Don't You Dare

by A J Waines

  The last bus to Abbots Worthy will have gone by now, so I punch in the number of a taxi.

  On the way, I surreptitiously empty my purse out on the seat beside me and count how much cash I’ve got. It’s enough for one leg of the journey, but I’ll have to borrow from Adrian to get back.

  Beth has taken over the box-room since she extended her stay with Adrian and, as the taxi pulls up to his cottage I notice that the curtains are drawn and the light is on. Good. She won’t be able to slip through my fingers. No ifs or buts, she’s coming back with me, this time. Peter is right. We can’t have people totally wasting their time, travelling thousands of miles, for something that isn’t going to happen. All because Beth’s ‘having a wobbly’.

  I ask the driver to wait outside the cottage, but he insists I pay the fare I owe him so far. I dump the cluster of coins into his cupped hands.

  ‘I might be five or ten minutes,’ I warn him.

  He shrugs, folds his arms and nods emphatically at the meter.

  Adrian lets me in, his head bowed, his arms hanging loose by his side as though he’s done something wrong.

  ‘I need to speak to her,’ I say, squeezing past him to get to the foot of the stairs. ‘It’s really important.’

  I knock on the door to the box-room, but there’s no reply. It doesn’t surprise me, she’s probably heard me arrive. Before I barge in, I need to take a breath and think about how I’m going to approach this. Calm, collected, definitely not angry – not at first anyway. I rehearse a few key phrases in my head as I take hold of the door handle.

  People are about to come a long way, Beth.

  It’s not fair keeping Peter on tenterhooks like this.

  I rap again, then open the door.

  The room is empty.

  I check the other rooms, then join Adrian in the sitting room. ‘Where is she?’ I ask, heading straight to the window, straining to see whether she might be outside in the back garden. There’s no sign of her and no light on in the shed.

  I turn to Adrian, wondering if the sheepish look he gave me when I got here means he’s covering for her.

  ‘Beth. Where has she gone?’

  He wavers, rubs his head, moving his feet up and down as if he’s climbing stairs.

  ‘I…I don’t know…’

  ‘Has she popped out? Where would she go?’ It’s agricultural land around here with a handful of cottages. ‘The pub in the next village?’

  Adrian is starting to look distressed at the sharp tone of my voice. I lead him to a chair and turn the sound of the television down low.

  I kneel on the floor at his feet and take hold of his hands.

  ‘Beth’s been staying here, Adrian,’ I say, soothingly, stroking his knuckles with my thumbs. ‘I’m here to see her. Where is she, now? Her room is empty.’

  He’s squeezing his knees together, a tight expression on his face, trying to remember.

  ‘Shopping?’ he throws out.

  ‘It’s late, Adrian.’

  ‘Gone to bed,’ he says in an exultant voice, as though he’s cracked it.

  ‘No. No. She’s not upstairs.’

  I know it’s pointless to fire any more questions at him. I’m only going to upset him, so I go back upstairs to look for any clues as to where she might have gone.

  In the bathroom, there’s a second toothbrush by the sink and I recognise the old dressing gown hanging up behind the door. By the camp bed in her room, there’s a hairbrush, a packet of painkillers, an unused brown envelope and tissues on an upturned laundry basket.

  Has she taken off for a walk? Gone to see someone? I’m at the end of my tether with this girl. I ring her phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. I haven’t seen it in the house, so she must have taken it with her.

  ‘Where do you keep your torch?’ I ask as I return to the sitting room.

  ‘Under the stairs,’ he says with confidence.

  Sure enough, it’s standing on a shelf next to a pile of batteries.

  I pick it up and tell Adrian I’m just going outside.

  The taxi is still there, so I lean in through the open window and tell the driver I won’t be returning straightaway after all. I can’t see the meter, but I’m sure he overcharges me. I hand over what he says I owe without a tip and watch him drive away.

  Swinging the torch beam from side to side as I walk, I set out from the front gate, first one way, then the other, passing all the cottages.

