Hidden

by Lisa Sell

  Mike touched Patricia’s knee. She inspected his hand and then dropped it. He berated himself for the unchecked moment. The girl inside the coffin was the same age as Jen. He thought the woman who’d carried their daughter shared his sadness, forgetting who he had married.

  Mandy had never been to a funeral. Although Jen explained death, she couldn’t grasp how Kelly was alive one minute and gone the next. Minds older than hers were struggling to comprehend it too.

  Without her anchoring sister, Mandy was adrift. Before she could make sense of the fight that had happened earlier between Patricia and Jen, she was bundled into the car, not having a chance to set down her glass of milk. The liquid splashed over Patricia’s black skirt. There wasn’t time to change in order for the Taylors to secure a coveted spot at the front. Patricia’s face since the spillage rivalled the milk stain in its curdling. Mandy knew it signified trouble. Anxiety fluttered from her stomach to her throat. It lodged there and pulsated. She concentrated on breathing, pushing the butterfly of panic away. Jen taught her well.

  Johnny offered a twitch of the mouth at Mandy’s smile. His discomfort at attending Kelly’s funeral was obvious. He was only there to please his mum. Rose insisted the family “show those pricks we’re as good as them”. She’d even made the effort of wearing a top that didn’t graze her nipples.

  Rob donned a natty suit, let down by shoddy hemming. Anthony’s only concession to the occasion was to put on a clean pair of black jeans, along with his usual white vest and a denim jacket. Ian scooped up the previous day’s slashed jeans and Sex Pistols T-shirt from the floor. Benny wore a white shirt, black waistcoat, and trousers. Rose figured she’d done well with at least two of her sons looking the part. Johnny wore his school trousers and a black shirt, with a tie.

  He flicked the pages of the Bible, ignoring its contents. He didn’t know what to make of God normally, let alone when someone his age died. Shifting his anger towards God was futile. Johnny blamed Jen and himself for leaving Kelly on the track.

  After, he took to the safety of his room. Rose brought meals, trying to be the mother she’d neglected to be. He appreciated the gesture but could never share what happened. When Anthony and Ian called him moody and other choice terms, he didn’t respond. Benny played alone. Rose and Rob thought he battled puberty. Their questions were excruciating. Johnny felt far from a man. He was a coward.

  Patricia gave Johnny a hard stare as he glanced at the Taylors. He ignored it, focusing instead on his relief that Jen wasn’t there. If she’d decided to come, he might have lost it in public. Then everyone would know he was almost as bad as her in covering up how Kelly died.

  The moment Jen struck Kelly, she’d severed the relationship with Johnny. He drew the curtains as a barrier when Jen stood outside his house. At first, she sat on the pavement for hours. Johnny instructed Rose to get rid of Jen when she braved knocking the door. Jen got Rose’s brutal message and hadn’t come near for the past few days. Johnny was torn between love and justice. He mourned his Jenny Wren, not the unimaginable killing version.

  A couple of rows ahead, Constance sang the hymn with gusto. Singing of how the Lord was her shepherd usually brought her solace. In moments such as this, however, faith was confusing. It was a cliché to ask where God was in times of strife, and yet, she asked. She’d prayed for explanations for Kelly’s death but no answers came. Constance feared seeking God’s forgiveness for not taking Kelly home. She reasoned the girl wasn’t bleeding, couldn’t have died from the head wound, and wasn’t concussed. Constance was assured in her diagnosis but also believed Kelly might be alive if she’d stayed with her. Whatever happened after she’d left had led to Kelly’s death.

  Many decided it was suicide. Constance found it hard to grasp. Kelly had been upset but not distraught. Her home life was undeniably difficult but still, Constance couldn’t accept Kelly leaving Doreen to live alone with Graham. The possibility of an accident didn’t ring true. Falling over twice and being injured was unlikely. It left only one verdict. Someone had killed Kelly. Constance wasn’t ready to explore it. She sent a prayer for the inquest to lay uncertainty to rest.

  Mrs Newton glowered at the Pullen boys, tussling over a prayer book. Having the misfortune of teaching Charlie and Glen in the past, she knew they weren’t trying to connect with God. She waggled a finger, considering it enough of a warning. Glen responded with an obscene gesture. Yvonne Newton mentally applauded Porky when he cuffed Glen around the head.

