“Sounds like a normal eighteen-year-old. Girl troubles, perhaps?”
“I wish,” Jo said. “That would mean he’d actually made an effort, bothered to go out, meet friends, socialize, be normal. He’s just spent all his time in his room on his computer the last few months.”
“Probably just a phase.” Lorraine looked at her sister, admired her deep blue eyes and glossy blond hair, and sighed. “But maybe he’s taken your separation harder than you thought. He is really close to Malc.”
Jo shifted uncomfortably. “I wondered about that too, but he was like that before Malc left.” She rubbed her eyes, and when she looked at Lorraine again, there was real fear in her face. “I often hear him crying,” she said. “Up in his room. Not just normal crying, but a deep, soul-ripping, aching crying.” There was a pause. “It scares me.” She paused again. “You know, after everything, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”
2
Freddie lugged Stella’s bag upstairs and left her to change. When she came down to the kitchen ten minutes later dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, he tossed a can of Coke at her, thinking how grown-up she looked. He watched as she held back her blond curls and drank.
“Are you sure you want to go out?” he asked. He wasn’t keen on taking her to the Manor. He had other things to do. He sighed and glanced at his watch. He had that stupid theater trip to worm out of too.
“What else is there to do around here?” she asked, shrugging.
“Nothing,” he replied, picking up an apple from the fruit bowl. He gave it to Stella when he saw the look on her face and took another for himself. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”
They left the house and headed off down the lane, Freddie with one hand thrust deep into his jeans pocket, striding off at speed. He heard Stella’s smaller footsteps struggling to keep up with him.
“I’m sorry you have to do this,” she called out.
He felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t want to be mean to her. She had no idea about all the crap on his mind.
“You don’t have to look after me,” Stella continued. “You can just leave me over there and I’ll sit in the bus stop for a bit if you like. Our mums won’t know.”
Freddie stopped and turned. He stared down at her through the frizzy tendrils of his unkempt bangs, watching as she fiddled with the cluster of bracelets on her wrist. He couldn’t prevent a halfhearted smile from forming. She was far from grown-up, he decided, and hoped she stayed that way. He’d hate to think of her dealing with problems like his.
“Don’t be daft,” he said in the kindest voice he could manage. “I needed to get out of the house.” He watched her for a moment before striding off again. “Come on, I’ll take you to see the horses. All girls like horses, don’t they?”
“Not really,” Stella muttered, running to keep up.
The entrance to the Manor was well hidden off the lane leading out of the village. It was opposite the church, tucked between two oak trees, and was heralded by a rather crooked and rotten five-bar gate, rather than anything grand like the house’s name suggested. The drive was a couple of hundred meters long and ended with a shabby little building made of pale red brick and a slate roof. Ivy was knitted into the mortar.
“It’s not very big,” Stella commented as they approached. “And it’s grotty.”
Freddie laughed. “That’s not the Manor, that’s just the old tack room. The stables are behind it and the main house is beyond that. It’s huge.”
“So no one lives in there then?” Stella said.
She walked up to the building and tried to peer in through the ground-floor window, but there were waist-high nettles growing in a skirt around the base, preventing her from getting close. She stood on tiptoe, moving her head from side to side, trying to get a better view through the dirty cobwebbed glass.
“Is it haunted?” she asked.
The look in her eyes made Freddie wish he were her age all over again.
He drew up beside her, putting on a scary voice. “They say someone who escaped from a mental hospital lives in there, that he’s a mad murderer.”
“Really?” Stella’s breath snagged in her throat.
Freddie didn’t get a chance to reply as a figure suddenly appeared from round the side of the ivy-clad building. He tensed but then relaxed when he saw who it was.
“Hi,” she said cheerily.
Seeing her, he felt a temporary wave of lightness. He’d hoped she’d be here. There were things they needed to discuss. He forced himself to speak, to stop staring at her, wondering what life would be like without all the shit going on.
“Hi, Lana,” he replied.
