by Sam Hayes
I fled the attic in blind disbelief. I ran to the bathroom and doused myself with water. I had to wash it all away. I had to stay calm, collect my thoughts, and get to Josie before something terrible happened to her. I prayed I wasn’t too late. I prayed I was wrong about everything.
I dashed to Adam’s room. I hammered on his door. He stood there, in the middle of the night, squinting at me, puzzling, wondering. I was sure he could see it written all over my face, even though I wasn’t entirely sure I knew what it all meant yet myself.
‘But how did Mick find me all those years ago? And how did Burnett find out my new identity?’ There’s too much to take in, too many questions. I’m not sure I want all of them answered. I remember my wedding. How much Mick said he loved me. How he put a single rose in my hair. ‘We met by accident.’
‘My best guess in both cases,’ Mark McCormack replies, ‘is a police informant. Sad to say, but it was probably someone in the force who tipped him off. These men are fiercely loyal to each other. Mick following you to Bristol was clever.’
I think back to when we met – the painting, my trousers, the wind. How natural it all seemed, how perfectly meshed with fate it was. But he’d planned it all. Watched me. Stalked me. Figured out just how he was going to jigsaw into my life. The safest place for him.
‘But how come those paintings were never discovered?’ I thump my fists on the table. I’m angry. The water glasses jump. ‘If the police had done their jobs back then and searched the building properly, the paintings would have been found and maybe the artist apprehended.’ I dash through an alternative history.
In truth, I know that even if they had found the stash of paintings, locating the perpetrator would have been nearly impossible. It wasn’t as if he’d signed any of them. It’s just a hopeless wish that – oh God, it hurts to think it – that I’d never married Mick.
‘It was a tight circle,’ McCormack says. The DI sits beside him, a female officer the other side. ‘We got a couple of names from Tulloch, but then he killed himself. Leaby died of cancer in prison five years ago. I’m trawling back through the case file, but it’ll take time. If you think the search of the building was badly handled, you should see the rest of it.’ He drags his fingers down his face. He looks as if he’s been up all night. Like I was, watching over Josie.
‘I’ve worked on one other case similar to this. Further south. About three years ago. The maddening thing was that many of the people involved with the institution knew what was going on at the time.’
I gulp water. Roecliffe wasn’t unique.
‘So why did they keep quiet?’
‘Various reasons. Mostly it’s because people don’t want to rock the boat or face up to the truth. They have their jobs, their lives. The staff at Roecliffe would have lost their incomes if the home was shut down. Telling the police was more than their livelihoods were worth. The eighties weren’t known for high employment rates.’ He breathes out heavily. ‘Either that or they were part of it themselves.’
‘So many kids died. They suffered indescribable acts.’ I’m talking about it, thinking about it in a detached way, as if it wasn’t me who lived through it. They’ve promised me counselling, but I’m not so sure. My priority is for Josie to begin healing. ‘Will I have to see Burnett in court?’
‘That depends,’ Mark says. His manner is still kind, considerate, but now I see a hard edge around his character. A product of years working in the paedophile unit at Scotland Yard. ‘On whether you want to testify against him.’ He eyes me, gauging my reaction. He needs reliable witnesses.
I nod. ‘Whatever it takes.’ Already I’m thinking far into the future, to when he’s served his time, been released again. I’m running out of lives to live. ‘And just so you know, I’m Ava now. Ava Atwood. Josie will change her surname too. We’ll do it officially.’ I will not be anyone else ever again. Already there’s too much discovering to do; finding out who we really are – me and Josie – what we can become.
‘I understand,’ McCormack replies. ‘Your cooperation is appreciated.’
It dawns on me. ‘Are there any of them left at Roecliffe, do you think?’
He’s nodding before I’ve finished. ‘Let’s just say we were close. Watching and waiting. Now this has happened, I sent in a team. There have been several arrests in the village and quite a few more throughout the north. Art, if you can call it that, and other images were seized. Websites shut down. There’s more to come, I expect.’
‘That’s how Mick and Burnett knew I was still alive,’ I whisper, hoping Mark can clarify. ‘Someone in Roecliffe must have recognised me and tipped them off. Then they worked out it was me talking to Josie on Afterlife.’
He claps his hands together. ‘Told you not to go back. Did you listen?’
‘Trust no one and don’t go back,’ I say. McCormack’s reading a file that his colleague has passed to him.
‘Brimley? Does that name mean anything to you?’
I shake my head.
‘He received pictures off Burnett. Sold them on.’ He skims down a list. ‘Also a Barnard. Frazer Barnard. He’s under police guard in hospital. Tried to overdose when he was brought in. Had pocketfuls of diazepam at the ready.’
‘Him,’ I say. ‘It would have been him that tipped off Burnett. He must have recognised me at the chapel.’ I’m shaking, knowing how close I’d come to one of them. How close I’d been most of my life. ‘One night, there was an intruder. Someone at the school . . .’ I trail off. McCormack is lost. I’ve not reached that part of my story in the statement. There are many days’ work left yet.
