“I thought as long as I kept my eyes closed, I could shut them out, but the other kids wouldn’t have it. Kept shouting in my face they did, rapping my head with their knuckles. ‘Knock, knock, is there anyone in there?’ I recoiled into a corner. Squeezed myself into a ball.”
God, I could still picture those hard eyes cutting into me, a face twisted with hate.
‘Oi, you! I’m talking to you! No one disses me, bitch, d’you get that?’
Squirming in my chair, I knew where this was leading. Joe’s intervention. It was that single violent incident that brought us together.
“Go on,” Hannah prompted me.
“Joe jumped to my rescue...”
A laugh strained against my chest. I didn’t want to repeat his exact words, but even now I could hear his soft, chilling hiss: ‘Get away from her, you fucking turd...’ and as the tunnels of my mind stretched deep, so the darkest of memories leapt out.
I found myself in a hostile environment, the aggression swelling. All I understood at the time was the blistering impact of that boy’s words before everything changed.
“A fight broke out. Everyone was egging them on, a riot of yelling and screaming. That horrible boy had his hands around Joe’s throat and I thought he was going to kill him...”
“So what did the staff do, Maisie?”
A blanket of cold wrapped itself around me. Even I was shocked by the way they restrained the little thug. Yanking his arms around his back, they pushed him to the floor face down. One held his arms while the other pinned his legs down.
“The other kids backed off.”
A stunned silence.
“I was peering through my fingers and that’s when I saw Joe...”
Still as a statue, he had lingered there, massaging his throat. Regardless of his funny features though, he had nice eyes. The way he smiled reassured me; warm eyes, the colour of chocolate. I felt a squeeze of affection.
“He coaxed me out of the corner and took me away from the violence. That’s when I knew I’d made a friend.”
“Right,” Hannah commented. “Well, the whole experience sounds pretty awful. This was a council run home?”
“No, it was private. The man in charge was Mr. Mortimer...”
I bit my lip, swallowing back my fear, since her question had set me thinking. Something else had been going on in that home, something bad, and Joe was one of its victims.
“Okay, so you’ve told me about the home and the day you met Joe,” Hannah’s voice penetrated, “but let’s go back to the start of your story. The nightmares. You said you felt you were in danger. You and Joe.”
“Mr. Mortimer hated him,” I said with a shiver. “H-he hurt him.”
My blood froze as I said it, an icy chill sliding down my bones. Describing Mr. Mortimer wasn’t easy. He struck me as avuncular on our first meeting, with his round face and friendly smile. He was a large man, heavy-set like Father Christmas, but the more I observed him, the more he gave me the creeps.
The chill didn’t recede.
All I could picture were his reptilian eyes. He had soft skin, a pale, almost waxy complexion and pink cheeks, fleshy lips. Yet there were times he looked at me as if he wanted to devour me.
“It didn’t take long to figure out he was a nasty man.”
Chapter Three
The second piece of Mark’s advice I chose to follow was to book some time off work. Escaping for a few days would be a treat in itself, but even more so if it were combined with a trip to visit my foster parents.
Resting back in my train seat, I gazed into the distance. A shimmer of green fields streamed past my window, but my thoughts were focussed on Swanley, the grand stucco houses with their red roofs and dormer windows. Mandy and Stewart’s house crouched in a quiet cul-de-sac. Picturing the neat privet hedge and walls graced with ivy, I could almost smell the scent of leaves and cut grass. I sighed with pleasure.
It was in this house I had spent the latter years of my childhood.
As the train hummed along the tracks, my eyes began to turn heavy, but something on the other side of the glass jarred me. I sat bolt upright, staring at a blur of forest in the distance. Several dark shapes loomed like an omen. A cluster of mature oak trees. Why did they strike me as symbolic?
A river of cold ran over me as my vision from the other night hurtled back. Turning from the window, I shook my head in denial. Deep in my logical mind, even I knew that boy could not have been Sam. If Sam was alive, he would be the same age as me. A man in his thirties.
