Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  The Principal didn’t say a word, and so Warren carried on, injecting a false note of brightness into his voice as if trying to lighten the mood. ‘So that’s it! And now I’m here. And when Henry said something not very nice about Amy, I couldn’t handle it. I don’t mind a joke or the piss-taking that you expect in here, but not her, nothing about her. She’s just a little girl and she’s already been through too much.’ He fought to get his breath under control.

  Edwina Justice swung her leather swivel chair around and contemplated the collage on the corkboard behind her. The two sat in silence.

  It was some moments before she spoke. ‘I think when the very worst thing that can happen, happens, it puts your whole life in perspective in a way that’s impossible for others to understand.’ She pictured the moment Alan’s hand had gone limp inside her palm, she had squeezed it tightly and then tapped it with her fingertips, trying to bring him back. His eyes stared ahead, his jaw slack and she remembered asking him, Where have you gone? To which, of course, he didn’t reply.

  Warren listened.

  ‘I haven’t experienced anything like you, but my husband died; he got sick very suddenly and died within two weeks. That was nearly twenty years ago. We had so much yet to achieve and I watched all our hopes and plans disappear in a heartbeat. It shocked me then and it shocks me now. I miss him every single day, I still expect him to phone me or to walk through the door and every time I remember that it is never going to happen, I start to grieve all over again. You would think it might get easier, but it doesn’t. I used to wonder what the point of carrying on was. It all felt so pointless when the person I wanted to live with was no longer here, the person who gave my life meaning, who welcomed me home. But then I realised that life is precious and you have to carry on, no matter how hard or how hurt or how much you long to disappear. You have to carry on, because life is precious.’ She turned the chair to face Warren. ‘Do you understand that?’ He nodded. She continued, ‘I believe some people are born bad...’

  Warren heard his stepdad’s words, You useless little bastard, just like your shit of a father...

  ‘And I believe some people simply find themselves in bad situations.’

  Warren nodded again, not trusting himself to speak, he got it, he was born bad. He half wanted it to be over, Go on get out your gun, just shoot me, I know I’m a useless little bastard and I know I failed, I broke my promise. I said I’d keep her safe and I didn’t. He hurt her and I wasn’t there to stop him...

  ‘You must miss your sister very much?’

  He nodded, it was the first time he had allowed himself to think about her in a very long time. ‘I do. I miss her every day. And my mum. But at least I know that they are safe now, that he’s not there to hurt them. He’ll never hurt them ever again, and that makes it kind of worth it.’

  Edwina Justice leant forward on her desk, ‘I understand that sentiment. I have worked with offenders my whole life and I have a knack for seeing beneath the veneer, Mr Binns. It’s nothing you can be trained for, but is more of a gift or a curse, depending on how you look at it. I can tell when a person is lying. I can tell when a person is so full of evil that the only answer is to lock him away for a very long time. Unpleasant though it is, it’s how I keep others safe, and keeping everyone safe has to be my priority. And then occasionally I can see that a person who is good has done bad things, sometimes to protect himself, sometimes to protect others, sometimes to survive. I am rarely, if ever, wrong.’

  Warren stared at the woman sat in front of him. Where was this going?

  Edwina Justice turned in her chair and reached under her desk. Warren gripped the arms of the chair and closed his eyes; he did not want to stare down the barrel. He remembered the feel of the guard’s Smith and Wesson against his temple. He trembled as he waited for the tell-tale click of the gun being readied. This was it. I’m sorry, Amy, I’m sorry I let him hurt you. I’m sorry I let you down, Mum. I love you both so much, I always have and I always will. Be a good girl, Amy, carry on reading. I love you...

  The Principal almost whispered, ‘Please, open your eyes.’

  He slowly opened his eyes and blinked away the sweat that had fallen from his brow. He noticed a large khaki rucksack that sat on the desk between them.

  ‘Do you believe in second chances, Warren?’

  Warren shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head again.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve never been given one and so I don’t think they exist.’

  She smiled, unable to fault his simple logic. ‘What if I was to tell you that they do exist, Warren?’

  ‘Then I probably wouldn’t believe you.’

  He held her gaze, maybe second chances existed in her world of blazers and pearls, but not in his. He had spent the best part of his life wishing: wishing for hot food to materialise in his hands, for a thick duvet to magic itself from thin air, and for a drunken bastard to fall down a hole, break his neck and never be found. He had given up wishing, his wishes never came true.

  Edwina Justice stood and held the rucksack in her hands. ‘Stand up, Warren.’

  He stood, slowly.

  ‘I want you to take this.’ She placed the pack in his hesitant hands. ‘In this rucksack are a new passport, a change of clothes, some sturdy boots, waterproofs, a tent and some money, a lot of money, enough money for you to start over. Your new name is Zac Porter. This is your second chance.’

  Warren ran his palm over the nylon fabric. It took a moment for his brain to understand what was being said. What was the catch?

  Edwina walked over to the large green filing cabinet and twisted the middle handle. The three deep drawers were no such thing; they were in fact a door. Using both hands, she heaved the door open.

