by Mel Sherratt
SOMEWHERE TO HIDE
MEL SHERRATT
All characters and events featured in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form other than that which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.
Cover image by ©Warren Goldswain
Somewhere to Hide © Mel Sherratt
E-edition published worldwide 2012
Kindle edition Copyright 2012 © Mel Sherratt
CHAPTER ONE
Liz McIntyre woke up with a start when she heard the front door slam shut. She looked at the clock to see it was just past midnight. A further check around assured her that the room was tidy. She jumped to her feet and rushed into the hallway.
‘Hi, had a good night?’ she asked her husband tentatively.
‘No. It was shit.’
Liz’s heart sank as he pushed past her. She watched him drop heavily onto the settee.
‘Make us a drink,’ he said without looking her way. ‘Coffee will do.’
In the kitchen, Liz’s hands shook as she filled the kettle with water. She hated Kevin when he was sober. Sober Kevin was crueller than drunken Kevin. Quickly, she reached for his Super Dad mug.
‘I’ll have some toast while you’re at it,’ he shouted through to her.
When she went back into the living room, Kevin was flicking through the television channels. Liz placed the mug and plate on the coffee table. She glanced at the clock again: half past twelve.
‘Is it okay if I go to bed while you eat that?’ she asked quietly.
‘No. You can stay here until I tell you otherwise.’ His eyes came up to rest on hers and he patted the empty cushion. ‘Right here, next to me.’
Liz willed her legs to bend and sat down. Fifteen minutes later, Kevin had finished his meal, finished his drink and finished with her as he fastened his trousers again.
‘Not very exciting, but at least you’re clean and tidy,’ he said, standing up.
Liz pulled her dressing gown around her body. Maybe now he’d let her leave the room. But then she felt his eyes on her. After a moment, she looked up, her sense of dread escalating.
‘Why did you do that?’ When she didn’t reply quickly enough, he grabbed her roughly by the hair. ‘I’m talking to you!’
Liz gasped as he pulled her to her feet. His eyes were menacing, saliva glistening on his lower lip.
‘Answer me!’
‘I – I don’t understand what –’
‘The minute I got off you, you covered yourself up. Do I repulse you that much?’
‘No! I was cold, that’s all.’
‘You lying bitch.’ Kevin pulled harshly at the belt of her dressing gown. ‘You don’t look so good yourself.’ Through the thin material of her nightdress, he squeezed her breast, causing her to gasp out in pain. ‘Look at you. Not even a decent handful. You’re nothing but skin and bones. I wonder what other people would think of you. Take it off.’
A moment’s hesitation.
‘Take it off or I’ll rip it off.’
Liz shrugged off the dressing gown, letting it drop to the floor.
‘And the rest.’
‘Please, Kevin.’
‘Please, Kevin,’ he mimicked cruelly. ‘Take it off.’
Silently, she removed her nightdress. Standing naked before him, she covered her breasts with a forearm.
Kevin pulled her roughly by the elbow, marching them both into the hallway. ‘Let’s see what other people think of your pathetic, skinny body,’ he said as he opened the front door.
With a shove Liz lurched forwards, landing heavily on the front path. The gravel embedded itself into the skin of her palms and knees but she stayed quiet.
‘Down on all fours. That’s a great pose for you,’ Kevin sneered behind her. ‘You’re nothing but an ungrateful bitch anyway. So if you act like a dog, expect to be treated like one.’
Hot tears welled in Liz’s eyes but she had to keep calm. It was the middle of March and although it wasn’t too cold outside she was vulnerable. She had two people to think of right now, and she didn’t want Chloe to wake up either. If she didn’t play it cool, Kevin would make her stay outside all night. As if that wasn’t bad enough, from the corner of her eye she noticed a curtain moving in the bedroom window of the house next door.
Pushing her humiliation to the back of her mind, she sat up on her stinging knees and turned back to face him. She knew what she had to do.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, tears coming freely now. ‘How can I make it up to you?’
Kevin leant on the door frame, one foot crossing the other. His arms were folded: his eyes seemed to be mocking her, daring her to come back at him and stand up for herself. Then all of a sudden, he came outside. Liz flinched as he drew near but gently he helped her to stand up again. He turned over her hands, checking the bleeding palms.
‘Ouch, they look sore.’ He smiled. ‘Come on in and I’ll see to them.’
He marched her into the kitchen and sat her at the table. While he rummaged around in the kitchen cupboards, she sat shaking violently but unable to move for fear. Finally, he found what he was looking for and held it up triumphantly.
‘TCP.’ His grin was almost manic. ‘It’ll hurt but it’s for your own good.’
Fear gripped Liz as she realised his intention. Instinctively, she moved away but he grabbed one of her hands, turned it palm up and poured the liquid over it.
By now an expert on pain from slaps, punches, even the odd bite, Liz braced herself. Waves of heat radiated through her hand and up her arm. She did the worse thing possible. She screamed.