Sam, however, was not the only one lingering on the shore of my mind. My therapy had reeled in another person.
Joe.
And seeing those oak trees filled my mind with darkness as I encountered the strangest flashback.
“The laundry room,” I whispered to myself.
I could picture the layout of the home clearly now.
A huge house split into two wings. Half for boys and half for girls, with an open-plan communal area, the dining tables where we shared meals. Yet as my mind tunnelled deeper, I saw the steps leading to the basement. Feet frozen on the stone floor, I sniffed the air, thick with the steam of detergent. Lines of sheets hung on drying racks like the sails of a ship, washing machines churning in the background.
Was I imagining things or had Joe locked me in here once? Hellbent on stopping me from going to some party, he swore he was doing it to protect me. I recalled his wiry frame in the gloom.
‘Joe, what is it? What’s happened?’
Winding my arms around him, I had known nothing of his pain. I heard a sob. Felt his muscles leap as if they had caught fire. Then, as he lifted the corner of his tee-shirt, only then did I see the damage. Never in my life had I seen marks more terrible than the slashes of black bruising like ink stains against his skin... Yet why? If all he was trying to do was protect me?
My eyes pinged open and with the train pulling into the station, I pushed the memory aside. Why those oak trees had evoked such a flashback remained a mystery, although it wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened.
My irrational fear of forests had manifested itself in my teens. Mandy would remember. She had been there.
Suddenly I could not wait to see her, and in the short space of a taxi ride, the sight of their house brought a burst of glee to my heart. Flitting across the lawn, I saw an early sprinkling of crocuses jewel bright against the winter shrubs. I had barely stopped in the driveway when the door flew open; nothing could bring more joy than the beaming smile of my foster mum. Rushing to the door, I cherished the warmth of her arms and for those first few seconds I clung to her.
“Come on in,” she chuckled.
As usual the front lounge looked bright and clean. Sunlight poured through the bay windows, illuminating the pastel fabrics. With bleached timber floors and intricate woven rugs, it contained a gentle feminine charm. She had even arranged a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table.
“My darling girl,” she murmured, stroking my hair. She tilted her head to observe me. “You’ve lost weight. You are eating properly, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I blurted a little quickly. “Maybe not as often as I should though...”
I breathed in the essence of pot pourri in the hearth but underlying it, my senses were teased by something far more pleasing. How could I miss that rich and savoury smell wafting from the kitchen?
“Blame it on work. If I get home late, I grab a takeaway but other than that, I live on ready meals. Cooking for one is such a fag.”
“Takeaways,” Mandy echoed. “It takes minutes to throw together a stir fry.”
“I know,” I sighed and this time, I stood back to observe her.
Now nearing sixty, she radiated goodness, her soft blonde hair threaded with more grey than the last time I’d seen her, but her blue eyes had never lost their twinkle. Having worked all her life as a primary school teacher, she possessed a maternal warmth and as the ultimate recipient of her
love, I counted my blessings.
“What’s cooking by the way? It smells yum, is it lasagne?”
“As if I’d forget your favourite,” she laughed. “Now sit down and take your coat off, I’ll open some wine.”
My foster mother knew me better than anyone but how could I miss that flicker of concern in her eyes? I sneaked a glance at my reflection.
So maybe my face did look a little gaunt, sharp features, high cheekbones I mistook for signs of maturity. My eyes looked large in comparison. Wide, round and rimmed with black mascara, they gleamed a pale mossy green, fragmented with chips of silver.
“Do you remember what your father used to say?” Mandy’s voice hummed from the hallway.
I froze, unaware she had been watching me.
“You were blessed with the grace of an eagle and the fiery locks of a goddess.”
My lips curved into a smile, my sleek auburn hair something I had inherited from my real mother. Stewart always was creative with words, and as a teacher of English at the local sixth form college, he had a passion for Greek mythology.
