I headed upstairs to my ‘studio’.
***
The smell of lemons alerted me that Schmidt was lurking outside the bedroom. The door was now slightly ajar. His snooping was unnerving, but Schmidt promised to get me into university, saying that I would gain admiration and respect. My brothers had taught me everything a boy should know, but I was a girl with aspirations, and I was going to show them what a great artist I was.
‘Eight-thirty, Carol.’ He came into the room. ‘Don’t worry about your brushes. I’ll clean those.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll clean myself up.’
The lemon smell was stronger in the bathroom. After checking myself for tell-tale signs of paint, I made my way onto the landing. Schmidt’s back blocked the view of my painting. I felt a surge of pride at my accomplishment, and I expected him to turn and congratulate me. Instead, I noticed that his stance was odd. He was rocking slightly, hands in front of him. Something about his demeanour stilled me. The previous week, he’d sat in the kitchen with my dirty gym kit across his lap. The sight had unnerved me, and now this odd behaviour un-nerved me again, so I hurried downstairs shouting that I was ready to leave. The image of him ran like a film through a reel. It was just my wild imagination, I thought. He probably had an itch in an uncomfortable place that was embarrassing for him.
Slipping through the connecting door to the garage, I waited as nerves jittered my teeth. As he entered, I panicked, and, frantic for something distracting, I remembered that the drama teacher had been attempting to chat him up the previous week.
‘Miss Francis has the hots for you. Are you going out with her?’
‘Hum. I will reply with one of your sayings: “Don’t be daft.”’ His mouth tightened, but I couldn’t shut up. ‘Wasn’t she brave to ask you? Girls don’t ask men out, do they? Did you turn her down because you think she’s too forward?’
‘No, of course not. I’m not one of these men who live in the past. I don’t see women as … how do you say … “sluts”.’
The word spat out of his mouth. His face was rigid, his eyelids hooded over pin-prick irises.
‘Sorry. I'm nosy. My brothers are always up for any girl who makes eyes at them even though they complain that those types of girls are easy. I ask you. You can’t win. What’s that all about, Mr Schmidt – um, Erik?’ I drew in a breath and held it, hoping he wouldn’t notice my frail composure under his unremitting gaze.
‘You haven’t done it with anyone, have you, Carol?’
Crossing my arms over my stomach, I rocked on my feet, guilt rising for no reason. ‘I don't think you should ask me that. Can we go now, or Mum will worry and ask questions? I can walk …’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you. Forgive me.’
We got in the car. I knew that I should stop these visits.
But I desperately wanted to go to university, and he was so confident that he could get me there.
Chapter 5
Friday, 20 March 1970
My hands shook as I knocked on Sarah’s door. Mrs Burcher opened it; surprise lifted her eyebrows. ‘It’s a bit late, Carol …’ She trailed off.
I itched from foot to foot hoping sweat wasn’t seeping through my clothes. ‘Please, Mrs Burcher. I need to ask Sarah something important. To do with school.’
‘On a Friday night? Okay. But Matthew will be here in a minute so you must leave then. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’
The Burchers’ were our next-door neighbours. Their house was spooky. Its closed doors, velvet curtains and heavy furniture shrouded it in darkness. A crucifix loomed on the hallway windowsill; its substantial size blocked out the sun, seeming to censor its right to cast light into this dreary home.
‘Sarah. Carol is here,’ Mrs Burcher shouted upstairs before turning, ‘Go on up. Tell her to pack up Chrissie’s things.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Burcher.’ I walked up the stairs, ears alert for the sound of Schmidt’s knocking. He was bound to be coming round after what I’d just done. Sarah’s mum retreated into the dining room, back to the soft sound of the radio. Thank God Mum was out and Schmidt would get no reply when he knocked.
‘Hi, Carol. Thought you were babysitting Julie?’ Sarah looked around from her desk.
‘Got cancelled. Your mum wants you to pack up Chrissie’s things.’
‘Oh. You should’ve come round earlier. Just finished another letter. You’ll never work this one out.’
‘Thanks. I’ll take it home.’ She handed me a letter. We’d been doing these for years – little notes using codes to decipher secret messages.
