by Lisa Sell
He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it. If he’d defended Mum, I’m not sure what I would’ve done.
‘I let you and Mandy down,’ he says.
I won’t offer forgiveness. Too much has happened. Words cannot instantly undo the long-lasting damage.
He continues. ‘Mandy left and lived with the Normans for a while. History repeated itself.’
‘Where is she now?’ I contain the excitement at verging towards finding my little sister.
‘In Bournemouth. She went to university in Southampton and then moved on. We occasionally speak on the phone.’
‘Can I have her number?’ I curse my quaking voice. Dad doesn’t deserve to share my happiness.
He scans through the contacts list on his mobile and jots on a pad. I have the means to reunite with Mandy. This visit is worth the tension for that alone.
‘Mandy’s married to Will and they run a surf shop,’ Dad says. ‘She’s got two girls. Emma’s five and Isabel’s three. Having two daughters keeps her on her toes.’
‘I bet she’s a great parent. Mandy would never ignore her children or make them feel unwanted.’ I can’t resist the swipe.
He bows his head. On the way here, I expected to take pleasure from his misery. I feel like I’ve kicked his puppy.
‘Low blow,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
He reaches towards me. Decades have passed since I’ve seen those calloused hands. I search for familiarity in a stranger’s hand.
Awkwardness makes me launch into the reason for being here. ‘I’m helping Doreen Pratt look into Kelly’s death. Ellen Woods and her daughter Claire are assisting too.’
Despite the chilliness of the house, he sweats. Dad had little to do with the Pratt and Woods families. Why is he so nervous?
‘We’ve been talking to people from the estate,’ I say. ‘I wondered if you have any useful information.’
He fiddles with his chevron moustache. Before, his face was always clean-shaven. Mum loved facial hair on men, considering it macho. As a small rebellion, Dad refused to grow one. The furry caterpillar on his lip is a comforter. He strokes it as you would a pet.
‘Why do you think I can help?’ he asks. ‘Wasn’t it suicide?’
‘The coroner gave an open verdict. The leads we’ve followed so far suggest Kelly might’ve been killed.’
He sucks in a sharp breath. I consider asking what’s bothering him but don’t want to appear compassionate.
I continue. ‘Claire and Constance Major saw Kelly that day. They both said she was injured, but not at death’s door.’
‘Head bleeds aren’t always as bad as they look.’ The realisation he’s spoken something that should have remained a thought spreads across his face.
‘How do you know Kelly had a head wound before she died?’
The defeated man sighs. ‘You hurt her, didn’t you. Her head cut open after you pushed her.’
I’m sweating too. ‘How did you find out?’
‘I’ve known for years. It wasn’t a surprise you unleashed your frustration. Living with Patricia could do that to the best of us.’
‘Who told you?’
For the first time since I arrived, he looks at me. ‘You were seen. I’m sorry you’ve spent so long believing you killed Kelly. Can you forgive me?’
He reaches for me again. Afraid of what he is, I move away.
My dad killed Kelly.
65
Present
Claire wishes she had gone with Jen to the Rembrandt Estate. Checking the old place out together would have been a blast and she’d have escaped listening to Doreen and Ellen’s reminiscing. Claire enjoys a trip down memory lane but after hearing lengthy anecdotes involving unknown people, her resolve is diminishing. She reminds herself this activity serves a purpose. They are reading Kelly’s diaries.
Yesterday, Doreen decided to write her will. Her loft was filled with tat but as a dedicated viewer of the Antiques Roadshow, she dreamed of unearthing valuables to leave to her friends.
Sitting on the landing, she listened to Tessa, one of the carers, sniping about the cobwebs in the loft. Tessa often vocalised the burdens of her job. Doreen sniggered at how giving the idle woman the task was probably subconscious revenge. As time ran out, Doreen cared less about other people’s opinions. Tessa reported each item she discovered. Doreen prepared to bring the laborious task to an end when Tessa found some “manky old exercise books” with Kelly’s name on them. Doreen forgot her daughter kept a diary.
