What You Left Behind

by Samantha Hayes

  “No one’s saying it’s your fault, Gil,” Freddie managed to reply.

  His throat was tight, as if a fist were gripping his windpipe. He would send another text, tell Lana to get his Uncle Adam to come to the cottage. But when he reached in for the phone again the screen was blank. He jabbed a couple of buttons. The battery had died.

  “You think I am bad and that’s why I am locking you up but I didn’t lock Dean in or lock Simon in did I and they still died.”

  Freddie was forcing himself to think. He’d already spotted the window bars, so making an escape by that route was impossible. There was no way out of the loft apart from a skylight, and Gil would grab him before he even got up there. He’d have to either con Gil into letting him go free, or overpower him and get the key. He didn’t fancy his chances at either.

  “I’m sorry, Gil, I’m just confused,” Freddie said, withdrawing his hand from the pack and fastening it in readiness. Whatever happened, he mustn’t leave it behind. It contained the laptop.

  “It wasn’t my fault he died we were going on holiday and I was excited. But then no one was excited because Simon was hanging.” Gil rubbed his face.

  The holiday made sense. Freddie had seen the suitcase twice. Once in the pictures on the computer …

  Oh God, that poor naked man, his dick on show and that brown stuff that was probably shit … the photographer’s shadow cast from the low winter sun streaming into the barn … the other person cowering in the dark corner, watching on …

  And he’d seen it again in Gil’s drawing. It was old-fashioned-looking, battered, had a sticker of the Eiffel Tower on it. Gil had copied it meticulously. He’d noticed it when Gil first allowed him to hide in the cottage. His pictures were everywhere and Freddie had flicked through them, not seeing the really nasty ones until later. Apart from being grotesque, they wouldn’t have meant much until he’d seen the actual photographs, secreted in layers of invisible files on the computer. And even then, the implications weren’t certain.

  Oh God, why had he ever left his bedroom?

  Fleetingly, he thought of his mum, how she must be feeling. He’d been gone three nights now and he knew she’d be in a state.

  “Did you hear that?” Freddie said. The rumble of a rough-sounding vehicle passing the tack-room doorway.

  Gil shook his head. “I will not let them take you.”

  It was definitely a car. Freddie prayed it was his Aunty Lorraine. She’d understand about the bullying and he could make up some excuse about why he’d been in the woods. Lenny could hardly say differently, not now.

  He stood up, but Gil was up in a flash and shoving him back down on the sofa.

  “I just wanted to see whose car it was,” Freddie said.

  “You are a secret I am good at keeping secrets,” Gil replied. It came out as a chant, as if it were pre-programmed and he couldn’t say anything else.

  Freddie strained his ears, thought he heard a car door slam nearby.

  “Tony said I mustn’t tell anyone and that if I do bad things will happen and I will go to the place for people like me. I can’t let you go.”

  The worried expression on Gil’s face temporarily slowed Freddie’s heart. He realized that, like him, Gil was a prisoner too. Freddie had never bothered to ask Lana what was wrong with him, but now they had something in common. Except Gil was trapped inside his own mind with no chance of ever escaping.

  “Tony won’t send you away,” Freddie tried to reassure him. “You can trust me.” This time when he stood up, pack slung on his shoulder again, Gil didn’t shove him, and when he opened his arms for a brotherly embrace, Gil walked right into them.

  Slowly, carefully, Freddie slipped his hand into Gil’s back pocket and retrieved the key.

  “Shall we have another cuppa?” Freddie said, closing his fingers around the metal. “Now that we’re best mates.” He pulled away.

  “That is a good idea,” Gil said, moving into the galley kitchen area.

  “I’ll just make sure the door’s secure so no one can get in.”

  Gil nodded as he grabbed the kettle.

  It all happened so quickly—the sound of the water running, the kettle filling, Gil’s happy whistling, the key sliding into the lock, turning easily, the cool evening air on his face as the door opened, Gil’s angry yell as he realized what was happening.

