Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  She’s glancing at her watch as I nod my head. The hour is almost up, and the therapy session is over for another week. Now I can leave, wobbly-legged and with a head full of nightmares.

  *

  My paranoia always intensifies after a therapy session. All the way home, I check behind me, determined that all eyes are on me, and somewhere in the middle of all those eyes is Isabel, waiting and watching. From the line of people at the bus stop, to the teenagers cycling along the promenade, to the whistle of the wind as it sweeps in through the windows on the bus, every small noise has my nerves jangling. These sessions bring back all the fears I had before, during, and after the attack, not that those fears are ever very far away.

  It’s early evening when I get back to the house, and the sun is fading. After I open the front door, I have to put on the light to properly see what I’m doing, holding my breath in that briefest of moments before the lightbulb comes to life. The coat rack is going, I tell myself. It looks far too much like a tall person looming over the corridor, shapeless and wrong, like a spirit in a horror movie, though I’m far more terrified of earthly dangers than I am the unearthly.

  The silence tells me that Tom is still at the chippy, and when I glance at my phone, I remember that his shift ends in half an hour. At least I won’t be alone in the house for too long. That’s a good thing, considering that I’m still a little shaky from the therapy session.

  I hang up my coat on the rack and hurry into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It was Mum who always put the kettle on in times of crisis, which usually meant when my father was drunk. I hush my thoughts as the water rushes into the plastic kettle, drowning them out with the sound. That chapter of my life has ended, and it does no good to bring it up in my thoughts again. Dr Qamber is right: I do need to make changes, and after this cup of tea, I’ll be well on my way to figuring out what to do next. That’s all life is, isn’t it? Getting through one moment and then figuring out what to do next? It doesn’t matter how long that moment is. For some people, a moment can be years. They’re organised enough to know exactly what they’re doing for the next decade. Others take it second by second. I think I fall into the latter category, especially after everything that happened with Isabel.

  I take my mug in one hand and tuck the laptop under my arm so I can move to the lounge and sprawl out on the sofa. As the adult in what’s left of my family, it’s up to me to figure out how Tom and I are going to get through this. I’ve been in a fog since we left Hutton. I haven’t allowed myself to feel comfortable or think about staying in one place permanently, but now I have a job, as does Tom. We live in a nice house. This town is pleasant, and we’re far away from the moors where I ran naked and bloody away from the girl who terrorised me and changed my life forever.

  First, I search for camera systems for the house. CCTV, nanny cams and video doorbells could help make us feel safer here. There are alarm systems, too. None of this is cheap, but if I remain frugal with my wages, we should be able to manage for a while. There’s such an abundance of options that my tea is long gone before I’ve compiled a shortlist to show to Tom later. Then I move on to strength training and martial arts. Isabel’s strength hardly lies in her physicality, but she’s clever enough to ensure that that’s not a problem for her by using weapons and the element of surprise. I still wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, with the memory of that sharp knife pressed against my throat.

  If I were stronger, perhaps I could disarm her. If I had the confidence, or the knowledge, to wrench a knife or gun out of her hand, unlike last time, when I just froze up.

  I’m on my second cup of tea and down half a packet of chocolate digestives by the time Tom comes in. I can’t deny that I’ve been anxiously munching on the biscuits, knowing he was late coming home after the end of his shift. But when he comes into the room, I hide that anxiety and smile.

  “How was your first day?”

  “All right.” He slumps into a chair and flicks on the television.

  “My day was fine too,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for asking.”

  He glances in my direction and sighs. “Sorry. Just tired. Think I might get a shower. The chip fat stuff stinks.”

  “Did you go out after?”

  He gets to his feet and nods. Is it possible that he’s taller than yesterday? “Yeah. There’s a couple others working there, so we went for a drink at the pub after.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. What are they like?”

  “Seem sound,” he replies.

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to go for that shower now.”

  “All right.”

  Tom leaves the room as I shovel another biscuit into my mouth, telling myself that it’s good he finally has some friends. It’s good that he’s getting out of the house and has a job and is moving on. This is a good thing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Over the next couple of weeks, I’m too busy organising a fundraising event at Ivy Lodge to focus too much on Tom, but I do manage to persuade him to try out the “plank challenge” with me in order to help with strength training. We’re up to 50 seconds of agonising pain and I can feel a slight change in my arms, but I really need to get some weights and work out properly to feel the full effect. At least we’re doing it, even if the plank inevitably ends with carpet burns on my elbows and a sweaty collapse onto the floor.

  Outside work time, I’ve managed to install a video doorbell and a camera at the front and the back of the house. Late at night when I can’t sleep, I sometimes sneak into the living room and turn the TV channel to our camera just to watch and make sure there’s no one there. But I haven’t been sleepwalking anymore. Also, therapist, psychiatrist and GP have all teamed up to change my medication, meaning that I should be on track to being normal again. Whatever “normal” is.

