Home for Truths: The stand-out domestic suspense thriller for 2020

by Alan Agnew

  The house was full of tension for the rest of the summer holidays. Two days before I was due back at school, my parents sat me down in the kitchen and told me I would not be returning to Baysworth Secondary. My mum was going to live with her sister for a short time in Chichester, a couple of hours away, and I would be living with them too. There was a good school with my place already secured to start in a few days. It was a lot to take in. Instead of telling me one reason (maybe the truth), my mum threw lots of reasons at me, looking to the ceiling as if reciting her script, hoping one would resonate.

  She said Baysworth secondary was undergoing renovation and rather than delay the start of the year they thought it better I changed schools…

  Auntie needs looking after, and I’m the only family she has…

  Auntie has a dog. You can take him for walks and have a four-legged friend…

  Chichester is a lovely place…

  There is little work around at the moment, so your Dad has to stay in Baysworth…

  I remember it must have worked. With so many motives, I put up little resistance, I always played the numbers game, and they knew this. Five reasons why I should eat my vegetables? Three reasons why we cannot watch this film? Four reasons why I deserve more pocket money.

  I mumbled something as a half-hearted objection about dad not coming with us. ‘This doesn’t change anything,’ my mum responded. It changed everything.

  Maybe all were true, but none were the reason we were moving to Chichester, and I knew it would not be for a short time.

  Chapter Four - Returning ‘Home’

  As I drove the final few miles to Baysworth, the guilt of not visiting my father at home in his final years began to fade. It had been a punishing 8-hour drive from Glasgow. Leaving the deserted city streets, the roads wider and tower blocks taller so early in the morning, devoid of its people, devoid of its pulse. I was loaded with four boxes sitting on my back seat and a suitcase in the boot, all my possessions comfortably fitting in my old Ford Focus. Hours upon hours hugging the dirty grey barrier on the motorway that runs the length of the country, the grey skies a reflection of the monochrome patchwork road, lined by a shiny border of tar. The only sound being the monotonous drone of the tyres on the road.

  After finally turning off the conveyer belt of motorways, I had to navigate the windy, unforgiving bends of the Dorset countryside with sunlight fading. They were much busier all these years later. The tractors and old army green Land Rovers being replaced by big powerful 4x4’s hurtling round the hidden bends as if on a Scalextric track.

  The single pleasure of my early visits to my dad’s had been the quiet country roads, an hour door to door from Chichester, allowing time for contemplation. After moving North to Glasgow, the slog of the motorways was far less appealing, but by then, so was spending time with dad.

  As I turned onto the high street, I realised, willing or not, Baysworth had conformed to consumerism with monolithic retailers placed where family favourites had stood for generations. I slowed down as I passed where Baysworth Bakery once stood, remembering Mrs Fothergill’s generous smile with every freshly baked scone. The scent of flower and warming butter flooded my mind’s eye, and I could picture the afternoon sunlight sneaking underneath the awning, causing the sugared pastries to glitter like gold. In its place, submerged into new-build flats was the latest Subway outlet, selling sandwiches by reference number with discarded plastic wrappers swirling on the footpath outside, only coming to rest as it lodged into an abandoned coke can.

  As I continued through the High Street, I caught sight of the stone carving, the old fashioned carving of the village crest that recalled some other generation. I’d hoped to see the familiar red, white and green table cloths of Luigi’s family Italian, but in its place was Domino’s Pizza. ‘Domino’s Pizza,’ I said allowed, scoffing. The double-fronted glass windows covered in loud pictures advertising the latest two-for-one deals with garish bubble writing, more akin to the home-made sign announcing the village jumble sale. Where we once stood in line waiting for our table, there was now delivery drivers awaiting instruction, using their motorbike helmets to prop their heads against the wall. Neon lights of vape shops commanded attention, where once stood Bennets Ironmongers and the wistful image of Mr Bennet standing by the door in his brown overalls. My spirits mourned the loss of the village I had once known.

