Hidden

by Lisa Sell

  I place my hand on the bathroom mirror to hide the face of the girl who’d robbed Kelly of her future. My younger self peeks through. I’m haunted by a ghost who will not lay to rest.

  I’ve wrestled with how the head wound I inflicted wasn’t an instant death blow. Claire seeing Kelly after the fight makes me consider, for the first time, that maybe I didn’t kill her. However, I’ve read enough to know the injury could have led to a prolonged death. That’s even more horrific. I should embrace the possibility I didn’t kill her, but I can’t. She wouldn’t have been lying on the track, weakened and easy prey, if I hadn’t put her there.

  Kelly gave me a book to follow my dream. In return, I gave her pain and ended hers.

  31

  13th June 1987

  ‘When I grow up I want to be in a girl group like Bananarama, get married, and be a great mum.’ Kelly contributed to the Truth Game she was playing with her neighbour, Priscilla Staines.

  Kelly looked forward to Graham’s visits to the bookies as he’d be there for the rest of the afternoon, followed by the pub. She was able to sit in the garden, lording it over eleven-year-old Priscilla, with her extra three years of wisdom. Finding time together was complicated by Priscilla’s mother, Deirdre, banning her daughter from leaving the house.

  Priscilla was born with a hole in the heart. Her overbearing mother never failed to remind her, and others, of the fact. Deirdre believed Priscilla was susceptible to germs, which could become illnesses, resulting in death. A recent check-up confirmed the hole was tiny and the heart murmur weak. Deirdre heard the opposite, remembering her fragile baby in an incubator. From Priscilla’s birth, Deirdre was intent on encasing her daughter in a protective bubble.

  Consumed with cabin fever, Priscilla took advantage of her mum’s naps. Chris, her dad, would give the signal when Deirdre’s snores began. He tried to reason with his wife that Priscilla’s paleness came from a lack of sunshine. It fell on scared ears so he corroborated with Priscilla to give her snatched moments of freedom. Each time, Priscilla shot into the garden, tying a strip of white kitchen towel to the fence post. In a reversal of surrender, it was a message to Kelly of escape. Outside, Priscilla lived life her way.

  Kelly sat on a stool she kept in the garden for these occasions. Feeling rebellious, Priscilla lounged on the grass. They united from each side of the fence, making the divide part of their games. They watched their faces flickering in and out of the slats. Their version of Peek-a-Boo always produced hysterics as they slapped each other’s heads when they popped above the fence.

  The Truth Game was their favourite activity and a means for sharing fears and hopes. Kelly felt confident in telling Priscilla things the other kids judged or Graham would punish. Knowing Priscilla had no other friends to spill secrets to helped. The girls united in being outsiders.

  Kelly tried to join in the games the other children played. In desperation, she offered to do the dirty job of being the seeker in Hide and Seek. An hour of searching ended with swallowing the upset at the kids banging on a window and making faces from one of their houses. Once again, Kelly had been left behind.

  Being with Priscilla made Kelly feel appreciated and, for the first time, envied. The younger girl commented upon how Kelly wore what she wanted rather than being forced into fussy tartan dresses with satin ribbons. Kelly’s “Choose Life” T-shirt caught Priscilla’s eye. The slogan flaked and rips formed on the hem. Priscilla wished she could be untidy, but trendy too. Instead she resembled a waif from a Victorian novel. Even the clothes Deirdre chose fitted the era.

  Priscilla took a turn at the Truth Game. ‘I want to be a singer, like Pat Benatar.’

  ‘Cool.’ Kelly gave her friend a high five.

  When Priscilla shared her ambition with her dad Chris, a voice mumbled through the Daily Mail, ‘That’s sweet.’ Priscilla recognised patronising replies. She resolved to take the rock world by storm and hold outside concerts to spite her parents.

  Priscilla stood to get a better view of Kelly. ‘Who will you marry?’

  Kelly squirmed. People usually looked at her to assess how to inflict pain. Friendliness was an alien concept.

  Sensing her friend’s reticence, Priscilla reached over and touched Kelly’s shoulder. ‘Who would you like to marry, Kelly? You could marry anyone.’