  There’s no sign of her.

  To the right there’s a footpath leading towards arable land culminating in a farm and another path opposite disappears into the woods. Beth would have needed a torch to go further afield out here, as there’s not one street light.

  There’s a yelp of a distant fox, followed by a gusty breeze that disturbs the trees and makes the tousled leaves sound like gushing water. The wind has picked up in the last hour and there’s a storm brewing. In spite of being furious with her right now, I sincerely hope she isn’t out somewhere in this.

  I rub my arms and hurry back inside.

  38

  Beth

  Armed with my old pass from the TV company, I go straight to the bar and ask for the pub landlord. A woman, referred to by the barmaid as Lulu, heads purposefully towards me from behind a door marked ‘Private’. Her sleeves are rolled up and some time ago, her hair must have been tied back into a style loosely described as an ‘updo’. Since then, it has made a largely successful attempt to free itself from all the clips.

  ‘Hi, I’m a production assistant.’ I flash my pass, sounding bright and peppy. ‘I don’t know if you’ve had the letter yet, but we’re filming a docudrama here. Have you been sent the details, yet?’

  She looks blank. ‘I don’t remember any letter. What does it involve?’

  ‘It’s about a death that took place near here, nearly twenty-five years ago.’ Her vacant expression doesn’t shift. ‘We’re looking for the local angle. Anyone who remembers the incident.’ I deliberately raise my voice. ‘It was a young girl, Tracy Limehouse was her name, who was hit by a car near here, in 1992.’

  The pub is humming with drinkers, men leaning on the bar and groups clustered around tables. A couple of guys have noticed me and there’s a bit of nudging going on.

  She pulls a face. ‘That’s a long time ago. I certainly can’t help you, I was in Cardiff then.’ She shakes her head and turns away.

  I follow her to the end of the bar. ‘I’m just looking for pointers. Anyone who might remember it and who’d like to be on prime-time telly…’ I project the last part out towards the customers.

  ‘Well, you can ask around, if you like, but I can’t help you. What are you drinking?’ She already has her hand on one of the pumps. She wants to make sure I don’t get a free ride.

  I order an orange and soda and join the nearest group, flinging my leg over a low stool and dragging it towards them as if they’re my best buddies.

  ‘What’re ya sellin’, love?’ says a man with his glasses propped on his head and a beer belly spilling out from under his T-shirt. ‘I’ve got nothin’ for charity.’

  I give them my patter, but all I get in return are shrugs and bewildered shakes of the head. I work my way around the room and it’s thumbs down all the way until I reach an older couple near the fruit machine, who beckon me over.

  ‘Is this about that girl that was knocked down?’

  ‘That’s right – in 1992…’

  ‘That was the party of one of the Kirby sons, wasn’t it?’ She turns to the grumpy looking man beside her. ‘Ben, that’s it. Ben Kirby’s eighteenth birthday. We weren’t here that night,’ she tells me, ‘but I remember the story. My son might know something. He would have been about…what would he have been, John?’ She plucks at the loose skin under her chin in an effort to remember.

  ‘Around eighteen, nineteen, I’d say,’ the man pipes up. ‘Bernie used to drink in here all the time, back then. He might know something.’

  ‘Does he live in So
uthampton?’ I ask, half-expecting to hear he’s halfway across the world somewhere.

  ‘Oh, yeah. He’s still here,’ says the woman. ‘It’s just a bus ride away. Off Shirley High Street. Know the area?’

  ‘Yeah. I know the high street.’

  ‘I’ll give him a call,’ the woman says and taps her mobile phone. Before I leave, I slip back to the bar and buy them both another pint of Guinness.

  Half an hour later, I’m pressing Bernie’s doorbell.

  ‘Mam says you’re from the BBC,’ he says, edging back from the door so I can go inside.

  I don’t correct him, flashing my pass at him instead, hoping he doesn’t look too closely at it.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ I say, with a cheery grin, stepping onto the mat.

