by Alan Agnew
I freeze at the sound of the phone ringing. I go to my pocket in panic, holding it out in front of me. Nothing. The ringing continues with my phone in darkness. It takes an eternity for me to realise it is the house phone, and I blowout my hot breath in relief. The sound of the TV pauses, and I hear him marching to the hallway repeating his number back when answering, all the while not moving a muscle.
‘No, you have the wrong bloody number, I don’t care what message you got.’ Donald slams the phone down.
I stay rooted to the spot, one foot on the bed the other on the floor about to be hoisted out the window. I await to hear his direction with apprehension. Still no resumption of the TV, my concern grows that he has been distracted, he could come upstairs at any moment. I reach out, pull the window in so it can’t be seen as out of place if he looks out of his bedroom window—my chest heaving. I think again what my response is should the door behind me open. I still have no plan, I bow my head, half for prayer, and half to relieve some of the tension in my body. My legs are weighted, and my muscles on fire from the continued adrenaline rush. I vow here and now, if I get out safely, I will not return.
There is movement next door, in his bedroom, I did not even hear him on the stairs. My palms are clammy, my t-shirt sticking to my back, I feel sweat forming everywhere. I pray for real this time, just let me out of this one.
Louder noises, but welcome sounds of footsteps going down the stairs, the sound of gunfire from the television, a sigh of relief. I continue my climb out of the window, my leg stiff. I push the window back, leaving only a small gap, as I found it, and tiptoe along with the wood plank, down the ladder and around the house to home.
I down a pint of water, still lukewarm from the tap and immediately fill it up again. I sit down at the table, my heart slowing, my breaths lightening. I have been in some scary situations in the past. I have been mugged, I have been chased by a gang of football hooligans, and I have crashed my car; yet have never been so scared as tonight. I have never felt so vulnerable, the reality of being bang to rights if discovered. What am I doing? I keep justifying it to myself. It is for justice, for Jimmy, for all those victims not yet known. Stay in control. But from nowhere, the first crumbs of doubt creep into my mind, what if I am wrong and he is innocent. And if he is innocent, what does that make me?
Chapter Nineteen – 12 days after
I wake with my usual grogginess, horrible dry mouth, and more than a tinge of regret. There is no light fighting to get through the perimeter of my curtains, too early. I am sweating and search my conscious for recollections of the night before. In the drama of having to return for my phone, I had forgotten about switching Donald’s pills around, having no idea what they were or therefore the possible consequences. Half of me wants to rush over there and tell him everything. I need to enter the house again, despite everything I promised myself last night, but this time to put things right.
I check my Facebook, no new friends, but I do have a message from Victoria replying to mine from last night requesting a chat. She suggests coming for a walk on the Downs this afternoon with her and a small walking group, nothing too strenuous and would give plenty of time to talk, although she is unsure if she can shed much light on whatever I am looking for. What am I looking for?
Donald is up and in his shed. No overdose last night then. I stand at the window and stare down at him. I wonder what he does for hours on end in there. It is detached from his house but purposely linked by paving stones. It is of a wooden structure with a door that looks reinforced and boasting a proper keyhole lock and the standard padlock you would expect on a shed. To the left of the door is a small window but covered up with a makeshift curtain from the inside, keeping prying eyes out. It looks different from when Jimmy spent hours upon hours in there. It seems more secure but also more functioning. I open the laptop and finish my application to the Criminal Record Bureau for the check on any criminal history against Donald, the SLA is 72 hours, but I may hear back sooner is the standard response.
I search through my suitcase and the scatter of my clothing over the floor. I am not a walker, so best I can do is jeans, trainers, and a Hugo Boss jacket. Stylish? Yes. Practical? Probably not. I remember my dad has some walking gear on his bed awaiting the charity shop, at least I can look the part. I squeeze into his waterproof trousers, his big brown boots with laces up to the ankles fit me surprisingly well as does his Saloman bright red windproof jacket. As I pick up my car keys, I catch sight once again of the photograph with the two boys on the moors, dressed as I am right now, walking a little in his footsteps perhaps.
