Follow the Leader
Authors: Mel Sherratt
ALSO BY MEL SHERRATT
Taunting the Dead
Watching over You
Somewhere to Hide
Behind a Closed Door
Fighting for Survival
Secrets on the Estate
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Mel Sherratt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc.,
or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 978-1477821855
ISBN-10: 1477821856
Cover design by bürosüd
o
München,
www.buerosued.de
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014915178
To Alison, for making this journey extra special.
Contents
This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on his thumb.
With a knick-knack, paddy-whack,
Give the dog a bone.
This old man came rolling home.
1983
Patrick sat alone. Across the playground he could see the other children playing and talking to their friends. Screams and squeals erupted every few seconds. He kept his head down.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a girl coming towards him. He clutched his bag to his chest and looked everywhere but at her. She stopped in front of him, a gangly specimen of a ten-year-old who hadn’t yet grown into her body. Long legs and arms, thin torso, oval face. Pigtails in her blonde hair, braces on her teeth, yet the makings of something special in the years to come.
His overgrown fringe resting on his National Health glasses, Patrick stared at her. It was Sandra Seymour. She was in his class but normally she’d ignore him completely in the classroom or push right through him in the corridor, as if he weren’t there. He often wished that he wasn’t. But then again, it’s not as if he wanted to be at home either.
‘You done your English homework essay?’ she asked, nudging his foot with hers.
Patrick didn’t move, thinking she was talking to someone who had snuck up behind him. They often did that, the kids in his year – made him think they wanted to talk to him, pick him out for their sports team or maths quiz team. But most of the time, they would be talking to someone behind him who would push him aside to step forward. Make a fool of him. Make him feel like they wanted him around when they didn’t.
‘I said, have you done your homework essay?’ she repeated, her tone a little exasperated.
Patrick nodded.
‘Can I look? I saw what you wrote about Arnold Bennett last week – it was so cool.’
Patrick puffed out his chest. Arnold Bennett had been easy to write about. He’d had a bit of trouble trying to grasp the
language
reading the books, but learning about the Potteries in the early
twentieth
century had kept him enthralled for many an hour.
Bennett
was the finest writer the Potteries had ever produced, and it wasn’t as if they’d had to read all his gazillions of books;
Anna of the Five Towns. Clayhanger. The Old Wives’ Tale.
He’d got into so much trouble, though, when his dad ripped up his school library book after he’d come home from the pub.
‘So I wanted to see what you’ve written this week.’ Sandra held out a hand. ‘You’re so clever.’
Patrick shook his head.
‘Come on,’ she encouraged.
Still he said nothing. The seconds ticked by.
Sandra sighed loudly. ‘Well, I’ll just have to pinch it then, won’t I?’ She made a grab for his bag.
Patrick held on tight to the strap as she pulled it off his shoulder but he wasn’t a match for her peevish strength. Neither was the bag, a cheap supermarket one some neighbour had left on the doorstep. There’d been a pile of hand-me-down clothes inside it. He’d come home the next day to find his dad burning them all in the yard, cursing loudly, saying they didn’t want anyone’s
fucking charity.
He let go before the contents ended up in the muddy puddles that covered the tarmac surface.
Pulling the bag out of his grip, Sandra stepped back, wiping her hair out of her face. ‘It would have been easier just to hand it to me,’ she pouted.
‘Give it back.’ Patrick’s voice came out croaky: he hadn’t spoken in a while. He held out his hand.
Sandra pulled out an exercise book, dropping the bag to the floor, and leafed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. ‘Here it is,’ she said.
‘Give it back!’
He reached for it but she moved from his grip. Then she took hold of the page, ripped it out and screwed it up.
‘Don’t do that!’ Patrick stepped forward.
With a sweet smile, Sandra held the book out to him. But before Patrick could take it from her, she was off, streaking across the playground. Her pigtails bobbed up and down as she weaved in and out among the other kids.
And then Patrick was chasing her. Faster, faster his legs went, his arms pumping away quickly as he tried to gain ground.
Sandra looked back at him over her shoulder. ‘You can’t catch me!’ she laughed as she ran, kicking the boys’ football as it got in her way, pushing the girls huddled around a magazine to one side. At the far end of the playground, she reached a row of sheds where the outdoor games equipment was kept. She disappeared out of sight behind them.
Patrick smirked. Silly cow. There was no way out at the far end; he had her trapped. He raced around the corner . . .
An arm grabbed him around his neck, pulling him backwards. He felt himself being turned. His shoulders hit the shed wall with a thud. A forearm across his chest and he was pinned there by the weight of a body.
He looked into the eyes of one of his bullies: Mickey.
