Tell Tale (28 page)

My bemused smile drops away, wondering if it will ever not hurt – from the cut on my cheek that’s taking an age to heal, to the internal bruising that makes me live life blank-faced. ‘What a shame I didn’t see it then,’ I say. I make a mental note to find out more about staff emails and the internet.

‘So, you like Henri Matisse,’ he states. ‘I score one point for finding something else out about you.’

‘You’re keeping score?’ I ask incredulously.

‘Would you like to go to a gallery at the weekend? There’s an exhibition in Leeds that I think you’d love.’

‘I’m no art critic. I have uniforms to put away and sports kits to fold and . . .’ I shake my head, walking away. But I stop when I see the empty road ahead, the vast blank landscape of my life stretching before me. I turn back.
‘Maybe we
could
go to a gallery one day.’ I close my eyes. ‘I think I’d like that.’ It’s hard to tell him how much.

‘You can wear my wig if you join in the fun run,’ he calls out, making me smile, shake my head, quite unable to take another step away from him.

Fliss and Jenny promised not to tell. Although after I broke down and sobbed on to the keyboard, they were wary of me. ‘Miss? Miss, are you going to be all right?’

I heaved up my head. They hovered by the door, keen to get out before they were caught. They had essays to write.

‘Go,’ I told them. I nodded a thank you and they left, leaving me crying on to the desk. What I’d just seen had loosened every tendon, every muscle, every cell of resolve in my body. I was limp from sadness.

After Jenny had finished swooning from the flowers that some boy had sent her on Afterlife, she ran my requested search. Eight Josephine Kennedys appeared on the screen – a more common name than I imagined. The one I was tracking down was third on the list.

‘There,’ I said, breathless, shaking. I stared at the tiny photograph, intrigued by the unfamiliarity of her face. I swallowed but my mouth was dry. Beneath her name, I read
Location: Portishead.
My heart galloped through a run of palpitations at the prospect of getting a glimpse of her remote world.

Jenny clicked on the name. ‘She hasn’t been online for about two weeks.’

‘How do you know?’ I gripped the edge of the desk. It was information. Already more than I expected.

‘It says here, look.’ Jenny wiggled the mouse pointer over an information bar. ‘Last login was the tenth of October.’

Now I know what Josephine Kennedy did on the tenth day of October.
I marvelled at that simple fact.

‘What do those mean?’ I asked. I wanted more. There was a row of little icons next to her name.

Fliss and Jenny glanced at each other and sighed. ‘Game stuff. It’s a summary of information about how she plays, what she does, what she has.’ The girls enjoyed knowing more than I did.

‘This heart means she’s looking for love.’ Fliss smiled.

‘She is?’ My heart raced. ‘And what’s that?’

‘It means she has her profile set to private. Unless you’re on her list of friends, you won’t be able to see her details.’

‘And to get on her friends’ list, I have to make a character, right?’

Jenny glanced at her watch and then at the door. ‘Right.’

I was about to give up, about to thank the girls for the glimpse into this other life, when suddenly Josephine Kennedy’s profile lit up from its dim offline status. ‘Online Now’ blinked in neon green beneath her name.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked. I leaned in to the screen. My eyes gaped wide to drink it all up, while my fingers spread rigid across the desk. I didn’t think I’d have the wherewithal to operate the mouse.

‘You’re in luck,’ Fliss said. ‘She’s just logged in. There’s
always someone you know hanging out on Afterlife. That’s why it’s so cool.’

‘She’s at her computer
now
?’ My breathing was quick and shallow.

‘Yeah, of course.’ Jenny sounded incredulous at my ignorance. ‘Do you want to say hi? I can send a hug or a smile. It’s a kind of no strings attached “hello”.’

‘No! No, don’t.’ I sat staring at the screen until it flickered once again.

Jenny refreshed the browser. ‘Look. She’s just changed her mood and tag line.’

‘What do you mean?’ My eyes were cloudy. Focusing on the tiny words was nearly impossible.

‘She’s set her current mood to
unstable
,’ Fliss said.

‘And her tag line just states:
Why?’
Jenny added, sounding puzzled. ‘Usually people put a favourite quote or saying in there.’

My hand came up to the screen, my fingers spreading a distant safety net around Josephine Kennedy’s virtual life. Everything in the IT room became insignificant and blurred. All I could see was the glowing screen, a halo of light around her words.

