Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  I approached silently, slowly, until I was close to his back and could see the whites of the girl’s eyes. I saw the terror on her face and the tension running through her small body. When she saw me, I placed a finger on my lips. Do you know what, Leah? For a moment, she reminded me of you, and I didn’t like the way that man was touching her, because I’d heard all about men like him from the women in Crowmont. Nearly all of them had a story about men like him, with their huge fists and hungry mouths. They don’t care about creating art or beauty, like I do. All they care about is taking what they feel entitled to.

  As I walked up close behind him, I weighed up my chances. You know very well, Leah, that I’m not a large or physically strong person. Truth be told, my father helped an awful lot with James Gorden and with you, Leah dear. But that merely meant that I needed to be sneakier, and we both know that I’m the sneakiest bitch around.

  His hands were pulling up her top as I crouched low to the ground. I’d spotted a useful object nestled amongst the litter, one that I felt would help both of us get out of this dire predicament. Once my fingers had grasped the object I sought, I stood, took one step closer to the man, and cleared my throat. The girl’s eyes widened, pleading for help. She was whimpering but not screaming, which was good. Any sniff of the police, and I would be forced to “leg it” as Tracy from Crowmont would say.

  Frustratingly, the muscly pervert did not even notice my signal. Instead, he lowered his face to the girl’s neck and licked her skin possessively. My stomach turned at the sight. I folded my arms, rolled my eyes, and kicked the back of his leg. At least the man was suitably startled by the interruption of his assault. I kicked him even harder, and he turned around, now holding the girl with one hand wrapped around her throat.

  When he saw me, though, he grinned. “Want to join in? There’s plenty of me to go around.” In an attempt to menace me, he squeezed the girl’s throat, and she made a strangled gurgling sound.

  Leah, I have to confess that I enjoyed that sound. I enjoyed it in a place that I do not much care to describe. A dark, dangerous place. A part of my body that no one has touched. At this point, I hesitated. Did I want to save this girl? Wouldn’t I have more fun watching her be harmed? Watching her die? It was only a fleeting thought, and a second later, I remembered what I was planning to do.

  This man had no manners, and he deserved to be taught a lesson.

  “No, thank you. Please let her go. She doesn’t want to be pawed by an ugly, dirty pervert like you.”

  At this, his head tilted down until his eyes were shadows. I did the same, not one to be outdone when it came to menace. And then I unfolded my arms, where the paint can was hidden, and sprayed paint into those shadowed eyes. I had contemplated the idea that the paint can was empty, but I knew from the weight of it when I lifted it that there was paint left. At this point, the man was yelping like a little dog, and he let go of the girl, letting her crumple to the ground. He threw his hands up to his face, giving me the perfect opportunity to kick him hard between the legs.

  “Time to run now,” I said to the girl.

  The man was doubled over and blind, but he was still bigger than both of us put together, and there was a chance he would recover fairly quickly. Luckily, despite the girl being in a state of panic, she was lucid enough to take my hand and climb to her feet in such trouper-like capacity that once again, she reminded me of you.

  Then we ran. Two rats fleeing from a mongrel. We ran, and we survived—as rats tend to do—and, honestly, saving a life was almost as exhilarating as taking one.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The news about the murdered girl has died down, and I must admit, I almost forgot her after moving to Clifton, but Alison doesn’t let me go; instead, she creeps into my dreams. Bloody from head to toe, she follows me, dragging her muddied feet across the coarse grass. We’re back on the North Yorkshire moors and she’s opening her mouth to speak, but the wind cuts her off, blowing her hair into her eyes.

  “What do you want?” I ask desperately.

  But she doesn’t answer, only continues on, dragging her toes against the ground, her naked body alabaster beneath the blood and drowned in moonlight. Then she turns around, and I see the wounds. The wings are stretched down her back, like unfolded angel’s wings. These are red—scorch marks against her white skin—the edges smeared with blood as it drips from the gashes, giving it a smudged appearance, like fresh watercolour ink. The red tattoo draws in your eye and keeps your gaze firmly on it, every inch longing to be seen, to be admired.

