'So, who was Twigs? Where’s the other page? Why was it addressed here?'
Moira just shrugged.
*
In 1975, Annabel had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday. One of her presents had been a large leather bound diary. Annabel was a diary person she always had been; religiously every day she made an entry. To her, a diary was important and she never went anywhere without one. Either she carried it under her arm or it was always in her shoulder bag. With exception, on walks she let her pet golden labrador, Zita, carry it in her mouth,.
Annabel put everything into her diary, thoughts, ideas, feelings, all food for a budding poet. She loved poetry it captivated her. She would read Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Byron, Keats, Tennyson, Browning, even Greek and First World War poetry. She consumed it all with a ravenous hunger. It was her lifeblood.
As a student, it had been Annabel’s chosen career to teach, with a burning ambition to write a book of poems and to get published. She had done well in her final year exams and had gone to Ewell College to study A Level poetry and literature.
Away at a nursing college, her older sister was in Bristol, so the parents only saw her at odd weekends or holidays. In Annabel’s case, they were pleased she had chosen to study locally.
Earlier in the year, Annabel had won first prize in the Ewell College poetry competition. The theme of the poem had to be about something you cherish and the length limited to 500 words. She had thought of her diary straight away. At that moment, it was her most valuable possession. It was her confidant, best friend, big sister, second mum, even substitute boyfriend. All these things rolled into one.
Annabel had called her poem, My Secret Place. As a little twist, she’d told close friends that she'd left clues in the verse describing where her diary was hidden.
How all this secrecy came about was due to her mum. While she was at college, Annabel’s mother had started searching her daughter’s bedroom. After reading too many tabloids and watching too much television, her mother had got it into her head that every female student was a cannabis-smoking, alcohol-swigging, pill-popping nymphomaniac and her worry bordered on hysteria.
Looking for drugs, contraceptives, booze, even cigarettes, she would rummage through drawers, search in the wardrobe, under the mattress but find nothing. Of course, her mother meant well, but Annabel, like all teenagers when they reach a certain age, wanted her privacy.
Annabel always knew when her mother had been nosey because she used to set little traps for her. Clear Sellotape was very effective when discreetly laid across doors and drawers. The problem had been hiding the bulky diary. Although most days she had kept it with her, there had been times when she had to keep it concealed in her bedroom. Then at last, she had had a brain wave. She had found the perfect hiding place. Her mother would never have dreamt of looking there.
Annabel was slim and petite with long dark hair from her mother’s side. At five feet four, she had the figure for shorts. With her model looks, she was every young lad’s dream. Annabel knew she looked good. A girl gets to know from the glances. At this moment in time, there wasn’t a boyfriend although her interest in young men had increased since she’d started college.
On Saturday afternoon, wearing the latest fashionable hot pants and a skimpy top, Annabel walked down the back garden path of her parents’ house carrying a small fold-up chair with her shoulder bag swinging from the hip. Her dog padded ahead, the diary in its mouth.
The weather forecast for August 1975 was warm and sunny. So, after chasing sticks and her favourite ball for an hour, Zita was quite happy to lie at Annabel’s feet.
Annabel was in one of her creative moods, full of inspiration and ideas and had parked herself in her favourite spot surrounded by dense hawthorn and juniper trees, just out of sight from her parents’ back gate on the south side of Nonsuch Park. Away from the steady drone of traffic, it was a quiet place only broken by the chatter of finches and magpies. Being some distance from the path no one ventured here.
It had just turned 4:30 p.m. The sun was still high; the rays casting short shadows on this hot afternoon. Perspiration was already forming on Annabel’s forehead as she sat busily making notes in her diary; the smell of wood and dry earth filling her senses.
A lone cricket buzzed behind her, its back legs grinding together like a motor constantly revving up. Annabel’s mouth was dry. Reaching for the bag, she pulled out a Coca-Cola. The cap hissed off as she quenched her thirst with a satisfied smile. Her dog lifted its head nonchalantly then lowered it again.
