Untouchable: A chillingly dark psychological thriller Page 14

  Tell me, Jamie. What was going on?

  I had nowhere to go now. No more addresses to check. No more avenues to follow.

  Whatever secret Jamie had been hiding from me would be buried with him tomorrow.

  JAMIE

  Chapter 20

  A care assistant called Miss Davey, but who let us call her Rose, had been working at Crossfield about three months or so. She didn’t work on Fridays or Saturday mornings, so she never witnessed us being taken to the Big House and returned. But she was different to Barker and Scholes and all the others. Apart from the fact she was the first female to work there, she was younger than them and had a warm, sunny smile that reminded me of Miss Percival, who had long since left our school after she’d had a baby. Rose didn’t look at us with hatred, like Scholes, or twisted depravity masquerading as fake jovial kindness, like Barker. Or the uncaring indifference of the other staff, who, if they didn’t participate, turned a blind eye.

  All the boys loved Rose. They all wanted to talk to her, be near her, hold her hand, all fighting for her attention. When she was supervising meal times, we were allowed to talk quietly. If she was outside during free time with us, she’d join in some of our games. She was a sparkling ray of light in our wretched lives. I watched her observing Barker and Scholes carefully, and I thought she must’ve known what was going on and had become suspicious of their dirty, dark secrets.

  One Saturday afternoon when she started her shift, I was ill in bed because I couldn’t stop being sick—an effect of the alcohol and drugs I’d been given at the party the night before. It felt as if my soul was sick, too, dying a little more each day.

  She entered the dorm, a cup of soup in her hand and a sympathetic smile on her face. ‘How are you feeling, sweetie?’

  With shaky arms, I lifted myself to a seated position. ‘I think I’ve got a stomach bug.’

  She put the mug on the floor and felt my clammy head with her palm. ‘You are hot. Do you think you can eat something now?’

  I looked at the soup, and my stomach flipped. Maybe I could just go on hunger strike, never eat anything again, and slowly waste away. ‘I don’t feel like it, sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have anything to apologise for.’ She plumped up the thin, hard pillow behind me then seemed to notice a large bruise above my elbow from where I’d been held in position by those men. She lifted the arm of my T-shirt up higher to get a better look, her eyes narrowing, then her eyes met mine. ‘Is there something going on, Jamie? Something with Mr Scholes or Mr Barker?’

  I blinked hard and shook my head, making the room spin nauseously.

  She pursed her lips, frowning. Then she glanced over her shoulder, at the closed door, before looking back at me again. ‘I think there is, Jamie. Something’s not right here.’

  I couldn’t look at her.

  ‘Some children disappear suddenly, far too quickly for them to have found a foster placement or transfer without notification. Some boys have too many bruises and marks on them for it to be the normal rough and tumble of playing.’ She rested her hand on mine. ‘Are they beating you?’

  I made an unintelligible sound, like a squeak. If only that were all it was.

  ‘You can tell me what’s going on, Jamie. I can help you. But I need to know exactly what’s happening.’

  I thought about how I’d told Miss Percival. Now things were even worse, there was no way I could tell Rose. Scholes really would kill me this time, or one of the other men from the parties.

  I fiddled with the sheet, not daring to look at her. ‘Could you take me home with you?’

  ‘Awww, sweetie, I wish I could.’ She gathered me towards her in a hug.

  I rested my head on her shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut, clutching on tight and never wanting to let her go.

  ‘I’ve got two children of my own,’ she said. ‘I’d love to take you home, but I just can’t. I’m so sorry, Jamie.’

  Of course she couldn’t take me anywhere. I knew it was a pathetic and ridiculous idea as soon as I’d said it. ‘Nothing’s going on, miss.’

  She held me for a while, stroking my back, then she let me go, resting her hands on my shoulders and staring deep into my eyes. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

  I nodded and reached down for my soup to stop the questions. ‘I think I can manage a bit of this now.’

  She opened her mouth, as if to say something more, then apparently changed her mind, patted my shoulder, and left.

