by Linda Huber
She struggled to find the words. ‘I think – anything that helps find her is good.’
‘Okay. I’ll work with them on that, shall I? What are you going to do?’
The plan was crystallising in Nicola’s head as she spoke. ‘I’ll go back to London. Ed’s here if Kelly comes back, but–’ …the minute I’m sixteen I’m going back to London. She couldn’t ignore that now.
‘She could have gone to another friend there.’
Misery swelled in Nicola. Those kids from the table tennis club were amongst Kelly’s other friends in London.
‘Yes. Will you – stay in touch?’
‘Of course. Good luck.’
Nicola ran back home. Ed was in the cellar but he came up when she called. He was pale, but he nodded when she told him the plan.
‘Good idea. It’s looking more and more like she’s done what she threatened often enough, isn’t it? You can get in touch with all her friends there, and her old teachers and the coach at table tennis. And you know what else you could do – go and talk to people at one of those homeless shelters, the Salvation Army or whatever – they’d know where runaways hang out.’
It was a relief to be doing something. ‘Good idea. I’ll go in the train, the car’s useless in London and you can’t depend on getting a work Land Rover every day.’
Two hours later, she was on her way, new and terrifying thoughts in her head all the time. Kelly could be dead. She could have got in with a bad crowd at Rock Home. Nicola shivered. As soon as she got to London, she’d go back to the police and make them show her all the CCTV in and around Wembley on Saturday. And she’d get Jess to mobilise the London kids on social media. There was plenty she could do. Surely, with her in London and Ed at home, they’d find their daughter soon.
But London was so huge… and – why hadn’t Kel gone to Jess’s, or Abby’s?
The answer hit her like a ton of bricks. Kelly didn’t want to be found.
Three days. Three days without Nicola, each darker than the last. If she’d only come home, they could sort this out, but how could he fix his ailing family with his wife in London? As for his daughter… but she hadn’t been the same Kelly for a long time now. And he wasn’t the same Ed.
His mobile blared and he leapt to the side in fright, then scrabbled to connect.
‘No sign of her, Nicky.’
‘Same here. I’ve been to the table tennis club and left flyers, and Sue and Jess and Deb Shipton are putting stuff on all the social media sites. The police here are still looking, but they think she’s run away, and apparently there are hundreds of kids who run away to London every year, Ed, it’s soul-destroying. I want my Kelly.’
The demons were lurking ever lower. ‘Why don’t you come home for a bit, Nic? We can talk and–’
‘Ed. If Kelly had been going to come back to St Ives, she’d have done it by now. I have to stay here and help look for her.’
Please, Nic, come home. This was all too much; he couldn’t fight it any longer and he was so scared so scared so scared. But the connection was broken; she was gone.
He slid to the floor by the sofa and clutched his head. Nothing could put this right now, and if that was the way she wanted it… the demons could come…
Kelly forced her eyes open to meet the same darkness. She lay still, her breath loud, fear growing as nausea lessened and the headache dulled to a tight band around her head. Time had degenerated into a series of asleep-awake episodes, and each time she wakened, the hope of getting out of here alive would crack in a different place. All that changed was her mood as it swung from angry to gutted to hopeless and it must be four, five, six days now. She had no idea, and the worst thing was, she still couldn’t remember how she’d got here. It was driving her nuts. Actually, that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the thought of what might happen – who was doing this to her? She kept trying to push it away, but the hateful little whisper snaked its way into her head every time she stopped blocking it. Rape. Murder.
She sat up cautiously, then stumbled across the room for a drink. You could survive for weeks as long as you had water, but her insides were so empty it hurt, and her legs were behaving like boiled spaghetti. She wasn’t in charge of her body. She wasn’t in charge of anything, except her movements between the toilet and the mattress.
A click. She froze. Thuds – God no. Footsteps… Kelly lurched back to the mattress and sat with her back in the corner, knees clutched to her chest, rasping pants tearing at her throat. He – because it must be a he – was coming. He would run his filthy hands all over her and oh, Christ. She rocked back and forth, her teeth chattering.
