Tell Tale (39 page)

Josie yelled out that she couldn’t find the items.

‘They’re in the cabinet,’ Nina called back.

Mick attempted a laugh, but stopped because of the pain. ‘If somebody had done this to me, would I be sitting here? Don’t you think I’d be at the police station making a complaint?’

Nina nodded. He was right. Mick wasn’t the kind of man to let someone get away with violence. ‘I was trying to move that old chest of drawers out of Josie’s room, like you’ve been asking me to do for ages. I felt bad it had just sat there, in the way. I was dragging it across the landing when my phone rang.’ Mick moved the ice to the other cheek. ‘I didn’t realise how close to the top of the stairs I was. I leaned back to get the phone from my pocket and wham. Suddenly I was at the bottom with my face smashed against the hall table. I took a battering on the way down too. I can still feel each stair.’

‘Oh, Mick, how awful.’ Nina gently embraced her husband. On top of everything else, she couldn’t stand to think of him hurt. ‘Shall I drive you to the hospital for a check-up?’

‘No. I’ll be fine.’ Mick stood up.

‘Take it easy today. Go and lie down. You might be concussed.’

Mick laughed. ‘OK, I’ll tell the elves to finish the paintings, shall I?’

‘Mick—’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Mick steadied himself on the door frame.

‘At least let me fetch your paints so you can work in the kitchen. I want to keep an eye on you.’ Nina thought her head would explode with worry. ‘Is the studio locked? Give me the key.’ She smiled kindly; a special reserve.

‘No. I don’t want anyone to see it yet. It’s not finished.’ He massaged his temples. ‘I’ll be OK.’ Shaking his head, Mick turned and left, quietly closing the back door. Nina watched from the window as he disappeared inside his studio.

She stood at the window for an age, thinking about everything that she had to do,
couldn’t stand to do.
Finally, when she did move, she went upstairs to Josie, who was still trying to find the dressings for her dad. The chest of drawers, just as Mick had said, was blocking the landing. His mobile phone was lying on the carpet beside it. There were scuff marks on the paintwork. Nina let slip the tiniest sigh of relief that it wasn’t Burnett who had hurt her husband.

Nina was searching the internet for items she would need when the house telephone rang. She just managed to intercept Josie, who also dashed to answer it. Josie skulked
off, not understanding her mother’s odd behaviour. Nina’s breath flowed cold into tight lungs when the silent caller hung up after a second or two.

In a panic, she asked Laura if she could drop Josie back at her house. She didn’t know what else to do. Nowhere felt safe – nowhere near her, anyway, she concluded. She wondered if a sleepover would be best. Laura didn’t hesitate. ‘If it means I can polish off a bottle of wine in front of trash TV later on without worrying about where they both are, then it suits me.’

When Nina dropped Josie off, a hiccupping sob left her throat. She didn’t want it to be the last time she saw her daughter. Laura already looked as if she’d downed a bottle of something, the way she spoke in slurs, but the girls hanging out on Afterlife was the least of Nina’s worries as she briefed a reluctant Josie to stay indoors whatever happened. At least Laura hadn’t noticed the state she was in.

Nina left Laura’s house. She had things to take care of.

Adam rests his fingertips on the altar and closes his eyes. Darkness fills the chapel with a single slice of light seeping through a gap in one of the boarded-up windows.

‘She bloody didn’t deserve to die.’

‘None of them did,’ I say, wondering what the death count was. ‘We had our Sunday services here. We thought we were close to God, when really only the devil lived here.’

Adam turns and reaches out to me. ‘Something’s brought us together, Frankie.’ In the half-light, I see him frown. ‘Perhaps it’s Betsy’s spirit.’ He squeezes my hands before letting go, realising what he’s doing.

‘I don’t believe in the afterlife,’ I tell him bitterly. ‘There is only one life, however many ways we try to live it.’ I sit on the edge of a pew. ‘This is where we used to pray,’ I say, running my hand over the worn wood. ‘Look. She did this with a flint that she found on the path.’

Adam crouches down next to me, tracing his finger over the crude letter ‘b’ that’s inscribed.

‘I want the investigation reopened, Frankie. I want the one that did it caught.’

