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

by Alan Agnew

  I open my car door to a wall of noise with drilling, banging and shouting all competing with music blaring from the sizeable paint-stained stereo sitting pride of place on top of the skip. Nobody turns a head as I carry my shopping into the house, I am invisible to their world.

  The noise of the builders commands my attention, and I am continually drawn to the window to watch, unable to feel at ease in the house. I grab a four-pack of beers which have barely had time to cool in the fridge and hop over the sty to the woods. My feet are squelching with each step, mud covering my inadequate white trainers, weighted down with each step, eyes on the mud to avoid the puddles. I walk until it is quiet, no music, no drilling, and no shouting, taking a seat on a fallen tree which feels damp against my jeans. I reach into the plastic carrier bag tugging a can free from the plastic and pulling back the ring pull, generating the familiar fizzing of beer covering the top of the can with a layer of froth. The beer is warm, heightening the aggressive taste of the alcohol, I drink it fast. I see no-one, I hear nothing, and I slip away into a dreamy trance.

  My attention is drawn to voices, and the crunching of leaves nearing me. I pull myself up from the tree, the back of my legs stiff and cold. I shuffle my feet amongst the brown leaves and empty beer cans feeling the blood returning. I see the little boy before he sees me, bright yellow boots up his legs with a padded coat zipped above his chin, the sleeves rolled up to free his little fingers. He runs towards me using all of his body, a mop of yellow hair flirting over his brown eyes. Our eyes meet, and he holds up a small stick without breaking stride, I crouch down to his level, his smile widening with pride.

  ‘Thomas stop.’ The boy freezes upon the instruction from behind him, his dad shuffling into view through the branches. Slender in build, his formal hairstyle and trendy glasses out of place amongst his weekend wet gear, more suited to the midweek suit. He looks straight past the boy and focuses in on me.

  ‘Thomas leave that man alone, come back to daddy now,’ holding out his arms not daring to come any closer. The boy holds out his stick as far as he can reach, ‘Stick Man,’ he shouts and then swivels to face his nervous-looking dad. I watch them walk away, but I don’t see the dad holding the little hand poking out of the yellow jacket, I see myself lifting the boy onto my shoulders, Caroline by our side with a beaming smile for her boys. I stay crouched watching our family trundle away, and take my final swig from the can.

  The look on that dad’s face is imprinted on my mind as I trudge back to the house, the initial buzz of alcohol turning quickly to self-loathing. His stare was one of alarm and fright as his eyes met mine, igniting his protective instinct to protect son as he approached me. Me, a middle-aged man standing alone in a forest gripping hold of my last can of beer, and not even midday. My sweater stained in beer, trampling on empties, bloodshot eyes and the edge. That little boy will grow up realising there is no greater need in childhood as strong as the need for your father’s protection.

  I think to my own dad. I think back to when we took a boat out in Brixham during a holiday. We had been searching for the legendary Bluefin tuna, a rare sighting off the coast of Devon. At 12-years-old, Jimmy was far more confident and agile on the boat than I and competitive. Who could spot the tuna first? Dad pulled me in close as he spotted the shimmering white torpedo-shaped body splashing in front of us. We celebrated our find, and our win and called Jimmy across without response. My dad shouted louder before the boat rocked, allowing us to catch sight of Jimmy in the sea, arms aloft, and terror strewed across his face as he disappeared under. My dad stood and jumped in as one, crashing hard into the sea, arms thrashing frantically before wrapping them around Jimmy and pulling him up to the surface. He lifted him back on the boat and hovered over his flat, lifeless body, blue veins flashing beneath his translucent skin. Holding Jimmy’s nose between his thumb and forefinger, he gave mouth to mouth, calmly counting out loud as he pushed against his young chest. First, a cough, then a second cough followed by the release of water from his mouth, his eyes opened, and his forming smile brought the colour back to his cheeks. My dad sat him upright and hugged Jimmy tightly, he hugged us both tightly, tears running down his cheeks. ‘I love you boys, my boys,’ he said.