Kelly guarded her secrets well. Doreen hadn’t known of the diaries until she’d aired her daughter’s bed. A notebook laid under the mattress, upon it Kelly’s scrawl ordered, “Keep Out”. Doreen did. Discovering the diaries again, Doreen knew she must read them if it would help reveal the truth.
Kelly filled many books. After Tessa left, Doreen flicked through one. Kelly’s writing skills were illuminating. She’d used phrases Doreen never realised were in her vocabulary. Kelly was an avid reader and often lugged a stack of novels back from the library. Her love of words transcended to the written. The realisation of an undiscovered talent made Doreen’s heart hurt. Looking at the diaries became too much. She phoned Ellen and Claire for assistance.
The task hasn’t been easy due to Kelly’s lapses in adding the year to her entries. The three women piece the jigsaw puzzle order together. Kelly titled the first book, “My First Diary. 1985”. Conversations based upon events help to place the other diaries in order. Ellen insists they read them all because reporters follow the trail as far back as it goes. An event in 1985 could have paved the way towards 16th October 1987.
Claire’s eyes sting and her neck aches. At the beginning, the exercise was entertaining. As a child, reading her peers’ diaries would have been hilarious. She recalls how a stolen diary resulted in an entry detailing an explicit dream, involving Prince, being spread across the school. For the rest of the year, the unfortunate girl was subjected to a lewd version of Kiss. Apparently, a Prince song could be made filthier.
Claire scolds her younger self for deciding Kelly was thick. She lacked common sense but her writing shows literary aptitude. Kelly appeared dumb because her imagination was buzzing and she disengaged with reality. Claire understands the habit of drifting away when immersed in creating. When she wrote, the world around her disappeared.
Claire relished delving into the first few diaries. Now she’s on the eighth, the novelty wears off. The catalogue of bullying incidents makes for challenging reading. Kelly never detailed Graham’s abuse, protecting him even in the privacy of her diaries. Claire is thankful Doreen won’t relive it through reading, but sad Kelly didn’t have an outlet.
‘I think it’s best we pick this up again tomorrow.’ Ellen looks to Doreen for permission. Doreen murmurs agreement.
Claire is desperate to find something useful but the process of dating the entries is taxing. She’s only just deduced the current diary is from 1987, due to its references to songs and films released that year.
Finally, Kelly wrote a date: 11th October 1987, five days before her death.
Claire’s interest reignites and she reads the following pages with more attention. Teenage issues and tedious minutiae pave the way to striking gold.
‘Oh, my giddy aunt.’ Ellen and Doreen’s heads pop up at Claire’s outburst, awoken from scanning slumbers.
‘What?’ Ellen takes the diary.
From a recliner, Doreen tries to read over Ellen’s shoulder. ‘What? What is it?’
After reading the page, Ellen replies, ‘There’s an entry from the day before Kelly died. She names the father of her baby.’ Ellen passes the book to Doreen.
Doreen fixes on one name. Him? It seems ludicrous, but her daughter wasn’t a liar. Kelly wrote the truth and was ready to face the situation.
‘She was scared of him,’ Claire says, then startles. ‘No! Jen’s gone to the estate to speak to her dad. She’s not safe.’
‘Phone her,’ Ellen says.
Claire tries Jen’s number. The phone is switched off; Jen’s habit for staying focused.
‘Shall I call the police?’ Doreen asks.
‘I’ll call them if I need to. I’m going to Mike’s house.’ Claire decides it’s best dealt with quietly. They have little concrete evidence, the risk to Jen is unknown, and a reporter calls for reinforcements as a last resort. She hopes it’s the right decision.
Ellen grabs the car keys, determined her daughter won’t go alone. Neither argues. They must act fast to rescue Jen, if they’re not already too late.
66
Present
Everything is wrong. I’m on the Rembrandt Estate, back in the family house, and my dad murdered Kelly.
He cradles his head. ‘I should’ve found you and told you.’
‘You killed her? You were the father of Kelly’s baby?’
