by Lisa Sell
I help Doreen swing her legs onto the bed. I wonder if she’ll wake tomorrow. She’s broken. I let go of the shame I’ve contributed to it, knowing she doesn’t want that for me. Shifting up the pillows, she puffs out exertion. I refrain from helping, guessing she wants to be independent for as long as possible.
‘We’ll have to give up,’ she says.
‘Why?’
‘It looks like suicide, doesn’t it? Now I know Kelly was on the track in those circumstances, and was upset.’ Doreen sees my discomfort. ‘It’s hard to say but Kelly probably took her life.’
‘Don’t be hasty. You said before you believed Kelly wouldn’t do that. I still think it’s right. I’m not trying to absolve myself, but she was so strong in taking relentless blows and insults from people. Would she really have killed herself over a childish spat?’
‘I’m not sure anymore.’ Doreen’s eyelids droop.
‘Let Claire and me continue investigating. Don’t give up yet. We’ll do our best for you and Kelly.’ I’m trying to atone for the past, but a new empathy for this woman sits alongside it.
‘Okay, if you’re sure. There’s nothing left to lose anyway. You are a good person, Jen. Trust people more.’
I swipe away tears. I needed the approval. She offers a piece of paper from the nightstand.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘It’s Johnny’s telephone number and e-mail address. He told me not to give it to you. You’ve shared what happened and you must reunite with your soulmate.’ She falls asleep with a smile on her face.
The precious slip of paper burns in my hand. Johnny still thinks I’m a killer. I’ve tried to make contact. Until I can prove how Kelly died, I must leave it. I remember how, after the awkward kiss when I had tonsillitis, Johnny behaved strangely. Maybe he was pulling away from me before I hurt Kelly. Too much time has passed anyway.
Claire and Ellen wait at the foot of the stairs.
‘What have you got there?’ Nothing gets past Claire, particularly knowing I’m a liar. I can see she’s hurting but trying to hide it.
‘Not much.’ I slide the piece of paper into her rear jeans pocket. It’s too late for Johnny and me. ‘You can have this. It’s more use to you.’
She unfolds it and frowns. I open the front door, ending any further conversation.
We’ve got work to do.
46
Present
Everyone who heard the name thought Rose Rose’s parents were drunk or having a laugh when they named her. Rose asserted being a double Rose meant she was twice as lovely. She also lived life in double time; fast, loose, and taking every scrap of happiness she could grasp.
Rose valued the surname so much, her sons had it too. None of the fathers protested until she became pregnant with Rob Morgan’s child. Rob was six years younger than Rose, but more than a match for her formidable character. Their son, Benny, carried the Morgan name and was the likeness of his father. Rob believed in lineage and heritage, even if he could only scrape together a couple of pounds for his offspring.
Having a toyboy boosted Rose’s ego. She accepted she wasn’t a conventional beauty, but knew how to make the most of her assets. Her ample cleavage and trim figure had served her well. Gravity hadn’t set in yet, despite having four children.
The Rose boys were renowned on the Rembrandt Estate. Anthony and Ian were a handful because of Rose’s weak parenting. They spent their days around town and returned home when hungry. Rose often forgot to get food in. Her boys, apart from Johnny, often stole from the shops. A growing boy’s stomach demanded immediate sustenance.
Rose’s domestic skills similarly lacked. The house never saw a duster unless Johnny intervened. Provisions ran to a sour bottle of milk, gin, and a plentiful supply of knock-off cigarettes. Rose figured she’d done her family a favour in teaching them self-sufficiency.
On the Rembrandt Estate, the Rose boys were the group you joined or avoided. Responsible parents tried to shield their children from the Rose influence. They often failed. The allure of shenanigans with the Roses was tempting, except for one child. Although a Rose by name, Johnny didn’t belong. Not since Eliza Doolittle had a person puzzled over why they lived in such an alien environment. Johnny’s kindness, desire for justice, and quiet disposition made him a stranger within a family of delinquents. He was the thorn among the Roses.
