She’d spent many tearful hours trying to work out what she’d done wrong to provoke Imogen, but she always came up blank.
Imogen bullied her just because.
It only ended when the girls left Rushbrooke three years later and went their separate ways. Imogen had sailed through the test to gain a place at one of Buckinghamshire’s renowned grammar schools but Julia, who was expected to pass too, deliberately flunked hers so she could attend the secondary modern nearest her home. She preferred to fail, even if it meant disappointing her parents, than spend another five years at the same school as Imogen. Then she heard Imogen’s family had moved away, so it was all for nothing.
But even though the bullying thankfully ended, Julia never quite shook off its effects. Imogen’s treatment of her had ingrained a tendency to retreat at the first sign of confrontation and in adulthood she was a people pleaser who put others’ needs above her own, often to her detriment, because she couldn’t bear the thought of being disliked and feared being shunned again.
It was only when she met Ewan, at a work event, that she began to believe she wasn’t ugly, boring and stupid – just a few of the insults Imogen and her classmates would toss out daily. Ewan told her she was beautiful and that he’d always look after her and while Julia’s self-esteem would forever be bruised and never quite sure of itself, he’d helped raise it to a level where she could look in a mirror and not see her eight-year-old self staring back, reminding her how hideous she was.
Aside from her parents, he was the only person she’d ever confided in about the bullying. She had to, because of what happened when they rowed for the first time. It had been over something so inconsequential that she couldn’t remember the details now, but she could vividly recall how she’d curled up in a corner of the room and sobbed at him to leave her alone. He was horrified, thinking he must’ve done or said something really abhorrent to make her react in such an extreme way, and at first had struggled to understand how embedded the effects of the bullying were, thinking she should be over it given that it happened a decade previously. Now, after almost sixteen years together and having witnessed Julia’s reactions, he understood.
There was a rustling in a bush nearest the back door. It was probably a hedgehog or next-door’s cat but it made Julia jump and hauled her focus away from her memories. She decided to go back inside and make herself a cuppa, but as she got to her feet she was suddenly gripped by another uncomfortable thought.
There was a time when she used to daydream constantly about making Imogen suffer the same kind of mental torture she was forced to endure, when she would’ve given anything for Imogen to experience a fraction of the distress she experienced.
Now, with her son dead, Imogen was.
Julia knew she shouldn’t think it, that it was wicked to let it cross her mind even for a second, but part of her was glad.
15
Half a mile away Alan Donnelly was also awake. He’d drunk three double whiskies at bedtime to knock himself out, but now he was fully alert and the hangover he wasn’t expecting until morning was banging on the inside of his skull and churning up his insides. He’d moved from his bed to the sofa, hoping that lying propped up against the cushions might help, but still he couldn’t settle so just after four thirty, as the first hint of dawn smouldered at the horizon, he let himself out of the house and walked the two streets to the school.
He felt unsettled and anxious as he stood in front of the building site. It would remain out of bounds to anyone but the police for the next day at least, until all the physical evidence had been gathered. They’d confiscated the ladder and had even removed some of the bricks along the top of the wall for examination. The project manager hadn’t been too happy when Alan told him, but he could hardly kick up a fuss under the circumstances.
Alan cupped his mouth with his hand and shook his head as he contemplated the scene before him. Gus was mad to think he was in a position to make the police pack up and go home. They were suspicious of him now and had him in their crosshairs: he could tell by the way DS Renshaw spent a good hour hammering away at him after he’d said the boy wasn’t pushed – any longer and he might’ve cracked.
The guilt at what he’d done kicked in on his way home. Now, without the whisky to make him forget, it smothered him like fog. He’d lied to save his own skin and in doing so had deprived the boy’s family of the truth – unless the police found some other way to prove the girl did it. But Alan knew she wouldn’t confess: after it had happened she’d simply stared down at the boy’s body as though she had no idea how it had ended up there. Alan had tried talking to her but it was like she couldn’t hear him or was pretending not to. Then, just as the police arrived, she’d calmly climbed down the ladder and waited at the foot of it. She was like a bloody robot.
Turning his back on the building site, Alan headed across the playing field. With Sports Day now cancelled out of respect, the cracks in the turf could wait, but he might come in over the weekend to finish up. He didn’t usually work when he wasn’t paid to, but he felt he owed it to Mrs Pullman to get the school looking as normal as possible before all the pupils returned. God knows how they were going to be coming back to school when a kid had died.
He reached the other side of the playing field and stopped. Ten strides further on was a line of thick undergrowth, beyond that the back gardens of a new housing estate still in its first phase and mostly uninhabited. The children were banned from venturing into the undergrowth and only the foolish tried – the scrub was virtually impenetrable and all they got for their efforts were vicious scratches from branches and thorns.
Alan knew how to get through it unscathed. He walked to the far-left corner and squeezed down the side of a large blackthorn bush. Once through, he followed a well-worn path, ducking beneath a couple of low-lying branches, until he hit a small clearing bordered by a wooden fence. It was the only part of the boundary that didn’t have new houses on the other side.
