by Jess Ryder
It was August, high holiday season, the weather a typical patchwork of dull, mild days, bursts of hot sunshine and miserable downpours. It had been dry and quite warm today, but clouds had gathered late afternoon and there was no sunset to marvel at. A cool evening breeze was playing across Kay’s bare forearms. Should have brought a cardigan, she thought.
The hotels and guest houses were bunged with families, which surprised her, given how muddy the beach was and how freezing the sea – not even a tropical heatwave could warm it up. Nevansey was past its best – if it had ever had a best, that is. It was okay for a day trip, but not for a proper holiday. Not when you could buy packages on the Continent for the same price, sometimes cheaper.
They arrived at the pier, then stopped, unsure of their plan. The Esplanade expanded here, almost became a Spanish plaza. It was heaving with people, families mostly. Pat and Alesha lit up fags and Babs announced she was starving and went to buy some chips.
Kay stood quietly, people-watching. She saw little children being shouted at or begging their parents for candyfloss; elderly couples taking an evening promenade. Teenagers were smoking – even snogging – in the shelters, feet up on the benches, covering them with their mindless graffiti, no doubt. The Oyster Catch pub opposite was overflowing with drinkers. Men in their twenties and thirties were gathered on the pavement, beer glass in one hand, fag in the other, taking the piss out of each other at the tops of their voices, whistling at passing totty.
Living in the refuge, it was easy to forget that the world was still spinning in its usual fashion. Everything had changed for Kay, but in reality, things were just the same. There would be current or future wife-beaters here among the irritable dads, the elderly husbands, the joshing blokes, the randy teenage boys …
‘We’re going on the machines,’ said Alesha, nudging her out of her musings. ‘Coming?’
‘Okay, as long as you don’t waste all your money.’ She wasn’t a fan of arcades, but didn’t want to be a spoilsport. They already seemed to have lost Babs. Oh well, I expect she’ll catch up, thought Kay, entering the hellish din that was Vegas Amusements.
* * *
She stood next to Pat and watched her feed ten-pence pieces into a one-armed bandit. The noise was deafening – a cacophony of clanking, clattering, whizzing, whirring sounds, dreadful pop music, and beneath it, the relentless hum of electricity. Kay rested her hand on her bulge. God only knew what the baby was making of this. The bright flashing lights were making her temples throb. She couldn’t bear it.
‘That you, Kay?’ said a familiar male voice. Her heart missed a beat and she whipped around. For a fraction of a second she thought it was Foxy standing there, but it was his brother – tall and stocky, wearing a tight white T-shirt and combat trousers. Micky’s face had turned green under the lights, making him look a bit like the Incredible Hulk. But he didn’t seem angry, just surprised.
‘What you doing here?’ he shouted as coins cascaded into the machine behind him and a loud cheer went up.
She couldn’t speak. Her eyes flicked around nervously. Was he on his own or was he with Foxy? Perhaps they’d spotted her entering the amusement arcade and were mounting a two-pronged attack.
‘He’s not here,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘I’m with me mates, we just came down for a night out. Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?’
‘I’ll be outside,’ she told Pat, who was too busy nudging up a row of lemons to respond properly. Alesha was similarly engrossed at the grabber, trying to win a teddy for her little boy. Babs was nowhere to be seen. Some bodyguard, thought Kay. But she felt all right. She was strong now, she could cope.
They left the arcade and stood by the sea wall. It was almost dark now, and the crowds had thinned.
‘You’re pregnant,’ he said, staring down at her bump.
‘Really?’ she replied sarcastically, then caught his expression – he looked genuinely taken aback. ‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’ He shuffled his feet, embarrassed. ‘Er … whose is it?’
‘Your brother’s, of course. What do you think I am, Micky, a tart?’
‘No, no, I just … He never mentioned it. He said …’ Micky sighed. ‘He said you’d gone off with another bloke.’
‘He always was a liar.’
‘I know.’
‘I left because I had no choice. I thought he was going to kill me.’ How much easier it was to admit now. She no longer felt ashamed or in any way to blame.
