Tell Tale (22 page)

‘Someone
was
here,’ I say. The sunlight breaks through the mist and light darts off the panes of glass. I see a smeary patch in the lower section, as if it’s been wiped. Grimy streaks pattern the glass.

Then I see something caught on a splinter of wood on the window frame. I pluck off a piece of snagged tissue – all the proof I need that someone wiped away the handprints.

In the cold light of day, I don’t think Adam will believe me when I tell him what I’ve seen. I can hardly believe it myself, that someone was spying, looking for something – some
one –
in the virtually deserted school. As I walk back to the front entrance, the piece of tissue rolling between my fingers, I wonder where it is that a person hides when there’s simply nowhere left to go.

I’ve barely walked inside the hall, barely wiped the dew from my boots, when Adam is upon me, bright and cheery, asking me things that I can’t take in.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to join me. If you’re feeling
up to it, that is. It’s a beautiful morning.’ Adam is wearing a bright blue jacket, like someone walking up a mountain would wear, and I see he’s put on walking boots. He’s fresh-faced and smells of coffee. His hair is slightly damp from the shower. It settles around his face in darker, tighter waves than usual. I can’t help staring at it.

‘Sorry?’

Adam pulls a half-grin and sighs. ‘I said, would you like to visit the old chapel with me? I’ve arranged access. It’s in the school grounds so you won’t have to walk very far.’ He stamps his feet on the old tiled floor as if he’ll have a mini tantrum if I refuse. His interest in me has grown since the ordeal with Katy Fenwick. By doing the right thing, I’ve strung a thread of trust between us whether I intended to or not.

My mouth drops open.

‘A chap in the village has the keys,’ he says. ‘With a bit of string-pulling, I managed to wangle half an hour in there to do some research for my book. It’ll be interesting. The building’s sat derelict for twenty years. I could use the company.’

Adam’s broad shoulders fill the weatherproof jacket, and one of his strong arms leans against the wall as if he’s holding up the entire building. His face travels through a range of expressions, from eagerness to hopefulness to impatience. I want to push my head on to his chest, to seal myself off from everything. I want to cry on him, howl on the nearest, strongest, most trustworthy person I can find. It doesn’t sound like my voice at all when, shaking, I say, ‘Yes. I’ll come.’

‘Tell me more about your book. Is it going to be published?’ There’s a lacy splattering of light on the mossy grass as the sun filters through the tree canopy. The lane is dappled and the mist has all but burnt off. Together, we walk towards Roecliffe village. With Adam beside me, I feel oddly safe setting foot outside the school grounds. Together, I am part of a credible couple – not what anyone would be looking for; not likely to be recognised. Although after last night’s scare, there isn’t much reason to feel safe within the school property either. I know I’m yearning for the familiar closeness that can never be mine again – the joke that doesn’t even need to be told to be understood, the shared laughter, the knowing look. But if Adam did take my hand, I’d probably snap away – ashamed, guilty.

He grumbles and makes an indignant noise about the difficulty of getting local history books published. ‘I’m going to get it printed myself if I have to. It’s not about the money.’

‘What is it about then?’ I ask quickly.

He thinks for a moment. ‘It’s about the truth,’ he says carefully. ‘Researching local history is a lot like archaeology. Miss a piece and you risk misinterpreting the whole event. Damage something and you’ll never know exactly what happened.’ We walk in silence until he says, ‘It’s about putting things right.’

‘So why Roecliffe Hall?’ I ask. ‘I’m sure there are more interesting places to write about.’ I’m hoping that Adam is simply passionate about architecture – after all, Roecliffe is
a fine example of Victorian gothic folly. As we approach the chapel, my feet fall heavily on the road. I swear there is lead in my boots. ‘Is there something special about it?’ I need to know what he knows.

Adam stops abruptly and pulls on my arm to bring me to a halt. His face is serious while his electric-blue eyes flash excitement. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asks incredulously. ‘I thought everyone here knew.’ He shrugs and walks on a couple of paces, before stopping again.

‘It’s the murders,’ he says, lowering his voice. His eyes flash around the lane as if he thinks we’re being watched. ‘Roecliffe Hall used to be a children’s home until the late eighties. Terrible, ghastly things happened and it was closed down. Those poor little mites.’ Adam shakes his head. I think I see his eyes fill with tears. ‘Bodies were found all over the place.’

