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The top of Renoir Road became the youngsters’ new spot to congregate, much to Patricia’s annoyance. Jen knew her mum’s explosive temper fed her peers’ desire to be there. Patricia’s rages as she stomped the pavement in feathered slippers kept them amused. Jen wished they understood the strife created when she had to return home. Patricia punished Jen for the other children’s behaviour, citing guilt by association.

  ‘Your mum’s a witch,’ Claire said as Patricia’s kitten heels clicked away.

  Jen didn’t argue and concentrated instead on stripping chewing gum from Claire’s hair. Nervous at Shane East, her current object of affection, coming towards them, Claire chewed her hair. When Shane looked over, Claire spat out her plait and tangled it in the gum.

  ‘He thinks I’m a dumb cow.’ Claire flung her arms around Jen.

  Johnny prepared a concoction of washing-up liquid and water in a jug. ‘Stop being so melodramatic.’

  ‘I had chewing gum stretching across my face,’ Claire said. ‘He saw it.’

  Johnny threw the soapy water at her head, partly as a fix but mostly to silence her.

  ‘Blimey.’ Claire rubbed her stinging eyes. ‘You could’ve used warm water.’

  Jen worked at the knotted mess, ignoring the expressions Johnny made at their drama queen friend.

  Johnny tried not to touch Jen’s fingers as they scrubbed Claire’s hair.

  Charlie waited for Kelly to appear. Sometimes she was bold and tried to join in with the others. Often, she either stayed in or walked the estate alone.

  ‘Catch, durr brain!’ Anthony shouted as the tennis ball sailed past Charlie’s head.

  They commandeered the road for a game of cricket. Anthony threatened any drivers who dared to disrupt. Most waited for permission to pass, aware of the consequences of arguing with a Rose. Jen was grateful for the cricketers’ decision not to use a cricket ball. Patricia would do more than mouth off if they smashed her greenhouse again.

  Preparing to bat, Roxanne McDonald, from Turner Road, lifted the peak of her cap and said, ‘Freak show coming through. What the hell does she look like?’

  Kelly exited from Pollock Road. Charlie sniggered as Roxanne slipped, from leaning on the cricket bat, and fell on her knees.

  Kelly dawdled near Jen, Claire, and Johnny. A hair clip slid down her head, making her pineapple ponytail lopsided. Her black and white polka dot shirt strained at the waist and buttons threatened to pop. Demonstrating the saying of showing what she’d had for dinner, Kelly’s miniscule denim skirt skirted her backside.

  While the others ignored her, Charlie couldn’t see anyone else. Kelly never looked more beautiful, and not because of the revealing outfit. Charlie recalled the boy from the Ready Brek advert, who radiated heat. Kelly shone too. His mum used to say pregnant women glowed. Expecting girls apparently did too. The girl’s confidence gave Charlie the courage to decide to make his pledge straightaway.

  He watched as she lingered around Jen, desperate for acceptance. Charlie couldn’t tolerate Jen and Claire. They were unobtainable and he certainly wouldn’t go near Patricia’s daughter. Claire’s mum being a reporter was off-putting too. No one messed with the Woods family if they didn’t want to feature in the local rag. Jen and Claire were snooty bitches anyway. He glowered as they ignored Kelly, focusing instead on playing with Claire’s hair. Even Johnny joined in. Charlie couldn’t accept Johnny as a true Rose. What sort of bloke hung around with girls?

  Kelly said goodbye to the three as if they’d been socialising. Charlie empathised with the rejection. Not being accepted was familiar. He was only in Anthony and Ian’s gang because no one else wanted to be with him. Charlie knew he was an “annoying shit”, as his dad so eloquently put it, and he had little intelligence to offer. He believed though, if people saw the real Charlie, they’d learn of a tender-hearted boy who used to make his mum breakfast in bed. They would discover the comedian who told jokes that made his brother and dad hold their sides. The problem with living in the same place for years was you became a set of labels. Change proved impossible. Charlie would always be the Rembrandt Estate’s resident bully. He hoped to convince Kelly to see beyond it.

  Charlie followed at a discreet distance as she ambled along Turner Road. Blisters formed on his heels from Porky’s three-sizes-too large brogues. Every day, Charlie slicked his hair and put on the smart shoes, preparing for an encounter with Kelly. He’d used his pocket money for reheeling, such was his dedication to Kelly and fear of Porky discovering his son had stolen his best shoes.

