Would They Miss Me

by Anne Lown

  Would They Miss Me?

  Chapel End Mysteries, Volume 0

  Anne Lown

  Published by Junobe Publishing, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  WOULD THEY MISS ME?

  First edition. September 20, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Anne Lown.

  Written by Anne Lown.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Other Books in the Chapel End Mysteries Series

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The front door slammed. Annalise stood by her bedroom window, shielded by the curtains she’d not yet opened. She used her fingers to create a gap. Outside, on the street below, her mother got into the waiting car. It belonged to her boyfriend, Frank. Annalise shuddered at the thought of him. His clammy hands and that leer he used when he knew her mother wasn’t looking. Annalise stepped away, letting the curtain fall back into place. She didn’t want to see his face if she could help it.

  Her rucksack lay on her bed. The flowery pattern surprised her few friends; she didn’t normally pick something so feminine, but it was all she could afford. They’d noticed something was wrong. Her behaviour had been different, but she couldn’t tell them why. She couldn’t tell anyone.

  She glanced around her room, deciding what to pack. Everything she owned was secondhand. In her single-parent household, there was never any money. Not for her, anyway. There’d be none for a bus ride into Bishop, the next large town outside the splattering of villages where she lived. Still, it’d be too late by the time she was ready to go. The service cut off in the early evening, Chapel End not being a priority on the bus company’s timetable.

  Annalise slid open a drawer from the large piece of furniture her grandmother had given her. She cherished it for the memory of the one person who’d tried to protect her. When her grandmother had died, so had Annalise’s security. Now she might as well be alone.

  She removed two pairs of jeans, the thick material rough against her skin. They would keep her legs covered where she was going. Annalise placed them in the bottom of her rucksack, along with a few light tops she could layer. The recent heatwave had eased somewhat in the last couple of days, but it was still way above average. She needed to be cautious in what she took—there’d be no coming back once she closed the front door behind her.

  Annalise was lost in her own thoughts. If she hadn’t switched off her radio so she could hear her mother leave, she would’ve missed the sound from downstairs. Even now, on her own in the house, she wasn’t sure she’d heard it. She crept onto the landing and leant over the banister, being careful not to touch it. She knew where all the creaking boards lay. Sneaking out in the middle of the night hadn’t been a problem once she’d worked them out.

  Silence pressed in on her, and she strained her mind to listen.

  Did I really hear something?

  There it was again. She pressed her back to the wall and inched down the stairs, one foot quietly crossing the other. Partway down, Annalise stopped. What she imagined was a chair scraped across the kitchen floor. There was someone in the house. Her heartbeat raced. It seemed she’d been holding her breath. She let out a deep, long sigh and stood completely still, waiting for her heart to calm down. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her upper lip covered in a sheen. She wiped it away hastily with the back of her hand.

  This was the point of no return. Either she went back upstairs and waited for whoever it was to come to her or she could face them, open the kitchen door, and demand to know what they were doing in her home. Annalise chose the latter. She couldn’t bear to return to her room and cower. There was no point anymore, not with the things she’d been through.

  She felt for each next step with her bare feet until she got to the bottom of the stairs. She could get to the kitchen in five paces, three if she strode across the hallway. Now the noise of a cupboard being closed meant the intruder’s existence couldn’t be denied. She gulped down air through her dry mouth and forced herself to continue.

  Annalise was hesitant in placing her fingers on the cool metal of the door handle. She pressed it down and swung the door wide. Her mother was on the other side. “I thought you’d gone shopping.”

  Her mother’s cold stare alighted upon Annalise’s face. “I had, but there’s no money in my purse. Is that something you know about?”

  Annalise licked her lips. It was happening again. The accusations. “Why don’t you ask Frank?”

  “That’s right. Blame him when he’s not here to defend himself.”

  “Well, I know it wasn’t me. You can check my room if you don’t believe me.”

  Her mother stood straight. She’d been leaning one hand on the back of a kitchen chair. Now she was walking past her and into the hallway. Annalise would’ve gone after her, but she knew she didn’t have the money. Yet again she was being blamed for something she’d not done. It’d become a recurring theme since Frank had arrived on the scene. He’d been quick to move in, get his feet under the table and himself into her mother’s bed. It wouldn’t have been so bad if that’s where he’d stayed, but he hadn’t.

  She glanced at the ceiling, following the sound of her mother’s progress across the floorboards and into her room.

  My rucksack’s still on the bed.

  If her mother looked inside she’d find the clothes already stowed for the journey. Annalise could hear her searching, opening her wardrobe and moving things around, but she wouldn’t find anything. Frank wasn’t about to leave the money lying about for Annalise to spend, not when there were races to bet on.

  Annalise leant against the worktop by the cooker. Her mother would soon be back down, and they’d return to ignoring each other. It was better that way. There’d be no need to explain things the woman wasn’t willing to believe. Annalise grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. They wouldn’t be having a meal with so little food in the house. She’d have to wait for later at the village hall. A party was being held, a fund-raiser for the roof, and she’d promised her friend Jason she’d attend.