A plane droned faintly overhead leaving its fluffy trail.
She looked up. The summer heat and the quiet had gradually become claustrophobic surrounded as it was, in the distance by the tall oak and beech trees. It was as though they were whispering overhead. Their secrets contained in a majestic stillness, constantly exchanging what they had seen, witnessed over the long years.
Suddenly, voices. Zita’s ears pricked up. Then some movement. Annabel’s hand froze around the ballpoint pen. Her head jerked at the muffled cry and panting that came from behind. The dense bushes that partially cocooned her, gave no indication of what it was.
Annabel slowly rose. Her dog was on all fours, already in anticipation looking up wagging its tail. She quietly folded the canvas chair. Wincing as the ground crunched under her feet, she tiptoed in the direction of the sounds. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, the perspiration now running down her cheeks.
The odour of earth and grass had become nauseating, heavy and thick with the humidity.
The panting and moaning grew louder. She crouched down and carefully parted the hawthorn bramble, wincing as it scratched her arms and wrists. It was two men, half-naked. One was lying on top of the other one with their trousers down by their ankles.
Annabel recognised the young man on top. He’d been a former college student. An old boyfriend of one of her best mates called Jennifer who’d recently emigrated with her parents to Australia. Jennifer had wanted to be a fashion photographer and always called Annabel, Twigs, after the famous model, Twiggy.
Without a moment's hesitation, she scribbled away furiously in her diary what was unfolding before her eyes. She couldn’t help herself even though she was scared.
Now to get away, she thought. Mustn’t let them see me.
Annabel turned to go but too late. Her dog started barking. She whispered, ‘Shush! Zita.’ Then in horror, she saw the face. The face she’d recognised. It was peering at her through the hedge and he had a look now like a sky that could spawn a tornado at any moment. He recognised Annabel as well. Her father was his boss, a senior partner in the law firm he’d just joined.
Annabel dropped the diary and started to run, her legs heavy with fear. Zita was ahead of her, barking. The young man stooped and picked up the diary. He saw her last entry, naming him and what he was doing. Buggering, she’d written.
Zita, seeing the man with the diary, turned back and attacked him snatching the diary in its mouth,. Zita hung on and wrenched it from his hands, growling and shaking her head. The man yelled out and fell backwards to the ground in a flurry of earth and leaves. He cursed as he got up. He brushed himself down while looking for his male acquaintance. But he'd done a runner in panic. It didn’t matter. They'd only met an hour ago in the park toilets.
With the diary in her mouth, Zita scurried back to catch up with Annabel who was running in blind panic. Annabel ran until her temples pounded, ran until her eyes pulsed in their sockets, ran until she had a hot stitch in her left side from the bottom of her ribs up to her armpits, and ran until she could taste blood and something like metal shavings in the back of her throat. Then she tripped and fell sprawling, twisting her ankle. She got up. Zita came back but she yelled at the dog to run on. The dog faltered, not wanting to leave her, still with the diary in its mouth.
Annabel started up again, limping badly this time. The smell of dry earth was thick in her b
rain. Then she heard the crunching of earth and twigs with heavy panting behind her. Someone shouting,
'Come here, you bitch!'
She started to scream,
‘Help me someone? Please!’
She looked over her shoulder; the sound of running was getting nearer. Her house was now in sight. If only she could reach it in time. Annabel was in excruciating pain dragging her left foot. Must get to the back gate. Oh God! Please let me make it.
Fumbling frantically for the latch, the gate swung open with Annabel falling through onto the concrete and grazing her knees. Faithful Zita was still with her, dropping the diary and licking her hand, picking it up and waiting for the next command.
Annabel looked behind. No one in sight. With Zita ahead, she limped up the garden path to the kitchen door.
Now inside, she turned the key and relaxed as the lock snapped into place.
Annabel leant with her back against the half-glazed door her chest moving up and down rapidly, breathing in snatches. Zita looked up at her. She patted the dog.