Another creak, and light shivered around the door. Kelly rolled into as tight a ball as she could, fingers clutching her jeans as warm wetness spread around her thighs. He was right out there; he was fumbling at the door and it was opening and–
Dusty yellow split into the room, and a shadow slid across the floor. Kelly buried her head on her knees, eyes scrunched shut. Rape, or death? Or rape and death. Mum Mum Mum…
A thud, a scraping noise, then the door closed again and a key turned in the lock. The footsteps retreated, and Kelly sat motionless. She was alive. She counted up to sixty, fighting to control her breath, then opened her eyes.
It was a box. She stared. Mum brought the shopping home from Tesco in one like this. Sweet, painful, meaningless memories of shopping trips had Kelly sobbing, shaking even more now the immediate threat was gone. Mum would be out of her mind with worry. Mum, Mummy, please come and find me.
After a bit she unwound her legs and went over to rattle the door handle. Locked. Of course. She burst into tears and hammered on the door, screaming her frustration and anger and fear until her throat was raw. Who did he think he was, keeping her prisoner here?
No answer came, no sound, and she couldn’t scream forever. Kelly slid to the floor and leaned against the door. Her hands hurt like hell; they’d have bruises all over. And she smelled, too, where she’d peed herself. What was in the stupid box anyway? She crawled over to look.
A packet of cold meat – it was too dim to see what kind, so she took the box over to the loo and the light. Roast pork. And three apples, a carton of orange juice and three muesli bars.
She grabbed a muesli bar and the juice and scurried back to the mattress. Her stomach hurt after she’d eaten, but it soon settled down again and she went back to the box for an apple.
Think, Kel. She had to remember what happened to her. If she knew where she was, it would make a difference. School, yes. Then home. On the bus, right? And then? And then the black hole in her memory started. Kelly lay down, hopelessness drifting through her.
He would come back and she’d never know when. Fire and sick horror filled her gut, and she stumbled into the toilet and vomited into the pan. Nothing had ever been as bad as this room. She swayed back to the mattress and curled into a ball. Home, I want to go home. Another memory flashed. Her birthday. St Ives. She’d been afraid there too, because there were so many rowdies outside that pub. She’d wanted to go home, but home was in London. And – but the black hole was back.
It was the pits, the way she would jerk awake and for half a second everything was all right – then it would hit her. What were they all doing out there – or did nobody care anymore? Mum would. Would Dad? He would… yes. And Jess and Abby… Amy and Beth. But wherever it was, this place might be her coffin, her final resting place. Jess and the others would talk about her less and less often, and eventually they’d only think of her once a decade or so, if they happened to look at an old school photo or something. Oh yes, Kelly, help – haven’t thought about her for years. I wonder what happened to her. She must be dead, of course.
Kelly curled into a ball on her side as hot tears squeezed between her eyelids. Dead would be better. There would be no listening for the footsteps coming and no gut-clenching dread. He’d come three times now. So far, all he’d done was slide the boxes a metre or so into the room, b
ut that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come in and rape her next time. He could sneak up any time while she was asleep.
Her back was aching. This crappy stinking mattress – she’d added to the stink, of course. Kelly rolled onto all fours, then stood on shaky legs. Time to go for a wee. Woo-hoo, she had something to do for the next minute and a half.
She used the ancient loo and turned on the tap to wash her hands and drink. At least she had water… and loo roll. He’d put four rolls in the last box. Imagine if–
The light went out. No, no, not the light. Kelly fumbled to turn off the water, and felt for the switch. The light was the one, single crumb of comfort here. She clicked the switch up and down, but – nothing. Up-down up-down up…
The scream came from her soul. ‘Let me fucking out of here!’ Propelled by rage, she launched herself into the dimness of the other room and hammered on the door. ‘Let me out! I’ll scream until you do.’