  Heavy footfalls clattered down the stairs, her mother reappearing in the kitchen. Annalise waited for her to speak. To ask her why she was packing a bag and where she thought she was going to go, but she said nothing. The woman brushed past her and headed towards the kettle. She picked it up and filled it at the sink. Once she’d switched it on, she reached for the clean crockery on the draining board. One cup. Not two. Annalise wasn’t getting a drink. That told her all she needed to know.

  She pushed away from the worktop and left her mother in the kitchen. She’d been roped in to helping set up the party anyway and was late to do so. She didn’t bother to tell her mother where she was going. It didn’t seem like she cared. That was all right, she wouldn’t be living there much longer anyway.

  Annalise grabbed her jacket from where it hung in the hallway, slipping her arms into the sleeves and shrugging it on. She popped the apple into her pocket for when she needed it later. A pile of shoes lay beneath the other coats. She probed her toes into the openings of her trainers, sliding the rest of her feet in behind.

  She went out and pulled the front door to by the handle, making sure it clicked. A breeze blew tendrils of her long, dark-brown hair in front of her face. Annalise wiped them away then put her hand into her jacket pocket, curving her fingers around the apple. She’d eat it when she got hungry; it would be a while before any fo
od was on offer. She followed the paths from one of the small council estates, through the high street with its four units of shops and on towards Manor House. The village hall was nearby, and there would be people there already.

  Maybe I should tell someone. One last try before I leave.

  The thought lingered in her mind. There had to be someone she could trust. Someone who’d believe her.

  Chapter Two

  The afternoon was hot and sticky, but not like it’d been of late. Annalise had wiped sweat from her forehead before she’d even walked to the end of her street. Her trainers rubbed where the rough material curved around her heel. She’d have to look in the bathroom cabinet later for a plaster, if she could wait that long. She bent down to stroke the tips of her fingers along the fluid-filled bump, being careful not to break the skin. The last thing she needed was an open wound when she snuck out later.

  That’ll make the trek through the fields a pain.

  The village hall stood close to Manor House, a long-ago gesture from the owner to the poor people who’d served him. There was a campaign to repair the building, replace the roof and paint the outside. That was what the party was in aid of, on top of bringing the community together. A couple of cars stood in the car park, their windows open a crack to let out the heat. The door to the hall, just beyond them, stood ajar. Annalise crossed the road and traipsed in that direction, slowing her footsteps on her approach. A flutter in her stomach interrupting her thoughts, she pressed her hand above her waistband, trying to quieten her fear.

  Scraping sounds echoed along the short hallway from tables and chairs being moved to allow for a dance floor. Their position at the edge of the room was now for the buffet and the many dishes donated by the residents. It was to be a combined effort, and tickets for the event had long been sold. Not much happened in Chapel End, even in the summer months, so it was an excuse to revel in the excitement.

  Annalise hovered in the doorway, part of her wishing she hadn’t come. The problem with that was, if she left today without trying then she’d never know if she’d had to. Maybe someone would listen to her and understand the torment she’d been living with. She blew out a breath, nausea creeping through her system. Her forearms ached. She had a fresh scar. She peeled back the light cotton sleeve of her jacket up to her elbow and massaged the itching wound. The skin was slowly knitting together, angry and raw. It criss-crossed many others like it, some half as red and some a slice of white. She’d tried to stop, but it was the only way she could feel something. Everything else was numb inside.

  A woman appeared in front of her, and Annalise jumped at her sudden intrusion.

  It was the church organist, Mrs Murray. “Have you come to help?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was told I’m making the tea.”

  Mrs Murray stared at her with a quizzical expression and then narrowed her eyes. “A bit hot for tea, don’t you think?”

  The scathing comment wasn’t lost on her. Some of the older ladies in the village took pleasure in putting her down, belittling her any chance they got. Things could’ve been different if her mother wasn’t the worst of the bunch. If only some of the rumours were true, things wouldn’t seem so bleak. She eased her sleeve back down to her wrist, hoping the woman hadn’t seen the scars. The last thing she needed was more gossip.

  Annalise side-stepped past her and into the large hall. She held her breath, trying not to inhale the woman’s body odour, a smell that was already coating the inside of her mouth. Three other people busied about, all of them female. It seemed the men from the village had better places to spend their Saturday afternoons. Annalise was grateful. She wouldn’t have coped being in the same room with them and she certainly couldn’t have confided in them.

  The kitchen led off from the far end of the hall, to the right of the stage. She went inside and closed the door behind her. The room was spartan. A worktop ran from the farthest wall, underneath the window and up to the outside door. It was completely held up by brackets. In the middle, a piece had been cut out and a sink inserted in the gap. Beneath were two shelves much of the same fashion, and in front, a curtain hung from a wire covering the underneath space and all it contained. The room needed updating, but the roof came first.

