Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “No.”

  “Well, it seems that someone has sent you a card.” She tosses the envelope onto the mattress.

  It’s been opened and the contents have been checked. Usually, when I get post, it’s money from my mother. There’s rarely a note, but if there is, it’s particularly impersonal. There are no expressions of love or any kind of feeling, but she can’t help but send me money even though I’m the devil child.

  “Thanks, Miss,” I say as she leaves.

  As soon as she’s gone, I remove the card from the envelope. The artwork on the cover is pretty. Three magpies on a telephone wire. Three for a Girl. Perhaps I’m the girl in question. Magpies, the tricksters. The squawkers. The thieves. The birds that feast on the eggs of smaller, less powerful birds. But also, a bird that represents friendship and loyalty. One of the most beautiful birds, in my opinion. Immediately, my mind goes back to Pepsi. My only friend for so long.

  I open the card.

  To my darling big sis,

  I saw this card and thought of you. Remember when we went to that big estate mansion in North Yorkshire? There were magpies all along the branches of that old Oak tree. You were eleven, I think, and you tried to count all the birds with me. But I couldn’t count them all because I was too young. Then Daddy told us to shut up and Mummy took a swig from her “special flask”.

  Do you remember the garden with the maze? I bet you don’t, because you have a crappy memory. Well, I may have been young, but I remember all about it. Like how it was your birthday and you begged Daddy to go. I remember how you got lost and I had to show you the way. You kept going west, because you didn’t understand where the sun would be in the afternoon, but I reminded you that we needed to go east. There were clues in the hedges.

  I miss you, big sis. I’m glad I’m out, but the world feels like a mighty stranger without you. No one else understands how effed up the Fieldings are, do they?

  Well, I’ll come and visit you soon.

  Stay east, sis.

  Your little brother,

  Owen

  I pocket the twenty-pound note included and place the card on the tiny shelf beneath the barred window. There, now I can pretend that I can see the birds outside. Hear their song. I breathe deeply in, close my eyes and walk around Owen’s maze, following it east, nodding my head as I understand his words.

  “Helloooo.”

  With a sigh, I open my eyes to find Genna with a G standing in my cell, hands on her hips, greasy hair pulled into a high bun. The slick of that hair turns my stomach, and the sight of her neon pink scrunchie makes me want to grind my teeth. But we’re “Baptism Buddies” and I’m not supposed to be imagining my fist connecting with her nose.

  “You asleep, Izza?”

  I shake my head. “What can I do for you, Genna?”

  She begins to pace up and down the cell, ranting about Tina, a girl from another unit who has a beef with her. I can tell she’s craving drugs, probably going through withdrawals after the last time she took them. Her energy is exhausting to watch. Her body moves jerkily, her hands clench and unclench. Every now and then she turns to me, arms passionately flailing, and I nod, pretending to listen, almost completely in Owen’s maze, listening to the squawk of the magpies.

  “Thing is, right, I owe her. And I haven’t got nothing to give her, ‘ave I?”

  “Which is where I come in,” I say.

  She stops her pacing and stands before me, completely still, arms dangling at her sides like two floppy sausages.

  “We’re mates, aren’t we, Izza?”

  I resist gagging at the sound of my nickname. “Yes.”

  “Can you lend me a little something? Enough to pay off that bitch and buy a bit of Spice for later. I’m struggling, Izza, I am.” Her eyes flood with tears and for a moment I think that maybe Genna is more dangerous than I give her credit for. She’s always reminded me of Chloe, with the same weaknesses and the same ability to be led, but Genna has ways to manipulate back. The only thing is, she doesn’t realise she’s in a much larger game than she anticipated.

  I roll up the sleeves of my hoody, pretending to think about her suggestion. “The problem is, Genna. You already owe me quite a lot.”

  She falters, begins to stumble over her words. “Oh… well, I know. I know I do, but—”

  “But this time you’ll pay me back? You haven’t paid Tina back yet.”

