Payback

by Gemma Rogers

  The next-door neighbour wasn’t in or, if they were, they didn’t respond to us hammering on the door and screaming through the letter box. Their neighbour, one along, came out to see what all the racket was about and called the police immediately. She helped us into her kitchen and wrapped our wounds in clean tea towels. James succumbed and passed out, causing us to panic we were losing him. The ambulance and police arrived together in a haze of flashing lights and yellow tape. Detective Wren pulled up as James was being loaded into the ambulance, him on the stretcher, me sat beside him, holding his hand.

  ‘Where is she? Where’s Hope?’ I asked when Wren climbed into the ambulance.

  ‘We don’t know, they’re searching the property now.’

  I laid my head back on the grey leatherette chair, one paramedic was bandaging my shoulder as I stared at James, hooked up to monitors. His face almost translucent underneath the oxygen mask.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ I asked the other paramedic, who was busy redressing his wound. The dirty bandages placed in a cardboard sick bowl, yellow and sticky.

  ‘His body has gone into shock because of the untreated infection. I’ve given him some medicine to lower his temperature and once we get some antibiotics in him, he should respond well.’

  She shined her torch into his eyes, but there was no response.

  47

  November 2018

  As soon as I’d had my shoulder stitched and all my other scratches and cuts cleaned and dressed, I was discharged. I didn’t leave the hospital, instead I curled up in the armchair beside a comatose James and fell asleep. Exhausted from the trauma and adrenaline which had now evacuated my system.

  ‘Sophie?’ Detective Wren patted my hand and I jumped in the chair, almost kicking him as my legs unfurled. Someone had placed a blanket over me, and it was warm and cosy beneath. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I mumbled, wiping dribble from my cheek. I knew I looked a mess, but I didn’t care.

  ‘Half past ten. You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours. I need to take a statement from you. Do you feel up to telling me what happened?’

  ‘Did you get her?’

  ‘Hope? The lady at number 28 told us you were distressed, shouting that Hope was trying to kill you. She wasn’t there when we got to the property. It was empty.’

  I closed my eyes and felt my chest tighten. It wasn’t over. I wasn’t free.

  Detective Wren handed me a polystyrene cup of water, which tasted amazing, the cold liquid soothed my throat. He pulled his chair closer and I eased my body more upright in the chair. Glancing at James who was still snoring, his drip delivering the antibiotics he so desperately needed.

  ‘She’s Hayley’s daughter,’ I explained.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Wren said, flipping his notebook over to a new page and poising his pen.

  I spent that night in the hospital, too afraid to go home and not wanting to put my parents in any danger. Who knew where Hope would go? I asked Detective Wren to make sure Hayley’s parents were safe. Hope’s venomous words ringing in my ears. They would be shocked to know they had a grandchild. That Hayley had kept her baby all those years ago.

  I sat by James’s bedside watching his chest rise and fall. Would we be able to move past what had happened? He’d been stupid, a misguided loyalty to Gareth. Then I guessed he’d kept what he knew to himself, to protect Sue and Jim. They’d lost both of their sons. To know one of them was a rapist would be torturous.

  I told Detective Wren everything that had happened, including Hope’s admission of killing Gareth and being responsible for everything that had happened to us. He didn’t speak whilst I recalled what had taken place at the house, only pausing from his writing when I fell quiet, unable to believe it myself.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Hayley, about that night, the night that was supposed to be the best of our young lives. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Craig had just wandered in looking for Gareth and taken advantage of the situation. How he’d finished the job Gareth wasn’t able to start. It sickened me. Hayley’s life, what had happened after the party, it has all started with me and my stupid idea. I’d be forever haunted by it. Just as Hope was.

  They arrested Hope the next day. She’d tried to fix her leg and changed her Australia flight to one earlier in the day. I assumed she thought she might evade the police by switching flights. There was a quick swoop at the gate, and they led Hope limping away to receive proper medical attention on her thigh. She’d lost almost a pint of blood by all accounts and they believed, had she managed to board, she wouldn’t have survived the flight.

  When I arrived home from the hospital, a lone cardboard box had been left on the doorstep, the flaps open, moving with the wind. I cringed, bending to look inside. Unwilling to take anything left by Hope into my home. But inside were Hayley’s diaries, four books tied in a yellow ribbon dating all the way back to 1997.

