by Paul Kane
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked her again.
“Oh, yeah…” She looked at him with those blue eyes. “I am. Just thinking about, well, y’know.”
“I do,” he told her.
“What do you think will happen to them?”
“If there’s any justice, the judge will lock ’em up and throw away the key,” Hammond answered. Incredibly, all three of the Tyrells had survived what happened, though with extensive injuries. Diana would never walk again, he’d been told, and there was a certain kind of justice in that alone. He just wished it was all three of them. Hammond put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll make sure of it,” he promised her, knowing that with both their testimonies it should be enough to see the trio put away for life.
Then they could get on with their own lives. Maybe marry, have kids someday? They were subjects he hadn’t dared broach, but he would, when the time was right; he wouldn’t put things off again. Ella had enough on her mind for the time being, though; enough on her plate. She’d get through it, of course. She was strong, tough. Actually, they’d both get through it as a couple.
“Come on,” she said, starting to walk again, and he fell in step at the side of her. “You can buy me an ice cream.”
He chuckled. “With pleasure.” And as they walked, he took one last look over his shoulder. Two sets of footprints, side-by-side. But if Ella happened to get tired, or her leg was aching, Hammond would pick her up and carry her in his arms. Then there would be only one pair.
Because then, as always from this point on, after the trials and suffering were behind them, they would still be together.
They would be one.
The End
Who’s Been…?
Walking; it was the one thing she could do.
It was the one aspect of her life she could control, that was totally hers. Outside, no one could tell her where she should be going, what she should be doing, or even when. It was a little taste of freedom in an otherwise stifling and claustrophobic world. So Hannah walked, and she walked.
Away from the estate where she lived, away from her “home” in the flats, away from her school… away from her life. A life she’d grown weary of, had learnt to fear and loathe. For her, waking up in the morning – that’s if she could even get to sleep the night before – was like having a loaded handgun jammed into her face. And all the time she was waiting for it to go off, for the bang as the bullet entered her brain: although it would probably be a relief when she could feel no more. For Hannah, nightmares weren’t something that came in her sleep. It was the burden of existing that was the real nightmare, of going through this… this sham of a life day after day. Miserable, often terrified, her self-esteem flickering like a mirage in the desert.
At 13 it shouldn’t be like this. Worry and pain and depression were things that came later in your life, weren’t they? These were her childhood years, Hannah should be enjoying them, relishing every single moment so that she could look back on them when she was old and smile to herself. Childhood, that was a joke! She’d never had what anyone would describe as a proper childhood, having been subjected to life’s cruelties from an early age. Dragged up rather than nurtured and protected.
When she compared some of the other kids’ backgrounds to her own… Okay maybe the idealised happy family with mother, father and a couple of adorable bambinos in tow wasn’t the norm around where she lived – in fact to spot one was akin to seeing a unicorn trotting down the high street followed by a couple of dodos bringing up the rear – but a lot of the children were happy. If they couldn’t find comfort and joy at home, and it was surprising how many supposedly dysfunctional clans actually provided this, then they sought it in gangs, hanging around outside corner shops or clumps of communal garages, or even down at the local park – which these days could only boast a skeletal swing frame, a roundabout that didn’t go round anymore, and a set of monkey bars not even a trained chimpanzee would be seen dead hanging from. And though they were loud and often wild, most of these groups weren’t “up to no good”. Contrary to popular belief not all of them were getting high sniffing glue, wrecking public property or having underage sex. They were simply doing what kids had done for generations. Keeping the boredom at bay, and extending or expanding the social circles that were drawn in the school playground: filling the gaps that text messages left behind.
If Hannah had only been given this to fall back on, then maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone in the universe. So alone and so misunderstood. She could never find solace at her school – the teachers thought she was “strange”, the other pupils called her names and played cruel practical jokes on her, sensing easy prey in their midst. Children have a kind of sixth sense when it comes to the insecurities of others, and they have an in-built compulsion to take advantage of those who are different. From day one Hannah had started off as an outsider, quiet and shy, unable to make any friends, and this situation had only escalated as the years wore on.
And why was she so “strange,” so quiet in the first place? If the teachers had bothered to look into it more closely they might have uncovered the truth of the situation. Or perhaps they knew already but chose to ignore it because of all the trouble it would cause; because it was easier to turn a blind eye; because there was always the risk of being sued if you got it wrong (it wasn’t wrong, it wasn’t wrong). In this day and age where a child’s welfare was supposed to be of paramount importance, some cases still slipped through the cracks. Suffering still went on unchecked.
Not that Hannah particularly wanted anybody to investigate. She had no great desire to be taken away by social workers. To live in a home or with foster parents, with strangers, for that’s surely what would happen if her circumstances at the flat ever came to light.
No, all she wanted, all she ever prayed for, was normality – whatever that meant anymore. For a family where the mother didn’t drink herself stupid most nights and puke her guts up in the toilet, before taking out her frustrations on her only daughter…
“Do you know… Look at me, I could’ve been someone if I hadn’t got knocked up with you!”
