by Lisa Sell
After he left, Jen felt she was floating on air and not because of the strong medication. It might not have been an intentional romantic kiss, but it was something. She touched her lips.
‘Thanks, little one,’ Johnny said to Mandy.
Mandy broke away from listening to Teddy Ruxpin telling a story. ‘You’re very red.’
Johnny left the Taylors’ house touching his lips and grinning too.
38
Present
‘Why won’t you help me, Jen?’ Kelly lies on the ground. A pool of claret forms around her head. ‘I only wanted to be your friend.’ She rises from the track. A train slams into her body.
I scream awake. The dream replays every night. For years I had nightmares of Kelly in different guises: crawling from a grave, condemning my pride or emerging from under the bed, like childhood’s imagined monster. When I became settled at work and found the cottage, the dreams disappeared. This investigation has brought them back.
It’s 5.15am. My mobile shows seven missed calls from Doreen, beginning at 2am. In the hope of achieving uninterrupted sleep, I’d silenced the phone. Doreen obviously didn’t sleep well either. She probably knows about our meeting with Constance.
I decide to caffeinate and go for a run before phoning Doreen. My mind needs to be straight because my innocence isn’t definite yet. I believe Constance’s diagnosis that the head wound didn’t kill Kelly. I have to. A wave of doubt still niggles in how I contributed to her death. If I hadn’t retaliated, she wouldn’t have lingered on the track. I told her to shut up and I didn’t want to hear what she was saying. Still she persisted, desperate to forge a common link between us. If Kelly had known when to stop, she might be alive. I bunch the duvet in my hands, stretching out the tension.
It’s time to face the day. Doodle swats my legs, playing a game he never tires of. I carry him downstairs, unapologetically aware I’m indulging a grown cat. If they got me on the couch, I’d be a psychologist’s dream. Seeing a counsellor is a condition of the training. Knowing how to play the system helps. When you’ve studied non-verbal cues, fillers, and voice, you know how to blag it. I will never share my past with another counsellor. It’s hypocritical but I have too much to lose. I push the memories away, always a master in compartmentalising.
My phone rings. It’s Doreen. Buoyed with confidence at the possibility I didn’t kill Kelly, I answer. ‘Hello. How are you? Are you still in hospital?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Her words are clipped. Perhaps she’s tired.
‘It’s great you’re home. Did Claire mention we visited Constance Major? She’s given us important info about Kelly. I expect Claire’s shared it with you already. You know how excited she gets when–’
‘I couldn’t give a toss about that. I haven’t spoken to Claire but I will when you’re both at my house, today at ten.’
The uncharacteristic demand throws me. ‘I can’t. I’m working.’
‘You will come, you murdering bitch, or I’ll go straight to the police. Then you’ll not get the chance to explain to me how you murdered my daughter.’
‘What?’
‘Be there.’ The phone connection ends.
Was I wrong to start believing it wasn’t me? Did I kill Kelly as I’ve always thought?
39
29th December 1982
Many of the households on the Rembrandt Estate wished the festive period would end. Days off work were always welcome. Having to spend more time with relatives often wasn’t. Children wore adults down with complaints of boredom, demands for broken toys to be fixed, and batteries replaced. Some parents regretted past accidents or decisions about stopping birth control. They threw another selection box at their offspring and prayed for sugar-induced comas.
The Taylors’ house also lacked festive cheer. From the moment the school holiday began, Patricia had been in even more of a disagreeable mood. She was likely to maim the next person who played Slade or Wizzard in her presence. Her Christmas memories made it a less than wonderful time of the year.
Growing up, she’d hated living above a pub run by her parents. The hospitality of the landlords led to the pub’s popularity. The patrons of The Cat and Fiddle often lingered after hours. Most mornings Patricia discovered strangers sleeping in the snug. Her parents didn’t see the problem in a customer who spent a fortune having an overnight stay.
Every Christmas, Patricia performed a song and dance routine in the bar. She rehearsed for months, making the act good enough for her father’s approval. After her performance, the clientele applauded while her father demanded she return upstairs. When money was hitting the tills, Patricia became invisible.