  She takes a step towards me. “Please, Izza. She’ll get me somehow; I know she will. She’s tough.”

  “Tougher than me?”

  A flicker passes over Genna’s face. For the first time since we became friends, Genna looks afraid. The tears stop falling from her eyes, but her mouth contorts into a grimace. Now she remembers who I am and what I’m capable of. Exactly when I need her to.

  “N… no. That’s not what I—”

  I stand up and watch her cower away from me. If I’m honest it’s quite ridiculous because I’m smaller than ever, thanks to the prison diet.

  “There’s a way we can straighten all this out,” I say.

  Genna lets out a long, slow breath. “Whatever you want, Izza.”

  I want you to stop calling me that ridiculous nickname. I keep the words in my mind rather than blurting them out. Yes, I want her afraid, but I also want her to believe that our friendship is real.

  “I don’t want you to suffer, Genna. You’re my friend. I can lend you whatever you need, you know that.”

  She laughs, but it doesn’t sound like a genuine laugh. It’s too high-pitched and breathy. “Why didn’t you say that then?”

  “Well, the thing is, I need a favour.”

  Genna pulls the sleeve of her jumper over her fingers and worries at the fabric. I see the loose threads that have been pulled out already. The ladder-like snags that are worming their way up the cloth.

  “What kind of favour?”

  “Chill, Genna, okay? It’s nothing big. All I need is for you to find a few friends that might be able to help me out with a small request.” I lift my fingers to the rosary around my neck and count the beads between thumb and forefinger.

  “Wh-what are you planning?”

  “Honestly, it’s nothing to worry about.” I placate her with the wave of my hand.

  “Okay.”

  I reach into my pocket and hand her the twenty. “There’s more where this came from. Tell that to your friends, too.”

  She snatches the money from my hands. But before she can go, I grasp her by the shoulder, tightening my fingers around her bones. If I bit into her neck, could I draw blood?

  “There’s something important that I have to tell you.”

  She nods. “Tell me then.”

  “No snitches. No rats. Loyal people only.”

  She nods again, her chin wobbling as she tries to hold back tears, genuine tears this time. I can see how she now knows she’s managed to get herself much deeper into trouble than she intended.

  “What’s the name of your mate on D unit who feeds the prison chickens?”

  “Sharon.”

  “Is she loyal?”

  “She hates the screws as much as the rest of us. She can be trusted.” Genna pauses. “If she has an incentive to be loyal.”

  “She’ll get money,” I say.

  “Then, yes, she’s loyal.”

  “She has access to the tool shed, right? For chicken coop maintenance?”

  Genna nods. “The screws trust her to a point. But they count the tools at the end of the day.”

  “All right. Thanks, Genna. I’ll be in touch. You can take some noodles on the way out.”

  A hiss of air comes out through her teeth as she shrinks away from me. Like the stale air of a pierced balloon.

  I watch her leave, and then I take a sheet of paper to compose my own letter to Owen.

  Chapter Five

  Leah

  Tom is twenty now, and I haven’t seen him for over two years. A lot can change a person in that amount of time. I can’t help but won
der whether he’s lost the baby fat around his face, whether he’s eating well and still working out, if he has friends, someone to take care of him when he’s lonely. What music does he listen to now? Does he still wear those black t-shirts and skinny jeans?

  The way we left each other is a constant source of pain to me. Being in that hospital, my body broken and weak, waiting for him to visit. The pain in my abdomen was nothing compared to the ache in my body that craved the sight of his face, the comfort of his presence. And then the realisation hits that he’s left me without even contacting me to let me know he’s okay. No Christmas cards. No birthday cards. Nothing.

  But I can’t bring myself to be angry with him for what he’s done. Do I even blame him? He found out that his entire life has been a lie. He found out that he was born from incest. From a place of abuse. What did that do to him? I can’t help but wonder whether that changed a fundamental part of who he is. If those things had been forced on me all at once, wouldn’t I want to escape, too?

