Hidden

by Lisa Sell

  Liam bounces in his chair. My past experiences with drugs help to spot a user. Whatever he’s taken, it’s making him more unpredictable.

  ‘It gets better,’ Liam says. ‘I stuck around after the witch died, believing it was over. No more wenches dictating what to do. Then my wife blackmails me too. You couldn’t make this up.’

  He awaits our engagement. Neither of us gives him the satisfaction. Liam ignores it, knowing we have no choice but to listen.

  ‘I did the whole mourning Mummy business,’ he says. ‘Then Mercedes declared she knew I made Kelly pregnant and killed her. Mother got her revenge from the grave. She’d written a letter, a confessional, detailing my japes.’

  I blanch at him likening killing a girl and her unborn child to an Enid Blyton adventure.

  Liam addresses Dad. ‘Do you remember asking Mercedes to sort through Mother’s belongings because you couldn’t bear it?’

  Dad doesn’t respond.

  ‘If you’d done it yourself, my wife wouldn’t have found the letter.’

  Liam boots Dad in the leg. Dad howls. I try to help but Liam plants a hand on my face. Comets of agony blast through my nose.

  ‘Mother thought I’d do away with her one day and wrote it out in case she died by questionable means,’ Liam says. ‘Mercedes used it to her advantage. You women are something else.’

  I have a moment of clarity while riding out nausea. I’m Liam’s enemy because I’m a female. He fears the opposite sex because they’ve controlled him or allegedly stolen his choices. It’s true he’s subdued them but maybe this time the woman wins.

  Liam returns to his armchair throne. ‘Mercedes was desperate for another child. I told her it wasn’t happening. Then this letter emerges. Mercedes said if I didn’t make her pregnant, she’d take it to the police. She hid the letter. To this day, I’ve never found it.’

  Well done, Mercedes. You did win.

  ‘Mercedes was desperate for the trilogy. Charity had to accompany Faith and Hope. I gave her what she wanted. No bother for me as she looks after the brats.’

  ‘Those girls are wonderful,’ Dad says. ‘You drove them away.’

  ‘You have the gall to label me a shoddy father? What do you reckon to that, Jennifer?’

  I reply by squeezing Dad’s hand. We must unite. It might be the only way we’ll escape. Dad clutches in return. Liam flinches at the show of solidarity.

  ‘Hope and Faith are living it up in Manchester,’ he says. ‘Charity won’t come near me. Mercedes turned them against me. I gave her everything she desired. I even got a mortgage on the dump next door because she wanted the children to live next to their grandparents. What a joke.’

  ‘Is Mercedes alive?’ I hope the question offends him.

  ‘What a terrible impression you have of me, Jennifer. She’s at work, probably telling her colleagues what a dreadful husband I am. She does her thing, I do mine. Mercedes knows if she leaves, I’ll do something about it.’

  I don’t need to ask what. Just like Mum, appearances motivate Liam. He was leaving Mercedes before Mum died but he’s devised a better plan since then.

  ‘Wives are a nuisance, aren’t they.’ Liam speaks to Dad. ‘A quick tap or allowing them to fall prey to a heart attack solves the problem. Now, I need to deal with another errant woman. Right, sis?’

  He closes in. I thought if someone tried to hurt me, I’d punch and scream. My limbs are lead and I’ve lost my voice. Liam’s bulk darkens the room. He reaches for me. A movement flickers to my side.

  Dad is on Liam’s back, thumping and kicking. The feeble man trying to beat up The Hulk would be comical if it weren’t deadly. Liam seizes Dad’s throat. Liam drinks in Dad’s fear as he brings him round to the front before hurling him across the room. Dad’s head hitting the television makes a sickening sound. He lies, bleeding and motionless on the floor. I realise, maybe too late, what he means to me. If Dad’s alive, I hope he’ll forgive me for the choice I’m making.

  Liam towers over Dad, admiring his handiwork.

  I dart through the house and into the Rembrandt Estate.

  77

  Present

  The park whizzes by as I sprint. Dad might be dead and I’m fighting Liam alone. Should I stop and allow Liam to finish what he and Mum started? I’m tired of living with lies. My legs slow in response.

