What You Left Behind

by Samantha Hayes

I have a phone. It’s Lana’s old one and is really special and even though the screen is cracked it still works. I keep it in my pocket. My hand dives in there. It’s safe. Tony would be cross if I lost it.

  “Tonight?” Lana says, turning away to sniff. She holds a tissue to her nose. “For fuck’s sake, be careful.” Then she is silent, listening to the other person.

  I wonder if I should phone Lana and talk to her. Sometimes I do. Hello, I say to her. How are you today? And she replies that she’s OK, thanks, even though I know she’s not. We like to chat on the phone. I like phoning people but I didn’t call the police when Dean died because Tony had taken my phone away for a whole week as punishment for spying through the windows. He said next time I did something bad he would take my pencils away too so I just keep it all in my head now.

  “OK,” Lana says. “I already told you a thousand times, I don’t know for certain. It was really quick. I just feel so wretched and miserable. Let me know. Yeah, OK. Bye.”

  It’s hard to see things very well with only one eye peeking above the sill, but when Lana is finished on the phone she stands up and pulls her T-shirt off over her head. She is wearing a white bra and her skin looks butter-icing soft. I bite my teeth together as my one eye lets me have a little look. It’s OK to do this, I think, because it’s Lana and it’s only the one eye and I’m not actually in her room. She turns round just as her bra falls to the floor and then she disappears into her bathroom. I clap my hands together a little bit, not too loudly, and when I hear the shower begin to flow I climb down off the roof.

  I go back to the tack room. I like it in here. It’s my house. When Tony and I were little we used to play in here and get scared. Tony says it will do me good to live in here and then he made it nice for me with a kitchen and a sofa and a bed upstairs. I try to keep it clean and tidy, but sometimes Sonia has to help me sort it out.

  “What you need,” she tells me, “is a wife, young Gil.”

  That makes me grin. I would like a wife but have to get a girlfriend before I can do that. I would like to go on a date with someone. I can’t ask people like Lana out on a date because she is my niece. Tony says her friends are too young to go on a date with me, even though they are nice and pretty like Lana. I have to find someone my own age because that is the right way to do things. We could go for a picnic or go to the cinema. I wouldn’t hold hands on the first date. I have looked for a girlfriend in the New Hope shelter. There are sometimes nice ones staying there.

  I put the television on and decide to do some drawing. I like drawing and keep my art things in a huge plastic storage box under the steps that lead up to my loft. Things don’t always want to be tidy in it. Sometimes it’s in a jumble, like now. When I open the lid of the tub, I see the plastic thing that I found after the crash happened. I had to keep it secret so I hid it in here. No one knows I’ve got it. I don’t know what to do with it. I’m scared it was stealing and Tony says that stealing’s wrong.

  Then I have a special idea.

  10

  Freddie listened to their happy banter, the thoughtless clattering as they came in through the front door, and the slightly tipsy laughs of his mother and aunt as they reminisced about sneaking in late as teenagers. He felt the burning in his gut, the familiar rush of his heart.

  Soon it would be him sneaking out.

  He stared at his computer screen—all he seemed to do these days. The vitriol blurred into a mash of hatred, today’s new comments blending in with the old. He reckoned part of him was going numb, not caring what they did anymore. How could he feel any worse?

  He allowed his head to drop forward onto the desk, letting out a sigh he felt he’d been holding all his life.

  Someone was coming. He heard fast footsteps on the old wooden stairs, followed by slightly slower ones. “Night, night,” he heard his mum say to Stella. Then there was a tap on his door, before it opened. Freddie sat up and switched screens to a music website. He casually looked up from his computer, forcing a halfhearted smile.

  “Hi, darling,” she said. “You missed a great meal at the pub.”

  Freddie shrugged. “Oh,” he said. He managed a glance at her, noticed the sideways tip of her head, the little frown at the top of her nose.

  “Lana was there,” she said hopefully.

  Freddie nodded. Once, he would have been interested to know the details. Now, he was just relieved that he’d got out of going to the stupid pub.

  “Freddie …” His mum let out a little sigh.

