What You Left Behind (34 page)

Freddie breathed out and tried again, this time managing to get
his hand into the pack, feeling around for his phone. He wondered if he could text from inside the bag. He pressed the power button, coughing several times to mask the beep.

“Simon was my friend and he is dead. Dean was my friend and he is dead. Lenny was your friend and he is dead.” Gil’s voice was monotonous.

Freddie’s heart kicked up. He could see the glow of his phone’s screen inside the bag. His thumb was hovering over the keys and, with another cough, he managed to turn off the keypad sounds without Gil noticing.

“You will be dead too if I don’t keep you safe and locked up. You don’t understand. No one does.”

Gil’s shoulders jerked up and down, and he began to move away from the door. The key was still in his pocket.

“But those pictures …” Freddie said, hoping to distract him.

Gil turned slowly to face Freddie. His nose and cheeks were an angry red.

“Those ones in the barn … why did you draw them?”

Gil dragged a chair over to the door and sat down, blocking the only exit. Freddie took the opportunity to glance into the pack and toggle through his texts until he came to the last one from Lana. He hit reply.

Gil pummeled the side of his head. “No one knows how much it hurts,” he said. The tea towel was still wrapped around his knuckles, snapping tightly between his fists. “If I don’t draw my pictures it will get really, really bad.”

Freddie knew he had to get help—Lana, maybe Aunty Lorraine,
anyone
. But it was all such a mess with the computer, with Lenny. He’d be arrested for sure and end up in prison. But maybe that was the best place for him anyway. Locked up again, but away from all this shit.

He fumbled with the touchscreen on his phone inside his pack while Gil went on repeating himself.

saw them togthr. u wre rite. nd got me hear llocked up send smne helpgil

He hit Send, stealing a glimpse at the screen. Damn, did it make enough sense? He prayed Lana would figure it out.

“It wasn’t my fault that Simon died it was that other man’s fault but then he died too.” A couple of tears dribbled down Gil’s cheeks, curling around the soft flesh of his stubbly jowls. For a moment, Freddie felt sorry for him.

Christ, he hadn’t put where he was in the text. How would she know where to send help?

“No one’s saying it’s your fault, Gil,” Freddie managed to reply.

His throat was tight, as if a fist were gripping his windpipe. He would send another text, tell Lana to get his Uncle Adam to come to the cottage. But when he reached in for the phone again the screen was blank. He jabbed a couple of buttons. The battery had died.

“You think I am bad and that’s why I am locking you up but I didn’t lock Dean in or lock Simon in did I and they still died.”

Freddie was forcing himself to think. He’d already spotted the window bars, so making an escape by that route was impossible. There was no way out of the loft apart from a skylight, and Gil would grab him before he even got up there. He’d have to either con Gil into letting him go free, or overpower him and get the key. He didn’t fancy his chances at either.

“I’m sorry, Gil, I’m just confused,” Freddie said, withdrawing his hand from the pack and fastening it in readiness. Whatever happened, he mustn’t leave it behind. It contained the laptop.

“It wasn’t my fault he died we were going on holiday and I was excited. But then no one was excited because Simon was hanging.” Gil rubbed his face.

The holiday made sense. Freddie had seen the suitcase twice. Once in the pictures on the computer …

Oh God, that poor naked man, his dick on show and that brown stuff that was probably shit … the photographer’s shadow cast from the low
winter sun streaming into the barn … the other person cowering in the dark corner, watching on …

And he’d seen it again in Gil’s drawing. It was old-fashioned-looking, battered, had a sticker of the Eiffel Tower on it. Gil had copied it meticulously. He’d noticed it when Gil first allowed him to hide in the cottage. His pictures were everywhere and Freddie had flicked through them, not seeing the really nasty ones until later. Apart from being grotesque, they wouldn’t have meant much until he’d seen the actual photographs, secreted in layers of invisible files on the computer. And even then, the implications weren’t certain.

Oh God, why had he ever left his bedroom?

Fleetingly, he thought of his mum, how she must be feeling. He’d been gone three nights now and he knew she’d be in a state.

“Did you hear that?” Freddie said. The rumble of a rough-sounding vehicle passing the tack-room doorway.

Gil shook his head. “I will not let them take you.”

It was definitely a car. Freddie prayed it was his Aunty Lorraine. She’d understand about the bullying and he could make up some excuse about why he’d been in the woods. Lenny could hardly say differently, not now.

He stood up, but Gil was up in a flash and shoving him back down on the sofa.

“I just wanted to see whose car it was,” Freddie said.

“You are a secret I am good at keeping secrets,” Gil replied. It came out as a chant, as if it were pre-programmed and he couldn’t say anything else.

Freddie strained his ears, thought he heard a car door slam nearby.

“Tony said I mustn’t tell anyone and that if I do bad things will happen and I will go to the place for people like me. I can’t let you go.”

The worried expression on Gil’s face temporarily slowed Freddie’s heart. He realized that, like him, Gil was a prisoner too. Freddie had never bothered to ask Lana what was wrong with him, but
now they had something in common. Except Gil was trapped inside his own mind with no chance of ever escaping.

“Tony won’t send you away,” Freddie tried to reassure him. “You can trust me.” This time when he stood up, pack slung on his shoulder again, Gil didn’t shove him, and when he opened his arms for a brotherly embrace, Gil walked right into them.

Slowly, carefully, Freddie slipped his hand into Gil’s back pocket and retrieved the key.