One of the fence panels could be pulled loose and swung open to reveal a sizeable gap. Depending on which direction you were coming from, it was either a hidden entrance into the school or a stealth exit to a dirt track where cars could be parked without being seen from the main road.
Alan was tempted to fetch his toolbox and nail it up so it couldn’t be used again. But it would be a waste of time – Gus would just badger him to create another opening somewhere else along the fence. Gus could do that, because of who he was.
The moment they’d been introduced Alan had known Gus was going to cause trouble for him.
He just hadn’t realized how much.
He retraced his steps until he was back on the edge of the playing field and a few metres from the back door of the Pavilion, which was accessed up some rickety wooden steps. The front of the structure had a porch running its entire length that was visible from the school, so Gus had insisted only the back door was used.
The stretch of grass leading up to the rear of the Pavilion was flattened, despite Alan’s best and repeated attempts to make it look otherwise.
But it wasn’t him treading a regular path there, and it only happened during night-time hours, long after the kids and teachers had gone home and the school was locked up. The footfall belonged to the women who worked for Gus – and the eager punters lining up to have sex with them.
16
Maggie was draining the glass of orange juice that constituted her breakfast when Imogen rang. She was surprised at the earliness of the call – it wasn’t even seven thirty yet. But clearly what Imogen had to tell her couldn’t wait until later: she was in such a rush to get her words out that Maggie had trouble understanding her.
‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’ she asked, putting the glass in the sink alongside last night’s dirty crockery.
Imogen slowed her voice.
‘I said, one of the mums from school messaged me overnight to say did I know that Benji and Poppy had a big fight at school last week,’ said Imogen breathl
essly. ‘I didn’t: he never mentioned it to me and neither did his teacher, although it sounds like she might not have known about it.’
Maggie dashed into the lounge to grab her notebook and flipped it open to make notes as Imogen continued.
‘Poppy attacked Benji during lunch break last Thursday. She pulled his hair and slapped him on the arm.’
‘And he never said a word?’
‘No, not a peep.’
‘How did this mum know about it?’
‘Her daughter Lucie saw it. She’s in their class as well.’
‘Did she know what sparked the fight?’
‘She didn’t say; all she wrote was one minute they were standing there chatting, the next Benji was yelling because Poppy had grabbed his hair.’
‘Have you got a name for the mum?’
‘Tess Edwards. She messaged me on WhatsApp. It proves I was right about Poppy and Benji not being as good friends as I thought. Tess also said that Lucie said it’s not the first time Poppy’s lashed out at school.’
‘At Benji?’
‘She didn’t say specifically. But she did say Poppy was known for being a right madam.’
‘Had you ever seen them fight in your presence, when they hung out after school?’
‘Never. She was always really well behaved when she came round for tea. They got on well when they were together.’
Maggie remembered the conversation between her, Nathan and Renshaw about who organized the play dates.
‘Was it her dad who brought her round and picked her up?’
‘Yes, Ewan. I haven’t met her mum yet. She works long hours, I think.’
‘That explains your reaction when we bumped into her leaving the Welfare Room yesterday, before I brought you home,’ said Maggie.
There was a pause.
‘Julia I went to school with is Poppy’s mum?’
Imogen’s shock seemed real enough to Maggie.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘I – I had no idea. I mean, Ewan’s mentioned his wife in conversation but now I think about it I don’t think he’s ever told me her first name. And when we were at Rushbrooke her surname was Cox.’
‘It’s Hepworth now,’ said Maggie. ‘I think she was quite taken aback to see you too after all this time.’
‘I didn’t really notice, not with everything . . . well, you know,’ said Imogen.
‘That’s understandable. Did you manage to get any sleep last night?’
‘Not really. I kept thinking I could hear Benji calling for me from his bedroom. In the end I got into his bed.’ Her voice broke. ‘I want him back, Maggie. I want my little boy home. He was all on his own last night. Usually he sleeps with his old teddy – not to cuddle, just on his bed. He can’t get to sleep unless he knows the bear is there. It should’ve been with him last night.’
‘You’ll be able to see him today,’ said Maggie softly. ‘It’s being arranged for this morning. I’m waiting for the time to be confirmed.’
‘Thank you. Can I ask you something though?’
‘Of course, ask me anything.’
‘Will there be a post-mortem?’
‘Because of the circumstances and nature of Benji’s death, I’m afraid so.’
Imogen’s voice wavered. ‘Can I see him before they do it? I don’t want to see him after he’s been . . .’ She stifled a sob.
‘I’m sure that can be arranged. I’ll talk to the pathologist right away.’
Maggie knew the pathologist would agree to push it back an hour or two to accommodate Imogen’s request. He wouldn’t want to make the viewing any worse than it already would be.
She hesitated for a moment; what she was about to say might distress Imogen and she needed to frame it right.
‘When someone dies from a serious head injury the pathologist usually makes sure that part of them is covered up before their family sees them. So Benji might be shrouded when you see him,’ she said carefully. ‘I want you to be prepared for seeing him like that, so it doesn’t come as a shock.’