‘I kind of knew something was going on,’ Micky said, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘I tried to stop him but it made things worse; he thought we were shagging.’ He offered her one but she put her hand up to refuse.
‘Not fair, is it?’ she said. ‘Everyone thinks you’re the bad ’un because you’ve done time in jail, but Alan’s the real villain and he gets away with it.’ He didn’t reply to that.
‘He still loves you.’ He pulled on his fag, puffing smoke rings into the sky.
‘He doesn’t have the first idea what love is,’ she retorted.
‘That’s not true. He adores you, he’s obsessed, can’t function without you. He’s gone to pieces. Walked out on his job, hit the bottle. Now he’s behind on the rent. If he doesn’t pay up, he’ll be evicted at the end of the month.’
She shrugged. ‘Like I care.’
He took another couple of puffs, then stubbed his cigarette out with his heel. ‘So, where you living? Here in Nevansey?’
‘I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind,’ she answered.
‘Can’t be easy with a kid to look after and another on the way. How do you manage?’
‘I’m getting by. I’m actually happier than I’ve ever been. And no, I’m not with anyone else, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m done with men.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Where you living? Council give you a place?’
‘I don’t want to say.’
‘You must be living somewhere – can’t be managing on your own. Come home, give him another chance. He needs you, Kay. He’s learnt his lesson, he won’t do it again.’
‘You’re wasting your breath.’ Pat and Alesha had just come out of the arcade and were looking for her. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, waving at them to come over.
Micky set his jaw. ‘That baby needs a father.’
‘No it doesn’t. Besides, he told me to get rid of it.’
The girls ran up to greet her. ‘We lost all our frigging money,’ cried Alesha. ‘Didn’t even win a bloody teddy.’
‘You’re a quick worker,’ said Pat, looking Micky up and down.
‘Remember the house rules!’ Alesha wagged her finger. ‘No drink, no violence and no men!’ The women cackled raucously.
Micky looked at the two of them curiously, then back at Kay. ‘You living in a hostel? YWCA?’
‘It’s a secret, so get lost,’ said Alesha – stupidly, Kay thought.
‘Oh, I know … You’re in one of those places for battered women. I’ve read about them in the paper. Is there one in Nevansey then?’ He looked around, as if expecting it to pop up before his eyes.
Kay had had enough. ‘Please don’t tell Alan you saw me,’ she said, her tone as serious as it could be. ‘You’ll be putting my life in danger.’
‘You can’t have a baby in a place like that,’ he said. ‘It’s not right. Come back with me, we’ll go to see him together. He’ll be over the moon that you’re back. You’ll sort it out, I know you will.’
‘Who is this?’ said Pat, suddenly sharpening up.
‘My brother-in-law. But it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.’ Kay put her hands on Micky’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Please! Promise you won’t say anything. I’m begging you. For all our sakes.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Stella
Now
I open my eyes to darkness. Where am I? I feel so cold. I’m lying on my back, arms at my sides, feet together. Can’t seem to move my limbs. There’
s a wet, burning pain spreading across my skull and drilling deep into my brain. When I try to lift my head, arrows of fire shoot down my spine. I feel woozy; want to be sick.
There’s something sharp scratching my neck. I think it’s a tarpaulin; it crackles every time I try to move. I’m all wrapped up, like a caterpillar in a cocoon, with only my head poking out. My hands are tied together with something thin and sharp that’s digging into my wrists. I can feel the same soreness around my ankles. Plastic garden ties, perhaps, the ones that are impossible to get off without a very sharp knife.
I can’t touch my face, but I know it’s covered with mud or blood – maybe a mixture of the two – plastered over my cheeks like a beauty mask and left to dry. There’s a musty smell deep in my nostrils, like old dry earth. My tongue is coated in grit and sand, grains of it stuck between my teeth. I’m so thirsty … I try to swallow, but it turns into a cough, making my whole head throb with pain.
