Don't Turn Around (5 page)

‘I’m trying to sleep, I’ve got school tomorrow.’ Frank opened the door to see his mother spread on the bed, a pillow covering her waist as she rested an ashtray on it. ‘For God’s sake Viv, cover yourself up will you?’

‘Why? It’s only tits. You’ve seen them plenty of times before.’

Frank rubbed his eyes, wishing he could erase the vision from his memory. His mother had changed after his father left. ‘Reverted back to self’ was what his grandmother said. Not that they saw much of her these days. One thing was for sure, mothers weren’t meant to go around flashing their tits like that. It was disgusting.

‘What do you want?’ Frank said, in a voice older than his years.

‘Go downstairs and get me my bottle of gin. It’s at the back of the bread bin.’

‘Go and get it yourself, you lazy bitch. I’m going back to bed.’

Viv picked up the ashtray and threw it at him. It whizzed past his ear, clanged against the door and scattered its contents on the floor. ‘After everything I do for you. Go and get me that bloody gin before I tan your arse.’

Frank stared at his mother in defiance as he imagined shutting her up once and for all. It was not the first time such a thought had entered his mind, and they were becoming more frequent.

‘Don’t you give me the evil eye, that shit doesn’t work on me anymore,’ she said, unrepentant.

‘I can’t wait to leave this place, and when I do, I’m never coming back.’ Frank spat the words festering in his mouth.

Viv pulled on her dressing gown and swung her legs from the bed. ‘Oh yeah? Where are you gonna stay?’

‘I’m moving in with Glo. I heard her say so. She must have her place ready by now.’

Viv whispered under her breath, pushing her feet into her slippers. ‘You stupid boy.’

‘I know where it is, over the bingo hall in Lexton. I’ll pack my stuff and go there tomorrow.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can. You just watch me.’

‘You can’t – because she’s dead.’

Frank stepped backwards, failing to mask the horror on his face. ‘You’re lying.’

Viv shuffled towards him with as much sympathy as she could muster. ‘She died of a drug overdose last week. I wasn’t going to tell you.’

Tears welled in Frank’s eyes. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’

Viv put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Son, why would I lie?’ She patted him twice on the shoulder and walked through the door, her words following behind her. ‘You should know by now. You can’t rely on anyone. Life is shit and people are shit. Sooner you know that, the better.’

Frank’s voice broke into a sob as he followed his mother out to the landing. ‘I thought she was off the gear.’

‘She was. But you best let it drop now,’ Viv turned, pointed her finger in a warning, ‘I don’t want to hear of you talking about this to anyone else. Not if you know what’s good for you.’

Frank wiped his tears as he felt a dark monster grow fresh hatred within him. Osborne. He was responsible for Gloria’s death. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them, he knew what he had to do. His days of crying were over.

J
ohnny paced
the confines of his narrow bedsit, rubbing his clammy hands on the back of his sweat-stained jeans. A raging temperature coursed through his body, and he ripped off his t-shirt and threw it on the bed. His sudden fever was the least of his worries as he listened for signs of the men who had threatened to take his life. As much he hated his neighbours, he preferred their company to being the only person left in the block of flats. Pulling back the net curtain, he peered out the grime-streaked window. Apart from some kids leaning on their bikes, it was all clear. He patted the reassuring outline of his phone in his jeans pocket, trying to work out how long he had to call the filth should the door be forced open. Not long enough. Stretching onto his toes, he ran his fingers over the doorframe until he felt the outline of the knife. It’ll be okay. They’ll never get through the double bolts, he thought. Like a rat in a cage, he paced from window to door. But he knew. If the people working for Mike Stone wanted a way in, they got a way in, even if it meant dressing up as Santa fucking Claus and coming down the chimney.

I
t was
no surprise that Shelly had refused to take him in. They were hardly love’s young dream. But with his mates too scared to speak to him, there was nowhere else to go. Johnny sat on the bed and rocked as he held his head in his hands. They were coming. He could feel it. By stabbing Mike Stone he had signed his own death warrant. ‘I’m as good as dead,’ he whimpered in the silence of the room. Mike was building his empire and wouldn’t let Johnny show him up. Then there was the matter of the two grand debt. If he paid back Mike the money he owed, he might have taken a beating and left town. But Johnny was skint, and the money he got pimping Shelly had dried up along with her looks. He turned his head to the window and another wave of dread washed over him. The light was rapidly evaporating, and with it, any hope of survival. Under the cover of darkness the hunters would come. His shoulders shook as he wept, tearing his nails into his skin in an act of reproach. A dribble of saliva fell from his mouth as he cursed the root of his problems.