‘I don’t care – I still want to see him. I never got to kiss him before he went to school yesterday and I hate myself for it,’ said Imogen, openly crying now. ‘I need to see him to say I’m sorry.’
17
Returning home, Alan managed a couple of hours’ fitful sleep on the sofa before being woken by the phone ringing. It was Mrs Pullman, telling him that he needn’t bother coming into work.
‘Take the day off,’ she said. ‘The police will be back again and I’ll be on site all day to assist them if needs be, so you get some rest.’
Most people would’ve relished an unexpected day’s leave but not Alan. He wanted to be at the school so he could keep an eye on what the police were up to, and try to make sure they went nowhere near the Pavilion.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, panic scratching at his insides. ‘I’d rather come in and keep busy.’
‘Nonsense. What happened yesterday has taken its toll on us all, but you’ve suffered more than most, watching it happen. Stay at home and put your feet up,’ Mrs Pullman ordered. ‘I’ll call you later with an update on when we might reopen. I’m hoping it will be tomorrow or Friday if the police allow it. We need to get back to normal.’
Alan spent the rest of the morning moving twitchily from room to room, unable to relax. He did contemplate going back to bed but his room was like a furnace with no breeze to temper the heat and no fan to artificially produce one.
He decided to sit outside but even the small patio out the back held no respite, its stone surface too hot to stand on for long. So he took one of the plastic garden chairs and positioned it under the shade of the cherry tree that loomed into his garden from the one next door. Then he checked his phone again, scrolling anxiously through his messages as though he suddenly expected to find a summons from the police because they’d found the hidden entrance in the boundary fence, or had opened up the Pavilion and gleaned what it was being used for, or had worked out that he had lied to them about Poppy Hepworth.
Not finding any such message did nothing to calm him and for a moment he toyed with ringing Gus, knowing he’d be up to speed with what the police were doing at the school. But then Gus might be angry he wasn’t there himself and hadn’t done anything beyond altering his statement. Alan had heard enough alarming stories about the way Gus treated people who’d crossed him to know he needed to keep him sweet at any cost.
Alan wiped the sweat dripping from his brow. Even sitting in the shade was too uncomfortable so he went back inside, switched on the telly and managed to distract himself watching This Morning.
At noon he made a sandwich, ham and pickle on doorstep-thick white bread. He’d only managed one bite when his phone went. He snatched it up, thinking it would be Mrs Pullman, and was so surprised to see who was calling that the mouthful caught in his throat and he had to cough forcibly to dislodge it.
‘Al? Is that you?’
The quiet, mellifluous voice made his heart shudder in his chest. How long had it been since they’d spoken? Three years? Surely it couldn’t be that long? Christ, he realized with a start, it was three years ago – on the day he’d moved to Mansell.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he managed to croak, dashing into the kitchen to get a drink of water. The signal was stronger in there as well and he didn’t want to risk cutting out mid-sentence; if that happened his ex-wife might wait another three years to speak to him again.
‘You’re the last person I was expecting to ring, Gayle,’ he said, throat cleared.
‘I wasn’t sure if this was still your number,’ she said falteringly. ‘It’s been a while . . . I thought you might have changed it.’
All their communication was done via email or solicitors, her choice. He wanted to point out the obvious, that if he had changed his number the kids would have no way of speaking to him, but he bit down hard on the comment before it escaped his lips. There was no point antagonizing her for the sake of point scoring.
‘How are the kids?’
They had three – Lacey, thirteen, Kyra, nine, and Freddie, five. He’d stopped all physical contact eighteen months ago, because the younger two were becoming so distraught every time it came to saying goodbye that he thought it was unfair to put them through it. Less upsetting for him too. So instead of him travelling to Newark once a month they chatted on the phone fortnightly and sent messages whenever the urge took them, which was never as often as he’d like, and he never missed a maintenance payment for their keep, which equated to half his salary.
The lack of physical contact was something Alan had learned to endure, like a sprained ankle that only hurt when you walked on it. But now, hearing Gayle’s voice out of the blue, he yearned to see them again.
‘They’re really good.’
‘Do they miss me?’
The kids never said it to him when they spoke: usually they nattered on about school and the chats were heart-achingly brief.
The line went quiet and for a second he feared Gayle had put the phone down.
‘Yes, especially Freddie,’ she answered. ‘He’s a Liverpool fan now. I told him you used to go to matches sometimes so when they’re on the telly he looks for you in the crowd.’
Tears began to course down Alan’s face, the grief he carried inside him every waking moment finally breaking through the dam of self-restraint. He was missing so much of his children growing up.
‘What about the girls?’ he sobbed. ‘Does Lacey still hate me?’
Lacey had been old enough to assimilate snippets from the rows she overheard to form a picture of what was behind them and Alan couldn’t bring himself to lie to her when she confronted him about what he’d done. Theirs was the most precarious of his relationships with his children and the day he moved to Mansell she had shown no emotion as they waved him off.
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