For a home where there wasn’t a new “man of the house” every other month, the majority of them sleazebags her mother had picked up on trips to the local boozing holes. Oh, but the latest one, Freddie, was so much worse than all the others put together…
“Little fucking bitch! Come here… come here!”
For a place where you could talk, just talk. Not shout, or more accurately be shouted at. Where all the work, the cooking, cleaning, washing, didn’t fall on the shoulders of the youngest member of the household. Where you could rest easy without listening out for the creaking of the landing floorboard at night, the turning of the bedroom door, and the creak as someone entered to–
But that would never happen. This wasn’t some fairy tale where you could wish for your life to have a happy ever after ending, more’s the pity. If it was, then her granddad, her mother’s dad – Hannah had no idea who her own father was – would never have been taken away from her in the first place. He’d been the only one who cared about her, who used to look after her while her mum went on her benders, who would tell her stories about the old days, about her gran, and show her pictures of himself when he was growing up. She was his special little golden lady: “Goldie” on account of her flowing locks of silky blonde hair. (It was a nickname Freddie had also appropriated, much to her disgust.)
“You’re so pretty,” her granddad would say, “when you grow up all the young lads will be fighting over you; just wait and see. And one day you’ll find your place in the world, Goldie. You will, I promise.”
He got ill when she was only eight, then died just a year later. And his promises had died with him. Her granddad had been her last comfort in this otherwise dark and desolate world, and since his passing, the days and months had seemed like an eternity. One dismal event after the other. There would be no Prince Charming to come along and rescue her, she
knew that now. There would be no happy endings, no escape except that which she made for herself.
So Hannah walked; it was the one thing she could do. The only thing she could do. Maybe one day she would set off and never return. It hadn’t happened yet. As the nights drew in and the skies darkened she would always return. It was scary at home, but even scarier out walking on her own. The lesser of two evils.
But it was still early on this late September day and the sun still shone. It was a school day and yet she wasn’t at school. She was walking, escaping from her life: the memory of a particularly bad night last night still fresh in her mind. If her mum had known what she did when she was away from the house, if she’d given a shit about her, she might have warned her about the dangers of going off on her own. Except Hannah knew all about stuff like that, knew that sometimes the papers and TV news programmes would report the abduction of another girl. But she didn’t care. Didn’t give it much thought if she was honest.
(If Granddad had been here there’s no way he would have let her go trekking off, there’s no way he would have let a lot of things happen…but he wasn’t. He wasn’t…)
Whatever will be, will be. And besides, fate had already dealt her such lousy cards – surely it wouldn’t do that to her as well? Would it? If it did, then it did. She doubted whether she’d even be missed, unless somebody needed feeding or there were clothes to be washed, or–
Hannah put one foot in front of the other, the dirty white trainers she wore on her feet squeaking as she trod the pavement. On her travels she marched with an authority that was sadly lacking at other times. Hannah was confident when she hiked, arms swinging, fists balled. Sense of direction present: forwards, never looking back.
She passed the last block of flats on her estate. The regimented battleship greys of the outside walls, those same white square windows over and over. Tiny as they rose into the distance, all the same. Streetlamps stood like silent sentries watching her stride by. Unwanted till that evening, they appeared just as sad as she. Just as unloved.
Walking parallel to the main road, she headed to the outskirts of the inner-city. Cars sped by, people on their way to unknown destinations; unknown to her at any rate. And as she watched them whip past, the colours – the reds, blues, yellows and greens – blurring into one long train of metal, Hannah wished for the millionth time that she was old enough to drive. Logic didn’t come into the equation. She didn’t think about where the money would come from for lessons, or even to buy the car. All that was on her mind was transportation away from here. For the time being she had to settle for her own two legs, they were good enough to take her off exploring.
Even after all this time, and after all her walking, she could still find new areas to investigate. It was usually enough to just let her body choose a direction, like a sort of human compass, and the wind would take her someplace else. Of course, it was still all a part of the urban jungle, a concrete forest where it was easy to get lost. But Hannah had never seen the countryside anyway. To her it was just part of the background scenery on episodes of Emmerdale, and she had a feeling she’d be even more lost amidst the rolling green hillsides and real forests that existed so many miles from here. She had no intentions of pointing her imaginary car in the direction of the Dales to escape. She just wanted to swap her city, her home, for a better one. That’s all; nothing wrong with that, was there?
But if wishes were Ford Fiestas…
Today, her body was tugging her towards the old steel works. It had long since closed down, a consequence of political events that took place before Hannah was even born. But she knew all about them, thanks to her granddad. Now it was a husk of a place, sad, lonely and dejected, its grounds merely a short-cut to get to another section of the city. She took that cut, sneaking in through gates that could no longer hold trespassers at bay. Skirting the works itself, with its windows either put through or laced with spider-web cracks. She’d been inside it dozens of times and it held no fresh mysteries for her. Hannah climbed over the wall on the far side. Dropping down, she looked left and right, pondering where to walk next. She went left. This would take her to an underpass, which would open up a whole new set of directions for her to choose.