  Kelly adjusted her skirt. Charlie welcomed the extra coverage, feeling protective of her and the baby. He wondered how this girl bewitched him. Once, he’d despised her. Over time, an alien emotion crept inside and lodged there. As Kelly grew, he noticed her warmth and exuberance. Even though her life was difficult, she maintained a cheerful disposition.

  Kelly’s face wasn’t so radiant now. Furrows lined her forehead when she glimpsed behind before stepping into the alley. People avoided the alleyways unless they were up to no good. Charlie retreated and stood outside the McDonalds’ house to consider his next move.

  Noticing a figure entering the top of the road and not willing to explain his loitering, Charlie vaulted a fence and landed in the McDonalds’ garden. He hoped “Macca” wasn’t at home. Trespassing on the tough nut’s premises was suicide. Charlie peered through a hole in the gate, trailing the person walking past.

  When it was clear, Charlie climbed over the fence. A nail caught his leg mid-clamber. Although his flesh tore at the knee, he ignored the pain and prepared to declare his feelings for Kelly.

  A male spoke from the alleyway. ‘Stop asking if I like you. Being here should be enough.’

  Charlie hoped the male was talking to anyone but Kelly. Maybe she’d left while he was hiding. Kelly couldn’t possibly be with him.

  ‘I want to hear you say it.’

  Charlie’s hopes plummeted as he recognised her voice. He heard it in his fantasies, telling him of her love. Now, Kelly cooed at someone else; him, of anyone she could have chosen. Why would she choose such an unsuitable person? He was sick in the head for getting involved with her.

  ‘I love you,’ Kelly said.

  Charlie’s courage disappeared. He peered around the corner. Curiosity made him stay. Listening to their passion was torturous. When Kelly protested the bricks grazed her skin and her lover paid no attention, Charlie’s murderous impulses flared. He numbed at the cry of ecstasy and zoned out as the couple chatted afterwards. Then Kelly mentioned his name.

  When her partner commented on her weight gain, she replied, ‘It could be worse. I could be a huge, disgusting slob, like Charlie Pullen. He makes me want to puke.’

  Their laughter remained with Charlie as he stomped home, ignoring Anthony’s command to get his arse back into the cricket game.

  …

  The following week, Charlie punched Glen in the face for calling him a whale, after Charlie gobbled a second bowl of cereal. Remembering Kelly’s taunt about his appearance made the blow more forceful than he’d intended. The brothers tussled on the living room floor until Porky came home to wrecked furniture and broken sons. For the first time, Porky locked them in their bedrooms. Porky didn’t care if school was shut or not, due to the aftereffects of the storm. Family did not fight each other. Charlie wasn’t bothered by the incarceration. Being shielded from sight meant no one could witness his distress.

  Within days, his love for Kelly splintered and then shattered. Revenge took its place. He vowed she would feel the humiliation of being made to look a fool. His campaign of abuse would escalate to the more personal and real.

  Kelly Pratt was dead to him.

  60

  Present

  ‘Priscilla’s dead?’ I’m asking for clarification again because I cannot process it.

  When Claire got here, neither of us could speak. We sit and drink coffee, hardly in need of caffeine to keep awake, even in this early hour.

  Claire recei
ved a call from a reporter friend. She’d missed it due to being tortured by Matty’s drama club’s production of Cats. The rest of the evening was family time. Tired of seeing the back of his family’s mobiles rather than their faces, Seb issued instructions to silence their phones. Unable to go cold turkey, Claire got up at 3am, listened to the voicemail, and sped over to my house.

  ‘How do you get out of bed, looking the same as always? Seb says I resemble Alice Cooper when I emerge from my pit.’ Claire tries to lighten the mood but neither of us feels jovial. Someone we used to know and recently saw has died.

  The owner of Mabel’s Parlour found Priscilla in the alleyway, alongside the premises. Her body was by the bins she mentioned in her phone call.

  ‘Maybe it’s linked to our meeting with her,’ I say. ‘The way she shouted her mouth off wasn’t inconspicuous.’

  ‘Why would someone kill her for talking to us?’