‘Because I had no choice,’ I told her as my throat clamped shut.

My head dropped on to the desk as the first proper tears began to flow. When I looked up, I saw that Josephine Kennedy was offline again as if she’d never really existed.

The villagers of Roecliffe spill from their houses to watch the annual spectacle. Some have made banners and some have stuck bunting to their front windows. They cheer as the girls run past, throwing coins into their buckets.

‘I didn’t . . . realise that I was . . . so . . . unfit.’ I also didn’t realise that looking ridiculous would help take my mind off things, but it does. I am wearing a pink tutu and fairy wings dug up from the bottom of the drama group costume box. A sixth-former lent me some knee-high stripy socks. Lexi painted bright circles of turquoise around my eyes and daubed on scarlet lipstick. Hardly a professional make-up job, but it makes me the perfect partner for Adam as we jog through the village. ‘What’s this in . . . aid of? It’d better be worthwhile.’ I attempt a smile.

‘A local children’s home,’ he replies, hardly sounding out of breath at all. ‘We do this every year. The kids get to go to Scarborough for a day. It pays for the coach, meals, gifts, that kind of thing.’

It stops me in my tracks. ‘Children’s home?’

‘Yes. It’s in Harrogate. It’s council-run and funds are low.’ Adam stops beside me, forgetting he looks ridiculous. ‘It’s a cause very close to my heart.’

I’m panting, trying to collect my thoughts, prevent my insides from pouring out.

‘After the children’s home in Roecliffe was closed down, the locals wanted to raise money for a similar charity. From what I’ve heard, everyone was very badly shaken by the horrendous events going on right on their doorsteps. It was their way of making good from bad. It’s a tradition now.’

‘I don’t see how throwing a few coins into buckets is going to help . . .’

Adam isn’t listening to me. He steps on to the pavement, pulling me with him as half a dozen men jog past dressed as nurses. Bystanders whoop and clap.

‘To begin with, it was just the villagers who raised money, but when the hall was sold off and the school opened, the pupils were invited to help each year.’

‘I see,’ I say, my heart rate returning to somewhere near normal. ‘So the children’s home in Harrogate has nothing to do with . . .’ I make a gesture back towards the school.

Adam is already shaking his head. ‘None of the pupils or staff associate what happened in the nineteen eighties with life at school here today. It’s not something the headmaster broadcasts to prospective parents.’

‘So Mr Palmer knows about what went on . . . the murders?’ It’s hard to say the word.

‘Of course,’ Adam says, surprised. ‘Back then, he was a teacher at the village primary school. He’s a local man through and through.’

The cries and calls of the crowd shatter my thoughts. Mr Palmer was a teacher at the primary school. Like a photograph album flipping in the wind, I see images of children, of schools, of worn-out shoes, of blackjack sweets, of toothless grins, of whips and bloody backs. I smell the wood smoke, taste the foul food, feel the desolation – once again, I see the faceless man.

Mr Palmer,
I repeat over and over in my mind. The name means nothing to me.

‘Why the sudden interest? Has my book whetted your appetite for a bit of mystery?’

‘I’m just careful about charity donations. I like to know where my money’s going.’ Adam’s crazy colours glow neon. I can see he doesn’t believe me.

‘And here’s me thinking you wanted to help me interview one of the locals.’ Adam’s eyebrows rise hopefully.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’re being left behind.’

It’s true. The carnival-like group from the school has jogged down Roecliffe’s main street and is nothing but a wash of banners, whoops, and brilliant colours in the distance. Adam kicks off running again, a slight tinge of dismay creeping across his clown face. His pace is nothing compared to how we started out. By the time we draw level with Frazer Barnard’s cottage, he has stopped and stands with his arms folded in the middle of the street.

‘What’s wrong? Giving up already?’ I turn and jog on the spot. I just want to get this over with and return to the monotony of folding sheets and sewing on name tapes.

‘Would you like a drink in the pub?’ Adam asks.

‘I thought you wanted to support the charity run? A drink in the pub is hardly the idea, is it?’

‘What if I promised to make a fifty-pound donation on our behalf? Would you come then?’

Up the street, the group of runners is nearly out of sight. I can just hear the sound of coins being chucked into buckets. ‘You promise to make a donation?’ I imagine the kids singing on the coach to Scarborough, see them licking ice creams, hear the pinball machines ringing as they pump
in the loose change from our buckets. It makes me want to empty my pockets.