  Tom works part-time at the chip shop, and the rest of the time, he seems to be in the pub with the other teenagers who work there. The manager reckons he’ll be able to go full-time soon, which will be good for an injection of cash (if Tom doesn’t start spending it all on beer) but not great for my son’s prospects in the long term. Every time he talks about going full-time, I can’t help thinking about his A-Levels and what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. But Tom is young, and long-term plans are a dull affair to him. I don’t even feel like I can argue, after what we endured last year. Let him blow off steam until he’s ready to come back to reality. As long as he comes back…

  The Ivy Lodge fundraiser is an afternoon tea event with a bake sale and a little ballroom dancing by a couple of local dancers. Eileen gave me a few contacts, a budget, and let me get on with it, which meant I could decorate the social room however I wanted. After getting a few opinions from the nursing staff and the residents themselves, I decided on a vintage theme and bought colourful bunting and patterned tablecloths. This morning, I arranged for the tables to be moved to the outside of the room to create a small dance floor, and placed vintage teapots on every table with trays of scones, jam, cream, and cakes. There are stalls with more cakes in front of the nursing home on the garden.

  For once, there is a lively buzz about Ivy Lodge as the residents come to life. Brittle fingers tap the arms of wheelchairs as Vera Lyn plays on the stereo. There are claps and cheers as the ballroom dancers waltz around the room. Some of the younger residents and their friends and families take to the dance floor themselves, attempting the Charleston with the professionals. We even have a few children nicking brownies from the tables and licking chocolate from their fingers.

  For the first time in a long time, I’m at ease. Too busy to be looking over my shoulder every minute.

  “Hello, there.”

  I lift my eyes from the laminated schedule in my hands to see George, the most charming of the residents, standing in front of me. “Hi, George. Are you having a good time?”

  “I am. A little bird told me that you organised this shindig.”

  I nod. “With help, of
course.”

  “Well, you’ve done a good job.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “I’m not as quick on my feet as I used to be, but I can still waltz. Fancy a dance with an old codger?”

  “George, you’re not an old codger. But, yes, I’d love to.”

  His eyes flash with mischief as I leave the schedule on the nearest table and allow him to take me by the hand onto the small makeshift dance floor. Though his movements are stiff, I can tell he was once a good dancer, and imagine that he was quite a hit with the young women of Clifton. I, on the other hand, have never waltzed before, and almost trip over poor George as we navigate our way around the room.

  “There you are,” he says. “You’re picking it up.”

  “This isn’t what I usually dance to, but I like it,” I admit, thinking about the London rave clubs I stumbled out of when I was eighteen and stupid. The “dancing” was more like jostling other sweaty bodies on a sticky floor before snorting lines of powder in the bogs, and waking up the next day with no memory of what had happened. But that was another Leah, another time. Lizzie likes to waltz with gentlemanly OAPs. She didn’t grow up with an alcoholic father or live in squats with lazy artistic drug addicts. She’s together, normal, not haunted or stalked by a psychotic murderer.

  “My grandson is here today,” George says brightly. “I’ll introduce you to him. He’s a good boy.”

  I always feel like I can’t tell whether some of the residents at Ivy Lodge are describing their grandchildren or their pets. “Lovely!”

  The song ends, and George walks me back to the table. “And handsome,” he adds.

  “Are you trying to set me up, George?” I let out a nervous laugh. The last thing I want is an awkward situation with a man.

  “Oh, no, dear. He’s courting.”

  As the band starts up a new song about bugles, a young man with ashy blond hair and bright eyes, who I imagine George would have been the spit of if he were twenty-five, comes over and taps George on the arm.

  “Nice moves, Grandad.”

  George surprises me with a few tap-dancing moves before clutching the nearest chair. “I think that’s my limit. Mark, I’d like you to meet Lizzie. She’s the one who organised this event.”

  Mark directs his easy smile to me. “Everyone’s having a fantastic time here. You’ve done a great job.”

  To my horror, a flush of heat creeps up my neck and into my face. “Thanks. Everyone pitched in.”

  “Mark comes to visit me in between working and taking care of my daughter. She’s paralysed after an accident a few years ago,” George says.

  “I remember you telling me. I’m sorry. That must be difficult for you all.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Mark says. “She’s very independent, but the wheelchair does complicate things. I know she doesn’t get out of the house as much as she’d like to. The world isn’t catching up to accessibility just yet. It can be a bit frustrating at times.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, immediately feeling like an idiot, as we all do when confronted with an unusual topic of conversation. “Again.” And then I shake my head at myself.

  “It’s okay,” he says, showing a little amusement.

  “So, what do you do?” When in doubt, change the topic.

  He shrugs. “Office monkey. Not very exciting. I work in administration for a local school.”

  “Same. I joined the administration team here a few weeks ago.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly had a good start by setting this up,” he remarks.

  “I’ve been telling Lizzie all about Abigail,” George chimes in. “I thought maybe you could talk to Lizzie about it. It doesn’t hurt to spread the word however we can. Maybe someday we’ll figure out what happened.”

  Mark leads me away as George goes on the hunt for more sandwiches. “I’m sorry if he’s been bending your ear about this.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I love talking to George. Don’t tell the other patients, but he’s my favourite.”

