Silent Victim

by Caroline Mitchell

  Telling Emma had been easier than I’d expected. She had even agreed to visit Leeds to view some properties. But rather than soothe me, her calm exterior gave me greater cause for concern. She was an expert at hiding her feelings, selflessly keeping her problems to herself. It was why I had followed her out of our bedroom at 3 o’clock this morning. I hated spying on her but I knew I had taken a risk by pushing the sale of the house forward. A change in Emma’s routine could be enough to send her spiralling over the edge. Any day now she could relapse, and the effect on our family could be devastating. As I felt her toss and turn beside me in bed the night before, the thought occurred to me that the wheels might already have been set in motion. Yet, I could not live a half-life any longer, too scared of saying or doing anything for fear of upsetting her. She had told me once that anything could serve as a trigger when she was low – an argument, a mishap at work, a perceived parenting failure – reawakening the voice within. But, from what I knew, that voice had grown quieter not long after Jamie was born. They say being a parent makes you a less-selfish person. For us, our precious Jamie was a glimmer of hope. Emma had had an odd childhood, so unlike mine, and it had taken me a while to get to grips with what she had been through. If I didn’t push us to move forward, we would be stuck here for ever and resentment would eat away at my soul.

  CHAPTER TEN

  EMMA

  2017

  The keys of the quad bike felt cold and sharp in the palm of my hand. It was Dad’s bike. Like everything else, he had left it to me after he died. His painful passing was granted by a lifetime of chain-smoking. After Mum left, he stopped caring if he lived or died. She’d been just twenty-two when she’d met my much older father. As a single parent, estranged from her family, she had struggled to cope with Theresa on her own. Dad had taken them both in and brought them back to Mersea Island. But their marriage had not been a happy one. Dad had said that Mum’s was a spirit that could not be tamed. It was her Romany blood, he said, her wanderlust that drew her away. Pulling on my boots, I dismissed my thoughts, forcing my focus on to the task in hand. My head was filled with spirits of the past. It was a wonder I could function normally at all. I sat on the bike, the strong rumble of the engine beneath me. With Theresa covering, I had a couple of hours before I had to pick Jamie up from play school. I zipped up my jacket as I glanced warily at the sky. Pearl-grey clouds rolled above me, their bellies full of unshed rain. I needed to move quickly. I would get just one chance.

  The wind burned my cheeks as I bumped along the torn-up path, my fingers tightly clenched around the throttle. I motored across the landscape, a chill driving its way down my back. It was accompanied by a strong feeling of déjà vu. Left unfertilised, the land had fallen prey to the ravages of time. Clutches of ragwort lined my path: a mass of dying yellow heads and ragged leaves, swaying in their last dance of the season. I parted my lips, tasting the faint kiss of salt in the air. My relationship with Mersea was a strange addiction. It was more than protecting the evidence of what I had done that kept me here. It didn’t matter where I moved – I knew that this strange, haunting place would be a part of me for ever.

  I eased off on the throttle as I caught sight of the oak tree on the border of our land. A mist clung around its leafless branches, draining the colour from the world. My stomach tightened and I drew in a sharp breath, slowing my bike further. I was not ready for this. My shovel rattled on the back as I hit a bump in the path, another reminder of what I had done. Taking a deep breath, I whispered a mantra to distract myself from the thoughts running loose in my head. ‘I’m going to get through this, I’m going to get through this,’ I repeated in a desperate prayer.

  Before switching off the engine, I faced the bike for home, ready for a quick escape. Tugging at the rope, I untied my shovel from the back of the bike. Why had I kept it? Luke’s DNA was surely embedded in its metal, in the wooden grooves of the handle. Perhaps I had left it there in the subconscious hope of being discovered. If only things had turned out differently. I caught the thought as it rose in the ether and wondered if I meant it. I had felt nothing but relief that Luke was gone. The realisation gave me the strength to carry on. I still knew the exact spot and I clawed away the obstacles until there was nothing but clear ditch to dig. There was something final about this moment, and my heart pounded in my chest as I disobeyed the urge to drop my shovel and run. I approached the ditch, expecting the scent of death to rise up to greet me, but there was only damp moss and rotting leaves. Goosebumps rose on my skin and I willed myself to get on with it. Slicing the shovel into the earth, I drew back a wad of soil, repeating the movement until my arms ached – just as they had done that day. I expected to glimpse a scrap of white material, a flash of a weather-ravaged jacket. But there was nothing. I dug further. Surely there should be something by now? Clothes, shoes, bone? Getting on my hands and knees, I burrowed my fingers into the earth. I did not know how I was going to cope with seeing the body again. Or what was left of it. Sweat lined my skin, and I raised an arm to hook back a loose lock of damp hair from my face. It was the worst kind of torture but I made myself push on.

  Half an hour later, I was staring in disbelief at the shallow yet somehow body-less grave. Had animals dragged it away? I remembered his shoes peeping out through the soil. Where were they? Surely something had to remain? I checked my watch, gasping as I realised just how long I had taken. I needed to have a shower, get changed and pick up Jamie. Pulling off my gloves, I stared down at the red angry blisters that had formed on my skin. Only then did I feel the sharp sting of pain. It had been for nothing. My throat constricted as another emotion bubbled to the surface. Panic. There was no doubt I was at the right spot. Luke was dead. I had killed him.

