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  Claire still has the talent of talking and hardly taking a breath. I catch the tail end of her spiel. ‘Because she’s fourteen too.’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ I’ve failed to follow the conversation.

  ‘Matty, my daughter. She’s the same age Kelly was when she died. It makes me feel old. When Doreen spoke to Mum a few months ago about this Kelly stuff, I thought of Matty. If my child died, I’d want to know how it happened. I’m bewildered at how long it’s taken Doreen to start the process. In my opinion–’

  ‘Opinions are like bum holes,’ Ellen says.

  ‘Everyone’s got one but we don’t need to hear them,’ Claire finishes.

  We explode into laughter. Ellen used to be extremely proper. Her daughter’s potty mouth was a continual embarrassment. The quip is surreal.

  ‘Apologies, Jen.’ Ellen covers her face. ‘I’ve been spending too much time with Matty.’

  ‘Like mother, like daughter?’ I question Claire. She slides down the sofa to affect shame while giving a devilish grin.

  ‘This has plagued Doreen for decades.’ Ellen’s seriousness ends our comedy act. ‘I visit her often. She’s never stopped talking about how Kelly didn’t kill herself. When Graham died, Doreen tried to investigate it but didn’t get far.’ Ellen practically spits Graham’s name. ‘Now there’s not long left, she wants to find out the truth.’

  Ellen dabs at her eyes. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone use a handkerchief. Mums used to carry them. Not mine though. She never cried. Johnny always had one to mop up my tears.

  ‘I’m not sure I can offer anything useful,’ I say.

  I await a reply of, ‘You had nothing to do with this. Have a cuppa and a chocolate biscuit before you go and let’s never meet again.’ Of course, it doesn’t happen.

  ‘I’m sure you know stuff.’ Claire’s stare could cut Teflon.

  ‘You must know something,’ Ellen adds.

  ‘Wow, you two really are reporters.’ I try to sound calm, against feeling like I’m stuck in an inquisition.

  ‘Not me anymore,’ Ellen says. ‘I retired a while ago but like to keep involved.’

  Lucky me for joining these roving reporters. I have so much they can uncover.

  Claire grips my hand. Her rings dent my fingers. I swallow the gasp, remembering “Crusher Claire” and her wrestling obsession. The memory is unsettling. No way do I want to get on her wrong side.

  Claire eases the hold. ‘I saw both of you coming back from school, after they told us it was shut. Remember the tree that fell on it?’

  ‘That storm was something else,’ Ellen says. ‘I get so annoyed every time we have a fart of wind, pardon my French, and someone likens it to the Great Storm.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Claire interrupts Ellen’s reminiscing, ‘I was sent to school too, even though I told Mum it wouldn’t be open. I think she knew and wanted me out of her way for a bit.’ She gives Ellen an affectionate wink.

  I recall Mum sending Dad up on the roof to replace tiles. She summoned me from bed too, to hold a swaying ladder while we ducked the storm’s carnage. Mum declared it was character building even though she didn’t help. No one asked for Liam’s assistance.

  Claire breaks into the memory. ‘I stopped off at the corner shop for sweets and saw you and Kelly. I shouted but you didn’t answer.’

  ‘We had to get back so I could check Mandy was with Liz Norman.’

  Liz spared me a chore by taking Mandy to and from school in her van. I didn’t go with them as I enjoyed being alone with Johnny until I had to walk with Kelly.

  ‘At what point did you leave Kelly?’ Claire asks.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Breathe, Jen, breathe.

  ‘I’m wondering when you left as I spoke to Kelly on the railway track. She was upset and covered in blood.’

  My pulse beats in my ears. A flash of memory attacks my mind; a scarlet pool forming around a body.

  If Claire saw her alive, when did Kelly actually die?

  I thought it was instant.

  14

  16th October 1987

  Compared to other parts of the country, Oxfordshire came off lightly from the storm. Items strewn across the estate and debris from battered houses still ignited Claire’s reporter instinct.

