Never Forgotten (Manor Park Thrillers Book 2)

by G H Mockford

  An elderly couple, who lived right at the end of the street, sat on wicker conservatory furniture and eyed Stephen suspiciously. The man was reading his paper while his wife was playing on what appeared to be a Nintendo DSXL.

  ‘Arthur’s not in,’ the man called from behind his newspaper as soon as Stephen opened John’s garden gate.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Stephen called back, ‘I’m here to see John.’

  ‘Whatever you’re selling, he won’t be interested. And neither are we,’ the old man added, pointing at a sign that he’d written and placed in the window.

  ‘That’s all right too. I’m not selling either.’

  ‘Then why are you here? You from the council?’

  ‘Arthur, don’t be so rude,’ his wife tutted.

  Stephen stepped away from the gate and walked towards the couple. ‘I’ve just come to check on O.J.. Make sure he’s okay.’

  The old woman brightened, stood up and brushed her dress down. ‘I’m Violet. This is Arthur.’ Now it was Arthur’s turn to tut, no doubt at his wife’s trusting nature.

  ‘Nice roses,’ Stephen said, bending over the white painted fence so he could smell them. ‘Jude the Obscure, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Arthur smiled, clearly impressed.

  ‘It’s the hints of citrus in the fragrance that makes them stand out. You’ve pruned them well,’ Stephen added with no hint of flattery.

  ‘Thank you. I’ve the scars to prove it,’ Arthur said holding out his shaking hands. There were some fresh cuts too.

  ‘It’s my favourite book,’ Violet added.

  ‘Thomas Hardy. Prefer something a little more cheerful myself,’ Stephen smiled back.

  ‘How do you know John?’ Arthur asked, his manner stiffening once again.

  ‘I’m the barman down The Manor. I helped him when–’

  ‘You must be Stephen,’ Violet said, a smile breaking across her face. ‘He’s told us all about you. He said you were tall. He is tall, isn’t he, Arthur?’ Violet carried on without waiting for an answer. ‘Black and blue he is.’

  ‘Savage broke his nose. There’s some concern about his cheek bone too,’ Arthur joined in.

  ‘He’ll be out in a minute,’ Violet said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Stephen said.

  Violet held up her DS. ‘I just sent him a message via the wi-fi net. We all have one. Keeps me mind active and allows us to check up on each other. And spread the news of suspicious people hanging around. John’s already confirmed you are who you say you are. Have you tried Brain Training?’ Stephen shook his head. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Thank you, Violet,’ Stephen replied, and he really wanted one. There was something about the old couple that made him want to stay, despite their initial caution.

  By the time Violet returned with four cups and saucers, John had joined them on the wicker furniture.

  Stephen tried to hide his shock, but he wasn’t convinced he’d done a good job of it. John’s face was purple and one eye was partially closed from the swelling. He was surprised the hospital had sent John home but the Queen’s Medical Centre was probably overstretched, as usual.

  They sat there for half an hour, John going on about how Stephen had saved his life. It was refreshing to hear O.J. being positive about something and Stephen couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps the grumpy demeanor was just a front so people gave him his own space.

  ‘It wasn’t all me. Don’t forget the Latvian twins,’ Stephen reminded him.

  ‘Hmmm. Bloody foreigners,’ John grunted.

  Stephen started to change his mind about his new view of O.J., but then decided to try and change John’s. ‘Those foreigners were asking about you last night. Might be nice if you bought them a drink next time you’re down at The Manor.’

  ‘Well that won’t be for a while,’ John said. ‘I’ve got to go to the hospital on Friday.

  ‘I’ve phoned the Good Neighbors Scheme for you,’ Violet said. ‘They’ve got no volunteers free that day who can drive you there.’

  ‘I could take you,’ Stephen said.

  ‘What? On your bluddy crossbar?’

  ‘I thought the bus might be more comfortable, but if you want to go on my bike…’

  ‘I like you. You’re funny,’ Violet said.

