Seductive Truths (Seductive Trilogy) (25 page)

     We have left the hectic London life behind and entered peaceful tranquillity where you can embrace nature and wash away all impurities from your mind.  Unfortunately I am incapable of taking in the beauty that’s on offer as there are too many disturbing thoughts clogging up my brain.

     The vehicle begins to slow and Gareth takes a left onto a bendy dirt track with a slight incline.  Overgrown vegetation starts to spill onto the untraveled road.  Potholes dent the gravelled route causing hazardous driving conditions as I discover by being tossed from side to side as we dip into one then another.  

     And then I see it.

     As we come around the bend I spot a perfectly situated old farmhouse a mile ahead.  Drawing closer I realise it to be derelict. 

     All except one window is boarded up, the other has smashed glass.  The front door may have been a lovely oak finishing once upon a time ago, but now it consists of splintered wood and is hidden behind the ivy that has wrapped itself around the building.  A few roof tiles are missing while the rest is splattered with a layer of thick moss turning them from a sleek orange/brown colour to a motley dirty green/brown.  

     At the front of the farmhouse is a small patch of overgrown garden, with weeds and tall grass sprouting up all over the place.  There is no beauty about it.  There are no red roses bringing richness to the shrubbery, no emerald coloured flowers to give it zest.  A few dead plants litter the hidden pathways that have now become a death-trap with
their
cracked and upturned stones.  What once may have been someone’s pride and joy, their little Garden of Eden, is now nothing more than untamed
chaos
. 

    
I wonder how long this
place has been derelict for
.

     Beyond the house are fields upon fields with nothing more than a few cattle grazing in the distance.  To one side there is a patch of woodland and on the crest of a hill lies the silhouette of another building – the only signs of life that inhabits this vicinity.

    
‘
Where are we?
’
I ask.

    
‘
Finchingfield.
’

    
‘
Never heard of it.
’

    
‘
It’s about an hour and a half’s drive from London.
’

    
‘
It’s in the middle of nowhere.
’

    
‘
Exactly.  I couldn’t choose an abandoned place in London; yobs would have taken over it and used it as their crack house.  I couldn’t risk anyone discovering what I have inside.  I needed somewhere no one would think twice of.  People have forgotten this place exists.  It’s perfect.
’

     I look at him, frown in place.

    
‘
Perfect for what?
’

     Turning his piercing blue eyes on me, he stares.  That’s it.  Stares. 

    
Now what?

     Blinking, he turns away to open the door while muttering,
‘
To hide the truth.
’
  With that he is out of the vehicle and marching towards the farmhouse.

    
What?

     I scuttle out after him, almost tripping over my own feet in the hurry.

     Gravel crunches under the pressure of our determined footsteps and the dampness in the air hits my skin, coating it in a layer of silken moisture.  The area fills with deathly silence.  No birds sing their song, no creatures scamper about, nor is there any sound of traffic echoing in the distance.

     The old oak door groans in protest as Gareth goes to tug it open, but with a few more firm shoves we manage to make our way inside. 

     The damp smell hits me in the face as soon as I step through the threshold causing me to cough as it
goes straight to
the back of my throat.  The musky odour lingers in the air giving the place a sort of…hollowness, for better word to describe the atmosphere.  Cobwebs dangle from corners of the ceiling and wrap around anything it comes into contact with, suffocating them in layers upon layers of dust.  It’s an asthmatic’s worse nightmare.

     Floorboards creek under our weight and if I’m not very much mistaken I swear I can hear the slight squeaking and scratching of mice or possibly rats. 

     The room would have been pitch black if it weren’t for the sunlight seeping through gaps from the boarded up windows and open door.  Pictures hang on the walls; odd oriental looking figurines adorned the top of a couple of bookcases that run along one side of the room.  The books have become unidentifiable and a few are strewn across the floor, pages stained by some ungodly substance.  Wallpaper has peeled away to reveal the rotting wall behind.

     The building looks so worn I am rather surprised it is still able to stand.     

     Peering around I realise Gareth has disappeared.  I stroll into one of the adjoined rooms only to be confronted with a whole span of wall littered with newspaper clippings, photographs and other documentation.  The light beaming in from the half uncovered windows allows for easy viewing as I numbly take a closer look.

     There is an assortment of photographs.  A few include two men of similar height, build and appearance; however one is a fair bit older than the other.  Next to this is a picture with a man and two boys.  The man is the same as the one in the other pictures, though younger, and I presume the brown haired boy is a younger version of the other man.  The addition is a young, blonde haired boy, with a mischievous smile plastered on his chubby face and the most piercing blue eyes that light up the whole image.  There is no mistaking whom this cheeky chappy is. 

     A small smile comes unbidden as I imagine what mischief a young Gareth would have gotten up to, but it is quickly wiped from my face as a much more disturbing thought intrudes.  One of Gareth being beaten, those vibrant eyes full of fear and the lost look every time he was left on his own for hours, days even. 

     As my eyes continue to glaze at the multitude of pictures they catch sight of an image of a slender, blonde haired woman, possibly mid-twenties with the sun’s light perfecting her flawless skin and her smiling into the camera.  It’s clear she is so happy and very beautiful. 