  I glance down at the piece of paper in my hands and consider all of this. Of what he’s been through, of how much he must have grown since I last saw him, and of how seeing me might bring back a lot of the pain he probably wants to escape. If he wants to be left alone, should I respect his wishes? Over the last two years I’ve been checking in with DCI Murphy every week to see if there are any leads on where he might be. I thought he might turn up at Isabel’s sentencing, but he didn’t. Luckily, Isabel pled guilty, which meant that he wasn’t required to give evidence, because I’m not convinced he would have come.

  And now, DCI Murphy has finally found information that feels real. I hold the details in my hand. This is the first one that excites me. There have been sightings of men his age with a birthmark, but the physical description never quite matched. They were either too tall or too short, hair or eyes a different colour. As expected, after further investigation, it wasn’t Tom. This time, however, Murphy sent me a picture from a CCTV camera, and it’s definitely him. I have the address scribbled down on this scrap of paper. A few hours away in Newcastle.

  But there’s a chance that if I contact him, I’ll make things worse for both of us. I place the paper down on the coffee table and back away, like it has an infectious disease smeared all over it. As though it’s a bomb. I suppose there is an incendiary quality to the address. Contacting Tom could change the way he feels about me, either for the better or worse.

  Later in the day, after Seb is finished at the farm, I show him the address and we talk about what to do next. We sit down for a dinner of lamb stew and talk about my long-lost son between mouthfuls, as though this is a perfectly normal topic of conversation for a couple. Hi, honey, how was your day? Well, I got a lead on where my missing twenty-year-old son is. But he might not want to see me because I remind him of how he was conceived, and the fact that we’ve both been tortured by a serial killer. Great stuff.

  Seb mops up some gravy with a chunk of floury bread. “Is there a reason why you’re hesitating?”

  “Murphy keeps reminding me that Tom is twenty and old enough to live on his own. But now that I know where he is, I need to see him, but…” I can’t find the words to express the situation.

  “There’s something you’re not saying,” Seb prompts. His eyes are so penetrating that it takes me a moment to exhale and tell him what’s truly on my mind.

  “What if Tom is happier without me?” I say, releasing what has been kept buried for a long time.

  When I glance down at my plate, I see the stew is beginning to congeal along the surface. I’ve barely touched it and now it’s going cold.

  “What if he’s miserable without you?” Seb counters.

  “He wanted to get away from me.”

  “And I think deep down he probably regrets that. You’ve both experienced the kind of pain that no one else on the planet understands. I don’t, and I never can, because Isabel never tortured me.”

  The blood drains from my face and Seb leans across the table to wrap his hand over mine.

  “You feel like you don’t understand what I went through?” I say quietly.

  “No.” He squeezes my hand. “I mean yes. What I mean is, I wasn’t there that night. I didn’t feel Isabel’s knife or fight her father. I’m not the one she stabbed.” He grimaces, as though he’s in pain and a ripple of tension passes along his jaw. All of the pain is there. All the anger, too. “I wish I’d been there, more than anything I wish that, but I wasn’t. And while I will forever listen to you and be here for you, Tom is the only person who was actually there.”

  Except for Isabel, I think.

  “Tom must feel the same about the night in the farmhouse and the night in the caves. I think you should reach out to him. He left because he was in pain, not because he’d moved on.”

  “Oh, wow. You should talk like this much more often.” I squeeze his hand back, allowing my fingers to then trail over his, enjoying the rough skin of his hands, staring into his thoughtful eyes that draw me into him.

  “Why don’t we go next weekend? I’ll take the day off from the farm and we’ll go together.”

  “All right.” I suck in a deep breath. A week will allow me to straighten out my conflicting thoughts, to calm the nerves worrying my stomach.

  He gets up, walks around the table and pulls me into his arms. Everything seems much clearer when Seb is around.

  ***

  I wake with stones beneath the soft flesh of my face. Almost immediately, I feel the sore rawness of cuts and scrapes on my skin. When I pull myself up from the ground, I examine my arms and legs to find grazes all down them. The soles of my feet are dirty and bruised. And then Seb’s panicked voice calls my name.