Fists and feet thundering on the door, she shrieked the injustice of it all until the air in the stuffy room was ringing.
Footsteps… then an animal howl just feet away outdid all her efforts. A howl, and another, and another. The door rattled, and Kelly fell back. It was like something straight from hell… or an animal in utter torment. Kelly backed off onto the mattress and covered her ears. You could barely tell it was a human out there. He was mad.
It took forever, but eventually the howling stopped and the footsteps retreated. Kelly lay shaking. She would never, ever do that again. He would kill her next time.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Boy, aged fifteen.
‘Good news, boy.’
It was late Friday afternoon and they were sitting – as usual – in the kitchen eating whatever was in the fridge for tea. Eddie chewed and swallowed a mouthful of ham and pickle sandwich. Any news Dad would consider good was going to be the last thing anyone else would want to hear, and anyway, he wasn’t going to give the old sod the satisfaction of appearing interested in whatever was coming.
He lifted his glass and swigged the hated milk. ‘What’s that, then?’
His father smirked. ‘I’ve put you in for the North Cornwall Boxing Championships. Three weeks tomorrow, in Newquay. You’d better get on with your training. I’ll be down in half an hour.’
He left the room, whistling, and Eddie began to clear the mess on the table, feeling as sick as he’d ever felt. A boxing competition, and his father would expect him to win, too; nothing else would be good enough. Life was going to be hell on earth for the next few weeks, just him and Dad and the punchbag.
Chores done, he flung himself back into his chair and mulled over his mother’s luck and his lack of it. She had all but moved out. Her parents had died last year within a few weeks of each other, and she’d inherited a shedload of money. He sniggered – Dad had no idea how much. Neither did he, but it must have been pretty substantial because Mum had given him a good wodge and she only did short-term temping jobs now, ‘To keep the bank balance topped up.’ Most of her time was spent in Scotland with Melanie. He used to wonder why his father put up with this, but of course he’d always had his bit on the side, and Mum not being here much gave Dad free rein to do whatever he sodding well wanted. Like lock his son in the cellar with a punchbag to pass the time.
‘Get in here!’
The usual call came, and he trailed downstairs. If he’d been fit before the punchbag arrived in the cellar, he was super-fit now. His biceps bulged, his calves and thighs were taut and muscles rippled under his vest, and to his surprise, quite a few of the girls at school had started hanging around him. He was ‘cute’, apparently, even when he had bruises on his face and cut lips. He hated his body.
And after two weeks hard training for the championships, he hated it even more.
‘C’mon c’mon c’mon – get it! Idiot! Put your shoulder behind it! Again – give it more, are you mad or stupid? You’re holding back!’ His father was a man on a mission.
The hours he was forced to spend in the cellar made schoolwork pretty much impossible and his exam results were dire, but Dad didn’t care about school. Eddie cared, because he’d never get into uni now, but something in Dad’s eyes didn’t let you go against him, and if you tried to, you always came out worse than you went in. Much worse. The one thing he could do was to train hard enough to keep Dad off his back, but no more. And never showing satisfaction about his progress was important too, but that part wasn’t difficult.
The championship was close now, and Dad was on his back all the time. ‘You don’t care, do you? You should – win this competition and you’ll go far. But you won’t win unless you want to, you know. You need a lot more toughness and you’d better find it, too. Wimp.’
Eddie stared. All these muscles, and he was still called a wimp. But there was a good answer to that one.
‘Wimps are the successful people, though, aren’t they? The ones with good brains making money. Boxers are–’ He turned away, frustration giving him the guts to talk back. It was the Easter holidays and he’d planned to do loads of schoolwork, see if he couldn’t catch up a bit.
The yell that hit his ears was so unexpected he crashed to his knees. What the–? His father grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him from the kitchen – Dad sure knew how to grip you so you’d no chance of doing anything to free yourself – and down the cellar stairs, roaring in his ears all the time. He was shoved into the cellar room, and the door slammed shut.
