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‘He said, I’ve been better. Those were his exact words. I think he still likes you, Lou. Are you sure you can’t sort things out with him?’
I haven’t told Alice the truth about what happened in Dover. I said we’d had an argument and decided to end things. She doesn’t know about Mike. None of my friends do.
‘I’ve told you, I’m a screw-up when it comes to men. I can’t even become a mad old cat lady because I’m allergic to them. Cats, not old ladies, although I’ve never had one rub themselves up and down my leg.’
Alice laughed. ‘Okay, well, first off, we’re all screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Secondly, what you and Ben had was pretty intense. I barely saw you when you were with him. Maybe you both just need a bit of a breather. Has he texted you since you split up? Have you texted him?’
No, I told her. I haven’t heard from him. And I haven’t texted him either. But I still feel really bad about what happened.
‘Text him then. Say sorry. You obviously like him. If you didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Anyway, what’s it like being back? How’s the farmhouse?’
She listened as I told her how I’d almost driven straight past my old family home, it had changed so much. That the neatly clipped hedges, gnarly apple trees and bright daffodils that lined the lane up to our house had been replaced by a tangle of green foliage and weeds. The trees dipped so low, their branches so tightly tangled, it was like driving through a dark tunnel. I told her how my heart had caught in my throat as I’d pulled into the driveway and spotted Dad’s parked Volvo.
‘For a second, I thought he was still alive,’ I said.
I didn’t tell her how freaked out I was when I walked into the living room and saw his old chair.
‘Bloody hell, Lou,’ she said when I finally stopped talking. ‘Sounds traumatic. Oh mate, I knew I should have come with you, at least for your first weekend.’
By the end of the phone call I felt calmer than I had done in days. I hadn’t realised how much I was bottling up my emotions or how isolated I was. Alice was the first person I’d spoken to in a week. Properly spoken to, I mean. Superficial conversations with my new colleagues at work didn’t count.
I took Alice’s advice and texted Ben before I got into my car.
I’m sorry for what happened in Dover. There are reasons why I reacted the way I did that I can’t explain right now. You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you afterwards. I hope you’re okay. X
I read the message again, deleted the kiss at the end and then sent it. Ben had twenty minutes to reply before I reached the countryside and the technology dead zone that is Dad’s house. There’s no reception, no Wi-Fi and no neighbours for at least a quarter of a mile. If someone bludgeoned me in my bed, no one would hear me scream. There’s a landline phone downstairs that works, but that’s it.
It’s Saturday now and I still haven’t heard back from Ben. I haven’t heard anything from DS Hope either. When I rang for an update, she told me to ring back this afternoon. The wait has been torturous. I can’t stop thinking about Chloe, and the look on her face as she ran out of the garden centre. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. I remember how that felt – the adrenaline rush of an illicit meeting, the warmth of the kiss, the wretchedness of saying goodbye. I thought I was so grown up. That my life was a romantic movie. That I was in control. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chloe looked so damned joyful that it makes me feel sick. Sick with guilt. She should have been smiling because she’d just been kissed by a boy her own age, not a man old enough to be her father. I just pray things haven’t progressed any further. If he’s put her through what he put me through I’ll never forgive myself.
This morning I decided to try and distract myself by getting on with some of the jobs I’ve been putting off. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom and sorted through Dad’s wardrobe and chest of drawers, bundling jumpers, jeans and suits into black plastic bags for the charity shop. I had a bit of a cry when I found a framed photo of me face down in the bottom of a drawer. There was nothing else that shed any light on who he was or the life he’d lived. Just a few piles of change, some painkillers, half a tube of Deep Heat, betting slips, newspapers, an alarm clock, a radio.
I was fourteen the last time I saw him. It was the weekend before Mike’s court case. Mum waited in the car at the bottom of the track while I walked up to the house that I hadn’t called home for nearly a year. I dumped the cardboard box I was carrying outside the garage, then knocked on the side door. When no one answered, I turned the handle and let myself in. I found Dad slumped in a chair in front of the television, horse racing blaring and an empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He didn’t open his eyes when I said his name and he didn’t stir as I shook his shoulder. Only when I turned off the TV and slapped him, hard, on the back of his hand did he open his eyes.