  ‘Thank you. Your tea was delicious, but I’m afraid I must leave. Work beckons.’

  Violet looked disappointed. If there was one thing Stephen feared about old age, it was loneliness and boredom. He thought about his parents again.

  ‘John,’ Stephen said, ‘I’ll see you on Friday.’

  Nineteen

  Georgia wasn’t sure if it was day or night anymore. She suspected the latter as the room was so dark. It was always dark when she woke up. And she always had a terrible headache.

  This time the chocolate spread sandwiches had been replaced by jam. The meal even included some fruit, even if it was one of those dreadful processed fruit bars that her mum had given her in her packed lunch once. The bottle of milkshake she’d been given filled her but left her desperate for a drink of water.

  She’d not seen the man since he’d made that brief appearance in the doorway. He must still visit to drop off her food and to empty the bucket she’d found and assumed was her toilet. At first she’d refused to use it, but she soon found her stomach was griping with pain and she couldn’t hold it any longer.

  As she sat there, Georgia decided she couldn’t remain seated in the chair forever either. It made her feel inert, defenseless, and pointless. She’d explored the room several times now and each time she discovered something new, like the bucket. What would it be this time?

  Georgia rose from the chair and in the darkness began to move around the room on her hands and knees. The chain clattered behind her, but she didn’t care about the noise it made anymore. As she felt in front of her, her fingertips glided over the smooth wooden floorboards.

  Cold stone suddenly replaced the warmth of the wood. It rose from the normal ground level too. Georgia felt around its edges. It was a rectangle about a metre wide. It was smooth, like glass.

  A fireplace?

  If only there were a fire in it, or the means to make one, then she would have light and heat. Georgia shivered, reminded of the cold.

  She lay on her back and wriggled up onto the cold hearth, taking herself deeper into the opening. When the top of her head hit the back of the fire, she knew she was inside the firebox.

  Georgia sighed with disappointment. What she wanted more than heat and light were to be able to see outside. She’d hoped to catch sight of the stars. To glimpse some form of freedom. But there wasn’t anything, just the smell of the black soot above.

  Georgia sat upright, lifting her hand above her face to make sure she didn’t strike her forehead on the way back out. Once clear, she stood and using small, shuffling steps, made her way back to the armchair.

  She sank into the soft, comforting cushion and cried. The tears came and continued until her throat was raw, and her head was tense. A headache was brewing.

  Georgia wiped her face as best she could with the ratty end of the sleeve of her jumper. She didn’t have a clue what she looked like anymore. No doubt her face was now smeared and streaked.

  Not that it mattered.

  She was going to die here. Alone and forgotten.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ Georgia said to herself and stood up again.

  And froze.

  Afraid he was coming back, Georgia held her breath and listened. She thought she’d heard something, but the more she thought about, the less convinced she became.

  She heard it again – quiet and faint. It was coming from the direction of the fireplace. Georgia took a couple of steps toward it.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, and then held her breath.

  Silence.

  Georgia’s shoulders dropped and she let out a long sigh. Convinced she’d imagined it, Georgia turned from the fireplace and headed back to the cha
ir. As soon as she sat down, she heard a tapping. It was muted, almost dead, but a sound nonetheless.

  She headed back to the fireplace again.

  ‘Hello?’ came a voice from within it.

  Georgia jumped back. Her heart raced.

  ‘Hello,’ came the voice again. It was a woman’s.

  At first Georgia didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe. Then a smile spread across her face.

  She wasn’t alone.

  It was almost too good to be true, except it meant that some other poor, innocent woman was in the same situation as her.

  ‘Hello?’ came the voice again.

  ‘Hello,’ Georgia called back, her voice quiet and cautious. This small glimmer of hope could be so easily taken away if he heard them conversing.

  ‘I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Georgia gathered the chain so that it wouldn’t rattle across the bare floor and made her way to the fireplace. One hand let the chain back out as the other groped in the darkness to locate the chimney breast.