  It is the perfect memory of my dad, and as he did with us for hours on that boat, I cling to it when I need to, my dad, the hero. He may not have spent an hour reading bedtime stories or making us breakfast, but I know he would have done anything to protect us. Of course, he had to spot the danger first, even if it was only next door.

  I kick off my muddy trainers at the front door and run straight to the bathroom for a pee, leaving a trail of damp footprints from my wet socks. The noise next door has subsided, and I look at my watch to see it is only midday, must be on a lunch break. I stack together my dad’s financial statements and place them in an oversized envelope for the solicitor. The building site continues to aggravate me. I want to go out there, all guns blazing, demanding the noise to stop, and demanding neighbourhood respect takes precedence over self-indulgence. I need to stay in control. I have to conform to our bureaucratic state and go through the appropriate channels. Only a faceless administration will hear my disgust, identifying me by reference number. I search online for the local authority building controls website to see for myself the planning permission. Entering his postcode and house number I find an application marked ‘approved’ for new double glazed windows and painting of façade, submitted only a month ago, the taste of bitterness sours my mouth.

  My fist clenches as I consider his arrogance, his sense of entitlement, his condescending nature assuming nobody dare challenge him. I search the site further for details on the complaint’s procedure. I hammer at the keyboard, completing the required form of the noise complaint, each box a soapbox for my disgust, typed in capital letters and peppered with exclamation marks. I google a few legislative acts and gleefully quote them in my report of Donald’s violation against the original planning application.

  I open a beer toasting my progress and imagine the suits and clipboards arriving at Donald’s house tutting at his non-compliance and disregard for the system. I notice a reply at the top of my inbox from the Planning department and smile with renewed faith at their efficiency. I hastily double click to open it and read a thank you for my email which will be responded to within 72 hours. I snap the laptop closed, just as the noise starts up again next door.

  I settle on the sofa engrossed in cheesy Western films until daylight fades. I feel the need to shove food in my mouth, although not particularly hungry so I pierce a film lid and place another non-descript meal in the microwave, opening a bottle of red as if to formalise dinner time. The soft humming of the microwave gives way to silence, and I realise the builders must have finished for the day. I sit at the dining table in the living room, thinking of Donald. I can see how loathing can drive you insane. It is consuming, antagonising only myself. I am full of spite, yet I continue with it, the endorphins rising, needing a release.

  I feel drunk, and with a beautiful, carefree feeling and misplaced confidence, I put on my shoes, still caked in drying mud, and walk over the drive to next door. I reach down to the plant pot and pick up the single silver Yale key from under it. I slot it in the keyhole, turn it slowly to the left and gently ease the door open with none of the brazenness of the builder this morning.

  I step into Donald’s house and stand in the living room as I did on 19th February 1986. So much looks the same, maybe a different carpet but the same colour, different wallpaper but the same style, and the same oak smell. The room is set up as I remember, an armchair in front of a TV, a wooden bookcase, the same desk perhaps and green leather office chair with same grandfather clock ticking, but so much louder. I have no plan, but I feel powerful, I feel in control walking around his house, uninvited, invading his privacy.

  I sit down at his desk, his calendar staring back at me, three days marked with a B which I now know to be Bucharest. A small box for today’s date and tomo
rrow both labelled with the letter E which is repeated on highlighted days next week, and every week after that. I open a long slim drawer that sits directly under his desktop. It is separated into small compartments which are filled with a box of matches, some coins, post-it notes, business cards, and letters. I flick through the letters; many are printed on headed papers with the words ‘Baysworth Masonic Lodge’ across the top. I read a couple of boring monthly newsletters about the finances of the lodge, about some travels of their brothers, about an upcoming gala. Nestled to the bottom of the draw is an expensive-looking oak frame, its contents missing.

