by M. A. Hunter
I check my watch. ‘Our time is nearly up, so Jack and I had better be going,’ I say, loudly enough for Jack to hear.
I’m about to stand when Turgood utters three words that chill me to the bone.
‘How is Freddie?’
Our eyes meet and it’s all I can do to restrain myself.
‘He always did enjoy being the centre of attention,’ Turgood continues, so casually that my skin crawls. ‘Such a pity he felt the need to concoct such vicious lies about life at the home. Has he ever admitted to you that he once thanked me for looking out for him? Some of the other boys could be quite rough and ready at times but once I took Freddie under my wing, they left him alone. His life at that home would have been far worse had I not looked out for him.’
Bile builds in the back of my throat. Even now, after the truth has come out and he’s been punished for his crimes, he has the nerve to maintain an air of injustice about what has happened.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of my outrage. ‘Freddie is doing really well, as it goes,’ I say proudly. ‘He’s settled and is using his newfound fame to help others. I’ve never seen him looking so well, and now he has a rich life to look forward to while you’re slowly dying in here.’
I turn to leave, but it appears he isn’t done with me yet.
‘Do you really want to know the truth about your sister?’
I freeze, but do not dare look into his eyes.
‘Because if you’re serious about finding out how she ended up on that video, I might be able to tell you something that would help.’
Jack is standing and watching us now and I can see the concern overshadowing his face. I slowly turn back to look at Turgood. He hasn’t shifted his position, but he looks poised to deliver the ace he’s kept up his sleeve this whole time.
‘If you really want to know,’ he torments, ‘then I need to hear you ask for my help.’
I know he’s baiting me again, and that I should just leave the room and never look back, but I can see in his eyes that he has been holding back and I would never forgive myself if I turned away from the search for Anna over something as petty as this.
‘I see the way you look at me,’ Turgood continues, ‘with that look of disdain that all younger people seem to carry these days. You hear Freddie’s version of events and hold me accountable but you have no clue what it was like being responsible for so many broken lives, dealing with violent outbursts and emotional breakdowns. I did what I believed was in the best interests of those thrust into my care, and whether you believe me or not, I took care of Freddie and the others. They’d be dead if it wasn’t for me, so stop hoisting me up as the villain of your piece. There are far worse players out there that you’ve yet to encounter and trust me, by comparison I’m a saint.’
‘I want to know about my sister.’
‘Then ask me.’
I grind my teeth, knowing I will regret sinking to his level, but I don’t see any way around it. ‘Very well. Please help me to understand how my sister ended up on that video.’
His lips curl up fully this time as he claims his simple victory. ‘See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
I can’t bring my eyes to meet Jack’s but I can feel them burning a hole into my face.
Turgood rubs his hands together and savours his moment, committing every second of my submission to memory, to play out over and over when he’s alone.
‘I don’t recall ever meeting your sister,’ he begins like some great orator, ‘but I met many runaways like her – children who couldn’t cope with home, or were escaping some revolting upbringing. Being society’s most vulnerable, they soon fall in with the wrong crowds and in their moments of desperation they’ll take any help offered, even if it comes at a dangerously high cost. At first they’ll be reluctant to do what is asked of them, but when the rewards appear and they realise what little is required to bring that element of security, they soon see that there is no way back. If your sister is in one of the videos your police friend over there referred to, then it’s safe to assume that she was there by choice. If you want my advice, stop looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.’
I can’t contain my rage and I lunge forward, slamming my hands down on the table, growling at the now cowering Turgood. ‘You have no idea who my sister is or how far I’m prepared to go to find her.’
I feel Jack’s hands on my arms within seconds, and he yanks me away from the table as the bolts on both doors are rapidly undone.
‘You’ll rot in hell, you son of a bitch!’ I manage to shout as Jack drags me from the room, my eyes warm with tears.
Chapter Four
Then
Bovington Garrison, Dorset
No, that can’t be the alarm already, thought Natalie, rolling over to hit the snooze button, but grimacing as the agony of the night’s escapades tore up her leg. Although Jane had yanked out the thin branch, Natalie was certain she could feel tiny splinters still firmly embedded beneath her skin, each one waiting to push through into her bloodstream and float around her body for the rest of the day.
‘Time to get up, sleepyhead,’ her mum called through the closed bedroom door, but thankfully she didn’t come in.
Gripping her thigh, Natalie manually lifted and shifted her right leg, holding her breath to fight against the urge to yell out in pain. Her mum would know what to do, how to make it better, but she’d also want to know how Natalie came to have a gaping bloody hole in her calf.
When she’d snuck back in last night, it had taken all her willpower not to knock on her parents’ door and tell them exactly what had happened: the woods, the game, Sally… everything. But as she’d hovered by the door, willing her hand to reach up for the handle, she’d remembered the sting of Louise’s slap and the warning that they weren’t to tell anyone. They’d made a pact, and breaking a pact was a dangerous thing, Natalie knew.
