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  Claire’s going to network with other reporters, trawl newspaper archives, and call in favours with the police. I didn’t ask why the police owe her. Ellen’s finger on her lips signified I didn’t want to know. Troddington no longer has a police station. The nearest is fifteen miles away. Ellen ranted about cutbacks. Claire’s willing to go there, with daughter Matty tagging along. The instinct to gain justice within that family is strong. Matty wants to be a lawyer. The future criminal world should reconsider its options if she’s as tenacious as her mum.

  Claire and Ellen haven’t given me much of a task yet. I explained how busy I am working at the counselling practice, studying, and doing voluntary work. The praise-seeking do-gooder image makes me cringe. I realise I was trying to convince Ellen I’m not the earthquake that had erupted in her kitchen.

  Impressed by my busyness, Ellen directed me to record memories around the day of Kelly’s death, in case anything useful comes to mind. I’ll cobble together a believable fiction placing me nowhere near the railway track. Creativity is lacking tonight. They can wait for the lies. It shouldn’t take long. Lying is second nature. In some ways, I am like my mum.

  Mum is dead.

  Convention says I should be upset. Instead, I’m numb. I was dead to her the moment I was born. When I was old enough to realise she’d never be affectionate, I mourned her. For me, Patricia Taylor died a long time ago.

  I leave the lamp on and close my eyes. The darkness enhances disturbing pictures running through my head. The reel illuminates onto the canvas of my mind. Having a light on throughout the night sometimes keeps the twisted film of the past at bay.

  Doodle stretches and settles. The clock above the fireplace ticks hypnotically. Maybe, for the first time since I was a child, I’ll sleep through the night.

  20

  15th October 1987

  ‘You’re a liar,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Up yours. Where do you get off, calling me a liar?’ Jen wouldn’t allow anyone to question her honesty. She shoved Johnny off their wall at the top of the estate.

  Milking a phantom injury, he lay on the ground. ‘You’ve broken my arm.’ He rubbed the limb and gave a wink. ‘Do you know a doctor who can fix it?’

  Jen forgave the insult. He believed in her ambition when most people scorned it. Council estate kids weren’t supposed to have aspirations. Johnny understood the desire to follow a dream others didn’t understand. Ever since his older brothers, Ian and Anthony, discovered Johnny wanted to be a vet, they’d begun the Dr Doolittle jibes. Dead mice and birds on his pillow followed.

  ‘Fix that, vet boy.’ Anthony would point and cackle at the deceased creature. Johnny rarely fought but where animals or his mum were concerned, he didn’t hesitate. A tussle with his brother had taken place earlier. The squashed frog inside Johnny’s boots took it too far.

  Touching the bruise forming on his cheek, Johnny figured a grazed elbow from falling off a wall was a small concern, compared to Anthony, who came out of their spat with a few less brain cells, if he’d had any to begin with. Johnny chuckled at his choice of weapon. Whacking Anthony over the head with Benny’s Optimus Prime was a smack of genius. The Transformers saved the day. Ever the accomplished villain, Anthony would seek revenge. Johnny resolved to sleep with one eye open and his boots under the bed.

  Jen jumped off the wall and stamped her foot. ‘I’m not lying. There is a storm coming. My dad spoke to a bloke who works in Budgens, whose brother’s into weather stuff.’

  ‘Meteorology,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Yeah, that. The bloke’s brother says there’s going to be one hell of a storm. Biggest one to happen in centuries.’

  ‘It isn’t even windy.’ Johnny held out a finger to check. ‘You know better than to listen to the rubbish Mike spouts after he’s been to the pub. Was he drunk?’

  ‘No.’ The need to defend her dad when he never did the same for her was baffling. It was 5pm and he’d shared the information an hour earlier. Lager fumes penetrated his breath.

  ‘Chill out, Wincey Willis. I believe you.’

  Jen needed Johnny’s belief. She couldn’t imagine life without him. He was the only person she wanted to while hours away with: talking, sharing dreams, and forging a deeper connection.

  Johnny stood and checked his jacket for tears. ‘Hope school is shut tomorrow. I can’t be doing with art and that moulding clay rubbish. We spend the lesson chucking it at each other. I get the whole day with you if we have a day off too.’