  Kelly smiled at Priscilla’s kind ignorance. She was the only person, apart from Doreen, who saw the best in her. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe Matt Dillon.’

  ‘Good choice.’ They had seen The Outsiders and swooned over the cast.

  ‘Or…’ Kelly paused.

  Priscilla swung her legs over the fence. The gossip was getting too juicy to have boundaries. Kelly moved the stool back, unnerved by their closeness.

  Priscilla shook Kelly’s shoulder. ‘I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘I’m not sure if he loves me too.’ Kelly ripped grass from the lawn.

  Priscilla bounced, plaits flying in the air. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Priscilla Deirdre Staines, what on earth are you doing?’ The sleeping beast had awoken. Deirdre stood by the fence, hands on hips and a snarl on her face. Priscilla enjoyed how smudged mascara ruined her mum’s usual perfect presentation.

  ‘We’re just talking.’

  ‘You know not to leave the house, let alone go into someone’s garden. I’m sure that girl has other things to do with her family.’ Deirdre refused to look at Kelly.

  The Pratts’ reputation travelled through thin walls. With each fight, Deirdre warned Chris not to intervene. She wouldn’t get involved in that family’s business, no matter how terrifying it sounded. Ignorance, bred by fear, concluded the hatred in the Pratt family was contagious.

  ‘Bye, Kelly.’ Priscilla tried not to cry as she returned home.

  Kelly understood it would be some time until the girls could meet again. Deirdre was aware Priscilla was chatting with the “urchin next door” – Kelly could hear through the walls too. Deirdre would ramp up her surveillance.

  Kelly placed the stool next to Doreen’s collection of gnomes. Sometimes her mum talked to them. With anyone else, it would’ve been amusing. Aware Doreen had no friends, it was pitiful. Kelly decided to spend the afternoon spoiling her mum.

  ‘Oi, Smelly Kelly. You’re such a skank. No one wears those tops anymore.’ Charlie walked past, holding his middle finger aloft.

  Two people within ten minutes had scorned Kelly and she didn’t react. At least Deirdre saved her from telling Priscilla the identity of the one she loved. Kelly had nearly slipped up. He wouldn’t have been happy about that.

  Some secrets were too dangerous to be shared.

  32

  Present

  After thumping her way in, Claire stands in my kitchen. She’s a reporter not to be underestimated, seeing as she’s found my workplace and home.

  ‘We’re going on a field trip.’

  ‘It’s 8am on a Sunday,’ I say while yawning. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, like normal people?’

  ‘Come on, Jen. Neither of us is normal.’ She sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes to emphasise the point.

  I slump against the fridge, massaging my temples. ‘How do you know? We haven’t seen each other in years.’ The catty tone is a consequence of not getting to sleep until 6am.

  ‘I just do. Do you still dig your nails in your palms when angry or worried?’

  I unfurl my fists.

  ‘Do you wear freaking cool T-shirts of bands the populars have never heard of?’ She looks at my Throbbing Gristle T-shirt. ‘Do you still sing like a goddess, but hide it?’

  When we were younger, she caught me belting out a tune in her bedroom. She’d gone for a pee. The Cure came on the radio and I was mid-song when she recorded it. Without my knowledge, she entered the tape for a competition Smash Hits magazine held to discover a pop star. Claire was gutted to announce I hadn’t won. I was annoyed she’d put me in the spotlight when I wanted to hide. Claire decided the judges w
ere “popster tossers” who wouldn’t know a great singer if one smacked them in the chops. I admired her loyalty and chose not to mention her subscription to the pop magazine.

  ‘Bet you do still sing well,’ Claire says.

  I haven’t got a clue. The cat can’t hold up scorecards.

  She opens the fridge. ‘You also still have appalling manners. Are you making breakfast, or what?’

  I direct her to the table. The kettle doesn’t have the energy to argue with the black pot about her rudeness.

  ‘Don’t you have food at home?’ I ask, rifling through the cupboards.

  ‘I ate hours ago. My stomach feels like my throat has been cut.’

  Doodle is in ecstasy as Claire lashes belly rubs upon him. She lowers to the floor and lies on her front. I can’t deny the carefree attitude is lovely and I wish I could be more like her. I was once. We were cheeky little blighters. Maybe she can help me find that person again.