‘Gerroffme!’ Patrick struggled even though he knew it was
useless
.
‘Shut your mouth, Shorty, or I’ll thump you in it,’ Mickey hissed in his ear.
Even if he wanted to shout out again, the lump in his throat stopped him. Behind Mickey stood three more boys, all from his class too: Gray, Johnno and Whitty.
Johnno repeatedly punched a fist into his outstretched open palm as he stared at Patrick. ‘We’re going to mash you up good and proper,’ he said. ‘You’re nothing but a pervert, Shorty.’
‘I haven’t done anything!’ Patrick cried.
‘Sandra is Johnno’s girl,’ Mickey told him, ‘and you were trying to kiss her.’
‘I wasn’t!’ Patrick looked over at Sandra, expecting her to back him up, but she stayed silent.
‘You were – and you’re going to pay for it.’
Mickey’s fist slammed into his mouth, then into his stomach. Patrick groaned, trying to breathe through the pain. He gasped for air: you’d think he’d be used to pain by now.
Shoved to the ground, he heard laughter above him. A kick to the back. Another. One in the leg. He curled up into a ball. Through it all, he could see Sandra standing in front of him, arms folded, a snide smile crossing her face this time.
‘Let this be a lesson to you, my boy.’ Mickey stood over him, using a grown-up voice and pointing his finger at him. ‘Don’t mess with the best.’
There was time for one more kick before they left him alone. Lying still, he watched as they walked away, saw Sandra grab for Johnno’s hand and look up at him adoringly when he placed his arm around her shoulders.
Bleeding and tearful, Patrick pulled himself to sitting and waited for the bell to ring, for everyone to go back inside for the next lesson. Drops of blood had made a mess of his shirt; his trousers were stained where he’d landed on the grass. He tried not to cry at the thought of going home, knowing he would get a beating from his father. And it wouldn’t be because his clothes were dirty. It would be because he had lost another fight. An unfair fight, but his father wouldn’t listen. ‘You should learn to stick up for yourself,’ he’d say. ‘Take it like a man, and learn to fight back like a man,’ he’d say.
What did he know? It was easy for him to say that.
Patrick coughed, wiped the blood from his lip and got to his feet cautiously. One day, when he was big and strong, and able to stand up for himself, they would all get their comeuppance. He’d make sure of that.
Chapter One
Allie Shenton awoke in darkness, the beats of
A Town Called
Malice
bursting into the quiet of the bedroom as the alarm went off at six a.m.
‘No, no, no!’ Her husband, Mark, yawned as he turned over and spooned into her back, his hand across her waist. ‘It can’t be time to get up already. And can’t you change that flipping song?’
‘I happen to like The Jam.’
‘So do I. Just not at this time of the morning.’
‘What would you prefer me to use?’
‘“Wake the fuck up – it’s time to go to work,” done in your best Homer Simpson voice, would be better than that.’
Allie reached over to her mobile phone and tapped Snooze, giving them another ten minutes before they started their day. Already, she could feel the contrast of the chill in the bedroom against the warmth radiating from underneath the duvet.
It was Monday morning – but not just any Monday morning, which in itself would be a ball-ache: today was the first day back after the Christmas and New Year break. Both Mark and Allie had managed to snag time off from Christmas Eve onward, and now it was all over. January fifth 2015. Mark would go back to the bank where he oversaw the commercial section, and she would go back to her job as detective sergeant at Hanley Police Station.
‘Do we have to get up?’ Mark nuzzled into her neck.
Allie squirmed. ‘I suppose we do.’
‘We could pretend that you forgot to set your alarm. That would give us a couple more hours.’
‘You know I have to keep my phone on.’
‘I could say I dropped it down the loo or something.’
Allie reached behind and slapped his thigh. ‘Nice try, but some of us actually enjoy going to work.’
‘You’re just sadistic.’
‘I know.’
‘We could say you left it in the car.’ His hand crept up her pyjama top, caressing her stomach and moving up over her breast. She let out a gentle moan and turned over to face him.
‘But that would be a lie.’ She bit gently on his bottom lip.
‘A good one, nonetheless.’
Mark kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Might as well get up, then.’ He gave her bottom a squeeze before getting out of bed and heading into the en-suite. ‘Jesus Christ – it’s cold.’
Allie snuggled down into the bed again, her thoughts turning to the beginning of another year. This Christmas had been hard – they all were. Instead of spending time with her family, Allie was reminded (as if it wasn’t with her every day) that there was no one left. Seventeen years ago, her sister Karen had been raped, beaten badly and left for dead. She’d suffered damage to her brain,
leaving
her severely handicapped and mentally incapable of looking after herself. Their parents hadn’t survived the grief much longer. And though Allie knew she’d never rest until the rapist was found, it had been a real shock when, three years ago on New Year’s Eve, she’d received a note allegedly from
Karen’s
attacker. Allie had tried often to push it away but the words came back to haunt her every time she visited Karen at her
residential home.
