The Flyleaf Killer (7 page)

Steven had long been wary of Robert, careful to avoid antagonising the boy who never failed to retaliate swiftly and viciously when provoked. The desk-lid was obviously no accident and Steven was at a loss to understand why Robert should behave so spitefully and for no apparent reason. Nobody was likely to admit to having witnessed the ‘accident’, which simply went to prove that both in and out of the classroom Robert Strudwick could do pretty well as he pleased. Prudently, Steven decided against making a fuss: better to hold his tongue and bide his time.

Steven was a friendly, outgoing boy, well thought of by teachers, popular with schoolmates, girls and boys alike. He had struck up a friendship with Janice long before she had taken up with Robert Strudwick and grown quite fond of her in a brotherly sort of way. When she began going out with Robert, however, he realised his feelings were anything
but
brotherly, but by that time, it was too late to say so. He concealed his dismay, and even though it was the last thing he wanted, respected her right to go out with whomsoever she chose; he studiously avoided her as far as possible, and was careful never to interfere, even when Robert began playing fast and loose. Unhappy, perpetually subdued, Janice seemed resigned to Robert’s treachery. Poor, brave, Janice! She wilted. Yet, unwilling to exhibit distress or cause concern, she strove to maintain an appearance of normality, and might well have succeeded, were it not for Steven, watching from afar.

He had long decided he would keep an eye out for Janice and was devastated when the vivacious girl became dejected, lost weight, lacked colour and was frequently absent from school. Steven ached to take her in his arms and comfort her, yet wasn’t prepared to interfere with her relationship, unless and until she signalled a readiness to end it.

Shortly after the desk incident, Janice was making her way to classes, head lowered, her shoulders hunched, when Steven approached from behind, intending only to cheer her up.

‘What’s the matter, Jan?’ he asked, gently. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Have you been ill?’

‘It’s nothing, Stevie, thanks,’ Janice returned, with a wan smile. ‘Just a headache. I’ve had a few recently. But don’t worry. It’ll pass and I’ll be fine, but thanks for asking. Subject closed.’ There was a distinct air of weary finality in her voice. What did she mean?
‘Subject closed?’

Steven was having none of it. He grasped her by the arm to bring her plodding feet to a halt, took both her hands in his, turned her gently and looked her straight in the eye. His heart bled with pity at the abject misery he perceived in the pale, lined face and he became tender, protective, and solicitous.

‘Come on, Pud, you can’t fool me, you know. You’ve not been yourself for ages. If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, at least remember we’re friends and that I’ll help in any way I can.’

‘Thanks, Stevie. I’m all right, really. I’ll let you know if I need you.’

Steven nodded. Pressing harder might cause further distress— something he wished to avoid. Responding to his concern, Janice moved closer and kissed him on the lips, lightly, gratefully.

It was enough—for now! Holding her hand comfortingly, Steven walked the rest of the way without speaking—until they reached the school, where he stopped and turned to face her.

‘Now don’t forget, young lady,’ he lectured, ‘give me a shout if there’s anything I can do … anything at all. I really can’t bear to see you looking so pale and unhappy. Promise me?’

Janice nodded. Unshed tears glistened her eye and his enraptured heart lurched a second time. She smiled, disengaged her hand and hurried into school, leaving Steven to follow.

They weren’t to know that their walk together, that innocent kiss, the holding of hands, were all reported to Robert Strudwick.

The brightly-lit, open-fronted establishment—boasting a full-length, chromium-plated counter, matching stools and stainless-steel drinks-dispensers—was designed to attract passing trade and, more specifically, the younger generation: a place to meet, enjoy a snack, a soft drink … All of these things it did admirably.

Kingston’s Black & White Milk Bar, prominently situated opposite the bus station, had been refurbished and modernised during the late nineteen-forties. The attraction quickly ‘caught on’ and became practically an institution for teenagers for miles around, one of the few places they could meet freely, refresh themselves, gossip and generally ‘put the world to rights’.

Although the establishment had changed ownership several times, it retained a successful format, and continued to flourish throughout the decades into the nineties, despite competition.

For differing reasons and independently of one another, five teenagers travelled to Kingston one Saturday. They were Calvin Smith, Caroline Lucas, Francis Bridgwater, Malandra Pennington and Robert Strudwick. By chance, all five visited the milk bar around the same time and met, though none were close friends.

