What You Left Behind (5 page)

“I’ll try,” Stella replied.

Lorraine felt a pang of satisfaction. She doubted that Grace would have shown much interest in seeing
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, let alone sit still inside for several hours when the weather was so nice. Grace would be having a much better time at her athletics camp.

Moments later, the lights dimmed and three actors appeared on stage, their voices loud and commanding. Other characters entered across bridge-like walkways on either side of them, making Stella spin round in wonder, taking it all in. It was instantly magical; they felt as if they were part of the story in the intimate, tiered theater. Stella’s fingers crept onto Lorraine’s lap, clasping her hands. She
looked across and winked at her daughter. It was a perfect way to spend an afternoon.

“M
UM
?” S
TELLA SAID
when the play was over and they were outside. The sun flashed from behind huge white clouds that were reflected in the surface of the River Avon flowing slowly through the town. Brightly colored narrow boats were moored against the bank, several of them queuing to enter the lock. It was a colorful spectacle. “Was what happened to Pyramus and Thisbe in the play the same as what happened to that boy in Aunty Jo’s village?”

Stella stopped and turned round. The expanse of lawn ahead, cut up with neat block-paved pathways, was crammed with tourists crowding round a street performer. Lorraine noticed the look of wonder on her daughter’s face as she spotted the juggler’s fiery batons flying into the air. But then she looked back up at her mother and Lorraine recognized the telltale furrows of worry and inquisitiveness on her daughter’s brow. She put her arm round her slender shoulders and drew her close.

“What boy, love?”

“I know the story of Pyramus and Thisbe is a play within a play. But when Pyramus kills himself, thinking that a lion killed his girlfriend, and then she kills herself because she is so unhappy, is that like when suicide becomes contagious? Like what happened to that boy in Radcote? Will I catch it?” Stella tugged the strap of Lorraine’s shoulder bag. “Mum?”

Lorraine wanted to take a moment to think about this, to formulate a suitable reply. She didn’t know what to say.

“Anyway, I need the loo,” Stella said when Lorraine remained silent. “I’ll meet you over there in ten minutes.” She gestured toward a bench and walked briskly back toward the theater, leaving Lorraine grateful for the reprieve.

She waited for Jo, who was watching the juggler, to catch up. They walked on slowly together and sat down on the bench. The surrounding lawns were neatly mown and the sun was warm on their backs. A swarm of gnats hovered in the late-afternoon heat. It was a typical summer’s afternoon, perfect for a day of not thinking about work.

“Stella just asked something a bit odd,” Lorraine said, squinting at the waterfront, watching the tourists as they ambled alongside the river. She heard all kinds of accents, but mainly American and Japanese. She smiled to herself as a large coach party swapped cameras to get an assortment of shots.

“What’s she got on her mind now?” Jo said, smiling.

“It was a bit grim, actually. She was asking about suicide.” Lorraine paused. “And she mentioned Radcote.”

Jo sighed. “Welcome home.” The irony was palpable. “People haven’t forgotten yet.”

“But that was eighteen months ago, wasn’t it?”

The sudden cluster of teenage suicides had shocked the local community to the core. What had begun as a tragic, isolated death when a seventeen-year-old girl hanged herself in her bedroom quickly turned into front-page news when five more teenagers took their own lives in and around Radcote within the space of two weeks. Boys and girls alike; there was no sense to the terrible loss of life.

“It still seems like yesterday,” Jo said. “And do you want to know something?”

Lorraine nodded reluctantly.

“Sonia and Tony Hawkeswell, the couple who own the Manor in Radcote, their son Simon was one of the dead. He was next to last.”

Lorraine felt a chill sweep up her legs. “Oh my God, that’s awful.” Goose bumps puckered the skin on her arms. “I’m really sorry to hear that. Did he hang himself too?”

The expression on Jo’s face reminded Lorraine that talking about
death so frankly was second nature to her, but not necessarily so for everyone.

Jo shook her head. “Yes. It was terrible. He left a note.”

Lorraine spotted Stella coming out of the theater and raised a hand as her daughter peered around looking for them. They stood up and began a slow walk toward the water.

“Sadly, clusters like these do happen,” Lorraine told her sister as Stella approached. “We have to learn from them, to prevent future incidents.” She was, of course, talking as a detective, but her words still rang true.

Jo nodded. “It just seemed as if everyone local knew one of the dead, or if not, then a relative or friend who was suffering because of it. No one was immune.”

“Immune. Interesting choice of word. Stella mentioned about suicide being contagious just now.”

“It
was
like a disease,” Jo said. “It
did
seem contagious. Everyone worried for their kids. Freddie was sixteen at the time and I fretted myself sick about him. To be honest, the worry has never gone. You don’t forget something like that.”

“Hi, Stell. All OK?” Lorraine said, stepping away from Jo.

Stella hugged her mother round the waist and briefly rested her head on her shoulder. “Yes. So now you can answer my question. Is it possible to catch suicide?”

They’d reached the water’s edge before Lorraine answered. First they’d bought some ice cream at Jo’s suggestion, and spoken about the possibility of a rowing boat ride and what they would pick up from the supermarket for supper on the way home. None of this was enough to dissuade Stella from pressing on as they stood licking their vanilla cones.

“The short and easy answer, my love, is no, you can’t catch suicide,” Lorraine said, taking her daughter’s hand. “It’s not a disease in the contagious sense, although depression needs treating by a doctor.”

