Chapter 27
27
‘Robyn, what is it?’ Mason had to put out an arm in order to physically stop me dashing across the road and into the path of a speeding car.
‘It’s Sorrel!’
‘ What’s Sorrel?’ With his hand still on my arm, Mason kept me back on the pavement while glancing round in some bewilderment. ‘There’s no one here.’
‘I’ve just seen her go into an apartment across the road.’
‘Are you sure? You don’t think, because you’re worried about her at the moment, you’ve manifested her. Thought it was her?’
‘It was Sorrel .’
‘Well, maybe she has friends in this part of town?’
‘Friends? Friends? She’s fifteen! You know as well as I do, Mason, that kids from St Mede’s don’t have friends in places like this. In one of the trendiest parts of town? All new apartments with Waitrose and Ottolenghi on tap?’ I could hardly get my words out. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down, trying to explain. ‘Mason, my fifteen-year-old sister went into that apartment across the road…’ I looked at my watch ‘…over five minutes ago with a man old enough to be her father… her grandfather, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Mason,’ I hissed through gritted teeth, ‘I’m going across.’
‘Hang on, hang on, just think this thing through,’ Mason insisted, grabbing hold of my hand. ‘You can’t just bang on a stranger’s door because you think you’ve seen someone that looks like your sister going in there.’
‘I know it was Sorrel,’ I said angrily. ‘I know the man she was with.’
Five more precious minutes passed as Mason tried to persuade me to knock on the apartment door calmly, rather than with all guns blazing. But, finally breaking free from Mason’s grasp, I dashed across the road, Mason following closely behind, and was about to bang on the door I’d seen Sorrel entering, when he physically stopped me once more.
‘There’s an entryphone,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll have to say who you are. If Sorrel hears your voice and knows you’re there and after her, there’s no way she’ll come down.’
‘Ring the bell and say you’re the police,’ I urged Mason.
‘The police?’ Mason looked at me. ‘Isn’t it against the law to impersonate a police officer?’
‘I’m sure you’ve done much worse at some point in your life,’ I snapped. ‘Just ring the bell .’ I pushed Mason towards it, not caring that he was my boss and that I was getting him involved in our family problems.
Mason gave the bell a long hard ring and, after a few moments, the entryphone crackled into life.
‘Pizza?’ a disembodied male voice asked.
‘Yep,’ Mason immediately replied. ‘Come and get it while it’s hot.’
‘Come and get it while it’s hot?’ I whispered, pulling a face in his direction.
‘Well, better than “I’m arresting you for?—”’
‘Shhhhh!’ I hissed.
The apartment door opened and the man I’d not seen for sixteen years or so stood there, frowning, seemingly unable to take in the one woman and one man on his doorstep who obviously weren’t pizza delivery boys from Deliveroo.
‘Hello, Peter.’
‘Sorry, do I know you…?’
Ignoring him, I pushed my way past him, racing up the stairs, shouting Sorrel’s name as I went, Mason and then Peter following in my wake.
‘Excuse me ,’ Peter snapped, overtaking Mason at the top of the stairs and grabbing at my arm. ‘Who the fuck d’you think you are, breaking into my home like this…?’ He trailed off as the entryphone sounded once more and he appeared unable to make any decision about what to do next so instead stood dithering.
‘That’ll be your pizza you were obviously expecting,’ Mason said, calmly. ‘I’ll go and get it for you. I assume you’ve paid for it?’ He headed back down the stairs, accepted the pizza and started his ascent once more. And then I ran, flinging back doors on each room in turn, looking for Sorrel. The apartment was large, beautifully and artistically decorated and lit, myriad framed photographs of Peter dancing hanging on every wall. I went through a sitting room, a kitchen and utility and, with pounding heart, terrified of what I was going to find, a large bedroom with an enormous king-sized, black satin-covered bed.
Sorrel was in none of these – I even looked in the wardrobe and under the bed – and I turned to the one remaining room, opened the door and went in.
I couldn’t quite work out what I was seeing to begin with: the woman sitting upright at a dressing-table mirror wasn’t Sorrel. In her place was a heavily made-up female with a blonde chignon dressed in a plunging white dress emphasising a quite remarkable pushed-up bosom sporting strands of diamonds. Her lips were painted in the brightest of red but as the woman glared at my reflection, I saw that her face appeared strangely lopsided, one dark brown eye completely made up and including a ridiculously feathery false eyelash, while the other was completely natural.