  A woman stood to read Scripture. Her confident tones filled the church, reaching Yvonne in the back pew. She knew youngsters always sought the cheap seats. Ever the efficient teacher, she considered keeping an eye on them the least she could do for the Pratts. Yvonne was one of the last people to see Kelly alive. Recriminations niggled in how sharp she’d been with Kelly. She recalled the girl marvelling at the fallen tree that landed on the school, excited by the aftereffects of the storm. Kelly’s childlike qualities were charming. Yvonne blew her nose, accepting she’d never witness Kelly’s innocence again. An elbow struck Yvonne’s knee. She prepared to reprimand an errant child.

  A mousy voice spoke, ‘Sorry, Miss. I dropped my money for the collection plate.’

  Priscilla Staines was a sweet girl who Yvonne enjoyed teaching. She may not have been clever but Priscilla was always keen.

  She retrieved the coins and swung her legs. Sitting next to Mrs Newton, her favourite teacher, was a treat. Deirdre insisted they sat at the back in case the church gave Priscilla a chill and they had to leave. For once, Priscilla followed her mother’s instruction without argument.

  Chris’s assertion they must pay their respects confused Deirdre. He ignored her string of excuses not to attend. Priscilla understood he felt guilty about turning up the television to drown out the Pratts’ altercations. Realising she couldn’t win, Deirdre dosed Priscilla with vitamin C and gave her a tissue to place over her nose and mouth.

  Priscilla missed her only friend. Kelly may have been three years older but she never made Priscilla feel inferior. They’d shared many secrets; some silly, others of a greater magnitude. Kelly left Priscilla with her most damning secret. Priscilla wondered if trying to keep it would break her.

  51

  Present

  When I phoned to ask for a day off work, Nicole said to take a few weeks instead. Cover is arranged. Deciding I was facing the sack, I panicked. When dealing with people in authority, I often think the worst. Nicole knows my weaknesses well enough to assure me I won’t lose my job. I shared with her the basics of the investigation so far, excluding the argument with Kelly. My boss doesn’t need to know everything.

  I’m hunting for a parking space in Troddington. Claire’s supposed to be helping. Instead, she’s focused on playing a game on her phone that emits regular irritating bleeps accompanied by Claire’s profanities.

  Troddington town is almost unrecognisable. Most of the functional shops are gone. It’s become a middle-class oasis of over-priced clothes shops, delicatessens, estate agents, and hairdressers. Come back Woolworths, all is forgiven.

  Claire loses the game and stamps the dashboard where her feet lay. At least she removed her boots. I can’t be bothered to ask her to move. Old Jen would have threatened to chop her feet off. It’s taking all my strength not to mention how her big toes have made a bid for freedom. I’ll buy her some designer socks. The way to Claire’s heart is always via clothing.

  ‘When did you leave here?’ Claire asks.

  ‘1990. After what happened with Kelly, I lived with Freddie and Liz, and–’

  Claire interrupts. ‘Patricia must have had a fit when you moved out.’

  ‘She didn’t care. In fact she packed my bags.’

  ‘Patricia was one nasty bitch.’

  I mumble agreement, still learning not to support the myth of the perfect family. ‘She said I could leave, but not Mandy. It broke me. I was sixteen, thinking I’d killed Kelly, and had to leave my sister.’

  ‘Man
dy was okay though, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Most of the time, from what I heard. I expected Mum to take my leaving out on Mandy. She must have got bored and concentrated on worshipping Liam full-on instead.’

  Claire puts on her biker boots. ‘The obsession with your brother was creepy. You’d have thought she was married to Liam, not Mike.’

  There’s no answer for that. It’s the truth.

  I pull into a narrow gap, wondering if we’ll need a tin opener to get out. Claire smacks the passenger door into the car parked next to us. I pretend not to notice. She checks for damage and gives a grin guaranteed to save her from reprimands.

  ‘Mabel’s Parlour is up here.’ Claire marches ahead.