  My dad would have hated this change. He would have ranted for hours, ‘it’s just not the same,’ his familiar moan, I could hear him now, although I would never hear his voice again. I never gave him a chance.

  In a village like Baysworth, I half-expected the old Woolworths to be there still. A trip to Woolworths was the weekend entertainment. On entering Mum would always turn right to the clothes. You could determine a child’s age just by where they shopped in the store. Younger ones at the front for all the toys, a few years later advancing to the middle of the store to pick n ’mix sweets. The older kids to the back for computer games, videos, and sports equipment. That’s where I always found Jimmy.

  I had hoped the old video rental shop would still be there, assuming a reluctant expansion to DVD and Blue-Ray was enough to render Netflix obsolete in this little forgotten corner of Dorset. It once represented our pre-lude to the weekend but now was a charity shop, ironically probably stacked full of DVDs nobody wanted, and it was one of six I counted in the High Street. And coffee shops, coffee shops everywhere.

  All these mass-market signs and names had the presence of soulless tombstones, rendering my childhood buried without so much an epitaph to remind coming generations of their existence and close-knit community. The sad reality is I could have been driving through any town in the UK rather than my home village of Baysworth. It was not just the springing up of monotone flats or the blah high street chains; the people seemed to have changed also. Everybody had a purposeful stride, somewhere to go. I remember how tiresome walking through the High Street used to be, with Mum stopping and talking to every other person, that’s how you learned what was going on and who it was going on with.

  The road junctions were littered with traffic lights, no longer trusting local knowledge and goodwill, with narrow roads not fit for the invasion of the proclaimed Chelsea tractors.

  As I drove out of the High Street, it appeared in front of me. An immediate lump in my throat as I saw the school standing on top of the hill and I sub-consciously slowed down. A hill we once walked up, sometimes eight abreast shoving whoever was at the end into the bushes every 50 yards despite promises to stop. The same hill we ran down at the sound of the bell to secure the back seat on the bus home, ties undone and wrapped around our wrist, bag slung over one shoulder and a tennis ball being kicked until it ran off down the main road turning heads and stopping traffic along the way.

  I kept the same slow pace for the remaining miles to Dad’s, out of both curiosity in case I missed something and subconsciously delaying my pending arrival. On either side of the road, sprawling new homes the size of castles hid behind iron gates. Flash cars parked in front of detached garages. Each dwelling separated by acres of land, with trampolines and quad bikes sitting proudly on manicured gardens where farm animals once roamed. Baysworth may still be set in the countryside, but it was no longer rural.

  I turned off the deserted Quartermile Road into Hatch End. The road was narrow and darkened by the hour, under the spell of the enormous Maple trees—a solitary street light signalling halfway before reaching the six houses making up Hatch End. Three similar-looking properties, generous in size, split to form semi-detached houses. As I drove past the first two prominent imposing properties, I wondered and doubted at the same time if the occupants were the same as my childhood as I roll-called their names in my head. I slowed to a snail’s pace as I went past Roger and Mary Knight’s house. It looked in excellent condition, newly painted, immaculate garden, many a weekend spent on it I am sure. The final two properties could not have been more contrasting. My dad’s house stood in complete
darkness, devoid of life and appeared to be retreating into the growth of the bushes and ivy around it, a ghostly silhouette of its former self. Donald’s house seemed double the size, beaming with colour and life.

  My lights stared down the driveway, which looked unfamiliarly long without the old Volvo parked halfway down. Even the old tow that sat dormant for years with a constant puddle of water on its cover and moss growing on the wheels had gone. For some reason, I could not help wonder where it had gone, and who had moved it. Dad had never mentioned it. The road ends here, and Baysworth woods start. I remember my dad standing in the lounge cursing under his breath as another car would pull up on our drive, only to reverse and complete their U-turn. Lost or just nosey bastards. He once put up a ‘no turning’ sign up in the garden, but mum rationally protested what was that going to achieve, if you reached this far you had no choice but to turn, we were the dead end.

