Leaving her class unattended, even for a matter of minutes, was never a good idea – and especially on the final day of the term when all the children were hyped up ready for the summer break. ‘A spirited bunch’ was how the head teacher described them. Anna, whilst agreeing, also thought a few of them were just plain naughty. She’d never have allowed Carrie to act up like that – she expected more from her daughter – whether as a result of teaching other people’s children and witnessing their sometimes unruly behaviour, or as a result of her own strict upbringing, she couldn’t ascertain. It was a case of the chicken or the egg.
Having finally paired all the children with their respective adults, Anna flitted around the classroom clearing away the activities, tutting at the globs of slushy, sticky newspaper remnants now clinging to the tables like shit to a blanket. As she picked at some of the hardened paper, Muriel’s words played out in her head.
Something’s wrong, Anna. Something is very wrong.
Anna had sighed at her mother’s words, wondering what melodrama was about to unfold. But her gut had twisted as Muriel carried on with her story.
Now, washing and drying her hands with the small, rough towel, Anna decided she’d have to ring James and get him to have Carrie for the night despite it not being his turn. The journey to Mapledon would only take two hours or so from Bristol, but she didn’t want to take Carrie there – didn’t want her dragged into whatever was going on. If anything. Her mother could be over-reacting. When Anna was growing up that’d been her MO – even before Anna’s father had left and then more so when old-age shenanigans took over. But just in case, it would be better to go alone.
Grabbing her bag, she shouted goodbye to the remaining teachers, swept out of the building and climbed into her car. Her blue Escort spluttered into life and she drove out of the school gate. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned right, joining the traffic that would take her to the M5.
Her mother’s words continued to repeat themselves inside her mind as she drove:
There was such a racket at the front of the house, it scared me half to death. When I mustered the courage to go out there, I found it.
Found what, Mum?
The doll’s head. Hammered to my front door.
The envelope, its corner peeping out from within the clump of mail she’d shoved behind the purple key pot – the one neither of them actually used for their keys, preferring instead to spend stressful minutes searching for the last place they’d flung them – glared at her like an accusation. Lizzie snatched it up, then slammed it down on the counter, taking a step back as though it were a dangerous object about to inflict harm.
Something told her it would do her harm. Its content, anyway. Mentally, not physically. She knew physical pain, had endured years of it growing up in various care homes. She could cope with that; was hardened to it. Her mental well-being had never caught up, though. That was still fragile, like butterfly wings – delicate, prone to breaking. She had to guard herself from outside factors.
Guard herself from the words the envelope held within.
She’d ignored it for as long as possible. Hidden it from Dom. Tried to forget about it. She should’ve ripped it up and binned it. Why hadn’t she? Sleep had been impossible, her thoughts, her imagination, keeping her awake hour after hour. She knew this had to be done.
Taking the envelope once again, she stared at the postmark. At the logo. It was definitely from the solicitor.
It’d happened thirty years ago. Lizzie had only been eight years old, but some memories never faded. Some intensified with age. There was much she didn’t remember – but those gaps had often been filled in for her by the people in the children’s home. Carers, teachers, the other kids – they’d all had something to say about it.
A sour taste filled Lizzie’s mouth as saliva flooded it.
She had to face this.
Tearing open the envelope before she could change her mind again, she pulled the crisp, white, headed paper from it.
Dear Mrs Brenfield,
As per your request, I write to inform you that Mr William Cawley is to be released from HMP Baymead, Devon, on the 9th July 2019.
Lizzie’s vision blurred, her grip loosened. Before she could read on, the paper fell to the ground.
Creepy Cawley had been released from his thirty-year sentence three days ago.
He was a free man.
Bovey Police Station, outskirts of Mapledon
Friday 21st July – 36 hours after the incident
Shock covered her face with a white mask. She didn’t remember how she’d come to be there, standing alongside her mother, whose long, thin arm formed a tight band around her shoulders. Protective, yet angry at the same time.
‘I’d told her. Told them. Warned them.’ Her mother’s voice was clipped, spoken in such a way as to make her seem out of breath. Maybe she was in shock, too.
‘I’m sure you did what you could,’ police officer Vern said. ‘As a parent myself, I know how difficult it is to keep your eyes on your children all the time. You have to give them some freedom, and as you say, it’s a small village – you don’t expect something like this to happen.’
‘No. No, you don’t,’ she agreed, her head shaking from side to side.
‘I’m sorry to have to keep you, I know you’d like to get your daughter back home, but I do need to speak with her. Try to get a fuller picture – a timeframe of events. It’s crucial we don’t waste any more time … You understand, don’t you?’
Her mother looked down at her as the officer spoke. A tingling feeling spread through her, reaching her fingertips, making them feel as though they were on fire. There was something in the tone of the policeman’s voice – a hidden meaning she couldn’t grasp. But by the look on her mother’s face, she knew it was bad. It was all bad. And now she’d have to tell them what had happened. What she’d caused to happen.
It was all her fault. She’d get the blame for it all.