‘I’m going, Dad,’ I said. ‘To London, with Mum. We’re not coming back. I’ve left a box of my things by the garage. Can you keep it here? Mum says there won’t be enough space in our flat in London.’
His eyes swivelled towards me. They were red-rimmed and puffy, dark pinpricks in a rough, doughy face. He was only forty-seven but he looked twenty years older. ‘Have fun,’ he murmured, then he closed his eyes again.
Now, I push open the door to my old room and throw the bin bags on the growing pile on the floor. Other than the piles of Dad’s crap, it’s exactly as I left it eighteen years ago. I hate this room. Mike never came to the house but he’s in here. He’s ingrained in the fabric of the faded yellow curtains, the peeling wallpaper and the bleached faces of the popstars I pinned to the wall. The number of nights I’d lie in bed, staring into the darkness, losing myself in my imagination. A smile during a kata, trouble finding my things as I got changed, coming out of the changing rooms to discover that I was the only one left in the dojo. Mike appearing behind me and lifting my hair from my neck and—
I back sharply out of the room and slam the door shut. I need to make the call. I can’t wait anymore.
My hand shakes as I pick up the landline and dial the station. If Mike’s been arrested and charged I’ll need to tell the truth about who I really am. And if he hasn’t … No, I’m not even going to go there.
‘Hello,’ says a male voice I don’t recognise. ‘This is DS Walters.’
‘Oh, I was expecting to speak to DS Hope.’
‘DS Hope’s not in until later. I’m her colleague. How can I help?’
He listens as I tell him my fake name and summarise what I told DS Hope, then asks me to hold the line. I can barely breathe as I wait.
‘Right, well,’ he says. ‘It looks like the CPS haven’t authorised the charges.’
‘What?’
‘We carried out a thorough investigation and referred it to the CPS, but I’m afraid there won’t be a prosecution.’
‘But he’s a paedophile! He’s abusing a young girl. I saw him!’
DS Walters sighs heavily. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Well, I can’t actually tell you anything because of data protection rules, but let’s just say that the CPS can be a strange beast sometimes.’
‘Can I speak to them? Tell them what I saw?’
He laughs dryly. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So that’s it? He just carries on doing what he’s doing?’
There’s a pause then, ‘Our hands are tied, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, there’s nothing else.’
I end the call and stare at the phone in my hand. How can this have happened? Mike was sent to jail for five years for what he did to me. Why haven’t they locked him up again? It’s my fault. I screwed up again when I didn’t tell the police who I really am. But it’s not too late to put things right.
A tall man with hollow cheeks, thinning hair and an angular face opens the blue door at 29 Missingham Road. He looks me up and down, sighs and rests against the door frame.
‘Yes?’ He doesn’t say ‘what do you want?’ but it’s written all over his face.
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you and your wife. It’s about Chloe.’
His expression darkens. ‘What’s this about?’
‘If I could just come in I’ll tell you. It’s … quite sensitive.’
‘We’ve already spoken to the police and if you’re a journalist you can fuck right off.’
‘Alan!’ a woman calls from the back of the house. ‘Who is it?’
‘No one!’
‘Please, I’m not a journalist or police. Maybe I could talk to your wife?’
‘She’s ill.’
A curtain twitches at an upstairs window.
‘Please,’ I say as Alan moves to shut the door. ‘A man called Mike Hughes is having an inappropriate relationship with your daughter and I’m worried about her.’
‘Who the fuck are you? If you’re not police or journalist …’ His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. ‘Are you the one that reported him?’
‘I … I … yes, I am.’
‘Are you now?’ He shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. ‘Got a soft spot for him have you, love? You wouldn’t be the first bored housewife to try it on. Turn you down, did he? Is that why you thought you’d get your revenge by spinning a little story?’
‘It’s not a story. I saw Mike and Chloe—’
‘You disgust me!’ He lurches towards me, forcing me to step back. ‘That man’s like a dad to my girl. I’d trust him with my life. And hers. And I’ve had it up to here,’ he jabs at his throat with a flat hand, ‘with gossips, do-gooders and shit-spreaders.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Mike Hughes is a good man. He spent five years in jail because he tried to keep one of the kids at his club safe when she ran away to France. The stupid bitch was so scared of her alky dad that she lied to the police about what had happened and I won’t let you,’ he jabs a finger at me, ‘or anyone else put him through that kind of hell again. If you ever come back here again I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you hear me? Now piss off.’
