by Jess Ryder
‘We didn’t need to; it was better left unsaid. She gave me a box of his things. I took it back to my flat and stuffed it under the bed, didn’t know what else to do with it. About a year went by. Nobody reported Foxy missing, nobody seemed to care. I was having a rough time. I was trying to go straight but it seemed impossible. I needed to get away, turn my back on my past and start again. That’s when I got the idea of becoming Alan Foxton – someone without a criminal record. Ironic, when you think about it. I moved to the Midlands and found a job on a building site. Worked my way up, got some qualifications. Married a lovely girl, had two boys of my own. I’ve been very lucky.’
‘How come you came back here?’
‘The past weighed heavy on me, Stella. The older I got, the more I started to worry about being found out. I had too much to lose. I reckoned that if Foxy’s body was ever discovered, I’d be blamed. At the very least, I’d be charged with impersonation. I felt I had to do something about it once and for all. I didn’t know exactly what had happened back then, but I had a pretty good idea that Foxy had met his death here in Westhill House. I persuaded the missus to move down …’ He pauses. ‘She knows nothing about this; she thinks I’m Alan, five years older than I really am … Anyway, we moved to Nevansey, and I was able to keep watch on the house. The refuge closed, then the place was empty for a couple of years. I knew someone would buy it eventually and was bound to want to do it up. I felt as if time was running out, that my whole world was about to come crashing down. Then you bought the house, and I realised I had a chance. If I got the building job, I could search for his remains and get rid of them. That way we’d all be safe.’
‘Why did you leave so suddenly?’
‘The police got in touch, said you’d been burgled. Apparently you’d given them my name as a possible suspect.’ He looks away from me, out of the window. ‘I don’t know, I just panicked. I had a feeling you were on to me. The detective rang back later to say the stuff had been found and there’d been a misunderstanding, but I couldn’t face coming back. I was in a right state. The missus thought I was having a nervous breakdown.’ He sighs. ‘Perhaps I am …’
At that moment, Dawn comes racing through the grass, her hands muddy, her face red with excitement.
‘We’ve found something,’ she says, panting. ‘Come and see.’
Alan gulps. ‘Is that all right, Stella?’
‘Yeah, you’d better go.’ I heave myself out of the deckchair. ‘But leave me out of it. I don’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned, you’re digging a hole for a pond, nothing more. If there’s anything you need to dispose of, I don’t want to see it, is that clear?’
They nod in unison. Then Dawn grabs Alan’s arm and they hurry back down the garden. A deep shiver runs the length of my spine. I close the door and walk into the kitchen, my hand shaking as I lift the kettle to make a cup of tea.
Chapter Forty-Two
Stella
Three months later
The photographer screws on another lens, then stands in the doorway assessing the best angle for his shot. It won’t be easy to take a picture of what will no doubt be called a ‘feature fireplace’ without also revealing the damp patch on either side. Our bed has been dismantled, the pieces stacked in the alcove. The mattress is leaning against the opposite wall, draped in a dust sheet.
‘Such a pity you weren’t able to finish the refurb,’ says the estate agent, casting his eyes around. His name is Rahim; he’s wearing a very shiny suit and looks about fifteen. ‘What happened? Run out of money?’
I glance at Jack. We agreed in advance not to wash our dirty linen in public. ‘We’ve decided that Nevansey is not for us,’ I say.
‘Miss the bright lights of London?’
‘Something like that.’
The photographer nods at Rahim to say he’s ready to move on. We started at the top and made our way down, so now there’s just the rest of the ground floor to do. We cross the hallway and troop into the other reception room. Most of the boxes were shifted out weeks ago, either to Jack’s new place or to Molly’s house, where I’m staying temporarily. The smell of damp is unmistakable. There’s a forlorn chill in the air, even though it’s June and outside the sun is blazing.
Next we move on to the kitchen and Jack offers our guests a cup of tea.
