One For Sorrow

by Sarah A. Denzil

“Don’t you think it sounds like she’s covering up for someone?” James said, jabbing his finger at the last letter.

  All I can tell you, James, is that I can’t remember, and at this point, I’m not sure I ever will.

  Those were her last words to him before communication stopped.

  “Maybe,” I finally agreed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pye the cat swiped at my ankles as I rummaged through my bag for the door keys. At the same time I almost tripped over the dozen eggs left on the doorstep with a note from Seb: We had extra. I laughed and shook my head at the terse note. Tucking the cartoon of eggs under my arm, I entered the tiny kitchen and locked the door behind me. The sounds of Tom’s metal-pop music filtered down the stairs of the narrow cottage, filling every corner with the sound of guitars. But I didn’t mind because it brought the place to life. I left the eggs on the worktop and hurried upstairs.

  Tom’s pale face was almost luminescent from the draining light of the laptop screen. “Hey—” he started.

  But I didn’t let him finish. Instead, I crossed the length of the room in two strides and pulled him into a tight bear hug before he even knew what was going on.

  “What the—what’s going on? Are you dying?”

  I held his face in my hands and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I’m just glad we’re out of that house in Hackney.”

  There was nothing else that needed to be said. We both knew what it was like living with our parents. We were two out of the three people on this planet who had seen my father’s rages first-hand. My mother, resting in peace, was the one who had known them best.

  “Me too.” Tom closed his laptop and put it to one side. “Thanks.” His face flushed with embarrassment.

  “For what?”

  “For not leaving me in foster care or whatever.” He shrugged his shoulders as if nonchalant about the whole thing, but I could tell by the way his cheeks turned scarlet that it meant a lot, and that he was fighting through teenage embarrassment to tell me how much it meant.

  A tear sprang into my eye but I ignored it and said, “It smells like teenage boy in here. I’m getting you some Febreze.”

  “Fine.” He shrugged and reached for his laptop.

  “So… did you get a lift with Seb?”

  Tom nodded.

  “And?”

  He shrugged.

  I sighed. “Are they leaving you alone, Tom?”

  “Yes,” he said. I wasn’t convinced but I decided not to press the issue any further.

  And with that, we were back to normal. We were back to lame sister and hormonal teenager, but at the same time I felt a little lighter. All the way home from the café I’d been thinking about the Fieldings and the eerie patio murders Alfie had told me about at the hospital. I had first-hand experience of the rotten core within a family. For us, it was my dad. The man all the neighbours came to when they had a problem. He was the one who would jump-start their car, or help put up a shed, or go drinking with them down the pub. And for a while he was that for me, too—a superhero dad with an easy smile and a funny joke on his lips. Sometimes I think that was all he wanted to be. But he didn’t have it in him, sadly, and one day, everything changed forever. I closed my eyes and blocked out the thoughts.

  “You look weird.”

  I opened my eyes to find Tom staring at me with an expression somewhere between exasperation and concern.

  “Thanks.” I rolled my eyes to express the sarcasm.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, just a lot on at work. What are you doing tonight? I got paid so we can afford things now. Want to go to the cinema in Hutton? They’ve made it all fancy with comfy seats and a café, apparently.”

  “I need to finish my dissertation essay,” he said. “Maybe next weekend.”

  “Okay, but don’t stay in your room all day. At least nip out for a walk at some point. You do know we live in an area of outstanding beauty, don’t you? There’s no overnight street vomit or corner condoms here.”

  He shook his head but cracked a smile. “All right, whatever stops you nagging.” But I knew he didn’t mean it. Too late, Tommy-boy, I already know you love your lame sister.

  After leaving Tom to the fluorescent glow of his laptop screen, I decided to follow my own advice and go for a walk. At the end of our drive you could join a separate dirt track leading back to the Braithwaites’ farm, or continue on in the opposite direction out onto the moorland that spread out into the National Trust’s North York Moor. It was a popular spot for hikers, but we rarely saw them past the cottage. They usually made their way onto the moor via the public footpaths that began at the village and wound up through the hills onto the flatter moors that overlooked Hutton and its surrounding areas.