  Jen spotted Johnny’s “Mods Rule” badge, lying on the grass. It must have fallen off when she’d pushed him. She knelt as if to tie her laces and pocketed it. Stealing from Johnny was wrong but taking the item meant having him close, without the embarrassment of confessing.

  Johnny decided never to tell her he’d seen her take the badge and the excitement he felt knowing she wanted something of his.

  Jen also hoped school would be closed so she wouldn’t have to walk with Kelly. Jen couldn’t tolerate being around the needy girl for much longer. Kelly didn’t take hints. When Jen put headphones on, Kelly still nattered. She seemed to hold her words in overnight and spewed them out in the morning. Jen heard Graham favoured a silent house. Kelly probably only got to talk at length once she was outside. Jen tussled with the guilt of not liking the girl. She tried to be nice, but truthfully she wished Kelly would go away.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Johnny poked her.

  Jen stuck out her tongue, pretending to be disgusted at his touch, and shook her head. Her thoughts were worth little. An inner conflict raged that she, of all people, had unkind feelings about a fellow girl born into grim circumstances. Knowing she had friends and was strong, she ignored the discomfort. Jen Taylor would never be like the Kelly Pratts of this world.

  ‘Wonder where he’s going,’ Johnny said, as Alex Woods gave them a half-hearted wave. They watched as he turned around into the estate, quickening his step.

  ‘Claire says he goes out a lot. She asked me to help spy on him but we’ll only get caught. It’s weird how people on this estate always have secrets.’

  Back on the wall, Jen held her Walkman aloft as a sign. Johnny sat beside her. Over time they’d perfected a routine of stretching a set of headphones to be joined by the music. Their heads touched. Jen wondered if thoughts worked like osmosis and hers would seep from her brain and into his. Nervous at the idea, she placed her hand between them to create a gap.

  The song began. Johnny gasped. ‘Spandau Ballet? Seriously?’

  Jen ejected the tape. Mandy had used her Walkman again.

  21

  Present

  I’ve been at work for hours and achieved little. It’s been a difficult week since I saw Doreen, Ellen, and Claire. I can’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, a pained face appears. Last night, I gave up forcing sleep to come. I put on my gear and ran until I was exhausted.

  Nicole was horrified when I mentioned going on night runs. In a mentoring session we discussed my coping strategies for balancing work and study. Running helps to conquer my body and mind. When I run, my head empties and my feet offer an escape. Sometimes I don’t want to turn back. Nicole gave me a rollicking for running alone in the dark. I brushed it off, careful not to add that, if someone attacked me, Doreen and Kelly would have justice in my brutal death.

  Passing my office, Nicole waves in acknowledgement. I can see she’s concerned. I’m trying to keep up the illusion of being in control but jangled nerves and hitting the bottle aren’t helping. This morning the wine fog descended and I didn’t have the energy to iron a shirt. Getting caffeine down my neck was more important than being presentable. This isn’t me. Tapping the keyboard mimics the composed and busy person I used to be. The screen spouts gibberish.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, I can see her.’ I recognise the voice infiltrating my workplace. Claire stands behind the computer.

  She looks more like the old Claire, in a flowery dress, battered denim jacket, and DMs. Ellen’s wardrobe is safe,
for once. The eclectic look suits Claire. Why she steals her mum’s clothes when she’s got her own style is baffling. I remember how Claire wasn’t as confident as she wanted people to believe.

  ‘How’s it going, numpty?’ She’s determined to continue using the abusive terms of endearment from our childhood.

  I don’t answer in kind. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Nice way to talk to your mate.’ She creates shapes with paperclips across the desk. Damn her for looking so vulnerable.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you and I’ve got a lot of work to do.’ I snatch the tub of paperclips from her. She’s disrupting my system.

  ‘Get up late this morning?’ Claire asks. ‘Your hair could do with a brush. I always envied you being a brunette. My mousy mop was hideous.’ She flicks her blonde streaks, waiting for a compliment, and then pouts when my hangover slows my reactions.