Malandra was sixteen, the others something beyond their fifteenth birthdays, an age when the opposite sex starts to become increasingly important, yet no serious relationship existed for any of them yet.

Of the girls, Malandra was easily the most attractive. Blonde, petite, with flawless complexion and beautiful hair, her near-perfect figure would be the envy of thousands. She dressed fashionably and wore just a trace of make-up, effectively applied. Malandra had no shortage of suitors.

Caroline wore her straight, light-brown hair pageboy style. She played basketball and netball, sewed, knitted and embroidered— and still took her teddy to bed. Her figure tended to the dumpy, and she dressed to disguise the embarrassing lumps on her chest. Unsure of her feelings towards boys—strange, unpleasant creatures—Caroline became confused and uncomfortable whenever one ventured close or appeared overly attentive.

At five foot ten, Calvin Smith would probably top six foot in a year or so. A popular boy, especially with girls, fair-haired, fresh-faced and freckled, he was an outstanding athlete. Calvin wasn’t the least bothered whether fair sex conquests were due to luck, looks or personality, or were simply the fringe benefits of sporting success—dammit, he simply enjoyed girls!

When it came to girls, classic looks put Francis Bridgwater in a league of his own. Well-travelled and worldly-wise, five foot seven and still growing, brown-eyed and handsome, Francis broke hearts regularly as he fell in and out of love: he was a ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ exponent.

Robert Strudwick assumed an ambitious, patronising attitude towards girls. He was inclined, sooner or later, to make overtures to practically every pretty female he met. Despite his reputation and general unpopularity, he achieved considerable success.

By 3.00 p.m. all three Kingston cinemas were in the throes of feature films, which explained the number of empty tables in the milk bar. Caroline was perched on a stool sipping coffee when Robert walked through the doorway. He spotted her at once and exchanged greetings as he climbed aboard the vacant seat at her side. He ordered an iced orange squash.

Caroline immediately became ill at ease and fiddled nervously with the handle of her cup; she was much too close to a boy whose reputation where girls were concerned left much to be desired. Noting her discomfort, Robert placed a reassuring hand on her arm, but she pulled away in alarm.

‘Keep your hands to yourself, Robert Strudwick!’ she ordered, with an angry toss of her head. ‘My name isn’t Janice. I’m not a twopenny tart you can pick up and dump as you please.’ She was clearly outraged; it was a public place; Robert apologised at once.

‘Sorry Caroline,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, but you seemed rather edgy and I was trying to be friendly…’ He seemed genuinely sincere.

‘Well, all right,’ she said, mollified. ‘But just remember,
I don’t like being mauled!’
She took a sip or two of coffee, apparently to steady her nerves. Robert’s drink arrived. He paid, took a swallow and returned the glass to the counter, then turned towards Caroline as if to speak, just as Francis and Malandra strolled in and made straight for the bar. Hard on their heels came Calvin Smith. Their arrival presented an opportunity for Robert to reassure Caroline further. He seized it.

‘Very well, Caroline,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the message. But look, there’s Malandra—and, oh, Calvin Smith. I vote we take our drinks and ask them to join us. There are loads of tables available and we could make up a party.’

Caroline nodded, whereupon Robert picked up his glass and headed for the newcomers, leaving the girl to follow. All five seated themselves around two tables pushed together, and fell into animated conversation. Nobody seemed to consider their meeting up in any way remarkable, which said a great deal for the popularity of the place.

Ignoring Caroline, Robert contrived to sit beside Malandra and attempted to monopolise her.

‘Hi Malandra, how are you doing? Wow, you look lovely, as usual, good enough to eat. Tell me, you tasty little thing,’ he smirked, ‘What are you doing in Kingston?’

Malandra giggled nervously, flattered despite herself.

‘I’m fine, thanks, Robert,’ she replied. ‘Just shopping for odds and ends. I ran into Frank in Bentalls. He was kind enough to offer me coffee, so here we are.’

On more than one occasion in recent weeks, Robert had unsuccessfully propositioned Malandra, and each time accepted her gentle evasion with a nonchalant smile, as though rejection wasn’t particularly important. It seemed strange, therefore, that he should make a play for her in public, and she was uncomfortably aware of the cold, compelling stare behind his thick, pebble lens glasses. She shivered, involuntarily. Strudwick seemed not to notice.