  One of the first things I’d done after moving into the cottage was buy a map of the moorland around the house. I didn’t trust myself not to get lost. Here I was, a city rat let loose in the countryside, with no idea how to orient myself should I get lost. As I slipped on my trainers and tucked the map into the pocket of my jeans, I thought of myself as a fish flapping uselessly outside of its water tank. I finally understood the old cliché, but I was determined to change my circumstances. I would fit in around here. Tom would make friends. I would find peace away from the relentless bustle of London, and I would finally move on after my parents’ deaths. I would scratch that itch of grief that never gave up, not even for an instant, and I would catch every broken piece that fell from my mind and put them all back together.

  I would heal.

  But for now, as I walked out of the cottage and onto the deserted part of the moors, I decided to think about Isabel Fielding and her family. James Gorden was a little eccentric and possibly not the best at social interactions, but some of the things he said actually made sense. It was bizarre that Owen never called for help, and it was strange that David Fielding had disappeared a few minutes before Maisie was found. Isabel had insisted for seven years that she couldn’t remember what happened that day. I wasn’t an expert on memory loss, but without head trauma that seemed unlikely. Either she was lying, or she had suffered some sort of emotional break to cause her to forget what happened to Maisie.

  Did a lie about what had happened that day mean she was capable of murder? Did it mean she was capable of lying about who she was for all these years?

  A rugged landscape lay before me with jagged rocks pushing out of the dark, mossy earth, and all I could see was murder. The murder of my mother. The murder of Maisie Earnshaw. Where was the justice for Maisie if Isabel was innocent? What was wrong with this world if the guilty were never punished for their crimes? My father was never punished. He took his own life before anyone could force him to stand trial. I hated the thought of him at peace and longed for hell to exist, solely to punish him for what he had done.

  The spring breeze turned cool against my skin before I realised I was crying. I’d made a decision, and there was no turning back now.

  *

  It was the following Saturday and dark clouds mottled the sky above the M1. Twice I’d had to put on my wipers when drizzle hit the windshield, and each time my breath caught in my throat when the water smeared across the glass, impairing my vision. I needed new wipers.

  I’d never been to Rotherham before. When I reached the town, it appeared to me as grey as the cloudy sky, lined with identical houses on identical streets. But my destination wasn’t in Rotherham itself; it was out on the outskirts, near a long stretch of green by the golf club. I turned onto a private driveway that was flanked by a sparse wood. The drive led up to a modern mansion of a home, with a long front lawn, white walls, and large glass windows. A fountain stood erect in the centre of a circular carpark. When I saw the place, I swallowed nervously, aware how out of place my old Fiat Punto in bile-yellow appeared in this grand place. Even at the gate I’d felt ridiculous speaking into a buzzer about why I was here. I’d lied and said I was a friend of Owen’s, hoping that the lie would at least g
et me in the front door.

  My hand trembled as I lifted it to rap the door knocker. What was I doing here? Getting answers. Helping Isabel. Uncovering the root of the evil within the Fielding household. Well, here I was, a few feet away from the location of Maisie’s Earnshaw’s brutal murder. If I looked to the right I could see the woods where she had been bludgeoned to death. Over that grassy knoll was the duck pond where her body had been found, dark brown curls submerged in water spreading out around her.

  The door opened.

  “Leah?” Owen’s brown eyes widened, and for the first time I saw Isabel in them. Whenever Owen visited Crowmont I usually remarked on how different their features were. Owen’s face was narrow with a pointed chin whereas Isabel had more of a heart-shaped face, rounded rather than pointed. “Is everything all right with Isabel?”

  “Yes. Sorry to turn up like this, but I hoped… wanted… to speak to you and perhaps your parents.”

  “Okay,” he said. He didn’t seem to question the ethicality of the situation, which was good. “Come in. I’ll ask Irina to get you a coffee. We have a new machine that makes cappuccinos and macchiatos. What do you fancy?”