    
‘
Who’s she?
’

    
‘
My mother,
’
he whispers from behind.

    
‘
She looks so young.
’

    
‘
She was.  She was nothing more than a kid when she had Mark.  Sixteen.  Dad was twenty-four.  He loved her once, before my brother and I came along.  That love turned to possession.  He destroyed her, changing her into something she wasn’t.  He destroyed everyone he touched.
’

     The anger, the pain, it’s all there on Gareth’s face, lost in the past as he stares at his mother’s picture.

    
How can life go so wrong?

     My eyes drift to another image.  It’s a picture of the four of them, in a tight embrace, laughing at whoever is taking the picture with a carefree spirit on each of their faces.  Their mother has a hand on Gareth’s shoulder, while their father is in the process of ruffling Mark’s fluffy locks, causing the boys to laugh at the antics and their eyes to sparkle with joy. 

    
‘
That was a rare moment,
’
I start as his voice breaks the quiet. 
‘
I think it was the only time I felt truly loved by them.  It was taken on my fifth birthday.  The sun was shining, music played.  My parents took us to a restaurant with a playpen where Mark and I enjoyed playing pirates.  We used the balls in the ball pit as cannonballs, lobbing them at each other.  At one stage I caught Mark in the eye, but instead of crying, he just laughed it off and said,
“
You got me.
”
’
 

     I look over my shoulder and see the pain intensify.  

     I hate the clenching feeling in my stomach every time I see that look on his face.  Even my eyes have begun to water!   

    
‘
I had a chocolate cake with five candles stuck into the top,
’
he continues. 
‘
I wished for a puppy.  Never got one though.  Instead I received an absent mother, a bully for a father and a betrayer for a brother.
’
  Gareth’s face hardens. 
‘
Just what I’ve always wanted,
’
he adds sarcastically. 

     Turning my attention back to the collection of pictures my heart skips a beat and breath hitches.  An involuntary shiver trickles down my spine.  It’s Thomas!  Alive and smiling at someone or something outside the camera shot.  Underneath is the horrific clipping of a newspaper with an article on his hit and run
.  Smacked across the top are, “
Hit and run KILLER!
”
in black, bold text.

     Shakily I take a step back; eyes wide.  I can’t quite believe what I am seeing.  There is another one of him!  He’s spinning Bethany around in the air, both of them laughing.  And there’s me. 
Me!
  Thomas and I are in the park and he is giving me a piggyback ride.  In one I’m sat outside the local café down my road enjoying a nice cappuccino.  In another I’m chatting away on my phone.  But the one that stands out is the one of me in my clingy red cocktail dress coming out of my front door ready for a night out. 
Bloody hell, I’ve had a stalker!
 

     There’s also a couple Zoe and one of Maggie.

    
What the hell is going on here?  Where did these pictures come from?  Why were they taken in the first place?
 

    
‘
William!
’
 

     There are snapshots of him like I have never seen before, dark, dangerous and with a hint of ambiguity.  Some contain him handing over a brown paper package to various people in questionable surroundings.  There is a close up of him smoking a cigarette. 
Hold on….he doesn’t even smoke!  Not once have I seen him light up.  He has never had that lingering nicotine smell as many do, not once
.
  But here he is, smoking
.

     One has captured him in a suit, briefcase in hand on his way to work, that’s what I presume at any rate.   For all I know he could be off to see a woman!  I thought I knew William, thought he was as clear as black and white, but it appears I was wrong.  Looking at these images I don’t know him at all.  My life is turning out to be one big fat lie!

    
‘
Wh-what is all this?  What is it?
’
I spin around, yelling at Gareth. 
‘
Why?  What’s it all for?
’

    
‘
It’s the truth.
’

    
‘
What do you mean,
“
It’s the truth
”
?
’

    
‘
What you see on the wall are snippets of your life.  I started to collect things and piece it together.  All of it has been leading up to today.  I started this the night your brother was killed.
’

    
‘
My brother?  All this,
’
I wave my hand at the wall. 
‘
Plus you kidnapping me, the note, the texts, all of it was leading up to you telling me the truth behind my brother’s death?  Or do you have a certain vendetta against my brother and this is you getting your own back?  It’s not like it matters.  You’re too late, he’s dead!
’

    
‘
I do not have a vendetta against your brother, or against you.  I’ve done this because you deserve to know the truth, one way or another you deserve to know.  You need closure otherwise you won’t be able to move on.
’

    
‘
What difference will it make whether I know how he died or not?  Knowing won’t bring him back!  He’s dead for fucks sake!
’

    
‘
I know he’s fucking dead I was there when it happened!
’

    
‘
You…what?  Y-you were there?
’

    
‘
Yes,
’
he runs his fingers through his golden mane. 
‘
I was there.  I saw the whole thing.
’

    
‘
How? What?  Wh-I-I don’t understand.  I…I…
’
I turn my back on him; my hand goes up to cover my mouth in an attempt to keep the vomit at bay.  It’s all too much too soon.