by Lisa Sell
Hidden
Lisa Sell
Contents
1. Present
2. Present
3. The Rembrandt Estate, 1980s
4. 14th September 1987
5. Present
6. 13th July 1985
7. Present
8. 16th July 1983
9. Present
10. 8th April 1986
11. Present
12. 7th August 1986
13. Present
14. 16th October 1987
15. Present
16. 1st April 1986
17. Present
18. 12th October 1987
19. Present
20. 15th October 1987
21. Present
22. Present
23. 21st July 1984
24. Present
25. 23rd June 1984
26. 23th June 1984
27. Present
28. 29th July 1981
29. 29th July 1981
30. Present
31. 13th June 1987
32. Present
33. 9th September 1987
34. Present
35. 16th October 1987
36. Present
37. 17th July 1987
38. Present
39. 29th December 1982
40. Present
41. 21st March 1981
42. Present
43. 16th October 1987
44. 16th October 1987
45. Present
46. Present
47. Present
48. 20 September 1987
49. Present
50. 27th November 1987
51. Present
52. 15th October 1987
53. Present
54. 8th October 1987
55. Present
56. Present
57. Present
58. 9th October 1987
59. 10th October 1987
60. Present
61. 12th September 1989
62. Present
63. 10th January 1981
64. Present
65. Present
66. Present
67. 13th April 2012
68. Present
69. 16th October 1987
70. Present
71. 16th October 1987
72. Present
73. Present
74. Present
75. 14th April 2012
76. Present
77. Present
78. Seven Months Later
Acknowledgments
Copyright © Lisa Sell
The right of Lisa Sell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First Published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-912986-61-3
For Mum, my original council estate mother .
Thank you for showing me how to never give up.
1
Present
When I was fourteen, I killed a girl. It was 1987. The Great Storm raged through and I left a victim in its wake.
A faded memory of smashed glasses on a bloodstained track is clear again.
Her mother wants to go back there. Doreen is demanding answers. No one except me knows why Kelly died.
It will remain that way.
2
Present
Doreen’s e-mail resurrects the past. I couldn’t face reading it straight away. Now I must.
Dear Jen,
I hope you don’t mind me using this name. I always called you Jennifer, not realising until recently you don’t like it.
Learning how to e-mail has changed my life. Thank God for spell check and a grammar app. You’re so clever. I don’t want to look stupid. I went to Adult Education to learn how to use computers and get my English GCSEs. I’m a bit smarter and back in touch with people from the Rembrandt Estate.
Graham died seven years ago, from lung cancer. Chain-smoking got him in the end. You’ll understand why I don’t miss my husband.
Do you remember my daughter, Kelly? Decades have passed. People move on. Of course, I’ll never forget her and I need to know how she died.
Ellen Woods is still a good friend and has offered to help me. I’m sure you remember her, seeing as she lived on your road and you were good friends with Claire. Because Ellen worked for the local newspaper, she could be useful. Claire gave me your e-mail address. She’s definitely her mother’s daughter in becoming a reporter too.
Ever since the coroner’s open verdict, I’ve not had peace. I won’t accept it might have been suicide. Kelly had so much to live for, despite what people said. Graham was hard on us. I let Kelly down by not protecting her well enough but she was stronger than she appeared.
The police say to leave it alone. I expect they don’t want to deal with shortcuts the coppers before them took. The coroner was too quick in leaving it open-ended. No one listened to me. I’ve always believed Kelly died in a horrible way. It probably sounds odd to need details but I do.
It’s because you were friends, and walked back from school with Kelly that day, that I’m reaching out. Please help to find out why my girl ended up on the track.
There isn’t long. Cancer’s got me. I must know what happened to my daughter before I die. You might be the key to finding out.
With love from Doreen.
When I left the Rembrandt Estate, I thought I’d left my crime behind. I fight memories by manipulating stationery into sharp lines on my desk. Pencils cut deep with a sharpener. The rough action of slicing layers replaces the grating fear.
Nicole peers over from her office, offering another concerned smile. Gold lettering on the glass door detailing her counselling credentials shields me from full scrutiny. She is my boss and a friend. Losing her respect cannot happen, and Doreen’s plea won’t affect my role in the Headway Practice. When my degree ends, I’ll be a counsellor too. The title upon my door is in sight.
I can help others but not Doreen. She may think she needs the truth but it won’t give her comfort. Living with the knowledge I killed her daughter is unbearable. I should know. It’s better for her to remain in ignorance.
I delete the e-mail.
