Don't Tell Meg Trilogy Box Set

by Paul J. Teague

  ‘You don’t mean more deaths, Steven, do you? Surely you can’t see any more of that?’

  ‘It’s difficult to interpret. I can’t be entirely sure, but there is evil, I see it very clearly. And it’s close to you, Peter. Take care. Be very careful. Not everybody is who they seem to be.’

  My meeting with Steven Terry might have gone better, but as I drove back from the supermarket, I tried once again to focus on the positives. There was no way that Alex was a bad influence in my life. And Ellie too, she’d found a great job for me, she could help me break out of my present situation and move on.

  He must have been referring to Meg. She was the main problem in my life. I wanted a reconciliation, and I was prepared to work to achieve it, but she seemed to have made her views clear on that one over the past six months.

  As for the house, well, forget that. I had no intention of going to the place ever again. The estate agent could handle the sale, my stuff was all out of the property and in storage, I’d washed my hands of it. Almost.

  Steven Terry tended to talk in riddles. I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I hadn’t conveniently fitted events around what he’d told me the last time. There was no way anybody was getting killed. The house was empty, I was well clear of it. I dismissed Steven’s warning as hyped-up nonsense and resolved to make sure that he got nowhere near 11 Ashbourne Drive for his TV show.

  As I arrived back at the holiday park, I could see that people were beginning to get ready for a boozy Friday night out. Saturday was changeover day, so Friday was everybody’s last night to get drunk before the holiday was over. It would be work again on Monday for most of the holiday-makers, and we’d be shifting a lot of booze as they all had a last fling.

  I pulled up outside my caravan, opened up the boot of the car and grabbed as many of the supermarket carrier bags as I could in each hand. There were three steps leading up to the front door. I put the bags down, found my key and walked up the steps. The door opened as I tried to push the key into the lock. It hadn’t been wide open, it was pulled to, but it wasn’t locked. My static caravan had a weird circular turning mechanism for opening and closing the door. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d cocked it up, but I was sure I’d locked up properly.

  I investigated the door’s mechanism in search of some malfunction. It seemed fine. I picked up the bags and walked into the lounge area. I took a good look around. My laptop was where I’d left it. I didn’t have much in there that was worth stealing, but nothing looked like it had been disturbed.

  I walked through the caravan – there weren’t that many places to go. The kitchen was as I’d left it, the toilet and shower seemed fine. The two small bedrooms were as I’d left them, no further towels or sheets had been put out for me, so it appeared that Vicky’s staff hadn’t been in while I was out.

  The only signs of life were in my bedroom. The quilt was ruffled where someone had sat on the corner of the bed. That was probably me when I’d been changing earlier after work. As far as I could see, it had been my own mistake, I must have left the door unlocked. Nothing had been stolen, so no harm done. I’d take more care in future, try to keep my mind on what I was doing.

  I brought the rest of the shopping in from the car, checked that everything was ready for Alex the next day, and got ready for my shift in the bar. I freshened up with another shower and made sure that any cups and glasses had been dried up and put away. It would be a late night. I’d sleep in until 10 o’clock or so, get some breakfast, then head off to the station to meet Alex.

  I was feeling extremely positive as I walked across the caravan park to the entertainment hub at the centre. I even popped into the arcade on the way into the bar area and ventured a pound in the slot machines. I won a fiver. I’d never won anything in those machines before. I was quids in before the evening had got underway.

  I had a good feeling. Alex was visiting, Ellie had mentioned a decent job in TV, and I wasn’t going to be back at work for a few days.

  ‘You look happy!’ said Jane, one of my co-workers in the bar that night.

  ‘I feel it!’ I replied. ‘Things are looking good. If I can sell the house, I think that life could be looking up for me, Jane.’

  She smiled at me, and we got to work stocking the shelves, bringing packets of crisps up from the storeroom, making sure that the spirit bottles were wiped down and ready to dispense drinks. Soon the first arrivals came, a couple more bar staff joined us and things started to get busy.

  Bar work is very similar to working in radio, I think. That’s why I enjoy it so much. It has set times, it’s busy and never boring, and once the show is finished, we all go home until the next day. That’s how I like my work, busy and self-contained.

  So I’d barely taken my eyes off the beer pumps when eight o’clock came and the Nighty Night song started to play. That always meant a slight lull at the bar until nine o’ clock or thereabouts. It was a chance to have a chat with the other bar staff, take a half-hour break and recharge the batteries ahead of the post-bedtime rush.

  I was still feeling perky after my run of good news, so I decided to pour myself a shandy and chat at the bar with Jane, Tom and the other guys. They were a good bunch, younger than me, but nice kids, really nice people.

  They’d have to serve the occasional customer, but I was able to nurse my drink. I was on my break and I had another ten minutes before I’d be back serving. They’d all had to leave me, the bar was beginning to fill up again, so I surveyed the room, looking at who was in there.

  Fortunately, the caravan site tended to attract family groups, pensioners and single parents. Occasionally we got groups of lads or girls in, and they could sometimes mean trouble. Groups of lads seldom ended well, groups of women were fine, but they could be hard work sometimes. We didn’t have any large same-sex groups in that night. It had all the makings of a pleasant evening.