  She regarded Mr Avery’s Cortina, caved in by half a wall and keeping her away from her investigation. Claire helped to move each brick, hoping for early release from the mind-numbing task. She often assisted others, especially where gossip could be gleaned. However, shifting bricks from one pile to another took up valuable time she could spend interviewing the estate’s residents for her radio show. Mr Avery was a dull man who gave one-word answers. Noticing Claire’s waning enthusiasm, he sent her away with a handful of Murray Mints for her efforts.

  Claire carefully selected the interviewees for her radio project. Each week she recorded Into the Woods Radio on cassette. Family and friends were “encouraged” to listen. They always did. A sulky Claire was most persuasive.

  Tanya Madd, from Monet Drive, was a poor interview choice but so far the day had offered slim pickings. Most people stayed inside, either afraid the storm would return or making the most of an unexpected day off.

  Tanya sat on the park bench, smoking and swishing her ponytail like an agitated mare. Her tracksuit radiated neon green with an orange trim. For the sake of professionalism, Claire willed her sarcastic nature to be silent.

  When asked to give her opinion on the storm, Tanya appeared to welcome the opportunity. Eager to have something to report, Claire joined her and pressed the record button. Before Claire began her questions, Tanya opened her mouth and spat into the microphone. The only comment given, ‘You’re such a loser.’

  Claire snatched the tape recorder away, shaking the mike. Never one to be defeated, she replied, ‘I’m a loser? Still haven’t got a job? Still lounging about on your fat arse?’

  ‘Come here, you gobby bint.’ Tanya had a generous rear but the truth wasn’t one she cared to hear.

  She hauled herself from the bench and flicked her cigarette at Claire. The situation became serious. Tanya never gave up on a smoke. Claire had learned the reporter’s art of self-preservation when Ellen taught her how to spot an incoming punch. Confident of her advantage over Tanya’s daily two packs of cigarettes level of fitness, Claire scarpered. She headed for the train track on the edge of the estate. Tanya was unlikely to make it that far.

  Never knowing when to quit, Claire couldn’t resist making jibes as she ran. She mocked Tanya’s unmarried parents who “churned out babies like they were on a factory line”. To Ellen’s horror, Claire often repeated her mum’s opinions.

  Claire held on to the tape recorder, considering how to extract phlegm from the microphone. She feared touching it and contracting an STD. Tanya’s sexual favours to the estate boys, in exchange for a toot of speed, were infamous. Rumours spread she’d offered herself to Troddington’s main dealer to cut out the middlemen, or boys. The pusher turned her down. Tanya shook it off and continued to trade with the lads.

  Safely out of Tanya’s sights, Claire came to a halt. Here was a story.

  ‘This is Claire Woods, reporting for Into the Woods Radio. I’m at the scene of the railway track on the edge of the Rembrandt Estate, a popular place for dog walkers and kids wanting to hang out. Devastation is all around. The view is one tantamount to an apocalypse.’ She mentally high-fived her sophisticated vocabulary. ‘This long-forgotten line has become even more of a wasteland. Trees are uprooted and lay across the banks, like bodies slashed at the feet. Fortunately, the track is clear and the sporadic trains that still pass through will not be disrupted in their daily business.’

  She continued walking, scanning for officials. Everyone knew the railway track was off limits. It made it more desirable to the estate’s children, and for adults using a shortcut into town. The maintenance men who appeared usually ignored trespassers. The more officious took names. Colleagues r
ibbed them mercilessly when they reported Richard Head or Drew Peacock for being on the line.

  Claire was on a mission to find something worth reporting. Fallen trees were okay but she craved reporters’ gold. She believed she’d struck it when a figure in the near distance emerged from the ground. What the hell are they doing, lying on the track? she thought. Do they have a death wish? This could be the story.

  When Kelly Pratt came into view, Claire’s notions of reporter stardom faded. Kelly was always picking herself up off the floor, often because someone put her there. Moving in closer, Claire realised this was more than a scuffle. Kelly’s hands were covered in blood.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Claire berated herself for the amateur question. It would never elevate her to the level of the BBC News team.

