Discarded

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ Freddie growls, ‘I remember very little of that time… I must have repressed the memories, and the last thing I want to do is go digging up the past.’

  ‘You should have thought about that before you lit the match,’ Jack barks.

  ‘Might I remind you that had Freddie not burned down Pendark, you might never have found’—I can’t bring myself to say Anna’s name—‘her.’

  A couple of the diners on the closest of tables have looked up and are glaring at Jack and me in support of their friend. I try to ignore their stares and soften my tone. ‘I think we should all calm down, and remember where we are. Freddie is as much a victim as the girl you’ve found, Jack.’ I sigh. ‘Yes, the fire was reckless, but he’s served his punishment for the crime, and now he wants to move on with his life. You know the pain he has suffered, and dredging it all up here and now isn’t right.’

  Jack’s glare hasn’t left Freddie and I’m not sure he has heard me; he certainly hasn’t listened. ‘Why set fire to the place?’ Jack says next, no longer concerned about the rising aggression in his voice. ‘If you knew where the place was, you could have phoned me, or Emma, or 999, and reported it. That way a professional team of forensics experts could have gone over that place brick by brick searching for answers about the people who were there. But no, instead, you douse the place in accelerant and destroy all the evidence that could have helped catch the bastards who did this to you and countless others.’

  Freddie stands, no longer prepared to put up with Jack’s bluntness, and frankly I don’t blame him. But Jack isn’t prepared to give up that easily and snatches at Freddie’s arm, dragging him back down.

  ‘I’m not done with you yet. You tell me what you know now, or so help me, I’ll have you in the nearest nick for impeding an investigation.’

  ‘Jack!’ I gasp, shocked at just how hostile this last threat is. ‘Freddie is doing his best, and this is not the right way to treat him.’ I coil my fingers around Jack’s and pry them off Freddie’s wrist. Freddie looks ashen but I nod for him to return to the food table and continue working.

  ‘That is no way to speak to him,’ I chastise, keeping my voice low but filled with anger.

  Jack pulls his fingers from mine dismissively. ‘You really have no clue, do you?’

  ‘No clue about what, Jack? I don’t understand why you’re being like this.’

  He has pushed his tongue into his cheek and is shaking his head, holding back again.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ I press. ‘I know you’re under pressure because of what’s happening with Mila’s mum and because of the extra hours you’re putting in, but there’s something else you’re not telling me. It’s okay to be pissed off, Jack, but taking it out on Freddie is not the answer.’

  ‘No?’ he shouts, his head snapping round. He leans closer, his voice barely more than a pained whisper. ‘He’s hiding something. He knows a lot more than he’s letting on, but you’re too blind to see it. Maybe it’s because you’ve allowed yourself to become too close to your subject, or maybe it’s because, despite all your intuition, you are nothing more than a writer. You’re not a detective, Emma, and your desperation to see the good in people all the time stops you seeing what is right in front of your face.’

  I’m not prepared to become the next target of his frustration. Grabbing my satchel, I scrape my chair from the table, causing more people to look over. I can’t bring myself to look at Jack, let alone speak to him. I make my way over to the table, move around it, and grab an apron from behind the door. Standing next to Freddie, I begin to ladle from the second tall pot of soup, faking a smile as I hand the bowls over to expectant hands.

  I see Jack shrink away in my periphery, but I keep my gaze firmly fixed on those I’m serving.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I whisper gently to Freddie when the queue has died down.

  He doesn’t respond, and I can’t help thinking our friendship will never be the same again. Freddie trusted me with his story, and now I’m the one who invited the wolf into our little cave of trust. Jack is wrong about me though. Wanting to find the good in people isn’t a flaw, it’s a strength.

  Chapter Seven

  Then

  Piddlehinton, Dorset

  Rattling of the caravan door had Joanna pulling up her knees and tucking them beneath her chin. It had to have been nearly an hour since she’d overheard the men threatening to kill her, and so she’d remained quiet as a mouse, sitting on the small bench, crying to herself and praying fervently for a solution to her problem.

  It was much darker outside now, and she couldn’t stop thinking about how frantic her mum would be. She’d never stayed out this late alone before, but the one bright spark she was focusing on was that her not returning home today was so out of character. Her mum and dad would know she hadn’t run away and that meant they’d know there had to be another reason she wasn’t home; they were probably thinking she’d been in an accident, or that the worst had happened and she’d been taken. Mum would be phoning her friends, hospitals, and probably the police, which in turn meant there were people looking for her.

  Whether they’d know she’d been brought to this tiny campsite in the middle of nowhere was a question she was refusing to ask. They would find her; bad things didn’t happen to people like them. Aside from the burglary, the family had never had need of the support of the police; they didn’t know anyone who’d been beaten, mugged, or murdered. They were a good family who went to church most Sundays, and didn’t welcome trouble into their lives.

  The door rattled again and she held her breath, willing the men to go away. She’d been good; she hadn’t made a fuss. Whatever they had planned, surely they wouldn’t kill her as they’d threatened.

