“She’s back at Jo’s house, Gil,” Lorraine replied, wishing she hadn’t. “Is your cat stuck?”
“No,” said Gil. “I am watching to see if he jumps and dies.”
Jo shot Lorraine a look. They didn’t think the cat would leap to its death but both were unnerved by Gil’s lack of concern if it did.
“Would you like to see my drawings?” he asked. A grin spread across his face.
“We need to get going,” Jo said under her breath.
“I’ve got lots and lots,” he said, walking off toward the tack room.
The door to the little building was open and Lorraine could see that it looked quite cozy inside, if rather dark because of the ivy that had partially obscured the window. Gil stopped and turned, framed by the doorway.
“The motorbike helmet visor was in the grass where Dean’s girlfriend fell off the bike but now the helmet’s broken and nothing can be fixed anymore not anything not even Dean.” Gil was looking at Lorraine again, and she noticed how his pale blue eyes were transformed to navy in the shadow of a cedar tree.
“I’d love to see your drawings, Gil,” she said, ignoring Jo’s heavy sigh and following him inside.
It was nicer than Lorraine was expecting. Someone, no doubt Sonia, had gone to some trouble furnishing the place and making sure Gil had everything he needed to live comfortably. It reminded her of a place she’d once rented years ago.
“I draw everything,” Gil said.
He held out a glass of water to Lorraine, then poured another for Jo. They each drank some so as not to offend him.
“You have an amazing talent,” Lorraine said.
The table was covered with his work, ranging in size from small scraps of paper with minute drawings to poster-sized creations and half-finished works that seemed almost life-sized.
“Do you only draw things that you’ve seen?”
For a moment, Gil appeared puzzled, but then a grin spread across his face. “Yes, but I see everything,” he said, shuffling through the stack of papers. He pulled out a drawing and handed it to Lorraine.
She gasped. Stella was staring back at her from a large sheet of drawing paper, peeking coyly out from behind a big tree. There were other trees and bushes all around her. If Lorraine hadn’t been slightly disturbed by this man having such an interest in her daughter, she’d have asked to keep it—or buy it. It was certainly worthy of framing and hanging on the wall.
“Why did you draw this?” Lorraine asked.
“Because she is my friend,” Gil said honestly. “Do you like the woods?” he asked. “I have drawn Stella in the woods because I like the woods and I’d like to take Stella there to play hide-and-seek but I would let her win so don’t worry.” He laughed before gulping down half a glass of water.
“What else do you like to draw?” Lorraine asked, aware that Jo was looking out the window as a car went off down the drive.
“I like drawing cars and trains and airplanes.” Gil knocked some of his drawings onto the floor before plucking out several others. “I go walking and I see things,” he said proudly.
In one of the sketches the train was modern and flashed diagonally across the page, as if it would burst from the paper with a blare of its horn. There were several other precise drawings of trains, all speeding through the countryside as if they’d been photographed from above.
“Oh, that’s my car,” Lorraine said in surprise, looking at another picture. “You can even see my registration number.”
“I like to draw cars but trains are my favorite,” Gil said, clapping his hands and snatching the pictures back from Lorraine. “But it’s a secret right? Just like Dean’s girlfriend and the helmet.” His face was suddenly swept with a concerned expression. “You won’t tell, will you?”
Lorraine stared at him. Tiny beads of sweat had erupted on his forehead.
“No, Gil,” she said thoughtfully. “I won’t tell.”
15
Freddie was sweating. An uncomfortable layer of moisture coated his face as he helped Lana make the beds at New Hope. His muscles felt weak and his legs and back ached. He’d come to talk to her, not change sheets.
Lana stopped what she was doing, put her hands on her hips. “Have you heard a word I’ve said, Freddie?” She shoved a pillowcase at him.
He nodded weakly.