I lower my head. He has to know that I tried. ‘Even when they were . . . when they were . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘When they were burying her in the woods, he was still wearing the hood. After it happened, I replayed the scene a thousand times in my mind, hoping to recall some tiny detail that would be useful to the police. I wanted him caught so badly. I loved Betsy too.’

I feel an arm slip round my shoulders. The warmth of another human, the comfort of a body against me – from someone who cares, who
knows –
is immeasurable.

‘I was so scared. The anger in me was bigger than the entire world, Adam. Perhaps if I’d got to her sooner, I could have saved her. Or at least been able to identify the one that actually did it, seen him without the hood. It was such a sick ceremony.’

‘Is that how you saw it? As a ceremony?’

I nod. ‘The police thought that. I was about to turn eighteen when it happened so I understood most of what they talked about among themselves. They kept going on about paedophiles and how they initiated new members. It was one of the biggest groups in the north of England. It had been based at the children’s home for years, but no one ever told.’

Adam rests his forehead on my shoulder. ‘You’ve lived with this all your life,’ he says.

‘There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.’

‘You know what I wish? That I could spend just one day with her.’

‘If you ever get that wish, then tell me how you did it.’

‘Oh?’

I look him straight in the eye; the closest I’m ever likely to come to telling anyone. ‘There are a couple of people I’d like to spend a day with too.’

A sudden noise makes us jump. It’s Frazer Barnard rapping on the door with his walking cane. He’s silhouetted by the light behind as he stands on the threshold, still refusing to come into the chapel. ‘It’s time to lock up,’ he says nervously, as if something evil will happen if we stay any longer.

I give Adam’s arm a brief squeeze. ‘You take a moment,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be outside.’

I’m glad to get out, even if it means waiting with the old man from the village. The more local people who see me, the greater the risk of being discovered. I only came out here again for Adam’s sake. Frazer rattles the keys like a jailer. ‘Don’t understand all the fuss,’ he says. ‘What’s done is done.’

‘Sometimes people need to come to terms with their past,’ I say, annoyed. ‘So that they can carry on with their future.’

Barnard prods his cane into the ground with one hand, and fiddles with the key fob in the other. That’s when I see it. His hand is missing a thumb. I stare like a child gawping at a disfigured person, and when Frazer Barnard sees me looking he quickly thrusts it back into his pocket.

‘It’s a sea of blue in May,’ I tell him. ‘From all the way over there and across to the chapel. God’s carpet, we called it.’ I sweep my hand to show Adam. ‘Come.’ I take his arm and lead him on.

It was his idea. He emerged from the chapel red-eyed and didn’t say much until Barnard had locked up and walked off back to the village. We stood alone on the lane. I was still reeling from what I’d noticed about Barnard’s hand. How many people had missing thumbs? He was the one who had stared in at Lexi’s window, but why? I didn’t know how to tell Adam; didn’t want to believe what it might mean.

‘I want to see where she was buried.’

He couldn’t be serious. ‘No, Adam. Don’t do that to yourself.’ He walked off, knowing it was somewhere close to the chapel.

Our feet kick through fallen leaves. ‘Where?’ he asks as we approach the dismal building again. It’s separated from the rest of the world by yards of barbed wire.

‘Over here,’ I say, veering to the left. ‘I ran away when they knew I’d been spying on them. But when I got a good safe distance away, I stopped. I couldn’t leave her. I wanted to go back. Stupidly, I thought she might still be alive.’ The trees and undergrowth around us are thick, shrouding us from the daylight. We walk on.

‘You were brave,’ Adam says. His voice is croaky.

‘No,’ I say vehemently. ‘I was stupid. Stupid to have allowed it to go on for so long.’ My turn to choke back the tears.

I remember what I saw – the chapel windows lit up from the candlelight, illuminating the ground so they could dig, the shoving, the arguing, the sparks that jumped between them.

‘It was over there,’ I say, pointing to a spot about twenty yards from the chapel door. ‘Where the ground rises and clears.’ I turn, hoping he’ll want to go now. He takes my hand and leads me on.

‘Show me exactly.’

‘Adam, it’s been a long time. The trees, the bushes, they’ve changed.’

‘Please,’ he says, with pain in his eyes.