It’s totally dark here, not a chink of light coming from anywhere. The surface beneath me is lumpy and hard. And it’s so very cold. Am I underground? Please God, don’t let me be underground. Waves of panic instantly rise from my guts and I instinctively start to struggle, but it’s no use, I’m all bundled up. Can’t breathe properly, can’t fill my lungs. I gulp for air, but every little movement is excruciating.
Blinking, I try to widen my eyes. No … not underground. Not even in a box. There’s space above me, the air choked with dust. As my pupils dilate, dim shapes emerge from the blackness. I look from left to right, up and down, stretching the limits of my peripheral vision. Dark objects loom ominously from the shadows. A pile of logs, I think. Metal shelving? I start to make things out on the shelves: plant pots perhaps, hessian sacks. Tools fixed to the wall. Empty jam jars. Wooden boxes. A tall block that could be a stack of chairs. A rectangle that might be a window. Hard to see from this position, flat on my back on the ground … Don’t know where I am.
But not underground, not buried alive. I breathe out slowly. Thank God. For a moment I thought …
No, don’t think. Don’t imagine what might have been or what might be yet to come. Not dead. Not yet. But badly hurt. There’s blood pooling underneath me. I can feel it dripping down my neck, soaking into my jumper. I can smell its sticky sweetness, like treacle. I was hit on the back of the head; I can just about remember that. There’s a wound there, I can feel the open flesh stinging. It could be deep. Probably got concussion too. That would account for the nausea, the dizziness, the intense, pulsing headache.
I should be in hospital, not rolled up like an old carpet waiting to be slung on the dump. Is that what they’re going to do with me? Are they out there now in the darkness, digging, measuring up the space, making sure it’s long enough to take a body, deep enough to put off the rats and foxes?
Stop imagining things. If you carry on like this, you’ll have a heart attack. You’re not dead yet.
Surely they won’t bury me alive. They’re not inhuman. Desperate, yes, scared, yes, but evil? That’s what Dawn said about her own sister, but even now I can’t believe it. They’re not behaving rationally; they’re being driven by some other incredibly powerful force that I can’t comprehend.
My eyes are adjusting now and I can see my surroundings more clearly. I’m in the shed; of course, that makes sense. I’ve been dumped on the floor between a rusty lawnmower and some logs, bound with garden ties and wrapped in a tarpaulin fastened with some old ropes. Everything they needed readily to hand.
It’s pitch black outside. Completely quiet. Although if I listen really hard, I can just about make out the sound of the wind and the sea grinding over the shingle. Must be high tide.
‘Help,’ I squawk uselessly. I’ve no idea what time it is, but it feels late. Nobody will be able to hear me. Not in the middle of the night; not even in the daytime.
I sink into the sticky pool of blood beneath me, taking stock. I’m injured and weak, tied up, locked (probably) in an old shed. The garden is huge and well protected. We’re on a corner plot, next to a side road that hardly anyone uses. The house on the other side is a holiday let, closed for the winter.
Frankly, it’s not looking good. I could bleed out, slip into unconsciousness, become dehydrated, develop an infection, starve. I could be dead in hours, or it could take days. But I mustn’t think like that, can’t surrender. I have to stay alive, and the first job is to keep awake. Mustn’t drift away … Concentrate on the pain, embrace the agony, use it as fuel to give me energy.
I know there’s no way to escape – I can’t free myself from my bonds, can’t smash the window and crawl out. My only hope is that Dawn will come and I can persuade her to take pity on me. I don’t want to see Abi, my spade-wielding executioner. If the door opens and she’s standing there, I’ll know it’s the end. It’s Dawn I need to work on. No, not Dawn exactly – I’ve no idea what makes her tick, and besides, she’s too frightened of her sister.
It’s Lori who can help me. If she goes back to being the Lori I know, if she channels her spirit, thinks about what she would have done, even just for a few moments, there’s a chance I’ll be saved.
But if I die here, some might argue that I deserved it.
