Never Forgotten

by G H Mockford

  Stephen left the house and walked to the appropriate bus stop.

  Once on board, Stephen stared unseeing out the window. When it arrived at the Broadmarsh bus station, he got off the communal vehicle and walked to the next, feeling like a robot. It took him to Wollaton. He continued to stare out the large pane of glass. The odd building that did register with him sparked off a whole host of memories, particularly childhood ones. Collecting conkers from the avenue of trees and ignoring the angry blasts from car horns as he would sprint into the middle of the road to gather the prickly treasure before it got squashed. The old hall where he’d learned karate. The barbers where they had accidently snipped his ear. The Wheelhouse, since repainted and refurbished, where he’d got drunk the night he’d been accepted at Cambridge to do his BA in history.

  A whole life lived.

  An entire life left behind.

  The bell on the bus dinged and Stephen’s eyes snapped up. It was his stop. He joined the group of people lining up to get off. They were all dressed in the same fashions as the people from Manor Park only there were the genuine article and certainly not from a high street supermarket.

  Letting an elderly lady out of her seat first, Stephen thanked the driver and left the bus. He stood on the pavement and stared through the bus windows and across the road at the house on the other side.

  His parents’ house.

  His home.

  The bus pulled away.

  The front door had changed colour and for a moment Stephen wondered if he was looking at the wrong house, but he wasn’t. The tree to the left of the drive had three white lines painted on it. His father had done it years ago so friends could locate them easier when they came for parties. The wisteria still climbed the front of the house. The fanlight above the door still had the lighthouse motif with the cross painted on the tower. The walls were rendered and painted white.

  The drive was empty, but Dad would be at work by now. Mum had never learned to drive. Unless she had over the last decade, of course. There was so much he didn’t know. So much to say sorry for.

  ‘Excuse me, my dear. Would you help me over the road? The amount of traffic that comes down here these days is frightening, and they drive so fast.’

  It was the old lady Stephen had let get off the bus before him. She was his parent’s neighbour, Mrs Eaton. Stephen hadn’t recognized her at first, and she clearly didn’t recognize him. She looked old and frail as she grasped the four-legged walking stick in her grey, twig-like fingers. She’d seemed ancient when Stephen had been a little boy, and now she must have been well into her nineties.

  ‘Of course,’ Stephen smiled. They waited in silence for the road to clear and then Stephen asked if she was ready.

  Mrs Eaton didn’t reply, she just stepped off the curb and started shuffling across. Stephen looked both ways. They weren’t even a quarter of the way across when the first vehicle appeared. The car slowed and Stephen thanked the driver with a nod and a raised hand. The man in the car, his patience used up, revved the engine and raced past them as soon as they were clear.

  Once they were safely across, Stephen bid Mrs Eaton farewell and walked up the gravel driveway to the front door of his family home.

  He looked up at the bedroom window above the front door. His bedroom window. He’d always left it open. The gravel was an excellent early warning system and gave him plenty of time to stop whatever he was up to and clear up before mum or dad came up the stairs.

  Stephen looked for the doorbell, but it had gone. He rapped on the door four times and stepped back. His mother would always look through the bay window in the front room to see who it was.

  There was no answer. And no face appeared.

  Stephen knocked again.

  Abandoning the front door, Stephen went down the side of the house toward the garage and the back door. There was a six-foot fence that joined the garage to the house, sealing the back garden off and making it more secure. It hadn’t been there before. Stephen had suggested it several times, especially when Peter, his parents’ third foster child, had run off through the gap and nearly got run over. His parents had refused. It would make the home like a prison, they said. It needed to be as normal as possible if the children were to settle.

  So why put it up now? For their security?

  Stephen tried the handle on the gate. It clunked but didn’t open. Stephen made his way back to the front door and knocked again.

  ‘They’re on holiday,’ came a frail voice over the wall that separated his parent’s house from his Mrs Eaton. ‘But they’ll be back this afternoon,’ she added as if realizing she’d not been very discreet.

  ‘It’s alright Mrs Eaton. It’s me, Stephen.’

  ‘Stephen? Why, I almost didn’t recognize you. Last time I saw you, you had long hair.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Stephen said. ‘I don’t suppose you still have a spare key? I was going to look in the shed, but it’s all fenced off.’

  ‘I don’t, and even if I did, it’d do you no good, my dear.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your mum moved out of there years ago. What, it must have been when my great, granddaughter, Cheyanne, was born. So that’ll be what? Six years ago?’

  ‘Six years?’

  ‘Yes. I’m surprised you don’t know.’

  Stephen looked down at the gravel at his feet. ‘I’ve not seen them since Felicity went missing.’

  ‘Well, that’s not right, Stephen. That’s what? Four years ago?’

  ‘Ten, Mrs Eaton.’

  ‘Ten? Seems like only yesterday. Tragic it was.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where they went next, do you?’

  ‘I don’t, but she did tell me one thing,’ Mrs Eaton said, brightening up. ‘You know how your mum loved to read?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stephen smiled. ‘When she found the time, which was never very often.’

