That’s me, I’m slowly disappearing. The real me, the person I could have been, never had a chance growing up here.
She rakes her fingers through her hair, rubs her eyes. She must keep going, keep busy.
I’d better get on with it. Front room first,’ she says to the walls.
As she opens the door, a stink of damp and moulding cheese cloys in her throat. The room must have been shut for months. A fine layer of dust clings to the dark-green velvet curtains. Around the window the red damask wallpaper is blown, peeling off; beneath, a thick black mould spreads like chicken pox.
Threadbare bed sheets cover the furniture; with a yank of her hand, the tall mahogany roll-top secretaire bookcase reveals itself. She runs her fingers over the narrow wooden slats. The dark wood feels cool to touch. This is a place of secrets. The one piece of furniture that has always been out of bounds. Inside it, all manner of things that she has never seen. As a child, she had longed to look inside.
The key is in the lock.
Thomasine hesitates, it is as though her mother is out in the fields with the dogs. As she turns the key, the roll-top slides back noiselessly. Her mouth falls open in dismay. Each cubicle is jam-packed with newspaper cuttings, old letters, more till receipts, handwritten notes and yet more photograph. There’s no system to it as far as she can see.
It’s going to take me ages to sort this lot out – most of it will probably need shredding or throwing out.
One by one she opens the drawers. Each the same, every single one filled to capacity. Balls of string, paper clips, spent pens, Sellotape, rolls of film in black plastic tubs – she picks one up, turns it over in her hand. Makes a mental note to get them developed.
I wonder how old they are, what memories are on them?
The next two hours are spent at the kitchen table, sorting through the contents of the secretaire. To her left, a plastic bucket filled with items for shredding. In front, three yellow envelope files, unread. While on the right, a wicker basket is piled high with miscellanea that she has no idea what to do with. The pot of tea by her hand goes cold.
She gets to her feet, places a log in the fire-grate. At long last the house is warming up; the room filled with the sweet smell of burning wood. An old familiar fragrance that brings with it memories. Winter evenings, jigsaw puzzles, baking cakes with her mother and sister. Her father, head back, mouth open, asleep in the chair. Laughter.
Tears prick her eyes. She brushes them away with the back of her hand, unwilling to open the gate: afraid of what might flood out.
Only the bad stuff drives her forward.
The fire has gone out. Thomasine unplugs the fridge, the rattle of the energy unit driving her mad. Stops the blast of cold air that rushes beneath the back door by stuffing a tea towel in the gap.
Silence at last.
The bottle of wine, a Pinot Noir, calls to her from the pantry. She’d brought it up at Christmas, they’d not drunk it. She takes three crystal glasses out of the dresser, washes them under the hot water, dries them with a cloth.
A copy of her mother’s will lies open on the table, unread. Thomasine gathers it up and returns it to its hiding place – the left-hand drawer of the vestibule. She already knew that in the absence of her sister, everything would be left temporarily in her care. When she returned, everything would be shared, fifty-fifty. Desolation takes her.
Who’d want fifty-fifty of this, never mind a hundred per cent?
She takes the silver photo-frame off the mantelpiece, places it in the centre of the table. Karen – a mass of summer freckles, a wide grin upon her face, ensconced in their mother’s arms. Their skin blushed by the sun. Peaceful, happy and content. She remembers that day well. The door to their Hillman Hunter Estate hung open. Dad listening to Rod Stewart playing on the car radio. The three of them together, she’d wandered off somewhere. Where? She can’t remember. It had been perfect – a rare break from the work of the farm – a picnic. Yes, perfect. The pale-yellow dress, the one that fitted her mother so well, trimmed with daisies. Never worn again.
She wraps her fingers around the body of the bottle of wine, pulls the cork. The ruby red liquid flows easily into one glass, then another until all are filled. A wry smile crosses her lips.
‘To you both, together at last, may you find happiness.’ She lifts her eyes up to the ceiling, chinks one glass after another with her own. ‘Rest in peace.’