  It’s beautiful.

  The wings drape down to her hips. The marks move with her body as she rolls her shoulders. I could close my eyes and imagine the wings unfolding up to the sky, a beautiful bird in flight, or an angel called back to heaven, still bloody, still crimson, and still covered in moonlight.

  I’m jealous.

  My eyes snap open. My chest is tight, and my breathing is laboured. Pushing out a raspy breath, I’m relieved to see that I’m still in my own bed and haven’t wandered somewhere else. Then I notice that the angle of the window is wrong, and that’s when I realise that my head isn’t on my pillow. I’m the wrong way around at the bottom of the bed.

  At least I didn’t walk up to an abandoned farmhouse or spend hours on the internet poisoning my mind with serial killer stories. At least I haven’t overslept or woken up at the crack of dawn. It’s just the right time to get up and go to work, which I do, after untangling myself from the bed sheets.

  But on my way out of the house, I worry about the girl in my dreams, the disturbing sight of her wounds, and about our future. Tom has already left for work, and I didn’t see him when he came home last night because it was after midnight. When it comes to caring for Tom, I’m impotent. I don’t have the authority over him that either of my parents had. I’m constantly lying to him by not telling him that I’m his mother, and I’m the cause of everything bad that has happened to us. Isabel is obsessed with me, and that’s how Tom ended up getting hurt that night on the moors. He probably blames me for all of this, and I blame myself too.

  As I take a drizzly bus ride to work, I can’t stop thinking about how I am to blame for the death of Alison Finlay. Didn’t I allow it to happen by not killing Isabel that night?

  If I’d killed her, we’d be free.

  But I didn’t, and I need to figure out why I didn’t do that.

  I need to figure out what my dreams mean, and why they’re full of blood and violence. Am I the same person I used to be? Or is there a new darkness growing inside me that I can’t control?

  *

  Ivy Lodge seems deathly quiet after the bustle of the charity event, and I spend most of my morning on the internet searching for clues about George’s sister, Abigail. It seems that Abigail’s disappearance is something of a legend in Clifton, and a few locals have speculated on what happened to her. There’s even a forum dedicated to it.

  Some believe that Abigail died in the fire and now haunts the promenade looking for her family. There have been sightings of “Little Abby” over the years. I wonder if poor George is aware of it. Others think that the fire was a misdirection to cover up the abduction of Abigail. This is more interesting, but some of the theories are too wacky to be legitimate. For instance, Clifton_Neal is convinced that Abigail was abducted by aliens, and their spaceship set the house on fire when it zoomed back up to space. Conspiracy_Steve believes he’s found a connection between Clifton-on-Sea and the Italian mafia during the 1940s.

  But amid the conspiracy theories and ghost stories, there is a thread of something that at least could be a plausible explanation. What if the fire was started to disguise Abigail’s abduction? Forensic science back then was nowhere near as advanced as it is now, and the idea of faking a death with a fire was far more plausible. Whoever took Abigail thought they were faking her death, and although there was suspicion about not finding her remains, eventually the case was closed because there were no ot
her leads, and it seemed that the most likely solution was that she died in the fire along with her mother.

  These people went to a lot of trouble to steal a child. Why?

  I decide that I need to find out more information about George’s parents and what they were involved in. Perhaps that connection to the mafia isn’t as far-fetched as it seems.

  *

  My mind begins to wander, and my internet searches veer from George’s sister to Isabel Fielding, and that’s when I find the posts. There are hundreds of them: #justiceforalison on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Most of the tweets call out the police and their inability to find Isabel, but not all of them. Some call for my name to be released to the press because I was the one who let Isabel go in the first place. The same thing happened immediately after Isabel escaped from Crowmont, but I thought those people had put away their pitchforks and got on with their lives. Not anymore. The death of Alison Finlay has brought them all out of the woodwork.