  ‘She moved near a library. Yes, that’s right. The library in Broxtowe so she could get books whenever she wanted. She found the time to read once…’

  Stephen smiled and hoped to ease the old woman’s obvious embarrassment. ‘Do you know any more?’

  ‘Sorry, Stephen. That’s all I know. I’m sure you’ll find her there and she’ll be very pleased to see you.’

  ‘I hope so. Goodbye, Mrs Eaton. Lovely to see you again.’ Stephen waved goodbye and walked out of the driveway.

  Twenty-One

  Georgia found her room was lit with a dim, gloomy light. Had she been sleeping during the day and awake at night as she’d started to suspect? Was her body clock that badly messed up, or was it something else?

  The usual plate of sandwiches lay on the floor beside the armchair.

  Georgia hadn’t eaten them.

  Was that the answer? Was he drugging the food so she would sleep during the day? That might explain the sickness and headache she felt every time she awoke. But why drug her? Was it to keep her immobilized during the day? Could he only visit at night?

  Pushing her thoughts to one side, Georgia used the pale, dingy light to look around the room for the first time. It was larger than she thought, no doubt the shuffling steps she’d been forced to take had distorted her sense of space and direction.

  Georgia stood, and keeping the slack of the chain in her hand, began to explore the room. Coving filled the angles where the walls met the ceiling. It wasn’t just curved polystyrene from a DIY store. Its ornate design suggested the building was a place like Hardwick Hall or some other stately home that she would be dragged around on a school visit.

  Tall shutters painted a lime green color covered the windows. They were on the inside, which surprised Georgia at first, but then she remembered she’d seen them like that before at Warwick castle.

  Odd cracks of bright sunshine came through the slats and cut through the dust filled air like wide, flat lasers. There weren’t as many beams as she would have expected. Surely light should come through every slat, not just one or two?
/>   Georgia made her way to the first of the two windows. The shutters were sealed with a clasp, which was green and corroded like the door handle. If she could open it, she could open the shutters. And if she opened the windows behind them, she could call for help.

  If she opened those, she could escape.

  Her brief exhilaration was soon quashed. She looked down at the manacle around her wrist. She would need to remove the chain before she could be truly free.

  Georgia lifted her head. She was through with crying. She’d shed too many tears already. Looking outside would be enough. It would give her the strength to carry on. And more importantly, it would piss him off.

  Georgia went to work on the clasp. After several attempts, she managed to open it by hammering it with the heel of her hand. Stepping back, she took a deep breath and then pulled it open. The shutter resisted at first. Flakes of patina fluttered down from the corroded hinges, allowing the shutter to move more freely.

  Her heart plummeted. She’d found the reason for the lack of light. The windows had no glass in them. They were boarded up. From the outside.

  Georgia closed her eyes, trying to shut out the truth. Then she put the shutter back into position, took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall for a while as she considered her options.

  Or lack of.

  After she’d regathered her spirits, she moved to the second pair of shutters. The clasp wasn’t so stiff and she opened the shutters on her second attempt.

  Georgia screamed and jumped back as one of them fell from the wall, narrowly missing her. It crashed to the uncarpeted floor, filling the silent room with noise.

  Georgia froze.

  Her eyes moved to the door. If her theory about him only coming at night was correct, there would be no one to hear the racket and there would be nothing to fear.

  But if she was wrong…

  Georgia picked up the fallen shutter. At least it hadn’t broken. It was taller than her and heavier than she expected. After a bit of a struggle, she managed to get it back in position, but something was wrong. It didn’t sit right. She couldn’t close it. Georgia put the shutter back down on the floor and inspected the window frame. The screws had been torn straight out of the old masonry of the window casing.

  With some prodding and poking, and a lot of patience, Georgia managed to get the lower screws back into their original holes. She was too short to reach the top set.

  Time was running out. She had to get the shutter back on in case he came. Forgetting about the last hinge, Georgia closed the shutter and the clasp. She stepped back, waiting for it to fall.

  It stayed in place.

  Georgia let out a sigh of relief and tiptoed back to the chair and pulled it onto its side. Finally, she sprawled out on the floor trying to make it look like the armchair had tipped up and spilled her out. If needed, would the ruse work? If she’d hit the floor, it would have made a sound, but it would have sounded different. Wood on wood was very different from padded fabric on wood.

  It was too late to worry about that now.

  She waited.

  Some time must have passed because her arm started to get pins and needles where it was trapped between the floorboards and the weight of her head. He wasn’t coming. He wasn’t here. So did that mean her theory must be correct?

  Georgia got up and repositioned the chair. Her eyes fell on the fireplace. It was only then that she thought of the woman next door. She’d become so used to being on her own. Had the mysterious woman next door heard the shutter fall? Was she keeping quiet for the same reasons Georgia was, or was she asleep, drugged by the food?

  Georgia pushed her head into the fire box and whispered, ‘Hello? Are you there?’ She waited, but no reply came.

  She sat back down in the armchair and dark thoughts swept over her. Being alone in the light seemed worse than being alone in the dark.

  Shaking the thoughts aside, Georgia studied the fireplace. It was made of marble and decorated, just as she’d thought when she felt it. A crest adorned the top amongst some delicate scrollwork. The number 1842 sat under the coat of arms. A date?

