by C. L. Taylor
She can’t remember what first prompted her to google Lou Wandsworth. It might have been a passing conversation she’d had with her friend Angela about finding an old school friend on Facebook, an article she read in the paper, or maybe she was having one of those days where she woke up feeling as though a dark cloud had settled in her brain and nothing brought her joy, not even when Monty laid his head on her knee and stared up at her with his searching brown eyes.
It didn’t take Wendy long to track Lou down. She was the only Louise Wandsworth on Facebook. The trouble was, she could only see her name, an image of a cartoon character as her profile picture and a list of her friends. Nothing else. Angela had shown her how to set up her own Facebook page but she couldn’t use that to try and connect with Lou. She made a new page instead, called herself Saskia Kennedy, and added a few photos of a woman that she’d found online who was about the same age as Lou.
Wendy’s heart trembled in her chest when she pressed the ‘add friend’ button. But nothing happened. Her request was ignored. Days went by, then weeks. Wendy did some more googling: How do you get someone to accept a Facebook friend request?
She discovered that it looked suspicious if you didn’t have many friends, or any in common, so she set about adding random people who lived in London and looked about the same age as Louise. Men were easy – the woman in her fake profile picture was attractive – but it took a little longer for women to start accepting her requests. Once she had fifty friends and had filled her wall with memes, silly photos and the same sort of updates as her ‘contemporaries’ she tried adding a few of Lou’s friends. To her surprise they accepted her, at least half a dozen of them. When she tried adding Lou for a second time her friend request was accepted.
She was in.
She felt jubilant as she clicked on Lou’s photo albums. All those months of detective work and she’d finally found what she had been looking for. Not just one photo of her but dozens and dozens. Lou had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. A hint of make-up around the eyes but no lipstick. Skinny. But not in an attractive way. Her jacket sloped away from her shoulders and her skirt bagged below her knees. There was a pinched, haggard look to her cheeks, despite her youth – the hollowed face of a long-distance runner or one of the dieters in Slimming World magazine who’ve lost four or five stone in a matter of months.
As Wendy clicked through the photos, a weight settled in her stomach. Lou might not be conventionally attractive but she was surrounded by people in every shot. There were photos of her in dim bars, chinking cocktail glasses with dewy-skinned friends. Shots of her running through the waves on a tropical holiday, not an ounce of fat protruding from beneath her string bikini. Lou on top of a mountain with a cagoule hood pulled tightly around her head with a look of triumph on her face. Lou in fancy dress, one foot cocked behind her like a fifties starlet, kissing a dark-haired man dressed like Clark Gable. She was vivacious, well-liked, well-travelled and content. Everything that Wendy was not.
Wendy didn’t go back on Facebook for a week after that first discovery. She didn’t even open her laptop. Just walking past it made her feel sick.
But then curiosity got the better of her.
‘I’ll just have a quick look,’ she told Monty as she settled down at her dining room table and opened the laptop lid. ‘Then I’ll stop.’
That was seven months ago.
‘Give me a second, Monty,’ Wendy says now as her dog nudges at her knee. ‘We’ll go for a walk in a minute.’
She reaches for a custard cream and pops it into her mouth. Outside, storm clouds are gathering in the sky. If they don’t go out now they’ll be in for one soggy walk. One last refresh of the screen, Wendy tells herself as she clicks the trackpad button, and then I’ll get my coat on.
What she sees on the screen makes her inhale so sharply a tiny bit of biscuit whizzes down her windpipe, making her cough. Lou has just updated her Facebook page.
I got the job in Malvern and I’m moving in a month’s time. London, I’m going to miss you.