They both smiled back at her, she sips her wine, they talk. Her mother tells her to refresh her glass. Thomasine pours herself another drink, allows herself to wallow in this temporary hallucination. They babble on. Karen never stops talking. Even on matters she knows, knew, little or nothing about. Her mother is much the same. They talk of summers gone by, of village fêtes, of her uncle Oliver and cousin Paul. Of her father, herding the sheep.
Despite Karen’s apparent disdain for her younger sister, there had been times when they had been happy together. Thomasine’s brow furrows, she can’t quite remember the point when Karen went from being her sometimes-adorable sister to that other person. To the one who kept secrets. The one who manipulated. Perhaps it was the hormones, puberty? She doesn’t know and probably never will.
After a while, the chatter quietens. She sits there, in comfortable silence, back pressed into the hard wooden seat, eyes gazing out of the window into the dark. Not even the birds are singing. Large flakes of white snow float by. She shrugs the blanket over her shoulders, returns her attention to the photograph. To Karen.
‘So, give me a clue. Tell me who did it? Who hurt you?’
Silence.
Thomasine’s eyes flicker then droop, Karen’s face blurs. She downs the last drops of red wine from her glass. Heaves herself out of the chair, makes a bed for herself on the settee.
Outside, a fox snuffles at the front door. Tail held high and poker straight, it urinates on the step. The hot yellow liquid melts the snow. The dogs’ strain at their metal chains, howl out a response; Thomasine’s senses so attuned to it now she no longer hears their calls.
A yawn escapes from her mouth. She’ll go home tomorrow, she’s drunk too much to drive tonight.
Exhaustion envelops her.
She’s tired. So very tired.
13
Perhaps she’s a manic seasonal depressive. Lily that is. With aggressive tendencies linked to a traumatic incident in her past. Where the hell did that come from? Sometimes things come out of me before I’ve realised what I’ve said. I’m never sure if it’s things I know or things I’ve picked up from those books she’s read. The Idiots’ Guide to Psychotherapy, I wonder if that book exists? If it doesn’t, I could definitely write it.
As a kid, I was always up on the tops with my invisible friends. I found real ones quite hard to get. Huge grey skies and mile upon mile of moor grass, wide open spaces to play in, the wind tangling my hair. I knew those moors like the back of my hand. Massive granite rocks laced with silver to scramble over. The druid circle to fill my imagination. I spent hours up there. Alone, with no one to judge me. No one to look down on me.
Poverty is a slippery pit, hard to climb out of. University was never on my horizon. No matter how hard Mum tried—and she did. The more she pushed, the harder he pulled. My father the drunk, Mr Stir-It-Up. I don’t like to call him Dad, that implies some sort of relationship. There wasn’t one. He drank away my future.
As a kid, you dream all the time. I dreamt of the tens of lives I could live. Sometimes I was an actress, or an air hostess, or a nurse, or a nun. I was unstoppable.
Life wasn’t like that. It was a glass box. I was always on the inside looking out. A lonely child, desperate for friendship. After puberty, it took hold of me like a virus. It compromised my ability to think. rationally that is. I made some stupid choices. But they were mine and I accept them. I learnt a valuable lesson, and this is it.
The people you hang around with determine who you become.
Of all the things I tell you, please remember that
.
I became part of the in-crowd. I thought it would be wonderful. It wasn’t. You never truly know what you have to do to fit in.
Until it is too late.
And in the end, there was no turning back.
14
‘… drifts of up to four metres along the Pennines. Records show it has been the worst spell of weather in thirty—’
Thomasine’s fingers reach out and press the snooze button on the radio alarm.
It’s six forty-five. The central heating boiler bursts into life. Hot water rushes through the pipes, pockets of air trapped inside them. They wail and moan like ships gone aground. She’s used to those sounds. They comfort her.