  I walked around the perimeter of the house to stretch my legs more than from curiosity, further delaying turning the key. As I walked around the front through the overgrown vines, my eyes met with Donald Lloyd next door, standing in his lounge. I was about to raise a wave when his arms stretched out, grabbing both ends of curtain and pulling them shut. I stood at my dad’s front door, took a deep breath and turned the key.

  The chill hit me as I pushed open the door, colder than outside. The smell was earthy, almost moss-like, probably from all the shoes of the visiting authorities, my dad would have hated that, ‘shoes off at the door.’ The living room was a mess. Old newspapers all over the table, spilling onto the floor below, letters resting on top of the envelopes, tea-stained cups, an old plate with remains of a blackened dinner caked onto the knife and fork resting on the arm of his chair, a disregarded disposable plastic dish still with half of the contents to the side and of course a whiskey bottle at the foot of his chair. I crouched on the floor to clear away some of the empty cans, looking down on me, the three horse racing paintings my mum hated. Nijinsky, Dancing Brave, and Shergar, three classic winners back in their day. He used to wax lyrical about them, but mum was more concerned that he spent a fortune buying them at auction. I went from room to room checking for life, silence answering me. The kitchen tops full of stains and crumbs, the bin overflowing, sink full of dirty dishes and finding more bird food in the cupboard than actual provisions, I wondered what his diet was like in his final months.

  The abandoned state continued throughout the house, and I felt more than a pang of guilt. He had not been coping. I remember him once furious with Jimmy for leaving the milk out, throwing it into the fridge and slamming the door shut causing its entire contents to rattle. He once threw a cup against the kitchen wall saying he was sick of staring at it sitting on the breakfast table, and would empty the cutlery tray into the sink if he thought the knives had crossed into the spoons. Had he just given up or not noticed in his final days?

  I took another deep breath, almost symbolically, as I grabbed the door handle leading to the garage. It was locked. I walked round the front, to the big metal brown garage door, also locked. I went back to my car and carried in my suitcase from the boot; the boxes could wait until morning. I picked up the half bottle of whisky from the floor, rinsed a glass and poured myself a generous measure. I swirled the amber liquid. It stuck to the side of the glass as it rotated. I raised it to my lips, the piercing smell alerting my senses, the sharp taste bitter and sweet as one, followed by burning at the back of my throat: pleasure and pain, a drink defining life itself. I paused, no thoughts reaching me, before sipping again, closing the loop on my brain.

  I sat for hours in the darkened room before staggering up the stairs holding the remains of the bottle in my glass. I paused at the top. A personal crossroad. I had not given it any thought until now on which room I would sleep. My dad’s bedroom was a mess with sheets gathered at the foot of the bed, and my old bedroom was filled with junk. This only left me with Jimmy’s old room. As I sat on his bed, I raised my glass of whisky above my head and gave a silent toast. Tomorrow would be a long day, the looming funeral. Sleep would come easy that evening; the whisky helped.

  I awoke groggily. My confusion lasted more than the usual morning disorientation. Wondering if I was still dreaming, I was surrounded by everything foreign except for the familiar and sweet taste of sugar from the whiskey coated to my dry mouth. I tasted it all over again, but stale this time making me dry cough. My lungs expanded slowly as the mist in my brain began to clear. My head ached, but the feeling of regret long gone. I was surrounded by the smell of staleness from the pillow and bedsheets that I hadn’t noticed the night before, and the scent clung to my clothing and skin. I sat up and took in my surroundings as if for the first time. Jimmy’s room. Jimmy’s bedroom but nothing of Jimmy, nothing of anything.

  There was a rustling outside. I opened the curtain to see Donald in his shed, its door open. I pictured Jimmy, helping him as he often did; mum called it his second home. If Jimmy was not in his room, he was in Donald’s shed repairing a hinge or sawing wood for his latest carpentry project. He would have sat at this window and seen Donald in his shed as I did that morning and darted down to join him. I got dressed with slightly less vigour and went out to say hello to Donald, hoping to explain it was me who arrived at the house late last night.