Hitting the snooze button, Natalie propped herself up on her pillows. She leaned back into them and wiped the thin sheen that had pooled on her forehead. The room wasn’t overly warm but the effort of moving her leg had taken a lot out of her. Louise had said she was being a wet blouse worrying about the leg, and as an older girl she was surely more knowledgeable about such matters, right? If she said the leg wouldn’t get infected, then there really wasn’t anything Natalie should be worried about.
Taking a deep breath to settle the bubble of anxiety building in the pit of her stomach, she whipped back the duvet and stared down at the strapping she’d managed to pinch from the bathroom cabinet and wrap around her leg in the pitch black. It was a bulbous and bloody mess, but at least the staining hadn’t spread to her bed covers; thank heaven for small mercies. She’d have to dispose of the strapping on the way to school. There was no way it could be reused, and she doubted her mum would be able to get it clean. If anyone asked what had happened to the roll of bandage, she’d just have to plead ignorance.
‘I’m going downstairs now,’ her mum called through the door again, this time adding a knock to ensure that her daughter was awake. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
The last thing Natalie needed was for her mum to barge in right now and see the state of her leg. ‘Yes, please. I’m going to shower and then I’ll be down.’
There was no response but the tell-tale sound of footfalls on the stairs confirmed her mum was on her way to the kitchen. That just left her dad to sneak past. His routine was like clockwork and, all things being equal, he’d now be sitting in the small toilet reading one of his angling magazines. But he wouldn’t remain in there for ever, which only offered Natalie a finite amount of time to get out of bed and into the bathroom without anyone catching her. The trouble was, she didn’t think her injured limb would be up to bearing her weight this morning.
What was the alternative?
Delicately swinging her left leg over the edge of the mattress, she lifted and shifted her right leg with her hands again, wincing as the bandage brushed against the bed frame
. Then, with another deep breath, she pushed herself off the mattress and planted both feet on the thick pile rug where her slippers, trainers, and pile of school uniform sat. She couldn’t help the gasp escaping her mouth, but with her door shut and her parents otherwise engaged, she could only hope neither had heard.
Her grandmother used to say that pain in an injury was the body’s way of saying it was healing; Natalie was certain that was a crock, but if there was some truth in the old lady’s words, then her body had to be working overtime to heal. Bearing most of her weight on her left leg, Natalie reached out for her chair and rested her right hand on its back, pushing it along as a makeshift Zimmer frame as she made it towards her bedroom door; she wouldn’t be able to use it beyond her bedroom without drawing unnecessary attention, but it would do the job for now. Finally, making it to the door, she slowly lowered the handle and peered out, her eyes searching for the figure of her father whilst her ears strained for any hint of where he might be.
Neither sense alerted her to his presence and, venturing forward, she used the wallpapered wall to support her journey forward, only pausing momentarily when the sound of pages being turned confirmed her dad’s presence in the toilet. Continuing to the bathroom, she closed and locked the door. relief sweeping through her. Perching on the edge of the bathtub, she raised her nightdress and began very slowly and delicately to unwind the strapping. The bandage crackled and pulled as the congealed bloodstains cracked and tore until she was down to the final wraparound, but she had to stop as the tugging brought tears to her eyes.
The healing process had resulted in the clot binding with the bandage and there was no way to remove it without restarting the bleeding, but Natalie didn’t think she had the strength to complete the deed without screaming and wailing.
Her grandmother would have told her just to yank it off like any other Band-Aid, but even the gentlest of pulls was too much to bear. And then she remembered another trick the old lady had taught her when she was younger: it was far easier to remove plasters when they were covered by water, on account of the glue becoming less adhesive. There was no guarantee the same logic applied to a bloodied bandage, but what did she have to lose?
Manoeuvring her injured leg over the side of the bath, she used the large handle her dad had installed for Grandma to pull herself into a standing position, and brought her left leg in to join her right. Then, switching on the shower, she shrieked as a hard spray of cold water hit her upper body like winter’s rain. It soon warmed up and, lifting down the shower hose, she targeted the spray onto the stubborn strapping, giving it another gentle tug every few seconds, until the whole thing dropped into the tub with a splosh. The sight of the bloodied hole was still a shock, but as the shower spray continued to work its miraculous magic, the wound began to look less threatening. Her calf muscle was definitely swollen to almost twice the size of its rival but she’d managed to avoid fresh bleeding, and as she switched off the shower and climbed back out of the tub, she would have argued that the leg was slightly less painful than when she’d woken too.
Raiding the medicine cabinet, she located the box of plasters and, selecting the largest square one, she pressed it firmly over the wound and limped back to her bedroom, just as the sound of a flushing toilet signalled her dad’s imminent exit.
He didn’t speak as he emerged, just closed the door behind him, folding and tucking the magazine beneath his arm and waddling slightly as he returned to his own room, oblivious of the towel-wrapped and dripping girl edging slowly across the landing. Her mum always said he couldn’t be relied on for anything until he’d had his first coffee of the day.
Back in her room, Natalie dressed, opting for a thick pair of black tights to cover evidence of the plaster, and, having wrung out the bandage in the bathroom basin, she stuffed it into her school bag, before zipping it up, and hoping that a) her mum wouldn’t look inside the bag, and b) the moist bandage wouldn’t dampen her books too much.
