by Graham West
Maybe one of the staff had been in and left the window open—his socks sometimes walked themselves into the wash so a waft of fresh air wasn’t such a bad idea.
Blakely fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes. It was only six. Families would be settling down to their evening meals, maybe listening to the news and planning which programmes they were going to watch that night. He just wanted to sleep until the alarm sounded telling him it was time to shower and get breakfast. Maybe his head wouldn’t hurt quite so much by then. With any luck, the sun would be shining and all would be well with his world—his world, The Mosswood Adventure Park. In his mind he could see the crowds of parents with their kids. It would be worth it in the end. Blakely felt himself drifting beyond the pain. At last, he thought. This is good. All good.
***
Josie Duxbury flicked the giant screen over to the sports channel, which was met with a short round of applause from a group of thirty-somethings all waiting for the match to begin. They weren’t exactly drunk—not yet, at least—and this particular gang were inclined to be well behaved long after they were able to string together a coherent sentence. They bought ale and helped keep the place running when pubs across the country were closing every week. Josie wasn’t going to see this place bulldozed to the ground only to see a swanky apartment block spring up a few months later.
It was the football fans who kept these places going, not the pensioners with their lunchtime pie and a pint. Not that she didn’t appreciate their custom, it just didn’t pay the bills. So Josie always made a fuss of the big drinkers—as long as there was no trouble. “What’s the score gonna be, Jo?” one of them called out.
“Three—nil to your team,” she joked.
“Who’s our team, then?” another shouted.
“The ones in the football shirts!” She grinned.
They laughed. Jo enjoyed the banter and ruffled the hair of the baby faced boy at the end—obviously too young to drink but happy with his pint of coke. “Enjoy the game, lads. Just keep the noise down a bit, okay?”
“No problem, Jo,” the gangly guy at the back called.
“We love ya, Jo!” shouted another.
Josie started to walk away. “I’d shag ya Jo!”
A silence fell over the group. Jo stopped and spun round. “Erm, okay. Who said that?”
It was obvious. The gang were all staring at the young blonde lad who had turned pink. “Dickhead!” one of them growled.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up.
Jo gave him a sarcastic smile. “You say anything like that again and I’ll tell your mother!”
“If I was just a few years younger…” she muttered under her breath, looking back at the kid who obviously wished the ground had swallowed him.
Lou grinned. “You have an admirer then,” he said. “I’ve always said you were a bit of a cougar!”
Jo laughed. Sometimes it was good to get out of the house. As much as she loved Rob, he could be a little intense, sometimes, and when something was bothering him—like the idea that Gordon Huxley was trying to steal his daughter—he found it difficult to let it go. He’d kind of let that drop, but now the whole Amelia thing was kicking off, and Rob had retreated into his own world—a world without the alcohol he’d always turned to in the past. That bothered her. Could he resist if things got worse? Would he end up lying in a pool of his own vomit again?
She arrived home, relieved to find him sober, staring at the TV screen with a cup of coffee in his hand. He greeted her with an absent smile. There was a glass of wine, freshly poured and ice cold, sitting on the coffee table. “I timed that well,” he said. “Thought you might need it!”
Jo frowned. “Why?”
“It’s a match night, isn’t it? All the lager louts screaming at the screen?”
She laughed. “They were well behaved—apart from the one who wanted to have sex with me!”
Rob looked up. “Really? Hope you gave him a good slap!”
“I just put him straight. He’s a good lad. Just the ale talking.”
Rob nodded. Jo guessed most men thought things they just didn’t dare say without the assistance of alcohol, but judging by the colour of his coffee, her guy was getting all his kicks from caffeine.
***
Darren Pascoe didn’t have good days. Some were just a little better than others. Harry had put a roof over his head and a pillow for his head. The house rules stated that he washed and ironed his own clothes, but judging the state of his uncle’s shirts and trousers, he was more than happy with that arrangement.
Darren had never wanted to join his uncle in the evening ritual of trawling through the sports channels with a few cans of lager. Not that he didn’t like sport—he just preferred his own company, lying on his bed listening to music or checking out Netflix on his iPad. It was easy to block out the world watching movies until he drifted into a restless sleep and dreamed of his childhood, at home with his mother and father, playing on the lawn, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.
Each morning he would wake, catapulted into the nightmare his life had become. He would smell the musty carpet, barely disguised by the scent of bacon swimming in grease drifting up from the kitchen. Then he’d shower and dressed. Life inside had taught him that rising early was good for self-esteem, and even if he worked at a back street garage, it was good to be clean. He would always protect his clothes with an overall.
He stopped in front of the mirror. His hair was getting long. Maybe it was time to get something done with it. Perhaps a few blonde streaks. Then again, he could just get a cut and spend the money on a tattoo. Something meaningful. A line from a song. His mother’s name or his step-sister’s name. Jenny. Jenny and a heart. Now that would be something to flash when the time came.