Chapter 3
Lou
Saturday 21st April 2007
I’ve spent the last month trying to ready myself for this moment but nothing could have prepared me for the cloud of memories that descend as I catch sight of the Malvern Hills, curving like a dragon’s back, as I head down the A4440: buying penny sweets in white paper bags from Morley’s, laughing at the girls from the local boarding school in their brown ‘Batman’ cloaks, walking up to St Anne’s Well with Mum and Dad feeling like I was climbing a mountain, and stepping into The Martial Arts Club for the first time, feeling sick with nerves. An image of Mike, smiling and holding out a hand in welcome, flashes into my brain. I try to blot it out by focussing on the road as I speed past Malvern and along the A4103 towards Acton Green. It’s not a journey I’ve ever driven before – I passed my test in London – but the road is imprinted in my memory from all the times Dad ferried me to and from karate lessons. My phone bleeps on the passenger seat as I pass Dad’s favourite drinking haunt, The Dog and Duck. I snatch it up, hoping it’s a text from Ben, knowing it won’t be.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since that awful afternoon in Dover four weeks ago. He caught up with me after I fled, half a mile or so along the seafront.
‘Louise?’ He abandoned his car on a double yellow line and ran after me, grabbing my hand, forcing me to stop. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
I shook my head, hating myself for what I was about to do.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What just happened?’
When I told him that I didn’t think we should see each other again, the concerned expression on his face morphed into confusion. Why, he wanted to know. What had he done wrong?
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’
He searched my face for an answer. ‘Then why?’
I couldn’t tell him. Not when I’ve spent the last eighteen years pretending that Mike Hughes doesn’t exist. Instead I mumbled something about things moving too quickly. I wasn’t ready for a relationship. We wanted different things.
I cried on the train back to London, turning my face to the window so the man sitting next to me couldn’t see my tears. Ben didn’t deserve what just happened. Neither did any of the men I’d dumped, run away from and lied to. If I didn’t face up to what happened to me when I was fourteen I was going to spend the rest of my life alone.
I glance at my phone. The text is from my best friend Alice, asking if I’ve got to Dad’s house safely. I drop the phone back on the seat and indicate left, taking the road towards Ledbury – and Mike’s house – instead of continuing on to Acton Green. I’ve never been to his house before. Why would I? He was a respectable member of the community, a karate teacher who raised money for charity through fun runs and tournaments. And besides, he lived with his wife Dee. Mike was very good at keeping our ‘affair’ secret. Our first kiss was in the changing rooms behind the dojo. I was fourteen and it was almost one year to the day after I first started karate, but we first fucked in—
Don’t use that word again.
Mike’s voice cuts through the memory.
Fucking is sex without emotion, Louise. That’s not something I do and it’s certainly not something we’re going to do. When we spend the night together for the first time it’s going to be because we love each other and we’ll express that by—
I turn the radio on and twist the knob round to the right. The sound explodes out of the speakers in a fury, making my eardrums pulse, but I don’t turn it back down. It’s a song I barely know but I sing along anyway, shouting nonsensical words as Mike’s voice creeps through the space between notes, demanding to be heard.
Mike might not have taken me to his house but I knew where he lived. I knew everything about him, or as much as a fourteen-year-old girl could without access to the internet, and I wrote it all down in my diary. I listened in to conversations between the parents and the other senseis. I casua
lly quizzed the older students about him and, during the rare moments I was alone with Mike, I’d listen, enrapt, to anything he told me. This was way before we kissed for the first time. A long time before that.
As I turn right off New Mills Way – one street away from Mike’s house – my resolve vanishes and empty terror replaces it. What am I doing? My plan was to give myself a couple of weeks to sort out Dad’s house and start work before I tracked Mike down. I googled before I left, to check he hadn’t changed his name or gone underground. But no, he lives in the same house he lived in eighteen years ago and he’s got his own business – Hughes Removals and Deliveries – on the outskirts of Malvern. No karate club though, thank God.
I park up, then slump over the steering wheel as all the air leaves my body in one raggedy breath. I’ve got no idea what I’ll walk into when I knock on his door. Mike’s wife could answer. One of his children – if he has any. What do I say if that happens? Hello, I’m Louise, the girl your dad groomed. Is he in?
I don’t know why you’re blaming me for everything. You knew what you were getting yourself into.
Shut up, I tell the voice. I was fourteen. I had no idea.
If I did such a terrible thing why didn’t you testify at my trial?
Because I was terrified of what you might do if you weren’t convicted.