Kevin slapped her, the whole weight of his body behind it. Her head reared to the right, knocking her off balance and she fell to the floor. She scrambled towards the door. Kevin grabbed her ankles and pulled her back towards him. She kicked out, still thinking she could get away if she was quick. But the pain in her palm was nothing like the pain of his heel digging into the top of her hand. She screamed again.
‘Shut up,’ he warned. Then he kicked her in the stomach. ‘If anyone alerts that stupid bitch from the housing association, you’ll get more like this.’ He kicked her again.
‘Please, stop,’ she sobbed. ‘Think of the baby. I don’t want to lose our baby!’
As his fists started to fly, Liz curled up into a ball. Suddenly her hands didn’t sting anymore: everything did. She fought for breath with every blow but she had to keep quiet until it was over. It was the only way she knew she would survive.
Forty miles away, Becky Ward had also been woken up by the sound of a front door slamming. She knew it would be a while yet before her bedroom door opened but, even so, she slid her hand underneath the pillow and curled her fingers around the handle of the knife.
Above the sound of her drumming heartbeat, she heard the television go on and the sound of bottle tops being removed. Cupboards opened, the smell of chips wafted up the stairs and then silence as her dad and uncle settled down to watch the television.
She looked at her watch: just gone midnight. She’d bet her new trainers that
Uncle James would come creeping in before half past twelve, with his sweet words and his stale breath, his roaming hands and his heavy body. But this time there would be no more defenceless Becky. No more giving in until it was over. This time, she would fight for both of them.
Her fingers gripped tighter round the knife handle as she recalled the first time it had happened. She’d been eleven, too young to push him away when he’d slapped her hard. James had been thirty-five, two years older than her dad and, as the older brother, thought he could do what he wanted. He’d threatened her with much worse if she told her dad what was going on. But now she was going to get her revenge, which in turn would give her the proof she needed. Then she would tell her dad.
A long twenty minutes later, Becky heard the living room door open and heavy footsteps came up the stairs. She held her breath as they stopped at the top of the landing. They moved to the bathroom but were back within minutes. Becky flicked open the knife. As she saw the handle go down on her door, she pushed it underneath the mattress.
James Ward stood in front of her, the belt to his jeans hanging loose. Like Becky, he was tall and thin, but with the added advantage of plenty of bulk to hold her down. Blue eyes darted backwards and forwards as they tried their best to focus.
‘Switch on the lamp,’ he slurred. ‘I want to see you tonight.’
Becky did as she was told, silently praying that she’d have the strength to go through with her plan.
James lifted the corner of the duvet and leered at her.
‘Take them off.’
She took off her pyjama top and dropped it to the floor; she watched his eyes widen as she removed her pyjama trousers and dropped them too. Wearily, she lay there as he looked her up and down before getting in beside her.
‘This is still our secret,’ he told her as he kissed her neck. He pressed hard on her firm breasts. ‘No one would believe you anyway, would they?’
He’d said the same thing every time he visited. Over the years, the words had changed, become less aggressive because Becky had given up fighting. When she was eleven and frightened that he would tell her father, Becky let him do it because she didn’t know any better. When she was thirteen and a little taller, she’d started to fight him off but the punches back had hurt. When she was fifteen, the first time she’d been pregnant, she’d succumbed to him. If she didn’t protest, it was over and done with quicker. But now, this time was different.
James kissed her on the lips, the face, the neck, big sloppy kisses and rancid breath. Becky felt her body stiffen at his touch and willed herself to give in for a few more seconds. She closed her eyes tightly as she felt the weight of him, almost dead heavy. He ran rough hands over her body, lower, lower. He pushed her legs apart and rolled on top of her.
As soon as he’d slithered his jeans down to his knees, she reached for the knife. With all her strength, she thrust it into the side of his leg.
‘Get off me,’ she said, still holding the knife in her hand.
James put his hand to his leg. It came away covered with blood. ‘What have you done, you stupid bitch!’
Becky watched his eyes roll around in their sockets. She pushed him away and got out of the bed. Breathing heavily she stood in the middle of the room, listening as he cried out in agony; watching while the blood running from his leg pooled onto the sheet. She wanted it to soak through to the mattress. That was the evidence she needed. To say he’d been in her bed.
Suddenly James flopped sideways, his shoulder taking his weight against the wall. His eyes closed, his body stilled.
Becky left it a few seconds before she dared prod him in the chest. James didn’t move. She prodded him again.
‘Uncle James?’
Still no response.
‘Uncle JAMES!’
Oh shit! She must have killed him. Panic ripped through her as she struggled to catch her breath. When he didn’t move a minute later, and the pool of blood became larger, she picked up her pyjama top and wrapped it around the knife. Then she gathered together some clothes, dressed quickly and shoved a few things into a holdall. All the time James didn’t stir.
Oh, God. Oh, God. OH, GOD! Her plan to soak the blood into the mattress had worked but she hadn’t meant to kill him.