  I force myself to slow down and think. Stay in control. I stand rooted to the spot and take in my surroundings. Everything is so neat and tidy, everything has its place. He must have OCD. I afford myself a knowing smile, of course he does, explaining all those lectures given to us when we were kids trampling on his garden or kicking the ball into his flowers. We bore the consequences as kids, but now it provides me with the perfect platform for disruption. Perfect for causing confusion and frustration, more painful than merely stealing or wrecking the place, which can be blamed on the builders. I want to mess with his head, so I start moving things around, swapping some of his old paintings around, moving his lamp to the opposite side of his desk, placing the remote control in the fridge. I move quicker now, full of purpose. I want him to start questioning his sanity, and I want to keep him up at night just as Jimmy did, scared of his dreams. The cruellest attack is that of the mind, the perfect disorder for someone who needs order.

  The persistent ticking of the grandfather clock competes with the battle planning in my head, deafening me to reason, logic, and conventional rules of being a sane person. Donald is a criminal on the loose. As I step slowly to the stairs, the room suddenly illuminates, I freeze, feeling exposed in the light and staring at my shadow on the wall. I hold my breath and close my eyes, waiting for a voice. I slowly blow the air from my cheeks. The only sound continues to be my exaggerated breaths competing against the tick of the clock. I slowly turn just as another light flicks on, and I wince again at the flash of light. There is nobody here, I breathe out in relief, and I slump down resting my heavy arms on my knees. The timer for the lights ensures the room is lit like a beacon.

  I continue upstairs to his bedroom. As with downstairs, it is immaculate, nothing out of place. He has pills all over his bedside table. If I was smart, I could swap some of these around, formulating the perfect combination to cause maximum discomfort. That’s what would happen in the movie, I could google it tonight.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I stare hard, confused in my thoughts. Is this me now? Someone who breaks into another man’s house. If I read about this in the paper, I would be the first to judge. I would be disgusted. I would demand a prison sentence for such a personal violation of some poor old man’s home, maybe he was a war veteran, what a total lack of respect.

  Standing in front of the mirror, only half my face lit by the soft moonlight through the window, I think back to why I am here, for Jimmy, and for all those other victims. I see them locked in their rooms, I feel their misplaced shame, and I feel their loneliness, nobody protecting them, nobody fighting for them. I will fight for them. The face in the mirror smiles back.

  I move some everyday items like his toothbrush and shampoo, place a t-shirt where his hand towel should be, taking out a lightbulb and swapping his sock drawer, and underwear draw around. I have altered enough in the house for him to be confused but not enough for him to be sure. I am also conscious that the house is lit up with curtains open, my shadows long, I would be easily visible if someone were to walk past. I replace the key under the plant pot and walk the hop, skip and jump distance to my front door. My adrenaline still high as I reach for a well-earned drink and settle back on the sofa.

  My moment of contemplation is disturbed by a one-line text from Caroline, ‘Have you put the house on the market?’ Apart from referencing it in protests to Donald about the impact of his building site, I had not given it a single thought until now. It will need more than cleaning the kitchen, and I do not have the time right now.

  I lie in bed, tossing and turning, restless. I try and void my mind of thoughts but keep returning to Donald. His image, his house all too consuming. I look across to the wall, only hours ago I was standing just the other side of the partition, in his room. He was at my mercy and still is. Already I want to return.

  Chapter Seventeen – 11 days after

  For the second successive morning, I wake up to the phone ringing. I was only dozing, so I am much more responsive when Marie from the children’s home wishes me a good morning and continues without waiting for a response. ‘I am sorry I missed your visit yesterday. I understand your father passed away, and you would like to know a little more about what he did here at Camwell Lodge?’ She sounds serious, almost suspicious. I explain how I had lost touch, and I was trying to understand more about him.

  She continued in the same tone, ‘I think we should meet in person so I can explain in some more detail, but not here at Camwell. How about 9.30 Wednesday morning in Costa Coffee, it’s my day off, we can talk off the record as it were?’

  It was clear Marie was not comfortable talking to me on the phone, maybe what she had to tell me was delicate, perhaps that’s why she mentioned the term ‘off the record.’ There was no compassion or sympathy offered when mentioning my dad’s passing. Frustratingly, I only think about this after I agree to meet her and have put the phone down.

