admittedly he was a real looker and a darn sight healthier and happier than the sad, warped little boy she remembered from all those years back. He still had a shock of dark hair and those piercing blue eyes. She could understand Peggy’s attraction to him. Of course she could. Who wouldn’t fall for such a man? And had Audrey not known the sort of things he was capable of, she may have overlooked the age difference. Peggy was only fifteen and he was almost twenty. Far too big a gap for her liking. Practically paedophilic, however one she would have been prepared to tolerate had she not known his past. But she did know and refused to ignore it. She simply couldn’t find it within her to put up with that relationship. And of course, if she had overlooked it, the argument wouldn’t have happened and perhaps, just perhaps, Audrey would now be in regular contact with her younge
st daughter. Then at least she could make sure that Peggy knows what she knows. The darkest secret of all. The secret that once unleashed, will be impossible to put back in the Pandora’s box of horrors. The secret that will rip her daughter’s life into tiny pieces …
11
Peggy
Her head thumps painfully as she sits bolt upright and looks around. A trickle of saliva runs over her cheek and her throat is like sandpaper. Disorientated, Peggy squints, looks down at her watch and frowns. Two o’clock. She has no idea how long she has slept for. It certainly wasn’t planned. Daytime naps aren’t usually her thing but an inability to switch off at night has obviously caught up with her. The noise sends a wave of pain screeching up her spine and into her jawbone. It takes a couple of seconds for her brain to register the source of the almighty racket. The door. Someone is knocking at the front door. Scrambling up, Peggy adjusts her clothing and tugs at her hair, pulling it behind her ears with thick, clumsy fingers. She catches sight of herself in the mirror as she pads across the hallway to answer it; her make-up is slightly smeared and her hair frizzy and wild looking. Her skin is lined where she has lain on the cushion and her eye is swollen and red. She looks an absolute disgrace. Even worse than usual after being unceremoniously dragged from a deep, afternoon slumber. Her heart batters around her ribcage as the knocking becomes more insistent, developing into a furious hammering. Her stomach tightens. She isn’t expecting anyone. The postman rarely knocks. They’re remote enough for him to leave packages tucked down the side of the house without fear of anything getting stolen. It would take some kind of strange opportunist thief to travel up to the top of a cliff in the hope of finding anything worth stealing. The rugged path that leads up to their house is not for the faint hearted. Chamber Cottage was built as a residence for the local coastguard and stands proud on the cliff top, just close enough to the edge to make people wary. There’s only one access path that branches off from the main road and it stops right at their front door. Apart from the farmhouse on the other side of the main road, there are no other houses and the path is uneven and full of potholes. Only delivery men ever call and even that is a rarity. Which is exactly how she likes it. Peggy feels her cheeks burn as the knocking comes again. Loud, deliberate, unrelenting. Why can’t they just go away? She isn’t in the mood for visitors and as always, looks a complete mess. She runs her fingers through her tangled hair in a bid to freshen up her appearance and comes away with a mass of stray, wiry hairs which she throws to the floor in frustration. Wouldn’t it be lovely to be the type of woman who wakes up looking mildly dishevelled but with a slightly smouldering look about her? Whereas Peggy bears the look of somebody who has been dragged through a hedge backwards. Such is her life. She should be used to it by now but every now and then she longs for a face that doesn’t look as if a herd of cattle has stampeded over it. Trudging through the hallway, Peggy places her fingers around the chilly metal of the handle and stops, a cold realisation washing over her, waking her up out of her stupor. Of course. It’s her. It has to be. She should have been expecting a call from her after last night’s carry on out there on the road. Peggy’s thudding heart falters and slows to a near normal rate as she opens the door and plasters a smile on her face. She takes in the well-groomed appearance of the woman standing there and stands aside to let her in.
‘Hello,’ Peggy says breathlessly, tugging at her clothes and flicking hair behind her ears in a bid to flatten it into submission, ‘please come in. I thought you might call round today.’
The woman frowns slightly and steps over the threshold before following her into the living room. Peggy watches her carefully. Taller than she is, her visitor has short blonde hair cut into a bob and is wearing tight jeans and a short, brown leather jacket. Peggy guesses that she’s in her late twenties or early thirties. Not what she was expecting. Not what she was expecting at all. She had envisaged somebody slightly older, stockier. Someone with an air of resilience who is tough and robust; somebody able to cope with the demands of a demented parent. This woman before her looks more like a librarian or a primary school teacher; gentle, thoughtful, passive.
Peggy offers her a seat and sits opposite, hands interlaced tightly in her lap.