* * *
My mind scrolls back over the years, moving faster and faster until I’m seventeen and in the house I shared with Mum and Dad and the foster kids. I’m lying on the bed with a file of notes open, trying to memorise Shakespeare quotes but nodding off in the warm sunshine streaming through the window. I’m studying for my A levels, trying to concentrate on getting good grades so that I can go to university and leave this shitty life behind me. I have an offer from Queen Mary, but it’s too high – I’m going to have to perform out of my skull to achieve it.
My bedroom door is closed and firmly locked. Beyond, the house is shaking with the thumping play of the foster kids – two noisy fighting sisters and a toddler who is constantly having tantrums and refuses to eat anything but bread. And Kyle, of course. He’s new, arrived a few months ago. He’s fourteen going on twenty-three. Mum and Dad never tell me the details, but Kyle was happy for me to know that his mother’s a drug addict and he’s been in and out of care since he was six years old. In a couple more years he’ll be flung out of the system and left to fend for himself, but until then, he’s the responsibility of Social Services, which is where my parents come in.
I hate Kyle. I hate the way he soaks up all Mum and Dad’s attention, hate the way they believe his lies. He’s supposed to go to some special educational unit for challenging students; a minibus comes every morning to take him there and bring him home in the afternoon. Most of the time he refuses to get out of bed, claims he’s ill or that he’s scared to go because he’s being bullied by the staff. It’s all rubbish, of course, but my parents believe him.
‘He’s had a rough deal out of life,’ Mum says. ‘We have to give him a chance.’
Kyle’s room is next to mine. He’s got it all to himself at the moment, because the other boy who was staying with us has gone back to his mum. His name was Billy – he was okay, I didn’t mind him. But Kyle’s nasty. He says he can get me drugs – weed, skunk, ecstasy tablets, whatever I want. I told Mum and Dad but they said he was just ‘playing the big man’, not to take any notice. But Molly saw him in Basildon shopping centre the other weekend and said he was hanging around with some dodgy older guys who looked like they could be dealers. He’s not supposed to go to Basildon; that’s where his mum is. He was sent to our leafy suburb to give him a chance of a ‘normal life’, whatever that means. If this is normal, then give me abnormality any day.
I turn my attention back to my Othello quotes.
Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy!
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.
I accept that I’m jealous of Kyle – jealous of all the foster kids if truth be told. Okay, yes, it’s stupid to be jealous of someone who’s been tossed around between homes and car
ers, expelled from several schools. Apparently it’s not his fault that he’s so vile. But why does he have to be put in my family? And why does he have to play his disgusting music so loudly when I’m trying to revise?
Kyle has a face like a raw potato, all pockmarked, with hairs sprouting in odd places. He thinks he’s so hard. Dad reckons he’s ‘naturally intelligent’, but as far as I can see he’s got the concentration span of a gnat. He’s always going on about porn and asking me to have sex with him. The idea makes me want to puke. I’ve been locking my bedroom door for years, but now I put a chair under the handle too. Last week he offered me a fiver for a blow job. When I told Mum and Dad, they said he must have been joking, because as far as they knew he didn’t even have a fiver.
‘You’re grown up now,’ Mum said. ‘Surely you can deal with a young boy like Kyle.’ Young boy. She sees all her foster kids through rose-tinted spectacles. To her, they’re innocents; their sins belong to society, not them. Mum and Dad are about as naive as Othello, and we know how badly that ended.
Then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely, but too well.
Oh yes, there’s plenty of love in our house, but very little of it is directed at me. I’m not speaking to Mum and Dad at the moment. We had a huge row over Kyle’s blow-job offer and I went and stayed at Molly’s house for two nights. When I came home – reluctantly – I begged them to send him away. I told them I was frightened to have him in the house. ‘He’s dangerous,’ I said, but they wouldn’t have it. Around them he’s all please and thank you, never puts a foot wrong. It’s a game for him. Free food, free accommodation, two gullible carers who don’t ask questions. At least that’s how I see it. As far as I’m concerned, Mum and Dad are being conned. If Kyle doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to fail my exams and then I’ll never leave this hellhole.