“How is he?” I murmured.
“Stewart’s fine!” Mandy breezed. “Keeping himself busy at the allotments but he’ll be back at lunchtime!”
As she joined me in the lounge, we settled by the window. I had always loved sitting here, the glow of watery sunshine wrapping us in warmth. I could not resist enthusing about my job; that every child successfully placed with a new foster family brought a flickering ray of hope.
I crossed my fingers, just as enthralled to hear her own stories, from the activities of the Women’s Institute to the shenanigans of the council.
“It all gets broadcast on the local Facebook forum,” she said. “Which reminds me, I’m glad you got me into social media. Pinterest is my favourite and my recipe board is growing daily.”
My smile didn’t falter. “Any other boards?”
“Garden Inspiration. I’ve found some wonderful tips for Stewart. You know how much he loves the great outdoors! In fact, I was thinking we could venture out for a walk later, as the sun’s out.”
I nodded, the question I yearned to ask now teetering on my tongue.
Mandy tilted her head again. “What? You’ve got that pensive look about you today. Has something happened?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I mused, “more a flashback really but... I saw a circle of oak trees on my train journey and something about them freaked me.”
“Ah,” Mandy sighed, “still haven’t got over your phobia of forests, then?”
Her words stirred a ripple of anxiety.
“Can you remember when it started?”
Turning her head, she gazed out of the window as if choosing her next words carefully. “We were out on a walk with Terry and Maureen from next door. They had a couple of kids, if you recall, and they’d rescued a dog. So they couldn’t wait to take him out...”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It was a collie wasn’t it? Fred!”
“That’s the one. We took a footpath through the valley where it met the forest. Fred went bounding off towards the gate and there was a track running through the middle but that’s when you clammed up. Refused point blank to go in there.”
“That’s right,” I frowned. “Fern and Charlie grabbed my hands and tried to pull me through...” Fragments were starting to creep back now.
“By the time we caught up, you were trembling like a leaf. The kids thought it was funny but even they stopped laughing eventually. I’ll never forget your face though. You looked like you’d seen a ghost, convinced the forest was evil and if we went inside something bad would happen.”
“Strange,” I pondered. “I wonder why.”
A shimmy of goose bumps ran over me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Joe again. The sight of those trees had unleashed something, our rendezvous in the laundry room a clue - and somehow the two were connected.
“Looks like your dad’s home from the allotments,” Mandy announced, and hauling herself off the sofa, gave my shoulder a pat. “Come on. It’s nearly lunchtime, so let’s go and lay the table.”
Sensing I had burdened her with enough of my problems, I followed her into the kitchen. Like every other room, it had a pleasing decor, the peach and cream stencilled walls another example of her creative talent. Laying down the cutlery, I saw Stewart approach the house from the back to remove his muddy boots. His frame loomed behind the glass door panel. A tall man, and broad-shouldered, he glowed with vitality, cheeks ruddy from the cold, his silver hair windswept.
“Hello, Dad,” I greeted him as he stomped into the kitchen.
There was no need for more words as he threw his arms around me. Breathing in the familiar essence of his aftershave balm, I felt a surge of affection.
“What a lovely surprise,” he murmured. “I’ve missed you, Maisie.”
“Likewise,” I said. “It’s great to see you.”
As the oven door swung open, a cloud of aromatic steam was released into the kitchen. My mouth watered. Braced by the work surface, I watched hungrily, praising Mandy’s culinary skills as she hacked through the golden cheese crust.
“That looks delicious and I’m starving.”
“Good,” Mandy responded. “I’ll wrap the fourth portion up for you to take home if you like. You can put it in your freezer.”
“That would be great,” I smiled. “I’m lucky to have parents like you.”
“Oh, stop it!” Mandy fussed, sliding a portion onto my plate. “Cooking doesn’t have to be ‘a fag’ if you plan ahead. I always make double portions.”