‘Actually, can I have a glass of water?’ says Rahim, loosening his tie. The photographer doesn’t respond; he’s too busy taking close-ups of the retro seventies wall tiles. Jack opens three cupboards before he finds a glass. His unfamiliarity with the place betrays us, but if Rahim notices, he doesn’t say anything.
‘Shall we do the garden now?’ he suggests, swallowing back the water. ‘I know it’s a jungle out there, but at least we can get some good shots of the back of the house.’
‘Sure,’ says Jack, leading the way.
I follow them out there, feeling increasingly uneasy as we walk down the garden. New growth has made the old path of trodden grass disappear. The flower beds are thick with green foliage; there are glimpses of purple and red blooms struggling to make themselves seen.
Rahim holds up a measuring device, but he can’t see it properly in the sunshine so starts pacing the length out instead.
‘It’s a big old place,’ says the photographer. ‘I’ll need to stand as far away as possible to get everything in. How far back does the garden go?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Jack beats a fresh track through the long grass, holding back the spiky rose branches for us to walk under the wooden arch of the pergola.
A feeling of dread rises up from my feet, flooding my body, drowning me internally. There’s a sharp pain in the centre of my chest. But I have to keep smiling and chatting, can’t afford to show even a tiny spark of nervousness about coming out here.
Rahim is giving us the spiel about traction in the market. He enthuses about the property’s potential, what a wonderful purchase it will make for the right people. I nod and make agreeing noises, but inside, my heart is aching. I believed we were the right people once – we were going to transform this tatty old shell into our forever home, the place of our dreams, where our children would play safely and happily. Foundations built on sand, as it turned out.
This is the first time I’ve come down here since that awful day. I try never to think of it, but deep down I know that they found Foxy’s body, because a while later, I saw Alan walking in and out of the house, carrying rubble bags. He put them in the back of his van and drove away. I don’t know what he did with his brother’s bones. If it had been me, I’d have found a way to bury them at sea.
I linger by the shed, leaning against the wooden slats, pretending to be sunning my face when in fact I’m trying to keep my balance. My knees feel weak, ready to buckle under me, but I have to act natural, have to pass the test. Steadying my breathing, I round the end of the shed and walk the few yards to join the others. The photographer is foregrounding a blown rose, pushing the building behind it into a deceptive soft focus, while Rahim is trying to measure this last piece of land, adding all the distances together on his phone app.
‘Two hundred metres give or take,’ he says. ‘Secure, not overlooked. South-facing too.’ He taps away happily on his tablet.
‘What happened here?’ Jack says to me, quietly. He gestures at the expanse of freshly dug earth, sprouting with healthy-looking weeds.
My stomach roils and I feel myself sway slightly. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t remember it being like this.’
‘Why would you remember? You never came down here.’
‘No … I guess not,’ he concedes, but his face retains its puzzled look.
I force myself to look at the earth. I feel as if I’m staring down from a great height. The hole has been filled in, but the rubbish hasn’t been put back on top of it. It looks like an abandoned vegetable patch at best and a grave site at worst. Alan didn’t do a very good job of hiding their tracks. Everyone was in such a hurry to get out. Thinking
about it now, I should have checked, should have made them replace everything exactly as they’d found it. But I didn’t want to know. Jack is still staring at the ground. I consider telling him that I tried to dig a pond and then gave up, but decide against it. I’ve had enough of making up stories.
Shots taken from every conceivable angle, we tramp back to the house. The photographer stays in the conservatory, making sure he’s got everything. Rahim tells me there’s an agency agreement to sign, so we go back to the kitchen, where there’s a surface to lay out the documents.
‘I gather you’ve already vacated the property,’ he says.
‘Yes, you’ll need keys.’ Jack digs into his pocket and throws his set onto the counter.