  ‘Tea, if you’re brewing up.’ She moves the blissed-out cat and takes a seat. ‘Proper country cottage you’ve got here. I’d never have thought this was your scene. Didn’t you want to be a doctor in a city?’

  ‘Things change.’

  ‘Oxfordshire has a hold on us both.’ She tries to create a bond. ‘I’m such a loser and even went to Crosston University nearby, to stay close to Mum. I only just got a degree though.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘English and Media, when I wasn’t in a coma from nights spent in the Student Union or stoned. We all did it, eh.’ She grins at the memory of a misspent youth.

  I turn away.

  ‘Did I say something to offend you?’

  I face her. ‘You looked it up, didn’t you.’

  ‘Usually I’m a brilliant reporter, but with people I like, I get flustered.’ At least she has the grace to be embarrassed.

  I allow the statement she likes me to sink in before I launch. ‘I messed up when I was twenty and was arrested for possession of a few ecstasy tablets. I’m not making excuses but it was hardly the crime of the century and I wasn’t charged.’

  Claire scrapes the chair back. ‘Woah there, stress head.’ Her hands fly up in mock surrender. ‘I was taking the piss. It’s no worse than the messes I got into. Mum rescued me from Troddington police station a couple of times. Good job Kev was working there and having a thing with her.’

  ‘Your mum was nobbing Kev Brown?’ I never would’ve believed it of straight-laced Ellen.

  ‘Ew, that’s my mother.’ Claire pretends to vomit. ‘After she chucked Dad out, she decided to live a little. Kev was useful for insider info. Good move really.’

  Claire’s not lost her mercenary streak. I wonder how she would have fared as the child of my parents. She might have come through it unscathed. I’m glad she had Ellen though. No one deserved my mum, not even me.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Gossiping is getting us nowhere. Much as I’m warming to her, it’s unsettling having Claire on my territory. This is the only house I’ve made mine.

  ‘Remember Constance Major? The dotty woman who had a dog called Scruff?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Constance was one of the estate’s older residents. She walked Scruff twice a day and the kids loved playing with him. Constance always carried chocolates, which added to the duo’s popularity. She worked in paediatrics in a hospital in Oxford. I glimpse the anatomy textbooks, stowed beside the microwave. Some came from Constance, who encouraged me to become a doctor. I’d hate for her to find out they were wasted.

  Claire sets to work on the toast, spreading a generous helping of jam. I sit opposite, nibbling a more conservatively layered slice.

  ‘Mum says Constance is still spritely, if not more eccentric,’ Claire talks around a mouthful of food. ‘I think Mum’s too nice to say she’s nuts.’

  ‘I don’t get what it has to do with you being here.’

  Claire abandons breakfast. Doodle startles, wary of Claire’s sudden pacing. ‘Mum sees Constance every now and again. I’m so proud of how Mum’s still looking out for people from the estate. She visited Constance yesterday and they got chatting about Kelly. Constance saw Kelly on the train track around the same time I did. How’s that for a breakthrough?’

  Claire’s steps become frantic. The cat scarpers. I want to join him. Will this ever end? I wish I’d never got involved. I should’ve made excuses, emigrated, anything to make them go away.

  ‘It’s hardly a breakthrough considering how many people went on the tracks,’ I say. ‘What did Constance say happened?’ Knowing what I’m facing is important.

  Claire pulls up the sleeves on an enormous bomber jacket. ‘She said Kelly was upset. Mum pressed for more info but Constance got distracted by her boyfriend. Older than God and she’s still at it.’ Her sleeves drop. ‘Flipping jacket.’

  I couldn’t care less about the wardrobe malfunction. ‘Did she tell the police?’

  ‘Yes, but they said it wasn’t relevant. Idiots.’ Claire removes the jacket. She uses her whole body to communicate. Her arms are free to elaborate her points. ‘We’re off to her residential home to get the full story. Put some clean undies on and spruce yourself up a bit. I’ll wait in the living room. Keep the cat company.’ She marches through the archway, into the lounge.

  It’s a done deal. We’re going to see Constance. Cruel as it sounds, I hope in old age her memories have faded and she won’t divulge information revealing my guilt.