  When her trembling fingertips came into contact with it, the wall felt cold and damp. A quick search downward revealed the mantelpiece. Georgia crouched, her fingers following the ornately decorated fire surround, leaving her convinced more than ever that whoever owned this house was wealthy.

  Georgia moved forward and called into the firebox. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ came the eager reply. ‘I was beginning to think I imagined you.’

  ‘No, I’m real; though there are times I wish I weren’t.’ Georgia’s shoulders began to shake and hot tears spilled from her eyes. The relief of hearing another voice was too much to bear.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ the voice asked, her concern easy to hear.

  ‘No. No, it just feels like a lifetime since I spoke to anyone,’ Georgia said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. The sleeve was still wet and cold from earlier. Georgia shifted her position, sat cross-legged before the fire, and waited for a reply.

  None came.

  ‘Hello?’ she whispered.

  A few moments later, Georgia realized why silence had fallen. There was a creak from outside the door.

  Georgia stumbled back to her feet, her cold muscles protesting. Feeling for the fireplace so she could check she was facing the right way, Georgia headed back for the comfortable piece of furniture, carefully gathering in the chain as she went.

  Bumping into the soft, rounded arm of the chair, Georgia skirted around the edge and slumped into it. The chain felt heavy on her lap as she closed her eyes and let her head droop. She had to look like she was asleep. There was one problem. Her heart was beating so hard and fast she was afraid he would hear it.

  There came the sound of the key in the lock and then the door handle turning. Georgia expected light to flood the room, but none came. The blood rushed so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t tell if he’d opened the door or not, let alone come in. She could feel the icy grip of fear begin to overwhelm her. While she couldn’t control her heart, she could control her breathing.

  In. Out. Slow. Gentle. Sound like you’re asleep, she told herself.

  A gentle warmth came to Georgia’s cheek. It was soothing and came in waves. Georgia welcomed it and wished for more.

  Then the smell of pepperoni pizza hit her. Her stomach would have rumbled and called for sustenance if she’d not realized exactly what the heat was.

  It was his breath.

  She could have sworn she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end like her natural proximity alarm was going off. He was standing behind her, close and intimate, and leaning over her shoulder.

  Georgia stiffened. Any second now his hand would close around her throat. Or perhaps he had a knife. She would bleed out like some butchered animal and no one would ever know what happened to her.

  ‘Be calm, my friend,’ came his soft voice. It was a little high pitched for a man’s.

  Georgia began to cry again. Through her stifled sobs, she thought she heard the faintest sounds of movement, and then something touched her knees.

  It was his hands.

  They were hot and sweaty. Was he excited? He was sure to be enjoying it. Why else would he do it?

  ‘Be calm,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Yet.’

  Georgia felt her bladder clench and a new fear gripped her. She didn’t want to humiliate herself or give him the pleasure of seeing her wet herself. There was no way she was going to allow that indignity. To make matters worse, the weight of the chain on her lap added to the pressure.

  ‘I just came in to see if you needed anything. Food? Drink?’

  Georgia was reviled by the sound of his voice. He’d never spoken before and it wasn’t how she imagined it would be. So polite. So well spoken. Somehow it made it all feel so much worse.

  The links in the chain clinked as she wrapped her hands around it. Then the idea came to her. She could use the chain as a weapon. If she could just –

  The warmth and weight of his hands left her knees and she heard him stepping back.

  She’d missed the chance she had. Had he somehow sensed what she was thinking?

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, if you’re awake,’ he said from the darkness.

  The door closed quietly, almost thoughtfully, and then the key turned in the lock.

  Twenty

  THURSDAY 8:30 AM

  Stephen was up before his alarm. He’d slept well but when he awoke he only had one thing on his mind.

  His parents.

  How had it come to pass that he hadn’t spoken to them for so long? Things were said. Things that could never be unsaid, as much by himself as by them, especially his father.