I stand leaning against my car at our meeting place as if on a blind date. Although only half an hour’s drive away, I have never been here before today and did not realise just how popular it was, I guess Sunday afternoon is peak walking time. Groups are beginning to gather, dogs are being leashed, and it suddenly dawns on me that I am going to struggle to recognise Victoria, everybody looks the same. The group to my left have hiking sticks, maps, lunch boxes and I even spot a flare gun in the outside pocket of a rucksack, please god not them.
I see Victoria on the opposite side of the car park, recognising her small orange beanie hat from an old Facebook post on her wall. I walk over to her and two others, a guy dressed in a black puffer jacket and woman dressed in a blue fleece, thankfully no hiking sticks or Kendal mint cake in sight.
‘Hi Victoria,’ I say with confidence, raising a wave as I walk over. Her eyes fix on me, smiling with all her face, which I find myself mirroring. As I stand in front of her, my eyes are drawn to her flawless complexion, glowing in the sun.
‘Hiya Phil, please call me Vicky, only my mum calls me Victoria, this is Penny and Michael.’
We exchange small waves to each other even though standing only a metre apart. Vicky is much smaller than her two companions, she is wearing a pair of white sports trainers, blue tracksuit bottoms and a pink Nike waterproof jumper, clashing with her little beanie which stops just above her bottle-green eyes, no make-up but rosy cheeks and a continuing beaming smile.
‘Just the three of us today Phil, just us die-hards, you certainly look the part.’ I feel my cheeks blush as three sets of eyes look me up and down. ‘I did not realise you were a serious rambler.’
I can’t say I have never walked before, dressed like this looks like I am trying too hard. I also don’t want to say I am kitted out in my dead dad’s clothes. ‘I just enjoy the fresh air, blows off a few cobwebs,’ I reply, and with that, we are off. Our small group of four pale in comparison with most of the walkers boasting twenty or thirty strong clusters.
Vicky catches me studying the rucksacks passing us and calls out, ‘I am glad you left your sandwiches behind Phil, I forgot to mention we make a point of stopping at the Stoneacre pub for a pint and bite to eat. I am pretty sure that is the only reason Michael tags along.’
‘That and your scintillating banter Vicky,’ Michael quips.
I feel at ease, and grateful I am not climbing in single file up the peak with thirty professional walkers talking about their pace and munching on energy bars.
After some polite small talk, Vicky asks me outright, ‘So, what is your story Phil? Where did you disappear to?’
Although I was expecting this question, I still take a couple of breaths to compose myself.
‘Well after Jimmy passed away, life was never the same. My parents split up without ever telling me as such, and I moved to Chichester with my mum. It was not so bad, much bigger than Baysworth, which suited me; being a new kid in a big town is much easier than a small one.’
‘Oh wow that’s tough Phil, your brother passing away, your parents splitting up and having to start a new school, sounds like a lot of pressure.’
‘I was fortunate that at the time of starting school, a couple of local schools had merged into one, so another unfamiliar face was more accepted. I made some friends through playing sport, providing a welcome level playing field socially. I was not ‘Phil
the new kid from Baysworth,’ or ‘Phil, whose brother committed suicide.’ I was simply Phil Jenkins, centre midfielder. I skipped Uni to focus on getting a job in Facilities Management for the council to help my mum with the bills. Then met a girl, moved to Glasgow, doing a similar job before redundancy a couple of months ago, then arrived back here to sort out my dad’s house after he passed away.’
Vicky gave me a sympathetic look before clearly trying to lighten the mood. ‘I bet Chichester is a lively place for a teenager, more so than Baysworth anyway.’
I chuckle at the thought of Vicky thinking Chichester as lively, but also recognise her intention placing a positive spin and inviting me to talk some more.