T
he ouija board
had seemed like a bit of fun when he had discovered it on the wardrobe of his flat. He had used them as a kid and knew how they worked. But this one didn’t work like the others. It brought the voice. It brought the Grim Reaper. Johnny used to pretend he couldn’t read or write. It was just his way of protecting himself from signing anything the coppers put in front of him. But his literacy was good enough to pick out the words which came with each slide of the glass over the smooth varnished wood. HELP. REWARD. LISTEN. ACCEPT. YES.

After one active ouija board session, he had simply invited it in. He didn’t need the board to communicate anymore, because after that, he heard the voice in his mind. It said it was the Grim Reaper, but not to be afraid because it wasn’t coming for him. Johnny had a job to do, and he accepted being fully controlled by the Grim Reaper in return for the gifts that appeared in his wake. A puppet, that’s what Johnny was – and he was not the only one. It was no different to a good hit, losing hours of his time. But just like drugs, the good times did not come for free. The Grim Reaper took what it wanted and gave little regard for its host. Like a virus, it extended feelers in the gloom, preparing its next infection. More and more voices were filling his head, snapping at his heels like hungry rats. He hoped it would move on; leave him alone to pick up the pieces. But it never had any intention of letting him live, and when Johnny realised he had stabbed Mike Stone he knew he was living on borrowed time.

J
ohnny jerked
as he opened his eyes and realised the room was in complete darkness. Please not again, he thought, pushing the button on his phone to check the time. The backlight shook beneath his trembling hands, and he blinked as he struggled to focus his blurring vision. Where did the last hour go? He thought. Razor-sharp pain speared his stomach and he bent over, clasping his sides. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He couldn’t remember anything.

Johnny’s knees gave way and he dropped to the floor as a seizure overtook him. Footsteps made their way into the room as he writhed amongst the mouse droppings in the space between his bed and the wardrobe.

‘Poor Johnny, are you suffering?’ a voice crooned from above him.

Johnny’s eyes opened into two painful slits, allowing him to make out the hooded figure above. It was not Mike Stone. He recognised the face from somewhere but his thoughts were jumbled, dislocated. Had he just let them in? Flecks of foam shot from his mouth as he muffled a cry for help, and he kicked and jerked as his body convulsed out of control. His chest heaved as he was hoisted into a sitting position against the narrow single bed, head lolling to one side like a rag doll, blood trickling from his mouth where he had bitten his tongue. After a few hoarse breaths, Johnny turned his eyes to the person before him. ‘You?’ he croaked, barely mustering enough energy to point his calloused finger.

Johnny’s ragged fingernails screeched against the floorboards as the figure dragged his limp body to the hall. He knew there was little point in fighting, but his body kicked out just the same; a frail attempt at self-preservation.

Johnny’s eyes swivelled upwards to see a thick hemp rope hanging from the top banister. A rickety chair caught its shadow from where it was parked underneath. His heart, which was straining to provide him with the most basic functions, began to bounce in his chest as raw fear flooded his system. The draft from under the door whistled in a ghostly sentiment, and he realised then, that in the cold paint-chipped corridor amongst the mouse droppings and the cobwebs, this was where he was going to die.

But there was little sympathy from the cold-hearted figure propping him to his feet. Having prepared for his demise, the Grim Reaper silently left the building, and tears streamed down Johnny’s face as he found enough strength to walk to the back door and bolt it behind him.