  As the weeks passed, Rose seemed increasingly more watchful of Barker and Scholes with the other boys. Whenever we were on our own, she’d ask me the same questions. Was I okay? Was there something going on? Were they physically abusive? At first, I answered in the way I’d learned to. ‘Everything’s fine. Nothing’s going on here.’ But then I began to trust her. I could tell by her expressions when she looked at the other staff that she didn’t like them. Could tell she was one of the few people who’d ever actually cared for the people in care. Could she really help me? It was different this time than Miss Percival, because Rose actually worked here. She suspected first-hand something was going on, and she knew us boys, she knew we wouldn’t lie.

  ‘I can’t help you unless you tell me exactly what they’re doing,’ Rose said to me one day during free time when we were on our own. She held my hand tightly. ‘You can trust me, Jamie. I can take this further. But I need to know. I need you to tell me.’ I glanced over her shoulder and spotted Barker walking towards us, a smile on his face.

  ‘It’s nothing, miss.’ I slid my hand from hers and walked away.

  But Rose didn’t let up, and as the time passed, I convinced myself she could be the one person I could tell about the horrors going on here and at the Big House.

  The day I finally plucked up the courage to tell her everything was a Sunday. We had free time, and I sat in the grounds, alone, waiting for her to arrive and start her shift, my palms sweaty, my heart racing, hardly daring to breathe.

  And I waited. And waited. But she didn’t come. She’d just disappeared without saying goodbye, and I never saw her again. She didn’t care after all.

  But the desperate urge to tell had taken hold again now and refused to go away. It consumed me. I was thirteen. How could I survive another three years in here? I just didn’t know how, though, or who would listen and actually help. But about six months later, we were informed there was going to be a children’s home inspection of Crossfield, and I decided I would try to tell the inspector instead. I didn’t know whether the inspector would speak to us all individually or whether we would be supervised by Barker and Scholes at all times. I suspected we would be, but then I had the idea of writing the inspector a letter. Maybe I could put it in his pocket when he came round. Maybe I could leave it under the windscreen wipers on his car. I would make the letter anonymous so it could never fall back on me. That was better. Much better than telling someone face-to-face. If they didn’t know it was me, they couldn’t punish me, and he’d still have to do something. Wouldn’t he?

  I didn’t tell the others. I couldn’t face the negativity when they would tell me it wouldn’t work, that no one would listen; no one would do anything. I’d heard it so many times. But I still had to try. Like Billy, I didn’t know how much more I could take.

  We were all on extra cleaning duty before the inspector arrived. Barker wanted the place spotless, and I was assigned to cleaning the kitchen with Dave. And as we wiped and polished and mopped, Dave whispered his usual crazy ideas of running away.

  ‘I’ll go into the centre of London,’ he said as he shined the steel worktops. ‘It’s massive. No one will be able to find me.’

  I nodded and tried to shut him out as I swept the floor. I was still trying to work out in my head the right things to put in the letter.

  ‘You could come with me.’

  I swept harder and ignored him.

  ‘Eventually, I’ll get a job and a place to stay.’

  ‘You’re thirteen,’ I snapped. �
�How are you going to get a job? As soon as they know who you are, they’ll send you straight back.’ My plan was much better.

  ‘So I’ll just live on the streets for three years. Then they can’t touch me, can they? I’ve got to get out of here.’

  I stopped sweeping and leant my elbow on the brush. ‘You’ve been talking about it for years, so either shut up about it or go and do it!’ I spat. I didn’t know why I was angry at Dave. It wasn’t his fault, but at that moment, I couldn’t help it. The anger had to go somewhere, or it would consume me. Drag me down into a big, blank nothingness.

  Dave glared at me. ‘No wonder you’re always the fairy. You stupid little girl!’

  Something exploded inside me, and I launched myself across the room, diving into Dave. We fell to the hard tiled floor in a writhing heap, our fists and legs flying. It didn’t last long. The next minute, I was being pulled off Dave by Scholes.

