No One Can Hear You

by Nikki Crutchley

  NO ONE CAN

  HEAR YOU

  Also by Nikki Crutchley

  Nothing Bad Happens Here

  NO ONE CAN

  HEAR YOU

  NIKKI CRUTCHLEY

  Copyright © Nikki Crutchley, 2018

  The right of Nikki Crutchley to be identified as the author of this work in terms of section 96 of the Copyright Act 1994 is hereby asserted.

  Published by Oak House Press, New Zealand

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  ISBN 978-0-473-44936-0

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

  To my parents, Brian and Chris. Thank you for always encouraging my love of reading and writing.

  Prologue

  February 2001

  The small clock radio blared out Pearl Jam’s Nothing As It Seems. Faith Marsden lay on the bed, Eddie Vedder’s angst speaking to her. With her arm in the air, finger pointed, she traced the largest crack in the ceiling which made a giant ‘Y’ from the middle of the room to the edge just above the wardrobe. A blowfly, only centimetres from freedom, banged itself up against the glass.

  She had been in Crawton for exactly six months today. The boy who moved out of the foster home as she was moving in looked as though he was escaping prison. His eyes darted left, right, uncertain where to go next, his sense of freedom palpable. Sonya’s ample chest puffed out as she told Faith he was off to tech in Auckland. He offered Faith his black-and-white poster of Kurt Cobain as he packed the last of his things. She hung it with yellow-tipped tacks, trying to distinguish between fly shit and tack holes marking the wall.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, when everything about his tone and demeanour told her she was up shit creek. He left the bedroom, leaving her to suffocate in the scent of his second-hand loneliness and Lynx.

  A rustling noise came from the hole in the wall next to her bed. Mice. Or rats, knowing my luck.

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, her toes curling as they touched carpet bearing decades of stains. Some areas bore scarred burnt patches and muddy marks that even the swirling multi-coloured pattern couldn’t disguise. She slipped her feet into her black lace-up boots, ignoring the purple jandals by the door. She glanced at the window but decided against it. She was sixteen and had every right to go out at night.

  She walked down the hallway and could hear Coronation Street playing on the TV. ‘I’m going out,’ she called, and left the house, slamming the glass-paned door behind her.

  She marched down the gravel driveway, waiting for it.

  ‘Faith!’ Sonya yelled from the concrete steps. ‘Faith! It’s a school night!’

  Faith looked back and laughed, watching as her harried foster mother stood on the concrete steps looking left and right, wondering if the neighbours had heard her outburst — because heaven forbid if the neighbours heard.

  In the same instant the curtains twitched next door and Faith gave Mrs Hutchinson a cheery wave as she passed, laughing again at her look of disapproval, all puckered mouth and shaking head. Ever since her case worker had shipped her off to this hick town she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. Wherever she turned there was another person just waiting for her to stuff up. Mrs Hutchinson still had her nose pressed up against her lounge window so Faith gave her the finger, relishing the look of shock on her face.

  She walked past the dairy wishing she had enough money for a packet of cigarettes, but the pilfering from Sonya’s purse was slow going and she couldn’t risk getting caught and being sent away. Crawton was a hole but there was no way she was going back to the group home in Papakura. At least here she had her own bedroom, and sharing it with rats was better than sharing it with drunken, violent teens intent on destroying themselves and everyone else around them.

  It was a pleasant enough night. A couple of joggers pounded past her, Walkman headphones covering their ears, oblivious to what was going on around them. Faith ignored the elderly couple walking their dog, even when the yappy thing lunged for her ankles.

  She reached the lake just on dusk. Looking up, the clouds glided across the darkening sky — even they had a better place to be. Sonya would have finished watching Coro and would be getting ready for bed. She had another two kids to worry about. One was a snot-nosed, eczema-riddled four-year-old who spent her time either whimpering or screaming; the other, a ten-year-old boy with a penchant for lighting fires. Sonya had her hands full without worrying where Faith had disappeared to for a few hours.

  She kicked at the gravel with her boots. Desperate for a pair of cherry Doc Martens, she had to make do with the second-hand boots the Sallies had given her. They’d handed them over to her last winter clearly expecting profound thanks.

  The car park at the lake was empty. The cement-block toilet to the right sat hunchbacked under oak trees that reached up to the gravel sky. She walked towards the picnic table near the lake, seeing ducks nestled into the flax, contented coos breaking the silence. For a second she envied them.

  Jealous of ducks? Get over yourself, Faith.

  She heard the crack of sticks behind her too late and felt an arm tight around her waist.

  ‘Shit, you scared me!’ she said, pleased and terrified at the same time.

  They sat at the picnic table which bore, in equal measure, declarations of love and messages of hate gouged into the wood.

  ‘Figured you’d be down here. You were allowed out?’

  ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘But, Sonya’s got better things to worry about than me going out for a few hours.’

  ‘Here, have a drink.’ He passed over a clear plastic hip flask filled with rum. The budget stuff that tasted like someone had whipped it up in their backyard. She took a sip and enjoyed the heat in her belly.