  I remember how this estate was once a place where I belonged. A new surge of courage helps me continue.

  The strikes of Liam’s feet bear closer. I have an advantage from daily running. Liam isn’t built for speed. A heavy torso makes his skinny legs work hard. Still, he’s gaining ground. Fury at a woman outsmarting him spurs him on.

  ‘I will kill you!’ he shouts.

  Faces appear in windows. Doors are cracked open. No one offers to help. Are they afraid or don’t care? My faith in community is restored when an elderly man beckons me over. I won’t make it. I hear a cry and see the man lying on the ground. He huddles inwards, braced for another kick. Liam stands over him.

  The error in looking makes me fall. I land hard on the intersection between the estate’s roads. My hip throbs but I cannot stop. Liam is running again.

  The railway track is ahead. I halt. Not there. For Liam, it would be poetic justice to murder me where he took Kelly’s life. Liam catches up, grunting with each footfall. I ignore my injuries and stand up. Where I am headed is nearby. Salvation has to be on Picasso Way.

  A man and woman sit on a step, chatting and smoking. Their mouths open wide at the sight of a running woman, with blood staining her face and neck.

  I cry, ‘Help! He’s going to kill me.’

  They abandon their cigarettes and ready themselves for action. Blood flows into my mouth and I try to breathe through the coppery thickness. My destination is two doors away. Liam finds reserves of energy. His pace increases.

  The man declares, ‘That’ll do it.’

  My helpers pile on top of Liam. The woman lights another cigarette. I’m not sure how long they can hold Liam. He’s already breaking loose.

  My body slams against the potential refuge.

  I bang on the door.

  Liam is on his feet.

  This isn’t how it ends. I don’t want to die here. My memories of the Rembrandt Estate should be about love and friendship. This is where I belong, not where I will exit.

  I fall onto the doorstep and thump on the door.

  A blurred profile appears behind the tempered glass.

  Liam is close.

  My rescuers dart indoors.

  The door opens a fraction. A riot of curly grey hair emerges. I force my way in and fall onto her. She lands on the bottom step of the stairs, leading up to the flat. Spotting the threat behind, she kicks the door closed. Liam punches the glass. A crack spreads.

  My source of hope takes us to the safety of upstairs. She barricades the flat’s entrance with furniture. Energy leeches from my body and I collapse to the floor.

  ‘Police please. A woman’s in danger. A man’s trying to hurt her.’

  She lowers to the carpet and places my head upon her lap. Familiar arms hold me as she speaks to the call handler.

  ‘Yes, of course. My name’s Liz Norman.’

  78

  Seven Months Later

  Dad refuses to acknowledge his former road as we drive through the Rembrandt Estate. Thankfully, his injuries from Liam’s battering weren’t serious. Dad has been living with me since he left hospital. Tomorrow he’s flying to Spain to live in the villa he’s always dreamed of. Although I’ll miss him, I’m pleased. He needs to enjoy his freedom from Mum and Liam.

  After catching up with me, Liam gave up bashing the Normans’ door in and focused on escaping. He stopped for petrol before his getaway. Two policemen on a snack run noted Liam’s crazed appearance and bloodied knuckles. The officers checked Liam’s number plate. It matched a vehicle belonging to a raging psychopath. I may have made up the last part.

  My grilling at the police station was
an ordeal. Having a broken nose didn’t help. They said my fight with Kelly was a scuffle between children. I should have checked she was okay but they understood my fear. There will be no charges, unlike Liam who’s in prison, awaiting trial for killing Kelly and Priscilla.

  I won’t consider him any further. My mind is filled with the family I want. When we all sat in the hospital waiting room, scared Dad might die, I wanted to comfort Mandy. My little sister was grown up and still feisty. It was torture standing on the other side of our wall of hurt. I took a risk in approaching her, expecting rejection. As Mandy hugged me, I promised to never leave her again.

  …

  Rust has eroded the railway track and weeds sway in the breeze. It’s become a prime fly-tipping hot spot. It’s wrong this is where Kelly died. I try not to blame myself. Today is for Kelly and Doreen.