“I’m not a kid, Mum. I know something bad happened near Aunty Jo’s house a few weeks back. A boy drove a motorbike into a tree on purpose. Freddie told me. He said it will probably spread like a disease all over again, that everyone’s talking on Facebook about it.” Stella licked the edge of her ice cream as part of it slid down the cone and onto her fingers.

“Well, Freddie’s being silly,” Jo said. “You know how horrid big cousins can be.” She rummaged in her bag and handed Stella some tissues.

“Freddie’s not horrid,” Stella said, wiping her mouth. “But that nasty man was. He cried and wailed and said he wasn’t a murderer.”

“What nasty man?” Jo said. She licked her ice cream. “What are you on about, Stell?”

“Freddie says he’s called Gil, and he lives in a little house up at the Manor. Me and Freddie … Freddie and I … we were on a walk and we met Lana and then Gil came and fed the horses and then he grabbed me and when he walked off he got all mad and strange and then that’s when he mentioned the man who died, and that he was his friend.”

“Someone grabbed you?” Lorraine looked Stella in the eye. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Stella let out a mini-sigh. “I’m fine. But, Mum,
listen
. Freddie said that the disease had come back. A boy killed himself a few weeks ago and mark his words, more kids would die. I don’t want to catch it. I want to go home.”

Lorraine hugged her. “Sweetheart, when people take their own lives, it’s very sad and a terrible waste, but it is
not
a disease that you can catch. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, so I don’t want to hear any more talk about suicide or having to go home. Now, are you sure you’re OK?” She tipped Stella’s face up toward hers, and Stella nodded. “In that case, we’re going to have a lovely week with Aunty Jo. What could be better?”

“Going on a rowing boat?” Stella said, crunching down on the side of her cone.

L
ATER
, J
O HANDED
Lorraine a glass of wine. They were at home, sitting on either side of the kitchen table, each of them incredulous at how the weather had suddenly changed. Lorraine peered out the French doors that led onto the terrace where they’d been sitting in the sun that morning. Drizzle wiggled down the glass, making the garden scene appear more autumnal than the end of July. Even the light was fading early, a swoop of thick clouds having cast a purple-gray shroud over the landscape.

On the journey home from Stratford, Stella had blurted out that it was an omen, that the rain coming so suddenly meant something sinister was going to happen. “You wait,” she’d said in a demonic voice.

Lorraine had reassured her, but had made a mental note to discuss it with Adam on the phone later. They needed to be more vigilant about keeping work discussions, however masked in code they thought they were, out of family time. Not that there had been much of that recently. Their professional lives were often entwined—Adam was also a detective inspector with the West Midlands Police—though their caseloads had diverged over the last couple of months. Lorraine was actually grateful for this, given what had happened last time they’d worked as a team. Adam had been the senior investigating officer and Lorraine didn’t mind, but occasionally she’d have liked to be considered before him. Together they had over forty years’ worth of experience, so when it was called upon it usually meant a major investigation was under way—murder, more often than not.

“Freddie’s just a big kid when he hangs out with Stella,” Lorraine
said with a smile, sipping her wine. She could hear the movie Stella had put on in the other room.
Finding Nemo
was one of her favorites from years ago. “He adores her.”

“I’m afraid he’s not watching it anymore,” Jo replied. “He lasted all of two minutes. He’ll be up in his room now on his computer. He can’t go more than an hour without it.”

Lorraine understood. Stella loved nothing more than a session chatting with her mates online. Grace, on the other hand, preferred her life to take place in the real world. If she wasn’t allowed to be the center of attention with her group of friends, or to play for her sports teams, or to go to lots of parties, she thought she would literally waste away.

“You sound annoyed about that,” Lorraine said.

Jo drained her glass of wine. “He just seems so …” She hesitated. “Look, this isn’t easy to say. It’s awful, in fact, but …” She looked toward the door. There was no one there. “I think Freddie has been cutting himself.” She drew a line across her forearm with her index finger. “He just seems so lonely and aloof all the time. That’s why I encouraged him to go and see the horses with Stella earlier. I wanted him to bump into Lana, actually. He seems to really like her.”

“Wait a minute, back up there.
Cutting
himself? Freddie? Jesus Christ.” Lorraine took a deep breath. She couldn’t imagine how she’d feel if she thought either of her daughters was doing that.

“There was a razor blade in his room. I discovered it when I was changing his sheets. I found blood on one of his school shirts too.” Jo drank more wine. “I thought I saw some faint scabs on his arm but he wouldn’t show me. He got embarrassed and wore long sleeves for ages. That was a couple of months ago now. I don’t think he’s done it since and I haven’t noticed scars, thank God.”

Lorraine was shaking her head. “Jo, you should have called me. This is shocking. Has he spoken to anyone about it? Been to see his family doctor? It’s not something that should be ignored.”

Jo closed her eyes. “I’m so scared for him, Lorraine. I think he
might be seriously depressed.” She paused. “It’s just that no one dares breathe a word around here about this sort of thing, not after what happened a few weeks ago. It was bad enough eighteen months ago. Even the newspapers were reluctant to report it in case it started something off again. Admitting that my own son could need help—it’s really scary.”

Lorraine reached out and put her hand on Jo’s. “Look, it was probably just a horrible accident rather than suicide. As for Freddie, he’s a different matter entirely. He’s your son, and he’s been through a lot recently with you and Malc. Sadly, kids hurting themselves isn’t that uncommon. He needs to see someone, Jo. A doctor. And soon.”