by J. A. Baker
22
Audrey
The waiting is driving her half insane. Every minute that passes, every hour, every day, every week is torturous. She can’t bear it, hanging about like this. And she deplores being ignored. Deep down, some small part of her hoped that Peggy would relent and get in touch. She’ll send another email soon, pester the life out of her until her daughter feels she has no other option than to reply. She should have known Peggy would ignore this, really. Even taking into account the huge rift between them, this is what Peggy does, how she handles trauma. She disappears inside her own head, goes undercover until it’s all over, retreats inside her own thoughts and pretends nothing is wrong. Never changed since being a small child. So, until Peggy does get in touch, or Audrey herself approaches Peggy, then she is just killing time, thinking about that poor Sheryl creature and working out what he has done with her. Because she is obviously dead. If not dead, then where is she? People don’t just disappear. They need money, food, shelter, all the things we take for granted each and every day. You can’t just take off and not need money to survive. Sometimes Audrey can’t bear to think about it - the fact that it could be her daughter whose face is currently splashed all over the internet, a headshot of an ordinary looking lady whose entire life was a lie. A woman who lived with a man, not knowing what malevolent deeds he is capable of, not knowing the secrets stashed away in his past.
Just lately, Audrey’s mornings have consisted of staring at a computer screen, waiting for her inbox to spring into life but, as with all the other times, the replies haven’t been forthcoming. She’s had to fill her time in other ways. She’s read every book she can get her hands on, even tried writing one herself but gave up after a few attempts at an opening paragraph. She doesn’t know how Peggy does it. Far too insular a pastime for her, being stuck inside her own head, rummaging around for ideas, being brave enough to get them down on paper and show them off to the world. She has tried decorating this place. Audrey looks around at the new shade of pale grey on the walls. Better than the burnt orange that she has lived with for the past four years. She doesn’t know why she left it so long. Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t feel like home and she hates living here? This two-bedroom bungalow is a far cry from their detached four-bedroom house on Chestnut Avenue. God, how she loved that place; each and every inch of it. She knew all its nooks and crannies, the strange noises she would encounter at night when the house seemed to come to life; it was as familiar to her as her own skin. After Peter died, the old place seemed to expand, to grow into an unmanageable mess with a garden she couldn’t keep on top of, rooms she didn’t have the money to heat or decorate. A complete money pit it was, and all the while her finances were shrinking and dwindling away. It had seemed like a good move at the time, re-mortgaging to get the garden landscaped and the roof replaced. Neither of them had banked on Peter’s heart giving out like it did, leaving Audrey with hefty repayments. Peter’s life insurance paid for the funeral and left her with enough to get by, but it didn’t last long. She had already reduced her hours at the hospital before Peter’s death and was given a point-blank refusal when she put an application in to go back on a full-time basis. She could have tried for a different position but was too long in the tooth to go through all that carry-on - updating her C.V., getting a profile on LinkedIn. All that nonsense. It was beyond her. So she sold the house and got something smaller. Not necessarily better, but definitely smaller. The house in Chestnut Avenue is where her memories belong - the house where she and Peter had moved to after they first got married, the childhood home of her girls, the place Peggy stormed out of after a huge argument, never to return. Tears burn at Audrey’s eyes. Is it any wonder she feels the need to drink? That day. The day when a slow, festering anger that been building inside of Audrey burst out into the open - fierce and unstoppable. She went too far - of course she did. But what parent hasn’t blown their top at one time or another? And her fury, resentment and fear were totally justified. You would have had to be blind to not see how completely wrong Peggy and Alec’s relationship was. He was an adult for pity’s sake and she was just a child. A child for crying out loud! Finding the pills was what triggered it. She hadn’t reacted straightaway after seeing them there, shoved in a drawer, hidden away amongst a bundle of underwear. For weeks, she had kept it to herself, had lost sleep, was unable to eat properly or think straight. In the end, it consumed her - the thought of them together, having sex, his hands roaming over her daughter’s young body … it sickened her. He was a grown man and should have known better. Oh, he was good at putting on a show, telling them his aspirations for finishing his degree, maybe even doing an MA. What tosh. Audrey saw through it all, knew him for the warped individual he really was. She could see beyond his charms, remembered his violent ways, knew exactly what he was capable of. She remembered all too well that feral boy with the wayward look in his eyes; the same look his father had. There were no second chances with Audrey when it came to such behaviour. Trouble would follow him wherever he went. It was mapped out in his genes. He was a Wilson and no amount of schooling or perfecting his appearance and manner would ever change that. In the beginning she had been polite, had done her best to make him welcome in their home, but all the time, in the back of her mind, the memories had lurked. Too vivid and graphic to forget. Leopards don’t change their spots. She knew he wouldn’t change his. Not with a father like Barry Wilson. The genes will out, as the saying goes.