  He gripped each of us by the scruff of our jumpers, holding us apart. Dave’s right eye was already swelling. My lip was cut, blood dripping onto my jumper.

  ‘What are you doing, you animals!’ Scholes yelled

  I laughed uncontrollably then. I was the animal?

  Scholes dragged us up by our collars and pulled us both along the corridor by our ears. I was thrown into the cleaning cupboard, and the door was locked behind me. I didn’t know where Dave was put. It was only because Scholes was busy organising everything for the inspector that he didn’t beat or abuse us further.

  I sat on the floor in the dark, the smell of bleach scratching at my throat and nostrils, and all the time I was still desperately thinking of the right things to write in my letter. I’d show Scholes and Barker. I’d show those sick excuses for human beings in the Big House. Someone would come when they read it. Someone would do something to get us out of hell.

  A couple of hours later, Scholes dragged me by my ear back downstairs to the common room to mop the floor.

  ‘If I hear one peep out of you, you’ll be spending the night in the cellar,’ he warned before turning on his heels and leaving me to it.

  A couple of hours later, he came back. He walked casually around the room, his arms folded, scrutinising the floor. ‘It still looks filthy.’ He kicked the bucket of water over on the floor so it ran out in a dirty river over the newly cleaned floorboards. ‘Do it again. And you’ll get no dinner tonight.’

  It took another two hours. The bell went for dinner, but I ignored the rumbling in my stomach. We were always hungry—there was never enough to eat, and I was used to the pangs gnawing at me by now. Hunger pangs were the easy part. I carried on mopping and watched the other boys through the window as they filed out for free time. Carefully, I rinsed out the mop and bucket, put them back in the cleaning cupboard, and stole upstairs to the dorm.

  I took one of my school notebooks and tore a sheet out of the back. Then I began writing.

  I should’ve slept well that night because no one crept into our room to take a child. Maybe they were too busy with the finishing touches for the inspection. But my mind raced uncontrollably as I imagined the inspector reading my letter. The horrified expression on his face when he knew what went on at Crossfield. When he discovered the parties where we’d seen another boy’s life snuffed out for their sick pleasure without a second thought. I pictured people coming to rescue us, storming the house, taking us to safety. Somewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t here. A place people would give us the love and attention we needed. Where our bellies would be full and the sexual and physical abuse would be over. A letter was the only way we would be getting out of here.

  I was dressed before the alarm bell went off that morning, sitting on my bed, fidgeting, waiting for the others so we could descend the stairs in silent single file. I forced myself to swallow watery porridge, even though it was hard to get it past my throat, which was tight with the anxiety and excitement that we’d soon be leaving the house of horrors, because if I didn’t eat, I’d be made to eat it from the floor, or it would be back there for me at lunchtime or dinner time, congealed and hard, probably with a cigarette butt or lump of dirt or fluff added by Scholes.

  We heard whispers as we finished breakfast that the inspector had arrived and was talking to Barker in his office. Scholes made us clear and wash the breakfast things and then told us to line up in the common room, glaring at us all with hateful, narrowed eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen him look nervous or worried.

  ‘The inspector is going to speak to each of you in turn. Just make sure you tell him what a nice place this is and how lucky you are to be here. Anyone who steps out of line will be in for some severe punishment. I don’t want you bunch of ungrateful bastards telling tales!’

  Butterflies danced in my chest as I fingered the letter in my pocket. If Scholes stood at the entrance to the common room, he wouldn’t be able to see me slip it into the inspector’s pocket.

  We lined up as ordered. I glanced down the row at my friends, who were staring at the floor. Barker swung open the door to the common room with a beaming smile on his face, closely followed by another man.

  The butterflies turned to snakes, writhing and biting my insides with their venomous teeth as the horrible realisation took hold.

  The inspector wouldn’t help us.

  The inspector was the grey-haired old man from Crompton Place.