  “Americano is fine.” As I followed Owen into the Fielding’s beautiful home, I noticed for the first time that he was unkempt and scruffy, with unwashed hair and a baggy t-shirt. He rubbed his eyes and walked with sagging shoulders—all the tell-tale signs of an awful hangover. “Were you out last night?”

  “Went to a casino in Leeds. Think I might have got home around three, maybe four.” He shrugged. “But on the plus side, I did win a few hundred playing poker. Dad’s pretty pissed off about the whole thing, though. IRINA!”

  His booming voice made me flinch back from him, surprising me with its sheer volume. Owen was a slender man but when he shouted, it was as though a 6’5” boxer had stepped into the room.

  He led me through a long, open lounge that overlooked the back of the estate and the sweeping lawns leading down to the woods. My eyes locked onto the patio area where the four parents had sat drinking cocktails while Isabel had supposedly murdered six-year-old Maisie.

  I was vaguely aware of Owen calling my name, but the words barely made it through the sound of blood rushing through my ears. A wave of dizziness almost knocked me sideways.

  “Ah, so you’re here for that.”

  Pulling myself out of the dizzy spell, I turned to face Owen, who frowned at me with a look of resignation. “What do you mean?”

  He pointed out the French doors to the patio. “You’re here for that. You want to know more about that day. It’s generally why people come here.”

  “I’m sorry… I…” I trailed off, not sure what I could say to make the situation any better.

  “IRINA!” Owen yelled, causing me to take a step away from him.

  A blonde-haired maid came scurrying in from another room. The expression directed at Owen was one of murderous contempt. “Yes.”

  “Americano for Leah and espresso for me.”

  Irina placed both hands on her hips and spoke in a thick Eastern European accent. “Fetching and carrying isn’t in my job description, sir.”

  “Oh, go on. I’m hungover as hell, and besides, if you don’t, I’ll tell Father that it was you who smashed his paperweight, not the dog.”

  The murderous expression on Irina’s face turned to fear. Without another word she spun stiffly on her heel and left the room.

  “Sit down.” Owen waved a hand over the sofas arranged in a square next to the doors.

  I sat sideways from the window so that I didn’t have to face the patio. I couldn’t look at the spot where, all those years ago, David and Anna Fielding had sat with the Earnshaws and decided to let their children play out of sight. Was it strange that the Fieldings had never moved away from this property? I couldn’t imagine ever remaining in the same house where a young child was murdered. But perhaps that was the reason why they were still here. Who would buy this house knowing its history?

  Owen placed himself on a white leather sofa opposite me, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back until he almost sank into the leather. Though his posture was almost completely relaxed, there appeared to be some underlying tension, as his foot swung up and down in a frantic manner.

  “Are you going to spit it out, Leah?” he said, his small brown eyes meeting mine with intense ferocity. “You drove all the way down here from Hutton for a reason, didn’t you? What is it? What do you need to know?”

  Irina walked into the lounge carrying two cups while my mouth flopped open in shock. Owen had every right to challenge me. I’d barged into his home without any notice, for the primary reason of dragging up a painful memory from seven years ago. I had no right to be here. I was Isabel’s nurse; my duty was to care for Isabel and nothing else. But for some reason I didn’t move. Instead, I took the cup of Americano offered to me by the Fieldings’ housekeeper.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, eventually. “I didn’t mean to intrude, though I know that’s exactly what I’m doing. It must be a shock to see me here in your house, given what I do for a living and where I work.” I sipped on my coffee and tried to check whether Irina had left the kitchen and was out of earshot.

  “I didn’t mean to snap,” Owen said. “You’ve done a lot for Isabel and for that I’m… we’re… grateful. Mum and Dad might not visit, but I know they still care about her well-being, and you’re part of that, so thank you for that. But you’re right. It is rather jarring to see my mentally ill sister’s psychiatric nurse on the doorstep.”