  As I scanned the bar area, assessing the clientele for the evening, my eyes returned to a single woman sipping a glass of white wine and sitting on her own. I hadn’t served her earlier, neither had I noticed whether she was there with kids. I thought not; most single parents could be identified by their mobile phones on the tables, ever alert to a call from the child-monitoring service.

  I looked around for signs of her bloke. Perhaps she had a boyfriend or a husband with her? There was no sign of anyone and no second glass sitting on the table to suggest that somebody else might be joining her.

  She had striking red hair and a small tattoo at the side of her neck. Normally, I wouldn’t have looked twice, but there was something about her that made her stand out.

  Her name was Rebecca and meeting her would make the nightmare start all over again.

  Chapter Six

  The simple headstone was covered with initials, messages and dates. The council had long since stopped trying to clean it. Things would settle down, eventually. The stonework would be scrubbed and she would be granted the peace that she’d craved when she jumped to her death in the cathedral grounds.

  There was no headstone for him. His family had tried to put one up, but it had been repeatedly vandalised and defaced. People had actually defecated on the grave. His parents had been shocked to see that. They knew that their son was despised for what he’d done to those young women, but did his children deserve this? He’d been a father too, a much-loved one at that.

  His children didn’t understand what was going on. They’d heard the rumours of course, and the older children understood enough to know that many people were very angry with their dad. But they missed him. All they wanted was their parents back together, in the family home, the way things used to be.

  The woman hadn’t expected to see anybody at the grave, and she waited in the distance, watching from afar. They’d assume that she was another grieving relative come to tend the grave of a loved one.

  It was the grandparents visiting with the children. The older youngsters were still dressed in their school uniforms, it looked as i
f it were a Friday ritual.

  The children were well drilled. They’d been doing this every week for half a year. They removed the old flowers and placed them in the bins. The new flowers were unwrapped, cut to size and placed in the metal vases. The children filled a watering can at one of the taps placed around the cemetery, then carefully added water to the small pots.

  Once the flowers had been arranged, one bunch on each grave, the children bowed their heads and said their prayers. She wasn’t religious, the time for that had passed long ago, but it still made tears well up as she watched the children and their elderly grandparents standing in front of the two graves, praying for the people that they’d lost. Did the children know that their father had had his head torn from his body? She hoped not, although how long could that be kept from them at school was anybody’s guess. Did they know that their father was a predator, grooming young women for sex and drugging them when they rejected his approaches? They’d understand it one day. Would they put flowers on their father’s grave then? Or would they grow to despise him, hating the man for what he’d done to their family, cursing the day he’d brought such shame on them?

  It was hard for the grandparents too. He was their son. They’d loved Sally like their own daughter, they’d adored their grandchildren from the moment they were born. How could their own son have done those things? They found it hard to believe.

  Their moods could change several times within a day, from hate, horror and shock to a massive sense of loss, the terrible emptiness of never seeing their son again, of never being able to ask him why he’d done those terrible things.

  The small group lingered, they were in no hurry to move on, even though they’d repeated this ritual many times now. The smallest child, a girl, burrowed deep into her grandfather’s legs. She was crying, distraught, still not comprehending that she would never see her mother again. Forever is a concept children struggle to grasp. Only now was this child beginning to understand what it meant.

  At last the group moved on. She couldn’t begrudge them that time, although she was impatient to make her way to the graves. She waited, watching, allowing them to leave the cemetery before she walked over to where they’d been.

  An elderly lady threw some withered flowers into the bin behind her. The woman smiled, but didn’t linger to pass the time of day. She wasn’t here to make friends. The elderly lady returned to the grave that she was tending – her husband’s. He’d been 78 years old when he died. The headstone informed her that they’d recently celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary when he passed away.

  Eventually she reached the place where they lay. The children had written messages on small cards which were resting against the graves.

  To Mummy, I’ll love you forever and ever and ever, Gracie xxxxxxxxxx

  The words had been carefully copied from a pencil outline, with flowers and butterflies drawn in crayon to decorate her work. She was not prone to emotion, the events of the past had helped to strip that away from her, but she couldn’t help but cry for the tiny girl who’d lost her mother.

  She hadn’t come here to mourn or to join the scores of sightseers who flocked to the cemetery to take selfies in front of the graves. She was here because it was finally time for her to return, to step out from the shadows. It was time to stop hiding and deal with the past.

  I hadn’t intended to get pissed that night. I wanted to have a clear head for when I picked up Alex the next day. I always had a drink or two, it was thirsty work in the bars on the holiday camp. But over the course of an evening, I wouldn’t get sozzled, I was at work after all.

  After the mid-evening lull, the bar area started to fill up. In between pulling pints, mixing cocktails, chatting to punters and enjoying the music from the resident band, the evening whizzed by.

  If anybody had asked me what I thought of British holiday camps before I went to live on the Golden Beaches Holiday Park, I’d have burst out laughing and said, ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  I was wrong about that. It was middle-class snobbishness on my part. I’d assumed that I’d have nothing in common with the clientele, but as with all prejudicial views, my assumptions were easily blown away by the smallest amount of scrutiny.

