Hidden

by Lisa Sell

  ‘Did they nick anything?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘No. That’s not why they broke in.’ Shielding her face, she cried once again.

  Johnny offered a handkerchief. Rob mocked him for carrying one, declaring only homosexuals used them. The attraction the Neanderthal had for his mum baffled Johnny.

  Constance continued. ‘I went into the garden. Scruff was on the grass.’ Johnny held his breath as Constance took a large one. ‘Blood matted his fur and his breathing was shallow.’

  Johnny held her as she wept. He didn’t care if anyone saw and misconstrued the situation.

  ‘On the wall they’d written… I don’t like to say.’ Constance dipped her chin.

  ‘You can tell me,’ Johnny said. ‘No one else needs to know.’

  She spoke to the ground. ‘They’d spray painted “Constance shags dogs”.’

  ‘What the hell? Where’s Scruff?’

  ‘I took him to the vet in town. He has multiple cuts and possibly broken ribs. Who would do that to an animal?’

  Johnny couldn’t think of a single person who held a grudge against Constance. She never upset anyone and was widely respected. When her bathroom flooded, the residents helped to clear up and had a whip round for a new carpet. Why would someone attack Scruff? Johnny hoped the guilty party didn’t live on the estate. Their life wouldn’t be worth living if he found them.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Johnny fought the tears threatening to come. ‘The vet will do his best. I did work experience there over the holidays. They’re brilliant with animals.’

  ‘Scruff is in the best place,’ Constance said. ‘The vet says hopefully the damage shouldn’t be permanent.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t do much.’

  Constance understood the police’s limitations when a crime occurred on the Rembrandt Estate. Ranks closed and mouths shut.

  Whoever had done this wasn’t a stupid bored child. The person who’d inflicted the cuts did so with precision, ensuring they were deep enough to wound but not kill. The culprit likely altered their handwriting too, although the police didn’t have the resources to check every resident’s writing.

  ‘Didn’t the neighbours hear anything?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Kelly fed Scruff at eight o’clock and he was fine. She has a key to let him out for a pee when I’m working. When she left, he was sleeping in the lounge. The PC said the attacker must have taken Scruff elsewhere and then laid him on the lawn. There wasn’t much blood on the grass.’

  It wasn’t a spontaneous moment of crazed violence. This was premeditated and frightening.

  Johnny scanned the windows of the surrounding houses, realising the person who’d done this could be watching them. Constance widened her eyes, as if drawing a similar conclusion.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ll stay until the vet calls.’

  ‘You’re a good boy. Well, young man, really. When did you get so grown-up, Johnny Rose?’

  A warm bloom crept across Johnny’s cheeks. He wasn’t used to hearing kindness. His household was a place built on blokey insults, although his mum tried to boost his ego. The consequences were in his brothers calling him a sissy or Rob being jealous of Rose’s diverted attention.

  Johnny guided Constance home, desperate to protect her. The estate could get rough sometimes but this was an unknown level of maleficence. He slammed Constance’s door and leant against it to guard against what he believed would inevitably come.

  34

  Present

  Constance’s current abode is more of a mansion than the average residential home. This is the scenic part of Oxford the tourists flock to; full of historic buildings and green land. Claire’s battered Volvo lowers the tone by spluttering up the sweeping gravel drive. I shut my eyes against the strobing sunlight darting through gaps in the trees.

  We’ve covered parts of our lost history on the way here. Rather, I have, under the fire of Claire’s scattergun questioning. She now knows I left the estate at sixteen to live in a squat in Troddington. After the police raided it, I shacked up with Deggsy, a dodgy older man, in Oxford. I glossed over that part. Indignation rises whenever I remember how his manipulation almost destroyed me.

  I gave Claire the shortened, more sanitary, version of my descent into drinking and drug-taking within the nineties rave scene. We progressed to how I went into a recovery programme after the arrest for possession, with a charity which later provided lodgings.

  Claire seemed impressed with how I turned my life around, but I know I’m a fraud. Getting out of addiction doesn’t make what I did to Kelly any less horrific. I probably wouldn’t have become an addict if I hadn’t attacked her.