  ‘You didn’t say she was killed.’

  ‘What did you think happened?’ Claire’s sarcasm never hides under civility.

  ‘Suicide? An accident?’ The irony of how we’ve considered Kelly’s death similarly isn’t lost on me.

  ‘Unless she smacked her own head in repeatedly with a brick, we can safely assume Priscilla was murdered.’ Claire punches one hand into the other. ‘Who the hell would do that? Priscilla was a right royal pain in the arse, but didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘She called me. Listen to this.’ I play the message. Hearing someone who’s no longer alive is chilling.

  ‘She wanted to make amends,’ Claire says. ‘Did you hear someone in the background? Sounds like a man, although it’s faint.’

  ‘Yes. It’s weird how Priscilla pretended to be taking a call. Perhaps she didn’t want the other person to know who she was phoning. Maybe the male voice belongs to the person who killed her.’ The image of Priscilla’s head covered in blood won’t shift. I let Kelly down but I can help Priscilla. ‘I need to play this to the police.’

  ‘Murder in Troddington. Who would’ve thought it?’

  ‘We would. It might have happened before, remember? Could Priscilla’s death be linked to Kelly’s? It seems too much of a coincidence.’

  Claire rakes through her hair. Her husband is right. She’s a mess. Lazy cow didn’t even remove her mascara before going to bed. Panda eyes trail to her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t tell the police about our Kelly investigation yet,’ Claire says. ‘Coppers don’t take well to reporters and the public playing amateur detective. It may not be connected to Kelly anyway.’

  I’m inclined to agree as I’d rather not confess my part in Kelly’s death. Doreen has given me forgiveness. If I speak to the police, they might pursue me as a suspect, no matter what Constance says about the blow not being fatal.

  ‘Do we continue?’ I ask.

  ‘If you need to duck out, I won’t hold it against you.’ Claire grabs my hand and smooths her thumb over it. ‘This is getting complicated and you’ve been through so much. Priscilla’s death has made me realise life’s too short to be angry about something you did as a kid. I understand why you couldn’t tell me. You must have been so scared. If it makes it easier, I can take the investigation from here.’

  I’ve always been stubborn. Sometimes it’s my downfall, other times it’s an asset. I can’t quit. Doreen and I need peace. I owe it to Priscilla too. She phoned because she trusted me.

  I extend my little finger and Claire latches hers to mine. ‘I swear I’ll stick with you in this, until the end.’

  She smiles at my vow. ‘How did it go with Anthony?’

  ‘Flaming hell. He’s more of a sleaze than ever.’ I recount the evening, taking pleasure in detailing the moment I spoiled his plums.

  Coffee spurts from Claire’s mouth. She wipes it on her Mickey Mouse nightie. ‘Anthony tried it on with me once. I was walking home from school and he was in his front garden, which was odd since it was the size of a postage stamp.’

  ‘The front gardens were rubbish on the estate. Good job we had huge back gardens.’

  Claire shudders at a memory. ‘Anthony was sitting on a foldout chair, scratching his bits, and smoking. The second I saw him, I regretted going that way.’

  ‘I hated being in their house,’ I say. ‘When Rose barred me, I was relieved. Whenever I sat in their living room, Rob and Anthony leered at me. Johnny always made excuses to leave.’

  Claire makes a disgusted face. ‘Anthony walked alongside, then offered for us to go somewhere private, to show me a good time. I was thirteen, the dirty bastard.’ She’s incensed, not only for her younger self but probably for her teenage daughter too.

  ‘What did you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I stamped on his foot and legged it. After, I avoided Turner Road. It shook me up. Do you think Anthony was Kelly’s boyfriend?’

  ‘No way. She was scared of him and Ian. Kelly wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Anthony. It took a while for her to even talk to Johnny. Hearing she risked putting the teddy bear under Rob’s pillow for Priscilla was surprising.’

  ‘She was a good kid,’ Claire says. ‘Twisted as it was, she was helping her friend. I can’t see Kelly and Anthony having a thing either. I can’t imagine anyone going near him.’

  ‘You can rest assured he’ll be out of action for a while.’

  We laugh at the thought of Anthony nursing sore balls. Death still lies heavy between us and cuts through the merriment.