Rose doted on Johnny, certain he would “do good” in the world. Lying in bed at night she devised plans, picturing Johnny’s high-flying career as a businessman. Rose watched the smoke of a cigarette fade, hoping her son’s prospects had more substance. She feared being a Rose and living on a council estate meant Johnny would always fight against the odds. Rose continued to dream. Johnny would move on from the estate and, perhaps, away from the family too. If the sacrifice had to be made, she would let him go.
Johnny decided from an early age to avoid family scams and scuffles. He hid within the security of friendship with Jen, hoping to find the courage to make it something more. Jen understood the embarrassment of bearing the burden of your family. When he recounted his family’s escapades, Johnny cringed. Jen expressed horror or laughed until she gasped for air. Sometimes the Roses’ adventures were hilarious, even Johnny had to admit it. Maybe he’d eventually crack jokes about that afternoon’s events, later known as the “War of the Roses”.
It began when Rob lost his temper at the lack of dinner to soak up the booze from a day in the pub. He threw saucepans to show Rose what cooking implements were. Used to his rants, Rose lit up and watched cutlery fly.
Anthony found Rob useful for keeping him in cigarettes and beer, but his allegiances always lay with his mum. He threatened Rob with a smack in the chops. Ian joined him, brandishing a rounders bat. The two boys stood either side of their mum; a wall of double denim and malice.
Taking it into the garden, every piece of Benny’s play equipment inflicted cuts and bruises. Rob discovered swingball’s ability to make a black eye. When Ian stated it wasn’t the first time Rob had balls in his face, he narrowly escaped drowning in the paddling pool.
The police arrived, greeted by the wounded Roses and Rob, seated on the lawn. Apparently, nothing had happened and people were clumsy. Rose made a mental note to flush out the nosey neighbour who’d interfered.
Benny emerged with Anthony’s makeshift shuriken and Rob’s stash of pills as the police were leaving. He’d found the booty in a kitchen cupboard. Benny became a grass at the tender age of three.
Johnny squirmed as he related the incident to Jen. They were taking a stroll into town to escape the neighbours’ judging looks. He questioned why he didn’t have a decent family and not the one residing at Troddington police station.
‘Where were you when it happened?’ Jen asked.
‘Getting a bottle of wine for Mum.’
The owner of the corner shop neglected to check the ages of those buying alcohol and cigarettes. Being the nearest shop to the estate, it made a roaring trade from kids sent to buy their parents’ legal highs. The owner had banned Anthony and Ian for stealing, and Rob for being mouthy. With Rose’s added laziness, it left Johnny to do the family’s shopping.
Johnny continued. ‘I saw the police car as I came up our road. They let me go inside to get Benny’s stuff. The coppers took him in too.’
Noting Johnny’s annoyance in the telling, Jen tried to be serious. ‘What the hell are they going to find out from a three-year-old?’
‘Fingerprints on Ant’s ninja weapon. They need to eliminate a toddler.’ Johnny shook his head. ‘Mum phoned earlier to give me an update. Benny was checked over to see if he’d taken any of Rob’s uppers. He didn’t. I’d have lost it with Rob if Benny had.
‘Rob’s being questioned for possession. They may charge Ant with having a dangerous weapon. I’ve had enough of my lot. Poor Benny doesn’t have a hope. I wish I could get him away from them.’
‘I feel the same about Mandy,’ Jen said.
Johnny halted. ‘
When exams are over, let’s find somewhere to live and take Benny and Mandy with us.’
‘The council won’t help teenagers with two young kids get a place.’ Jen was always the realist to Johnny, the dreamer.
Johnny rubbed his chin. ‘Ant’s dad is a top bloke. He keeps in contact even though Ant’s a git to him. His dad lives in Cornwall and might put us up for a while. We could get jobs and then have our own place one day.’
‘Maybe.’ Jen didn’t want to quash his enthusiasm. The thought of being with Johnny forever was too wonderful not to embrace. ‘Would he take us in?’
‘Possibly. He feels bad for Ian and me because our dads aren’t around.’