  Faith passed it back to him and he held up his hand. ‘Better not. Already had some and don’t wanna be done for drink driving. Cops in this town don’t have anything better to do on a Thursday night.’

  She took another sip.

  ‘Does she know where you’ve gone?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope. She’ll be in bed when I get home anyway. So I’ve got as long as I want.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Have another drink.’ He pushed the flask towards her mouth.

  She took another sip, bigger this time, more like a gulp, and struggled to smother the cough as the rum seared her throat.

  He stared at her.

  ‘What?’ It was like he was waiting for her to do something. Say something. Faith’s hands began to go numb and the hip flask dropped to the ground, its contents sinking into the grass. ‘Oh shit,’ she said. His features had begun to blur but she could tell he was smiling.

  God, am I drunk already? Idiot.

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Course I do,’ she muttered. Her words didn’t sound right. It felt like she had a gob-full of cotton wool forced between her lips and gums.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  Faith felt her body slipping off the bench but couldn’t do anything to stop herself.

  She felt his strong arms around her.

  I’m going to be fine.

  *

  The incessant chirp of birds woke her. She reached out blindly for her duvet, her eyes shut tight against the l
ight. Opening her eyes a crack she looked around, her bedroom a blur. Something wasn’t right. Her bed felt lumpy and apart from the birds it was abnormally quiet. She couldn’t hear Sonya yelling or little Sarah crying. There were no cars, no neighbours slamming doors or dogs barking, the normal cacophony of their neighbourhood. She ran her tongue around the inside of her dry mouth. Sitting up slowly, her head protesting, she looked around.

  This is not my house. This is not my room.

  Faith looked down at the stained mattress she’d slept on and pushed the blanket away that smelt of mothballs and cigarettes.

  What happened last night?

  She rubbed her face and tried to focus. The room was basic. The old bed she was sitting on was tucked in the corner. There was a freestanding double wardrobe in front of her, varnish peeling and one brass handle missing. She looked down; her jeans had grass stains on the knees. Her feet were bare, and she couldn’t see her boots anywhere. Rubbing at her forehead she felt raised scratches. When she brought her hand away there was a smear of brownish blood on her fingers. She poked the injury, desperate to feel something, and was relieved when her pain sensors awoke.

  She eased herself off the mattress. She needed to get out of here, or at least find someone to explain where the hell she was. The last thing she needed was to be on the wrong side of Sonya — especially after disappearing last night. That was the last thing she could remember, marching off down the driveway and flicking the bird to nosy Mrs Hutchinson.

  God, did I get so drunk at some party I can’t remember who I partied with or where?

  She still didn’t know Crawton that well. She could be anywhere. It was so quiet — maybe everyone was still sleeping off their hangovers. Hers had made its presence felt. Her headache was on a track around her head, winding its way from the front of her head down to the base of her neck and repeating its journey over and over. On unsteady legs she walked over to the door, stumbling as her vision blurred, swallowing back the nausea. She turned the brass door handle and pulled. Locked. She tried again. In panic she rattled it with no success.

  Her heartbeat increasing, she walked to the window and only now, with bile rising up in her throat, did she realise there were bars on the inside. Clapping a hand over her mouth she ran to the bucket in the corner of the room, reaching it just as the vomit gushed from her mouth. With her stomach emptied, she sat on the floor gasping. Grabbing at the bottom of her T-shirt she wiped her mouth and eyes. There was a strange roaring in her ears, like the sound of the ocean. She slapped her face. Hard.

  ‘Get a grip,’ she said out loud. The sound diminished and was replaced with her heartbeat in her ears.

  Standing on shaking legs, she walked back over to the window. She grabbed at the bars and shook, expecting them to magically come away in her hands, but they didn’t budge. Brushing her hands on her jeans, she left prints of brown rust on her thighs. She looked out — there was a gravel driveway leading up to the house. As far as she could see there were grassy hills dotted with trees and nothing else.

  I could be fuckin’ anywhere.

  She felt that familiar sensation well up, one she had been stuck with her whole life. Fear. Fear of being left, fear of new places, of new people. It filled her throat and burnt like acid. She felt sweat prick under her armpits but shook it off. She was getting better at shaking it off these days.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. She wouldn’t get scared, she’d get angry. She did angry well. ‘Hey!’ she yelled, marching over to the door in four long strides and banging on the door. ‘Where the hell am I? Get me the fuck out of here!’

  She banged on the door and banged on the walls until bits of plaster landed in her hair and dust caught in her throat. Footsteps sounded outside and the door was unlocked. She backed herself into a corner by the window but was ready to fight if needed. The anger she was feeling stomped on any fear that dared to develop.

  A man entered the room and she let out a scream and flung herself at him, aiming for the door. She ended up on the floor. It happened so quickly she didn’t realise how she got there, dazed, a whole new pain in her head after it connected with the wall.