So I show him, wishing that we were visiting a proper grave, not an empty mound that was probed by a forensics team for days after Betsy was exhumed. ‘It was here.’ I draw an imaginary rectangle over the area.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘There was already a small graveyard in this area. Can you see that old wall?’ I point to a low, crumbling stone wall that outlines the area. It’s more eroded now, ivy growing all over it. ‘It ran around the dozen or so graves that are here. They’re all flat stone markers. We used to get told off for jumping on them like stepping stones on our way to chapel.’ I kick aside the layer of leaves – dry and crispy on top, sludgy beneath. ‘There. This grave was right next to where . . . where Betsy was . . . put.’

Adam is on his knees, pushing his fingers into the dirt. He bows down as if praying, lowering his head until it’s resting on the ground.

‘Look,’ I suddenly say. ‘See this?’

Adam sits up and frowns. He’s lost in a life that never was.

‘It’s an oak tree. A baby oak that’s set itself right here.’

Adam glances around for the parent tree. It’s there, a little way to our left; a towering giant keeping watch.

‘She liked playing with the acorns in autumn. She would have liked this tree growing here.’

Adam nods. We sit on the damp earth, talking, me telling him all about his little sister, and him arranging twigs and stones in the shape of a heart.

She hadn’t logged on for two days. It was unusual. Coping with the regular tangles and demands of school life grew more difficult as the term wore on. I had no idea what would happen when Christmas approached, and although it was a way off yet, several of the girls had been discussing their plans for the holidays. I wanted to crawl into a hole for the festive season and hibernate until spring. I couldn’t face it.

‘Can I use your laptop, please?’ Adam was in the staffroom, a place I never usually ventured into unless the terminals were free. So far this morning, every computer in the school had been occupied. There were end-of-term exams to mark, reports to write, and the teachers were busy. But I was desperate to chat with her; desperate to know she was OK. It was the only way to get through the interminable days.

‘Sure,’ he said, standing up. As usual, the laptop was tucked under his arm. ‘Would you like to go somewhere private? The library?’

I nodded and we walked silently through the school together. We hadn’t spoken since our chapel visit, since Adam said a private prayer before leaving the spot where Betsy had been buried. The library was empty apart from two girls hunched over a textbook, and the librarian, who was covering new books at the desk. She smiled at us as we sat at a table.

‘We never did go to that art exhibition,’ Adam says. He nods up at the row of portraits staring down at us. ‘It’ll be over now.’

I open up the computer and wait for the internet connection to be made. ‘I don’t think I want to go to an exhibition, Adam.’

‘I thought you liked art,’ he says. He enters his password. I notice it begins with the letters b, e and t.

‘I do. It’s just that . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Someone I once loved was an artist.’ That’s all I will say.
Someone I still love,
I think.

Adam’s head draws an arc in the air as he understands. ‘Old flame?’ he asks.

I nod.

‘Did it end badly?’

I stare hard at the Google page and hope that Adam won’t press for a reply. He’s got everything so wrong.

‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’

‘I won’t be long,’ I say, glancing up, hoping he will take the hint.

‘I have a fourth-form lesson in fifteen minutes.’ He doesn’t budge.

I twist the computer round to face me and bring up the Afterlife website. In a moment, I’m logged in and checking my messages. There’s nothing new. I pull up
dramaqueen-jojo’s
profile and see that she logged in this morning. My sigh is bigger than I realise.

‘Everything OK?’ Adam peers round at the screen. ‘Don’t tell me you’re into that too. I thought it was just for kids.’ He laughs and pulls a book off the nearest shelf. He opens it randomly. ‘You are a mystery, Miss Gerrard. Or perhaps it’s Mrs Gerrard?’ He eyes me curiously, picking away at my layers until it hurts.

‘Miss,’ I whisper. I shift my chair and pull the computer round further. Then, as if by magic, Josephine logs on. Was she watching, waiting for me to arrive? We’ve spoken regularly now, and she always initiates a conversation. But this time there’s no pop-up window for chatting; no familiar greeting.

Nothing happens.

Conscious of the short time I have, I request a line of chat with her. Her character immediately fades and states that she is offline.

‘Odd,’ I say, clicking on her profile again.

‘What is?’

I sigh. I have some explaining to do now, whether I spin him another story or not. It’s not normal for a woman of my age to be playing on Afterlife.

Suddenly, another request flashes on to my screen.
Griff is online and wants to be your friend.