‘Karen, until we meet again, my fallen angel.
One day you will be all mine.
And you, little sister, Allie.
Don’t you ever stop looking for me.’
Allie despised herself for feeling vulnerable whenever she entered the residential home, yet she couldn’t help it. This man, this animal, was possibly watching her. And it had made the accountability that she hadn’t been there for her sister even more unacceptable. She would never forgive herself for being fifteen minutes late to pick Karen up on the night in question. Fifteen life-changing minutes, not just for Karen, but for the whole family until both their parents had died.
She had always blamed herself – it
had
been her fault. If she hadn’t stayed that extra few minutes with Mark, if she had behaved as a proper sister to Karen, she would have been there on time.
But nothing more had come of the note. And at this time of the year, it always made her wonder again – had the words been an empty threat? Something else that she would never know. And that was more disturbing than the guilt she felt about keeping it away from Mark. Had she been right not telling him about the note, and the decaying rose that had been delivered along with it? She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as tears formed and threatened to spill at the injustice of it all.
After a moment’s calm, she scolded herself. She could either start the week with deep regret that would drag her down or she could do something that she knew would leave a smile on her face.
In a flash, she got up quickly and tiptoed through to the
e
n-
suite. The water was still running. She slipped off her pyjamas, stepped around the shower door. Her heart melted as she saw the grin flash across Mark’s face.
‘Need a hand washing yourself down, sir?’ she asked coyly, reaching for the soap.
Mickey Taylor walked along the canal path with hunched shoulders, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans to ward off the biting cold, a scowl on his handsome face. His daily walk with his dog hadn’t managed to cheer him up. Since when had his life become ruled by so many women? Everything he’d done over the years was for his family and how did his wife repay him? Nag, nag, nag. What with Kath
and
Molly, his seventeen-year-old daughter, still at home, he had it in duplicate. Walking by the canal with Harry was the only place he was guaranteed a bit of peace and quiet. His elder daughter, Rebecca, had left home three years ago but had come back recently. Luckily, she had just gone again – although now she was living near the Wirral with another bloke who had no brains and even less money. Mickey wondered how long it would be before she was back again, to the bank of Mum and Dad.
Harry, his Spaniel, ran to him, dropping the ball a few feet in front. Before Mickey could pick it up, he’d raced up the path away from him again. As he threw the ball, Mickey’s footsteps trod heavily along the narrow tarmac pathway. How many times he’d wished his life was as simple as his dog’s. Harry was fed, watered, fussed over and loved –
and
he had no responsibilities. Mickey was dictated to by the mood swings of three women. He threw the ball again, watching it rise into the air and arc down to the ground. He wished he could bounce away with it and go to wherever it landed. Trapped. That’s how he felt now.
Harry came scooting back to him, dropping the ball at his feet.
‘You’re such a lucky bastard, Harry,’ he said, picking the ball up again and lobbing it along the path.
‘Hey, Mickey! Wait up!’
Mickey turned to see a man coming towards him. ‘You after me, youth?’ he asked, his brow furrowing.
‘Yeah, I thought it was you when I saw you back there.’ The man threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction he’d just come from. ‘We used to know each other. Remember me?’
Mickey stared a while longer before recognition lit up his face. ‘Of course!’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Vaguely, yeah. Christ, man, that was years ago now. I haven’t seen you –’
The man ran forward and punched him in the stomach.
‘Christ, what’s wrong with you?’ Mickey stepped backwards. ‘You knocked the wind out of me.’ He clutched his middle, pulled away a hand, his face etched with disbelief when it came away covered in blood.
The man lunged at him again, the knife that was now visible going in and out twice before the attacker stepped deftly back out of his reach. Colour drained from Mickey’s face as he saw his own blood dripping from the edge of the blade.
Mickey staggered another step backwards. ‘What the fuck . . .’ He dropped to his knees, blood oozing through his fingers as he tried to cover the wounds.
The man drew back his foot. With a sickening sound, he caught Mickey on his chin. Pain seared through him as he felt his lower teeth smash into the top set. He fell over onto his back, blood pouring from his mouth.
The man straddled him quickly. Another stab – deeper this time. Again, the blade was removed.
‘Help me!’ Mickey croaked.
The man stood a few feet away from him as he gasped his last breath. His hand reached up and fell heavily.
The last thing Mickey saw as his head fell to the side was Harry on the path in the distance, the ball at his feet.