He laughs. It gains momentum until he struggles for air. I rush to the sink and fill a glass from the draining board with water. Although he deserves to choke, I need him to be able to speak. As I pass the hallway, goosebumps form on my arms. “Just the cat,” he said earlier. Being here with a murderer makes me jumpy.
Dad slugs the water and the coughing ends. ‘You think I’d have sex with a girl the same age as my daughter?’
‘It happens.’ I shrug.
‘I can’t believe you’d consider me having a sexual relationship with a kid, let alone killing her. I really was a dreadful dad, wasn’t I?’
I’m not attending his pity party. This needs to be over. ‘Tell me what you know.’
‘The day before Patricia died, she said you thought you’d killed Kelly.’ He seeks a response. I remain composed. ‘I’d finally decided to leave your mum.’
He blows out air as if purging himself of badness, to breathe strength in. I want to congratulate him for growing a set of balls but I daren’t interrupt.
‘She didn’t take it well, as you’ll understand. I retaliated by saying I wished I’d never married her. Then she gave that witchy cackle which wound me up a treat. I kept my cool though, offering to make the divorce easy and give her everything.’
In the past he would’ve had my sympathy. There’s nothing left to offer.
He continues. ‘At first it appeared she agreed to split. She stood aside as I went upstairs and packed.’
‘What happened?’
He has the face of a prisoner denied bail. ‘She barred the front door, said I couldn’t leave, and then told me what you did to Kelly.’
She knew. Of course she did.
‘Patricia missed nothing. If I left, she said she would tell everyone you murdered Kelly. She would rather have dragged your name through the mud than be made a divorcee. So I stayed.’
I’m not sure how to feel about him protecting me. It’s unknown. I focus on getting answers. ‘How did she know what happened between Kelly and me?’
He goes to the kitchen and switches on the kettle. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea. It’ll take a while to explain. Can you stay a bit longer?’
I nod and he drops teabags into chipped mugs. A photograph of Mandy and me sits on the shelf above his head.
‘That picture was taken not long before Kelly’s death. Do you remember? I caught a snap of you in your uniforms, ready for the new school year, and kept it in my wallet. When Patricia died, I put it in a frame.’ He stares at the photo and disappears somewhere else, probably contemplating what he’s lost. ‘I can’t believe that a month after I took this picture, Kelly was killed.’
‘So, she was murdered. Do you know who did it?’
‘Yes. Your mum told me.’
67
13th April 2012
Patricia held the banister for support. Hysterics convulsed through her body. ‘Did you honestly expect I’d let such a pathetic excuse for a man leave me?’
Mike glanced at the suitcases stacked at the foot of the stairs. Neither he nor they would ever make an exit. Patricia glided through the hall, beckoning him to come to heel. Her charm bracelet sounded a death knell.
He knew she didn’t love him and that their marriage lasted for the sake of appearances. Patricia considered divorce vulgar. She criticised those who chose the option and detested the resulting single mothers. Mike’s absence would force her to take up a membership.
He chastised himself for not going when she was at the nail salon. Ever the gentleman, he’d decided to do the decent thing and explain his reasons in person. Good manners trapped him.
Patricia took a seat, ready to interrogate. Mike shifted his feet onto the towel she insisted he use. The fluff from his black socks allegedly ruined the cream carpet. She scrutinised him for weaknesses and nodded, seemingly satisfied in noting many.
‘You dare to leave me?’ Patricia’s measured tone clipped every word. ‘No one leaves me. Your daughters thought they had but they were wrong too.’
‘But they did leave.’ He tried not to sound smug.
‘I could have Jennifer running back here in a heartbeat, begging me not to disclose what she did.’
‘So what? Jen nicked some money from the Normans. She shouldn’t have but they understood why. I sorted it.’
Patricia inspected her French manicure. ‘This is more than theft. Jennifer is to blame for Kelly Pratt dying on the train track.’
Mike’s open mouth provided a satisfying response. Patricia lived for hurting people with knowing their most damning secrets.