“Mum said to me, ‘You are not going and that’s final,’ as if I’m a little kid. We were grooming the horses first thing and she just put her foot down. It’s getting worse. She never lets me do anything anymore. Apart from work here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was. Lana deserved better.
He stared at her through aching eyes.
Two nights had passed since Lenny’s attack, and he’d not slept a wink. Instead he’d lain, fully clothed, on top of his bed, haunted by the memory of the thud-thud of footsteps behind him, the rasping breath of his assailant ringing in his ears as he’d run in terror, not caring where he ended up. Somehow, several hours later, he’d got back to Radcote, still clutching the laptop, but he hadn’t since dared go back to find his bike. It could rot wherever he’d left it for all he cared.
“So I guess I have to resign myself to a life of solitude,” Lana said, snapping out a fresh-smelling sheet.
“You’ll be off to university in September,” Freddie said. He’d no doubt still be stuck in Radcote, the void of his life stretching before him. “You’ll have a great time.”
Lana stared at him—Freddie couldn’t read the odd look she gave him—and then chucked a pillow at his chest.
“Mum thinks I’m going to die of a drug overdose if I go to Tammy’s party,” she continued. “Any party. She thinks all my friends are bad influences and will convert me into a crack addict before I know it. She’s completely paranoid about me falling in with the wrong people, getting myself a police record, making it impossible to go to med school when they CRB-check me.”
Freddie noticed a glint of tears in Lana’s eyes. He recognized her frustration, understood it completely. He suffered the same emotion every waking moment, even more so now. For a second he wondered if she would understand if he told her—told her everything, from the horror he’d seen the other night to the creeps that made every day of his life unbearable. There was a chance it would bring them closer.
His mouth opened, and Lana glanced at him expectantly, but he quickly closed it again. What was he thinking?
“I’ve got the computer,” he said instead. It was what he’d come to tell her, after all.
He looked around the big hall furtively.
Lana stopped tucking in the sheet, straightened up, and came round to his side of the bed. “You have?”
He could smell the zesty scent of her shampoo as she pulled back her hair.
“So now what do we do?”
Freddie shrugged. “I don’t know,” he whispered. It was the truth. Whatever else was going on in his life, however much he needed to tell someone about the wretched texts and shit online, he mustn’t tell her what he’d seen on Monday night. He could hardly bring himself to even think about it, let alone involve Lana. He’d texted Lenny just in case he was still alive somewhere, but there’d been no reply.
“Have you had a chance to look at it?”
Freddie shook his head. He’d stared at the laptop, certainly. Spent hours staring at its shiny lid, wondering what secrets it contained. Lana’s claims weren’t to be taken lightly—both their lives would be affected by this. It’s why they’d decided to take it in the first place. The only good thing, as far as Freddie could see, was that they’d been brought closer because of it.
“I will soon,” Freddie said quietly. “But you know, it’s going to be hard. I’ll have to do a bit of techie stuff. It takes time.”
Lana nodded. That was the thing about her. She was always so understanding, so accommodating.
Freddie felt the buzz of his phone in his back pocket. He slipped it out, read the message, shoved it away again.
“Are you OK?” Lana asked.
“Yeah,” he retorted, instantly regretting his tone. It was hardly her fault, the light-headedness the texts gave him, the feelings of sheer terror.
“I’ve been worried about you recently. You’ve not been yourself. I know what I told you about the computer is hard to swallow, but there’s something else. I feel—”
“Look, just shut up, will you?” Freddie wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. “I did what you wanted, got the laptop, so just, like, forget it, will you? I’ll call you if I find anything.”
Lana folded her arms. She stared at him, the camp bed like a mountain between them. “I don’t get you, Freddie Curzon. Not one bit.” She shook her head, waited a moment for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she gathered up an armful of dirty laundry and went off to the kitchen, leaving Freddie with an empty, sinking feeling deep in his chest.
He was a loser. Just like they’d said.
He slumped down onto the bunk and dropped his head into his hands.