  Kelly looked up. Claire gasped. The blood saturating Kelly’s shoulders became visible as she bent to pick up her glasses. Blood stained her back and a slick patch darkened her brown hair. Unable to tolerate the sight of blood, Claire swayed. Her parents always turned the television off when Casualty came on. Unfortunately, she couldn’t switch off this particular view.

  ‘Flipping hell, Kelly. What happened? We need to get an ambulance.’

  Kelly touched the back of her head. She brought her hand forward to assess the damage. ‘It’s fine. It’s not bleeding as much.’ She slipped on her broken glasses.

  Claire wanted to weep at the sight of the damaged girl. It was well known Kelly’s life was dreadful. If Graham wasn’t slapping Doreen around, his boot went into Kelly, who was already sporting bruises from the bullies.

  Claire never heard Kelly complain, cry, or tell on anyone. It was difficult to comprehend and made Claire feel even more conflicted about Kelly. Sometimes she wanted to hold and soothe her, which was ridiculous. They were both fourteen, and beyond open displays of affection. Other times, Claire fought the urge to give Kelly a slap to make her fight back.

  Claire didn’t understand a victim’s life. No one bullied her, not least because Ellen would hunt them down. Claire was brash, funny, and a fighter; attributes that made her popular.

  She’d developed an interest in wrestling when her dad rooted out his Big Daddy match videos. The big splash move was a work in progress. She’d practised it on a kid at school when he called his sister retarded because of her speech impediment. Claire slipped and kicked him in the mouth.

  Later, his mum appeared at the Woods’ house, demanding compensation for the false teeth her son needed. He grinned, revealing gaps. The smile disappeared when Claire related how the boy hit his sister and called her names. The little bully not only lost teeth but also the feeling in his backside when he returned home and the slipper came out.

  ‘I’m okay.’ Kelly disrupted Claire’s memories.

  ‘You don’t look it. What happened?’ Claire focused on Kelly’s face rather than the carnage.

  Kelly removed her glasses. Claire noted deep brown eyes that had previously gone unnoticed. Kelly was almost attractive. Her clothes needed updating and her teeth a good scrape, but she had potential. Claire was annoyed with herself for evaluating a person’s worth by their appearance. She wished she was more like Johnny and Jen, who had their own style and didn’t care what anyone thought.

  ‘I was talking to someone, got a little excited, and fell over,’ Kelly said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No one you know.’ Kelly cleaned glasses she’d never wear again.

  ‘You can tell me. I’ll sort them out.’ Claire pulled herself up, exerting the full four feet and ten inches of her physical authority.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Kelly spoke to herself then addressed Claire. ‘I’m going home to clean up in a bit. I want a few minutes on my own.’

  Kelly’s confident tone quietened Claire’s niggling concerns. ‘Make sure Doreen takes you to the doctor. Will you be okay?’

  Kelly sat on the side of the track, tightening the strap on her shoe. ‘Don’t worry. Thank you though. You never know who your true friends are.’

  Claire knew no reply would be sufficient. Kelly wasn’t her friend and they both knew it. Claire walked away, waving a farewell.

  Claire considered why she hadn’t helped Kelly. She would never have left Jen alone in such a state. The guilt receded when Claire returned home. It disappeared when she played the radio show to Ellen, who heaped on praise.

  …

  A burden of remorse hit Claire the next day. The estate buzzed with the news Kelly had died on the track. For the first time, Claire Woods, reporter extraordinaire, didn’t want to pursue the story.

  15

  Present

  Claire’s shame at leaving Kelly on the railway track is noticeable. I hope mine isn’t. Claire’s account of that day makes me question many things. When did Kelly die? Was it before the train hit her? Did I strike a blow that brought a slow death?

  Claire fiddles with her hair. I hate myself for saying nothing to ease her guilt.

  ‘I should have stayed, or at least walked her home,’ Claire says.

  ‘You weren’t to know, darling,’ Ellen replies. ‘I’ve said it many times. Doreen understands you did your best.’