  Zac peered through it and blinked. It was the first time in eighteen months that he had seen the outside world. He was looking at a beautiful garden. Flowers of every colour fought for space along crowded paths. Trees were dotted among the expanse of grass. His eye was drawn to a square of pale shingle bearing a cluster of bright blue china pots, holding neatly trimmed green shrubs. Low, square cut hedges surrounded bushes of roses, and heavy bowers of bloom-laden branches shook in the gentle breeze. It was breathtaking.

  ‘You have earned your sunlight, Zac. Go far far away and make a wonderful life for yourself, become all the things that I know you are capable of. You are a wonderful boy, who tried your best. You saved Amy, you set her free, and because of you she has a second chance. Never forget that. I want you to remember the rules that I have taught you. Abide by them and use your skills. Your life is out there waiting for you, the life that you should have had. You must give yourself the life that you deserve. Dont waste it, Zac, don’t waste one minute and remember that life is precious.’

  Zac smiled at the Principal. ‘Is this what happened to Bo and Holy Joe?’

  ‘Now, Zac, I told you a long time ago, you only had that one question!’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. But could you tell Keegan...’

  ‘No. I can’t.’ She held up her palm, interrupting him, ‘because Warren Binns doesn’t exist anymore and Mr Lomax has never met or even heard of Zac Porter. It’s how it has to be. You understand that, don’t you?’

  Zac nodded, he got it. He smiled at her. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to thank you, for everything you’ve done. Thank you, thank you for believing me.’

  ‘There are just two things I ask of you, Mr Porter.’

  Zac looked at the smiling face of his benefactor, still unused to his new name. ‘Anything, I’ll do anything at all.’

  ‘The first thing is to always make time to appreciate something beautiful, no matter how small.’

  Zac nodded, he would learn what that meant and he would do it.

  ‘And secondly, when you are settled in your new life, wherever that might be, please send me a postcard, so I can
stop worrying about you.’

  Zac smiled at her and nodded. Edwina Justice extended her arm in the direction of the garden. He stepped forward and hesitated, before putting his arms around her and holding her close, the way a boy might hold his mum. Zac placed the rucksack on his back and stepped over the threshold, into the light.

  5

  Matthew Shackleton flicked the switch on the coffee machine and buffed his spectacles with the soft cloth from inside his glass case. Perching them on the end of his nose, he began to sort through the mail.

  The colourful edge of the postcard peeked out from beneath the stack of manila envelopes. It was a bustling market scene in Kerala. He pulled the image closer to his face to decipher the tiny script at the bottom right hand corner, India, fancy that. It was from someone called Zac, Zac Porter.

  ‘Good morning, Matthew.’

  ‘Good morning, Edwina. It’s going to be a hot one today.’ He fanned himself and pumped the cotton of his shirt to circulate the air.

  ‘Yes. Better make sure the watering is heavy, I’d go large on the sprinklers.’

  ‘I’m on it, don’t worry, are you worried about the fruit trees?’

  ‘And the bougainvillea. We can try out our new tubing system, if we’ve done it right, it should irrigate them just so, but you can’t be too careful when it’s this hot. I think early evening might be a good time, we don’t want to scorch those leaves.’

  ‘Ooh no, heaven forbid. Let’s start at dusk, we need to tidy a couple of the beds and I think a few slug pellets wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Good idea. I need to give the roses a bit of attention too; there were a couple of aphid eggs on my Champagne Summer variety.’

  ‘The little rotters.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he coughed, ‘I was wondering...’

  ‘Yes, Matthew?’ she urged. There were three new inmates to be inducted, a busy day like any other and she wasn’t big on patience.

  ‘I was thinking that maybe you might like to join me for some supper when we’ve finished. My little salad garden is doing very well; I’ve got baby spuds, radishes and whatnot. There’s nothing quite like home grown with a decent steak and a large glass of red, sitting in the garden on a warm evening. Plus I’m a bit stuck with the crossword and you know what they say, two heads and all that...’ He looked at the stack of mail on his desk, avoiding her stare. He felt the creep of an awkward blush work its way up from his neck.

  Edwina was stunned into silence. She pictured Alan. It wasn’t a memory, but was a new image. He was mouthing words to her, smiling. I want you to be happy; I want someone to welcome you home. You have to carry on, no matter how hard or how hurt or how much you long to disappear. You have to carry on, because life is precious...

  She took a deep breath. ‘No.’ She shook her head.

  Matthew looked mortified. ‘Oh! Of course not! I’m so sorry, I just thought...’

  She interrupted him, ‘I mean no to the crossword—can’t stand them. I think it’s a slippery slope, one minute you are doing the crossword and the next you’re reaching for a tapestry kit and after that it’s surgical stockings, vitamin tonics and The People’s Friend. I mean, yes, yes to dinner, absolutely, that would be lovely. But definitely no crosswords. Shall I bring Backgammon?’

  ‘Backgammon?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a fiend; some would say the queen of Backgammon, virtually unbeatable.’

  ‘Well, we shall see about that.’ He smiled.

  ‘Yes we will,’ she countered as she walked towards her office.

  ‘By the way, before you rush off, you have a postcard.’