Someone came out of the kitchen and walked up to him. He was going to apologize, tell her he was sorry, that there was loads of stuff on his mind, but when he looked up Frank was standing there. Freddie’s spine stiffened.
“You two planning on coming to Tammy’s gathering later?”
Freddie wasn’t sure if he was about to get a warning or if Frank was trying to be nice. He’d heard Lana speak about him once or twice in uncertain terms, as if she never knew which way to take him. He reckoned he’d be wary, stay on the safe side.
“I don’t know,” he replied. He hated that his voice sounded lame next to Frank’s. “I don’t think Lana’s allowed, and I’m pretty tired.”
Frank stared down at him. He was holding a toolbox in one hand, a metal one like Freddie had seen plumbers use. “Just saying, you know, lad. Tammy’s a good girl.” He stared at Freddie for a moment longer, then walked away down the hall. A quick glance back over his shoulder unnerved Freddie even more.
“What was that about?” Lana said, returning to the bunk. She looked pale.
Freddie shook his head. “Nothing much. Just about Tammy’s party.”
“It would freak me out to have a dad like him.” She sat down on the bunk next to Freddie. “Anyway, forget that. Frank just told me something terrible when I was in the kitchen.”
Freddie wondered whether he should put his arm round her shoulders.
“There’s been another suicide.” She gave a little choke, looked directly at him. “Oh my God, Freddie, I don’t believe it.”
“Who? When?” He was conscious of his voice squeaking.
“Lenny. They’re saying that Lenny killed himself. The story’s been going around since yesterday.” Lana leaned in closer. “You don’t think we … you don’t think it’s our fault, do you?”
Then her head was bowed, pressing against his shoulder. He felt the electric shock of her touch in every part of his body.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, although it felt as if his mouth wasn’t working. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood. “Lenny killed himself?” He didn’t know what to say. Nothing made sense.
“That’s what Frank just told me.” Lana pulled a tissue from her pocket. “He says it probably won’t be reported in the papers much because of what happened round here before.”
“Bloody hell.”
“And with Dean killing himself so recently, they don’t want it kicking off again. Oh God, what’s going on, Freddie? Was it because we got him to steal the computer? I really wish we hadn’t now. We could have got it another way.”
Freddie put his hand on Lana’s head and stroked her hair. It was soft and shiny, but he hardly felt it, barely appreciated it.
“No, no, it’s not our fault,” he said, trying to sound as soothing as he could. He needed time to work this out. “Lenny was always after money, ducking and diving. He said I’d done him a favor, asking him to take it.”
He stared around New Hope in a daze. He’d seen Lenny’s head being pulped with a rock. He had to confess what had happened. Something this big couldn’t sit inside him. He’d witnessed a murder, and he’d run away like a coward. Why hadn’t he gone back and helped his mate?
Then the enormous rotten hole those bastards had carved out over the months opened up inside him and swallowed the secret back down. No, he thought, he had to hold on to this shit. How could he possibly tell anyone what he’d seen? He was as guilty as Lenny’s killer. They were right: he was a loser and deserved to rot in hell.
Freddie’s eyes filled with tears as Frank stared at him through the kitchen hatch.
THAT EVENING, HIS mum, all cheery and excited, dragged him downstairs to greet his Uncle Adam, who’d just arrived from Birmingham. He’d taken the first opportunity to slope back up to his room once the chitchat was out of the way. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his uncle, far from it, but the thought of making small talk—lying about how he was, how he thought he’d done on his exams, what he was up to this summer with his mates—was frankly nauseating. Adam was another cop, after all, and he knew from the stories Lorraine had told him that cops had a way of sniffing things out—things like the nature of Lenny’s death in particular.
Anyway, they were all chattering away about some stupid canal boat trip and other stuff that he wanted nothing to do with. How could he get excited about anything ever again when he felt like this?