‘I’ll drive the kids to Scarborough myself if I have to.’ Adam pulls off his wig. ‘To be honest, I hate running.’ His hair sticks up from static, until he sees me looking, until he flattens it down. He seems oddly at home in the Yorkshire village, even though his accent, sandy hair and tanned skin place him on an Australian surf beach. He ruffles his hair again, suddenly self-conscious.

‘I’ll have to be quick then.’ My hand rises to my mouth. I just agreed to go to a pub with Adam. It feels good, even though I’m filled with guilt. ‘It’ll be mayhem in the dorms once the girls get back from the run.’

Adam says he wants to smoke so we sit outside. It’s mild for the end of October and there are several tables on the pavement in front of the Duck and Partridge. I straddle a bench, sipping on the half-pint of ale Adam bought me. He rolls a cigarette. The dappled light, the young couple sitting at the next table, the bag of cheese and onion crisps that gets tossed my way, even the silly costume make me feel just one per cent normal.

‘I’m having trouble,’ Adam says. The unlit cigarette hangs from between his lips. A flurry of ideas swims behind his intense blue eyes. He thinks I know what he’s talking about.

‘With what?’ I bite a crisp in half.

‘My book, of course. It’s always the book. I can’t concentrate on anything else.’

‘Do you think writing it will help you find your sister?’
He glares at me as if only he is allowed to mention her.

He ignores my question. ‘So will you come to that exhibition in Leeds with me? I saw a leaflet for it. It’s only on for another few days. “Beyond Expressionism”. Sounds good, eh?’

‘Answer my question, Adam.’ My voice is soft, resigned, nearly a whisper. It makes his pupils dilate, even in the sunshine. I don’t know what’s come over me.

He shrugs. ‘By writing the book, I’m hoping to find out
about
her, not where she is.’ In return, his tone is soft, accommodating, as though he understands that we are tracking a delicate dance around each other. ‘Now you tell me about your interest in art.’

‘Did I say I had one?’ It’s in Adam’s nature to dig and delve. He wouldn’t be a historian otherwise.

‘It was just the way you were looking at the portraits in the library. Stacked up with laundry, one eye on the subject, the other on the artist. And what you said, about the pictures taking a long time to appreciate, it’s true. Most people only give a painting a quick glance. Considering how many hours’ work go into—’

‘Will you help me get on the internet at school?’ I interrupt him on purpose. This has to stop.

‘Of course,’ he says with the unlit cigarette still bobbing between his lips.

‘I’m looking for someone too,’ I blurt out. ‘Only this person’s not lost.’

Adam withdraws the cigarette from his mouth and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. He exhales, as if
there’s been something to inhale. He squints at me through non-existent smoke, taking an accompanying sip of his pint. ‘You’re like the leaves of a book, Miss Gerrard.’ And before I can pull away, Adam is drawing a line underneath the cut on my cheek saying, ‘There are more than two sides to every tale.’

In nineteen eighty-four, Roecliffe Children’s Home was given a special award by the council. It was cause for celebration. Many homes across the area had been closed down or failed inspections, according to Patricia, but Roecliffe was the council’s flagship institution. It was a shining light in the land of lost children.

That summer, there was a presentation. The mayor came, all draped in gold chains, and a shield was presented to Mr Leaby. He told us, through gritted teeth and a smile I’d never seen before, not to touch the trophy as he posed for the local papers. He didn’t want our grubby mitts on it, he said.

‘Get a couple of the kids around you, sir,’ one of the photographers called out. Mr Leaby stood stiffly next to the mayor. I was pulled by the arm and pressed between them. ‘Smile, love,’ the man behind the camera said. Mr Leaby’s hand slid down my back and settled on my bottom just as I was blinded by a hundred flashes from the camera.

‘Oh, Ava, look, you’ve got your eyes shut,’ Miss Maddocks said, chuckling, as we all pored over the half
page spread when the
Skipton Mail
came out three days later.

Eyes screwed up, more like, I thought. I was fifteen. I knew what it all meant. After nearly eight years at the home, I’d figured it all out. It was arranged in layers, a bit like the trifle we had only at Christmas. Us kids were the fruit at the bottom – the overripe bananas and peaches with brown dents on our skin. We were the stuff nobody wanted but didn’t have the heart to throw away.