  I put down my coffee cup and tried to compose myself so I could explain myself better. “I know what Isabel was convicted of doing all those years ago, but despite that, I’ve grown to care for her. She’s demonstrated herself to be sensitive and talented. I don’t know whether what she did was done in some sort of fit where she wasn’t herself, or whether I’m wrong, or whether there’s another explanation. But I feel like I owe it to the Isabel I’ve come to know to find out more about what happened that day. I know you must have been through all of this before with police and psychologists, and I know I’m not exactly qualified to investigate this. I’d probably lose my job if my boss knew I was here, and God knows I need that job, but something compelled me to come, and I feel like I need to see it through.” When I’d finished speaking, I nervously rubbed my palms against my jeans and waited for Owen to react.

  Owen sighed. “All right.” He flashed me a megawatt smile. “You’re too sweet a person, do you know that? You’ve won me over.” He paused and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. Owen seemed older than his years and had far more confidence than I was used to seeing from a teenager. James Gorden’s insights into Owen came back to me. He’d seen Owen as some sort of child genius. Would arrogance come from knowing you were incredibly smart? Was that what I was seeing in Owen? Or was I overthinking his behaviour? “What do you want to know about that day?”

  “Did you see Isabel kill Maisie?” I asked, my voice far quieter than I would have liked. Despite me having the advantage in age, Owen had the advantage in confidence and it was turning me into a meek little mouse.

  “Yes,” he said. But he paused and his foot went still. He reached into the pocket of his pyjamas and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Want one?”

  I reached across the space between us and took one. After our cigarettes were lit, we each leaned back against our seats.

  “Like I told the police, I watched her kill that kid.”

  The statement hung there for at least two drags of my cigarette. It was so matter of fact, so final. Not what I expected at all. Did I believe him?

  “But you were young. And traumatised.”

  He shrugged. “But this. But that. Isabel apologists always find some way to explain it all away. I saw her kill that kid.”

  “There’s a condition called False Memory Syndrome—”

  “I know. I’ve seen psychologists. Many of them. Some figured I was right, othe
rs figured the false memory nonsense could be true. I don’t believe it at all. I saw Isabel kill that kid and that’s that. I love my sister and I’m sorry for her, and little Maisie, but Isabel belongs in the mental institution. I’m sure that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s what I know, so.” He shrugged again. His demeanour was nonchalant and his voice was flat, as though we were talking about the weather or where we were going on holiday that year.

  As I was about to ask Owen more questions, the front door of the house opened and two sets of footsteps made their way in. I heard a large, booming laugh echo through the open rooms, then a man as large as his laugh entered the room.

  “Hello,” he said, looking down at me. “I take it you’re the owner of the yellow Punto outside the house? Well, I am relieved. I thought Owen had his drug dealer round again.”

  “Fuck off, Dad.” Owen rolled his eyes and flicked ash into his cup.

  I stood slowly, unable to force my gaze away from the man in front of me. From his eyes to the slightly rounded shape of his face to the colour of his hair, the likeness to Isabel verged on disturbing. Next to him was a short, slender woman dressed all in white, but I barely noticed her.

  “I’m David,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Leah,” I replied. “I’m Isabel’s psychiatric nurse.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I could’ve concocted a lie about being a friend of Owen’s and scarpered out of that house as quick as my legs could carry me, but I didn’t. Owen’s response to my questions hadn’t sated my interest into what happened the day Maisie died, it had served to generate an even deeper hunger for the truth because Owen could easily be lying. Why was he so unemotional about the day his sister murdered a child before his eyes? I couldn’t understand his cool, matter-of-fact approach to what must surely be the darkest day of his existence.

  But it wasn’t just Owen. As soon as David Fielding walked through the door I felt a strange pull towards him that almost knocked me off my feet. He was attractive, that was evident, but what I felt wasn’t any kind of sexual attraction or chemistry, it was deeper than that. David Fielding possessed what can only be described as magnetism. Before meeting him, I considered a magnetic charisma to be part of the fantasy world of Hollywood, amongst film stars with white teeth and sharp cheekbones, but instead, a man walked into a house in Rotherham and captivated me with the same eyes he shared with his daughter.