Johnny’s legs weakened and he plopped heavily on the chair. His hair hung limply around his face as he stared at his bare feet, considering his options. Either he said no and the Grim Reaper would kill him anyway, or he could wait for Mike Stone’s men to find him. He shuddered as the breeze tickled his back. Johnny had heard all sorts of rumours about what happened to people that crossed Stone, including torture by amputation. Even if he survived this, he would most likely die soon anyway. Johnny stood on matchstick legs as he grasped the back of the chair for support, then slowly dragged his feet towards the chair. He could smell the toxicity seeping through the air like poison. He lifted one foot up on to the seat, then the other, clinging onto the wood with his bare toes as he reached for the rope. He could just go to sleep now. Go to sleep and the pain would all be over. The whispers were gentle now, calming, like a lullaby. Trance-like, he pushed his head into the rope and closed his eyes. Soon, it would all be over.

T
he lights
of the marina twinkled as Jennifer drove across the river bridge, the coloured glows teasing the residents on the other side. To her they signalled wealth and opulence, a sore reminder for the people left behind. The marina was a multi-million pound project, boasted to help the historic tourist town. But all it did was segregate the population of Haven into the haves and have-nots. The marina hosted yachts, luxury townhouses, and a variety of fine dining establishments. Not the sort of places the homegrown residents of Haven could afford. In the east of England, at just over an hour’s commute to London, Haven was a reasonably priced base for the bankers and brokers that commuted from the flats overlooking the Blakewater River.

Jennifer lay blame with the councillors, who concentrated their efforts on the marina development, instead of the working class citizens on the other side. She wondered how many palms had been greased to get it underway. Instead of developing the neglected housing estates, they sold off the cheap properties to out of area housing associations, filling them with the dregs of humanity and the promise of a better life. Once a thriving tourist attraction, the thick green woodlands lay as forgotten and neglected as the boathouses that dotted them.

It broke Jennifer’s heart to see her beloved hometown on its knees. No amount of street cleaning could scrape the grime from Haven’s streets, but she would do everything in her power to combat it.

B
olting
the front door behind her, she switched on the hall light and rested her coat on the banister. The feeling of foreboding had followed her home, and she reprimanded herself for allowing Johnny’s words to play on her mind. Work helped distract her incessant thoughts, but returning to an empty house intensified her growing apprehension. She flicked up the heat and took the post from behind the door. She had lived in the house for two years, yet never fully relaxed within its walls. It had everything she could have wanted, including a newly fitted kitchen in black granite with gloss white walls and rows of gleaming spotlights overhead. The black and white theme continued throughout most of the house, except for the dark wooden banister, which matched the original flooring in the hall. A cream carpet in the sitting room meant guests had to take off their shoes, and her favourite part of the house was the under floor heating which kept it warm all year around.

Kicking off her heels, she tried to relax as the mundane chatter of a TV chat show played in the background. But peace evaded her, and she shifted in her armchair, trying to deny the thoughts filling her head. They were calling her. The voices of the dead.

Jennifer clasped her hands to her ears as whispers began to run unbridled through her mind.
Who’s there? Annabel, is that you?
An old man whispered.

‘Go away,’ Jennifer said, grasping the remote control to turn up the television.

An insistent woman’s voice broke through.
There’s no Annabel here, you silly sod. What about me? One minute I’m making a nice cup of tea and the next I’m looking at myself, lifeless on the floor. Young lady, I need to speak to my daughter, do you hear me? I insist you fetch her this minute!

As a child, Jennifer had tried to help, but it always came to the same conclusion. The people the voices sought so desperately could not be found, they were from a different time, or they just didn’t want to know. And then there were the others – dark energies masquerading as weeping children, looking for a way in. Their sinister intentions were fuelled by hatred and anger that drove their host to the brink of despair. It chilled her to the bone. If it weren’t for Father Kelly … she shuddered. The family priest had patiently taught her to channel her energy, deflecting the cries of the lost souls roaming the void. He explained that by listening she was keeping them grounded, stalling their need to relinquish earthly ties. She had joined the police to help the living, plagued by guilt because she couldn’t help the dead. But now they were flooding her consciousness in uncontrollable waves. Curling up in her chair she pressed her fists to the side of her head as she steadied her breathing. Just what the hell had started this off again? It didn’t matter what the clinic told her, the whispers were real. The restless dead. All searching for something.