‘That’s shocking.’

Adam’s face soaks up the dappled light. It masks his expression, making him appear sad and determined all at once. ‘When the body of a little girl was found buried in . . .’ His lungs deflate with sadness. ‘The police found many others. It was terrible.’ He swallows back a grief that suggests he knows a lot more than he is letting on.

I look up at Adam, shielding my eyes from the sun; from the past, and from the future, too. ‘You seem to know a lot already,’ I say, unsure if I should continue. ‘You sound as if you were there,’ I add, my gaze unwavering, looking for even the tiniest reaction.

Frazer Barnard dangles a pair of keys on a chain. His other hand is shoved deep inside the pocket of his dirty tweed jacket. ‘No one’s wanted to go in there in years,’ he says in a gruff voice. ‘Not after everything was all stirred up.’

His front door had opened before we reached the end of his weed-strewn path.

Adam reaches for the keys. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Barnard,’ he says loudly. ‘I appreciate this.’

I stare at the keys.

‘Not so quick,’ he replies, whipping them back. ‘And no need to shout. Rules state that no one can go into the chapel without an approved person accompanying them.’

‘Approved person?’ I say. ‘Rules?’ Frazer Barnard glares at me, as if he’s not noticed me yet. His face is spidered with drinker’s veins, the little remaining hair he has is grey and glued down to his skull. His clothes are filthy and, even standing six feet away, I can smell a bitter odour seeping from him.

‘Not a problem,’ Adam says. ‘Who’s the approved person?’

‘Me,’ Barnard growls.

In my mind, I hear the single bell tolling through the woods. I see a procession of adults walking slowly down the path with a clutch of children following in their wake. Bluebells drench the lush grass with brushstrokes of azure and indigo. Sun sparkles off the small stream beyond. I hear the excited chatter of children anticipating the Sunday picnic after the service. I see the arched door of the little chapel
being unlocked. Then it all goes black as the children are led inside.

My legs falter and my breathing becomes shallow. Frazer Barnard beats his walking stick from side to side, smashing down the nettles and brambles that have spread over what was once the path. Vaguely, I hear the sound of gravel crunching, of laughter; I smell the scent of flowers mixed with the tang of the man I am following – the stench of fear, survival; of everything that was normal.

Finally, we arrive at the arched door. My heart thumps madly. A heavy iron padlock hangs from a chain around the old latch. I think of those that passed through the doors. I think of those that never came out.

Barnard glances at his watch. ‘Half an hour is all. Don’t touch anything.’ He unlocks the padlock and removes the chain. He pushes open the door and a rotten smell escapes into the autumn air. Despite the vague warmth of the sun, goose bumps chill my skin. ‘Dead rat,’ he says, laughing when I crumple my face.

‘I can’t go in,’ I blurt out to Adam. I find myself gripping his arm. It goes some way towards providing the safe haven of contact I crave – the touch of someone who might understand. ‘I’ll wait outside.’ I’m standing on the top step, teetering on the edge of the darkness beyond. Nothing could make me go in. Sweat erupts on my forehead, fear leaks into my veins. I stand steadfastly, arms crossed, face turned up to the sun.

Adam glances at me. ‘You’re scared of a dead rat?’

‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘I really don’t like them.’ I accidentally
catch a glimpse of the chapel’s interior over Adam’s shoulder. Light falls in coloured stripes from the stained glass above the altar, highlighting a fallen cross, stone steps, a table. I can’t make out anything else because it’s too dark – that, or my eyes won’t let me see.

‘Come in when the smell’s cleared.’ He’s disappointed to be going in alone. Adam clutches a clipboard and a Dictaphone. He gives me one last imploring look – perhaps because he’s scared himself – and turns, disappearing through the arched door. The cold, dank atmosphere inside wraps its arms around him, pulling him in until he is completely out of sight.

I step away from the entrance and feel my heart going crazy in my chest.

‘What is it you’re really scared of?’ Frazer asks, hacking as he speaks. He turns away, fumbling with a packet of Superkings. Eventually he gets one lit.

‘Nothing,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I’d just rather wait in the sunshine.’

‘Think all them ghosts are going to come and get you, do you?’ His wrinkled face puckers meanly.

My head whips up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I walk down a couple of stone steps. The edges are crumbling and lichen crawls over them.
‘You’re
not going in. I’m sure Adam could use some local knowledge for his book.’