  At an ivy-covered doorway, Claire pulls the tasselled cord to ring the bell. We assess the grounds while we wait. A lake, landscaped hedges, and even the odd peacock, add to its grandeur.

  ‘The butler will appear in a minute,’ Claire says. ‘I’d live here, let alone Constance.’

  A flustered woman opens the door. Her grubby tabard shatters our illusions of waiting staff in tuxedos. A name badge declares she’s called Peggy and is “Happy to help”. In reality, Peggy looks happy to hurt someone.

  ‘Apologies, ladies.’ Peggy smooths her forest of frizzy hair. ‘I was dealing with a resident who’d had an accident. We’re short-staffed today. All hands on deck.’

  She whips off the tabard and scurries behind a welcome desk to rival The Hilton, or what I imagine it’s like. Trainee counsellors don’t have the budget for swish hotels. Dressed in a black trouser suit and white shirt, Peggy gives a contented sigh at being back in her territory as a receptionist.

  ‘Rather you than me, dealing with people’s toilet mishaps.’ Claire sniggers.

  Peggy’s cool stare makes Claire wither.

  Ornate touches gild the foyer. Everything has a filigree border, even Peggy’s jacket. I consider checking the visitors’ book to see if King Midas has been here, such is the amount of gold layering most surfaces. After Claire signs us in, she rolls the golden pen between her fingers. Peggy’s open hand suggests prior experience of stationery thieves. Claire slams the pen on the counter.

  ‘Constance is in the Day Room,’ Peggy says. ‘Knit and Natter should be finishing. It’s down the corridor, first on the right.’

  We’re dismissed as she puts the tabard back on and leaves. I sympathise with the bloke, caked in crap, waiting for an irate Peggy to finish cleaning his backside.

  Still bearing a grudge against Peggy for denying her a new writing implement, Claire says, ‘Glad I’m not the old duffer she’s probably left with a shitty arse.’

  We hold on to each other throughout our hysterics, trying to be quiet in case Peggy returns. I love how Claire’s not afraid to speak what others dare not think. Despite the circumstances, I’m pleased to have my thoughts twin back.

  Compared to the opulence we’ve seen so far, the Day Room is a dump. Threadbare chairs sag towards a cracked stained lino. A strong smell of wet dog lingers. As with many things, outer appearances are viewed as more important. My inner justice warrior kicks in, wondering how much they charge to live here. If Constance is being ripped off, I’ll be having words.

  A cluster of geriatrics huddle in a corner, circling wool around each other’s gnarled fingers. A woman snores with her mouth wide open, oblivious to the surrounding chatter. This group definitely has the “natter” part covered. The lone man surveys the room, possibly trying to find the exit. He pulls faces in response to the commands of the lady sitting opposite. Constance has always been bossy.

  ‘Not that wool, Bert. The turquoise one, not the green.’

  ‘It is turquoise, dear.’ Bert appears to be stifling the urge to strangle the source of the order. He scoops up a navy ball of wool.

  I cover Claire’s mouth. It’s best to begin on a positive note than to incite an uprising of elderly knitters armed with needles.

  ‘Why don’t you take a stroll ar
ound the lake, love? I’ve got visitors coming. And here they are.’ Constance flings her arms out wide.

  She was in her late fifties when I last saw her. Her hair is whiter and more wrinkles etch her face, but she’s still the Constance we knew.

  ‘Girls, it’s so good to see you. Let’s draw up a pew over there.’ Constance beckons us to the opposite corner of the room.

  The other women take their leave. Constance can still get others to do as they’re told. Watching her lower into a recliner is an event in itself. She shifts downward by degrees, bone by bone. How many vertebrae does a person have? I could have answered that once.

  Constance indicates the other chairs. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony.’

  I fall into a seat, discovering too late its missing most of its springs. My knees jut towards my chin. Claire’s feet hover inches above the ground. It’s too awkward to swap seats. I’d make a witty comment if I weren’t on the defensive.