Stella was suddenly beside him, clearly intrigued by the older girl. He put a hand on one of her shoulders. “This is my cousin Stella,” he said, pushing his other hand into his pocket when his phone vibrated, feeling the familiar wave of nausea.
“Hello, cousin Stella,” Lana said. “I’m Lana, Freddie’s … friend.”
Freddie’s heart clenched. Had she been going to say girlfriend? They weren’t a couple, not really, not yet.
“Nice to meet you.” Stella offered her hand politely.
Freddie couldn’t help the grin of affection toward his little cousin. However indomitable and sometimes unapproachable his Aunty Lorraine had seemed over the years, she’d brought her daughters up right. He wondered if his mum sometimes got it wrong, that Lorraine wasn’t the powerhouse, the workaholic, the never-at-home mother she thought her to be. Surely Stella wouldn’t be so nice if that was true? He was still a bit wary of his aunt, though—she was a police detective, after all.
“How long are you staying in Radcote for?” Lana asked. She pulled out a packet of mints from her shorts pocket and offered them to Stella.
“A week,” Stella said, prying a mint from the tube.
“Do you like horses?” Lana said, slipping her arm through the crook of Stella’s.
“Love them,” Stella replied.
They walked off together, leaving Freddie standing alone. He sighed. There was no way they’d be able to talk now.
Stella glanced over her shoulder, beckoning Freddie on with her eyes.
They reached the paddock fence, and Freddie leaned on the wooden crossbar of the gate. He stared out across the Manor’s acreage. The level field was dotted with five or six horses and ponies, most with heads bowed, munching the lush grass. Stella squinted at them, her hand shielding her eyes from the bright sun. Two of the horses looked up and began slowly to plod over to where they were standing.
Freddie closed his eyes and finally dared to take his phone from his pocket. The messages were always similar. He wasn’t sure how much more of them he could take.
Beside him, Stella was looking at the Manor looming behind them in a great shadow of red brick, twirling tall chimneys, and gingery stone windows. He knew it was very different from her house in Birmingham. Lana lived a privileged life.
Freddie watched, pensively, as the bigger of the two horses—brown and white, with a stubbly beard and massive feet—approached, and Stella nervously stuck out her hand.
“It smells,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
A cluster of flies had followed the horse across the field, forcing the creature to swish its tail every few seconds and shake its head in annoyance. Stella suddenly retracted her outstretched fingers when it wrinkled its lips and threw back its head. It let out a fearsome noise.
“Oh, Bruce,” Lana said, laughing. “Stop being a grump.”
She removed the mints from her pocket again and levered several of them into her palm, which she held out flat for the horse to take. They were gone in a second. The horse head-butted the fence and scraped at the bare earth with his hoof.
While they were both preoccupied, Freddie took a deep breath and read the message, feeling sick. Would it ever stop?
“Are you OK, Freddie?” he vaguely heard Stella asking.
He was aware of the flush on his chee
ks, the tremor in his hands, as he put his phone away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he managed, catching sight of someone approaching.
A couple of crows clapped out of a nearby tree.
Stella and Lana turned.
“Hello, Gil,” Lana said affectionately in the same voice she’d used to speak to the horse. “How are you today?”
There was no reply.
Freddie noticed how Stella stepped back, pressing against the gate. Gil had come right up close, but it was as if he hadn’t even seen them. He approached the fence, squeezing between Lana and Stella, where both horses were idly scratching the wood with their foreheads. He stared across the field.
“He doesn’t always want to talk,” Lana explained to Stella. “Do you, Gil?”
Stella nodded nervously. Freddie wanted to tell her it was OK, Gil was harmless, but the text had knocked the air from his lungs.
Die, you useless fuck. Go kill yourself.
“But when he does …” Lana trailed off with a giggle. “He’s hard to stop.”
“Who are you?” Gil suddenly asked, staring at Stella. He sounded like a kid reading out loud to a teacher, even though he was an adult.
Stella recoiled visibly and looked at Freddie.