It was easy to forget my fears as I dived into my lasagne, helping myself to fresh salad and savouring every mouthful. A crusty baguette of garlic bread lingered temptingly in front of me but I resisted it.
Stewart, on the other hand, ripped off a chunk and reaching for the wine bottle, topped our glasses up. His banter was ceaseless as he described his work; his concern about the pressures youngsters were facing in this modern day age.
“I still admire you working in teaching,” I remarked. “It must be tough.”
Stewart shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that, not with sixth formers. I do worry about their safety though, with all this social media and online grooming.”
“Dangers we never knew when we were that age,” Mandy added, “and I’m just as disturbed by the stories I hear in my school. A ten-year-old pupil posting photos of herself on this ‘Instagram’ network and getting lewd comments for God’s sake! You’ve heard of internet ‘trolls’ haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” Stewart intervened, “but grooming children isn’t just a modern-day phenomenon. What about Jimmy Savile, eh? Allegations covering a period of fifty years. Kids as young as eight!”
I turned very still, a sense of unease crawling over me. “Then why wasn’t he prosecuted sooner?”
“Because of a huge cover up, that’s why!” His brows pressed into a scowl. “Accusations are being thrown at the BBC now. Claims that Savile, not to mention other celebrities, had been abusing girls at the TV Centre.”
“It’s a disgrace,” Mandy said, sipping her wine. “Those children were powerless and not one of them could ask for help. People say the authorities knew damn well it was going on yet they did nothing.”
“Well, it’s all coming out now,” Stewart sniffed “and not just celebrities. Have you read about this ‘VIP paedophile ring’ that’s been reported in the news?”
“What?” I looked at him blankly, a tightness spreading over my chest.
“A report sent to Scotland Yard, involving high establishment figures. They’ll deny it of course, but weren’t MPs equally dismissive of the evidence suppressed about Cyril Smith?”
“Ugh!” I grimaced. “So what about now?”
“Like Stewart says,” Mandy answered, “it’s only speculation but you can’t ignore the rumours. Not after the furore with Jimmy Savile. Police had no choice but to launch an investigation...” A shadow of dread p
assed across her face. “Maisie, love, did you ever hear of anything like this?”
“Why do you say that?” I gasped.
“The victims were taken out of care homes,” Steward finished gloomily.
The atmosphere darkened around the table as I absorbed this. Gazing over the remnants of Mandy’s lovely lunch, I could feel a knot tightening my stomach but with so many stories of child sex abuse, I didn’t like what I was hearing.
The most scandalous truth was that the children were not believed.
Stewart covered my hand with his own. “Don’t dwell on it, love. But you can’t deny it’s a nasty world out there with lots of youngsters at risk.”
“You think I don’t know that? It’s the reason I work in fostering, Dad...”
“Yes, but what about you, Maisie?” Mandy added with caution. “You mentioned your fear of forests but is something else troubling you?”
“I-I can’t explain it...” I faltered, “just an overall bad feeling. I mean, why did you suggest psychotherapy, did you think I’d remember something?”
Mandy shook her head. “I thought it would help you. I know you love your job but there is an awful lot missing in your life and not even a hint of romance.”
“She’s right,” Stewart said, without taking his eyes off me. “Most women your age would be settled in a relationship by now.”
“But I haven’t met anyone I like enough to settle down with,” I baulked.
“Sorry,” Mandy relented. “We’re not trying to put pressure on you but we’ve sensed for a while you’re unhappy and psychotherapy is designed to help unlock childhood traumas. Your fear of woods for example, where did that come from? And those awful dreams you used to have...”
“The nightmares are back,” I whispered.
My words left a chilling echo. Staring at my empty plate, I caught an exchange of glances between them, a look of shock on their frozen faces.
Then at last Mandy spoke. “Let’s leave the washing up for now. Didn’t we mention a walk? We should go and grab some fresh air while it’s still light.”
Lethal Ties Page 2