‘We’ll continue tomorrow,’ Mark says. ‘Go home.’ He rests a hand on my back when I ask where, exactly, that is.
Adam is waiting for me at Laura’s house. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘They need me at work.’
‘Leave?’ I repeat with a tinge of hysteria. He’s my friend. I trusted him and it felt right. Amazingly, resiliently, Josie is on the computer with Nat. Their heads are pressed close as they sit on the sofa. Laura insists on Nat using her computer downstairs now. I see the familiar pages of Afterlife glow pink and green in the dark room. ‘Of course,’ I say, sighing, resigned, empty. I don’t want him to go.
‘I called Mr Palmer. The police have already briefed him. He refuses to close school early for the end of term, even though part of it has been sealed off for forensics. He’s doing everything he can to help, while keeping the girls safe. He’s a good man.’
‘Typical Mr Palmer,’ I say, attempting a smile. ‘Non scholae sed . . . or whatever it is.’
‘The show must go on.’ He puts on his jacket; jangles his keys.
I think of my show – of the films I was going to work on, taking Chameleon to the next level, of Josie’s musical. ‘Did you speak to Sylvia?’ I imagine her wrath at the hundreds of odd socks, the creased skirts, the muddy sports kits.
‘She sends her love,’ Adam assures me. Somehow his hand has settled on my shoulder. It’s drawing me close. A last embrace.
Suddenly I am in Adam’s arms, my face pressed to his chest, inhaling all that potential, everything that never was – not for a married woman – and all the common history between us.
Adam’s history . . . I recall Sylvia’s words as we were introduced.
It’s true, I live in the past . . . he’d replied.
We’re outside. He’s beside the car. ‘I hope it gets you back,’ I say, patting the roof, meaning the complete opposite. I pray it won’t even start. Laura stands in the light of the doorway, Josie and Nat beside her. They wave. Adam embraces me again.
‘We’ll speak soon. OK?’
That brings on the tears. I nod. Smile as best I can.
He gets in and starts the engine. A cloud of black fumes billows from the exhaust. He winds down the window, faking a cough. ‘Bye then.’
The car moves forward, but, before I know what I’m doing, I’ve hurled myself into its path. I land on the bonnet.
�
��Stop!’
The sudden braking sends me sliding off the front and on to the road. Four faces stare down at me.
‘Mum, you could’ve killed yourself!’ Josie hugs me.
I stand up. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Josie, get your things.’
‘What things?’
‘Anything. Your coat. Whatever you need for the rest of your life.’ I turn to Adam. He is shaken and pale. ‘We’re coming with you,’ I tell him.
‘What?’
‘Don’t trust anyone and don’t go back,’ I say. Josie is beside me wearing her coat, her shoes, hugging her arms round her body. She doesn’t want to risk being left behind again. ‘So I’m trusting you, Adam Kingsley, and we are going back to Roecliffe.’ I bundle Josie into the car. ‘I have a job to do, and Josie needs a school to go to.’ I hug a speechless Laura, then Nat. ‘You can see her on Afterlife,’ I say to the shocked girl. ‘And come up in the holidays.’ It’s all so easy.
‘Josie?’ Nat circles the car and leans in at the window. ‘Are you really going?’
For a second, Josie looks pained. ‘I want to be with my mum. If she’s going, then I am too.’ She smiles weakly. ‘Everything’s horrid anyway.’ The girls hold hands and Josie allows Nat to open the car door and wrap her arms round her. The embrace is long and tender – the promise of lasting friendship, of holidays together, of chats online, of phone calls and letters.
‘Look after Griff for me.’ Josie wipes away a tear.
‘I’ll sit next to him at lunch every day and make sure no one else talks to him.’ The girls laugh. ‘Did you see that he’s changed his room on Afterlife again. He’s gone all pink. He told me last week that he’s getting in touch with his feminine side.’
Josie rolls her eyes and eases Nat out of the car. She blows her a kiss.
A moment later, I’m sitting beside Adam. ‘Go on then. Drive us home.’
He frowns, glancing sideways at me. ‘But the investigation? What about the police?’
‘I’m not under arrest. I’ll still help them. They can come and find me. Laura will tell them where I’ve gone. Just drive, Adam.’ Momentarily, I cover my face with my hands. If what I’m doing is wrong, why does it feel so right? ‘Please.’
Adam stares, nods, then drives, coaxing the old car along the motorway as we head north to Yorkshire – sometimes sitting silently, watching as cities turn to countryside, and sometimes the three of us chattering excitedly, our words tumbling over each other until at last we pull down the long drive to the school.
From behind I feel the tentative fingers of my daughter creep along my shoulder. I reach back and hold her hand, feeling her grip tighten as she gets the first glimpse of Roecliffe Hall. Her eyes flick over the other girls in uniform as Adam parks the car. Her pupils widen. She licks her lips. ‘Don’t be scared,’ I tell her. Don’t be scared, I tell myself.