  The door cracked open a moment later but the figure who stepped through wasn’t the man in grey who’d brought her here, nor the man he’d been speaking to. Instead, a younger man – possibly fifteen or sixteen with tight red curls on top of his head – bounded up the steps.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, it’s dark in here. Why are the friggin’ lights not on?’

  The tone of his voice was pitched much higher than she’d been anticipating. She instantly recognised the dulcet tones of his Irish upbringing, as his voice sounded similar to that of Sinead O’Donovan in her class at school. The accent wasn’t as harsh as her teacher Mr Allen, who was from Belfast.

  The young man bounded back out of the caravan, leaving the door swinging open, as he moved about and fiddled with something clunky outside. To have left the door so open like that meant he either hadn’t seen her, or he had no idea she was in here. Was this the chance she’d been praying so ardently for?

  Lowering her legs off the chair, she kept her breath held, conscious that her footsteps would echo around the cabin if she didn’t place them carefully. The young man hadn’t returned, and she could still hear him bashing away at something outside. She crept forwards slowly, beginning to feel lightheaded at the lack of fresh oxygen, but she swallowed down the anxiety until she found herself at the doorway, staring out into the darkness. A small security light just outside the door showed the wet mud beyond the steps, and as she peered ever further out, she could see that each of the three caravans had a similar spotlight projecting down from a pole on the roof.

  There was no other sign of life outside, which meant if she could get down the steps without the younger man hearing and seeing her, she could get across the mud and back onto the track before anyone knew she was gone. What she would do when she got there, she hadn’t thought through yet, but it had to be worth the chance.

  ‘Oh, hi, there you are,’ the young man’s voice said, as he suddenly materialised in the doorway, the caravan rocking as he once more took the steps two at a time, making no effort to tread lightly.

  Joanna scuttled back to the seat, fearing that his intentions were anything but friendly, but he made no lunge towards her. Instead, he flicked on the switch by the
door and suddenly the room filled with light.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and to take in his full figure. He had to be close to six feet in height, but thinner than any boy she’d ever seen. He was wearing fluorescent swimming trunks and a sleeveless vest that only made him look scrawnier and limper, as his stick-thin arms and shoulders protruded out from the straps. A cluster of reddish-brown freckles covered almost every inch of his face, but there was no malice in the huge smile that was slowly spreading across it.

  ‘I’m Chez,’ he said, moving into the open kitchen area, reaching for the kettle on the stove and promptly filling it beneath the sink tap. ‘I can’t believe they left you sitting in here in the dark. Not to worry, I’ve got the generator going, so now we can see each other without squinting. Do you want a cuppa?’

  She hadn’t drunk any of the Fanta she’d bought at the newsagent’s shop, such had been the panic when she’d realised the man wasn’t taking her home, and it had fallen from her lap when he’d dragged her from the car. Only now that she thought about Chez’s question did she realise just how thirsty she was.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said cautiously.

  She watched as he located two mugs in the back of one of the cupboards she hadn’t been able to reach, before removing a small box of teabags and dropping one in each.

  ‘You don’t take sugar do you, ’cos I don’t think we have any.’

  She doubted that was the only ingredient he was missing; given the lights hadn’t been working, she doubted the fridge would have been running. To her surprise, he reached into the high cupboard again, this time removing a carton of milk.

  ‘It’s long-life,’ he said when he saw her frowning. ‘Means we don’t have to rely on the dodgy generator that’s always conking out. It tastes like pish to drink, but it’s okay in tea. So, have you been here long?’

  She glanced at her watch, but her eyes couldn’t focus on the hands, so she really had no idea how long it had been since the man had locked her in the car and brought her here. She shrugged instead.

  ‘Well, not to worry. I’ll whip us up something to eat when we’ve finished our tea. They say it’s good for shock, and judging by how pale your face is, I think it’s just what you need. In fact, actually I think it’s sweet tea that’s good for shock, but as we have no sugar, we’ll just have to make do.’

  Every time he spoke, it was like he was in a race to finish his sentences, such was the speed the words tumbling from his lips. And she couldn’t tell if he was deliberately trying to sound like one of her girlfriends, but he didn’t seem ashamed of the effeminate nature of his voice.

  The kettle whistled on the gas stove, and she continued to watch him as he made the tea. He’d shut the door when he’d come in, but had made no effort to lock it, nor barricade her in. It wouldn’t be too much effort to wait for his back to be turned, before rushing at the door. She wouldn’t have the head start she would have had when he was still outside, but if she ran with all her might, was it possible she could get out of the light and to the track before he caught up?

  He carried the mugs over, and the chance was gone again.

  Resting one of the mugs on the table before her, he moved around the table and sat next to her. ‘It will be hot, so I’d give it a couple of minutes before drinking it if I were you.’ He paused. ‘So where are you from?’

  ‘Portland,’ she whispered, still unsure whether he was just lulling her into a false sense of security.

  ‘Ah, so you’re local then? I’m from Donegal originally. Have you ever been to Ireland?’

  She shook her head. The furthest they’d been was the Lake District. Whilst all her other friends had at least been to the Costa del Sol on holiday, she’d never left the UK; her parents didn’t believe in spending money to aid foreign markets when the British tourism industry was in greater need of support.