  “I can believe it. Grandad could charm the birds from the trees. My grandma used to say that. But lately, as he’s been getting older, he’s been fixated about this fire that happened when he was a boy, and I’m afraid he tells everyone the story, I guess in the hopes that someone will help. I would hire a private investigator, but we don’t have the money, and I’ve not had enough time to delve into the past, what with taking care of Mum and working full-time. I know he’s desperate to find out what happened to Abigail, and since he’s been at Ivy Lodge, well, he worries that he hasn’t got much time left.”

  I nod. “I’ve only just moved to the area, so I don’t know people, and I don’t know local history, but I do have some free time.” I think of Tom working long hours in the chip shop and my craving for wine in the evenings after the sun has gone down, when my mind drifts to thoughts of Isabel and I watch the footage from our CCTV cameras. A distraction from that might be nice. “Maybe I can help.”

  “That’s… I mean, that’s such a kind offer. I don’t know if we can—”

  “Honestly, I don’t mind. I actually need some sort of hobby right now. I’m pretty bored, to be honest. You’d be doing me a favour.”

  “Thank you,” Mark says brightly. “And now you know me at least!”

  I return the smile, thinking that George was right about his grandson.

  “Anyway,” Mark says, bringing the conversation back. “The story is a tragic one. My grandad was ten when there was a terrible fire in the house. My grandad and his sister Abigail slept in a room down the hall from his parents’ room. After my great-grandparents woke during the fire, they burst into Grandad and Abigail’s room to get them out. Grandad says he was scooped up into his father’s arms and taken downstairs, but they couldn’t find Abigail. My great-grandfather took Grandad outside to save him, but as he was getting Grandad to safety, my great-grandmother ran back upstairs to try to find Abigail. The flames engulfed the house. Grandad’s father couldn’t get back in, and his mother died. It all happened during the war, when things were already fraught. I think maybe the police didn’t investigate as heavily as they should have. Abigail’s remains were never found, and it was clear that the fire had been started deliberately. They could all have died that night.”

  “I can’t believe he lost his mum like that. It’s so sad.” There were pinpricks down my arms as I imagined the panic and terror of being trapped in a burning building.

  Mark frowned for the first time, and a small line appeared between his eyebrows. “I know that night has been hard for my grandad to cope with all these years. Especially with the way Abigail disappeared.”

  “And the police didn’t investigate?”

  “The fire burned everything to ash. Because it was during the war, the fire department was smaller than usual. They tried their best, but the fire tore through the house and annihilated everything. They found the remains of my great-grandmother, but there was nothing left of Abigail. She was only twelve years old and small for her age, and it was 1944, so forensic science was not as good as it is now, but it still seems odd that no bones were found. Nothing. No scrap of the nightdress she was wearing that night. Though I must admit I don’t know how well the police searched for her. I don’t know the circumstances because I wasn’t there, and Grandad was only ten. He barely remembers the fire at all. I’ve searched out some newspaper articles about the fire, though, and I have my own speculations.”

  “What are they?” I ask.

  “Well,” he says, leaning forward. “What if the fire was to cover up an abduction? What if someone kidnapped Abigail and then set the house on fire to get rid of the evidence?”

  “Wouldn’t they be drawing more attention to themselves?” I ask. “Not finding the remains for the little girl is still a huge story.”

  “But at the time, the authorities assumed she had perished in the fire anyway. They figured that they’d missed som
ething, or that she burned until there was nothing left.” Mark grimaces as he says the words. “If someone did kidnap Abigail, they got away with it. As far as I know, the case was closed after a few years. My great-grandfather was depressed his whole life about losing his wife and daughter. When Grandad was thirty, he came home to find his father hanging from the beams. He’d left a note to my Grandad saying that he was a man now and could take care of himself, and that he wanted to be with his wife again.”

  “Oh, God.” I shake my head. There are no words for such a thing.

  “I know. It was hard on Grandad, not that he ever let it drag him down. He’s the most positive man I’ve ever known.”

  I tactfully turn away as Mark quickly blinks away a tear.

  “I’d love to go over your research into this one day. I realise you hardly know me and I’m new here, but if you’re desperate for help, I’d be happy to lend a hand.”

  “You know, my grandad has told his story to anyone and everyone who will listen over the years, and you are the first person to offer to help.” Mark takes my hand and clasps it in both of his. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ISABEL

  Are you happy, Leah? Making friends? Are you using that unassuming charm to create meaningful relationships? Such a good girl. Such a sweet girl.

  Guess who made a friend today?

  It was purely by accident. There I was, down a dark alleyway, searching through a bin behind a supermarket, as every well-respecting delinquent on the run needs to do, when an overly large man with too many muscles dragged a scrap of a girl into the alley and shoved her up against the wall. This man had no manners. His hands were all over her, greedy and gobbling, wanting to devour her whole. I couldn’t let that happen, and luckily, the man with the hands hadn’t seen me crouched like a rat behind the bin.

  So I crept up on them.