‘Are you saying Jen killed her?’ Mike asked. ‘She was only a kid. That’s an appalling accusation, even for you.’
‘Will you call your child by the name I gave her?’ Patricia’s right nostril flared. The left behaved. ‘Jennifer thought she’d killed Kelly.’
‘She wasn’t there.’ Mike hoped this was the truth.
‘Her doting little sister told me everything.’ Patricia offered soundbites and took pleasure in making her husband work for information.
Mike bit. ‘How did Mandy know?’ He did a calculation. ‘She was only eight.’
‘Correct, Einstein. An eight-year-old can be most forthcoming when you grill them. Amanda saw it happen. She became subdued after Kelly died. Usually Amanda’s noise went right through me.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘I wheedled it out of her. It didn’t take much, especially as she knew I’d banned her from going on the railway track. My children weren’t feral like the rest of the estate’s children. Poor little Amanda needed to tell someone though. She certainly couldn’t speak to her sister.’
‘Why?’ Mike dreaded the answer.
‘Because she watched Jennifer shove Kelly so hard, the Pratt girl bled like a stuck pig. That’s hilarious,’ Patricia reflected. ‘She resembled a pig too.’
‘Jen hated confrontation.’
‘Wake up, Michael. She was an aggressive madam and it was only a matter of time before she hurt someone. Kelly got it and she got it good.’ Patricia rubbed her hands together.
‘They weren’t exactly friends but why would Jen do that to Kelly?’ Mike asked.
‘I neither know nor care. Amanda didn’t hear the details of the argument. She was looking for Jennifer, saw them having a disagreement, and got so frightened she hid behind a bush. Amanda later told me what happened and I swore her to secrecy. I had my means of doing so.’
Mike feared what Patricia’s method of silencing Mandy had been. He tried to recollect the events of 1987. The catalogue of abuse was a shameful haze.
‘But did the head wound kill Kelly?’ Mike hoped Jen remained his innocent girl. ‘A train hit her. Maybe she killed herself?’
‘Oh dear, Michael, you can’t let go of Jennifer being your favourite, can you? I’ll make it easier on you, seeing as I’m feeling charitable. No, she did not kill Kelly.’
He sagged with relief, then realising Patricia never made it easy, he straightened again. Patricia had already blindsided him. Preparation for her onslaughts had helped him survive their relationship up until then.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t Jen’s
fault?’ Mike dared to ask. He had a feeling Patricia knew more. She always had more information than anyone else.
Patricia arranged coasters on the coffee table into a rigid square and moved the bowl of potpourri to the centre. The conversation became dull with Mike being more inquisitive than upset. She needed to reignite his distress.
‘After Jennifer left Kelly bleeding, Amanda couldn’t move.’ Patricia fed on Mike’s sorrow. ‘Amanda believed Kelly was dead. She considered getting help when Claire Woods came along, later followed by that interfering bitch, Constance Major.’
‘Mandy hid all that time?’
‘Amanda listened to Claire and Constance talking to Kelly after the girl got up from the track. Your idiotic child worried they’d say she’d let Kelly down, so she stayed hidden. She moved in closer to hear. It’s too boring to repeat. The general gist is Kelly was fine.’
Mike grabbed Patricia’s shoulder. ‘Did you tell Jen she wasn’t responsible? Did she believe she’d killed Kelly?’
‘Get your hands off me. Of course Jennifer did. Have you forgotten how she became even more unruly afterwards? Guilt will do that. I practically gift-wrapped her to the Normans. Out of sight was definitely out of mind.’
Mike didn’t recognise the monster in front of him. He realised he never had. ‘You never considered telling Jen she hadn’t killed someone?’
‘Why would I have done that?’ Patricia brushed away a thin layer of dust on the coffee table. The new glass model showed up every speck, despite continual dusting.
Mike wrung his hands, trying not to wrap them around her throat. ‘How could you? Why didn’t you protect your daughter?’
Patricia sauntered over to the mantelpiece. ‘Don’t you dare call me a bad mother. I’ve given everything for my child.’