The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  ‘No. You won’t.’ Hazel’s voice is firm. ‘Things are different now. Time is a healer, you know?’ She gives a little smile. ‘And . . . I want you to know that I’ll speak for you, at your hearing. If you like. If you want me, I’ll be on your side. From now on. I’ll make it up to you. All the silence, the estrangement. Before . . . I know you’re angry, but you must understand a bit of it at least.’

  Hazel’s voice cracks a little, causing Laurel to bite her lip. ‘When it happened, suddenly I wasn’t Rosie Bowman any more. They took everything from me. My house, my school, my name. You didn’t see what it was like. The press, the terrible things they said. The abuse we got. Shit poured on our front door. Bottles smashed on our car. I was only six, Lau— L. I just did what I was told. And then, when I was old enough to make my own decisions, I was scared. Scared that if I came here, people would find me out. Work out who I was and then my life would be a nightmare all over again.’

  ‘Get me a fucking violin, Rosie,’ Laurel says, her expression cold and hard. ‘Selfish, selfish, selfish.’

  ‘Even now, even before that girl went missing in Devon, I was getting anonymous letters. Someone had found out who I was. Sending me hate mail, trying to scare me. Telling me I had it coming. Look at my face.’ She touches her cheek. ‘This is where the mother of that girl who went missing attacked me.’

  Laurel remains impassive, unmoved.

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ Hazel goes on, her voice rising. She needs to bring her sister back. She had her for a moment, but she has gone, darting underneath the water like a tiny fish. ‘Maybe it was selfish. But . . .’ she opens her hands to the room ‘. . . here we are, L. And if we don’t move on, what’s left? It’s always going to be hard, isn’t it? Being you and me. We’re never going to be on the Queen’s Honours list. Right?’

  Laurel doesn’t smile, but her face softens. Just a fraction.

  ‘And at least now . . .’ Hazel pauses, catching her breath, her lashes wet with tears. ‘At least now we’ll have each other. Won’t we? Couldn’t we?’

  Laurel dips her forehead to her fingertips, pressing hard with their pads on her skin, leaving white pressure marks behind.

  ‘I don’t remember, L. What happened with the baby . . . I remember being at the park. Playing on the roundabout, the swings, the horse. And then we went over the top of that bank, and down. And after that it’s like a train coming in fast, right through my head. I don’t remember anything else. Just flashes of that hotel they sent us to. People shouting at us on the street.’ A tear falls onto the table and Hazel wipes it away angrily, annoyed with herself for crying. ‘I know you’re being punished. What you’ve suffered. But what can I do? It wasn’t fair perhaps. But I just don’t know. Please, L. Let me help you now. Please.’

  Laurel stares at her sister for a good long minute. At last, she pushes her chair away from the table and stands. She comes over and, for a second, Hazel thinks that her sister is going to embrace her. Laurel hitches up her jeans on her skinny frame, pulls down her grey sweatshirt, crusted with ingrained dirt, and walks to the door. She raps twice and it opens and she is out of the room before Hazel has realised that their meeting is over, before she understands that her sister has truly gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Hillier notices Karen, the waitress from Balcombe Court, as soon as she enters the bar. It’s hot inside and Hillier removes her jacket as she walks in past garish orange walls, the music reverberating in her chest. As she hoists herself up onto a stool next to Karen’s, Hillier feels suddenly ancient, a relic of something even she can’t remember.

  ‘Bloody dark in here, isn’t it?’ she says, passing her badge across. ‘My ID, if you’re interested and can see it. Drink?’ she says, raising a hand to the barman.

  ‘Vodka and soda, please.’

  Hillier orders it and an orange juice for herself. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ she says.

  ‘S’alright,’ Karen replies, sipping at her drink. ‘I did talk to the police already, though. When the girl went missing?’ The waitress has an open face and Hillier feels haggard just looking at her bright eyes and unlined skin.

  ‘Yep, I know. You were interviewed by one of my colleagues after your shift at Balcombe Court had finished.’