Peggy had come home that day, so full of it, talking about how happy she was now she had Alec in her life, how amazing he was and how much she adored him, and after the gruelling shift at the hospital, where Audrey had cleaned up faeces, been spat at and told in no uncertain terms by a drunkard to fuck off and die, she had flipped. All the worries, the pent-up frustrations, the anger she had kept holed up for so long, had come spewing out. She had said things that she always swore she wouldn’t say, and had accused Alec of being a paedophile, her words ringing around the room, bouncing off every wall. Peter was still at work, Beatrice staying out at a friend’s house. Just Peggy and Audrey, alone with their anger and accusations rattling off every pane of glass, shaking the very foundations of the house until the entire building felt as if it would come tumbling down around them. But the words and arguments were nothing compared to what happened next.
Audrey rests her head in her hands, suddenly aware of its weight. Heavy. Everything in her body suddenly feels as if it is being dragged down to the ground, the force of gravity too great to keep her upright.
Other authors have pictures of themselves online and in their books, a face behind the words, someone for the readers to make a connection with. But not Peggy, not her daughter. And all because of Audrey.
She can barely bring herself to think about it, that particular event. On the occasions when it does present itself in her mind - because that does happen - it jumps in there, catching her unawares, sending her off-kilter, scaring her with its clarity and intensity, she feels sick to her stomach. All these years on and she still hasn’t managed to make it all better. That’s when the drink beckons. It’s so easy. Too easy. Stuck at home all day, nothing else to do, nowhere to go to, a stream of accusatory, brutal thoughts skittering around in her head. She does her level best to keep them at bay, block them out; wash them away but they are nothing if not persistent; dogged in their pursuit of her sanity.
Audrey had dragged Peggy upstairs and rooted through her drawer, brandishing the contraceptive pills in Peggy’s face, hollering at her about sleeping with an older man and Peggy had retaliated by telling her to mind her own fucking business. Audrey hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was an accident. A horrible, dreadful mishap. A catastrophe. It’s a flashback that will never leave her, haunting her, stabbing at her brain on a daily basis. And try as she might to blot it out, it refuses to go away, staying with her, a stubborn stain of culpability reminding her why her youngest daughter hates her. That day … Audrey swallows hard and suddenly wishes
she had a drink to hand. She looks around, too weary to get up and pour herself one. Her head hurts as she thinks back to that godawful day all those years ago - the day that saw her youngest daughter hurtle out of the house screaming and crying in agony, her face pouring with blood, never to return. And it was all Audrey’s fault.