  They were a hard read. Not in the beginning, it made me smile to read about our gang, her crush on Gareth and how Becca was driving everyone around the bend about Mark. The later ones were darker, of someone much changed by time and circumstances. I imagined the horror of Hope finding these after Hayley’s passing, realising everything she’d gone through because of how much love she had for her child. The child of a rapist.

  Hope was right, no one should ever have had to go through what Hayley did. Especially not as a child. I wrote to Becca and Mark, Robyn and Elliot too, identical letters, so they knew what had happened, who Hope was and what she’d done. I wrote again to Hayley’s Mum, Jackie, so she could finally find out what happened to her daughter and grieve for her. I also broke the news that she had a granddaughter.

  The newspapers had a field day, of course, and for a while photographers loitered outside the estate agents. Our reputation wasn’t damaged, weirdly sales increased. Villagers came in wanting to find out what had happened. I never spoke of it, of course, but the community reached out to us and that was comforting. I reconciled with Mum and Dad, they were relieved I was okay, although initially furious I hadn’t sought their help. Dad said he’d step back and let me run Whites as I saw fit. So, I changed the logo.

  Frank pops in every now and then. Him and Dad have taken up golf, schooled by Jim, the walking doing him good.

  Hope was charged with one count of murder, two counts of actual bodily harm, harassment and threats to kill. Thankfully she pleaded guilty, so there was to be no trial. James and I wouldn’t have to testify against her. There was a sentencing hearing, but I didn’t go. I still carried the guilt and I guessed I always would.

  Detective Wren allowed me to visit the bedsit where Hope lived, which, to my surprise, was across the road from the office. She’d been able to watch my comings and goings, out of her bedroom window, depending on what entrance I used. Photos of all of us were stuck to the wall. Drawing pins through each of our eyes. It made me shudder, but even that couldn’t allay my conscience.

  Hope had done some terrible things, but it was obvious the passing of her mother, and subsequent finding of Hayley’s diaries had devastated her. All her childhood memories tainted by what she now knew. She’d been brought into the world as a result of a horrific crime on a fifteen-year-old girl. I could understand the need for justice, for the mother she loved and missed dearly. The weight of it hung heavily on me; I’d been the catalyst for a chain of events that had ruined Hayley’s life.

  I collected a box of things – there wasn’t much: a few books, papers and of course Hayley’s ashes in a beautiful oak box. I considered returning them to Hayley’s parents, Jackie and Alan, but it didn’t seem fair to Hope. She was her mum. I paid for a long-term storage locker and sent Hope the details in a letter written to HMP Downview. All she would need to access the locker was her passport and I knew she’d had that with her when she was arrested. I had no idea when she would get out, it would likely be around twenty years according to Detective Wren. I
heard that Jackie had been to visit her in an attempt to build a relationship and I truly hoped it would help heal them both.

  James and I managed to put everything behind us. A clean slate, no keeping secrets. It was going well; he’s still living with me at the flat and has been hinting about making it official. I’d love to settle down. Maybe one day I’ll get to be a parent; then I’ll fully understand what a mother will do to protect her child.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you firstly, to my amazing partner in crime Dean, without you running things at home I’d never be able to do this. I’m incredibly lucky to have you by my side.

  Thanks to my lovely reader and colleague Denise Miller who is always front of the queue to look at my very rough first draft and be the sounding board for ideas.

  To my Mum and the rest of my family and friends whom I’ve bored stiff about the book over the past few months, I’m sorry. I promise I will talk about other things now!

  Thank you to my amazing editor Caroline Ridding, who champions my work and pushes me to make it the best it can be. I’m learning so much from you. Boldwood Books, I cannot thank you enough for this journey! Jade Craddock, your eagle eyes are second to none, thank you for reading and please can you forever look after my books!

  Thanks again to Mark Zivilik for being on hand for all my police procedural questions. I’m so very grateful. You rock!

  Lastly but by no means least, thank you to the Savvy Writers’ Snug, a group full of the most talented, friendly and helpful authors you could ever wish to meet.

  A note from Gemma Rogers

  Thank you so much for reading Payback, I do hope you enjoyed it. I’ve had this story rattling around in my head for a while now, so I’m thrilled to have finally got it down on paper.