  ‘Well, if you ever get the chance, you must go. It’s a lovely town, and the people there are so friendly.’

  As she studied his face more closely, trying to read him, her eyes widened as she saw the long, thin scar running from the edge of his right eye down his cheek. She tried to look away, but he’d seen her shock.

  ‘Beer bottle,’ he said, running a finger over the now smooth edge. ‘My stepfather was a drunk who didn’t appreciate my smart mouth. I certainly don’t miss him.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ she dared to ask.

  He didn’t immediately answer but his eyes brightened a moment later. ‘I tell you what, why don’t we do each other’s nails? Have you had your nails painted before?’

  The only reason she wasn’t wearing nail varnish at that moment was because the school frowned upon it, and her mum would only let her wear it during the school holidays.

  He bounced from the seat, knocking into the table and causing some of her tea to slop onto the top, returning a moment later with a small zip bag. He located some kitchen roll and mopped up the spillage, before unzipping the bag. It was as if he had raided the local Boots, as bottle of polish after bottle of polish cascaded onto the table.

  ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asked, standing up close to two dozen bottles.

  She was about to reach for the violet varnish, when she thought again. Her mother never let her wear black nail varnish (‘the devil’s colour’, she would say), and so Joanna pointed to it.

  ‘Ooh, you’re such a vixen,’ Chez gushed, grabbing the bottle and shaking it vigorously. ‘You know, you remind me of my wee sister Kylie, do you know that? She has brown hair like yours, and the most piercing green eyes.’

  He took her left hand in his and held it gently as he began to apply the varnish to the nail. She’d always wanted to have her nails painted professionally, but her mum had called it a frivolous expense when she was just as capable of doing it herself. She imagined this must have been what it felt like. He was so gentle and delicate in the application that she knew instantly hers weren’t the first nails he’d painted in this way, and suddenly the image of the word RUN, which had been scrawled in the colouring book, flashed to the front of her mind. Snatching her hand back, she eyed the caravan door once more.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, following her gaze to the door.

  ‘My parents will be worried,’ she eventually confided. ‘They don’t know where I am. If I could just phone them, and—’

  ‘Grey will have phoned them by now, to be sure,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Grey?’

  ‘Ah, that’s what I call him, the man who brought you here. He’s nearly always dressed in a grey suit, so I call him Grey. I’m guessing you haven’t met Mr Brown yet?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It figures; probably best to steer clear of Mr Brown until you’re settled. He has a bit of a temper if you rub him up the wrong way.’

  The man who’d taken her – Grey – had said he’d messaged her parents, and she hadn’t believed him, but now she wasn’t so certain. The way Chez was behaving seemed so fearless, and she couldn’t sense any worry or anxiety in his tone or mannerisms.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked, moving one foot from beneath the table, ready to throw some of the bottles at Chez as she made her bolt for the door.

  He screwed the top back on the bottle of polish, and patiently laid it back on the table. ‘Have you ever been at home and thought, why do they always treat me like some dumb kid?’

  She nodded at the question, though this afternoon’s experience suggested her parents had been right to be cautious.

  ‘Well, this here is a very special place. How old would you say I was?’

  She shrugged, not wishing to offend him by guessing too old, nor too young.

  ‘I’m fifteen, and I’ve been with them for four years. In all that time, they’ve never once treated me like some dumb kid. Here, I am free to be who I want to be, do whatever I want. It’s a place where we get treated as adults.’

  That still hadn’t answered her question, and so she tried
again. ‘But what is this place? I didn’t ask to come here.’

  His smile returned. ‘No, you were chosen to be here. That’s how it works. You’re going to be a model and film actress. You don’t realise just how lucky we are to be here. Just relax and trust me, okay?’

  She’d heard rumours at school about Misty Reynolds, two years above her, whose mum had been approached while they’d been out shopping in town. The man was a talent scout for a modelling agency, and Misty had been signed up to appear in television commercials. Was it possible that was what had happened here too? Had Grey spoken to her parents as Chez had said, and they’d agreed for her to start a modelling career?

  She tucked her foot back beneath the table and passed Chez her other hand, nodding at the black polish again.

  Chapter Eight

  Now

  Weymouth, Dorset

  I remain at the shelter until the food rush is over, but Freddie says very little during the time. As I hug him when it’s time to leave, he doesn’t shirk the embrace, but nor does he squeeze tightly, which is his usual way with me. It feels like I’m hugging a tree – getting nothing in return.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ I ask for the umpteenth time, looking for the tiny chink in his armour.

  ‘I told you, I’m fine.’

  He’s totally flat; no effervescence or ‘Freddie spirit’, as I like to think of it. In fairness, it’s probably been quite an emotional day for him too, having been released from prison, and then learning the remains of a body were discovered on the site of the fire, but I can’t help blaming myself for his current state.

  ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ I try brightly. ‘Do you fancy going somewhere, or doing anything? A walk along the beach, or for a coffee somewhere, or just hanging out at my place? I’ve got a book signing in town to attend first thing, but that should be done by twelve…’