Jennifer recalled the look of disbelief on DI Allison’s face when she had first told him she had had a way of knowing things since she was a little child. But confiding in people was a bad idea and James had insisted she received treatment for her ‘mental illness’, which was followed by counselling when she disclosed that she was hearing voices.
Stress can do funny things to you. There is medication that can help. Soon you will be back to your old self.
Jennifer turned up the television and drowned out the whispers with several glasses of wine.

S
hafts of morning
light broke through the stained glass, casting her hall into a colourful glow of greens and reds. A cold breeze kissed her skin as she approached the kitchen. Jennifer pulled her dressing gown tightly together and checked the dial on the wall.
Why is it so cold?
She froze, adrenalin kicking in at the sight of her back door, which was wide open. Her breath fell shallow as she listened for sounds of an intruder. But all she could hear was the jingle of the milk cart whirring down the street outside. Her eyes scanned the room. Had she been burgled? Her iPhone lay on the counter, untouched. Her panic diluted in the absence of scuffmarks or forced entry. Had she really gone to bed and left the door open? The night before was a blur; she barely remembered taking herself up to bed. Slipping out the door, she padded to the shed at the bottom of her small garden. The soles of her woollen socks absorbed the dampness from the dewy blades of grass, and her eyes scanned the garden for signs of disturbance. The combination lock on the shed door was still in place. Frowning, she returned inside and hung her socks on the radiator to dry. ‘Better lay off the wine for a while,’ she mumbled, reaching for the mop bucket and bleach. It was time to clean the house before she got ready for work.

A
small crowd
littered the pavement outside the police station, smoking cigarettes and cracking jokes. Probationers. Jennifer could spot them a mile off. Their enthusiasm could only be matched by their optimism for what lay ahead. ‘Job pissed’, Will called them. Young people high on the excitement of becoming real life detectives, with no idea of what lay ahead.

DI James Allison was putting on his coat as she walked into the office. ‘You look smart. Can you spare time to attend a suspicious death with me?’

Jennifer patted the bun in her hair, held with a silver-edged black clasp. It matched her light grey suit perfectly, and she hoped the dark circles under her eyes did not betray the last few nights of unease. ‘Sure thing, boss. How come the duty inspector isn’t attending?’

‘He’s held up elsewhere. And besides, it’s one of yours – Johnny Mallet.’

Jennifer’s eyes widened. ‘Seriously? What’s happened?’

DI Allison looked at his watch. ‘Grab your coat, I’ll tell you on the way.’

Jennifer pulled her shoulder harness from the locked drawer, slapped a fresh battery into her radio, and attached herself to the incident with the control room. It was one of the things she loved about her job. She never knew where her day would take her.

Raindrops clacked against the roof of the unmarked Ford Focus as Jennifer turned the ignition. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Twenty-three Wilbur Way, it’s off the Barrington estate. There’s a unit on scene waiting for us. They don’t think it’s anything suspicious, but given it’s Johnny Mallet and the recent problems with Mike Stone, I thought we should attend.’

‘Of course,’ Jennifer said, her mind running back and forth, like the wipers fighting to keep up with the sudden downpour of rain. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she chose to ignore it. Not because she was driving, but because it was the third silent call she had received that day.

DI Allison instructed Jennifer to follow a nearby sign. He gave her a cursory glance as she remembered to try to stay within the speed limit.

‘How are you today?’

‘I’m good, why do you ask?’

‘You look tired, that’s all. Everything alright?’

‘Fine and dandy,’ Jennifer said, trying to sound nonchalant. The last thing she wanted was to go over old ground. She was grateful to have woken with a clear mind and wanted to keep it that way. Keeping her eyes firmly on the road, she fixed her thoughts on the job ahead.

The Barrington estate was flanked by two blocks of flats on either side. Nicknamed ‘The Crack Estate,’ the appearance of police was something the residents did not welcome, but had long since resigned themselves to. DI Allison nodded to the young PC on duty as he opened the door to allow him inside. Jennifer began to feel very important as the PC stared with admiration, straightening his posture as the DI approached him for a quick briefing. ‘We had to force entry, gov, as the premises were secure. A wallet is on the table with money inside, and keys are in the back of the door, which was double bolted. There doesn’t appear to be a suicide note.’

‘There won’t be,’ Jennifer said. ‘He couldn’t read or write.’