23
Before
I am exhausted. So horribly tired. Been shuffling myself forward for what feels like ages but have probably only moved a few feet. Not enough room for leverage. My back hurts and my head is in agony. I think I’m bleeding, can’t tell, though. Too dark to see anything. The pain is inside and out, bouncing around my skull, sliding over my skin. So much of it. A dull ache travels up my limbs; cramps in my stomach. I stop myself from being sick. It hurts too much to throw up so I swallow it down. It burns, makes my eyes water, makes my nose run. Snot and spit everywhere. So difficult. I can’t even remember which way I’ve moved any more. Up, down, it all feels the same. I think I’ve slept at some point. Can’t be sure. I’m not even certain how long I’ve been here. I keep clinging on to the hope that someone will come and get me, open a door somewhere and drag me out. It’s hard staying positive when there’s this much pain and fear. My throat is sore and I’m thirsty. I tried screaming till I was sick. Hollering, howling, crying for help. It’s no use. Nobody came. Not even sure where I am or if anyone even heard. The sound was muffled as if it was just bouncing back at me. I stopped. Need to conserve my energy. Desperate for a drink as well. And the ache in my head is becoming unbearable. Can’t decide which part of me hurts the most - my back, head, neck. They’re all agony. Sore and cold. Then burning hot, then freezing again. I am tired, my eyes too heavy to stay open. And the darkness, it is absolute. So awful being closed in like this, surrounded by the pitch black. Never known anything like it. And still so few memories. I’ve tried but can’t seem to recall anything. No idea why. Sometimes fragments of thoughts, not even thoughts really, more like images - visions I can’t put into words - dart in and out of my brain. They’re gone before I can piece them together. All random, floating around, teasing me, stopping me from remembering anything. Can’t seem to make the connection. So very thirsty. I have to think of other things, take my mind off it. My sister. I think of Rachel, her lovely face. Where is she? And my dad. His features are blurred, not like Rachel’s. I don’t think I can remember what he looks like any more. Or the sound of his voice. Or what his last words were to me when I saw him. I’m tired now; really, really tired but I’m too afraid to go to sleep. What if I don’t wake up? What if I close my eyes and they stay shut? I tap my fingers against the floor. It’s cold. Fingers are numb. I keep tapping till the numbness creeps up my hands. I feel a knot somewhere deep down below my waist, a strange tugging. It tears at my insides for a short while then it’s gone. I wait while the feeling seeps out of me and then I realise what it is. Tears flow. I can’t stop them no matter how hard I try. The tugging has gone and now a warm feeling covers the top of my legs and spreads up my back. Wet and hot, pooling and gathering underneath me. How did that happen? Why couldn’t I stop it?
....................................................................................................................................................
I think I’ve slept. Hard to tell. Terrible dreams. Fighting, pushing, biting. Nightmares about being unable to breathe. Nightmares about dying.
I shout out again, my throat thick and sore, the thirst raging and all consuming. Need a drink, desperate for it.
‘HELP!’
I cough and splutter. No use. Nobody here to help me. How long have I been here? Hours? No, more than hours. Days? Not sure. Not sure of anything anymore.
A terrible pain circles my stomach, griping and clawing at my insides. I try to bring my knees up but can’t. Not enough room. The pain increases. So much of it. Then a sudden burst of heat and a terrible stench leaking up from beneath me. Oh God, please no. Please help me!
I sob hysterically, unable to stop. The smell fills my nostrils and the pain in my head becomes unbearable as more fluids leak out of my body. And that’s when I know for sure. I know that I’m doomed. Forgotten about; left here to die. Still no memories but I no longer care. I just want to sleep. So tired and so much pain. Maybe it will be easier to just let myself go, be swallowed up by the darkness. Easier than fighting it. Just go with it, let death have me. I close my eyes, no longer caring whether or not I ever wake up …
24
Peggy