  Take Vicky, for instance. On first appearances, you’d think she was common as muck, a bit brassy and probably left school with no qualifications. When I got to know her, it turned out that she was a sharp and astute businesswoman, cleverer than her deceased husband had ever been, and pretty affluent as a result. And here’s the big surprise. She was studying part-time for a degree at the local university.

  I’d met all sorts of people on the campsite. One guy had experienced a nervous breakdown after working in the City, bought himself a static caravan for cash – a fraction of the price of a house in London – and had happily retired there at the age of 39. That’s a year younger than me. Lucky bastard. Another couple had rented two caravans, one for themselves and the one next to it for their two teenage boys. They’d been having rows when they lived in the same house, and the arrangement suited all of them. That campsite was a permanent and temporary home for such a variety of people, it had turned out to be a great life experience for me. Sure, I’d never move in permanently, but it had worked out extremely well for six months.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off the woman with the red hair and the small tattoo. She was definitely on her own. Every now and then I’d see some sozzled single father – and probably a few married ones – try their luck. It’s the curse of the single female, no peace from the eternal hounding of randy men.

  She was striking. Noticeable. She stood out in that crowd. She was in the thick of it, but not part of it. It must have taken a lot of courage to sit there alone, nursing her drink, enjoying the tunes of Repartee, the resident Friday night band. There’s another thing I loved about the campsite. It wasn’t sophisticated, it wasn’t hi-tech, but the entertainment was lively and great fun.

  Repartee belted out all the favourites from the eighties and nineties with the occasional seventies cover version thrown in for good measure. Everybody knew every song that they played. The dance floor was packed, the place hummed with the smell of fresh sweat, and Vicky’s bar takings were through the roof. It was good old-fashioned family entertainment and it suited me better than I’d ever have expected.

  So far I hadn’t managed to serve the woman with the red hair, but it was only a matter of time until she got to me at the bar. Repartee were playing a ballad at the time so it made it easy to speak. She was very forthright; it took me by surprise.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ she said. ‘You’re the best looking bloke in here tonight!’

  ‘Aren’t you going to at least order a drink first?’

  I smiled at her. A bit of light flirtation went with the territory. She smiled back. I hadn’t got a good look at her all night, just a view of her smooth back, slim arms and narrow neck, as well as that incredible hair. She was attractive, very sexy, and not in a way I’d normally go for. I’m a brunette guy through and through, with terrible consistency. But this woman had caught my attention.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ she asked. ‘And I’ll have a Climax please ... if you think you can manage that?’

  This was staple fare on the campsite, and it had taken me some time working behind the bar to pick up the names of all of the cocktails. Their double-entendre names were often used suggestively by tiddly women ordering drinks. Buttery Nipples and Silk Pantie Martinis were my personal favourites.

  ‘I can certainly deliver you a Climax, it won’t take more than a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Promises, promises!’ she laughed, leaning over slightly so that I could see her breasts nestled in her bright red bra. There was no hiding it under the tight white T-shirt that she was wearing. I’d already clocked the unbelievably short skirt from afar.

  ‘Here’s your Climax,’ I announced, placing her drink on the bar. ‘Let me know if you want another, I’ll be happy to hel
p.’

  ‘What are you having?’ she asked. ‘Take whatever you want, it’s on me.’

  It had been some time since I’d felt quite so horny. The single mums that I’d copped off with in the past, I’m almost embarrassed to say, were more motivated by loneliness. On their part too, not only mine. But this woman was something else. I hadn’t felt like this since ... since ... Ellie. Look how that ended up.

  My brain was telling me ‘No!’ but my boxers were crying ‘Yes! Yes! Do it, Pete, do it!’

  In a rare moment for me, I decided to follow my head. I graciously accepted her offer of a drink, thanked her very much for the kind thought, and then went about my work at the bar.

  I was so busy that she slipped my mind for most of the evening, but every now and then I’d see her. I’d catch a glimpse of those long, smooth legs and that incredibly short skirt, and have to fight off the urge to approach her, flirt some more and move things along to a crescendo at the end of my shift.

  I’d had more to drink than usual. It hadn’t helped that a couple of the punters had put money behind the bar for us that night. I was relieved and a little disappointed that she was nowhere to be seen by the time it came to collecting glasses and wiping tables.

  ‘You can go now, Pete, luv,’ Vicky said. She’d come over from her house to collect the night’s takings. ‘Thanks so much for stepping in, you really helped us out tonight. And your friend is coming tomorrow, isn’t she? Best get your beauty sleep!’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, Vicky,’ I said, winking at her. ‘I’ll make sure Alex says hello while she’s here.’

  I said my goodbyes to the other bar staff and stepped outside into the fresh night air. Across the campsite I could hear people settling down for the night. They all had to be up and out at 10am the next day, there were no Saturday lie-ins for this lot.

  ‘Hi, I thought they’d never let you out!’ came a voice in the darkness. She’d been waiting for me on one of the benches outside the arcade area. She walked into the light. I could see the thin red bra straps on her shoulders where her T-shirt had dropped down.