  Who is this woman? Why wasn’t she arrested? Why should my hard-earned money go towards funding her in the witness protection programme? I don’t pay taxes to fund morons who let murderers out of prison. How do we know she isn’t working with Crazy Izzy? How do we know she isn’t also a killer?

  It goes on and on, and as I read the tweets, I want to shrink down in my seat and disappear. The room suddenly seems too hot, and when the nurses walk past the reception, I feel convinced that they know who I am, that they know my shame. But they have no idea who I am. They don’t know that I’m marked. They don’t see the scars that make me unclean.

  Some of them are not visible. I keep them hidden away.

  The phone rings.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hey, Tom.” I’m surprised to hear his voice in the middle of the day. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  There’s a pause, and I immediately know there’s something wrong.

  “Tell me.” I try to keep any trace of panic out of my voice.

  “It’s nothing… I just… I had to come home.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” I still feel lightheaded from reading the toxic tweets, and the edge in Tom’s voice isn’t helping my anxiety lessen. He’s upset, and I can tell that he doesn’t want to tell me what he’s upset about. But he picked up the phone and called me…

  “It’s not that.”

  I stay quiet, waiting for him to open up.

  “They sent me home.” His voice is defensive now. Angry.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s just stupid. It’s nothing.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that.” I roll my eyes, losing patience.

  “I just wasn’t in the mood for it.” He sighs heavily, and I hear the sound of him moving around. I can visualise him pacing back and forth on the carpet. Feet shuffling. “He was being a twat, not me.” His voice rises as anger creeps in.

  “Tell me what happened, Tom.” I sound like a nurse again, calming down a patient. I don’t think it’s the best course of action, because Tom knows me, and he knows what my “nurse” voice sounds like, and to him it’s just patronising and insulting.

  He sighs again, not a sad, exhausted sigh, but a short, angry exhale, which is followed by a long rant. “This twat came in the shop complaining I’d sold him a fish with bones in it. Stupid bastard almost choked, he reckoned. Kept saying I could’ve killed him. But who doesn’t know you can get bones in fish? It’s fucking cod, for fuck’s sake. What am I supposed to do about that? It’s not my fault he can’t fucking eat like a fucking normal human being. Stupid old wanker. It was his fault. His fault, not mine. And he comes in ranting and raving at me.” At this point he runs out of steam, and his voice cracks and falters.

  “Why did they send you home?” I ask.

  “Because I told him, didn’t I? I told him he was an idiot, because he was a fucking idiot!”

  “Do you want me to come home?” I ask. There must be a reason why he called me immediately. He must need comfort, or reassurance, or something from me.

  “No.”

  “Tom,” I say, speaking calmly, choosing my words carefully. “I’m sorry that someone was rude to you. There’s no need for that. But you took a job that requires you to interact with customers, and those kinds of jobs come along with rude people who may shout at you from time to time. It’s hard not to react to idiots like that, but you can’t get aggressive with them. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “What do you know about it?” he snaps.

  “I’ve worked in healthcare for years. I’ve been spat at, kicked, punched, screamed at and scratched. But I’ve never lost my temper.”

  “Sorry for not being perfect like you.”

  “That’s not what—”

  But it’s too late. Tom has already hung up.

  I place my office phone back onto the handset and lean back in my chair. No part of that conversation sounded like the same Tom I grew up with. The trauma we experienced has changed us both, but I think it’s changed Tom even more. Suddenly, a heavy sense of exhaustion sweeps over me. I want it all to stop.

  One foot in front of the other. One breath followed by the next. I wait until my breathing is back under control, and then I pick up the phone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tom is going to see my therapist even if I must drag him to her office myself. Love is a funny thing—sometimes maintaining love requires cruelty. He hates me for it. He doesn’t want help, and he certainly doesn’t want to see my therapist, but he needs help, and I’m going to get it for him. He’s my ward. My flesh and blood. The only person I have left. I will save him from whatever is misfiring right now.