‘He’ll figure it out. Eventually.’ Frazer Barnard laughs and coughs at the same time, still finding enough breath to draw on his cigarette. ‘Unless he dies of old age first.’

Suddenly, there’s a loud noise from inside the chapel followed by a yell. ‘Adam?’ I call out, running back up the steps. I feel dizzy.

‘I’m OK. Everything’s OK.’ Adam’s voice echoes from deep within the chapel. Someone calling out through the years. A lost voice.

Frazer shakes his head. ‘Touch nothing, I said.’

‘It’s dark in there. He probably bumped something by accident.’

‘P’raps it’s that young gal’s body, eh? Come to get him.’ Frazer Barnard has a gruff Yorkshire accent, broad and loud, bitter and hard. I wonder if it’s living in Roecliffe that has made him this way, or being keeper of the chapel that sets his cruel tone. He laughs. ‘As if a waif of a little girl could do any harm.’

My mouth is dry. I don’t feel very well at all. I sit on the step and drop my head between my knees.
Waif of a little girl,
I think. I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

‘You all right, lass?’ His compassion surprises me.

‘I feel a bit faint.’ I drop my head and run my fingers through my short hair. ‘I’ll be OK.’ I squint up at him, wondering how I could be so stupid as to allow myself to be seen by someone from the village. Barnard is silhouetted against the sky, steeped in as much history as the chapel. He rummages in his grimy tweed jacket pocket for something. God, I wish I’d not come on this stupid walk.

‘Here,’ he says, pulling out a single pill and handing it to me. ‘Take it. I’ve got dozens.’

‘What is it?’ But before Frazer replies, Adam comes
striding out of the chapel. His face is contorted and his chest heaves inside his jacket.

‘Frankie.’ That’s all he says, breathless. Just my name. We stare at each other as if an entire story passes between us. I frown, ignoring Barnard’s outstretched hand. Adam is telling me something. What has he discovered?

‘You should come inside with me.’ His voice is suddenly flat. ‘There are some interesting . . . features.’ He stares at me for ages. No one speaks, not even Barnard, who is watching us. I hear the birds sing, the rustle of a breeze through the woods. Adam mumbles into his Dictaphone. I shake my head.

‘She don’t feel so good,’ Frazer finally says. I take the pill he’s holding out and roll it between my fingers. Whatever it is, I have no intention of taking it. ‘Best be hurrying along, before she keels over.’ But Adam doesn’t hear. He is already back inside the chapel. ‘Eat up, then,’ Frazer says, turning back to me, slumped on the stone steps. ‘I’ve got lots. It’ll help your head. Help you forget everything,’ he whispers, grinding his cigarette butt into the lichen, not taking his eyes off me.

Betsy never sat still in chapel. The only bit of going to say our prayers that she actually liked was the skip through the woods on the way there, and of course the skipping again on the way back. We weren’t allowed to run.

She’d clutch my hand and strain at my arm, pulling to get ahead. I made her little gloves for winter, knitting them out of scraps of wool, unravelled old sweaters left behind by other kids. Sometimes they fell off, so I picked them out of the mud before the line of kids trampled them into the mush. I pushed them back on to her freezing hands. ‘Tanks,’ she’d say, skipping off until it happened again.

Summer would see Betsy in one of two flowery dresses. I sewed one of them – a patchwork creation cobbled together from whatever I could find in the drawers. The other dress came from a pile of clothes left by the gone children; the ones who didn’t come back. If they were missing for a day or two, we helped ourselves to their stuff. Any sooner, and it wouldn’t have seemed right.

Betsy looked a pretty sight, all strawberry-blond curls, eyes the colour of forget-me-nots, cheeks hand-painted. She giggled through those summer months, as if her little
spirit was warmed by the long days, the hot sun, the times we played outdoors chasing each other through the woods and thickets.

But Betsy didn’t like it when I went off to school. She cried when I left and, according to Patricia and Miss Maddocks, she curled up on her bed and whimpered until she knew it was time for the school bus to drop us at the end of the drive. Then she’d sit on the stone window seat and watch for me, just like I’d watched out for my father.

Betsy liked the school holidays best and, of course, Sundays, except for when we had to sit quietly in chapel for a whole hour and thank the Lord for our blessings. ‘Wassa blessin’?’ Betsy whispered to me. She scratched her head fiercely.