I stuffed it in my coat pocket as she stood, and we went to her old bedroom at the front of the house where her niece Chrissie was asleep. Sarah picked up a nappy and cardigan and dropped them into a bag.
‘You don’t want to do them anymore because I’m getting good,’ she whispered over the carry-cot on the bed. I shook my head and went to the window to look for Schmidt as Chrissie sucked at her chubby thumb: a cute one-year-old slumbering in rosy-dewed innocence.
‘No. It’s not that. It’s … I took Schmidt’s car.’ I pulled back the curtain. Schmidt was at the top of the road.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He locked me in his house. I panicked. Got in his car and locked the doors. Was afraid to get out in case … Had to threaten to drive through the garage door. But he opened it, so I drove off. Had no choice. No way I was going to stay in that house with him.’
Sarah gaped through the soft glow of the shaded night-light. ‘Schmidt? The German teacher? Locked you in? You were at his house?’
‘Yes. I’ve been going there … a few weeks … months.’ I wanted her to say something, but she didn’t. ‘He’s been teaching me … stuff … to get me into uni, but he … got spooky.’
She shifted her weight and checked that we hadn’t woken Chrissie. ‘Spooky? So you stole his car?’ She looked towards the door to check for her mother. ‘Carol, you’re in so much trouble.’
‘Don’t think so.’ Nerves had got the better of me, but deep down I knew that he wasn’t going to report me to the Headmaster. I feared other consequences, but I wasn’t sure what those were.
Her eyes darted back to mine. ‘What made you scared? You’re never scared.’ Her brow furrowed, uncertainty crossing her face as she contemplated this reversal of our usual roles.
Taking her arm, I pulled her out of the room and into her bedroom. ‘He made all these promises about getting me into university. I’d surprise everyone when I produced this thing, a portfolio thing. Said my dad would be proud of me. It was our secret. That was the weird bit. Having a secret with a teacher. And he bought me stuff, paint and notebooks.’
‘Gosh. Weird. But good. Like he was helping you.’ She opened her arms as if to hug me but then brought her hands back together.
Listening at the door for Schmidt’s knocking, I told her, ‘He made me hide on the back seat of his car under a rug because no one could know.’ Her mouth opened in an O. ‘He had my dirty games kit spread over his kitchen table. He said he was getting my hockey boots out to clean, but he wasn’t. Then he was doing something in the bedroom as he stood in front of my paintings. And today … all the creepy things ...’ Tears stung my eyes as panic threatened to erupt.
‘Do you think we should tell someone? Your mum? A teacher?’
‘No!’ I rocked myself to control my nerves. ‘I can’t, Sarah. I can’t. I’m so stupid. When I think about hiding in the back of his car, I … I can’t believe I did that. Why did I? It was so …’
‘But you’re not afraid of stuff. You’re brave. You don’t worry because you … just … don’t. If you want to do something, you do it.’ She pushed my hair off of my face, but it dropped down again. ‘Like taking the twelve-bore, or fishing in the lake. You’re … um … impulsive. And you never get caught. And if you do, people just say “Don’t do it again”, because you’re not really bad.’
‘Then why do I feel … strange, panicky? Like I�
�ve done something wrong but I don’t know what exactly. I feel weird inside. I had to get out. Had to take his car. Had to. Left it just down the road a bit. On the hill.’
She put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Then he’ll see it if he comes here, won’t he? So it’ll be fine. But stay away from him from now.’
‘But he has all my work. All the stuff I did before … I took it to show him. I’ve left everything. My poetry, everything.’
‘Maybe ask your mum to get it …’
‘No! No, Sarah.’
She squeezed me as I sobbed. ‘It’ll be all right. You can do more stuff, better stuff.’
‘It was sooo creepy in his house. And it smelt of lemons, and he smelt of lemons. I knew something was wrong. Except I didn’t … but, it has to do with … sex ... I think.’
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘What, to do with … um … you know. What happened?’
‘Nothing – not actual … you know. He crept about when I painted. And he asked me if I’d “done it”. Then I couldn’t concentrate. And keeping it secret. He was annoyed every time I said that I wanted to tell people.’