  ‘So how can I help now?’

  Hillier pushes her glass away from her a little. ‘I just wanted to check on the timings with you. About that afternoon. You said in your statement that you left the hotel at three o’clock. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I was on the early shift that day as it was New Year’s, so I would have left at three.’

  ‘And you saw Georgie, did you, before you left?’

  ‘Yes. She’d come into the kitchen to see the kittens that I’d found on the beach. Poor little things. I couldn’t believe someone would just abandon them like that. Left all alone in the freezing cold to die. Shameful.’ Karen’s eyes are wide and tragic.

  Hillier smiles. ‘So, your . . . boyfriend? Marek Kaczka . . .’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ Karen’s interruption is firm.

  ‘Well, your colleague then. Marek,’ Hillier says. ‘He had put the box of kittens into the pantry?’

  ‘Yep. After I brought them up to the hotel. I gave them something to eat. We had a tin of tuna and some milk. And then Georgie came in, wanting to see them, so I showed her where they were and then I left.’

  ‘And you’re certain it was three o’clock?’

  ‘Definitely. Shift ended at three and I could see the time on the clock in the kitchen.’

  Hillier looks hard at her.

  Karen nods. ‘Swear on my mum’s life. Clock said three and three it was.’ She puts her head on one side. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, why are you asking about this? The little girl was found, wasn’t she? I mean, do you think someone took her on purpose?’ Her eyes widen again. ‘Not Marek? Do you think it was Marek that took her?’

  Hillier gets down inelegantly from the stool and shoots Karen a quick smile. ‘We’re just making enquiries,’ she says. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have hurt her,’ Karen says earnestly. ‘He’s not the type. He’s a sweet guy. Wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s . . . well, he’s just not my type is all. But not because he’s dodgy. It was me that was the problem, not him. He’s only left Brixham because of all the talk. You know, about what happened to him before. It’s not fair, really. That girl was asking for it. She lied to him about her age and then he gets the blame.’ Karen’s face crumples with loathing.

  ‘Kaczka’s left Brixham?’ Hillier asks, her lips suddenly dry. ‘You mean, he’s quit up at Balcombe?’

  Karen nods, taking a sip through the straw in her glass. ‘He jacked it in a couple of weeks ago. Couldn’t hack what everyone was saying. That’s it, isn’t it? If you get accused of kiddy fiddling, you can’t ever shake it off. I feel sorry for him, if you want to know.’

  ‘Where’s he gone then?’

  The girl shrugs. ‘I dunno,’ she says, refusing to meet Hillier’s eyes.

  ‘Not in touch with him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I see,’ Hillier says, putting on her jacket. ‘Well, thanks for your time anyway.’

  ‘Bloody dead in this town. Nice to have a bit of excitement in all fairness.’

  After Hillier has left, banging the door behind her with a cold gust of January air, Karen takes out her phone and taps out a message. The reply comes back before she has even ordered another drink.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  ‘It’s time,’ Max says as they walk away from the prison. Hazel shivers as she stands by the passenger door, waiting for him to retrieve his keys from his coat pocket. ‘I think it’s time,’ he says again, clicking the lock and hefting himself into the driver’s seat. The pain in his gullet is so bad today, he can hardly swallow.

  ‘Time for what?’ asks Hazel. She can’t get the visceral image of Laurel’s rage out of her mind. She plays another old game wher
e she puts the confusing thoughts into a Perspex box in her mind. She watches them rattle around inside, jiggering and scuttling like trapped angry beetles. In the box, they are separate from her; that is the game. She can watch how they move, how they clatter, but keep them away from inside of her where it must be peaceful and safe.

  The game.

  There are so many games, Hazel thinks. The games they used to play together as children. The games her mother taught her. You can call them games but, ultimately, they’re really about survival.

  ‘BITCH!!’ The cry comes from across the car park like a banshee’s wail. ‘YOU SHOULD ROT IN HELL!’

  Hazel jerks round to see a woman in a denim jacket a few yards away, her face fixed in a snarl.