‘Good dog,’ she said, stiffly bending and kissing Zita fondly on the head. Annabel took the diary from Zita and patted her again. ‘Well done, Zeet,’
She looked into the garden through the glass. It was all clear. The house was quiet. Her parents were out shopping. Get up to your bedroom, she thought. Lock yourself in until Dad gets back.
Now, at the rear of the house, he was panting hard from the running, already knowing where Annabel lived. He’d just seen them disappear behind the kitchen door, the dog still with the diary in its mouth.
The garage doors were open. There was no car. Hopefully the parents were out. At the side-entrance of the large detached house was a builder’s skip sheltered by a high fence. The skip was filled with old paint tins, carpets and a three-piece suite. It looked like they had the decorators in.
The sound of breaking glass made Annabel look up from her diary. A nervous tick fluttered her cheek. She pressed her ear against the bedroom door, straining, listening.
‘Ring the Police. That’s it,’ she mumbled nervously. Annabel tiptoed over to the extension and picked it up. Hand shaking, the finger misdialled. ‘Shit,’ under her breadth. This time she got it right, 999.
There was a slight pause, then a voice,
'Emergency Services.'
‘Police! Get me the police!’ she shouted, ‘I’m being—’ Annabel heard a click. Then nothing. Just silence. She tapped the receiver bar frantically. Only her own breathing could be heard.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs. His hand clutched the pulled telephone wire. Then he called out to her,
'Oh Annabel. I know you’re up there. I just want to talk. Explain things. It would be awkward if your dad found out, you know, my little preferences, him being my boss and all that; his company paying for my law school fees; a promising career ahead of me. You know what I mean. Come on Annabel, don’t make me come up there.'
Then he heard the sound of something dragging. Probably the bed? She was barricading the door with her bed. He bounded up the stairs to the large landing. Spotting the only bedroom door closed, he took a hefty kick at it.
Annabel started screaming. She tried pushing up the large sash window in desperation.
The noise jerked him into panic; he couldn’t afford her shouting out, attracting someone. Using his shoulder, he took a flying leap and the door caved in. He went sprawling headlong onto the floor.
Annabel shrieked. As she stepped over him, he grabbed her leg and pulled her to the floor. She wrestled with him and raked his face with her nails.
He shouted at her, ‘You fucking bitch!’ wincing with the pain.
With her foot, she shoved him back down and ran from the bedroom. Zita was in a barking frenzy ahead of her. Annabel reached the stairs, then tripped over her dog. She screamed as she somersaulted repeatedly down the marble steps, crashing into the right-angled wall, leaving a bloody smear, then bouncing down the remaining flight. The brittle snap of her neck as she hit the bottom echoed through the quiet hall.
There was silence. He came out on to the balcony and looked down the stairs. Zita was by Annabel’s side. She began to whine, wagging her tale, not understanding the staring eyes, the twisted head at right angles. She licked the blood from the ear and nose affectionately, hoping to waken her owner.
He had to act fast. Parents may be back soon. That fucking diary was somewhere - too late to look now.
There were two things he had to do, and quickly. Torch the house and hope the diary went with it, then get rid of the body. Forensics, his hairs, his scratches, her fingernails with his skin. He was a dead man if anybody found her or the diary.
The dog was still pining. He shouted at it to shut up. He needed a clear head. And then he muttered,
‘Yes, of course.’
Protected by the high fence, he made his way out the back door to the side entrance. He looked into the skip and saw a big rolled up carpet. Then he heard the noise of an engine at the front of the house. At that moment, a skip truck with chains clunking pulled up. Too late now. 'Shit!―shit!—shit!' His fist banged in desperation against the steel container.
However, the driver didn’t get out of his cabin. Instead, he decided to take his afternoon tea break. He opened his lunch box and started reading the newspaper.
His luck was in. It was now or never. He pulled out the old carpet and unrolled it behind the skip. Then he went back for Annabel’s body. He rolled the body up, then lifted the bundle with some heaving and slid it over the edge into the skip.