That’s a lie, isn’t it? You didn’t testify because you loved me.
No, that’s not true.
You were the one who said ‘I love you’ first. You said you wanted to marry me and have my children. Do you know why you can’t make a relationship work? Why you had to send Ben packing? Because you still love me.
‘No.’ I slam my fists against the steering wheel, pounding the horn to block out the soft murmur of Mike’s voice in the back of my skull. ‘I don’t. I don’t.’
Sweat prickles at my armpits as I push open the gate to Mike’s house and walk up the path. If his wife answers, I won’t recognise her. There are no photos of her on the internet and Mum made sure I didn’t get so much as a peek at the news or the front page of a newspaper after the trial. I didn’t have a mobile phone or home computer back in 1989 either.
But what if Dee Hughes recognises me? She never went to the dojo or to any of the matches but she must have tried to find out who I am. What if she screams in my face and tells me that I ruined her life? When I look at photos of fourteen-year-old me, I barely recognise myself. My face was soft and round, my hair dark and cut into a jaw-length bob with a thick heavy fringe. These days it’s lighter and longer, with pale tendrils that hang over sharp cheekbones and a tight jaw that I didn’t have eighteen years ago. But it’s not just my face that has changed. The softly curved body I despised so much as a teenager has gone. On a good day, I can look in the mirror and tell myself that I’m slender. On a bad day, my body looks wizened and androgynous, as though the years have eaten away at my femininity.
I knock three times on the front door. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times. Sometimes Mike looks shocked to see me. Occasionally he starts to cry. Once I stabbed him before he could speak. I concentrate on the thick, glossy red paint and take a deep breath. If Mike peeks from behind a curtain, I want him to see me standing here confidently, not twitching and shifting. I want to get this over and done with now, before any more memories overwhelm me. I have to do it while I’m still feeling brave. We can talk on the doorstep or in the pub down the road. If he invites me in, I’ll say no. Even if he’s home alone. Particularly if he’s home alone.
That’s her, someone shouts as I step out of the French police station. Flashbulbs light up the dark sky as I’m sandwiched between four police officers and shepherded into a black car. That’s the girl who ran away with her karate teacher.
‘Hello?’
I am vaguely aware of a voice, a male baritone, shouting hello, but it doesn’t register. Nothing does.
I need to find out where Mike is. Did they bring him here too? Is he being interrogated behind one of these flat, beige doors?
‘Hello! You at the door of number fifty-nine!’
I turn slowly. There’s a man in his mid to late fifties, hanging out of the first-floor window of the house next to Mike’s. The upper half of his body is naked and his hair is slicked back, like he just stepped out of the shower. I try to erase the image of Mike’s face from my mind, to mentally shake myself forward in time, but the memory’s still holding me tightly, like the last vestiges of a dream. Or a nightmare.
‘Were you after Mike?’ the man asks.
Do I say yes or no? I have no idea who this person is.
‘I was, yes.’
‘Friend are you?’
I smile tightly. ‘Old friend.’
His eyes flick the length of my body and he smiles lasciviously. ‘Lucky Mike.’
I ignore him and head back down the path to my car.
‘He’s at work,’ the man shouts, making me pause as I touch a hand to the driver side door. ‘Greensleeves, the garden centre. He does their pick-ups on a Saturday.’ No mention of Mike’s wife, but I’m not about to ask.
‘Fancy going for a drink sometime?’ he adds as I get into my car. ‘Thank me properly?’
I consider shouting something abusive but I haven’t got time to explain why no sane woman would date a prick who slathers at women out of a window. It’s half past five. I need to find out where the garden centre is and get there before it closes. I need to find Mike. Now. Before the fear sets in again.
Chapter 4
Lou
I change out of my uniform in the car, wriggling out of my school skirt and pulling on my jeans. When I undo my seat belt so I can take off my shirt, Mike snaps at me.
‘What the fuck are you doing? We’re on the motorway for God’s sake.’