She had to get out of there, and fast. Trying not to hyperventilate, she reached for her jacket from the back of the door and ran. But something made her stop halfway down the stairs. The living room door was open. Her dad was still awake! He must have heard it all. She’d never be able to get out of the door without him seeing her. She’d have to get in first, explain her side of things.
‘Dad, I need to –’
Becky stopped mid-sentence as she walked into the room because her father was asleep. His eyes were closed, his head rested back on the chair. She frowned. She could have sworn he’d been awake.
‘Dad!’ She tried again but still he didn’t move.
Looking down at him, for a moment Becky’s life was suspended. She wished she could wake up and find out this was all a nightmare. She wished she had a father who she could talk to, spend time with, when he wasn’t down the pub. She wished her mother were still alive. If she had been, none of this would have happened. She wished she had an uncle who looked out for her, not did…
Becky gulped back tears. She closed the door quietly and went into the kitchen. She took biscuits, a few cans of coke and packets of crisps and shoved them into her holdall. She crept back across the hallway. Then, without a backward glance, she opened the front door of her childhood home, closed it quietly behind her and ran.
The White Lion public house stood forlorn in the middle of the Mitchell Estate. Before the recession, it had been a thriving business. Now all that was left was a boarded up building with a For Sale sign hanging haphazardly by one nail. Rubbish bags sat alongside two single mattresses, a few wooden pallets and a settee in the car park, the low wall around it missing many of its bricks.
Austin Forrester had been watching it for three days before making his move. During this time, he’d seen only one other loner like himself. The youth was in his early teens, scraggy and unkempt, wearing clothes that hadn’t seen water in months.
That afternoon, he watched him leave and disappear out of view before leap-frogging the wall and legging it to the back of the building. He felt around the edges of the windows until he found the metal sheeting that had been jemmied open. Within seconds, he pushed himself through the gap and jumped down to the floor inside.
Once his eyes adjusted to the shadows, Austin moved quickly. A door creaked as he pushed it open to find what used to be the kitchen. He walked on further and the building opened up into a lobby. Coming to a flight of stairs he chose to go up two steps at a time, his speedy heartbeat the only sound he could hear. He came across a room with a single mattress on the floor. A grubby sleeping bag lay on it, the zip opened and pushed wide. Empty beer cans and takeaway cartons were piled high on top of a beer crate serving as a coffee table. Austin breathed through his nose, the pile of clothes and trainers at the foot of the mattress adding to the stench inside the room.
Less than ten minutes later he was out again, leaving no signs of his presence. So when he went back at midnight, the youth didn’t stand a chance. The first he knew of anything was when Austin pinned him to the bed, his gloved hands squeezing tightly around his neck. Sensing he was fighting for his life, the youth struggled to pull his arms free of the sleeping bag and thrashed them about, clawing urgently at Austin’s gloves. His breath came out of his nostrils in fits and starts. Austin moved with him, holding him down and avoiding his knees pushing up, trying to flip him off balance. Finally, the youth’s arms and shoulders flopped.
Afterwards, Austin lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Funny how things work out, he thought, glancing around the room again. This place couldn’t be a more perfect hideout for him to watch and wait. He’d be in the thick of things but inconspicuous when he needed to be.
He took another long
drag and stared at the corpse beside him. For a moment, he wondered why the youth was here, what his story was, and his background. Had he been dragged up through the system too?
Although he felt the anger brewing inside, he knew he had to bide his time for the next few months. Besides, it wouldn’t take long to put his plan into action. He already knew the date it would all come to a head. The fifteenth of August 2012.
Everyone on the Mitchell Estate would know his name by then.
CHAPTER TWO
Life on the Mitchell Estate was never dull. Cathy Mason lived in Christopher Avenue, on the bottom half of the estate. She’d answered the door to many a strange request since her husband had died three years ago. A knock on the door at nine am could mean a number of things. It could be a bailiff with an eviction warrant pending. It could be someone wanting to administer a slap or a punch to a person inside. It could mean an early morning raid by a drugs squad or even, on one occasion, armed police. Several times, it had been a husband returning from an all-night bender wanting to speak to his estranged wife – or a wayward teenager the worse for wear after a night on the tiles.
This morning she pulled back the bolts, keeping the chain in place before removing it when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.
‘Morning, Josie,’ she smiled. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Or is this a business call?’
‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Cath. But I do have business to discuss as well. Is that the sound of the kettle boiling?’
Cathy closed the door behind them and followed Josie down a brightly lit hallway into the kitchen.
For a Mitchell Housing Association property, it was certainly a step up from the norm. For starters, the rubbish was in a bin: it hadn’t been chucked to the floor and left to rot for months. The top of the dining table wasn’t piled high with a metre of dirty washing. Worktops were clear: there wasn’t a single food product festering in a dish, no congealed greasy residue in the sink, no pyramid of used teabags that threatened to reach the ceiling. And it smelt of something lemony, with a slight hint of bleach, and…