  Georgia waited a little longer in case either her captor or her newfound friend responded, and then went back to the first set of shutters. They opened much easier this time, and Georgia started to work on the boards that covered the windows. She hammered her fist against them. There was no way they were going to budge. She guessed they were screwed in from the outside.

  Turning away from the window, Georgia’s empty stomach griped at her. Giving up on the window, she returned to her seat, picked up the plate and decided to test out her other theory.

  Twenty-Two

  Stephen decided to walk to Broxtowe. He figured the walk to the nearby suburb would only take thirty minutes and without the daily use of his bike he really felt the need for some exercise.

  It would also buy him some thinking time.

  What on Earth had happened to his parents? Stephen didn’t consider himself a snob, he lived in Manor Park for goodness sake, but to move from Wollaton, one of Nottingham’s most desired areas, and end up near Broxtowe library, that was quite a come down. Of course, a large part of their income came from fostering, and with that gone, maybe they could no longer afford the mortgage.

  Still, they lived in a desirable four bedroom house. They could have easily sold it and got somewhere smaller while remaining in Wollaton. Stephen seemed to recall they were near the end of their mortgage too. It was all more than a little disconcerting, and there was something about what Mrs Eaton had said, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  As Stephen pushed on, his steps long and fast in an effort to get his heart beating, the style of buildings changed from 1950s brick to a trading estate and then to 1950s prefabs. Some were in a very poor state of repair like O.J.’s. Occasionally he would walk past a beautifully maintained garden, but often they were cluttered with a mixture of discarded objects including rusting old cars or rotting mattresses. More often than not they were just forgotten and ignored until they turned into a jungle. Some went to the other extreme however, and had high walls and railings, the tops of the gate post ridiculously decorated with horse heads carved from stone. One had iron gates with life-size Elvis silhouettes attached, complete with a guitar and swaying hips.

  Stephen arrived at an elongated, bone-shaped roundabout, which seemed to sit at the very heart of the community, and headed into one of the local newsagents and bought a bottle of water. Then he made his way to the library. The irony that both he and his mother spent so much time in the invaluable institute wasn’t lost on him. He only hoped Mrs Eaton was right about her whereabouts.

  Stephen glanced at a group of teenagers hanging around outside the Family Centre, kissing, swearing, and smoking, and walked toward the library entrance.

  It was closed.

  ‘Shit,’ Stephen cursed and turned away. He rooted around in his suit jacket pocket, ignoring the claustrophobic feeling it gave him, and retrieved his phone. It was lunchtime. He had a good few hours before he had to head to work. He’d come all this way; it would be madness to walk away now without at least trying to find where his parents lived.

  He used the last of his change to buy a yellow stickered All Day Breakfast Sandwich from Asda and then crossed the road.

  He wandered the area, paying particular attention to the gardens. Mum had loved her garden. It was where he had learned about rode. She always said it was a place where she could be close to God. The beautifully maintained and manicured Eden was also a home to many gnomes.

  Every time a new foster child joined the family, they would go to the garden centre and buy a new gnome. Once home, it would be painted. It was the same for every child, even Stephen. His father had always said it was their way of helping the child feel like they belonged. There hadn’t been any gnomes back at the old house but their absence hadn’t rung any alarm bells. With the kids gone, maybe the garden ornaments had too. Maybe Mum wouldn’t want the constant
reminder of her old life.

  It was almost one in the afternoon and Stephen crossed back over Strelley Road and investigated the houses behind the Family Centre. Time was running out. He would need to get the bus back to town soon.

  Stephen wandered the streets for another half an hour and decided to give up. His Citycard would enable him to use the library tomorrow, and if he didn’t find his mother there, he could perhaps use the internet to find where she lived. She might be in the phonebook, or perhaps she’d been one of the many Facebook friend requests he’d ignored for the last five years.

  Stephen turned back down the residential street toward the bus stop near Asda.

  And saw them.

  Two gnomes.

  They were tucked up against a neatly trimmed hedge near the living room window. Because of their position he’d completely missed them when he came from the other direction. They would have been shielded by the tall hedge which separated the house from the neighbour and a shrub in the middle of the lawn. It was a Japanese maple. Another of Mum’s favourites. He searched for roses, but there were none. The hedge top had been cut into a triangle and not flat. It was the best way to do it. ‘It was healthier for the plant,’ his Mum always said, ‘even if it doesn’t look as nice.’

  Stephen’s heart beat faster and his mouth went dry. He felt more nervous about meeting the two people who brought him into the world than the four who wanted to take him out of it the other night.

  He walked up to the gate and planted his shaking hand on it. He was about to push it open when a woman came down the side of the house carrying a trug with some weeds in it and a carrier bag. No doubt the bag was filled with old newspaper so she could use it as a kneeler. It was what his she always did.

  Her clothes hadn’t changed at all: comfortable, flat soled shoes; plain brown trousers, slightly flared at the bottom; a yellow shirt and pale blue jumper. Even her hair was the same – only greyer. She knelt under the living room window and, taking a trowel from the trug, began weeding.