Patricia rebuffed her mother’s attempts at showing affection. The girl only wanted her father and refused to share him with the bawdy woman who wore revealing outfits. Her mother’s insistence on calling her Patty added to the shame. Whenever Patricia offered her full name in correction, others scorned her snootiness. Patricia then became “Duchess”, a nickname given by a regular. Whenever the clientele used it, Patricia raged. Her family adopting it, making it her name, didn’t help.
Patricia’s four older brothers worshipped her. Nothing was too much for their Duchess. They bought her gifts and placed her on a pedestal far higher than their mother. Fat lot of good it does me now, Patricia thought, lowering the sleep mask. She’d left her siblings behind. Satisfied with council house existences, for them climbing the social ladder was unnecessary and laborious. Patricia wouldn’t be dragged down by her relatives. She also shunned her parents. The geographical distance that arose when they retired to Blackpool made it easier. Family was an overrated concept.
Her own elder daughter was sulking somewhere. Patricia figured it served Jennifer right for breaking Patricia’s Wedgewood ornament, a wedding gift from her godmother. Violet had led the local W.I. and lived liked a queen, thanks to her banker husband leaving her a fortune in his will. Patricia idolised Violet until she died of a stroke while sitting on the toilet. The shine of knowing a prestigious woman dulled afterwards. Patricia refused to mention someone who passed away in such vulgar circumstances.
Jen tried to hide the breakage of the cuckoo ornament. Hearing the smash, Patricia slipped into the living room and drank in Jen’s fear. She felt no guilt at scaring her nine-year-old daughter. Carelessness led to consequences.
Patricia seized the dustpan from Jen and sprinkled the collected pieces of china, with an order to pick up each piece. If Patricia found a single speck, Jen would be grounded for two weeks. Patricia knew it was an impossible task. White china in a deep pile white carpet was the proverbial needle in the haystack.
While Patricia settled into her beauty sleep, Jen sifted the debris from the carpet. Mandy played drums on the highchair table. Jen was thankful Patricia didn’t know Mandy had dropped the ornament by the fireplace. The punishment her mum could inflict upon a three-year-old was uncertain. Jen didn’t want to find out and decided to take the blame.
Liam watched a war film, ignoring Jen scrabbling around. He jabbed at Mandy’s chest.
Hearing Mandy’s earlier happiness become a whimper stirred Jen’s temper. ‘Leave her alone.’
Liam stared at Jen and poked Mandy harder, inviting a fight. Jen took Mandy from the chair, attempting to soothe her before the crying began. Too late, she bounced the sobbing child on her knee.
‘Shut that brat up,’ Liam said. ‘I’m trying to watch this.’
‘If you hadn’t been irritating her, she wouldn’t be upset.’
Liam had been lounging around all morning, demanding refreshments. Jen wanted to smash them into his smarmy face. She only waited on him because he knew who really broke Patricia’s ornament.
‘Do you want Mum to tell you off again? I’ll give her a shout.’ Liam rose from the sofa.
‘No! Don’t. I’ll calm her.’
Mandy showed appreciation for Jen handing over her favourite toy elephant by chewing Ellie’s leg.
‘What’s going on
in here?’ Mike asked as he entered the room.
His dungarees, marked with plaster, signified another day of working. He had only taken Christmas Day off. Customers praised his dedication in getting their plastering done. He didn’t tell them he’d rather be in their houses than his own.
He lifted Mandy and made silly faces. She squealed and played with his nose. Jen found the interaction difficult to watch, wishing he was always so attentive. His fleeting appearances in the Taylor house hurt. The only time he spoke was to either reprimand them for upsetting Patricia or give warnings not to.
‘What’s this on the floor?’ Mike flicked a shard of china from his sock.
‘Jen broke Mum’s cuckoo ornament,’ Liam said, sneering at his sister.