  I put the kettle on and take in the quietness, no weekend overtime for the builders next door thankfully. I think back to my actions at Donald’s house. Despite being under the influence of alcohol and driven by vengeance, I have no regrets. It felt good. I playback when I thought he had caught me red-handed in his house, when the timer turned on the lights. If he had been standing behind me, what would I have done? I imagine going for him, striking him hard with my right fist, then with my left into his chest, watching him hit the floor in slow motion, one big boot into him. I feel my body tense up, teeth grinding, fist clenched as I imagine this. It feels good. Fight or flight, I stand and fight, for Jimmy, maybe I am 30 years late, but I was powerless then, without knowledge or life years. Now I am driven by revenge, for my family.

  I hear a car outside and go to the window to see Donald taking his small case out of the boot. I watch as I have watched him all week, but this time I know where he has been and when he was due home, I feel a sense of power, even if all I know is the initial E for his whereabouts. He walks around his house like the Lord of the Manor inspecting the scaffolding. I watch him until he steps inside the house. I take pleasure for the second time as I imagine him staring at a painting on the wrong wall or searching for his remote control.

  It’s late Saturday morning, and I know Caroline will be just home from her spin class. I call her. I tell her more about Donald, about finding the poppers in his suitcase, about researching where he had been for his short break. She, predictably, sounds disappointed that I went through his personal belongings and warns me about jumping to conclusions. I claim my reasoning again but this time she stops me.

  ‘Phil, I can hear the anger building in your voice, you will think it is justified, and I know you are focused on revenge, but my concern is for you, and I do not think this will end well,’ she says in a non-patronising way. ‘It has always been the same with you, needing someone to blame. This time it is Donald, before it was your boss, before that your mum, your dad before again. Can you not see, whoever angers you, controls you?’

  She is right, she always is, although it usually takes me far longer to accept it. ‘What would you do Caroline? I cannot let it go; doing nothing will cause me more pain.’

  ‘I think Phil, you need more evidence, and you need to talk to Jimmy’s friends, you need to find out from the police if Donald has any criminal history of this sort of thing, build a case and then let the authorities take over.’ It’s not what I wanted to
hear, but I needed to hear it.

  I pull out the school yearbook from my dad’s box of papers and flick through until finding Jimmy’s class photo. It has the names beneath the class, and I sit the photograph up against my laptop and begin searching Facebook. Some of the more familiar names like ‘Oliver Davies’ have thousands of matches, so I refine the search to Dorset. I play a detective trying to recognise a 14-year-old boy in a 45-year-old man whose picture is likely them standing on a rock, or holding a baby, or in a wedding suit. One of the names shows a profile picture taken probably not too long after the class picture, I recognise him straight away on the list of ‘James Finley’s’.

  My eyes are also drawn to his full profile name listed as ‘James Finley RIP.’ I click on his profile and see confirmation of his hometown Baysworth, Dorset. I scroll down and view hundreds of condolences. The commonality between them is the message ‘taken too soon’ with plenty of references to the prime of his life. Taken? Like Jimmy was taken? I google ‘James Finley Dorset death,’ but nothing materialises. The condolences appear from September 1989, a month after I relocated with mum to Chichester, and also a month after the story broke in the local newspaper of the sexual abuse investigation at the school.

  I google again, referencing the school and his name. Nothing. I read through the condolences for the second time looking for any reference to the cause of his death. I read one that offers sympathies to his parents Fergal and Daphne Finley. There are four Finleys in the phone book and only one F.G Finley. I hurriedly phone the number, but no answer.

  I send out 15 friend requests in total with a cut and paste concise note that I am Jimmy’s brother and wanted to check a couple of things regarding his schooldays, giving no hint of the severity so as not to alarm. I am not a big Facebook user, too many fake lives being played out. While I am here though I check Caroline’s page, she has recently changed her profile picture to an old one that I took of her on holiday in Tuscany. Her long hair is blowing slightly in the wind, and she has a royal blue tight t-shirt matching her eyes and a glass of white wine, boasting her trademark huge smile. My profile picture is of Caroline and me drunk in a bar in Manchester at her Uni reunion ten years ago, but I don’t think any of my 11 friends on Facebook care or will notice if I change it now. Already today, I have spent more time social networking than I have in the past ten years.