  Constance shuffles around, trying to get comfortable. Her blue eyes sparkle through their more rheumy appearance. The dimples still indent deep into her cheeks when she smiles. She’s lost a little weight, which makes her potbelly more prominent. Constance is thriving.

  ‘Nice gaff, isn’t it.’ She gives a theatrical swish of her hand. ‘A bit dingy in here but they’re doing a refit soon. My painting will have pride of place.’ She points to a picture on the wall behind her. It might be a vase of flowers. I’m no art expert, but it’s obvious Constance is still disillusioned about her artistic skills.

  ‘It’s lovely and bright,’ I offer, looking away from Claire, who’s chewing her fist.

  Every Christmas, Constance drew her own cards. The estate joke, never to her face, was in trying to work out what the scene depicted. One year, Claire and I deliberated if the splodge was a monkey or a tortoise. We concluded we were both wrong. Monkeys and tortoises were hardly festive.

  Constance beams at my compliment for her latest creation. I realise I’ve missed her. When I was younger, we spent time together. I’d listen to stories of her early days working as a nurse, and relish the gory details that appealed to my robust stomach.

  Claire forces her gaze away from the car crash of a painting. ‘You’ve come up in the world since Pollock Road, Con.’

  ‘Finally, young Claire. Ellen keeps saying you’ll visit.’

  Claire shrugs. ‘Life, you know. Matty’s fourteen but acts like she’s forty. Seb’s more of a boy than a man. They keep me bloody busy.’

  ‘Language.’ Constance waggles a finger.

  ‘Sorry.’ Claire leans further back, in danger of tipping.

  ‘I can thank my dad for this,’ Constance says. ‘A businessman he worked with on projects in Africa left him some money in his will. Dad wouldn’t take a penny when he was there. This man decided Dad should be paid so he bestowed him a tidy sum. When Dad died, he passed the money on to my brothers and me. He didn’t want to spend any of it. I bought a house in Oxford.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Claire says.

  Constance nods. ‘My eyes started to fail and I had one too many falls. Arthritis set in too. It was time to sell up and come here. I like being around people.’

  The main theme of our past conversations was loneliness. Having a dog eased it and Constance always encouraged visitors. Kids popped in and returned home with a tummy full of sweets. Adults always left her company with fond hearts.

  She shifts forwards as if to conduct business. ‘I expect we better get down to it. You’re here about Kelly Pratt, right?’

  I wish we could continue the informal chat. Being around Constance makes me feel safe again.

  Claire straightens. ‘Mum said you spoke to Kelly the day she died.’

  ‘I did, back in 1986.’

  ‘1987. Sixteenth October,’ I interject. Both turn to me. ‘We’ve been talking about it a lot. I’m good at remembering dates.’

  Keep it together, Jen. Slip-ups could be costly.

  ‘Oh yes, that was the Great Storm,’ Constance says. ‘I remember how my guttering came straight off and I had to run across the park to retrieve it. The council said I’d have to wait for them to fix it so I got your dad to do it, Jen. Flaming council didn’t want to shell out as usual.’

  Claire gives an exasperated snort. Constance always had a habit of digressing. When I asked for help with science homework, I finished the session knowledgeable in the NHS’s problems, but none the wiser regarding chromosomes.

  Constance chuckles. ‘Sorry, loves. I get sidetracked. It does Bert’s head in. He’s my current beau. I’m probably ADHD. Should’ve got diagnosed but there’s no point now. When you’re old, most people think you’re round the bend anyway. I was telling Bert–’

  ‘So, you saw Kelly,’ Claire interrupts, before we veer into another unrelated avenue of conversation.

  ‘Yes, I did. She had blood on her clothes and was carrying the worries of the world on her shoulders.’

  I concentrate on Constance’s painting, bracing myself for what she saw back then.