  Freddie almost felt bad, running out, leaving him bewildered, but there was no time for that as images of Lenny, of the woods, of the rock pounding, pounding, pounding Lenny to a pulp flashed through his mind.

  A crow flapped out of a tall tree as he charged across the gravel, his heart burning from adrenaline.

  When he saw the battered truck, it didn’t register at first. Not until the hands grabbed him, almost caught him from falling as he went dizzy with fear.

  Strong, sinewy tattooed arms wound round his body, his neck.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Frank said, black teeth grinning down.

  31

  Lana was standing in the Manor kitchen, holding her phone, not knowing what to do. She jumped as the door opened and her father came in from the yard. The dogs wrapped around his legs, getting in the way.

  “Hi,” she said tentatively, trying to gauge his mood, watching him as he washed his hands, scrubbing them several times.

  She looked surreptitiously again at Freddie’s text.

  saw them togthr

  Did Freddie mean their parents?

  “Hello,” her dad said. He seemed preoccupied, distracted. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Maybe with the horses,” Lana whispered.

  Her dad dried his hands, tossed the towel over the back of a wooden chair.

  u wre rite

  She didn’t want to be right, didn’t want her dad and Jo to have been doing those things together. She’d seen the photos by accident, walked in on her dad one evening when he was in his study. He’d been working late, so he’d said, and she’d brought him a cup of tea before she went up to bed. It was only a glimpse, just a flash, but the images were burned on her mind. Had Freddie found them on her dad’s laptop? Had he got the proof?

  Thing is, they hadn’t really thought out what to do next.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Lana said.

  He swung round, looking as if he’d just told a patient or their family bad news. She always knew when he’d done that—he came home pretty much reeking of death. She thought she smelled it on him now.

  “I’m sorry for getting into trouble,” she explained.

  He grunted, poured himself a Scotch despite the time of day. “It’s Saturday,” he said, sensing her disapproval. “I’m winding down.”

  Her father paced up and down the kitchen, one hand shoved in his pocket, one hand holding the tumbler. The dogs continued to follow him until he shoved Daisy’s rump with his foot. Then they skulked off to their beds.

  “I don’t understand why you were so fucking stupid, Lana.” He slugged more whiskey.

  “The motorbike?” she said, just in case he meant something else. She wasn’t sure how much he knew.

  Her dad nodded, finished his drink, and poured another one straightaway. Lana noticed the soft redness of his cheeks bleed upward, toward his eyes.

  “It was stupid,” she said. She felt sick even talking about it.

  “I don’t understand why you’d do something like that.”

  He sounded sad, which made Lana feel even worse. For a moment she wondered if he was about to hug her, tell her she’d always be safe, like he used to do when she was little.

  But the hug didn’t come. He just drank more whiskey, then stalked off.

  got me hear llocked up send smne helpgil

  What did Freddie mean? Was she supposed to send help, and if so, where? Had he meant to put Gil’s name at the end? She could hardly ask her dad for help. Maybe her mum would know what to do; or perhaps she should speak to Lorraine? The text was worrying her, though—the broken words, the brevity, the urge
ncy.

  She clasped the phone tightly, then slid it in her back pocket. Daisy came out of her bed and skirted around her. Lana pulled her close, gripping the barrel of her body in the hope that the dog might tell her what to do.

  “Where the hell are you, Freddie?” she whispered into the dog’s fur. “I need to know where you are.”

  “WHERE THE HELL is your father?” Freddie had said. They were in the middle of their exams, and he was jittery and nervous, unable to sit still. He hadn’t even commented on the paper they’d just taken. “I’m going to the hospital to find him. I’m going to … to …” But they’d got only one hour before their next A level and Lana was trying to calm him down. She wished she’d never mentioned what she’d seen the night before.

  The school café table was wedged between them, two Diet Cokes, two sausage, chips, and peas sitting on it untouched. Lana had felt an urgent need to reach out and hold Freddie’s hand. “You have to forget about it,” she’d said. “Let’s concentrate on our exams and sort out this mess when they’re over. We’ll do some revision together tonight, OK?”