  He looked up to find me standing in front of him. He had seen me last night, he had been expecting me to return for the funeral and in his words, ‘see to the house.’ He asked where I was living these days, and if I have a family of my own, both questions caused me to hesitate, both were difficult for me to answer. Had my dad never spoken about me? He did not pass on the standard condolences for my dad even though they had been neighbours for decades. Was he that bitter about the state of the garden? Donald was a proud man, with some arrogance at best and a sense of entitlement at worst. I always had the impression he talked down to our family while commanding the respect of others. I began walking away, but stopped short and turned again, like the trademark of my favourite TV Detective Columbo from the 1970’s American TV show.

  ‘I’ll fix up the garden,’ I said, desperately wanting to patch up whatever bad feelings may have been lingering. ‘If there is anything I can do while I’m here, please let me know.’

  A heavy silence hung in the air between us, as Donald looked me in the eye for the first time, his face screwed. ‘But what can you do,’ he replied, without inflexion to make to a question. If it wasn’t a question, it left me without the possibility of responding with any sort of gesture. Donald returned to his shed and shut the door.

  I had no time to dwell on this strange reunion. I had a funeral to attend.

  Chapter Five – the present, 1 day after the funeral

  I have a thumping headache, the pain throbbing so hard I expect it to break through my skull. My mouth is dry. The back of my neck is damp with sweat, and I reach back to feel my shirt collar rubbing at it. I look down and see my black shoes standing to attention on my feet, trousers with one leg pulled up just below my knee. I am so thirsty. I sit up on the sofa I passed out on and squint at the bright light coming through the window. I kick off my shoes, my black cotton socks creased where they had been squashed with sweat stains. I feel a momentary relief, my feet free from their shackles. I pull at my shirt from its twisted state within my belt, the cold buckle pressing into my bare stomach, leaving a red crease on my skin. I undo another button on my shirt, freeing the collar from my damp neck. I have a nagging feeling weaving through my mind. Something is not right.

  My mind begins to playback the events of yesterday, of course, my dad’s funeral. I remember standing at the pulpit delivering the eulogy. I remember all those grey faces telling what a lovely service it was. I remember the sandwiches not being ready as we entered the pub and I remember having quite a few beers. The chicken wings were spicy, and I remember wanting to be anywhere else, I remember staying late, talking with some pub regulars about nothing, I remember an argument, some shouting, I feel distur
bed. I feel guilt. I want to close my eyes and wake up again.

  On the coffee table are hamburger wrappers, some empty beer cans, and a wine bottle, five centimetres of red wine resting at the bottom. I allow myself a smirk, a momentary release from the self-loathing, at least I did not finish the bottle, and I would have thought the same last night as well, thinking I was smart. Like a weight crashing to the floor the realisation they came from the petrol station. I drove there after the pub, after six hours in the pub. Stupid man. Boom, a second weight crashing to the floor, a flashback of an argument with the cashier in the petrol station. I hope I did not do anything stupid. There would have been cameras everywhere. I still do not feel at ease despite my vague recollections, something else tucked in the back of my consciousness, tugging away but still hidden.

  I press the cool rim of the glass against my cracked lips. I chew the water, forcing it down my throbbing, burning throat. I replay the mundane conversations from yesterday. One man, Terry I think was his name, told me my dad would be missed around the church and how his volunteering was much appreciated. I remember smiling and thinking this man must be confused. People dig deep to compliment the deceased. I think hard, I can’t recall dad mentioning the church, he did not even attend when we were on stage at the Harvest festival, but then I cannot remember him attending any school performance.

  A lady called Elsa talked about how my dad had helped her son during his darkest times. Reg and Anna from the bowling club said something similar about their son, how my dad had been a regular visitor to the children’s home in Teyford. I should have paid more attention, asked more questions, but my mind had been focused on the bottom of my pint glass.