They sit for a few seconds, a sharp silence lodged between them until at last Peggy speaks,
‘Sorry; you caught me unawares. I didn’t realise the time,’ she says as she shuffles about and tugs at stray wisps of hair that have flopped in front of her face, ‘anyway, I just want to say that you needn’t worry too much about it all. Alec, my husband, is calling in to a garage tonight to see if he can get it sorted. We’re hoping it won’t cost too much.’
The woman opposite frowns and stares hard at Peggy. She leans forward and wraps her hand around her knees tightly, her knuckles white, circular bones strained against papery skin.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The car,’ Peggy replies, ‘he’s taking it into the garage to get the bumper bar assessed. It shouldn’t be too much of a job. I’m pretty sure the paintwork was all still intact.’
The woman sits silently, watching Peggy talk, her eyes narrow as she assesses her words, ‘Anyway, how’s your aunt today? and that young man? Must have been a bit of a shock for them. He looked pretty upset about it all … Brenda. Sorry, that’s your name, isn’t it? Your cousin mentioned about how difficult it is for you and I just want to say if you ever need any help at all don’t hesitate to call. My gran had dementia. It was terrible to watch. Such a cruel disease.’ Peggy stops, aware she is rambling slightly.
The blonde lady shakes her head, her mouth slightly open and a puzzled expression on her face. Her hair swings softly as she moves her head from side to side. A frown has etched itself across her forehead as she starts to speak, a channel of confusion.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid,’ she says, a slight tremble in her voice, ‘I don’t know anything about a car or a young boy or dementia. And I’m not Brenda.’
A familiar stirring starts up in Peggy’s chest again, clattering its way up her throat. She suddenly feels very silly. And concerned. If this woman isn’t the lady from the farmhouse here to discuss the car, then who the hell is she?
‘Right,’ Peggy murmurs, her calm tone belying the rising inner turmoil she is starting to feel. ‘Sorry about that. I was expecting a call from a lady about a minor accident we had last night out on the road back from Lythe.’
The other woman nods in recognition, the line above her eyes deepening as she listens to the garbled explanation. Her lashes flutter slightly as she concentrates; as if the words she wants to say can’t quite find their way out.
‘No problem,’ she replies softly after a few seconds of deep thought, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling unannounced but I didn’t know what else to do. You see, I’m beginning to feel quite desperate.’ She takes a deep breath, her mouth trembling slightly.
Peggy watches as her eyes glass over and a lone tear escapes and runs down her cheek unchecked. A tight band has begun to wrap itself around Peggy’s chest as she waits for this forlorn creature in her living room to tell her why she is here.
‘It’s fine,’ Peggy whispers. That’s all she can manage right now. She holds her breath, waiting for the story to unfold, ‘I just hope I can help you as you seem quite upset.’
She doesn’t know what else to say or do or how to placate this stranger sitting here in her living room on a dark autumn afternoon. What else is there to say?
‘It’s just that I know you and your husband are quite good friends with her and I’ve spoken to the other friends and they said you might be able to help because they don’t seem to know anything …’ she stops, her breath coming out in small gasps, ‘so I was just wondering if you’ve heard from her recently?’ Another tear rolls down her face and spreads along her jaw in a shimmering wet line.
‘Heard from who? Sorry I don’t quite follow,’ Peggy leans forward and tries to make eye contact with the weep
ing woman who is now struggling to hold it together. Her eyes glisten with tears as she meets Peggy’s gaze.
‘My sister. I’m Rachel and I was hoping you might know something. Maybe she told you? She didn’t tell me anything.’
Tears now begin to cascade down her cheeks, brisk and unchecked, a river of anxiety. Her face is suddenly a damp, snotty mess. She brings her arm up and rubs at her eyes which are pink and streaked with rivulets of black mascara. Peggy stares at her sodden face then stands up, grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and hands it over. Rachel takes it and presses it hard against her eyes before sighing heavily and dragging it over her face in a rough circular motion. She sniffs deeply and lets out a long trembling sigh, her chin quivering with the effort.
‘Sorry, it’s been such a stressful time lately. I’m just asking all of her friends if they know anything and one of them gave me your address so I hope you don’t mind me calling here?’
Peggy feels as if she has been submerged underwater, everything suddenly distorted and muffled. What on earth is this woman expecting from her? She has no idea how to reply or what to do.
‘I’m really sorry, Rachel, but I’m still in the dark here. I don’t think we even know each other.’
‘We don’t,’ the young woman replies as she shuffles her backside around then stretches out and stuffs the tissue deep into the pocket of her jeans, ‘it’s my sister that you know. That’s who it is I’m looking for. It’s Sheryl who knows you and your husband.’