“She’s Freddie’s cousin, Gil,” Lana said, stepping in.
“Will you be my friend?” he asked Stella, shifting from one foot to the other. “Good,” he continued, even though Stella hadn’t replied. He stared down at the ground. “You’re my friend now and I am glad to have you as a friend because I don’t have very many.”
“Do you want to feed Bruce?” Lana asked him, going over to where the grass grew long just outside the reach of the horses’ mouths. She picked some, wincing as she bent down, and gave a handful to Gil.
“Shall we go now?” Freddie heard Stella ask. But he was looking at his phone again, wondering whether to reply, see if he could make them back off.
Gil fed the horse, then suddenly spun round and hurled himself at Stella. His arms went round her body, knocking her off balance and pushing her against the gate. Her eyes grew huge and she opened her mouth to scream.
Freddie dropped his phone and was immediately between them, fighting Gil off Stella, getting him in an armlock.
“I’m OK,” Stella said weakly, attempting a laugh. She was hugging herself.
Freddie saw the tears gathering in her eyes.
“Let him go, Freddie.” Lana pried Freddie’s arms off Gil. “He didn’t mean to scare her. He just gets overenthusiastic sometimes.”
Gil was clapping clumsily and nodding, unashamed by what he’d just done. He pulled at Bruce’s mane. “They say I’m bad but I’m not,” he said.
The horses kicked up their heels and galloped off across the field in a chain reaction of bucks and sideswipes. Gil turned and lumbered off down the path.
Freddie picked up his phone and put an arm around Stella. “You sure you’re OK?” he asked.
She nodded, sniffing back the tears.
Freddie ruffled her hair, fighting back his own tears, although for different reasons. “He could be the one, you know,” he whispered, in a spooky-film voice, forcing himself to be brighter for Stella’s sake. “The evil murderer who lives in the old tack room.”
“He’s not evil, you idiot,” Lana said immediately, but her words were obliterated by a sudden shriek from across the garden.
They all turned. Gil was crouching, spit frothing at the corners of his mouth. The muscles in his forearms stood out as if his limbs were attached to his shoulders by thick cords.
“I’m not a murderer!” he shouted. “I didn’t do it!”
Lana ran over to him.
Stella clung to Freddie, shaking.
“He was my friend but now he is dead. Don’t blame me! Don’t blame me!”
“No one’s blaming you for anything, Gil,” Lana said kindly. “Let’s get you inside.”
She led him off toward the house, looking back at Freddie briefly, allowing him to see the worry written all over her face.
Freddie didn’t know if he should go after her and help her or stay with Stella. In the end, he remained frozen, watching until they’d disappeared from sight, feeling even more useless than he already was.
3
Lorraine gave a little smile when she heard Stella’s gasp of delight. Her daughter had been looking forward to the play all week.
“Is that the place?” she asked as they viewed the wide red-brick building with its glass-topped tower sitting squarely beside the river. “Shakespeare’s theater?”
Stella had stopped in her tracks as they’d rounded the corner from Sheep Street. They’d just finished lunch in a quaint bistro housed in a beamy black-and-white-fronted Tudor building with a wonky roof and cobbled courtyard at the rear. It had prompted her to pour out everything she knew about the 1500s. She’d not visited Stratford-upon-Avon for a few years and, now that she was older and had studied the period at school, she was devouring the quirky old buildings that seeped history.
“It’s not Shakespeare’s theater as such,” Jo replied, “but it’s home to the Royal Shakespeare Company.” She wrapped her arm around her niece’s shoulders. “It opened in the nineteen thirties.”
Stella nodded and spouted off another stream of facts about Elizabethan times and the Globe Theatre in London, tumbling over her words until Jo had to stop her. “Come on or we’ll be late,” she said, laughing, leading Stella across the road.
Lorraine was pleased to see her daughter a bit more cheerful now. When Freddie had brought her back from the Manor earlier she’d seemed upset about something. Tearful, even. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it or say why, and Freddie hadn’t provided answers when asked. He’d just sloped off up to his room, saying he wouldn’t be coming to see the play. Jo had looked crestfallen.
