Chris Curran - Her Deadly Secret

As the farm came closer the memories of his last drive here flooded in. The day he went to pick them up, all those years ago – Hannah and little Lily. His stomach had been churning, in case Hannah had changed her mind about leaving. He knew they’d been pulling out all the stops to persuade her to stay. Or maybe that arsehole, Jerome, the pastor as he called himself, would make it difficult. Joe hated confrontations, never knew what to say and always wanted to hit out, but that was exactly what the slimy bastard wanted.

In the end, it had turned out wonderful, of course. Hannah was already waiting at the end of the drive, holding Lily’s hand, their two little bags beside them. When Lily raised her arms to be picked up and pressed her damp lips to his cheek, he thought his heart would burst.

And then Hannah said, with a special smile at him, ‘Daddy’s taking us home, baby.’ How great that sounded. Especially when she gripped his knee and smiled again, her grey eyes all crinkled and her chin set as if to stop herself crying.

Then Lily, in the new child seat he’d just fitted, began to sing. ‘The wheels on the bus go wound and wound.’

That particular memory – her little voice so happy – was one he’d always treasured. But now … Stop it, just stop it.

He parked in a quiet spot a few yards down the road from the driveway. Didn’t want to alert them, or be seen by the police if they were there, but he felt shaky and exposed in the sunshine as he walked up the track to the house.

It was surrounded by fields, and a couple of the brethren, as they called themselves, were loading a tractor in the distance. One of them waved at him – they always made a big thing of being friendly.

The porch was cluttered with boots and gardening tools, and a few chickens scratched in the dirt. He knocked on the immense front door and a girl came out, wiping her hands on the apron they all seemed to wear. She was thin as a rail, but her smile beamed.

‘Good morning, brother, how can I help?’ The standard greeting, yes, he recalled that too.

‘I want to see Pastor Jerome, please.’ He tried to make his voice pleasant.

She looked around. ‘Can you wait?’

After five minutes he lost patience. Avoiding the door the girl had gone through, he opened the one opposite – a big empty room with a couple of sofas and lots of easy chairs. The next two doors were cupboards, one full of cleaning stuff, another stacked with books and leaflets .Finally, an office, and there he was – Jerome. He looked a bit older, a bit balder, but otherwise much as Joe remembered, more like a businessman than a religious leader in his white shirt and blue tie.

He looked up from the laptop he was using with a calm, ‘Yes?’

Before Joe could speak, the girl he’d seen earlier rushed in only to make a sudden stop when she saw him, her hands at her mouth. She was followed by a plump older woman, who put her arm around the girl’s waist. Both women made a gesture that looked almost like a curtsy and the girl began to mutter, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ sounding close to tears.

The older woman hushed her and turned to Joe. ‘You were asked to wait, brother.’

Jerome pushed back his chair. ‘Come here, little sister,’ he said. Even sitting he dwarfed the girl. He took her hands in his. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, my dear. Now, off you go. I’ll deal with this.’ He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Then looked over at the older woman. ‘It’s fine, Sister Clara, don’t worry.’

They backed out and Joe wondered if they were forbidden to turn away from the pastor. He wouldn’t put it past the wanker to have thought up a rule like that.

Jerome gestured to Joe to take a chair. ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Joe? But, of course, we heard the sad news. I suppose this is about our poor, dear, Sister Lily.’

Joe wanted to punch that smirk off his face, but he kept his voice level. ‘It’s just Lily. My daughter didn’t belong to your lot.’

The smirk was still there. ‘Not officially, no, but she was involved.’

‘Only because she took up with a lad who lives here, according to the police.’

‘I’m afraid they’re wrong about that, Joe. Lily was very keen to join us. She came to one of our meetings and, like so many young people, she realized something was missing in her life. She felt at home here.’

That was it. Joe thrust his chair back so hard it tipped over. ‘There was nothing missing in Lily’s life, and she had a perfectly good home.’

The fucker was still smiling. ‘She wasn’t happy; surely you could see that. Or were you away so often you didn’t notice?’

Don’t let him get to you. ‘I just want to see this boy.’

Jerome shook his head, the smile still fixed. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, Joe. I understand you’re distressed, but I can’t tell you anymore than I have. I know nothing about any boy.’

The door opened and two of the brethren – a couple of hulks with faces like Easter Island statues – stood there. Jerome began tapping at his laptop. ‘The brethren will see you off the premises.’

Joe looked at the hulks. There was no point in arguing.

Rosie

Rosie had persuaded herself she was just going for an aimless drive in the country to try and clear her mind. But here she was again in Sedlescombe, the village where she was born, parking opposite their old house. The house she lived in until she was fifteen. The house where Alice died.

She and Oliver had discussed the move abroad in more detail last night. They’d almost decided to go last year when he wanted to change jobs. But her mum was having a bad time then, knowing her ex-husband might soon be out of prison, and Rosie hadn’t felt able to leave her. So, Oliver had joined a firm of corporate solicitors in London.

He wasn’t happy there, and he was right that things were different now. ‘You gave up so much to stay near your mother. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ She never got to be a proper student: to live away, to make friends, to kick up her heels. Had no choice but to go to Sussex University, travelling home every night to the bleak flat in Bexhill they’d moved to after the trial, trying to be cheerful, to pretend they were living a normal life. If it hadn’t been for Oliver she would have gone mad. And her mum hadn’t been happy when she started seeing him either. Kept telling Rosie she was too young to get serious. Making her feel guilty whenever she went out with him.

And after all that, look at what Mum had done. Rosie owed her no loyalty. And if they went far enough away from England, there would be no question of her turning up at the house or Fay’s school. No chance he might turn up.

France was no distance these days. She could still teach music there and maybe English as well. Oliver was really fired up with the idea, and Rosie just wished she could feel as excited.

The old house was in a quiet tree-lined lane on the outskirts of the village and, as always, she was tempted to walk up the path to the front door. As if she could go in and find the place just the same as it had been and somehow stop it all from happening.

The living room curtains were open and she could see a sofa at the back with a shelf of books beside it. It looked almost as it had when she lived here; the way it looked on that awful day.

And here they came: the memories.

* * *

She’s 14 and sitting on a bus, on a beautiful summer’s day, at the start of the school holidays, but she’s really fed up. Dad drove her to her tennis lesson but, just as she got out of the car, he handed her some money. He needed to go shopping, he told her, and might not be finished in time to take her home, so she should get the bus. She’s had to sit on the bus sweating in her tatty old shorts and T-shirt. A boy she fancied from school got on and she turned away to look out of the window. But she was sure he’d seen her, with her shiny face and hair in two messy bunches.