‘“I am my own woman,”’ the woman in the mirror said solemnly.
‘Sorry?’ I stared. ‘Sorrel?’
‘“My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten,”’ she went on, holding my eye and then, pulling off the blonde chignon to reveal her own beautiful dark wavy hair, added, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Robyn, what are you doing here?’
‘“Suffer little children and come unto me,”’ I snapped furiously, grabbing at her arm. ‘Yes, Sorrel, I know my Eva Peron quotes as well as you appear to do. Now, get that dress off, get your jeans on and get out of here with me. This minute.’
‘No way,’ Sorrel snapped. ‘The man out there is Peter Collinson , for heaven’s sake, and he’s going to help me get into the West End. He’s famous.’
‘Sorrel.’ I sighed wearily. ‘The man out there… I know who he is. You’re fifteen, without any training…’
‘You know him? Well, you know how famous he is, then? You’re just jealous because your dance career is over,’ Sorrel sneered. ‘And without any training? Robyn, I’ve been going to dancing class since I was eight. You know that. Just like you did.’
‘But you’ve not been going anywhere for over a year, have you?’
‘They’d taught me all I know; I was fed up with them all,’ she said sulkily.
‘You have to have the basics, Sorrel.’
‘I know the basics,’ she almost shouted. ‘I’ve been doing the basics for seven years. I needed to move on, to bigger and better things, but Mum couldn’t afford for me to go anywhere else. Jayden said he’d look into it, but he never did.’
‘Stop trying to run before you can walk.’
‘I want to go to the Susan Yates Theatre School in London. Jayden said he’d look into it for me. But of course, again, he never did.’
‘Oh, Sorrel, you know what Jayden’s like.’
‘I do now . Mum tried to help but then she got poorly again.’
‘Sorrel, the competition for a place at Susan Yates’ is huge. Emily Benton was there…’
‘Who?’
‘Sweet Girls – a group from the nineties,’ I said vaguely. ‘Ava Wheathouse, and… and…’ I couldn’t think of any other past pupils.
‘Duo Lister,’ Sorrel put in helpfully.
‘So, you just gave up?’ I asked. ‘Stopped going to your dance class?’
‘The girls at Beddingfield High said I was a full-of-it-all; a know-all. Especially when I said I was going to the Susan Yates Theatre School in London.’
‘What, you were being bullied?’
‘Bullied? Me? I wouldn’t let any of those bitches bully me.’
‘So you decided to bunk off school?’
‘Wouldn’t you , if they were putting stuff up on Snapchat about you and constantly sending awful stuff to your phone?’
‘Why didn’t you tell Mum? Jayden? Jess?’
Sorrel rubbed at the one made-up eye, smudging the heavy eyeshadow. ‘And make Mum even more ill? Have her back in hospital? Jayden? He’s never around and when he is, he’s always telling me to chill, it will all get better if I just hang on in there. He hates anything to do with school and education, you know that. And Jess? Oh yes, Jess would have been right in there, wouldn’t she, lying in wait for the mean girls? It would have been even worse for me if she’d intervened.’ Sorrel rubbed at her eye again. ‘It just got worse and worse, so I stopped going to school?—’
Sorrel broke off as the doorbell went again.
‘Stay there,’ I ordered Sorrel. Had Mason called the police? I could hear him and Peter Collinson talking in the kitchen, Peter no doubt trying to convince Mason he only had Sorrel’s interests at heart.
‘Sorrel is very talented,’ I heard Peter gush through the open kitchen door. ‘Someone needed to help her, Mason; to understand her full potential. I am her teacher, nothing more, so I don’t know what her sister’s implying. Because, I tell you now, her bloody irresponsible parents and dysfunctional family don’t appear to be helping her…’
The doorbell sounded again, but still no one seemed to be opening the door. I made my way downstairs and, as the bell went for a third time, opened it.
‘Oh?’ I frowned in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
The boy, obviously startled, threw a nervous look in my direction before attempting to turn and make off, but I grabbed hold of his jacket while shouting for Mason to come and help.