  Bernie must be around forty-three, but looks older, not only because he’s lost all but a few strands of his hair, but also because he’s sporting a ‘Goldeneye 007’ T-shirt that’s way too small for him.

  He shows me into a sitting room with a sofa and chairs in stripy oranges and browns. It’s made of that bobbly fabric that cats always get their claws caught up in. I remember Peter once telling me he can’t stand it.

  I perch on the edge of a seat and repeat the same pitch from earlier.

  ‘Has this got anything to do with the police?’ he says, folding his arms, looking dubious.

  ‘Oh, no. We’re just using the story as the basis for a TV docudrama. We’ll use the same pub and have local people explaining what they saw, but it’s not about re-opening the case. There’s no new evidence.’

  ‘So, it’s not about giving statements or anything like that?’

  I laugh. ‘Oh, definitely not. Just a film. You know, like that drama about the landlord in Bristol who was hounded when his tenant was murdered…’

  I wait for some signs of recognition. ‘Oh, yeah…’ he says. ‘Something like that?’ He rubs his chin, sounding interested.

  ‘Absolutely. People love true-life crime, don’t they?’

  A small terrier trots into the room and as Bernie reaches out to make sure it doesn’t bother me, I take a shifty look at the collection of DVDs stacked beside the television. Sure enough, with titles such as Ted Bundy, Bonnie and Clyde and a box set of The Wire, Bernie appears to be one of those very same viewers who get their kicks from real crime.

  I pull a small notebook and biro out of my bag.

  ‘Can you tell me what you remember of that night? Just some basics?’

  ‘You’re sure there won’t be any police involved?’ he says a second time.

  Even though we’re safely inside his house, his eyes keep dodging over my shoulder the whole time.

  I shake my head. ‘Not a police officer in sight, I promise,’ I reiterate, trying to wipe all signs of irritation from my voice. ‘Just the actors and the film crew.’

  ‘Right, well, there was a party in St Mary’s a few doors down from The Hope and Anchor. Some kid’s birthday…and it got a bit out of hand. It was rammed, man, like everyone turned up…and the place was swarming with junkies and dealers and plenty who had form with the cops.’ He clears his throat. ‘Not me, mind, I’ve never broken the law.’ He’s not exactly convincing, but I don’t care about his past.

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘Eventually, there were so many of us that it spilled out on to the street. We were having a good time, you know, yelling, drinking and arsing around. Next thing we knew, someone was yelling that the old bill was heading our way. A teenager, a girl, had been knocked down, just outside the pub.’

  ‘Did you see it?’ He watches me as I’m absently chewing the end of my pen. It probably doesn’t look too professional, so I stop.

  ‘No, not me, but one of the blokes near me said he saw a brick go flying through the air at her. She was walking past the entrance to the pub car-park and...bam!’

  ‘A brick?’

  That wasn’t mentioned in the news reports. They stated she was hit by a ‘flying object’. Maybe the police decided not to release that piece of information to the public.

  ‘Yeah. This guy told me it smacked her right on the head and she staggered, then keeled over, right into the path of a car. He wouldn’t have had a chance—’

  ‘He?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Yeah, the driver was a bloke…middle-aged, not speeding or anything. It wasn’t his fault…I mean, he stopped and was in a right state, but it was the scumbag who threw the brick who was to blame.’

  ‘And no one saw who threw it?’

  ‘I didn’t see who it was…and no one came forward.’

  ‘Do you know where it came from?’

  ‘The bloke with me said it came from the car-park. There was an old outhouse at the back that we…that blokes used as a urinal. Plenty of loose bricks lying around. I do remember that.’

  He’s animated now. ‘When we heard the sirens, it was chaos. Everyone scarpered. No one was in any hurry to give their names or to spill the identities of any of the others who were there, believe me. Those that stayed stonewalled the cops and said they didn’t see a thing. No one wanted to be hauled off to the station to give a statement.’