  MAYA

  Chapter 21

  In those few moments when I did eventually fall asleep, I kept having the same dream. It was dark, just the full moon lighting the way. I was in some woods, running, the branches scratching at my nightdress. In the distance, I saw Jamie. He walked through the trees slowly, without a care in the world. I called out to him, but he couldn’t hear me. I called again, telling him to stop. To wait. To wait for me. But he still couldn’t hear. I ran faster, my hair whipping around my face, sharp twigs and branches digging and slicing into my bare feet. But I wasn’t moving forwards. It was as if I was stuck behind an invisible wall, and Jamie was getting further and further away from me. I glanced at my feet, and there was so much blood oozing out from the cuts. I looked behind me and noticed a trail of it, sticky and glistening and bright, bright red, where I’d been. I screamed out his name frantically, but no sound came out, and he still couldn’t hear me. Wild with fear, I put all my effort into a last burst of energy. I had to get to him. Make him stop. I yelled as hard as I could, and this time he did hear. He was so far away that his features were blurred, apart from maggots writhing around in his empty eye sockets. He raised a hand, waving. And then he turned away from me and walked off, disappearing into the trees that swallowed him whole.

  I screamed myself awake, my breath coming in jagged bursts, convinced I could hear Jamie saying, Maya, I’m leaving now.

  My pillow was wet with tears and cold sweat, the sheets in a tangle around my legs. I wanted to pull the covers over my head and never get out of bed. Wanted to rewind my life to before Jamie was killed. Do something differently. Maybe I could’ve stopped it happening somehow. If only Jamie had talked to me. We could’ve dealt with whatever was going on together. I could’ve kept him safe. Why hadn’t he trusted me enough to tell me what was going on?

  My mobile phone rang on my bedside table. It was Ava.

  ‘Hiya, Maya,’ she said sombrely. ‘I’m not going to be nice to you, so don’t panic.’

  I sighed, rubbing a hand over my sweaty face. How much wine had I drunk last night? I had to stop drinking, but I couldn’t. ‘I don’t think I can do this today. I don’t want to go.’

  ‘You can. You have to say goodbye.’

  ‘I don’t want to remember him in a coffin.’ I blinked up at the ceiling. A waft of stale sweat hit me from the sheets. I wasn’t about to wash them. Not when I could still smell him. I couldn’t wash away all traces of him. Not yet. ‘It’s not that I don’t care, of course it’s not. God, anything but that. It’s because I still love him so much, I can’t face seeing it. It means it’s really final. Would it look bad
if I didn’t go? I don’t think I can handle it.’

  She paused. ‘I know how you feel. I’m not going to force you to do anything, but I think it will actually help the grieving process. This is a way to say your goodbyes. It is final because it has to be. If there’s no finality, you can’t start to rebuild your life.’

  I wiped the tears streaming down my cheeks. ‘I don’t want to rebuild my life without him.’

  ‘Oh, hon, you say that now, and that’s completely understandable.’

  ‘Just because funerals are expected, who says they’re right for everyone that’s left behind? I’m not ready. I can’t go.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Then she added, ‘Bitch,’ trying to lighten the mood and make a joke.

  It didn’t work. ‘I mean, really, why do we have to have funerals? Why can’t we say goodbye in our own time?’

  ‘People will expect you to be there. It’s all arranged. Your friends are coming. Jamie’s colleagues. They’ll be saying goodbye, too.’

  ‘But would they really care if I wasn’t there? And what happens after, at the wake, when they’re all standing around talking about him as if they knew him, when no one knew him like me. And making stupid comments and offering condolences that aren’t going to bring him back!’

  ‘Everyone’s going to understand that you’ll be upset. And I’m going to be there to support you. I’ll be holding your hand every step of the way. Say the word and I’ll take you back home on your own.’

  I sniffed. ‘You promise?’

  ‘With all my heart. I’m dropping Jackson off at Craig’s parents’ at twelve, and I’ll collect him after the wake. I’ll pick you up at half past, okay?’

  I wiped my eyes again. I didn’t know how I still had any tears left. I was exhausted with crying. With worrying. With struggling to find an answer. Exhausted with living. ‘Sorry to be so difficult. I don’t want to be like this, I just…’