  Alerted by Claire’s booming voice, Nicole joins us. ‘There’s nothing that can’t wait while you go to lunch.’

  ‘The rotas have to be sorted for next week.’ I shuffle papers to show my workload. Nicole raises an eyebrow. I am holding brochures, not rotas.

  Claire sits on the corner of the desk. ‘You need some time out. Doesn’t she?’

  Nicole extends a hand to Claire. ‘Hi, I’m Nicole. Jen’s boss, I suppose, although this place would fall to pieces without her. Go for a break, Jen. You look like you could do with it.’

  Great. Nicole has noticed what a state I am, even after a quick whore’s bath from the ladies’ sinks and ingesting a packet of Polos. She’s always polished, with her hair cut in a neat bob, and clothes so starched they could stand up alone.

  ‘I’m Claire. Jen and I were besties.’ She beams at the fact.

  I warm to her. She used to be a ray of sunshine in an often-dark existence. I didn’t realise she considered us such close friends. Johnny and I worried she felt excluded, although we tried to include her as much as possible.

  ‘Lovely to meet you. Enjoy your lunch.’ Nicole lifts me from the chair, adding a shove towards the door.

  Claire whispers as Nicole leaves, ‘She wears nice threads. Her jacket’s definitely a designer label.’

  Barely able to focus on what I’m wearing, let alone Nicole, I don’t reply. Approaching the reception area, I glare at Temp Number Four of this month, for allowing Claire into the office. Temp Number Four responds with a glazed expression and continues swiping on her phone.

  ‘Don’t blame her for letting me in,’ Claire says.

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘I know you. When people don’t do things the way you want, you get stroppy. Just like your…’ She colours. ‘Never mind.’

  I do her the favour of ignoring it. Focusing instead on why Claire has hunted me down. What does she know?

  22

  Present

  We head to the park around the corner. Claire leads me to a bench facing the playground. There’s a chill in the air which I accept as a potential hangover cure.

  ‘Sorry you didn’t know your mum is dead,’ Claire says. ‘If it helps, Mike’s alive.’

  ‘Does he still live on the estate?’

  ‘Mum said he does.’

  ‘Right.’ I’m not surprised Dad hasn’t moved. That requires being proactive.

  ‘Liam is–’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ To emphasise the point, I kick the bench leg. Liam’s nothing to me. As for Mandy, it hurts. I’ve tried to find her but never succeeded. ‘Do you know where Mandy is?’

  Claire shakes her head, and my hope vanishes. ‘She went to Southampton University. After, I’m not sure. Do you want me to look into it?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I don’t want Claire’s pity and there’s already too much going on. I will take her up on the offer in the future though. I’m determined to find my sister and make up for abandoning her.

  Claire offers sandwiches wrapped in cling film. ‘Cheese and pickle or tuna mayo?’

  I have no appetite, not least because they appear to have been sat on. However, I need Claire to think everything is fine. ‘Cheese and pickle please.’

  ‘Good choice. There may be dog hairs in the others. Adie tried to eat them.’ She shrugs.

  ‘Only you would have a dog named Adie.’ I imagine her in a domestic set-up with her handsome husband, smart daughter, and mischievous dog. As a child, she modelled her future career on the reporter Kate Adie which involved copying her voice. Claire stopped when Johnny questioned why she was talking like a robotic toff.

  Claire takes a generous bite of her sandwich.

  ‘Are you seriously eating that?’ My delicate stomach rolls.

  Claire used to eat almost everything in sight. While the rest of us obeyed the ten-second rule for dropped food, she figured if it was on the floor a little longer, an extra dusting off was enough.

  ‘Once you’ve had kids, you don’t blanch at hair, dirt, and the like,’ she says. ‘Besides, I’m starving and the dog had a bath yesterday.’

  I poke her in the ribs to show my amusement. She swats my arm. We settle to take in the view. The park is well maintained. When I allow myself breaks, I come here. The open space helps me to think and relax. We watch women pushing toddlers on the swings. Claire and I used to swing alongside each other and share our secrets. Well, not all our secrets.

  ‘Remember those swings and how blisteringly hot they were in the summer? What cockwomble decided to make them from tyres?’ Claire says.

