Behind Closed Doors (Season One: Book 7) (Jessica Daniel) (15 page)

‘I’d gone up to my old bedroom. There was no bedding, so I called out to see if someone could help. My mum stayed downstairs but my dad came up. They’d been rowing about me. He
stormed into their bedroom and came out with some pillows. He looked at me and said: “You know you’ve thrown your life away, don’t you?” He wasn’t even angry, it was
just disappointment. I could see it in his eyes that he’d had all these plans, wanting me to go off to university and have the type of life that he and Mum had never had. I wanted it too at
some point but I’d been drawn into everything with Dan.’

Jessica thought of the final conversation she’d had with her father, when he’d told her he was proud of her. She tried to think how devastated she would have been if those eyes had
been full of disappointment. She would never have got over it.

‘What happened then?’

‘It’s hard to describe because I only see it in flashes. He thrust the pillows out towards me but I was right next to the stairs. I remember falling and rolling, banging my head and
my shoulders and then the worst pain I’ve ever had below my stomach.’

‘Did he push you?’

Heather took a deep breath, continuing to tug at her hair but harder than before. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t remember. I was close to the edge anyway but I’m not sure
if I stumbled backwards, or if he touched me.’

‘But you lost the baby?’

‘Yes, well, whatever it was at that stage. People spend all their time arguing over what’s a baby and what’s a collection of cells. You go over it in school but it was gone
before I’d even got used to the idea of having it.’

‘Dan never knew?’

‘I didn’t see him again. I never even collected my things. I left that night and didn’t go back to my parents’ either. I met a few people on the streets and there’s
this refuge thing in the centre. One day I was on the streets and Zip was there with the others. I got talking and was invited onto their bus. I’ve been here ever since.’

‘How long ago was that?’

Heather shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a year? Maybe longer. It’s hard to keep track of the days. I’m not even sure if I’ve had a birthday.’

Jessica realised how disorientating it would be for anyone staying long-term. Only the length of the days and the change in the seasons would give them any indication of what time of year it
was.

‘What about your father finding you the other day?’

‘When we were in Manchester the month before, I spotted one of our old neighbours. I didn’t think they’d seen me but I suppose they must have gone and told my dad. It was the
first time I’d seen him since that night.’

Jessica didn’t reply for a few moments, letting it all sink in.

‘It’s better here,’ Heather added.

Despite everything that might be going on in the house, Jessica couldn’t disagree. A life with a coke-head boyfriend, a child lost – possibly through her father’s actions. If
Heather felt safe and secure here, then at least it was some respite from what had become a nightmarish life. Either that, or she had left one bad dream, only to stumble into another.

‘What’s better about it?’ Jessica asked.

Heather’s voice cracked but she had almost composed herself, wiping her eyes with another tissue and dropping it onto the pile next to her. ‘The people . . .’

Jessica suddenly realised what she had missed. ‘Moses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have the pair of you . . . ?’

Heather looked away and Jessica didn’t have to finish the question. The way she had fussed over her appearance the previous evening now made sense. Presumably at some point she had been
replaced in Moses’s affections by Katie. A younger version.

‘Was it just you?’ Jessica asked.

Heather shook her head, still unable to look at Jessica. ‘A lot of the girls have. It’ll be your turn soon. He shares his wisdom with all of us.’

He certainly shared something with the women but Jessica wouldn’t have described it as ‘wisdom’. It definitely wouldn’t be her turn any time soon either.

‘Doesn’t Zip mind?’

Heather’s only reply was a shrug. From what Jessica had seen, it wasn’t as if Moses’s wife had much choice, even if the house did belong to her.

‘What now?’ Jessica asked, meaning how long did Heather think she was going to stay at the house for.

Her reply of ‘I suppose I wait until Moses calls for me again’ told Jessica that Heather was never going to leave. She was irrevocably in love with him and this was where she would
wait until he came back for her.