  So where had he gone?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LUKE

  2002

  I straightened my posture as I sat at my desk. Parents’ evening was a bit of a chore, giving up my free time to speak to mums and dads about a subject they were rarely interested in. But there was one student I was looking forward to finding out more about. I had purposely booked her father into the last appointment so I could take my time. Yet as the gasping, frail man entered my classroom, I wondered if I had got my times mixed up. This could not be Emma’s father, surely? Emma had told me her dad was unwell, but just the same I had expected a more exotic parentage than this. I had allowed my imagination to run away with me; the old man now ambling in brought me sharply down to earth.

  Parents were encouraged to bring their children with them so they could show them around the school and absorb the points brought up during the meetings. But Bob Hetherington was alone, and I wondered if Emma had been too embarrassed to tag along. His tall frame was slightly bent, his face a pallid grey hue. The deep lines on his face spoke of time spent outdoors. Slowly, he made it to my desk, walking with as much grace as he could muster. A strong smell of cough drops exuded from his breath as he introduced himself, wheezing into a handkerchief before shaking my hand.

  After allowing me to talk through Emma’s progress in class, he took a sip of the water I had offered, then crossed his legs. ‘I came here without Emma because I wanted to speak frankly,’ he said. ‘She’s come on in leaps and bounds since you took over. I’d like to thank you for everything that you’ve done.’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ I replied, knowing that my time with his daughter had gone way beyond that.

  ‘It’s meant a lot to me,’ Mr Hetherington said, his eyes dropping to the handkerchief held tightly in his hand. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware but my wife, Isobel, walked out on us a couple of years ago.’ He delivered the words with a subtle shake of the head. ‘It’s really affected Emma. She’s had . . . problems. The doctors said it’s down to anxiety. I’ve tried to keep an eye on her, make sure everything’s OK.’

  I gave him a sympathetic nod. The head teacher, Mrs Pritchard, had filled me in on the extent of Emma’s problems, after I made it my business to get to know her better
.

  Bob raised his tissue to his mouth and choked another cough. ‘Mind you,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘I don’t think Emma’s going to set the art world on fire. She’s got her heart set on business studies when she leaves school. But I know you’ve been talking after class and she comes and sees you during her lunch hour.’

  I felt a sharp surge of panic as he brought up our private meetings. The last couple of weeks, Emma had been bringing in her mother’s old sketches, trying to emulate her style. I had put up with Emma’s meanderings in order to draw her in, but it seemed she had let her father in on our little get-togethers. Was he going to tell me off? Report me to the head? I had done nothing wrong – at least, not yet. I tightened my grip on the pen I was holding. If Mr Hetherington wanted to make a big deal out of this it could make my life very difficult. I’d put a lot of time in, getting Emma on side, promising myself that she would be worth all the effort, but now I was not so sure.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, talking over the babble of students out in the hall. ‘I just wanted to say thank you. I hope she’s not making a nuisance of herself. She’s been a lot less . . . troubled since you began teaching her class.’ He sighed. His exhalation ended in a jagged cough. ‘I’ve been a bit lost, raising two girls on my own, and my health isn’t very good, as you can see.’ Pulling the paper handkerchief back from his pocket, he wiped his mouth before continuing. ‘Tizzy – that’s Emma’s sister – doesn’t live with us any more, and Emma spends most nights in her room. Knowing she has someone to talk to has helped ease my mind.’

  I nodded, my pulse rate returning to normal. Emma had told me about her sister and how a falling out of some sort had driven her away. She really was a lost, lonely little soul – which was good, because now she was starting to rely on me. I knew from my own sister’s ditherings about boys how the female mind worked and had learned how to read the signs from an early age. The first person to arrive and the last to leave the class, Emma just couldn’t keep away. The fact she had told her father about our blossoming friendship displayed just how naive she was.

  ‘I’m glad she’s feeling better,’ I said. ‘I’m always on hand to offer counsel, but Emma’s a bright girl and she’s growing stronger in her own right. I’m sure she’ll be very successful in whatever field she chooses.’ I wanted to ask more about her background but thought it better to rein my interest in. It was only a matter of time before Emma became attracted to me. Coaxing young women into my bed came as no trouble at all. Trust took longer; I had to build enough that she would lie for me if the shit hit the fan.

  ‘Thank you, that’s good to hear,’ Mr Hetherington said.

  ‘She often talks about her mother,’ I said, giving in to the temptation to find out more. ‘I think it’s why she’s so interested in art. A shared interest helps her feel closer to her.’ I sighed for effect, lacing my fingers together. ‘She used to blame herself for her disappearance, but we’ve talked it through. She’s feeling a lot better about things now.’