  ‘Come away, Hazel,’ Max says urgently. ‘Get into the car.’

  She climbs in hurriedly, pulling her collar up around her ears, pushing her chin into her chest. They are everywhere these days. Ghouls and monsters, lurking in the shadows. Leaping out at her with teeth bared, drooling hatred. She fears them with an intensity so raw it is as if her skin has been flayed. Every approach, every word, is like a scald. Leave me alone! she screams inside her head. Leave me alone!

  ‘Just ignore it,’ Max says, his voice shaking as he starts the engine. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Hazel is silent as the car makes its way through the wet streets. The hush of the rain washing across the windscreen and the squeak of the wipers have a near-meditative effect on her. They echo the rhythm of her thoughts.

  ‘I’ve set up a meeting,’ Max says after a while. ‘It’s all a bit cloak and dagger.’ He shrugs wryly. ‘That’s just the way of the business.’

  ‘What business?’ Hazel asks, moving her head from side to side, trying to focus, erase the thoughts of Laurel and what she said, how she abandoned her own sister in the visiting room.

  ‘The publishing business,’ Max replies. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Romilly Harris. She’s a huge literary agent. Massive. She’s read my proposal and loves it. Wants to send it out to numerous publishing houses. She’s hopeful for a bidding war. But we have to keep it secret for the moment. We mustn’t let the papers get hold of the same idea.’

  Hazel stares out of the passenger window as if she isn’t listening.

  ‘Hazel?’ Max says, glancing across but she still doesn’t answer. He sighs, staring out at the darkening skies. ‘Look, can they really hate you forever?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hazel says, understanding what he means. ‘They hated Myra Hindley until the day she died.’

  ‘But you’re not her. What she and Brady did to those children was depraved. It was deliberate and sadistic. But you and Laurel . . .’ Max exhales loudly. ‘I don’t know. It’s not the same thing. You were so young. I mean, you wouldn’t have had the capacity, would you? To know what you were doing? And what Laurel did, it was an . . . an aberration, wasn’t it?’

  Hazel says nothing, stares straight ahead at the reds and greens of the traffic lights gleaming through the fading afternoon light.

  ‘It was play that went wrong. And you were just a bystander. And in any case, you can’t remember.’ Max shrugs, keeping his voice low as if he’s convincing himself, running the patchwork of the story through in his mind. ‘The shock of what your sister did paralysed you, sent you catatonic. Six years old. The damage caused on that day has had far-reaching consequences for everyone involved. But now it’s time to move on. Maybe you will regain some memories. Maybe it will come back to you some day . . .’

  Hazel remains quiet, watching the wet streets out of the window. She thinks of the plane tree outside her flat, the way its falling leaves drift down in waves, spreading in a carpet over the ground.

  ‘Don’t you think?’ he says. ‘What do you think?’

  Hazel nods, folding her hands in her lap. ‘The thing is . . .’ she says at last, before faltering.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think . . . I think some things are coming back.’ She looks over at him.

  ‘What things?’ he asks, a pulse point quickening in his temple. ‘Memories?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answers slowly. ‘I think I might be starting to remember.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  1996

  The cat lay prone on the stoop of the back door, which led out onto the garden. It was fat and ginger with white paws and a pink nose. It didn’t belong to the Bowmans. Their mother used to chase it away if she saw it in the garden. Amy Bowman hated cats, they made her sneeze. It belonged to one of the neighbours whose garden ran alongside theirs. All the gardens lay in a straight row at the back of the terrace like a line of verdant soldiers.

  The cat would bound through one of the holes in the trellis face and walk languidly over to the step where the sun would hit most afternoons, creating a warm patch in which it liked to sleep.

  Laurel and Rosie sat cross-legged on the grass, watching the cat in slumber. They sat quite still, their eyes steady on the animal, on his ginger paws crossed in front of him, his whiskers twitching in the soft breeze.