  ‘Are you some kind of thought-stealing witch? I was just thinking about that.’

  She chuckles. ‘I avoided wearing shorts after burning my legs on them. When we got the plastic liner out and coated it with water and washing-up liquid, I took a few runs on it to relieve my scorched arse.’

  Although I’m wary of her being here, I can’t help but laugh. I’ve missed having banter with someone familiar. Claire is a reminder that not everything from the past is ruined.

  I bring us back to business. ‘Why are you here?’

  She becomes interested in her sandwich. ‘I was passing through.’

  ‘Claire Woods.’ I adopt my best authoritarian voice.

  ‘It’s Dalton, nowadays.’

  ‘Claire Dalton, then. I can tell when you’re lying. Your ears turn red.’

  She covers them. ‘Flaming things. I spent my childhood plastering my hair to them and they sprung through. My twenties were full of hideous hairstyles as cover-ups. I then considered pinning them, but it’s too expensive. Now they’re roaming free.’

  ‘They’re still the best lie detectors in the world.’

  She clasps the sides of her head. ‘Damn my grampy and his jug-ear genes.’

  I elbow her as a distraction from the trauma. She nudges back. Our playfulness reignites past joy, long forgotten. Someone’s coming off this bench and I’m determined it won’t be me. I aim to give her another push when a sharp competitive elbow forces me onto the grass.

  Claire pulls me up. ‘I may be small but I’m powerful.’

  Playtime is over. ‘You’re not passing through, are you. Headington is miles from Harplington.’

  ‘Rumbled.’ She brushes crumbs from her lap and produces two cartons of Ribena. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Turns out Matty’s too old for Ribena. She threw a diva strop this morning, saying I’m infantilising her. Since when did fourteen-year-olds use such fancy language?’ Claire’s forgotten her fourteen-year-old self, who’s coming back to haunt her through her offspring.

  ‘Doreen’s worried.’ Claire’s tone becomes serious. ‘You never answer her calls. I’m here to check you’re okay. We realised you might not be comfortable thinking about the past.’

  There’s a reason Doreen hasn’t been able to contact me. I’ve screened my mobile and asked that none of her calls are put through at work. At least Temp Number Four got that right.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Me too.’ Claire’s jigglin
g makes the bench creak. ‘Nice workplace, by the way. Love the fancy artwork and the cream leather suite. You’ve done well for yourself, Jenny Wren.’

  The endearment Johnny and Liz Norman used catches me unaware. ‘Thanks. I’m getting there.’

  ‘I thought I’d give you a run-down of what Mum and I have covered so far. How did you get on with writing your memories?’

  ‘Done,’ I lie. ‘I’ll e-mail it later.’

  ‘Thanks. Did you know Doreen is Graham’s third wife?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t take an interest in the Pratts, beyond listening to Kelly’s chatter.

  ‘Doreen told me,’ Claire says. ‘She was being cagey about the previous wives but I could tell it wasn’t good. It was hard for her, talking about that scumbag.’

  ‘She’s had so much to deal with.’ I hide the sandwiches in my bag, hoping Claire won’t notice.

  Claire continues. ‘I got in touch with Kev Brown. He used to be a copper. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Yes.’ I blanch at the name of the man who dealt with Mum and Liam’s attempt to ruin Freddie’s life.

  ‘Kev still keeps up to date. He’s in his seventies but they have a lot of respect for him at the police station. He often pops over there for a gossip.’

  I let Claire continue without interruption. It’s easier to let her keep talking. The sooner she’s finished, the quicker I can return to work and normality.

  Claire has the news scoop look in her eyes. ‘Kev dug up reports on Graham. Get this, Graham killed his first wife.’

  23

  21st July 1984

  Graham sneered at the balloons outside the Reaston/Dean house, on Pollock Road. After living together for years, Pete and Shirley were getting married. Graham didn’t see the point. On his third marriage, he was expert enough to warn others not to bother. Women were ineffective as wives. They began docile and sweet, luring you in. Before the ink dried on the marriage certificate, they made demands and underwent personality transplants. Graham considered advising Pete to duck out of it. “Living in sin” even sounded more exciting.