‘Mummy says I have to tell her if a man asks me to keep a secret. Should I tell her?’
‘No! God, Sarah, don’t you dare.’
‘Okay. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. It’ll be our secret. Oh, I didn’t mean …’ She laughed and suddenly Schmidt seemed silly, so I laughed too. Mr Burcher shouted upstairs for us to keep quiet. Sarah’s brother, Matthew, arrived to pick up Chrissie. Matthew’s voice drifted up, ‘Some guy outside Melissa’s is looking for Carol.’
We froze. Matthew bounded up the stairs and beckoned me into Chrissie’s bedroom. ‘Who is that guy? He told me his name, but I couldn’t make it out.’ He moved to give me room to look out. As I stepped beside him, he moved closer; his breath distracted me as it flowed over my head. The adult Matthew entranced me, although I couldn’t fathom why. He was repulsive and attractive at the same time. A moody boy, stomping off in a strop if he didn’t have his way. My brothers fell in and out of friendship with him continually. Now he called my mum Melissa instead of Mrs Cage and spoke with a deep male voice that purred along my neck.
‘Um … looks like Mr Schmidt.’ I tried to sound uninterested as my body struggled to stay upright.
‘Well, he’s looking for his car. Seems to think you might know where it is. Do you?’
‘No … I, oh, that looks like it just over there, down the hill towards the school.’
His look told me he knew something was going on. ‘Right, well, I’ll go and tell him. Strange that he forgot where he’d left it.’
He picked up the carry-cot and bag as he left. We watched him walk the front path and speak to Schmidt, who looked across the road and ran towards the hill. Matthew placed Chrissie in his van then turned to look up at us.
‘I’d better go before he comes back in. See you tomorrow.’ I rushed downstairs and out the back door, startling Mrs Burcher from her knitting.
Mum would be home soon, but luckily Schmidt and his car had gone. Something told me that he wouldn’t be back; that he was doing something that he shouldn’t be; that I could relax because he wouldn’t bother with me again. I should have felt relieved, but I didn’t. I felt guilty because I should have spoken to someone about him and I hadn’t. Pretending that nothing had happened was easier even though I knew he was evil.
Chapter 6
Easter Saturday, 28 March 1970
Easter Saturday. Tired and fed up, I’d trudged home from the supermarket. Stacking dry goods since eight that morning was boring, and the muscles in my back were complaining. Mum expected me to be grateful, as though that was to be my life. Leave school to work full time, she said. She didn’t know I was going to uni, so there would be an argument. Another one.
Mr Philips owned the supermarket. He’d given me a job because Mum was sleeping with him. I didn’t care that I was ungrateful. Shop work wasn’t going to be my life.
As if that problem wasn’t enough, Denny was dating Rosemary Major, Sally’s older sister. What he saw in her, apart from her enormous chest, was incomprehensible. She was prettier than Sally in the same way that a piglet was cuter than a sow. Mum and Denny were pushing me to invite Sally home so that we could become friends – a little family. Unease accompanied every journey home expecting that bitch to be sitting on our settee, smooching with my brother. I hadn’t wanted Denny to leave home, but now I couldn’t wait for him to move in with our older brother, Gerry. Life was so awful all the time.
The memory of meeting Frankie would slip through my dreams each morning, and I’d worry that I had only imagined how gorgeous he was. That if I met him again he would be ordinary. My daydreams had turned him into an impossibly desirable man and my longing for him was so great that I believed my life would end without him in it. Fantasies in which he reached for me and drew me to him playing in my mind, hours spent daydreaming about marrying him and living in Thora’s house – without Thora, of course. Lust and longing had replaced common sense as the rooms of Oaktree House became my imaginary home. Frankie was by my side and in my bed. Frankie, my gorgeous husband, took me in his arms, and we lived in eternal ecstasy.
As I trudged closer to home, I saw someone standing on our front path holding a bunch of flowers. The sun broke through, and its low rays illuminated my dream. It was Frankie. He turned and waved. My footsteps faltered as my heart raced. He couldn’t see me like this: sweaty, no lipstick, my hair a mess.