  After a while, Laurel held out her hand, her fist closed, her arm straight and stretched out. A moment later Rosie did the same, her clenched first alongside her sister’s. As if to a beat that only they could hear, they bounced their fists once, twice, three times over the grass before opening their palms simultaneously. Laurel’s fingers formed a V-shape whereas Rosie’s hand was flat. Seeing this, she nodded and climbed slowly to her feet.

  Carefully, she walked across the grass to where the cat lay. She made no sound, her bare feet quiet on the warm grass. Laurel continued to watch in silence as Rosie picked up the cat by the scruff of its neck. It opened its eyes in surprise but it was impossible to wriggle out of the girl’s grip. She held the cat out to one side as she made her way round, past Laurel and down to the end of the garden where the blue hydrangeas were.

  Laurel lay back on the grass, stretching out her toes and feeling the caress of the sun on her face. As her mother looked on from the kitchen window, she counted the clouds in the sky, floating past on the current of the earth. A shadow fell briefly over her as Rosie came back to join her, lying next to her sister without speaking. They lay there for a while, softly breathing before getting up and going to sit on the now empty stoop.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Joanna sits on the sofa in the midst of the detritus of Will and Lucy’s house. It’s a small terrace in Hackney with an even smaller mortgage thanks to Will’s last few City bonuses. She’d sat on a wall on the other side of the road for what felt like forever, watching the windows until the lights began to pop on. Eventually, Will had come to the door, held it open and inclined his head, a glass of red wine in his hand. Joanna had slid off the wall and crossed the road. At the gate, she’d paused, looking at him.

  ‘Just come in, Jo,’ he’d said. ‘You can come in.’

  It felt almost impossible to Joanna, those steps up to the door. As if she were climbing an Everest of her own resentment, her own conviction that she exists only on the periphery. Will is one of the few people she has ever admitted to herself that she loves. Other than Debbie and her family. It seems to Joanna as she crosses the threshold into the house that to show anyone love is immediately to make yourself vulnerable to them taking it away from you. And for a moment she hesitates, scared once again. But then she straightens her shoulders and continues, because she can’t be that pathetic. Not she, who is so strong and so able to fight.

  ‘You’ve never been here before, have you?’ Will says, ushering her inside and into the small sitting room. He hands her the wine and Joanna sits on the sofa underneath the window.

  ‘I thought I had,’ she answers.

  ‘Nope. We’ve offered.’ Will smiles. ‘But, you’re busy. I know . . . Lucy’s upstairs reading to Jemima. The Gruffalo. Takes forever. All the characters have different voices,’ he explains, sitting forward, holding his own glass between his knees. In the background, a radio is playing.

  Som
ething about the place feels utterly familiar to Joanna as she sits inside this warm house with its brick-coloured walls and antique mirrors. It is filled to the brim with finger paintings, recipe books, tins of Heinz baked beans, spices on the shelves. And then she realises that it’s because it feels like home. It reminds her of her childhood house, of Debbie and herself coming in after school, chucking their bags down in the hall, their mum bringing them jam on toast in front of the TV.

  Joanna has none of this in her flat. Everything there is impermanent, as if she could pack a bag and be off in a matter of hours, nothing left behind to show she was there other than some rumpled bedsheets and a few half-finished bottles of Grey Goose.

  She shakes her head and takes a long sip from her wine.

  ‘What?’ Will asks.

  She looks at him. ‘I went to see her, you know. The other day. Rosie Bowman.’

  ‘Where? God, really? Did you talk to her?’

  ‘No. She was heading off somewhere, surrounded by photographers. They were mobbing her, going to swallow her up.’

  Will leans back in his armchair. ‘Laurel’s oral hearing has been set for next month,’ he says. ‘You haven’t been answering your emails. I didn’t know if you knew. It’s a closed proceeding. We can’t attend.’ The sound of laughter trickles down from upstairs and he glances up at the ceiling. ‘So, what was she like? Rosie?’

  Joanna shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Different from Laurel. She’s tiny. She had a hood on, I couldn’t really see. It was pointless, going there. But . . . I’d been to see Debbie.’