  “Yeah?” Freddie tapped a pen on his desk.

  “Nothing. Night.” She shut the door quietly.

  He heard her footsteps retreat, slower now, mirroring the ache he knew she carried inside. The low mumbles of his aunt’s and mum’s voices in the kitchen below filled his head as he went back to the other website, tormenting himself, going over and over all the crap.

  He glanced at his watch. Not long now.

  CURSING EVERY STAIR, every floorboard, every door handle and hinge, he crept from his bedroom. After each seemingly deafening sound he paused, held his breath in the darkness to see if anyone had stirred. He guided himself through the house he knew so well by memory and the faint silver haze of moonlight coming through the small windows. Everyone stayed asleep.

  One cautious step after another led him to the kitchen back door. The gravel in the yard seemed to crunch louder than ever, making him think he’d wake the whole village. He’d put on his dark sweatshirt, even though he knew it was a sticky night, and pulled up the hood to hide his distinctive hair.

  He’d had the good sense to get his bike out of the garage earlier, leave it propped in the gap behind the shed. The lanes seemed silvery, ghostly, as he pedaled hard, leaving Radcote behind him. He panted along the deserted road, his heart feeling as if it might stop completely from fear. What if someone saw him? What if he got caught and had to explain everything? But he kept going, the empty pack on his back slapping against his ribs as he cycled onward.

  Blackdown Woods was about fifteen minutes away on a bike, but he’d forgotten the couple of hills that could delay him. Sweat began to soak into his top as he struggled up the inclines. What if Lenny grew impatient and didn’t wait? He might get twitchy, think it was a setup, and leave. Freddie pedaled harder, wishing he’d brought some water.

  He passed the remains of the small floral shrine at the site where Dean had killed himself. He’d not really known him, just seen him around at the shelter when Lana was working there. Lenny had been mates with him, though, each of them sharing the same desolate future with New Hope being their only hope.

  It scared him that he understood why Dean had done it.

  The woods spanned a broad crescent of countryside south of Radcote, bordering the mainline railway to London. His mum had often told him stories of how she and Aunty Lorraine had played down there, taken picnics to the woods, made dens and campfires right next to the tracks, even though they’d been warned not to. He’d always kept out of the woods when he was younger. He knew the bad kids from school went down there, threw stuff onto the tracks, daubed graffiti on the metal fence on the other side of the line. There was an old workers’ hut, long since disused, where they went to smoke pot, take drugs, get pissed. He’d discovered it a couple of years ago, when he was out walking their old Airedale, Ringo. He wondered if that had been the start, when he’d spotted them at it, beating that other kid. He’d turned a blind eye, never said a word, but it was soon after that the shit had started.

  It was where Lenny had said they should meet. The old hut in the woods.

  FREDDIE HID HIS bike behind some bushes, sinking it into the bracken. He hoped he’d remember where he’d left it later, having decided to take the field entrance into the woods. It was farther on, but he preferred to clamber over the fence rather than enter from the road. He couldn’t risk being seen. Several cars had already gone past, and he’d seen one parked up in the rest area a hundred meters or so back. Probably a couple making out, he g
uessed, deciding not to look.

  He skirted the perimeter of the wheat field, the tall, nearly ripe ears of corn whipping at his thighs. The woods cast a thick shadow, protecting him from the pale moonlight, which was conveniently dimming as clouds gathered. He took one look back to where he’d hidden his bike before leaping over the fence and disappearing into darkness. It was as if the trees had swallowed him up.

  He was pretty sure of the route to the hut, having walked it many times with Ringo. He felt determined to get what he’d come for. He was doing this for Lana. They’d scraped together the fifty quid Lenny was demanding, knowing he’d spend it all on weed. But that was up to him. He’d taken the risk, after all. He must be scared, Freddie reckoned, wanting to meet all the way out here. The money Lenny wanted was safe in his back pocket and it suddenly seemed a small price to pay.

  Freddie froze.

  A twig had cracked. Somewhere behind him. He looked back the way he’d come but the field wasn’t visible anymore. The trees and undergrowth were too thick. This place was more disorienting than he remembered, especially at night. He suddenly felt a chill.