Mike’s forehead settled into its usual frown. ‘Flaming hell, Jen. It’s her favourite. Can’t you be more careful?’
Liam folded his arms. ‘She did it on purpose.’
Liam’s malice confused Jen. He thrived on causing trouble. She considered her fist as a replacement for the Wotsits he shovelled into his mouth.
‘I didn’t! It caught on my sleeve as I swung round.’ She glared at Liam. He waved in return.
Mike sagged against the wall. Jen tried not to be a disappointment. One parent’s approval shouldn’t have been too much to expect. Mike fought exhaustion. Lack of sleep was standard as Patricia often kicked him out of bed. The weariness came from being in his situation. He couldn’t be the husband his wife demanded, and had proved to be an ineffectual father. If Liam spoke to him, his words were riddled with sarcasm.
For self-preservation, Mike distanced himself from Mandy. The shattered relationship with Jen dealt the heaviest blow. He never told her she was his best girl. If Patricia knew, her viciousness would increase. Once, he naively thought she could change, believing his affection would soften her. It didn’t take long to realise the woman he married lacked the ability to love and controlled everything.
Patricia planned Liam’s conception and her mission paid off. She bagged herself a husband and underplayed the part Mike had in Liam’s creation. Their son was her success.
Jen was the next project. Patricia longed for another son. When the midwife declared they had a daughter, she passed the baby to Mike and left Jen mostly to his care.
Mandy was a slip-up Patricia soon regretted. After hearing of the death of her oldest brother, vulnerability made her careless. Heart complaints were common in her family. Patricia’s fears for her mortality led to the hasty decision to create a new life. As Mike did his business, her mind drifted to the prospect of her next son.
Another girl became another disappointment for Patricia. She decided six years was old enough for Jen to help look after the baby. Patricia believed she’d done Jen a favour in teaching her the harsh realities of life. When Jen complained, Patricia highlighted her ingratitude at having a playmate.
Noticing Jen’s hurt at his earlier scolding, Mike stroked her cheek. ‘Let’s get this cleared up before Mum comes downstairs.’ He leant over and whispered, ‘We’ll have ice cream later, when she goes to the Tupperware party. Chocolate with hundreds and thousands, right?’
Jen contained her excitement. Her dad actually knew what she liked.
Patricia’s spy, Liam, was in the room. Mike kept his voice low. ‘It will be our little secret.’
40
Present
‘When were you going to tell us your little secret?’ Claire stumbles over the words.
To have caused such a confident person upset, adds to my heap of shame. I take a seat at Doreen’s dining room table. Doreen, Claire, and Ellen huddle at the opposite end. Placed alone, I’m the defendant at a hearing. Before I even speak, the judges have reached a verdict: guilty.
‘Little?’ Doreen’s legs wobble with the effort as she stands.
Ellen guides her back to her chair. ‘Take it easy. You’ve only just got out of hospital.’
‘I’d hardly call murdering my daughter little.’ Doreen slaps the table.
The force of the reverberation startles me. Claire and Ellen ignore it. They’ve been here for a while and know why Doreen is raging.
I must make this situation right but I can’t find the words. I want to ask what Doreen knows and how. More than that, I wish I could disappear. I swear Doreen would kill me if she had the energy. Claire’s expression suggests she’d willingly do so on her behalf.
‘I’m not sure why I’m here.’ I sound pathetic. The time for stalling is over, but still I try.
Doreen reaches across the table. ‘You were seen that day, Jennifer, Jen, whatever you call yourself.’
She knows what happened. ‘Who saw me?’
Doreen smirks. She knows hearing the name will destroy me. ‘Johnny Rose.’
Fatigue and stress collide. A cloud descends over me.
41
21st March 1981
‘Friends forever?’ Johnny hooked his little finger around Jen’s to confirm the oath.
‘Always,’ Jen replied, overjoyed to have found this kind boy with an oddness that matched her own.
Since their families had moved to the Rembrandt Estate two months earlier, Johnny knew they’d be friends. Jen was seven and a loner too.
