‘How did–’

  ‘How did she get away with passing you off as her own child?’

  I nod, tears building, a lump wedged in my throat. I want to weep for an eternity – tears for me and Kim, tears for Simon and tears for the mother who sacrificed everything for her children. We owe her so much. A thousand kisses, the promise of an eternity in heaven wouldn’t be enough for the woman who risked her life to save ours.

  ‘As soon as she realised what had happened, she packed me off to Grandma’s house under the pretence that I was asthmatic and had bronchitis, saying the clean air would do me good. She hardly ever ventured out of the house, lying low and then pretended that she had given birth, telling anyone who asked that she didn’t realise she was pregnant until she was six months gone. I think there were those who suspected – the likes of Janine Francis – but nobody could prove anything. Things were different back then – no visits from the midwife or health visitor. It could be done and was done. You’re living proof of that.’

  ‘And this is why you didn’t want me to move back into Woodburn Cottage?’

  She shrugs and smiles. ‘Maybe. I kind of guessed what had happened to Simon and that was why Mum would never sell the place. I couldn’t prove anything and would never have attempted to. Mum would have been tried as an accessory to murder when all she had tried to do was save her son from a monster. That night, after it all happened, Dad made sure everything looked normal in the garden, no obvious disturbances to the soil. He cleaned the patio down, both he and Mum bathed, washed their clothes and went to bed, then the next morning – well you know the rest.’

  Something jars in my head, a distant memory. A memory of Kim peering out of the window and pointing to Mr Waters’ house. I don’t ask her her reasons for doing such a thing. She was young, frightened, wanted to deflect the blame elsewhere, away from Mum. She didn’t want to admit that so many terrible atrocities could happen in our own family. She had an image of Mr Waters as an abusive man when all the while the monster lurked in the heart of Woodburn Cottage, the place we called home.

  ‘After Dad died, why didn’t Mum go to the police? Tell them what had happened?’ I bite at my nails feverishly, a habit I thought I had shaken.

  ‘Because how could she prove that she hadn’t done anything wrong? She was put in an impossible situation. Damned if she didn’t and damned if she did. At least we’ve now got Simon back and Mum is too ill to recall what went on. It’s the best way really. The only way.’

  ‘The only way,’ I murmur, nodding my head sagely. ‘Did you always suspect that Simon was buried there?’

  Kim sighs, blinks back more tears. ‘I wasn’t sure what to think. I was terrified and knew something awful had happened to him.’ She lets out a trembling sigh, swallows hard. ‘I went through loads of dreadful scenarios about where he was and then had to block it out of my mind. I didn’t see what actually happened, so even if I’d told the police, it would have been my word against his. He was such a strong man, both physically and mentally; overpowering and insidious. Imagine the beatings we all would have had to put up with every single day if I had done that?’ More deep breaths. More tears flow. ‘We had so much to hide, so much to be scared of. I feared that if I spoke too freely, they would start to dig deeper, find out about you and then take you away from me. I just couldn’t risk that happening. Social services would have got involved, seen the signs of abuse and what remained of our family would have ceased to exist. You would have been sent to a foster home and we might not have seen you again. So we learned never to question anything, instead hiding it all away, going about our daily lives with our heads down, too frightened, too traumatised to do or say anything at all.’

  I screw up my eyes, cocking my head to one side. ‘Signs of abuse? What do you mean, signs of abuse?’ A clock ticks in my head, a countdown to an exploding bomb. I wait for it to detonate, for the shrapnel to embed itself in my brain, to tear at my flesh, leaving me in ruins, a shell of the woman I used to be.

  ‘We did what we could to keep you safe and as far as I am aware, it only happened once or twice in the months following Simon’s death, but that was enough. We knew then that things had to change. We had to do something.’

  I can’t breathe. It comes to me in a flash – a memory of him coming into my bedroom at night, lying next to me, the heat of his body pulsing beneath the cool cotton sheets. Oh God. Oh dear God, it happened to me too. I blanked it out, all that horror and suffering. All that abuse. I blanked it out and now it’s back. It has somehow managed to slither its way back into my brain, a latent memory, reawakened. Moving back to Woodburn Cottage, the sleepwalking, it stimulated dormant memories, breathed life back into them and allowed me to see the truth. The truth about Simon. The truth about what sort of a man my father really was. The truth about my damaged childhood. He was a violent abuser, a villain. A demon.

  ‘What changed?’ I ask, perspiration breaking out on my back, my neck, under my arms. I am hot, cold, shivery at the same time. ‘What did you do?’ But even as I am saying it, I already know.

  I rest my head back on the surface of the wall, the feel of the cold sensation on my burning flesh a welcome sensation. I already know. I didn’t have to ask. I know exactly what she is going to say.

  35

  I tell them what I know. The police don’t want to hear about dreams. They don’t want supposition or guesses or embellishments. Just plain and simple facts. The plain and simple facts are that I remember very little. I was a young child. I was out there that night.