The door slams in my face. As the heavy stomp, stomp, stomp of feet on stairs rattles the house, the curtain at the upstairs window twitches again. This time I catch a glimpse of a face. It’s Chloe and she looks scared.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_d4737d25-9762-5ff8-8ea4-0c6bc50d368b)
Chloe (#ulink_d4737d25-9762-5ff8-8ea4-0c6bc50d368b)
Monday 30th April 2007
Chloe walks with her head down and her book bag gripped to her chest. Normally she’d drag her feet as she walked from the bus stop to school, but today she can’t get there quickly enough. Anything is better than being at home with her arsehole of a dad, anything. He went spare after that stupid woman turned up at the door. She tried to listen to their conversation but all she could hear was the woman pleading to come in. The second the front door slammed shut, her dad stormed up to her room. She threw herself onto her bed just as he flung open the door.
‘Is this down to you? Have you been talking shit about Mike at school?’
‘No.’ She grabbed her pillow and hugged it close. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Because she looked like a teacher. Sounded like one too.’ He crossed the room in four strides and yanked open the curtains. ‘She’s gone.’ He turned back to look at Chloe. ‘Who was she? I know you were eavesdropping.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.’
Chloe hugged her pillow tighter. Could it be the police again? Her dad hadn’t met the woman who’d knocked on the door the other day. She was wearing normal clothes but she said her name was DS Anna Hope, from West Mercia police. Chloe felt sick with fear when DS Hope asked if her parents were in. She hadn’t taken anything big from the garden centre – just a few small ornaments she thought were cute and a packet of fairy lights. They were hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, wrapped in an old dressing gown. But that wasn’t what DS Hope wanted to talk to her about, she wanted to talk about Mike. Was there somewhere they could have a little chat? Just a few questions. It wasn’t a formal interview. She said that Mum was welcome to join them if that was something Chloe wanted. It wasn’t, but her mum insisted she sit in on the conversation before she could say a word.
The next few minutes were the most excruciating of Chloe’s life. DS Hope started by asking her which her favourite bands were and which member she fancied the most, but she could feel her mum’s worried eyes boring into the side of her head as the police officer switched to using phrases like, ‘unwanted attention’, ‘inappropriate comments’ and – worst of all – ‘touching that made you feel uncomfortable or scared’. Had Mike ever asked her to do anything that made her feel bad? Had they spent time alone together? Had he bought her gifts? Had he asked her to keep something secret? Had he threatened her or her family? Chloe did her best to meet the police officer’s eyes but she could feel her cheeks burning as she answered the questions. Mike was her dad’s friend, she told the police officer. They’d chatted but only ever in front of another adult. He hadn’t touched her or done anything inappropriate. He was a nice man who said hello to her if her saw her at work and that was all. DS Hope wrote everything she said down in a little notebook, then made Chloe and her mum sign it. After that she asked to speak to her mum in the kitchen.
When they came back into the living room, her mum had a weird, vacant expression on her face. She didn’t say anything to her though, not even when DS Hope asked if she could have a look through Chloe’s room and made them sign her notebook again to say that they’d agreed. Chloe stood next to her mum at the door to her bedroom, hands clenched into tight fists, as the detective searched her jewellery box, homework books, bed and chest of drawers. Panic rose in her chest as DS Hope lifted up her dressing gown in the bottom of the wardrobe but she didn’t unfold it and her stolen stash remained hidden. When she asked if she could take a look at her mobile, Chloe handed it over. She deleted all the texts Mike sent her as soon as she’d read them (as well as the ones she sent him) and he’d warned her not to keep a diary or any mementoes of the time they spent together. But she couldn’t stop herself from reaching up behind her hairline to touch the necklace around her neck. Mike hadn’t bought her many gifts – a couple of CDs, a book, plus he’d given her forty pounds after he found her crying in one of the sheds at work. She’d accidentally run up a huge bill on her mobile by buying game add-ons and she was too scared to tell her dad. After listening to her sob, Mike reached into his wallet and handed her the money to cover it. ‘Now you don’t need to tell him,’ he said. ‘And you don’t need to cry anymore.’