Her eyes peer into the darkness, no memory of dreaming. Any nightmares that may have tormented her are lost in the haze of a deep sleep. Warm for the first time in days, the king-size cotton duvet tucked up underneath her chin and over her feet.
Outside, she knows life will look much the same as the day before. The sky will be an inky black, street lights will blink on as instructed by their computer chips. Blankets of snow will cover the parkland across the road and everything else in its wake. In winter, this is a quiet street. In summer it’s a riotous cacophony; picnic blankets, portable stereos, children screech and shout.
Her home is her place of safety – an Edwardian semi the other side of Manchester. Huge windows fill the house with light. French doors open onto a Japanese garden – it had taken her six months of back-breaking work. In summer it was her own personal haven. The sway of the bamboo, the music of flowing water, the shale path, the shimmering gold azaleas. Two large sandstone rocks hewn out of the soil behind the farm. Their bodies lined with feldspar and mica.
Unprompted, a memory pops into her head. Her mother, ambling across the yard, her long grey hair plaited, swishing across her back. She stops, rests her elbows on the farm gate, watches the sheep in the field. Oblivious to the fact that Thomasine is looking down on her from their bedroom window – a look of sadness on her face. An aeroplane leaves a white trail as it soars up into the clouds.
She stirs herself, clambers out of bed, looks in the bathroom mirror. There’s a puffiness that wasn’t there before, her eyes have sunk further into their sockets. Her lower lip swollen, the cold sore now hardening in the middle of her lip.
She steps into the shower, turns up the thermostat, lets her head fall back, lets the heat wash over her. It has always been there. The hurt, the paper cut that no sticking plaster can heal.
I need to get a grip; I can’t be like this.
Mindlessly, she dries herself, pulls on some clothes. She must be ready. Ready for what? she asks herself.
She’d always thought she’d cope when the day came. It would be hard, but it would be easier – after all, she was used to death, in all its different forms. It came with the territory. She was hardened to it; had convinced herself of that. There were hundreds of them, the dead and missing, locked into her psyche. All filed away in her memory banks. What difference would two more make? She was wrong. Her mind steadfastly refuses to accept the reality of it. Her mother dead within twenty-four hours of being told that Karen’s body had been discovered.
That thought wraps itself around her again. The naivety of it. Of course, her mother would be devastated. She should have been kinder, more observant, conscious of the impact the murder enquiry would have on her. Have on them both. She should have remembered what happened before. What it had done to her father. Why hadn’t she? Another death on her conscience.
Thomasine puts the kettle on, makes herself a cup of strong black coffee. Random thoughts break through the fog in her head. The funeral… the eulogy… what will I say? Her hands start to shake. Oh God, they’ll be staring at me, pitying me. The farmhouse, I’ll have to get it ready.
A frown deepens across her forehead, her mother’s voice sounds in her ears.
‘I don’t want a fuss. No fancy speeches. No flowers either.’
Did Mam actually say that? How much has she forgotten? Or repressed? Her ability to recall pieces of information is central to her work. She’s known for it. Why has it deserted her now when she needs it the most?
The room smells stale, unused. She unlocks the French doors, steps outside into the morning light. The pale-yellow winter sun peeks through the clouds. The ice-cold air chills her breath; she shivers. A scattering of bright red berries peek through a latticework of white on the back fence.
Fat tears seep over the rims of her eyelids, she rubs them away with the heel of her hand, wants to curl up, shut out the world.
No tears, no tears! Come on, you can deal with this, you’ve dealt with worse!
That’s a lie. She’s never dealt with worse. She is an orphan now, living life on automatic.
The air is still, a bird trills in the distance, there’s a flash of blue and red.
A chaffinch? This time of year? Her father’s voice.
It’s like the whole bloody family has moved in with me.
The bird swoops down beneath the feeding post, pecks at the seeds on the ground, then takes flight.
I wish I could do that. Just leave everything behind me. Take off.
The sharp ring of her mobile brings her back. It’s the mortuary at the hospital, wanting to know the name of her mother’s funeral directors. She has no idea.