“Shall we have another cuppa?” Freddie said, closing his fingers around the metal. “Now that we’re best mates.” He pulled away.

“That is a good idea,” Gil said, moving into the galley kitchen area.

“I’ll just make sure the door’s secure so no one can get in.”

Gil nodded as he grabbed the kettle.

It all happened so quickly—the sound of the water running, the kettle filling, Gil’s happy whistling, the key sliding into the lock, turning easily, the cool evening air on his face as the door opened, Gil’s angry yell as he realized what was happening.

Freddie almost felt bad, running out, leaving him bewildered, but there was no time for that as images of Lenny, of the woods, of the rock pounding, pounding, pounding Lenny to a pulp flashed through his mind.

A crow flapped out of a tall tree as he charged across the gravel, his heart burning from adrenaline.

When he saw the battered truck, it didn’t register at first. Not until the hands grabbed him, almost caught him from falling as he went dizzy with fear.

Strong, sinewy tattooed arms wound round his body, his neck.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Frank said, black teeth grinning down.

31

Lana was standing in the Manor kitchen, holding her phone, not knowing what to do. She jumped as the door opened and her father came in from the yard. The dogs wrapped around his legs, getting in the way.

“Hi,” she said tentatively, trying to gauge his mood, watching him as he washed his hands, scrubbing them several times.

She looked surreptitiously again at Freddie’s text.

saw them togthr

Did Freddie mean their parents?

“Hello,” her dad said. He seemed preoccupied, distracted. “Where’s your mother?”

“Maybe with the horses,” Lana whispered.

Her dad dried his hands, tossed the towel over the back of a wooden chair.

u wre rite

She didn’t want to be right, didn’t want her dad and Jo to have been doing those things together. She’d seen the photos by accident, walked in on her dad one evening when he was in his study. He’d been working late, so he’d said, and she’d brought him a cup of tea before she went up to bed. It was only a glimpse, just a flash, but the images were burned on her mind. Had Freddie found them on her dad’s laptop? Had he got the proof?

Thing is, they hadn’t really thought out what to do next.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Lana said.

He swung round, looking as if he’d just told a patient or their family bad news. She always knew when he’d done that—he came home pretty much reeking of death. She thought she smelled it on him now.

“I’m sorry for getting into trouble,” she explained.

He grunted, poured himself a Scotch despite the time of day. “It’s Saturday,” he said, sensing her disapproval. “I’m winding down.”

Her father paced up and down the kitchen, one hand shoved in his pocket, one hand holding the tumbler. The dogs continued to follow him until he shoved Daisy’s rump with his foot. Then they skulked off to their beds.

“I don’t understand why you were so fucking stupid, Lana.” He slugged more whiskey.

“The motorbike?” she said, just in case he meant something else. She wasn’t sure how much he knew.

Her dad nodded, finished his drink, and poured another one straightaway. Lana noticed the soft redness of his cheeks bleed upward, toward his eyes.

“It was stupid,” she said. She felt sick even talking about it.

“I don’t understand why you’d do something like that.”

He sounded sad, which made Lana feel even worse. For a moment she wondered if he was about to hug her, tell her she’d always be safe, like he used to do when she was little.

But the hug didn’t come. He just drank more whiskey, then stalked off.

got me hear llocked up send smne helpgil

What did Freddie mean? Was she supposed to send help, and if so, where? Had he meant to put Gil’s name at the end? She could hardly ask her dad for help. Maybe her mum would know what to do; or perhaps she should speak to Lorraine? The text was worrying her, though—the broken words, the brevity, the urgency.

She clasped the phone tightly, then slid it in her back pocket. Daisy came out of her bed and skirted around her. Lana pulled her close, gripping the barrel of her body in the hope that the dog might tell her what to do.

“Where the hell are you, Freddie?” she whispered into the dog’s fur. “I need to know where you are.”

“W
HERE THE HELL
is your father?” Freddie had said. They were in the middle of their exams, and he was jittery and nervous, unable to sit still. He hadn’t even commented on the paper they’d just taken. “I’m going to the hospital to find him. I’m going to … to …” But they’d got only one hour before their next A level and Lana was trying to calm him down. She wished she’d never mentioned what she’d seen the night before.

The school café table was wedged between them, two Diet Cokes, two sausage, chips, and peas sitting on it untouched. Lana had felt an urgent need to reach out and hold Freddie’s hand. “You have to forget about it,” she’d said. “Let’s concentrate on our exams and sort out this mess when they’re over. We’ll do some revision together tonight, OK?”

But Freddie had just stared at her, turning the can of Coke round and round between his hands. He was shocked, Lana could see that. Shocked and very upset.

“Oi, fuckhead, you’re in my place.” A boy in their year loomed over them, and was quickly joined by several others.

Resignedly, Freddie had stood up, head bowed, and lifted his tray of food to move; but the boy had swung up his arm and knocked it from his grip. Chips and peas shot everywhere. Instinctively, Lana had made a grab for his sausage before it hit the floor.

“Just leave it,” Freddie had said and walked off, his books clutched to his chest.

Lana had followed, and they’d gone to sit at another table, listening to the jeers and cruel comments from the group of boys as they went.

“Ignore them,” Lana had said. “They’re idiots. And look, I probably made a mistake about what I thought I saw.” This time she had taken Freddie’s hand. He hadn’t responded.