Her gave her the necklace after Chloe got upset about a list the boys at school had made. It ranked the girls in her year in order of the fittest. One of her friends had managed to sneak a look at the piece of paper and Chloe’s name was last. Mike had hugged her close while she cried, then reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She ran a finger over the delicate edges of the silver daisy pendant. It was the loveliest present anyone had ever given her.
‘It is. And so are you. Those boys are idiots. When they grow up, they’ll kick themselves for not realising how stunning you are.’
She’d shivered as he fastened the necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin. Then, embarrassed by her reaction, she’d pulled away. If Mike noticed her reaction he didn’t mention it. Instead he looked from her face to the pendant, nestling above the top button of her work polo shirt and smiled.
‘It suits you.’
Chloe presses a hand against the cold chain at her neck as she spots a small group of boys hanging around the school gates. They’re the ones who started the stupid list. Five weeks she’s had the necklace and her parents haven’t said a word. There was a time when her mum would notice every little thing about her – a scrape on her knee after a fall at primary school, a new hairstyle after they took turns to braid each other’s hair at break, a spot on her chin, a rash on her chest – but it’s been a long time since her mum did more than give her a passing glance. Sometimes, when it’s just her, Mum and Jamie at home, she feels like a ghost.
‘Chloe?’
She turns sharply as someone says her name. A tall, thin woman with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail is hurrying along the pavement towards her. It’s the woman who knocked on her front door the night before.
‘Chloe, have you got a second?’
‘No.’ She continues to walk. Two girls she doesn’t recognise laugh as they overtake her and her stomach clenches with anxiety. Great, another reason for people to laugh at her.
‘Please, Chloe, just five minutes. It’s important.’
The hand on her arm makes her stop just long enough to shake it off. ‘I’ve got to get to school.’
‘I know. I won’t take up much of your time. Please, just hear me out.’
It’s the woman’s suit that makes her pause. She looks smart, like a lawyer or something.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about Mike Hughes.’
‘Oh god.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Not that again. I already talked to the police.’ She lowers her voice as a boy from her year swerves around them. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘He has,’ the woman says. ‘I saw him kiss you.’
Chloe stares at her, her throat dry, her mind empty. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. I was in the garden centre. I saw him kiss you in the summer house.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Chloe,’ the woman touches her on the shoulder again. ‘I know what you’re going through. I know what he’s like. He makes you feel special, doesn’t he? Beautiful? You feel understood and cared for, like he’s the only person in the world who really gets you.’ The woman is speaking softly and quickly, like she’s running out of breath, and she’s leaning in far closer than Chloe is comfortable with. ‘Has he told you that he loves you yet?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. I can see it in your eyes. You need to tell the police what’s going on. He’s a dangerous man. You think he’s kind and generous and caring but he’s manipulating you. He’s a paedophile, Chloe. This is all about control and nothing to do with love. Have you slept with him yet?’
‘What? No!’ The horror in Chloe’s voice is real and the other woman seems to sense it because she raises her eyebrows.
‘Good. Don’t. Whatever’s going on between you and Mike Hughes, you need to end it now. No good can come of it. You need to trust me on this.’
‘Trust you? I don’t even know who you are.’
‘I’m—’
‘Chloeeee!’ A red-haired girl with thick black eyebrows barges between them. ‘Sorry, Miss, I need to talk to Chloe. Chlo, did you do last night’s biology homework because I, like, well, didn’t. I need to borrow yours. Is this it?’ She yanks at one of the books Chloe is clutching to her chest. Normally there’s no way in hell she’d let Misty Engles anywhere near her but right now she’d take an atomic bomb over spending one more minute talking about Mike Hughes with this weirdo.
‘Course you can borrow it,’ she says, then she threads her arm through Misty’s and heads for the gates.
‘Chloe,’ the woman calls from behind her. ‘Let me give you my phone number. You can call me if—’