After fifteen minutes, he watched from a side window as the container was lowered onto the truck. As it pulled away, he knew he had to finish the business.
The dog was gone. It had run after the truck; still faithful to the end.
The decorators had left a two-gallon can of white spirit. He started upstairs shaking the fluid from room to room. Then he took one last look and flicked a match.
Twenty minutes later, Annabel’s parents came home from shopping to see the fire brigade tackling the upstairs inferno. After a brief search, they reassured the hysterical mother there was nobody in the house.
Police found the kitchen door had been forced open, down stairs drawers ransacked and furniture kicked over. Initially it looked like a robbery or vandalism, or both.
After Annabel had failed to return, the CID came to Ewell College and set up an interview room. All her known friends and acquaintances were called in one by one. With no leads, the police turned their attention to forty-eight year old Reginald Stanton.
A local man, with a previous record of robbery with violence, he’d been released several months earlier after serving a seven-year jail term. Annabel’s parents had hired decorators shortly before her disappearance. Company records showed one of the men to be Reginald Stanton.
A neighbour had placed this man at the scene on the afternoon in question. He was picked out instantly in an identification parade. When arrested, the police had searched his flat and found stolen items from Annabel’s house. With Annabel still missing and scratches on his hands he couldn’t properly account for, the case very quickly became a murder enquiry.
Eventually, after three months, even though her body had never been found, the jury at the Old Bailey had taken six hours to convict him of murder. In sentencing Reginald Stanton to life imprisonment, his lordship, Justice Anthony Farquharson Q.C. had called him a wicked and depraved man for taking such a young life away from a loving family.
Amongst emotional scenes from the gallery with many relatives in tears, Reginald Stanton, forcibly restrained while shouting and protesting his innocence, was led away to start his life sentence.
*
The mansion was haunting and empty. Only the tick of a large grandfather clock resonated through the rooms. It’s pendulum swinging doom like an axe in hell.
The naked virgin tied down to the altar, wrestling with the ropes her
screams drowned by religious chanting, the curved blade swishing above her. Backwards and forwards dropping closer and closer.
Then the chime; euphoric music from the gods. The hooded priest crossing himself as her flesh parted away. Blood splashed his robes with each rhythmical motion of the polished steel, the organ music building to a crescendo.
Geoffrey’s hand reached the television and pressed the off button to the Hammer horror film. It was late, but a good time. Smells of polish and fresh air spray still lingered in the room. The remains of their housekeeper visit. Tuesday was her day.
Curtains flickered with silent lightning as an early summer storm was brewing. A twelve-year-old Malt splashed into Waterford crystal. Geoffrey’s head went back then came forward with a wince as the whisky found its way.
Moira had gone to bed early with warm milk and a couple of paracetamol. She’d been sniffling all day with a cold.
Geoffrey watched the computer screen glow into life. With the mouse, his hand searched the Internet for Ewell College. Then, from the current 1992 year, he listed back to the 1975 Year Book - Prize Giving Section - Classifications - Poetry - Winners List of Names - Annabel MacPherson - Entry Title - My Secret Place.
One hand scrolled down to the last lines of the poem, while Geoffrey’s other hand shook slightly holding the letter. His lips mumbled, 'She said the last six lines. I’ve sussed it from your last six lines.'
Geoffrey’s head leant closer to the screen and started to read:
My bedroom, quiet, like the sanctity of a church.
I tiptoe and see guilt, jealousy, love and hate; even sins of self-adulation
High at the rail of judgement, the grill of a confession box awaits.
A priest’s ear the other side.
My secrets forever entombed in his mind. Hidden from the world.
Eventually, in time, decaying with us both, underneath the crinoline.
He switched off the computer then drained the last of the Malt. His footsteps mounted the stairs softly but purposefully. The storm was overhead. Thunder rattled across the roof of the house. The hall lit up briefly with flickering white flashes. Rain sheeted against the windows in blustery gusts.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 9