Darren pondered upon his reflection a while longer. This was the one thing he had control of—his body. Uncle Harry had probably never stood naked in front of a mirror—not since his youth, anyway. He smiled to himself. The work outs and the chicken salads had paid off. He looked good, and if there was a God, he’d been well endowed too. There would be plenty of girls who would be impressed, but that was for sometime in the future. When he was ready. When he got himself out of this hell hole.
He dressed quickly, slipped into pair of old trainers and ran downstairs just as he heard the car engine fire up. Darren shifted into the passenger seat beside his uncle, who still smelled of beer from his lager binge the previous evening. It had been a big game. A cup match. The kids in the centre had thought he was gay because he didn’t get stoked up over football, which seemed kind of odd to Darren; if he had been gay then watching twenty-two men running around a field in shorts would be exactly what would have turned him on.
But he hadn’t argued or got himself into any fights, which was probably why he was free while the likes of Kevin Taylor were still doing time.
“You wanna try sommat else, Daz?” Harry asked, moving off without so much as a glance in his rear view mirror. Darren hated being called Daz. It was just his uncle trying to sound cool, but Daz was something you washed clothes with. “It’s just that you seem bored at the garage. Maybe you should look for another job.”
“It’s not that I’m bored,” Darren grunted, “I just don’t like working for crooks.”
Harry smiled. “Says the lad who just finished doing two years—”
“That was an accident,” he snapped. “And yes, I would rather be doing something else, but there’s not a whole lot options open for the likes of me at the moment.”
“For any of us!” Harry added.
“Yep, but you’re happy with your life. You don’t care. You get up every morning, cook yourself a heart attack on a plate, go to work, come home, drink several cans beer and watch any old shit on the TV. You and probably a load of others too. But I’d fucking kill myself before I let that happen to me!”
Harry slammed on the brakes at the red light and stared at him. “Holy shit! Have you just spent two years at
a prison or with some fucking life coach in a fitness centre?”
Darren shrugged. “I just had time to think,” he replied.
“Well it’s pretty clear what you think of me!”
“I’m sorry, but I’m right. You are exactly the kind of person I don’t want to be. Maybe you’ve kind of done me a favour—a daily reminder to get myself sorted.” Darren gave his uncle a half smile as he took a left turn through a red light. Maybe he had been a bit hard on his father’s brother. Family was family, after all. But the overweight, beer swilling guy behind the wheel was not what he would have chosen for an uncle, and if anyone believed that the blood between them was thicker than water they were seriously mistaken.
Chapter Eighteen
Sebastian swilled down two painkillers with the orange juice on his tray. They were strong enough to take the lining off his stomach and the nausea they caused had to be controlled with another unpronounceable drug. But the concoction of innocuous-looking tablets had started playing tricks with his mind. He passed the time watching movies, drifting into a state of semi consciousness, believing he was sitting next to Bruce Willis as he headed towards the earthbound comet. Sometimes, he thought, the nausea was the safer option.
“Fancy a game of pool?” the thirty-something guy in the next bed called to him.
“What?” Sebastian frowned.
“It’s here, on my iPad,” he replied, holding up what looked to Sebastian like a small TV.
“I’m okay, thanks. I’m useless at anything like that,” he said with a smile. “Thanks, anyway.”
Even raising an arm hurt him right now. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a beating, but last time his bones were still developing, his muscles were strong and the bruising faded quickly. Fourteen-year-old boys don’t forget, although Sebastian had learned to put the memories of that day to the back of his mind. These days, kids went to war in their virtual worlds, protected from reality by the four walls of their bedrooms. He had been lucky. Books had served him well. He had earned a scholarship, ended up with a good education and then moved on to teach at a local university. If it hadn’t been for his father—that cold Saturday afternoon—he might never have found solace in the printed word.
Up to that day, he had been fascinated by movies. The silver screen towered over him, transporting his spirit into a magical world of a land far away. Hollywood. The women were beautiful; the men were handsome. He would look at his reflection and wish his skin was as smooth, his eyes as piercing. If his father hadn’t caught him looking in the mirror, he may even have ended up in the theatre.
“What are you staring at?” his father had asked angrily.
Sebastian remembered turning suddenly. “I’m—I’m just looking at my face.”
“Why? Is there something wrong with it, boy?”
“No, Father.”
“Then why are you studying yourself so closely?” he’d roared. “We look in the mirror to comb our hair or adjust our tie. We do not engage in vacuous moments of vanity, questioning what nature so graciously gave us!”
Sebastian knew he should have walked away, apologising for his vain behaviour, but for a reason he did not understand, even to this day, he stood his ground. “But I wish—I wish I looked like a movie star.”
His father stepped forward, towering over him. “What did you say, boy?”
“I said, I wish I looked—”
“I heard!” he bellowed. “I heard exactly what you said!”
“But I just—”
Sebastian felt the first blow to his face. There had been no rod—nothing his father could pick up and beat him with—just his fists. He tasted the blood on his lips and began to cry.
“Vanity! It is nothing but vanity!”
“I’m not vain. I really—”
The second punch winded him. Sebastian fell to the floor, clutching his stomach. His father dragged him back up, pinning him against the wall by his throat. “You are a conceited child,” he sneered. “A child who deserves to be punished!” Sebastian’s world faded as his father threw him to the floor.