  Ellen cocoons her daughter within a voluminous cardigan. Liz’s caring smile flashes into my mind. She was the mum I never had. I look away from Claire and Ellen to watch the hands of a carriage clock tick.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, sweetheart?’ Ellen asks Claire.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Jen, why don’t you come and help?’ It’s not a request. Suspicious of this ruse for us to be alone, I join her.

  Ellen’s kitchen is modern but homely. The scratches etched into the table signify many family meals held there. Personalised table mats have Ellen, Claire, Seb, and Matty’s names on them. I consider the tragic scene of Doodle and me eating our dinners from named trays.

  The kettle takes forever to boil. Ellen’s staring rivals the pressure a Countdown contestant is under when working against the clock to come up with a satisfactory answer. Ellen hasn’t asked anything yet, but it’s coming.

  ‘You have a beautiful house.’ It’s the best I have. Everyone likes to know they have good taste.

  ‘Thank you. It’s certainly a step up from Renoir Road.’ She’s paving the way to take us back. ‘Do you ever think about the Rembrandt Estate?’ Ellen finally begins.

  ‘No. You remember I left when I was sixteen.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  She turns to get mugs from the shelf. Reaching up high with ease, I wonder where Claire got her short-arse genetics from. Alex is tall too.

  ‘You were living with Freddie and Liz before, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen knows I was. Why must we dance around?

  I picture both their faces this time. Liz, with a halo of auburn wild curls bursting forth. Freddie is ruddy-faced, with mischief-making eyes. Whenever I consider them, they’re always happy. It gives me peace. When I left, I expect they were far from happy.

  ‘Lovely people, the Normans,’ Ellen says. ‘I never believed a word of those allegations against Freddie. Mud sticks though, particularly on a council estate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Didn’t you know your brother alleged Freddie had been inappropriate with him?’ She acts surprised.

  She was angling to share this from the beginning. This is why we are in the kitchen, making tea no one wants. The Brit remedy for tragedies and traumas is tea. I prefer coffee.

  She continues. ‘I refused to put it in the paper. The editor threatened me with the sack but I soon made him see sense.’ Tea splashes over the sides of the mugs as she whacks in sugar. I pity her past editor. ‘It was a relief when nothing came of it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It wasn’t long after Mandy had gone. I expect you don’t know she left as soon as she could too. Patricia took Liam to Troddington police station. All and sundry were informed that Freddie needed locking up for touching her son. She said it happene
d years ago when Liam went to collect Mandy from the Normans’ flat and she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Liam never picked Mandy up from anywhere. Anyway, Freddie wouldn’t do something like that.’ I didn’t think I could be more ashamed of my family. I was wrong.

  ‘Most of us didn’t believe it either, but you know what those nasty bitches on the estate were like. Felicity Smith set up a campaign to get him removed, giving out leaflets labelling him a paedophile. As she was posting one through my letterbox, I opened the door and told her she could stick it where her husband feared to enter.’

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, I can’t help but laugh. Someone had to confront Felicity. The woman’s poison dripped over the estate. If she didn’t like you, she tried her best to push you out. She passed it off as a responsibility of her made-up Neighbourhood Watch coordinator role. We didn’t even have Neighbourhood Watch. No one could so much as pass wind without everyone knowing. An official programme wasn’t needed for us to keep an eye on each other.

  ‘Felicity didn’t succeed, did she.’

  ‘No. Freddie and Liz had enough friends to make sure of it. Most figured it was bullshit.’ Mortified at her swearing, Ellen slaps her wrist.

  ‘Do you think Mum was behind it?’ I already know the answer.

  ‘I had a chat with Kevin Brown, an old contact. He was a PC at the time and was there when Patricia made the allegation. She took over, insisting Liam was traumatised, so she’d speak for him. Your brother was an adult and he hardly needed looking after.’

  Mum was never far away from Liam.

  Ellen continues. ‘Weird thing is, Kev said Liam seemed bored. Whereas Patricia was hysterical and threatening all kinds of action against the police if they didn’t cooperate.’