Sleep evades her. Yet again. Her brain is racing, a swirl of activity that makes her want to scratch at her eyeballs and rip her hair out. She listens to Alec snoring softly and wonders how he does it. How is he not up pacing the floor, his nerves in tatters? His father is currently hooked up to a drip in hospital after taking a beating from an unknown assailant. The police have made it pretty obvious they think Alec is the main suspect and here he is sleeping like a baby. Peggy feels her face begin to prickle, a creeping, crawling sensation like an army of ants roaming around under her skin. Is he capable of such an act? Who knows what any of us are capable of when we are under pressure. Swinging her legs out of bed, Peggy pulls on her dressing gown and slippers and heads downstairs. Alec doesn’t stir. Such a deep sleeper. She doesn’t know how he does it; ‘the sleep of the just’ as her dad used to say. She pads into the kitchen and fills the kettle before settling down in front of her computer. It fizzles into life and Peggy stares at the screen – 4 a.m. The majority of the nation is slumbering peacefully in their beds. But not Peggy. No rest for the wicked. She listens to the hum of boiling water as she browses the internet, a flash of adverts attacking her brain with their bright, glaring colours and swiftly moving images. She stops for a few seconds then clicks the mouse. It’s too easy to do, checking on Facebook, finding the information about Sheryl’s disappearance. Reading word after word, each one bleeding and seeping into her bones like poison. She is horrified to see all the comments listed below Sheryl’s picture. For some reason, she hadn’t quite expected so much interest in the disappearance of a woman none of these people even know. Peggy browses for a while, scrolling down, reading them all - some helpful, some scathing at her taking off like this and putting her family through hell, and other comments truly macabre. Some people have no filter. A world full of trolls. Peggy bites the inside of her mouth. No wonder she would rather stay inside, surrounded by her own four walls day in and day out. So many dreadful people out there, pumped full of vitriol, just waiting to spew it all out. Always armed and ready with accusations and constantly loaded with hatred. She reads the details of Sheryl’s last known movements. According to Rachel, she left their father’s house at 9 p.m. on Thursday, 22nd September after spending an evening socialising with family. She got a taxi home to Skelton and messaged Rachel to say she had arrived safely. Nobody saw or heard from her again until she sent her sister a text saying she was going away for a while to ‘clear her head.’ Some of Sheryl’s clients received texts cancelling their appointments for the following few days but others were surprised when she simply didn’t turn up. There were no more messages until last week when Rachel got another one out of the blue from Sheryl stating that she was absolutely fine and not to worry about her and that she just needed a bit more time to ‘sort things out.’ Peggy thinks of Alec and wonders whether he even knows of this disappearance and whether or not he received the same text from Polly that she did. He isn’t on Facebook so possibly knows nothing of any of this. He’s not made any mention of it but then, the news of his father’s reappearance has pretty much obliterated everything else. Things seem to be happening so rapidly lately, Peggy is finding it hard to take it all in. It’s as if time has suddenly decided to speed up and bring a whole heap of anguish and misery raining down on them all at once. She chews at a ragged piece of nail and considers her options. What good will it do talking to him about this? It won’t help to find Sheryl, and Peggy is almost certain Alec hasn’t seen her for at least a few weeks anyway. Sh
e spits out a tiny bit of fingernail and watches as it lands on the floor, small pieces of her being stripped away bit by bit.
She scans through more of the comments before clicking off the page. Too much. It’s all too gruesome to take in. Her fingers hover over the keyboard before she decides to open her latest novel and start the next chapter. The words begin to blur on the screen. She continues to stare at them, reading the same line over and over again before closing the lid with a clatter and pushing her chair back in disgust. It’s too early to think straight, her brain is muddled and she is too exhausted to write. What she really needs to do is forget about making tea, head back upstairs and try to get some sleep before the sun makes its appearance on the east shoreline, beckoning them all to rise, ready for the day ahead. A noise suddenly startles her, causing a quick twist in her stomach. She is on edge all the time lately, constantly battling a feeling that everything is about to come crashing down around her. It’s coming from outside, the noise. Peggy stands up and stares out of the window that overlooks the sea. The night is a blanket of black velvet, no chinks of light, nothing powerful enough to penetrate the inky mantle of darkness. The roar of the tide is there, the familiar rushing hum that Peggy has grown accustomed to, a backdrop to her days. The noise comes again, alien to her ears, quite different to the snarl of the sea. Outside. It is definitely coming from somewhere outside the house. She pictures Chamber Cottage and its location. High up, exposed to the elements. Windy, dark. It’s cold out there for sure but not sub-zero and nothing she isn’t used to. It is however, the early hours and the wind is too strong to go out unprepared. Peggy pulls on a coat and slips into her boots. She grabs the torch hanging on the wall next to the door and trudges out there, suddenly wishing she had stayed in bed.
