Written in the Scars (The Estate Series Book 4) (6 page)

‘Hey, what are you doing?’

Lewis turned around in a circle but he couldn’t see anyone.

‘You can’t just damage other people’s property like that.’

He looked again for whoever had spoken. Finally, in the shadows, he spotted someone on the doorstep of the house he stood in front of. ‘Go back inside and mind your own business, you nosy cow,’ he told her.

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘You people, you’re all the same.’ Lewis pointed at her, swaying as he stepped forward. ‘Wind your neck in and bugger off back inside.’

‘You can’t speak to me like that.’

‘Kicking this is much better than taking it out on a person.’

‘I’ve a good mind to report you in the morning for—’

‘Yeah, yeah, you do that.’ Lewis brushed aside the comment with his hand and walked away. Silly bitch – what did she know?

He continued in the direction of Graham Street, hoping that his mum wasn’t waiting up for him again. She’d done that the last few times, greeting him with folded arms and a firm stare, before giving him a telling off the next morning. It was worse than being with Amy. She’d given him the stare too. Well, he wasn’t a child anymore. No one told him what to do now that he had come out of the army. So screw his mum – and screw Amy.

When he arrived home, music was blasting out from a house several doors away. Every window at the front of the property was open, a number of youths on the front lawn chatting loudly. Lewis resisted the urge to go over and punch someone’s lights out: for once he knew he was too drunk to fight. Instead, he pushed open the garden gate, negotiated the last few steps, and finally managed to get his key in the lock of the front door.

He went straight upstairs and sat on the edge of his bed, dropping his boots noisily onto the carpet. Muttering obscenities to himself, he flopped to his side and collapsed, fully clothed. Maybe sleep would come to him now that he had alcohol in his system. Shut him down for a few hours so that he could get some rest. Not that he would feel rested after the sleep of a drunk, but anything beat sitting on the edge of the bed watching the sun rising every morning.

The room began to spin, taking him back to a time when he was in a helicopter with the rest of his regiment, going out on a mission. The noise of the blades, the beating of his heart as adrenaline coursed through him, praying that they would all return. The crunch of their boots as they walked for miles, eyes everywhere, finger on the trigger awaiting any eventuality. The blood pouring from the bullet wound in Nathan’s neck …

Not even alcohol could block out those kind of bad memories.

Chapter Seven

At ten o’clock the next morning, Josie Mellor walked up the pathway of seventeen, Graham Street. It was the second time in as many weeks that she had visited this property. She knocked on the door and glanced around as she waited for it to be answered, fitting into her old role as easily as if she’d never been away from it.

For the past three years, Josie had been on a secondment at The Workshop, an enterprise centre on the estate. She’d been in charge of overseeing it when it was refurbished, and then had been based there working on a domestic violence initiative, funded by the government. Although The Workshop was surviving, now that her funding had dried up, she’d soon be returning to her original role as housing officer, so had started taking over a few cases in preparation.

She knew she’d miss being based at The Workshop but, on days like these when the sun was in the sky and the weather was glorious, Josie was glad she could work outside. Being out on the patch was never easy but at least she had regulars who she could keep an eye on once more. Good and bad ones - like Margaret Sidworth with her untidy garden next door at number nineteen.

In contrast, the garden of number seventeen was tidy, the driveway cleared of weeds and general rubbish. Parked on it was a bottle-green Land Rover, gleaming in the reflection of the mid-morning sun. Flowers were dotted around a dug-over border around the edge of a small patch of freshly mown grass. A hanging basket next to the door sprouted multi-coloured lobelias, almost tumbling down to a small wrought iron bench in front of the living room window.

Josie knew from experience how much you could tell about someone from the state of his or her garden. Not necessarily from the house, if paint was peeling from a door or if someone had a broken window or was in need of new windows altogether. In her mind, there was a world of difference between untidiness and poor maintenance.