  33

  9th September 1987

  Constance lowered her head as she meandered along the path running alongside the park. The sight troubled the children, usually assured of a friendly welcome. Constance was older than their parents and had no children. The estate kids adopted her as a surrogate grandmother. She became their chief defender when they were accused of wrongdoing and saw goodness in everyone, refusing to believe anyone could be born bad. Her missionary parents’ ways rubbed off, but she refused to embrace all their theology.

  Being a sister in a paediatric department was the perfect role for Constance. She had worked hard for the promotion and thrived on helping youngsters. Tending to children satisfied a maternal nature never recognised in her mainly single life. She tried not to consider how she was nearing retirement age. Her job was a lifeline in giving her purpose and companionship. Having Scruff at home, her beloved “bitser” dog – so called because his origins were “a bit of this and a bit of that” – reduced the loneliness. Scruff’s absence made her whole body ache.

  ‘Where’s Scruff, Mrs Major?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Come here, Johnny Rose, and stop that hollering.’ Constance wouldn’t abide shoddy manners in any child. They all behaved in her presence, even those who didn’t blink at stealing from their mum’s purse.

  Johnny had watched Constance from his place on the bench. Normally she bounced along the path, with her generous belly jiggling. Shuffling betrayed her advancing years more than the grey streaks in her hair and her clothes looked like she’d slept in them. As she raised her head to greet Johnny, he noted the tear-stained cheeks.

  ‘How many times have I told you to call me Constance?’ She mustered a smile. Knowing she’d done so for him pinched his heart.

  ‘Sorry, Constance. Is Scruff okay?’

  Johnny doted on the pooch and Scruff adored Johnny. Whenever they met, both strained at the leash, one more literally than the other. Jen was used to Johnny disappearing mid-conversation when Scruff appeared. She wasn’t bothered by it, knowing he would be an exceptional vet.

  Today, Johnny was going solo. When she’d returned from school, Jen was grounded. The slashing of the throat signal she’d given from the bedroom window signified another unleashing of Patricia’s foul temper. Johnny felt powerless seeing Jen trapped behind the glass. He wondered if he was turning soft, imagining scaling the Taylors’ greenhouse to rescue the damsel in distress. With his clumsiness, he’d probably break either the greenhouse or his bones.

  Constance interrupte
d his fantasy with a loud blowing of her nose. ‘Scruff is with the vet. I’m picking him up later, hopefully.’ A tear dripped on the front of her white cardigan, leaving a mascara blotch.

  Johnny cleared his throat. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I found him… he was… he…’ Powerful sobs made talking impossible.

  Passing by, Ernie Bowers threw his BMX bike to the ground. ‘Are you okay, Constance? You better not have upset her, Johnny.’

  Ernie collected Constance’s newspaper when she slept off the night shifts. He was fourteen, the same age as Johnny, but significantly shorter. Under the tutorage of Johnny’s brothers, Ernie’s tearaway reputation increased.

  ‘Leave it out. I’ve not done anything. Do one.’ Johnny raised his shoulders and pushed out his chest to assert the Rose boy status.

  Ernie rode off, faithful to the code of loyalty between the Roses and their gang. Johnny knew it was flaky, considering how many fights he had with his brothers. Constance turned away from the park. At least no more dubious young knights would try to defend her honour. She beckoned Johnny to walk.

  ‘When I came home from work this morning, I couldn’t find Scruff.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘He’s always there, waiting, the second the front door opens.’

  ‘Where was he?’ Johnny laced his arm through Constance’s. Pollock Road lay next to the park, but they kept a slow pace. It was obvious Constance was in no rush to return to an empty home.

  ‘I searched everywhere, even under the sink – as if he’d fit in there – but I was frantic.’ They passed her house. ‘Then I saw someone had kicked the back door in. It wasn’t sitting flush and I should’ve got it fixed but I’ve been doing a lot of overtime.’

  Johnny blanched at the thought of a person breaking into Constance’s home. An estate rule asserted you never stole from or damaged each other’s property. When he found the scroat who did it, he vowed this would be a rare occasion when he’d give Anthony and Ian a nudge to take care of matters.