Rahim explains the terms and conditions, but I’m not really listening, I just want to sign the documents and end this farce. Pretending to be the happy couple who are abandoning their half-finished house for no good reason is proving too great an acting challenge. We’re not fooling anyone. Our broken relationship is as obvious as the cracks in the ceiling above us.
‘You need to sign here … and here …’ The agent hands me a pen and I scribble my signature. It makes me think of an old dream – Jack and I signing our marriage certificate – and my hand wobbles, making my name unreadable.
At last Rahim and the photographer leave. Jack closes the front door behind them and turns to face me. ‘God, that was torturous,’ he says. ‘I hope you manage to sell it quickly.’
‘I’ve put it on at rock-bottom price; can’t do much more.’
‘Are you sure you want to sell? I know how much this house means to you. It seems a shame.’
‘No, no, I want to.’ I smile. ‘Thanks for coming today, it meant a lot to have your support.’
He shrugs dismissively. ‘I still had a few things to pick up anyway …’
‘Well, it was still good of you.’ There’s a long pause. ‘Actually, it wasn’t the only reason I asked you to come.’
‘No?’
I reach out for the banister, steadying myself. ‘I’ve, er, been seeing a therapist, and … well, it’s uncovered a lot of very uncomfortable stuff from my childhood.’
‘I thought you had a happy childhood.’
‘No. Not really. My parents gave all their attention to their foster kids and ignored me. I was jealous, extremely jealous, and just horrible to everyone.’
He lifts his eyebrows. ‘But you said they were wonderful.’
‘They were, but I didn’t see it at the time. There was this boy, his name was Kyle, he was fourteen, a nasty piece of work. I really hated him, I wanted him to go but my parents believed they were helping him. So I … er … I did this terrible thing.’ My mouth dries. Dare I go on? Nobody else knows this – not Molly, not my therapist. But I’ll never move forward unless I tell somebody the whole truth.
‘Kyle was always going AWOL. Sometimes he’d stay out all night, hanging around in the park, getting off his head. One night when he was out, I nicked one of his smelly T-shirts, ripped it up and soaked it in petrol. My dad kept a spare can in the garage. Then when everyone had gone to bed, I stuffed it into a bottle, set it alight and made it look like it had been put through the letter box.’
‘Oh my God, Stella …’
My hands are trembling, just as they did when I flipped Kyle’s lighter on and held the flame against the cloth. I’m instantly back in the old house, running back upstairs in the dark and hiding in my room, heart pounding, waiting for the fire to take hold. I was going to leave it a couple of minutes, then raise the alarm and be the hero. I’d had it all worked out.
Jack’s brown eyes stare into mine. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘Luckily, no. Nobody believed Kyle’s protestations of innocence – why would they? He was the son of a drug addict; he’d already been expelled from several schools. He was really angry that my parents didn’t stand up for him. Ended up in a young offender institution and became a professional criminal.’
‘And nobody ever suspected you?’
‘No. I ruined his life, but I couldn’t see that I’d done anything wrong – I felt even more justified because my parents were so upset about Kyle “betraying” them and paid no attention to me. I did badly in my A levels and had to go through clearing to get a university place. I cut off all contact with Mum and Dad, worked my way through college – supported myself, didn’t ask them for a penny. I even wrote spiteful blogs about how awful it had been growing up in a family of foster carers – one of them won an award. That’s what got me my first job in journalism. Mum and Dad were devastated when they found out, but I didn’t care. We’d been estranged for over ten years when they died.’
He walks up and down the hallway, pulling his fingers through his hair. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’
‘Because I was ashamed! They’d left me everything in their will and I couldn’t understand why. I felt so guilty. I started to worry that Kyle had had my parents killed. He was in prison at the time, but he could have paid someone to do it. That would have made their deaths my fault too. I couldn’t cope, couldn’t live with myself. If I hadn’t met you that day on the Tube, I think I might have jumped in front of a train.’