She glanced over the fence at next door again. The garden she was in made the adjoining property’s stand out for its lack of maintenance. She tutted: the weeds in number nineteen’s garden were higher than the small patch of grass left in the middle, the hedges were overgrown too. The weather had been wonderful for three weeks now, there was no excuse. But then again, Margaret, who lived there with her teenage son and daughter, would find sunning on the doorstep far more important than tending to the grass.

As she waited, she wrote down details to pass on to the environmental enforcement officer when she was next in the office. He’d need to visit to get Margaret to take action.

A woman opened the door behind her. Laura Prophett’s greying blonde hair had been tied back from her face, making her look more youthful than her actual age of early fifties, but her puffy eyes and faint smile betrayed her worry. Despite that, she was dressed in colourful summer clothes.

‘Hi, Mrs Prophett,’ Josie smiled. ‘Might I have a quick word?’

She was shown into a living room that was as tidy and respectable as the garden. The wall that housed the chimney was covered with wallpaper of large black flowers on a white background, the remaining walls painted white. The three piece was black leather, a three-seater settee and two armchairs, dented where bottoms had settled over the years.

Josie sat down when invited, pushing her hair out of the way behind her ears. She’d long ago swapped her glasses for contact lenses, showing off deep blue eyes below a thick, blunt fringe. Her friend, Livvy, had given her a well-needed makeover a few years ago and, despite trends coming and going, she’d kept her hair shoulder length because it suited her so much.

‘You’ve come about Lewis, haven’t you?’ asked Laura.

When Josie nodded, Laura’s shoulders sagged.

‘I’ve been trying to get him out of bed for the past hour. But whatever he’s done, he won’t come down to face the music.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve tried to be patient too, but he just goes up like a bottle of pop if I suggest anything he doesn’t like. Then the next minute, it’s ‘’I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just taking me time to adjust.’’ It’s like living with Jekyll and Hyde. I dread seeing him in the mornings now. It puts me on edge for the rest of the day and I don’t want it when I’m off to work.’ She glanced away sheepishly. ‘Sorry, mouth overload.’

Josie knew that Laura worked at Poplar Court, a sheltered housing block for dementia sufferers. Patience was a virtue for her role as a housing officer but so much more was needed when it came to working with the elderly. Sometimes Josie would hold back her annoyance if she knew someone was trying to get one over her, using age as an excuse. But most of the time, she dealt with genuine cases of hardship and people unable to cope.

‘Are you aware of what I’ve come to see you about?’ she asked now, hoping to move things along.

‘He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?’ Laura sat upright.

Josie shook her head. ‘There was a spot of trouble last night. It’s the damage he’s caused to a car that’s my main concern. We think he kicked off someone’s wing mirror and smashed it while it was on the floor. The description I was given from the complainant matches Lewis so I though I’d check it out before the complainant went to the police.’

‘The police?’ Shock was clear in Laura’s eyes. ‘I can’t believe he’d do that. He’s always precious about how hard people work, and how people on this estate will come along and take what isn’t theirs because it’s easier or sometimes, just because they can. Are you sure it was Lewis?’

Josie shook her head. ‘I can’t be certain, but I think so.’

The last time they had discussed Lewis, Laura had told Josie that she thought there was something on his mind, something he wasn’t telling them. Josie had hoped that between them they could get to the bottom of it, knowing how much a difference it could make if Lewis would confide in someone. But, so far, no one had been successful in getting him to do that.

‘Do you think he will ever get help?’ she asked.

Laura looked up, her eyes glazed with tears. ‘Until he realises he has a problem, I don’t think so, but …

‘When we spoke last time,’ Laura continued, ‘you mentioned Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’ve been researching it online. It’s often triggered by an event after the trauma, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Josie. ‘Some soldiers do come home and adapt to life without any problems, although a lot are suffering because of events on the job.’ She saw Laura raise her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Without any problems they
tell
us about, should I say.’