  My memory of my mother scrambling on her hands and knees on the mud is a fact. The truth as I remember it. I recall running to her, desperate to reach her, then my father picking me up. I recall struggling against his hold, being slapped, hit. Punched. Then nothing else. I tell them how he was so devious that he even left those bolts off, ready to implicate and blame his own son for disappearing. Apparently, they told the police at the time that it must have been an oversight, leaving them off. So many lies. So much hurt and deviancy that we were practically buried alive. Lies heaped on top of more lies, more dirt thrown on top of already compacted dirt.

  I tell them about my sleepwalking, how it blurred my memories, blotting out great chunks of my childhood, dreams and reality merging and combining until I could no longer tell them apart. They listen hard when I get to the bit about my memories of that night coming back to me, why I was out there by the shed. How I unearthed Simon’s body. Why I have started sleepwalking again as an adult. How my newly acquired therapist has told me that the move to Woodburn Cottage and Warren’s death were possible triggers for it.

  Were.

  Because since finding Simon, it has all stopped. I have slept soundly and safely in my own bed every night. No more nocturnal wanderings around the garden, no further trips out into the street half naked. Just peaceful slumbers occasionally fringed with even more peaceful dreams. I am beginning to feel half human again, my thoughts once more neat and orderly. I can speak clearly and coherently as I sit in the local police station, telling them about a man so grossly abusive and violent that my mind blocked it all out, the events of my childhood so shocking and disturbing I was able to act as if they didn’t actually happen.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say as I stand up, my legs weak, my mind clearer than it has been for months.

  ‘Don’t forget to get in touch if you remember anything else.’ Sergeant Duffield says her goodbyes and a young fresh-faced constable leads me out to the main desk.

  ‘Do you have a family, PC Warwick?’

  He nods, his face flushing red as I speak. ‘Two brothers, a sister and a stepdad. My real dad died when I was little and my mum passed away last year.’

  My heart tightens for this lad, this inexperienced slip of a boy who is young enough to be my own son. ‘Think of them often. Talk to them, watch out for them. Love them. They’re irreplaceable.’

  I don’t wait for his reply, turning instead to leave, the swish of the automatic door the only sound to be heard as I step out into the light.

  * * *

  It’s a small affair, Simon’s funeral. Private and brief. We wanted to keep it low-key, keep the media and grisly onlookers at bay. Because they are out there, the voyeurs, the gossipmongers, those who would wish us harm for being ruled by an abusive father. For being the offspring of a man who cared only for himself. We are at fault apparently for not having spoken about it, for keeping it secret for most of our lives. They have no idea, these people. No idea of the damage it causes, the long-term effects it has on the minds of the abused.

  And then there are those who have shown us nothing but love and pity, sending cards and flowers, words of love and affection written there for us to see. They are so welcome, those words, obliterating the hatred and the disbelief and the general consensus that we as a family brought it on ourselves. It has helped me to believe that not all people are bad, that there are good thoughtful people out there who care for others. Not everyone is a monster. Warren was a good man. My children, my nieces and nephews are decent, kind individuals. I have to remember that, not let the chill of the shade block out all the light.

  We gather in Kim’s garden afterwards, a handful of family and friends, drinks in hand, their relief at it all finally being over, evident in their smiles, their body language, how they chat animatedly; voices, whispers, laughter mingling in the air around us.

  ‘So, you will come and see us then?’ Carrie says, her eyes resting on mine. I have so much affection for this woman. The woman who has shown us nothing but consideration and kindness in the past few weeks.

  ‘I definitely will.’ And I mean it too. I have plans, lots of them.

  I have plans to travel to Scotland to stay with Carrie and her family. I have plans to visit Lucy once she goes back to Oxford. I definitely have plans.

  ‘Will you be staying at Woodburn Cottage?’

  My answer is swift. Steady and solid. ‘Absolutely. Why would I want to live anywhere else?’

  Carrie smiles, relief in her eyes. ‘That’s good to hear. I’m not sure Dad could cope with new neighbours at his age. He likes routine and familiarity. He likes you.’

  We talk for a short while before I move on, trying to thank people for coming. It’s kind. They are kind. That is my new mantra, my new way of thinking. People are good and kind. It’s just the odd rotten apple that spoils the rest.

  Kim and I will visit Mum once everyone has left. She doesn’t know about Simon or the funeral. We discussed it with Amanda and decided the best thing to do was leave things as they are. Mum wouldn’t understand. The mention of his name would unleash too many demons, too many unpleasant memories. We will leave her be. She is peaceful lately – happy and content. For how long is anybody’s guess. Dementia is a heartless disease but we will cherish the moment while it lasts.

  The police had also made the decision to not question Mum. She is a vulnerable person and any witness statements she makes, unreliable. The case is still ongoing but with mine and Kim’s statements, they are piecing it all together, forming the picture of a beastly, violent man who treated his family as if they were his property, doing with them as he saw fit.

  They decided to not investigate his death, putting it down to an accident. We agree.

  36

  John Goodwill

  It’s been months. The worst is over. The police didn’t suspect anything. Why would they? This is his family. He takes care of them, directs what happens under his roof. Do they have any idea how hard he works to bring in the money that feeds and clothes this family? He doubts that they do. Nobody seems to care or understand. Nobody, least of all his wife and children.