  ‘You need to stop all your hollering. Got it? Not that anyone can hear you. Get up.’ His massive hand cupped her under her armpit and dragged her away from the door. He seemed out of breath and once he let her go he took a deep breath and smoothed his black, heavily gelled hair to the side. ‘You’ll learn the rules soon enough. You won’t be here for long. Just do what I ask and you’ll be fine.’ His words on the face of it were comforting but they were a threat.

  ‘What do you mean, I won’t be here for long?’ Her brain was beginning to thaw out, beginning to understand the danger she was in. She stood up and backed away from him.

  ‘You ask too many questions.’ His wide-set eyes took her in, starting from her head and slowly moving his eyes down, lingering over her breasts. His face was slack on one side like old Mr Robson from next door who had a stroke. He’d sit in his wheelchair outside his house and stop her to chat while greedily taking in her fitted top, eyes roaming her chest and bare skin. But this man was huge compared to her five foot three, at least over six foot, and was made up of more fat than muscle. He looked like a big baby.

  He edged over to her, brushing a piece of her blonde hair away from her face. She flinched but did nothing. His hand slowly made its way down the side of her face. The smell of sweat and rotten meat pervaded the air and made her retch. His hand continued down to her lips where he forced his fingers into her mouth. She whimpered and turned her head away. She heard him giggle, a strange, high-pitched noise. His hand continued its journey. One hand cupped her left breast, and she swatted it away. ‘Get the fuck off me, you pervert!’

  He slapped her with the back of his hand so hard she ended up on the wooden floor again. ‘You need to settle down. You’ve got a lot of fire in you. The others lately have been so meek and scared. Which isn’t bad, it’s what we like, but it’s nice to see someone with a bit of fight in them. Faith, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  He ignored her. ‘You can call me The Magic Man.’

  Faith scoffed, ‘The Magic Man? Why?’

  He glared at her. ‘Because I’m going to make you disappear.’ He ended the sentence with a hissing noise as he sucked the saliva from his lip.

  Feeling the smile drop from her face, Faith swallowed and moved herself into the corner of the room, as far from the Magic Man as she could get.

  Chapter 1

  October 2017

  They both sat in the stuffy office, the harsh tick of the pretentious carved wooden clock on the desk engraving itself into Zoe’s head until the headache pulsed to the time of the second hand. She looked at her watch. When your kid has threatened another with a knife you’d think the parent would drop everything and come in. It had been over an hour since the phone call and Zoe had been waiting in Principal Harold Paynter’s office for almost half an hour. Her suit pants were glued to the backs of her thighs and she felt her underarms prickling with sweat. She looked at his desk to avoid eye contact. It was precisely ordered. His laptop was open in front of him. A caddy of pens to his left and a cut-glass crystal ashtray to his right. Everyone knew that Paynter smoked cigars in his office with the window open. Of course it was against all school rules but Harold Paynter did what he liked — if you were on the staff at St Clement’s you learned that quickly.

  ‘Apart from this little mishap,’ Paynter said, breaking the silence.

  Little mishap?

  ‘… how has your year been?’

  Zoe had started at St Clement’s Academy for Boys as a teacher in the science department at the beginning of the year and now, at the start of term four, here the principal was asking her how she was.

  ‘Fine,’ she answered, running a palm along the side of her head, smoothing her hair.

  Paynte
r cleared his throat. ‘Miss Haywood, do you have a special someone?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Zoe hoped she had misheard.

  ‘You’re in your late thirties. Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘I’m thirty-three and frankly it’s none of your business if I have a boyfriend.’

  Paynter held his sausage-finger hands up in front of him. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said even though Zoe knew that wasn’t true. ‘I just thought, if there was a man, maybe you’d dress a bit more feminine for him. And if you did, maybe you could try out a dress or skirt here at school.’

  Zoe’s eyes widened, and she wrapped her hands around the leather arms of the club chair she was sitting in. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘We’re a traditional school. We have old-fashioned values. Just to show a bit of femininity, softness. I think the boys would appreciate it.’

  Zoe stared open-mouthed. ‘Softness? I’d be eaten alive. These boys need a firm hand. I’m here to teach them what they need to know. It doesn’t matter in the least if I’m wearing a skirt, a dress or trousers.’

  It was well known to every female teacher in the school — only half a dozen out of more than thirty — that Harold Paynter believed boys should be taught by men. The only reason he had hired Zoe was because of pressure from the school’s board of trustees about the need for more female teachers, whether he liked it or not.

  He smiled. ‘Just a friendly suggestion that I thought you may want to take on board.’

  Zoe rolled her eyes, knowing that anything she said would be a waste of breath.

  There was a knock at the door and Paynter’s long-suffering secretary, Marg, announced the arrival of Phil Atkins. Paynter marched over and shook his hand. ‘Good to see you, Phil. Sorry to drag you out here.’

  ‘No problem, Harold. Let’s try and wrap this up quickly, eh?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Take a seat.’

  ‘You know Ms Haywood?’ He said the word ‘Ms’ with a sneer, as if it was an obscenity.