The officer nodded and carried on. ‘A concern for welfare was called in by a Shelly Easton after he failed to turn up at her address. When there was no answer, she looked through the letterbox, and saw him swinging in the hall. Given the intelligence on the system, we left him in situ just in case anything cropped up. I can cut him down when you’ve looked him over.’

‘Good job PC—’

The young man glowed, ‘Clarke, sir.’

Jennifer frowned. ‘Why wasn’t he found by other residents?’

‘I’ve spoken to the landlord; the flats are undergoing redecoration before the next set of tenants move in. He let Johnny stay as he had nowhere else to go.’

It made sense. Shelly would not have wanted Johnny cramping her style.

‘OK PC Clarke. I’ll shout for you in a minute,’ the DI said, walking inside.

Jennifer followed him into the hall towards the limp body hanging from the banisters. A damp patch patterned the crotch of his jeans, and a dense, sour smell clawed at the back of her throat. She winced at the sight of numerous scratches dragged down his shirtless torso. Pulling on a pair of gloves from her back pocket, Jennifer handed an extra set to DI Allison. The mottled skin of Johnny’s stiff hands suggested he had been dead overnight at least. The dried blood under his long nails also suggested the scratches were self-inflicted. White foam edged the corner of his blue lips, which drooped to one side. Jennifer glanced at the rickety wooden chair, which lay on its side on the tiled floor.

‘His neck’s broken.’ DI Allison’s voice snapped Jennifer from her thoughts.

‘Do you think Mike Stone had anything to do with this?’ Jennifer said, wondering if there was anything she could have done to prevent Johnny’s premature death.

‘I know Stone of old. This isn’t his style. If he were going to do anything, he would have sent his cronies around to give him a pasting. Besides, Mallet wouldn’t have opened the door to anyone. Double check the rest of the flat, but I doubt very much anyone has gained entry.’ The DI called for PC Clarke to cut the body down. Jennifer prepared herself, knowing she would be elected to hold the dead weight as it was released to the floor.

A black van turned up outside with ‘private ambulance’ in white letters on the side. Neighbours gathered as two grim looking men in black suits wheeled a trolley towards the door, complete with a body bag. The short police community support officer that attended to assist was thrilled at having something more interesting to deal with than ticketing people for allowing their dogs to foul on the pavement.

‘Want to have one last look inside, Jennifer? We’re almost wrapped up here,’ DI Allison said, beckoning the PCSO.

Jennifer nodded, making her way through the open door of Johnny’s tiny bedsit. Like an itch she could not scratch, a distant nagging urged her to investigate the pitiful box space. She squeezed between the bed and kitchen unit on the other side, its sink belching plates caked in dried food. Walking past the wardrobe to the yellow-netted window, she sniffed the bottle of sour milk and empty cider cans littering its frame. The timber was crusted with emulsion paint and impossible to open. She glanced through the window to the houses across the street. Front entry was too visible. Someone would have seen an intruder under the glare of the street lamps. They may not have been keen on speaking to police, but Johnny was well known by local residents and an anonymous call might have been made if anyone was seen trying to force entry. She checked the bed, picking up a discarded t-shirt and dropping it again as the smell of sweat assailed her nostrils. A rolled up duvet served as a pillow, and the green horsehair blanket made her feel itchy just looking at it. Jennifer had seen them before, being given out to the homeless by the Salvation Army.

She froze as the wardrobe behind her opened with a creak, revealing a single metal hanger. It’s just a breeze, she told herself, straining to check the top shelf. Nothing.
You’ll get a better view if you stand on the bed.
Jennifer considered the thought before standing on the spongy mattress. The bed frame wobbled as she stretched her fingers across the top of the wardrobe. It was clear apart from a piece of flattened board, which she grasped between finger and thumb. She ran her finger across the arc of letters and numbers in black ink. The words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ flanked either side. ‘What’s he doing with this?’ Jennifer said to the empty room. The fact that Johnny was messing around with the occult did not come as much of a surprise, given his behaviour in the interview room. A cold breath whispered into her ear, sending goosebumps down her arms. ‘Yes.’

Jennifer jumped at the contact and spun around.

The DI leaned against the doorframe, smiling wanly. ‘You all right there?’

‘Oh yes, erm … did you just say something?’