‘Joel?’ Mason said, running down the stairs towards the pair of us. ‘What’s going on?’ He took hold of Joel Sinclair’s other arm and together we pulled him inside and closed the outer door, Mason leaning heavily with his sturdy weight against it, blocking any potential flight. ‘Come on, Joel, you can tell us. What are you up to here? And don’t tell me you’re here to dance as well.’
‘Well, actually, I am.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Peter’s been giving me lessons?—’
‘Oh,’ I interrupted, beginning to understand a little, ‘so the fabulous jeté you did out of the drama studio that first morning…’
‘Yep.’ Joel gave me a hard stare, daring me to come back at him.
‘There you go, then.’ Mason smiled at both of us. ‘It appears to be all above board. Peter’s a ballet teacher and is helping these two kids to achieve their dreams. Good on him. Come on, Robyn.’ Mason looked at his watch. ‘Get Sorrel and go home.’
‘I know Peter Collinson,’ I snapped. ‘I know what he is…’
‘And what is he?’ Mason held up his hands. ‘What, Robyn?’
‘He’s a paedophile, a sex pest: preys on young girls. Maybe young boys too?’ I stared hard at Joel who, with hands shoved into his hoody pocket, was looking angry. ‘When I was twelve he was my dance teacher. He groomed and sexually assaulted me…’
‘What you suggesting, miss?’ Joel glared in my direction. ‘He’s never touched me. Ugh, I wouldn’t let some bloke touch me .’
‘So, what does he get from you, then, Joel, if it’s not sex?’
Joel went on glaring at me but, as I continued to hold his eye, he eventually dropped his own. And then the penny dropped. What had Mason said about this kid not always being as accommodating as he had been when he’d jumped in as my minder that very first morning at St Mede’s?
‘Where d’you meet him, Joel?’ I asked softly. ‘Where did you first meet Peter?’ I still had to find out where Sorrel had come across him, but assumed it was at one of her previous ballet-class sessions. Had he persuaded her she was too good for that class and needed to have private sessions with him? ‘At a dance class?’
‘Never been to any dance class, miss.’ Joel shook his head in my direction. ‘Mum couldn’t afford it and Dad said I were a pansy even asking to go.’
‘So, here, then?’ I asked gently.
‘Here?’ Mason frowned. ‘Oh, right! You were delivering, Joel? And I assume not something to eat?’
Joel shrugged and glared at the pair of us. ‘Look, I need to get the dosh off him or… you know.’
‘Joel, we can help you, support you,’ Mason said, glancing up as Sorrel appeared at the top of the stairs, make-up removed, jeans and hoody back on instead of the ridiculous Eva Peron dress Collinson must have laid out for her.
‘No, you can’t,’ Joel said grimly and in some exasperation. ‘Of course you effing well can’t.’
‘’Lo, Joel.’ Sorrel made her way down towards him and I saw a look of recognition pass between the pair of them.
‘What happens if you don’t get the money for the dust from him, Joel?’ Mason was now asking, this boss of mine obviously au fait with the street lingo for cocaine.
‘What d’ you think?’ Joel scowled.
‘You’d better go and get it, then.’ Mason nodded and I immediately tried to intervene.
‘You can’t let him?—’
‘I can , Robyn.’ Mason sighed. ‘Joel’s got the drugs on him. Whoever he’s working for won’t let him off what’s owing them.’ He turned to Sorrel. ‘Just go home with Robyn, Sorrel. Listen to what your sisters are telling you. They know about these things.’
‘Hang on, before you do that, Joel.’ I dashed upstairs to the kitchen where a white-faced Peter Collinson was pouring himself a glass of wine with a trembling hand.
‘This, Peter, is from my twelve-year-old self,’ I said calmly, aiming a kick at his balls. With no rusty razor to hand, a kick was as good a substitute as any.
‘What the fuck…?’ he began, bent double with pain. ‘I’ll have the police on you for assault.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I snapped right in his face, pulling at his hair and forcing him to look into my eyes. ‘It’s Robyn, Peter. Robyn Allen. All grown up, and a West End dancer to boot. You go to the police, but you’ll find I’ve already been there before you. I suggest you move on again before the police come knocking on your door…’
Collinson’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of some sort of recognition there, but I knew he didn’t really remember me. I was probably just one of many kids he’d groomed.
Back downstairs, I was expecting Sorrel to stick her heels in, to refuse to come back with me, but to my surprise she followed me. But not before glaring at Mason and then, to my surprise, leaning into Joel to kiss him.
