Isolated

by M. A. Hunter

  She hadn’t expected it to be raining and, wearing only her slippers and with the bandage tight around her calf, her pace wasn’t as fast as it had been on that night, but she ploughed on past the hut, past the playground, almost slipping as she made it to the patch of darkening grass. It wasn’t even four o’clock and yet the sky was barely light enough to guide her way.

  Collapsing against the perimeter fence, she wailed when she saw that their hole had been sealed up with a series of cable ties, and a new sign had been erected warning that the perimeter was out of bounds to unauthorised personnel. She couldn’t do what she needed to from here. This wasn’t where they’d acted it out; the ground she was now on wasn’t sacred.

  Sucking in huge lungfuls of breath, she gripped the wire fence and pressed her mouth through one of the hexagonal shapes. ‘Give her back! You weren’t supposed to take her! Take me instead. I don’t care. I will swap myself for her. Listen to me!’

  Something heavy barging into her back caused Natalie to release her grip of the fence and slump to the ground.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Louise hissed at her. ‘Everyone will hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Natalie grizzled back, panting heavily and still trying to get her breath. ‘We did this, but maybe we can undo it. If we could just get back through the fence to that clearing, then—’

  Natalie couldn’t complete the sentence as Louise kicked out, catching her square in the midriff. All the air instantly left Natalie’s body.

  ‘You say another word and I swear to God I will kill you myself. Do you understand?’

  Natalie couldn’t argue, protecting her gut with both arms and praying that a second blow wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  Louise was now leaning over her, pointing. ‘Just keep your fucking mouth shut, Nat. That’s all you’ve got to do. Keep quiet, and all of this will go away. Don’t forget who you’re messing with. If the truth gets out, he won’t just stop at Sally; he’ll come for all of us, and our families. Is that really what you want?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Now

  Weymouth, Dorset

  The trip back to Weymouth has passed without incident, with Rachel belting out every word of every song on the Bridget Jones’s Diary soundtrack and me trying my best to hum along. There are hardly any cars parked along the seafront so Rachel doesn’t struggle to find a space outside my flat. The journey down here hasn’t been totally wasted as it’s given me the chance to read more about Sally Curtis’s disappearance on my phone. I’ve managed to learn the name and current address of Natalie’s mum, Cheryl, though there’s very little information about her dad, Geoff.

  I’m keen to speak to them both about that time in their lives when Sally Curtis disappeared, to try and understand why that particular incident still haunted Natalie some fifteen years later. My first thought was that she must have somehow been involved in Sally’s disappearance. Ultimately, Natalie and the other two girls were the last to see Sally, so does that mean they were lying about what really happened? When the four girls went into the woods, did something more than a game of truth or dare occur? Could Sally have died in those woods, never to be seen again? I’m sure the police at the time would have scoured those woods for disturbances in the ground, and Natalie’s final words to me also wouldn’t make sense if Sally had died at her hand.

  You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a lift to the holiday park?’ Rachel asks, as I open the front door and let her in.

  ‘Probably best if I go on my own,’ I suggest, though I’m grateful for the offer. ‘The last thing Natalie’s grieving mum will want is an avalanche of questions. I’m only really going to pay my respects, and to try and get a sense of who she was. I shouldn’t be too long, but feel free to start looking through the books in the box she left for me.’

  She mock-salutes me and then bursts into a fit of giggles. ‘Aye aye, skipper.’ She pauses and spots the carefully wrapped package on the unit beside the door. ‘Ah! Is this for me? You shouldn’t have.’

  The gift, wrapped in scented tissue paper, is a beautiful floral scarf that I bought for Mum for Christmas. I’ve been meaning to take it up to the home and give it to her, but I haven’t been a good daughter in recent weeks. We officially stopped exchanging presents when she first went into the home, as she doesn’t get to go for days out that often and it didn’t feel right accepting her financial gifts; money in an envelope can be beneficial at Christmas, but is not really in keeping with the spirit of the season.

  I really should make more of an effort to spend some quality time with Mum. She seems to be having more and more ‘bad days’, and most of the time when I’m with her, I’m sure she doesn’t have a clue who I am. I did moot the idea of asking the nursing home whether they’d be happy for her to come to mine on Christmas Day, but the steps up to my front door are steep and I’d worry that she’d become anxious at not knowing where she is or who I am.

  ‘No, it’s for my mum,’ I explain, suddenly conscious of the fact that my gift to Rachel – a diamante photo frame with a picture of me, her and Daniella – will need replacing unless things change for the better.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she says, continuing through to the kitchen. ‘I suppose I’d better go and buy you something in town if I’m going to be down here for the big day,’ she calls back over her shoulder.

  ‘There’s really no need,’ I call back. ‘Just the pleasure of your company is gift enough.’

  This has her in hysterics as she mimes sticking her fingers down her throat. ‘You’d better get going before I throw up for real.’

  My phone vibrates as I’m closing the front door, and I smile when I see it’s a picture message from Freddie. He’s snapped a selfie with a handsome guy in, presumably, his early twenties, with a mop of strawberry-blond hair. Both are smiling at the camera but it’s Freddie’s message beneath the image that makes me chuckle:

  Is it wrong to fancy the actor playing me in the series? Does that make me a narcissist?