  I dawdle to take in the surroundings. Being in a place that was once familiar and feeling like a stranger is weird. I spot the shoe menders where I took Mum’s shoes for reheeling. Strutting the estate and looking for places to interfere wore down her stilettos. I didn’t mind the chore as I enjoyed chatting to the owner, Warren Myatt. Hoping to see him, I peer into the window. An unknown man sits at the counter, accompanied by a sullen teenager. The man has Warren’s receding hairline and bulbous nose. After checking the shop sign, I decided the son of Warren Myatt and Son must be in charge. I move on, leaving nostalgia behind. Claire waits outside the tearoom, waving me in.

  Mabel’s Parlour aspires to be a country-style kitchen and parlour. It’s stuffed with Welsh dressers full of teapots and porcelain cups. Embroidered pieces hang over an unused fireplace. Everything screams shabby chic. Nothing is authentically aged. On the surface it has an old-fashioned charm. Closer inspection exposes fakery. People lap it up though. The place is heaving. Even the hammering and swearing of workmen outside isn’t putting them off.

  Priscilla Staines was a scraggy thing but always welcoming whenever I ventured to Pollock Road. The prisoner welcomed any interaction. She reminded me of a waif. If a gust of wind came, she’d fall over. Adult Priscilla made up for lost time. She leads the way to the only available table, swaying an ample rear. Gone is the delicate girl. Across from us sits a woman wearing a tight leather waistcoat, enhancing a deep cleavage and beefy biceps. Piercings line the edges of her ears and a floral tattoo snakes along her neck. I want to applaud her for rebelling against her mum too. The thought of my mum makes me wary though. I watch the entrance, hoping someone familiar doesn’t come in. Rembrandt Estate reunions are happening too often for my liking.

  Priscilla summons a waitress to take our order.

  It arrives quickly, pleasing Claire who attacks a huge eclair. Where she puts it all is a mystery. She deserves to be the size of a house, yet remains dainty.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Claire garbles around a mouthful of cake.

  I indicate there’s a dollop of cream on her nose. She scrubs it away with a napkin. Kate Adie wouldn’t conduct an interview with food on her face. It will not do for our intrepid reporter either.

  Priscilla slams her elbows on the table, asserting she’s no longer a meek child. As she arranges her hair into a ponytail, I focus on her eyes and see hints of the friendly girl she used to be. Her brown hair is streaked blonde, probably the result of a dodgy home dye job. I hush my inner snob.

  ‘So, what do you want to know?’ There’s mischief in her smile. ‘I’m not sure why you’re digging this up.’

  ‘As I wrote to you in my messages,’ Claire says, ‘Doreen’s asked us to investigate what happened to Kelly. I thought you’d have information about her state of mind back then. You said you spoke to her fairly often.’

  ‘She was a great kid who always had time for me.’ Priscilla’s smile looks more genuine.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Claire checks her watch. ‘Anything in particular she told you?’

  Priscilla drums her fingers on her thigh. ‘Chill out, Miss Marple. Give me a minute. It’s been ages.’

  The bell rings above the door and a group of men enter.

  Priscilla gives an enthusiastic wave. ‘Hello, fellas. Up for a ride tonight?’

  The tearoom quietens. An elderly couple aim for the exit, moving as fast as their walking sticks will allow. The woman at the till, likely Priscilla’s boss, appears ready to commit murder.

  Priscilla notices it. ‘I meant a ride on our motorbikes, you dirty-minded lot.’

  She’s making it worse. I hold a menu to shield my face. My inner snob is winning.

  ‘You’re a one, aren’t you, Priscilla?’ Claire’s false laugh isn’t fooling anyone.

  Priscilla false laughs with her, whacking Claire on the back. Claire splutters.

  I take over. ‘Was there something Kelly said that could be useful?’

  ‘She was pregnant. Bet you don’t know that.’

  ‘We do, actually. Got anything else?’ Claire refuses to hide her annoyance any longer.

  Priscilla assesses her. ‘Still not had your ears fixed then.’

  The cords in Claire’s neck tighten. I don’t fancy her chances against Priscilla, even with Claire’s amateur wrestling past. Priscilla is twice Claire’s size.

  ‘Anyone married you yet?’ Priscilla will not quit.

  ‘Yes.’ Claire shows off her ring. ‘I see you don’t have a husband.’