  But Freddie had just stared at her, turning the can of Coke round and round between his hands. He was shocked, Lana could see that. Shocked and very upset.

  “Oi, fuckhead, you’re in my place.” A boy in their year loomed over them, and was quickly joined by several others.

  Resignedly, Freddie had stood up, head bowed, and lifted his tray of food to move; but the boy had swung up his arm and knocked it from his grip. Chips and peas shot everywhere. Instinctively, Lana had made a grab for his sausage before it hit the floor.

  “Just leave it,” Freddie had said and walked off, his books clutched to his chest.

  Lana had followed, and they’d gone to sit at another table, listening to the jeers and cruel comments from the group of boys as they went.

  “Ignore them,” Lana had said. “They’re idiots. And look, I probably made a mistake about what I thought I saw.” This time she had taken Freddie’s hand. He hadn’t responded.

  If she was perfectly honest, Lana didn’t think she’d made a mistake at all. She hadn’t slept at all last night. Her mind kept going over and over what it meant, trying to find a rational explanation. There wasn’t one.

  His mum. Her dad. They’d been together. And someone had taken pictures.

  THE EXAM HAD been a long one. Chemistry. Lana knew she had to do better than average. She had to get an A grade minimum—for her mother, for herself, for the rest of her life. Several times she’d glanced furtively at Freddie in the next row. Every time he’d been writing frantically, head bowed, arm curled round his paper.

  At the end of the session she’d put down her pen, her papers sitting squarely in front of her. She reckoned she’d done what she had to do.

  “I DON’T BELIEVE it,” Freddie had said later that day, head in hands. They were back in Radcote, revising in Lana’s garden near the lake so that Freddie could smoke. The grass made her legs itch. At that moment she’d wished she smoked, wished she were a rebellious teenager who got pissed, went to clubs, took Ecstasy, and didn’t come home until five in the morning.

  “I’m going to sort it out, make it all OK,” he’d added, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. “I’m not going to let this happen.”

  “But it already has,” Lana had said, wishing she could erase the pictures from her mind.

  “Look, my mum, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Sometimes she …”

  Freddie had bowed his head.

  “And my dad’s been messed up since Simon.” Lana hadn’t wanted to make excuses for him, but it was the only explanation. “What will you do?”

  Later, she wished she hadn’t asked.

  Freddie had flicked through the pages of his English notes and stuck a finger in a certain place.

  “We’re best off leaving them to it,” Lana had continued. Her family didn’t need any more trouble, especially not from her.

  “No,” Freddie had said, snapping his English book closed. He’d stood up, looming over her in his crumpled school clothes, his stubby tie. “First I want to see what you saw, make certain that you’re right. Then we work out what to do.”

  “DAD, PLEASE DON’T drink any more,” Lana said as her father returned to the kitchen to pour a third glass of whiskey.

  Sonia opened the back door. “What’s wrong with Gil?” she said, coming inside and pulling off her boots.

  Lana thought she looked ill, pale, washed out. She didn’t know how she’d had the strength to muck out the stables.

  “How the hell do I know?” Tony snapped.

  “I just found him wandering around the courtyard mumbling stuff to himself. He was in a state. I asked him to come over here, but he wouldn’t. I settled him inside his house with some tea.”

  “What was he saying?” Lana asked.

  “It was hard to tell. He was so upset. Stuff about—”

  “Shut up, woman, for Christ’s sake!”

  Lana stared at her father, horrified, as he slammed down his glass. His face was red.

  “Dad—”

  “And you be quiet too. I need to think.”

  He paced about the kitchen, his fists balled up at his sides.

  “Tony, Lana was only trying to help. Don’t be so rude.”

  It was the first time Lana had ever seen her mother stand up to her dad. Lana held her breath.