  Please leave a review or recommend it to a friend if you enjoyed it. Payback is also available as an ebook, digital audio download and audiobook CD.

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  If this is the first book of mine that you’ve read, please consider taking a look at Stalker, my debut novel. Click the image below or keep reading for an exclusive extract…

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  Chapter One

  Saturday 27 January 2018

  I’ve never been in trouble before. Not the sort of trouble that brought me here. Freshly painted, stark white walls surround me; their toxic scent lingers in the air. A fluorescent glow from strip lights so dazzling they must be there to desensitise the occupants. Everything is white or chrome, like I’m on the set of a futuristic movie. I swing my legs, which dangle over the edge of the bed, not quite reaching the floor. I do this for a minute to keep warm. Despite the blanket around my shoulders, I can’t help but shiver. It’s late and they didn’t bring my jacket. I guess it’s been taken away as evidence.

  The woman in front of me is standing too close, hot breath on my arm. It makes me squirm and I fight the urge to yank my hand away from her grip. She’s holding it like I’m a china doll, fragile and easily broken. I dislike the invasion of my personal space. It’s something I’ve learnt to tolerate over the years. I was never a big fan of being touched, shrinking away if someone brushed past me or stood too close on public transport. I’m not a hugger either – no one was in the house where I grew up. After tonight, I can’t imagine I’ll let anyone touch me again.

  Her name is Doctor Joyce Hargreaves, she told me as we entered the victim examination room. Her job, she said, was to collect evidence from me, which is why she was wearing a paper suit, so there wouldn’t be any cross-contamination. She hasn’t picked up on my anxiety, the tremor in my fingers; she’s too busy. Brows furrowed, eyes focused as she peels the plastic bag away from my bloodied hand to collect scrapings from my skin and beneath my fingernails. The tool she uses makes me nervous.

  ‘Is that a scalpel?’ my voice barely a whisper.

  ‘No, it’s a scraper. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. This is just so I can make sure we collect any skin cells that may be buried underneath the tips of your nails. I’m afraid I’ll have to give them a trim in a minute too.’ She wields the scraper with care and it’s true, it doesn’t hurt. Physically I’m okay, except my throat is on fire and the ringing in my ears is deafening, timed perfectly with the throbbing of my face. I have a feeling I might feel worse once the adrenaline leaves my system.

  When she finishes with my hands, she pulls the fallen blanket back over my shoulders and offers a kind smile as she pushes her glasses up her nose. I can see strands of greying hair trying to escape by her ear, exposed beneath the coverall hat. She wears no jewellery and her face is free of make-up. Was she on duty or has she been called out of her bed to attend to me? Would we recognise each other in different circumstances? Probably not, I must be one of many people that pass through this room every day.

  Joyce delicately inserts each of the specimens into small tubes before labelling them to be sent for analysis. I don’t know why? I’ve told them what happened. Soon she’ll want to examine me thoroughly. Internally. Until there are no more swabs left to be taken.

  She glances at me, knowing what is coming, what she must ask me to do. Her eyes are full of pity. I must look a mess. Dried blood on my face and chest is beginning to flake away, like charred skin falling into my lap. My cheek is puffy and the vision poor on my left side. I wish I could stop shivering. They said it’s shock and provided me with a mug of hot, sweet tea after the ambulance checked me over. They wanted to make sure the blood I am doused in isn’t mine. It isn’t.

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  Stalker is available to buy now, click below:

  About the Author

  Gemma Rogers was inspired to write gritty thrillers by a traumatic event in her own life nearly twenty years ago. Stalker was her debut novel and marked the beginning of a new writing career. Gemma lives in West Sussex with her husband, two daughters and bulldog Buster.

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  Visit Gemma’s website: www.gemmarogersauthor.co.uk

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  About Boldwood Books

  Boldwood Books is a fiction publishing company seeking out the best stories from around the world.

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  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

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  Copyright © Gemma Rogers, 2020

  Cover Design: www.judgebymycovers.com

  Cover Photography: Shutterstock

  The moral right of Gemma Rogers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  Paperback ISBN 978-1-83889-010-0

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-83889-013-1

  Kindle ISBN 978-1-83889-012-4

  Audio CD ISBN 978-1-83889-009-4

  MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-83889-680-5

&
nbsp; Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-83889-011-7

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