I quickly plug my seat belt back in but tears prick at my eyes as I struggle to pull on my jumper. It was supposed to be a romantic weekend away and he’s just snapped at me like I’m misbehaving in class.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mike rests a hand on my knee. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Lou. You mean the world to me. You know that, don’t you?’
I nod, but I don’t squeeze his hand. It remains on my knee like a dead weight until he has to lift it up again to tap the indicator and change lanes.
I push open the doors to Greensleeves Garden Centre. As I step inside the woman behind the counter, dressed in a red polo shirt, shouts that they’ll be closing soon. I ignore her and speed through the shop, barely registering the shelves of bird food and ornaments and the displays of garden furniture and houseplants. The only other customer is a heavily pregnant woman pushing a trolley full of fertiliser and decorative fencing with bedding plants piled on the top.
I glance at my watch as I step through the large double doors next to the restaurant. 17.53. Seven minutes until they close. If Mike’s not out here, in the yard amongst the plants, shrubs and timber, I’ll head round the back, see if there’s some kind of loading bay. I don’t want to have to come here again or go back to his house. I want to get this over and done with now.
I walk along the length of the aisles, pausing to peer down each one as I pass. The place is deserted. I’ll just do one last loop of the yard and then head round the—
It’s the flash of blue amongst all the brown and green that makes me pause. I’m at the far end of the yard, standing beside a raised pallet full of shaped bushes and willow-like trees in decorative pots. There are six sheds and summer houses, standing in a row like sentries, directly to my left – no more than a couple of metres away. A grey-haired man wearing a blue T-shirt just ducked inside the summer house.
A sharp pain cuts across my chest, like cheese wire being pulled tight around my ribcage. It’s him. It’s Mike. I only caught a glimpse before the door closed behind him, but it was enough for me to take in the thick grey hair, the deep lines either side of his mouth and the pronounced limp as he walked. He must be forty-nine years old but
he looks older. So much older than I remember, but I know it’s him. I’d stake my life on it.
I crouch down and peer from between two bushes. Unlike the two wooden sheds on either side of it, the summer house has white PVC double doors and two long windows. As Mike appears in one of the windows, someone else steps out of the shadows. As she reaches a hand to touch Mike’s face, he glances over his shoulder, back towards the yard. For one terrible second I think that he’s seen me, but he turns back to face the woman. He sweeps the hair from the side of her face, then, cradling the back of her head, leans in for a kiss.
They kiss for several seconds, then the woman pulls away and I catch a glimpse of her face. Bobbed brown hair with a thick fringe. A soft jawline. Full, plump cheeks. Jeans that cling to thick thighs. A red polo shirt pulled tight over large, weighty breasts. She’s not a woman at all. She’s a child, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old.
I don’t burst into the summer house and scream at Mike to get his hands off her. Nor do I run off in search of a staff member. Instead I turn and flee, flying through the aisles of trees and bushes, brushing past plants and dodging statues. I don’t stop running until I’m back in the safety of my car, then I smash my fists against the steering wheel until my skin is red and throbbing.
I have never hated myself more than I do right now.
I should have felt anger when I saw Mike kiss that girl. Or disgust. Instead I felt betrayed. He was kissing her the same way he kissed me: the smoothing away of the hair, the cradling of the back of the head, the teasing lip brush followed by a deeper, harder kiss as he pulled her into him.
I had to wait so very, very long for our first kiss. He pulled away so many times before our lips finally met, denying me, telling me that I was too young and it wouldn’t be right. His reticence only made me want him more. I’d lie in bed and relive every touch, every lingering look and every soft word. I’d run a finger over my mouth, then push two fingers against my lips, imagining the weight of his mouth on mine. Fourteen years old and I’d never been kissed. I never admitted it to anyone at school but teenagers can sniff out weakness and fear the same way pigs can sniff out truffles and, somehow, everyone knew. The bullying began when I was thirteen, just before Mum and Dad split up. I’ve got no idea why. One moment I was invisible, the next I was on the bullies’ radar. It was Dad that suggested the karate lessons. They’d give me an air of confidence, he said, even if I never used the moves. An air of confidence? That’s a joke.