She walked on…
***
She wasn’t quite sure how she came upon the place – maybe her body compass again? – but she found the old house at some point during the afternoon. It was a part of another estate, much smaller than hers, and yet it wasn’t really part of the estate at all. Hiding down a long lane, behind the crook of a street that doubled back on itself until it was almost a cul-de-sac, the house was taller than the others she’d come across, the roof slates darker, although quite a few were missing. It didn’t really belong there but probably went unnoticed by the rest of the inhabitants of this area. Perhaps that’s what attracted her to the building so much in the first place. She recognised one of her own.
For a long time, Hannah just stared at it, as if wondering what to do next. She should carry on walking, surely, because that’s what she did on days like these. She walked. But then before she could help it, she found herself moving forwards, the compass now ironically a magnet; the house a lump of metal. She squeezed through the gap in the gate, which was hanging limply by one hinge, flanked on either side by hedgerow, and approached the house with cautious steps. Her trainers barely made a sound as they trod the path up to the door. The grass on what passed for a front lawn, barely 20 metres square, was badly overgrown: the result of a long period of neglect and inattention. Hannah barely gave it a passing glance. She was more interested in the property, not its plot.
But as she approached the door, she became more aware that she couldn’t just rap on the dirty brass knocker: for one thing the wood didn’t look like it could take it. And anyway, what would she say to whoever was at home? “Hi there, this might sound strange, but my name’s Hannah and I was out walking because my life is a mess, and I came across your house and, well, something made me stop and knock on your door. Surprise!” It certainly would be. She’d be lucky if they didn’t kick her off their “porch” and all the way back to her estate.
She should go now. Get back to her walking, to pretending she could escape from–
But instead Hannah went over to one of the windows and peered inside.
It was too dark to see clearly in there, the sun reflecting off the glass and turning everything beyond into ambiguous shadows. Nevertheless, she didn’t see anyone moving around in there, and if she did she could always run away (she was almost as good at running as she was at walking). She cupped her hands and brought them up to frame her head, pressing her face even closer to the pane, squashing her features against the supposedly transparent surface. Still she couldn’t make anything out.
Maybe if she went around the back.
It was a stupid thing for her mind to suggest, an insane course of action. But then since when was the mind a rational thing? Especially her mind. While she was here, it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick look. Just a quick look…
There was another path on her right-hand side that led to the rear, with more hawthorn shielding it from the outside world. Hannah tiptoed down the “corridor” and took a peek around the back of the house. The same overgrown grass here, some turning a golden shade of yellow that almost matched the colour of her hair. The hedge extended around this part of the garden as well. All in all, it made for an effective barrier right around the house. To keep nosy people out, or to keep something in? she wondered. The nearest window on her level was probably the kitchen one, she guessed – leastways that’s where most houses kept their kitchens. Once more she peered inside through the grimy glass. Nothing. All in darkness, which was hardly surprising seeing as there was even less light round here than there was at the front.
Hannah pulled back, her head turning to the left. The back door was an off-brown colour, its paint peeling away from the wood like rats abandoning the Titanic after it hit the ’berg. There was the
faintest hint of a crack, a gap between the jamb and the edge of the door.
It was open.
She licked her lips. Now her mind was telling her to do another stupid thing, one that she knew would get her into serious trouble if she were caught. More trouble than she’d faced last night at home, comparatively speaking. Trouble with the police, with whoever owned the house. Nosing around an abandoned steel works was one thing, this was quite another. But if they were so security conscious, why leave the door open in the first place? It was like an invitation really. And anyway, she wasn’t a burglar, she wasn’t going to steal anything. Hannah just wanted a look around; she was curious.
Hannah sucked in a breath as something jumped down in front of her, landing on a dustbin and knocking it over. Her heart fluttered furiously in her chest. The Ginger Tom meowed at the intruder, a half-hearted warning. She relaxed slightly and shooed the cat away.
Righting the dustbin, Hannah noticed there was hardly anything inside it except a few bits of old newspaper plus an empty milk carton, and looked up again at the house. If there was anyone home, even upstairs, then they must have heard that. Nobody opened any windows to see what the racket was; nobody came racing out of the back door to shoo her away.
That meant it was safe to go in, didn’t it? She blocked out all thoughts of curiosity and cats and placed her hand on the knob at the back door. It didn’t open with the clichéd creak she’d been expecting. No, even the door seemed happy for her to enter. Hannah poked her head inside.
The back door opened out directly into the kitchen. It was still darkish inside, but strangely lighter than it had been when she’d looked in from outside. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the room in front of her quite clearly: an open space with a sink and work surfaces on her left, a set of units directly opposite her, and an old cooker just down from that. There was also a fridge, and again it was pretty old-fashioned. When she saw it, her stomach began to growl loud enough to frighten any Ginger Tom off.