  35

  16th October 1987

  Constance decided to take Scruff for a longer walk. The scars were healing and his bruising had faded. Thankfully, his ribs weren’t broken, as initially suspected. The trauma hadn’t erased though. The previously relaxed dog jumped at the slightest noise. Scruff also developed an aversion to males. When a boy from the estate approached, the dog growled and then cowered. The only male he allowed near was Johnny. When they collected Scruff from the vet, Johnny held the dog and he didn’t leave until late. Since then, Johnny checked on Scruff and Constance daily.

  Constance accepted she was easily distracted but her mind always focused on important matters. The person who’d inflicted harm upon her dog was obviously a man or boy. Both were troubling, especially if it was someone she knew. Determined to be positive and help Scruff enjoy the walk, Constance shook the thought away.

  Before, they’d kept to the perimeters of the estate. Today, Constance was resolute Scruff should resume his routine and show the attacker he hadn’t won. She understood being on the track wasn’t legal, but everyone did it and hardly any trains came through. Scruff enjoyed skipping across the tracks, along with exploring the bushes and hedgerows.

  His spirits lifted as they slipped through the gap in the hedge, at the end of Monet Drive. Constance detached the lead, certain of his obedience. The dog took slow steps, looking to his owner for reassurance.

  ‘Go on, little one. You can do it.’ She felt like a mother watching their child walk for the first time.

  As his confidence increased, Scruff quickened the pace. Looking ahead for potential threats, Constance spotted a figure sitting by the side of the track. Children often played there; throwing stones, building fortresses on the banks, and escaping their parents’ supervision. To find a child alone on the railway track was rare. Constance prepared for approaching a male, hoping Scruff wouldn’t startle. He returned at her call and she attached the lead.

  When she recognised Kelly, Constance exhaled. Kelly never posed a threat to anyone. As a kind neighbour, she’d do Constance favours and often played with Scruff. The girl’s need for company was pitiful. Kelly’s treatment by some estate kids angered Constance, along with people’s determination to write off the Pratts, excluding Graham. Graham deserved everything he got.

  Kelly cradled her head. The sight of blood on her hands made Constance move faster. A reluctant Scruff shuffled alongside.

  ‘My goodness. What on earth happened?’ Constance asked.

  Kelly looked up. The cracked glasses did little to ease Constance’s worry. She often worried about Kelly. The fights next door travelled through the thin terraced walls. Constance refused to close her eyes or ears to abuse. Most days she tended to injured and sick children. It was distressing when their injuries were caused by those who were supposed to provide love and care.

  Whenever Constance went to the Pratts’ house as an argument took place, Doreen attempted to convince her th
ere was no need for concern. Constance never bought it. The cuts and bruises that followed always confirmed her suspicions. Graham almost dared people to report him by inflicting visible marks of brutality.

  Most of the estate turned away, as if acknowledging the abuse would taint them. Constance knew the damage ignorance caused and called the police every time. With each visit, Doreen concocted another accident. Kelly always agreed. When the police came to Constance’s house afterwards, she didn’t care if Graham realised she’d reported it. Even with his later threats to kill her, she held firm against the intimidation. The police vented about Graham getting away with it again but Constance didn’t blame Doreen for not pressing charges. Fear governed her life. Shame marked Doreen’s cheeks when she refused the women’s refuge details Constance offered. Doreen thanked Constance for her concern but insisted she was fine.

  Kelly’s head lowered. Constance rued how this girl thought she wasn’t worth the eye contact. Constance wouldn’t have it. She knelt and carefully lifted Kelly’s chin.

  ‘Who did this? You can tell me, sweetheart.’ She almost whispered, realising Kelly would be ashamed at being brought low again.

  ‘I was being silly. Got over excited looking at what the storm had done and fell.’

  Constance detected the stream of lies. She sat next to Kelly and rummaged around her handbag, pulling out a trusty first aid kit.

  ‘Where’s the blood coming from?’

  Kelly tapped the back of her head and winced.

  ‘Can I take a look? I’ll be gentle. Why don’t you hold on to Scruff while I do.’

  Kelly rubbed her hands together, as if cold, and nodded. Constance lifted Kelly’s hair, noting its greasiness. The gash was no longer bleeding.