In the first week, he’d left the house to escape family rows over who should unpack boxes that remained untouched. If he hung around, it would inevitably fall to him. Venturing to the top of Turner Road, Johnny understood not to leave the estate, much as he sometimes wanted to run away.
This was the third time the Roses had moved in the last year. Trying to settle into a new area over and over was exhausting. He hoped they would stay. Wherever they went, the Roses became unpopular. His roguish brothers terrorised people and Rose made a habit of stealing other women’s husbands. The succession of men who appeared in the kitchen every morning ended when Rob Morgan moved in. Although his gruffness and sexist ways didn’t make him a prize catch, at least he was consistent.
The day he met Jen, Johnny discovered a bush on Turner Road. It stood alone and offered the privacy he needed from a chaotic household. He vaulted over the bush, landing on top of a girl. The Johnny and Jen alliance formed from a sore head, giggles, and shared sweets.
Most of their following days were spent together. Johnny ignored Anthony and Ian calling Jen his girlfriend. Johnny didn’t understand the things they said he should do with her. With how icky it sounded, he resolved to never want to.
Every day he looked for Jen. When she wasn’t outside, Johnny stood in the park, visible from her bedroom window.
Johnny and Jen became collectively known on the Rembrandt Estate as J&J. Throughout the next six years, they believed their relationship would last forever. They even later dared to dream, albeit separately, for more.
Then came 16th October 1987 when Johnny decided he couldn’t trust or understand a killer. When Jen struck Kelly, she shattered their friendship.
42
Present
Claire places a glass of water in front of me. ‘I can’t believe you lied. I thought we were mates.’
‘We are. I’m so sorry.’
I take slow sips, glad I didn’t faint. They’re looking at me like I’m a drama queen. Sympathy in this room is limited.
‘Finished with the dramatics?’ Doreen asks.
I’m resigned to letting her lead. I can hardly ask the mother of the girl she thinks I killed to have mercy. Doreen throws a coaster over as I put the glass down, disgusted at the animal staining her pine table.
‘So, Jennifer.’ Doreen no longer considers me a more amiable Jen. ‘I saw Johnny in town. He lives in Aylesbury too.’
I was convinced he’d moved far away, not to the next county. The distance between us seemed like thousands of miles.
‘What’s he doing nowadays?’ Claire receives my silent gratitude for asking the question.
‘He’s a vet,’ Doreen says, ‘and a partner in a practice. The bloke’s done well for himself.’
‘He alw
ays wanted to be a vet.’ I can’t resist staking a claim on knowing Johnny’s dream. They’re talking about my best friend.
Doreen scowls. ‘Getting back to the actual reason for this meeting…’ Coughing overwhelms her. Ellen rubs her back. Doreen ignores it, determined to continue.
‘Johnny walked past the shop I was in. One of the carers took me out in that thing.’ Doreen looks towards the wheelchair in the corner. ‘A tall man strolled by. I wondered if it was Johnny Rose but thought not because of the flecks of grey in his hair. You forget children grow up. Well, some do. When he glanced over I knew it was him. Those blue eyes are unforgettable.’
They certainly are. Many times I looked into them and found my home.
Doreen continues. ‘It shocked him to see me so frail. I told him I have cancer. He was sad to hear it, of course. We then went to a café. His treat.’
That’s my Johnny; still kind to others.
‘I asked about his life. He’s divorced.’
My mind whirs with lost possibilities as I try to concentrate on Doreen’s words.
‘No kids. He focused on being a vet. Why am I spouting Johnny’s life story? This isn’t a reunion.’ Doreen coughs again.
I want her to talk about Johnny forever.
Doreen looks my way. The harsh stare of an older woman brings back disturbing memories. I take another sip of water to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
Doreen gathers her composure. ‘I shared with Johnny how we’re investigating Kelly’s death. When I told him you’re helping, Jennifer, he looked ready to throw up. He was there when you were with Kelly on the railway track. Johnny heard you arguing and witnessed you pushing her. Then he saw the blood.’