He sat down at his desk and folded his arms, rocking slightly in his chair. His head ached and his eyes throbbed. He stared at his bed, knowing what was underneath the mattress. It wasn’t a very good hiding place, he knew that, but he didn’t want to keep the laptop for long. He wanted shot of it. Since he had learned that Lenny was dead, it suddenly seemed tainted, dangerous even.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. Everyone downstairs was preoccupied, and he doubted they would disturb him until it was time to go out. They’d been invited to the Hawkeswells’ for a barbecue, but he couldn’t face an evening of socializing, even if it did mean a couple of hours in Lana’s company.
He lifted up the corner of his mattress, stuck in his hand, and pulled out the silver laptop. He put it on the desk, opened up the lid, and turned it on. His stomach churned as he checked that his door was firmly closed. A peal of laughter wound up the stairs, making him feel even more wretched about being miserable and alone.
A moment later and the screen was glowing in front of him. Once he’d hacked through the password, he saw loads of icons displayed on the desktop, some familiar, some not. What he was looking for wouldn’t be obvious, cleverly tucked away in a hidden file or emailed to a secret address no doubt. Lana had described what she’d glimpsed; apart from the unpleasant details, she’d said there were many windows open within some kind of photo-viewing software. It wasn’t much to go on, but Freddie set to work, beginning by trawling through recently opened files.
Fifteen fruitless minutes later there was a knock at his bedroom door. He slammed the laptop shut and threw his robe over the top of it. When he opened the door, Stella was standing there, a grin cutting across her rosy-cheeked face.
“Are you coming then or what?” she said. “Mum sent me to get you.”
Freddie felt drunk from staring at all the files, from delving into the private workings of someone else’s life. He actually quite liked Lana’s dad and felt bad, as if he’d crept into his bedroom in the middle of the night and rifled through his personal possessions. But he quickly reminded himself that he was doing it for Lana’s sake as well as his, and he just had to get it over with. They needed the truth. So far, he’d found nothing out of the ordinary.
“Sorry, Stell,” he replied. He didn’t want to be mean to his cousin. “I really don’t feel like coming.”
He heard his mother’s voice ring up the stairs, echoing what Stella had said. She shrugged, looking at him imploringly.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just came along?” she whispered.
> “No,” Freddie said quietly.
He knew he couldn’t lump all his troubles on her, but he reckoned she’d been astute and picked up on something because she nodded obligingly and walked off, leaving him with a gentle pat on the arm. To keep his mother off his back, he yelled down the stairs that he would be along later, that he was just chatting to a mate online.
Another ten minutes after that he heard them all go out and the house fell silent. Freddie turned back to the computer, but the power was getting low and he didn’t have a charger to fit it. Anyway, he wasn’t in the mood anymore. Searching through someone else’s private stuff just felt wrong, even if there was a good reason. All he’d found were innocent family photographs, some personal letters, and a few medical articles.
He shoved the computer back under the mattress and grabbed the A4 pad from his bedside drawer. He’d started the letter a couple of weeks ago and never got round to finishing it. But it had made him feel a tiny bit better, writing down all his troubles, his worries, his fears and anxieties. It was addressed to his mum, but that didn’t mean she was ever going to get it. God, no. It was just something he’d seen on a bullying forum, about how writing a letter to someone you love could, eventually, help you speak up or feel better. Freddie thought he would give it a try. He was desperate, after all.
The text woke him. The pad was lying on his chest and the pen had fallen from his hand. Instantly the sick feeling lurched in the pit of his belly. He pulled his phone from his back pocket, sat up, blinked several times to clear his sight, and read it.
“Shit, no,” he said out loud, his heart hammering in his chest.
He got up from his bed and stood in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do. It was the worst message yet. As far as he could see, there was only one way out for him now.
16
Lorraine had called Adam as soon as she’d got back from telling Sonia about Lenny’s death. Although she wasn’t certain of his plans for the next few days, she hoped he could come to Radcote. She missed him.
What You Left Behind Page 12