Arriving in the kitchen, Natalie could hear her mum talking on the phone in the other room, but her dad was already at the breakfast table munching burnt toast with a snarl across his lips. Just a typical breakfast in the Sullivan household. The radio in the background was playing some hit from the 80s – a decade of music Natalie didn’t personally care for but which her mum adored. Natalie couldn’t understand how grown-ups couldn’t appreciate modern music; even the older songs both her parents frequently crooned along to must have been new at one point in time, so they couldn’t always have been so stuck in the past. Why couldn’t they listen to normal music?
Reaching for the Shreddies, Natalie filled her bowl, before asking her dad to pass the milk. He sighed as he did, as if her request was the most challenging task in the world. He’d obviously got up on the wrong side of bed again this morning, but it seemed like he didn’t know any other way these days. She knew it was safer just to keep her head down and avoid drawing his attention.
Her mum’s voice in the other room grew louder, but Natalie couldn’t work out what she was saying, or to whom. Either way, it didn’t sound like it was good news she was receiving. A moment later, her mum came into the kitchen, clutching the phone in her hand but pointing it at Natalie.
‘I’ve just got off the phone with Diane Curtis, Sally’s mum,’ she said, her tone somewhere between anger and concern. ‘Seems Sally wasn’t in her bed this morning when Diane went to wake her. She’s phoning around everyone to see if anyone knows where Sally might be.’
There wasn’t an obvious question, but Natalie knew to infer that an answer was expected. Slowly swallowing her mouthful of cereal to buy some time, Natalie opted for ignorance. ‘I don’t know where Sally is.’
She hated lying to her parents, particularly her mum, but it wasn’t exactly a lie; she genuinely didn’t know where Sally was. Not now.
Here mum’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know she’s your friend, and the last thing you’d want to do is get your friend into trouble, but her mum is going spare with worry. If you have any idea where she might be, or what might have happened, you need to tell me, Natalie.’
‘I told you I don’t know, Mum.’ The lie felt like a mound of earth she’d just brought up and out of her throat.
‘Well, Diane said Sally was tucked up in bed when she checked on her at eleven, and then again at five this morning, but now she’s gone.’
Natalie couldn’t keep the confused frown from developing, but tried not to give anything away. If her mum had seen her in bed at five this morning, did that mean…?
‘What?’ her mum asked. ‘Do you know where she is? Or where she was planning to go?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘Swear to me.’
This was the last thing Natalie wanted to do. It would be so much easier just to admit the truth: they’d snuck out, left the safe confines of the garrison, and headed into the woods. She could tell her mum how it had all been Sally’s idea, and that Louise and Jane had pressured her into joining them; she could tell her mum how she’d fallen and hurt her leg and then her mum would make everything better. But then Natalie remembered Louise’s slap and pact warning, and instead shovelled another mouthful of cereal into her mouth.
‘I swear I don’t know where Sally Curtis is.’
Chapter Five
Now
Blackfriars, London
Sitting in the padded chair across the desk from Maddie’s latest stack of manuscripts, I can’t help but notice the subtle changes she’s introduced since my first book, Monsters Under the Bed, flew off the shelves. Back when we first met in this very room, the picture reproductions on the walls weren’t framed, there was no television or mini-fridge in the corner of the room, and the only luxurious chair was Maddie’s own well-worn bright-red faux-leather recliner. I remember her commenting that she preferred to read manuscripts at a forty-five degree angle – caught halfway between rest and the real world. Each to their own, I figured back then.
Choosing the right literary agent is a challenge
for all new authors; if you’ve ever written and tried to publish a book, you’ll understand why I say this. I mean, writing a book is a marathon of a challenge, just in terms of putting the words down on paper, but to then give each sentence and paragraph the tender, loving attention they need until what you’ve produced resembles something nearing literature is far from easy. And then at that point, when you think your part is complete – you’ve actually written a book for goodness’ sake! – that’s when the real work begins, because although you believe passionately in the piece of writing you’ve poured your heart and soul into, convincing a very busy literary agent that it’s worth their time to read it is another matter.
I was lucky in that I was introduced to Maddie at a book launch of a friend of a friend. As soon as I explained that I was looking into historical abuse at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, with detailed witness accounts from three victims, she was salivating at the prospect. I should explain that Monsters is not a work of fiction, and whilst I am proud of the outcome it brought about for the victims – particularly Freddie – it was probably one of the most challenging projects I’ve taken on.
As an investigative journalist, you’re warned that fate can take you down some dark alleys in the search for the truth, but my interviews with Freddie, Mike and Steve were unrelenting; we got through more than one box of tissues along the way. But earlier this year, it all seemed worth it when the men responsible for the vicious abuse were tried and convicted at The Old Bailey. And in the next six months, the documentary about that hellhole will be available for all to stream (keep your own box of tissues to hand).
I can’t forget the sneer on Arthur Turgood’s face the moment Jack and I went to visit him in his cage three months ago. The gall of the man to see how desperately I needed answers, only to leave me in limbo.