Wayne Howson opened his eyes, struggling to see through the dark. After fighting to focus on whatever was in front of him, he closed them again. It felt more comfortable that
way. He could sense the once-familiar dizziness around his eyes, that indescribable feeling of waking up after an evening spent drinking. Or a morning and afternoon. Those were the days.

He was sitting, resting against something solid but soft. He couldn’t remember putting himself into the position. Had he been sleeping sitting up? It wouldn’t be the first time.

He tried to remember what had happened, vaguely recalling being in the house, then in the gardens, but not much more. There must have been alcohol somewhere because he could taste it. The foul
aftertaste mixed with that sweet flavour of the first drop.

It had been a while.

Wayne tried opening his eyes again but could see only vague, hazy outlines of grey shapes within the black. Spikes of pain fizzed through his shoulderblades as he reached to rub his eyes, the
jolt awakening the rest of the pain in his body. In an instant, his back ached, his stomach felt strained, as if someone had stretched him. The throb around his eyes was spreading to the rest of
his face. Even his teeth hurt.

He’d had hangovers when he was younger but this eclipsed any of them. Besides, he’d almost become immune to the effect of drink as time had gone on.

Wayne placed his hands on the floor, running them along the cold, hard surface and trying to figure out where he was. It didn’t feel like the house and it certainly wasn’t the
garden. There was a distinct aroma in the air too, something with a hint of rusting iron but he couldn’t place it, even though it seemed familiar.

‘Wayne . . .’

The stranger’s voice echoed slightly, giving Wayne the impression that the room must be large.

‘Who’s there?’

Wayne listened to his words reverberating around the room. They sounded husky, hardened, as if they hadn’t come from him.

‘It’s me, Wayne.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who it is . . . think about it.’

The words continued to bounce around the walls but Wayne’s mind felt heavy and he was struggling to understand what was being said, let alone who was saying it.

‘Would you like a drink, Wayne?’

Alcohol.

It was the source of everything good that had happened to him over the years. Nothing could beat that feeling of light-headedness, that gentle warmth of his skin and the laughs. It had given him
so many good times.

But then it had caused everything bad too; those freezing-cold nights on the streets, the waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and disorientated. All those nights in police cells, all
the people he’d known who had forgotten him over the years.

Wayne heard footsteps echoing around the room, although something he couldn’t quite figure out didn’t sound right. Someone was coming close to him – and then he could smell the
booze. It wasn’t even the cheap cider he used to content himself with, it was some sort of vodka. Subtle but unmistakeable.

The bottle was placed on the ground, the solid clank of the glass hitting the hard floor enticingly.

‘It’s all yours, Wayne . . .’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Are you sure?’

Wayne had known the answer the moment he had smelled it. He would never escape the hold it had on him. He scrabbled forward in the dark, reaching out until his fingers closed around the cool
glass. He held it under his nose, breathing it in, feeling the fumes drifting through his nose. That other smell was still there too, somewhere in the background. Soon the smell was not enough as
he raised the container to his lips, taking a long drink. It burned the back of his throat, making him wince, but he instantly felt that wonderful woozy sensation spiralling through him.

‘Is that good, Wayne?’

He answered by taking another swig. Then another. The aches and pains that had been racking his body were evaporating in a mist of satisfaction.

At first they were small mouthfuls, then larger gulps. His tongue was on fire, the back of his mouth raging. He stopped for a rest, giggling.

The voice had gone silent and Wayne had no idea how long he had been awake. He could feel himself being watched, eyes somewhere peering through the dark.

‘Hello?’ he called, one hand still grasping the bottle.

No reply.

Wayne pulled himself up, grunting with a mixture of effort and pain. His head was spinning, his legs like jelly. There was some sort of post nearby which he grabbed on to, trying to get his
balance.

‘Hello?’

His voice echoed around the darkness, a dozen hellos bouncing back and forth as if he was calling to himself.