  Spring is on its way. He opens the bedroom window, inspects the sill for flaking paint and stops, the cool breeze wrapping itself around him. Outside, it’s still. No birdsong, very little noise at all. This is a nice village. Everyone keeps themselves to themselves. No nosey parkers pushing their sticky beaks into business that doesn’t involve them. Exactly as it should be.

  He prises the lid off the paint tin, picks up the brush and drags it across the outside sill. If he kneels, doesn’t lean too far out, he can just about reach the far end.

  Behind him, he can hear Kim and Sylvie as they mill about in the bedrooms, tidying up, doing whatever it is they do with their time, their voices irritating him. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts while he improved this house. Their house. The house he pays for. Is there no respite from their whining? Nowhere he can be free of the constant tinny grumbling of their voices?

  Frustration and annoyance jab at him, burning beneath his skin, putting him on edge. That’s his default position it would seem. Always clinging onto the precipice of exasperation. His head aches, his jaw is set in place, tension rippling through him.

  He grinds his teeth as he thinks about the last few months, about what happened. What she made him do. And now everything has changed, their lives irrevocably altered, their family fragmented. He wonders what the future holds, whether he can keep things together. She has threatened to leave him on numerous occasions. It won’t happen. Where would she go? He would always find her. She’s his wife and this is where she belongs, for better for worse. Silly bitch, thinking she could have got away with it, taking his child away from him.

  This is all on her head, and he’s told her so often enough, told her that if she ever opened up to anybody about that night, he would give them the full story, relate how he was carrying the kid back inside when she grabbed him, pulled him to the ground, smacked his head open. She always was the nervous type, too timid to think beyond the superficial. Too lacking in confidence to see the obvious.

  They got questioned by the police afterwards. Of course they did. That’s standard procedure, but he held it together, was ready for them, kept to the story whilst appearing distraught. He was a reliable witness whereas she was a nervous bloody wreck, constantly fidgeting, stumbling over her words, flicking her gaze around the room. He knew who they would believe and told her so. So she kept quiet, kept her head down, didn’t put a foot out of place. As it should be. She is the housewife. He is the man of the house. The breadwinner, worthy of respect.

  He reminds her constantly of what she did, chiselling it into her mind. She needs to remember that it was her idea to kidnap the boy, send him away. She set the scene. Made it all happen. No jury in the land would find him guilty. He knows it. She knows it. They are bound together. Never to be apart.

  He flexes his muscles, grits his teeth, leans out and drags the brush across the stretch of wood. The voices in the other room continue to chatter. Not so much a chatter as an incessant drone, like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. First Sylvie, then Kim. Then Kim and next Sylvie. Difficult to tell them apart. Cut from the same cloth they are. Always full of self-righteousness, always plotting and scheming, conspiring against him. Sometimes he feels like a stranger in his own home, locked out of their conversations, their witchy little ways. Have they learnt nothing in the past few months? Do they not realise what he will do to keep them here? What he is capable of?

  He goes over it all in his head, that night, their family, how it all got to this point. He is so caught up in it, he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, the creak of the floorboards, the opening of the door. He isn’t sure who it is, doesn’t have the time to turn around to find out, but feels the rush of air as it happens. He feels the push, the weight of the hand, that final fateful push and the terrifying sensation of floating, of nothing beneath him, his limbs flailing, clutching at thin air, his head spinning, eyes bulging. And next, the sickening crack of bone as he hits the concrete patio at speed, head first. Then blackness. An eternity of nothing.

  In the house, a woman’s voice cries out, a practised scream that disguises the relief as John Goodwill lies sprawled on the concrete, blood pooling, eyes wide open. No movement, no breathing. Nothing at all.

  They are free. At long last, they are all finally free.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  As always, my thanks go to the team at Bloodhound Books for their continued support and assistance. Tara, and Clare, in my eyes, you both possess superpowers and I cannot thank you enough for everything you do in the run up to my books getting published.

  Writing is a lonely business and the support of other authors is a necessity to help provide some context and perspective to the problems we encounter along the way. I’m going to stick my neck out and mention some names in the hope I don’t miss anybody out, so here goes – a huge thank you to Diana Wilkinson for her kind words and support. Also, a thank you to McGarvey Black, Anita Waller, who is the most superb listener when I’m feeling down, and Keri Beevis for always seeing the humour in everything – a skill I need to learn! A big thank you to Nathan Moss who is always there to support the rest of the team with his Tweets and input on social media. Also, a big thank you to Valerie Keogh (Dickenson) for her help and friendship. I am fortunate to be part of a big friendly team and am always grateful for the help they provide when needed.

  Thank you to my ARC team who always provide the reviews on time, a necessary part of making sure my books get noticed by potential readers. I am so lucky to have you all on my side rooting for me.

  A big thank you to my long-suffering family and friends who have all supported me with my writing from the very beginning. I promise to leave the house a lot more in the future and not spend so long hunched over my laptop!

  Readers are the lifeblood of publishing – without you, we authors are nothing so I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for buying and reading my book. I am always available for a chat on social media so please feel free to contact me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I can be found at:-