  ‘But you stayed?’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t run, but I was no help. I’d gate-crashed, so I couldn’t name names. I didn’t even know whose party it was.’

  I glance down at my notes. ‘It was for a boy called Ben Kirby. He was turning eighteen.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t know him.’

  I tap the pen against my lip. ‘So, everyone closed ranks?’

  ‘Exactly…’ he sniffs.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘That was it. The ambulance came and took the girl away. The driver had to get himself treated for shock, too. The police took a couple of statements and everyone cleared off.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the driver?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘What about the guy who saw the brick flying through the air?’

  ‘No. Never saw him before or since.’

  I jot down a few words, but by now I’m coming to the conclusion that my entire journey has been one ridiculous wild goose chase. I take his full name and phone number, but only to look legitimate.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, getting up to go, deflated to say the least. The dog by his heels jumps up and starts yapping in little circles.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ he says. ‘You think I’ll be on the telly? Will they come to the house with cameras and all that?’

  I tip my head on one side as I slide my notebook into my bag. ‘It’s early stages, yet. Sometimes these things never get off the ground. Often we don’t get the funding or the producer goes for a different angle.’

  ‘Oh…’ He looks sorely disappointed. It seems like it could have been the highlight of his year.

  He leads me to the front door. If I’m quick I should catch the next train back to Winchester.

  ‘The car sticks in my mind, as it happens,’ says Bernie, as he kicks a dog-chew out of the way. ‘The driver who killed her.’

  I stop out of courtesy.

  ‘It was an old banger – a brown Ford Cortina.’ He swings his weight to one hip. ‘I remember, because my dad had one just the same and for one horrible moment, I thought it was him.’

  He opens the door and grabs the dog’s collar.

  I clutch the edge of the doorframe as the meaning of his final words sink down into my gut.

  39

  Rachel

  ‘I think I know where she might have gone,’ says Adrian. He’s holding the brown envelope I saw beside Beth’s camp bed. I’d thought it was empty.

  He opens the flap and tips out the contents into my hand. ‘She must have found these…’

  I realise straight away what it is and stare into his face, then back down again to the news clippings. ‘I didn’t know you had these…’ I say warily.

  After all these years.

  Adrian’s wide eyes reflect my own sense of alarm.


  ‘She was asking…I think it was Beth…yes…about Southampton.’

  ‘Adrian, what did you tell her? What did you say?’

  ‘Well, nothing…as far as I recall. I mean, I don’t know exactly what happened, do I, so how could I have told her?’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone rooting through your documents.’

  ‘She hasn’t. Not really. She’s been tidying up for me, been such a help. She must have come across this in the loft with the photographs.’ His voice is trembling. ‘The secret Vera took to her grave.’

  I shiver at those words.

  ‘She’s obviously curious and thinks she’s found something here to follow up.’ I flick my nail against the printed paper. ‘She’s been asking me about the past, too.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s where she’s gone. To Southampton. To find out.’

  I’m glad that at least I’ve caught Adrian at a time when all this lights are on, so to speak.

  ‘What does she think she’s going to find? It was nearly twenty-five years ago.’

  He shrugs. ‘The pub? The landlord? It might lead her somewhere.’

  I can’t believe Beth has taken off chasing some tattered fragment of our family history at a time like this. Little does she know that the timing for stirring up that period couldn’t be worse.

  ‘Oh, Adrian, why did you keep these?’

  He shakes his head and squints, as though he hasn’t quite grasped the question. I can see I’m losing him.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Vera,’ he says merrily.

  Has she seriously taken off for Southampton at this time of night? What is she hoping to find?

  I write the words: Call Way-Way when Beth comes back! in large letters on a piece of cardboard and attach it with sticky tape to the inside of the front door. One of them will see it when she returns. Shamefacedly, I ask Adrian for money to tide me over and ring for another taxi home.

  Before I leave, I give Beth’s mobile phone a ring, on the off-chance that she might have left it behind, but as I do a little circuit of every room, I’m greeted only with silence.