  He’d tried to go back once before, nine years ago. He’d not spoken to them for a full year after Felicity disappeared. After an argument, one of many, he’d left, leading them to believe he was returning to Cambridge to carry out his Masters when in fact he was going to look for Felicity.

  In hindsight, walking out that day had been a cruel thing to do, but at the time Stephen couldn’t take it anymore. Even with the discovery of the letter, which made clear Felicity’s intention to run away, his grieving parents, especially his father, still blamed him. But no one could lay more blame or guilt on Stephen than himself.

  When Stephen returned a year later, having scoured the streets of Nottingham, Derby, Leicester and London, his father told him that he’d been cruel to leave that day and never contact them.

  The house was silent, aside from his mother’s gentle sobs. His father had rested on the edge of the armchair, trying to comfort her.

  ‘We’ve already lost one child,’ his father spat. ‘Then we lost you, but at least we knew where you were. Or at least we thought we did.’

  When Stephen told them what he’d been doing for the last year, he was surprised by their reaction, or rather his father’s.

  ‘She left of her own volition, Stephen. You’ve wasted your time, an incredible opportunity, not to mention my hard earned cash. I see you’ve been happy to use the money I’ve been putting in your account. I assumed it was going on fees and accommodation.’

  ‘I’ve been using it to find Felicity,’ Stephen said.

  ‘And have you?’ It was his mother. A little life returned to her hollowed out features.

  Stephen stared at his shoes and shook his head.

  ‘Get out, Stephen. Don’t bother checking your account — you’ll get nothing else out of me. And more importantly,’ His father got up from the chair, his movements slow as if over the passage of the last year he’d aged ten. ‘Never come back, Stephen. What you’ve done to us will be never forgotten. Never forgiven.

  Stephen remembered how he’d simply nodded to his parents, turned and left, quietly closing the front door behind him to the sound of his mother’s wailing.

  A sound he’d never forgotten.

  Cliff was right. It was time to move on, and time to reconnect. And there was no time like
the present. Mum had always got up early.

  Stephen swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat on the edge. He snatched the phone from the bedside cabinet before he could change his mind, located ‘home’ in the contacts, and pressed dial.

  The phone rang. Stephen closed his eyes as he tried to filter the thoughts and fears that rushed through him. His mouth went dry and his mind went blank. He couldn’t think what to say. He’d counted five trills before the phone was answered. There was silence for a moment and then…

  ‘Hi, you’re through to Maid Marion Manicures. I’m afraid we’re closed right now but –’

  Stephen didn’t listen to the rest. He pressed the red button and fell back onto his bed. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  As the hot water from the shower cascaded down onto him, Stephen reflected on the unsuccessful attempt and decided it was probably a blessing. Was a call out of the blue what they deserved? If he were going to do this, he should do it right. He would go to their house and knock on the door. No flowers or gifts — that would be wrong, too. It would take more than material possessions to put things right, and he wouldn’t insult his mother even with a large, expensive bouquet.

  Stephen searched through his meagre collection of clothes in the wardrobe. He felt the need to dress up. To look successful. To look more than he was. He was a failure. At everything. His father would see it that way, anyway. Ten years ago Stephen had the world at his feet, and he’d thrown it all away.

  Stephen took the only suit jacket he owned out of the wardrobe. It was brown tweed, complete with elbow patches. Buying clothes in a charity shop when you were tall wasn’t easy. He took out his only white shirt and a pair of stone colored chinos he’d rather not be seen in, even if he was dead.

  Breakfast consisted of the last of the out of date bread and eggs he’d bought from the shop opposite The Manor. Eggy bread, just like his mum used to make him, and Felicity, and every other child they had looked after.

  David had left his laptop lying on the sofa in the communal lounge. Stephen turned it on, went upstairs and logged into David’s account. A few minutes later, having found out which buses to catch, Stephen turned off the machine and returned it to its original position.