‘How did you meet him?’ I asked, once we were in the car and heading back to Beddingfield.
‘At school.’
‘At school ?’ I turned to Sorrel in absolute fury: the pervert had been hanging round school, taking his pick from the girls there?
‘Yeah, school. Duh. He does go to school.’
I stared. ‘Oh, Joel?’
‘Who d’you think I meant?’
‘Collinson.’
‘Why would Peter Collinson be at Beddingfield High?’ She gave me the look only a fifteen-year-old could give.
‘Joel Sinclair was at Beddingfield High?’
‘Yes. Course. That awful head, Ms Liversedge, kicked him out almost as soon as she arrived last Easter. Main reason I said I’d go to St Mede’s was because I knew Joel had ended up there.’
‘Right. So, is he your boyfriend? Are you going out with him?’
‘Going out with him? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robyn. You sound like Mum. Joel’s my mate.’
‘OK, OK.’ I pondered this for a while. ‘I like him,’ I said.
‘So do I.’
‘But he’s involved in county lines?’
‘Yep.’
‘He’s bright,’ I went on, knowing how hard he worked in my English lessons. ‘Very good at English Lit. And he has the potential to be a very good dancer.’
‘Peter’s been teaching him.’
‘In that flat?’ I frowned. ‘Not a huge amount of room to jeté .’
‘Garage,’ Sorrel said. ‘He’s turned his garage into a studio. With a barre and everything.’
‘Where does he put the BMW?’
‘How do you know he’s got a BMW?’
‘I assume that’s Collinson’s car that you sometimes come home in?’
‘He gives me a lift home sometimes after a session. Or pays for an Uber.’
‘A session?’ We were stopped at red lights and I turned fully towards her.
Sorrel sighed. ‘He likes me to dress up.’
‘I bet he does,’ I said in anger. ‘Annie? Matilda?’
Sorrel nodded. ‘Young Cosette from Les Mis . Once Oliver…’
‘Oliver?’ Flaming hell, the man really did have fantasies including young boys as well as girls.
‘Did you not realise what he was up to, Sorrel?’
‘Yes, suppose.’ She sighed. ‘But he’s arranged an audition for me at the Susan Yates Theatre School; he knows her really well. And honestly, Robyn, he is such a brilliant teacher. He’s taught me so much.’
I had to concede that I remembered how much he taught me, the steps, exercises and routines he put me through over and over again, always wanting perfection, insistent on getting the very best out of me.
‘Sorrel,’ I said as we pulled into Mum’s drive. ‘He’s sick. He’s a paedophile, preying on kids who are desperate to become famous. He told me I was going to be in Oliver! in Leeds when I was twelve. Had me signing the papers. Before grabbing my hands and forcing them down his pants. I was a kid, Sorrel. I was in foster care because there was no one to look after me when Mum had to go back into hospital.’ I found I was crying, great fat tears falling down my cheeks. ‘He assaulted me and I never told anyone; I refused to go back to his academy. No one could understand why.’
Sorrel scrabbled in her hoody, passing over a tissue. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit used. You were twelve?’ She sat in silence, contemplating. ‘The bastard.’
‘But, Sorrel’ – I sniffed – ‘he’s been grooming you too. You must have realised?’
‘Yeah, course, but he never got anywhere. He tried to kiss me a couple of times, stroke my leg, put his hands all over me, especially when I was dressed as Annie. Pervert’s obviously got a thing about kids with red hair and freckles. I just kicked him off, told him to fuck off. You know, Robyn, when you’ve had to deal with the girls at school – when a whole gang of them are lying in wait in the toilets and after school, when they’re sending messages to my phone that I was an absolute rubbish dancer, telling me to die, to kill myself – then one slimy perverted old man like Peter Collinson is a doddle.’
‘Sorrel, we have to go to the police or we’re condoning what he does. And he’ll keep on doing it.’
‘Yes, I know, I know. S’pose so. OK.’ She turned to me once again. ‘But we can’t mention Joel and what he’s doing.’
‘OK.’
‘And, I s’pose there’ll be no going to the Susan Yates Theatre School now?’
‘Sorry, Sorrel.’ I moved to hug her and, for the first time in months, she allowed me to do just that.
And I really was sorry.