3
The Rembrandt Estate, 1980s
In the late seventies, the local council had extra cash in the coffers. They decided to build an estate on the outskirts of the Oxfordshire town of Troddington. With the announcement, Troddington’s population envisioned an elite area. As the years passed, the truth dawned that the Rembrandt Estate had become a dumping ground for undesirables, the financially challenged, and those trying to catch a break.
The first set of residents in the early 1980s rejoiced at being housed on a swish estate. Respectable families ploughed their hopes into three-bedroomed houses after living in cramped conditions. People sinking in the depths of the extensive council housing list envied those who floated to the top and onto the Rembrandt Estate.
The council bowed to pressure and shortened the waiting list, making hasty decisions. People were shunted into a false piece of heaven, far from the delicate eyes of Troddington’s inhabitants.
Naming it the Rembrandt Estate was a masterstroke, with its suggestion of beauty and status. Realistically, the artist would have wept over residences left to de
cay and deteriorate. Glossy front doors, virgin-white window ledges, and scarlet brick walls became victims of careless minds.
Each road followed a similar pattern of bricked-up units, attached into terraces. The layout suggested uniformity. The roads, however, were distinct.
It was an estate truth that losers lived on Pollock Road. In sounding like pillock, it lagged behind. Sally Ponting lorded over her patch. Knowing a cheap imitation of a leader when they saw one, the neighbours ignored her.
Similar to their namesake’s paintings, the residents of Picasso Way couldn’t distinguish between their backsides and elbows. Where would the money come from? Why couldn’t they progress? Children played “Dodge the Doo-Doo” on pavements riddled with dog mess. Bonus points were given if you discovered the lesser-spotted white crap.
Monet Drive divided the educated from the ignorant. Those who listened in French lessons teased neighbours who pronounced it Monett. There was an unspoken rule to leave the road name out of conversations to avoid being called a patronising git.
The more learned residents of Degas Drive had a similar problem. After a punch-up, resulting from a woman mocking her neighbour bellowing on the phone, ‘It’s Degas, rhymes with Vegas,’ no one dared speak the name of the drive.
Turner Road became a magnet for criminals and wasters. The first road upon entering the estate set a low tone for the rest. Regular fights took place, among used condoms and litter spewed from overfilled dustbins.
Munch Drive was unfortunately named. Dope smoking munchies came to mind. The mispronunciation stuck. The drive’s residents became poor cousins to the adjoining Renoir Road. They tried to maintain their exteriors and hide the tat. Some households accomplished it. Others scorned the effort required, content to be taken as found.
Renoir Road was the penthouse suite of the estate. A better class of people lived there. So they thought. Under Patricia Taylor’s rule, driveways and gardens were immaculate. She demanded the removal of broken appliances from gardens and monitored the appearance of her road. Flower baskets lined front doors and razor-straight lawns stood to attention. When Patricia appeared, the neighbours hid, exhausted by her impossible standards. As Patricia’s daughter, Jen, could relate.
The Rembrandt Estate made young Jen feel conflicted. She enjoyed belonging to a whole, faulty parts included. They were a solid community. The ignorance of the misguidedly patriotic residents was an irritation though. They voiced their annoyance at the estate being named after “those bleeding foreigners”. The homage to the decidedly English J. M. W. Turner eluded them. Demands were made for road names to be changed to those of English painters. If anyone dared to ask for examples, the answer was, ‘Blowed if I know, but the council should.’
The Rembrandt Estate and its residents were certainly unique.
4
14th September 1987
‘You’re doing it. It’s final.’ Patricia always won.
Jen looked across the kitchen counter to her dad, as if seeking defence. Mike busied himself with preparing breakfast. The wrath of Patricia in the Taylor household was always strong.
‘It won’t kill you to walk to school with Kelly. Do as your mum tells you.’ Mike held a slice of toast, deciding to eat it on the way to work. A storm he wanted no part of brewed in his house. He placed a goodbye kiss on Patricia’s cheek. The loving gesture left Mike feeling cold. His wife was a perpetual ice queen.
Patricia resumed command. ‘Even your precious father says you have to. Hurry up, Jennifer. We mustn’t keep Kelly waiting.’ Patricia gave the directive to the mirror hanging on the kitchen door. All performances were assessed. Today’s score: Dominant Mother 1, Pathetic Daughter 0.
The moment her mum came downstairs, Jen lost. Patricia didn’t do family. Morning routines were too domesticated for her liking. Emerging before 10am was a rare occurrence. An early appointment at the hairdresser was to blame. Nothing stood in the way of Patricia getting her highlights done.