  Mr Hetherington shifted in his chair. ‘Isobel was very unhappy. She’d been talking about leaving for months.’ His eyes glazed over as he recalled a memory. ‘She wasn’t cut out for motherhood. Didn’t bond with her children like most mothers do. Then she started drinking and, well . . . let’s just say the girls are better off without her.’ He rose, offering his hand once again. It was warm and clammy and I fought the instinct to wipe my palm on the back of my trousers after we shook. No wonder Emma was happy in my company, if this was all she had waiting for her at home. A doddery old man on his last legs in a bungalow in the wilds of East Mersea. I had seen it from a distance, when I followed the bus as it brought her safely home. My previous encounters with fifteen-year-old girls taught me they could be economical with the truth. But Emma was a good girl and had not let me down. She just needed some extra lessons in discretion before I advanced my plans.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EMMA

  2017

  Tiny needles of rain spiked my face as I waded through the greasy leaves and muddy track to cover the ditch I had just disturbed. I worked on autopilot, dragging the broken branches back into place. My breath ragged from exertion, I worked swiftly as I camouflaged my tracks. The icy wind had permeated my clothes, numbing my fingers and toes. My mind had been hurled into chaos as I tried to comprehend what had happened to Luke. By the time I returned to the house, I had only minutes to spare. But I had not expected to see my husband as I opened the back door.

  I don’t know which of us was more surprised. The shock on Alex’s face told me how much of a state I must have looked with my mud-stained clothes and wild hair. He wasted no time in firing questions at me.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to ring you. Why didn’t you take your phone?’

  I glanced at my mobile on the kitchen table. In my rush to get going, I had left it there. I stammered as I tried to formulate an answer. ‘S . . . sorry. I went for a ride on the quad . . . I fell off.’

  ‘Look at your hands,’ he said, turning my shaking palms over. ‘They’re bleeding. You’re filthy.’

  ‘I hit a bump in the road, fell into a ditch,’ I said, relieved that my bleeding blisters were consistent with a fall.

  Alex smoothed back my hair, his frown growing as he focused on my face. ‘Sweetheart, you look spaced out. You could be concussed. Do you want me to take you to A&E?’

  ‘No,’ I said, gripping the back of the chair for support and immediately regretting it as my blisters cried out in protest. I was still trying to come to terms with what I had found. ‘I . . . I’ve got to collect Jamie from nursery.’

  ‘He’s in his bedroom. I picked him up on the way home,’ Alex said, still eyeing me up and down. ‘I finished early and went to the shop, thought we could all go to McDonald’s as a treat. Then Theresa said you’d left early and I tried to ring. I was worried when you didn’t answer your phone.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, still feeling dazed. My face felt tight from where the mud had dried in. I pulled the scarf from my hair, which was wild and matted from the wind. ‘I need a shower. I won’t be long.’

  ‘I bought you something to eat,’ he said, pointing to the microwave. ‘I’ve left it on a plate. Want me to heat it up? I can make you something healthier if you prefer.’

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ I replied flatly. ‘We can talk about the move when I’m changed. Why don’t you show me the places you’ve got your eye on in Leeds.’

  His face brightened, and I congratulated myself on coming up with a diversion. I peeped in on Jamie as I passed his room. His hair damp, he was already bathed and changed into his pyjamas and was sitting on his bed, cosied up to his army of teddies as he flicked through his new Fireman Sam book. He could be an introverted little soul, enjoying his own company when the mood took him. I gently withdrew from the door, having caught sight of myself in the hall mirror: my appearance would only concern him.

  I stood in the shower, streams of mud and blood swirling down the plughole. The palms of my hands felt as if they were on fire as I shampooed my matted hair. I ran the soap over the curves of my body, feeling a familiar anxiety bloom. I had gained weight; I could feel it. Despite my efforts it had crept on just the same. I mentally recounted the calories I had consumed this week against the exercise I had done to burn them. Not enough. It was never enough. I dropped the soap, cursing myself for allowing my self-deprecation to creep in. How self-centred could I be? At a time like this I should be focusing on my family and how I was going to get us out of the mess I had created. I would tell Alex I had been having one last look at the land. I should have been pleased: by the look of the ditch, it had been undisturbed for some time. It was over.

  A familiar voice rose in my mind. Who are you kidding? You should have dug deeper. It will never be over, you know that. I swirled conditioner in my hair, my thoughts wrapping themselves around me like a python, squeezing harder until I felt like I was going to pop. Tilting my face towards the sho
wer head, I stood under its hot spikes, feeling out of breath as I tried to comprehend just what had happened that day. Luke was dead. Dead and gone. But if by some miracle he had survived . . . my heart lunged at the thought. He couldn’t be alive. Besides, he was not the sort of person who would just leave me alone. We were too far off the beaten track for anyone to have wandered on to our land and found him accidentally – even if they had, there were still the No Trespassing signs my father had erected dotting the adjoining field to warn them away. But I had dug deep enough to find him. So where was he? Was it really possible that he could be out there, waiting to return? I almost jumped out of my skin as Alex banged on the bathroom door.

  ‘You all right in there?’ His voice was husky, laced with concern.

  I took a breath before responding, turning off the tap and grabbing my towelling robe from the hook on the wall. ‘I’m fine, be with you in a minute.’ I sighed, wishing my husband did not feel the need to monitor every minute of my day.

  ‘I’ve made you a sweet tea. Don’t let it go cold.’