  I send a laughing emoji and confirm his suspicions. Typical Freddie to fall in love with himself. At least it looks like he’s having a good time on the set of the documentary based on the crimes in Monsters. The producers don’t want to use the book’s title, and instead have chosen the title Care of the State to underline the failings in the system that allowed Turgood and his cohorts to continue their abuses for years unstopped. It also allows the producers to mark the disparity between my book and the actual series: whilst both focus on the crimes and the cover-up, they’ve chosen a different structure to the show, using actors to play the main characters with added soundbites from psychology experts and Freddie himself.

  For a long time, I didn’t think Freddie would be keen to see that time of his life played out for the world to see, but he told me that he hopes it will give others the courage to speak up, or the impetus to listen when victims do speak up. I couldn’t be prouder of how much Freddie has grown in the few years I’ve known him.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Will you be around later? There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.

  I reply to tell him I’ll let him know when I’m home. My internet search for Natalie’s mum, Cheryl Sullivan, listed her as a permanent resident in one of the local holiday parks a little way along the coast, and so with my usual satchel over my shoulder, I head out into the blustery wind. Despite the proximity to Christmas, it is mild outside, and though the paving slabs are wet, there is no moisture in the air, save for the crashing sea.

  Following the incline up to the private residences, I spot Cheryl’s home almost immediately. A woman with short grey hair is sitting on the balcony, chain-smoking, her eyes bereft of any hope and the ashtray on the floor beside her spilling over.

  ‘Mrs Sullivan?’ I ask as I approach. ‘My name is Emma Hunter, and I want to offer my condolences for your loss.’

  She breaks fr
ee of her trance-like state long enough to look me up and down, stub out her cigarette and light a fresh one. She makes no effort to invite me up, or shoo me away.

  ‘I was with Natalie on the roof when… when it happened,’ I say quietly.

  This catches her attention and when her gaze meets mine again, her eyes are shining. ‘You was with our Natalie?’

  I nod. ‘It was my friend who was trying to talk her down. I wanted to come and pay my respects to you.’

  She stands suddenly and nervously checks the horizon, even though there isn’t another soul in sight. ‘You’d better come in,’ she says absently, turning and heading in through the open door. I make my way up the stairs and join her inside. It’s a mid-size static home, probably enough room for four to sleep comfortably, and it is so clean that if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was more of a show home than anyone’s permanent residence. There is the odd homely touch – a photograph of Cheryl laughing somewhere, a pair of brass candlesticks with no candles, and three matching patterned cushions on the sofa – but not a thing is out of place. She invites me to sit at the table while she makes us tea, before she makes a deliberate effort to shut the door through which we entered. I’m relieved when she extinguishes her cigarette too.

  ‘You looking to do a story on my Natalie then, are you?’ she asks, when she’s joined me at the table.

  ‘Oh no, that’s not the reason I came here,’ I try, not entirely believing the words as they tumble from my mouth.

  ‘Oh, I thought you was here to offer to do one of them book things you do… about her like.’

  ‘What makes you think that’s why I would come here?’

  ‘Well, you’re a journalist, aren’t you? You’re the woman who brought justice for them boys at that home; you found that missing kiddie a few months back, right?’

  My notoriety precedes me once more.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sullivan, but my interest here is really just to offer my apologies that we couldn’t do more to stop Natalie’s death.’

  Cheryl shrugs. ‘She’s been trying to do it for years. Don’t get me wrong, I’m devastated that she’s gone, but in many ways I’m relieved she’s finally at peace. She was always such a troubled girl after what happened.’

  ‘Are you referring to the disappearance of Sally Curtis?’

  She nods. ‘It all seemed to go pear-shaped after that. Natalie was never the same, and when her dad died overseas a year later, it felt like a blessing that we was getting out of that place.’

  ‘The Bovington Barracks?’

  ‘Yeah. Things are different in a place like that. Everyone knows everyone’s business, you know?’

  ‘Natalie mentioned Sally to me just before… she told me to find Sally and to apologise to her. I wondered what she wanted to apologise for.’

  Cheryl doesn’t immediately respond, but reaches for her packet of cigarettes and lighting one.

  ‘The stories I could tell you about that place would set your hairs on end. Running away was the best thing that Sally Curtis could have done, even if it did cost the rest of us everything.’

  The pig’s head appears in my mind until I shake it away. ‘What makes you so certain she ran away?’

  ‘Her body was never found, was it? And them girls swore they were the last ones to see her alive, so what other answer is there? They checked their clothing and what-not, you know. From that night, I mean. It was a couple of days after she’d vanished, but they rocked up – that DC Rimmington and her cronies – with some kind of warrant saying they could confiscate the clothes Natalie and the others had been wearing in the woods. Took it all away for forensic examination – not that they found anything, other than Nat’s own blood from where that branch punctured her leg. No trace of Sally’s blood on any of them, and the police reckoned they’d have found some trace of her if the girls had killed her.’