Lowering his voice, he murmured, ‘You
know
how I feel about you, gorgeous. I’m lonesome, I’m flush, so how about the pictures, my treat? There’s a cracking film at the Odeon…’

He placed a possessive hand on her arm. Malandra pushed him away. She wanted nothing to do with boys right now—especially Robert Strudwick; he was beginning to frighten her. Instinct told her to finish her coffee and catch the next bus home.
Bother rotten, conceited, one track-minded boys. God’s gift? Pooh, I hate the lot of them!
Maybe it was time
somebody
put arrogant, creepy Robert Strudwick in his place.

‘Thanks, but no thanks and
especially
no thanks,’ Malandra sneered, in obvious disgust. Her annoyance intensified as she went on, ‘You’re nothing but a weirdo, but in any case, you know perfectly well I came in with Frank, so what makes you think I’m likely to dump him for the likes of you?’ and she gave Francis a beseeching look.

‘Come off it, Malandra,’ Robert sneered. ‘Maybe you
did
come in with him, but so what? You’re not his girlfriend; never have been. So how about coming out with me? I fancy you rotten— always have
—and
you jolly-well know it!’

Again, his hand went to her arm and this time she flinched and drew away sharply.

‘Come
on
,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t play hard to get. I’m offering you a front seat on the balcony. Look, I’ve got plenty of cash!’ He flashed his wallet, stuffed with notes.

Malandra gave Francis another imploring look and this time he responded gallantly. He half rose from his seat and leaned across the table.

‘Why don’t you get stuffed, Strudwick?’ he snarled. ‘You heard what Malandra said. Keep your dirty paws off. She came with me and she’s leaving with me, just as she says.’

His look of contempt spoke volumes. Robert flushed angrily. He also started to rise.

‘Watch it, Bridgwater. Mind your own business,’ he growled, but hurriedly sat down again when Francis raised his fists.

Caroline said nothing, hoping Robert would collect a well-deserved punch on the nose. Calvin looked uncomfortable—but it wasn’t his quarrel so he also said nothing. He feared Robert and decided Frank would have to finish whatever it was he’d started by himself.

Romantic opportunist, Francis spotted an opening far too good to miss. Malandra was extremely pretty and in need of help; she might be grateful, so why not? He grabbed the initiative.

‘Come on, darling,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ Malandra hesitated. Francis was nice-looking and seemed safe, but she didn’t
really
want to go out with him—or any other boy, for that matter. She continued to dither and, misinterpreting her indecision, Francis rounded the table, elbowed Robert away, and lifted the girl to her feet.

‘Don’t worry about
him
, sweetheart,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I’ll see you safely home, and make
certain
the obnoxious, four-eyed little twit doesn’t bother you any more today.’ Abruptly, Malandra decided. Frank must surely be the lesser of two evils?

‘OK Frank,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll finish my drink and we’ll go…’ Her words were cut short when Robert leapt to his feet, spilling his remaining squash down the front of his trousers. Dabbing uselessly with his handkerchief, voice thick with rage, he almost lost control. ‘If you two leave together, you’ve had it,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll get even one day, just see if I don’t.’

It was more than Malandra could swallow. ‘Don’t you
dare
threaten me, Robert Strudwick,’ she gasped, indignantly. ‘Who do you think you are? Tyrone Power? You wish! Fact is you’re nothing but an obnoxious, conceited, goggle-eyed pillock. Yuk, I wouldn’t go out with
you
if you were the last boy on earth!’

Her contempt was plain for all to see.

‘Yeah, she’s right, so shut your stupid face,’ Frank said rudely, and took Malandra’s hand. Turning to lead her away, he hissed in Robert’s ear, ‘Arsehole!’ and delivered a surreptitious, but remarkably accurate kick to the shins. He was rewarded with an anguished grunt of pain.

Francis and Malandra left the milk bar hand-in-hand without looking back. Neither could have registered the incandescent fury that flashed across Robert Strudwick’s face. It would have made little difference if they had. Despite his anger, he was amazingly cautious, cunning and scheming.

‘You stinking, lousy bastards! You’re as good as dead—both of you,’ he hissed, deliberately
sotto voce
…