Although only fourteen, Jen began her mothering role in the mornings: preparing Mike’s sandwiches and checking her younger sister, Mandy, wasn’t consuming her body weight in Rolos.
Chewing a mouthful of cereal, Jen considered why she didn’t want to spend time with Kelly Pratt. She refused to join in with the kids who called her “Smelly Kelly”, but still, Jen couldn’t like her. Kelly often carried a rancid odour of cat pee and chip fat. The stench was sometimes so pungent, Jen had to breathe through her mouth.
Not wanting to be around Kelly wasn’t about losing credibility. Jen didn’t care if others mocked her, and she already knew the consequences of judgement. Troddington looked down upon the council estate that blighted the town’s reputation. She ignored the sneers when people discovered where she lived. They didn’t see the estate’s camaraderie and its ethos of belonging. For Jen, it housed some of the best individuals a girl could know. She had Claire Woods, also from Renoir Road, for female companionship. More than this, there was Johnny Rose, from Turner Road.
Going to school with Kelly would end walking with Johnny. He was her best friend and a crush she’d harboured for years, never to be declared. Their lives had become entwined when their families moved to the estate seven years earlier.
Johnny wouldn’t object to Kelly’s company. For a member of the Rose family, criticism was a regular occurrence. The problem was, he left earlier than Doreen stated Kelly must leave. Like Jen, Johnny parented within his household. Early every weekday, he took his brother, Benny, to the childminder, even though their mum didn’t work. Johnny’s other brothers, Anthony and Ian, were too lazy and selfish to help. Johnny didn’t mind spending time with Benny. He adored the child.
The arrangement for Jen to accompany Kelly was confusing. Patricia and Doreen didn’t move in the same social circles. Patricia often made snide comments about “that disgusting Pratt family”. She detested the estate and regularly phoned the council, demanding a new home. The Pratts were one of her many reasons for leaving. They were one of the poorest families on the Rembrandt Estate. Doreen and Kelly wore jumble sales’ offerings because of Graham’s tight hold upon his wallet. His girls made do so he could make happy in the pub.
The Pratts’ frugal world was far removed from Patricia’s. She focused on social climbing in a mission to swap the crassness of a council estate for a cul-de-sac idyll. In the interim, she maintained the appearance of helping those less fortunate and seeking their adoration. Jen walking to school with Kelly became part of her manifesto.
The rebellious sound of her shoes scuffing against the kerb invigorated Jen. Patricia wouldn’t abide an expensive pair of Clarks being ruined. Wearing them was a trade-off for Jen’s choice of uniform trousers. For once, her dad mediated.
Jen decided to make the best of a bad situation. Kelly couldn’t help what she’d been born into, any more than Jen. Maybe Kelly also lay in bed at night, planning a future that involved leaving her parents behind. Jen was certain Kelly’s dreams didn’t include being Johnny’s wife. Her tummy somersaulted at the deliciousness of the idea. Thoughts of marrying Johnny at Gretna Green and riding off into the sunset on a Lambretta consumed her. The daydream shattered as she crashed into a pillar of knitwear and costume jewellery.
Sally Ponting made a show of using a wall for balance. ‘Watch where you’re going, Jennifer.’
Sally brushed away the invisible taint from her 1950s style twinset. She had one for every occasion, in every imaginable colour. The sleeve lengths changed with the seasons. A coiffured helmet head of hairspray topped each outfit.
‘Sorry, Mrs Ponting.’ Jen played nice. It would make life easier after Sally reported the incident to Patricia. In her mind, Jen apologised to “Picky Ponting”, an estate nickname. In reality, being rude to one of Patricia’s catty crew wasn’t wise.
Sally looked towards the Pratts’ house. ‘I see Patricia has arranged for you to walk with Kelly. I assume that’s where you’re going?’
‘Yes.’ Jen always lost her words around
Patricia’s cronies.
‘Kelly’s often bullied. I’m so glad your mother sorted this out. She’s such a wonderful giving woman.’
Jen gave a saccharine smile. Sally wouldn’t sing Patricia’s praises if she’d overheard her bitching the previous day about how Sally belonged with the other rough elements on Pollock Road. Fluffing her hair, Sally moved along.
Jen headed for the Pratts’ house. Although only around a corner, the leap from Renoir Road to Pollock Road was pronounced. Jen noted pristine pavements morphing into an obstacle course of neglect. Kicking a crumpled can of shandy channelled her anger at Patricia, who wouldn’t be seen dead there.
A realisation hit Jen. This was how she could turn it around and be a winner. She wasn’t a snob, like Patricia, and never would be.