Mark died from leukaemia when Johnny was two. Rose hid an envelope containing photos of Mark behind the crying boy picture in the hallway. She refused to scrap the portrait in the midst of the media scare of its cursed nature. Rose made her own luck. Johnny found the photos when he’d knocked the painting after running away from Ian.
Rose found Johnny flicking through the pictures and explained Mark was his father and “The One”. She begged her son not to tell perpetually jealous Rob. Since then, Johnny often considered how his life would have been if Mark had lived.
Unable to change the past, Johnny made a firm decision about the future. ‘Let’s try to get out of here. Mum will understand it’s best for Benny not to grow up with Ant and Ian. It’ll give us something to hope for too.’
Jen moved to the side as a woman with a pram tutted and asserted a perceived right to the whole path.
‘Okay, we’ll do it and not allow anyone or anything to stand in our way,’ Jen said.
‘I’ll never leave you.’
But by the end of the year, he had.
47
Present
We’re gathered in Ellen’s lounge. Doreen is resting at home. Now they all know the truth, hopefully we can start over, if Claire will stop sulking. She has a face like a slapped arse and gives only monosyllabic answers. I forgot what a diva she can be.
Ellen has assumed the role of co-ordinator. ‘So, Jen, you’ll contact the Roses?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
It’s obvious I have this job as a ruse to bring me closer to Johnny. Refusing to ruin his life again, I’ve insisted I won’t phone him. There’s too much hurt and I doubt he’ll forgive me anyway. Johnny’s intolerance for injustice was something I admired. I’d be a hypocrite to condemn it. Besides, Johnny has given his full version of that day already.
‘Claire, you’re okay with making a list of who lived on the estate and following potential leads?’ Ellen coaxes her surly daughter into action.
‘Yep.’ Claire taps her phone against her knee.
‘What on earth’s the matter, young lady? I’m getting fed up of your attitude.’
‘Me?’ Claire leaps up. ‘You’ve got a problem with me when Jen’s been lying all along?’
‘Watch your tone, Claire Florence,’ Ellen says.
I dare to speak. ‘I thought we were sorted.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Claire sits and perfects the parody of an affronted teenager. ‘I’m pissed off. When we were younger, we promised never to lie to each other. You can’t make a huge confession like that and expect us to forgive you straight away.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s what Dad said every time he cheated on Mum. He let us down too. I hate liars.’
Ellen’s shoulders rise. ‘Jen doesn’t need to hear about that.’
‘It’s relevant, Mum. He wrecked our trust. It took years to rebuild. What you’ve done, Jen, is just as upsetting.’
‘Please forgive me, twonk.’ Using our old humour is a risky move. ‘The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I was a numpty who believed you’d hate me if you knew what happened. Losing your friendship after finding it again would be awful.’
Determined to stay grumpy, Claire fights the tweaking at the corner of her mouth. ‘Give me some time to get over it. I’ll probably forgive you, in time. Don’t ever lie again. Pinky swear?’
We stand, lock little fingers, and chant the rhyme, ‘Make friends, make friends. Never ever break friends. If you do, you’ll catch the flu and that will be the end of you.’
‘Florence, eh?’ I grin. ‘I forgot it’s your middle name.’
‘Get stuffed.’ Claire sticks out her tongue. ‘It’s not my fault.’
Ellen gives us a light-hearted cuff around the head. ‘That was my grandmother’s name.’
We fall onto the settee, laughing at Ellen’s annoyance and our silly adult selves.
Claire becomes more serious. ‘I’ve got a contact who can dig into Kelly’s coroner’s report.’
‘Be careful,’ Ellen says. ‘You’re a great reporter, but your insistence on using methods I would never have contemplated is worrying. Don’t get arrested.’
I’m amused a parent’s standard advice is to continue risky practices but avoid prosecution. Ellen and Claire are tenacious in the pursuit of the truth.
‘It’s all good,’ Claire replies. ‘He owes me a favour.’
‘I’m getting concerned about the number of blokes who owe you one,’ I say. ‘What do you do that leaves them owing you something?’