  ‘What did Natalie say happened in those woods? I read a news article that said the girls had gone to the woods to play truth or dare.’

  ‘Ha!’ she exclaims. ‘If you believe that tosh you’ll believe anything!’

  I don’t want to ask her outright about witchcraft, but I can’t stop thinking about the printed sheets pinned to the walls of the room at the hostel. ‘There was another reason the girls were in the woods then?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Boys!’ she crows. ‘All them young, fresh recruits coming to the base for training, away from home for the first time, and being put through their paces by rigorous routines, led by bullies. Is it any wonder they’d go with any girl who fluttered her eyelashes at them?’

  She sounds so sure of herself, and yet nothing I’ve read online suggested that the girls were doing anything other than playing a game.

  ‘Did Natalie tell you they’d met up with soldiers in those woods?’

  Cheryl pauses, as if listening for intruders in her home, before leaning closer. The stale tar on her breath is nauseating. ‘She never admitted it to my face, but Nat used to keep a diary. She didn’t know I knew about it, and from time to time I’d take a look. I wasn’t prying; I just wanted to check that she was doing okay, and not being bullied.’

  Her expression is firm as she states this lie, and maybe after all this time she genuinely believes that reading her daughter’s private thoughts isn’t prying, but I’m pretty sure thirteen-year-old Natalie wouldn’t have felt that way.

  ‘It was as if she wanted me to find it,’ Cheryl continues, now staring blankly at the wall as if the memory is being projected before her eyes. ‘She must have known I’d find it. I think deep down she wanted me to find it. Anyway, I looked at the entry for the days before and after the woods, and although she didn’t specifically say they were meeting boys, there were enough clues to hint that they were up to no good.’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, opening the draft email on my phone, poised to type my notes.

  Her brow furrows in annoyance at the question. ‘I can’t remember exactly what she’d written, but I remember thinking at the time that the clues were hinting at boys and sex.’

  I make a note to check the journals when I’m home. Having been a teenager who kept a diary of my own, I know that half of what I wrote was in code, in case my parents ever got hold of it.

  ‘She took all that stuff with her when she left home,’ Cheryl continues with disappointment. ‘I know when we moved off the base a lot of stuff got thrown into boxes as we moved in a hurry, and to this day there are still things we never managed to recover. Couldn’t wait to get us out of that house and wave goodbye.’

  ‘Wait, the army threw you off the base because Sally went missing?’

  Cheryl’s mouth curls into a snarl. ‘No, don’t be ridiculous! It was when Geoff – Nat’s dad – died overseas a year later. They promise to look after the families of fallen soldiers, but we was living in a three-bedroom house with only Geoff’s military pension to live off. It was prime market space, that house, and so we were asked to leave and start over outside the barracks. They had a new family moved in by the night we were out.’

  ‘Did you share your suspicions with the police?’

  ‘Not gonna do their job for them, was I? Besides, they wasn’t all that interested in what had happened to Sally Curtis anyway. I mean, at the start they came in and tried to do things their way, but there wasn’t a lot they could do when that Colonel Havvard stamped his authority.’

  I jot the name down. ‘Colonel who, sorry?’

  ‘Colonel William Havvard – well, he was Lieutenant-Colonel Havvard back then – was in charge of barracks security. He didn’t like the police interfering with what he saw as military matters. The forest was part of the land used for training purposes, therefore it was an extension of the barracks – and as such, under his watch when Sally ran away. He took it as a personal affront when the police suggested Sally could have been killed in the woods.

  ‘Most people don’t understand what a closed community it is for army families. Back then there must have been a
couple of hundred families living in the barracks, but everyone knew everyone else. Most of our kids attended the same schools, we attended the same army parties, we babysat for one another when our partners were home on leave. Secrets don’t remain secret in a place like that, and when outside influences try to interfere with that lifestyle, the pack gathers close to defend itself. Don’t get me wrong, when you’re on the inside of that pack, you feel safe and secure, but go against the grain and you’re soon pulled back into line.

  ‘Before Geoff died, I’d wondered whether life would be easier if we could run away and put the whole place behind us. After Sally went, Nat was never the same; her school work was affected, and she seemed unable to smile or laugh anymore. I was sure she’d probably try and run away too at some point, but then news of her dad’s death put paid to that. We left and moved in here, and the rest is history.’

  It feels like quite a blasé conclusion to draw considering what I witnessed on the rooftop yesterday. Natalie might have physically escaped the confines of that army base, but mentally it was clear she had stayed trapped there, still thinking about the friend she lost.

  ‘Sally’s parents can’t have been happy with the police being prevented from carrying out a full investigation?’ I ask, thumb poised on the screen.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. After the truth came out about the girls sneaking off to the woods, our families became ostracised; we were guilty by association. We’d allowed our children to go behind our backs and sneak out, therefore we were just as culpable for Sally disappearing. Sally’s parents were swallowed up in the community spirit: families going out at all hours to search for Sally and hanging posters on every available lamppost and nearby shop window. Imagine what it would be like if an army was sent out to scour for a missing child, and you’ll have a good idea about what happened to the towns in and around the base – only it was the wives and children of the army who were set to the task.’