  I make an appointment for him then and there at my desk. Then, later, we argue about it. But aside from the therapist drama, the next few days pass by in relative calm. Tom agrees to continue with our plank challenge. We try another self-defence class together, but I’m terrible and Tom is over-enthusiastic. It’s a free first session, and I’m not sure I want to carry on with it.

  Whenever I start a search about Abigail, I end up reading more about Isabel and Alison Finlay than Little Abby. #justiceforalison haunts my every move on the web. They want to out me. They want to find me and burn me to the ground because they can’t find Isabel. She is somewhere in the ether, intangible and mysterious, whereas I am all too real and the public knows there are people who know where I am. I’m a solid entity they can bully until they feel better.

  But they don’t know anything about me. Yet.

  Spooked by the online vitriol, I decide to call Adam.

  “Should I be worried? Will we have to move again?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies. “Not yet, anyway. If anyone does release your name and photograph to the papers, they’ll be arrested. You’re under protection by us, and we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe.”

  “Just find her.” I shake my head and bite my lip. “I know it’s not you running the investigation. I know you’re not on Isabel’s case. But find her. Please.”

  “They’re doing everything they can, Lizzie.”

  “Do you know if they’re close?” Is there hope in my voice? I’m not sure I can tell anymore.

  “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, but I don’t, because I’m not on that case. I’m sorry.”

  I’m nodding along, my eyes burning with tears of frustration. “It’s okay. I know it’s not your fault. We’re grateful for everything you’re doing for us.”

  After I hang up the phone, I turn around in the kitchen to see Tom standing behind me with his fingers gripping the side of the kitchen counter. “We’re grateful? They’ve failed to capture a murderer, the woman who tortured us both, and you’re grateful?” He makes a derisive sound and storms out of the house. Leaving me alone. Again.

  *

  Tom’s words play on loop as I work at Ivy Lodge. An earworm you cannot eliminate no matter what, even when you put the radio on loud to drown it out. Except I can’t do
that. I have to greet visitors and chat with nurses and help elderly patients down the hallway. There’s no sign of George in the lounge today, so I decide to head down to his room for a chat about Abigail. With every footstep, I hear Tom’s words: Grateful? Grateful? Maybe he’s right and I should share his anger, but the exhaustion of the last few months has drained it from me. Or perhaps it’s my medication numbing me against experiencing the same righteous indignation as Tom.

  When I knock on the door, George hoarsely tells me to come in. He’s propped up on pillows at an angle that doesn’t seem at all comfortable.

  “You all right, George? Do you need anything?”

  “A time machine,” he says. “Back to 1960. Summer. Judy’s sundress.” He smiles to himself and then chuckles. “Or a cold pint of Boddingtons, if you’ve got one.”

  I shake my head. “No, sorry.” I adjust his bedding to cover him a little better and then sit down on the chair next to his bed. “I have a ten-minute break, so I thought I’d come for a chat. You’re not in the lounge today, George. Is everything all right?”

  “It’s my legs.” He nods down to them. It pains me to see them lying still and useless, like two long sausages of meat without definition. I can see the edema around his ankles and the redness that indicates a rash. “They don’t want to work today.”

  “Too much dancing at the tea dance the other week.”

  He laughs heartily. “But it was worth it to dance with a lovely young woman like you.”

  “Oh, you charmer. Has a nurse been in to check on your legs?”

  George lowers his voice. “It was the one with short hair. Looks like a Beatle.”

  I have to bite my lip to avoid a laugh. Stacey does have an unfortunate mop-top, but it suits her androgynous features.

  “She said I wouldn’t be dancing again for a little while. I need some rest.” He sighs heavily before seeming to realise there’s someone else in the room. “But it’s nice to have company. Mark has been a bit busy recently. He got a promotion at work.”