‘I thought you were just grieving. I didn’t realise …’
‘Of course you didn’t. I was living a lie, even to myself. I fell in love with you immediately. You gave me a reason to build a future, but it meant rewriting the past, keeping secrets from you. I couldn’t risk telling you the truth. I wanted you to think I was a good person, like my parents. I wanted to be a good person. Lori’s arrival felt like a test. By helping her, I could change, even start to make amends. But of course, it all went wrong. I’m sorry, Jack, I’m so sorry.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t trust me enough,’ he says. ‘We loved each other, talked about getting married …’
‘I know, I really messed up. I did to you what my parents did to me. I shoved you to one side, made you feel second best. I know how that feels. Which is why I don’t blame you for cheating on me, or for leaving, even though it really hurt.’
He steps forward and gathers me into his arms. I rest my face against his T-shirt and tears roll down my cheeks, making a damp patch on his chest.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he says. ‘What I did was appalling. There was no excuse.’ After a few moments, I drag myself out of his embrace and we hold hands, fixing our gaze on each other. ‘Neither of us behaved well,’ he continues. ‘But we could try again, forgive each other. Put all this behind us and make a fresh start.’
‘But you’re with Pansy.’
‘Nah … that ended weeks ago. It was just a stupid fling. I never stopped loving you. I know you still love me too. You don’t have to sell the house, I’ll move back in …’
‘We can’t, Jack.’ I lean weakly against the front door. ‘It’s too late.’
‘No, it’s not. We just have to be honest with each other, tell each other everything. No more pretending, no more lies.’
He’s right, of course, it’s our only hope. But it’s also impossible.
Jack knows the truth about me now, but I can never tell him what happened here: that Lori was a fake, that her sister attacked me. That forty years ago, a man was killed in this very hallway and buried in the garden. I can’t tell him that Alan pretends to be his law-abiding, upstanding brother, who was in fact a violent bastard who deserved to die. Can’t tell him about Kay, who has lived in fear every day of her adult life – first, afraid that her husband would beat her to death, and then afraid that his murder would be discovered. I can’t pass that burden on to him. Can’t take the risk.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finally. ‘I do love you, but I know it wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t explain. I just need some time on my own to sort myself out.’
He puts his hands in his pockets. ‘We’ll keep in touch, eh? Stay friends.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Me
too.’ There’s an awkward pause. I look down at the pattern on the floor tiles and he checks the time on his phone. ‘My train leaves in twenty minutes. You driving back to Essex?’
‘Yes. I’ll lock up.’
‘Take care of yourself, Stella. I worry about you.’ He leans forward and kisses me chastely on the cheek. ‘Think about what I said, eh, about staying. Don’t rush to take the first offer.’
‘I may not even get one … Go on, off you go, you’ll miss your train.’
After he’s gone, I go to the conservatory and lock the back door. Then I walk upstairs to the top floor. There’s just one place I want to say goodbye to. My turret room, where I used to sit in the saggy old armchair and watch the sea.
I creak open the door and step inside. The room is hot and stuffy, motes of dust hanging in the shaft of sunlight bursting through the circular window. I go to the front and gaze out at the view – the glistening expanse of mud, the flat green sea, the wind turbines motionless on the horizon. The sunshine presses against my back, massaging my tense muscles, soothing me. I love this little room – so high up, so safe. It has always felt like a refuge.
For the first time, the house is completely empty. No boyfriend, no builders, no strange guests. Not even the ghosts are here. The spirits of all those women who knocked on the door asking for help are finally able to leave. They don’t need to keep guard any more. There are no more secrets to hide. They can wander down to the beach, skim stones, dip their toes in the water, make sandcastles with their kids. They can walk along the Esplanade and go on the pier, try their luck in the amusement arcades, buy a cone of chips. No need to look over their shoulders. They’re free now. We’re all free.
If THE GUEST left you gripped then you’ll love THE EX-WIFE, a dark twisty thriller about not really knowing the man you married…
* * *
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