‘I’ll ring you back.’
Thomasine gathers up, off the carpet, the hand-knitted throw her mother gave her years ago. Arranges it precisely on the back of the settee. Tugs at the ends to straighten it. Made from blonde wool shorn from the blackface sheep that roam their land; it’s still beautiful.
Her mobile bursts into life again. One message after another flashes up.
‘Would you be willing to talk?’ Katie Morris, Northern Evening News.
‘I know you’d like to get your story out there – we have an offer for you.’ Jake Prentice, News North West.
There were seven more of that ilk.
How the bloody hell did they get my number? One of the families, they will have contacted one of the families.
She jabs at her phone. Each one gets the same response.
‘Don’t text me again. Am I clear?’
Mid punch, a message flashes up from Rosie.
‘Tried calling you, I’m here for you, love you xxx.’
Tears prick her eyes again. She should have called Rosie yesterday, she had meant too. Thomasine texts her back.
‘Sorry, it’s hell here, will call you later.’
She switches off her mobile, unplugs the landline, shuts the curtains. Then it starts – constant rings on the doorbell, shouts through the letterbox, taps on the front window. It doesn’t let up.
‘I can’t put up with this,’ her anger bubbles up, she strides along the hallway, only just stops herself from ripping the door open. Instead, she turns on her heels, runs upstairs, throws some clothes and toiletries into a bag. She makes her getaway through her neighbour’s garden. Takes the back streets to where she’d parked the four-by-four the night before.
Hands trembling, she utters a sigh of relief when it starts first time. She has no doubt where she’ll be the safest.
I’ll stay at the farm – scare the bastards off with the dogs!
15
Whenever he closes his eyes, her face spreads across the back of his eyelids, her lips on his cheek, the downiness of her skin, the smell of bubble gum on her breath. Her hands pushing against his chest. Karen had been his first true infatuation. They’d met by chance. He’d not long had the car – the Capri. He was taking it out for a spin; up through town, onto the moors. It had been a cloudless sky, a summer’s day, the sun high, the heat rising in waves off the tarmacked road.
He saw her before she saw him. She’d been walking through the fields. He’d got the windows down to let out the heat. His sleeveless T-shirt and shorts stuck to his skin. He thought he was the bee’s knees. He’d brought the camera, planned to take a few snaps of the car, with himsel
f on the bonnet. The camera had a timer on it.
The bee’s knees – does anyone ever use that term anymore?
She wore a sugar pink ruched top. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail that swung from side to side; her jeans cut off at the knees. There was a languidness about her; fingertips trailing through the tips of the long grass. Singing to herself, he could hear her, even above the noise of the engine. He had to talk to her, pressed the horn, it startled her. Unafraid, she ran down to the gate, swung her legs over it and sat on the top bar, the sun glinting on her hair. It was the colour of chestnuts fresh out of their prickly skin.
He’d pulled over. Pretended to be lost.
‘Do you know where Amplewood is?’ A name he made up on the spot.
She smiled directly at him, her eyes laced by long dark lashes.
‘Just keep on going down this road.’ She knew he was lying.
‘How old are you?’ he asked, unable to stop himself.
A naughty grin spread across her lips, it set something off in him, he didn’t know what it was back then. Then swung her legs back over the gate, dropped down onto the dirt track, started to jog back to wherever she’d come from.
‘Wait!’
She turns to look, her eyes narrow. ‘You hurt me.’
The air goes from his lungs. He springs to his feet. He’s in the kitchen, in the here and now. Alone, except for the dog, who’d followed him downstairs hoping for food.
‘I didn’t, I didn’t.’ Words of denial rush out of his mouth, he’s shouting out loud. ‘It wasn’t my fault. You should have…’ He paces around the room, sits down, gets up, tries to think of something else; Lottie, the exhibition, anything. A self-induced hallucination brought on by what? Guilt? Fear? The look of her face as it stared out at him through the TV screen?
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 8