A sound of something smashing made him jump. He spun around, trying to figure out where it had come from but it was as if his body had moved quicker than his mind. Still the room turned until he
found himself hugging the post to stop himself falling.

It was only when he heard the crunch under his feet that he realised his hands were empty. The smashing had come from the bottle hitting the floor. He must have dropped it without noticing.
Wayne thought about trying to clean up but then remembered he didn’t know where he was.

‘Hello? Sorry about the bottle.’

He wasn’t sure if the words had come out correctly. Something about the word ‘sorry’ was sticking to his tongue so he tried again, slobbering and swearing as he struggled to
speak.

‘You don’t have to apologise, Wayne.’

The voice sounded soothing but he still couldn’t place it. There was something familiar, even reassuring about it.

‘I can help tidy up.’

‘You don’t need to do that.’

Wayne was already bending over, fumbling around the floor for the broken pieces. His eyes had adjusted slightly to the dimness and he could see the vague shapes. As he ran his hand along the
floor, he gasped in shock as a sharp piece of glass sliced along the side of it. As he pulled his hand away, he overbalanced, toppling backwards onto a large shard.

He shrieked in pain, rolling over but only making it worse as another fragment stabbed into his leg.

‘Help me,’ he whimpered.

Silence.

Wayne tried to push himself up but another piece ravaged his skin. He could feel the blood dripping, the splinter twisting in his hand.

‘Please . . .’

‘Wayne.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you drink the vodka?’

Wayne reached across with his free hand, trying to pull the glass clear from the other. More pieces were lodged in his leg and he could feel the spilled liquid seeping through his trousers. He
pinched the slice between his thumb and forefinger but only succeeded in twisting it further, making him howl in agony.

‘Wayne.’

‘What?’

‘I asked you a question.’

The tone of the voice was level, questioning, not accusing. At first he thought it was coming from somewhere in front of him but then he wasn’t so sure. It was above him, behind him,
everywhere. Wayne started to answer but stopped himself, trying to remove the glass again. The pain made him feel good. He knew he deserved it. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Louder, please, Wayne.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about the other stuff you drank earlier?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought you were getting better, helping yourself?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wayne.’

‘Yes.’

‘You do know you have to be punished, don’t you?’

The words billowed around the room like a breeze, making Wayne shiver.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know you are but our actions must have consequences. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Wayne. Will you stand for me now?’

Wayne’s head was still cloudy but it was as if the pain from the glass was cancelling it out. He used the pole to haul himself up again, swaying slightly but resting against it to keep
himself steady.

‘That’s very good of you, Wayne. Do you know what’s going to happen now?’

‘No . . .’

For a moment there was silence. Wayne glanced from side to side, feeling someone’s presence but unable to see or hear anything. All at once, lights blazed overhead. They had come on so
suddenly that Wayne jammed his eyes closed, the bright white stinging too much for him to take. He heard feet shuffling and then something cannoned into his cheek. Before he knew what was
happening, he was falling again, feeling the glass cutting into his hands and legs.

As he moaned, he remembered what had happened in the gardens. He had been hit then.

‘Glenn?’

The voice didn’t reply but he felt something crashing into his ribs and heard the crack. He tried opening his eyes but it was still too bright. All he could see was the vague outline of
someone coming towards him. They lashed out at him with a boot. Once, twice, three times, each kick harder than the last.

As liquid choked up into his mouth, Wayne realised what the metallic smell had been. It was only faint but it was unmistakeably blood, the remnants of whatever had gone on in this room. He
coughed violently, sending a spray of blood, snot and saliva across the floor, adding his to whoever’s had gone before.

‘Wayne.’

He rolled onto his back, panting for breath and trying to shuffle away from his attacker.

‘Can you see what I have in my hand, Wayne?’

He squinted into the light, which still made his eyes tingle. There were stars at the edge of his vision but a clear silhouette in the centre.

‘Are they scissors?’ Wayne asked, moving backwards until he was pressed against a wall.