‘As with most teenagers, I developed some well-crafted distractions for my studies. My friends and I would drink cans up at the park until we boasted enough facial hair to give us the confidence to start going to the pub, with our homemade ID, lumberjack shirts, ripped denim, and Doc Martins. The ID was not necessary, and we were already acquainted with Dave, the bar manager of the Rose & Crown through another of my vices – the bookies. You have to be 18 to place a bet, and I had been going there for a couple of years, so he did not bat an eyelid when we turned up at his pub. There was little else in the way of entertainment. I experimented a little with drugs, although to be honest, my friends were very anti, so it wasn’t an option. Everybody talks about peer pressure when you are kids, but it can work positively as well. One of the best weekends was my 18th birthday when we held a big party at the Rose & Crown. The look on Dave’s face, was priceless as he spotted the ‘Happy 18th Birthday’ banner and balloons – he had been serving us for over two years completely unaware.’
‘Oh wow Phil, confessing under-age gambling, under-age drinking and experimenting with drugs, this is the worst first date.’
‘Eh!’ is all I can manage, although I did not need to say anything, my startled look and tense body a portrait of confusion.
‘I am joking Phil, seriously its refreshingly honest that’s all. So tell me, back to boring Baysworth after the bright lights of Chichester and Glasgow, how long are you sticking around for?’
How long am I sticking around for? I keep putting off the whole life plan thing, but in recent days I have started to refer to my dad’s house as my house. I guess everyone needs somewhere to call home, temporary or not.
Her mention of a date, joke or not consumes my mind, and I feel unable to rid the tenseness in my body. I only wanted to meet for some information on Jimmy and suddenly feel uncomfortable giving my life story to a stranger. I need to turn the conversation from me to him.
‘I am not sure at the moment. You see, I found some documents that have raised some questions about Jimmy. I want to find out more before I can think of moving on for peace of mind.’
Penny and Michael took an inquisitive glance at us, and increased their pace in front, clearly wanting no part of this in-depth conversation on a Sunday afternoon on the Dorset Moors.
‘Somebody mentioned Jimmy was due to change schools. Can I ask Vicky, do you remember how Jimmy was at school? I lean in a little closer, lowering my voice. ‘In particular, the weeks leading up to his suicide.’
Vicky slows her stride and glances off towards the disappearing figures of Penny and Michael. ‘I liked Jimmy a lot, we partnered up for some project work at school, he was really smart. Everybody liked him, and his enthusiasm was infectious, always a bit of a joker. I remember he was football daft, he would be buzzing on Wednesday morning with the game in the afternoon, and would always come in on Thursday bragging about how many goals he scored and how we were going to win the cup.’
‘And the changing schools?’
‘Yes, he was going to change schools and boasted about it to everyone. It was some elite school that excelled at sports, he got a little big-headed to be honest. We all signed his shirt and said our goodbyes at the end of the term.’ She smiles, recalling the tom foolery of final day of term.
I knew he loved his football, but I did not know Jimmy had been so smart. ‘Please go on.’
‘Then he suddenly appeared back at Baysworth after the summer holidays, and….’
I stop, fixing my eyes on hers, pleading with my hands. Out with it, tell me. ‘And what Vicky?’
She bowed her head. ‘And only when he came back, he was a different person.’
I need more than that. ‘Different in what way Vicky? Tell me.’ She turns her head away at my rising voice. ‘I am sorry Vicky, I am just trying to build a picture of his state of mind, it might be important.’
‘I understand Phil, but it was a long time ago, and your mind can play tricks, memories get jumbled together.’
‘Anything you can tell me will help, no matter how vague, how was he different?’
Her eyes reluctantly meet mine, the spark withdrawn, her lips pursed.
‘In every way.’
Vicky let out a defeated sigh as if her persona reflects that of Jimmy’s. ‘He lost interest in football, dropped out of the team, he lost interest in lessons, in life. He hardly spoke to anyone; he never ate in the canteen with us; in fact, he never ate full stop. He became so skinny and bony. A few people teased him about his new school rejecting him and having to come back, there may have been a fight at one stage. He lost his friends. I remember he used to just sit on his own out in the playing field, skipping lessons.’