‘Do you think it was more than Michael’s death that he seems stressed about?’ Laura lowered her voice, fearful of Lewis overhearing.

‘It’s possible, I’m sure.’ Josie paused, wondering if she should voice her concerns. ‘Maybe when he came home, back to Amy and Daniel, with support from his family and his parents, he was able to cope a lot better. But as soon as he lost his dad … well, maybe he can’t confide in anyone else?’

‘I often wondered what they talked about when they disappeared into the shed at the bottom of the garden. Sometimes they would be in there for hours. I always thought perhaps he was sharing happy memories of his time in the army – Michael was so proud of him. But I never stopped for a moment to wonder if he was counselling him through his trauma.’

‘And was it soon after Michael died that Lewis’s drinking spiralled out of control?’ Josie probed.

Laura nodded. ‘But I don’t know if he’ll ever realise that.’

‘It’s probably the reason he’s drinking more, to block something out of his life. He can’t face what’s inside his head on his own.’

‘I never thought he would turn to alcohol,’ Laura admitted. ‘He used to be the life and soul of a party without a drop of beer. He was always happy-go-lucky. I … I wish we could get that back.’

‘He hasn’t mentioned anything at all?’

Laura shook her head. ‘All I know is that something happened when he was out on a tour and he says it was his fault. And when I question him about it, he clams up. He doesn’t want to talk to us.’

‘Really? Not even to Amy?’

Laura shook her head. ‘And that’s the saddest thing. Amy and Lewis were good together. They were both so young when Daniel came along and when Lewis went in the army, I thought that the relationship would collapse. But they proved me wrong. Amy is like a daughter to me, and I miss having her around. I do go to see her and Daniel, but it’s difficult. I feel like I’m taking sides and I don’t want to do that.’

‘He’ll come around, in his own time.’

‘I hope so.’ Laura was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s like he’s come home as a stranger. That’s when he’s actually in the house, and not down the pub causing trouble.’

‘It must affect you, too, as well as Amy and Daniel?’

‘I guess so, but I’ll be okay. I just wish his father was here to support us both.’ Laura sniffed.

Josie glanced at the photo of Lewis to Laura’s side. The face of a soldier grinning into the camera stared at her, almost making her smile back at its immediate warmth. Lewis wore his desert gear, rifle in hand, helmet on head.

‘He’s your only child, isn’t he?’ she asked, already knowing but wanting to make small talk to ease the sombreness in the room.

 Laura nodded slightly.

‘And deployed to Afghanistan three times?’

‘Yes, and I don’t think my Lewis came back at all when he left the army.’ She pointed to the ceiling. ‘What’s upstairs in that bed isn’t my son.’ Laura shook her head, a lone tear escaping down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly before continuing. ‘I just wish I could help him find his way back.’

Josie sighed. She had her doubts that it was possible, but she wasn’t about to give up on Lewis yet.

Chapter Eight

While Josie talked to his mum, Lewis lay in bed upstairs. With his head pounding and mouth dry, even though he’d had a long drunken sleep the night before, he couldn’t see much point in getting up. If he went downstairs, the bloody housing officer would most likely tell him off again like a five-year-old, even though he knew he fully deserved it. Why the hell had he kicked off that mirror? He wasn’t a vandal.          

He rolled over on his back. He hadn’t closed the curtains the night before, and the sun’s rays cast a bright image of the window across the carpet. The stretch of good weather coming was supposed to last for the rest of the week, if the long-range weather forecast was to be believed. It wasn’t anywhere near as hot as it had been in Afghanistan, though. How Lewis wished he were there right now, having a laugh with Nathan and the gang.

When he heard the front door open again and voices in the hallway, Lewis padded over to the window. Out of view, he watched as Josie walked down the pathway, stopping to close the gate behind her. She was okay, as far as authority went. He’d met her a few months ago now, when she’d called at the house after a complaint had been made against him. That was about the noise he’d made coming home one night. He’d been drunk then, too.