  I watch Freddie and Liz place a white rose upon the place where Kelly was found. Liz tenderly pats the gravel then walks past with her arm around Freddie.

  Dad shuffles along to pay his respects. He’s frailer. Pondering on how one day he won’t be around is upsetting. We’ve wasted too much time. There’s been too much death.

  Doreen died alone three weeks after Liam was arrested. At least she had some peace in knowing who her daughter’s killer was. Doreen deserved so much more than life gave her.

  Ellen places a rose on top of the others. She bows her head and then returns to the Normans’ home.

  Mandy reveals two sunflowers from behind her back. We agreed on roses. I consider questioning her as she ties them with a ribbon.

  ‘Remember how we grew sunflowers when we were kids?’ Mandy asks. ‘This represents us as sisters and our connection. We’ll always be together. We were always together. I never stopped thinking of you.’

  A tear snakes down my cheek when she places the flowers. She blows me a kiss and leaves.

  Claire coughs. ‘Just us then, fart face.’

  ‘Claire,’ I groan. ‘I didn’t think even you could be such a tosspot at a memorial. You’re even cockier with your swanky new job.’

  Claire will soon be a journalist for a London newspaper. She wrote about Kelly’s death on her website. The nationals caught on and soon it was everywhere. She played down my part. Claire’s always been a good friend. I’ll miss her when she moves to London – we’ll always be in contact. She says she’ll have me on speed dial for counselling sessions, now I’m qualified. Lucky me.

  Claire lays a rose on the track. I’m sure I see her mouth, Sorry.

  ‘I’ll do mine and go back with you,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t bother. You’re going to be busy.’

  A glorious and terrifying sound comes from the bank. ‘Hello, Jenny Wren.’

  I’ve dreamed of this moment. What if it’s not real? What if it is? Claire reveals the answer as she swivels me around.

  Johnny Rose, the man, grins with the kindness of the boy I knew.

  ‘No need to thank me.’ Claire gives Johnny a mischievous punch before leaving.

  My mouth won’t work. Here is Johnny, standing in the place where our friendship ended.

  He steps forwards and takes my hands. ‘I let you down. I wish I’d spoken to you rather than running away. You’re not a killer. I was a stupid kid who jumped to conclusions.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I thought you didn’t care.’

  ‘You were my world, Jen. Not a day has passed when I haven’t thought of you.’

  I assess if the real, adult, Johnny matches the one I’ve stored in my imagination. He’s still amazingly tall. His hair remains short and thick but is speckled grey. I expected him to be wearing his treasured khaki jacket. The black jeans and a bomber jacket seem right too.

  Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket, beckoning me to sit with him by the side of the track. ‘How about we start creating new memories, mixed with the old, and see where we go from here?’

  He places the lifeline for our renewed relationship on my lap. I haven’t seen a Walkman since the eighties.

  Johnny offers an ear bud. We place one each in our ears, connected by The Jam and the people we once were, hopefully still are.

  He reaches over and removes the bud from my ear. A finger touches my cheek.

  Johnny’s voice replaces the music. ‘Welcome home, Jen.’

  Acknowledgments

  Firstly, thanks to you, the reader, for reading my book. Corny as it sounds, when I was writing I was thinking of you. I hope you enjoyed it.

  Thank you, Bloodhound Books, for getting my novel out into the world. The support you’ve given is invaluable. I’m proud to be a pup.

  Morgen, your editing skills have made this novel everything I wished for and more. Thank you!

  I’m so grateful to my beta readers: Belinda, Ali, Sian, Simon, Paul, Chantelle, Sarah, Helen, and Bek. Your contributions and advice took this novel to a new level.

  Thanks, Dad, for your enthusiasm and support for my writing career. It means so much.

  Thank you, Dan, for the eighties silly dance and sharing some of the most difficult times of our lives. We’ve made it this far.

  Belinda, you’re a faithful friend and cheerleader. Thanks for being your beautiful kind self. You’re an absolute gem. Are you crying yet?

  Dave, no words could ever adequately express how amazing you are. From the moment you gave me a swish pen and notebook, the writing began. Without you, this book wouldn’t exist. With you, I became a writer. You’ll always be my favourite.