  Claire paces the kitchen. ‘This is so frustrating. We have so many loose ends and no logical way to tie them up. Mum and I have tried contacting everyone on the estate. They’re either dead, we can’t find them, they know nothing, or have told us to do one.’

  Estate law rules, even when you leave. You must never speak a word of what happened on the Rembrandt Estate. We are making ourselves unpopular in resurrecting the community’s most tragic event. After the theories faded, Kelly’s death became a legend people feared mentioning. As in life, Kelly was invisible.

  ‘What about Charlie Pullen?’ I ask. ‘He was always picking on Kelly.’

  ‘I considered him too. Mum spoke to his brother. Remember Glen? He works in the breakers yard in Troddington and is more polite than he used to be.’

  Glen Pullen turned nice? I find it hard to believe. ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘He’s moved on. Glen doesn’t know where. I’m not surprised considering how much those two fought. Glen knew where Charlie was when Kelly died though. Porky locked them in their rooms for scrapping. None of the Pullens left the house that day.’

  Porky being a responsible parent was unheard of. He must have been sober for once.

  Our options have run out.

  ‘There’s my dad, seeing as he still lives on the estate. I could talk to him.’ The words feel like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth.

  ‘Do you really want to see him?’ Claire traces a finger around the rim of her mug. ‘Would he be of much use? Mum tried to speak to him, but he didn’t answer the phone.’

  Dad has always hidden away.

  ‘He knew lots of people on the estate from doing odd jobs for them. Mum gave him grief for it as he never got paid. Dad did anything for a pint. There’s the pub too. Those blokes shared a lot of gossip. He might have heard something there.’

  ‘I can speak to him,’ Claire says.

  I appreciate her kindness for sparing me potential hurt. If you’d told me a few months ago I’d return to the Rembrandt Estate to talk to Dad, I would’ve called you crazy. Now it’s necessary, not only to discover what he might know but also to confront my demons. I’ve lived with them for too long.

  ‘I need to do this alone,’ I say. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. Be careful. I’m not sure about this.’

  Bravado won’t allow me to confess I’m terrified.

  I have to go back.

  61

  12th September 1989

  In 1989, after losing Johnny’s friendship, Jen hung out
at Troddington’s youth club. It became a refuge and where she found a temporary tribe. Jen was reborn as a child of the shiny and colourful rave revolution. Her former uniform of black and more black died, along with her dreams. Jen signed up to the ravers’ dress code of baggy jeans, body suits, patterned hoodies, and bold jewellery. She didn’t recognise herself. That was the point.

  The group was there to be seen. In belonging to them, Jen became invisible. Moving in crowds offered the perfect hiding place for harbouring a secret. When the pain of losing Johnny was too much, Jen listened to The Jam on her Walkman and imagined Johnny on the other side of the headphones.

  Claire’s life had changed too. She honed her snooping skills to become even more of an avid reporter. Jen had to avoid her. The last thing a killer needed was an inquisitive friend. Claire was the editor of the school newspaper, and with it, enjoyed a sudden popularity. At school they acknowledged each other as acquaintances rather than friends. They never saw each other on the estate. Jen made sure of it.

  Jen’s life was more bearable, living with Freddie and Liz for the past two years. In December 1987, she left the Taylor house, after Patricia’s nastiness escalated. Traumatised by sixteenth October, Jen was easy prey for physical and verbal assaults.

  One day she knew she must leave. Patricia decided Jen’s mopping skills were inadequate. For her failings, Patricia threw the bucket of dirty water at her daughter. Jen caught her soaked reflection in the kitchen mirror and saw a pathetic being nearing destruction. It had to stop. Either Jen left or Patricia would; in a coffin.

  After the altercation with Kelly, Jen swore never to let anger dictate her behaviour again. Patricia’s renewed campaign of hatred compromised her resilience. When Jen moved into the Normans’ flat, no explanations were necessary. Freddie and Liz knew it would be a matter of time since Johnny had left. Always fair, Liz sought Mike and Patricia’s permission. She did so trying not to scratch Patricia’s eyes out. Patricia remained disinterested throughout the conversation. Her daughter could live on the moon for all she cared. Jen expected a fight. Patricia didn’t allow others to win. Later, Jen realised Patricia had won. Jen was gone.