  Annalise bent down and tugged the curtain aside. She picked up a number of cups, placing each one on the worktop above. She reached in again, on the lower shelf, to collect the sugar bowl, when something touched her hand. The item fell, knocking into packets of biscuits and a box of teabags. She reached her fingertips towards the back and felt among the items to locate the coffee. Again, she brushed against something hard. Annalise crouched down farther, one hand on the floor and straining the muscles in her neck to grab the item with the other. Slowly, it was within her grasp, and she pulled it out.

  Why would someone leave that under there?

  What at first appeared to be a notebook was, in fact, a diary. She flicked through the pages where she sat on the linoleum, leaning back against the opposite wall. A noise from the hall outside reminded her she hadn’t thought to lock the door. She flitted her gaze to just below the handle—the key was missing.

  Annalise brought her knees up to lean her hands on and rest the book, so she could easily hide it in case someone came in. It seemed the author had an affinity with stories, displaying their innermost thoughts in the written word. It wasn’t until she read through two pages that she realised it was something else entirely. Her hand involuntarily leapt to her mouth, her eyes bulging as the sentences unfolded. Her heart rate quickened—some of it was about her.

  Something tapped against the other side of the door. She jolted her head in that direction, aware the handle had moved. She held her breath, not sure whether to carry on reading or hide the book. Annalise sided with caution. She slipped it behind the curtain, far away from where she’d found it. She got to her feet just in time to see the handle move down and the door open. The kettle was within reach, so she grabbed it and turned on the tap, filling it with water.

  “Haven’t you done that, yet?”

  It was Mrs Murray, the woman from earlier who’d accosted her when she’d come into the building. Annalise turned away, not wanting to engage with the enemy. Mrs Murray’s foot tapped on the linoleum behind her—the woman expected an answer.

  “I didn’t think anyone was ready; after all, it’s a bit hot for tea.”

  Annalise waited for the rebuff, but it never came. She stood staring forward, the kettle now going through the motions of heating the water. She would move again when she’d heard the click of it switching off. Until then she was killing time. The foot-tapping ceased. She strained to hear what Mrs Murray was doing, but she needn’t have worried. The door slammed behind her on her way out of the room. Grateful it was over, for the time being anyway, Annalise relaxed.

  She returned her attention to the book she’d hidden. There was no way she could leave that under the worktop for someone else to find, but what about the owner? The thought of someone she’d trusted writing such things churned her stomach. This just added to the urgency of her need to speak to someone. Not only did she have her own words and experiences to share, but now there were details written down she could show.

  What did the adults say? When in danger, tell someone.

  Well, she was frightened now. Her name was in the book, detailing some things that had been done, and to her horror, suggestions for future events. She read on—she wasn’t the only one. Others were in there, too. Not that she knew who they were, faceless victims of the same abusers. At the back was a list of nicknames she knew well. Her heart skipped a beat to see their real names listed by the side, phone numbers, too.

  Annalise trembled, her limbs shaking so much she had to sit back down. She placed her head between her knees and waited for it to stop. She dug her fingernails into her forearm to take her mind off this new-found information. She had to tell someone. If she wanted to stay, she had to do it now, there was no choice.

 
Her legs still shook when she forced herself to get to her feet. She clung to the wall on the way to the door, tentatively opening it and peeking through the gap. The women were busy on the other side of the hall, rooting through boxes and distributing colourful decorations to be hung up before the party commenced. Slowly, she opened the door wider and escaped from the kitchen. There was another door at the other end of the stage. It held the office and a couple of rehearsal rooms. Quietly, she crept past a projection screen, still wound down from being used earlier in the week. She kept her attention on the women at the other end. Not one of them bothered to look at her.

  At the door, she twisted the handle gently in a bid not to make a sound. The door swung free, and she slipped inside, closing it behind her. The small hallway was stifling and smelled of bleach. Annalise held her breath, edging her way around each doorframe to see who was in which room. The rehearsal rooms were empty, but the farthest room showed movement. Annalise tiptoed closer to the only person she could think of who might listen to her.

  Mrs Selby shuffled pages into a folder and placed it in the nearest filing cabinet. She was the volunteer secretary for the village hall. Saturdays were when she could be found in the office dealing with the administrative work. Annalise stood in the doorway, her heart pounding like it would break out of her chest. She waited for Mrs Selby to notice her. It didn’t take long.

  The woman peered over her glasses, her bird’s nest hair as shocking as her brusque manner. “Did you want something?”

  Annalise flinched at being spoken to. She tried to keep her mind off the shabby condition of the room. It was hardly a pleasant place to spend a day, but much worse were the quiet hours when things happened she didn’t want to think about. She rubbed her forearms and took a deep breath. “I need to talk to someone.”