  “Len?” he called out, hating that his voice wavered.

  No reply. No sounds now at all.

  He crept forward a few more paces, his mouth dry and his head pounding from worry. “Stop being stupid,” he whispered to himself. He held on to the straps of the empty pack on his back.

  Then the noise again. There was definitely someone there.

  Freddie darted sideways and hid down behind a tree stump, listening to his own breathing rasping in and out of his tight throat. After a few more minutes of silence, when his watch showed five past midnight, he decided to press on toward the hut. He didn’t want to miss Lenny. It must have just been a fox. He still kept glancing over his shoulder, though, squinting back at the route he’d take if he had to run for it.

  The hut was smaller than he remembered, dilapidated, the wooden door hanging off its hinges and half the roof missing. It was barely visible here in the thickest part of the woods. It was only a short distance from the railway line but hadn’t been used by railway workers in decades. He couldn’t see Lenny, although he supposed he could be inside, so he went closer to take a look. An owl hooted directly overhead, making him jump sideways. He stubbed his foot on a jutting rock and grunted in pain.

  The owl hooted again.

  Taking hold of the old door, Freddie creaked it open. “Lenny, mate. You here?” he whispered loudly into the hut. If anyone else had been in there, lads hanging out, smoking, drinking, they’d surely have answered by now.

  But no one was there. Not even Lenny.

  A sound. Fuck! Someone was there.

  Freddie ran through the dry undergrowth and hurled himself down behind a bush, thirty feet or so away from the hut. He cursed his loud panting. What the hell was Lenny thinking, meeting out here at this time of night? He could virtually taste his own heart, it was leaping so far up his throat.

  “Oi, Freddie, is that you? I got what you wanted.”

  The familiar sound of Lenny’s voice approaching caused Freddie almost to laugh out loud with relief. It had been him all along. Thank God. Slowly, he stood up from his hiding place and waited for him to catch up so he could do the deal and get the hell out of there. He’d had enough of this bloody wood for one night.

  Lenny came into view. Freddie was about to reveal himself, maybe give him a bit of a fright in return by grabbing him, when a figure leaped out of nowhere onto Lenny’s back and pulled him to the ground.

  It happened so quickly. Freddie heard angry grunts from Lenny as he fought off his attacker. A second later and Lenny was upright again, scrambling for balance, arms flailing, taking off in the direction where Freddie was hiding. He was fast. The other person chased after him, yelling out in a fearsome, unintelligible growl, as Lenny streaked past, his assailant only a few seconds behind.

  Freddie didn’t know what to do. His fingers danced over the screen of his phone in his pocket, but he was too terrified to use it in case the other man heard the beeps or spotted the glow. Turning slightly, shaking, he watched as Lenny was tackled to the ground again. The other man was on top of him now, thumping him with all his strength. “Oyyy!” came Lenny’s agonized cry as his head smacked against the ground. Freddie could almost feel the vibrations as the man pounded him with his right fist, over and over again, sending Lenny’s skull thumping to the ground every time he tried to get up.

  He had to do something! It was his fault they were here after all, his fault for telling Lenny to steal the computer.

  Freddie crept forward, praying that Lenny’s attacker wouldn’t hear his advance. But then he saw the man grab a rock and smash it down on Lenny’s face until it was bloody. Even in the dim moonlight he could see that Lenny had no chance of escape now, and if he went to help, he’d get beaten to a pulp too. The man was big and broad, would easily overpower him. Freddie couldn’t make out the features on his face, and he suddenly realized why—he was wearing a balaclava. Apart from black-and-white stripy cuffs poking out from the sleeves of his dark top, the man was shrouded in darkness. Unidentifiable.

  Freddie wanted to throw up, and pressed his hand over his mouth to quash the gagging sounds, even though there was little chance of being heard over Lenny’s shrieks. The man just sat on him, pinning him down, thrashing the rock at him—on his head, neck, chest, everywhere. It wasn’t long before Lenny’s desperate attempts to free himself lessened, and his body went still.