The doctors treated his wounds, warning him not to get into any more fights with older boys, and his father promised to keep him out of trouble. He was never allowed to visit the picture palace again. He wanted to please his father, and his father loved books, particularly the works of Shakespeare and Dickens. Of course, the books had to be written by men. Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were not allowed in the house.
But young Sebastian had found a loose floorboard—and it was there he stored the books he loved, waiting until his father was out of the house before settling back on his bed, making sure that any forbidden titles could be quickly returned to their secret place.
To his father, the Bible was the book of all books, and a copy remained at his bedside throughout his childhood. By the time he turned fifteen, Sebastian had read it from cover to cover, and although he dismissed the Old Testament as a historical if not dubious account of the years leading up to the birth of Christ, he could find nothing in the words of the New Testament that would support his father’s behaviour.
He began to read other books written by scholars much cleverer than him, scholars who also asked questions about the God he feared, and by the time he’d reached his eighteenth birthday, Sebastian Tint was a confirmed atheist. If revenge was sweet, it was also a dish best served cold. He’d considered his father, like The Reverend Allington, to be a hypocrite. As a young adult, he had found strength in wisdom and no longer lived to please the man who had raised him.
“I won’t be attending church this morning,” he stated coldly one Sunday morning. “I see no point.” He remembered the look of shock on his father’s face but didn’t wait for a reply.
“I have read the Bible from Genesis to Revelations. I have also read the works of many other men, and I have come to the conclusion that there is no God, no spirit world and therefore no afterlife. So please do not waste your time threatening me with hellfire, because I have no fear of death.”
His father stepped towards him, his face crimson.
“And do not raise your hand to me,” he continued. “I am older, taller and much stronger than last time. The outcome will be very different!”
Sebastian did not care that his father never spoke to him again and continued to preach the gospel of humanism throughout his career. That was, of course, until he actually saw the spirit of a student who had been killed in a road accident two hours previously. His life changed again. The bitterness and resentment melted away, and a new kind of peace enveloped his soul. He found solace in forgiveness—the father who had beaten him unconscious had been a victim too—a victim of his own twisted perception of the God he sought to serve.
Sebastian closed his eyes, waiting for the painkillers to take effect. His bones were brittle, his bruised skin would take months to heal, and his muscles ached. He was drifting back into a hazy consciousness and, for the first time in his life, prayed that God would grant him a sleep from which he would never wake.
***
Blakely found Larry Thomas waiting for him outside the site office. “We’re gonna have to get this sorted, boss. Someone’s done the grave again.”
Blakely’s heart sank. “Same thing?”
Thomas nodded. “We’ve already looked at the CCTV—it’s the same car. A Mini Clubman.”
Blakely didn’t need to check. “You got any of your old mates that can run a quick check on the car?”
Thomas nodded. “Yep. I’ve already called one of the lads. It’s kind of off the record.”
Blakely guessed the police wouldn’t be too worried about a bit of graffiti on a grave, but if they knew who it was, maybe a friendly warning might nip the whole thing in the bud. No charges, no publicity. “Might be best not to clean up just yet. See what they come back with.”
Thomas grinned. “I’ve sent one of my old colleagues a photo,” he said. “I’ll let you know when he gets back to me.”
Blakely
gave him a quick thumbs up and headed across the grounds towards the house. Things were taking shape. The floors had been stripped back, and the old manager’s office was now a pinewood reception area. The whole place smelled of concrete, plaster and wood. The old doors had been replaced, and at the rear of the property, foundations for the conservatory restaurant had been laid. It was a building site at the moment but Blakely lived with the vision of Mosswood Adventure Park in his mind.
He made his way up the stairway, pushing his hat down onto his head, wondering why the Stanwick family had ever needed anything this size. He reached the third floor and looked up the final flight of stairs—the one that led to the attic. Work had barely started up here. No fresh plaster—no new doors. He made his way up to the landing and stood for a moment outside Amelia’s room.
He twisted the handle and pushed. The sunlight streamed through the tiny window, illuminating the desk at which a young girl had sat, day after day, with her diaries and books. How she must have longed for those fleeting moments of freedom, walking the grounds with her father. Her fingerprints would be all over the place. The mattress on which she had slept lay in the corner; not even her pillow had been removed. It was almost as if no one had wanted to be reminded of the girl. They had literally closed the door on her existence.
Blakely stepped forward, his hand resting on the door handle. Amelia was gone. Her body lay in a grave less than five hundred metres away. But something of her spirit remained here, something in the stillness of the air. He shuddered and stepped back, closing the door slowly and breathing a sigh of relief. The place fascinated him, and he found himself inexplicably drawn there, but it scared him too.
When Blakely arrived back at the site office, Thomas was standing by the door with a coffee in his hands. “We have an ID on the driver of the Mini,” he said with an air of triumph.
Blakely nodded. “Good. Is it going to help us?”
“Well, the owner certainly isn’t local. That surprised me.”
Blakely raised his eyebrows. “Really? So it’s not one of the Tabwell Mafia?”