Ears humming, he crawled to the wall and leaned against it, staring dully at the punchbag, swinging gently in the centre of the room. He’d done it now. Why had he opened his big mouth? There was no escaping the cellar, no point even yelling because the room was bloody soundproof.
He was trapped, because Dad was right. But it wasn’t that his body was a wimp. It was his head.
That was the first time. The first of many, because after that his father took to locking him in the cellar whenever he was working at the pub. It was awful – the stuffy little room smelled worse than the gym, and he hated being caged in there, like an animal. He must have shown it once, because Dad said, ‘Where’s your bottle, boy? This was what made me a man. I’d have given anything to have your opportunities. You’re lucky.’
Eddie took out his frustration on the punchbag, consoling himself with the thought that he was lucky, because the whole sorry business was nearly over. Next year, he’d be sixteen. He could leave school and get a job and if he had his way it would be right up in the north of Scotland, as far away from his father as he could get. Orkney, preferably. He’d use the money Mum had given him. The end was in sight, but the championship was looming first and the dread in his gut was growing. Punching at people who really were out to slaughter him was entirely different to partner-training at the gym. His stomach cramped every time he thought about it.
His mother arrived home three days before the championship and peered at his exam report. ‘Never mind, lovey – not everyone goes to uni. I didn’t, and your dad didn’t either. You concentrate on your boxing – you could get a job as a trainer. You should talk to Stu about it.’
She didn’t care. She was pathetic. How many times had he tried to tell her how afraid he was? She was afraid of Dad too, that was the problem, and as soon as he’d developed muscles she’d left him to sort himself out. ‘You’re strong, darling, no need to worry. Your dad knows best.’ She was proud of Melanie – who was graduating with honours in a few weeks and who hadn’t been back to St Ives for two years – but she had no ambition for Eddie except to hope he was independent and making his way in the world.
‘I’m glad I’ll be here to cheer you on at the championships before I go back to Edinburgh,’ she said brightly. ‘I have a job in the castle for the summer, did I tell you? Melanie’s moving there when she starts work in the National Library, too. I’m thinking about getting a place and opening a B&B up there.’
Eddie didn’t care. The important thing was to get Saturday over.
‘I’ll bring him. That way, I’ll know he’ll arrive in a fit state to box,’ he told Stu, the Thursday before the competition.
Saturday morning saw them all set out together, bright and early. Eddie couldn’t remember when he’d last been on an outing with both parents. He flung his sports bag into the back seat and clambered in after it, hopeless dread filling every cell of his body. It could have been his own execution he was heading for. He had the muscles, the speed, the stamina – but he didn’t have what Stu called ‘the edge’. Having the edge meant you went out there and didn’t care about battering someone so hard you were injured and your opponent was half-killed. But that wasn’t what sport should be about, was it?
‘Big day, boy,’ said his father as they pulled away from St Ives. ‘It’s make or break time, so you make sure you smash it.’
His mother slotted a cassette into the radio. ‘I’ve found the perfect track for today. It’s one of my favourites.’
Simon and Garfunkel joined them in the car, la-la-la-ing about a stupid bloody boxer. His father guffawed as Mum sang along, and Eddie closed his eyes. A boxer… They were turning him into someone else and it was a battle he couldn’t win.
Stu appeared and whisked him away as soon as they arrived at the sports centre. ‘Come on – weigh-in and medical first. Got your protective gear? We’re in the West Hall.’ He slapped Eddie’s back and led him along a corridor ringing with kids and their trainers.
The changing room was a stuffy cavern of relative quiet. Eddie sat leaning against the wall, pinning the robe Stu had loaned him to his chest with one gloved-up hand while the other lay limply beside him. He had nothing to think about, this time was for waiting, like at the dentist’s. Stu reappeared with Norrie from the club, who was in for the Youth Cup. Eddie was a Junior, in the sixteen and seventeen-year-old category.