  There was nothing Freddie could do.

  The man grunted and stood up, wiping his forearm across his balaclava, shaking out his shoulders. He then stamped around the area, making guttural noises with every step, scuffing the undergrowth with his foot. Seconds later, a beam of light shone out from waist height.

  Shit. He’s got a flashlight.

  Slowly, quietly, Freddie made his way back to the bush and sank behind it. The man was coming his way. If he ran, he’d be caught, just like Lenny. If he stayed put, the flashlight would pick him out.

  He wasn’t even aware of throwing the rock, making it smack against a tree trunk on the other side of the hut. The beam of light quickly swung round to where the noise had come from, then went down to Lenny, caught the twitch of his leg as he spasmed.

  The man grunted again, satisfied, and resumed his search, this time closer to the hut.

  After a few moments, when he’d found nothing, he beat his fist hard against the hut door, which fell from its hinges and dropped to the ground. Several night animals screeched in the distance.

  And then another sound, causing Freddie’s heart to leap, his breath to stop. The noise from the phone was shrill and clear, piercing the darkness with an out-of-place jazz piano ringtone.

  It wasn’t his. Shaking with relief, tears welling in his eyes, he watched the man silence the call before making his way back to Lenny and picking up the pack that had fallen at his side. He tipped the contents out, and swore gruffly again. He gathered up the items, shoved them back in the bag, then paused for a few moments, as if he was thinking.

  Freddie couldn’t see what the man was doing as he was facing away from him, crouching down, hunched over, the flashlight beam shielded by his back. After a few more seconds he put something else in the bag and slung it onto his back. Then he hefted Lenny’s limp body over his shoulder. Stuff came out of Lenny’s mouth and Freddie could see that his arms were outstretched, as if he was reaching for help.

  The man lumbered off in the direction of the railway embankment.

  This was Freddie’s chance to escape. Slowly, his knees stiff from crouching, he stood up and took a couple of steps from behind the bush. He could just make out the diminishing light beam as it disappeared down the slope toward the tracks. It was now or never. He ran for it.

  He stifled the shriek as pain seared through his ankle and up his leg. Before he knew it, he was flat on his face, dirt in his mouth.

  Fuck!

  His foot was
caught in something—he’d gone down barely five strides from the bush. He turned, saw the white of a plastic bag handle trapped around his sneaker. Reaching to unhook it, he felt something weighty inside. He opened the bag. It was the laptop.

  Scrambling upright, clutching the computer to his chest, he spotted a jumping, zigzagging light cutting through the trees at speed. The man must have heard him fall. Freddie reckoned he only had about a five-second lead.

  He started to run as fast as he could, but almost immediately his hoodie got tangled in thorns. He wriggled out of it in a flash and was soon leaping over stumps and fallen branches, smashing his way through the undergrowth, tearing back toward where he thought he’d left his bike. But he’d obviously got it wrong. As he turned round and round, trying to get his bearings, the flashlight struck him full on.

  The man was just a shadow behind the beam, but he’d seen Freddie. Seen the look of horror on his face as he searched for his bike, then turned and fled for his life.

  11

  Lorraine didn’t have a clue what it was at first as Stella held out the item, pushing it toward her until she took it. The odd-shaped curve of tinted plastic was scratched and flecked with dried mud. At either side were holes, presumably where fixings had once been. They were both cracked.

  “Thanks, love,” Lorraine muttered as Stella went outside.

  Jo looked up from the pile of sandwiches she was cutting for their lunchtime picnic. “What on earth is it?”

  “Gil said I had to give it to you,” Stella yelled back from the garden. “When I saw him in the village earlier.”

  Jo squinted at the item. “Poor Gil. I feel sorry for him sometimes.”

  Lorraine was about to ask why, but Stella came running back inside, through to the hallway, returning a moment later. “He told me to give you this as well,” she said breathlessly. “It’s horrid but amazing.”

  Lorraine unrolled the sheet of A4 paper. The lines didn’t resolve immediately, but when they did she wasn’t sure what to be more shocked by first, the sublime quality of the pencil drawing or its subject matter.