  Edwina turned and reached out her hand, striding towards his desk, grasping the offering with eager fingers. She studied first the picture and then the text, scrawled by a biro on the other side. Turning it over twice more, she scrutinised the picture and then the words again.

  ‘Well well, Kerala. How wonderful.’ She beamed at Matthew who smiled back; he loved to see her this happy.

  ‘Is it from a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded and strode towards her corkboard, in search of a pin.

  THE GAME

  Amanda Prowse

  It’s every mother’s worst nightmare...

  Gemma Peters has everything a sixteen year old could want. Two loving parents, a good school, and close friends. Maybe sometimes her parents are a little overbearing, a little too adoring. But that’s the same for all teenagers, right?

  Then, on the night of the school play, happy-go-lucky Gemma disappears without a trace. Where has she gone? Why has she been lying to her family? And, most importantly, will she ever come home?

  Start Reading

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  The Night Before

  Blissful Ignorance

  Have You Lost Her?

  Day One

  Eight Weeks

  A Girl Is Found

  The Unbearable Truth

  A New Life

  Turn Off the Lamp

  The Night Before

  It is easy to tell when applause is real and when it’s not. Polite applause is awkward, embarrassing; no one really wants to continue, but equally, no one wants to be the first to stop. Those that are being applauded know the difference too; they can see it and feel it. You can’t fool anyone and you can’t fake it. Real applause lifts you up, like wings do, and sends you soaring. It is infectious, loud and energising. This was just like that.

  Three hundred pairs of hands smacking their palms together without reservation or restraint, it sounded like thunder, like horses’ hooves cantering along cold, hard soil, a thousand football trench rattles all blended together for five minutes or so. Someone then decided that it wasn’t enough; they started to whoop and holler. Someone else considered this to be a great idea and they too started to shout out, giving a word to the shout, ‘More! More!’ This became the chorus, a crescendo building and building.

  For Gemma Peters, standing centre stage in her green velvet gown, fake pearls and stiff lace collar, it was a strange experience. It looked like they were clapping in slow motion; she could see the slow raise of an arm before it landed in a slap of congratulations across her dad’s back, and she could see her mum bringing a tissue up to her eye to blot away a stray tear while carefully balancing her oversized handbag in the crook of her chubby arm. One of the English teachers, a tall bloke in a knitted tie, was trying to catch her eye. She looked at him and he winked, raising his clenched fist. He mouthed the words with one hand now placed over his heart, ‘Well done!’

  Her friends, Alice and Victoria, jumped up and down with their arms linked, reminding her of denim pogo sticks. She smiled at them. There were very few people in the crowd whose opinion mattered to her, but these were two of them. Her eyes sought Luke: he stood out, the shape of him, his particular shade of hair and stance were achingly familiar. Look at me, see what I did? He looked away.

  Glancing at the three hundred faces smiling, nodding and commenting from the sides of their mouths to their loved ones, she felt elated. It was a wonderful feeling and one that she knew would not last. Gemma predicted that once her costume had been hung back on the rail in its plastic wrapper and the make-up removed, these same people would walk past her in the street or sit next to her on the bus and not give her a second glance. She would be back to ordinary. This was her one moment to be amazing.

  She breathed deeply, taking in the odour of sweat and the unmistakeable tang of the school hall. As the heavy, rust-coloured, patched curtains hit the wooden floor a cloud of dust swirled around her feet, the particles of Carousel, Charley’s Aunt, Hamlet, a thousand other productions and a little bit of everyone in them. Her drama teacher, Miss Greg, stood at the bottom of the stairs. A nervous, mouse-like woman who hid behind oversized glasses, she shocked them regularly by standing up and shouting loudly in the chara
cter of whoever they were discussing. It was easier for her when she was being someone else; Gemma understood this.

  Miss Greg threw her arms around Gemma, crushing her cheekbone into the gold-coloured chain from which a second pair of glasses hung against her pink jersey. With her guard down and fuelled by elation, she hugged the girl and grazed the top of her head with a kiss.

  ‘Oh my goodness, you were absolutely magnificent! Really incredible, Gemma! Well done you!’

  Gemma could see the glimmer of tears behind her glasses. She hadn’t realised that it had meant so much to her.

  ‘Did you hear the applause? Did you hear it? They were going crazy! Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Gemma nodded but didn’t speak, feeling deflated, disappointed.

  She made her way backstage, accepting the hand squeezes and impromptu hugs that were showered upon her. As she navigated the narrow corridor, walking between the usually empty, locker-lined walls, people she had never seen before, parents of other kids probably, darted out, content to let her pass only once they had given her a compliment or touched her. It was a strange experience.

  Her mum and dad, Jackie and Neil, were facing the door in the changing room, waiting for her, as she knew they would be. A little welcome party of two. It was funny to see them standing in front of the row of pegs that was usually cluttered with PE kit, uniform and girls squabbling or preening themselves before going back to lessons. They stood close together; her dad wasn’t tall and her mum’s head reached up to his shoulder. They were always close together like that, either on the sofa or in the kitchen. He would wash while she dried or sometimes they swapped, just to get a bit of variation and always with the burble of local radio as their background noise.