The Royal Shakespeare Company theater dominated Waterside, appearing almost factory-like and urban since its refurbishment. The glass and brick was a fitting contrast, Lorraine thought as they climbed the steps, to the historic performances it housed. She loved seeing Stella so inspired and made a promise to book tickets more often.
“It’s going to be great,” Lorraine whispered once they were seated. “But you’ll have to concentrate.” She flipped through the program. “It’s not always easy to follow.”
“I’ll try,” Stella replied.
Lorraine felt a pang of satisfaction. She doubted that Grace would have shown much interest in seeing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, let alone sit still inside for several hours when the weather was so nice. Grace would be having a much better time at her athletics camp.
Moments later, the lights dimmed and three actors appeared on stage, their voices loud and commanding. Other characters entered across bridge-like walkways on either side of them, making Stella spin round in wonder, taking it all in. It was instantly magical; they felt as if they were part of the story in the intimate, tiered theater. Stella’s fingers crept onto Lorraine’s lap, clasping her hands. She looked across and winked at her daughter. It was a perfect way to spend an afternoon.
“MUM?” STELLA SAID when the play was over and they were outside. The sun flashed from behind huge white clouds that were reflected in the surface of the River Avon flowing slowly through the town. Brightly colored narrow boats were moored against the bank, several of them queuing to enter the lock. It was a colorful spectacle. “Was what happened to Pyramus and Thisbe in the play the same as what happened to that boy in Aunty Jo’s village?”
Stella stopped and turned round. The expanse of lawn ahead, cut up with neat block-paved pathways, was crammed with tourists crowding round a street performer. Lorraine noticed the look of wonder on her daughter’s face as she spotted the juggler’s fiery batons flying into the air. But then she looked back up at her mother and Lorraine recognized the telltale furrows of worry and inquisitiveness on her daughter’s brow. She put her arm round her slender shoulders and drew her close.
“What boy, love?”
>
“I know the story of Pyramus and Thisbe is a play within a play. But when Pyramus kills himself, thinking that a lion killed his girlfriend, and then she kills herself because she is so unhappy, is that like when suicide becomes contagious? Like what happened to that boy in Radcote? Will I catch it?” Stella tugged the strap of Lorraine’s shoulder bag. “Mum?”
Lorraine wanted to take a moment to think about this, to formulate a suitable reply. She didn’t know what to say.
“Anyway, I need the loo,” Stella said when Lorraine remained silent. “I’ll meet you over there in ten minutes.” She gestured toward a bench and walked briskly back toward the theater, leaving Lorraine grateful for the reprieve.
She waited for Jo, who was watching the juggler, to catch up. They walked on slowly together and sat down on the bench. The surrounding lawns were neatly mown and the sun was warm on their backs. A swarm of gnats hovered in the late-afternoon heat. It was a typical summer’s afternoon, perfect for a day of not thinking about work.
“Stella just asked something a bit odd,” Lorraine said, squinting at the waterfront, watching the tourists as they ambled alongside the river. She heard all kinds of accents, but mainly American and Japanese. She smiled to herself as a large coach party swapped cameras to get an assortment of shots.
“What’s she got on her mind now?” Jo said, smiling.
“It was a bit grim, actually. She was asking about suicide.” Lorraine paused. “And she mentioned Radcote.”
Jo sighed. “Welcome home.” The irony was palpable. “People haven’t forgotten yet.”
“But that was eighteen months ago, wasn’t it?”
The sudden cluster of teenage suicides had shocked the local community to the core. What had begun as a tragic, isolated death when a seventeen-year-old girl hanged herself in her bedroom quickly turned into front-page news when five more teenagers took their own lives in and around Radcote within the space of two weeks. Boys and girls alike; there was no sense to the terrible loss of life.
“It still seems like yesterday,” Jo said. “And do you want to know something?”
What You Left Behind Page 3