I run the palms of my hands over my face, struggling to process all of this, how his life slipped away and how it was allowed to slip away. ‘Surely, though, the teachers did not allow him to skip lessons?’
‘I think it was only History lessons.’
‘Tell me.’ My hands tensing in my pockets.
‘He would sit outside on the field, opposite the classroom, in full view of everyone, almost taunting the teacher. I remember some of the other guys thought it unfair how he was allowed to get away with it.’
I count in my head and take steadying breath before asking the question, already knowing the answer. ‘Who was his teacher?’
‘Mr Lloyd.’
I close my eyes at hearing his name again, his image flashing before me. ‘What did he do about it?’
‘That’s just it, nothing. He would let Jimmy do whatever he wanted. Like Jimmy had some hold over him. I thought it strange because History was always his favourite subject, and we used to joke that if we partnered with Jimmy in History, we would be guaranteed an A grade. He was a proper teachers’ pet, always having one-to-one chats with Mr Lloyd, even at lunchtime or in the playground after school.’
The building anger takes me by surprise even though it was the answer I expected, maybe also hoped for, some clarity at least, a clear direction.
As we start our climb on the moors, the silence between us grows uncomfortable, I turn to Vicky and notice a creeping vulnerability, I want to take her in my arms and thank her. I need to offer some sort of explanation for my impatience, easier than an apology.
‘The documents I mentioned that I found were some old newspaper articles when I was clearing out my dad’s things. They were about the investigations into sexual abuse at Baysworth, and they were talking about closing down the school. That’s why I am so keen to know more. Do you remember that?’
‘Of course, I remember, we had left school by then, and I was at college, but it was still a big deal. We all reckoned it was Mr Bradshaw, or Baggy Bradshaw as we called him because he always carried a big rucksack with him wherever he went, with kiddie toys, we reckoned after reading the headlines. One of the guys thought it could have been Loitering Lloyd because he used to loiter around the boys changing rooms after his PE lessons.’
Bastard, I did not know he taught PE. ‘Did anyone get arrested? Were any of the pupils named?’
‘It was weird. It was a huge thing, everybody talking about it, talk of the school closing, talk of everyone needing to be interviewed by the police, and then…’
‘Then what Vicky?’
‘Then, nothing. The sc
hool opened as normal, and it was never spoken about again.’
I roll the dice one more time. ‘Do you think it could have happened, covered up maybe to protect the teachers?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest, they all returned to work the next day, nobody suddenly retired ten years early or suddenly got transferred.’
Vicky suddenly grabs me by the arm, her mouth open. ‘Do you think that’s what might have happened to Jimmy?’
‘I don’t know, but something happened to him.’
The sight of the Stoneacre pub is a welcome sight providing some light relief to us both.
We have a couple of pints in the pub. I have forgotten how nice beer is with company in a pub rather than from a can at my kitchen table. Caroline always used to say I preferred my own company, but truth is I like hanging out with people. It’s just Caroline’s friends I didn’t like hanging out with, occasionally showing my face only at Caroline’s insistence. I found them so fake. Always showing off about their latest purchases, their exotic holidays, and new cars. It was boring.
The Caroline I knew at University would have hated them too with her socialist tendencies. She never really knew I also disliked her university friends as well, but for very different reasons, I masked it well. I guess, the older we become, the more we value time, and I grew less tolerant and cared a little less about what others thought.
Having a couple of pints with Vicky, Penny and Michael is nice, a relaxed conversation, nobody trying to be something they are not, aside from me and my attire. Vicky is a real homegirl, while most others have fled to London or beyond chasing the bright city lights, Vicky lives across the street from her parents and sees them every day. She has worked for the same small family firm of accountants since college and as she puts it, gets her social fix from the church and a few clubs like this walking one. She comes across as very measured and unassuming in every sense. I feel comfortable being open with her, knowing there is no judgement, but then again, I have nothing to lose.