Sarah opened her front door and stepped onto the path. She waved before noticing him. He turned, and they talked. She giggled as she stroked her hair and pushed it behind her ears. They turned together to watch me. As I approached the gate, he walked towards me.
‘At last!’ He smiled, but I didn’t; I was horrified that I smelt. ‘You’ve forgiven me for not having petrol, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. Of course. Where’s your car?’ I glanced around hoping for another chance to drive it.
‘Oh yes, where’s your car?’ Sarah asked as she looked up and down our road. ‘I didn’t see it last time.’
‘Oh, nice!’ he said, ‘The pair of you would rather see my car. I’ll go then.’
‘No. I want to see you … as well. We both do.’ Moisture oozed over my body.
He winked. ‘I could get used to being second best. Thought I’d walk.’ He stepped closer, ‘For you,’ he said quietly, his back to Sarah as he offered me the flowers. His eyes searched for my reaction. The flowers reminded me of my dad’s funeral. Repulsion mixed with gratitude and each rendered me dumbstruck.
‘Well, are you going to take them before my arm drops off?’ My reaction had disappointed him.
‘Take them, Carol.’ Sarah walked to the front door, easing away from us.
Red roses and white gypsophila lay in my sweaty hands: flowers Mum used in the wreath for my dad. The sight of them itched bad memories. Dad bought her these flowers for every special occasion.
‘Have I done enough to get a cup of tea before I walk back?’ He smiled and brought his hands together in a praying motion.
‘I ... there’s no one home.’ My knees trembled at the thought of being alone with him.
‘I’m sure Sarah will join us. She can protect you from me if you need it.’ Another teasing smile before he turned to her.
Sarah said, ‘I’ve made scones. I’ll get them,’ and ran into her house.
‘Are we going to be poisoned?’ He pulled a face of mock horror, and I caught my breath at how lovely he was.
‘Course not. Sarah’s a good cook.’ She couldn’t make scones, but we’d only get indigestion.
He followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table. Dropping the flowers onto the draining board, I contemplated them, mummified in cellophane. The simple process of making tea eluded me under Frankie’s watchful gaze.
‘D’you like your flowers?’ His voice was soft yet strong.
‘Yes, they’re lovely, thank you.’ I’d no idea how
to react and hoped that I sounded both grateful and used to receiving flowers.
Sarah opened the back door and entered with scones and a pot of jam. We placed butter and cutlery on the table. Frankie watched as I spooned tea in the teapot, and asked Sarah, ‘Do you work?’
‘Not yet. I’m going to work at the baccy factory with my dad.’ She hadn’t told me that, so she avoided my stare.
‘What’s a baccy factory?’ he asked.
‘Tobacco factory. My dad’s a foreman.’
He turned to me, ‘And you, Carol, are you going to be working in this “baccy factory”, or are you staying at the supermarket?’
‘No.’ I drew in a breath and came straight out with the truth. ‘I’ll be staying on to do my A-levels. I’m fifteen.’
His eyes skimmed over my breasts, astounding me that he would do that. ‘You’re very mature for fifteen. Both of you.’ He looked at Sarah, who rewarded him with a blushing grin, and I worried that he had assessed her breasts, too.
‘I would say you were both seventeen.’ He picked up a scone and put it on a plate.
‘Well, we’re not.’ The dream of us together disappeared. As I took the teapot to the table, I noticed that my hands had stopped shaking now that the chances of us dating had gone.
‘When are you sixteen?’ he asked me.
‘May,’ I said, pulling my shoulders back to ensure that he knew I was proud of myself.
‘Oh, not long then.’ He nodded.
Sarah handed him the butter dish and a knife. ‘I was sixteen last December. How old are you, Frankie?’
He took the knife and butter and said, ‘Nineteen. These look delicious, Sarah.’
She blushed. ‘I hope you like them.’
We busied ourselves eating. Frankie’s hands were smooth, with tiny hairs glinting as he deftly sliced his scone. He spread butter then lifted it to his mouth. Unable to watch, a piece of scone clumped dryly on my tongue, refusing to budge. My dreams did not feature Sarah, tea and scones.
Killing The Girl Page 3