  ‘Men are rubbish at commitment. They love you and leave you unless you obey them.’ Priscilla’s childhood vulnerability returns. I wonder how awful her relationship history must be to hold such a cynical view.

  ‘Seeing anyone at the moment?’ Claire won’t allow Priscilla to win.

  ‘Might be.’ She giggles like a schoolgirl and winks at me. I’m not sure why she thinks I care.

  I return to the task. ‘Did Kelly say anything about the pregnancy?’

  ‘You two have a nerve. If you’d been better friends to Kelly, she’d still be here. I was eleven. What could I do to help a pregnant teenager? Kelly wouldn’t let me tell anyone. She wanted to have her baby and settle down. It’s not much to ask for, is it.’

  ‘She was lucky to have a friend like you.’ Claire musters compassion.

  Priscilla fiddles with the tears in her jeans, snapping off frayed cotton. ‘I felt honoured she trusted me.’

  Claire’s armed with more questions. I nudge her. Priscilla won’t be rushed and looks like she needs to feel she’s in charge. A childhood of being dominated does that to you.

  ‘Kelly had such a crush on the father of her baby,’ Priscilla says.

  Claire grips my leg under the table, excited at the direction in which we’re moving. I remove her hand, fearful of being crippled.

  Priscilla continues. ‘It was an older man from the estate.’

  She’s making us work for it. It’s my turn to put the screws on Claire’s kneecap as a deterrent for shutting Priscilla down.

  ‘Yeees,’ Claire squeaks.

  ‘They were having it off regularly,’ Priscilla says. ‘They did it in secluded places around the Rembrandt Estate. Kelly was in love with him. He was definitely a catch.’

  ‘Who?’ Claire’s fighting not to get annoyed with Priscilla’s slow reveal.

  ‘Rob Morgan, Rose’s fella.’ Priscilla practically takes a bow at delivering the shock announcement.

  Claire chokes on her second cake. Game over. Priscilla wins.

  52

  15th October 1987

  Alex Woods was in a difficult situation. He agonised over how to end it, not expecting to have become so attached. No rules had been set for their affair but he thought she understood he’d never leave his wife. What could she offer that Ellen couldn’t? The estate would also be in uproar if he chose his bit on the side.

  Alex marched along Turner Road, contemplating how she would take the rejection. Her devotion was surprising. People didn’t see how funny and engaging she was. The residents of the Rembrandt Estate focused only on appearances and they had written her off years ago. Alex knew her hidden gentleness. When they kissed, she softened and became beautiful, not just an estate joke.

  Jen and Johnny sat on their wall. Al
ex wished he could go back to the uncomplicated age of fourteen. His only concerns then were how to get rid of acne and the chances of Oxford United ever winning a game. Having a mistress made him feel young again when, in truth, he was an ageing lothario.

  He waved to Johnny and Jen, determined to appear composed and not show his fear. As his arm quivered, he dropped the deceitful limb. Circling around, he prepared to face her.

  Lust and stress filled the past few months. Alex never imagined she, of all people, would want him. Their union was wrong but when they were together, nothing else mattered. With her, he became more than a husband, father, and a postman.

  Compared to his intelligent reporter wife, Alex acknowledged his insignificance. Ellen chased the story, not his validation. While he was certain she would lay down her life for him, he accepted she wouldn’t lie on their bed and oblige. Their sex drives differed. Alex cajoled and pleaded but Ellen knew her own mind. If she didn’t want to have sex, she wouldn’t fake a headache. Ellen was a believer in the power of words; no meant just that and her husband would have to live with it. Alex reasoned he’d done her a favour by seeking fulfilment elsewhere.

  Ellen discovered the first affair and eventually forgave him. The second indiscretion led to the brink of separation. He remained thankful she decided she couldn’t be without him. Ellen would never forgive this though. It was close to home and the person satisfying his needs too shameful to confess.

  The darkness of the alleyway beckoned. She arched her back and lifted a leg to lean against the opposite wall. The scarlet lipstick was more clown-like than seductive. She resembled a prostitute, waiting for business. Alex considered when fourteen-year-olds had become sexual. He noted his hypocrisy, considering he’d been chasing skirt the moment he discovered girls could be more than friends.