  “We need to help Gil, not argue. He’s very upset about something. You should have seen him. He was going on about it being his fault that Freddie was missing, that he didn’t keep him safe—”

  Lana screamed as her dad lunged forward and his hand lashed out at her mum. For a second, everything fell silent. Sonia held her face, her mouth fell open.

  “Dad, stop it!” Lana yelled.

  He looked at her as if he hadn’t realized she was still there, before striding out the back door, slamming it shut. She heard his footsteps on the gravel, then silence. She went up to her mum and hugged her.

  “Mum, I don’t know what to do,” she said, pulling her phone from her pocket with shaking hands. “I think someone’s got Freddie.”

  32

  “Where were you the night Dean died, Abby?” Lorraine asked.

  After breakfast, she and Adam had gone straight to New Hope. Lorraine had been tempted to sit on the bunk beside Abby, but had pulled the one opposite closer instead. She was leaning forward, elbows on knees, trying to cajole some sense from the girl.

  Adam had refused to sit and towered above Abby, who was huddled under the folds of her unzipped sleeping bag. By the look of her, she was hoping the camp bed would collapse and swallow her up.

  “We can discuss it at the police station if you prefer. Perhaps you’ll remember more there.”

  There was only silence from Abby.

  “It’s important, love,” Lorraine said, frowning up at Adam.

  “I can’t remember,” she replied. “Probably here. Or my mate’s place. My mum kicked me out a few months ago.”

  “There’s a logbook for the shelter we can check,” Adam said. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “I really miss him,” Abby said, ignoring the question. She touched the ring that hung on a cheap chain around her neck. “I loved him.”

  Lorraine reached out to Abby’s arm, and gave it a little stroke. “It must still be terribly hard for you. I’m so sorry. But we need the name of the person you were with that night.” She wanted Abby to realize that they were on her side.

  Abby shrugged. “Gem Mason. She lives on the Westlands estate. Forty-three Coundon Drive. OK?” She scowled at Lorraine.

  “Yes, thanks, love,” Lorraine said. “It’s just that sometimes, when people die, it can turn out they didn’t always want to.”

  “But they said he left a note. He killed himself, didn’t he?” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I thought he loved me back.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, and we’re hoping you can hel
p us. If Dean’s death wasn’t suicide, we need to work out exactly what happened.”

  Abby was shaking her head. The gothic skull ring trembled at her neck. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”

  “What if someone had already told us that they were on the motorbike with Dean when he died?” Adam said. “That it was an accident, not a suicide.”

  Abby gave a little jump of shock. “Like who?”

  “A girl about your age, actually.”

  “Then it’s a lie!” She sounded distressed. “Dean wouldn’t have taken no other girl apart from me on the bike.” She pulled up her sleeping bag and drew it around her shoulders, leaving only her head and skinny legs exposed. The black gladiator sandals she wore were too big around her bony ankles.

  “Let’s just suppose for a moment he did. Do you have any idea who it could have been?” Lorraine asked.

  Abby shrugged.

  “And you really can’t remember where you got Dean’s ring from?”

  Abby twisted away from them. She clearly wanted them to leave so she could burrow back into her pit of misery, even though she wasn’t supposed to be in the shelter at this time. The volunteer on duty, Derek, hadn’t insisted Abby leave with the others. It was hard not to feel sorry for her.

  Suddenly, Abby sat up straight. “That girl who works here, there’s this boy she hangs out with, yeah?”

  “Go on,” Lorraine said, interested suddenly.

  “He gave me the ring. He told me Dean would have wanted me to have it.”

  “What does the boy look like?” Adam asked.

  “You know, just a boy. Skinny, shaggy blond hair. He’s the one gave Lenny money to steal the laptop. Everyone here knows that.”

  Lorraine took her purse from her bag and pulled out a photograph. “Is this him?” she said, showing her a picture of Freddie.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Abby said confidently.

  Lorraine and Adam looked at each other.

  “And the girl he hangs out with, what’s her name?”