  When I stand, I notice that my nightgown is torn. There’s dirt all along the hem, smeared across the sleeve where I laid in the dirt. It takes three attempts to call back to Seb, my throat is so dry. But then his boots scuff against the crumbling concrete and his bulk comes into view.

  “Leah, oh my God, I was so worried.” He pulls off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.

  “Did I sleepwalk?” My eyes roam the ruined farmhouse. “It’s happening again.” I don’t say what I’m thinking, that this is the beginning of a slippery slope to insanity. That what is real and what isn’t begins to blur, like everything is a nightmare.

  Seb pulls me into his arms and strokes my hair to keep me calm, but for some reason it doesn’t work this time. No, I don’t want to be saved by him because my brain refuses to behave. What I want is to be normal. To not need to be comforted every time my brain has a meltdown, or I sleepwalk onto the moors, or I hallucinate insects crawling around the house.

  “Come on, let’s get going,” he says, helping me take my first steps on my sore feet.

  My arm slips into his. I try not to look at the room as we go, but all I can see is Tom caught in David Fielding’s grip. Tom hand in hand with Isabel. No, wait, that bit wasn’t real, that was a dream. See? It’s happening already. I’m losing touch with what’s real. The prescription is supposed to stop all of this.

  “What’s happening to me?” I mumble.

  Seb feels the tension in my body. “It’s okay, this is a blip. An anomaly. I bet finding out Tom’s real address has unbalanced you a bit, that’s all. We’ll make an appointment with the doctor, all right?”

  When he sees me wince at the pain each step brings, he picks me up and carries me home.

  ***

  A night of sleepwalking never gives me adequate rest, and I end up curling up on an armchair to nap for a few hours. This time, when I wake, my cheek rests on my hand, and there’s a cold cup of tea sitting next to a note on the coffee table.

  Rest up, sweet. I’m nipping to the farm but will text you later.

  I smile at the note and then carry the tea into the kitchen to pour out. I check my phone on the way, and there’s a text from Seb, as I thought there might be. But there’s also a missed call from Jess. I fire off a reply to Seb before j
umping in the shower, wondering why Jess had called. We’ve already arranged to meet for another walk in a few days. This time, however, we won’t be going back to the farmhouse. My lofty ideas of the trip there helping me to heal didn’t work in the end. What I actually did was make myself worse.

  “At least you’re not hallucinating,” I remind myself, before realising I’m talking to myself.

  After the shower I check my feet and try standing on them. Now that the cuts have been washed, and the tiny stones washed away, they aren’t quite as sore, but I quickly bandage them and then put on my thickest, most cushioned socks before going back downstairs to make some toast. While the bread is browning, I return Jess’s call, but get her voicemail instead. Perhaps she’ll contact me later if it’s urgent, though I can’t imagine how it could be urgent.

  The sleepwalking has put a different spin on my relationship with Jess. Perhaps the imminent filming of the movie has dredged up some strange latent feelings. That, along with finding Tom’s address, is probably why I ended up at the old farmhouse last night. I chew on my thumbnail, willing my mind to stop dwelling on my nightmares. But when the toast pops, adrenaline surges through me. Annoyed by my own jumpiness, I butter the bread with such aggression that the toast rips apart.

  Later, as the day slips into the afternoon, I decide that I can’t mope around the cottage all day. Being here alone with bad memories puts me on edge. So, I head down to the farm shop to lend a hand.

  It’s a beautiful sunny day with the kind of low sun that offers a glow to the trees and fields around me. The leaves are so golden that I take a few quick snaps with my phone and upload them to an anonymous Instagram account I’ve been using. Most of the time I use it to spy on old school friends, but it’s nice to use my creative side, too. That’s what I do now, picking the right filter and lining up the composition in the way that I want it. After kicking around a few leaves, I find one that has rotted down to a skeleton and hold it up to the light. Instinctively, I know Jess would like this, so I text her the picture with a message asking if she’s all right.