Claire gives a guttural laugh. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? Not in front of the mother though.’ She glances at Ellen. ‘I’m joking, Mum. It’s a bloke I met in the coroner’s office when I was investigating the last mayor’s death. The papers reported it as a stroke. Strokes were involved. The paramedics found him in bed with his mistress, back full of lashes and trussed up. The excitement killed him.’ Claire confirms her sensitivity chip is still missing. My old friend has clearly evolved from the days of carrying a tape recorder and a stack of cassettes.
‘How does this bloke at the coroner’s office owe you a favour?’ I ask.
‘I did some P.I. work on his missus, last year. She was having an affair and he wanted shot of her. It made the divorce a lot easier.’
Ellen steers us back to our investigation. ‘So, everyone knows what they’re doing. I’ll keep talking to Doreen and see if there’s more to look into. It’s time for you youngsters to do the groundwork. I’m getting too old for this palaver.’ She places her feet on the coffee table.
Claire and I wink at each other. Despite the circumstances, we relish reforming our duo. We’re picking up where we left off; a little foolish, but determined and together.
48
20 September 1987
Jen dreaded Sundays. Patricia was always more testy than usual, due to a hangover brought on from a heavy Saturday night. She insisted on Mike accompanying her to a pretentious wine bar in Troddington. He favoured the local where shoes stuck to the carpet and men talked nonsense without being accused of womanly gossiping. The Crafty Goat was hallowed turf Mike hoped his wife would never enter.
Every Saturday Patricia got wasted on house white, flirted with men, riled their wives, and spread malicious rumours. That was a successful night. Mike found it excruciating. His presence was required only to support the illusion of a solid marriage, along with a wallet to keep his wife in alcohol.
Patricia’s middle-class aspirations forbade her from working. As a lady of leisure, she ploughed her energies into visible acts of charity, keeping the estate’s residents in order, and honing the Taylors’ golden image. Saturday nights were a treat for alleviating the stress of organising others.
On that morning, she languished in bed, clothed in a cream silk nightie and her face sunk into a pillow. Mike was working and Liam was missing in action. Jen and Mandy knew not to be around when the hungover ogre awoke.
Jen, Claire, and Mandy sat on a pavement on Picasso Way. Claire decided today’s news should focus on this road. Armed with her tape recorder, she awaited a significant event. It remained unspoken between the girls that the Pratts would likely provide Claire with fodder. Their rows always got the estate talking. Jen felt conflicted waiting for the Pratts’ misfortune. She’d heard the r
umours but kept out of their business. Doreen rarely allowed her into the house in the mornings when she collected Kelly. Jen suggested meeting in the park but Doreen insisted Jen came to their home. The decision was odd, considering Jen usually had to wait outside. The few occasions she’d entered their abode, she dreaded seeing Graham. He was a threatening figure, often swearing and chasing after kids, as best his tarred lungs would allow. Thankfully, he’d never been there when Jen went inside the Pratts’ house. She realised that was the point.
‘Slow news day,’ Claire said. ‘I thought Picasso Way would be newsworthy gold. Not much has happened on the estate since the “War of the Roses”. We should’ve gone to the folk festival.’
Troddington held an annual celebration of Morris dancers, folk singers, and maypole dancing. Its appeal had long worn off for Jen and Claire. Most of the estate kids attended to mock the participants or for something to do. The estate could get claustrophobic.
‘I’m sure there’ll be a punch up when people return or someone will call someone else’s mum a whore,’ Jen half-teased.
‘What’s a whore?’ Mandy ceased drawing a chalk princess on the pavement.
Mandy’s exemplary behaviour made it easy to forget her. Jen wished her sister had the freedom to be boisterous. Making her follow the rules of a quiet life could prove stifling. Jen worried she’d taken the control too far and would morph into Patricia.
‘Whore is a nasty word I shouldn’t have used,’ Jen said. ‘Best not call anyone that. Great drawing, by the way.’
Warmth spread in Mandy’s chest. ‘It’s a picture of how I will be the princess of the estate one day.’
‘Aim higher, kid,’ Claire said. ‘Get out of here as soon as possible. Marry Prince Harry.’